by Franz Kafka
Mr. Green greeted them hastily, as if they had much to catch up on, took Mr. Pollunder’s arm, and pushed Karl and Klara ahead into the dining room, which looked very festive, especially with the flowers almost peering out of the strips of fresh foliage, which only made Mr. Green’s disturbing presence all the more regrettable. Karl, who stood by the table, waiting for the others to be seated, had just begun to hope that the large glass door to the garden would be left open, for a strong fragrant draft wafted in, as if into a garden house, when Mr. Green began to close the glass door, panting as he bent down for the bottom bolts, and reaching up for the top ones, all at such a brisk youthful pace that the servant who came rushing in found that there was nothing left for him to do. In his initial remarks over dinner Mr. Green expressed astonishment that Karl’s uncle should have given him permission for the visit. Raising one full soup spoon after another to his mouth, he explained to Klara on his left and Mr. Pollunder on his right why he was so astonished, and how Uncle Jakob always watched over Karl and how his uncle’s love for him was so great that it was more than the love of an uncle. Not content with such meddling, he has to go meddling with me and my uncle, Karl thought, and he was unable to swallow a single drop of the honey-colored soup. At the same time he did not want anyone to see how annoyed he was and silently began to pour the soup down his throat. The meal passed by slowly, like a plague. Only Mr. Green, and sometimes even Klara, were animated and now and then they were able to have a little laugh. Mr. Pollunder allowed himself to be drawn into the conversation only on those few occasions when Mr. Green began to discuss business matters. Yet before long he withdrew even from those discussions, and then, after some time had elapsed, Mr. Green needed to catch him by surprise. He emphasized the fact—at this point in the conversation Karl, who pricked up his ears as if there were danger lurking, had to be reminded by Klara that he had not touched the roast on his plate and that he was an invited guest at a dinner party—that he had had no desire at the outset to come out on this unexpected visit. For even if this business they still needed to discuss was particularly urgent, they could have resolved the most important items in the city that day and left the details for tomorrow or even later. And in fact long before closing time he had gone to Mr. Pollunder’s office and, failing to find him there, had had to telephone home to say that he would be away for the night, and then had had to drive all the way out. “Then I owe you an apology,” said Karl quite loudly, and before anybody could respond, he went on, “since it’s my fault that Mr. Pollunder had to leave his business early today, and I am sorry.” Mr. Pollunder covered the greater portion of his face with his napkin while Klara smiled at Karl, though not sympathetically but rather with the intention of influencing him in some way. “There’s no need to apologize,” said Mr. Green, carving up a pigeon with a few sharp jabs, “on the contrary, I’m glad I can spend the evening in such pleasant company rather than having to eat my supper alone at home, where there’s only one old housekeeper to serve me, and she’s so old that she even found it hard to make her way from the door to my table; I can spend quite a while leaning back in my chair as I watch her making her way over. It was only recently that I finally managed to persuade her to let the servant carry the dishes as far as the dining room door, whereas she owns the path from the door to my table, so far as I can make out.” “My God,” exclaimed Klara, “what loyalty!” “Yes, there is some loyalty left in this world,” said Mr. Green, guiding a bite of food into his mouth, where, as Karl happened to notice, his tongue seized it with a single flick. He felt almost ill and stood up. Just then Pollunder and Klara both reached for his hand. “You must stay seated,” said Klara. And when he sat down, she whispered to him: “We’ll soon disappear together. Just be patient.” Meanwhile Mr. Green had occupied himself quietly with his food, as if Mr. Pollunder and Klara were naturally obliged to calm Karl, should Green make him feel indisposed.
The meal dragged on, especially because of the meticulous way in which Mr. Green dealt with each course, even though he was always indefatigably prepared to take on each new course when it arrived, and it truly began to seem as if he merely wanted to take a good break from his old housekeeper. Every now and then he praised Miss Klara’s skill in running the household, but whereas she was visibly flattered, Karl wanted to fight him off, as though he were attacking her. But even that wasn’t sufficient for Mr. Green, who frequently, without looking up from his plate, deplored Karl’s conspicuous lack of appetite. Mr. Pollunder defended Karl’s appetite although, as host, he ought to have encouraged Karl to eat. The strain of sitting through that dinner had made Karl so sensitive that, even against his better judgment, he construed Mr. Pollunder’s words as unfriendly. And such was his state that he first ate at an inappropriately fast pace and then for a long time let his knife and fork drop wearily on his plate and was the most immobile of the guests and the one whom the attendant serving the dishes simply did not know how to handle.
“Tomorrow I shall inform the senator how you have insulted Miss Klara by refusing to eat anything,” Mr. Green said, indicating he was joking only through the way he toyed with the cutlery. “Just look how sad that girl is,” he added, chucking Klara under the chin. She did not resist, and closed her eyes. “You cute little thing,” he cried, leaning back and laughing with a bright red face and the vigor of someone who has eaten his fill. Karl vainly sought to explain the behavior of Mr. Pollunder. The latter simply sat there, looking at his plate, as if that were where the significant action was occurring. He did not pull Karl’s chair closer, and when he spoke, he spoke to everyone and had nothing special to say to Karl. Still, he suffered that wily old New York bachelor Green to touch Klara in a manner that clearly revealed his intentions; to insult Karl, Pollunder’s guest, or at least to treat him like a child; and to gather his strength in preparation for goodness knew what.
After the meal had ended—on noticing the overall mood, Green was the first to get up and, as it were, raise everyone with him—Karl went alone to one of the large windows, which were divided by thin white mullions and gave out onto the terrace and were, as he noticed on approaching, really doors. What had become of the dislike that Mr. Pollunder and his daughter had initially felt for Green and that Karl had at the time found somewhat incomprehensible? They now stood beside Green, nodding at him. The smoke from Mr. Green’s cigar—a present from Pollunder that was as thick as the cigars that Father would mention at home as a known fact, even though he had probably never set eyes on one—spread through the dining room, carrying Green’s influence even into those nooks and crannies in which he himself would never set foot. No matter how far away Karl stood, he could still feel a tickling sensation from the smoke in his throat, and it seemed to him that the behavior of Mr. Green, whom he had only once turned to glance at quickly, was disgraceful. He no longer considered it inconceivable that the only reason his uncle had withheld permission for this visit for so long was that he knew of Mr. Pollunder’s character weakness, and as a result, even if he could not have exactly foreseen how Karl’s feelings would be hurt, he must have known that this was a distinct possibility. Besides, Karl did not care for the American girl, even though he certainly hadn’t imagined her to be much more beautiful than this. Ever since Mr. Green had begun to flirt with her, he had been surprised by how beautiful her face could become and, especially, by the sparkle in her quick lively eyes. He had never seen a skirt wrapped so tightly around a body as it was around hers; little creases in the delicate firm yellowish fabric showed just how tightly it was wound. And yet Karl had no interest in her and would have gladly relinquished the opportunity to be led into her rooms had he been permitted to open the door—and just in case, his hand was already on the doorknob—and to get into the automobile or, if the driver were already asleep, to walk to New York alone. After all, the clear night with the full moon was free to all, and Karl believed there was no sense in being afraid of the outdoors. Beginning to feel at ease in the room for the first time, he imagined
how, early in the morning—probably the earliest he could reach home on foot—he would surprise his uncle. Though he had never been in his uncle’s bedroom and even had no idea where it was, he would certainly ask and find out. Then he would knock, and on hearing the formal “Come in!” he would run into the room and surprise his dear uncle—whom he had always seen fully dressed and buttoned—sitting up in bed, dressed only in his nightshirt, and staring in amazement at the door. This in itself might not seem like much, but one need only imagine where it might lead! Perhaps he would have his first breakfast with his uncle; his uncle would still be in bed and he would sit on a chair, with the breakfast set out between them on a little table, and then their first breakfast together might become a regular event, and such breakfasts could lead to their getting together more often than once a day as they were accustomed to doing—indeed this was only inevitable—and then they could naturally talk more frankly. If he had treated his uncle in a disobedient or, let’s say, headstrong, fashion, it was solely due to their never having had such frank exchanges. And even if he had to spend the night there—as, unfortunately, seemed very likely, although they made him stand by the window and left him to his own devices—this unhappy visit would perhaps become the turning point in his relationship with his uncle, and in his bedroom this evening his uncle was perhaps having similar thoughts.
Having consoled himself a little, he turned around. Klara, who now stood before him, said: “So you don’t like it here? You don’t even want to feel a little bit at home? Come, I’ll give it one last try.” She led him right across the room to the door. The two gentlemen sat at a side table over tall glasses filled with lightly foaming drinks that Karl had never seen before and would have gladly sampled. Mr. Green, who sat with his elbow propped up on the table, swung his head around so as to be as close as possible to Mr. Pollunder; anyone who had not known Mr. Pollunder might have readily assumed that the affairs they were discussing were of a criminal rather than a business nature. Whereas Mr. Pollunder kept a friendly eye on Karl as he headed toward the door, Green did not even turn to look at Karl—even though one does instinctively tend to meet the eyes of the person opposite—and Karl thought that this behavior reflected Green’s belief that each of them should try to get by on the strength of his own abilities—Karl for himself, Green for himself—and that it would take the victory or the annihilation of one or the other before the inevitable social relationship could be established. “If that’s what he thinks,” said Karl to himself, “then he’s a fool. I certainly don’t want to have anything more to do with him, and he too should leave me in peace.” No sooner had he stepped into the corridor than it struck him that he had probably been impolite, for in keeping his eyes fixed on Green, he had practically let Klara drag him out of that room. So now he was all the more willing to walk beside her. At first he could not believe his eyes as they passed through the corridors, for every twenty paces or so stood a servant in ornate livery, holding the thick stem of a candelabra in both hands. “The new electric wiring has only been installed in the dining room,” explained Klara. “We’ve only recently bought this house and have had it completely renovated, at least as much as one can with such an old house.” “So there are old houses in America,” said Karl. “Why, of course,” said Klara, laughing and pulling him along. “You do have some odd ideas about America.” “You shouldn’t make fun of me,” he said irritably. After all, he was acquainted with Europe and America, she only with America.
Barely reaching out her hand in passing, Klara pushed open a door and without stopping said: “You’ll be sleeping here.” Karl naturally wanted to take a look at the room right away, but Klara declared impatiently, almost shouting, that there would be sufficient time for that later and that for now he should go with her. For a while they pulled each other back and forth in the corridor, until at last Karl said to himself that he needn’t always follow Klara’s wishes and, tearing himself free, entered the room. It was surprisingly dark outside by the window, probably on account of a treetop swaying to and fro in its full expanse. One could hear birds singing. But in the actual room, which the moonlight had not yet penetrated, one could scarcely distinguish anything; Karl regretted not having taken along the electric flashlight that his uncle had given him as a present. Here in this house a flashlight was quite indispensable; if one had a few such lamps, one could simply send the servants to bed. He sat down on the windowsill, looked out, and listened. A startled bird appeared to break through the foliage of the old tree. Somewhere in the countryside the whistle of a New York suburban train rang out. Otherwise all was quiet.
But not for long, since Klara came hurrying in. Visibly annoyed, she cried: “What’s this?” and slapped her skirt. Before answering, Karl wanted to wait until she became more polite. But she approached him, taking large steps, and cried: “Well, are you coming or not?”; then, whether by design or simply out of excitement, she pushed his chest so forcefully that he would have fallen out the window had he not slipped from the windowsill and had his feet not at the last minute touched the floor. “I was about to fall out,” he said reproachfully. “It’s a pity you didn’t. Why are you so bad? I’ll push you back down.” With a body steeled by athletics, she seized Karl, who was so bewildered that for a moment he forgot to go limp, and carried him to the window. But on approaching the window he came to his senses, freed himself by swiveling his hips around quickly, and then in turn seized her. “Oh, you’re hurting me,” she said at once. Karl, however, thought that he should not release her now. He gave her sufficient freedom to move at will but kept following her about and did not release her. Besides, it was so easy to get an arm around her in that tight dress. “Let me go,” she whispered; her flushed face was now beside his, indeed so close that he had to strain his eyes to look at her. “Let me go, I’ll give you something wonderful.” Why does she have to sob like that, Karl thought, it can’t be hurting her, I’m certainly not squeezing her, and he did not release her. But then all of a sudden he felt her steadily increasing strength press against his body, and after quickly extricating herself, she caught him in a skillful tackle, warded off his legs with footwork from some unfamiliar wrestling technique, and drove him toward the wall while still taking splendidly even breaths. By the wall, however, was a settee, where she deposited Karl; then, bending down only slightly toward him, she said: “Now see if you can move.” “You cat, you wild cat,” Karl could barely cry out amid the muddle of anger and shame besetting him. “You’re truly insane, you wild cat.” “Watch what you say,” she said, and slid one hand over his throat, then began to squeeze it so tightly that Karl could only gasp for air; she drew the other hand across his cheek, first touching it, and then withdrew her hand and raised it ever higher in the air, ready to let it fall at any moment with a great slap. “What would you say,” she asked, “if as punishment for treating a lady like this, you got a good slap in the face to take home with you? While it might be useful to you as you go through life, it wouldn’t exactly leave you with fond memories. I do feel sorry for you—you’re a tolerably handsome youth, and if you’d learned some jujitsu, you’d probably have beaten me up. But still—just seeing you lying there like that makes me hugely tempted to slap you in the face. I shall probably regret it; but if I do go ahead, mark my words, I’ll be doing so almost against my will. And then of course I won’t stop at one slap but shall go on hitting you left and right until your cheeks start swelling. And perhaps you are indeed a man of honor—I should almost like to think so—and after being slapped you simply won’t want to go on living and will do away with yourself. But why were you so hostile toward me? Perhaps you don’t like me? You think it’s not worth your while to come to my room? Watch out! All of a sudden I almost let you have it. If you get off scot-free today, though, make sure you behave more decently next time around. After all, I’m not your uncle, whom you can evidently treat very brazenly. Besides, I’d like you to know that even if I let you off without a single slap, you shouldn’t imagin
e that so far as your honor is concerned, this is quite the same thing as actually getting slapped; if that is what you really thought, I should prefer to give you an actual slapping. Goodness knows what Mack will say when I describe all this to him.” Remembering Mack, she released Karl, in whose indistinct thoughts Mack appeared as a rescuer. Still feeling the pressure of Klara’s hand on his throat, he wriggled about a little, then lay still.
She demanded that he get up; he did not respond, nor did he move. Somewhere she lit a candle; the room lit up, a pattern of blue zigzag appeared on the ceiling, but Karl lay there quite motionless, his head leaning on the sofa cushion exactly where Klara had set it down, and he did not move it an inch. Klara walked about in the room, her skirt rustling around her legs, and then stood a long while, presumably by the window. “Had a good sulk?” one could hear her ask. Karl found it difficult to accept that he could find no peace in this room that Mr. Pollunder had after all set aside for him. That girl wandered about, then stopped and talked, and he was so indescribably sick of her. His only desire was to take a quick nap and get away. He no longer even wanted to go to bed, just to stay there on the settee. He was merely waiting for her to leave so that he could get up when she left, jump over to the door, bolt it, and then throw himself back down on the settee. He had such a strong urge to stretch out and yawn, though not in Klara’s presence. And thus he lay, staring up into the air and sensing his face become increasingly motionless; a fly circling about him swam before his eyes, although he could not quite tell what it was.