The Metamorphosis and Other Stories

by Franz Kafka

  But I didn’t see this smile quite to the end, for shame suddenly turned me around. For it was not until this smile that I realized that he was a con man, and nothing more. And having been in this city for months already, I thought I knew these con men through and through; how they emerge from the side streets at night to confront us with outstretched hands, like innkeepers; how they slink about the advertising pillars near where we stand as though to play hide-and-seek and spy with at least one eye from behind the pillar’s curve; how at the crossroads, when we become anxious, they suddenly hover before us on the edge of the sidewalk! I thought I understood them so well. After all, they had been my first city acquaintances in the little taverns, and I have them to thank for my first glimpse of that relentlessness that I am now so incapable of imagining the world without that I have already begun to feel it within myself. How could they still stand before you, even when you had long since escaped them, when there had long since been nothing left for them to con? They didn’t sit down, they didn’t fall over, but looked at you with eyes that were, even if only from a distance, still persuasive! And their means were always the same: they planted themselves before us, as broadly as they could; sought to keep us from reaching the place we were aiming for; prepared instead a room for us in their own chest, and if the accumulated emotions reared up within us, they would take it as an embrace into which they would throw themselves face first.

  And this time I only recognized these old pranks after we had been together for such a long time. I rubbed my fingertips together to undo the disgrace.

  My man, however, leaned here just as before, still thinking himself to be a con man, and his satisfaction with his fate reddened his free cheek.

  “Exposed!” I said and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. Then I hurried up the stairs and the blindly devoted faces of the servants up in the hallway delighted me like a pleasant surprise. I looked at them all, one after the other, as they took my coat and dusted off my boots. With a breath of relief and stretched to full height, I then entered the hall.

  RESOLUTIONS

  To rise from a miserable state must be easy, even with forced energy. I wrest myself from my armchair, run around the table, loosen my head and neck, bring fire to my eyes, tighten the muscles around them. Counteract every feeling, greet A. vehemently should he arrive now, kindly tolerate B. in my room, with C. take in everything that is said, despite the pain and effort, with long drafts.

  But even if that works, the whole thing, the easy and the difficult, will falter with each mistake, which cannot be avoided, and I will have to turn myself back in the circle.

  Thus it remains that the best advice is to accept everything, behave like an inert mass and if you feel yourself being blown away, not let yourself be lured into taking a single unnecessary step, look at the others with an animal’s gaze, feel no remorse, in short, to oppress with your own hand that which remains from life as a ghost, i.e. to augment the final gravelike silence and allow nothing else to exist.

  A characteristic movement in such a condition is the small finger traveling along the eyebrows.

  THE BACHELOR’S MISERY

  It seems so hard to remain a bachelor, to struggle as an old man to preserve your dignity while pleading for admittance when you wish to spend an evening in human company, to be ill and spend weeks staring at the empty room from the corner of your bed, to always take leave at the front door, to never push your way upstairs with your wife at your side, to have only side doors in your room that lead to other apartments, to carry your supper home in one hand, to be forced to marvel at other people’s children and not be allowed to constantly repeat, “I have none,” to model your appearance and demeanor on one or two bachelors from memories of your youth.

  This is how it will be, only that in reality you yourself will be standing there, today and in the future, with a body and a real head, and therefore also a forehead to hit with your hand.

  THE BUSINESSMAN

  It is possible that some people pity me, but I don’t notice it at all. My small business fills me with worries that make my forehead and temples ache, but without giving me any prospect of contentment, for my business is small.

  For hours in advance I have to make decisions, keep the caretaker’s memory alert, warn him of feared mistakes, and assess during one season the fashions of the next, not as they will be followed by people in my own circles, but by inaccessible communities in the countryside.

  My money is in the hands of strangers; the state of their affairs cannot be clear to me; I cannot anticipate the misfortune that could strike them; how could I avert it! Perhaps they have grown extravagant and are hosting a feast in some tavern garden, while others, on their flight to America, stop and visit them for a while.

  Now when the business is closed on a weekday evening and I suddenly see the hours before me in which I will not be able to work to fulfill its incessant needs, the agitation that I pushed far away in the morning rises in me like a returning tide, but it cannot be contained and it floods out aimlessly, carrying me along.

  And yet I am unable to use this mood at all and can only go home, for my face and hands are filthy and sweaty, my clothes stained and dusty, the work cap on my head and boots scratched by crate nails. I walk then as though carried by waves, snapping the fingers on both hands and tousling the hair of the children approaching me.

  But my path is too short. Soon I am in my building, opening the elevator door and stepping inside.

  I realize that I am now and suddenly alone. Others, who have to climb stairs, become a little tired when doing so, and have to wait with panting breaths until someone comes to open the apartment door. They have a reason for irritation and impatience, because they must enter the hallway where they hang their hat, and not until they have walked through the hallway past several glass doors and entered their own room are they alone.

  I, however, am alone right away in the elevator and look, leaning on my knees, into the narrow mirror. As the elevator begins to rise, I say:

  “Be quiet, back with you all, head for the shade of the trees, behind the windows’ draperies, in the vault of the arcade!”

  I speak through my teeth and the stair banisters slide past the panes of frosted glass like plunging water.

  “Fly away; may your wings, which I have never seen, carry you to the valley village or to Paris, if that’s where you want to be.

  “But enjoy the view from the window when the processions emerge from all three streets, not evading one another but weaving through one another, and letting free space emerge again between their last ranks. Wave your handkerchiefs, be appalled, be moved, praise the beautiful lady as she passes by.

  “Cross the stream on the wooden bridge, nod to the bathing children, and marvel at the hooray of the thousand sailors on the distant battleship.

  “Only follow that inconspicuous man and when you have pushed him into a doorway, rob him and then watch him, each of you with your hands in your pockets, as he sadly makes his way to the street on the left.

  “The police, scattered on their galloping horses, restrain their animals and force you back. Let them, the empty streets will make them unhappy, I know it. You see? They are already riding away in pairs, slowly around the street corners, flying across the squares.”

  Then I must exit, send the elevator back down, ring the doorbell, and the maid opens the door as I greet her.

  ABSENTMINDED GAZING

  What shall we do during these spring days that are coming so quickly upon us? Early this morning the sky was gray, but if you go to the window now, you will be surprised and lean your cheek against the window’s handle.

  Down below, you can see the light of the sun that is surely already sinking on the face of the little girl who is just walking and looking about, and at the same time, you see the shadow of the man falling upon her who is approaching more quickly from behind.

  Then the man has already passed by and the child’s face is again quite bright.


  THE NEW ADVOCATE

  We have a new advocate, Dr. Bucephalus. There is little about his outward appearance to remind one of the time when he was Alexander of Macedon’s battle charger. Those familiar with his background, however, will notice quite a bit. Just recently, I even saw a very simple court servant on the stairs outside marveling at the advocate with the expert eye of a small frequenter of the races, as he mounted the stairs with thighs raised high and steps that rang against the marble.

  In general, the bar approves of Bucephalus’ admission. With astonishing insight, people say to themselves that, under the current social order, Bucephalus is in a difficult situation, and that for this reason, as well as his significance in world history, he by all means deserves to be accommodated. Today—no one can deny it—there is no great Alexander. Although many know how to murder; and there is no lack of agility in striking a friend with a lance across the banquet table; and for many, Macedon is too crowded, making them curse Philip, the father—but nobody, nobody can lead the way to India. Even back then, India’s gates were unreachable, but the royal sword indicated their direction. Today the gates are somewhere else entirely; carried off higher and further away; no one indicates their direction; many hold swords, but only to wave them about; and the gaze that aims to follow them becomes confused.

  So perhaps it is really best to do as Bucephalus has done and immerse oneself in statute books. Free, his flanks unconfined by the thighs of a rider, reading by quiet lamplight, far from the clamor of Alexander’s battle, turning the pages of our ancient tomes.

  THE PASSERSBY

  If you take a walk down a street at night and a man, already visible from afar—for the street before us ascends and the moon is full—runs toward us, we will not seize him, even if he is weak and ragged, even if someone is running behind him shouting, but we will let him run on.

  For it is night, and we can’t help it if the street ascends before us in the full moon, and besides, perhaps the two have staged the chase for their amusement, perhaps a third man is pursuing them both, perhaps the first is being unjustly pursued, perhaps the second wants to murder him and we would be accessories to murder, perhaps the two know nothing of each other and each is only running on his own account to his bed, perhaps they are sleepwalkers, perhaps the first one has weapons.

  And after all, shouldn’t we be tired, haven’t we drunk so much wine? We are relieved that we can also no longer see the second man now.

  THE PASSENGER

  I am standing on the platform of the electric tram and am entirely uncertain as to my status in this world, in this city, in my family. I could not even say offhand which claims I could rightly make in any direction. I cannot justify at all that I am standing on this platform, holding on to this strap, letting myself be carried by this tram, that people get out of the tram’s way, or walk silently, or rest in front of the shop windows. No one is demanding it of me, but that is irrelevant.

  The tram is approaching a stop, a girl goes and stands near the stairs ready to get off. She appears as distinct to me as though I had felt her with my hands. She is dressed in black, the pleats of her skirt barely move, her blouse is tight and has a collar of white finely-meshed lace, her left hand is placed flat against the wall, the umbrella in her right rests on the second highest step. Her face is brown, her nose, slightly pressed on the sides, and it finishes round and wide. She has a lot of brown hair, wisps of which are strewn across her right temple. Her small ear lies close to her head, but because I am standing near, I can see the entire back of her right ear and the shadow beneath it.

  I asked myself at the time: How is it that she is not amazed by herself, that she keeps her mouth closed and says nothing of the sort?

  IN THE GALLERY

  If some frail, consumptive circus rider were being driven in circles around the ring by her whip-wielding, merciless boss for months without interruption, on a faltering horse, before a tireless audience, whirring on her horse, throwing kisses, swaying from the waist, and if this performance were to continue among the incessant roaring of the orchestra and the ventilators into the constantly expanding gray future, accompanied by the fading and swelling of clapping hands, which are actually steam hammers—perhaps then a young visitor in the gallery would rush down the long flight of stairs, through all the circles, plunge into the ring, and call out: Stop! through the fanfares of the ever accommodating orchestra.

  But as it is not so, a lovely lady, white and red, flies in between the curtains that are opened before her by proud liveried attendants; the ringmaster, devotedly seeking her gaze, breathes towards her with an animal’s posture; lifts her up carefully onto the dapple gray, as though she were his most beloved granddaughter setting off on a perilous journey; hesitates to give the signal with his whip; finally overcomes himself and gives it with a crack; runs alongside the horse with an open mouth; follows the rider’s leaps with a sharp eye; is hardly able to grasp her virtuosity; tries to warn her by calling out in English; angrily warns the grooms holding the hoops to be painstakingly attentive; implores the orchestra with raised hands to be silent before her great death-defying somersault; finally lifts the little one from her trembling horse, kisses both her cheeks, and deems no homage from the audience to be sufficient; while she herself, supported by him, high on the tips of her toes, surrounded by a cloud of dust, with arms outstretched and head thrown back, wants to share her joy with the entire circus—since it is so, the visitor to the gallery lays his face on the railing and, sinking into the final march as though into a heavy dream, he weeps, without knowing it.

  THE REJECTION

  If I encounter a pretty girl and beg her: “Be so kind, as to come with me” and she passes by silently, she means to say:

  “You are no duke with a famous name, no broad-shouldered American with the build of a Red Indian, with calm steady eyes, with skin massaged by the air of the meadows and the rivers flowing through them, you have taken no journeys to the great seas or upon them, the whereabouts of which I do not know. So I ask, why should I, a pretty girl, go with you?”

  “You forget, no automobile is carrying you in long, swaying thrusts through the streets; I see no gentlemen, pressed into their suits, comprising your entourage, and mumbling your blessings as they walk in a perfect semicircle behind you; your breasts are arranged nicely laced up in your bodice, but your thighs and hips make up for that restraint; you are wearing a taffeta dress with gathered pleats, such as those that certainly delighted us all last autumn, and yet—with this risk of death upon your body—you smile from time to time.

  “Yes, we are both right, and to keep us from becoming irrefutably aware of this, it would be better, I’m sure, if we each went home alone.”

  FOR GENTLEMEN RIDERS TO THINK ABOUT

  Nothing, if you think about it, could tempt one to want to be first in a race.

  The fame of being recognized as a country’s best rider brings too much pleasure as the band strikes up, so that we can’t help regretting it the morning after.

  The envy of opponents—cunning, rather influential people—is bound to hurt you in the narrow chute that you must now ride through after that racecourse, which before had been empty except for a few riders left behind from the last round, small figures riding against the edge of the horizon.

  Many of your friends hurry to collect their winnings and only shout their “Hurray” to you over their shoulders from the distant booths; your best friends, however, didn’t even bet on your horse, as they feared losses that would make them angry with you, but now that your horse was first and they didn’t win anything, they turn away when you pass by, preferring to look along the grandstands.

  Your rivals behind you, firm in the saddle, try to grasp the tragedy that has befallen them, and the injustice that has been somehow done to them; they assume a fresh demeanor, as though a new race must be started, and a serious one, after this child’s play.

  To many ladies, the winner seems ridiculous because he swells with pride
but isn’t sure how to handle the endless handshaking, saluting, bowing down, and waving-into-the-distance, while the defeated keep their mouths closed and lightly pat the necks of their usually whinnying horses.

  And finally, rain even begins to fall from the now gloomy sky.

  THE SUDDEN STROLL

  If in the evening you seem to have definitely decided to stay home, and have put on your house coat, and are sitting at an illuminated table after supper, and have taken in hand the activity or game upon whose completion you usually go to sleep; if the weather outside is inhospitable, making staying at home inevitable; if you have already been sitting quietly at the table for so long that departure would be certain to elicit general astonishment; if the stairway is already dark and the front door locked; and if, despite all of this, you get up with a sudden unease, change your coat, appear at once dressed for the street, explaining that you must go out, doing so after a brief goodbye, suspecting that you have more or less left behind aggravation, according to the swiftness with which you slammed the front door; if you then find yourself again out in the street, with limbs that respond with particular agility to this unexpected freedom you have granted them; if you feel all decisiveness gathered within you through this one decision; if you realize with greater than usual importance that your strength more than suffices to effect the quickest change with ease and to bear it; and if you stroll down the long side streets in this way,—then for this evening, you have completely seceded from your family, which is veering off into insubstantiality, while you yourself, quite solid, black with delineation, slapping your thighs behind you, rise to your true form.