by Franz Kafka
All this will be reinforced by going to see a friend at this late evening hour, to see how he is doing.
WISH TO BECOME A RED INDIAN
Oh to be a Red Indian, instantly prepared, and on a galloping horse, leaning into the air, feeling a brief tremor, again and again, over the trembling ground, until you let go of the spurs, for no spurs were needed, until you threw away the reins, for no reins were necessary, and you barely saw the land before you as a smoothly mown heather, without horse’s neck and horse’s head.
JACKALS AND ARABS
We were camping in the oasis. My companions were sleeping. An Arab, tall and white, came past me; he had attended to the camels and was going to his sleeping quarters.
I flung myself backwards into the grass; I tried to sleep; I couldn’t; the lamenting howl of a jackal in the distance; I sat up again. And that which was so far away was suddenly so near. A swarm of jackals all around me; eyes of opaque gold gleaming, vanishing; lean bodies, moved obediently and nimbly, as if driven by a whip.
One came from behind, pushing itself through beneath my arm, closely, as though it needed my warmth, then stepped before me and spoke to me, almost eye to eye:
“I am the oldest jackal far and wide. I am glad to still be able to greet you here. I had almost given up hope, for we have been waiting for you for an eternity; my mother waited, and her mother, and all their mothers back to the mother of all jackals. Believe me!”
“That is surprising,” I said and forgot to light the woodpile lying ready to deter jackals with its smoke, “that is quite surprising to hear. It is only by chance that I have come here from the far north; I am on a short journey. So what do you want, jackals?”
And as if encouraged by my perhaps all too friendly words, they drew their circle closer around me; all were breathing short, snarling breaths.
“We know,” began the eldest, “that you have come from the north, that is precisely what we have built our hopes on. Reason can be found there, which is not to be found here among the Arabs. Not a spark of reason, you see, can be struck from this cold arrogance. They kill animals, in order to eat them, and despise carrion.”
“Don’t speak so loudly,” I said, “Arabs are sleeping nearby.”
“You really are a foreigner,” said the jackal, “otherwise you would know that not once in the history of the world has a jackal feared an Arab. So we should fear them, should we? Is it not misfortune enough that we’ve been cast out among such people?”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” I said, “I am not in a position to judge things that I know so little about; this appears to be a very old quarrel; it probably runs in your blood; so it will perhaps only end in blood.”
“You are very clever,” said the old jackal; and they all breathed even faster; their lungs racing, although they were standing still; an acrid smell, at times only to be endured with clenched teeth, streamed from the open mouths, “You are very clever; what you say complies with our old teachings. So we will take their blood and the quarrel will be over.”
“Oh!” I said, wilder than I had intended, “they will fight back; they will shoot you down in packs with their rifles.”
“You misunderstand us,” he said, “in the human manner, which apparently still persists in the far north. We are not going to kill them. The Nile would not have enough water to wash us clean. We already run away at the mere sight of their living bodies, to cleaner air, to the desert, which is therefore our home.”
And the jackals all around, who had meanwhile been joined by many others who had come from far away, lowered their heads between their front legs and cleaned them with their paws; it was as though they wanted to conceal an aversion that was so terrible that I would have most liked to leap up high and escape from their circle.
“So what do you intend to do?” I asked and started to get up; but I couldn’t; two young animals had bitten tightly into my coat and shirt; I had to stay seated. “They are holding your train,” the old jackal explained earnestly, “a mark of honor.” “They are to let go of me!” I cried, turning first to the old jackal and then to the young ones. “They will, of course,” said the old one, “if you wish. But it will take a little while, for they have bitten in deep, as is our custom, and can only slowly detach their jaws from one another. In the meantime, listen to our request.” “Your behavior hasn’t made me very receptive,” I said. “Don’t make us pay for our lack of grace,” he said, now resorting for the first time to the lamenting tone of his natural voice. “We are poor creatures; all we have is our teeth. For everything that we want to do, good or bad, the only thing we have is our teeth.” “So what do you want?” I asked, only slightly appeased.
“Sir,” he cried, and all the jackals howled; in the most distant distance, it seemed to me to be a melody. “Sir, you are to end this quarrel that is dividing the world. You are just as our ancestors described the man who will do so. We must have peace from the Arabs; breathable air; the view all around the horizon cleansed of them; no cries of lament as the Arab stabs the ram to death; the death of all animals should be calm; it should be emptied by us and cleansed to the bones undisturbed. Purity, we want nothing but purity,” and now they all cried and sobbed—“How can you bear to live in such a world—you of noble heart and sweet intestines? Filth is their white; filth is their black; their beard is a horror; you must vomit when you see the corner of their eyes; and when they lift their arms, hell opens before you in their armpits. Therefore, Sir, oh my dear Sir, with the help of your all-capable hands, cut through their throats with these scissors!” And following the jerk of his head, a jackal came forward dangling from one fang a small, rust-covered pair of sewing scissors.
“The scissors at last, and that’s the end of it!” cried the Arab leader of our caravan, who had stolen up on us against the wind and was now swinging a gigantic whip.
They all scattered in haste, but stopped at a distance, huddled together; the many animals so close together and motionless looked like a narrow pen, surrounded by flickering will-o-the-wisps.
“So, Sir, you have also seen and heard this spectacle,” said the Arab and laughed as cheerfully as permitted by the restraint of his people. “So you know what the animals are demanding?” I asked. “Of course, Sir,” he said. “That is known to us all; as long as there have been Arabs, those scissors have been wandering through the desert and will wander with us to the end of our days. Every European is asked to do the great deed; every European is exactly the one who seems to them to be called on to carry it out. It’s an absurd hope that these animals have; they are fools, real fools. We love them for it; they are our dogs; more beautiful than yours. Just look, a camel died during the night, I’ve had it brought here.”
Four bearers came and threw the heavy cadaver down before us. It was hardly lying there when the jackals raised their voices. Each one drawn irresistibly as if by ropes, they came forward, hesitatingly, with their bodies grazing the ground. They had forgotten the Arabs, forgotten the hatred; the all-obliterating presence of the heavily steaming corpse enchanted them. One was already hanging on the throat and found the artery with its first bite. Like a small frantic pump trying just as desperately as hopelessly to extinguish an overwhelming fire, every muscle in the jackal’s body tugged and twitched in its place. And soon all of them lay working at the same task, mounted up high on top of the corpse.
Then the leader struck his sharp whip vigorously back and forth above them. They raised their heads, half intoxicated, half conscious; saw the Arab standing before them; felt the whip now with their muzzles; withdrew with a leap and ran backwards for a stretch. But the camel’s blood was already lying there in pools, steaming aloft; in several places, the body was torn wide open. They couldn’t resist; again they were there; again the leader raised his whip; I grasped his arm.
“You are right, Sir,” he said. “We’ll leave them to their calling; and it is also time for us to leave. You’ve seen them now. Wonderful animals, don’t you agree? And how they
hate us!”
UNHAPPINESS
When it had already become unbearable—once toward evening in November—and I was pacing along the narrow carpet in my room as though on a racecourse, startled by the sight of the illuminated street, I turned around again, and found at the far end of the room, in the depths of the mirror, a new goal after all, and I screamed out, in order to just hear that scream that is answered by nothing and from which nothing can take its strength, and which therefore rises without a counterweight and cannot stop, even when it has fallen silent, when the door in the wall opened, so hastily because haste was necessary, after all, and even the carthorses down on the cobbles reared up like wild horses in battle, their throats revealed.
A small ghost of a child emerged from the entirely dark corridor in which the lamp was not yet shining and stopped, standing on its tiptoes on an imperceptibly trembling floor beam. Blinded at once by the twilight in the room, it tried quickly to bury its face in its hands, but suddenly calmed itself with a glance to the window, where, before its crossbars, the haze forced up from the streetlights finally settled below the darkness. With its right elbow, it held itself upright against the wall in front of the open door and let the draft of air from outside drift around its ankles, also along its throat, its temples.
I watched for a while, then I said “Good Day” and took my coat from the fire screen, for I didn’t want to just stand there half-naked. For a little while, I kept my mouth open so that the excitement would leave me through my mouth. I had a bad taste in my mouth, my eyelashes quivered on my cheeks, in short, the last thing I needed was this admittedly expected visitor.
The child was still standing against the wall in the same place, its right hand pressed against the wall, which was coarsely grained, and, quite rosy-cheeked, it rubbed with its fingertips. I said: “Are you really looking for me? Is it not a mistake? Nothing easier than a mistake in this large house. My name is So-and-so. I live on the third floor. So am I the one you want to visit?”
“Hush, hush!” said the child over its shoulder, “Everything is all right.”
“Then come further into the room, I’d like to close the door.”
“I’ve just closed the door. Don’t worry. Just calm down.”
“It’s no trouble. But a lot of people live on this corridor, all of them my acquaintances, of course; most of them are coming home from work now; if they hear talking in one of the rooms, they simply believe they have the right to open the door and see what’s going on. That’s just the way it is. These people have their daily work behind them; who would they subjugate themselves to in their provisional evening freedom! Anyway, you know this as well. Let me close the door.”
“What is it? What’s the matter? The whole house can come in, as far as I’m concerned. And once again: I have already closed the door, or do you believe that only you can close the door? I have even locked it with the key.”
“Alright then. That’s all I wanted anyway. You didn’t have to lock it with the key, though. And now make yourself comfortable, since you’re here. You are my guest. Trust me entirely. Make yourself at home without fear. I will neither force you to stay here, nor to go away. Must I actually say this? Do you know so little about me?”
“No. You really didn’t need to say it. Even more, you shouldn’t have said it at all. I am a child; why go to such effort on my account?”
“It’s not as bad as that. A child, of course. But you’re not that small. You are already quite grown up. If you were a girl, you would not be able to simply lock yourself up with me in a room.”
“We don’t have to worry about that. I just wanted to say: the fact that I know you so well does little to protect me, but simply relieves you of the effort of lying to me. But you pay me compliments nevertheless. Stop it, I ask you to stop it. And on top of that, I don’t recognize you everywhere and always, especially not in this darkness. It would be better if you turned on the light. No, rather not. In any case, I shall remember that you have already threatened me.”
“What? I’m supposed to have threatened you? Please! After all, I am so delighted that you are finally here. I say ‘finally’ because it is already so late. It is incomprehensible to me why you have arrived so late. It is therefore possible that in my delight I spoke incoherently and that you understood it that way. I admit ten times over that I spoke in such a way, yes that I threatened you with anything you like.—Just no arguing, for heaven’s sake!—But how could you believe it? How could you offend me so? Why are you set on ruining the brief little duration of your visit here? A stranger would be more forthcoming than you.”
“I believe you; that requires no particular insight. By nature, I am already as close to you as any stranger could become. And you know as much, so why the melancholy? Tell me if you wish to put on an act and I will leave this minute.”
“Oh really? You also dare to say that to me? You are a little too bold. After all, you are in my room. You are rubbing your fingers like mad on my wall. My room, my wall! And anyway, what you’re saying is ridiculous, not only impudent. You say your nature compels you to speak to me in this way. Really? Your nature compels you? That is nice of your nature. Your nature is mine, and if it is my nature to behave kindly towards you, you are not allowed to behave otherwise.”
“Is that kind?”
“I’m talking about earlier.”
“Do you know what I will be like later?”
“I know nothing.”
And I went over to the bedside table, on which I lit the candle. At the time, I had neither gas nor electric light in my room. I then sat for a while longer at the table, until I grew tired of that as well, put on my overcoat, took my hat from the sofa, and blew out the candle. As I went out, I tangled myself up in the leg of an armchair.
On the stairs I met a tenant from the same floor.
“You’re going out again, you rascal?” he asked, resting upon his legs spread out across two steps.
“What should I do?” I asked. “This time I had a ghost in my room.”
“You say that with the same dissatisfaction as if you had found a hair in your soup.”
“You’re joking. But remember, a ghost is a ghost.”
“Very true. But what if one doesn’t believe in ghosts at all?”
“Well do you think that I believe in ghosts? But what good does this disbelief do me?”
“Very easy. You must simply not be afraid anymore when a ghost really visits you.”
“Yes, but that is just the incidental fear. The real fear is the fear of the origin of the apparition. And that fear remains. I have a great deal of it within me.” Out of nervousness, I began to search through all my pockets.
“But since you were not afraid of the apparition itself, you could have gone ahead and asked what its cause was!”
“You have apparently never spoken with ghosts. You can never get a clear answer out of them. It is a back-and-forth. These ghosts seem to be more in doubt of their existence than we are, which is no wonder, by the way, considering their frailty.
“But I heard, you can feed them.”
“Then you are well informed. You can. But who would do such a thing?”
“Why not? If it’s a female ghost, for example” he said and swung himself onto the top stair.
“I see,” I said, “but even then, it’s not worth it.”
I thought for a moment. My acquaintance was already so high up, that he had to lean forward under an arch in the stairwell to see me. “But still,” I called, “if you take my ghost away from me up there, then it’s over between us, forever.”
“But I was just joking,” he said and pulled his head back.
“Alright then,” I said and could have actually gone for a walk now. But because I felt so utterly forlorn, I went upstairs instead and lay down to sleep.
THE WAY HOME
See the persuasiveness of the air after the thunderstorm! My merits are apparent to me and overwhelm me, even though I don’t resist.
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I march, and my pace is the pace of my side of the street, this street, this neighborhood. I am rightly responsible for every strike against the doors and on the tabletops, for all toasts that are spoken, for the lovers in their beds, in the scaffolding of new buildings, pressed against the walls in the dark alleys or on the ottomans of brothels.
I weigh my past against my future, but find both to be excellent, am unable to prefer one over the other, and I must only reprimand the injustice of the destiny that has thus favored me.
But when I enter my room, I am a little contemplative, although I did not find anything worthy of contemplation as I climbed the stairs. It doesn’t help me much that I open the window wide and that music is still playing in someone’s garden.
AN OLD MANUSCRIPT
It seems as though much has been neglected in the defense of our fatherland. We haven’t bothered about it until now, and have gone about our daily work; recent events, however, are troubling us.
I have a shoemaker’s shop in the square in front of the Imperial Palace. No sooner do I open my shop at dawn than I see the entrances to all streets leading to the square occupied by armed men. But they are not only our soldiers, but evidently also nomads from the north. In some way that is unfathomable to me, they have pushed through all the way to the capital, which is very far from the border. In any case, they are there; it seems that every morning there are more of them.
As is their nature, they camp beneath the open sky, for they detest dwelling houses. They busy themselves by sharpening their swords, honing their arrows, with exercises on horseback. They have turned this quiet square, which is always kept anxiously clean, into a real sty. Although we do try to sometimes run out of our shops and drag away at least the worst of the filth, this happens less and less frequently, for the effort is pointless, and furthermore, it puts us in danger of falling beneath the wild horses or being injured by the whips.