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Paradigm Shift in Kafka's "In the Penal Colony"

Mon, 09 Apr 2007 12:33:50 +0000

by Michael Segedy

Kafka’s “In the Penal Colony” has fostered countless debates over its meaning. Most readers would agree that it is a terrifyingly unforgettable story that delivers, with a violence, a condemnation of man’s inhumanity to man. However, the darkness of the tale can overshadow its affirmative message. Like most of Kafka’s stories, the meaning must be wrested from the details. Kafka uses dark, violent imagery to establish a grim time before mankind conceived of a humane system of justice based on principles grounded in the Enlightenment.

Kafkas letzte Geliebte. Graphische Spuren von Ja und Nein: Dora Dymants Widmung

Sat, 27 May 2006 15:39:15 +0000

von Roland Reuss

Handschriftliche Widmungen in Büchern versuchen das Unmögliche: Dem Typischen, Allgemeinen des Drucks das Individuelle wiederzugeben, das in ihm, durch Typographie, getilgt scheint. Im Falle des vorliegenden Kafka-Drucks, der 1996 von einem Hamburger Antiquariat in Privatbesitz überging, handelt es sich um ein einzigartiges Zeugnis der Verbundenheit mit dessen Autor, auch über die letzte Grenze hinaus. Kafka war zum Zeitpunkt des handschriftlichen Eintrags bereits vier Jahre tot.

Wir wissen nicht, wer jene Mine Meyer war, der Dora Dymant (1898-1952) 1928 Kafkas wohl berühmteste Erzählsammlung »Ein Landarzt« »zur Erinnerung an einen schönen Tag im Bergischen« zudachte. Auch über Dora Dymant selbst wissen wir nicht allzuviel. In Kafka-Biographien steht sie in der chronologischen Folge der Kafka-Geliebten an dritter Stelle, nach Felice Bauer und Milena Jesenská. Kafka, der sie 1923 bei einem Erholungsurlaub im Ostseebad Müritz (bei Stettin) kennenlernte, fühlte sich von der damals Neunzehnjährigen sogleich angezogen. Sie arbeitete dort freiwillig im Ferienlager eines jüdischen Berliner Volksheims. Die Berliner Kolonie befand sich direkt neben Kafkas Pension, und die erste Begegnung fand am 13. Juli 1923 statt – anläßlich einer Feier am Vorabend des Sabbats, an dem Kafka auf eigenen Wunsch teilnahm.

"Franz Kafka und die Unfallversicherung" von Gerhard Strejcek

Sat, 27 May 2006 15:06:15 +0000

von Janko Ferk

Franz Kafkas literarische Werke stehen seit langem im Mittelpunkt wissenschaftlicher Betrachtung. Heinz Politzer hat schon 1978 von einer “akademischen Kafka-Industrie” gesprochen, obwohl es damals erst rund 11.000 Expertenmeinungen zu studieren gab. Heute wirft die Suchmaschine Google unter dem Stichwort “Franz Kafka” je nach Tagesverfassung bis zu vier Millionen Ergebnisse aus. Trotz aller Forschungen und Resultate ist weniger bekannt, dass er auch ein hervorragender Versicherungsjurist war.

Gerhard Strejcek, Rechtswissenschaftler am Wiener Juridicum, beschreibt in seiner Monografie Kafkas “Brotberuf” von der kurzen Anstellung bei der privaten “Assicurazioni Generali” bis zur Tätigkeit bei der halbstaatlichen “Arbeiter-Unfall-Versicherungs-Anstalt für das Königreich Böhmen” in Prag. Im “Amt” gebrauchte er die beiden Landessprachen, Deutsch und Tschechisch. Kafkas konkrete juristische Aufgaben werden hier vor dem Hintergrund der jeweils gültigen Rechtsordnung erläutert.

My Kafka. A Poem by Philip Terman

Tue, 25 Oct 2005 21:52:38 +0000

A cage went in search of a bird.

1.The Heron

The commotion of sunlight, rattling

of clouds, the impossible crash

of daybreak, how loud the grass, how noisy

the gossamer wavering in the dust, how terrible

the explosion of the human heart.The silence

you need cannot be found on this earth,

the circular saw grinding across the road,

the chattering teeth of mice in the floorboards.

At least from food you can escape into air,

Los libros que influyeron a Franz Kafka regresan a Praga

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 15:07:05 +0000

PRAGA. La biblioteca casi completa de Franz Kafka, compuesta por unos 100.000 libros, revistas y otras publicaciones, ha regresado a Praga, donde ayer abrió solemnemente sus puertas en el Barrio Judío del casco antiguo. La sede de la Sociedad Franz Kafka albergará la biblioteca, que durante décadas estuvo en Alemania, tras haber sido vendida a un anticuario de Stuttgart. La empresa automovilística alemana Porsche destinó a Praga los más de 500 tomos de la biblioteca de Kafka, que adquirió por 135.000 euros del anticuario y restaurador de libros alemán Herbert Blank. Daniela Uherková, de la Sociedad Franz Kafka, explicó que la biblioteca incluye, además de los libros que leyó el escritor, las primeras ediciones de todas sus obras y una selección importante de la literatura sobre Kafka y su época. «Todos los que se interesan por las relaciones checo-alemanas y europeas deberían retornar a esa época, cuando en Praga convivían alemanes y checos», señaló, por su parte, la vicepresidenta del Parlamento Federal de Alemania, Antje Vollmer, quien expresó su satisfacción por poder acercarse a la literatura que influyó al genial autor.

La biblioteca di Kafka

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 15:05:57 +0000

Andrea Tarquini

Una rara, sensazionale scoperta, che ha quasi il sapore di una resurrezione letteraria, appassiona in questi giorni i tedeschi, i cechi e tutta la cultura mitteleuropea: è riemersa quasi dal nulla, grazie al paziente lavoro di un antiquario di Stoccarda, Herr Herbert Blank, la Biblioteca di Franz Kafka. E con un gesto di mecenatismo esemplare un’aziendasimbolo della Germania di oggi, quella Porsche nota per le auto sportive di superlusso, l’ha acquistata e donata alla Repubblica ceca. E’ un ritorno eccezionale, e ripercorrerne la vicenda equivale a un viaggio attraverso le emozioni e le tragedie della letteratura e della storia europee. La Biblioteca di Kafka, quegli 827 volumi spesso pazientemente rilegati e illustrati all’antica, e più volte arricchiti da appunti a margine vergati di proprio pugno dallo scrittore, fu messa al bando due volte: prima i nazisti, nella Praga occupata, bollarono Kafka come uno dei tanti «autori degnerati». Poi venne il bieco regime comunista, che (salvo la breve parentesi della Primavera di Dubcek) di fatto vietò le opere dell’autore del Processo e della Metamorfosi: lo considerò un pericoloso alfiere del «pessimismo piccoloborghese», un simbolo della cultura in lingua tedesca vietata dopo il 1945, e quel che è peggio anche l’esponente più noto dell’intellighentsija ebraica locale. «Kafka era mosso da una fame rapace di libri, che mal si conciliava con i suoi scarsi mezzi finanziari e con il poco spazio della sua piccola abitazione», spiega Herr Blank. Il quale ha messo insieme l’eterogenea collezione del maestro. Ecco le opere complete di Gustave Flaubert e del grande scrittore prussiano Theodor Fontane, l’autore di quella Effi Briest, cultbook del malessere esistenziale e dell’anticonformismo odiato dai reazionari e dagli stalinisti. Ecco anche Schlemihl di Adalbert von Chamisso, nella rara edizione Fischer del 1911. Non è finita: nell’eterogenea raccolta, spiccano i diari di Soeren Kierkegaard — «conferma le mie idee come un amico», annotò Kafka — o poesie di Matthias Claudius, verso cui il massimo scrittore boemo quasi provò invidia: «Ah, se si potesse ascendere al suo livello», ebbe a confessare. E a fianco di molte altre opere della collana «Werke der Weltliteratur», spuntano diari e guide turistiche dedicate all’Austria o a Parigi, e molti volumi delle «Schaffsteins gruene Baendchen», una raccolta popolare in voga allora, ricca di racconti di viaggio e avventure. E infine ma non per ultime molte biografie, tra le quali le Memorie di una socialista di Lily Braun, una delle letture preferite di Kafka. Il lavoro del taciturno, meticoloso Herr Blank, arricchito da testimonianze raccolte con una paziente indagine — messe insieme come sotto forma di catalogo — permette per la prima volta di ricostruire gusti e abitudini del grande scrittore. «E’ la rara opera d’arte di un antiquario», annuncia entusiasta la pagina culturale dell’illustre Frankfurter Allgemeine, elogiando Blank «la cui convinzione che l’uomo sia ciò che legge sembra unirlo a Kafka». Ma salvare la Biblioteca kafkiana non è stato facile. Kafka, spiega lo studioso di Stoccarda, amava passare ore in librerie e biblioteche: assieme ai tanti volumi, la raccolta è ricca di rari cataloghi di edizioni letterarie e di resoconti di viaggio di allora. Insieme ad appunti che rivelano il disinteresse o il disprezzo di Kafka per la letteratura di consumo di allora, o per alcuni contemporanei come Trakl o Else LaskerSchüler. «Kafka leggeva e rileggeva a fondo, spesso lentamente, quanto poteva acquistare o procurarsi», spiega l’antiquario ai media tedeschi. Dopo la morte dello scrittore, fu la sorella Ottla a salvare l’eccezionale raccolta degli 827 volumi dal macero. Finché, nel 1944, la Gestapo la arrestò e la deportò ad Auschwitz dove trovò una morte orribile. I libri finirono in un magazzino della famigerata polizia segreta del Reich a Praga occupata. Uno scrittore, H.G.Adler, li salvò dal rogo, ma non dal dimenticatoio. Dove i volumi rimasero, volutamente lasciati a marcire dai nuovi padroni, i comunisti di Clement Gottwald e di Antonin Novotny che non amavano la letteratura cosmopolita in lingua tedesca. «Se oggi possiamo accedere a questo lascito storico — dice Hartmut Binder, uno dei massimi esperti tedeschi di Kafka, «lo dobbiamo a una sequenza di singolari circostanze». Il revival di Kafka in patria infatti fu breve, maturò nei primi segnali liberalizzanti degli anni Sessanta e visse di luce propria solo gli otto fugaci, esaltanti mesi del Nuovo Corso riformatore di Dubcek. Con l’invasione sovietica, tornò la vecchia musica, in toni più grevi. Il «pessimista piccolo borghese F.Kafka», scrissero ideologi e turiferari del regime installato dai Panzer, «è prediletto dagli pseudostorici revisionisti raccolti attorno a Eduard Goldstuecker». Cioè l’intellettuale ebreo, tra i padri della Primavera, che dal 1963 raccolse l’intellighentsija anticonformista e i giovani quadri comunisti kruscioviani in cicli semilegali di conferenze su Kafka. Tornati all’indice, gli 827 volumi del maestro sarebbero forse finiti distrutti, se con una trama degna d’una spy story, un gruppo di antiquari e critici letterari della democrazia di Bonn non fosse riuscito a trafugarli all’Ovest. Correvano i cupi anni Ottanta, con la cultura cecoslovacca divisa tra esilio e prigioni, quando i libri riapparvero nelle mani di un gruppo di antiquari di Monaco. I quali li consegnarono all’Istituto di ricerca sulla letteratura in lingua tedesca a Praga, con sede nell’università di Wuppertal. E là, misti a tanti altri volumi, i libri della Biblioteca di Kafka sono rimasti. C’è voluto Herr Blank per scoprirne l’origine comune con sistematiche ricerche sulla vita del maestro. L’antiquario ha investito anni di risparmi per mettere insieme una collezione, in massima parte di duplicati. Gli originali resteranno infatti a Wuppertal. Catalogati e ordinati da Herr Blank, i doppioni d’epoca sono stati acquistati dalla Porsche a un generoso valore stimato pari a 250 milioni di lire. E Wendelin Wiedeking, il manager socialdemocratico che guida la Ferrari tedesca, li ha fatti consegnare al nuovo regime democratico ceco. L’anno prossimo, nel castello boemo di Janowitz che fu caro a Rilke, Karl Kraus e Adolf Loos, sarà aperta una grande biblioteca dedicata alla cultura boema ed ebraica scritta in tedesco. Il governo rossoverde di Berlino medita di incentivare questo tipo di mecenatismo con iniziative e finanziamenti propri. A volte l’amore per i libri è più forte dei Lager e dei Muri, nella Mitteleuropa dilaniata dalla Storia.

Porsche schenkt Prag eine Doublette der Bibliothek Kafkas

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 15:04:42 +0000

Gern las Franz Kafka Broschüren, Heftchen und Kataloge. Oft studierte er die Auslagen von Buchläden. Nicht unbedingt die Bücher. Denn mit seiner „Gier nach Büchern“ ging er um wie mit einem Haustier, das einem selber nicht ganz geheuer ist. Man kann ihn sich vorstellen, wie er, das leise knurrende Haustier zugleich aufreizend und abwehrend, Reklamebroschüren und Buchanzeigen durchblättert. Da er weder an Bibliophilem interessiert, noch im entferntesten bereit gewesen wäre, Liebhaberpreise zu bezahlen, kommt er als Leser von Antiquariatskatalogen nur bedingt in Betracht. Aber sein Blick hat mit dem des Antiquars eines gemeinsam: Kafka war, nicht nur bei den eigenen, an der äußeren Gestalt der Bücher, an Formaten, Satzspiegeln und Illustrationen ungemein interessiert. „Anstreichungen, bedenklich verkleinerte Taschenbuchausgaben, Halbpergament, Kopfgoldschnitt, Pappband, Rücken gering verblasst, stockfleckig, unaufgeschnitten, zeitbedingt gebräunt“ – im Katalog 52 des Stuttgarter Antiquariats Herbert Blank, erschienen im Oktober 2001, ist das Alphabet der Gestalt- und Zustandsbeschreibung von Büchern versammelt. Franz Kafka würde als Leser in diesen Katalog wie in einen Spiegel blicken. Er enthält in den Nummern 1 bis 31 die in Buchform oder in Zeitschriften, Almanachen und Anthologien erschienenen Werke Kafkas im Erstdruck. Und unter dem Titel „In Kafkas Bibliothek“ verzeichnet der Katalog in den Nummern 32-827 folgendes: „Werke der Weltliteratur und Geschichte in der Edition, wie sie Kafka besaß oder kannte, kommentiert mit Zitaten aus seinen Briefen und Tagebüchern“. Der Antiquar Herbert Blank hat diese Sammlung in jahrelangen Recherchen zusammengestellt. Sie ist das materielle Äquivalent nicht nur zu den Bücherlisten in Klaus Wagenbachs „Franz Kafka. Eine Biographie seiner Jugend“ (1958) und Jürgen Borns „Kafkas Bibliothek. Ein beschreibendes Verzeichnis“ (1990), sondern zugleich zu den Erwähnungen von Büchern und Zeitschriften in den Briefen und Tagebüchern Kafkas. Kurz, sie vereint die empirische mit der imaginären Bibliothek des Lesers Kafka. Zum großen Teil ist diese Sammlung eine Doublette. Das Original, die für einen Schriftsteller nicht sonderlich umfangreiche Bibliothek Kafkas, wurde nach seinem Tod bis 1944 von seiner Schwester Ottla gehütet, nach deren Deportation von der Gestapo in ein Magazin in Prag verfrachtet und dort von dem Schriftsteller H.G. Adler gerettet. Anfang der achtziger Jahre gelangte sie auf bisher ungeklärten Wegen in den Westen und wurde von einem Münchner Antiquariat an die Forschungsstelle für Prager deutsche Literatur an der Universität Wuppertal verkauft. Dort wird sie bleiben. Die Porsche AG, die seit kurzem mit der Fakultät Maschinenbau der Technischen Universität in Prag kooperiert und deren Gründer Ferdinand Porsche (1875 bis 1951) aus Böhmen stammte, füllt nun die in Prag mit dem Verkauf des Jahres 1982 entstandene Lücke. Sie hat die von dem Antiquar Blank nahezu vollständig rekonstruierte Bibliothek Kafkas im Wert von gut einer viertel Million Mark aufgekauft und der „Franz-Kafka-Gesellschaft-Prag“ überantwortet. Deren hocherfreuter Präsident, Kurt Krolop, würdigte gestern bei der symbolischen Übergabe der Sammlung in der Berliner Akademie der Künste die mäzenatische Aktion des Sportwagenherstellers als Beitrag zur Wiederanknüpfung an die „dreifache Tradition“ Böhmens: die tschechische, die deutsche und die jüdische, die sich in Werk und Bibliothek Kafkas erkennbar überlagern. Er erinnerte zudem daran, dass noch 1983 der hundertste Geburtstag Kafkas in seiner Heimat nicht gefeiert wurde, weil in der „Pseudogeschichtsschreibung“ zum Prager Frühling zu dessen Keimzellen auch die von Eduard Goldstücker in den Jahren 1963 und 1965 organisierten Kafka-Konferenzen gehört hätten. Das Zwielicht, in dem Kafka noch lange nach den „Dekadenz“-Verdikten der fünfziger Jahre verblieb, war einer der Gründe, warum die Transaktion der Originalbibliothek so konspirativ erfolgte. Viele Pferde sind grün Inzwischen arbeiten, wie Friedemann Pfäfflin, der langjährige Leiter der Museumsabteilung im Deutschen Literaturarchiv Marbach, betonte, die deutschen und die tschechischen Geschichtsschreiber der Prager Literatur und ihrer europäischen Verflechtungen eng zusammen. Auf Schloss Janowitz in Böhmen, wo Karl Kraus, Rilke und Adolf Loos verkehrten, ist eine Begegnungsstätte entstanden, eine „Bibliothek Janowitz“ ist für das Jahr 2002 geplant. Antje Vollmer, hohen PS-Zahlen aus diesem Anlass durchaus grün, beließ es nicht beim Dank an Porsche und beim wiederholten allgemeinen Plädoyer für die zu errichtende „Kultur des Mäzenatentums“ in Deutschland. Sie wollte die mitteleuropäische Orientierung von Projekten wie der Begegnungsstätte in Janowitz oder der Erforschung Kafkas und seiner literarischen Welt ausdrücklich als Lockerung der Fixierung auf die bayerisch-sudetendeutsche Perspektive im deutsch-tschechischen Verhältnis verstanden wissen. Klaus Wagenbach, der für das kommende Jahr eine Marbacher Ausstellung über „Kafkas Fabriken“ vorbereitet, hielt neben anderen Erstausgaben auch die „Betrachtung“, erschienen im Jahr 1913, ins Publikum. Noch 1970 hat Herbert Blank eines der 800 Exemplare für 700 Mark verkauft. Nun steht der schmale Band mit 28000 Mark in seinem Katalog, der lesenswert bleibt, obwohl alles verkauft ist. LOTHAR MÜLLER

'De Kafka me interesa la lógica cotidiana que conduce a la locura'

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 15:03:26 +0000

OCTAVI MARTÍ | París

El compositor Philippe Manoury (Tulle, 1952) estrenó el miércoles en la Ópera de La Bastilla, de París, una ópera basada en El proceso, de Kafka. K… es la segunda ópera de Manoury. Su estreno mundial tuvo lugar con una puesta en escena de André Engel, dirección musical de Russell Davies y con el barítono Andreas Scheibner como gran protagonista en el escenario. Pregunta. ¿Por que eligió El proceso para su ópera? Respuesta. Tenía un encargo de Hugues Gall, el director de la Ópera Nacional de París, que me pidió que pensara una obra. Primero trabajé sobre un texto de Faulkner, pero el resultado no me satisfacía y había problemas de derechos de autor. Mi mirada se fijó a continuación en Kafka, en El proceso, que es uno de mis libros de cabecera y que he leído en seis o siete oportunidades. En el libro de Kafka me interesa esa lógica cotidiana que te conduce a un universo donde reina la locura, en la que todos los razonamientos son llevados hasta lo absurdo, dejando al personaje como un limón exprimido. P. ¿Existe una relación entre su escritura musical y la literaria de Kafka? R. Me gusta el carácter fragmentario de la novela, la ambigüedad respecto al orden de los capítulos, que no fue decidido por su autor, el que haya un encadenamiento lógico de los hechos pero que esa lógica sea retorcida, sinuosa. En música intento expresar lo mismo: sé adónde quiero llegar, pero el camino a recorrer me es totalmente desconocido. No existe predestinación, nunca avanzo en línea recta, descubro el paisaje por el que transita la música al mismo tiempo que la compongo. P. Ha optado por conservar el alemán de Kafka como idioma. Y también se ha preocupado porque el texto sea comprensible. R. Prácticamente todas las frases que se cantan están en El proceso. He respetado todos los acentos tónicos, he evitado que los intervalos sean excesivos. En líneas generales, puedo decir que soy partidario de que podamos seguir lo que dice la letra de los temas que se cantan pero eso no me impide, en ciertos momentos, privilegiar frases musicales que, por sí mismas, tienen el valor de una expresión, de un grito. En ese momento es difícil entender lo que se dice, pero creo que se comprende bien. P. Joseph K se pierde en el laberinto de una historia de la que todo el mundo, excepto él, se diría conoce el secreto. En la ópera ¿el protagonista se pierde dentro de la música? R. Lo que he buscado es que la música, a medida en que la situación va haciéndose más y más complicada, sea más y más estilizada, reducida a lo esencial. Si el argumento sigue una estructura arborescente, que se ramifica en todas las direcciones, la música adopta un tono progresivamente más abstracto, que nos acerca al mito. P. En el libreto ha tenido que suprimir pasajes que son importantes del libro. ¿Hay alguno en concreto que le haya dolido cortar? R. La discusión entre el abad y Joseph K sobre las Tablas de la Ley. Es un gran pasaje del libro, pero no me funcionaba dentro de la ópera. Y era un diálogo de más de 20 minutos. K… tiene una importante fragmentación temporal, muchas de las escenas se encadenan sin transición, como por corte cinematográfico. Eso ha sido difícil de resolver en la puesta en escena. André Engel no había podido oír nunca la ópera, ni verla, claro. Yo sólo podía decirle para orientarle cosas del tipo ’en ese pasaje dominará la percusión, en ese otro el viento…’. P. ¿Qué papel juega la electrónica en K…? R. La ópera es experimental desde distintos puntos de vista: utiliza nuevas técnicas de espacialización, emplea nuevos métodos de síntesis vocal, integra sonidos concretos de la acción dramática como elementos musicales. Se trataba de crear un espacio y un movimiento sonoro que modifiquen nuestra percepción habitual de la ópera.

Kafka en sus «Diarios»: el espejo de un genio

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 15:01:08 +0000

BORJA HERMOSO

Una nueva versión de Círculo de Lectores rescata los pasajes suprimidos por su amigo Max Brod en la edición de 1950

MADRID.- En lo alto del cuaderno figuraba una fecha, 23 de diciembre de 1911. Debajo, podía leerse esta sucinta declaración de intenciones: «Uno encuentra en su diario pruebas de haber vivido, de haber mirado alrededor y de haber anotado observaciones incluso en circunstancias que hoy parecen insoportables…». Sus diarios -un enorme observatorio de papel cuadriculado-, sus alrededores personales, sus observaciones de entomólogo sobre cosas y seres como Praga, los judíos, los colores del cielo, los visitantes colapsando las puertas del Louvre o las profecías de una sociedad amenazante, tantos síntomas de una experiencia vital a la intemperie, los amasó Franz Kafka entre 1910 y 1923 de manera anárquica y nerviosa, a contrapelo, en forma de apuntes tomados sin luz o en trenes en marcha. Galaxia Gutenberg-Círculo de Lectores plasma ahora todo eso en la segunda parte de las obras completas de Kafka, integrada por los Diarios, los Diarios de viaje y la Carta al padre. Esta segunda entrega (la primera fue dedicada a sus novelas, y más adelante llegarán las referidas a las narraciones cortas y la correspondencia) se completa con un masivo aparato de notas, índices cronológicos de entradas y otros de fragmentos, esbozos y apuntes narrativos, además de una minuciosa cronología de la vida del autor de América. El filólogo Jordi Llovet ha dirigido esta edición de más de 1.000 páginas, cuya traducción al español ha corrido a cargo de Andrés Sánchez Pascual y Joan Parra a partir de la versión de la editorial alemana S. Fischer (1982). Primera edición íntegra Estos Diarios no sólo ocupan el segmento más íntimo -más kafkiano, valga la expresión- de las obras completas del autor, sino que constituyen un verdadero hito editorial por partida doble: en primer lugar, estamos ante la primera edición íntegra en español de los diarios; en segundo, el ingente trabajo coordinado por Ignacio Echevarría es una tradución alejada por completo de las tradicionalmente disponibles en castellano, todas ellas basadas en la versión póstuma del amigo de Kafka y editor Max Brod, establecida en 1950. La vocación de mejora con respecto al modelo de Brod está clara, de manera muy especial en la ordenación de textos, que se olvida del casi obsesivo criterio cronológico ejercido por Brod y le prefiere la alocada secuencia efectiva de las anotaciones que Kafka realizaba, iniciando unos cuadernos, abandonando otros y retomándolos de nuevo. Pero además, y he ahí quizá lo más valioso de la obra, esta versión incorpora todas las supresiones a las que por unos u otros motivos procedió el editor alemán. En algunos casos se trata de fragmentos que Brod consideró demasiado íntimos; otras veces, pasajes demasiado crípticos y de lectura complicada; otras, citas del autor checo sobre algunas de sus lecturas favoritas; y, en fin, dibujos ejecutados por el propio Kafka en los márgenes de sus cuadernos y sus legajos. La conclusión: la sacrosanta versión de Max Brod se ha quedado, si no obsoleta, sí superada. «Lo más interesante es que se ha trabajado sobre los manuscritos reales de Kafka, y no sobre la edición establecida por Max Brod. Hay mucho material que Brod no utilizó, y eso enriquece la obra, por supuesto», explica el traductor Joan Parra. Parra establece grandes diferencias entre la tarea de traducir al Kafka de las narraciones y al de los diarios: «En el caso de sus diarios hay grandes problemas de interpretación, porque se trata de textos que en su mayor parte no estaban destinados a ser leídos sino, como mucho, a ser releídos por su autor. No estamos ante un artefacto literario, es un material personal, íntimo, y las pistas son casi inexistentes, con lo que la inerpretación es muy difícil». Una concisión brutal Esta segunda entrega de las obras completas de Kafka no es un libro fácil, entre otras cosas porque los responsables de su edición han preferido primar el respeto a los manuscritos originales antes que practicar cualquier concesión al gran público.«Es una prosa a veces enrevesada y de una concisión brutal, por lo que no es fácil de leer, y mucho menos de traducir. Hemos tenido que forzar la sintaxis para poder reflejar con fidelidad lo que Kafka escribió». Esa voluntad de respeto y fidelidad al original no les ha impedido corregir los abundantes errores cometidos por el autor de La metamorfosis a la hora de escribir nombres propios o palabras en otros idiomas distintos al alemán. La nueva versión sí respeta, en lo posible, el a menudo mareante sistema de puntuación del escritor checo. Lejos de los criterios correctores de la edición de Max Brod, Joan Parra y Andrés Sánchez Pascual no se plantearon como meta facilitar la lectura de los Diarios. «Se trataba de ofrecer una versión lo más fiel posible, y eso implica no ponerle las cosas fáciles al lector». Sin ser fáciles, los Diarios de Franz Kafka no encierran las inextricables simbologías ni los devaneos geniales pero a veces irresolubles de un Fernando Pessoa en el fascinante Libro del desasosiego. Kafka mira la vida y se aterra con la amenaza del mundo futuro y las instituciones, mete el bisturí en el rico conflicto lingüístico de la Praga de inicios de siglo, cita a Goethe como su referencia primera, describe sensaciones, paisajes, olores y gentes desde una gama de estilos que van desde el naturalismo hasta el barroco, pasando por el cubismo y el zarpazo expresionista. Nora Catelli, autora del prólogo, se plantea con serias dudas si estos Diarios pudieran haber sido documentos preparatorios de la autobiografía de Franza Kafka. Una autobiografía jamás escrita.

Marianne Steiner dead

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:59:40 +0000

Niece of Franz Kafka who helped to preserve his papers and advised many biographers and scholars

Marianne Steiner, who was a niece of Franz Kafka, played an unassuming but ultimately decisive part in securing Kafka’s reputation as one of the great writers of the 20th century. Being one of the few survivors of the family, numbers of whom had been annihilated in the Nazi death camps, she provided a vital link between Kafka’s own roots, the community of Prague German Jews, and modern scholars. In the Cold War, when Kafka’s books were banned in Prague, and Prague was almost wholly inaccessible to Western academics, it was Marianne Steiner, as the only member of her family living in the West, who assumed responsibility for her uncle’s literary heritage. By her personal intervention in preserving Kafka’s papers for the public in the form most suitable for study, she enabled the editing of his work to be placed on a secure footing. Through her memories of her uncle and his family, she provided an inspiration to many biographers and scholars. And in her own remarkable person, she was irreplaceable as a witness of Kafka’s vanished world. Marianne Steiner’s life was intertwined with that of her famous uncle. Kafka’s doomed courtship of Felice Bauer, which inaugurated his major phase as a writer, may in part have been prompted by the engagement of Marianne’s mother, Kafka’s second sister Valerie (Valli), to Josef Pollak. The night after the couple’s first visit to the family, on September 22, 1912, Kafka wrote his uncanny story The Judgment, in which the hero’s engagement provides the motor for the plot. When Marianne’s parents married, as his diary records, it was Franz Kafka who made the wedding speech, and later it was in their apartment that he began work on The Trial. Marianne Pollak was born in Prague. When she was seven, as his diary records, Kafka saw her take part in a Purim celebration — a Jewish feast day particularly associated with children. He noted “her upright walk, short black hair”, and a newspaper reported on the “crisp and clear account of the Purim story by the clever Marianne Pollak”. In 1923, when Kafka was already suffering from advanced tuberculosis but was attempting to set up a new life in Berlin with his young lover, Dora Diamant, he wrote a long letter to Valli, in which he thanked Marianne and her younger sister for their letters to him: “It’s strange how their writing, placed side by side, represents perhaps not the difference in their character but the difference between their bodies”. As to Marianne, he asks “What is she reading?”, “Is she still dancing?”, “Does she still wear glasses?” In her mid-eighties, Steiner treasured a newly discovered Kafka reference to the “little Marianne”. She herself recalled such details as how “pointed” her uncle’s knees had seemed to her as they walked across Prague’s Old Town Square. More significantly, she disputed Kafka’s view of his father as an “ogre”, and her recollection has been widely accepted by scholars, who claim that “Kafka’s father was really quite ordinary”. The Kafka scholars who made the transition from the first phase of his reception, based on the views of Kafka’s friend and first editor, Max Brod, to a more objective approach, all owe a large debt to Marianne Steiner. Klaus Wagenbach, Kafka’s first scholarly biographer, Hartmut Binder, the indefatigable commentator of all aspects of Kafka’s life and work, and Sir Malcolm Pasley, doyen of Kafka editors, all acknowledge her assistance. Similarly, American Kafka studies, via Walter Sokel, and the French reception of Kafka, through Marthe Robert, were enriched by her. Even the latest generation of Kafka scholars continued this tradition, notably Hans-Gerd Koch, the new lead editor of the critical edition. Marianne Steiner’s most important contribution lies in her rescue of Kafka’s manuscripts. Max Brod had taken most of them with him when he emigrated to Palestine. Alongside those which he regarded as his property were the great majority which properly belonged to the family. At one time there was a danger that they might be dispersed at auction. At another, it seemed that Kafka’s publisher, Salman Schocken, wished to retain them for his own collection. But thanks to Marianne Steiner’s perseverance — and through the mediation of Malcolm Pasley — an appropriate home for them was found in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, where they form the basis for the great critical edition of Kafka’s work. They will shortly be reproduced in a new facsimile edition. Not wishing to profit from them, Steiner bequeathed her own third of Kafka’s papers to the Bodleian. Her life was a succession of unusual stories. She was a noted Prague beauty. When she was about 16, a young man boasted that he was taking her out. “We’ll see about that,” another youngster replied. George Steiner, as he was called, wooed her and won her, and their teenage love became a lifelong partnership. They married in 1935, their son Michael was born in 1938, but in 1939 the family fled to England from the Nazis. George Steiner lost his security as the junior director of an elegant Prague clothiers for the uncertainties of exile, working at the BBC World Service. After the war, during which Marianne’s parents and Kafka’s other sisters had died in the camps, the Steiners returned to Prague to set up a new life. However, with the advent of Communism in 1948 they escaped to England again, living in strait-ened circumstances until George found success as an executive at Marks & Spencer. Later, he devoted himself to Amnesty International. One of the more curious episodes in Marianne Steiner’s life involved a meeting in London with Kafka’s last mistress, Dora Diamant. She often wondered whether a child had resulted from this liaison. Had Dora concealed a pregnancy? If there was a secret, Dora took it with her to the grave. Marianne Steiner’s features recalled her uncle’s, and she shared his honesty, his clarity, his passion for truth. She was noted for her wit, her courage and her tolerance. And her personal warmth was tinged with the wry sobriety, so common among the Prague Jews, that enabled her to thrive even in exile. Yet although she became to some degree anglicised, her circle of friends had a Central European bias. It included the emigré publisher Pavel Tigrid, who became Czech Minister of Culture after 1989; H.G. Adler, the noted Prague-born Holocaust scholar; and the Czech documentary film-maker, Mirek Lang. Claudio Magris, the chronicler of The Habsburg Myth and The Danube, also beat a path to her door. Though an intensely private person, she grew into her public role, taking part in an Austrian television programme after The Trial manuscript was sold at auction for £1 million in London, and attending as a guest of honour the opening of an exhibition devoted to it at the German Literary Archive in Marbach. On November 7, the day before she died, a long television interview with her was screened in Prague. Throughout the Cold War the Steiners maintained contact with other Kafka scions, especially Ottla’s daughter, the editor and translator Vera Saudkova, and in her later years, after her husband’s untimely death, Marianne’s family, including grandchildren and great-grandchildren, were her greatest joy. Marianne Steiner is survived by her son, who recently assumed responsibility for Kafka’s estate.

Kafka would hate to be a square, say Prague officials

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:49:12 +0000

by Kate Connolly

“Prague won’t let you go, the little mother has claws,” Franz Kafka once wrote about his uneasy relationship with the city of his birth. But now scholars of the late author are having trouble winning recognition for him after authorities turned down a proposal for a Franz Kafka Square, saying that it would have “terrified” their famous son. Prague officials last year suggested renaming a small rectangular area close to the site of his house after the German-speaking writer. But yesterday city council officials, headed by the mayor of Prague’s first district, Jan Buergermeister, rejected what would have been the first official monument to him, saying that Kafka would turn in his grave at the very thought. “Franz Kafka would be terrified by the idea that streets or squares should be named after him,” said Mr Buergermeister. Kafka enthusiasts scorned the decision, questioning whether the mayor had a “hotline” to the spirit of Kafka, who died in 1924. “How does he know what Kafka wouldn’t have liked?” asked Eduard Goldstücker, a Kafka scholar. “[Kafka] was a very modest man but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like to have had his name attached to something.” Mr Goldstücker has been campaigning since 1963 for recognition of arguably the most famous Czech. “It’s a unique phenomenon in the world that the most famous son in the city is not being acknowledged by having something named after him,” said Prof Goldstücker. “Trying to imagine Prague without Kafka is rather like trying to imagine Salzburg without Mozart.” Mr Goldstücker said the reason efforts to rename the street have failed is a strong revival of nationalist tradition in the Czech lands. The fact that Kafka wrote in German and was a Jew does not help, he said.

Kafka's doomed love

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:47:56 +0000

By Yehuda Koren

The final chapter of a tragic romance ends next week in a London cemetery.

He was one of the greatest writers of the 20th century, the author of classics such as The Trial, The Castle and Metamorphosis, which reflected his own tormented private life. She was a young, Polish-born seamstress and student of Hebrew. The chance meeting of Franz Kafka and Dora Dymant in 1923 at a Baltic seaside resort kindled a love that brought him the happiness which had eluded him all his life. But in a cruel twist of fate, his new serenity proved shortlived: he died of tuberculosis a year later, at the age of 40. Shattered by the loss of her great love, Dymant attempted to rebuild her life but eventually died in east London and was buried in an unmarked grave. Next Sunday the final chapter in this tragic story will be brought to a close when Kafka scholars, and Dymant’s surviving Israeli relatives, unveil a tombstone in East Ham 47 years after her death. “Who knows Dora, knows what love means”, reads the inscription. Kafka’s earlier thwarted love affairs have been widely recorded. But Dymant, described by Kafka’s friend and biographer Max Brod as “his life’s companion” was shunned by his family and all but forgotten. Until he met Dymant, sex and intimacy had always been associated with guilt for Kafka, exacerbated by the possessiveness of his domineering father. Twice - in 1913 and in 1917 - he was engaged to Felice Bauer, a secretary. Unsure of his emotions, he broke off the engagement each time. In 1919, after he was first diagnosed with TB, Kafka became engaged to Julie Whoryzek, the daughter of a shoemaker and a convalescent at the same sanatorium. But, faced with his father’s objections, he broke off that engagement, too. That year, he received a letter from Milena Jesenska Pollak, a young, married writer, asking permission to translate his stories into Czech. They fell in love and Kafka asked to marry her, but she refused to leave her husband. By the time he met Dymant, Kafka, a law graduate, had just resigned as senior secretary of the Workers’ Accident Insurance Institute in Prague. His writing career was shaky and his health precarious. “Had he got to know Dora sooner, his will to live would have become stronger_” says Brod. Kafka, and all his biographers, thought Dymant was only 19 when they met, but in a recent interview, her only surviving sister, Sarah Baumer from Tel Aviv, showed me an old photo Dora gave her, with the date of her birth inscribed on the back: March 4, 1898. This new evidence, that she was 25 when they met, suggests that Dymant may have lied about her age to avoid awkward questions about the fact that she was still unmarried in her mid-20s. Dora Diamant (later changed to Dymant) was born in Bendjin, Poland. Her father, an Orthodox Jew, was a textile manufacturer. When her mother died, leaving five children, her father married a young widow with a child. Dymant, always independent, ran off to Ger many. “Father traced her, and brought her home, but she escaped again, and this time he let her go,” says Baumer. “He never ostracised her, never treated her as if she were dead, like other Jewish fathers at the time with disobedient daughters. She wrote home, visited from time to time, always respecting the tradition.” Dymant supported herself by working as a governess for the leader of the Berlin Orthodox Jewish community, and later as cook and seamstress, in a Jewish orphanage where she also lived. She also studied in the Berlin Academy for Jewish Studies. “I had run away from the East because I believed the light was in the West,” Dymant told JP Hodin, in a rare interview in 1948. “I came from the East, a dark being, full of dreams and premonitions, who might have sprung from a book by Dostoyevsky.” But after a couple of years, she became disenchanted: “Europe was not what I had expected it to be, its people had no rest in their innermost being,” she said. Kafka was also disillusioned with the West, and “the rich treasures of Polish Jewish religious tradition that Dora was mistress of, was a constant source of delight to Franz,” wrote Max Brod. Kafka was yearning to break the strained, complex relationship with his parents. Dymant’s nurturing personality helped him to make the move at last. He was terrified of his parents’ objections and took hardly any luggage with him, to give the impression that he was only going away for a few days. He compared his move to Berlin with Dora to “Napoleon’s march to Russia”. Unlike Kafka’s pampered, bourgeois former loves, hardworking Dymant was not put off by his depressions. She also experienced loneliness and despair, and understood his anxieties. He introduced her to western culture, she taught him Hebrew and the two of them read from the Bible. They toyed with the idea of emigrating to Palestine, and opening a restaurant in Tel Aviv. Dymant was to be the cook, and Kafka the waiter. Their life together was blissful. “It was a time of the Great Inflation, radical political forces were clashing nightly in the streets. While these storms were brewing outside his window, it’s ironic that Kafka’s last months were so peaceful,” says Kathi Diamant, adjunct professor at San Diego State University, who is completing the first biography of her near-namesake, Kafka’s Last Mistress. They were penniless: Kafka couldn’t afford to buy a newspaper, and Dymant had to use candle stubs to heat the meal on New Year’s Eve, 1924. They hardly went out, and “very often amused ourselves, making shadows on the wall with our hands”, Dymant told Hodin. “He was extremely clever at it. Kafka was always cheerful. He liked to play. He was the born playmate, always ready for some mischief. I don’t think that depressions were a dominant characteristic of his.” The couple would read stories by Kleist and Goethe to each other for hours, and often Grimm’s and Andersen’s fairy-tales. Kafka favoured a story about the miner’s sweetheart, who accompanied her lover to the pit, and never saw him alive again. “Her life passed away, she grew grey and old. Then one day his body was found quite unharmed . . . preserved by the gasses. She came and embraced her lover. She had waited for him all these years and now it was a wedding and a funeral in one,” recalled Dymant. This was, in some ways, to be her life story, too. Kafka had warned his fiancée Felice Bauer that in order to write he needed total isolation, locked behind five doors in a cellar, and would venture out only to eat the food she left him. With Dymant it was different. He asked her to stay in the room while he was writing, and read her his daily yield. He avoided visits by his parents, but welcomed his sister and close friends, who all admired the idyll. In the winter of 1924, he was suffering from high fever, and Dymant struggled to nurse him. She was heartbroken when he gave in to his parents, and returned alone to Prague. He wrote to her at least twice daily. On April 13, Kafka was diagnosed with tuberculosis of the larynx and was rushed to hospital in Vienna. “Only then, Dora was allowed to see him, never letting him out of her sight again. She alone accompanied him in the open car, standing in front of him the entire journey, shielding him with her body from the rain and wind,” says Zvi Diamant, her nephew, who lives in Israel. Bedridden, Kafka wrote to Dymant’s father, asking for his daughter’s hand in marriage, explaining that although he was not a practising Jew in her father’s sense, he was nevertheless “a repentant one, seeking ’to return’”. “Our father took the letter and drove to the rabbi,” says Baumer. “The rabbi said, ‘He is not suitable for your daughter. She deserves a better match, someone with a better pedigree’. Dymant was furious. Had Kafka survived, she would have defied father and married him anyway.” Kafka’s condition deteriorated. He was unable to swallow or speak. “Put your hand on my forehead for a moment, to give me courage”, he wrote to Dymant. He asked his visitors to drink water and beer in front of him, so that he could share their pleasure. According to the testimony of a nurse, known only as “Schwester Anna”, Kafka had several secret pacts with his friend, Dr Klopstock. One was that, to ease the end, he would be given a fatal injection. In a weak moment, he also agreed that Dymant could die with him. The loyal doctor only fulfilled the third plan: that in the last moments, she would be sent away under a pretext, so see wouldn’t see his death throes. On June 3, 1924 Dymant was asked to post a letter. But in Kafka’s last moments, he missed her, and a chambermaid was sent to fetch her back. Dymant returned breathlessly, carrying flowers which she had just bought. “The dying man raised himself up once more, though he had already seemed in the world beyond, and sniffed the flowers”, witnessed the nurse. In a letter to Kafka’s parents, describing their son’s last hours, Klopstock wrote, “Who knows Dora, only he can know what love means”. The funeral, at the Jewish cemetery in Prague, was Dymant’s first meeting with Kafka’s parents. “When the casket was lowered into the pit, Dora let out an unearthly wail,” says Diamant. “She lay lifeless on the ground; Kafka’s father turned his back on her, disdainfully. No one dared to move and help her up.” Two years later, when The Castle was published, one critic described Kafka as “the best writer since 1900”. Dymant bought copies of the novel, and autographed them to friends “Dora Dymant-Kafka”. In a letter to Kafka’s editor she went further and signed “Dora Kafka”. “Dora told me that her great tragedy was that she never had a child by Kafka,” Baumer says. “She said, ‘If I had a child with Kafka, the whole world would have known of it, the whole world would have been filled with light’.” After totally dedicating herself to Kafka, Dymant now had to re-build her own life. Encouraged by Kafka’s admiration of her dramatic talents, she studied acting in Dus seldorf, and joined a theatrical company. There she met Bertha Lask, a fervent communist writer, who became a mother-figure to her. Dymant also joined the Party, and in 1932 married Bertha’s son, Ludwig Lask, five years her junior. “She never brought him to our home, and they hardly lived together,” her sister says. “When Dora became pregnant, she wanted nothing more to do with Lask.” She named the child after her lost love: Franziska Marianne. Eventually she fled to Englandwith her six-year-old daughter, a week before Germany invaded Holland. They were deported to the Isle of Man as enemy aliens. A year later mother and daughter were released, and settled in Swiss Cottage. “Dymant was working as a dressmaker,” recalls her friend and neighbour, Ottilie MacCrae. Later she had a restaurant in the East End, which, according to Marianna Steiner, Kafka’s niece and executrix of his estate, flourished so much that Dymant “had to get rid of it. It was too much money, and Dora couldn’t bear it.” Dymant also became a successful Yiddish actress, and wrote for the Yiddish press. She did not use her married name, and although she was still Lask’s wife, always kept a large photograph of Kafka on the mantelpiece. In 1950, Dymant finally realised the dream she shared with Kafka, and visited Israel, financed by royalties from his estate. In Tel Aviv, she visited her brother David and sister Sarah, the only survivors of the 11 Dymant siblings. The others, like Kafka’s three sisters, had died in the Holocaust. Tova Perlemutter, Dymant’s niece, was three years old when she shared her tiny room with her “British” aunt: “She brought with her a large framed photograph of Kafka and hung it over her bed. When she departed, a month later, she left it with us, saying, ‘This is my most precious belonging’.” When Dymant died on August 15, 1952, Marianne, then 18 and impoverished, was shattered. There was no money to pay for a tombstone on her mother’s grave. “It was impossible to mention Kafka’s name in her presence. She recoiled,” says her Israeli cousin, Tova Perlemutter. “All her life Marianne was brought up in Kafka’s shadow, suffering her mother’s tragic love affair, and Dora’s sorrow for the child they never had.” Marianne was subsequently diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. In 1982, alerted by concerned neighbours, police broke into her Muswell Hill bedsit and found her dead. She had starved herself to death. She was 48. In her will, she asked to be cremated, and requested that, with what was left from her money, a stone be erected to mark her mother’s grave. But there were still insufficient funds and few knew its location. Finally, Kathi Diamant managed to locate it, and in the simple ceremony next week Kafka’s last - and greatest - love will finally be honoured. As well as the tribute to Dymant’s devotion, the tombstone will be inscribed with her maiden name, and the name of her daughter, Franziska Marianne - the tragic love child Dora Dymant never had with Franz Kafka.

"Wir hassen einander tapfer" - Kafkas Briefe

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:46:54 +0000

Niemand hat die höllischen Tendenzen des Zeitalters auf so sensibel changierende, gleichnishafte Weise in Literatur gebannt wie Franz Kafka. Und keiner pendelte so zwischen den Extremen, die seine Persönlichkeit ausmachten. Seit am 1. Januar 1995, siebzig Jahre nach seinem Tod, die Urheberrechte für das von Max Brod ediertes Werk aufgehoben sind, ist auch der Weg für die Erschließung seiner 16 000 Briefe frei. Hans Gerd Koch, seit 1981 an der Kafka-Forschungsstelle der Bergischen Universität Wuppertal tätig, ediert im S. Fischer Verlag im Rahmen der Kritischen Ausgabe des Gesamtwerks eine fünfbändige Briefausgabe, die etliche Überraschungen bietet. Bereits der erste Band, aus dem Friedhelm Ptok im Literaturhaus Berlin einfühlsam distanziert disharmonische Kostproben vortrug, enthält 15 bislang unbekannte Briefe Kafkas. 35 weitere Novitäten halten die bis 2002 folgenden Bände bereit. Der Autor als neurotischer Pedant, als dunkle Körperstimme, als am Bürotisch der Versicherungsanstalt vergeblich rechnender Poseidon, als Odysseus, der sich das Wachs in die Ohren stopft gegen das Schweigen der Sirenen, als ein Mann, der Tage und Jahre vergeblich vor dem Gebäude des Gesetzes um Einlaß bittet. Erst Briefe wie die an Felice Bauer vom 11. und 14. November 1912 machen die fein gesponnenen Fäden zwischen der Biografie und den Erzählungen und Romanfragmenten sichtbar. Der Autor als Hungerkünstler, der sich und der angebeteten Direktrice eines Berliner Büromaschinenherstellers eine eigene Welt der Imagination schafft, in der die Partikel der tatsächlichen Biografie wie präzise plazierte Reizworte wirken. Erst die erstmalig nicht um Personen gebündelte, sondern in zeitlicher Reihenfolge edierten Briefe lassen das wahre Ausmaß der verblüffend multiplen Psyche des Dichters ahnen. Erst der Kommentarteil mit Namen, Begriffen und Querverweisen erschließt das biografische und literarische Umfeld. Die im Anhang gedruckten an Kafka adressierten Schreiben anderer Personen wirken wie ein Spiegel seiner menschlichen Facetten. Kann man das in einer einzigen Nacht geschriebene “Urteil” verstehen ohne das auf den Vater bezogene Briefbekenntnis der Angst: “Wir hassen einander tapfer”? Die “Betrachtungen”, die erste Buchpublikation Kafkas bleiben ohne heimliche Abgründe, wenn man die Dezemberbriefe von 1912 nicht kennt. Soviel Seelenschmelz, Nüchternheit, Kalkül und Forschheit in einem. Ohne die Chronologie der Briefe wären solche Schwankungen kaum derart rigoros erkennbar. Wie gut, dass die 1987 von einem anonymen Sammler für 700 000 DM ersteigerten Briefe an Felice als Mikrofilmaufnahmen zugänglich sind. Hans-Gerd Koch präsentierte sich als besessener Detektiv, der ganz besondere Schätze findet: die Korrespondenz zwischen Kafka und Willy Haas. Kafka-Biograph Reiner Stach outete sich als einer, der seine Skrupel, gegen die testamentarischen Verfügungen des Dichters zu handeln, mit dem ironischen Spieltrieb Kafkas legitimitiert.

Onkel Franz geht spazieren

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:45:45 +0000

Von Antje Schmelcher

Eine Heimat, die keine war: Der Dokumentarfilm “Besuch bei Kafkas Nichte” im Literaturhaus

Berlin - Kafka war kein Familienmensch. Aus seinen Tagebüchern und vor allem seinem “Brief an den Vater” ist bekannt, wie schwer der unnachgiebige Wille des vitalen Patriarchen auf ihm lastete, der Sohn solle ein bürgerliches Leben führen, gestützt auf Erwerbsarbeit und Ehe. Eine Annäherung an den Schriftsteller aus der Perspektive der Familie, wie sie Hanns Zischler, Autor des Buchs “Kafka geht ins Kino”, und Hans-Gerd Koch, Mitherausgeber der Tagebücher, in ihrem 44 Minuten langen Dokumentarfilm “Besuch bei Kafkas Nichte” wagen, muss daher fast wie ein Tabubruch wirken. Viel gewichtiger ist aber die Tatsache, dass es diese Angehörigen noch gibt. Denn Kafkas jüdische Familie - sein Vater, seine Mutter, seine Schwestern und das Kindermädchen Tante Werner - wurde deportiert. Nur vier Nichten überlebten: die Kinder seiner drei Schwestern Elli, Valli und Ottla. “Ich bin Marianne Steiner”, sagt eine alte Frau mit weißen Haaren und bittet in ihr Londoner Reihenhaus. Sie ist die Tochter von Valli Pollak, Kafkas zweitältester Schwester. Seit ihrem zweiten Exil 1948 ist Marianne Steiner mit ihrem Mann, einem Prager Herrenausstatter, in London geblieben. Hans-Gerd Koch, der sie vor zehn Jahren während der Arbeit an den Tagebüchern kennen gelernt hatte, nennt sie eine “filmresistente” Frau, die nicht dazu zu bewegen gewesen sei, vor der Kamera ein zweites Mal zu erzählen, was sie schon erzählt hat. Doch gerade die Kafkasche Furcht, das Leben durch überflüssige Aufenthalte mutwillig zu verkürzen, gibt den Sätzen der Nichte eine besondere Authentizität. Wenn Steiner sich erinnert, wie das Kindermädchen aus Furcht vor Kafkas Vater jede Aussage bei Tisch mit einem “Ich sage nicht, ich denke nur” relativierte oder wenn sie plötzlich trällert “Unter Bäumen, süßen Träumen liegt die Gräfin Mirali”, einem Lied aus der damals populären Operette “Der lustige Krieg”, das der Patriarch bei guter Laune sang, dann entsteht wieder ein Bruchteil jener Welt, in der Kafka sich so wenig zu Hause fühlte. Obwohl der Film aus Anekdoten besteht - der resistentesten Form mündlicher Überlieferung -, hat er nichts Anekdotisches. Denn Steiner eröffnet eine ungewohnte Perspektive. So viel über den Einfluss der Familie auf Kafka geschrieben wurde, so wenig ist über seinen Einfluss auf die Familie gesagt worden. Eine der bewegendsten Geschichten, die Steiner erzählt, ist das unverhoffte Wiedersehen mit Dora Diamant, Kafkas letzter Lebensgefährtin, 1948 in London. Steiner, die elf Jahre alt war, als Kafka 1924 starb, hatte Dora Diamant nur einmal gesehen. Von Kafkas erstem englischen Übersetzer, den Steiner in London kennen lernte, hatte sie Doras Adresse bekommen. Als sie in einem Maklerbüro auf ein Wohnungsangebot wartete, trat eine Frau ein, die ein Zimmerangebot machte und eben jene Adresse angab. “Sie war ziemlich korpulent”, sagt Steiner, “nicht dick, aber auch nicht schlank. Und sie sprach ein anderes Deutsch als in Prag.” Das unverhoffte Wiedersehen war für die Frauen ein Schock. Die Zufälligkeit des Treffens und seine gleichzeitige Zwangsläufigkeit erinnert an die Suche Josef Ks. nach dem Gericht, dem er sich nicht ausliefern will, ohne sich ihm doch entziehen zu können. “Erst das Leben hat mich seine Bücher verstehen gelehrt”, sagt Steiner. Sie erzählt von ihrer Jugend zwischen deutschen Juden, Zionisten und Tschechen, von Rückkehr und erneutem Leben im Exil, und dann sagt sie einen Satz ganz selbstverständlich, obwohl er ein Zitat von Kafka ist: “Ich will mich nicht in eine Gemeinschaft mischen, in die ich eigentlich nicht gehöre.” Und so war auch Kafkas Teilhabe am Familienleben mehr ideell als materiell spürbar. Er beriet die Schwestern in Fragen der Kindererziehung und der Körperertüchtigung, die Schwestern folgten ihm darin. Steiner sah ihren Onkel meist zweimal am Tag: um zwei Uhr nachmittags, wenn er von der Versicherung kam und nach seinem Mittagsschlaf beim obligatorischen Spaziergang mit Hut und Mantel auf dem Altstädter Ring. “Niemand sprach über Franz Kafka in meiner Jugend”, sagt Steiner und zuckt mit den Schultern. Niemand, außer dem engsten Freundeskreis um Max Brod und Felix Welsch, die Steiner 1939 zu dem Zug begleitete, mit dem prominente Zionisten in letzter Minute nach Palästina ausreisen konnten. Steiner erinnert sich, dass Brod die Schuhschachteln mit Kafkas Manuskripten im Gepäck hatte, die später zu einem Großteil ihr Erbe werden sollten. Brod übergab die Manuskripte in Jerusalem dem reichen Verleger Salman Schocken, der sie heimlich an seine Schweizer Bank zur Aufbewahrung schickte. Steiner erzählt von dem jahrelangen zähen Briefwechsel, den es sie gekostet hat, um dem leidenschaftlichen Manuskriptsammler Schocken diese Blätter zu entlocken. Mit derselben Beharrlichkeit, mit der sie Kafkas Nachlass geordnet hat, hat Marianne Steiner auch ihren Reihenhausgarten bearbeitet. Wie aus einer Novelle des Onkels habe ein kleines Mädchen aus der Nachbarschaft dazu gesagt: “Ihr Garten ist der schönste von allen. Und wissen sie, warum? Weil sie keine Fremde sind.”

Kurzer Prozess mit Kafka - Die Prager Nationalgalerie und eine Buchhandlung streiten über ihn

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:43:16 +0000

Von Hans-Jörg Schmidt

Seit nunmehr sieben Jahren, seit der staatlichen Trennung von den Slowaken, sucht Tschechien nach einem griffigen Namen. Tschechei verbietet sich - die deutschen Besatzer, die 1939 auf den Hradschin, die Prager Burg, marschierten, nannten das Land “Rest-Tschechei”. Daran will niemand mehr erinnert werden. Also fragte man weltweit herum. Einer der durchaus ernst gemeinten Vorschläge lautete: Kafka-Land. Auch keine gute Idee. Kafka schätzt man wohl außerhalb der tschechischen Grenzen sehr. Wie groß die Probleme der Tschechen mit ihrem wohl berühmtesten Sohn sind, veranschaulichte indes Mitte der neunziger eine Anfrage: Sollte man nicht wenigstens eine Straße im Zentrum Prags nach dem tschechischen, deutschsprachigen Schriftsteller benennen? “Wer, bitte, war dieser Kafka?”, fragte die Stadtverwaltung entgeistert wie unwissend zurück. Seit ein paar Monaten weiß man aber auch dort, wer Kafka war. Die Erleuchtung kam mit einem ebenso kleinlichen wie unsinnigen Streit: Die Nationalgalerie, seit einiger Zeit Besitzer der Kinsky-Palais am zentralen Altstädter Ring, bemüht sich, eine dort siedelnde Kafka- Buchhandlung auszuquartieren. Der Ort ist Kafkajanern heilig: Der junge Franz besuchte dort das Gymnasium. Und zudem befand sich in dem Gebäude ein Geschäft von Vater Kafka. Mithin handle es sich um den einzigen Ort der Moldaustadt, der an Kafka erinnere, so die Kafka-Anhänger. Die Nationalgalerie sieht das anders: Der Mietvertrag der Buchandlung enthalte einen Formfehler. Die Folge: Bis zum 30. November 1999 duldete man den Laden. Danach sollte Schluss mit Kafka sein. Die Galerie kündigte den Mietvertrag. Wahnsinn, meinten mehrere hundert tschechische Intellektuelle. In einer Petition forderten sie die Streithähne zu einem Kompromiss auf. Das focht den Chef der Nationalgalerie, den Maler Milan Knizak, nur wenig an. “Selbst wenn die Mehrheit der Weltbevölkerung die Petition unterstützte, würde ich meine Pläne nicht ändern.” Knizak möchte das Palais um einen zweiten Eingang erweitern, den es auch früher an der Stelle gegeben hat. Und Knizak fügte seinen verbalen Argumenten handfeste hinzu: Im Dezember ließ er durch einen Bautrupp die Fenstergitter der Buchhandlung zertrümmern. Der Grund: Die Buchandlung sei nicht fristgerecht geräumt worden. Und Knizak beließ es nicht dabei. Er sperrte auch Heizung, Wasser und Strom ab. Die Buchhändler behalfen sich seither mit kleinen Gasöfen und Kerzen. Derlei Uneinsichtigkeit verlangte nach Knizaks Meinung nun ein härteres Vorgehen. Am Montag früh, als Prag noch schlief, schickte er einen Räumungstrupp zum Altstädter Ring. Möbelträger setzten die Buchhandlung samt Büchern auf die Straße. Und sie hefteten an die Tür ein amtliches Schreiben, das belegt, dass die Räumung wegen bevorstehender Bauarbeiten rechtens sei. Keine Chance für Kafka und seine “Buchhalterin”, Marta Zelezna. Die schäumt. Immerhin habe sie die ganze Miete für 2000 vorab entrichtet. Und die Dame ist einflussreich: Ihr Gatte steht dem quotenträchtigsten TV-Sender der Landes vor. Doch auch das lässt Knizak kalt. Er gehöre nicht zu den Leuten, die sich vor der medialen Macht der Familie Zelezny fürchten, ließ er verlauten. Beide Seiten warten nun auf den Richterspruch. Das Andenken Kafkas geht dennoch in der “Goldenen Stadt” nicht unter. Einen Steinwurf vom Alltstädter Ring und dem Kinsky-Palais entfernt, bieten “fliegende Händler” T-Shirts aller Art an. Am besten gehen die mit dem Konterfei Franz Kafkas. Wenn schon nicht die Prager, so wissen doch die kaufwütigen Touristen, was sie an “ihrem” Kafka haben.

Eduard Goldstücker

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:41:52 +0000

Eduard Goldstücker, writer, diplomat and scholar, born May 30 1913; died October 23 2000

Literary scholar and prominent figure in the Prague spring of 1968

by Ruth Tosek and Marian Sling

Professor Eduard Goldstücker, who has died aged 87, was one of the last surviving protagonists of the Prague spring of 1968. During that time he was the chairman of the Czech Writers’ Union and deputy vice-chancellor of the faculty of philosophy at Charles University.

Eduard Goldstücker dead

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:38:22 +0000

Eduard Goldstücker dead

Czech literary scholar who was an expert on the work of Franz Kafka — and himself suffered Kafka-esque persecution under Stalinism

The Czech intellectual and diplomat Eduard Goldstücker linked in his life the extraordinarily fertile cultural world of late Habsburg and interwar Prague with the horrors that befell Czechoslovakia under Nazism and Stalinism. Active in the exiled Czechoslovak Resistance in the Second World War, a victim of 1950s Stalinist show trials back in Prague, exiled again after the crushing of the Prague Spring in 1968, he attempted in his academic work to explain the spirit of Franz Kafka and his nightmarish writings, and to relate them to his own painful experience of the 20th century’s assault on individual freedom.

Un enigma di nome K

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:37:12 +0000

Enrico Carosio

Esce il libro su Kafka, il libro di Calasso su Kafka… Fremiti e brusii s’infittiscono, nel demi-monde delle lettere italiane: come sarà l’incontro tra questi due cervelli, quanto zolfo crepiterà per sfregamento di sinapsi? Calma. I pompieri chiamiamoli (chi può escludere l’incendio), ma si corregga subito l’informazione falsa. Non è il libro di Roberto Calasso su Kafka. È il libro di Calasso su K. Il titolo è “K.” (Adelphi, 360 pagine, 18,50 euro, in uscita il 9 ottobre), e sarebbe grave non prenderlo alla lettera. Come sarebbe grave non cogliere che in questa ricostruzione indiziaria di K., chiunque egli sia, non compare l’aggettivo «kafkiano», che Calasso ritiene tra i più kitsch del Novecento.

El crítico Reiner Stach propone un «nuevo» Kafka

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:36:01 +0000

ANGEL VIVAS

MADRID.- A Kafka, uno de los escritores más influyentes del siglo XX, tenemos que acostumbrarnos a verle de otro modo. Ni su novela más conocida era una novela, ni se titulaba La metamorfosis, ni el conjunto de su obra tiene el carácter que tenía. El Kafka del siglo XXI tendrá un rostro diferente. Los clásicos lo son porque son redescubiertos por cada generación. El culpable de los malentendidos que hay con Kafka es, por supuesto, Max Brod, su amigo y albacea, y primer responsable de que se siga hablando del escritor de Praga. Los responsables del lavado de cara a que se le está sometiendo son los autores de la edición crítica y canónica de sus obras completas (que en España está editando Círculo de Lectores), entre ellos Reiner Stach, crítico y filólogo alemán, experto en Kafka - que prepara una monumental biografía en tres volúmenes-, que ayer pronunció una conferencia en el Círculo sobre Nuevas lecturas de Franz Kafka. El problema de Max Brod es el mismo de algunos orteguianos en España, haberse tomado demasiado a pecho el papel de guardián de la herencia del difunto. En palabras de Reiner Stach, «Max Brod frenó la evolución de la obra de Kafka en lo que a edición e interpretación se refiere. Tuvo una intervención importante y gran mérito en la difusión de esa obra, pero no entendió que, llegado cierto momento, tenía que desvincularse de ella». Las principales novedades de este Kafka del siglo XXI son la casi indisoluble relación entre sus escritos íntimos (diarios, cartas y otras anotaciones) y su obra narrativa, que a veces se mezclan, incluso en la misma página. Y es que para Kafka su mundo de sueños era algo muy concreto y presente, como lo demuestra una anécdota que ayer contó Reiner Stach. Cuando alguien le elogió La metamorfosis, él respondió diciendo que, efectivamente, había sido algo horrible. Como si hubiera ocurrido de verdad. Como consecuencia de esa peculiar forma de escribir, en las antípodas del ordenado Thomas Mann, toda la obra de Kafka tiene un marcado carácter fragmentario, inacabado, como si de un presocrático se tratara. Eso fue lo que quiso corregir, seguro que con la mejor intención, Max Brod, dando un carácter cerrado a lo que no lo tenía. Seguramente, piensa Reiner Stach, porque le pareció el mejor modo de dar a conocer a un escritor casi desconocido. «Una biografía actual tiene que ensalzar ese carácter fragmentario, y explicarlo. Lo que ha dejado Kafka es como un gran paisaje de ruinas o escombros. Pero cuando se entiende su forma de creación, tenemos una mejor comprensión de Kafka». Lo que no cambiará en la nueva percepción del escritor checo es lo que, para Stach, significa lo kafkiano, «la contradicción entre la sencillez del lenguaje y lo que narra, que es como una pesadilla incomprensible». De todo eso habló ayer el crítico alemán.

Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, Revisited

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:29:42 +0000

Yancey Strickler, 17 December 2002

20SOMETHING SINGLE SEXXXY GIANT BEETLE SEEKING ANY LIVING THING 4 COMPANYUNSHIP, AND HOUSEKEEPING, HELP, SUM TLC FROM POTENTIAL BFF. ND/NS, TRAVEL 4 WORK SO PT AFFAIR = A MUST. LIKES: CHEESE (!!!), OLD VEGGIES, A&E BIOGRAPHIES, RELAXING UNDER THE SOFA, CLIMBING UP THE WALLS, HANGING FROM THE CEILING, MY SISTER, MY MOTHER. DISLIKES: MEAT, MILK, NIGHTS ON THE TOWN, JUDGEMENTAL PEOPLE, BEING A SINGLE GIANT BEETLE! IF UNCONDITIONAL LOVES YR THING THEN RIGHT SOON! XOXOXOXO

Speaking Volumes: Kafka's Collected Stories

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:27:06 +0000

James Hawes

As finals loomed in 1982, we fourth-years would assemble in the Magdalen middle common room, sporting white leather Stan Smith trainers (the ancestors of all today’s hypertrophically padded “yoof” shoes) and pale jeans, before crossing Magdalen Bridge towards the allegedly knife-ridden haunts of town girls, swaggering with lager and Kafka. We were 21 and naturally bulletproof with testosterone. But we were also historically the last year to have come up under a Labour government - the unknowing intellectual vanguard of Eighties Man, scornful of inherited privilege and bad-faithed do-gooders alike. And Kafka? Kafka’s stories were gloatworthy truths others dared not admit. We loved the bone-jarring emotional honesty of “Turned down” (Die Abweisung); the negative clarion-call to “Go for it” (“Before the law”); the warning against waiting for “A Life to be delivered from outside” (“A message from the emperor”). Gide did it, Stendhal did it, but nobody did it better: in those nights, Kafka’s voices insisted that each of us act, freely and alone, on the merest radar-blip of sexual invitation, with no safe buddy-buddy huddling in the grey area between bar and dance-floor. Limelighted rejection - always the most common outcome - was no dishonour, for Kafka was in our ears, shouting: THIS IS NOT A REHEARSAL. Sir Malcolm Pasley - who knew our enthusiasm, if not the all-too-epochal nature of our idolatry - was at first hesitant when Noel Whitbread and I asked to see the manuscript of The Castle. After all, his stewardship of one of the century’s most-disputed pieces of intellectual property had hardly been advertised. But soon he relented; soon, we saw and touched. The ocular proof confirmed our worship. This was not some text, bound and gagged courtesy of Fischer GmbH: it was a human production, an addition to the world, something that once had not been, and now was. It had been done, and Kafka had done it. He was gone, but he had gone for it. That night, we swilled lambent Holsten and quizzed the girls with a positively Darcian superiority. Four years later I was sitting flat broke in a Greenwich pub, having just failed to get a job in Hull that I had not wanted but had been desperate to get. I was half thinking about inventing a CV for the inevitable interview with Price Waterhouse and half trying to understand my own annotations in the travel-battered Collected Stories. My life was lies and losses; the . My life was lies and losses; the future made me want to cry out aloud. But that night, a Portobello Market jewellery designer called Jill from Mumbles finally lost patience with my failure to marry her friend: I was always going on about Kafka, said she, so why the hell didn’t I just stop pretending and go back to bloody university. I can still recall the jaw-dropping certainty that she had delivered a self-evident truth off her leather cuff. The next day, I called Martin Swales at University College London. Now I am 35 and as clever as clever, I have changed my opinion of Kafka. Not of his status, but of what his writings mean. Now I am sure that Kafka is writing about a certain historical era - our own - and that he uniquely combines the intellectual awareness of when he is living with the visionary instinct for the places where our daily thoughts and (hence) words slide into more comforting realms. I am as sure of this today as I was sure in 1982 that Kafka and Julian Sorel would have gone philandering arm in arm. And I am sure that whatever I am sure of in the future, I will find it in my battered edition of Kafka’s Collected Stories, because however wrong I may have been, and may be, and may become, they will still be true.

Die Suche

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:23:29 +0000

Von Heike Faller

Wie ein amerikanischer Literaturprofessor versucht, die Briefe zu finden, die Kafka an ein kleines Mädchen geschrieben haben soll, als er in Berlin lebte

Kafka liebte Berlin, und im letzten Jahr seines Lebens schaffte er es schließlich, Prag zu verlassen. Er zog in die Stadt, die auf seiner inneren Landkarte Freiheit bedeutete, ein »Gegenmittel zu Prag«. In Steglitz lebte er mit seiner Freundin Dora Diamant, die Ende der vierziger Jahre in einem Interview diese Geschichte erzählte: »Als wir in Berlin waren, ging Kafka oft in den Steglitzer Park. Ich begleitete ihn manchmal. Eines Tages trafen wir ein kleines Mädchen, das weinte und ganz verzweifelt zu sein schien. Wir sprachen mit dem Mädchen. Franz fragte es nach seinem Kummer, und wir erfuhren, dass es seine Puppe verloren hatte. Sofort erfindet er eine plausible Geschichte, um dieses Verschwinden zu erklären: ‘Deine Puppe macht nur gerade eine Reise, ich weiß es, sie hat mir einen Brief geschickt.’ Das kleine Mädchen ist etwas misstrauisch: ‘Hast du ihn bei Dir?’ - ‘Nein, ich habe ihn zuhause liegen lassen, aber ich werde ihn Dir morgen mitbringen.’ Das neugierig gewordene Mädchen hatte seinen Kummer schon halb vergessen, und Franz kehrte sofort nach Hause zurück, um den Brief zu schreiben.«[1] Die Korrespondenz soll drei Wochen gedauert haben, in denen die Puppe größer wurde, in die Schule kam, neue Leute kennen lernte - und dem Mädchen immer wieder ihre Liebe versicherte. Am Ende soll Kafka sogar ein Happy End geschrieben haben, sein einziges: Die Puppe hatte einen Mann kennen gelernt und geheiratet (und konnte deshalb nicht zu dem Mädchen zurückkehren). Die Briefe wurden nie gefunden, aber sie wurden auch nicht wirklich gesucht. Vielleicht sind sie verbrannt oder wurden von der Gestapo beschlagnahmt, vielleicht liegen sie in einem Berliner Keller oder in einem Altersheim: wenn das Mädchen alt geworden ist, wäre sie jetzt Anfang achtzig. Die Zeit wird also knapp für den amerikanischen Kafka-Forscher Mark Harman, der als Fellow der American Academy für neun Monate in Berlin ist (ungefähr derselbe Zeitraum, den Kafka in der Stadt verbracht hat), um die Briefe zu suchen. Mark Harman ist groß und hager wie Kafka Mark Harman ist Associate Professor für Germanistik und Englisch am Elizabethtown College in Pennsylvania; 1998 erschien von ihm eine neue Übersetzung von dem Schloß. Sollte er die Briefe an das Mädchen finden, wäre das natürlich eine Sensation, »sie würden selbstverständlich den Erben gehören«, sagt Harman. Er will die Briefe nicht, er würde sie nur lesen wollen. Sie könnten - in seiner Vorstellung - eine neue, ziemlich überraschende Seite an Kafka zeigen: den heiteren Kafka, einen »Kafka hinter der Angst«, der zum ersten Mal mit einer Frau zusammenlebte, mit Kindern spielte und sich von seiner Schwester Grimms Märchen schicken ließ. Sie könnten zeigen, was aus Kafka geworden wäre, wenn er nicht nach seinem Berliner Jahr - im Juni 1924 - gestorben wäre. »Meine Vermutung ist, wenn er länger gelebt hätte, wäre diese spielerische Seite von ihm rausgekommen, diese kindliche, fantasievolle, nicht so ängstliche Seite.« Der Puppe wäre schließlich das gelungen, worum Kafka gekämpft hatte: sich zu emanzipieren, zu heiraten. Mark Harman ist groß und hager wie Franz Kafka, und das ist ungefähr alles, was er mit dem Objekt seiner Obsession teilt. Er hat rotblonde Haare, nicht sehr viele, Sommersprossen, blaue Augen. Eigentlich kommt er aus Dublin, aber er lebt in den USA, seit er mit 24 nach Yale ging, wo er seine Doktorarbeit über Kafka geschrieben hat. Er ist jetzt 49 Jahre alt und hat sich auch mit Joyce und Beckett beschäftigt. Kafka hat er in der ganzen Zeit »nie weggelegt« und ist tief in seine Welt eingetaucht, als er Das Schloß übersetzte, was mit Unterbrechungen fast vier Jahre gedauert hat (Kafka brauchte sieben Monate und hörte mitten im Satz mit dem Schreiben auf. Das Manuskript blieb unvollendet). Dass seine Faszination für Kafka auch etwas mit seiner eigenen Biografie zu tun haben könnte, hat Mark Harman lange nicht zugegeben: »Ich sagte einfach, er ist ein großer Schriftsteller, ein großer Erzähler«, und wer würde dem widersprechen. Als ein Freund ihn fragte, warum er seine Dissertation über den großen Dichter aus Prag schrieb (statt über den großen Dichter aus Dublin), »murmelte ich was über akademische Gründe und wechselte das Thema«. Erst 1998 schrieb er einen Aufsatz über sein eigenes »Vater-Thema« und seine eigene Obsession mit undurchschaubaren Autoritäten: »Ich habe einen Großteil meiner Jugend damit verbracht, über meinen Vater zu spekulieren und über die Mechanismen seiner Kommandozentrale, genau wie der Landvermesser im Schloß ständig jede Geste der mysteriösen Schloß-Beamten interpretiert.« An diesem Nachmittag war der Spielplatz leer Während seiner jahrelangen Übersetzungsarbeit, basierend auf der kritischen Ausgabe, die die Stellen enthält, die später gestrichen wurden, fand Harman einen neuen Zugang zur Obsession des Landvermessers: »Tief im Text versteckt, und in den Stellen, die Kafka gestrichen hat, gibt es ein Bewusstsein des Helden, dass seine Interpretationswut sinnlos ist und er sich im Kreise dreht.« Harman las nun - verändert »auch durch eigene Lebenserfahrung« -, was er als Student nicht sehen konnte: »Eine Abwendung von der Obsession. Gerade in den Stellen, die Kafka gestrichen hat, wird gegen Obsession ziemlich deutlich Stellung bezogen.« Nachdem er Das Schloß geschrieben hatte, ging Kafka nach Berlin; nachdem Harman es übersetzt hatte, bewarb er sich um ein Forschungsstipendium an der American Academy, weil er untersuchen wollte, wie Kafka sein Leben - via Tagebücher und Briefe - in literarische Texte verwandelt hat. Und in seine berühmten Metaphern, die so fremd und gleichzeitig vertraut erscheinen, dass auch Leute, die Kafka nie gelesen haben, sich heute in Situationen wiederfinden, für die es nur ein gutes Wort gibt: kafkaesk. Der Steglitzer Stadtpark liegt zwischen einem Hochhaus und Stadtvillen am südlichen Rand Berlins. Er ist klein und hügelig, mit einem runden See in seiner Mitte und einem texanischen Steakhouse. Es gibt einen Spielplatz mit Schaukeln und einer Hängebrücke, auf der die Kinder lernen, eine wacklige Balance zu halten. An einem Nachmittag im Dezember war der Spielplatz leer: Um kurz vor vier hatte sich ein bleiernes Grau um die Bäume gelegt, durch die Äste blinkten die Lichter der Stadt. Sich an einem Tag wie diesem einen 40-jährigen Mann vorzustellen, der einem Kindergartenmädchen Briefe vorliest, die er im Namen ihrer verschwundenen Puppe geschrieben hat: nicht unbedingt poetisch. Mark Harman ist sich nicht einmal sicher, ob das der richtige Park ist. Als er von Kafkas Straße hierher gelaufen ist, brauchte er fast eine halbe Stunde. Schwer vorstellbar, dass ein Mann, der unheilbar an Tuberkulose erkrankt ist - eine Krankheit, die das Atmen am Ende fast unmöglich macht -, drei Wochen lang jeden Tag diese Strecke gelaufen sein soll. Um dieser Frage nachzugehen, hat sich Harman mit dem Leiter des Heimatmuseums von Steglitz verabredet, Wolfgang Holtz kennt die Geschichte bereits. Er dreht sich zu einem Stahlschrank, in dem »Steglitzer Köpfe« sortiert sind, öffnet die Schublade F-Ko und zieht einen dünnen Hefter hervor: KAFKA, Franz, Schriftsteller. 3.7.1883 in Prag - 3.6.1924 Kierling bei Wien. »Kafka ist ganz schwach hier vertreten«, sagt Holtz. »Dora Diamant schreibt, dass Kafka das Mädchen im Steglitzer Stadtpark getroffen hat; ich vermute, dass das ein bisschen zu weit ist«, sagt Harman. Holtz: »Er war auch im Botanischen Garten. Aber der Botanische Garten wurde nie als Park bezeichnet. Sind Sie die Strecke abgelaufen? Wissen Sie die Entfernung?« Harman schüttelt den Kopf. »Ich würde sagen, wenn er langsam läuft, sind es vielleicht 15, 20 Minuten eine Strecke«, sagt Holtz. »Allerdings ist die Albrechtstraße zum Stadtpark eine sehr attraktive Straße, viele Geschäfte, er hat viel sehen können. Ich glaube schon, dass Kafka - ich stell mir vor, er war im Stadtpark Steglitz. Das ist einer für ihn, er findet da seine Ruhe, das ist schon was für Kafkas Seele. Vielleicht schlendert er da ’ne halbe Stunde hin, spricht vielleicht mit Leuten. Hat er das gemacht - mit Leuten gesprochen?« Dann zieht Holtz ein Blatt aus dem Ordner, eine Kopie aus dem Jahrbuch Steglitz von 1959. Ein kleines Mädchen im Matrosenkleid ist darauf zu sehen. Wer hat seine Puppe verloren, steht über dem Artikel und dann: »Suchruf an Frauen der Jahrgänge um 1917, die in Steglitz großgeworden sind - Der Herbst 1923 brachte eine Reihe wunderbar sonniger Tage. Wer war das kleine, etwa sechsjährige Mädchen im Steglitzer Park, das so herzzerbrechend weinte, weil es seine Puppe verloren hatte? Ein großer, leidend aussehender Mann mit seiner Begleiterin versuchte das Mädchen zu trösten, indem er ihr sagte, die Puppe sei doch gar nicht verloren, sie sei nur verreist …« Niemand, sagt Herr Holtz, habe sich damals gemeldet, was natürlich kein gutes Zeichen ist. Und für Harman die Frage aufwirft, warum sich seit damals nur ein kleines Stadtteilblättchen (Auflage 10 000) für die Briefe interessiert hat, aber nie die Literaturwissenschaft. Am 8. August 1933 durchsuchte die Gestapo die Wohnung von Dora Diamant und konfiszierte dabei Texte von Kafka. Kurz darauf versuchte sein Freund und Nachlassverwalter Max Brod, die Schriften mithilfe des tschechischen Kulturattachés zu retten. Erfolglos. Es sollte fast 65 Jahre dauern, bis es wieder einen systematischen Versuch gab, die Texte zu finden: von einer kalifornischen Journalistin und Literaturkritikerin, die über das Leben von Dora Diamant recherchierte. Ihre Anfragen beim Bundesarchiv und der Gauck-Behörde brachten kein neues Material - außer einer Bestätigung, dass die Texte tatsächlich von der Gestapo konfisziert worden waren. Warum wollte keiner was von Dora wissen? Die Frau, die mehr darüber gewusst hätte - zum Beispiel, ob das Mädchen die Briefe mit nach Hause genommen hatte -, wurde nie gefragt: Dora Diamant lebte bis in die fünfziger Jahre in London, und außer zwei Interviews in Literaturzeitschriften gab es von wissenschaftlicher Seite kein Interesse an ihr. Was kein Zufall ist, sagt Harman, sondern mit Kafka selbst zu tun hat, der als »überzeitlicher Autor angesehen wurde, unter dem Einfluss von Max Brod, der ihn als religiösen Schreiber sah und seine Werke allegorisch deutete«. Ein anderer Grund für das Desinteresse, glaubt Harman, liegt in der Art, wie die wissenschaftliche Literaturkritik im 20.Jahrhundert Texte betrachet hat: die Dominanz des »New Criticism, der eine regelrechte Abscheu gegen alles Biografische hatte, gegen alles, was außerhalb des Textes stand«. Ein Interview mit Dora Diamant in den fünfziger Jahren in London? »Es hätte vielleicht nicht die Karriere ruiniert, aber es hätte einen im akademischen Literaturbetrieb eher verdächtig gemacht«, sagt Harman, dem eine Menge Fragen an Dora Diamant einfallen würden. In Berlin machte im Winter 1923/24 die Inflation die Pension wertlos, die Kafka von der Arbeiter-Unfall-Versicherungs-Anstalt bekam. Die Miete war hoch, und die Vermieterin hasste das unverheiratete jüdische Paar, Kafka schrieb über sie in der Geschichte Eine kleine Frau. Im Februar 1924 fand das Paar zwei Zimmer bei der Witwe des Dichters Karl Busse. Es war nicht das Berlin, von dem Kafka in Prag geträumt hatte, als er an Max Brod schrieb: »Die Wannseevilla, Max! Und mir bitte ein stilles Dachzimmer (weit vom Musikzimmer), aus dem ich mich gar nicht fortrühren will; man wird gar nicht merken, daß ich dort bin.« Mark Harman kannte den Brief, aber erst als Fellow der American Academy erinnerte er sich wieder daran. Und bemerkte, dass er jetzt selbst so lebte, wie Kafka es beschrieben hatte: im ersten Stock einer Wannseevilla, mit Blick auf das Wasser. Hier erreichte ihn der Anruf einer älteren Dame, die im Lokalteil des Tagesspiegels einen Artikel über die neuen Stipendiaten gelesen hatte. Sie meldete sich mit dem Namen Geier, Geier Christine, und sagte, dass sie Kafka in Berlin gekannt hatte. Auch sie spielte damals noch mit Puppen, obwohl sie schon 15 war. Die Briefe hat auch sie nicht, ihre Verbindung zu Franz Kafka ist eine andere: Er trat als Untermieter in ihr Leben, als er im Frühjahr 1924 ins Haus ihrer Mutter zog, der Witwe des Dichters Karl Busse. Sie ist jetzt 92 Jahre alt, trägt Hosen und einen modischen Rundschnitt. Ihr Gesicht ist runzlig, aber ihre Augen sind klar, wie man es in Filmen sieht, wenn Schauspieler auf alt geschminkt werden, die in Wirklichkeit viel jünger sind. Man stellte ihr Kafka als Dr. Keesburger vor Franz Kafka trat als »Dr. Keesburger« in ihr Leben, ein Pseudonym, das möglicherweise mit der Angst der Mutter vor Antisemitismus zu tun hatte, die konvertiert war und ihre jüdische Herkunft vor den Kindern geheim hielt. »Ich weiß, ich kam aus der Schule, und meine Mutter stand vor dem Haus mit ihm. Er kam wohl von einem Spaziergang. Da kam meine Mutter und sagte: Ach, sieh mal, sagte sie, da kann ich dir gleich Herrn Dr. Keesburger vorstellen, das ist meine jüngste Tochter Christine, sagte sie, und er nahm seinen Hut ab und strahlte einen an, ganz lieb und nett, das weiß ich noch. So habe ich ihn kennen gelernt.« Dass er Franz Kafka hieß - der Name war in Literatenkreisen zu der Zeit schon bekannt -, erfuhr sie erst nach seiner Abreise. »Der Name Keesburger ist ein echt bayrischer Name. Da wär meine Mutter nicht drauf gekommen. Sie wäre vielleicht auf Schulze-Maier-Müller gekommen, darum nehme ich an, dass das seine Version war.« »Vielleicht war es ein Pseudonym nach Kafkas Geschmack«, sagt Harman, »statt sich zu wehren, hat er aktiv daran teilgenommen, ein Spiel mit alternativen Lebensläufen, wie er es beim Schreiben oft entwarf.« Draußen vor dem Fenster, auf dem Teltower Damm, fahren die Pendler (unglückliche Versicherungsangestellte wie Kafka?) zurück in ihre Vororte. Drinnen serviert die Tochter von Kafkas Vermieterin Kaffee aus der weißen Tchibo-Thermoskanne, die ihr das Altersheim zur Verfügung stellt. Beinahe hätte Kafka sie angesteckt, dass kein falscher Eindruck entsteht, »er war ja an sich tadellos gepflegt. Wir hatten eine Laube, da war mit der Zeit ein richtiges Laubdach gewachsen, und Kafka sah von seinem Balkon direkt darauf. Ich spielte dort immer mit meiner Freundin, wir hatten dort eine Bank, auf die mein Vater ‘Freundschaftsbänkchen für zwei junge Gänschen’ geschrieben hatte. Und eines Tages - da war er schon sehr krank -, da hörten wir etwas, er konnte uns ja nicht sehen: wie er seinen Schleim da runtergespuckt hat. Das ging so ein paar Tage, und dann hab ich’s Mutti erzählt, und die war entsetzt - Kafka hat natürlich keine Ahnung gehabt, dass da Kinder unten sind -, und dann hat Mutti uns verboten, in die Laube zu gehen. Aber da konnte er ja nichts für. Er hatte eine sehr nette Art: Ein netter Onkel, will ich mal sagen.« Ein paar Wochen später sagte sie, sie glaube nicht mehr, dass die Briefe noch gefunden werden, ob Mr. Harman wohl enttäuscht sei? »Meistens sucht man etwas und findet etwas anderes«, sagt der Übersetzer, der genug über Obsessionen wissen müsste, um ihnen nicht zu verfallen. Obwohl. »Vielleicht hilft ja dieser Artikel, sie zu finden. Vielleicht ist sie nur aus Berlin weggezogen.« (c) DIE ZEIT 02/2001 FUSSNOTEN [1] Dora Diamants Erinnerung an ihre Berliner Zeit mit Franz Kafka und an die Geschichte mit der Puppe kann man nachlesen in einem Buch von Hans-Gerd Koch: Als Kafka mir entgegenkam.

Gerechtigkeit in der Literatur - Über Janko Ferk und Franz Kafka

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:22:00 +0000

© Helmut Eisendle

Die Sprache des Rechts ist die Sprache der Justiz, die Sprache von Vorschriften, Verboten und Sanktionen, die Sprache der Gesetze. Wenn ein Jurist Janko Ferk über einen Juristen Franz Kafka schreibt, ist das, was sie schreiben, auch im Literarischen beeinflusst oder betroffen von dem, was sie als Beruf ausüben oder ausgeübt haben. Nun, es gibt Ärzte, die schreiben, Lehrer, die schreiben, Maler, die schreiben, Richter, die schreiben wie zum Beispiel Herr Rosendorfer und Handwerker, die schreiben oder Psychologen, die schreiben. Bei allen, könnte man annehmen, fließt das, was sie betrieben haben in die literarische Form und den Inhalt ein. Nachdem das Recht und die Jurisprudenz mehr als anderes der Sprache ausgeliefert ist, schließlich lässt sich Recht und Unrecht nur über Sprache beurteilen und festlegen, denn Richter sprechen wie es heißt Recht, ist die Sprache, wenn sie Schriftsteller benützen, ihr Thema als solches. So ist die Sprache auch Thema des Buches von Janko Ferk über Franz Kafka. Kafkas Literatur war stets von Anklage gefangen. Gegen die Bürokratie der Kontrolle, das Beamtentum der Monarchie, die Staatsgewalt, sowohl in seinen Erzählungen Die Strafkolonie, Beschreibung eines Kampfes, Zur Frage der Gesetze, Schakale und Araber oder ein Bericht für eine Akademie. Auch in Der Prozess oder Das Schloss ist die Sprache sein Thema. Auf seine Arbeiten bezogen, somit Literatur von großer Bedeutung. Nach Kafkas eigener Auffassung beginnt sein literarisches Schaffen mit der Erzählung Die Verwandlung, die 1916 gedruckt wird. Die surrealistische Erzählung dient Kafka als Herausarbeitung eines Modells der Wirklichkeitsbetrachtung, nach der die Kräfte, die ein Selbst aus der Familie und der Pflichtwelt der Arbeit herauslösen, sich selbst zerstören, da sie im absoluten Selbstsein nicht bestehen können. Kafkas problematische Beziehung zu seinem Vater und sein Verhältnis zur Arbeit als Versicherungsjurist lassen autobiographische Tendenzen erkennen. Ab 1914 erscheint seine Erfahrung mit der Jurisprudenz als strukturbildend für Kafkas literarische Modellwelt. Besondere Bedeutung hat dabei der Begriff Gerechtigkeit. Dieser hat philosophische, sprachliche, literarische und juridische Hintergründe und steht mit den Begriffen Recht, Staat, Gemeinschaft, Moral und Ethik in einem unabdingbaren Zusammenhang. Die Bedeutungen des Gerechtigkeitsbegriffes selbst, den Kafka und Ferk zu analysieren versuchten, geben keine Sicherheit ab. Das in allen Rechtsauslegungen und Gesetzen eingeschlossene Gerechtigkeitspostulat kann von der Machtposition oder der Politik mehr oder weniger im Sinne einer Selbstgerechtigkeit beliebig gedeutet werden. Recht als solches heißt Ordnung und in ihr scheinen Gerechtigkeit eingerichtet zu sein. Gerechtigkeit ist also jene Eigenschaft der Gesellschaft, die dem Menschen Recht zubilligt. Das Recht an sich erhebt den Anspruch, im Namen der Gerechtigkeit ausgeübt zu werden. Dies wiederum fordert, dass die Recht-sprechung nicht nur in der Anwendung von Regeln besteht, sondern sich eben auch als gerecht rechtfertigt. Nach Platon kann Gerechtigkeit auf Hunderte Einzelvorgänge bezogen werden, mit der Forderung, dass diese etwas gemeinsam haben und zwar ihre Ähnlichkeit und Beteiligung an der Idee der Gerechtigkeit. Gerechtigkeit ist also eine Idee. Nietzsche entwickelte aber die Gerechtigkeit jenseits von Moral und Ethik. Von dieser freigesetzten Gerechtigkeit her müssen Recht, Ordnung und Moral jederzeit kritisch hinterfragbar sein. Nach Schopenhauer besteht die Gerechtigkeit darin, dass der Mensch es unterlässt, Leiden über andere zu verhängen, um sein eigens Wohlsein dadurch zu vermehren. Jacques Derrida behauptet sogar, dass das Verhältnis zwischen Recht und Gerechtigkeit die Dekonstruktion der Gerechtigkeit bedeuten muss. Ein Hauptproblem ist also die Definition der absoluten Gerechtigkeit, die zu oft wie die Geschichte bewiesen hat, mit dem Argument Der Zweck heiligt die Mittel hintergangen worden ist. Das heißt, sowohl die juridischen, als auch philosophischen oder literarischen Lösungsversuche des Begriffes Gerechtigkeit und ihre Abhängigkeit zu den Begriffen Macht, Politik, Recht sind nicht abgeschlossen, weil die dahinterliegenden Systeme jederzeit veränderbar sind. Das Recht in Form von Gesetzen regelt die Mittagszeit, garantiert aber nicht das Essen. Ebenso garantiert das geschriebene Recht nicht Gerechtigkeit. Jacob Grimm weist in seiner Mythologie darauf hin, dass das Suffix -keit auf einem Irrtum beruhe und im Mittelhochdeutschen rehte sowohl Recht als auch Gerechtigkeit bedeute. Kafka selbst, schreibt Janko Ferk in seinem Buch Recht ist ein Prozess (Manz, 1999), will die innerlich gestaute Welt in Sprache umsetzen, durch sie relativiert und statuiert er Paradoxien. Er erweitert die Bedeutung der jeweils verwendeten Begriffe oder schafft überhaupt eine neue beziehungsweise andere. Beide Autoren gestehen ein, dass das Verhältnis zwischen Recht und Macht (oder Politik) unabdingbar erscheint und dass Gerechtigkeit nicht weiter vermittelbar ist, sondern vom gesellschaftlichen Status der Rechtssprechung abhängig bleibt. Damit wird aber auch bestätigt, dass die Sprache als zentrales Mittel der Rechtssprechung immer anzuzweifeln ist, obwohl es das einzige Mittel der Festlegung zu sein scheint. Janko Ferk analysiert Kafkas Prozess sowohl von der juridischen Position der österreichischen Rechtssprechung in der Monarchie als auch skeptisch in ihrer Verschlungenheit zu Macht und Politik. Gerade dadurch zeigt er auch auf, dass Kafkas Skepsis und metaphorische Darstellung weit über die Zeit der Monarchie hinausreicht und auch in der Gegenwart denkbar bleibt. Betrachtet man den in unserer Welt bevorzugten Neoliberalismus nicht mehr als Wirtschafts- sondern als Kontrollsystem im Sinne des großen Bruders, den Orwell beschrieben hat, gibt es in Kafkas Arbeiten eine Beziehung von der Geschichte her bis heute, die mit Metternich, Gestapo, SED, Staatspolizei oder den Vorstellungen unserer Regierung bis zurück zu Jeremy Benthams Panopticon tun hat. Alles wird kontrolliert, der Staat weiß über alles bescheid, wodurch er seine Macht erhalten wird. Und doch kann man sagen, der Staat behauptet möglichst viel Glück für möglichst viele erreichen zu wollen. Gerade damit nimmt er aber möglichst vielen die Freiheit. Justice, mercy, vigilance. Gerechtigkeit, Barmherzigkeit, Wachsamkeit. Gut, Bentham hatte im England des 18. Jahrhunderts sicher recht, er hielt sich für einen aufrechten Demokraten. Mit den Begriffen surveillance oder dataveillance tritt das, was uns Kafka beschrieben hat, noch massierter auf. Die Konstruktion der gegenwärtigen Macht ist die Auflösung der Subjektivität in der absoluten Kontrolle der Archive und Daten. Wenn in den letzten Jahrhunderten die Kontrolle noch persönlich an Menschen und Organisationen gebunden war, ist sie heute eine Riesenmaschine der Datenkontrolle, der satellitenunterstützten Visualisierungstechnologien, der Infrarot- und Wärmesensoren, der Telefonüberwachung und der gespeicherten Täterprofile. Im New York surveillance camera project kann man die Strassen, in denen man nicht mehr beobachtet wird, schon suchen. Janko Ferk legt besonderes Augenmerk auf die Begriffe Recht und Gerechtigkeit oder Gerichtbarkeit und Gericht. Man sagt doch Das Recht ist auf der Erde und die Gerechtigkeit im obersten Stock. Vor dem Gesetz steht ein Türhüter. Zu diesem Türhüter kommt ein Mann vom Lande und bittet um Eintritt in das Gesetz. Aber der Türhüter sagt, dass er ihm jetzt den Eintritt nicht gewähren könne. Der Mann überlegt und fragt dann, ob er also später werde eintreten dürfen. Es ist möglich, sagt der Türhüter, jetzt aber nicht. Da das Tor zum Gesetz offen steht wie immer und der Türhüter beiseite tritt, bückt sich der Mann, um durch das Tor ins Innere zu sehn. Als der Türhüter das merkt, lacht er und sagt Wenn es Dich so lockt, versuch es doch trotz meines Verbotes hineinzugehen. Merke aber ich bin mächtig. Und ich bin nur der unterste Türhüter. Von Saal zu Saal stehen aber Türhüter einer mächtiger als der andere. Schon den Anblick des dritten kann nicht einmal ich mehr ertragen. (aus Franz Kafka, Der Process) Dem Beruf des Richters, den Ferk selbst ausübt, widmet er ein eigenes Kapitel. Die Rollen des Richters und der Rechtanwälte werden besonders bedacht. So ist Janko Ferks Arbeit über Kafka natürlich eines für Literaturinteressierte, doch aber auch eins für diejenige, die das wissen wollen, was mit uns geschieht und die sich über den Begriff Staat und Gerechtigkeit bereit sind Gedanken zu machen. Ferks Analyse ist aber auch eine Analyse unseres Systems, das Franz Kafka nach dem ersten Weltkrieg gesehen und beschrieben hat. Im Hauptteil des Buches behandelt Ferk Kafkas Prozess und analysiert es auf sein Ideal von Recht und Gerechtigkeit mit dem er, daran ist nicht zu zweifeln, mit der Rechtsauffassung Kafkas in seinen Anklagen übereinstimmt.

Milena Jesenská, Journalistin

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:20:46 +0000

von Marko Martin

Berühmt wurde sie durch Kafkas Briefe. Margret Steenfatt zeigt in ihrer Biographie, wer sie wirklich war

Am Ende, so erinnert sich Margarete Buber-Neumann, stiehlt sie weiße Zettel aus dem Büro des Krankenreviers, um heimlich ihre Gedanken niederzuschreiben, das heißt: um zu widerstehen und nicht aufzugeben. Knapp ein Jahr vor der Befreiung des Konzentrationslagers Ravensbrück aber (am 17. Mai 1944) stirbt sie an Nierenversagen – Milena Jesenská, tschechische Schriftstellerin und Journalistin, Franz Kafkas Freundin. Obwohl sie nur 48 Jahre alt wurde, beschreibt die Hamburger Autorin Margret Steenfatt in ihrer Biografie dieses Leben nicht als Heiligenlegende, wohl aber als exemplarische Existenz in der ersten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts.

Il fratricidio di K.

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:19:33 +0000

di Claudio Dettorre

Il sangue di K. insozza le bandiere di ogni ideologia Cominceremo dalla fine del processo, nell’ “ora del silenzio nelle strade”. K. aspetta visite, si presentano due signori, vecchi attori di infimo ordine, forse due tenori, con cilindro, guanti e doppio mento. La loro faccia è nascosta. Se volessimo dare un volto ai due sicari, di scorcio apparirebbe Lenin sotto un cilindro. K. muore quando trionfa la rivoluzione sulle armate bianche. La controrivoluzione ha vinto. Kafka morirà dopo un terribile inverno in un ospedale della NEP. Ora Stalin, o forse Trotskij, gesticola di rivoluzione, dal “fodero appeso a una cintura legata sopra il panciotto” sfila un coltello da macellaio, non dominando le parole che sgorgano contro i bianchi, contro i soviet e contro gli estremisti. Gli sfugge ancora una “condanna”, l’ultima, il filo del coltello intanto viene esaminato al chiaro di luna e come un cane K. muore, mentre qualcuno osservava la scena da una finestra. Chi era? E l’altro sicario chi era? In sembianze parallele l’altro era ancora K.? Che assiste, partecipe e compie l’assassinio della sua parte apparente? Se il suicidio si presenta come omicidio, mentre getta luce sul grigiore del mondo kafkiano, si rivela autobiografico. “Mi uccida altrimenti lei è un omicida” sono le sue ultime parole. Anche se un fratello giuridicamente non è mai esistito, lo sanno tutti, chi farà come Kafka che ha ucciso suo fratello, trucidato al chiarore di luna? Lui il fratricidio l’ha finalmente compiuto, “rumore di pantegane schiacciate”. La “vescica piena di sangue” scoppia accoltellata, il sangue sprizza da ogni lato e annerisce il marciapiede. Ma salita la nausea, trascinato da un passo leggero, va verso la sua morte. Ognuno ha il suo Pallas, colui che ti guarda dalla finestra. K. è stato scoperto, paga il suo omicidio, che tuttavia gli ha fruttato una serenità inaccessibile a molti. L’esecutore della sentenza storica si avvia, scortato, alla sua esecuzione e il condannato in contumacia è ancora dentro e fuori di noi. Ancora.

"Diese Tagebücher legen Feuer dran"

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:17:29 +0000

von JÜRGEN BERGER

Franz Kafkas in Oxford lagernde Quarthefte sind als “Tagebücher” bekannt. Eine kritische Neuedition ficht diese Einordnung an: Das Konvolut von privaten Notaten, Zeichnungen und poetischen Entwürfen des Prager Jahrhundertzauderers wird nun im Faksimile als “Arbeitsbuch” vorgestellt

Die Bände erscheinen zur Frankfurter Buchmesse. Und wenn stimmt, was die beiden Herausgeber der Historisch-Kritischen Franz-Kafka-Ausgabe (FKA) behaupten, kommt das einer kleinen Sensation gleich. Roland Reuß und Peter Staengle sagen, dass die in der Oxforder Bodleian Library lagernden Quarthefte aus dem Nachlass Franz Kafkas nicht das sind, als was die gesamte literarische Welt sie bislang kannte: Tagebücher. Kafka, so Reuß/Staengle, habe die Quarthefte eher wie ein Arbeitsbuch geführt. Gegen eine eindeutige Genrezuordnung spreche vor allem, dass lange Passagen mit poetischen Entwürfen gefüllt sind. Aber gemach. Zunächst einmal finden sich in den Heften natürlich tagebuchartige Notate wie das vom 13. Oktober 1911. “Kunstloser Übergang von der gespannten Haut der Glatze meines Chefs zu den zarten Falten seiner Stirn. Eine offenbare, sehr leicht nachzuahmende Schwäche der Natur. Banknoten dürften nicht so gemacht sein”, steht da unvermittelt auf einer Seite der Quarthefte, die heute in kleinen, unscheinbaren Kartons im Bodleian-Safe lagern. Ihrem Anblick deutet nicht auf einen Streit in der philologischen Fachwelt, doch er brach los: Nicht allein wegen der Zuordnungsschwierigkeiten, mit welcher Textgattung man es denn hier nun zu tun habe. Die Heidelberger Germanisten Roland Reuß und Peter Staengle mussten bis Anfang letzten Jahres darum kämpfen, Kafkas so genannte Oxforder Handschriften neu edieren zu können. Dabei ging es nicht unbedingt darum, ob die Handschriften wertvoll seien. Es ging eher um ein Kafka-Monopol, das bisher der Fischer-Verlag inne hatte. Seit der Frankfurter Verlag Stroemfeld/ Roter Stern seiner ebenfalls von Reuß/Staengle besorgten Kritischen Kleist-Ausgabe Kafka folgen ließ, wähnte der Branchenriese seine Pfründen in Gefahr. Der Grund für die Empfindlichkeit: Reuß/Stangle sind als akribisch texttreue Herausgeber bekannt. In der neuen Edition aus dem Hause Stroemfeld wird jede Seite, die Kafka schrieb, auch als Faksimile reproduziert. Künftig kann also jeder Kafka fast so lesen, als hätte er die Originalmanuskripte in Händen. Darauf reagieren andere Germanisten und Verlage merkwürdigerweise nicht nur mit Lobeshymnen. Man wird eher nervös, sobald die Heidelberger ihr textkritisches Instrumentarium auspacken. Das war im Falle Heinrich von Kleists so, und das wird auch jetzt so sein, wenn die ersten beiden Bände der Oxforder Handschriften erscheinen. Dass die Handschriften in die FKA einfließen können, wurde Anfang letzten Jahres vertraglich geregelt. Der Vertragsabschluss ist von großer Bedeutung, da in der englischen Universitätsstadt das größte Kafka-Konvolut lagert. Neben den Aufzeichnungen in den Quartheften, die jetzt versehen mit einem Kommentarband den Auftakt bilden, finden sich im Bodleian-Safe unter anderem auch die Handschriften der Romanentwürfe von “Das Schloss” und “Der Verschollene”. Ab dieser Woche kann der Kafka-Liebhaber nun detektivisch der prägnanten Handschrift des Prager Jahrhundertzauderers nachspüren. Dabei wird er im ersten Band auch auf die “Glatze des Chefs” (Heft 1, S. 172) stoßen. Sie zierte Oberinspektor Eugen Pfohl, Kafkas direkten Vorgesetzten in der “Arbeiter-Unfall-Versicherungsanstalt für das Königreich Böhmen in Prag”. Pfohl war zu diesem Zeitpunkt 44 Jahre alt, Kafka 28 und ein von Depressionen und Schlaflosigkeit gepeinigter Mitternachts-Schriftsteller. Ein Beispiel: “Sonntag, den 19. Juni 10 geschlafen aufgewacht, geschlafen, aufgewacht, elendes Leben.” Ein Grund für die Schlafstörungen war die Versicherungsanstalt. Kafka litt am Arbeitsplatz. Er litt noch mehr, tauchte Pfohl in seiner Nähe auf. Aufschlussreich in diesem Zusammenhang ist eine Passage, die zeigt, wohin unterschiedliche Editionsprinzipien führen könnnen. Am 19. 2. 1911 beschreibt Kafka wie angeschlagen er ist. Als er aus dem Bett gestiegen ist, sei er - völlig überarbeitet - einfach zusammengeklappt. Ein schreckliches Doppelleben mute er sich zu, konstatiert er. Dann kommt die entscheidende Stelle: “Ich schreibe das bei gutem Morgenlicht und würde es sicher nicht schreiben, wenn ich sie nicht so liebte wie ein Sohn. Im übrigen bin ich morgen schon wieder sicher beisammen und komme ins Bureau, wo ich als erstes hören werde, dass sie mich aus Ihrer Abteilung weghaben wollen.” Dass Kafka gegen Ende seines Eintrages plötzlich aus der Beschreibung seines eigenen Zustandes heraustritt und einen imaginären Adressaten mit “wenn ich sie nicht so liebte” anspricht, veranlasste Hans-Gerd Koch, den Herausgeber der Fischer-Gesamtausgabe von 1999, die gesamte Seite des Quartheftes als Briefentwurf zu werten, herauszulösen und dem Briefband seiner Edition zuzuordnen. Dass er Kafkas Vorgesetzten Pfohl als Adressaten annimmt, ist nachvollziehbar. Nicht allerdings, dass die Seite tatsächlich ein Briefentwurf sein soll. Warum denn, so die Frage, spricht Kafka einen 16 Jahre älteren Mann zuerst als einen an, den er “liebt wie einen Sohn”, um ihm dann sofort zu unterstellen, er wolle ihn aus der Abteilung ekeln. Nicht nur aus diesem Grund beließen die Herausgeber der neuen FKA den Eintrag dort, wo Kafka ihn geschrieben hat. Liest man ihn jetzt und sieht den folgenden Eintrag vom selben Tag, wird einmal mehr ein Mensch sichtbar, der zwischen niederschmetternder Depression und hochfahrender Selbsteinschätzung schwankte: “Die besondere Art meiner Inspiration in der ich Glücklichster und Unglücklichster jetzt um 2 Uhr nachts schlafen gehe sie wird vielleicht, wenn ich nur den Gedanken daran ertrage, bleiben, denn sie ist höher als alle früheren und zweifelllos bin ich jetzt im Geistigen der Mittelpunkt von Prag”. Sich selbst als geistigen Mittelpunkt Prags zu sehen, ist starker Tobak. Das hat wohl auch Kafka bemerkt. Er strich den Satz - heftig und flächendeckend. In der Fischer-Ausgabe allerdings wurde die Streichung im Kommentarband versteckt. Wollte der Herausgeber an dieser Stelle etwa pietätvolle Rücksicht walten lassen, wo er kurz zuvor alles andere als pietätvoll eine ganze Seite aus dem Kontext löste? Wie dem auch sei. In der FKA ist die Streichung im Faksimile reproduziert. Und die Herausgeber haben in der Umschrift rekonstruiert, was Kafka strich. Er war an diesem Tag offensichtlich heftigen emotionalen Schwankungen ausgesetzt und spielte fiktional mögliche Geisteshaltungen gegenüber seinem Vorgesetzten durch. Die Situation dieses Tages ist in der FKA erstmals ungefiltert im Kontext begreifbar, da die Herausgeber dem Leser alle verfügbaren Informationen an die Hand geben. Ein Editionsprinzip, das unter anderem zur Folge hat, dass auch Nichtgermanisten früher oder später bemerken, dass im Falle Kafkas eine Genreangabe wie “Tagebuch” schwerlich zu treffen ist. In den Quartheften finden sich zwar Stellen, die dem entsprechen, was man gemeinhin als Tagebucheintrag versteht. Es gibt unter anderem viele Einträge zur jeweiligen Lektüre von Xeno bis Hebbel. Daneben finden sich Momentaufnahmen wie “Die jungen gut gekleideten Jungen neben mir im Promenoir erinnerten mich an meine Jugend und machten daher einen unappetitlichen Eindruck auf mich” oder “Schriftsteller reden Gestank”. Es gibt aber auch metapoetische Betrachtungen, die wirken, als wollte Kafka spätere Genrezuordnungen seiner Notate kommentieren. “Ein wenig Goethes Tagebücher gelesen. Die Ferne hält dieses Leben schon beruhigt fest, diese Tagebücher legen Feuer dran”. Für Kafka selbst war das Leben alles andere als beruhigt. Und er betrachtete es auch nicht aus der Ferne, wie ein sich selbst inszenierender Tagebuchautor. Dafür, dass er seine Notate nicht als Tagebucheinträge verstand, sprechen auch lange Passagen mit poetischen Entwürfen. Im ersten Quartheft etwa erstreckt sich über mehr als 20 Seiten eine poetische Reflexion Kafkas über seine Erziehung, die daran beteiligten Personen und mögliche Auswirkungen. Er setzt immer wieder an, variiert und baut aus. Die Frage, die sich in diesem Falle stellt: Warum wechselte Kafka, wenn er tatsächlich Tagebuch führen wollte, im Falle des poetischen Entwurfs nicht das Medium? Genausowenig wie er sich um derartige kategoriale Zuordnungen kümmerte, fühlte er sich nicht bemüßigt, seine Notate durchgängig mit Datumsangaben zu versehen. Und es kümmerte ihn auch nicht, dass ein streng in Genres wie Roman, Erzählung oder Briefe operierender Germanist angesichts der Quarthefte an den Rand des Wahnsinns getrieben wird. Dass ihn das alles nicht kümmerte, ist allerdings auch ausschlaggebend dafür, dass die Notate so reizvoll sind und mit einem alles andere als harmonischen Wechsel überraschen. Da finden sich zum einen Seiten mit feinen Strichzeichnungen hochhackiger Frauen. Auf der nächsten entpuppt Kafka sich als Meister sprachlicher Feinzeichnungen des Physiognomischen. Und ganz plötzlich gibt er Intimes preis - nicht nur von sich selbst, sondern auch von Menschen seiner Umgebung. “Ausserdem gestand mir L seinen Tripper; als ich seinem Kopf mich zuneigte dann berührte mein Haar das Seine, ich bekam Furcht wegen immerhin möglicher Läuse”, steht da. Auch das ist eine der Stellen, die dafür sprechen könnten, dass es sich um Tagebücher handelt. Dass Reuß/Stangle dieser Genrenezeichnung widersprechen, wird für Diskussionen in den nächsten Wochen sorgen. An deren Ende könnte sich ein neuer Sprachgebrauch einbürgern. Unter Umständen spricht man künftig ganz einfach von Kafkas Oxforder Quartheften. © Contrapress media GmbH

Il romanzo orientale di Kafka

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:15:34 +0000

di Claudio Dettorre

Heft 1

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:44:10 +0000

Die Zuschauer erstarren, wenn der Zug vorbeifährt.

“Wenn er mich immer frägt” das ä losgelöst vom Satz flog dahin wie ein Ball auf der Wiese.

Sein Ernst bringt mich um. Den Kopf im Kragen, die Haare unbeweglich um den Schädel geordnet, die Muskeln unten an den Wangen an ihrem Platz gespannt

Ist der Wald noch immer da?Der Wald war noch so ziemlich da. Kaum aber war mein Blick zehn Schritte weit, ließ ich ab wieder eingefangen vom langweiligen Gespräch.

"Ein junger Student…" (II, 14)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:12:54 +0000

Ein junger Student wollte an einem Abend im Januar zur Zeit der großen Gesellschaften seinen besten Freund, den Sohn eines hohen Staatsbeamten aufsuchen. Er wollte ihm ein Buch zeigen, das er gerade las und von dem er ihm auch schon viel erzählt hatte. Es war ein schwer verständliches Buch über die Grundzüge der Geschichte der Volkswirtschaft, man konnte nur schwer folgen, der Autor hielt sein Thema, wie es in einer Kritik sehr bezeichnend hieß, an sich gedrückt, wie der Vater das Kind mit dem er durch die Nacht reitet. Trotz aller Schwierigkeit verlockte es aber den Studenten sehr; wenn er eine zusammenhängende Stelle durchdrungen hatte, fühlte er einen großen Gewinn, nicht nur die gerade vorgetragene Ansicht, sondern alles ringsherum schien ihm einleuchtender, besser bewiesen und widerstandskräftiger. Einigemal auf dem Weg zu seinem Freund blieb er unter einer Laterne stehn und las bei dem durch Schneenebel gedämpften Licht einige Sätze. Große seine Fassungskraft übersteigende Sorgen bedrückten ihn, das Gegenwärtige war zu erfassen, die vor ihm liegende Aufgabe aber erschien ihm undeutlich und ohne Ende, vergleichbar nur seinen Kräften, die er ebenso und noch nicht aufgerufen in sich fühlte.

"Wer einmal scheintot gewesen ist…" (II, 5)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:49:44 +0000

Wer einmal scheintot gewesen ist, kann davon Schreckliches erzählen, aber wie es nach dem Tode ist, das kann er nicht sagen, er ist eigentlich nicht einmal dem Tode näher gewesen als ein anderer, er hat im Grunde nur etwas Besonderes >erlebt< und das nicht besondere, das gewöhnliche Leben ist ihm dadurch wertvoller geworden. Ähnlich ist es mit jedem, der etwas Besonderes erlebt hat. Moses zum Beispiel hat auf dem Berge Sinai gewiß etwas >Besonderes< erlebt, aber statt sich diesem Besonderen zu ergeben, etwa wie ein Scheintoter, der sich nicht meldet und im Sarg liegen bleibt, ist er den Berg hinunter geflüchtet und hatte natürlich Wertvolles zu erzählen und liebte die Menschen, zu denen er sich geflüchtet hatte, noch viel mehr als früher und hat dann sein Leben ihnen geopfert, man kann vielleicht sagen, zum Danke. Von beiden aber, vom zurückgekehrten Scheintoten und vom zurückgekehrten Moses kann man viel lernen, aber das Entscheidende kann man von ihnen nicht erfahren, denn sie selber haben (es) nicht erfahren. Und hätten sie es erfahren, so wären sie nicht mehr zurückgekommen. Aber wir wollen es auch gar nicht erfahren. Das läßt sich daran überprüfen, daß wir zum Beispiel gelegentlich den Wunsch haben können, das Erlebnis des Scheintoten oder das Erlebnis des Moses bei Sicherstellung der Rückkehr, >bei freiem Geleit< zu erleben, ja daß wir sogar den Tod uns wünschen, aber nicht einmal in Gedanken wollten wir lebend und im Sarge ohne jede Möglichkeit der Wiederkehr oder auf dem Berge Sinai bleiben…

Oktavheft A (I, 17)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:26:12 +0000

Unverbrüchlicher Traum.

Sie lief die Landstraße entlang, ich sah sie nicht, ich saß am Feldrand und blickte in das Wasser des kleinen Baches. Sie durchlief die Dörfer, Kinder standen in den Türen, sahen ihr entgegen und sahen ihr nach.

Zerrissener Traum.

Die Laune eines früheren Fürsten hatte bestimmt, das Mausoleum müsse unmittelbar bei den Sarkophagen einen Wächter haben. Vernünftige Männer hatten sich dagegen ausgesprochen, schließlich ließ man den sonst vielfach beengten Fürsten in dieser Kleinigkeit gewähren. Ein Invalide aus einem Krieg des vorigen Jahrhunderts, Witwer und Vater dreier Söhne, die im letzten Krieg gefallen waren, meldete sich für den Posten. Er wurde angenommen und von einem alten Hofbeamten in das Mausoleum begleitet. Eine Waschfrau folgte ihnen beladen mit verschiedenen Dingen, welche für den Wächter bestimmt waren. Bis zur Allee, welche dann geradeaus zum Mausoleum führte, hielt der Invalide trotz seiner Stelze mit dem Hofbeamten gleichen Schritt. Dann aber versagte er ein wenig, hüstelte und begann sein linkes Bein zu reiben. “Nun Friedrich”, sagte der Hofbeamte der mit der Waschfrau ein Stück vorausgegangen war und sich nun umsah. “Mich reißt es im Bein”, sagte der Invalide und machte eine Fratze, “nur einen Augenblick Geduld, das pflegt gleich aufzuhören.”

"Es gibt…" (1897)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:05:02 +0000

Es gibt ein Kommen und ein Gehn Ein Scheiden und oft kein – Wiedersehn

Prag, den 20. November.

Franz Kafka.

1. Ankunft

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:54:26 +0000

Es war spät abend als K. ankam. Das Dorf lag in tiefem Schnee. Vom Schloßberg war nichts zu sehn, Nebel und Finsternis umgaben ihn, auch nicht der schwächste Lichtschein deutete das große Schloß an. Lange stand K. auf der Holzbrücke die von der Landstraße zum Dorf führt und blickte in die scheinbare Leere empor.

Dann gieng er ein Nachtlager suchen; im Wirtshaus war man noch wach, der Wirt hatte zwar kein Zimmer zu vermieten, aber er wollte, von dem späten Gast äußerst überrascht und verwirrt, K. in der Wirtsstube auf einem Strohsack schlafen lassen, K. war damit einverstanden. Einige Bauern saßen noch beim Bier aber er wollte sich mit niemandem unterhalten, holte selbst den Strohsack vom Dachboden und legte sich in der Nähe des Ofens hin. Warm war es, die Bauern waren still, ein wenig prüfte er sie noch mit den müden Augen, dann schlief er ein.

Der Heizer

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 16:35:22 +0000

Als der siebzehnjährige Karl Roßmann, der von seinen armen Eltern nach Amerika geschickt worden war, weil ihn ein Dienstmädchen verführt und ein Kind von ihm bekommen hatte, in dem schon langsam gewordenen Schiff in den Hafen von Newyork einfuhr, erblickte er die schon längst beobachtete Statue der Freiheitsgöttin wie in einem plötzlich stärker gewordenen Sonnenlicht. Ihr Arm mit dem Schwert ragte wie neuerdings empor und um ihre Gestalt wehten die freien Lüfte.

The Unknowable: Meditations on the Law

Sun, 08 Apr 2007 09:05:38 +0000

By Risa Peris

In A Message from the Emperor and Before the Law we understand explicitly that the law has been created to be both personal and inaccessible to the receiving subject. Both premises are contrary to the Western principle of the Rule of Law and both characters from the two stories become pitiable in the face of such gargantuan displays of power that only seek in denying knowledge rather than in bestowing. And yet, that does not stop the subject from imagining, as in A Message from the Emperor, that messages will eventually reach the subject against impossible odds or that eventually, as in Before the Law, admittance to the law will be suddenly granted if enough time has elapsed. The humanity in the subject is in the striving – the wanting, needing and effort to know the law. The frustration for the reader is when that striving is mocked and knowledge of the law, in whole, is denied.

The Stoker

Wed, 17 Jan 2007 21:46:52 +0000

As the seventeen-year-old Karl Rossman – who had been shipped off to America by his poor parents because a maid had seduced him and had a child with him – introduced himself to New York’s harbor on a slowly advancing ship, he caught sight of the Statue of Liberty in a sudden, strong advance of sunlight. Her arm with the sword rose upwards now, and over her figure the free air blew.

Five short texts from Kafka's youth

Sun, 03 Dec 2006 15:48:53 +0000

translated by Christopher Mulrooney

“Es gibt… " (1897)#

There is a coming and a gone A rift and no more looking on

“Wie viel Worte… " (1900)#

How many words are in books! They’re meant for reminders! As though words were ever reminders! Because words are poor mountaineers and mountain men. They do not fetch treasures from the mountaintops and mountain deeps. But there is a live remembrance which beyond the worth of any reminder gently leads there like a coaxing hand. And if from this ash flame rises, glowing and hot, mighty and strong and you stare within, as spellbound with the magic of it, then— But in this chaste remembrance, one cannot inscribe oneself with clumsy hand and rude implement, one can do that only in these white, undemanding sheets. That did I on September 4, 1900.

The Trial - An International Bibliography

Thu, 28 Sep 2006 21:49:22 +0000

This section include an extensive bibliography about Kafka’s novel The Trial (“Der Prozess”), in chronological order. Visitors are invited to contribute by new entries, to be sent through the contact page . Every new entry will bear then a target with the name of the first contributor. So, if you know some book or paper about any field of research on The Trial not included in this list, please let me know! We look forward to building the most complete internet bibliography on the theme. Thanks for your cooperation.

La debolezza del padre. Una lettura della Condanna di Franz Kafka

Sat, 13 Nov 2004 22:07:39 +0000

di Mauro Nervi

All’inizio e alla fine della Condanna , in posizione apparentemente neutra e senza riferimento al tema – la paternità – che occupa il corpo del racconto, osserviamo il ripetersi di una debolezza: nel primo caso è il «debole» verde delle colline sulla sponda opposta del fiume su cui è costruita la casa di Georg, e che il protagonista contempla nella serenità della mattina primaverile; nella scena finale di suicidio, invece, sono le mani che si aprono «sempre più deboli», lasciando cadere Georg nell’acqua del fiume, alla morte per annegamento cui è stato destinato. Nella loro opposta contestualizzazione, queste due ricorrenze del termine sembrano definire a scapito del protagonista l’opposizione forza/debolezza che nel corso della breve narrazione ha orientato il senso del testo; una opposizione che vede la figura paterna prima soccombente, poi improvvisamente vittoriosa nel suo confronto con le ragioni del figlio, il quale può trovare uno spazio di affermazione solo – e questo è l’aspetto centrale della strategia di lotta del figlio – riducendo le possibilità di argomentazione razionale del padre. La tesi che vogliamo argomentare è che la debolezza paterna troverà l’energia per capovolgersi in forza magicamente aggressiva facendo leva su risorse libidiche già presenti nell’inconscio di Georg, e distruggendo le argomentazioni razionali del figlio grazie a una logica ben più efficace e profonda, che attinge al linguaggio dell’inconscio. Ma prima di tutto converrà analizzare più da vicino il quadro che Kafka presenta della famiglia Bendemann, ridotta – dopo la morte della madre – a padre e figlio, soci nel lavoro, dove tuttavia il figlio si avvia a rimpiazzare il padre. Questa transizione di potere sul lavoro ha naturalmente – come sempre in Kafka – una sfumatura d’irrealtà, che le deriva dalla sua natura simbolica. Come la proposizione wittgensteiniana, le situazioni testuali presentate da Kafka non hanno un significato in sé, ma solo una funzione di uso all’interno del testo; e questo vale per ogni testo letterario; ma in Kafka ciò è ancor più rarefatto dalla corrispondenza del dato testuale a una costellazione di pulsioni che nel loro equilibrio e nella loro logica interna trovano una giustificazione e una coerenza interna inesorabili; queste creano un’aura di perfezione testuale impenetrabile all’interpretazione, per la quale abbiamo sempre l’impressione che la vera comprensione del testo preceda l’interpretazione che noi stessi ne diamo. Così il lavoro dei Bendemann – che Kafka non si degna neppure di definire con precisione – è solo metafora dell’antagonismo padre/figlio e del declino che il padre, la generazione che deve uscire di scena, subisce inevitabilmente, ma contro il quale, secondo uno schema edipico molto arcaico, si ribella e lotta, facendo ricorso ad ogni arma per mantenere il potere nei confronti della generazione emergente. Le altre due occorrenze della debolezza riguardano il padre: questi è costretto a usare occhiali per leggere, a motivo di una «debolezza della vista» (R, 146, 7); inoltre acconsente a farsi spogliare da Georg semplicemente rimanendo «debolmente in piedi» (R, 148, 29-30) in mezzo alla stanza. Ma assai più che da questa descrizione diretta, la debolezza del vecchio Bendemann è definita da una serie di osservazioni collaterali, la cui aura connotativa è evidente agli occhi del figlio e del lettore: la stanza del vecchio è immersa in una permanente semioscurità, di cui è responsabile un muro che si innalza subito davanti alla finestra (analogamente alla stanza di Gregor Samsa nella Metamorfosi, la cui finestra dava su un muro d’ospedale : inizia qui una serie di corrispondenze fra i due racconti – cronologicamente contigui, e nei quali già il nome del protagonista Georg/Gregor è evidentemente assonante – di cui renderemo brevemente conto); l’aria è calda e viziata, perché il padre si rifiuta di aprire la finestra, come farà il pittore Titorelli in presenza di Josef K. nel Processo , un dettaglio opprimente che da entrambi i personaggi – il padre e Titorelli – è percepito come desiderabile, suggerendo l’idea di una lunga consuetudine con l’immobilità e la malattia ; in un processo moltiplicativo di accumulazione il padre poggia sul davanzale della finestra chiusa la rivista insignificante e ignota a Georg alla cui lettura appariva intento , e sulla rivista gli occhiali resi necessari dalla debolezza degli occhi, e sugli occhiali, con gesto senile, la mano. Di grande importanza la presenza dei residui di colazione non consumata, descritti in termini che saranno ripresi molto da vicino quando si tratterà di suggerire la progressiva rinuncia di Gregor alla vita nella Metamorfosi; la devianza anoressica è presentata come una proclamazione sociale del proprio distacco dalle funzioni vitali , data la profonda valenza simbolica inconscia del cibo non solo come legame primario alla vita, ma anche come segnale sociale di aggressività e di prevaricazione; agli antipodi di Gregor Samsa e del vecchio Bendemann, i due guardiani del Processo provvederanno invece ad appropriarsi e a consumare anche la colazione dell’accusato Josef K . L’appetito è percepito cioè come espressione della volontà di potenza degli «idonei alla vita», e l’anoressia quindi è l’ideale ascetico di chi rifiuta questa logica di sopraffazione, di chi, rinunciando alla vita, vuole «uscire dalla fila degli assassini»; tema questo che verrà approfondito nel Digiunatore, uno degli ultimi racconti kafkiani. Qui ancora la mancanza di appetito è solo indizio di progressiva inettitudine alla vita; e, dettaglio di grande rilevanza, il padre ha la bocca sdentata (R, 147, 13-14), priva cioè di quell’elemento principe dell’aggressività animale che sono i denti. Il tema è ripreso con grande evidenza in due punti della Metamorfosi, quando, già al primo tentativo di aprire la porta con le mascelle, Gregor si rende conto di non possedere denti ; e verso il termine del racconto, dove Gregor nel rumore di masticazione proveniente dai pensionanti nella stanza accanto crede addirittura di riconoscere la volontà di dimostrargli che «occorrevano dei buoni denti per mangiare, e che, con le più belle mascelle prive di denti, non si poteva concludere nulla» (R, 207-208). A questa dettagliata messa in scena della debolezza paterna non mancano lontane reminiscenze bibliche come la pesante vestaglia indossata dal padre che si apre nei pochi passi che egli compie in direzione di Georg ; qui si rinnova la colpa di Cam, che «vide la nudità del proprio padre» (Genesi, 9, 22), una colpa insistita e aggravata nel prosieguo, quando il padre, per compiere in piedi sul letto il suo agghiacciante balletto, solleva la veste lasciando vedere la cicatrice di guerra sulla coscia . Ma in questo momento la debolezza del vecchio Bendemann, come quella di Noè ubriaco, si è già capovolta nella maledizione mitica. A questo punto non bisogna però sottovalutare la fondamentale duplicità del personaggio. Il padre è visto contemporaneamente con gli occhi dell’inconscio, che ne prende sul serio l’aggressività e quella che potremmo chiamare l’alterità logica, e ne subisce l’influenza magica; e con gli occhi del buon senso borghese, che suggerisce di interpretare parole e gesti del vecchio come manifestazioni di semplice demenza . E’ evidente che a tale doppia ottica corrisponde un doppio, contemporaneo atteggiamento di Georg, che andrà analizzato con attenzione. La debolezza del padre culmina quando Georg lo trasporta sulle braccia, secondo un modello di pietà filiale che risale all’Enea virgiliano, il quale salvava la vita al vecchio padre Anchise trasportandolo sulle spalle; ma qui l’intento non è salvifico, e il padre, con tipica condensazione onirica del gesto, trattiene il figlio per la catena dell’orologio, tanto tenacemente che Georg «non riuscì subito a stenderlo nel letto, da quanto egli si teneva saldo alla catena» (R, 149, 27-29). In questo gesto, che procura a Georg una sensazione «orribile» (ed è rarissimo che Kafka si abbandoni a osservazioni psicologiche così determinate), si riconosce il sintomo manifesto del disorientamento senile, ma ad un tempo anche l’espressione simbolica della sua resistenza parassitaria nei confronti del figlio. Vedremo che in Georg il tentativo di far valere la prima, ragionevole visione delle cose naufragherà di fronte alla forza linguistica della logica simbolica, di cui il vecchio si servirà per avere la meglio. La prima manifestazione, e anche la più importante, di questa logica per definizione «altra» si legge nel primo discorso del padre (R, 147, 13 e ss.), introdotto da un solenne richiamo all’attenzione («Senti!») il cui valore fàtico mira a creare una specie di silenzio davanti al dispiegamento del primo fronte di aggressione. Prima di tutto, il padre introduce un equivoco capzioso: Georg non è andato da lui per consigliarsi, ma solo per informarlo. Qui tuttavia, data la sua ancora momentanea debolezza, il padre fa ricorso a una captatio benevolentiae, accentuata dal successivo elogio retorico («e questo ti fa onore»). Ma subito in opposizione a questo, il ricorso all’argomentazione esterna («cose che non c’entrano») intende come prima cosa insinuare la minaccia di una imprevista resa dei conti («prima di quanto pensiamo … non voglio per ora fare l’ipotesi…») che interverrà in virtù della sua posizione gerarchica di padre e lo riscatterà dalla debolezza in cui attualmente si trova. Ed è una debolezza, la sua, che riconosce due cause: il corso della natura (citato per primo, e dunque in posizione molto meno carica di rilevanza semantica) e, assai più pesante perché implica indirettamente la colpa di Georg, la morte della madre, che ha indebolito il padre ma non il figlio, il quale ha dunque approfittato del cambiamento a suo favore dei rapporti di forza. Qui entra in gioco un motivo antropologico assai profondo, che è l’insufficienza del lutto. L’elaborazione troppo rapida è indicata come un illecito vantaggio, come l’origine di una forza colpevole, grazie alla quale il figlio tenta di avere il sopravvento sul padre. E apparentemente il tentativo riesce: si sottolinea infatti (R, 143, 22-25) che proprio a partire dalla morte della madre c’era stata nell’attività della ditta di Georg un improvviso incremento, il personale era raddoppiato, la vendita quintuplicata. Ma la colpa di chi resta in vita rispetto a chi muore non viene dimenticata tanto in fretta dall’inconscio, che rimane vulnerabile di fronte all’emersione dei rapporti gerarchici antropologici, tanto più radicati di quelli borghesi socialmente riconosciuti. Se il padre retrocede sul piano del potere borghese, acquisisce una forza immensa sul piano del legame mitico padre/figlio. La morte della madre lo ha tanto indebolito sul primo livello quanto lo ha rafforzato sul secondo: e difatti, nel finale, ribalterà questo primo giudizio, affermando che la sua forza deriva da due fonti principali: «Da solo sarei stato costretto forse a cedere, ma la mamma mi ha ceduto la sua forza, col tuo amico ho stretto una magnifica alleanza» (R, 152, 12-15). Qui invece, attenendosi alla descrizione dei rapporti socialmente condivisi, riconosce l’indebolimento che la morte della madre gli ha procurato, in quanto incapace di elaborare il lutto con la rapidità del figlio. Tutto ciò è, nell’argomentazione del padre, la premessa principale, che pone in dubbio radicalmente la veridicità del figlio; e quindi, procedendo dal maggiore al minore, passa alla questione sulla quale «non vale la pena di perdere il fiato», e cioè il suo amico a Pietroburgo. E qui il padre rovescia la prospettiva normalizzante del figlio, la sua ragionevolezza borghese, ponendo in dubbio l’esistenza stessa dell’amico. E’ un passaggio cruciale del testo, e anche, va pur detto, un geniale scarto narrativo di eccezionale intensità simbolica. In questa conclusione inquietante del discorso del padre si sommano diversi piani: il sospetto di un decadimento psichico (che presta al principio di autorità il linguaggio stravolto dell’insensatezza) e contemporaneamente (in simili coesistenze si manifesta di norma la forza letteraria del testo kafkiano) anche una radicale coerenza metaforica, che allontana nell’irreale l’amico, e cioè l’identità celibe di Georg, rivendicandone al contempo – e lo si vedrà subito dopo – la complicità. Il vero protagonista della Condanna infatti non è Georg, questo meschino commerciante imborghesito, né il padre, che nell’equilibrio del testo è il veicolo punitivo di forze provenienti da altre fonti; ma l’amico di Pietroburgo, che è la vampiresca personalità dello «scrittore» , il celibe malato devoto alla solitudine e al ristabilimento talmudico della giustizia. E’ una delle molte eccezionalità di questo racconto il fatto di rendere protagonista una figura che non entra mai nella narrazione di primo grado. L’amico assente è con tutta evidenza l’Io celibe di Georg, respinto in Russia dalla forza della rimozione e reso fantasmatico dalla apparente normalizzazione borghese della sua vita: il successo negli affari, il fidanzamento con Frieda (la quale però lucidamente riconosce il nemico: «Se avevi degli amici come lui, Georg, non avresti dovuto neanche fidanzarti» R, 144, 28-29). Ciò che è meno immediato semmai è interpretare l’interpretazione di Kafka, che definisce l’amico «il collegamento fra padre e figlio, […] la loro massima comunione» (CD, 376). Quel rapporto è in effetti sostanziato dalla coincidenza di gerarchia e proibizione: Tu non ti sposerai. E questo è pienamente edipico, e in sé coerente. Ma la proibizione opera anche in sinergia con il desiderio rimosso che vede nell’ideale ascetico del celibato la condizione unica e necessaria che consenta il senso, cioè la scrittura, la produzione di testo. Vi è dunque coincidenza simbolica fra queste due forze, che sono provenienti da sponde opposte – padre e figlio – ma coagenti nei loro obiettivi: la proibizione edipica del matrimonio e il desiderio rimosso di un ideale ascetico incompatibile con il matrimonio – e il prodotto della condensazione di queste due direttive è la figura dell’amico, che riemerge dall’inconscio come un révenant dotato di forza moltiplicata. In questo senso dunque l’amico è il collegamento fra padre e figlio: è l’aspetto della personalità del figlio che è maggiormente consonante con la funzione sessualmente repressiva del padre, con il suo côté più duramente edipico. Mentre lo spoglia infatti (mentre tenta di razionalizzarlo, di averne ragione, di «avere la meglio») Georg analizza con il padre silenzioso l’amico di Pietroburgo: due volte lo ha «rinnegato» (verleugnet, lo stesso verbo usato dalla traduzione luterana del Nuovo Testamento per definire il tradimento di Pietro), benché fosse «proprio vicino a me nella stanza» (R, 148, 34). La negazione di Georg in presenza del padre non avrebbe naturalmente significato se la figura non avesse valore rigorosamente simbolico di quella parte della psicologia di Georg che la sua personalità borghese definisce «originale» (nel testo tedesco «mein Freund hat seine Eigentümlichkeiten», «ha caratteristiche tutte sue») e che il padre, che in questo si investe dell’originalità antiborghese dell’amico, trova presto di suo gradimento. L’alleanza, di cui Georg scioccamente in un primo tempo si rallegra, diventa però presto un’alleanza a suo danno. Come infatti il padre osserva successivamente (R, 150, 15-16), l’amico sarebbe realmente un figlio secondo il suo gusto: e questo perché non oppone resistenza alla proibizione edipica, non scende a compromessi con le necessità della vita borghese, si applica coscienziosamente alla ascesi della verità, non è, come Georg, contaminato dalla volontà di far convivere la dedizione al padre e il successo negli affari che automaticamente esclude il padre, oppure la volontà di purezza e verità e il desiderio del matrimonio, che quella volontà necessariamente annulla. Questo rapporto di alleanza fra il celibato e la proibizione edipica è insopportabile per la natura compromissoria di Georg, che vorrebbe assecondarlo senza però rinunciare ai vantaggi della razionalità e dell’imborghesimento. L’unica soluzione è l’inganno: l’attività letteraria di Georg si concretizza quindi nella stesura delle «false letterine» in Russia, chiuso nell’ufficio dove nessuno lo può disturbare – in una situazione simile a quella dello stesso Kafka nella sua stanza durante la scrittura, quando non tollerava la minima interruzione. Ciò che dunque viene posto radicalmente in dubbio è la veridicità della pratica letteraria quando essa – analogamente alle false letterine in Russia di Georg – si configuri come compromissoria rispetto alle condizioni di purezza e di solitudine che la letteratura esige, e che impongono un celibato la cui opportunità è rafforzata dall’imposizione edipica. Ma questa sinergia tra forze contrarie al matrimonio (il fatto che l’amico di Pietroburgo sia un «figlio secondo il gusto» del padre) è, stando al testo, il vero motivo per cui Georg mente all’amico. «Sarebbe stato un figlio secondo il mio gusto. Perciò lo hai ingannato durante tutti questi anni». Il «perciò» è centrale in questa rivelazione: la rivolta contro la proibizione sessuale paterna travolge contemporaneamente anche l’amico di Pietroburgo, contaminando di menzogna il rapporto epistolare. E la degradazione del padre è ormai solidale con il ricordo dell’amico, desolato «nell’ampia Russia», la cui immagine si proietta nella sua versione di gran lunga più intensa subito dopo il momento di più greve ironia del padre («E quando hai creduto di averlo messo a terra, tanto da potergli metter sopra il tuo sedere senza che egli osasse muoversi…») e subito prima della sua grottesca imitazione della fidanzata, in cui la virilità paterna si degrada a imitare i gesti di un’«oca ripugnante» sollevando la veste da notte per mettere in mostra le gambe, sulle quali la cicatrice di guerra ha la funzione di condensare il ricordo della sofferenza del padre , il suo passato di combattente, lo stridente contrasto con la sua rappresentazione attuale di un comportamento femminile . Georg, che fino al capovolgimento della situazione rappresentato dall’improvviso «No!» del padre fa sfoggio di compassione e buoni sentimenti nei confronti sia del padre che dell’amico, si inganna. La debolezza di entrambi è in realtà una debolezza aggressiva. Nessuno dei due merita la compassione che Georg, nel suo stolido buonsenso borghese, elabora soprattutto per la propria utilità. Ciò sfugge a Georg nel progressivo acquietamento del ritmo che Kafka, con grande sapienza costruttiva, predispone prima del violento rovesciamento di rapporti costituito dall’improvviso ergersi sul letto del padre. Per tutta la prima parte, in realtà, Georg tenta di addomesticare il perturbante della ribellione paterna mettendo in opera una strategia ininterrotta di attenzioni, propositi, ammonimenti persuasivi più o meno efficaci. Tutto questo si alimenta di una logica stringente che però purtroppo per lui non riesce a imprigionare il materiale magmatico rappresentato dall’innaturale rifiuto del padre a «cedere il passo»: lo scontro delle due logiche alternative tuttavia non potrebbe avere il risultato che ha se il figlio non possedesse già in sé gli elementi che gli consentono di interpretare, e interpretare a suo danno, la logica paterna. Al termine di un lungo ammonimento relativo alla cura della sua salute, Georg suggerisce, tanto per cominciare, un immediato cambio di stanza fra sé e il padre, e decide: «Sarebbe una cosa molto ragionevole» (R, 148, 16-17). La ragionevolezza di Georg è tutta rivolta a inserire la debolezza del padre all’interno del suo personale schema di amore filiale; ma è proprio questo sforzo di razionalizzazione che è visto dal padre come una sopraffazione; e ad esso il padre oppone la fisicità della sua debolezza, il degrado morale del ballo sul letto, la cicatrice sulla coscia, la biancheria sporca, il sospetto di una demenza senile che non si lascia formalizzare da nessuna griglia logica, e che tuttavia forza il comportamento del figlio come una logica allotria che è la logica dell’inconscio, ben più efficace e stringente del buonsenso borghese che Georg tenta di opporre all’attacco paterno (e, sia detto di sfuggita, l’interpretazione o, per dir meglio, la descrizione di questa diversa logica nelle sue opposizioni rispetto al nostro logos aristotelico dovrebbe essere fra i primi obiettivi di una moderna ermeneutica kafkiana). La catalogazione della debolezza del padre da parte di Georg, il suo tentativo di «venirne a capo» sistemandola come demenza senile, o come decadimento fisico bisognoso di assistenza, culmina nel momento della svestizione, quando alla vista della biancheria sporca (anzi, tentando di addomesticare anche il linguaggio nella figura della litote, «non troppo pulita», R, 149, 13) Georg assume la tacita decisione di prendere con sé il padre nella sua nuova abitazione di uomo sposato, per «averne cura». Questo sarebbe naturalmente il proposito finale di una completa integrazione: non più un rischioso padre esterno, provocatoriamente incurante della propria biancheria sporca, abbandonato a pensieri e parole ostili, dedito a una pericolosa attività di riflessione e di demolizione dell’immagine del figlio, ma un vecchio inoffensivo, perfettamente pulito ma anche del tutto dipendente dalla volontà del figlio, completamente arrendevole all’idea di un definitivo passaggio generazionale dei poteri. Non sfugge però a Georg che «le cure che gli sarebbero state prodigate là sarebbero giunte troppo tardi». Troppo tardi per il padre, intende: ma in realtà troppo tardi per impedire l’azione punitiva e disgregatrice del potere paterno. Come ha mostrato Francesco Orlando, negli oggetti desueti, disprezzati o ripugnanti – nella «biancheria sporca» – si nasconde una carica sovversiva potente che può farsi interprete, al momento opportuno, del ritorno trionfante del represso sulla razionalità degli oggetti altamente funzionali . Ma proprio per la sua caratteristica regressiva, la sporcizia in particolare si presta ad assumere la rappresentanza delle generazioni in declino, come anche della tradizione minacciata dall’oblio, e che tenta di far valere i suoi diritti: è per questo che, in Kafka, sporcizia e profondità spirituale sono così spesso associate. E questa è naturalmente la profondità spirituale della tradizione rabbinica , portatrice non solo di un passato che inesorabilmente condiziona il presente, ma anche di una logica tanto lontana dalla logica greca di cui l’occidente è l’erede quanto la lingua semitica da essa parlata è lontana dalle nostre lingue indoeuropee. Sempre di questa logica, dunque, si tratta; una logica solo apparentemente stravolta, che avrà tuttavia la meglio sulle speranze di Georg di una normalizzazione borghese. Il rovesciamento, violento e improvviso, una vera frattura nel corso del racconto, si realizza con il passaggio del padre dalla posizione supina, ben sistemato sotto le coperte, alla posizione eretta, libero dalle coperte e da ogni altro impedimento, in piedi sul letto, tanto alto da potere, con una mano, appoggiarsi al soffitto (R, 150, 11-12). L’imponenza totemica del padre in questa posizione è il degno scenario per l’improvvisa accelerazione del ritmo narrativo che segue al capovolgimento di fronte. Di compassione nei confronti del padre non si osserva più traccia. L’aggressione è ora a senso unico, dall’alto verso il basso, e il padre, completamente trasformato rispetto alla debolezza di un istante prima, ritrova tutta l’energia che gli deriva dall’alleanza con la madre morta e con l’amico di Pietroburgo per esercitare questo «ultimo sforzo» (e che sarà l’ultimo è segnalato da una breve osservazione del finale, in cui si parla del «tonfo che fece il padre dietro a lui cadendo sul letto» R, 153, 27-29) . Sotto i colpi dell’aggressione paterna, Georg non solo tenta di rimanere il più lontano possibile dal padre, come se rimanendo a distanza fosse maggiormente in grado di controllare la direzione dell’aggressione (R, 151, 14-17), ma, cosa più caratteristica per la definizione del tempo narrativo, dimentica sempre subito tutto, «come quando si fa passare dalla cruna d’un ago un filo troppo corto». La frenesia imposta d’un tratto alla narrazione frantuma l’esperienza in istanti che non comunicano l’uno con l’altro. L’attenzione di Georg è completamente assorbita dagli eventi che si susseguono a ritmo sempre più veloce: e questi eventi altro non sono che le parole del padre, ma tanto precise e violente da non essere confutabili e neppure, in qualche modo, sostenibili. Quella che sembrava demenza ora è al contrario una superiore lucidità, che rende il padre, alto sul suo letto, «raggiante del suo acume» (R, 151, 12: Einsicht nel testo originale). Ogni volta che Georg tenta di opporsi alla violenza verbale del padre, finisce per confermare la segreta intenzione di lui: e questo perché nulla di ciò che il padre dice, sfruttando fino in fondo la forza della gerarchia, è propriamente falsificabile, ma tutto trova sempre una giustificazione. Di nuovo, le parole non hanno un significato in sé, ma il loro significato è l’uso che il padre, nella sua autonomia, ha deciso di adottare. Così, l’insulto banale che sfugge dalle labbra di Georg, e di cui si pente subito vanamente («Commediante!»), viene subito rifunzionalizzato dal padre valorizzando la commedia che aveva finora coscientemente recitato come consolazione del fatto di essere vecchio «fino alle ossa»; e anche il momento in cui vacilla rischiando – così sembra – di cadere dal letto, senza tuttavia che il figlio faccia un passo in avanti per assisterlo, è una commedia che smaschera il desiderio patricida del figlio. Una commedia, dunque, che ha la funzione di smascherare la vera libido, al di là della menzogna e della formalizzazione delle convenienze. Ugualmente sconfitto rimane Georg sul piano del Witz, quando tenta di ridicolizzare la figura paterna: in fin dei conti, come dice il padre all’inizio del loro colloquio, Georg è un «capo ameno», uno Spaßmacher (R, 148, 25). E tuttavia il complesso gioco di interrelazione fra realtà e metafora che regolamenta il Witz – e che riveste in questo racconto un’importanza approfondita da quasi tutti gli interpreti – lo vede stavolta perdente. Georg utilizza il Witz a scopo aggressivo in due punti: quando il padre dichiara di «avere in tasca» la clientela di Georg, il figlio pensa di deriderlo osservando: «Persino nella camicia ha delle tasche!» (R, 152, 16). Ma è evidente al lettore che non Georg, ma il padre, che parla sul piano della metafora condivisa, è maggiormente comprensibile dal linguaggio ordinario. Nel secondo caso, il padre afferma che l’amico di Pietroburgo sa tutto «mille volte meglio» di Georg, e questi replica sarcastico: «Diecimila volte!» (R, 153, 4). Qui è presente il movimento contrario al caso precedente: anziché accentuare il lato realistico della metafora, Georg vorrebbe ironicamente ampliarne la portata, ma sulle sue labbra la metafora magicamente scompare lasciando il sapore di una realtà «mortalmente seria» (toternst). Infine, ed è il punto in cui è più evidente l’inversione dei rapporti di lucidità fra padre e figlio, Georg non è più in grado di rispondere a tempo debito ai colpi del padre, il quale, anziché rispondere al flebile rimprovero del figlio («Dunque mi hai aspettato al varco!») si limita a osservare con superiorità che l’obiezione poteva avere senso prima (evidentemente quando il padre aveva affermato: «Già da anni sto aspettando questa domanda»), mentre ora è fuori contesto. L’incapacità di mantenersi al passo con il duello verbale è già indizio sufficiente a ritenere Georg fuori gioco, sfasato rispetto ai colpi che continua a ricevere. L’ultimo atto riguarda la coincidenza fra punizione e ritorno del figlio nell’orbita del consenso. Georg supera la ringhiera con uno slancio, «da quell’eccellente ginnasta che era stato da ragazzo, orgoglio dei genitori» . Nell’obbedienza all’ordine mitico, il figlio regredisce all’infanzia, quando per l’appunto era lecito attendersi il perdono in cambio di una dichiarazione d’amore: «Cari genitori, pure vi ho sempre amati». E in questo ritorno all’acqua, volutamente al riparo dall’attenzione del mondo esterno , collocato al termine di una climax la cui natura libidica era chiara alla coscienza dell’autore – in un simile ritorno si realizza finalmente l’equilibrio delle pulsioni, l’appianamento dei conflitti, il cammino a ritroso verso la conciliazione rappresentata dall’inorganico. Sul «piano inclinato» (R, 153, 30) della punizione, Georg trova la sua personalissima strada al di là del principio di piacere; e nell’adeguamento alla volontà paterna individua qualcosa che non è forse la verità, e pur tuttavia «qualcosa di così vicino alla verità, da poterci forse tranquillizzare un poco e rendere più facile il vivere e il morire».

Verhaftung

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:29:58 +0000

Jemand mußte Josef K. verleumdet haben, denn ohne daß er etwas Böses getan hätte, wurde er eines Morgens verhaftet. Die Köchin der Frau Grubach, seiner Zimmervermieterin, die ihm jeden Tag gegen acht Uhr früh das Frühstück brachte, kam diesmal nicht. Das war noch niemals geschehn. K. wartete noch ein Weilchen, sah von seinem Kopfkissen aus die alte Frau die ihm gegenüber wohnte und die ihn mit einer an ihr ganz ungewöhnlichen Neugierde beobachtete, dann aber, gleichzeitig befremdet und hungrig, läutete er. Sofort klopfte es und ein Mann, den er in dieser Wohnung noch niemals gesehen hatte trat ein. Er war schlank und doch fest gebaut, er trug ein anliegendes schwarzes Kleid, das ähnlich den Reiseanzügen mit verschiedenen Falten, Taschen, Schnallen, Knöpfen und einem Gürtel versehen war und infolgedessen, ohne daß man sich darüber klar wurde, wozu es dienen sollte, besonders praktisch erschien. “Wer sind Sie?” fragte K. und saß gleich halb aufrecht im Bett. Der Mann aber ging über die Frage hinweg, als müsse man seine Erscheinung hinnehmen und sagte bloß seinerseits: “Sie haben geläutet?” “Anna soll mir das Frühstück bringen”, sagte K. und versuchte zunächst stillschweigend durch Aufmerksamkeit und Überlegung festzustellen, wer der Mann eigentlich war. Aber dieser setzte sich nicht allzulange seinen Blicken aus, sondern wandte sich zur Tür, die er ein wenig öffnete, um jemandem, der offenbar knapp hinter der Tür stand, zu sagen: “Er will, daß Anna ihm das Frühstück bringt.” Ein kleines Gelächter im Nebenzimmer folgte, es war nach dem Klang nicht sicher ob nicht mehrere Personen daran beteiligt waren. Trotzdem der fremde Mann dadurch nichts erfahren haben konnte, was er nicht schon früher gewußt hätte, sagte er nun doch zu K. im Tone einer Meldung: “Es ist unmöglich.” “Das wäre neu”, sagte K., sprang aus dem Bett und zog rasch seine Hosen an. “Ich will doch sehn, was für Leute im Nebenzimmer sind und wie Frau Grubach diese Störung mir gegenüber verantworten wird. " Es fiel ihm zwar gleich ein, daß er das nicht hätte laut sagen müssen und daß er dadurch gewissermaßen ein Beaufsichtigungsrecht des Fremden anerkannte, aber es schien ihm jetzt nicht wichtig. Immerhin faßte es der Fremde so auf, denn er sagte: “Wollen Sie nicht lieber hier bleiben?” “Ich will weder hierbleiben noch von Ihnen angesprochen werden, solange Sie sich mir nicht vorstellen. " “Es war gut gemeint”, sagte der Fremde und öffnete nun freiwillig die Tür. Im Nebenzimmer, in das K. langsamer eintrat als er wollte, sah es auf den ersten Blick fast genau so aus, wie am Abend vorher. Es war das Wohnzimmer der Frau Grubach, vielleicht war in diesem mit Möbeln Decken Porzellan und Photographien überfüllten Zimmer heute ein wenig mehr Raum als sonst, man erkannte das nicht gleich, umsoweniger als die Hauptveränderung in der Anwesenheit eines Mannes bestand, der beim offenen Fenster mit einem Buch saß, von dem er jetzt aufblickte. “Sie hätten in Ihrem Zimmer bleiben sollen! Hat es Ihnen denn Franz nicht gesagt?” “Ja, was wollen Sie denn?” sagte K. und sah von der neuen Bekanntschaft zu dem mit Franz Benannten, der in der Tür stehen geblieben war, und dann wieder zurück. Durch das offene Fenster erblickte man wieder die alte Frau, die mit wahrhaft greisenhafter Neugierde zu dem jetzt gegenüberliegenden Fenster getreten war, um auch weiterhin alles zu sehn. “Ich will doch Frau Grubach – “, sagte K., machte eine Bewegung, als reiße er sich von den zwei Männern los, die aber weit von ihm entfernt standen, und wollte weitergehn. “Nein”, sagte der Mann beim Fenster, warf das Buch auf ein Tischchen und stand auf. " Sie dürfen nicht weggehn, Sie sind ja gefangen. " “Es sieht so aus”, sagte K. “Und warum denn?” fragte er dann. “Wir sind nicht dazu bestellt, Ihnen das zu sagen. Gehn Sie in Ihr Zimmer und warten Sie. Das Verfahren ist nun einmal eingeleitet und Sie werden alles zur richtigen Zeit erfahren. Ich gehe über meinen Auftrag hinaus, wenn ich Ihnen so freundschaftlich zurede. Aber ich hoffe, es hört es niemand sonst als Franz und der ist selbst gegen alle Vorschrift freundlich zu Ihnen. Wenn Sie auch weiterhin so viel Glück haben, wie bei der Bestimmung Ihrer Wächter, dann können Sie zuversichtlich sein.” K. wollte sich setzen, aber nun sah er, daß im ganzen Zimmer keine Sitzgelegenheit war, außer dem Sessel beim Fenster. “Sie werden noch einsehn, wie wahr das alles ist”, sagte Franz und gieng gleichzeitig mit dem andern Mann auf ihn zu. Besonders der letztere überragte K. bedeutend und klopfte ihm öfters auf die Schulter. Beide prüften K.’s Nachthemd und sagten, daß er jetzt ein viel schlechteres Hemd werde anziehn müssen, daß sie aber dieses Hemd wie auch seine übrige Wäsche aufbewahren und, wenn seine Sache günstig ausfallen sollte, ihm wieder zurückgeben würden. “Es ist besser, Sie geben die Sachen uns, als ins Depot”, sagten sie, “denn im Depot kommen öfters Unterschleife vor und außerdem verkauft man dort alle Sachen nach einer gewissen Zeit, ohne Rücksicht ob das betreffende Verfahren zuende ist, oder nicht. Und wie lange dauern doch derartige Processe besonders in letzter Zeit! Sie bekämen dann schließlich allerdings vom Depot den Erlös, aber dieser Erlös ist erstens an sich schon gering, denn beim Verkauf entscheidet nicht die Höhe des Angebotes sondern die Höhe der Bestechung, und zweitens verringern sich solche Erlöse erfahrungsgemäß, wenn sie von Hand zu Hand und von Jahr zu Jahr weitergegeben werden. " K. achtete auf diese Reden kaum, das Verfügungsrecht über seine Sachen, das er vielleicht noch besaß, schätzte er nicht hoch ein, viel wichtiger war es ihm Klarheit über seine Lage zu bekommen; in Gegenwart dieser Leute konnte er aber nicht einmal nachdenken, immer wieder stieß der Bauch des zweiten Wächters – es konnten ja nur Wächter sein – förmlich freundschaftlich an ihn, sah er aber auf, dann erblickte er ein zu diesem dicken Körper gar nicht passendes trockenes knochiges Gesicht, mit starker seitlich gedrehter Nase, das sich über ihn hinweg mit dem andern Wächter verständigte. Was waren denn das für Menschen? Wovon sprachen sie? Welcher Behörde gehörten sie an? K. lebte doch in einem Rechtsstaat, überall herrschte Friede, alle Gesetze bestanden aufrecht, wer wagte ihn in seiner Wohnung zu überfallen? Er neigte stets dazu, alles möglichst leicht zu nehmen, das Schlimmste erst beim Eintritt des Schlimmsten zu glauben, keine Vorsorge für die Zukunft zu treffen, selbst wenn alles drohte. Hier schien ihm das aber nicht richtig, man konnte zwar das ganze als Spaß ansehn, als einen groben Spaß, den ihm aus unbekannten Gründen, vielleicht weil heute sein dreißigster Geburtstag war, die Kollegen in der Bank veranstaltet hatten, es war natürlich möglich, vielleicht brauchte er nur auf irgendeine Weise den Wächtern ins Gesicht zu lachen und sie würden mitlachen, vielleicht waren es Dienstmänner von der Straßenecke, sie sahen ihnen nicht unähnlich – trotzdem war er diesmal förmlich schon seit dem ersten Anblick des Wächters Franz entschlossen nicht den geringsten Vorteil, den er vielleicht gegenüber diesen Leuten besaß, aus der Hand zu geben. Darin daß man später sagen würde, er habe keinen Spaß verstanden, sah K. eine ganz geringe Gefahr, wohl aber erinnerte er sich – ohne daß es sonst seine Gewohnheit gewesen wäre, aus Erfahrungen zu lernen – an einige an sich unbedeutende Fälle, in denen er zum Unterschied von seinen Freunden mit Bewußtsein, ohne das geringste Gefühl für die möglichen Folgen sich unvorsichtig benommen hatte und dafür durch das Ergebnis gestraft worden war. Es sollte nicht wieder geschehn, zumindest nicht diesmal, war es eine Komödie, so wollte er mitspielen.

The music that Kafka liked

Sat, 13 Nov 2004 15:08:11 +0000

by Gustavo Artiles

Franz Kafka was not a music lover. But his old school friend and literary executor, Max Brod was, and he wanted to convert Franz to the glories of great music, high brow or classical music. But Franz says to him “I am not able to perceive the complexities of a large scale work”, and when Max takes him to hear the première of Mahler´s seventh symphony, which the composer himself conducted in Prague, where both friends live, on September 19th, 1908, Franz (then 35) still can not capture the secret threads of symphonic structures. Brod tells us that Kafka was “an exception within the realm of genius…that he strained to vanish the last dissonance engendered by geniality”. But he kept that handicap, perhaps something unsurmountable in spite of his intellectual efforts. It is equally possible that Kafka wanted to approach Mahler, the major symphonist of the period – “the greatest since Brahms and Bruckner”, a contemporary critic called him – because he knew him to be another Jew, as Max was too, and he might expect to find some affinities in him. But his reluctance towards the harmonic and structural complexities would hold him back, and they are especially acute in Mahler´s case! Franz also says: ´I like American marches very much´. Which ones, he does not specify, perhaps he was not interested in registering their title or the name of the composer, but all points out to the marches already enjoyed and played in all open air concerts of military bands of Europe and, of course, the United States, i.e. those by John Philip Sousa, still enormously popular. The reason why Kafka felt attracted to Sousa is easy to understand, and I believe it has a connection with his work. One can detect a reflection of it specifically in his unfinished novel America, where we meet Karl, a young immigrant (i.e. the same young dreamer, K) who, at the end of the 19th century, arrives in the US searching for new horizons. An uncle of his, Jacob, is already there, but he does not know his address. After a series of events, Karl discovers one day a poster announcing a fantastic circus, the Great Natural Theatre of Oklahoma, also one of Kafka´s greatest inventions. What can a Great Natural Theatre be? It is Kafka´s conception of what that nation is like. The metaphor fits perfectly with a somewhat remote and diffuse perception of that country that was already becoming the proverbial melting pot, where boats from many parts of Europe and Asia, loaded with thousands of hopefuls to find a better life, far away from the oppressions and persecutions that perhaps they always had known in their own lands. And such assorted mixture of people come to meet in the same place, America. The poster says that ´All are welcome´, that ´Everyone can work in the Great Natural Theatre of Oklahoma´, no experience necessary. This is a second allusion to the prospects that, from the European point of view, one could expect to find on the other side of the Atlantic: ´great´ theatre. ´everyone can´. That is how America was, and still is, seen in general: countless opportunities for everyone. If everybody can work in the Great Theatre, it is not illogical for Karl to gradually meet, in the course of the rehearsals, persons he has already encountered during his long journey and later stay in the new land, including his lost uncle, Jacob. The vastness of the American continent is another element in his mind. His vision of that Amerika is that of open horizons, infinite prairies, as well as towns that begin to be populous and puzzling. Austrian, German and French marches of the period, generally pompous and imperialist, seem to shout ´Here we come, we, the unconquered, the most powerful, the greatest, our step says so, our mounts say so, our glorious colours say so; surrender and give us your respect and admiration, we expect no less´. Sousa´s marches say nothing of the sort: they speak about things like The Liberty Bell, The Washington Post, Hail to the Spirit of Freedom, The Belle of Chicago, Manhattan Beach, The Harmonica Wizard, La Flor de Sevilla, Hands Across the Ocean…even if a certain militarism or governmental quality seeps in too, something difficult to eradicate in what, after all, was the most famous band in history and that the American government did enthusiastically support. Thus The Man Behind the Gun, The Legionnaires, Globe and Eagle, Bars and Stars Forever… But the fact is that all that music depicts the vigour and optimism of a nation in its early youth, and it abounds in joy and the celebration of a certain fraternity based on nationality, exempt from aristocracies and discriminations, more or less achieved thanks to equalitarian democracy. This is Sousa’s model. The model may appear a little rosy today, but that was the ´American Dream´. On the other hand, let us not forget that Sousa also wrote operettas (15), songs (70) and instrumental suites (11), a popular composer in the best sense of the word who knew the homage of the masses as no other before him. Sousa does not evoke scenic immensities or crowded towns, bur rather the essential spirit of optimism and confidence with which that nation faced the future. Sousa´s marches are the perfect circus marches for the Great Theatre. Kafka saw the connection. London, November 2003.

Kafkas „Urteil“ und „Landarzt“ – zwei psychoanalytische Annäherungsversuche

Fri, 12 Nov 2004 15:01:12 +0000

von Konrad Kurczacz

Einleitung

Schon lange war den Wissenschaftlern, die sich mit Kafka beschäftigt haben, klar, dass in seinem Werk zweifellos Motive und Elemente vorkommen, die denen der Psychoanalyse, die vor allem durch Sigmund Freud repräsentiert wird, sehr ähneln. Die Kafka-Forschung hat sich in dieser Hinsicht jedoch in zwei verschiedene Lager aufgespalten: die einen sagen Kafka hätte sein „traumhaftes inneres Leben“ dargestellt, wie er es ja selbst sagt:

Von der Literatur aus gesehen ist mein Schicksal sehr einfach. Der Sinn für die Darstellung meines traumhaften innern Lebens hat alles andere ins Nebensächliche gerückt und es ist in einer schrecklichen Weise verkümmert und hört nicht auf zu verkümmern. (KT 421)1

Unhappiness (transl. Claudia Furrer)

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 12:37:51 +0000

When it had already become unbearable – by an evening in November – and I was running along over the narrow carpet in my room as on a racetrack, frightened by the sight of the lights in the street turned around again and was given a new goal in the depths of the room, at the bottom of the mirror, and I cried out, just to hear the scream which is answered by nothing, and from which nothing takes the strength of the scream, which therefore rises up, without any counterpoise, and cannot cease even when it grows silent; a door was opened in the wall so hastily, since haste was indeed necessary, and even the wagon-horses down on the pavement reared, like crazed horses in a battle, their throats exposed.

De «Description d'un combat» au «Verdict», ou comme le père surgit de l'ami

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 20:47:14 +0000

par Nicolas Cazelles

Le 11 février 1913, à l’occasion de la correction des épreuves du Verdict, Kafka note dans son Journal : « L’ami forme la liaison entre le père et le fils, c’est leur plus grand avoir commun. Assis tout seul à sa fenêtre, Georg fouille avec volupté dans ce fonds commun (…) Le développement du récit montre alors comment le père surgit du fonds commun – de l’ami – (…) » (1).

On the Gallery (transl. Maja Sinn)

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 12:36:29 +0000

If some decrepit horse riding artist sick of tuberculosis were driven around in circles in the circus arena on a swaying horse by a whip-swinging merciless boss for months without pause, whirring on the horse, blowing kisses, swaying with her waist, and if this play continued under the never-ending roaring of the orchestra and of the fans until the ever-opening gray future, accompanied by dying and newly rising applause of hands which actually are steam hammers maybe a young gallery visitor would hurry down the long stairs through all the aisles, would hurl himself into the circus arena, would call Halt! through the sounds of the fanfares of the ever-adapting orchestra.

Wege jüdischer Kafka-Deutung. Versuch einer kritischen Bilanz

Fri, 12 Nov 2004 15:45:33 +0000

von Ekkehard W. Haring

Und dennoch umfaßt Kafkas Reich eine Fülle von labyrinthischen Gängen und von Menschen, die in solchen Gängen von ihrer Bestimmung abgetrieben werden …[1]

„Es wird hier viel geschrieben“, sagte K. und blickte von der Ferne auf die Akten hin.

Unter den ungezählten Aktenstößen, die die Kafka-Deutung bis heute hervorgebracht hat, gehören die Beiträge mit jüdischen Akzentuierungen zu einem besonderen Sektor. Ihren exponierten Status verdanken diese Deutungen nicht nur historischer Faktizität – handelt es sich doch um die ersten interpretatorischen Versuche überhaupt. Hervorzuheben sind sie vor allem deshalb, weil der Aspekt „Kafka und das Judentum“ stets für grundlegende Verunsicherung in einer Forschung, die ohnehin selten Garantien auf ihre Interpretationen aussprechen kann, sorgte. Der hier in breiterer Ausführlichkeit gegebene Bericht macht deutlich, wie divergent Kafkas Judentum diskutiert wird.

My Destination (transl. Alex Flores)

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 12:34:18 +0000

I called for my horse to be brought from the stable. The servant did not

understand me. I myself went into the stable, saddled my horse and mounted.

In the distance I heard a trumpet blast. I asked him what it meant but he

did not know and had not heard it. By the gate he stopped me and asked

“where are you riding to sir?” I answered “away from here, away from here,

Kafka in Babels Ruinen – Zwei biblische Motive und zwei Schreibtendenzen in Kafkas Texten

Fri, 12 Nov 2004 15:13:17 +0000

von Malte Kleinwort

[…] solange es Araber gibt, wandert diese Scheere durch die Wüste und wird mit uns wandern, bis ~~wir die Wüste verlassen~~ ans Ende der Tage. Jeden Europäer wird sie angeboten zu dem grossen Werk, jeder ~~einzelne~~ Europäer ist gerade derjenige welcher ihnen berufen scheint.[1]

Babel – und Babel. Unbestreitbar sind Kafkas Texte auf vielfältige Art und Weise in theologische Zusammenhänge verstrickt. Das reicht von der Behandlung theologischer Grundfragen wie der Frage nach Schuld und Sühne bis hin zur Anverwandlung diverser biblischer Motive. Mit den hier angestellten Überlegungen werden insofern grundlegende Fragestellungen im Verhältnis von Literatur und Theologie berührt, als die beiden von mir herausgegriffenen biblischen Motive in Kafkas Texten zu Schreibtendenzen, -haltungen oder -einstellungen werden, die sich zu Schrifttendenzen, -haltungen oder -einstellungen verallgemeinern lassen. Der Schauplatz des Widerstreits zwischen den beiden Schreibtendenzen, der symbolisierenden und der allegorisierenden, ist demnach zugleich Schauplatz der Schrift selbst. Hier kann eine solche – sich nicht zuletzt aus der Unterscheidung von Symbol und Allegorie ergebende – allgemeine Perspektive indes allein zukünftiger Fluchtpunkt sein, da es ihr um die Klärung des Verhältnisses von zwei biblischen Motiven und zwei Schreib-, Schrift-, oder Texttendenzen gehen muss, die in ihrer theoretischen Tragweite nicht bis ins Letzte durchleuchtet werden können, bevor nicht die Relevanz der biblischen Motive für Kafkas Texte erwiesen ist. Diesem Erweis ist meine Untersuchung vor allem anderen verpflichtet; der Ort, an dem sich daran anschließend eine theoretische Diskussion führen ließe, die dem verwickelten Verhältnis von Symbol und Allegorie Rechnung trägt, ist das im Folgenden mehrmals erwähnte Trauerspielbuch Walter Benjamins.

The Great Wall of China (transl. Ian Johnston)

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 12:32:32 +0000

This translation, which has been prepared by Ian Johnston of Malaspina University-College, Nanaimo, BC, Canada, is in the public domain and may be used by anyone, in whole or in part, without permission and without charge, provided the source is acknowledged, released November 2003.

The Great Wall of China was finished at its northernmost location. The construction work moved up from the south-east and south-west and joined at this point. The system of building in sections was also followed on a small scale within the two great armies of workers, the eastern and western. It was carried out in the following manner: groups of about twenty workers were formed, each of which had to take on a section of the wall, about five hundred metres. A neighbouring group then built a wall of similar length to meet it. But afterwards, when the sections were fully joined, construction was not continued on any further at the end of this thousand-metre section. Instead the groups of workers were shipped off again to build the wall in completely different regions. Naturally, with this method many large gaps arose, which were filled in only gradually and slowly, many of them not until after it had already been reported that the building of the wall was complete. In fact, there are said to be gaps which have never been built in at all, although that’s merely an assertion which probably belongs among the many legends which have arisen about the structure and which, for individual people at least, are impossible to prove with their own eyes and according to their own standards, because the structure is so immense.

Quattro pezzi facili intorno a Kafka

Fri, 12 Nov 2004 14:41:23 +0000

di Claudio Dettorre

Tu hai dato un colpo d’occhio - io vedo il mio buio vivere. Io lo vedo sul fondo anche là è mio e vive. (…)

Paul Celan

“Illeggibilità di questo mondo. Tutto doppio.”

La purezza dell’odio

Una volta avevo immaginato un romanzo orientale di Kafka. Ce n’era già uno occidentale, ed è “America”, ma anche “Il processo” riguarda l’Occidente ed il suo sistema giudiziario, come i racconti “La condanna”, “Nella colonia penale” e “La metamorfosi”. “Il castello” invece rivolge una scrupolosa e alienata attenzione al potere sovrano, all’estraneità dalle decisioni che lo riguardano, dunque in apparenza sembrava riflettere sul sistema imperiale non mitteleuropeo ma europeo-orientale od orientale-asiatico. Qualche fantasia kafkiana punta altrove, ad altri spazi, un esempio è offerto dal “Desiderio di essere indiano”, una tra le più brevi e felici “Meditazioni”. Un altro singolare racconto di apparente ambientazione esotica è “Sciacalli ed arabi”, che appartiene alla raccolta “Un medico di campagna”. In questo racconto, uno sciacallo, sorprendentemente, si spinge sotto il braccio del narratore che sta dormendo, accampato in un’oasi, in mezzo agli arabi. Gli parla, “quasi con gli occhi negli occhi”.

The Metamorphosis (transl. Ian Johnston)

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 12:26:57 +0000

I.#

One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in bed he had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug. He lay on his armour-hard back and saw, as he lifted his head up a little, his brown, arched abdomen divided up into rigid bow-like sections. From this height the blanket, just about ready to slide off completely, could hardly stay in place. His numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison to the rest of his circumference, flickered helplessly before his eyes.

Borges y Kafka

Fri, 12 Nov 2004 14:39:40 +0000

Carlos Garcìa

¿Cuándo descubrió Borges la obra de Kafka, cuándo lo leyó por primera vez? ¿Qué texto o textos leyó? Las siguientes notas quieren responder a estas preguntas de manera más precisa de lo que se ha hecho hasta ahora.

En diversas entrevistas el Borges adulto afirmó haber tomado conocimiento de la obra de Kafka hacia 1917, por intermedio de alguna de las más importantes publicaciones periódicas expresionistas de comienzos del siglo XX: Die Aktion o Der Sturm.[1]

A Report for an Academy (transl. Ian Johnston)

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 12:24:26 +0000

This translation, which has been prepared by Ian Johnston of Malaspina University-College, Nanaimo, BC, Canada, is in the public domain and may be used for any purpose, in whole or in part, without permission and without charge, provided the source is acknowledged, released October 2003.

Esteemed Gentlemen of the Academy!

You show me the honour of calling upon me to submit a report to the Academy concerning my previous life as an ape.

Borges und Kafka

Fri, 12 Nov 2004 14:32:30 +0000

von Carlos García (Hamburg)

A Country Doctor (transl. Ian Johnston)

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 12:22:25 +0000

This translation, which has been prepared by Ian Johnston of Malaspina University-College in Nanaimo, BC, Canada, is in the public domain and may be used by anyone, in whole or in part, without charge and without permission, provided the source is acknowledged, released October 2003, last modified December 2003.

I was in great difficulty. An urgent journey was facing me. A seriously ill man was waiting for me in a village ten miles distant. A severe snowstorm filled the space between him and me. I had a carriage—a light one, with large wheels, entirely suitable for our country roads. Wrapped up in furs with the bag of instruments in my hand, I was already standing in the courtyard ready for the journey; but the horse was missing—the horse. My own horse had died the previous night, as a result of over exertion in this icy winter. My servant girl was at that very moment running around the village to see if she could borrow a horse, but it was hopeless—I knew that—and I stood there useless, increasingly covered with snow, becoming all the time more immobile. The girl appeared at the gate, alone. She was swinging the lantern. Of course, who is now going to lend her his horse for such a journey? I walked once again across the courtyard. I couldn’t see what to do. Distracted and tormented, I kicked my foot against the cracked door of the pig sty which had not been used for years. The door opened and banged to and fro on its hinges. A warmth and smell as if from horses came out. A dim stall lantern on a rope swayed inside. A man huddled down in the stall below showed his open blue-eyed face. “Shall I hitch up?” he asked, crawling out on all fours. I didn’t know what to say and bent down to see what was still in the stall. The servant girl stood beside me. “One doesn’t know the sorts of things one has stored in one’s own house,” she said, and we both laughed. “Hey, Brother, hey Sister,” the groom cried out, and two horses, powerful animals with strong flanks, shoved their way one behind the other, legs close to the bodies, lowering their well-formed heads like camels, and getting through the door space, which they completely filled, only through the powerful movements of their rumps. But right away they stood up straight, long legged, with thick steaming bodies. “Help him,” I said, and the girl obediently hurried to hand the wagon harness to the groom. But as soon as she was beside him, the groom puts his arms around her and pushes his face against hers. She screams out and runs over to me. On the girl’s cheek were red marks from two rows of teeth. “You brute,” I cry out in fury, “do you want the whip?”. But I immediately remember that he is a stranger, that I don’t know where he comes from, and that he’s helping me out of his own free will, when everyone else is refusing to. As if he knows what I was thinking, he takes no offence at my threat, but turns around to me once more, still busy with the horses. Then he says, “Climb in,” and, in fact, everything is ready. I notice that I have never before traveled with such a beautiful team of horses, and I climb in happily. “But I’ll take the reins. You don’t know the way,” I say. “Of course,” he says; “I’m not going with you. I’m staying with Rosa.” “No,” screams Rosa and runs into the house, with an accurate premonition of the inevitability of her fate. I hear the door chain rattling as she sets it in place. I hear the lock click. I see how in addition she runs down the corridor and through the rooms putting out all the lights in order to make herself impossible to find. “You’re coming with me,” I say to the groom, “or I’ll give up the journey, no matter how urgent it is. It’s not my intention to give you the girl as the price of the trip.” “Giddy up,” he says and claps his hands. The carriage is torn away, like a piece of wood in a current. I still hear how the door of my house is breaking down and splitting apart under the groom’s onslaught, and then my eyes and ears are filled with a roaring sound which overwhelms all my senses at once. But only for a moment. Then I am already there, as if the farm yard of my invalid opens up immediately in front of my courtyard gate. The horses stand quietly. The snowfall has stopped, moonlight all around. The sick man’s parents rush out of the house, his sister behind them. They almost lift me out of the carriage. I get nothing from their confused talking. In the sick room one can hardly breathe the air. The neglected cooking stove is smoking. I want to push open the window, but first I’ll look at the sick man. Thin, without fever, not cold, not warm, with empty eyes, without a shirt, the young man under the stuffed quilt heaves himself up, hangs around my throat, and whispers in my ear, “Doctor, let me die.” I look around. No one has heard. The parents stand silently, leaning forward, and wait for my opinion. The sister has brought a stool for my handbag. I open the bag and look among my instruments. The young man constantly gropes at me from the bed to remind me of his request. I take some tweezers, test them in the candle light, and put them back. “Yes,” I think blasphemously, “in such cases the gods do help. They send the missing horse, even add a second one because it’s urgent, and even throw in a groom as a bonus.” Now for the first time I think once more of Rosa. What am I doing? How am I saving her? How do I pull her out from under this groom, ten miles away from her, with uncontrollable horses in the front of my carriage? These horses, who have somehow loosened their straps, are pushing open the window from outside, I don’t know how. Each one is sticking its head through a window and, unmoved by the crying of the family, is observing the invalid. “I’ll go back right away,” I think, as if the horses were ordering me to journey back, but I allow the sister, who thinks I am in a daze because of the heat, to take off my fur coat. A glass of rum is prepared for me. The old man claps me on the shoulder; the sacrifice of his treasure justifies this familiarity. I shake my head. In the narrow circle of the old man’s thinking I was not well; that’s the only reason I refuse to drink. The mother stands by the bed and entices me over. I follow and, as a horse neighs loudly at the ceiling, lay my head on the young man’s chest, which trembles under my wet beard. That confirms what I know: the young man is healthy. His circulation is a little off, saturated with coffee by his caring mother, but he’s healthy and best pushed out of bed with a shove. I’m no improver of the world and let him lie there. I am employed by the district and do my duty to the full, right to the point where it’s almost too much. Badly paid, but I’m generous and ready to help the poor. I still have to look after Rosa, and then the young man may have his way, and I want to die too. What am I doing here in this endless winter! My horse is dead, and there is no one in the village who’ll lend me his. I have to drag my team out of the pig sty. If they hadn’t happened to be horses, I’d have had to travel with pigs. That’s the way it is. And I nod to the family. They know nothing about it, and if they did know, they wouldn’t believe it. Incidentally, it’s easy to write prescriptions, but difficult to come to an understanding with people. Now, at this point my visit might have come to an end—they have once more called for my help unnecessarily. I’m used to that. With the help of my night bell the entire region torments me, but that this time I had to sacrifice Rosa as well, this beautiful girl, who lives in my house all year long and whom I scarcely notice—this sacrifice is too great, and I must somehow in my own head subtly rationalize it away for the moment, in order not to let loose at this family who cannot, even with their best will, give me Rosa back again. But as I am closing up by hand bag and calling for my fur coat, the family is standing together, the father sniffing the glass of rum in his hand, the mother, probably disappointed in me—what more do these people expect?—tearfully biting her lips, and the sister flapping a very bloody hand towel, I am somehow ready, in the circumstances, to concede that the young man is perhaps nonetheless sick. I go to him. He smiles up at me, as if I was bringing him the most nourishing kind of soup—ah, now both horses are whinnying, the noise is probably supposed to come from higher regions in order to illuminate my examination—and now I find out that, yes indeed, the young man is ill. On his right side, in the region of the hip, a wound the size of the palm of one’s hand has opened up. Rose coloured, in many different shadings, dark in the depths, brighter on the edges, delicately grained, with uneven patches of blood, open to the light like a mine. That’s what it looks like from a distance. Close up a complication is apparent. Who can look at that without whistling softly? Worms, as thick and long as my little finger, themselves rose coloured and also spattered with blood, are wriggling their white bodies with many limbs from their stronghold in the inner of the wound towards the light. Poor young man, there’s no helping you. I have found out your great wound. You are dying from this flower on your side. The family is happy; they see me doing something. The sister says that to the mother, the mother tells the father, the father tells a few guests who are coming in on tip toe through the moonlight of the open door, balancing themselves with outstretched arms. “Will you save me?” whispers the young man, sobbing, quite blinded by the life inside his wound. That’s how people are in my region. Always demanding the impossible from the doctor. They have lost the old faith. The priest sits at home and tears his religious robes to pieces, one after the other. But the doctor is supposed to achieve everything with his delicate surgeon’s hand. Well, it’s what they like to think. I have not offered myself. If they use me for sacred purposes, I let that happen to me as well. What more do I want, an old country doctor, robbed of my servant girl! And they come, the families and the village elders, and take my clothes off. A choir of school children with the teacher at the head stands in front of the house and sings an extremely simple melody with the words

Narrating Philosophy

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 20:48:24 +0000

by Müesser Yeniay

The meaning of a story has to be embodied in it, has to be made concrete in it. A story is a way to say something that cannot be said any other way, and it takes every word in the story to say what the meaning is. You tell a story because a statement would be inadequate. When anybody asks what a story is about, the only proper thing is to tell him to read the story. The meaning of fiction is not abstract meaning but experienced meaning, and the purpose of making statements about the meaning of a story is only to help you to experience that meaning more fully. (191)

In the Penal Colony (transl. by Ian Johnston)

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 12:19:14 +0000

“It’s a peculiar apparatus,” said the Officer to the Traveler, gazing with a certain admiration at the device, with which he was, of course, thoroughly familiar. It appeared that the Traveler had responded to the invitation of the Commandant only out of politeness, when he had been invited to attend the execution of a soldier condemned for disobeying and insulting his superior. Of course, interest in the execution was not very high, not even in the penal colony itself. At least, here in the small, deep, sandy valley, closed in on all sides by barren slopes, apart from the Officer and the Traveler there were present only the Condemned, a vacant-looking man with a broad mouth and dilapidated hair and face, and the Soldier, who held the heavy chain to which were connected the small chains which bound the Condemned Man by his feet and wrist bones, as well as by his neck, and which were also linked to each other by connecting chains. The Condemned Man had an expression of such dog-like resignation that it looked as if one could set him free to roam around the slopes and would only have to whistle at the start of the execution for him to return.

Has Kafka Been Overrated?: A Heresy

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 20:41:55 +0000

by Gustavo Artiles

What is it that has made of Kafka that giant of modern literature that so many of us revere? It is not the style, which is perfectly ordinary, although in the best sense of the term. It is not the plots themselves, which are of limited scope and not real plots as found in full novels but more a series of episodes in the life of a character. And it is not the characters either, who again are presented as perfectly ordinary individuals. What quality is it then that is responsible for the Kafka effect? If we could place on a balance all of Kafka’s works and started taking them away one by one, we could so measure their relative weight. Then we would see that the world is basically still being moved by the two works that are by far the heaviest: The Process and Metamorphosis. The rest, everybody reads, almost with the same interest, for the information they can provide about Kafka. Why these two stories? Allow me to become personal and tell about my own discovery of Kafka.

A Hunger Artist (transl. by Ian Johnston)

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 12:16:08 +0000

In the last decades interest in hunger artists has declined considerably. Whereas in earlier days there was good money to be earned putting on major productions of this sort under one’s own management, nowadays that is totally impossible. Those were different times. Back then the hunger artist captured the attention of the entire city. From day to day while the fasting lasted, participation increased. Everyone wanted to see the hunger artist at least daily. During the final days there were people with subscription tickets who sat all day in front of the small barred cage. And there were even viewing hours at night, their impact heightened by torchlight. On fine days the cage was dragged out into the open air, and then the hunger artist was put on display particularly for the children. While for grown-ups the hunger artist was often merely a joke, something they participated in because it was fashionable, the children looked on amazed, their mouths open, holding each other’s hands for safety, as he sat there on scattered straw—spurning a chair—in a black tights, looking pale, with his ribs sticking out prominently, sometimes nodding politely, answering questions with a forced smile, even sticking his arm out through the bars to let people feel how emaciated he was, but then completely sinking back into himself, so that he paid no attention to anything, not even to what was so important to him, the striking of the clock, which was the single furnishing in the cage, merely looking out in front of him with his eyes almost shut and now and then sipping from a tiny glass of water to moisten his lips. Apart from the changing groups of spectators there were also constant observers chosen by the public—strangely enough they were usually butchers—who, always three at a time, were given the task of observing the hunger artist day and night, so that he didn’t get something to eat in some secret manner. It was, however, merely a formality, introduced to reassure the masses, for those who understood knew well enough that during the period of fasting the hunger artist would never, under any circumstances, have eaten the slightest thing, not even if compelled by force. The honour of his art forbade it. Naturally, none of the watchers understood that. Sometimes there were nightly groups of watchers who carried out their vigil very laxly, deliberately sitting together in a distant corner and putting all their attention into playing cards there, clearly intending to allow the hunger artist a small refreshment, which, according to their way of thinking, he could get from some secret supplies. Nothing was more excruciating to the hunger artist than such watchers. They depressed him. They made his fasting terribly difficult. Sometimes he overcame his weakness and sang during the time they were observing, for as long as he could keep it up, to show people how unjust their suspicions about him were. But that was little help. For then they just wondered among themselves about his skill at being able to eat even while singing. He much preferred the observers who sat down right against the bars and, not satisfied with the dim backlighting of the room, illuminated him with electric flashlights. The glaring light didn’t bother him in the slightest. Generally he couldn’t sleep at all, and he could always doze under any lighting and at any hour, even in an overcrowded, noisy auditorium. With such observers, he was very happily prepared to spend the entire night without sleeping. He was very pleased to joke with them, to recount stories from his nomadic life and then, in turn, to listen their stories—doing everything just to keep them awake, so that he could keep showing them once again that he had nothing to eat in his cage and that he was fasting as none of them could. He was happiest, however, when morning came and a lavish breakfast was brought for them at his own expense, on which they hurled themselves with the appetite of healthy men after a hard night’s work without sleep. True, there were still people who wanted to see in this breakfast an unfair means of influencing the observers, but that was going too far, and if they were asked whether they wanted to undertake the observers’ night shift for its own sake, without the breakfast, they excused themselves. But nonetheless they stood by their suspicions. However, it was, in general, part of fasting that these doubts were inextricably associated with it. For, in fact, no one was in a position to spend time watching the hunger artist every day and night, so no one could know, on the basis of his own observation, whether this was a case of truly uninterrupted, flawless fasting. The hunger artist himself was the only one who could know that and, at the same time, the only spectator capable of being completely satisfied with his own fasting. But the reason he was never satisfied was something different. Perhaps it was not fasting at all which made him so very emaciated that many people, to their own regret, had to stay away from his performance, because they couldn’t bear to look at him. For he was also so skeletal out of dissatisfaction with himself, because he alone knew something that even initiates didn’t know—how easy it was to fast. It was the easiest thing in the world. About this he did not remain silent, but people did not believe him. At best they thought he was being modest. Most of them, however, believed he was a publicity seeker or a total swindler, for whom, at all events, fasting was easy, because he understood how to make it easy, and then had the nerve to half admit it. He had to accept all that. Over the years he had become accustomed to it. But this dissatisfaction kept gnawing at his insides all the time and never yet—and this one had to say to his credit—had he left the cage of his own free will after any period of fasting. The impresario had set the maximum length of time for the fast at forty days—he would never allow the fasting go on beyond that point, not even in the cosmopolitan cities. And, in fact, he had a good reason. Experience had shown that for about forty days one could increasingly whip up a city’s interest by gradually increasing advertising, but that then the people turned away—one could demonstrate a significant decline in popularity. In this respect, there were, of course, small differences among different towns and among different countries, but as a rule it was true that forty days was the maximum length of time. So then on the fortieth day the door of the cage—which was covered with flowers—was opened, an enthusiastic audience filled the amphitheatre, a military band played, two doctors entered the cage, in order to take the necessary measurements of the hunger artist, the results were announced to the auditorium through a megaphone, and finally two young ladies arrived, happy about the fact that they were the ones who had just been selected by lot, seeking to lead the hunger artist down a couple of steps out of the cage, where on a small table a carefully chosen hospital meal was laid out. And at this moment the hunger artist always fought back. Of course, he still freely laid his bony arms in the helpful outstretched hands of the ladies bending over him, but he did not want to stand up. Why stop right now after forty days? He could have kept going for even longer, for an unlimited length of time. Why stop right now, when he was in his best form, indeed, not yet even in his best fasting form? Why did people want to rob him of the fame of fasting longer, not just so that he could become the greatest hunger artist of all time, which he probably was already, but also so that he could surpass himself in some unimaginable way, for he felt there were no limits to his capacity for fasting. Why did this crowd, which pretended to admire him so much, have so little patience with him? If he kept going and kept fasting longer, why would they not tolerate it? Then, too, he was tired and felt good sitting in the straw. Now he was supposed to stand up straight and tall and go to eat, something which, when he just imagined it, made him feel nauseous right away. With great difficulty he repressed mentioning this only out of consideration for the women. And he looked up into the eyes of these women, apparently so friendly but in reality so cruel, and shook his excessively heavy head on his feeble neck. But then happened what always happened. The impresario came and in silence—the music made talking impossible—raised his arms over the hunger artist, as if inviting heaven to look upon its work here on the straw, this unfortunate martyr, something the hunger artist certainly was, only in a completely different sense, then grabbed the hunger artist around his thin waist, in the process wanting with his exaggerated caution to make people believe that here he had to deal with something fragile, and handed him over—not without secretly shaking him a little, so that the hunger artist’s legs and upper body swung back and forth uncontrollably—to the women, who had in the meantime turned as pale as death. At this point, the hunger artist endured everything. His head lay on his chest—it was as if it had inexplicably rolled around and just stopped there—his body was arched back, his legs, in an impulse of self-preservation, pressed themselves together at the knees, but scraped the ground, as if they were not really on the floor but were looking for the real ground, and the entire weight of his body, admittedly very small, lay against one of the women, who appealed for help with flustered breath, for she had not imagined her post of honour would be like this, and then stretched her neck as far as possible, to keep her face from the least contact with the hunger artist, but then, when she couldn’t manage this and her more fortunate companion didn’t come to her assistance but trembled and remained content to hold in front of her the hunger artist’s hand, that small bundle of knuckles, she broke into tears, to the delighted laughter of the auditorium, and had to be relieved by an attendant who had been standing ready for some time. Then came the meal. The impresario put a little food into mouth of the hunger artist, now half unconscious, as if fainting, and kept up a cheerful patter designed to divert attention away from the hunger artist’s condition. Then a toast was proposed to the public, which was supposedly whispered to the impresario by the hunger artist, the orchestra confirmed everything with a great fanfare, people dispersed, and no one had the right to be dissatisfied with the event, no one except the hunger artist—he was always the only one. He lived this way, taking small regular breaks, for many years, apparently in the spotlight, honoured by the world, but for all that his mood was usually gloomy, and it kept growing gloomier all the time, because no one understood how to take him seriously. But how was he to find consolation? What was there left for him to wish for? And if a good-natured man who felt sorry for him ever wanted to explain to him that his sadness probably came from his fasting, then it could happen that the hunger artist responded with an outburst of rage and began to shake the bars like an animal, frightening everyone. But the impresario had a way of punishing moments like this, something he was happy to use. He would make an apology for the hunger artist to the assembled public, conceding that the irritability had been provoked only by his fasting, something quite intelligible to well-fed people and capable of excusing the behaviour of the hunger artist without further explanation. From there he would move on to speak about the equally hard to understand claim of the hunger artist that he could go on fasting for much longer than he was doing. He would praise the lofty striving, the good will, and the great self-denial no doubt contained in this claim, but then would try to contradict it simply by producing photographs, which were also on sale, for in the pictures one could see the hunger artist on the fortieth day of his fast, in bed, almost dead from exhaustion. Although the hunger artist was very familiar with this perversion of the truth, it always strained his nerves again and was too much for him. What was a result of the premature ending of the fast people were now proposing as its cause! It was impossible to fight against this lack of understanding, against this world of misunderstanding. In good faith he always listened eagerly to the impresario at the bars of his cage, but each time, once the photographs came out, he would let go of the bars and, with a sigh, sink back into the straw, and a reassured public could come up again and view him.

Franz Kafka: oszillierende Negationen

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 10:13:58 +0000

von Anna Glazova

I. Kafkas unmögliches Sein

Daß es so viele verschiedene Interpretationen von Kafkas Werk gibt – und potenziell noch geben kann – weist darauf hin, wie offen seine Texte sind. Wie Heinz Politzer in Kafka, der Künstler meinte, im Falle Kafkas verraten die Interpretationen mehr über den Interpreten selbst, als über den Autor und seine Intentionen. Diese Undefinierbarkeit der Texte Kafkas ensteht daraus, daß sie Fragmente sind, die niemals ein zusammenhaltendes Ganzes ergaben; oder sie sind nur so winzige Details dieses Ganzen, daß es nicht mehr wiederherstallbar ist[i]. Das verbindende Prinzip geht verloren, und auf diese Weise nehmen die vereinzelten Fragmente an Bedeutung zu; wenn man an sie eine oder andere wohl strukturierte Frage stellt, scheinen sie eine fremde, enigmatische, mysteriöse Antwort zu geben. Die vielen Möglichkeiten, Kafka zu lesen, entstehen aus der Unmöglichkeit für den Leser, sich auf eine hinreichende, endgültige Antwort zu beschränken: ist Gregor Samsa Mensch oder Käfer? Ist der Verurteilte in In der Strafkolonie Hund oder Mensch? Ist Odradek ein Wesen oder ein Ding? Lebt der Jäger Gracchus oder ist er tot? Die Antwort erscheint unmöglich, denn sie lautet: beides.

Selected shorter writings, transl. by Ian Johnston (Before the Law, The Hunter Gracchus, Up in the Gallery, An Imperial Message, Jackals and Arabs)

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 11:57:43 +0000

The Kafka texts below are new translations prepared by Ian Johnston of Malaspina University-College, Nanaimo, BC, Canada. They are all in the public domain and may be used without charge and without permission, provided the source is acknowledged, released November 2003. Printed chapbooks containing these stories will soon be available from Prideaux Street Publications at a cost of $2.00 (Canadian) each. For information please check Prideaux Street Publications. These books are suitable for class room use. For questions and comments please contact Ian Johnston.

Kafka, Weiber und Kinder

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 10:12:45 +0000

fast ein Aufsatz, von Anna Glazova

Schon beim ersten Treffen und vom ersten Blick wurde Franz Kafka vor Felices ungeheuren Zähnen wie festgebannt - was für ein wunderbares Gebiß, was für eine Glücksgarantie, die erste Liebe, das gefallene Urteil. Die preußische Jüdin Felice stand aber hart und getreu auf dem Boden und kümmerte sich eher um praktische Angelegenheiten. Kafkas Diät kam ihr gleich einer kindlichen Laune vor, und sie beabsichtigte schon seit langem, den Schuft mit ihrer gewichtigen Hand zu züchtigen. Diese Hand vervollständigte den Arm, der aus dem unlangen Ärmel einer sorgfältig bestickten Bluse herausprallte, deren Schnitt im älteren Kafka, diesem schlauen Modisten, den bürgerlichen Jüdhaß, geschweige den professionellen Neid erregte. Sie saßen am Tisch. Franz senkte seine Augen und starrte auf seinen Teller; er grübelte darüber nach, ob Felice eine ausreichende Stütze für sein Gerippe bilden könnte, denn seine Knochen waren zu groß, im Vergleich zu dem fast unwägbaren Körper. Franz aß kein Fleisch gleich wie ein Säugling kein Brot ißt – ein Säugling braucht die mütterliche Milch und Sänfte. Und nachdem die karg ausgestellten Zärtlichkeiten der slawischen und sonstigen Nutten Franz überdrüssig gemacht hatten, brauchte dieses schnell entwickelte Kind nur die Milch für ganz Erwachsene. Unter dem Teller voll dünnflüssiger Suppe lag eine Postkarte an Felice verborgen, in der Franz seinen gebrechlichen, unhaltbaren Blutdurst mit der Schamlosigkeit eines Kindes beschrieb; sein ausgemagertes Körperlein schrie wörtlich nach Blut. Wer weiß, was Felice sich dachte, wenn sie diese Vignetten der art nouveau bekam, diese Pensees in einer floralen, reichlich verzierten Handschrift. Vielleicht fuchtelte sie einfach unter der Nase mit ihrer üppigen Hand, als wollte sie eine Mücke verscheuchen. Der bleiche Franz jedoch träumte immer fort von ihrem rosigen Hals. Hermann Kafka, der Vater, sog die Suppe in sich hinein, indem er mit wachsender Empörung das bleiche Gesicht des Sohnes beobachtete: die Arbeit der Einbildungskraft zog alle Farbe - die diabolische Tinte! - aus diesem Gesicht. Er warf seinen Löffel weg, da er außerstande war, das Geschehende weiter auszuhalten; die Mutter zuckte zusammen und trat eilig in die Küche hinaus. Hermann riß die Hosenträger von seiner Brust und schlug mit ihnen geräuschvoll gegen die Lehne eines Wienerstuhls. Franz versteckte die Postkarte auf seiner Brust, schlüpfte unter den Tisch, seine auf den Vater gerichteten Augen blitzten von dort unten, während er selbst ein wenig und leise heulte. Papa war gegen so eine Heirat. Felice war ein großes und gescheites Mädchen, bedrohte also seine Autorität.

The Metamorphosis

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 11:51:15 +0000

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect. He was lying on his hard, as it were armor-plated, back and when he lifted his head a little he could see his domelike brown belly divided into stiff arched segments on top of which the bed quilt could hardly stay in place and was about to slide off completely. His numerous legs, which were pitifully thin compared to the rest of his bulk, waved helplessly before his eyes.

Kafka-Rezeption in der Krise

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 10:10:01 +0000

von Michael Kerksiek

Das Ergebnis der bisherigen Kafka-Rezeption sind »inzwischen rund 11 000 Experten-Meinungen, die sich den Anspruch der Kompetenz streitig machen.« Zwar hat sich dabei die Kenntnis über Kafka (Geburt, Augenfarbe, Geschlechtsreife, Gewicht, Krankheit und Tod) vermehrt, »aber dem Kern seines Werkes sind wir dadurch nicht unbedingt näher gekommen.« Die Spannung »zwischen Erkenntnisdrang und -verweigerung« läßt die Hermeneutik selbst zum Gegenstand unseres Interesses werden. (Vgl. Hrsg. Michael Müller, Franz Kafka - Romane und Erzählungen, Reclam jun., Stuttgart, 1994, S. 7-10 [ISBN 3-15-008811-9]).

The Neighbour (transl. Tanya Ellerbrock)

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 11:50:11 +0000

from the Octave Book D

My business rests entirely on my shoulders. Two ladies with typewriters and account books in the front room, my room with a desk, a cash box, a conference table, a lounge chair, and a telephone, that is everything I work with. So easy to survey, so easy to guide. I am quite young and business is going well for me. I don’t worry, I don’t worry.

Trains of Traffic: Kafka's Novels into Film

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 09:55:48 +0000

by Vera Pohland, Concordia University

“Die Zuschauer erstarren, wenn der Zug vorüberfährt” (Kafka, Tagebücher 7). Kafka’s first entry in Notebook One of his diaries at an early stage in his development as a writer, briefly refers to a film and its effect on the audience.1 The early impact of film was often notably dramatic: upon seeing the Lumière brothers’ short film of an oncoming train2, it is reported that the audience in the movie theaters did not become stiff but rather jumped out of their seats. They “are said to have stampeded at the sight of the locomotive barreling toward them from a distant prospect into the foreground of the screen” (Cook 11). When Kafka recollected the shock the moving images aroused in the viewer he might well have been recalling his own vision recorded five years earlier in his famous letter to Oscar Pollak. There he announced the effect the written word was to achieve in the reader, “we need the books that affect us like a disaster […]. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief” (Kafka, Letters to Friends 16).

The Neighbour (transl. Annika Eder)

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 11:46:41 +0000

I am totally responsible for my own business. Two ladies with typewriters and account books in the outer office, my room with desk, cash-box, conference table, club chair and telephone, that is everything I work with. So easy to survey, so easy to carry on. I am very young and business is going well for me. I don’t complain, I don’t complain.

Since New Year’s the small, empty flat, which I unfortunately hesitated to rent for such a long time, has been rented by a young man right away. As well a room with outer office, but besides that a kitchen. -Room and outer office I could have used well - sometimes my ladies felt a bit overloaded -, but how would I have used the kitchen? This little worry is to blame that I didn’t rent the flat myself. Now this young man is sitting there. Harras is his name. What he is actually doing, I don’t know. His door reads: “Harras, bureau”. I made inquiries, I’ve been notified that it is a business similar to mine. You couldn’t necessarily warn of guarantee for credit, since we are dealing with a young, rising man, whose business may have a good future, but you couldn’t advice to credit either, since there doesn’t seem to be any fortune at the present. The common information you get, if you no one knows a thing.

Englische Leser Kafkas

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 10:04:45 +0000

Werk und Übersetzung: Ästhetische Erwartungen und Erfahrungen im Kontext der fremden Sprache. Von Dieter Jacob

The words of a dead man are modified in the guts of the living

WYSTAN HUGH AUDEN

Die vergnüglichen Erwartungen des Lesers von Romanen beschrieb um die Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts der englische Dichter Thomas Gray mit den Worten: To lie upon a couch and read new novels is no bad idea of Paradise.[1] Erholung und Entspannung entsprechend der Horazschen Forderung des prodesse et delectare sind darunter zu verstehen, und ebenso erscheint der Rückzug aus der Wirklichkeit idyllisch verklärt. Die neue Gattung Roman hatte einen, um mit H.R. Jauß zu sprechen, „Erwartungshorizont“[2] geschaffen oder kommunikativ-dialogisch begriffen, die Erwartung möglicher Leser realisiert[3]. Damit waren seit Beginn des Romans gewisse wirkungsästhetische und erzähltechnische Konstanten vorgegeben und beispielgebend, die im 18. und insbesondere im 19. Jahrhundert das ausmachten, was der Leser mit der Bezeichnung Roman verband. Die Entwicklung und Geschichte der Gattung Roman hat den Erwartungshorizont der Leser gestiftet, am nachhaltigsten der realistische Roman des 19. Jahrhunderts. Das hat freilich auch immer wieder „Horizontwandel“[4] bedeutet. Die Geschichtlichkeit der Gattung Roman wie die historische Situationsgebundenheit der Leser artikulieren sich darin.

A Report to an Academy

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 11:44:52 +0000

Honored members of the Academy!

You have done me the honor of inviting me to give your Academy an account of the life I formerly led as an ape.

I regret that I cannot comply with your request to the extent you desire. It is now nearly five years since I was an ape, a short space of time, perhaps, according to the calendar, but an infinitely long time to gallop through at full speed, as I have done, more or less accompanied by excellent mentors, good advice, applause, and orchestral music, and yet essentially alone, since all my escorters, to keep the image, kept well off the course. I could never have achieved what I have done had I been stubbornly set on clinging to my origins, to the remembrances of my youth. In fact, to give up being stubborn was the supreme commandment I laid upon myself; free ape as I was, I submitted myself to that yoke. In revenge, however, my memory of the past has closed the door against me more and more. I could have returned at first, had human beings allowed it, through an archway as wide as the span of heaven over the earth, but as I spurred myself on in my forced career, the opening narrowed and shrank behind me; I felt more comfortable in the world of men and fitted it better; the strong wind that blew after me out of my past began to slacken; today it is only a gentle puff of air that plays around my heels; and the opening in the distance, through which it comes and through which I once came myself, has grown so small that, even if my strength and my willpower sufficed to get me back to it, I should have to scrape the very skin from my body to crawl through. To put it plainly, much as I like expressing myself in images, to put it plainly: your life as apes, gentlemen, insofar as something of that kind lies behind you, cannot be farther removed from you than mine is from me. Yet everyone on earth feels a tickling at the heels; the small chimpanzee and the great Achilles alike.

Kafka: El enigma de los manuscritos

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 20:46:42 +0000

Guillermo Trujillo Sanchez

A Hunger Artist

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 11:41:40 +0000

During these last decades the interest in professional fasting has markedly diminished. It used to pay very well to stage such great performances under one’s own management, but today that is quite impossible. We live in a different world now. At one time the whole town took a lively interest in the hunger artist; from day to day of his fast the excitement mounted; everybody wanted to see him at least once a day; there were people who bought season tickets for the last few days and sat from morning till night in front of his small barred cage; even in the nighttime there were visiting hours, when the whole effect was heightened by torch flares; on fine days the cage was set out in the open air, and then it was the children’s special treat to see the hunger artist; for their elders he was often just a joke that happened to be in fashion, but the children stood openmouthed, holding each other’s hands for greater security, marveling at him as he sat there pallid in black tights, with his ribs sticking out so prominently, not even on a seat but down among straw on the ground, sometimes giving a courteous nod, answering questions with a constrained smile, or perhaps stretching an arm through the bars so that one might feel how thin it was, and then again withdrawing deep into himself, paying no attention to anyone or anything, not even to the all-important striking of the clock that was the only piece of furniture in his cage, but merely staring into vacancy with half-shut eyes, now and then taking a sip from a tiny glass of water to moisten his lips.

Heft 2

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:49:39 +0000

Als es schon unerträglich geworden war – einmal gegen Abend im November – und ich über den schmalen Teppich meines Zimmers wie in einer Rennbahn einherlief, durch den Anblick der beleuchteten Gasse erschreckt wieder wendete und in der Tiefe des Zimmers im Grund des Spiegels doch wieder ein neues Ziel bekam und aufschrie, um nur den Schrei zu hören, dem nichts antwortet und dem auch nichts die Kraft des Schreiens nimmt, der also aufsteigt ohne Gegengewicht und nicht aufhören kann, selbst wenn er verstummt, da öffnete sich aus der Wand heraus die Tür, so eilig, weil doch Eile nötig war und selbst die Wagenpferde unten auf dem Pflaster wie wildgewordene Pferde in der Schlacht irgendwo auf den gespreizten Hinterbeinen die Gurgeln preisgegeben sich erhoben.

"… nächstens kommt" (II, 15)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:20:12 +0000

(Fortsetzung des im vorigen Textträger beginnenden Fragments)

nächstens kommt, mich verkriechen und schlafend stellen und das so lange wiederholen, bis er ausbleibt.

Auch ist in meine Forschungen Unordnung gekommen, ich lasse nach, ich ermüde, ich trotte nur noch mechanisch, wo ich begeistert lief. Ich denke zurück an die Zeit, als ich die Frage: “Woher nimmt die Erde unsere Nahrung?” zu untersuchen begann. Freilich lebte ich damals mitten im Volk, drängte mich dorthin wo es am dichtesten war, wollte alle zu Zeugen meiner Arbeiten machen, diese Zeugenschaft war mir sogar wichtiger als meine Arbeit, da ich ja noch irgendeine allgemeine Wirkung erwartete. Davon erhielt ich natürlich eine große Befeuerung, die nun für mich Einsamen vorbei ist. Damals aber war ich so stark, daß ich etwas tat, was unerhört ist, allen unsern Grundsätzen widerspricht und an das sich gewiß jeder Augenzeuge von damals als an etwas Unheimliches erinnert. Ich fand in der Wissenschaft, die sonst zu grenzenloser Specialisierung strebt, in einer Hinsicht eine merkwürdige Vereinfachung. Sie lehrt daß in der Hauptsache die Erde unsere Nahrung hervorbringt und gibt dann, nachdem sie diese Voraussetzung gemacht hat, die Methoden an, mit welchen sich die verschiedenen Speisen in bester Art und größter Fülle erreichen lassen. Nun ist es freilich richtig, daß die Erde die Nahrung hervorbringt, daran kann kein Zweifel sein, aber so einfach, wie es gewöhnlich dargestellt wird, jede weitere Untersuchung ausschließend, ist es nicht. Man nehme doch nur die primitivsten Vorfälle her die sich täglich wiederholen. Wenn wir gänzlich untätig wären, wie ich es nun schon fast bin, nach flüchtiger Bodenbearbeitung uns zusammenrollen würden und warten was kommt, so würden wir allerdings, vorausgesetzt daß sich überhaupt etwas ergeben würde, die Nahrung auf der Erde finden. Aber das ist doch nicht der Regelfall. Wer sich nur ein wenig Unbefangenheit gegenüber der Wissenschaft bewahrt hat – und deren sind freilich wenige, denn die Kreise, welche die Wissenschaft zieht, werden immer größer – wird, auch wenn er gar nicht auf besondere Beobachtungen ausgeht leicht erkennen, daß der Hauptteil der Nahrung, die dann auf der Erde liegt, von oben herabkommt, wir fangen ja je nach unserer Geschicklichkeit und Gier das Meiste sogar ab ehe es die Erde berührt. Damit sage ich noch nichts gegen die Wissenschaft, die Erde bringt ja auch diese Nahrung natürlich hervor, ob sie die eine aus sich heraufzieht oder die andere aus der Höhe herabruft, ist ja vielleicht kein wesentlicher Unterschied und die Wissenschaft welche festgestellt hat, daß in beiden Fällen Bodenbearbeitung nötig ist, muß sich vielleicht mit jenen Unterscheidungen nicht beschäftigen, heißt es doch: “Hast Du den Fraß im Maul, so hast Du für diesmal alle Fragen gelöst. " Nur scheint es mir, daß die Wissenschaft sich in verhüllter Form doch wenigstens teilweise mit diesen Dingen beschäftigt, da sie ja doch zwei Hauptmethoden der Nahrungsbeschaffung kennt, nämlich die eigentliche Bodenbearbeitung und dann die Ergänzungs- und Verfeinerungsarbeit in Form von Spruch, Tanz und Gesang. Ich finde darin eine zwar nicht vollständige, aber doch genug deutliche, meiner Unterscheidung entsprechende Zweiteilung. Die Bodenbearbeitung dient meiner Meinung nach zur Erzielung von beiderlei Nahrung und bleibt immer unentbehrlich, Spruch, Tanz und Gesang aber betreffen weniger die Bodennahrung im engeren Sinn, sondern dienen hauptsächlich dazu die Nahrung von oben herabzuziehn. In dieser Auffassung bestärkt mich die Tradition. Hier scheint das Volk die Wissenschaft richtigzustellen ohne es zu wissen und ohne daß die Wissenschaft sich zu wehren wagt. Wenn wie die Wissenschaft will, jene Ceremonien nur dem Boden dienen sollten, etwa um ihm die Kraft zu geben, die Nahrung von oben zu holen, so müßten sie sich doch folgerichtig völlig am Boden vollziehn, dem Boden müßte alles zugeflüstert, vorgesungen, vorgetanzt werden. Die Wissenschaft verlangt wohl auch meines Wissens nichts anderes. Und nun das Merkwürdige, das Volk richtet sich mit allen seinen Ceremonien in die Höhe. Es ist das keine Verletzung der Wissenschaft, sie verbietet es nicht, läßt dem Landwirt darin die Freiheit, sie denkt bei ihren Lehren nur an den Boden und führt der Landwirt ihre auf den Boden sich beziehenden Lehren aus ist sie zufrieden, aber ihr Gedankengang sollte meiner Meinung nach eigentlich mehr verlangen. Und ich, der ich niemals tiefer in die Wissenschaft eingeweiht worden bin, kann mir gar nicht vorstellen, wie die Gelehrten es dulden können, daß unser Volk, leidenschaftlich wie es nun einmal ist, die Zaubersprüche aufwärts ruft, unsere alten Volksgesänge in die Lüfte klagt und Sprungtänze aufführt, als ob es sich den Boden vergessend für immer empor schwingen wollte. Von der Betonung dieser Widersprüche ging ich aus, ich beschränkte mich, wann immer nach den Lehren der Wissenschaft die Erntezeit sich näherte, völlig auf den Boden, ich scharrte ihn im Tanz, ich verdrehte den Kopf, um nur dem Boden möglichst nahe zu sein, ich machte mir später eine Grube für die Schnauze und sang so und deklamierte daß nur der Boden es hörte und niemand sonst neben oder über mir. Die Forschungsergebnisse waren gering, manchmal bekam ich das Essen nicht und schon wollte ich jubeln über meine Entdeckung, aber dann kam das Essen doch wieder, so als wäre man zuerst beirrt gewesen durch meine sonderbare Aufführung, erkenne aber jetzt den Vorteil, den sie bringe und verzichte gern auf meine Schreie und Sprünge, oft kam das Essen sogar reichlicher als früher, aber dann blieb es doch auch wieder gänzlich aus. Ich machte mit einem Fleiß, der an jungen Hunden bisher unbekannt gewesen war, genaue Aufstellungen aller meiner Versuche, glaubte schon hie und da eine Spur zu finden, die mich weiter führen könnte, aber dann verlief sie sich doch wieder ins Unbestimmte. Es kam mir hiebei unstreitig auch meine ungenügende wissenschaftliche Vorbereitung in die Quere. Wo hatte ich die Bürgschaft, daß z. B. das Ausbleiben des Essens nicht durch mein Experiment, sondern durch unwissenschaftliche Bodenbearbeitung bewirkt war und traf das zu, dann waren alle meine Schlußfolgerungen haltlos. Unter gewissen Bedingungen hätte ich ein fast ganz präcises Experiment erreichen können, wenn es mir nämlich gelungen wäre ganz ohne Bodenbearbeitung einmal nur durch aufwärts gerichtete Ceremonie das Herabkommen des Essens und dann durch ausschließliche Boden-Ceremonie das Ausbleiben des Essens zu erreichen. Ich versuchte auch derartiges, aber ohne festen Glauben und nicht mit vollkommenen Versuchsbedingungen, denn meiner unerschütterlichen Meinung nach ist wenigstens eine gewisse Bodenbearbeitung immer nötig und selbst wenn die Ketzer, die es nicht glauben, recht hätten, ließe es sich doch nicht beweisen, da die Bodenbesprengung unter einem Drang geschieht und sich in gewissen Grenzen gar nicht vermeiden läßt. Ein anderes allerdings etwas abseitiges Experiment glückte mir besser und machte einiges Aufsehen. Anschließend an das übliche Abfangen der Nahrung aus der Luft beschloß ich die Nahrung zwar nicht niederfallen zu lassen, sie aber auch nicht abzufangen. Zu diesem Zwecke machte ich immer wenn die Nahrung kam einen kleinen Luftsprung, der aber so berechnet war daß er nicht ausreichte; meistens fiel sie ja dann doch stumpfgleichgültig zu Boden und ich warf mich wütend auf sie, in der Wut nicht nur des Hungers sondern auch der Enttäuschung. Aber in vereinzelten Fällen geschah doch etwas anderes, etwas eigentlich Wunderbares, die Speise fiel nicht, sondern folgte mir in der Luft, die Nahrung verfolgte den Hungrigen. Es geschah nicht lange, eine kurze Strecke nur, dann fiel sie doch oder verschwand gänzlich oder – der häufigste Fall – meine Gier beendete vorzeitig das Experiment und ich fraß die Sache auf. Immerhin, ich war damals glücklich, durch meine Umgebung ging ein Raunen, man war unruhig und aufmerksam geworden, ich fand meine Bekannten zugänglicher meinen Fragen, in ihren Augen sah ich irgendein Hilfe suchendes Leuchten, mochte es auch nur der Widerschein meiner eigenen Blicke sein, ich wollte nichts anderes, ich war zufrieden. Bis ich dann freilich erfuhr – und die andern erfuhren es mit mir – daß dieses Experiment in der Wissenschaft längst beschrieben ist, viel großartiger schon gelungen ist als mir, zwar schon lange nicht gemacht worden ist wegen der Schwierigkeit der Selbstbeherrschung die es verlangt, aber wegen seiner angeblichen wissenschaftlichen Bedeutungslosigkeit auch nicht wiederholt werden muß. Es beweise nur das, was man schon wußte, daß der Boden die Nahrung nicht nur gerade abwärts von oben holt, sondern auch schräg, ja sogar in Spiralen. Da stand ich nun, aber entmutigt war ich nicht, dazu war ich noch zu jung, im Gegenteil, ich wurde dadurch aufgemuntert zu der vielleicht größten Leistung meines Lebens. Ich glaubte nicht der wissenschaftlichen Entwertung meines Experiments, aber hier hilft kein Glauben, sondern nur der Beweis und den wollte ich antreten und wollte damit auch dieses ursprünglich etwas abseitige Experiment ins volle Licht, in den Mittelpunkt der Forschung stellen. Ich wollte beweisen, daß wenn ich vor der Nahrung zurückwich, nicht der Boden sie schräg zu sich herabzog, sondern ich es war, der sie hinter mir her lockte. Dieses Experiment konnte ich allerdings nicht weiter ausbauen, den Fraß vor sich zu sehn und dabei wissenschaftlich experimentieren, das hält man für die Dauer nicht aus. Aber ich wollte etwas anderes tun, ich wollte solange ich es aushielt völlig fasten, allerdings dabei auch jeden Anblick der Nahrung, jede Verlockung vermeiden. Wenn ich mich so zurückzog, mit geschlossenen Augen liegen blieb Tag und Nacht, weder um das Aufheben noch um das Abfangen der Nahrung mich kümmerte und wie ich nicht zu behaupten wagte, aber leise hoffte, ohne alle sonstige Maßnahmen nur auf die unvermeidliche unrationelle Bodenbesprengung hin, und stilles Aufsagen der Sprüche und Lieder (den Tanz wollte ich unterlassen um mich nicht zu schwächen) die Nahrung von oben selbst herabkäme und, ohne sich um den Boden zu kümmern, an mein Gebiß klopfen würde, um eingelassen zu werden, – wenn dies geschah, dann war die Wissenschaft zwar nicht widerlegt, denn sie hat genug Elasticität für Ausnahmen und Einzelfälle, aber was würde das Volk sagen, das glücklicher Weise nicht soviel Elasticität hat? Denn es würde das ja auch kein Ausnahmsfall von der Art sein, wie sie die Geschichte überliefert, daß etwa einer wegen körperlicher Krankheit oder wegen Trübsinn sich weigert die Nahrung vorzubereiten, zu suchen, aufzunehmen und dann die Hundeschaft in Beschwörungsformeln sich vereinigt und dadurch ein Abirren der Nahrung von ihrem gewöhnlichen Weg geradewegs in das Maul des Kranken erreicht. Ich war dagegen in voller Kraft und Gesundheit, mein Appetit so prächtig, daß er mich tagelang hinderte an etwas anderes zu denken als an ihn, ich unterzog mich, mochte man es glauben oder nicht, dem Fasten freiwillig, war selbst imstande für das Herabkommen der Nahrung zu sorgen und wollte es auch tun, brauchte also auch keine Hilfe der Hundeschaft und verbat sie mir sogar auf das Entschiedenste. Ich suchte mir einen geeigneten Ort in einem entlegenen Gebüsch, wo ich keine Eßgespräche, kein Schmatzen und Knochenknacken hören würde, fraß mich noch einmal völlig satt und legte mich dann hin. Ich wollte womöglich die ganze Zeit mit geschlossenen Augen verbringen; solange kein Essen kommen sollte, würde es für mich ununterbrochen Nacht sein, mochte es Tage und Wochen dauern. Dabei durfte ich allerdings, dies war eine große Erschwerung, wenig oder am besten gar nicht schlafen, denn ich mußte ja nicht nur die Nahrung herabbeschwören sondern auch auf der Hut sein, daß ich die Ankunft der Nahrung nicht etwa gar verschlafe, andererseits wiederum war Schlaf sehr willkommen, denn schlafend würde ich viel länger hungern können, als im Wachen. Aus diesen Gründen beschloß ich die Zeit vorsichtig einzuteilen und viel zu schlafen, aber immer nur ganz kurze Zeit. Ich erreichte dies dadurch, daß ich den Kopf im Schlaf immer auf einen schwachen Ast stützte, der bald einknickte und mich dadurch weckte. So lag ich, schlief oder wachte, träumte oder sang still für mich hin. Die erste Zeit verging ereignislos, noch war es vielleicht dort, woher die Nahrung kommt, irgendwie unbemerkt geblieben, daß ich mich hier gegen den üblichen Verlauf der Dinge stemmte, und so blieb alles still. Ein wenig störte mich in meiner Anstrengung die Befürchtung daß die Hunde mich vermissen, bald auffinden und etwas gegen mich unternehmen würden. Eine zweite Befürchtung war, daß auf die bloße Besprengung hin, der Boden, trotzdem es ein nach der Wissenschaft unfruchtbarer Boden war, die sogenannte Zufalls-Nahrung hergeben und ihr Geruch mich verführen würde. Aber vorläufig geschah nichts dergleichen und ich konnte weiterhungern. Abgesehn von diesen Befürchtungen war ich zunächst ruhig, wie ich es an mir noch nie bemerkt hatte. Trotzdem ich hier eigentlich an der Aufhebung der Wissenschaft arbeitete, erfüllte mich Behagen und fast die sprichwörtliche Ruhe des wissenschaftlichen Arbeiters. In meinen Träumereien erlangte ich von der Wissenschaft Verzeihung, es fand sich in ihr auch ein Raum für meine Forschungen, trostreich klang es mir in den Ohren, daß ich, mögen auch meine Forschungen noch so erfolgreich werden und besonders dann, keineswegs für das Hundeleben verloren sei, die Wissenschaft sei mir freundlich geneigt, sie selbst werde die Deutung meiner Ergebnisse vornehmen und dieses Versprechen bedeute schon die Erfüllung selbst, ich werde, während ich mich bisher im Innersten ausgestoßen fühlte und die Mauern meines Volkes berannte wie ein Wilder, in großen Ehren aufgenommen werden, die ersehnte Wärme versammelter Hundeleiber werde mich umströmen, hochgepriesen werde ich auf den Schultern meines Volkes schwanken. Merkwürdige Wirkung des ersten Hungerns. Meine Leistung erschien mir so groß, daß ich aus Rührung und aus Mitleid mit mir selbst dort in dem stillen Gebüsch zu weinen anfing, was allerdings nicht ganz verständlich war, denn wenn ich den verdienten Lohn erwartete, warum weinte ich dann? Wohl nur aus Behaglichkeit. Niemals hat mir mein Weinen gefallen. Immer nur wenn mir behaglich war, selten genug, habe ich geweint. Damals ging es freilich bald vorüber. Die schönen Bilder verflüchtigten sich allmählich mit dem Ernsterwerden des Hungers, es dauerte nicht lange und ich war, nach schneller Verabschiedung aller Phantasien und aller Rührung, völlig allein mit dem in den Eingeweiden brennenden Hunger. “Das ist der Hunger”, sagte ich mir damals unzähligemal, so als wollte ich mich glauben machen, Hunger und ich seien noch immer zweierlei und ich könnte ihn abschütteln wie einen lästigen Liebhaber, aber in Wirklichkeit waren wir höchst schmerzlich Eines und wenn ich mir erklärte: “Das ist der Hunger”, so war es eigentlich der Hunger der sprach und sich damit über mich lustig machte. Eine böse, böse Zeit! Mich schauert wenn ich an sie denke, freilich nicht nur wegen des Leides, das ich damals durchlebt habe, sondern vor allem deshalb, weil ich damals nicht fertig geworden bin, weil ich dieses Leiden noch einmal werde durchkosten müssen, wenn ich etwas erreichen will, denn das Hungern halte ich noch heute für das letzte und stärkste Mittel meiner Forschung. Durch das Hungern geht der Weg, das Höchste ist nur der höchsten Leistung erreichbar, wenn es erreichbar ist, und diese höchste Leistung ist bei uns freiwilliges Hungern. Wenn ich also jene Zeiten durchdenke – und für mein Leben gern wühle ich in ihnen – durchdenke ich auch die Zeiten die mir drohen. Es scheint, daß man fast ein Leben verstreichen lassen muß, ehe man sich von einem solchen Versuch erholt, meine ganzen Mannesjahre trennen mich von jenem Hungern, aber erholt bin ich noch nicht. Ich werde wenn ich nächstens das Hungern beginne, vielleicht mehr Entschlossenheit haben als früher, infolge meiner größeren Erfahrung und besserer Einsicht in die Notwendigkeit des Versuches, aber meine Kräfte sind geringer noch von damals her, zumindest werde ich schon ermatten in der bloßen Erwartung der bekannten Schrecken. Mein schwächerer Appetit wird mir nicht helfen, er entwertet nur ein wenig den Versuch und wird mich wahrscheinlich noch zwingen länger zu hungern als es damals nötig gewesen wäre. Über diese und andere Voraussetzungen glaube ich mir klar zu sein, an Vorversuchen hat es ja nicht gefehlt in dieser langen Zwischenzeit, oft genug habe ich das Hungern förmlich angebissen, war aber noch nicht stark zum Äußersten und die unbefangene Angriffslust der Jugend ist natürlich für immer dahin. Sie schwand schon damals inmitten des Hungerns. Mancherlei Überlegungen quälten mich. Drohend erschienen mir unsere Urväter. Ich halte sie zwar, wenn ich es auch öffentlich nicht zu sagen wage, für schuld an allem, sie haben das Hundeleben verschuldet, und ich könnte also ihren Drohungen leicht mit Gegendrohungen antworten, aber vor ihrem Wissen beuge ich mich, es kam aus Quellen, die wir nicht mehr kennen, deshalb würde ich auch, sosehr es mich gegen sie anzukämpfen drängt, niemals ihre Gesetze geradezu überschreiten, nur durch die Gesetzes-Lücken, für die ich eine besondere Witterung habe schwärme ich aus. Hinsichtlich des Hungerns berufe ich mich auf das berühmte Gespräch, im Laufe dessen einer unserer Weisen die Absicht aussprach, das Hungern zu verbieten, worauf ein Zweiter davon abriet mit der Frage: “Wer wird denn jemals hungern?” und der Erste sich überzeugen ließ und das Verbot zurückhielt. Nun entsteht aber wieder die Frage: “Ist nun das Hungern nicht eigentlich doch verboten?” Die große Mehrzahl der Kommentatoren verneint sie, sieht das Hungern für freigegeben an, hält es mit dem zweiten Weisen und befürchtet deshalb auch von einer irrtümlichen Kommentierung keine schlimmen Folgen. Dessen hatte ich mich wohl vergewissert ehe ich mit dem Hungern begann. Nun aber, als ich mich im Hunger krümmte, schon in einiger Geistesverwirrung immerfort bei meinen Hinterbeinen Rettung suchte und sie verzweifelt leckte, kaute, aussaugte bis zum After hinauf, erschien mir die allgemeine Deutung jenes Gespräches ganz und gar falsch, ich verfluchte die kommentatorische Wissenschaft, ich verfluchte mich der ich mich von ihr hatte irreführen lassen, das Gespräch enthielt ja, wie ein Kind erkennen mußte – freilich ein hungerndes – mehr als nur ein einziges Verbot des Hungerns, der erste Weise wollte das Hungern verbieten, was ein Weiser will, ist schon geschehn, das Hungern war also verboten, der zweite Weise stimmte ihm nicht nur zu, sondern hielt das Hungern sogar für unmöglich, wälzte also auf das erste Verbot noch ein zweites, das Verbot der Hundenatur selbst, der Erste erkannte dies an und hielt das ausdrückliche Verbot zurück, d. h. er gebot den Hunden nach Darlegung alles dessen, Einsicht zu üben und sich selbst das Hungern zu verbieten. Also ein dreifaches Verbot statt des üblichen einen und ich hatte es verletzt. Nun hätte ich ja wenigstens jetzt verspätet gehorchen und zu hungern aufhören können, aber mitten durch den Schmerz ging auch eine Verlockung, weiter zu hungern und ich folgte ihr, lüstern wie einem unbekannten Hund. Ich konnte nicht aufhören, vielleicht war ich auch schon zu schwach um aufzustehn und in bewohnte Gegenden mich zu retten. Ich wälzte mich hin und her auf der Waldstreu, schlafen konnte ich nicht mehr, ich hörte überall Lärm, die während meines bisherigen Lebens schlafende Welt schien durch mein Hungern erwacht zu sein, ich bekam die Vorstellung, daß ich nie mehr werde fressen können, denn dadurch mußte ich die freigelassen lärmende Welt wieder zum Schweigen bringen und das würde ich nicht imstande sein, den größten Lärm allerdings hörte ich in meinem Bauche, ich legte oft das Ohr an ihn und muß entsetzte Augen gemacht haben, denn ich konnte kaum glauben was ich hörte. Und da es nun zu arg wurde, schien der Taumel auch meine Natur zu ergreifen, sie machte sinnlose Rettungsversuche, ich begann Speisen zu riechen, auserlesene Speisen, die ich längst nicht mehr gegessen hatte, Freuden meiner Kindheit, ja ich roch den Duft der Brüste meiner Mutter; ich vergaß meinen Entschluß Gerüchen Widerstand leisten zu wollen oder richtiger, ich vergaß ihn nicht, mit dem Entschluß, so als sei es ein Entschluß der dazu gehöre, schleppte ich mich nach allen Seiten, immer nur paar Schritte und schnupperte, so als suchte ich die Speisen nur, um mich vor ihnen zu hüten. Daß ich nichts fand, enttäuschte mich nicht, die Speisen waren da, nur waren sie immer paar Schritte zu weit, die Beine knickten mir vorher ein. Gleichzeitig allerdings wußte ich, daß gar nichts da war, daß ich die kleinen Bewegungen nur machte aus Angst vor dem endgiltigen Zusammenbrechen auf einem Platz, den ich nicht mehr verlassen würde. Die letzten Hoffnungen schwanden, die letzten Verlockungen, elend würde ich hier zugrundegehn, was sollten meine Forschungen, kindliche Versuche aus kindlich glücklicher Zeit, hier und jetzt war Ernst, hier hätte die Forschung ihren Wert beweisen können, aber wo war sie? Hier war nur ein hilflos ins Leere schnappender Hund, der zwar noch krampfhaft eilig ohne es zu wissen immerfort den Boden besprengte, aber in seinem Gedächtnis aus dem ganzen Wust der Zaubersprüche nicht das geringste mehr auftreiben konnte, nicht einmal das Verschen, mit dem sich die Neugeborenen unter ihre Mutter ducken. Es war mir, als sei ich hier nicht durch einen kurzen Lauf von den Brüdern getrennt, sondern unendlich weit fort von allen, und als stürbe ich eigentlich gar nicht durch Hunger sondern infolge meiner Verlassenheit. Es war doch ersichtlich, daß sich niemand um mich kümmerte, niemand unter der Erde, niemand auf ihr, niemand in der Höhe, ich ging an ihrer Gleichgültigkeit zugrunde, ihre Gleichgültigkeit sagte: er stirbt und so würde es geschehn. Und stimmte ich nicht bei

Brief an den Vater (II, 6)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:50:32 +0000

Schelesen

Liebster Vater,

Du hast mich letzthin einmal gefragt, warum ich behaupte, ich hätte Furcht vor Dir. Ich wußte Dir, wie gewöhnlich, nichts zu antworten, zum Teil eben aus der Furcht, die ich vor Dir habe, zum Teil deshalb, weil zur Begründung dieser Furcht zu viele Einzelnheiten gehören, als daß ich sie im Reden halbwegs zusammenhalten könnte. Und wenn ich hier versuche Dir schriftlich zu antworten, so wird es doch nur sehr unvollständig sein, weil auch im Schreiben die Furcht und ihre Folgen mich Dir gegenüber behindern und weil überhaupt die Größe des Stoffs über mein Gedächtnis und meinen Verstand weit hinausgeht.

Reinschrift des Gruftwächter-Dramenfragments (I, 18)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:27:48 +0000

Kleines Arbeitszimmer, hohes Fenster, davor ein kahler Baumwipfel.

Fürst (am Schreibtisch im Stuhl zurückgelehnt, aus dem Fenster blickend)

Kammerherr (weißer Vollbart, jugendlich in ein enges Jakett gezwängt, an der Wand neben der Mitteltür)

Pause

Fürst (sich vom Fenster abwendend): Nun?

Kammerherr: Ich kann es nicht empfehlen, Hoheit.

Fürst: Warum?

Kammerherr: Ich kann im Augenblick meine Bedenken nicht genau formulieren. Es ist bei weitem nicht alles, was ich sagen will, wenn ich jetzt nur den allgemein-menschlichen Spruch anführe: Man soll die Toten ruhen lassen.

"Wie viel Worte…" (1900)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:08:24 +0000

Wie viel Worte in dem Buche stehn! Erinnern sollen sie! Als ob Worte erinnern könnten!

Denn Worte sind schlechte Bergsteiger und schlechte Bergmänner. Sie holen nicht die Schätze von den Bergeshöhn und nicht die von den Bergestiefen.

Aber es gibt ein lebendiges Gedenken das über alles Erinnerungswerte sanft hinfuhr wie mit kosender Hand. Und wenn aus dieser Asche die Lohe aufsteigt, glühend und heiß, gewaltig und stark und Du hineinstarrst, wie vom magischen Zauber gebannt, dann – – – –

Betrachtung. Für F. B.

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:14:15 +0000

Kinder auf der Landstraße

Entlarvung eines Bauernfängers

Der plötzliche Spaziergang

Entschlüsse

Der Ausflug ins Gebirge

Das Unglück des Junggesellen

Der Kaufmann

Zerstreutes Hinausschaun

Der Nachhauseweg

Die Vorüberlaufenden

Der Fahrgast

Kleider

Die Abweisung

Zum Nachdenken für Herrenreiter

Das Gassenfenster

Wunsch, Indianer zu werden

Die Bäume

Unglücklichsein

Kinder auf der Landstraße

Ich hörte die Wagen an dem Gartengitter vorüberfahren, manchmal sah ich sie auch durch die schwach bewegten Lücken im Laub. Wie krachte in dem heißen Sommer das Holz in ihren Speichen und Deichseln! Arbeiter kamen von den Feldern und lachten, daß es eine Schande war.

2. Barnabas

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:55:25 +0000

Sie saßen dann zudritt ziemlich schweigsam in der Wirtsstube beim Bier, an einem kleinen Tischchen, K. in der Mitte, rechts und links die Gehilfen. Sonst war nur ein Tisch mit Bauern besetzt, ähnlich wie am Abend vorher. “Es ist schwer mit Euch”, sagte K. und verglich wie schon öfters ihre Gesichter, “wie soll ich Euch denn unterscheiden. Ihr unterscheidet Euch nur durch die Namen, sonst seid Ihr Euch ähnlich wie” – er stockte, unwillkürlich fuhr er dann fort – “sonst seid Ihr Euch ja ähnlich wie Schlangen. " Sie lächelten. “Man unterscheidet uns sonst gut”, sagten sie zur Rechtfertigung. “Ich glaube es”, sagte K., “ich war ja selbst Zeuge dessen, aber ich sehe nur mit meinen Augen und mit denen kann ich Euch nicht unterscheiden. Ich werde Euch deshalb wie einen einzigen Mann behandeln und beide Artur nennen, so heißt doch einer von Euch, Du etwa? – " fragte K. den einen. “Nein”, sagte dieser, “ich heiße Jeremias.” “Gut, es ist ja gleichgültig”, sagte K., “ich werde Euch beide Artur nennen. Schicke ich Artur irgendwohin so geht Ihr beide, gebe ich Artur eine Arbeit, so macht Ihr sie beide, das hat zwar für mich den großen Nachteil, daß ich Euch nicht für gesonderte Arbeit verwenden kann, aber dafür den Vorteil, daß Ihr für alles was ich Euch auftrage, gemeinsam ungeteilt die Verantwortung tragt. Wie Ihr unter Euch die Arbeit aufteilt ist mir gleichgültig, nur ausreden dürft Ihr Euch nicht aufeinander, Ihr seid für mich ein einziger Mann. " Sie überlegten das und sagten: “Das wäre uns recht unangenehm.” “Wie denn nicht”, sagte K., “natürlich muß Euch das unangenehm sein, aber es bleibt so. " Schon ein Weilchen lang hatte K. einen der Bauern den Tisch umschleichen sehn, endlich entschloß er sich, gieng auf einen Gehilfen zu und wollte ihm etwas zuflüstern. “Verzeiht”, sagte K., schlug mit der Hand auf den Tisch und stand auf, “dies sind meine Gehilfen und wir haben jetzt eine Besprechung. Niemand hat das Recht uns zu stören. " “Oh bitte, oh bitte”, sagte der Bauer ängstlich und ging rücklings zu seiner Gesellschaft zurück. “Dieses müßt Ihr vor allem beachten”, sagte K. dann wieder sitzend, “Ihr dürft mit niemandem ohne meine Erlaubnis sprechen. Ich bin hier ein Fremder und wenn Ihr meine alten Gehilfen seid, dann seid auch Ihr Fremde. Wir drei Fremde müssen deshalb zusammenhalten, reicht mir darauf hin Euere Hände. " Allzu bereitwillig streckten sie sie K. entgegen. “Laßt Euch die Pratzen”, sagte er, “mein Befehl aber gilt. Ich werde jetzt schlafen gehn und auch Euch rate ich das zu tun. Heute haben wir einen Arbeitstag versäumt, morgen muß die Arbeit sehr frühzeitig beginnen. Ihr müßt einen Schlitten zur Fahrt ins Schloß verschaffen und um sechs Uhr hier vor dem Haus mit ihm bereitstehn. " “Gut”, sagte der eine. Der andere aber fuhr dazwischen: “Du sagst: Gut und weißt doch daß es nicht möglich ist. « “Ruhe”, sagte K., “Ihr wollt wohl anfangen, Euch von einander zu unterscheiden. " Doch nun sagte auch schon der erste: “Er hat recht, es ist unmöglich, ohne Erlaubnis darf kein Fremder ins Schloß. " “Wo muß man um die Erlaubnis ansuchen?” “Ich weiß nicht, vielleicht beim Kastellan. " “Dann werden wir dort telephonisch ansuchen, telephoniert sofort an den Kastellan, beide. " Sie liefen zum Apparat, erlangten die Verbindung – wie sie sich dort drängten, im Äußerlichen waren sie lächerlich folgsam – und fragten an ob K. mit ihnen morgen ins Schloß kommen dürfe. Das “Nein” der Antwort hörte K. bis zu seinem Tisch, die Antwort war aber noch ausführlicher, sie lautete: “weder morgen noch ein anderesmal.” “Ich werde selbst telephonieren”, sagte K. und stand auf. Während K. und seine Gehilfen bisher, abgesehen von dem Zwischenfall des einen Bauern, wenig beachtet worden waren, erregte seine letzte Bemerkung allgemeine Aufmerksamkeit. Alle erhoben sich mit K. und trotzdem sie der Wirt zurückzudrängen suchte gruppierten sie sich beim Apparat in engem Halbkreis um ihn. Es überwog unter ihnen die Meinung, daß K. gar keine Antwort bekommen werde. K. mußte sie bitten ruhig zu sein, er verlange nicht ihre Meinungen zu hören.

The Uncle

Sat, 07 Apr 2007 15:00:59 +0000

In his uncle’s house, Karl quickly got used to the new surroundings. His uncle came to him kindly with every little thing, and from the first Karl never had to learn from harsh experience, which embitters most of those starting a new life in a foreign land. Karl’s room lay on the sixth floor of a building, whose five other floors (and three more underground), were taken up with the business operations of his uncle. The light that penetrated into his room through two windows and a balcony door always brought Karl to astonishment whenever he walked out of his small bedroom in the mornings. Where would he have been forced to live if he had scrambled his way onto land as a poor, little immigrant? Perhaps – and his uncle, with his knowledge of immigration law, held this to be highly likely – they would never have allowed him into the United States but would instead have sent him home, not bothering themselves with the fact that he didn’t have a homeland anymore. Because no one was allowed compassion here, and what Karl had read about America in this respect was entirely correct; here, only the lucky seemed to really enjoy their luck among the untroubled faces of their friends. A narrow balcony stretched along the entire length of the room. However, what would have been the highest overlook in Karl’s home country allowed here for no more than a glance across a street which ran between two rows of rigidly squared-off buildings as it flew into the distance, where the shape of an enormous cathedral rose up from the heavy mist. And in the morning, as well as in the evening, and also in his dreams at night, this street continued on with the always pressing traffic that from above looked like an eternally new beginning, a sprinkled-together mix of distorted human-like figures and the roofs of a variety of wagons from which rose up a new, multiplying, wilder mix of noise, dust and stink, and all of this was seized and penetrated by a terrific light, which again and again scattered from the mass of objects, was carried away and was eagerly brought back and which seemed so real to the bewitched eyes, it was as if this street were covered with a sheet of glass that was forever being shattered with great strength every moment. Careful as the uncle was in everything, he advised Karl, for now, not to commit himself seriously. He should test and examine everything, but never allow himself to start anything. The first days of a European in America were comparable to a birth, and although Karl didn’t have much to fear, because you settled into things here faster than if you had just stepped from the hereafter into the human world, you would need to see that your first impression would stand on weak legs and that perhaps you should not let that impression bring into disarray all your future judgments, with whose help you would be continuing your life here. He himself had known of newcomers, for example, who instead of acting according to these good principles, had stood for days at a time on the balcony and gazed onto the street like lost sheep. That would certainly confuse things! The lonely idleness of staring at an industrious New York day would be permissible on a pleasure trip, and maybe even, with a few qualifications, recommended, but you could surely say, even if you exaggerated, that it would spell utter ruin for someone who had to stay here. And his uncle actually made a cross face when he found Karl on the balcony during one of his visits, which he always made once a day and always at a different time of day. Karl noticed this right away and consequently refused himself, as much as possible, the pleasure of standing on the balcony. It was not the only pleasure that he had. An American writing desk sat in his room, of the best sort, like his father had wanted for years and had tried to buy at all different kinds of auctions for a cheap and reasonable price, without ever having succeeded, on account of his small income. Of course, this desk was not to be compared to those allegedly American desks that hang around at European auctions. It had, for example, a hundred compartments of varying sizes in its top part, and the President of the Union himself would have been able to find a fitting place for each of his files, but there was also a regulator on the side, and you could, with a turning of the crank, achieve a variety of rearrangements and new fittings suited to your pleasures and demands. Thin partitions on the side sank lazily and formed a new floor picking itself up or a ceiling rising with new compartments; even after one turning, the top part had a completely changed display, and everything moved according to how you turned the crank, either slowly or unreasonably fast. It was the newest of inventions, but it reminded Karl vividly of the nativity play back home, shown to astonished children at the Christmas Fair, and Karl had also stood there in front of it, packed into his winter clothes, and without interruption had compared the turning of the crank, which an old man guided along, to the effects on the nativity play: the faltering procession of the three holy kings, the radiance of the star and the hesitant life in the holy stable. And always, it seemed that his mother standing behind him wasn’t following the events nearly enough, he pulled her to himself until he touched her with his back and pointed out to her with loud shouting all the hidden aspects, perhaps a rabbit that alternately stood up from the grass like a tiny man and then made at a run, until his mother covered his mouth and, most likely, fell into her earlier carelessness. Admittedly, the desk hadn’t been made to remind him of such things, but in the history of inventions a similarly vague connection probably existed as it did in Karl’s memory. The uncle, as opposed to Karl, was not happy with the desk, he had even wanted to buy an ordinary desk for Karl, and such desks were all provided with the same new fittings, which had the advantage that they could be attached to older desks without bringing in a huge cost. After all, his uncle did not refrain from advising Karl to, if possible, not use the regulator; to reinforce the effectiveness of this advice, his uncle claimed that the machinery was very touchy, easy to ruin and very costly to restore. It wasn’t difficult to see that these comments were just excuses, although on the other hand you had to say that the regulator was very easy to lock in place and yet his uncle had never done so. In those first days, when frequent conversations naturally had taken place between Karl and his uncle, Karl had said that he could play the piano – only a little, with the basic knowledge his mother had given him, but he greatly enjoyed it. Karl was fully aware that such an explanation was simultaneously a request for a piano, but he had looked around enough to know that his uncle in no way needed to economize. Nevertheless, this request had not been granted right away, but about eight days later his uncle said, almost as if he were grudgingly confessing it, that the piano would be installed, and Karl, if he wanted, could supervise the transport. Altogether it was light work, but not one bit easier than the transporting itself, because the building had its own freight elevator, in which an entire moving van could fit without trouble, and in this elevator the piano floated up to Karl’s room. Karl could have traveled in the same elevator as the movers and the piano, but right beside it stood a personal elevator free for use; he traveled in this one, held himself at the same height with the other elevator by means of a lever and looked fixedly through the glass walls at the beautiful instrument that was now his property. When he had it in his room and struck the first note, he received such a foolish joy that, instead of continuing to play, he sprang and stared at it in amazement from a distance, his hands on his hips. The acoustics of the room were admirable as well, and it took away his initial, small unease at living in an iron house, entirely allowing that unease to disappear. Actually you also noticed that even though the room seemed so metallic from the outside, not the smallest detail of its iron construction could be seen, and nothing could disturb the complete comfort of its furnishing. Karl hoped for quite a bit from his piano playing after the first few times and wasn’t the least bit ashamed to ponder while half-asleep the direct influence this piano playing could possibly have on his American relationships. When he played an old soldier’s song from his homeland, which the soldiers sing from window to window as they lean out of the barracks windows and look out at the dark square, it resonated oddly in the noise-filled air of his open window – but he looked across the street, it was so unchanged and just a small piece of a giant cycle that no one could stop without knowing all the powers effecting that cycle. The uncle tolerated the piano playing, said nothing against it, especially because Karl, without having to be told, only rarely allowed himself the pleasure of playing, and he even brought Karl the sheet music to American marches and also, of course, the national anthem, but it wasn’t the joy of music which forced him to ask one day if he would not want to learn the violin or French horn as well. Of course learning English was Karl’s first and most important task. A young professor from a trade school appeared at seven o’clock in the morning in Karl’s room and found him already sitting at his writing desk with his exercise book or committing something to memory as he paced back and forth in the room. Karl saw he could never be in enough of a rush to learn English and that it was through quick progress that he could make his uncle extraordinarily happy. And while at first his uncle had been limited to greetings and goodbyes, soon an ever greater portion of the conversations were done in English, so that at the same time intimate topics began to turn up. The first American poem Karl was able to recite, the description of a fire, made his uncle deep and serious with contentment. At the time they both stood by a window in Karl’s room where the brightness of the sky had already passed. The uncle stared out of it and struck his hands together at length and at regular rhythm with the verse, while Karl stood next to him with rigid eyes and struggled through the difficult poem. The better Karl’s English became, the greater his uncle showed a desire to bring him together with his associates, and he arranged for the English professor, for the time being, to always be somewhere near Karl at such meetings. The very first associate, whom Karl was introduced to in the morning, was a thin, young, unbelievably supple man, whom the uncle led into Karl’s room with special compliments. It was obviously one of those millionaire’s sons who has turned out rather badly from the standpoint of his parents, whose life has gone enough lost so that an ordinary person wouldn’t be able to follow any one of this young man’s days without pain. And since he knew or suspected this, whenever he met others, there was in his lips and eyes an incessant smile at his good luck, so far as he could manage, which seemed to apply not only to the people across from him but also to the entire world. With this young man, a Mr. Mak who came completely approved by his uncle, it was mentioned that they together, at half past five in the morning, should go to a riding school or ride in the open air. Karl hesitated to accept at first, since he had never yet sat on a horse and wanted first to learn a little about riding, but since his uncle and Mak tried so hard to persuade him that riding wasn’t an art, it was pure pleasure and healthy exercise, he finally agreed. Now he had to get out of bed at half past four and regretted it, because he suffered from drowsiness due to all of the steady attention he had to spend during the day, but he lost his regret once in the bathroom. The sieve of the shower spanned the entire length and breadth of the tub – which of his schoolmates back home, be they ever so rich, possessed so much just for themselves – and there Karl lay outstretched, in this shower he could spread out his arms and allow the streaming of the lukewarm, then hot, then lukewarm again and finally icy water just as he liked, either over part of him or all of him. How he laid there in the few remaining pleasures of sleep, catching gladly with his closed eyelids the last, individual, falling drops, which opened up and fell over his face. At the riding school, where his uncle’s automobile dropped him off from on high, the English professor waited for him prepared, whereas Mak always came later. But he could afford to come later, because the lively riding only really began when he was there. Didn’t the horses rear up from their present nap when he entered, didn’t the whip crack more loudly throughout the room, didn’t there suddenly appear a revolving gallery of different persons, spectators, horse-attendants, riding students or whatever else they might be? Karl made the most of his time before Mak’s arrival, running through only the most basic of preparatory riding exercises. There was a taller man there, who could reach the highest spot on a horse’s back with scarcely an outstretched arm and who always gave Karl his lesson, which only lasted a quarter of an hour. The successes Karl achieved there were not particularly great, and he learned in passing some English cries and complaints, which he uttered during these lessons breathlessly to his English professor, who always leaned against the same gatepost, most of the time very much in need of sleep. But almost all dissatisfaction with the riding stopped when Mak came. The tall man was shipped off, and you heard almost nothing else in the always half-dark hall but the hoofs of the galloping horses, and you saw almost nothing else but Mak’s outstretched arm, with which he gave Karl commands. After a half-hour of this pleasure passing away like sleep, it was called to a stop, Mak was in a great hurry, said goodbye to Karl, if he had been satisfied with the riding he clapped him on the cheek, and went out through the door by himself, on account of his great hurry. Karl then took the professor with him in the automobile, and they traveled to their English lesson, because traveling through the heavy traffic of the large road, which led directly from the riding school to his uncle’s house, would have cost too much time. Besides, soon enough the English professor stopped accompanying him, because Karl, who felt guilty for needlessly bothering a tired man at a riding school, asked his father to relieve him of this duty, since his English communication with Mak was very simple. After some reflection, the uncle gave in to this request. It took a relatively long time before the uncle made up his mind to allow Karl a small look at his business, although Karl had often asked for this. It was a forwarding and receiving business such as wasn’t found in Europe, so far as Karl could remember. The business existed chiefly as a middleman, which, however, didn’t just ship the goods from producers to consumers or sometimes to dealers, but instead handled the shipment of goods and raw materials to the great factory conglomerates and also handled the trading in-between them. It was therefore a business concerned with a tremendous undertaking of buying, storing, transporting and selling, and it needed to support by telephone and telegraph the ceaseless communication with clients. The hall of the telegraphs wasn’t smaller than but larger than the telegraph station in his home city, which Karl had once been led through with the help of a knowledgeable schoolmate. Wherever you went in the hall of telephones, you saw the doors of the telephone boxes opening and closing, and the noise tangled up the senses. The uncle opened the closest of these doors, and you saw in the spreading electric light one of the employees, indifferent to the clamor of the doors, whose head was spanned by a steel band that pressed the headphones down upon his ears. His right arm, as if it were especially heavy, lay on a small table, and only the fingers twitched inhumanly steady and fast as they held a pencil. He was very sparse with the words he spoke into the funnel, and you even saw he might have had an objection to something coming out of the speaker, he wanted to ask for something more precise, but upon hearing a few certain words, he was forced to lower his eyes and write before he could carry out his intention. He must not speak, the uncle explained to Karl, because the same report that this man is taking down is being taken down by two other employees and then compared, so that the errors will most likely be cut out. At the same moment that Karl and the uncle were walking out the door, a trainee slipped in and came out afterwards with the transcription. Right through the middle of the hall, a constant traffic rushed here and there. No one said hello, helloes had been abolished, everyone attached himself to the steps of the person in front of him, walking ahead and looking at the floor on which he wanted to hurry along, or otherwise glancing at a few words or numbers on the paper which fluttered with his footsteps as he held it in his hand. “You’ve really brought it far,” Karl said once during a walk through the company, which took many days to look through, even if you only glanced at each department. “And I’ve set it up myself over thirty years, you must know. I once had a small store by the harbor, and if, in one day, five boxes were unloaded, it was so very much and I went home all puffed up. Today, I have the third largest warehouse on the docks, and that store is now the dining room and tool shed for the sixty-fifth group of my longshoremen.” “That borders on the miraculous,” Karl said. “Everything develops very quickly for you here,” the uncle said, breaking off the conversation. A day came when the uncle showed up just in time for dinner, which Karl thought he would take alone as usual, and he invited Karl to dress dark and formal and come with him to a dinner, where two business friends would be in attendance. While Karl changed in the next room, the uncle sat down at the writing table and looked through Karl’s English notebooks, slamming his hand on the table and yelling loudly, “How distinguished!” Doubtless, when Karl heard this praise, his dressing went all the better, even though he was already fairly sure about his English. In his uncle’s dining room, which still stuck in his memory from the first evening of his arrival, two tall, large men rose in greeting, the first a certain Green, the second a certain Pollunder, which became obvious during the table conversation. The uncle took care to say scarcely one careless word about either of his colleagues, and it was always left to Karl to figure out through observation their essential or interesting characteristics. During the meal only intimate business matters were discussed, which meant a good lesson in business expressions for Karl, and it allowed Karl to busy himself with his meal, as if he were a child, who had to be allowed to eat until it was full, until Mr. Green bent over to Karl and asked, with an unmistakable effort to speak in the clearest possible English, what were Karl’s first impressions of America. Enveloped by a deathly silence, Karl answered in a somewhat detailed manner, glancing sidelong now and then at his uncle and seeking to thank them through some pleasant New Yorker expressions. At one such expression all three gentlemen laughed together, and Karl was afraid he had made a crude mistake, but no, Mr. Pollunder explained, so far he had spoken quite successfully. This Mr. Pollunder seemed to get a special pleasure out of Karl, and while the uncle and Mr. Green returned to the business conversation, Mr. Pollunder let Karl shift his chair closer to him, asking Karl at first many things about his name, his origins and his trip until he finally allowed Karl to rest as he himself laughed, coughed and hurriedly told Karl about himself and his daughter, with whom he lived on a small estate near New York, where he could only spend time in the evenings, because he was a banker and his job held him in New York all day. Karl was immediately invited in a most cordial fashion to come out to this estate, such a fresh, new American needed to take a break from New York sometimes. Karl asked his uncle at once for permission to accept this invitation, and his uncle gave this permission, apparently with joy but without naming a specific date or even allowing consideration of it, as Karl and Mr. Pollunder had expected. But already by the next day Karl was ordered into the uncle’s office – his uncle had ten different offices in this building alone – where he found both his uncle and Mr. Pollunder lounging in easy chairs, somewhat taciturn. “Mr. Pollunder,” the uncle said, he was barely recognizable in the evening dimness of the room. “Mr. Pollunder has come to take you to his estate, like we said yesterday.” “I didn’t know it would be today,” Karl answered. “Otherwise I would’ve prepared.” “If you’re not ready, perhaps we should move the visit to a better time,” the uncle said. “What’s this about preparation?” Mr. Pollunder yelled. “A young man is always prepared.” “It is not on his account,” the uncle said to his turning guest, “but he would still have to go into his room and you would be delayed.” “Now is a good time,” Mr. Pollunder said. “I took delays into consideration and closed my business early.” “You can see,” the uncle said, “what kind of troubles your visit has already caused.” “I’m sorry,” Karl said, “but I’ll be right back,” and wanted by now to spring away. “Don’t rush yourself,” Mr. Pollunder said. “You’re not causing me the slightest trouble, on the contrary, your visit makes me nothing but happy.” “You’ll miss tomorrow’s riding lesson, did you cancel it?” “No,” Karl said. The trip he had taken great joy in was starting to become a burden. “I didn’t think –” “And despite this you’re going to go away?” the uncle continued to ask. Mr. Pollunder, that friendly man, came over to help. “We’ll stop by the riding school and put things in order.” “That sounds acceptable,” the uncle said. “But Mak will be expecting you.” “He won’t be expecting me,” Karl said, “but he’ll manage.” “Is that so?” the uncle said, as if Karl’s answer wasn’t the least bit justified. Again Mr. Pollunder voiced the deciding factor. “But Klara” – she was Mr. Pollunder’s daughter – “she expects him too, moreover she expects him this evening, and certainly she has value over Mak?” “Certainly,” the uncle said. “So go into your room already,” and he slapped the armrest of the easy chair a few more times, as if he had no choice. Karl was already by the door when his uncle held him back with one question: “Will you be here for your English lesson early in the morning?” “But!” Mr. Pollunder cried and twisted himself around in his armchair for astonishment, so far as his girth allowed. “Isn’t he allowed to stay at least until tomorrow? I’ll bring him back early the day after tomorrow.” “That is not a possibility,” replied the uncle. “I cannot allow his studies to come into such disarray. Later, when he has his own regular, working life, I will gladly permit him more time to follow such a cordial and honorable invitation.” “What a contradiction!” Karl thought. Mr. Pollunder had become depressed. “For an evening and a stay overnight, it’s almost not worth the trouble.” “That is what I meant,” the uncle said. “You take what you can get,” Mr. Pollunder said, and laughed again. “So I wait!” he called to Karl, who, since he didn’t say anything else, hurried away. When he came back ready for travel, he only found Mr. Pollunder in the office, his uncle had gone away. Mr. Pollunder shook both of Karl’s hands happily, as if he wanted to make sure as much as possible, that Karl was still coming with. Karl, still worked up from all the hurry, shook Mr. Pollunder’s hands in return, he was very happy to take the trip. “Wasn’t my uncle upset with my going?” “Not at all! He didn’t mean that seriously. He just takes your education to heart.” “Did he say to you that he didn’t mean all that earlier stuff so seriously?” “Oh, yes,” Mr. Pollunder said, stretching it out to prove he couldn’t be lying. “It’s strange he only reluctantly gave me permission to visit you, even though you’re his friend.” Though he wouldn’t confess to it, Mr. Pollunder couldn’t find an explanation for that, and both thought longer about it as they traveled through the warm evening in Mr. Pollunder’s automobile, even though they spoke of different things. They sat close to one another, and Mr. Pollunder held Karl’s hand in his as he explained. Karl wanted to hear a lot about this young lady Klara, as if he were impatient with the long trip and could, with the help of these explanations, get there earlier than he really would. Although he had never traveled through the streets of New York at night, and even though they changed directions as if in a whirlwind and the noise raced by as if not caused by man but by some strange element, Karl, as he tried to pick up Mr. Pollunder’s words, concerned himself with Mr. Pollunder’s dark vest, over which a golden chain quietly hung. On the streets, where people were brought to the theaters in a great hurry on foot and in vehicles with a great and undisguised fear of being late, they came through some transitioning areas into the suburbs, where their automobile was guided again and again into side streets by police officers on horseback, because the large streets were for the demonstration of striking metalworkers, and only the important traffic could be allowed into the intersections. The automobile crossed through dark, musty, echoing alleys into a street as large as a plaza, and on either side the view never seemed to end, the sidewalks were filled with a moving mass of tiny steps, whose song was more uniform than the human voice. Where the street was cleared away, however, you saw police on motionless horses, or flag-carriers, or banners spanning the street, or colleagues or orderlies surrounding the union boss, or an electrical streetcar that hadn’t gone fast enough and now stood empty and dark while the boss and the conductor sat on the platform. Small groups of the curious stood far off from the actual demonstration and wouldn’t give up their spots even though they weren’t too sure about the entire event. Karl, however, leaned happily on the arm which Mr. Pollunder had thrown around him, convinced that he would soon be a welcome guest in an illuminated country house surrounded by walls and guarded dogs, and it did him a world of good, and when he began to feel sleepy, he no longer perfectly understood everything Mr. Pollunder said, so he picked himself up from time to time and rubbed his eyes, in order to see if Mr. Pollunder noticed his sleepiness, because he wanted at all cost to keep him from knowing that.

Reading for Constructions of the Unspeakable: Teaching Kafka’s Metamorphosis

Sat, 13 Nov 2004 18:20:27 +0000

by Margaret Sönser Breen

Introduction

One of the most challenging issues confronting secondary and university teachers is how to teach subjects that have been labelled “off limits,” either by school boards or institutional policies or, more pervasively if vaguely, by cultural norms. Discussions of non-normative or minority genders and sexualities are for this reason muted or silenced within educational contexts, ironically the very contexts ostensibly committed to social change and betterment. Teachers are often caught in a battle between idealism and pragmatism: how is one to afford students opportunities for thinking about such typically unspeakable matters as non-normative genders or sexual practices if, in doing so, teachers face the very real risk of not being tenured or of losing their jobs? In this paper I consider the importance of training students to recognize that the construction of meaning through language, whether in literature or culture at large, is a political process that renders certain subjects legitimate and others illegitimate. I begin by briefly examining one of the most disturbing contemporary examples of language as political process: American (U.S.) rhetoric immediately following the September 11 attacks. This rhetoric works to identify and de-legitimate various cultural subjects as subjects; in effect, subjects become “others.” So, for example, in the rhetoric produced post September 11, women, gays and lesbians, Muslims, and Arabs were all variously deemed “suspect” subjects, capable of threatening dominant social norms. Discussion of contemporary examples of the rhetorical production of cultural “others” serves as a useful segue for an analysis of literary texts or, more particularly, for moments in literature engaged in censoring their subjects or transforming those subjects into something improper or suspect. The literary text on which I focus is Kafka’s 1915 novella, The Metamorphosis. A chilling tale of how social policing and surveillance work to silence accounts of gender (as well as racial and sexual) transgression, The Metamorphosis offers students an allegory for the dehumanizing social construction of non-normative groups. My paper argues that by reading texts (in this case specifically Kafka’s novella) as fundamentally political, as offering representations of various ways in which populations are controlled, the teacher provides students with an epistemological framework not only for recognizing constructions of the unspeakable in their lives but also for identifying the pedagogical dilemma of how to teach what may not be taught-the “don’t ask, don’t tell” power play of an ostensibly “open” society-that so many teachers face. Reading for the construction of the unspeakable (the suspect subject) works then, ultimately, to radicalize the educational process for students and teachers alike within a society fueled at least in part by various forms of prejudice such as homophobia and heterosexism.

A Reply to Dix' «Kafka Imagining America»

Fri, 12 Nov 2004 14:53:39 +0000

by Justin N. Smolin

I must admit, I have neither the knowledge nor the expertise to write a proper response to such a brave and finely written essay; however, I do wish to set out a few objections which occur to me against Dr. Dix’ thesis.

The thing that most troubles me (and I am not ashamed of stating it out right, although to do so is to risk offence and misunderstanding) is the essay’s anti-Americanism, which (although it couches itself in Kafka’s language), seems to me to be at heart only a variant of the sort of vague, Europhile anti-Americanism so widely prevalent in the sort of academic circles Dr. Dix presumably frequents. I am not convinced that this sort of anti-Americanism is really wrong; it is a natural reaction against the arrogant, unilateralist behavior of the world’s only superpower, and, as such, it plays a positive role as a badly needed counterbalancing force. However, even in its role as a positive force, it is clearly a part of the system of social interactions Dr. Dix is urging us to withdraw from. That Amerika is a book intent on dissembling (and therefore in some way eliminating) social structure, I am inclined to agree with; that it is a book that, in some indirect manner, reflects a European criticism of the utopian America of Kafka’s time, I am also inclined to agree with. But to construct from this a definite anti-Americanism, and to attempt to identify this new anti-Americanism with Kafka, Dickinson, and even literature itself, seems to me to be dishonest, an underhanded capitulation to the sort of fashionable political attitudes Kafka would have turned up his nose at (or, at the very least, ignored).

(SP:) A For Apple

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:58:57 +0000

by Dominique Mao

An apple may only cost only two dollars Hong Kong, but is it really that cheap? The ordinary apple is actually both common and special. Other than starting with the first alphabet A, and ironing in air, apple represents wisdom and knowledge. Also, it made a grand entrance into human life in Genesis, the first chapter of New Testaments from the Bible. Apples appear in short stories and poetry, because Christianity plays an important role in literature. However, Christianity and literature are two completely different topics, yet they are closely related. Why?

Gespräch mit Frau Grubach / Dann Fräulein Bürstner

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:31:27 +0000

In diesem Frühjahr pflegte K. die Abende in der Weise zu verbringen, daß er nach der Arbeit wenn dies noch möglich war – er saß meistens bis neun Uhr im Bureau – einen kleinen Spaziergang allein oder mit Bekannten machte und dann in eine Bierstube gieng, wo er an einem Stammtisch mit meist ältern Herren gewöhnlich bis elf Uhr beisammensaß. Es gab aber auch Ausnahmen von dieser Einteilung, wenn K. z. B. vom Bankdirektor der seine Arbeitskraft und Vertrauenswürdigkeit sehr schätzte zu einer Autofahrt oder zu einem Abendessen in seiner Villa eingeladen wurde. Außerdem gieng K. einmal in der Woche zu einem Mädchen namens Elsa, die während der Nacht bis in den späten Morgen als Kellnerin in einer Weinstube bediente und während des Tages nur vom Bett aus Besuche empfieng.

Der Onkel

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 16:40:28 +0000

Im Hause des Onkels gewöhnte sich Karl bald an die neuen Verhältnisse. Der Onkel kam ihm aber auch in jeder Kleinigkeit freundlich entgegen und niemals mußte Karl sich erst durch schlechte Erfahrungen belehren lassen, wie dies meist das erste Leben im Ausland so verbittert.

Karls Zimmer lag im sechsten Stockwerk eines Hauses, dessen fünf untere Stockwerke, an welche sich in der Tiefe noch drei unterirdische anschlossen, von dem Geschäftsbetrieb des Onkels eingenommen wurden. Das Licht, das in sein Zimmer durch zwei Fenster und eine Balkontüre eindrang, brachte Karl immer wieder zum Staunen, wenn er des Morgens aus seiner kleinen Schlafkammer hier eintrat. Wo hätte er wohl wohnen müssen, wenn er als armer kleiner Einwanderer ans Land gestiegen wäre? Ja vielleicht hätte man ihn, was der Onkel nach seiner Kenntnis der Einwanderungsgesetze sogar für sehr wahrscheinlich hielt, gar nicht in die Vereinigten Staaten eingelassen sondern ihn nach Hause geschickt, ohne sich weiter darum zu kümmern, daß er keine Heimat mehr hatte. Denn auf Mitleid durfte man hier nicht hoffen und es war ganz richtig, was Karl in dieser Hinsicht über Amerika gelesen hatte; nur die Glücklichen schienen hier ihr Glück zwischen den unbekümmerten Gesichtern ihrer Umgebung wahrhaft zu genießen.

The Man Who Disappeared: Kafka Imagining Amerika

Fri, 12 Nov 2004 14:44:08 +0000

by Douglas Shields Dix

(A reply to this article by Dr Smolin can be read here )

Introduction

“The problem is not that of being free but of finding a way out…”-Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Kafka: pour une littérature mineure

Between 1911 and 1914, Franz Kafka wanted to disappear. More precisely, he desperately sought a way out of the existential predicament of his life as he had been living it then, and towards a life that would yield him the necessary conditions to allow him to follow his chosen path of writing. It was during this period that he came to realize that the only true way out was through writing itself. He imagined other ways out, and even experimented with several, but in the end he closed all the doors he had opened, forcing himself to cross the threshold of the only door he would or could ever open–that of literature. It was during this period that he most despaired of ever becoming a writer, and yet it was during this period that he finally succeeded in becoming one to his own satisfaction (and he was always his most demanding critic). This particular passage in his life is worth dwelling upon because it gives a key to his later work, even if the novel he intended to be his initiation into serious literature during this period was ultimately abandoned, and even held in low esteem by its creator, who referred to it later in his diary as the “lowlands of writing” (in comparison to his having finished, in one sitting, the first piece of writing he felt justified his calling himself a writer-the story Das Urteil/The Judgment).

Essays about The Metamorphosis

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 20:52:04 +0000

An extensive collection of essays and student papers is available in the Special Issue on The Metamorphosis

(SP:) An Explanation of The Metamorphosis

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:57:47 +0000

by Marji Ellard

I read Franz Kafka’s story the Metamorphosis, and I decided to write about Gregor, the main character and how he acted when he was a cockroach and the difference between him then and when he was human.

Before Gregor was changed into a cockroach, his family respected him for taking care of the family, but kind of tried to keep their distance. They expected him to go to work, though, and anytime after that was his to do as he pleased. But he never seemed to be doing anything anyway.

Kafka~Samsa. Reality Through Symbolism

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 10:08:21 +0000

by Robbie Batson

It is unusual to say the least to open a book and the first line is about the main character waking up as a large insect. Most authors’ use symbolism to relate the theme of their work, not Franz Kafka. He uses a writing method that voids all aspects and elements of the story that defy interpretation. In doing this, he leaves a simple story that stands only for an objective view for his own thoughts and dreams. Kafka focuses the readers’ attention on a single character that symbolizes himself and his life, not Everyman as some authors do. This method is displayed in most of his literary works. To understand how this method is recognized, readers must study the author’s background during the period of writing and basic history to understand this author’s motive. In his short story, “The Metamorphosis”, there are multiple similarities between Kafka’s true life and Gregor Samsa’s.

(SP:) Franz Kafka’s personal life reflected in the Metamorphosis

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:56:33 +0000

by J. Stephens

The Metamorphosis is said to be one of Franz Kafka’s best works of literature. It shows the difficulties of living in a modern society and the struggle for acceptance of others when in a time of need. In this novel Kafka directly reflects upon many of the negative aspects of his personal life, both mentally and physically. The relationship between Gregor and his father is in many ways similar to Franz and his father Herrman. The Metamorphosis also shows resemblance to some of Kafka’s diary entries that depict him imagining his own extinction by dozens of elaborated methods. This paper will look into the text to show how this is a story about the author’s personal life portrayed through his dream-like fantasies.

(SP:) The Dependence and Freedom of Kafka's 'Metamorphosis'

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:54:31 +0000

by Elizabeth McCarty

One of Franz Kafka’s most well-known and most often criticized works is the short story, “Die Verwandlung,” or “The Metamorphosis.” “The Metamorphosis” is most unusual in that the first sentence is the climax; the rest of the story is mainly falling action (Greenburg 273). The reader learns that Gregor Samsa, the story’s main character, has been turned into an enormous insect. Despite this fact, Gregor continues to act and think like any normal human would, which makes the beginning of the story both tragic and comical at the same time. However, one cannot help but wonder why Gregor has undergone this hideous transformation, and what purpose it could possibly serve in the story. Upon examination, it seems that Gregor’s metamorphosis represents both his freedom from maintaining his entire financial stability and his family’s freedom from their dependence upon Gregor.

(SP:) An Essay On 'The Metamorphosis'

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:50:57 +0000

by Liliana Jimenez

In the metamorphosis by Frank Kafka, there are significants actions and transformations which make the story sad, and strange with a happy ending. Explanations that are dramatic events that intensify the excitement of all these actions. Reality and refection play and important role in this story because the events that happened could be applied and assimilated with modern society.

The story is very sad and realistic, some of the things that are related in Kafka’s story can be found in modern families today. Gregor was a man who sacrifies himself working to pay his father’s debts, instead off on his own where he could prospered. Gregor never was recognized by his family of all the efforts that he did, he was taken for granted and he was expected to support the family but never considering what his needs and wants might be. When Gregor became a bug, that was the moment when they started to see how important Gregor was financially. As a result his mother, father and sister had to work together, in order support themselves. This could be applied in the real world when people do not really recognize anyone’s values or good actions. Sometimes when it is too late is that people start to appreciate, but in Kafka’s story Gregor never was appreciate by anyone.

(SP): The Metamorphosis: A Strange, Strange Book

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:47:51 +0000

By Matthew D – 11/99

The metamorphosis very possibly was written by Kafka as an outlet for his feelings of isolation and helplessness. In it, the protagonist, Gregor Samsa, awakens one morning to find himself spontaneously “transformed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.” The story continues from there in a most realistic fashion: his family rejects him, and he stays cooped up in his room until he dies. Although interpretations of the story differ, my opinion is that Kafka wrote this story as a protestation, whether consciously or unconsciously, of his own inner needs not being met. Franz Kafka suffered from severe mental disorientation. This man suffered severe tragedies as a child: as the first child of Hermann and Julie Kafka, he lived to see two brothers born and die before he was six years old. Although they were eventually replaced by three new sisters, Kafka began his life with tragedies which most people do not experience until they are much older. Kafka lacked parental guidance, as he and his sisters were brought up mostly by governess. He was a Jew, and lived in Czechoslovakia, but he went to German schools. Therefore Kafka masked himself twice, at the bidding of his father. His father had made himself into a successful businessman, and expected Kafka to do the same. Most of Kafka’s stories contain or center around an over-domineering, almost frightening father figure. Kafka obeyed his father. He remembered his high school education as being meaningless and dull, but, out of obedience to his father, he completed it, and passed with flying colors. This switching to a less offending option in order to offend no one characterizes Kafka very well. He possessed a wonderful mind but rarely, if ever, directly expressed himself. Instead, he wrote a story of a man who, trapped in circumstances beyond his control, tries his best to conform to people’s expectations, particularly those of his father, but in the end finds this conformity impossible. Franz Kafka, in his novella The Metamorphosis, explores the concept of total mental isolation.

(SP:) Some thoughts about The Metamorphosis. By B. Herzog

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:46:07 +0000

B. Herzog

What is Kafka’s identification between man and beast; discuss the symbolic and literal meanings of the beast?

i think that the identification kafka makes between man and beast here is simply that some people- and i stress some people- are regarded as nothing more than beasts by other people, but it isn’t really a conscious decision to do so. and it is important to understand that this whole identification depends on this subconscious point of view. it is not that the people really are beasts, or that kafka is saying that they are beasts- i think what he is saying is that, when he looks at society around him, he sees some people treating some others as beasts. and basically, when the term beast is used, the best way to explain what it means is to say “beast of burden.” in the story, gregor’s family and boss saw him no differently than they would view, perhaps, a horse on a farm. he did his work, he worked hard, and he didn’t much communicate with them. this was what they had come to expect from him, and they really had no interest in changing it, as they were caught up in their own pursuits and concerns. but really, i personally don’t think the term “beast” is right for this application. in the story, gregor turned into an insect, and i think this is so many times more resounding to symbolize what gregor had become to his family and boss- and later on to the boarders. i mean, being seen similar to a horse is one thing- people like horses, little kids love horse, people feed the at petting zoos, and let their children ride on them at county fairs. horses are mammals, warm-blooded, soft, and i think that, even though we might think that we are better than them and they should serve us, there is no animosity towards them. with insects, however, it’s completely different. most people i know _hate_ insects, and smash them whenever they see them climbing on a wall or walking on the sidewalk. and people are afraid of insects, too, because they are small, hard, organized, usually don’t make any noise- at least vocally/intelligibly. the noise they do make is usually just a very intimidating buzz- and humans don’t like this. in fact, insects are not at all human, and have no real personalities. horses, on the other hand, and other beasts of burden, do, or at least humans can project a personality onto them. because of this, i think, we can identify more with mammals, feel safe with them, because we can make them sort of like us, or think of them in our own terms. but with insects, this usually isn’t possible. since we can’t get to know insects, or be friendly with them, we are afraid of them and hate them. this is why, i think, kafka chose an insect for the being gregor turns into. it fulfills all the requirements of what significance a beast had above, when you think of a drone or worker bee, or something like that, but it also goes one step further. it removes gregor from the three dimensional human world and puts him into the two dimensional world. after he changed, his family had no idea what to do: how to treat him, relate to him, communicate with him, etc. right after he changed, and got over the initial shock of it, they understood he was gregor, and still saw him as gregor, but that quickly faded. okay, at this time, i think i need to give you my quick synopsis of the story. before the beginning of the story, that is to say, before gregor changed, he was a hard worker. he did his job, kept to himself, and supported his family. this is all his family saw him as. in literary terms, he was a flat character to them. but in reality, he wasn’t. he hated his job. the work was very strenuous on him. and he was a human as anyone, which means that he was constantly changing. not very much, but a little each day, the same way everyone changes a little as the progress through life. however, despite his changes, his family and boss still saw him as they had before- as the faithful and dependable worker. they had him rooted into this image, they were comfortable with it, so they never really looked at him again to keep updated with his changes as a person- they say him for what they wanted him to be, and not for what he really was. then comes the beginning of the story, where gregor “suddenly” completely changes. i say “suddenly” because it was only sudden to everyone but gregor. i mean, to gregor, he was constantly changing, be he could not notice it, no more that you can notice yourself change or grow. but to his family and boss, though, it was sudden. to them, one day, gregor was good old gregor, and the next, he was something completely different. the reasons that this came upon them all at once was because they had ignored him, and not really seen him, up until them. much like when a distant aunt sees you when you’re five, and then doesn’t see you again until you’re ten, and she rants and raves about how big you’ve gotten. to you, you haven’t changes much, because you’ve seen yourself grow all along, and it’s nothing new to you. you compare yourself to the person you were the last time you checked- which might have been yesterday. she, though, compares you to the person you were the last time she checked, which was five years ago. and to her, you have undergone a metamorphosis. so to is the same thing happening in the story. gregor was indeed changing all along, and finally it got to a point that he was no longer at all like the image his family had of him, and they were forced to take notice. what they now say, though, was so foreign to them, and so frightening to them that it was the same as seeing their son turned into an insect. and then, the most pivotal point in the story (to me) comes right after they get over the initial shock of seeing him again for the first time. this point is how they will treat gregor from now on. at first, they treat him somewhat well, but after that it just deteriorates and they fall farther and farther away from him. this can be seen in the slow process of removing things from his room. this symbolizes his progression into a flat, two dimensional character- by taking his furniture and other things from his room, they are making him less and less human. epitomized in the instance where they take his dresser or something (i can’t remember, i haven’t read this story in awhile), the single thing he liked to climb on, away from him. and this can go on and on, their inability to let go for seeing gregor as he really is, and ever convicting him to be what they want him to be. eventually, this inability of theirs, their fear and whatever else, ruins their lives, and gregors. they can’t deal with it, and they take him down, too. oh, but there is one other point i would like to touch on- this is gregor’s speech, meaning, his voice, the way he talks, etc. in the beginning of the story, he can still speak english, and his family can still understand him. however, his ability to speak english quickly goes away, and his family can no longer understand him. basically, it is the understanding part that is most important. to his family, the new gregor was so unfathomable that he wasn’t even speaking english anymore- and other attempts to communicate with them all failed, and i think i recall it was for their lack of openness that they did fail. however, in reality, gregor was still speaking english- at least, he was thinking english. since gregor was unaware of his personal changes, really, he had essentially not changed (i think i also recall in the beginning of the story, gregor trying to plead to them that it was still him, still their beloved gregor. he knew he hadn’t changed.)- so he could still understand himself when he spoke and thought. but his family could not. this whole story was a recounting of their view of the situation, and not of reality. but subjective realities is another topic for another time.

The Metamorphosis. By G.S. Trujillo (Spanish version)

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:44:06 +0000

La Metamorfosis es la historia de un viajante de comercio, Gregor Samsa, que una mañana se despertó convertido en un monstruoso insecto. Y no se trata de un sueño, sino de una metamorfosis real, simple y llanamente, sin ninguna retórica de por medio. Ante este hecho increíble Kafka no hace concesiones realistas, y mantiene la nueva condición de su personaje hasta el final. Esto hace de La Metamorfosis una obra de ficción dura, a la manera de La Odisea (con la que está muy relacionada, además), o los cuentos de hadas del Medioevo, particularmente aquellos en los que una malvada hechicera convierte al Príncipe Azul en un animal repugnante.

The Metamorphosis. By G.S. Trujillo (English version)

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:38:55 +0000

The Metamorphosis is the story of a commercial traveler, Gregor Samsa, that one morning awoke turned into a gigantic insect. It is no dream but, simply and plainly, a real metamorphosis with no rhetoric in between. Facing this incredible fact, Kafka does not do any realistic concessions and keeps the new condition of the character to the end. That makes of The metamorphosis a hard work of fiction, in the way of Odyssey (with which, besides, it is closely related) or in the way of the Medieval fairy tales, specially those in which the wicked witch turns The Prince Charming into a hideous animal. From the other side, the work, that belongs to a trilogy about marriage in relation to the individual, the family and the so-ciety written by Kafka, has a highly autobiographical contain. In The Judgment the subject is the engagement assumed as a treason to the literary calling; in The metamorphosis there is a view of marriage and family relations from a masochistic and incestuous perspective; in The Trial, it is the settlement of accounts, related with the incapacity of accomplishing the acquired compro-mises, according to an unwritten law, he must pay. In the three cases, the story ends with the protagonist’s death. The Metamorphosis is built on a fiction level with two faces, Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky and Venus in Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, superposed in a way they get in contact with a real level with two faces too, the family relations and his dreams of Felice. By the merging of theses two levels, Kafka gets a fantastic reality which allows him to express his deepest dreams and desires in relation with marriage and sex in a poetic language that turns The Metamorphosis into a classic of erotism, aspect not considered until now. (Such a pleiad, Kafka, Sacher- Masoch and Dostoesky, met in The Metamorphosis turns into a height of masochism this work). PART ONE The Metamorphosis has three parts: the first one describes both the transformation of Gregory and his family’s reaction to this respect; the second part shows the new cotidianity of the fami-liar group whose fragile estability crush with Gregory and sis-ter’s bringing face to face; and the last part, where we attend Gregory’s frustrated attemp of reconquering his sister, ends with his death. The foreground onto which Kafka builds his work is Dostoevsky’s novel. This one brings to him a textual base that he lightly, mainly through substitutions, varies for adapting it to the intentions of his own story. For the first part of The Meta-morphosis, Kafka takes three awakenings of Raskolnikov -as an animal, as a murderer and as a guilty man-. With them he assembles the first scenes of the narrative. Taken into account the scenes Kafka selects from Crime and Punishment, the traditio-nal version of an angelical Gregory, victim of both family and society, results a suspicious one. The Metamorphosis begins with the awakening of Gregory as an insect. In a first paragraph that makes part of the unforgetable beginnings of literature, Kafka describes it: “As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect. He was lying on his hard, as it were armor-plated, back and when he lifted his head a little he could see his domelike brown belly divided into stiff arched segments on top of which the bed quilt could hardly keep in position and was about to slide off completely. His numerous legs, which were pitifully thin compared to the rest of his bulk, waved helplessly before his eyes.” This extraordinary beginning is a variant of the beginning of the third chapter of the first part of Crime and Punishment, where Dostoevsky describes the state of abandonment and loneliness at which Raskolnikov, whom he portraits as a withdrawed-into-his-shell animal, is: “He waked up late next day after a broken sleep. But his sleep had not refreshed; he waked up bilious, irritable, ill-tempered, and looked with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard of a room about six paces in length. It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty yellow paper peeling off the walls…” “…He (Raskolnikov) had got completely away from everyone, like a tortoise in its shell…”. The Metamorphosis insect is born when Kafka, using one of his most powerful tools: literalness, turns the “vermin”, the “bug”, the “creep”, the “aesthetic louse” Raskolnikov is into a “real insect”. Through literalness, Kafka dismantles the metaphore that supports the “moral insect” leaving just the “insect” without qualifiers. In the world of literature, never before had metapho-re been explored to such limits. Diving to words essence, Kafka makes of his style a style hard like a rock and transparent like fresh water. There is a theory at the origin of the carved Raskolnikov’s tragedy according to which people are divided in “ordinary” and “extraordinary people”, with the last one allowed to transgress law when it interposes on the road of a glorious destiny. The case of Napoleon particularly seduced Raskolnikov, who wanted to test his theory through a moral esperiment and, by this way, decide whether Raskolnikov himself was a Napoleon or a “trembling animal”. However, Raskolnikov was not a Napoleon but a “aesthetic louse”: “A Napoleon would not get in under an old pawnbroker’s bed!”. Kafka takes his character from Raskolnikov’s wombs but he does not make of him his equal for, if Raskolnikov dreams of being apoleon, Gregory, according to the portrait hung on one of the Samsa’s family dinning room walls, is Napoleon: “Right opposite Gregor on the wall hung a photograph of himself in military service, as a lieutenant, hand on sword, a carefree smile on his face, inviting one to respect his uniform and military bearing”. In one of his diary notes dated october 17th, 1911, Kafka mentions this image that likes him very much: “When I think of this anecdote: In the Court of Erfurt at the royal table Napoleon refers a story: When I was a simple lieutenant at the fifth regiment…(the royal highnesses turbed look each other; noticing this Napoleon corrects himself), When I had the honor of being a simple lieutenant…” my neck arteries swell with a pride that, lightly in agreement with the protagonist, artificially emotions me". Kafka continues the first scene bringing in the murder’s after-noon when, about six thirty, Raskolnikov awakes without having done any preparations for the crime. His has to stay in the old woman’s house at seven, time at which she’ll be alone. Raskolni-kov thinks he is living a nightmare and cannot imagine himself yet taking an ax, and cracking the skull of the old woman. In his turn, Gregory reflects on what is happening to him and wonders whether everything is just a nightmare, whether he must forget all his fantasies and hurry up and take the train that leaves at seven. No matter the clock hands continue running, Raskolnikov does not get to decide to leave his bed. Both Gregory and Raskolnikov are short of time and their final reaction is the same: “Gregor’s eyes turned next to the window… (then) “He looked at the alarm clock ticking on the chest”. -(Raskolnikov) “Suddenly he heard a clock strike. He started, roused himself, raised his head, looked out of the window, and seeing how late it was, suddenly jumped up…” Gregory: “Heavenly Father! He thought. It was half-past six o’clock and the hands were quietly moving on…” -(Raskolnikov) “and meanwhile perhaps it had struck six.”(…) “It struck six long ago” “Long ago! My Good!”. “His (Gregory’s) samples weren’t even packed up” and for Raskol-nikov: “It seemed to him strange and monstrous that he could (…) had done nothing, had preparing nothing yet…” Finally: “Seven o’clock already”, he said to himself when the alarm clock chimed again, “seven o’clock already and still such a thick fog.” (Raskolnikov): “Suddenly a clock somewhere struck once. ‘What! can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it must be fast!” Kafka recreates a third awakening, the one that starts Crime and Punishment second part where Raskolnikov is now a murderer. He, as soon as commits the crime, comes back to his room where pass a night between delirium and nightmare. Next morning violent knocking at his door wake him up. Not knowing which way to turn, he is seized with terror for he thinks somebody has came for him because of his crime. It is the porter and the maid who have came for bringing him a notice from the police (office). The maid (Nastasya) ask Raskolnikov about his health and the reasons for passing the bolt inside as if now he were afraid of being robbed: “Then who can have latched the door?” retorted Nastasya. “He’s taking to bolting himself in! As if he where worth stealing! Open, you stupid, wake up!” In The Metamorphosis it is the family that appears in the scene. They, as soon as notice Gregory still remains in his room, knock the door and say the time to him. Then, they ask him if he is ill that he does not open the door. By any means, however, Gregory does not think to open and he congratulates himself for being in the habit, acquired in his business trips, of locking in his room even at home. The type and sequence of the scenes choised by Kafka for assam-bling the text of the first part are coherent with the base story and undoubtly Gregory, like Raskolnikov, is guilty. Guilty of what? Whast was his crime? The answer to these questions is in the second paragraph and in front of Gregory’s bed. He (Gregory) as soon as notice his transformation, look as Samson could look at Delilam before losing his eyesight: “What has happened to me? he thought. It was no dream. His room, a regular human bedroom, only rather too small, lay quiet between the four familiar walls. Above the table on which a collection of cloth samples was unpacked and spread out -Samsa was a commercial traveler- hung the picture which he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and put into a pretty gilt frame. It showed a lady, with a fur cap on and a fur stole, sitting upright and holding out to the spectator a huge fur muff into which the whole of her forearm had vanished!” Gregory is not a murderer in the way of Raskolnikov but an ultra-sentimental who is mad about a very well known woman, Venus in Furs, whose original portrait was in St. Petersburg, home of Raskolnikov, the St. Petersburg’s friend. Gregor Samsa shares his desire object with his double, Sacher-Masoch, with whom he him-self identifies till the point of assuming, secretly and trough a permutation, Sacher-Masoch’s identity: Gregor Samsa is an anagra-me of this name. Moreover, Severino Kusinski, the protagonist of Venus in Furs, as slave and by command of his owner, the Furs’ Lady, takes the name “Gregory” instead of his name. With this, the identification proves to be multiple. As Brod said, without imagine until what point, those impure women affairs beared upon Kafka’s very much. Since The Metamorphosis, Kafka uses a technique consisting of hanging on the walls portraits of important characters of the work that act behind the scenes, changing the course of the original narrative which serves as a textual support. The second fictional ground, Venus in Furs, give us the identities of the protagonists through two things, a portrait and a name. Much was argued over Kafka’s work and over the presence or absence of keys in it. Those who thought of an affirmative answer to this matter where in a losing position for these keys were never found. Then the work of Kafka gave rise to endless interpretations. Gregor Samsa -Sacher-Masoch- is Franz Kafka. Consequently, the portrait lady -Wanda Dunaiev- is Felice Bauer, his brilliant girlfriend who inspires the story to him. In a letter of november 1st, 1912, to Felice, Kafka points out the close relation that exists between Felice and his work, and refers to The Metamorpho-sis’ genesis when he confess to her that since the afternoon when he wrote to her for the first time, “I have had a feeling as if in my chest there were a gap through which a sucking and uncon-trolled power pull in and out muy wombs till one night in bed when, remembering a biblical story, both the need of that feeling and the veracity of the story at once were evident to me”. Kafka does not say to Felice anything about what story is he talking but, undoubtly, it is the story that acts as epigrame in Sacher-Masoch’s novel: “The Lord Almighty punished him, into a woman’s hand he put him” (judith 16, chapter VII). Kafka must have to see with horrible precision that “since Holofernes and Agamenon until now, voluptuosity, the blind passion, has always drove man to the breast woman offers to him… Misery, slavery, death”. In Severino-Gregory’s diary we read: “I had breakfast under the green vault and began to read the book of Judith, envying the rage of Holofernes, The Gentile, the real woman that beheaded him and even his beautiful death.” “The Lord Almighty punished him, into a woman’s hand he put him.” This phrase annoys me. How little courteous the Jewish! Their God could choice a better expression for the gentle sex. “The Lord Almighty punished him, into a woman’s hand he put him, “Meanwhile I repeated to me. What could I do to be punished?” Venus in Furs is inspired in the baroness Fanny von Pistor, a woman of “strange, diabolical beauty, o redish hair which splendor defied any description, with something magic and fascinating like a snake’s gaze” whom Leopold von Sacher-Masoch idealizes in Wanda Dunaiev, the protagonist of the novel. Sacher-Masoch, who repeatedly dreamt of a beautiful sultana enslaving him in a tur-kish palace, molds in this work his femenin ideal: an opulent woman, in furs, and with a whip at a hand that inflicts any sort of punishments and humilliations everything in accordance with a contract previously signed between Severino Kusinski and Wanda Dunaiev, in which clauses he accepts to be her slave and to allow her to do with him anything she wants. A serious one question to Sacher-Masoch as shows the fact of making real his fantasy of formalizing a contract (with Aurore Rümelin who, adopting the name of Wanda, the protagonist of the novel, enchanted, accepted to enslave the writer with whom she got married later. Thus, Sacher-Masoch became converted in the fictional character he himself had imagined and reated. For Kafka, things develop in a different way. He starts from a fantasy - Venus in Furs- inspired by a real relationship -with Felice Bauer- to which he gets satisfaction through a fiction in The Metamorphosis. For Him, literature functions like a mechanism that gives him, and also satisfies, his fantasies. In the case of The Metamorphosis, literature allows him to live a marriage in a literary virtuality that acts as a substitution of the real, so exorcised, marriage. For that reason, the ideal that inspires the work and the ideal that embodies it are, in Venus in Furs, two women acting as poles between which literature -fiction- circula-tes, and, in The Metamorphosis, a same and only woman -Felice Bauer- circulating between the two poles of fiction. On the other hand, this woman that serves as a “driver” for Kafka’s fantasy does not need to be a beautiful baroness since actually Kafka, while seeing Felice for the first time mistook her for a maid at whom, from the beginning and owing to the infernal bright of her gold teeth, he was unable to look face to face. Gregory, while surrendering himself to the furs lady who have enslave him, has turn into a insect and does not know yet whether that condition is a permanent or a temporary one. His bedroom door separates both the world of fantasy and the world of rea-lity, where his family and job are and demand him. Gregory does not feel like facing reality til the moment the chief clerk comes and hints that Gregory wants to steal from the store. The, Gre-gory gets to leave his bed and, walking at the door, opens it with difficulty. The chief clerk yells and backs away when Gre-gory goes out off the room, the mother faints and the father burst out crying. Gregory tries to calm the clerk who thinks to lay him off, but the man goes hastily. This upsets Gregory’s father who drives Gregory back into his room stamping his feet loudly while flourishing a walking stick in his right hand and a large newspaper in the left. In this dramatic scene, one of the best achieved of the story, and inspired in the meeting of Raskolnikov with his mother and sister, in his little room of St. Petersburg, that ends the first part, Kafka gives us an idea of his familiar and labor rela-tionships, both extremely bad indeed for the days of narration. The father appears brute and tyrannic. The mother is shown like a weak human being with no character. In regard to the sister, perhaps to show politeness with all his sisters (unlike with his father with whom he mutually and decisively hates, as Kafka writes to Felice a week before beginning the narrative, he says to get on well together with all of them) Kafka sends her for the doctor, putting her farther away of the scene. Forever condemning himself to animality, Gregory will not be a free man nevermore. This is a voluntary, unknown for his family, transformation. Among them and as far as the know something like this had occurred never before. Nor among their neighbors such a thing had happened. Therefore, Gregory’s metamorphosis is consi-dered as a real damnation. Hindering them of having their usual life, Gregory tortures his family till infrahuman limits and seizes the words of the “Notes from the Underground” embittered mouse, one of his direct ancestors: “I know I torture you, I cause you suffering, I do not allow anybody at home to sleep. Well, don’t sleep, realize each time my teeth ache. For you, now, I am not a heroe as I tried to look before; I am a despicable being, an idler. Nothing cares me! I feel happy of you knowing me as I am. Does listening to my vile wails disgust you very much? Well, disgust you. Now you will see what a warbling I have prepared for you!” At the beginning, Kafka conceived The Metamorphosis as a short story, (just the first part). Therefore it would be a little jewel of black humor with intimate erotic resonances, hardly perceived indeed, and assimilated with a simple dream by the confused reder if the initial plan of the work would have been mantained. But once Kafka ends the first part, he feels an “unlimited desire of melting himself in the story, a “wild desire” of prolonging it. And in November 23rd he writes to Felice that the “short story” “silently begins to become a longer one”. The story entitled “The Metamorphosis” is “a little bit dreadful”. Next day, he reads the first part to his friends and they, according to Max Brod’s testimony, supose it is the reading of a whole work. (Later, when Musil, in order to publish The Metamorphosis in Die Neue Rundschau German Magazine, asks Kafka to cut out a third part of the work, Kafka answers suggesting to publish only the first part, and in this way, the story is reduced in two-third parts. Musil is disconcerted with the proposal but not as much as Kafka is). On November 24th, a Sunday, when the mentioned reading of Kafka to his friends take place, he introduces the story to Felice with the next terms: My Love, how extremely repulsive is the story I have just put to one side to try to recover myself thinking of you. I have advanced a bit and a half and, in his entirity, I am not unhappy with it. But nauseating as it is in an unlimited manner, and things like these, you see, come from the same heart you live in, and tolerate as home. Don’t be sad for that since, who knows, perhaps as much as I write and free myself, purer and worthier of you I will become. However there are many things in me it is necessary even to take out, and nights could not be long enough for a task, in the highest degree, besides, so voluptuous.”

«Macht er sich einen Narren aus uns?» by Friedgard Thoma

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:37:47 +0000

» Unmoralischer Versuch über Franz Kafkas Erzählung «Die Verwandlung»

„Es gibt wenig sicheres, aber das gehört dazu, daß wir niemals zusammenleben werden, in gemeinsamer Wohnung, Körper an Körper, bei gemeinsamem Tisch, niemals […] Fast hätte ich jetzt gesagt, es scheine mir das so gewiß, wie die Gewißheit, daß ich morgen früh nicht aufstehn (ich allein soll mich heben! Ich sehe mich dann unter mir wie unter einem schweren Kreuz, bäuchlings niedergedrückt, schwer habe ich zu arbeiten, ehe ich mich wenigstens ducken kann und der Leichnam über mir sich ein wenig hebt) und nicht ins Bureau gehen werde.[…] Doch nimm das über das Aufstehn nicht zu wörtlich, so schlimm ist es nicht; daß ich morgen aufstehn werde, ist immerhin gewisser als die fernste Möglichkeit unseres Zusammenlebens.“ Kafka an Milena, Prag im September 1920

El kafkiano caso de la Verwandlung que Borges jamás tradujo. By Fernando Sorrentino

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:35:16 +0000

Compré el libro —pequeño formato, tapas desvaídamente anaranjadas— en abril de 1962. La portada dice textualmente: Franz Kafka / La / metamorfosis / Traducción y Prólogo de / Jorge Luis Borges / (Cuarta edición) / Editorial Losada, S. A. / Buenos Aires. Es el nº 118 de la muy popular y agradable Biblioteca Contemporánea; esta cuarta edición data del 29 de enero de 1962 y reproduce1 el texto aparecido por primera vez (15 de agosto de 1938) en la colección La Pajarita de Papel, que dirigía Guillermo de Torre.

Kafka: Die Verwandlung (1912)

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:22:20 +0000

Arbeitsfragen:

Welche Haltung nimmt Gregor Samsa gegenüber seiner Verwandlung ein (von Anfang bis Ende!)
Die Reaktion der Umwelt auf seine Verwandlung
Welche “Verwandlungen” vollziehen sich im Verhältnis der Familienmitglieder zueinander?
Welche biographischen Bedingungen Kafkas lassen Parallelen zur vorliegenden Erzählung erkennen? (Beilage)
Mit welchen sprachlichen Mitteln verstärkt Kafka die Irritation des Lesers? (Einstieg durch Vorlage der eigenen Randnotizen erleichtern)

Zu 3) Zunächst unauffällige, “normale” Familie: Sohn Gregor als Familienerhalter, umgeben von Vater, Mutter, Schwester (beachte S.21/22). Sein Liegenbleiben (= nicht die Norm) sorgt sofort für Beunruhigung, am deutlichsten bei der Schwester (“klagte leise”, “..mach auf, ich beschwöre dich”).

Lecture on "The Metamorphosis" by Vladimir Nabokov

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:32:07 +0000

Of course, no matter how keenly, how admirably, a story, a piece of music, a picture is discussed and analyzed, there will be minds that remain blank and spines that remain unkindled. “To take upon us the mystery of things”—what King Lear so wistfully says for himself and for Cordelia—this is also my suggestion for everyone who takes art seriously. A poor man is robbed of his overcoat (Gogol’s “The Greatcoat,” or more correctly “The Carrick”); another poor fellow is turned into a beetle (Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis)—so what? There is no rational answer to “so what.” We can take the story apart, we can find out how the bits fit, how one part of the pattern responds to the other; but you have to have in you some cell, some gene, some germ that will vibrate in answer to sensations that you can neither define, nor dismiss. Beauty plus pity—that is the closest we can get to a definition of art. Where there is beauty there is pity for the simple reason that beauty must die: beauty always dies, the manner dies with the matter, the world dies with the individual. If Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis” strikes anyone as something more than an entomological fantasy, then I congratulate him on having joined the ranks of good and great readers.

Gregor Samsa as Functional Deviant. A Hypothetical Interpretation by Friedrich Nietzsche

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:30:23 +0000

by Russell McNeil

My dear friends:

Suppose all that you have always valued in your lives was shown to you to be: illusion. What would it be like to turn truth on her head? To have your precious beliefs, maxims, platitudes, and traditions inverted and distorted beyond recognition? To suddenly realize that what is good, is bad; what is beauty, is foul; what is virtue, vice?

Essay Topics for Kafka's Metamorphosis

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:20:58 +0000

A first help to give a frame to your paper

Comment on the significance of the title “The Metamorphosis.”
Construct an interpretation of The Metamorphosis based on your account of why Gregor Samsa “found himself in his bed transformed into a monstrous vermin.”
What role do the boarders play in The Metamorphosis?
Compare the metamorphosis of Gregor Samsa with the awakening of Edna Pontellier.
Can Freud’s notions of Eros and the death instinct illuminate Gregor’s plight?

Special issue: The Metamorphosis.

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 14:18:49 +0000

English Translations, Essays, Student Papers (SP)

Heft 3

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:52:28 +0000

XI (Oktober) 1911 Donnerstag.

Gestern hat Löwy den ganzen Nachmittag “Gott Mensch u. Teufel” von Gordon und dann aus seinen eigenen Tagebüchern von Paris vorgelesen. Vorgestern war ich bei der Aufführung des wilden Menschen von Gordon. – Gordon ist deshalb besser als Lateiner, Scharkansky, Feimann u. s. w. weil er mehr Details, mehr Ordnung und mehr Folgerichtigkeit in dieser Ordnung hat, dafür ist hier nicht mehr ganz das unmittelbare, förmlich ein für alle mal improvisierte Judentum der andern Stücke, der Lärm dieses Judentums klingt dumpfer und daher wiederum weniger detailliert. Es werden allerdings dem Publikum Koncessionen gemacht und manchmal glaubt man sich recken zu müssen um über die Köpfe des Newyorcker jüdischen Teaterpublikums weg das Stück zu sehn, (die Gestalt des wilden Menschen, die ganze Geschichte der Frau Seldes) schlimmer aber ist daß auch irgendeiner geahnten Kunst greifbare Koncessionen gemacht werden, daß z. B. im wilden Menschen die Handlung einen ganzen Akt flattert infolge von Bedenken, daß der wilde Mensch menschlich undeutliche, litterarisch aber so grobe Reden hält daß man lieber die Augen schließt, ebenso ist das ältere Mädchen in G. M. und Teufel. Sehr muthig ist teilweise die Handlung des “w. M. “. Eine junge Witwe heirathet einen alten Mann, der vier Kinder hat, und bringt gleich ihren Liebhaber den Wladimir Worobeitschik mit in die Ehe. Nun ruinieren die zwei die ganze Familie, Schmut Leiblich (Pipes) muß alles Geld hergeben und wird krank, der älteste Sohn Simon (Klug) ein Student verläßt das Haus, Alexander wird ein Spieler und Säufer, Lise (Tschisik) wird Dirne und Lemech (Löwy), der Idiot wird gegenüber der Frau Selde von Haß, weil sie an Stelle seiner Mutter tritt, und von Liebe, weil sie die erste ihm nahe junge Frau ist, in einen idiotischen Wahnsinn gebracht. Die so weit getriebene Handlung löst sich mit der Ermordung der Selde durch Lemech. Alle andern bleiben dem Zuschauer in unvollendeter hilfloser Erinnerung. Die Erfindung dieser Frau und ihres Liebhabers, eine Erfindung die niemanden um seine Meinung fragt hat mir unklares verschiedenartiges Selbstvertrauen gegeben.

"Ich entlief ihr…" (II, 16)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:21:20 +0000

Ich entlief ihr. Ich lief den Abhang hinunter. Das hohe Gras hinderte mich im Laufen. Sie stand oben bei einem Baum und sah mir nach.

Hier ist es unerträglich. Gestern sprach ich mit Jericho. Er sitzt in eine Ecke gedrückt und liest die Zeitung. Ich sagte: “Jericho, werden Sie für mich stimmen?” Er schüttelte nur den Kopf und las weiter. Ich sagte: “Ich will Ihre Stimme nicht als irgendeine beliebige Stimme. Ich werde doch keinesfalls genug Stimmen haben, mein Mißerfolg ist sicher. Aber

"Er blickt aus dem Fenster…" (II, 7)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:53:43 +0000

Er blickt aus dem Fenster. Ein trüber Tag. Es ist November. Ihm scheint, daß zwar jeder Monat seine besondere Bedeutung hat, der November aber noch einen besondern Zusatz von Besonderheit. Vorläufig ist davon allerdings nichts zu sehn, es fällt bloß ein mit Schnee untermischter Regen. Aber das ist vielleicht nur der äußere Anblick, der immer täuscht, denn da sich die Menschen als Gesammtheit allem gleich anpassen und man doch zunächst nach dem Anblick der Menschen urteilt, sollte man eigentlich niemals eine Veränderung der Weltlage wahrnehmen können. Aber da man auch selbst ein Mensch ist, seine Anpassungskämpfe kennt und von ihnen aus urteilt, erfährt man doch einiges und weiß was man davon zu halten hat, daß der Verkehr unten nicht stillsteht sondern straße auf straße ab mit verbissener unermüdlicher undurchdringlicher Überlegenheit sich in Gang erhält.

Oktavheft B (I, 19)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:30:16 +0000

Ich war steif und kalt, ich war eine Brücke, über einem Abgrund lag ich, diesseits waren die Fußspitzen, jenseits die Hände eingebohrt, in bröckelndem Lehm hatte ich mich festgebissen. Die Schöße meines Rockes wehten zu meinen Seiten. In der Tiefe lärmte der eisige Forellenbach. Kein Tourist verirrte sich zu dieser unwegsamen Höhe, die Brücke war in den Karten noch nicht eingezeichnet. So lag ich und wartete; ich mußte warten; ohne abzustürzen kann keine einmal errichtete Brücke aufhören Brücke zu sein. Einmal gegen Abend, war es der erste war es der tausendste, ich weiß nicht, meine Gedanken giengen immer in einem Wirrwarr, und immer immer in der Runde – gegen Abend im Sommer, dunkler rauschte der Bach, hörte ich einen Mannesschritt. Zu mir, zu mir. Strecke Dich Brücke, setze Dich in Stand, geländerloser Balken, halte den Dir Anvertrauten, die Unsicherheiten seines Schrittes gleiche unmerklich aus, schwankt er aber, dann gib Dich zu erkennen und wie ein Berggott schleudere ihn ans Land. Er kam, mit der Eisenspitze seines Stockes beklopfte er mich, dann hob er mit ihr meine Rockschöße und ordnete sie auf mir, in mein buschiges Haar fuhr er mit der Spitze und ließ sie, wahrscheinlich weit umherblickend, lange drin liegen. Dann aber – gerade träumte ich ihm nach über Berg und Tal – sprang er mit beiden Füßen mir mitten auf den Leib. Ich erschauerte in wildem Schmerz, gänzlich unwissend. Wer war es? Ein Kind? Ein Turner? Ein Waghalsiger? Ein Selbstmörder Ein Versucher? Ein Vernichter? Und ich drehte mich um, ihn zu sehn. Brücke dreht sich um! Ich war noch nicht umgedreht, da stürzte ich schon, ich stürzte und schon war ich zerrissen und aufgespießt von den zugespitzten Kieseln, die mich so friedlich immer angestarrt hatten aus dem rasenden Wasser.

"Man darf nicht sagen:…" (1906)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:10:22 +0000

Man darf nicht sagen: Nur die neue Vorstellung erweckt ästhetische Freude, sondern jede Vorstellung, die nicht in die Sphäre des Willens fällt, erweckt ästhetische Freude. Sagt man es aber doch dann würde es bedeuten nur eine neue Vorstellung können wir derart aufnehmen, daß unsere Willenssphäre nicht berührt wird, nun ist es aber sicher, daß es neue Vorstellungen gibt welche wir nicht ästhetisch werten, welchen Theil der neuen Vorstellungen werten wir also ästhetisch? Die Frage bleibt. b Es wäre nothwendig, die “ästhetische Apperception” einen bisher vielleicht nicht eingeführten Ausdruck ausführlicher oder eigentlich überhaupt zu erklären. Wie entsteht jenes Lustgefühl und worin besteht seine Eigenart, wodurch unterscheidet es sich von der Freude über eine neue Entdeckung oder über Nachrichten aus einem fremden Land oder Wissensgebiet. c Der hauptsächliche Beweis für die neue Ansicht ist eine allgemeine physiologische nicht nur ästhetische Thatsache und das ist die Ermüdung. Nun ergiebt sich einerseits aus Deinen vielen Einschränkungen des Begriffes “neu” daß eigentlich alles neu ist, denn da alle Gegenstände in immer wechselnder Zeit und Beleuchtung stehn und wir Zuschauer nicht anders, so müssen wir ihnen immer an einem andern Orte begegnen. Anderseits aber ermüden wir nicht nur beim Genießen der Kunst sondern auch beim Lernen und Bergsteigen und Mittagessen ohne daß wir sagen dürften, Kalbfleisch sei keine uns entsprechende Speise mehr, weil wir heute ihrer müde sind. Vor allem aber wäre es unrecht zu sagen, daß es nur dieses doppelte Verhältnis zur Kunst gebe. Lieber also: der Gegenstand schwebt über der ästhetischen Kante und Müdigkeit (die es eigentlich nur zur Liebhaberei der knapp vorhergehenden Zeit giebt), also: der Gegenstand hat das Gleichgewicht verloren undzwar im üblen Sinn. Und doch drängt Deine Folgerung zum Arrangieren dieses Gegensatzes, denn Apperception ist kein Zustand, sondern eine Bewegung also muß sie sich vollenden. Es entsteht ein wenig Lärm, dazwischen dieses bedrängte Lustgefühl, aber bald muß allesin seinen gehöhlten Lagern ruhen. d giebt es einen Unterschied zwischen ästhetischen und wissenschaftlichen Menschen. e Das Unsichere bleibt der Begriff “Apperception”. So wie wir ihn kennen, ist es kein Begriff der Ästhetik. Vielleicht läßt es sich so darstellen. Wir sagen ich bin ein Mensch ganz ohne Ortsgefühl und komme nach Prag als einer fremden Stadt. Ich will Dir nun schreiben, kenne aber Deine Adresse nicht, ich frage Dich, Du sagst sie mir, ich appercipiere das und brauche Dich niemals mehr zu fragen, Deine Adresse ist für mich etwas “Altes”, so appercipieren wir die Wissenschaft. Will ich Dich aber besuchen so muß ich bei jeder Ecke und Kreuzung immer, immer fragen, niemals werde ich die Passanten entbehren können, eine Apperception ist hier überhaupt unmöglich. Natürlich ist es möglich daß ich müde werde und ins Kaffeehaus eintrete, das am Wege liegt um mich dort auszuruhn und es ist auch möglich, daß ich den Besuch überhaupt aufgebe, deshalb aber habe ich immer noch nicht appercipiert. “So erklärt sich zwanglos…” das darf nicht wundern denn schon vom Anfang an wird vorgreifend alles gezwungen sich an die Apperception zu halten wie an ein Geländer. “Aus derselben Theorie erklärt..” das ist ein Kunststückchen. Auf diesen Satz folgt nämlich soweit ich es überblicke ihr einziger Beweis, den Du also zuerst und nicht als Folgerung erfahren mußtest. “Man hütet sich instinktiv – " der Satz ist ein Verräther

Das Urteil. Eine Geschichte

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:18:43 +0000

Für F.

Es war an einem Sonntagvormittag im schönsten Frühjahr. Georg Bendemann, ein junger Kaufmann, saß in seinem Privatzimmer im ersten Stock eines der niedrigen, leichtgebauten Häuser, die entlang des Flusses in einer langen Reihe, fast nur in der Höhe und Färbung unterschieden, sich hinzogen. Er hatte gerade einen Brief an einen sich im Ausland befindenden Jugendfreund beendet, verschloß ihn in spielerischer Langsamkeit und sah dann, den Ellbogen auf den Schreibtisch gestützt, aus dem Fenster auf den Fluß, die Brücke und die Anhöhen am anderen Ufer mit ihrem schwachen Grün.

3. Frieda

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:56:09 +0000

Im Ausschank, einem großen, in der Mitte völlig leeren Zimmer, saßen an den Wänden, bei Fässern und auf ihnen, einige Bauern, die aber anders aussahen als die Leute in K.’s Wirtshaus. Sie waren reinlicher und einheitlich in graugelblichen groben Stoff gekleidet, die Jacken waren gebauscht, die Hosen anliegend. Es waren kleine, auf den ersten Blick einander sehr ähnliche Männer mit flachen knochigen und doch rundwangigen Gesichtern. Alle waren ruhig und bewegten sich kaum, nur mit den Blicken verfolgten sie die Eintretenden, aber langsam und gleichgültig. Trotzdem übten sie, weil es so viele waren und weil es so still war, eine gewisse Wirkung auf K. aus. Er nahm wieder Olgas Arm, um damit den Leuten sein Hiersein zu erklären. In einer Ecke erhob sich ein Mann, ein Bekannter Olgas, und wollte auf sie zugehn, aber K. drehte sie mit dem eingehängten Arm in eine andere Richtung, niemand außer ihr konnte es bemerken, sie duldete es mit einem lächelnden Seitenblick.

Ein Landhaus bei New York

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 16:42:03 +0000

“Wir sind angekommen”, sagte Herr Pollunder gerade in einem von Karls verlorenen Momenten. Das Automobil stand vor einem Landhaus, das, nach der Art von Landhäusern reicher Leute in der Umgebung Newyorks, umfangreicher und höher war, als es sonst für ein Landhaus nötig ist, das bloß einer Familie dienen soll. Da nur der untere Teil des Hauses beleuchtet war, konnte man gar nicht bemessen, wie weit es in die Höhe reichte. Vorne rauschten Kastanienbäume, zwischen denen – das Gitter war schon geöffnet – ein kurzer Weg zur Freitreppe des Hauses führte. An seiner Müdigkeit beim Aussteigen glaubte Karl zu bemerken, daß die Fahrt doch ziemlich lang gedauert hatte. Im Dunkel der Kastanienallee hörte er eine Mädchenstimme neben sich sagen: “Da ist ja endlich der Herr Jakob. " “Ich heiße Roßmann”, sagte Karl und faßte die ihm hingereichte Hand eines Mädchens, das er jetzt in Umrissen erkannte. “Er ist ja nur Jakobs Neffe”, sagte Herr Pollunder erklärend, “und heißt selbst Karl Roßmann. " “Das ändert nichts an unserer Freude, ihn hierzuhaben”, sagte das Mädchen, dem an Namen nicht viel lag. Trotzdem fragte Karl noch, während er zwischen Herrn Pollunder und dem Mädchen auf das Haus zuschritt: “Sie sind das Fräulein Klara?” “Ja”, sagte sie und schon fiel ein wenig unterscheidendes Licht vom Hause her auf ihr Gesicht, das sie ihm zuneigte, “ich wollte mich aber hier in der Finsternis nicht vorstellen. " Ja hat sie uns denn am Gitter erwartet? dachte Karl, der im Gehen allmählich aufwachte. “Wir haben übrigens noch einen Gast heute abend”, sagte Klara. “Nicht möglich! " rief Pollunder ärgerlich. “Herrn Green”, sagte Klara. “Wann ist er gekommen?” fragte Karl wie in einer Ahnung befangen. “Vor einem Augenblick. Habt Ihr denn sein Automobil nicht vor dem Eueren gehört?” Karl sah zu Pollunder auf, um zu erfahren, wie er die Sache beurteile, aber der hatte die Hände in den Hosentaschen und stampfte bloß etwas stärker im Gehn. “Es nützt nichts nur knapp außerhalb Newyorks zu wohnen, von Störungen bleibt man nicht verschont. Wir werden unsern Wohnsitz unbedingt noch weiter verlegen müssen. Und sollte ich die halbe Nacht durchfahren müssen ehe ich nachhause komme. " Sie blieben an der Freitreppe stehn. “Aber Herr Green war doch schon sehr lange nicht hier”, sagte Klara, die offenbar mit ihrem Vater gänzlich einverstanden war, ihn aber über sich heraus beruhigen wollte. “Warum kommt er dann gerade heute abend”, sagte Pollunder und die Rede rollte schon wütend über die wulstige Unterlippe, die als loses schweres Fleisch leicht in große Bewegung kam. “Allerdings!” sagte Klara. “Vielleicht wird er bald wieder weggehn”, bemerkte Karl und staunte selbst über das Einverständnis, in welchem er sich mit diesen noch gestern ihm gänzlich fremden Leuten befand. “Oh nein”, sagte Klara, “er hat irgend ein großes Geschäft für Papa, dessen Besprechung wahrscheinlich lange dauern wird, denn er hat mir schon im Spaß gedroht, daß ich wenn ich eine höfliche Hauswirtin sein will, bis zum Morgen werde zuhören müssen. " “Also auch das noch. Dann bleibt er über Nacht”, rief Pollunder, als sei damit endlich das Schlimmste erreicht. “Ich hätte wahrhaftig Lust”, sagte er und wurde freundlicher durch den neuen Gedanken, “ich hätte wahrhaftig Lust, Sie Herr Roßmann wieder ins Automobil zu nehmen und zu Ihrem Onkel zurückzubringen. Der heutige Abend ist schon von vornherein gestört und wer weiß wann Sie uns nächstens Ihr Herr Onkel wieder überläßt. Bringe ich Sie aber heute schon wieder zurück, so wird er Sie uns nächstens doch nicht verweigern können. " Und er faßte Karl schon bei der Hand, um seinen Plan auszuführen. Aber Karl rührte sich nicht und Klara bat, ihn hierzulassen, denn zumindestens sie und Karl würden von Herrn Green nicht im geringsten gestört werden können und schließlich merkte auch Pollunder, daß selbst sein Entschluß nicht der festeste war. Überdies – und dies war vielleicht das Entscheidende – hörte man plötzlich Herrn Green vom obersten Treppenaufsatz in den Garten hinunterrufen: “Wo bleibt ihr denn?” “Kommt”, sagte Pollunder und bog auf die Freitreppe ein. Hinter ihm giengen Karl und Klara, die einander jetzt im Licht studierten. “Die roten Lippen die sie hat”, sagte sich Karl und dachte an die Lippen des Herrn Pollunder und wie schön sie sich in der Tochter verwandelt hatten. “Nach dem Nachtmahl”, so sagte sie, “werden wir wenn es Ihnen recht ist gleich in meine Zimmer gehn, damit wir wenigstens diesen Herrn Green los sind, wenn schon Papa sich mit ihm beschäftigen muß. Und Sie werden dann so freundlich sein mir Klavier vorzuspielen, denn Papa hat schon erzählt, wie gut Sie das treffen, ich aber bin leider ganz unfähig Musik auszuüben und rühre mein Klavier nicht an, so sehr ich die Musik eigentlich liebe. " Mit dem Vorschlag Klaras war Karl ganz einverstanden, wenn er auch gern Herrn Pollunder mit in ihre Gesellschaft hätte ziehen wollen. Vor der riesigen Gestalt Greens – an Pollunders Größe hatte sich Karl eben schon gewöhnt – die sich vor ihnen, wie sie die Stufen hinaufstiegen, langsam entwickelte, wich allerdings von Karl jede Hoffnung, diesem Manne den Herrn Pollunder heute abend irgendwie zu entlocken.

Roots of Kafka´s The Trial

Thu, 04 Feb 2010 15:23:29 +0000

By Gustavo Artiles

Watching once again David Hugh Jones´s 1993 film ´inspired on´ the book lead me to reread it for the umpteenth time. Per force, it also made me recall Orson Welles´ previous great version. To be fair to any film director, one must always bear in mind that it is film we are talking about, not the book itself. We are talking cinema here, images, motion, dialogue, sounds. Great books will always make mediocre films, because the literature has to be cut short or altogether eliminated, but it is also true that many mediocre books may make great films. And yet, Kafka´s pages flow like scenes and camera shots, and the words don´t seem to interfere with our sense of cinematic atmosphere. This is partly due to the author´s style, kept simple and direct, fairly descriptive and allowing any surprises to come only from the facts told. Surprises on the side of the reader, of course, more than the hero, who barely questions - in a very cold and logical manner - the to us surrealist nature of the events and their details. (In Metamorphosis, the extraordinary transformation is fairly well accepted by the victim, except for not being a very pleasant thing). I will only say that the film is beautiful, Prague is beautiful, “even the orchestra is beautiful”. But let´s now talk about the book.

A Country House near New York

Sun, 03 Dec 2006 16:27:57 +0000

“We’ve arrived,” Mr. Pollunder said, right in the middle of one of Karl’s lost moments. The automobile stood in front of a country house that was, for a house in the country, vaster and taller than should have been necessary to serve a single family, as was the style of rich people’s villas in the suburbs of New York. Since only the low part of the house was lit up, you couldn’t tell at all how far it went into the sky. Chestnut trees rustled in the front, and a short way led between them – the gate was already open – to the staircase of the house. Because he was so tired from the trip out, he realized that the journey had taken quite long. In the darkness of the chestnut avenue, he heard a girl’s voice next to him saying, “Finally, here is Mr. Jakob.” “My name is Rossman,” Karl said, and took the girl’s outstretched hand, which he could now distinguish in outline. “He is just Mr. Jakob’s nephew,” Mr. Pollunder said to explain, “and he is called Karl Rossman.” “That doesn’t change how happy we are to have him here,” said the girl, who didn’t put much weight on people’s names. Despite this, Karl still asked as he walked to the house between the girl and Mr. Pollunder: “You are the Miss Klara?” “Yes,” she said, and already a distinguishing light shone from the house onto her face as she leaned it towards him. “I didn’t want to introduce myself in the dark.” So had she been waiting for us by the gate? Karl thought as the walk gradually woke him up. “We’re having another guest this evening,” said Klara. “Impossible!” Pollunder yelled annoyed. “Mr. Green,” Klara said. “When did he come?” Karl asked, as if he were having a premonition. “A moment ago. Didn’t you hear his automobile in front of yours?” Karl looked at Pollunder to find out how he judged the matter, but he had his hands in his pockets and stomped his feet a little bit harder when he walked. “It’s pointless to live a little outside New York if you can’t avoid disturbances. Of course we’ll have to move our home again. And I’ll have to travel half the night before I get home.” They kept standing on the staircase. “But Mr. Green hasn’t been here for a very long time,” Klara said, completely agreeing with her father but wanting to calm him down. “Then why he is coming tonight?” said Pollunder, and the words rolled furiously over his thick lower lip, and its loose, heavy flesh moved easily. “Certainly!” said Klara. “Maybe he’ll go away soon,” Karl observed, and was amazed how much he understood the people who yesterday had been complete strangers. “Oh, no,” said Klara. “He had some big piece of business for Papa, the discussion will take quite a long time, because he already threatened me as a joke, that I’m going to have to listen till morning if I’m going to be a good hostess.” “That too, eh? Then he stays overnight,” moaned Pollunder, as if he had finally reached the worst possibility. “I really have an urge,” he said, and became friendlier because of his new thoughts, “I really have an urge to take you, Karl Rossman, into the auto and back to your uncle. The evening is disturbed from here on out, who knows when your uncle will let you visit us again. But I’d bring you back today, just so that your Mr. Uncle couldn’t refuse you the next time.” And he shook Karl by the hand, so he could begin carrying out his plan. But Karl didn’t move, and Klara asked to leave him here, because she and Karl weren’t being disturbed by Mr. Green in the slightest, and finally Pollunder realized that he didn’t have the firmest resolve. Moreover – and this was probably the deciding factor – Mr. Green could be heard calling into the garden from the top of the highest stair: “Where have you been?” “Come,” Mr. Pollunder said and turned up the staircase. Karl and Klara went behind him, studying each other in the light. “What red lips she has,” Karl said to himself and thought about Mr. Pollunder’s lips and how beautifully they had transformed into his daughter’s. “After dinner,” she said, “if it’s all right with you, we’ll go right to my room, so if Papa has to busy himself with this Mr. Green, at least we’ll be rid of him. And you will be so kind as to play the piano for me, because Papa explained to me how good you are, but sadly I’m completely incapable of pursuing music and never lay a finger on my piano, I love music so much.” Karl entirely agreed with Klara’s proposal, but he would have liked to take Mr. Pollunder into their company. Before the giant figure of Green – Karl could live with Pollunder’s size – which developed slowly as they moved toward it on the stairs, Karl gave up all his hope of coaxing Mr. Pollunder away from this man tonight. Mr. Green received them in a rush as if he had lots to make up for, took Mr. Pollunder’s arm and shoved Karl and Klara into the dining room, which looked especially festive because of the flowers on the table sticking half-way out of the stripes of foliage. All of it made Mr. Green and his disturbing presence twice as regrettable. But Karl, who waited by the table for the others to sit down, was still happy that the great glass doors to the garden would stay open, because a strong fragrance blew in, like it was a summer house, and then it forced a panting Mr. Green to close the glass doors, bending over to the lowest bolt and stretching for the highest one, all of it so youthfully quick that by the time the servant hurried over he found that there was nothing more to do. The first words from Mr. Green once he was at the table were gestures of astonishment that Karl had actually received permission from his uncle for this visit. He lifted one full soupspoon after another into his mouth and explained, on his right to Klara, on his left to Mr. Pollunder, why he was so astonished and how watchful the uncle was over Karl and how much the uncle loved Karl, as if you only could call it the love of an uncle. “It’s not enough for him to interfere here unnecessarily, now he interferes right between me and my uncle,” thought Karl, unable to bring in a sip of his golden soup. But then he didn’t want anyone to notice how annoyed he felt and began to pour the soup down in silence. The meal passed at length, like torture. Only Mr. Green and maybe Klara were still lively, finding opportunities now and again for a quick laugh. Mr. Pollunder landed in the conversation only a couple of times when Mr. Green talked about business. But he pulled back right away from these conversations and Mr. Green had to surprise him suddenly another time. He emphasized – since Karl pricked up his ears as if he were being threatened, Klara had to carefully make him realize that the roast was standing before him and that he was at a dinner – he never had the intention to make this unexpected visit. Because even if the business they still had to speak about was of particular urgency, the important details could have been handled today in the city and the minor details could have been kept for tomorrow or later. And so he would actually have been with Mr. Pollunder long before closing time, but he didn’t find him, so he was forced to call home to say that he wouldn’t be home and was traveling out here. “Then I must ask your forgiveness,” Karl said loudly, before there was any time for an answer, “because it’s my fault that Mr. Pollunder left his business earlier today, and I am very sorry.” Mr. Pollunder covered the greater part of his face with a napkin while Klara smiled at Karl, not to sympathize with him, but to influence him. “It doesn’t need an apology,” said Mr. Green as he cut a pigeon into thin slices. “Completely to the contrary, I am very happy to spend the night with such pleasant company, instead of taking up the evening at home alone, where my old housekeeper serves me, so old that the way from the door to my table happens to be difficult for her, and if I want to watch her do this, I can lean back in my chair for a long time. To shorten it, I made a servant bring the meal to the dining room door, but she’s made me understand that the way from the door to my table belongs to her.” “My God!” cried Klara. “That is a faithful servant!” “Yes, there is still loyalty in the world,” Mr. Green said, running a morsel into his mouth. Karl noticed by chance how the tongue vigorously seized the food. It almost made him sick and he got up. Right away Mr. Pollunder and Klara seized his hands. “You have to stay seated,” Klara said. As he sat down again, she whispered, “We’ll disappear together soon. Have patience.” Mr. Green busied himself in the meantime with his meal, as if it were Mr. Pollunder’s and Klara’s job to calm Karl down whenever he made him sick. The meal dragged along, particularly because of the drawn-out precision Mr. Green used with every course. He was prepared to receive every new course again and again without exhaustion, it really gave the impression that he wanted to thoroughly recuperate from his old housekeeper. Here and there he would praise Miss Klara’s art of managing the house, obviously flattering her, while Karl tried to fend him off as if he were attacking her. But Mr. Green didn’t just content himself with her; he also, without looking up from his plate, frequently lamented Karl’s conspicuous loss of appetite. Mr. Pollunder defended Karl’s appetite, even though, being Karl’s host, he probably should have encouraged Karl to eat. And Karl, suffering for the entire meal, actually felt the obligation to eat so sensitively, that against his better judgment he read hostility into Mr. Pollunder’s comments. And it fit his condition well, when suddenly he started eating far too much far too quickly and then, tired, allowed the fork and knife to sink down again for a long time, becoming the most motionless of the party. The servant who handed out the meals didn’t know where to begin. “I will explain in the morning to the Senator, how you offended Miss Klara during her evening meal,” Mr. Green said, restricting himself to the amusing intent of these words by the way he busied himself with his dinnerware. “Just look at the girl, how sad she is,” he continued and grabbed Klara under the chin. She let it happen and closed her eyes. “You little thing,” he cooed, leaning back and laughing, his face bright red with the strength of his own satisfaction. Karl tried in vain to explain Mr. Pollunder’s behavior. He sat in front of his plate and stared at it, as if something important were happening there. He didn’t move closer to Karl’s chair, and if he ever spoke he spoke to everyone, but he had nothing to say to Karl. And yet he tolerated Mr. Green, that old, boozed-up, New York bachelor, who touched Klara with very specific intentions and insulted Karl, Pollunder’s guest, or at least handled him as if he were a child, and no one could know what he was getting ready for or what he was pushing at. After the table was cleared – when Green noted the general mood, he was the first to stand up and everyone rose up with him – Karl went out alone to one of the large windows, divided by thin white strips. It led to the terrace, and as he walked closer, he noticed they were actually doors. Was there anything left of the aversion Mr. Pollunder and his daughter had felt from the beginning, and which at first had come across to Karl as incomprehensible? Now they stood together with Green and nodded at him. The smoke from Mr. Green’s cigar, Pollunder’s gift, which had a kind of thickness to it that his father swore existed but had probably never seen with his own eyes, spread out into the hall and carried Green’s influence into those corners and niches where he would never go. Karl stood far in the distance, but he still felt a tickle in his nose from the smoke, and once he looked around quickly from his place, Mr. Green’s behavior seemed scandalous to him. Now he thought it no longer out of the question, that his uncle had refused him permission to visit for so long, because he knew the weak character of Mr. Pollunder and foresaw the possibility, even though he didn’t see enough, of an insult to Karl. And he didn’t like the American girl, although he hadn’t imagined she would be quite as beautiful as she was. Since Mr. Green had gone off with her, he was amazed at the beauty her face was capable of, especially with a glance from her uncontrollably moving eyes. He had never seen before the kind of skirt which tightly enclosed her body, small creases in the yellowish, delicate, tight fabric demonstrated the strength of the tension. But Karl didn’t think of her at all, and he would have liked to refuse being led to her room, to instead be allowed to open the door whose handle lay ready in his hands and climb into the automobile, or, if the chauffeur was asleep already, walk alone to New York. The clear night and the affectionate full moon stood open for him and for everyone, and being afraid outside in the open seemed a little senseless to Karl. He pictured to himself – and for the first time he felt comfortable in that hall – as he surprised his uncle in the morning – he wouldn’t be able to come home any sooner. He had really never been in his bedroom, didn’t even know where it was, but he would find that out. Then he would knock, and with the formal “Come in!” he’d walk into the room and to his beloved uncle sitting upright in bed, his eyes fixed on the door in astonishment, surprised in his nightshirt when up to now he had only been seen well-dressed and buttoned-up as if on high. In and of itself, it probably wasn’t much, but what consequences it could have! Maybe he’d eat breakfast with his uncle for the first time, the uncle in bed, he in a chair, the breakfast on a table in-between them, maybe this shared breakfast would become a permanent practice, maybe they would, because of this kind of breakfast, do what they had avoided until now, come together more than just once a day and then of course they could speak more openly with each other. If he had been disobedient today – or, to be more accurate, stubborn – it was only because of this lack of open conversation. And if he had to stay here overnight – unfortunately it looked that way, even if you stood here by the window and twiddled your fingers – maybe this unlucky visit would be a turning-point for the better in his relationship with his uncle, maybe his uncle was thinking the same thing this evening in his bedroom. He turned around with a little confidence. Klara stood in front of him and said: “Don’t you like it here by us? Don’t you feel at home? Come, I want to make one last try.” She led him across the hall towards the door. The two men sat at a side table with full, high glasses of a lightly foaming drink that Karl was unfamiliar with and wanted to taste. Mr. Green had an elbow on the table and moved his whole face as close he possibly could to Mr. Pollunder, you might well have thought something criminal was being discussed and not business. While Mr. Pollunder followed Karl to the door with friendly glances, Green for his part didn’t look at Karl in the slightest, even though anyone else would have followed inadvertently the glances of the person across from him, and behind this behavior seemed to lie a sort of conviction on the part of Mr. Green, that everyone, Karl for himself and Green for himself, should try to get along by his own ability, that the necessary societal connection between them would be manufactured in time by the victory or destruction of one or both of them. “If he means that,” Karl said to himself, “He’s a fool. I want nothing to do with him and he should leave me in peace.” He had barely walked down the hallway when it occurred to him that he had behaved rudely, because he had almost allowed Klara to drag him out of the room while his eyes were stapled on Green. So he was all the more willing to go with her now. On his way through the corridor, at first he didn’t believe his eyes when he saw a richly attired servant standing every twenty steps with a candelabra, whose thick handle they all gripped with both hands. “So far the electric lighting has only been installed in the dining room,” Klara explained. “We first bought this house a short time ago, and it’s being entirely rebuilt, so far as an old house and its stubborn material lets itself be rebuilt.” “So there are old houses in America too,” Karl said. “Of course,” Klara said, laughing and dragging him along. “You have strange ideas about America.” “You shouldn’t laugh at me,” he said, annoyed. In the end, he was already acquainted with both Europe and America, but she only knew America. In passing Klara shoved a door open with a lightly outstretched hand and said without stopping: “You’ll sleep here.” Naturally Karl wanted to look at the room, but Klara explained impatiently, almost shrieking, there would be time for that and he should come over here now. She pulled him down the hallway a little here and there, finally Karl thought, I can’t follow Klara everywhere, tore himself loose and walked into the room. An unexpected darkness by the window explained itself through some tree branches swaying there in their full range. You could hear birds singing. In the room itself, which hadn’t yet been awakened with moonlight, you could barely distinguish anything at all. Karl regretted not having taken the electric flashlight that he had received as a gift from his uncle. In this house a flashlight was indispensable, if you’d had a pair of these lights, you could have sent the servants to bed. He sat himself on the windowsill and looked and listened around. A bird he had agitated seemed to drill through the leaf-work of an old tree. The whistle of a suburban train clanged somewhere in the country. Otherwise it was still. But not for long, because Klara came rushing in. She cried, clearly angry: “What’s all this then?” and slapped her skirt. First of all, Karl wanted to answer when she was more hospitable. But she went over to him with large strides and cried: “So are you coming with me or not?” and she pushed him on purpose or in naked anger on the chest so that he would have toppled from the window if he hadn’t slid from the windowsill at the last moment with his feet touching the floor. “I would’ve fallen out just now,” he said critically. “A shame it didn’t happen. Why are you so naughty. I’ll push you down there again.” And she really wrapped him up, her body hardened from sport, and carried him over to the window, while he in astonishment forgot to make it difficult for her. But there he caught his senses, got himself loose with a turning of his hips and grabbed her. “Oh you’re hurting me,” she said immediately. But Karl didn’t think she should be let loose anymore. Admittedly he allowed her the freedom to take a few steps as she preferred, but he followed her and didn’t let her go. It was easy to catch her in her tight dress. “Let me go,” she whispered, her hot face tight on his, he had to strain himself to see it, she was close to him, “let me go, I’ll give you something nice.” “Why does she sigh like that?” Karl thought. “This can’t be hurting her, I’m not even squeezing her.” And he still didn’t let her go. But right after standing there careless and quiet for a moment, he felt her growing power back on his body, she had wrenched herself from him and grabbed him with a good imposing grip, repelling his legs with the positions of some exotic fighting technique and driving him back against the wall with a magnificent regularity of breathing. There was, though, a sofa, and she put him down on it without bending down herself, “Now move yourself if you can.” “Cat, wild cat,” Karl was able to cry out in the muddle of rage and shame he found himself in. “You’re crazy, you wild cat.” “Choose your words carefully,” she said and allowed her hand to slide to his throat, which she began to choke so strongly that Karl was entirely incapable of doing anything else but gasp for air, while she ran her other hand over his cheek, as if to try it out, and again and again she pulled it back and every moment could let herself throw it back down for a slap in the face. “How would it be,” she asked then, “if I wanted to send you home with a big slap in the face as punishment for your behavior in front of a lady. Maybe it’d be useful in your future life, even if it left you without any nice memories. I’m sorry for you and you are a tolerably pretty boy and if you’d learned jiu-jitsu, you’d have walloped me. In spite of that, in spite of that, I am enormously tempted to slap you in the face as you lie there. I’ll probably regret it, but if I do it, I already know I’ll do it against my will, almost. And of course by then I wouldn’t content myself with a slap in the face, but I’d also beat you right and left until your cheeks swell up. And maybe you’re a man of honor – I’d almost believe it – and wouldn’t want to live anymore and pass out of the world. But what do you have against me? Don’t you like me? Wouldn’t it have been worth it to come to my room? Pay attention! I almost hit you with a slap in the face right now! If you should get away today, be more refined the next time. I am not your uncle whom you can defy. Besides, I want you to pay attention, so that if I let you go unslapped, you won’t believe that what you’re going through now and an actual slap in the face are the same in terms of honor, but if that were the case, I would prefer to slap you in the face. What will Mack say when I explain all this to him.” When she remembered Mack she let Karl go, in his vague thoughts Mack seemed like a liberator. He still felt Klara’s hand on his throat, so he writhed a little and then he lay still. She encouraged him to stand up, he didn’t answer and didn’t move. She lit a candle somewhere, the room got some light, a blue zigzag pattern appeared on the ceiling, but Karl lay there, his head resting on the pillow where Klara had left it, not moving one finger’s width. Klara walked around the room, her skirt rustled on her legs, she stayed by the window a long while. “Over it yet?” you could hear her ask. Karl found it painful that he was unable to get any rest in the very room that Mr. Pollunder had thought up for him for the night. Because that girl wandered round, stood there and talked, and he was so indescribably fed up. All he wanted was to fall asleep quickly and get away from here. He didn’t want the bed at all, but wanted to stay on the sofa instead. He lay in wait just for her to walk away, so he could spring to the door behind her, lock it and leap back to the sofa. He wanted so badly to stretch and yawn, but he didn’t want to do it because of Klara. And so he lay there, staring up, and he felt his face become stiff, and a circling fly flickered before his eyes without his knowing exactly what it was. Again Klara went over to him, bent down in his line of sight, and if he hadn’t have mastered himself, he might have had to look at her. “I’m going now,” she said. “Maybe later you’ll want to come by me. The door to my room is the fourth of these doors on the right, on this side of the hallway. So you’ll pass these doors, and the next one you come to is the right one. I’m not going to the dining hall anymore, but I’ll stay in my room. I’m not going to wait for you, but if you want to come then come. Remember, you promised to play the piano for me. But maybe I’ve completely stunned you and you can’t move anymore, so stay and go to sleep. I won’t say a word to my father about our fight, for now, I know that the circumstances might cause you some trouble.” And so she ran with two leaps out of the room, despite her alleged sleepiness. At once Karl sat up, this lying around had already become unbearable. Just so he could move around a little, he went to the door and looked into the hallway. But what a darkness! He was happy as he closed and locked the door, and the table continued to stand in the light of a candle. He decided not to stay any longer in this house, but to go down to Mr. Pollunder and tell him frankly how he had treated Klara – admittedly, his defeat didn’t weigh on him at all – and with this entirely sufficient reason he’d ask permission to drive home or to be allowed to walk. If Mr. Pollunder objected to something about this immediate return home, then Karl would want at least to ask him to let a servant guide him to the nearest hotel. So far as Karl knew, as a rule this was not the way you treated friendly hosts, but you also didn’t treat guests like Klara had treated him. She had even thought it kind of her to promise not to tell Mr. Pollunder about their fight, and that was scandalous. And so Karl was invited to a wrestling match, and it had been humiliating for him to be thrown around by a girl who probably committed the greater part of her life to learning wrestling moves. In the end she had received lessons from Mack. If she would explain everything to him, it would be understandable, Karl knew that, even though Karl had never had the opportunity to hear from the man himself. Karl also knew, that if Mack would instruct him he would make even greater progress than Klara; then one day he would come here again, most likely uninvited, to get a feel for the territory, the exact knowledge of which had been a great advantage for Klara, so he could seize this same Klara and knock her onto the same sofa on which he had been thrown today. His concern now was finding the way back to the hall, where, in his initial absentmindedness, he had probably laid his hat in an inappropriate place. He wanted to take the candle with him of course, but it wasn’t easy to find his way around just by its light. He didn’t know at all, for example, if his door was on the same level as the hall. Klara had dragged him so much on the way here that he hadn’t been able to look around, Mr. Green and the light-bearing servants had taken up his attention, in short, he didn’t know if they had passed one or two or no staircases at all. According to his view of things, the room lay somewhat high, so he tried to imagine that she had come over some steps, but you had to climb steps even on the way up to the house, why couldn’t this side of the house be raised higher. But if there were at least some light shining on a door somewhere for him to see, or a voice in the distance, ever so soft to hear . . . His pocket watch, a gift from his uncle, read eleven o’clock, he took the candle and went out into the hallway. He left the door open, in case his search were pointless he could at least find his room again and in case of emergency the door to Klara’s room. To be sure that the door wouldn’t close by itself, he blocked it with an armchair. In the hallway, a breeze unfortunately blew against Karl – he naturally went to the left, away from Klara’s room – it was weak, but all the same it could’ve easily extinguished the candle, so Karl protected the flame with his hand and often had to stop moving, so that the weakened flame might revive itself. It made for slow forward progress and because of the stopping the way seemed twice as long. Karl came by a great stretch of wall entirely without doors, you couldn’t imagine what was behind it. Then came again door after door, he tried to open several, they were blocked and the rooms apparently unlived in. It was an unparalleled waste of rooms and Karl thought of the apartments in eastern New York, which his uncle had promised to show him, where allegedly several families lived in one small room and a family’s home was the corner of a room, where the children pawed at their parents. And here so many rooms stood empty, just so you could hear a hollow sound when you knocked on the door. It seemed to Karl that Mr. Pollunder was misled by false friends and crazy about his daughter and ruined because of it. His uncle had certainly judged him correctly, and only his principle of not influencing Karl’s personal judgment was guilty for this visit and this wandering through hallways. Karl wanted to repeat this to his uncle that morning, since because of his principle his uncle would listen to his nephew’s judgment of him calmly and gladly. It was generally this principle that Karl didn’t like about his uncle, but even this dislike didn’t come without qualifications. Suddenly the wall on one side of the hallway stopped and an ice-cold marble railing stood in its place. Karl put the candle down on it and leaned over carefully. Dark emptiness blew against him. If this was the main lobby of the house – in the shimmer of the candle, a vaulted, arching ceiling appeared – why wasn’t anyone walking through this lobby? What purpose did this great, deep room serve? You stood here in the open, as in the gallery of a church. Karl almost regretted not being able to stay in the house till morning, he would gladly have been led all around by Mr. Pollunder in daylight and would have allowed him to explain everything. The railing wasn’t long and soon Karl was taken into another enclosed hallway again. When the hallway suddenly turned Karl knocked into a wall with his whole force and only the uninterrupted care with which he desperately held the handle protected it, luckily, from falling and going out. Since the hallway didn’t want to end, there were no windows to look out of, nothing moved, neither high nor low, Karl was already thinking that he if he kept on walking forward through the same circle of intersections he could hope maybe to find the door to his room again, but neither it nor the balustrade returned again. Up to now Karl had kept himself from any loud shouting, because he didn’t want to make any noises in a strange house at such a late hour, but he realized that this wasn’t a bad thing to do in an unlit house and right away he began to scream a loud hallo down both sides of the hallway, when he noticed, in the direction he had come from, a small approaching light. For the first time he could estimate the length of this hallway, the house was a fortress, not a villa. Karl’s joy over this delivering light was so great that he forgot all caution and ran to it, with the first leap his candle already went out. He didn’t pay any attention to it, because he didn’t need it, an old servant was coming with a lantern to show him the right way. “Who are you?” the servant asked and held the lantern up to Karl’s face, immediately lighting up his own. His face appeared somewhat stiff because of a large, white, full beard which broke off into silky ringlets at his chest. You’d have to be a loyal servant to be allowed to grow a beard like that, thought Karl and stared intently at the length and breadth of this beard, unhindered by the fact that he was being watched himself. Anyway, he answered at once that he was Mr. Pollunder’s guest, wanted to leave his room for the dining room and couldn’t find it. “Ah, so,” the servant said, “we haven’t installed the electric lights yet.” “I know,” Karl said. “Would you like to light your candle on my lantern?” asked the servant. “Please,” Karl said and did it. “It’s been proven here in the hallways,” the servant said, “that a candle easily goes out, and so I have a lantern.” “Yes, a lantern is very practical,” Karl said. “Your candle is also dripping all over you,” he said and shone the light on Karl’s shirt. “I didn’t notice that at all,” Karl cried and he was very sorry about it, because it was a dark suit which his uncle had said fit him best of all. The fight with Klara had also rendered the suit useless, he reminded himself. The servant was kind enough to clean the suit as well as he could in a hurry; again and again Karl turned himself around in front of him and showed him a fleck here and there, which the servant obediently removed. “Why is it breezy like this?” asked Karl, as they continued on. “There is still a lot to build,” the servant said, “they already started rebuilding, but it went on for a long time. Now the construction workers are on strike, as you perhaps know. You get a lot of trouble with this kind of construction. Now they’ve smashed through a couple of large holes which no one has bricked up, and the breeze runs through the whole house. If I didn’t have my ears full of cotton, I couldn’t stand it.” “So do I have to speak louder?” asked Karl. “No, you have a clear voice,” said the servant. “But, to get back to the building, the breeze is unbearable, especially here when you’re close to the chapel, but later it will be completely cut off from the rest of the house.” “That balcony you come over in the hallway, does that go to the chapel too?” “Yes.” “That’s exactly what I thought,” said Karl. “It’s very much worth seeing,” said the servant. “If it weren’t there, Mr. Mack would never have bought the house.” “Mr. Mack?” asked Karl. “I thought the house belonged to Mr. Pollunder.” “Yes it does,” said the servant, “but Mr. Mack was the deciding factor in the purchase. Don’t you know Mr. Mack?” “Oh yes,” said Karl, “but how is he connected with Mr. Pollunder?” “He is the lady’s fiancé,” said the servant. “I did not know that,” said Karl, standing still. “Are you so surprised?” asked the servant. “I just want it all laid out in front of me. If you don’t know about these kind of relationships, you can make gigantic mistakes,” answered Karl. “It just confuses me, that no one said anything to you,” said the servant. “Yes, really,” said Karl, embarrassed. “They probably thought you knew it,” said the servant. “It’s not recent news. Anyway, here we are,” and he opened a door, behind which a stairway revealed itself that led vertically to the back door of the dining room, as brightly illuminated as it had been on his arrival. Before walking into the dining room, where the voices of Mr. Pollunder and Mr. Green could have been heard unchanged for two whole hours, the servant said, “If you want, I’ll wait for you here and then lead you to your room. It’s always difficult to get to know this place the first night.” “I’m not going back to my room anymore,” said Karl, and he didn’t know why this knowledge made me said. “It won’t be so bad,” said the servant, with a little superior laugh and a slap on the arm. He probably thought that Karl meant to stay the entire night in the dining room, so he could talk with the men and drink with them too. Karl didn’t want to make any confessions, besides Karl was thinking that this servant, who pleased him more than the other local servants, could show him the right direction to New York, and because of this he said: “If you’d wait here, that would be a great kindness from you and I’d accept it gratefully. In any case, after a little while I’ll come out and tell you what I’m going to do. I think your help will still be useful to me.” “Good,” the servant said, standing the lantern up on the ground and sitting himself on a low pedestal, whose emptiness probably had something to do with the rebuilding of the house. “So I’ll wait here.” “You can leave the candle with me,” the servant added when Karl nearly walked into the hall with the burning candle. “I’m so forgetful,” said Karl and reached the candle over to the servant, who nodded at him a little without revealing if he did it intentionally or if it was a consequence of the fact that he was stroking his beard with his hand. Karl opened the door, and it wasn’t his fault that it rattled loudly, because it was made of a single glass plate that was only held on at the handle and almost cracked when the door was opened quickly. Frightened, Karl let go of the door, because he had wanted to walk in quietly. Without any more turning around, he noticed that the servant had apparently climbed down from his pedestal and closed the door without the slightest noise. “Forgive me if I’m disturbing you,” he said to both gentlemen, who stared at him with their large, astonished faces. Immediately, however, he skimmed the hall with a glance to see if he couldn’t find his hat. But it was nowhere to be seen, the dining table was completely cleared away, maybe the hat embarrassingly had been carried away to somewhere in the kitchen. “So where did you lose Klara?” asked Mr. Pollunder, who seemed to enjoy the interruption, because he shifted his position in his chair right away and turned his entire front to Karl. Mr. Green pretended not to be interested and pulled his wallet out, which was enormous for its kind in both length and width. He seemed to look for a certain something in its many pockets, but during the search he read all the various papers that came into his hand. “I have a request, which you must not misunderstand,” said Karl, moving hurriedly to Mr. Pollunder to be near to him, his hand on the armrest of the chair. “What kind of request is it?” asked Mr. Pollunder and looked at Karl with open, supportive glances. “It’s already granted of course.” And he laid an arm around Karl and pulled him onto his lap. Karl put up with it gladly, but he felt much too grown-up for this kind of behavior. But naturally it became more difficult to declare his request. “How do you like it by us?” Mr. Pollunder asked. “Does it seem to you too, that you become free in the country, once you get out of the city. In general –” and Pollunder sent a well-understood glance, somewhat concealed by Karl, right to Mr. Green – “In general I have this feeling again and again every evening.” “He speaks,” thought Karl, “like he knows nothing about this gigantic house, the endless hallways, the chapel, the empty rooms, the darkness over everything.” “Now!” said Mr. Pollunder. “The request!” and he shook Karl affectionately, as Karl sat there dumb. “I request,” said Karl, and as much as he muffled his voice, he couldn’t keep Green, who sat nearby, from hearing everything that Karl would have preferred to keep discrete, everything that was likely to be taken as an insult to Mr. Pollunder. “I request, that you let me go home, right now, in the night.” And since the most unpleasant part had been said, everything else shoved out all the faster, he said without the smallest lie things he hadn’t thought of at all before now. “I would like above all things to go home. I’ll gladly come back, because wherever you are, Mr. Pollunder, I’m fine. It’s just that today I can’t stay here. You know, my uncle hadn’t wanted to give me permission for this visit. He certainly had his good reasons, as he has for everything he does, and I took it upon myself to force out his permission against his better judgment. Simply, I abused his love for me. Whatever doubts he had about this visit are now unimportant, I know simply and entirely and certainly that there was nothing in these doubts about hurting you, Mr. Pollunder, you who are the best, the best friend of my uncle. No one could match, not in the slightest, your friendship with my uncle. That is the single excuse for my disobedience, but it’s not enough. Maybe you don’t have enough insight into the relationship between my uncle and me, so I only want to talk about the most convincing points. As long as my English studies remain incomplete and I haven’t looked around enough for myself in practical business, I am entirely dependent on the goodness of my uncle, which as a blood relative I am admittedly allowed to enjoy. You might not believe that I could somehow earn my own bread – and for everything else may God protect me. My education, unfortunately, has been too impractical for that. I made it through four grades as an average student in a European middle school, and as far as making money goes that counts for less than nothing, because the lesson plan in our school was obsolete. You’d laugh if I told you what I learned. Maybe if someone continued studying, finished school and went to the university, everything might probably balance out somehow, and he’d finally have a well-rounded education that would give him the resolve to start something and make some money. But I, unfortunately, was torn away from this web of studies, sometimes I think I don’t know anything at all, and what I do know wouldn’t be enough in America. Now, here are there in my homeland, reformed schools are being set up, where you can learn modern languages and business science, when I got out of school they weren’t there yet. My father encouraged me to teach myself English, but first of all I couldn’t even guess what kind of misfortune would envelop me and how I’d need that English, and secondly I had so much to learn at that school that I didn’t have much time for other business – I’m saying all of this to show you how I dependent I am on my uncle and consequently how indebted I am to him. You’ll certainly admit, that because of this situation I am not allowed to permit myself even the slightest offense against what he might want. And for that reason, in order to make up for the error I’ve committed against him, I must go home immediately.” During Karl’s long speech, Mr. Pollunder had listened carefully and quite often squeezed Karl up against him imperceptibly, especially when the uncle was mentioned, looking earnestly and full of expectation at Green, who continued to busy himself with his wallet. But Karl just became more impatient, which became clear to him over the course of his speech, seeking instinctively to push Mr. Pollunder’s arm away from him, everything cramped him here, the road to his uncle through the glass doors, down the stairway, over the country roads, through the suburbs to the large traffic-jammed streets leading to his uncle’s house seemed all together as one, lying there empty, smooth and ready for him and calling after him with a strong voice. Mr. Pollunder’s kindness and Mr. Green’s repulsiveness blurred together, and he wanted nothing from this smoky room but permission to say goodbye. He felt alienated from Mr. Pollunder, ready for a fight with Mr. Green, and then an uncertain fear came around and filled him, whose shock clouded his eyes. He took a step back and stood exactly as far from Mr. Pollunder as he did from Mr. Green. “Do you want to say something to him?” Mr. Pollunder asked Mr. Green, grabbing Mr. Green’s hand as if pleading with him. “I don’t know, what should I say to him?” said Mr. Green, who had finally took a letter from his wallet and laid it before them on the table. “It is highly admirable, that he wants to return to his uncle and you could reasonably believe that he will make his uncle especially happy. It could also be that he made his uncle much too angry through his disobedience. In that case it would be better if he stayed here. It’s difficult to say anything definite, we are both his uncle’s friends and it takes an effort to figure out which friendship ranks higher, mine or Mr. Pollunder’s, but we can’t read your uncle’s mind, especially over all these kilometers separating us from New York.” “Please,” said Karl, bringing himself closer to him through sheer willpower, “I’m detecting in your words, that it would be best if I got back right away.” “That isn’t what I meant,” said Mr. Green, becoming engrossed in the letter and running his two fingers back and forth along the edges. He seemed to want to hint that Mr. Pollunder had asked him a question, that he had answered back, and that he had really nothing to do with Karl. In the meantime Mr. Pollunder had walked over to Karl and pulled him gently away from Mr. Green to one of the large windows. “Dear Mr. Rossman,” he said, bending down to Karl’s ear, washing his face with a handkerchief in preparation and, after a pause, blowing his nose. “You don’t believe that I want to hold you here against your will. We shouldn’t even talk about that. I cannot provide the automobile for you, because it’s resting far away from here in a public garage, since I didn’t have the time to build my own garage here while everything else is in planning. And the chauffeur doesn’t sleep here in the house, but closer to the garage, I don’t know where exactly. Moreover, it is not his duty at all to be home right now, his duty is just this, to get here early at the right time. But all that would be no obstacle to your returning home at a moment’s notice, because if you insisted on it, I’d accompany you immediately to the nearest station for trains into the city, and that is so far away you wouldn’t be able to arrive home much earlier if you traveled with me in my automobile – we leave at seven o’clock.” “Mr. Pollunder, I would prefer to travel by the train into the city,” said Karl. “I didn’t think at all about the train. You said yourself I could arrive earlier with the train than with the automobile.” “But there’s only a small difference.” “In spite of that, in spite of that Mr. Pollunder,” said Karl, “in memory of your kindness, I will always like to come here, assuming of course that after my behavior today you’ll still want to invite me, and maybe next time I’ll be able to explain to you a little better why every minute I could be with my uncle is so important to me.” And as if he was about to receive permission to leave, he added: “But under no circumstances are you allowed to accompany me. It is entirely unnecessary. There’s a servant outside who will gladly accompany me to the station. Now I just need to find my hat.” And with the last word he cut through the room to make a hurried last attempt to find his hat. “Could I help you out with a cap?” said Mr. Green, taking a cap from his pocket. “Maybe it will fit.” Karl stood amazed and said: “I’m not going to take away your cap. I’ll be just fine with a bare head. I don’t need it at all.” “It’s not my cap. Just take it!” “Then thank you,” said Karl, so he wouldn’t detain himself, and took the cap. He took it and laughed at first, because it fit exactly, then took it again in his hand and examined it, but couldn’t find the special thing that he was looking for; it was a perfect new hat. “It fits so well!” he said. “So it fits!” cried Mr. Green and banged on the table. Karl was already going to the door to fetch the servant when Mr. Green picked himself up, stretched after a good meal and all that quiet time, clapped strongly against his chest and said in a tone between suggesting and demanding: “Before you leave you have to say goodbye to Miss Klara.” “You must,” said Mr. Pollunder, who had also stood up. You could hear in him that the words weren’t coming from the heart, he weakly let his hands hit his pants seams and was constantly buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket, which was very short, according to the style of the time, and barely went to his hips, and people as large as Mr. Pollunder wore such jackets terribly. Standing close to Mr. Pollunder, you would have had the impression that all this weight wasn’t good for Mr. Pollunder, the entire mass of his back writhed, the stomach was soft and flabby, a real burden, and the face seemed pale and labored. Across from him stood Mr. Green, maybe a little fatter than Mr. Pollunder, but it was a coherent, load-bearing kind of fat, the feet were clapped together in a soldier’s stance, he held the head upright and nodded, he seemed to be a large gymnast, a chief among gymnasts. “So first of all,” Mr. Green continued, “go to Miss Klara. That will allow you to have a good time and it also fits very nicely with my schedule. Actually, I have something interesting to tell you before you continue on, something that might be crucial for your return. But unfortunately I’m bound by higher orders not to give them away to you before midnight. You can imagine the kind of harm it does to me, because it’s disturbing my night’s rest, but I will hold myself to my orders. Now it’s a quarter after eleven, I’ll discuss my business with Mr. Pollunder to the end, and your presence here would only be a disturbance, so you can spend a nice while with Miss Klara. You will arrive here punctually at twelve o’clock, where you will learn the matter of importance.” Could Karl defy these orders, which demanded only the smallest bit of hospitality and thanks toward Mr. Pollunder – which, by the way, had been given to him by an indifferent, brutal man while Mr. Pollunder, whose business it actually was, held himself back with words and glances? And what was this interesting thing he would be allowed to hear at midnight? If it didn’t hurry his return home by the three-quarters of an hour it was wasting, it didn’t really interest him. But he doubted the most if he would able to walk over to Klara, his enemy. If only he’d had the chisel his uncle had given to him as a paperweight. Klara’s room could be a dangerous cave. But now it was completely and utterly impossible to say the slightest thing against Klara, because she was Mr. Pollunder’s daughter and, as he had heard, Mack’s fiancée. If she had behaved a tiny bit differently, he would have openly admired her for these relationships. He thought all this over, but noticed, that no one could demand any thought out of him, because Green opened the door and said to the servant, who sprang up from the pedestal: “Take this young man to Miss Klara.” “So this is how you carry out an order,” thought Karl as he followed at a jog after the servant, who groaned with age down a remarkably short way to Klara’s room. As Karl passed his room, where the door was still standing open, he wanted to step in for a moment, maybe just to reassure himself. But the servant didn’t let him. “No,” he said, “you have to go to Miss Klara. You heard it yourself.” “I’ll only stop inside for a moment,” said Karl, and he thought about throwing himself on the sofa for a change, so that the time until midnight would go more quickly for him. “Don’t make it difficult for me to carry out my duty,” the servant said. “He seems to think it’s a punishment that I have to go to Miss Klara,” thought Karl and took a couple of steps, but then he stood still again in defiance. “Come on, young man,” said the servant. “now that you’re already here. I know you still want to go off into the night, but not everything goes as you want it, I said to you right away, such things barely become possible.” “Yes, I want to go away and so I’ll go away,” said Karl, “and all I want now is to say goodbye to Miss Klara.” “So,” said the servant, and Karl saw that he didn’t believe a word of it, “why wait to say goodbye, come on then.” “Who’s in the hallway?” Klara’s voice rang out, and you could see her leaning forward out of an approaching door, a large table light with a red lampshade in her hand. The servant hurried over to her and gave her a report, Karl came slowly after him. “You’re coming late,” said Klara. Without answering her for now, Karl spoke softly to the servant, but, since he already knew the man’s nature, he did it in a tone of strict command: “You wait for me just behind this door!” “I would like to go to sleep now,” said Klara and stood the lamp on the table. As he had done downstairs in the dining room, the servant locked the door carefully from the outside. “It is already past half past eleven.” “Past half past eleven,” Karl repeated in question, as if he were frightened over these numbers. “Then I have to say goodbye right now,” said Karl, “because I have to be in the dining hall punctually at twelve.” “What kind of business do you have to do in such a hurry,” said Klara and absentmindedly arranged the folds of her nightgown, her face glowed and she smiled all the time. Karl seemed to believe that there was no danger of getting in another quarrel with Klara. “Couldn’t you play the piano a little for me, like Papa had promised yesterday and you had promised today?” “But isn’t it already too late?” Karl asked. He would have preferred to please her, because she was entirely different than before, as if somehow she had been promoted a long way into the ranks of Pollunder and Mack. “Yes it is late,” she said and her desire for music seemed to have passed on. “And every note will echo through the entire house too, I am convinced that when you play, the pack of servants in the attic will all wake up.” “So I’ll let the playing go, I hope, by the way, you can still come to visit my uncle some time, if it doesn’t cause you any trouble, and given the chance you could show up in my room. I have a magnificent piano. My uncle gave it to me. Then I’ll play all my little songs for you, if it’s all right by you, it’s not very much unfortunately, and they’re not right at all for such a fine instrument, which only great virtuosos should be heard on. But if you can come to an agreement with me beforehand about your visit, you’ll be able to have that pleasure too, because soon my uncle wants to hire a famous teacher for me – you can imagine how I’d look forward to this – whose playing will make good grounds for you to pay me a visit during the hour lesson. I am, to be honest, happy, that it’s too late for playing, because I can’t play at all, you would be astonished at how little I can play. Now give me permission to leave, it is your bedtime after all.” And because Klara looked kindly on him, and seemed not to bear a grudge towards him at all for their fight, he added with a smile, while he reached his hand toward hers: “In my country, we like to say: Sleep well and dream sweetly.” “Wait, you,” she said without taking his hand, “maybe you should still play.” And she disappeared through a small side door next to the piano. “What is it then?” Karl thought. “I can’t wait any longer, no matter how nice she is.” There was a knock on the hallway door, and the servant, not daring to fully open the door, whispered through a small crack: “Excuse me, I’ve been called back and can’t wait any more.” “Just go,” said Karl, who decided to take a chance and find his way to the dining room by himself. “Just let me borrow the lantern in front of the door. How late is it anyway?” “Almost quarter to twelve,” said the servant. “The time goes by so slowly,” said Karl. The servant wanted to close the door already, when Karl remembered that he still hadn’t give him a tip, took a shilling out of his pants pocket – he always carried loose change jingling in his pants pocket, according to American custom, while his bank notes were in his vest pocket – and reached it over to the servant with the words: “For your good service.” Klara had already walked in with her hands on her firm hairstyle, when it occurred to Karl that he shouldn’t have sent the servant away. Who would lead him to the train station now? But Mr. Pollunder would be able to get his hands on a servant somewhere, maybe this servant had been called into the dining room to await further orders. “I’ll ask you then to play a little. You get to listen to music so seldom, you don’t want to pass up any opportunity to listen.” “But then it’s high time,” said Karl without any thought and sat immediately by the piano. “Do you want any sheet music?” asked Klara. “Thank you, I can’t really read the notes,” answered Karl and began playing. It was a short song that Karl knew would have to be played somewhat at length, especially for a foreigner to understand it, but he hustled through it in an angry marching beat. After it was over, the silence swarmed into their area again like a large crowd. “Very beautiful,” said Klara, but there was no amount of courtesy which could have flattered Karl after that kind of playing. “What time is it?” he asked. “A quarter to twelve.” “Then I still have a little time,” he said and thought to himself: “Either/or. I can’t play all ten songs I know, but I can probably play one well.” And he began his beloved soldier’s song. So slowly that the startled desires of the listener anticipated the next note that Karl was holding back and gave up only with difficulty. As with every song, he actually had to seek out the important keys with his eyes, but along with that he felt a sadness coming to life in himself which sought out a different ending over the actual ending of the song, but he couldn’t find it. “I can’t,” said Karl at the end of the song and looked at Klara with tears in his eyes. Then from the next room, loud applause rang out. “Someone else is listening!” cried Karl, roused up. “Mack,” Klara said softly. And already you could hear Mack call out, “Karl Rossman! Karl Rossman!” Karl swung both feet over the piano stool at the same time and opened the door. He saw Mack sitting there half-reclined in a large bed with four posts, the blanket had been thrown loosely over his legs. The canopy of blue silk had a unique girlish magnificence on an otherwise simple, heavy, wooden square bed. Only one candle burned on the small night table, but Mack’s shirt and the bed linen were so white, that the falling candlelight shone off of them in an almost blinding reflection; even the canopy glowed at the edges with its softly waving, loose-fitting silk. Just behind Mack, however, the bed and everything else sank into complete darkness. Klara leaned herself against the bedpost and had eyes only for Mack. “Hello,” said Mack, reaching his hand to Karl. “You play well, up to now I only knew your riding.” “I do one as terribly as the other,” said Karl. “If I’d known you were listening, I would never have played. But your young lady –” He interrupted himself, he hesitated to say “fiancée,” since Mack and Klara obviously slept with each other. “I thought so,” said Mack. “That’s why Klara had to lure you out here from New York, otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten to hear you play. It’s thoroughly amateur, and you made a few mistakes in these songs you practiced at, and they’re very primitively arranged, but all the same I liked it, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I never hate anyone’s performance. Won’t you sit down and stay awhile. Klara, give him a chair.” “Thank you,” Karl said hesitantly. “I can’t stay, as much as I would I like to stay here. I learned too late there’s a comfortable room in this house.” “I’m rebuilding everything this way,” said Mack. At that moment twelve bell chimes rang out, quickly one after the other, each one striking in the echo of the other, Karl felt on his cheeks the contractions of the great movement of the bells. What kind of village was this that had such bells! “High time,” said Karl, stretching his hands out to Mack and Klara without grabbing them, and left for the hallway. He didn’t find the lantern there and regretted giving the servant his tip too soon. He wanted to feel his way along the way to the open door of his room, but was barely halfway there when he saw Mr. Green staggering here and there in a hurry with a raised candle. In the hand in which he held the candle, he also carried a letter. “Rossman, why didn’t you come? Why did you let me wait? Why did you carry on like that with Miss Klara?” “So many questions!” thought Karl. “And now he’s pressing me against the wall,” because he was actually standing tightly against Karl, who leaned against the wall with his back. Green took on a large, smiling appearance in this hallway, and Karl asked himself for fun if he had somehow devoured good Mr. Pollunder. “Really, you are not man of your word. Promising to come down at twelve o’clock and sneaking around Miss Klara’s door instead. But I promised you something interesting at midnight and now I’m here.” With that he gave Karl a letter. On the envelope stood: “To Karl Rossman. To be personally delivered at midnight, wherever he is found.” “Finally,” said Mr. Green as Karl opened the envelope, “it is, I think, worth mentioning that I traveled out here from New York for you, so you can’t let me run after you up and down these hallways.” “From Uncle!” Karl said, having barely looked at the letter. “I was expecting it,” he said, turning to Mr. Green. “Whether you expected it or not is of colossal indifference to me. Just read it,” he said, holding the candle for Karl. Karl read by its light: Beloved nephew! As you have already noticed during our unfortunately short life together, I am thoroughly a man of principle. Not only is that unpleasant and sad for everyone around me but also for myself, but I owe to my principles everything I am and no one is allowed to demand that I deny myself the very ground I stand on, no one, not even you, my beloved nephew, even though you would’ve been the first, it occurs to me, to be allowed any kind of assault on my person. Then, with these hands that hold the paper and write, I would pick you up and hold you high. Since, however, it doesn’t seem right now that this could happen, I must send you away completely, on account of the present incident, and I urgently insist that you neither seek me out yourself nor seek me by letter or through any intermediary. You have decided to go against my wishes, to leave me tonight, so stay with your decision for the rest of your life. Only then it will be a manly decision. To deliver this news, I chose Mr.Green, my best friend, who will find gentle words for you that could not come from me. He is an influential man and for love of me he will support you with advice and action in your first steps toward independence. To understand our severance, which seems incomprehensible even by the end of this letter, I have to continue to say again and again: Karl, nothing good can come from your family. Should Mr. Green forget to hand over your trunk and umbrella, remind him. With best wishes for your continued welfare Your loyal Uncle Jakob.

Una fonte trascurata

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 20:38:26 +0000

di Nino Muzzi

“Il selvaggio della Papuasia si tatua la faccia, copre di tatuaggi la sua barca, il suo remo, insomma tutto quello che gli capita a portata di mano. Egli non è un delinquente. L’uomo moderno, invece, che pratica il tatuaggio sulla propria pelle è un delinquente oppure un degenerato.”

Questo passo tratto da una conferenza di Alfred Loos cui sembra abbia assistito anche Kafka, si trova nel saggio “Ornament und Verbrechen” della raccolta che porta il titolo “Trotzdem”.

Erste Untersuchung

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:32:19 +0000

K. war telephonisch verständigt worden, daß am nächsten Sonntag eine kleine Untersuchung in seiner Angelegenheit stattfinden würde. Man machte ihn darauf aufmerksam, daß diese Untersuchungen nun regelmäßig, wenn auch vielleicht nicht jede Woche so doch häufiger einander folgen würden. Es liege einerseits im allgemeinen Interesse, den Proceß rasch zu Ende zu führen, anderseits aber müssen die Untersuchungen in jeder Hinsicht gründlich sein und doch wegen der damit verbundenen Anstrengung niemals allzulange dauern. Deshalb habe man den Ausweg dieser rasch aufeinanderfolgenden aber kurzen Untersuchungen gewählt. Die Bestimmung des Sonntags als Untersuchungstag habe man deshalb vorgenommen, um K. in seiner beruflichen Arbeit nicht zu stören. Man setze voraus, daß er damit einverstanden sei, sollte er einen andern Termin wünschen, so würde man ihm so gut es gienge entgegenkommen. Die Untersuchungen wären beispielsweise auch in der Nacht möglich, aber da sei wohl K. nicht genug frisch. Jedenfalls werde man es, solange K. nichts einwende, beim Sonntag belassen. Es sei selbstverständlich, daß er bestimmt erscheinen müsse, darauf müsse man ihn wohl nicht erst aufmerksam machen. Es wurde ihm die Nummer des Hauses genannt, in dem er sich einfinden solle, es war ein Haus in einer entlegenen Vorstadtstraße, in der K. noch niemals gewesen war.

La giustizia con le ali ai piedi. Analisi di congiura e processo in Der Prozess di Franz Kafka

Sat, 07 Apr 2007 18:27:49 +0000

Matteo Colombi, Università di Bologna

.#

È la giustizia – disse infine il pittore. - Oh, adesso la riconosco, - disse K., - qui c’è la benda sugli occhi e qui la bilancia. Ma perché ha anche le ali ai piedi e sta correndo?-#

(F. Kafka, Der Prozess)

I volti del Tribunale

Al momento di analizzare Der Prozess (Il Processo, prima edizione postuma 1925) constata Giuliano Baioni in una sua monografia su Kafka: «La critica sembra essere concorde su un punto solo: K. è colpevole di non conoscere la legge. Ma quale legge? È la legge divina? È la legge mondana? E che rappresenta il tribunale? È una ulteriore versione dell’immagine del padre o è la burocrazia austroungarica? È un prodotto della nevrosi d’angoscia o è la burocrazia religiosa del popolo ebraico?» (1963, p. 145). A queste si collega «la prima, fondamentale domanda che il romanzo pone al lettore: quale colpa ha commesso K.?» (p. 148). Questo saggio vuole far proprie queste domande e, più che fornire una risposta, vuole vagliare alcune risposte possibili. Intende concentrarsi sul modo in cui Kafka ha creato un caso giudiziario di cui non si capisce se l’imputato sia colpevole o innocente e, d’altro canto, se il tribunale che lo accusa e lo condanna sia legittimo o illegittimo. In questa ambiguità che pervade il testo risiede anche il suo rapporto con il tema della congiura: se infatti Josef K. risultasse essere innocente e il tribunale illegittimo, il titolo dell’opera andrebbe rovesciato e saremmo di fronte ad una congiura perpetrata da una tanto potente quanto impenetrabile associazione segreta ai danni del protagonista.

Fear and Trembling in the Penal Colony

Sun, 23 Jan 2005 13:12:37 +0000

by Kyle McGee

“In the Penal Colony” incorporates a vast array of religious, artistic, and philosophical elements. Interpretation of this almost novella-length short story does not come easily because of all of the possibilities and ambiguities laid forth. Most critics agree on a number of issues regarding the religious and artistic aspects, but the philosophical elements are the muddiest and are therefore most ripe for scrutiny. The non-philosophical elements still merit discussion but in this case only to supplement the underlying philosophy of the story. The story features as a protagonist a worldly explorer, to whom some amount of respect and dignity is attached. Upon his visit to the penal colony of an unnamed island, the explorer meets with an officer at the colony’s execution site, directly in front of the execution device, or “apparatus.” The officer, one of the few remaining followers of the old Commandant, has dedicated himself fully to the reinstallation of the former, but currently dejected, glory known to the apparatus and the old Commandant’s regime. The explorer is present because it is his charge to assess the execution set to take place and to draw a conclusion concerning the retention or rejection of the existent system. The popular critical analysis seems to be that the story is allegorical, where the old Commandant represents either the God of the Old Testament, those that subscribe wholly to the Old Testament but not the New Testament, or something else related directly to the Old Testament. As Steinberg, regarding various interpretations of the story, says, “There is no contradiction, for example, when Globus and Pillard see in the old Commandant a representation of ‘the primitive super-ego’ and Beck sees in him a suggestion of ‘Moses, or an ancient Hebrew priest, if not Jehovah himself’ (Steinberg 493).” This is further evidenced in Peters’s analysis: “[The old Commandant’s] type of omniscience has led many commentators to believe that Kafka’s formidable Old Commander must be some allegorical reference to Yahweh, as the Judaic one and all-knowing, but also supposedly all-punishing God (Peters 409).” The omniscience to which Peters refers comes out of a dialogue between the explorer and the officer, in which the explorer asks, “Was he everything himself? Was he soldier, judge, engineer, chemist, draftsman?” to which the officer responds, “Yes sir, he was (Kafka 130).” Peters continues, though, after acknowledging the mainstream interpretation of the old Commandant by channeling his analysis through colonialism rather than religion, claiming that “in a colonial context, quite ordinary, mortal European males could aspire to similar all-knowing and omnipotent status (Peters 409).” The colonialist interpretation is but one of several valid alternatives to the religious interpretation, though all of the alternative interpretations remain alternative, not mainstream. While this does not necessarily mean that the mainstream interpretation is correct, it does mean that most scholars agree that “In the Penal Colony” is a story of a religious nature. The literary devices and artistic elements inherent to “In the Penal Colony” allow for more widely varying perceptions than do the religious elements. There is a plethora of fodder provided: the apparatus, the leather scripts, the teahouse, and the tomb, to name a few. Some of these elements straddle the line between the religious and the artistic. Steinberg notes that some critics may have seen Christian or Jewish symbols in some of the aforementioned artistic elements (Steinberg 494). Whether the apparatus represents the crucifix or the teahouse a shrine or any other Judeo-Christian symbol, though, is not the present concern. In examining the artistic elements of “In the Penal Colony” as artistic elements, more can be said. Considering the ornate writing on the leather script and the apparatus itself, Danielle Allen writes, “The officer’s gestures establish a context for judging his beloved Commandant’s apparatus: it should be viewed, or read, as a work of art (Allen 325).” Allen goes as far as to call the presiding officer the “artist-officer,” an apt moniker for the operator of the apparatus (Allen 327). Koelb, concerned largely in his study with the act, or art, of reading within the story, primarily of the words inscribed by the apparatus, shows “that this inscription is simply the reproduction of an act of writing that had taken place long before the time of the narration and that as such it is the embodiment of the intellectual re-production which we ordinarily call ‘reading’ (Koelb 511).” Allen and Koelb differ in their emphases – writing and reading, respectively – but they meet at the central point: The communication between the characters in “In the Penal Colony” is art, both in the story and for the reader. Koelb equates the action of the story to dramatic theater (Koelb 521). Spoken, written, or read, the words communicated throughout the story are to be seen as artistic elements and, as such, they play into the philosophy of the story. It is clear that views opposite in nature can be taken, examined, and concluded upon similarly via the examples of Allen and Koelb; while there are various interpretations to be made regarding the artistic elements of the story, like the religious elements, agreement among exegetes still prevails. A philosophical analysis becomes all the more necessary. Thanks to the written communication between Kafka and Max Brod, the literary world knows certain intimacies about Kafka’s life. For one, it is known that Kafka had read Soren Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling as well as his Buch des Richters prior to writing “In the Penal Colony,” and, in the case of the latter, even within about a year of doing so (Heidsieck 135). Given this information, and the fact that “Kafka felt that Kierkegaard’s writings deepened his own understanding of ethical individualism,” it does not seem an unrealistic possibility that Kafka would weave some of Kierkegaard’s philosophy into his own work (Heidsieck 134). Though a number of studies done and comments made parallel Kafka and Kierkegaard – or attempt to separate the two – the discussion is hardly through. A Kierkegaardian approach to “In the Penal Colony” may yield some interesting results. In Kierkegaardian philosophy there are three levels of being, ordered hierarchically. The first, the aesthetic level, marks the single individual as the single individual in the physical world. The second, the ethical level, marks the single individual as the universal. The third and final, the religious level, marks the single individual as the single individual in an absolute relation with the absolute, whose relation with the absolute, God, comes by virtue of the absurd and is inexplicable. The second and third tiers each possess a hero, an ideal representative of the level. The ethical hero is called the tragic hero, and the religious hero is called the knight of faith. There are uncanny similarities to be found between these heroic Kierkegaardian forms and a few of Kafka’s characters in “In the Penal Colony.” The aesthetic level of being deals primarily with sensory experience, with the single individual living in the physical world. The aesthetic individual is a single person with whom a bond, through sensory perception, is formed, usually but not necessarily with something artistic. Such a bond could be formed between the individual and, for instance, a piece of music or a sculpture or, perhaps, an execution apparatus. The officer sees many aspects of the apparatus, from the leather script it uses to operate to the ingenious machine itself, as artful. The officer, or, recalling Allen’s terminology, “artist-officer,” is connected to each of the artistic elements to be found in the story. His profound connection with the machine denotes a sensory bond. Of all the characters, the officer has the most fervent interest in art and punishment, which are two concepts that, Allen says, intermingle, and which also are to be found in the Kierkegaardian aesthetic category (Allen 326). The art of punishment is his and, since the new Commandant’s rise, his alone, at least of the characters in the field. The machine, without doubt, is the officer’s responsibility, not to mention his pride and reason for living. Certainly there is a connection between the officer and the teahouse, and the reader may even presume that the officer had spent his free time lounging there, depending on the reader’s interpretation of the clientele. The old Commandant’s makeshift tomb is the aesthetic element with which the officer may have the deepest association, perhaps even more so than the apparatus; for, as the soldier tells the explorer, “it’s what [the officer] is most ashamed of (Kafka 156).” Shame and pride, two indisputably human emotions, represented respectively by the tomb and the apparatus, are at the officer’s core. The officer, via his connections and emotive response to and passion for these elements, is the single individual that represents the aesthetic level of being. The ethical level, in a sense, opposes the aesthetic level, in Kierkegaard’s terms. The single individual forsakes his individuality for a connection with the universal in the ethical level. The ethical zenith, the tragic hero, becomes so in forsaking his individuality and making a “move of infinite resignation (Kierkegaard 38-46).” The move of infinite resignation, concisely, is a shedding of all things held dearly and closely, coupled with a feeling of reconciliation with the suffering caused by that loss. After making the move of infinite resignation, the tragic hero can act as judge for the universal, for he has nothing to gain in making a decision either way. He therefore pulls himself out of the equation and considers the good of the universal, the good for all. “In the Penal Colony” features such a tragic hero. Is not the explorer at the colony to act as a judge regarding the retention or rejection of the apparatus and execution in general? Perhaps the reason that his opinion is esteemed as it is came by way of the move of infinite resignation. Being an explorer, his material possessions must be few. For whatever reason, the explorer is in a position to judge the penal colony’s methods of execution. He witnesses firsthand the enthusiasm with which the officer expresses the machine’s grace and artfulness. Still, the explorer puts his personal experience out of the picture in favor of the common, universal good. Disdaining the procedure and apparatus itself, the explorer decides not to vouch for the validity of the executions, much to the chagrin of the officer. It is in this respect that the explorer becomes the tragic hero. In mere moments, the officer moves from the aesthetic level to the ethical level and finally to the religious level. Shedding his clothes and metaphorically shedding his dearest values, the officer enters the machine’s harrow. The officer’s move of infinite resignation signifies his crossing of the threshold into the ethical level. A Kierkegaardian leap of faith, an inexplicable movement of faith, follows. The apparatus malfunctions, stabbing the officer mercilessly; this is not the slow, tautological death intended. The officer’s extreme, crystallized suffering raises him above the universal as an individual. The officer becomes the knight of faith – that is, he acts as the single individual standing in an absolute relation with God and the absurd, and in a way, the old Commandant. If a reader assigns to the apparatus a symbolic religious meaning, the officer’s relationship with God becomes evident, as does his relationship with the old Commandant – for the old Commandant could represent the God of the Old Testament. On another level, the officer stands in relation with God in a way that is only indirectly related to the apparatus; specifically, that the officer has condemned himself to death, which places him in a direct relationship with God. In his move toward the absurd, the officer necessarily stands in relation to the void. The surrounding company tries to save the officer from his self-appointed fate; indeed, the bystanders cannot understand or explain his actions. There are other potential knights of faith in the story. The explorer, followed by the prisoner and soldier, enters a teahouse on the edge of the colony. The teahouse patrons are “poor, humble people (Kafka 156).” This characterization suggests the possibility that these folks have undergone the movement of infinite resignation. Upon reading the old Commandant’s gravestone, which bears a prophetic, religious inscription, the explorer is alarmed and looks around the teahouse. The patrons smile knowingly, “as if they had read the inscription with him (Kafka 157).” It is as if the teahouse patrons know that the old Commandant will return by virtue of the absurd, though the explorer speculates differently. The philosophical components of “In the Penal Colony," while the least understood, may present a deeper understanding of the story when examined, especially through the output of a philosopher of whom it is known that Kafka admired the work. Yet there may be a claim to be made in opposition to this stance. In an essay, Eliseo Vivas has considered and censured the parallelism between Kafka and Kierkegaard. The central reason for this denunciation is that, for Kierkegaard, belief is willed as a human decision, whereas for Kafka belief is a cognitive exercise. Vivas goes on, “In Kafka anguish issues from doubt, in Kierkegaard from certitude (Vivas 145).” Vivas has a strong argument until the generalities fade: “Having been thrust from the aesthetic [Kafka’s] heroes stop before they reach the next stage. And they stop because they refuse – or are unable to bring themselves – to solve their problems by the only means that such problems can be solved… It is the leap, taken by the greatest number of the major philosophers of our West, that Kafka, faithful to the limitation of his empiricism, will not take,” claims Vivas (Vivas 146).” Either “In the Penal Colony” is an exception Vivas did not consider or Vivas is lost. That there are characters progressing in Kierkegaard’s sphere should be evident. Even if the officer’s suicide is not seen in terms of Kierkegaard’s philosophy, it ought to be seen as a leap away from his prior state into something inexplicable – whether a commentator uses the word “absurd” or not. The rest of the aforementioned examples follow in this manner and invalidate, or at least bring to question Vivas’s claims. The aesthetic and religious elements of the story are worthy of considerable research on their own. The pieces on which are here conferred, however, are intended to support the philosophical issues that, in a way, overshadow the other aspects. Kierkegaard’s philosophy, it should be seen, elucidates some fascinating facets of the story that are sometimes overlooked. Kafka’s characters move within Kierkegaard’s prescribed stages – with this information, a deeper understanding of “In the Penal Colony” develops.

Fuori orario. Il capitolo «Il bastonatore»

Sat, 13 Nov 2004 22:29:03 +0000

di Mauro Nervi

*1.**Una svista decisiva*#

Il capitolo «Il bastonatore» (Der Prügler) fu pubblicato da Max Brod nell’edizione Schocken del 1935 con un errore di lettura particolarmente significativo per il delicato equilibrio interno del testo kafkiano….

This paper is temporarily not available. Ask the Author for a copy.

Le porte comunicanti. Simbolo e struttura nel primo capitolo del Processo

Sat, 13 Nov 2004 22:19:32 +0000

di Mauro Nervi. Pubblicato su: Strumenti Critici, 96, XVI, pp. 261-296, 2001

«L’armonia nascosta è migliore di quella palese»

Eraclito, fr. D B54

Dissolvenza incrociata. Sfuggente ma significativo in Kafka è sempre il modo in cui i personaggi escono di scena, o per dir meglio svaniscono….

This paper is temporarily not available. Ask the Author for a copy.

Heft 4

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:55:13 +0000

XI 11 3 Tage lang nichts geschrieben.
XI (1911) den ganzen Nachmittag im Cafe City

Miska überredet, eine Erklärung zu unterschreiben, daß er nur Commis bei uns war, also nicht versicherungspflichtig und der Vater nicht verpflichtet wäre, die große Nachtragszahlung für seine Versicherung zu leisten. Er verspricht es mir, ich rede ein flüssiges Cechisch, besonders meine Irrtümer entschuldige ich elegant, er verspricht die Erklärung Montag ins Geschäft zu schicken, ich fühle mich von ihm, wenn nicht geliebt, so doch respektiert, aber am Montag schickt er nichts, ist auch nicht mehr in Prag, sondern weggefahren.

Bilder von der Verteidigung eines Hofes (II, 17)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:22:13 +0000

Es war ein einfacher und lückenloser Holzzaun von nicht ganz Manneshöhe. Dahinter standen drei Männer, deren Gesichter man über den Zaun hinausragen sah, der mittlere war der größte, die beiden anderen, um mehr als einen Kopf kleiner, drängten sich an ihn, es war eine einheitliche Gruppe. Diese drei Männer verteidigten den Zaun oder vielmehr den ganzen Hof, der von ihm umschlossen war. Es waren noch andere Männer da, aber unmittelbar beteiligten sie sich an der Verteidigung nicht. Einer saß an einem Tischchen mitten im Hof, da es warm war, hatte er sich den Uniformrock ausgezogen und über die Sessellehne gehängt. Er hatte vor sich einige kleine Zettel, die er mit großen, breiten, viel Tinte verbrauchenden Schriftzügen beschrieb. Hie und da sah er auf eine kleine Zeichnung, die weiter oben mit Reißnägeln an der Tischplatte befestigt war, es war ein Plan des Hofes und der Mann, welcher der Kommandant war, verfaßte nach diesem Plane die Anordnung für die Verteidigung. Manchmal richtete er sich halb auf, um nach den drei Verteidigern zu sehn und über den Zaun hinweg ins freie Land. Auch was er dort sah nutzte er für seine Anordnungen aus. Er arbeitete eilig, wie es die gespannte Lage erforderte. Ein kleiner bloßfüßiger Junge, der in der Nähe im Sande spielte, trug, wenn es so weit war und der Kommandant ihn rief, die Zettel aus. Doch mußte ihm der Kommandant immer zuerst mit dem Uniformrock die vom feuchten Sande schmutzigen Hände reinigen, ehe er ihm die Zettel gab. Der Sand war feucht vom Wasser das aus einem großen Bottich aufspritzte, in welchem ein Mann Militärwäsche wusch, auch eine Leine hatte er von einer Latte des Zauns zu einem schwachen Lindenbaum gezogen, der verlassen im Hof stand. Auf dieser Leine war Wäsche zum Trocknen ausgehängt und als jetzt der Kommandant sein Hemd, das ihm schon am schwitzenden Leibe klebte, plötzlich über den Kopf hin auszog und mit kurzem Zuruf dem Mann beim Bottich zuwarf, nahm dieser ein trockenes Hemd von der Leine und übergab es seinem Vorgesetzten. Nicht weit vom Bottich im Baumschatten saß ein junger Mann schaukelnd auf einem Sessel, unbekümmert um alles was ringsumher geschah, die Blicke verloren zum Himmel und zum Flug der Vögel gerichtet und übte auf einem Waldhorn militärische Signale. Das war notwendig wie etwas anderes, aber manchmal wurde es dem Kommandanten zuviel, dann winkte er, ohne von seiner Arbeit aufzusehn, dem Trompeter zu, daß er aufhöre, und als das nicht half drehte er sich um und schrie ihn an, dann war ein Weilchen lang Stille, bis der Trompeter leise, zum Versuch nur, wieder zu blasen begann und, als es ihm durchging, allmählich wieder den Ton zur früheren Stärke anschwellen ließ. Der Vorhang des Giebelfensters war herabgelassen, was nichts Auffallendes hatte, denn alle Fenster auf dieser Hausseite waren irgendwie verdeckt, um sie vor dem Einblick und Angriff der Feinde zu schützen, aber hinter jenem Vorhang duckte sich die Tochter des Pächters, blickte auf den Trompeter hinunter und die Klänge des Waldhorns entzückten sie so, daß sie manchmal nur mit geschlossenen Augen, die Hand am Herzen, sie in sich aufnehmen konnte. Eigentlich hätte sie in der großen Stube im Hinterhaus die Mägde beaufsichtigen sollen, die dort Charpie zupften, aber sie hatte es dort, wohin die Töne nur schwach, niemals Befriedigung bringend, immer nur Sehnsucht erweckend, gedrungen waren, nicht ausgehalten und sich durch das verlassene dumpfe Haus hier heraufgestohlen. Manchmal beugte sie sich auch ein wenig weiter vor, um zu sehn, ob der Vater noch bei seiner Arbeit sitze und nicht etwa das Gesinde revidieren gegangen sei, denn dann wäre auch ihres Bleibens hier nicht mehr gewesen. Nein, er saß noch immer, aus seiner Pfeife paffend, auf der Steinstufe vor der Haustür und schnitt Schindeln, ein großer Haufe fertiger und halbfertiger Schindeln sowie rohen Materials lag um ihn herum. Das Haus und das Dach würde leider unter dem Kampfe leiden und man mußte Vorsorge treffen. Aus dem Fenster neben der Haustür, das bis auf eine kleine Lücke mit Brettern verschlagen war, kam Rauch und Lärm, dort war die Küche und die Pächterin beendigte eben mit den Militärköchen das Mittagessen. Der große Herd reichte dafür nicht aus, es waren daher auch noch zwei Kessel aufgestellt worden, aber auch sie genügten nicht, wie sich jetzt zeigte: dem Kommandanten war es sehr wichtig, die Mannschaft reichlich zu nähren. Man hatte sich deshalb entschlossen noch einen dritten Kessel zur Hilfe zu nehmen, da er aber ein wenig schadhaft war, war ein Mann auf der Gartenseite des Hauses damit beschäftigt, ihn zuzulöten. Er hatte es ursprünglich vor dem Hause zu machen gesucht, aber der Kommandant hatte das Hämmern nicht ertragen können und man hatte den Kessel wegrollen müssen. Die Köche waren sehr ungeduldig, immer wieder schickten sie jemanden nachzusehn, ob der Kessel schon fertig sei, aber er war noch nicht fertig, für das heutige Mittagessen kam er nicht mehr in Betracht und man würde sich einschränken müssen. Zuerst wurde dem Kommandanten serviert. Trotzdem er es sich einigemale und sehr ernsthaft verbeten hatte, ihm etwas besonderes zu kochen, hatte sich die Hausfrau nicht entschließen können, ihm die gewöhnliche Mannschaftskost zu geben, auch wollte sie es niemand anderem anvertrauen ihn zu bedienen, zog eine schöne weiße Schürze an, stellte auf ein silbernes Tablett den Teller mit kräftiger Hühnersuppe und trug es dem Kommandanten in den Hof hinaus, da man nicht erwarten konnte, daß er seine Arbeit unterbrechen und ins Haus essen gehn werde. Er erhob sich gleich, sehr höflich, als er die Hausfrau selbst herankommen sah, mußte ihr aber sagen, daß er keine Zeit zum Essen habe, weder Zeit noch Ruhe, die Hausfrau bat mit geneigtem Kopf, Tränen in den aufwärts schauenden Augen und erreichte damit, daß der Kommandant noch immer stehend, aus dem noch immer in den Händen der Hausfrau befindlichen Teller lächelnd einen Löffel voll Suppe nahm. Damit war aber auch der äußersten Höflichkeit Genüge getan, der Kommandant verbeugte sich und setzte sich zu seiner Arbeit, er merkte wahrscheinlich kaum, daß die Hausfrau noch ein Weilchen lang neben ihm stand und dann seufzend in die Küche zurückging. Ganz anders aber war der Appetit der Mannschaften. Kaum erschien in der Lücke des Küchenfensters das wildbärtige Gesicht eines Kochs, der mit einer Pfeife das Zeichen gab, daß das Mittagessen ausgeteilt werde, wurde es überall lebendig, lebendiger als es dem Kommandanten lieb war. Aus einem Holzschuppen zogen zwei Soldaten einen Handwagen, der eigentlich nur ein großes Faß darstellte, in welches aus der Küchenlücke in breitem Strom die Suppe geschüttet wurde für jene Mannschaften, welche ihren Platz nicht verlassen durften und denen daher das Essen zugeführt wurde. Zuerst fuhr das Wägelchen zu den Verteidigern am Zaun, es wäre dies wohl auch geschehn ohne daß der Kommandant mit dem Finger ein Zeichen hätte geben müssen, denn jene drei waren augenblicklich am meisten dem Feind ausgesetzt und das verstand auch der einfache Mann zu würdigen, vielleicht mehr als der Offizier, aber dem Kommandanten lag vor allem daran, die Verteilung zu beschleunigen und die lästige Unterbrechung der Verteidigungsarbeiten, welche das Essen verursachte, möglichst abzukürzen, sah er doch wie selbst die drei, sonst musterhafte Soldaten, sich jetzt mehr um den Hof und das Wägelchen als um das Vorfeld des Zaunes bekümmerten. Sie wurden schnell aus dem Wägelchen versorgt, das dann weiter den Zaun entlang geführt wurde, denn alle zwanzig Schritte etwa hockten unten am Zaun drei Soldaten, bereit, wenn es nötig werden sollte, so wie jene ersten drei aufzustehn und sich dem Feind zu zeigen. Inzwischen kam in langer Reihe aus dem Haus die Reserve zur Küchenlücke, jeder Mann die Schüssel in der Hand. Auch der Trompeter näherte sich, zog zum Leidwesen der Pächterstochter, die nun wieder zu den Mägden zurückkehrte, die Schüssel unter seinem Sessel hervor und brachte statt ihrer sein Waldhorn dort unter. Und in dem Wipfel der Linde begann ein Rauschen, denn dort saß ein Soldat, der die Feinde durch ein Fernrohr zu beobachten hatte, und der trotz seiner wichtigen unentbehrlichen Arbeit von dem Führer des Suppenwagens wenigstens vorläufig vergessen worden war. Das erbitterte ihn umso mehr, als sich einige Soldaten, nichtstuerische Reservemannschaften, um die Mahlzeit besser zu genießen, rund um den Stamm niedergesetzt hatten und der Dampf und Duft der Suppe zu ihm emporstieg. Zu schreien wagte er nicht, aber im Gezweig schlug er um sich und stieß mehrmals das Fernrohr, um auf sich aufmerksam zu machen, durch das Laubwerk hinab. Alles vergebens. Er gehörte zu den Abnehmern des Wägelchens und mußte warten, bis es nach beendigter Rundfahrt zu ihm kam. Das dauerte freilich lange, denn der Hof war groß, wohl vierzig Posten zu drei Mann waren zu versorgen, und als das Wägelchen, von den übermüdeten Soldaten gezogen, endlich zur Linde kam, war schon nur wenig im Faß und besonders die Fleischstücke waren spärlich. Zwar nahm der Späher den Rest noch gern an, als er ihm in einer Schüssel mit einer Hakenstange heraufgereicht wurde, glitt dann aber ein wenig am Stamm herab und stieß wütend – dies war sein Dank – den Fuß in das Gesicht des Soldaten, der ihn bedient hatte. Dieser, begreiflicherweise außer sich vor Erregung, ließ sich von seinem Kameraden hochheben, war im Nu oben im Baum und nun begann ein von unten unsichtbarer Kampf, der sich nur im Schwanken der Äste, dumpfem Stöhnen, Umherfliegen der Blätter äußerte, bis dann endlich das Fernrohr zu Boden fiel und nun sofort Ruhe eintrat. Der Kommandant hatte, von andern Dingen sehr in Anspruch genommen – draußen im Felde schien verschiedenes vorzugehn – glücklicherweise nichts bemerkt, still kletterte der Soldat herunter, freundschaftlichst wurde das Fernrohr hinaufgereicht und alles war wieder gut, nicht einmal von der Suppe war nennenswert viel verlorengegangen, denn der Späher hatte vor dem Kampf die Schüssel an den obersten Zweigen sorgfältig windsicher befestigt.

"… sich daran zu beteiligen" (II, 8)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:54:35 +0000

(… ) sich daran zu beteiligen, er langte förmlich danach, aber er mußte sich sagen, daß er davon ausgeschlossen war, es war für ihn unmöglich sich dort einzufügen, das hätte eine so große Vorbereitung verlangt, daß darüber nicht nur dieser Sonntag sondern viele Jahre und er selbst dahingegangen wäre, und selbst wenn die Zeit hätte still stehn wollen, es hätte sich doch kein Ergebnis erzielen lassen, seine ganze Abstammung, Erziehung, körperliche Ausbildung hätte anders geführt werden müssen. So weit war er also von diesen Ausflüglern, aber doch auch eigentlich wieder sehr nahe und das war das schwerer Begreifliche. Sie waren doch auch Menschen wie er, nichts Menschliches konnte ihnen völlig fremd sein, könnte man sie also durchforschen, müßte man finden, daß das Gefühl, das ihn beherrschte und ihn von der Wasserfahrt ausschloß, auch in ihnen lebte, nur daß es allerdings weit davon entfernt war sie zu beherrschen, sondern nur irgendwo in dunklen Winkeln geisterte.

Oktavheft C (I, 20)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:32:58 +0000

Ich hätte mich doch wohl früher darum kümmern sollen, wie es sich mit dieser Treppe verhielt, was für Zusammenhänge hier bestanden, was man hier zu erwarten hatte und wie man es aufnehmen sollte. Du hast ja niemals von dieser Treppe gehört, sagte ich mir zur Entschuldigung, und in den Zeitungen und Büchern wird doch immerfort alles durchgehechelt was es nur irgendwie gibt. Von dieser Treppe aber war nichts zu lesen. Das mag sein, antwortete ich mir selbst, Du wirst eben ungenau gelesen haben. Oft warst Du zerstreut, hast Absätze ausgelassen, hast Dich sogar mit Überschriften begnügt, vielleicht war dort die Treppe erwähnt und es entging Dir so. Und jetzt benötigst Du gerade das, was Dir entgangen ist. Und ich blieb einen Augenblick stehn und dachte über diesen Einwand nach. Da glaubte ich mich erinnern zu können, einmal in einem Kinderbuch möglicherweise von einer ähnlichen Treppe etwas gelesen zu haben. Es war nicht viel gewesen, wahrscheinlich nur die Erwähnung ihres Vorhandenseins, das konnte mir gar nichts nützen.

"Hochzeitsvorbereitungen auf dem Lande" (1906-1909)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:11:29 +0000

“Fassung A”#

Als Eduard Raban durch den Flurgang kommend, in die Öffnung des Thores trat sah er, daß es regnete. Es regnete wenig.

Auf dem Trottoir gleich vor ihm gab es viele Menschen in verschiedenartigem Schritt. Manchmal trat einer vor und durchquerte die Fahrbahn. Ein kleines Mädchen hielt in den vorgestreckten Händen ein müdes Hündchen. Zwei Herren machten einander Mittheilungen, der eine hielt die Hände mit der innern Fläche nach oben und bewegte sie gleichmäßig als halte er eine Last in Schwebe. Da erblickte man eine Dame, deren Hut viel beladen war mit Bändern, Spangen und Blumen. Und es eilte ein junger Mensch mit dünnem Stock vorüber, die linke Hand als wäre sie gelähmt platt auf der Brust. Ab und zu kamen Männer welche rauchten und kleine aufrechte längliche Wolken vor sich her trugen. Drei Herren – zwei hielten leichte Überröcke auf dem geknickten Unterarm – giengen oft von der Häusermauer zum Rande des Trottoirs vor, betrachteten das was sich dort ereignete und zogen dann sprechend sich wieder zurück.

Der Heizer

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:22:05 +0000

Als der sechzehnjährige Karl Roßmann, der von seinen armen Eltern nach Amerika geschickt worden war, weil ihn ein Dienstmädchen verführt und ein Kind von ihm bekommen hatte, in dem schon langsam gewordenen Schiff in den Hafen von New York einfuhr, erblickte er die schon längst beobachtete Statue der Freiheitsgöttin wie in einem plötzlich stärker gewordenen Sonnenlicht. Ihr Arm mit dem Schwert ragte wie neuerdings empor, und um ihre Gestalt wehten die freien Lüfte.

4. Erstes Gespräch mit der Wirtin

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:56:59 +0000

Er hätte gern mit Frieda vertraulich gesprochen aber die Gehilfen, mit denen übrigens Frieda hie und da auch scherzte und lachte, hinderten ihn daran durch ihre bloße aufdringliche Gegenwart. Anspruchsvoll waren sie allerdings nicht, sie hatten sich in einer Ecke auf dem Boden auf zwei alten Frauenröcken eingerichtet, es war, wie sie mit Frieda öfters besprachen, ihr Ehrgeiz den Herrn Landvermesser nicht zu stören und möglichst wenig Raum zu brauchen, sie machten in dieser Hinsicht, immer freilich unter Lispeln und Kichern, verschiedene Versuche, verschränkten Arme und Beine, kauerten sich gemeinsam zusammen, in der Dämmerung sah man in ihrer Ecke nur ein großes Knäuel. Trotzdem aber wußte man leider aus den Erfahrungen bei Tageslicht, daß es sehr aufmerksame Beobachter waren, immer zu K. herüberstarrten, sei es auch daß sie in scheinbar kindlichem Spiel etwa ihre Hände als Fernrohre verwendeten und ähnlichen Unsinn trieben oder auch nur herüberblinzelten und hauptsächlich mit der Pflege ihrer Bärte beschäftigt schienen, an denen ihnen sehr viel gelegen war und die sie unzähligemal der Länge und Fülle nach miteinander verglichen und von Frieda beurteilen ließen. Oft sah K. von seinem Bett aus dem Treiben der Drei in völliger Gleichgültigkeit zu.

Der Marsch nach Ramses

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 16:45:41 +0000

In dem kleinen Wirtshaus, in das Karl nach kurzem Marsche kam, und das eigentlich nur eine kleine letzte Station des Newyorker Fuhrwerkverkehrs bildete und deshalb kaum für Nachtlager benützt zu werden pflegte, verlangte Karl die billigste Bettstelle, die zu haben war, denn er glaubte mit dem Sparen sofort anfangen zu müssen. Er wurde seiner Forderung entsprechend vom Wirt mit einem Wink, als sei er ein Angestellter, die Treppe hinaufgewiesen, wo ihn ein zerrauftes altes Frauenzimmer, ärgerlich über den gestörten Schlaf, empfieng und fast ohne ihn anzuhören mit ununterbrochenen Ermahnungen leise aufzutreten, in ein Zimmer führte, dessen Tür sie, nicht ohne ihn vorher mit einem Pst! angehaucht zu haben, schloß.

The March to Ramses

Sun, 03 Dec 2006 16:35:51 +0000

After a short march, Karl came to a small inn, which was actually just a small last stop for the New York traffic and as a result barely looked any good for a night’s rest. Karl asked for the cheapest place to sleep that could be had, because Karl believed he had to start saving right away. In accordance with his demand, he was shown by a signal from the landlord, as if he were an employee, to a flight of stairs, where he was received by a tousled old woman who was annoyed at having her sleep disturbed, and almost without hearing him she scolded him without interruption to walk softly, led him to his room and closed the door, but not without shushing him with a Psst! It was so dark, Karl didn’t quite know at first if the window shades had been let down all the way or if the room had no windows at all; he noticed at last a small skylight hanging above him, whose curtain he pulled away so that some light came in. The room had two beds, both of which, however, were occupied. Karl saw two young people lying there in a heavy sleep, who didn’t seem very trustworthy, because for no comprehensible reason they slept fully dressed, and one still had his boots on. At the moment that Karl was opening up the skylight, one of the sleepers raised his arms and legs into the air a little, which presented such a sight that Karl, in spite of his sorrows, laughed inwardly to himself. He soon saw, that apart from the fact that he didn’t have another place to sleep – neither a couch nor a sofa – he wouldn’t be able to get any sleep, because he wouldn’t allow his newly recovered trunk and the money he carried on him to come into any danger. But he also didn’t want to go away, because he didn’t dare go out of the house and past the old woman and the landlord so soon. In the end it probably wasn’t any more unsafe here than it was on the road. Of course it was striking that there wasn’t a single piece of luggage to be found in the entire room, so far as he could see in the half-light. But most likely these two young people were the house servants, who had to get up soon on account of the guests, and so they slept fully dressed. So it wasn’t particularly honorable to sleep with them, but it was all the more safe. But as long as there was any doubt, he didn’t allow himself to fall asleep. In front of one of the beds stood a candle with some tiny matches, which Karl crept up to and grabbed. He had no second thoughts about the light, because by order of the landlord the room belonged as much to him as it did to the two others, and they’d already enjoyed their sleep for half the night and had an incomparable advantage over him by occupying the beds. Of course he made a great effort not to wake them by walking around softly and conducting himself carefully. First of all he wanted to look through his trunk to get an overview of his things, which he only remembered vaguely, the most valuable of which must have gone missing. Because when Schubal lays his hands on something, there is little hope it gets back unharmed. Although he could have expected a large tip from Uncle, while the absence of any object could be blamed on the original trunk watcher, Mr. Butterbaum. At the first sight of the opened trunk, Karl was horrified. He had spent so many hours during the trip arranging his trunk and arranging it all over again and now everything was so wildly stuffed in there that when the lock opened the lid sprang up into the air. Soon, however, Karl recognized to his great relief, that the only reason for this disorder was that someone later had packed in the suit that he had worn during the trip, which of course had not been calculated for the trunk. Not the slightest thing missing. In the secret pocket of his jacket, not only did he find the passport but also the money he had taken from home, so that when he laid it next to everything he already had, Karl was richly provided for with money, for the moment. And the laundry he had worn for the arrival was freshly washed and ironed. He immediately put the watch and the money in his protected secret pocket. The only regrettable item was the Veronese salami, which hadn’t gone missing but had passed on its smell to all of his things. If this couldn’t be removed somehow, Karl had the prospect of walking around for months wrapped up in its smell. By looking for certain objects lying at the bottom – a pocket Bible, letter-paper and a photograph of his parents – the cap fell from his head and into the trunk. He recognized it right away in its old surroundings, it was his cap, the cap which his mother had given him as a traveling cap. He’d had the foresight not to wear this cap on the ship, because he knew that generally people in America wore caps and not hats, and he didn’t want to wear it out before the arrival. And now Mr. Green had used it to have fun at Karl’s expense. Maybe his uncle had ordered him to do it. And with an inadvertently furious motion, he loudly clapped the trunk lid shut. There wasn’t any help for it now, both sleepers had awaken. First they stretched and one of them yawned, and right after him so did the other. By now almost the entire contents had been spilled onto the tables, if they were thieves, all they had to was walk up and take their pick. Not only to anticipate this possibility but also to bring in some clarity, Karl went, candle in hand, to the beds and explained why he was allowed to be here. They didn’t seem to expect this explanation at all, because, much too tired to speak, they looked at him without any amazement. They were both very young, but difficult work or anguish had prematurely uncovered the bones in their faces, unkempt beards hung off their chins, their long, uncut hair hung in scraps from their heads and out of drowsiness they rubbed and pressed their deep-set eyes with their knuckles. Karl wanted to use their momentary weakness and said: “My name is Karl Rossman and I am a German. Please tell me too, since we’re sharing a room, your names and nationalities. I’ll tell you right now, I have no claim on a bed, because I came so late and don’t plan on sleeping anyway. Plus, you shouldn’t trouble yourselves about my nice clothes, I’m very poor and without any prospects.” The smaller of the two – it was the one who had boots on – hinted with his arms, legs and expressions that this didn’t interest him at all and that it wasn’t the time for this kind of conversation anyway, so he lay back down and fell asleep right away; the other, a dark-skinned man, lay down too, but with a casually outstretched hand he managed to say before passing out: “He’s Robinson and he’s Irish, I’m Delamarche, I’m French and please be quiet.” He had barely said this when he blew out Karl’s candle with a great expenditure of breath and fell back on the pillow. “The danger is averted for the moment,” Karl said to himself as he returned to the table. Unless they were faking their drowsiness, everything was going well. It was just unpleasant that one of them was an Irishman. Karl didn’t know what kind of book he had read once at home, that told him to watch out for Irishmen. While staying with his uncle, he’d had the best opportunity to venture into this question of the dangerousness of the Irish, but because he had believed himself permanently secure, the question had been completely neglected. Now at least he wanted to get a good look at this Irishman with the candle, which he had lit again, and he found that this one looked more tolerable than the Frenchman. There was a roundness to his face, and he laughed very kindly in his sleep, so far as he could tell as he stood on his tiptoes from a distance. Even though everything in him was determined not to sleep, Karl sat down in the room’s only chair, put off for the moment the packing of the trunk – he could still spend the whole night on it – and leafed through the bible without reading anything. Then he picked up the photograph of his parents, where his short father stood erect and tall, while his mother sat a little sunken in the chair in front of him. His father held one hand on the back of the chair, the other balled into a fist on an illustrated book that lay open on the delicately ornate table next to him. There was also a photograph, where Karl was shown with his parents, Father and Mother looked sharply at him in that one, while he had been forced to look at the photographer’s camera. But he hadn’t gotten that photograph for the trip. He looked more closely at what was lying in front of him and tried to pick up his father’s gaze from every angle. But as he shifted his view by various positions of the candle, his father would not become livelier, his strong horizontal mustache didn’t look anything like it did in reality, it was not a good photograph. His mother, on the contrary, looked much better, her mouth was twisted out of shape as if she had just been hurt and were forcing herself to smile. It seemed to Karl that this would be just as obvious to anyone who saw the picture, then a moment later it seemed to him that the clarity of these impressions would be too strong and almost absurd. How could you get from a picture such an unassailable conviction about the feelings of the people in the picture? And he looked away from the picture for a long while. When he brought his glance back again, it fell on the hand of his mother, hanging off the arm of the chair, near enough to kiss. He thought that it might be good to write to his parents, like the both of them had urged him to do in Hamburg, especially his father. When his mother had announced to him the trip to America in the darkness of a terrible evening, he had sworn openly and irrevocably never to write, but what did the promise of an inexperienced young man matter in these new circumstances? He might as well have sworn that after two months in America he would have been the general of the American Army, while in reality he was stuck with two lumps in an attic on top of an inn outside New York, and he had to admit that this was his rightful place. And smiling, he examined the faces of his parents, as if he could tell whether or not they had ever wanted to receive some news from their son. With all this looking he soon noticed that he was very tired and could barely stay awake through the night. The picture fell from his hands, then he laid his face on the picture, whose coolness felt good on his cheek, and with a pleasant feeling, he fell asleep. He was woken up early by a tickling in his armpit. It was the Frenchman who allowed himself these advances. But in addition, the Irishman stood in front of Karl’s table and both looked at him with some interest, like Karl had done to them during the night. Karl wasn’t surprised that they hadn’t woken him when they’d gotten up; there weren’t any evil intentions in their silence, because he had slept deeply and they clearly hadn’t done much with their appearance and their clothing. Now they greeted each other properly, with a certain formality, and Karl learned that the two were steam-fitters, who hadn’t gotten any work in a long time and as a result were coming to ruin out here. Robinson opened his jacket as proof and you could that there wasn’t any shirt, which admittedly you could already tell because of the loose-fitting collar that had been fastened to the back of his jacket. They were going to walk for two days from New York to the city of Butterford, where allegedly some positions were available. They had nothing against Karl coming with and first they promised to carry his trunk for now and then to secure him an apprenticeship if they could find work, which would be an easy thing to do if there were any work. Karl had barely agreed when they advised him, out of friendship, to take off those nice clothes, since they would be awkward for him when he applied for the position. And right in this house there was a good opportunity to lose these clothes, because the old woman ran a linen business. They helped Karl, who hadn’t yet finished considering the matter, out of his suit, and then they carried it off. As Karl put on his traveling suit, alone and a little sleep-drunk, he reproached himself for having sold the suit which might end up hurting him at an application for the apprenticeship but which would only be useful at a better post, and he opened the door so he could call the two back, but he knocked into them instead. They put the proceeds of half a dollar on the table, but by the happy faces they made, you couldn’t really convince yourself that they hadn’t taken their piece from the sale, and an annoyingly large one at that. There wasn’t any time to talk about this, because the old woman came in, just as tired as she was during the night, and drove all three out into the hallway with the explanation that the room had to be prepared for new guests. It went without saying she was acting out of malice. Karl, who had wanted to put his trunk in order, had to watch as the woman packed his things with both hands and threw them into the trunk with vigor, as if they were wild animals to be tamed. The two fitters made lots of trouble for her, plucked at her skirt, tapped her back, but if they had intended that to help Karl, she missed the point entirely. When the old woman had clapped shut the trunk, she pressed the handle into Karl’s hand, shook off the fitters and drove all three out of the room with the threat that if they didn’t obey, they wouldn’t get any coffee. The woman must have completely forgotten that right from the beginning Karl hadn’t belonged to the fitters, because she treated them all as one gang. In fact, the fitters had sold Karl’s clothing to her, and that proved a certain commonality. In the hallway they had to go back and forth at length, especially the Frenchman, who hung on Karl, cursed without interruption and threatened to knock out the landlord if he ever dared come forward, and it seemed he was preparing for this by furiously rubbing his clenched fists against each other. Finally there came an innocent, small young man, who had to stretch out when he handed the coffee pot to Robinson. Unfortunately there was only one pot and they couldn’t make the young man understand they wanted glasses. So only one could ever drink and the two others stood in front of him and waited. Karl had no desire to drink but didn’t want to offend the others, so he held the pot to his lips, even if he didn’t do anything once it was there. As a goodbye the Irishman threw the pot at the stone pavement, they left the house without anyone seeing and walked in the thick, yellow morning fog. Generally they walked next to each other on the edge of the road, Karl had to carry his trunk, the others would probably relieve him only by request, here and there an automobile shot through the fog and the three turned their heads after the enormous vehicle that was built so garishly and appeared so quickly that you had no time to notice even the existence of the passengers. Later began the convoys of vehicles bringing food to New York, which spread five in a row across the street without interruption, so that no one could cross the street. From time to time the street broadened into a square, where a policeman walked back and forth on a tower-like protrusion in the middle, so he could look over all and be able, with a small stick, to order the traffic on the main road and the traffic flowing down the side streets, which remained unsupervised until the next square and the next policeman, but the silent and careful carriage drivers and chauffeurs stopped of their own free will in a sufficient order. Karl was most surprised at the general calm. Were it not for the shrieks of the animals on the way to the slaughter, you wouldn’t have heard anything but the clapping of hooves and the rush of the tires. But the speeds weren’t always so even. In some squares great detours had to be made because of the great pressure from the side streets, so the entire journey stopped and traveled step by step, then it all came on again, so that for a short while everything rushed by at lightning speed until as if by a single brake a slowdown took over and quieted everything again. Not the slightest bit of dust was kicked up from the road, everything moved in the clearest air. There were no pedestrians, no market women wandered to the city as in Karl’s homeland, but here and there appeared long, flat automobiles where twenty stood with baskets on their backs, perhaps market women, and they stretched out their necks to glance over the traffic and grab at their hopes for a faster trip. Then you could see a similar automobile, where some walked around with their hands in their pockets. These automobiles carried various inscriptions, and Karl cried out when he saw: “Dock-workers hired for the Jakob Shipping Corporation.” The car traveled very slowly and a short, hunched over, lively man standing on the running board invited the three wanderers to get in. Karl took refuge behind the fitters, as if his uncle could be on the wagon and see him. He was happy that the two also rejected the invitation, even if they offended him to some extent with the arrogant expressions on their faces. They can’t believe that they’re too good to go into the service of his uncle. He made them understand that right away, although not so directly. Delamarche asked him pleasantly not to interfere in things he did not understand, this way of hiring people was a disgraceful fraud and the Jakob Corporation was notorious throughout the entire United States. Karl didn’t answer, but stuck to the Irishman from now on, he asked if he could carry his trunk a little, which he did, after Karl had repeated his request a few more times. But he complained without interruption about the heaviness of the trunk, until it was revealed that his only intention was to lighten the trunk of the Veronese salami that he had become pleasantly aware of in the hotel. Karl had to unpack it, the Frenchman took it so he could handle it with dagger-like knives and eat almost all of it alone. Robinson got a slice here and there, Karl by comparison, who again had to carry the trunk if he didn’t want to leave it standing in the road, got nothing, as if he had already taken his share. It seemed petty to beg for a small piece, but it bothered him on the inside. All the fog had already disappeared, in the distance tall mountains gleamed with wavy ridges in the haze of the sun. By the side of the road lay a miserably cultivated field surrounding gigantic factories, which stood darkly smoking on the open land. In the indiscriminately arranged single tenements the many windows trembled in their multifarious movements and illuminations, and on all the narrow, weak balconies women and children had many things to do, while around them, hiding them and then revealing them, cloth and linen, hung up and laid out, fluttered in the morning wind and billowed out powerfully. With your gaze sliding off of the houses, you saw larks flying high in the sky and under them the swallows, not so far above the heads of the travelers. Karl recognized much of his homeland and he didn’t know if it would be a good thing to leave New York and go into the interior of the country. The sea was in New York and always the possibility of return to his homeland. And so he remained standing and said to both of his companions, he wanted to stay in New York. And when Delamarche tried to shove him along, he wouldn’t let himself be shoved and said that he still had the right to decide for himself. The Irishman had to mediate and explained that Butterford was much nicer than New York, and both had to ask him politely before he would continue on again. And even then he wouldn’t have gone on if he hadn’t said to himself, that maybe it would be better for him to come to a place where the possibility of return wouldn’t be so easy. He would certainly make better progress there, because there wouldn’t be any useless thoughts to hold him back. And now he was the one that pulled along the both of them, and they reveled so much in his zeal that they took turns carrying the trunk without having had to be asked, and Karl didn’t quite understand why he was making them so happy. They came into a steep region, and when they stopped here and there, they could see when they looked back the panorama of New York and its harbor forever expanding and developing. The bridge connecting New York to Boston hung delicately over the Hudson, and it trembled when you squinted to see it. It seemed entirely without traffic and underneath it ran an inanimate, smooth belt of water. Everything in both of these giant cities seemed empty and pointlessly displayed. As for the buildings, there was barely any difference between the large ones and the small. In the invisible deep of the streets, the bustle went on after its own manner, but nothing moved above it except for a light haze which wouldn’t be pushed away, but it was as if you could chase it away without any effort. Even in the harbor, the largest in the world, it was quiet, and only here and there, influenced by your memory of seeing it up close, you might believe you saw a ship pushing on for a short stretch. But you couldn’t follow it for long, it escaped from your eyes and couldn’t be found anymore. But Delamarche and Robinson saw much more, they pointed left and right and arched with their outstretched hands to places and parks that they named by their names. They couldn’t understand that Karl had been in New York for two months and had barely seen anything of the city except one street. And they promised him, that when they’d worked enough in Butterford, they would go with him to New York and show him everything worth seeing and of course every special neighborhood where you could be entertained into paradise. And in connection, Robinson began to sing a song with his whole mouth, which Delamarche accompanied with hand-clapping and which Karl recognized as an opera melody from his homeland that had pleased him more in the English text than it had pleased him at home. So there was a small performance out in the open, where everyone took their part, and the city below them, which allegedly enjoyed this melody so much, didn’t seem to know it. Karl asked once where Jakob Shipping was, and immediately he saw Robinson’s and Delamarche’s index fingers stretched out to the same place, or maybe to places miles apart. Then, as they continued on, Karl asked when was the earliest they could have enough work to get back to New York. Delamarche said it could be good enough in a month, because there was a worker shortage in Butterford and wages would be high. Naturally, they would keep their money in a common pool, which coincidentally made the differences in their wages equal as partners. Karl didn’t like the common pool, even though as an apprentice he would certainly earn less than the trained workers. Moreover, Robinson mentioned, if there wasn’t any work in Butterford, they would have to keep on wandering, either to find accommodations as farmhands somewhere or maybe go to California to sift for gold, which, to summarize Robinson’s detailed explanation, was his preferred plan. “Why did you become a steam-fitter then, if you want to sift for gold?” asked Karl, who didn’t want to hear about the necessity of such long and uncertain journeys. “Why did I become a steam-fitter?” said Robinson. “My mother’s son will not go hungry. There’s good money in sifting for gold.” “There was at one time,” said Delamarche. “There still is,” said Robinson and talked about people he knew who had gotten rich that way and who were still that way, who didn’t have to raise a finger any more and who would for friendship help him and his partners too with some money. “We will get jobs in Butterford,” said Delamarche and spoke to Karl’s heart, but it wasn’t said very confidently. During the day they only stopped once in a diner and ate in the open at what seemed to Karl to be an iron table with almost raw flesh that you didn’t cut but tore to pieces. The bread had a cylindrical shape and a long knife stuck in every bread loaf. With the meal was offered a dark liquid that burned in the throat. But Delamarche and Robinson liked it, they raised their glasses often to the attainment of various desires and knocked them against each other, holding them high for a while, glass to glass. At the next table sat workers in lime-splashed jackets and everyone drank the same liquid. Automobiles, driving by in crowds, threw clouds of dust over the tables. Large newspaper sheets were passed around, one spoke excitedly about the construction workers’ strike, the name Mack was often mentioned, Karl inquired about him and learned that this was the father of his acquaintance Mack and the largest building contractor in New York. The strike was costing him millions and threatened his financial standing. Karl didn’t believe a word of this gossip from these uninformed, overbearing people. The meal was bitter for Karl, because he wasn’t quite sure how the meal was going to be paid for. It would be natural for each to pay his own part, but now and then both Delamarche and Robinson had remarked that their remaining money had run out at their last night’s stay. A watch, a ring or something to sell for cash was nowhere to be found. And Karl couldn’t blame them for profiting from the sale of his clothes, that would have been an insult to them and then they would’ve parted ways. The surprising thing was, though, that neither Delamarche nor Robinson were very concerned with the bill, and they were even in good enough moods to try as often as they could to grab the waitress, who moved proudly between the tables with a heavy stride. Her hair ran a little loose along the side of her forehead and down the cheek, and she straightened it back again and again with her hands. Finally, just as you were about to expect the first friendly word out of her, she walked to the table, lay both hands on him and asked: “Who’s paying?” Hands have never flown faster into the air than they did just now from Delamarche and Robinson as they pointed to Karl. Karl wasn’t surprised about this, because he had seen it coming and had found nothing wrong in the fact that the same companions, who would give him such an advantage later on, would allow him to pay them a kindness in return, even if it would’ve been better if they had talked about it beforehand. It was only a little embarrassing that he would first have to transfer the money out of his secret pocket. His original intention had been to hold back the money until it was absolutely necessary and stand, to a certain degree, on the same level with his companions. The advantage he got by having this money and by hiding it from his companions was more than made up for by the fact that they had been in America since their childhoods, that they had familiarity and experience with making money and that finally they weren’t used to living any better than they did now. Karl’s plans for the money until now wouldn’t be disrupted by this bill, because he could do without a quarter of a pound, and so he could lay a quarter-pound piece onto the table and explain that this was his only property and that he was prepared to sacrifice it for the group trip to Butterford. The amount would be enough for a journey by foot. But now he didn’t know if he had enough small change, and that money was mixed in with the banknotes deep in his secret pocket, and the best way to find something in there was to dump its entire contents onto the table. Otherwise it was highly unnecessary that his companions learn anything at all about this secret pocket. It seemed lucky now that his companions were more interested in the waitress than in how Karl got together the money for the bill. Delamarche lured the waitress between himself and Robinson by offering to pay the bill, she was able to defend herself against both of their advances only by laying her entire hand on one or both of their faces and pushing it away. In the meantime Karl feverishly collected the money into one of his hands under the tabletop, so that, with his other hand, he could hunt for pieces in the secret pocket and fetch them out. Even though he wasn’t quite familiar with American money, he thought in the end that he had taken a sufficient amount from the crowd of pieces, and he laid it on the table. The clanging of the money cut off all the joking right away. To Karl’s embarrassment, and to a general astonishment, it was revealed that almost an entire pound was lying there. Nobody asked why Karl hadn’t said anything before about the money, which would have been enough for a comfortable train ride to Butterford, but Karl was embarrassed enough already. After the meal had been paid for, he slowly brought the money back in, Delamarche took a coin out of his hand to tip the waitress, whom he hugged and pinched so he could reach the money to her on the other side. Karl was grateful that they didn’t say a thing about the money during the walk, and he thought a long time about telling them about his entire fortune, but he never found an opportunity. Towards evening they came into a more rural, fertile region. You could see unbroken fields all around, stretching their new greenery over gentle hills, rich country houses bordered the streets and you walked for hours at a time through the gilded gates of gardens, they crossed the same slowly flowing stream a number of times and frequently heard above them the railway train thundering on high across the trembling viaducts. The sun had just come down on the horizon of the distant forests, when they threw themselves on a hill of a grass in the middle of a small group of tress, so that they could rest from the strain. Delamarche and Robinson lay there and stretched themselves powerfully, Karl sat upright and looked down a couple of meters at the street, deeply rutted from the constantly passing automobiles, which hurried by quickly and with urgency one after the other, as if they were sent in precise numbers from far off in the distance and then waited in those same precise numbers in the other direction. Since the earliest morning and through the entire day, Karl had seen no car stop, no passenger get out. Robinson suggested they spend the night here, since they were all tired enough, and since they’d be able to march out even earlier and finally since they’d rarely find a cheaper and better-placed camp for the night before the onslaught of complete darkness. Delamarche agreed, and only Karl felt obliged to say that he had enough money to buy a place to sleep for all of them in a hotel. Delamarche said they wouldn’t need the money, he should only look after it well. Delamarche wasn’t hiding in the least the fact that they already had plans for Karl’s money. Since his first suggestion had been accepted, Robinson continued to explain that they had to go to sleep now, and to make themselves strong for the morning, they had to eat well and someone should get a meal for everyone from the hotel with the sign “Hotel Occidental” shining just down the road. Being the youngest, and since no one else volunteered, Karl didn’t hesitate to offer himself for this errand and he went over to the hotel, after receiving an order of bacon, bread and beer. There must have been a large city nearby, because the first large hall of the hotel that Karl walked into was filled with a large crowd, and at the buffet that spread along the long wall and two side walls, waiters ran unceasingly with white aprons on their chests and could not calm down the impatient guests, because again and again you could hear swearing all over the place and fists slamming on tables. No one noticed Karl; there was also no actual service in the hall, the guests, who sat at small tables that disappeared among three neighboring tables, grabbed anything they wanted at the buffet. At every one of the tables stood a large bottle with oil, vinegar or something similar, and all the food that had been grabbed at the buffet was soaked with stuff from this bottle. For Karl to get to the buffet, where it would be difficult to begin, especially with his large order, he had to push past many tables, which predictably couldn’t be carried out without bothering the guests, who took in everything unfeelingly, even when Karl almost tipped over a table after being pushed by a guest. He apologized sincerely but really wasn’t making himself understood, and he didn’t understand at all what the people were shouting to him. With some effort, he found a small, open place at the buffet, where his view was blocked for a long time by the propped-up elbows of his neighbors. It seemed to be the custom here to prop up your elbows and put your fists against your forehead; Karl thought about how his Latin professor Dr. Krumpal had hated this posture and always approached in secret and then out of nowhere, with a suddenly appearing ruler, would push your elbows from the table with a painful jerk. Karl stood cramped against the buffet, because he had barely gotten in line when a table had been set up and one of the guests there brushed Karl’s back with his hat whenever he bent backwards a little as he spoke. And there was little hope of getting a waiter, even when both of his plump neighbors went away satisfied. Sometimes Karl snatched a waiter over to his table by the apron, but they always tore themselves free with a disgusted face. No one could be stopped, they only ran and only ran. If only someone had passed with something to eat and drink, he would have taken it, asked about the price, laid out the gold and left gladly. But right by him were lying bowls of herring-like fish whose black scales gleamed golden on the edges. They could be very expensive and would probably satisfy no one. In addition, small bottles of rum were within reach, but he didn’t want to bring his companions rum, they seemed at each opportunity to go for the alcohol with the highest proof, and he didn’t want to support them in that. So Karl had to look for a different spot and began like he had before. But now time was going by very quickly. The clock at the other end of the hall, whose hands you could make out only by squinting through the smoke, showed that it was almost past nine. By the other spots at the buffet, however, the crowd was even larger than it had been at the earlier position he had left behind. And the more the hall filled up, the later it got. Again and again new guests poured through the main doors with loud hallos. At some places guests cleared away the buffet with authority, sat themselves on a table and toasted one another; it was the best place, you could see the entire hall. Karl still tried to push through, but he didn’t have a single hope of succeeding. He scolded himself for volunteering to do this errand when he didn’t have any knowledge of the locals. His comrades would accuse him, with every right, that he had tried to save money by not bringing anything back. Now he stood in a section where all round him warm meat was being eaten with beautiful yellow potatoes, it was incomprehensible to him how these people had gotten it. Then he saw, a few steps ahead of him, an old woman, clearly from the hotel staff, talking and laughing with a guest. She fiddled constantly with a pin in her hair. Immediately Karl was determined to bring his order to this woman, because, being the only woman, she seemed to be the exception to all this general noise and running around, and then for the simpler reason that she was the only hotel employee within reach, assuming that she didn’t continue on her business the first time he tried to talk to her. But exactly the opposite happened. Karl hadn’t even spoken to her, but had only lain in wait, when she saw Karl, as you sometimes look at someone to the side during conversation, and, interrupting her conversation, she asked him kindly and in English as clear as the grammar books, if he was looking for anything. “Yes I am,” said Karl, “I can’t get anything here.” “Then come with me, little one,” she said, said goodbye to her acquaintance, who took off his hat, which in this place seemed to be an unbelievable act of hospitality, then she grabbed Karl by the hand, went to the buffet, shoved a guest aside, opened a trap door on the counter, took Karl across the hallway behind the table where you had to watch out for the ceaselessly running waiters and opened two concealed doors, so that they found themselves in a large, cool pantry. “You just have to know how it works,” Karl said to himself. “And what do you want then?” she asked and bent down to him obligingly. She was very fat, her body swung, but her face, under the circumstances, had an almost delicate construction. Glancing at the many things to eat, Karl was tempted to quickly think up a finer dinner to order, especially since he could expect cheap service from this influential woman, but finally, since nothing suitable occurred to him, he came back to ordering the bacon, bread and beer. “Nothing else?” asked the woman. “No thank you,” said Karl, “but for three people.” After the woman’s question about the three others, Karl described his companions in a few short words, it made him happy to be asked a few questions. “But that’s a meal for prisoners,” said the woman, expecting more demands from Karl. But now he was afraid she would give it to him as a gift and wouldn’t take the money, so he was quiet. “We’ll put that together right away,” said the woman, walked to a table with her fat body’s admirable mobility, cut a large piece of bacon streaked with meat using a long, thin, saw-toothed knife, took out shelves with loaves of bread, took up three bottles of beer from the basement and laid everything in a light straw basket, which she handed over to Karl. All the while she explained to Karl that she had led him here because outside at the buffet the food always lost its freshness, no matter how quickly it was eaten, because of the smoke and the odor. But it was good enough for the people outside. Karl didn’t say anything more, because he didn’t know why he deserved this special treatment. He thought about his companions, the good American experts that they were, who probably had never been in this pantry and had to make do with the spoiled things to eat at the buffet. You couldn’t hear any noise from the hall, the walls must have been very thick to keep the vault sufficiently cool. Karl held the straw basket for awhile, didn’t think about the bill and didn’t move. He only thanked her, shivering, when she wanted to set down a bottle that was similar to the ones standing outside on the tables. “Are you walking very far?” asked the woman. “To Butterford,” answered Karl. “That is still very far,” said the woman. “Still a day’s trip,” said Karl. “No further,” said the woman. “Oh, no,” said Karl. The woman straightened up some things on the tables, a waiter came in, looked around in search of something, was directed by the woman to a large bowl where a broad pile of sardines was sprinkled with parsley and carried this bowl into the hall with upraised hands. “Why did you want to spend the night outside?” asked the woman. “We have enough room here. Sleep with us in the hotel.” It was very tempting for Karl, especially since he had been so miserable the previous night. “I have my luggage outside,” he said hesitantly and not entirely without vanity. “Just bring them here,” said the woman. “That shouldn’t get in your way.” “But my companions!” said Karl, remarking immediately that they really would get in the way. “They can also spend the night here,” said the woman. “Just come! Don’t let yourself be asked like this.” “My comrades are honest people, in general,” said Karl, “but they’re not clean.” “Didn’t you see the dirt in the hall?” asked the woman and twisted her face. “Even the most troublesome can come to us. I will have three beds prepared right away. Admittedly, only in the attic, because the hotel is already fully occupied, I’ve been moved to the attic, but in any case it’s better than out in the open.” “I can’t bring my companions with,” said Karl. He imagined to himself the kind of noise these two would make in the hallways of this fine hotel, and Robinson would get dirt on everything and Delamarche inevitably would pester even this woman. “I don’t know why it’s impossible,” said the woman, “but if you want it that way, let your friends stay outside and come in alone to us.” “That’s not right, that’s not right,” said Karl. “They are my companions and I must stay with them.” “You are stubborn,” said the woman and looked away from him. “Someone tries to do a good thing for you, wants to be helpful to you and you resist with all your strength.” Karl considered this, but he knew no way out, so he only said: “My best thanks for your kindness,” then he remembered that he hadn’t paid her yet, and he asked about the amount due. “You pay when you bring the straw basket back to me,” said the woman. “I must have it early in the morning, at the latest.” “Okay,” said Karl. She opened a door, which led straight out into the open and said, as he departed with a bow: “See you in the morning!” He had just gotten outside, when he heard again the unabated noise from the hall, which was also mixed with the clangs of a brass band. He was happy that he didn’t have to go out through the hall. The hotel was now illuminated on all five of its floors and brightened the street all the way across. As always the automobiles continued, coming in from the distance faster than they had by day, even if not in uninterrupted succession, groping the surface of the road with the white beams of their lights, which grew pale as they crossed the light of the hotel but rushed off into the continuing darkness illuminated again. Karl found his companions already in a deep sleep, he had stayed away too long. He wanted to invitingly spread out what he had brought with on napkins he had found in the basket and wake up his comrades when everything was ready, only to see to his surprise his trunk completely opened, which he had left behind locked, with the key in his pocket, while its contents were scattered all over the glass. “Get up!” he cried. “You slept and in the meantime thieves were here.” “Missing something?” asked Delamarche. Robinson wasn’t awake yet and reached for the beer. “I don’t know,” cried Karl, “but the trunk is open. It’s careless to lie down to sleep and let the trunk stand here open.” Delamarche and Robinson laughed, and the first said: “You shouldn’t stay away so long the next time. The hotel is ten steps away and you needed three hours to go this way and that. We were hungry, we thought you might have something to eat in your trunk, and we tickled the lock until it opened itself. Nothing was in there generally, and you’d be able to pack everything easily.” “So,” said Karl, staring into the quickly emptying basket and listening to the odd noise Robinson made while he drank as the liquid penetrated his throat, then rushed back up again with a sort of whistling, only to roll back into the deep in a tremendous heap. “Are you finished eating?” he asked, as they both caught their breath for a moment. “Didn’t you eat in the hotel?” asked Delamarche, who thought that Karl was trying to take his share. “If you still want to eat, then hurry up,” said Karl and went to his trunk. “He’s in a mood,” said Delamarche to Robinson. “I am not in a mood,” said Karl, “but is it right to break open my trunk while I’m gone and throw around all my things? I know you have to be patient with companions, and I prepared myself for that, but this is too much. I’m spending the night in the hotel and I’m not going to Butterford. Eat up quickly, I have to bring the basket back.” “Can you see Robinson, now that’s how you speak,” said Delamarche. “That is a refined manner of conversation. He is such a German. You warned me about him earlier, but I was a fool and took him along. We gave him our trust, schlepped him around with us an entire day, lost at least half a day because of it and now – because someone tempted him over at the hotel – he says goodbye, simply says goodbye. But because he’s a lying German, he doesn’t do this openly, he finds an excuse with the trunk, and because he’s a rude German, he cannot go away without insulting our honor and calling us thieves, just because we had a little joke with his trunk.” Karl, who was packing his things, said without turning around: “Keep on talking and make it easier for me to leave. I know what companionship is. I had friends in Europe too and no one can accuse me of false or vulgar behavior. Naturally, we’re out of contact right now, but if I ever get back to Europe, they’ll take me in gladly and know me as their friend right away. And you Delamarche and you Robinson, you would have me think that I betrayed you – and I’ll never be quiet about that – after you were friendly enough to take me in and promise me an apprenticeship at Butterford. But what really happened was something entirely different. You have nothing, and that doesn’t lower you in my eyes in the slightest, but you resented my meager possessions and tried to humiliate me, and I can’t stand that. And even after you’ve broken my trunk, you don’t use a single word in apology, but abuse me and abuse my people – and with that you take away every possibility of staying with you. This isn’t really valid for you Robinson. The only thing I object to your character is that you’re so very dependent on Delamarche.” “Well now we see,” said Delamarche as he stepped to Karl and gave him light push, as if to get him to pay attention. “Now we see how you’ve turned out. For the whole day you walked behind me, held onto my jacket, imitated my every move and was otherwise as quiet as a little mouse. But now that you feel you have some support at the hotel, you start talking big. You are a little shyster, and I don’t know if we can accept that so calmly. Maybe we should just charge you tuition for what you learned from us today. You Robinson, we envy him – so he says – for his possessions. A day’s work in Butterford – to say nothing of California – and we’ll have ten times more than you’ve shown us and than you still have hidden in the lining of your jacket. So watch your mouth!” Karl had picked himself up from the trunk and now saw Robinson approaching, sleepy but a little stimulated by the beer. “If I stay here much longer,” he said, “I might learn more surprises. You seem to want to beat me up.” “All patience has an end,” said Robinson. “You’d better be quiet, Robinson,” said Karl, without taking his eyes off Delamarche. “Inside you know I’m right, but on the outside you have to stay with Delamarche.” “Are you going to bribe him?” asked Delamarche. “It didn’t occur to me,” said Karl. “I’m happy that I’m getting out, and I want nothing more to do with you. I want to say just once, You abuse me for possessing money and having hidden it from you. Granted, it’s true, but hadn’t I handled it correctly with people I’d only know a couple of hours, and haven’t you confirmed the correctness of my methods with your current behavior?” “Stay calm,” said Delamarche to Robinson, even though the other didn’t move. Then he asked Karl: “Since you’re being so flagrantly sincere, keep on going with your sincerity, since we are standing so comfortably together, and tell us why you actually want to go the hotel. Delamarche was walking so close to him that Karl had to take a few steps backwards over the trunk. But Delamarche didn’t let that deter him, pushed the trunk to the side, took a steps forward, planted his foot on a white shirt that was still lying in the grass and repeated his question. As if in answer, a man with a strongly shining flashlight climbed up to the group from the street. It was a waiter from the hotel. He had barely caught sight of Karl when he said: “I’ve been looking for you for almost half an hour. I’ve already checked all the embankments on both sides of the streets. Madame, the head chef, wants to tell you that she urgently needs the straw basket which she lent to you. “Here it is,” said Karl, his voice uncertain with excitement. Delamarche and Robinson stepped to the side with apparent modesty, as they always did before strange people of good standing. The waiter took the basket and said: “Then allow the head chef to ask you, if you haven’t thought it over and maybe want to stay overnight in the hotel. Both of the other men can come if you want to take them with. The beds are already prepared. The night may be warm today, but sleeping out here in the back is not without its dangers, you often find snakes.” “Since the head chef is so friendly, I will accept her invitation,” said Karl and waited for an answer from his comrades. But Robinson stood there indifferently and Delamarche had his hands in his pockets and looked up at the stars. Both were openly relying on Karl to take them in without any fuss. “For this situation,” said the waiter, “I have an order to lead you to the hotel and carry your luggage.” “Then please wait just a moment,” said Karl and bent down to put into the trunk the few things that were still lying around. Suddenly he straightened up. The photograph was missing, it had been resting right on the top of the trunk and was nowhere to be found. Everything was complete, only the photograph was missing. “I can’t find the photograph,” he said pleadingly to Delamarche. “What kind of photograph?” he asked. “The photograph of my parents,” said Karl. “We haven’t seen any photographs,” said Delamarche. “There was no photograph inside, Mr. Rossman,” confirmed Robinson. “But that’s impossible,” said Karl, and his looks for help pulled the waiter closer. “It was lying on top and now it’s gone. If you hadn’t preferred to have so much fun with my trunk.” “There’s been no mistake,” said Delmarche. “There was no photograph in the trunk.” It was important to me, like everything else I had in my trunk,” said Karl to the waiter, who walked around and looked in the grass. “It’s irreplaceable, I never got a second.” And when the waiter gave up the hopeless search, he was still saying: “It was the only picture I had of my parents.” As a result the waiter said loudly, without any attempt at diplomacy: “Maybe we could look in the gentleman’s pockets.” “Yes,” said Karl right away. “I have to find the photograph. But before I look through their pockets, I’ll say that whoever gives me the photograph of his own free will gets the entire trunk.” After a moment of general silence, Karl said to the waiter. “My companions must want to have their pockets searched. But even now I promise the entire trunk to whomever has the picture in his pocket. I can do no more.” Right away the waiter got to examining Delamarche, who seemed harder to handle than Robinson, whom he left over for Karl. He made Karl careful about searching both at the same time, because otherwise one of them could throw the photograph to the side unobserved. With his first grab in Robinson’s pocket, Karl found a tie that belonged to him, but he didn’t take it and yelled to the waiter: “Anything else you find on Delamarche, let him keep. I want nothing but the photograph, only the photograph.” In searching through the breast pocket, Karl grabbed Robinson’s hot, greasy breast, and he became aware that maybe he was committing a great injustice to his companions. He hurried now because of the possibility. Generally, everything was useless, neither Robinson nor Delamarche had the photograph.” “It’s no good,” said the waiter. “They probably tore the photograph up and threw the pieces away,” said Karl. “I thought they were my friends, but secretly they wanted to hurt me. Not Robinson, really, who wouldn’t have come across the idea that the photograph was worth so much to me, but more Delamarche.” Karl saw only the waiter in front of him, whose light illuminated a small circle, while everyone else, including Delamarche and Robinson, were in the dark. Naturally, there wasn’t any more talking about taking them both along to the hotel. The waiter swung the trunk onto his shoulder, Karl took the straw basket and they went. Karl was already in the street, when as an afterthought he stopped himself, stood still and called out into the darkness: “Listen just once! If either of you still have the photograph and bring it to me in the hotel – he’ll still get the trunk – I swear it – and he will not be reported on.” No real answer came down, only a ragged word, the beginning of something Robinson shouted that was immediately stuffed back in his mouth by Delamarche. For a long while Karl waited to see if one of them would decide something different. A second time he called into the distance: “I’m still here.” But there was no loud answer, only once a stone rolled down the slope, maybe by chance, maybe it was just a bad throw.

Im leeren Sitzungssaal / Der Student / Die Kanzleien

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:33:12 +0000

K. wartete während der nächsten Woche von Tag zu Tag auf eine neuerliche Verständigung, er konnte nicht glauben, daß man seinen Verzicht auf Verhöre wörtlich genommen hatte und als die erwartete Verständigung bis Samstag abend wirklich nicht kam, nahm er an, er sei stillschweigend in das gleiche Haus für die gleiche Zeit wieder vorgeladen. Er begab sich daher Sonntags wieder hin, gieng diesmal geradewegs über Treppen und Gänge, einige Leute, die sich seiner erinnerten, grüßten ihn an ihren Türen, aber er mußte niemanden mehr fragen und kam bald zu der richtigen Tür. Auf sein Klopfen wurde ihm gleich aufgemacht und ohne sich weiter nach der bekannten Frau umzusehn, die bei der Tür stehen blieb, wollte er gleich ins Nebenzimmer. “Heute ist keine Sitzung”, sagte die Frau. “Warum sollte keine Sitzung sein?” fragte er und wollte es nicht glauben. Aber die Frau überzeugte ihn, indem sie die Tür des Nebenzimmers öffnete. Es war wirklich leer und sah in seiner Leere noch kläglicher aus, als am letzten Sonntag. Auf dem Tisch, der unverändert auf dem Podium stand, lagen einige Bücher. “Kann ich mir die Bücher anschauen”, fragte K., nicht aus besonderer Neugierde, sondern nur um nicht vollständig nutzlos hiergewesen zu sein. “Nein”, sagte die Frau und schloß wieder die Tür, “das ist nicht erlaubt. Die Bücher gehören dem Untersuchungsrichter. " “Ach so”, sagte K. und nickte, “die Bücher sind wohl Gesetzbücher und es gehört zu der Art dieses Gerichtswesens, daß man nicht nur unschuldig, sondern auch unwissend verurteilt wird. " “Es wird so sein”, sagte die Frau, die ihn nicht genau verstanden hatte. “Nun, dann gehe ich wieder”, sagte K. “Soll ich dem Untersuchungsrichter etwas melden?” fragte die Frau. “Sie kennen ihn?” fragte K. “Natürlich”, sagte die Frau, “mein Mann ist ja Gerichtsdiener.” Erst jetzt merkte K. daß das Zimmer, in dem letzthin nur ein Waschbottich gestanden war, jetzt ein völlig eingerichtetes Wohnzimmer bildete. Die Frau bemerkte sein Staunen und sagte: “Ja, wir haben hier freie Wohnung, müssen aber an Sitzungstagen das Zimmer ausräumen. Die Stellung meines Mannes hat manche Nachteile.” “Ich staune nicht so sehr über das Zimmer”, sagte K. und blickte sie böse an, “als vielmehr darüber, daß Sie verheiratet sind. " “Spielen Sie vielleicht auf den Vorfall in der letzten Sitzung an, durch den ich Ihre Rede störte”, fragte die Frau. “Natürlich”, sagte K., “heute ist es ja schon vorüber und fast vergessen, aber damals hat es mich geradezu wütend gemacht. Und nun sagen Sie selbst, daß Sie eine verheiratete Frau sind. " “Es war nicht zu Ihrem Nachteil, daß Ihre Rede abgebrochen wurde. Man hat nachher noch sehr ungünstig über sie geurteilt. " “Mag sein”, sagte K. ablenkend, “aber Sie entschuldigt das nicht.” “Ich bin vor allen entschuldigt, die mich kennen”, sagte die Frau, “der welcher mich damals umarmt hat, verfolgt mich schon seit langem. Ich mag im allgemeinen nicht verlockend sein, für ihn bin ich es aber. Es gibt hiefür keinen Schutz, auch mein Mann hat sich schon damit abgefunden; will er seine Stellung behalten muß er es dulden, denn jener Mann ist Student und wird voraussichtlich zu größerer Macht kommen. Er ist immerfort hinter mir her, gerade ehe Sie kamen, ist er fortgegangen.” “Es paßt zu allem andern”, sagte K., “es überrascht mich nicht.” “Sie wollen hier wohl einiges verbessern?” fragte die Frau langsam und prüfend, als sage sie etwas was sowohl für sie als für K. gefährlich war. “Ich habe das schon aus Ihrer Rede geschlossen, die mir persönlich sehr gut gefallen hat. Ich habe allerdings nur einen Teil gehört, den Anfang habe ich versäumt und während des Schlusses lag ich mit dem Studenten auf dem Boden. " “Es ist ja so widerlich hier”, sagte sie nach einer Pause und faßte K.’s Hand. “Glauben Sie, daß es Ihnen gelingen wird, eine Besserung zu erreichen? " K. lächelte und drehte seine Hand ein wenig in ihren weichen Händen. “Eigentlich”, sagte er, “bin ich nicht dazu angestellt, Besserungen hier zu erreichen, wie Sie sich ausdrücken, und wenn Sie es z. B. dem Untersuchungsrichter sagen würden, würden Sie ausgelacht oder bestraft werden. Tatsächlich hätte ich mich auch aus freiem Willen in diese Dinge gewiß nicht eingemischt und meinen Schlaf hätte die Verbesserungsbedürftigkeit dieses Gerichtswesens niemals gestört. Aber ich bin, dadurch daß ich angeblich verhaftet wurde – ich bin nämlich verhaftet – gezwungen worden, hier einzugreifen, undzwar um meinetwillen. Wenn ich aber dabei auch Ihnen irgendwie nützlich sein kann, werde ich es natürlich sehr gerne tun. Nicht etwa nur aus Nächstenliebe, sondern außerdem deshalb, weil auch Sie mir helfen können. " “Wie könnte ich denn das”, fragte die Frau. “Indem Sie mir z. B. jetzt die Bücher dort auf dem Tisch zeigen. " “Aber gewiß”, rief die Frau und zog ihn eiligst hinter sich her. Es waren alte abgegriffene Bücher, ein Einbanddeckel war in der Mitte fast zerbrochen, die Stücke hiengen nur durch Fasern zusammen. “Wie schmutzig hier alles ist”, sagte K. kopfschüttelnd und die Frau wischte mit ihrer Schürze, ehe K. nach den Büchern greifen konnte wenigstens oberflächlich den Staub weg. K. schlug das oberste Buch auf, es erschien ein unanständiges Bild. Ein Mann und eine Frau saßen nackt auf einem Kanapee, die gemeine Absicht des Zeichners war deutlich zu erkennen, aber seine Ungeschicklichkeit war so groß gewesen, daß schließlich doch nur ein Mann und eine Frau zu sehen waren, die allzu körperlich aus dem Bilde hervorragten, übermäßig aufrecht dasaßen und infolge falscher Perspektive nur mühsam sich einander zuwendeten. K. blätterte nicht weiter sondern schlug nur noch das Titelblatt des zweiten Buches auf, es war ein Roman mit dem Titel: “Die Plagen, welche Grete von ihrem Manne Hans zu erleiden hatte. " “Das sind die Gesetzbücher, die hier studiert werden”, sagte K. “Von solchen Menschen soll ich gerichtet werden. " “Ich werde Ihnen helfen”, sagte die Frau. “Wollen Sie? " “Könnten Sie denn das wirklich ohne sich selbst in Gefahr zu bringen, Sie sagten doch vorhin, Ihr Mann sei sehr abhängig von Vorgesetzten. " “Trotzdem will ich Ihnen helfen”, sagte die Frau. “Kommen Sie, wir müssen es besprechen. Über meine Gefahr reden Sie nicht mehr, ich fürchte die Gefahr nur dort, wo ich sie fürchten will. Kommen Sie. " Sie zeigte auf das Podium und bat ihn sich mit ihr auf die Stufe zu setzen. “Sie haben schöne dunkle Augen”, sagte sie, nachdem sie sich gesetzt hatten und sah K. von unten ins Gesicht, “man sagt mir ich hätte auch schöne Augen, aber Ihre sind viel schöner. Sie fielen mir übrigens gleich damals auf, als Sie zum erstenmal hier eintraten. Sie waren auch der Grund, warum ich dann später hierher ins Versammlungszimmer gieng, was ich sonst niemals tue und was mir sogar gewissermaßen verboten ist. " “Das ist also alles”, dachte K., “sie bietet sich mir an, sie ist verdorben wie alle hier ringsherum, sie hat die Gerichtsbeamten satt, was ja begreiflich ist, und begrüßt deshalb jeden beliebigen Fremden mit einem Kompliment wegen seiner Augen. " Und K. stand stillschweigend auf, als hätte er seine Gedanken laut ausgesprochen und dadurch der Frau sein Verhalten erklärt. “Ich glaube nicht, daß Sie mir helfen könnten”, sagte er, “um mir wirklich zu helfen, müßte man Beziehungen zu hohen Beamten haben. Sie aber kennen gewiß nur die niedrigen Angestellten, die sich hier in Mengen herumtreiben. Diese kennen Sie gewiß sehr gut und könnten bei ihnen auch manches durchsetzen, das bezweifle ich nicht, aber das Größte, was man bei ihnen durchsetzen könnte, wäre für den endgiltigen Ausgang des Processes gänzlich belanglos. Sie aber hätten sich dadurch doch einige Freunde verscherzt. Das will ich nicht. Führen Sie Ihr bisheriges Verhältnis zu diesen Leuten weiter, es scheint mir nämlich daß es Ihnen unentbehrlich ist. Ich sage das nicht ohne Bedauern, denn, um Ihr Kompliment doch auch irgendwie zu erwidern, auch Sie gefallen mir gut, besonders wenn Sie mich wie jetzt so traurig ansehn, wozu übrigens für Sie gar kein Grund ist. Sie gehören zu der Gesellschaft, die ich bekämpfen muß, befinden sich aber in ihr sehr wohl, Sie lieben sogar den Studenten und wenn Sie ihn nicht lieben, so ziehen Sie ihn doch wenigstens Ihrem Manne vor. Das konnte man aus Ihren Worten leicht erkennen. " “Nein”, rief sie, blieb sitzen und griff nur nach K. ’s Hand, die er ihr nicht rasch genug entzog, “Sie dürfen jetzt nicht weggehn, Sie dürfen nicht mit einem falschen Urteil über mich weggehn. Brächten Sie es wirklich zustande, jetzt wegzugehn? Bin ich wirklich so wertlos, daß Sie mir nicht einmal den Gefallen tun wollen noch ein kleines Weilchen hierzubleiben?” “Sie mißverstehen mich”, sagte K. und setzte sich, “wenn Ihnen wirklich daran liegt, daß ich hier bleibe, bleibe ich gern, ich habe ja Zeit, ich kam doch in der Erwartung her, daß heute eine Verhandlung sein werde. Mit dem, was ich früher sagte, wollte ich Sie nur bitten, in meinem Proceß nichts für mich zu unternehmen. Aber auch das muß Sie nicht kränken, wenn Sie bedenken, daß mir am Ausgang des Processes gar nichts liegt und daß ich über eine Verurteilung nur lachen werde. Vorausgesetzt daß es überhaupt zu einem wirklichen Abschluß des Processes kommt, was ich sehr bezweifle. Ich glaube vielmehr, daß das Verfahren infolge Faulheit oder Vergeßlichkeit oder vielleicht sogar infolge Angst der Beamtenschaft schon abgebrochen ist oder in der nächsten Zeit abgebrochen werden wird. Möglich ist allerdings auch, daß man in Hoffnung auf irgendeine größere Bestechung den Proceß scheinbar weiterführen wird, ganz vergeblich, wie ich heute schon sagen kann, denn ich besteche niemanden. Es wäre immerhin eine Gefälligkeit, die Sie mir leisten könnten, wenn Sie dem Untersuchungsrichter oder irgendjemandem sonst, der wichtige Nachrichten gern verbreitet, mitteilen würden, daß ich niemals und durch keine Kunststücke, an denen die Herren wohl reich sind, zu einer Bestechung zu bewegen sein werde. Es wäre ganz aussichtslos, das können Sie ihnen offen sagen. Übrigens wird man es vielleicht selbst schon bemerkt haben und selbst wenn dies nicht sein sollte, liegt mir gar nicht soviel daran, daß man es jetzt schon erfährt. Es würde ja dadurch den Herren nur Arbeit erspart werden, allerdings auch mir einige Unannehmlichkeiten, die ich aber gern auf mich nehme, wenn ich weiß, daß jede gleichzeitig ein Hieb für die andern ist. Und daß es so wird, dafür will ich sorgen. Kennen Sie eigentlich den Untersuchungsrichter” “Natürlich”, sagte die Frau, “an den dachte ich sogar zuerst, als ich Ihnen Hilfe anbot. Ich wußte nicht daß er nur ein niedriger Beamter ist, aber da Sie es sagen, wird es wahrscheinlich richtig sein. Trotzdem glaube ich daß der Bericht, den er nach oben liefert, immerhin einigen Einfluß hat. Und er schreibt soviel Berichte. Sie sagen, daß die Beamten faul sind, alle gewiß nicht, besonders dieser Untersuchungsrichter nicht, er schreibt sehr viel. Letzten Sonntag z. B. dauerte die Sitzung bis gegen Abend. Alle Leute giengen weg, der Untersuchungsrichter aber blieb im Saal, ich mußte ihm eine Lampe bringen, ich hatte nur eine kleine Küchenlampe, aber er war mit ihr zufrieden und fieng gleich zu schreiben an. Inzwischen war auch mein Mann gekommen, der an jenem Sonntag gerade Urlaub hatte, wir holten die Möbel, richteten wieder unser Zimmer ein, es kamen dann noch Nachbarn ein, wir unterhielten uns noch bei einer Kerze, kurz wir vergaßen an den Untersuchungsrichter und giengen schlafen. Plötzlich in der Nacht, es muß schon tief in der Nacht gewesen sein, wache ich auf, neben dem Bett steht der Untersuchungsrichter und blendet die Lampe mit der Hand ab, so daß auf meinen Mann kein Licht fällt, es war unnötige Vorsicht, mein Mann hat einen solchen Schlaf daß ihn auch das Licht nicht geweckt hätte. Ich war so erschrocken, daß ich fast geschrien hätte, aber der Untersuchungsrichter war sehr freundlich, ermahnte mich zur Vorsicht, flüsterte mir zu, daß er bis jetzt geschrieben habe, daß er mir jetzt die Lampe zurückbringe und daß er niemals den Anblick vergessen werde, wie er mich schlafend gefunden habe. Mit dem allen wollte ich Ihnen nur sagen, daß der Untersuchungsrichter tatsächlich viel Berichte schreibt, insbesondere über Sie: denn Ihre Einvernahme war gewiß einer der Hauptgegenstände der sonntägigen Sitzung. Solche lange Berichte können aber doch nicht ganz bedeutungslos sein. Außerdem aber können Sie doch auch aus dem Vorfall sehn, daß sich der Untersuchungsrichter um mich bewirbt und daß ich gerade jetzt in der ersten Zeit, er muß mich überhaupt erst jetzt bemerkt haben, großen Einfluß auf ihn haben kann. Daß ihm viel an mir liegt, dafür habe ich jetzt auch noch andere Beweise. Er hat mir gestern durch den Studenten, zu dem er viel Vertrauen hat und der sein Mitarbeiter ist, seidene Strümpfe zum Geschenk geschickt, angeblich dafür, daß ich das Sitzungszimmer aufräume, aber das ist nur ein Vorwand, denn diese Arbeit ist doch meine Pflicht und für sie wird mein Mann bezahlt. Es sind schöne Strümpfe, sehen Sie” – sie streckte die Beine, zog die Röcke bis zum Knie hinauf und sah auch selbst die Strümpfe an – “es sind schöne Strümpfe aber doch eigentlich zu fein und für mich nicht geeignet. "

Primo interrogatorio

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 11:57:35 +0000

K. era stato informato telefonicamente che la prossima domenica avrebbe avuto luogo un piccolo interrogatorio sulla sua questione. Gli fecero notare che in futuro ci sarebbero stati con regolarità altri simili interrogatori, abbastanza spesso anche se non ogni settimana. Era interesse di tutti portare a termine il processo il più alla svelta possibile, d’altra parte però gli interrogatori dovevano essere esaurienti sotto ogni punto di vista, e tuttavia non durare mai troppo a lungo, per via della tensione che comportavano. Per tali motivi era stata scelta questa procedura di interrogatori frequenti, ma di breve durata. La scelta della domenica come giorno di interrogatorio aveva il significato di non disturbare K. nella sua professione. Si presupponeva che fosse d’accordo, ma nel caso che preferisse un altro giorno gli si sarebbe venuto incontro nel miglior modo possibile. Gli interrogatori, ad esempio, erano possibili anche la notte, ma naturalmente in tal caso K. non sarebbe stato abbastanza riposato. In ogni caso, se K. non si fosse fatto vivo con qualcosa in contrario, l’interrogatorio restava inteso per domenica. Andava da sé che K. sarebbe certamente venuto, non c’era sicuramente bisogno di sottolinearlo proprio ora. Gli fu comunicato l’indirizzo in cui doveva presentarsi, era una casa in una remota strada di periferia dove K. non era mai stato.

Nella sala delle udienze vuota. Lo studente. Le cancellerie

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 11:59:55 +0000

Durante la settimana successiva, K. aspettava giorno dopo giorno una nuova convocazione, non poteva credere che si fosse presa alla lettera la sua rinuncia alle udienze, e quando, il sabato sera, l’attesa convocazione non era ancora arrivata, diede per inteso di essere tacitamente invitato per la stessa ora nello stesso posto. La domenica perciò vi si recò di nuovo, questa volta tirando dritto per scale e corridoi, qualcuno che si ricordava di lui lo salutò dalla porta, ma non ebbe bisogno di fare domande e arrivò alla svelta davanti alla porta giusta. Al suo bussare la porta si aprì subito, e senza curarsi della solita donna, che era rimasta in piedi vicino alla porta, K. voleva avviarsi subito alla stanza accanto. “Oggi non c’è seduta”, disse la donna. “E perché non dovrebbe esserci?”, chiese K., e non voleva crederci. Ma la donna lo convinse aprendo la porta della stanza accanto. Era vuota davvero, e così sembrava ancor più squallida che la domenica precedente. Sul tavolo, che era nella stessa posizione sul podio, si trovavano alcuni libri. “Posso dare un’occhiata ai libri?”, chiese K., non per una curiosità particolare, ma per non essere venuto inutilmente. “No,” disse la donna richiudendo la porta, “non è permesso. I libri sono proprietà del giudice istruttore.” “Ah, ecco”, disse K. facendo un cenno con il capo, “i libri sono certo dei codici, ed è tipico di questo genere di tribunali condannare chi non solo è innocente, ma anche ignaro della legge.” “Sarà anche così”, disse la donna, che non lo aveva capito bene. “Beh, allora me ne vado”, disse K. “Devo riferire qualcosa al giudice istruttore?” chiese la donna. “Lei lo conosce?” chiese K. “Naturalmente”, disse la donna, “mio marito è usciere del tribunale.” Solo ora K. si accorse che la stanza, nella quale l’ultima volta si trovava solo una tinozza per lavare, era ora diventata una stanza d’appartamento completamente arredata. La donna si accorse del suo stupore e disse: “Sì, noi abbiamo diritto ad abitare qui, ma nei giorni di seduta dobbiamo sgomberare la stanza. Il posto di mio marito ha diversi svantaggi.” “Non mi meraviglio tanto della stanza”, disse K. guardandola male, “quanto piuttosto del fatto stesso che lei sia sposata.” “Forse lei si riferisce a quel che è successo nell’ultima seduta, quando ho disturbato il suo discorso”, disse la donna. “Naturalmente”, disse K., “oggi è acqua passata e quasi non me ne ricordo più, ma lì per lì la cosa mi ha reso furioso. E ora poi lei mi dice di essere sposata.” “Non è stato un male per lei che il suo discorso sia stato interrotto. Dopo hanno parlato molto male di lei.” “Può essere”, disse K. con un gesto di disinteresse, “ma questa non è una scusa per lei.” “Io non ho bisogno di scuse per tutti quelli che mi conoscono”, disse la donna, “quello che allora mi ha abbracciato mi tormenta già da parecchio tempo. Anche se in generale io non sono attraente, per lui tuttavia lo sono. Non c’è difesa possibile, e anche mio marito se n’è fatta una ragione; se vuole mantenere il suo posto deve sopportarlo, perché quell’uomo è uno studente e si prevede che diventerà molto potente. Mi sta sempre alle calcagna, anche ora, poco prima che lei arrivasse, se n’era appena andato.” “Tutto torna”, disse K., “la cosa non mi sorprende.” “Lei qui vorrebbe cambiare le cose in meglio?” chiese la donna lentamente e con aria interrogativa, come se dicesse qualcosa di altrettanto pericoloso per lei e per K. “L’ho capito già dal suo discorso che, sia detto a titolo personale, mi è piaciuto molto. E’ vero che ne ho sentita solo una parte, ho perso l’inizio e alla fine ero per terra con lo studente.” “E’ così ripugnante qui”, disse poi dopo una pausa, e prese la mano di K. “Crede che riuscirà a migliorare le cose?” K. sorrise, e per un poco voltò la mano nelle soffici mani di lei. “A dire il vero”, disse, “non è compito mio migliorare qui le cose, come lei si esprime, e se per esempio lei dicesse questo al giudice istruttore, la prenderebbero in giro o la punirebbero. In effetti, se fosse dipeso da me, non mi sarei immischiato in queste cose e la necessità di migliorare questo tipo di tribunali non mi avrebbe mai tenuto sveglio la notte. Ma per il fatto di essere stato, come sembra, arrestato - sono in arresto, difatti - mi hanno costretto a intervenire, e certo solo per tutelare il mio interesse. Ma se così facendo posso essere utile in qualche modo anche a lei, lo farò naturalmente assai volentieri. E non solo per amore del prossimo, ma anche perché lei stessa può essermi d’aiuto.” “E come potei farlo?”, chiese la donna. “Ad esempio facendomi vedere ora i libri che sono sul tavolo.” “Ma sicuro”, esclamò la donna tirandolo in fretta dentro dietro di sé. Si trattava di libri vecchi e consunti, in uno di essi la copertina era quasi distrutta al centro, i pezzi erano tenuti insieme con dei pezzi di spago. “Come è tutto sporco qui”, disse K. scuotendo il capo, e la donna con il grembiule spolverò almeno in superficie i libri prima che K. potesse prenderli. K. aprì il libro che stava in cima, e apparì un’illustrazione sconcia. Un uomo e una donna sedevano nudi su un divano, l’intenzione volgare del disegnatore era chiara, ma la sua imperizia era tale che alla fine si potevano intravedere solo un uomo e una donna che risaltavano fin troppo realisticamente dalla figura, seduti in modo assurdamente verticale e che, per la prospettiva sbagliata, si voltavano a fatica l’uno verso l’altra. K. non continuò a sfogliare, ma si limitò ad aprire la copertina del secondo libro, era un romanzo dal titolo: “I tormenti che ebbe a subire Grete da suo marito Hans.” “Ecco quali codici si studiano qui”, disse K. “E devono essere uomini del genere a giudicarmi.” “Io la aiuterò,” disse la donna, “lo vuole?” “Purché lei possa farlo senza mettersi in pericolo, lei stessa ha detto poco fa che suo marito è molto dipendente dai suoi superiori.” “Ciononostante voglio aiutarla”, disse la donna. “Venga, dobbiamo parlarne. Non parli più del mio pericolo, io ho paura del pericolo solo quando voglio averne. Venga.” Indicò il podio e gli chiese di salire con lei il gradino. “Lei ha dei begli occhi scuri” disse la donna dopo che si furono seduti, guardando in volto K. dal basso, “si dice che anch’io abbia dei begli occhi, ma i suoi sono molto più belli. D’altronde li ho notati subito la prima volta che lei è entrato qui. I suoi occhi sono anche stati il motivo per cui dopo sono entrata qui nella sala d’assemblea, cosa che altrimenti non faccio mai e che in un certo senso mi è anche proibita.” “E’ tutto qui, allora” pensò K. “Mi si sta offrendo, è corrotta come tutti in questo posto, si è stancata degli impiegati del tribunale, cosa ben comprensibile, e perciò dà il benvenuto al primo estraneo che passa con un complimento sui suoi occhi.” E in silenzio K. si alzò, come se avesse pensato a voce alta e con questo avesse chiarito alla donna il suo comportamento. “Non credo che lei possa essermi d’aiuto”, disse, “per aiutarmi davvero bisognerebbe essere in relazione con impiegati di alto livello. Lei invece conosce certo solo i dipendenti di basso rango che si accalcano qui a frotte. Costoro li conosce di sicuro molto bene e da loro potrebbe anche ottenere qualcosa, di questo non ne dubito, ma anche il massimo che potrebbero dare sarebbe sempre del tutto indifferente per l’esito finale del processo. Lei invece con ciò si sarebbe rovinate alcune amicizie, e io non lo voglio. Continui pure a intrattenere con questa gente le sue relazioni, in effetti mi sembra che tutto ciò le sia indispensabile. E lo dico non senza dispiacermene, perché, se devo ricambiare in qualche modo il suo complimento, anche lei mi piace, specialmente quando come ora mi guarda con tanta tristezza; tristezza che è d’altra parte senza fondamento per quanto la riguarda. Lei appartiene alla società che io devo combattere, però ci si trova bene, lei ama persino lo studente, e anche se non lo ama, tuttavia lo preferisce a suo marito. Lo si potrebbe facilmente capire dalle sue parole.” “No”, esclamò la donna, rimase seduta e si limitò ad afferrare la mano di K., che questi non fece in tempo a tirare indietro, “non può andarsene ora, non può andarsene con un giudizio sbagliato su di me. Davvero vorrebbe andarsene ora? Valgo davvero tanto poco che lei non mi farebbe il piacere di rimanere qui ancora un momento?” “Lei mi ha capito male”, disse K. e si sedette, “se davvero ci tiene che io rimanga qui, rimango volentieri, ho tempo, ma sono venuto qui credendo che ci sarebbe stata un’udienza. Con ciò che ho detto prima volevo solo pregarla di non prendere iniziative per me nel mio processo. Ma anche questo non deve tormentarla, se lei riflette a quanto poco io mi curi dell’esito del processo e a come io mi farò beffe di una condanna. Ammesso poi che si arrivi in generale a una vera conclusione del processo, cosa di cui dubito. Mi sembra più probabile che, per la pigrizia o la negligenza o forse addirittura per la paura degli impiegati, il procedimento si sia già interrotto, o che verrà interrotto fra poco. Ma è anche possibile che si faccia finta di portare avanti il processo nella speranza di farsi corrompere con una cifra più alta; speranza del tutto inutile, come posso dire fin da oggi, perché io non corrompo nessuno. Anzi lei mi farebbe proprio un piacere se riferisse al giudice istruttore, o comunque a qualcuno che diffonda con piacere le notizie, che mai e con nessuno degli artifici di cui lorsignori sono esperti io potrò mai essere piegato a corrompere qualcuno. Non c’è speranza, può dirglielo apertamente. D’altronde lo avranno forse già notato da sé, e se non fosse così non mi importa certo che se ne accorgano ora. Con questo forse i signori risparmiano a se stessi della fatica e a me dei fastidi; fastidi che d’altra parte accetto volentieri se so che ognuno di essi è anche un colpo per gli altri. E che sia così, me ne voglio occupare io. Davvero lei conosce il giudice istruttore?” “Naturalmente”, disse la donna, “è a lui per primo che ho pensato quando le ho offerto il mio aiuto. Non sapevo che fosse un impiegato di basso rango, ma se lo dice lei sarà anche così. Tuttavia io credo che il rapporto che farà alle autorità superiori avrà sempre un certo influsso. E lui scrive tanti di quei rapporti. Lei dice che gli impiegati sono pigri, ma certo non lo sono tutti, e in particolare non lo è questo giudice istruttore, che scrive talmente tanto. Domenica scorsa, per esempio, la seduta è durata fino a sera. Tutti se n’erano andati, il giudice istruttore invece era rimasto nella sala, ho dovuto portargli una lampada, avevo solo una piccola lampada da cucina, ma a lui andava bene, e ha cominciato subito a scrivere. Intanto era arrivato anche mio marito, che proprio quella domenica aveva un giorno di riposo, abbiamo preso i mobili e riarredato la stanza, poi sono anche venuti dei vicini, abbiamo chiacchierato a lume di candela, insomma ci siamo dimenticati il giudice istruttore e siamo andati a dormire. A un tratto nella notte, e doveva essere notte inoltrata, mi sveglio, vicino al letto c’è il giudice istruttore che ripara la lampada con la mano, in modo che la luce non cada su mio marito, precauzione inutile, perché mio marito ha un sonno tale che neppure la luce lo avrebbe svegliato. Mi spaventai talmente che stavo per gridare, ma il giudice istruttore fu molto cordiale, mi raccomandò prudenza, mi sussurrò che era stato a scrivere fino a quel momento, che ora mi riportava la lampada e che non avrebbe mai dimenticato come mi aveva visto nel sonno. Con questo volevo dirle soltanto che il giudice istruttore in effetti scrive molti rapporti, e soprattutto su di lei; perché la sua deposizione è stata certo uno degli eventi più importanti della seduta di domenica. Rapporti tanto lunghi non possono certo essere del tutto privi di significato. Oltre a ciò, da quel che le ho raccontato le può capire che il giudice istruttore si interessa a me, e che, dato che solo ora deve essersi accorto di me, in questi primi tempi posso avere su di lui un grande influsso. E che io gli stia molto a cuore lo dimostrano anche altre cose. Ieri mi ha mandato in regalo delle calze di seta attraverso lo studente, in cui ripone molta fiducia e che è il suo collaboratore, con la motivazione che dovevo sgomberare la sala della seduta, ma questa è solo una scusa perché tale lavoro è un mio dovere, e mio marito viene pagato per questo. Sono delle belle calze, guardi” - allungò le gambe, sollevò la gonna fino al ginocchio e guardò lei stessa le calze - “sono belle calze, ma a dire il vero troppo fini e non adatte a me.”

Heft 5

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:57:54 +0000

I 11 (1912) Nur infolge meiner Eitelkeit lese ich so gerne meinen Schwestern vor, (daß heute z. B. zu spät zum Schreiben geworden ist) Nicht daß ich überzeugt wäre, daß ich im Vorlesen etwas Bedeutendes erreichen würde, vielmehr beherrscht mich nur die Sucht, mich an die guten Arbeiten, die ich vorlese, so sehr heranzudrängen, daß ich mit ihnen nicht durch mein Verdienst, sondern nur in der durch das Vorgelesene aufgeregten und für das Unwesentliche getrübten Aufmerksamkeit meiner zuhörenden Schwestern in eins verfließe und deshalb auch unter der vertuschenden Wirkung der Eitelkeit als Ursache an allem Einfluß teilnehme, welchen das Werk selbst geübt hat. Deshalb lese ich auch vor meinen Schwestern tatsächlich bewundernswert, erfülle manche Betonungen mit einer meinem Gefühl nach äußersten Genauigkeit, weil ich nachher nicht nur von mir sondern auch von meinen Schwestern im Übermaß belohnt werde. Lese ich aber vor Brod oder Baum oder andern, muß jedem mein Lesen schon infolge meiner Ansprüche auf Lob entsetzlich schlecht vorkommen, selbst wenn er von der Güte meines sonstigen Vorlesens nichts weiß, denn hier sehe ich daß der Zuhörer die Sonderung zwischen mir und dem Gelesenen aufrecht erhält, ich darf mich mit dem Gelesenen nicht gänzlich verbinden ohne meinem Gefühl nach, das keine Unterstützung vom Zuhörer zu erwarten hat, lächerlich zu werden, ich umfliege das Vorzulesende mit der Stimme, versuche, weil man es will, hie und da einzudringen, beabsichtige es aber nicht ernstlich, weil man es von mir gar nicht erwartet: das was man aber eigentlich will, ohne Eitelkeit ruhig und entfernt zu lesen und leidenschaftlich nur zu werden, wenn es meine Leidenschaft verlangt, das kann ich nicht leisten; trotzdem ich mich aber damit abgefunden zu haben glaube und mich also damit begnüge vor andern als vor meinen Schwestern schlecht vorzulesen, zeigt sich meine Eitelkeit, die diesmal kein Recht haben sollte, doch, indem ich mich gekränkt fühle, wenn jemand in dem Vorgelesenen etwas aussetzt, rot werde und rasch weiterlesen will, wie ich überhaupt, wenn ich einmal zu lesen angefangen habe, danach strebe, endlos vorzulesen in der unbewußten Sehnsucht daß im Verlauf des langen Lesens, zumindest in mir das eitle falsche Gefühl der Einheit mit dem Vorgelesenen sich erzeugen wird, wobei ich vergesse, daß ich niemals die genügende augenblickliche Kraft haben werde, aus meinem Gefühl auf den klaren Überblick des Zuhörers einzuwirken und daß es zuhause immer die Schwestern sind, welche mit der erwünschten Verwechslung beginnen

"Ich schreibe nun nieder…" (II, 18)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:23:24 +0000

Ich schreibe nun nieder was ich gehört habe, was mir anvertraut worden ist. Doch ist es mir nicht anvertraut worden als Geheimnis, das ich bewahren müsse, anvertraut unmittelbar, wurde mir nur die Stimme die sprach, das Übrige ist kein Geheimnis, ist vielmehr Spreu und das was nach allen Seiten fliegt, wenn Arbeit getan wird, ist das was mitgeteilt werden kann und um die Barmherzigkeit bittet, mitgeteilt zu werden, denn es hat nicht die Kraft verlassen stillzubleiben, wenn das, was ihm Leben gab, verrauscht ist.

"Es war der erste Spatenstich" (II, 9)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:55:15 +0000

Es war der erste Spatenstich, es war der erste Spatenstich, es lag die Erde in Krumen, zerfallen vor meinem Fuß

Es läutete eine Glocke, es zitterte eine Tür,

Es war eine politische Versammlung. Merkwürdig ist es, daß die meisten Versammlungen auf dem Platz der Ställe stattfinden, am Ufer des Flusses, gegen dessen Tosen die menschliche Stimme kaum aufkommt. Trotzdem ich auf der Quaibrüstung nahe bei den Rednern saß – sie sprachen von einem kahlen viereckigen Sockel aus Quadersteinen herab – verstand ich nur wenig. Freilich wußte ich im voraus um was es sich handelte und alle wußten es. Auch waren alle einig, eine vollständigere Einigkeit habe ich nie gesehn, auch ich war völlig ihrer Meinung, die Sache war allzu klar, wie oft schon durchgesprochen und immer noch klar wie am ersten Tag, beides, die Einigkeit und die Klarheit waren herzbeklemmend, die Denkkraft stockte vor Einigkeit und Klarheit, man hätte manchmal nur den Fleiß hören wollen und sonst nichts.

Oktavheft D (I, 21)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:34:42 +0000

Mein Geschäft ruht ganz auf meinen Schultern. Zwei Fräulein mit Schreibmaschinen und Geschäftsbüchern im Vorzimmer, mein Zimmer mit Schreibtisch, Kassa, Beratungstisch, Klubsessel und Telephon, das ist mein ganzer Arbeitsapparat. So einfach zu überblicken, so leicht zu führen. Ich bin jung und die Geschäfte rollen vor mir her, ich klage nicht. Ich klage nicht. Seit Neujahr hat ein junger Mann die kleine leerstehende Nebenwohnung, die ich ungeschickter Weise so lange zu mieten gezögert habe, frischweg gemietet. Auch ein Zimmer mit Vorzimmer, außerdem aber noch eine Küche. Zimmer und Vorzimmer hätte ich wohl brauchen können, meine zwei Fräulein fühlen sich schon manchmal überlastet, – aber wozu hätte mir die Küche gedient. Dieses kleinliche Bedenken war daran schuld, daß ich mir die Wohnung habe wegnehmen lassen. Nun sitzt dort dieser junge Mann. Harras heißt er. Was er dort eigentlich macht weiß ich nicht. Auf der Tür steht nur “Harras, Bureau”. Ich habe Erkundigungen eingezogen, man hat mir mitgeteilt es sei ein Geschäft ähnlich dem meinigen, vor Kreditgewährung könne man nicht geradezu warnen, denn es handle sich doch um einen jungen aufstrebenden Mann, dessen Sache vielleicht Zukunft habe, doch könne man zum Kredit auch nicht geradezu raten, denn gegenwärtig sei allem Anschein nach kein Vermögen vorhanden. Die übliche Auskunft, die man gibt, wenn man nichts weiß. Manchmal treffe ich Harras auf der Treppe, er muß es immer außerordentlich eilig haben, er huscht förmlich an mir vorüber, genau gesehn habe ich ihn noch gar nicht, den Bureauschlüssel hält er schon vorbereitet in der Hand, im Augenblick hat er die Tür geöffnet, wie der Schwanz einer Ratte ist er hineingeglitten, und ich stehe nur wieder vor der Tafel “Harras, Bureau”, die ich schon viel öfter gelesen habe, als sie es verdient. Die elend dünnen Wände, die den ehrlich tätigen Mann verraten, den Unehrlichen aber decken. Mein Telephon ist an der Zimmerwand angebracht die mich von meinem Nachbar trennt, doch hebe ich das bloß als besonders ironische Tatsache hervor, selbst wenn es an der entgegengesetzten Wand hieng, würde man in der Nebenwohnung alles hören. Ich habe mir abgewöhnt, den Namen der Kunden beim Telephon zu nennen, aber es gehört natürlich nicht viel Schlauheit dazu, aus charakteristischen aber unvermeidlichen Wendungen des Gesprächs die Namen zu erraten. Manchmal umtanze ich, die Hörmuschel am Ohr, von Unruhe gestachelt, auf den Fußspitzen den Apparat, und kann es doch nicht verhüten daß Geheimnisse preisgegeben werden. Natürlich werden dadurch beim Telephonieren auch meine geschäftlichen Entscheidungen unsicherer, meine Stimme zittrig. Was macht Harras, während ich telephoniere? Wollte ich sehr übertreiben, aber das muß man oft, um sich Klarheit zu verschaffen, so könnte ich sagen: Harras braucht kein Telephon, er benutzt meines, er hat sein Kanapee an die Wand gerückt und horcht, ich dagegen muß, wenn geläutet wird zum Telephon laufen, die Wünsche des Kunden entgegennehmen, schwerwiegende Entschlüsse fassen, großangelegte Überredungen ausführen, vor allem aber während des Ganzen unwillkürlich durch die Zimmerwand Harras Bericht erstatten. Vielleicht wartet er gar nicht das Ende des Gespräches ab, sondern erhebt sich nach der Gesprächsstelle die ihn über den Fall genügend aufgeklärt hat, huscht nach seiner Gewohnheit durch die Stadt und ehe ich die Hörmuschel aufgehängt habe, ist er vielleicht schon daran, mir entgegenzuarbeiten.

"Beschreibung eines Kampfes" (1904-1911)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:20:55 +0000

“Fassung A”#

Und die Menschen gehn in Kleidern schwankend auf dem Kies spazieren unter diesem großen Himmel, der von Hügeln in der Ferne sich zu fernen Hügeln breitet.

Gegen zwölf Uhr standen schon einige Leute auf, verbeugten sich, reichten einander die Hände, sagten, es wäre sehr schön gewesen und giengen dann durch den großen Thürrahmen ins Vorzimmer, sich anzukleiden. Die Hausfrau stand mitten in dem Zimmer und machte bewegliche Verbeugungen, während ihr Kleid gezierte Falten warf.

Die Verwandlung

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:25:40 +0000

Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte, fand er sich in seinem Bett zu einem ungeheueren Ungeziefer verwandelt. Er lag auf seinem panzerartig harten Rücken und sah, wenn er den Kopf ein wenig hob, seinen gewölbten, braunen, von bogenförmigen Versteifungen geteilten Bauch, auf dessen Höhe sich die Bettdecke, zum gänzlichen Niedergleiten bereit, kaum noch erhalten konnte. Seine vielen, im Vergleich zu seinem sonstigen Umfang kläglich dünnen Beine flimmerten ihm hilflos vor den Augen.

5. Beim Vorsteher

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:57:54 +0000

Die Besprechung mit dem Vorsteher machte K. fast zu seiner eigenen Verwunderung wenig Sorgen. Er suchte es sich dadurch zu erklären, daß nach seinen bisherigen Erfahrungen der amtliche Verkehr mit den gräflichen Behörden für ihn sehr einfach gewesen war. Das lag einerseits daran, daß hinsichtlich der Behandlung seiner Angelegenheiten offenbar ein für alle Mal ein bestimmter, äußerlich ihm sehr günstiger Grundsatz ausgegeben worden war und andererseits lag es an der bewunderungswürdigen Einheitlichkeit des Dienstes, die man besonders dort wo sie scheinbar nicht vorhanden war als eine besonders vollkommene ahnte. K. war, wenn er manchmal nur an diese Dinge dachte, nicht weit davon entfernt, seine Lage zufriedenstellend zu finden, trotzdem er sich immer nach solchen Anfällen des Behagens schnell sagte, daß gerade darin die Gefahr lag. Der direkte Verkehr mit Behörden war ja nicht allzu schwer, denn die Behörden hatten, so gut sie auch organisiert sein mochten, immer nur im Namen entlegener unsichtbarer Herren entlegene unsichtbare Dinge zu verteidigen, während K. für etwas lebendigst Nahes kämpfte, für sich selbst, überdies zumindest in der allerersten Zeit aus eigenem Willen, denn er war der Angreifer, und nicht nur er kämpfte für sich, sondern offenbar noch andere Kräfte, die er nicht kannte, aber an die er nach den Maßnahmen der Behörden glauben konnte. Dadurch nun aber, daß die Behörden K. von vorherein in unwesentlicheren Dingen – um mehr hatte es sich bisher nicht gehandelt – weit entgegenkamen, nahmen sie ihm die Möglichkeit kleiner leichter Siege und mit dieser Möglichkeit auch die zugehörige Genugtuung und die aus ihr sich ergebende gut begründete Sicherheit für weitere größere Kämpfe. Statt dessen ließen sie K., allerdings nur innerhalb des Dorfes, überall durchgleiten, wo er wollte, verwöhnten und schwächten ihn dadurch, schalteten hier überhaupt jeden Kampf aus und verlegten ihn dafür in das außeramtliche, völlig unübersichtliche, trübe, fremdartige Leben. Auf diese Weise konnte es, wenn er nicht immer auf der Hut war, wohl geschehn, daß er eines Tages trotz aller Liebenswürdigkeit der Behörden und trotz der vollständigen Erfüllung aller so übertrieben leichten amtlichen Verpflichtungen, getäuscht durch die ihm erwiesene scheinbare Gunst sein sonstiges Leben so unvorsichtig führte, daß er hier zusammenbrach, und die Behörde, noch immer sanft und freundlich, gleichsam gegen ihren Willen aber im Namen irgendeiner ihm unbekannten öffentlichen Ordnung, kommen mußte, um ihn aus dem Weg zu räumen. Und was war es eigentlich hier, jenes sonstige Leben? Nirgends noch hatte K. Amt und Leben so verflochten gesehen wie hier, so verflochten, daß es manchmal scheinen konnte, Amt und Leben hätten ihre Plätze gewechselt. Was bedeutete z. B. die bis jetzt nur formelle Macht welche Klamm über K.’s Dienst ausübte, verglichen mit der Macht die Klamm in K.’s Schlafkammer in aller Wirklichkeit hatte. So kam es, daß hier ein etwas leichtsinnigeres Verfahren, eine gewisse Entspannung nur direkt gegenüber den Behörden am Platze war, während sonst aber immer große Vorsicht nötig war, ein Herumblicken nach allen Seiten vor jedem Schritt.

Im Hotel occidental

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 16:46:49 +0000

Im Hotel wurde Karl gleich in eine Art Bureau geführt, in welchem die Oberköchin ein Vormerkbuch in der Hand einer jungen Schreibmaschinistin einen Brief in die Schreibmaschine diktierte. Das äußerst präcise Diktieren, der beherrschte und elastische Tastenschlag jagten an dem nur hie und da merklichen Ticken der Wanduhr vorüber, die schon fast halb zwölf Uhr zeigte. “So!” sagte die Oberköchin, klappte das Vormerkbuch zu, die Schreibmaschinistin sprang auf und stülpte den Holzdeckel über die Maschine, ohne bei dieser mechanischen Arbeit die Augen von Karl zu lassen. Sie sah noch wie ein Schulmädchen aus, ihre Schürze war sehr sorgfältig gebügelt, auf den Achseln z. B. gewellt, die Frisur recht hoch und man staunte ein wenig wenn man nach diesen Einzelnheiten ihr ernstes Gesicht sah. Nach Verbeugungen zuerst gegen die Oberköchin, dann gegen Karl entfernte sie sich und Karl sah unwillkürlich die Oberköchin mit einem fragenden Blicke an.

Franz Kafka's Ein Hungerkünstler: Metaphor of Conflict

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 11:56:27 +0000

by Joan M. Wolk, Librarian, Baltimore, Maryland

The short story, Ein Hungerkünstler, depicts a hunger artist in a cage without any reference to a specific time or place.The only piece of furniture in the cage is a clock, which strikes on the hour, but does not tick.Card players, passer-bys, and butchers watch the hunger artist to prevent him from eating any food.The hunger artist sings and tells jokes to ensure them that he has not eaten, and boasts that “fasting is the easiest thing in the world.” When asked if he would like to eat, he would become enraged and rattle the cage.After 40 days of fasting, the hunger artist, is led out of the cage by tearful women at the sight of his emaciated body to a meager meal.As the crowds dwindled with interest in him, the hunger artist decides to leave the employ of the impresario for a traveling circus where he could fast for an indefinite period of time.There, the hunger artist receives spotty attention, but fasts well beyond the 40-day limit; the placards had even lost track of his fast. One day, an overseer discovers the dirty straw and that the hunger artist is near death.The hunger artist begs for forgiveness, to which the overseer replies that his fasting is admired. When the hunger artist states that he could not help it, the overseer asks “why,” to which the hunger artist replies, “because I could not find the food I liked.” The hunger artist dies; he and the dirty straw are swept out of the cage and he is replaced with a panther.The panther devours meat, is admired by the crowds, and the overseer proclaims that “order has been restored.”

At the Hotel Occidental

Sun, 03 Dec 2006 16:38:52 +0000

Karl was immediately led to a sort of office in the hotel, where the head cook dictated notes in her hand to a young female typist at a typewriter. The extremely precise dictation, the composed and flexible keystrokes carried on over the periodically noticeable ticks of the wall clock that showed almost half past eleven. “So!” the head cook said, clapped the notes shut, the typist sprang up and drew the wooden cover over the machine without, during this mechanical action, looking away from Karl. She looked like a schoolgirl, her apron was very carefully ironed, on the shoulders, for example, were ruffles, the hairstyle went straight up and you were a little astonished when, after all these details, you looked at her serious face. After bowing, first to the head cook and then to Karl, she left, and Karl inadvertently looked at the head cook with a questioning expression. “It’s wonderful you’ve now arrived,” said the head cook. “And your companions?” “I didn’t bring them with,” said Karl. “They’ll be marching off very early,” said the head cook, as if in explanation. “Does she think I’ll be marching with them?” Karl asked himself, and he said so he could close off every doubt: “We parted after a disagreement.” The head cook seemed to take this as a pleasant piece of news. “And so you’re free?” she asked. “Yes, I’m free,” Karl said, and nothing seemed more worthless to him than that. “Listen, wouldn’t you like to take a job here at the hotel?” “Very much,” said Karl, “but I have horribly little experience. For example, I can’t write at all on a typewriter.” “It’s not that important,” said the head cook. “You’ll have for now a very small position and will have to see to it to bring yourself up with diligence and attention. Whatever the case, I believe, it would be better and more appropriate for you to settle down somewhere instead of bumming your way through the world. You don’t seem to me to be made for that.” “My uncle would agree with everything in that,” said Karl to himself and nodded in approval. At the same time he remembered that he, who was being so troubled over, hadn’t introduced himself. “Forgive me, please,” he said, “I haven’t introduced myself, my name is Karl Rossman.” “You’re German, aren’t you?” “Yes,” said Karl, “I haven’t been in America long.” “Where do you come from then?” “From Prague in Bohemia,” said Karl. “Sehn sie einmal an!” the head cook cried with a strong English accent, almost throwing her arms up. “Then we’re compatriots, my name is Grete Mitzelbach and I’m from Vienna. And I am excellently familiar with Prague, I was employed for half a year at the Gold Goose on the Wenzelsplatz. Just think about it!” “When was that?” asked Karl. “That was many, many years ago.” “The old Golden Goose,” said Karl, “was torn down two years ago.” “Yes, of course,” said the head cook, lost in the memories of a past time. A moment later, lively again, she called out and grabbed Karl’s hands: “Now that it turns out you’re my fellow countryman, you can’t leave here at any price. You’re not allowed to do that to me. Would you want, for example, to be an elevator boy? Just say yes and it’s done. If you’ve been around a little, you’d know it’s not especially easy to get such a position, because it’s the best beginning you can think of. You meet all the guests, they see you all the time, one of them gives you a small task, in short, every day you have the possibility to get something better for yourself. Let me worry about the general stuff.” “I would like very much to be an elevator boy,” said Karl, after a small pause. It would have been absurd to have reservations about being an elevator boy, even with his five years of school. Here in America there was reason enough to be ashamed of those five years of school. Generally, Karl had always liked elevator boys, they stood out as the trimming on the hotel. “Isn’t a knowledge of languages required?” he continued to ask. “You speak German and a decent English, which is good enough.” “I learned English in America in two and a half months,” said Karl, he didn’t believe in concealing his own strengths. “That speaks well enough for you,” said the head cook. “When I think of the difficulties English made for me. That’s already thirty years ago. Just yesterday I was talking about it. Yesterday was my fiftieth birthday.” And, smiling, she tried to pick up in Karl’s reaction what impression the dignity of her age made on him. “Then I wish you good fortune,” said Karl. “One can always need that,” she said, shook Karl’s hand and became a little sad again over this old saying from her homeland, which had just occurred to her as she spoke German. “But I’m holding you up,” she yelled. “And you are being especially quiet and we could talk about everything much better by day. The joy of meeting a fellow countryman makes you completely thoughtless. Come, I will take you to your room.” “I still have a request, Madame Head Cook,” said Karl as he saw the telephone box standing on the table. “It is possible that my companions from before might bring me a photograph I urgently need in the morning, perhaps very early. Would you be so kind and telephone the doorman, he might prefer to send the people to me or let me get them.” “Certainly,” said the head cook, “but wouldn’t it be enough if he took the photograph from them? What kind of photograph is it, if I may ask?” “It is a photograph of my parents,” said Karl. “No, I must speak with the people myself.” The head cook said nothing more and gave the specific order over the telephone to the porter’s office, naming 536 as Karl’s room number. Then they went through a door opposite the entrance into a small hallway, where a tiny elevator boy, asleep, leaned on the railings of the elevator. “We can help ourselves,” said the head cook softly, letting Karl into the elevator. “A work schedule from ten to twelve hours is a little too much even for a young man like this,” she said as they traveled up. “But it’s unique to America. Here is this small young man, for example, he arrived here half a year ago with his parents, he is Italian. Now it looks as if he couldn’t possibly hold up, already has no muscle on his face, goes to sleep at work, even though by nature he is very willing – but he only has to work here or somewhere else in America for half a year and everything is taken care of easily and in five years he’ll be a stronger man. I could give you examples like this for hours. Because of that, I won’t worry about you, because you are a hardy young man. You’re seventeen, right?” “I’ll turn sixteen next month,” answered Karl. “Only sixteen!” said the head cook. “Such courage!” She led Karl upstairs to a room, and even though it had a slanting wall like an attic, it looked very livable in the light of two glowing lamps. “Don’t be surprised at the arrangements,” said the head cook. “It’s no hotel room, but a room where I live, which, however, is made up of three rooms, so you won’t disturb me in the slightest. I’m locking the connecting door, so you can stay completely unencumbered. Naturally in the morning, as a new employee of the hotel, you’ll get your own little room. If you’d come with your companions, I would’ve laid out beds for you in the common sleeping quarters of the house servants, but since you’re alone, I think it would be more appropriate here, even if you had to sleep on the couch. Now sleep well, so you’ll make yourself strong for work. It won’t be too tough in the morning.” “Thank you many times over for your kindness.” “Wait,” she said, standing by the exit, “you almost would’ve been woken up.” And she went to a side door of the room, knocked and called out: “Therese!” “Come in, Madame Head Cook,” reported the voice of the small female typist. “When you go to wake me early in the morning, you have to go through the hallway, a guest is sleeping here in the room. He is dead tired.” She smiled at Karl as she said that. “Did you understand?” “Yes, Madame Head Cook.” “So good night!” “Good night.” The head cook said in explanation, “I’ve been sleeping tremendously poorly for quite a few years. Now, with my position, I should be satisfied and have no need for sorrow. But it must be all my earlier sorrows which caused this insomnia in me. If I can fall asleep at three o’clock I’m happy. But since I have to be in my place again at five, or at the latest half past five, I must have myself woken up and very carefully too, so I don’t become more nervous than I already am. So Therese wakes me. But really, now you know almost everything and I still haven’t left. Good night!” And despite her weight she almost scurried out of the room Karl was happy about sleeping, because the day had taken a lot out of him. And he couldn’t wish for more comfortable surroundings for a long, undisturbed sleep. The room was certainly not a bedroom, it was the head cook’s living room or a place for conversation, and a wash-table had been brought in this evening for his sake, but all the same Karl didn’t feel like an intruder, but only all the more provided for. His trunk was set up in order, and had probably not been so safe in a long time. On a low wardrobe with sliding compartments, over which a wide-meshed woolen rug was thrown, stood various photographs in frames and under glass, Karl stood there inspecting the room and looked at them. They were mostly old photographs and for the most part showed young ladies in unmodern, uncomfortable clothes and loose, small yet highly-placed hats, who rested their right hands on umbrellas and turned to the viewer while still managing to look away with their glances. Among the gentleman’s pictures, the one that stood out to Karl was the picture of a young soldier who had laid his garrison cap on a small table, stood there rigidly with wild black hair and was full of a proud but suppressed laugher. The buttons of his uniform had been gilded on the photograph after the fact. All these photographs came from Europe, you could probably read that on the back, but Karl didn’t want to pick them up. He would’ve liked to stand up the photograph of his parents in his future room just as these photographs stood here. He was stretching just after a thorough washing of his entire body, which he tried to carry out as quietly as possible for the sake of his neighbors, in the anticipated pleasure of sleeping on the couch, when he thought he heard a weak knocking on a door. You couldn’t figure out exactly which door it was, it could have been an accidental noise. It didn’t repeat itself right away and Karl was almost asleep when it happened again. But there wasn’t any doubt anymore, it was a knock and it came from the door of the female typist. Karl walked on tipetoe to the door and asked so softly that if, in spite of everything, someone was sleeping next door, it couldn’t have woken up anyone: “Do you want something?” Immediately, and just as softly, came the answer: “Would you mind opening the door? The key sticks on your side.” “Sure,” said Karl, “I just have to dress first.” There was a small pause, then there came: “That’s not necessary. Open it and lay down in the bed, I’ll wait a little.” “Good,” said Karl and did just that, except that he turned the light on. “I’m lying down,” he said somewhat louder. Then the small typist walked out of her dark room, dressed exactly as she’d been downstairs in the office, she hadn’t thought about going to sleep the entire time. “Forgive me,” she said, standing a little bowed before Karl’s bed, “and please don’t give me away. I don’t want to disturb you for long, I know, you’re dead tired.” “It’s not a problem,” said Karl, “but it might have been better if I’d gotten dressed.” He had to lay there outstretched so he could cover himself up to his throat, because he didn’t own a nightshirt. “I’ll only stay a moment,” she said and grabbed for a chair. “Can I sit down on the couch?” Karl nodded. Then she sat so cramped on the couch that Karl had to move to the wall to be able to look at her. She had a round, even face, only the forehead was unusually high, but that could’ve been her hairstyle, which wasn’t right for her. Her dress was very clean and exact. In her left hand she clutched a handkerchief. “Will you stay here long?” she asked. “It’s not entirely clear just yet,” answered Karl, “but I think I’ll stay.” “That would be very good,” she said and ran the handkerchief over her face. “I’ve just been so alone here.” “I’m surprised about that,” said Karl. “The head cook is so friendly to you. She doesn’t treat you like an employee at all. I thought you were related.” “Oh, no,” she said. “My name is Therese Berchtold, I am from Pomerania.” Karl introduced himself as well. As a result she looked at him thoroughly for the first time, as if he had become a little more foreign because of the exchange of names. They were quiet for a little while. Then she said: “You shouldn’t believe I’m ungrateful. Without the head cook it would have gone very badly for me. Earlier, I had been a kitchen girl here in the hotel about to be let go into greater danger, because I couldn’t accomplish the difficult work. You have very large demands here. After one month, a kitchen girl will faint with overexertion and lie for fourteen days in a hospital. And I’m not that strong, I’d had much to suffer early and because of it I’ve developed a little too slowly, you wouldn’t say at all that I’m already eighteen years old. But now I’m much stronger.” “The work here must be very tiring,” said Karl. “I just saw downstairs an elevator boy sleeping on his feet.” “And the elevator boys have it the best,” she said. “They earn good money from tips and don’t have to work as much as the people in the kitchen. But I’ve really had one piece of luck, the head cook had once needed a girl to arrange the napkins for a banquet, sent down to us for kitchen girls, there were fifty such girls here, I was taken by the hand and satisfied her very much, because I’ve always know my way around napkin arrangements. So from then on she kept me by her side and gradually trained me as her secretary. I’ve learned a lot that way.” “Is there so much to write?” asked Karl. “Oh, very much,” she answered. “You probably couldn’t imagine it. You’ve already seen how I work until half past eleven, and today is not a special day. Generally I’m not writing all the time but have to run many errands in the city.” “What’s the name of the city?” asked Karl. “You don’t know?” she said. “Ramses.” “Is it a large city?” asked Karl. “Very large,” she answered. “I don’t like to go there. But don’t you want to go to sleep?” “No, no,” said Karl. “I don’t know why you came in.” “Because I have nobody to talk to. I’m not whining, but when you don’t have anyone, you’re very happy when someone finally listens to you. I’d already seen you downstairs in the hall, I’d been coming to fetch the head cook when she led you away into the pantry.” “That’s a scary hall,” said Karl. “I don’t notice it anymore,” she answered. “But I just want to say that the head cook has been so friendly to me, just like my late mother. But there’s too great a difference in our positions for me to speak freely with her. Earlier I’d had some good friends down with the kitchen girls, but they’ve been gone for the longest time and I barely know the new girls. Finally it came to me that my work now is more strenuous than my old work, that I hadn’t performed nearly as well as they had and that the head cook keeps me in my position only out of pity. In the end, you really need a better education to become a secretary. It’s a sin to say it, but more often now I’m afraid I’m going crazy. For God’s sake,” she said, suddenly much faster, and briefly grabbed Karl’s shoulder, since he was holding his hands under the blanket. “But you can’t say a word of this to the head cook, otherwise I’m lost for good. If I should make her sad, with the situation I made for her with the quality of my work, that would be the end of it.” “Of course I’ll say nothing to her,” answered Karl. “Then it’s good,” she said, “and stay here. I’d be happy if you stayed here and we could stick together, if it’s okay by you. The first time I saw you, I trusted you. And even though – you’ll think I’m terrible – I’m afraid that the head cook could put you in my position as secretary and let me go. While you were downstairs in the office, I was sitting alone and had convinced myself that it would be very good if you would take over my job, because you would certainly understand it better. If you don’t want to run errands in the city, I could do that work. Otherwise, I’d be much more useful in the kitchen, especially since I’ve become much stronger.” “The matter’s already settled,” said Karl. “I’ll be an elevator boy and you’ll be a secretary. However, if you make the slightest indication of your plans to the head cook, I’ll tell her everything you said to me, no matter how much it upsets me.” His tone agitated Therese so much that she threw herself on the bed and pressed her face against the bedding as she whimpered. “I’m not going to say anything,” said Karl, “but you can’t say anything either.” He couldn’t stay covered underneath the blanket anymore, he stroked her arm, couldn’t find anything right to say and only thought that it would be a bitter life here. Finally she calmed herself down enough to at least be ashamed of her weeping, she looked at Karl gratefully, tried to persuade him to sleep long into the morning and promised, if she found the time, to come up here at eight o’clock at wake him up. “You wake up people so skillfully,” said Karl. “Yes, there are some things I can do,” she said, moved her hand gently over his blanket as a goodbye and left for her room. The next day, Karl was to start his work right away, even though the head cook wanted to let him go that day for some sight-seeing around Ramses. But Karl explained honestly, that there would be a chance for that, now the most important thing was to begin the work, because he’d already broken one of his goals to no purpose – a proper job in Europe – and was beginning as an elevator boy at an old age where other young men would be competent enough to take over higher positions. It would be completely right if he started as an elevator boy, but it would also be right if he rushed himself. Because of these circumstances, he could get no pleasure from looking around a city. He couldn’t even accept an invitation for a short walk with Therese. There was always the thought floating before his eyes, that if he weren’t industrious enough, he could wind up in the end like Delamarche and Robinson. At the hotel tailor, he was fitted for the elevator boy’s uniform, which was equipped very handsomely with gold buttons and gold cords, but Karl shuddered a little when he put it on, because the jacket was cold, hard and still wet, particularly under the armpits, from the elevator boy who had worn it before him. The uniform had to be widened at the chest just for Karl, because none of the ten uniforms there wanted to fit easily. Despite the tailoring that was necessary, and even though the master craftsman seemed very meticulous – two times he sent the prepared and delivered uniform back to the workshop – everything was finished in barely five minutes, and Karl left the tailor with close-fitting pants and, in spite of the insistence of the master, a very tight jacket, which tempted him to try some breathing exercises just so he could see if breathing were even possible. Then he reported to the head waiter whose command he would stand under, a thin, nice man with a large nose, who was already in his forties. He had no time for the slightest conversation and rung for an elevator boy, who by chance was the exact one that Karl had seen yesterday. The head waiter called him only by his Christian name, Giacomo, which Karl learned later was unrecognizable to English ears in its full form. This young man arrived to show Karl the necessary duties of running an elevator, but he was so shy and hurried, that he could barely understand the few basics that had to be learned. Certainly because of this Giacomo was annoyed, since he had to leave his position for the sake of Karl and was assigned to helping the chambermaids, which happened to be dishonorable for him, on account of certain experiences which he kept quiet about. Throughout everything, Karl was disappointed that an elevator boy worked the machinery of the elevator only so far as he simply pushed a button, while it was the machinists who were used for repairs to the machinery, so that Giacomo, for example, in spite of half a year of elevator service, had neither seen the motor in the cellar nor the machinery on the inside of the elevator, even though, as he said himself, it would’ve brought him much joy. Altogether it was monotonous work, and it was so tiring, on account of the twelve-hour schedule, alternating between day and night shifts, that he wouldn’t be able to stand it unless, after Giacomo’s instructions, he could sleep on his feet for minutes at a time. Karl said nothing about it, but he completely understood that it was this art which had cost Giacomo his job. It was very welcoming to Karl that the elevator he had to trouble over was intended only for the highest floors, and that way he wouldn’t have anything to do with the demanding rich people. Admittedly though, he couldn’t learn more here than he could anywhere else, and it was only good as a beginning. Already by the first week, Karl realized that he was completely ready for the job. The brass on his elevator was the best polished, none of the thirty other elevators could match, and it might’ve even been brighter if only the young man working at the same elevator could’ve been just as industrious, instead of feeling that Karl’s diligence supported his laid-back approach. He was a native-born American named Renell, a vain young man with dark eyes and smooth, somewhat hollow cheeks. He had an elegant, privately owned suit, which he wore on his nights off as he hurried, lightly perfumed, into the city; here and there he asked Karl to stand in for him, since he had to go away on family matters, and it didn’t bother him that his appearance contradicted everything he said. All the same, Karl liked him and enjoyed it when on these evenings Rennel stayed by the elevator in front of him in his own private suit, still apologizing a little while as he pulled the gloves over his fingers and then left down the hallway. Besides, by standing in for him, Karl only wanted to do him a favor, as seems natural in the beginning when dealing with an older colleague, it shouldn’t become a habit. Because these endless travels in the elevator were tiring enough, and there was almost no interruption, especially in the evening hours. Soon Karl was also learning the quick, deep bows demanded of elevator boys, and he caught the tips in mid-flight. They disappeared into his vest pocket, and no one could guess by his manner if the tip was large or small. He opened the door for ladies with a small gallant gesture and swung slowly behind them into the elevator, as they cared for their skirts, hats and scarves. During the trip, because this was the most inconspicuous way to do it, he stood tight by the door with his back to his passengers and held his grip on the elevator door so he could push it to the side at the moment of arrival without the tiniest surprise. Only rarely would someone tap him on the shoulder during the trip to get some information, but then he would turn around in a hurry, as if he were expecting it, to give his answer in a loud voice. Often, especially after the theater closed or certain express trains arrived, there was such a crowd that, in spite of the many elevators, he had barely let the guests off at the top when he had to race down again to pick up the ones who were waiting. He also had the opportunity, by pulling on one of the cables running through the elevator box, to climb to a steady brisk pace, but generally this was forbidden by the elevator regulations and could also be dangerous. Karl never did it when he traveled with passengers, but when he had set them down and others were waiting downstairs, he didn’t think twice about working the cord with strong, rhythmic tugs, like a sailor. He knew that the other elevator boys did this too, and he didn’t want to lose his passengers to the other young men. Some of the guests who stayed in the hotel for a long time, which was fairly common here, showed with a smile here and there that they recognized Karl as their elevator boy, Karl took this kindness with a serious face, but he took it gladly. Sometimes, when the traffic was weaker, he could take on special small tasks, for instance, for a hotel guest who didn’t want to go to his room for some small, little forgotten thing, and then at such a moment he would fly up alone in his special, trusty elevator, walk into the strange room, where for the most part odd things he had never seen before lay around or rested on the clothes hangers, he felt the characteristic odor of foreign soap, perfume or mouthwash, then without holding back in the slightest, he hurried down with the object he had found in spite of mostly vague instructions. Often he regretted not being able to take on greater tasks, since there were certain servants or errand boys here who made their way on bicycles or even motorcycles, while Karl was only allowed to take messages from the rooms to the dining or gaming halls. When, after twelve hours starting at six o’clock in the evening, he came out for the next three days at six o’clock in the morning, he was so tired that, without bothering anyone else, he went right to bed. It rested in the common sleeping quarters of the elevator boys, and the head cook, whose influence wasn’t as great as he thought it was on the first day, had really tried to get him a small room of his own, and she might’ve been successful too, but since Karl saw how difficult it was and how often the head cook, on account of it, was calling his superior, the eternally busy head waiter, he gave it up and convinced the head cook how seriously he wanted to give it up by reminding her that he didn’t want to be envied by the other young men because of a privilege he wouldn’t have actually worked for. The sleeping quarters was, in general, not a quiet hall to sleep in. Since everyone with twelve hours of free time was variously spread out among eating, sleeping, enjoying themselves and working on the side, there was always the greatest commotion in the hall. So some slept and pulled the blanket over their ears to keep from hearing; if one of these was woken up, he’d scream so furiously over the screams of the others that none of the remaining sleepers could hold fast very well. Almost every young man had his pipe, it was indulging in a sort of luxury, Karl had also gotten one and soon found a taste for it. But now they weren’t allowed to smoke during work, so that everyone in the hall, so long as he wasn’t necessarily sleeping, was smoking too. And because of this every bed stood in its own cloud of smoke and everything else in a general haze. Despite the basic agreement of the majority, it was impossible to force the night lights to burn on only one end of the hall in the evening. If this proposal were enforced, then anyone of them who wanted to sleep could do so quietly in the dark of a halved hall – it was a large hall with forty beds – while the others in the illuminated part could have played dice or cards and everyone could have gotten light where it was necessary. If someone whose bed stood in the illuminated half of the hall wanted to go to sleep, he could have laid down in one of the free beds in the dark, because there were enough free beds and, under the circumstances, no one objected to someone else using his bed. But there wasn’t one night where anyone followed this division. Again and again, for example, after using the darkness to get some sleep, two people found themselves wanting to play cards in their bed on a board laid between them, and naturally they turned on a suitable electric lamp, whose stabbing light crashed into the sleepers who were turned to it. You still rolled around a little, but found in the end there was nothing better to do than to also carry out a game by another light with your equally awakened neighbors. And, as ever, pipes were being smoked above all. There were also some who wanted to sleep at any price – most of the time Karl belonged to them – and instead of lying their heads on the pillows, covered it with the pillow or wrapped themselves into it, but how could you want to stay asleep, when your neighbor stands up in the middle of the night to go out to the city a little for fun before work, when at the head of his bed he washes loudly in the wash-basin spraying water, when he puts on his boots not only with loud thumping but also stamping because he wants them to fit better – almost everyone had boots that were too tight, in spite of American design – so that finally, since a small piece in his outfit went missing, he lifts up the pillow of the sleeping man, and you’re lying awake underneath, just waiting to get at him. But they were all sports people and young, strong fellows, who never wanted to miss an opportunity to exercise. And you could be certain to find, when you sprang up awakened out of sleep by some large noise in the middle of the night, two wrestlers on the ground next to your bed and, in the glaring light, experts standing roundabout on all the beds in their shirts and underpants. Once, on the occasion of one of these nightly boxing matches, one of the fighters fell over the sleeping Karl, and the first thing Karl noticed with the opening of his eyes was the blood running out of the nose of the young man, and before he could do something about it, his entire bed was flooded. Often Karl struggled for almost the whole twelve hours to attempt to win some hours of sleep for himself, even though it was very tempting to take part in the conversations of all the others; but it always seemed to him that the others had a head start over him with their lives, which he had to balance out with hard work and a little sacrifice. Although his work was very dependent on his sleep, he didn’t complain to the head cook or to Therese about the conditions in the sleeping quarters, because, first of all, the young man carried the difficulty honorably without any serious complaining, and, second of all, the sufferings of the hall were an important part of his job as an elevator boy, which he had taken gratefully from the hands of the head cook. Once a week, with the change of shifts, he had twenty-four hours off, which he partly spent paying one or two visits to the head cook and partly waiting for Therese’s meager free time, when they exchanged some fleeting conversations in corners or corridors and only rarely in her room. Sometimes he accompanied her on her errands in the city, where everything had to be carried out in the utmost hurry. Then she would almost run to the next subway station, Karl with her bag in his hand, the journey went by in a flash, as if the train were being carried away without any resistance, already they were getting off, clattering up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator that was too slow for them, the large squares from which the streets flowed out in a starburst emerged and brought a tumult of streamed lines of traffic from all sides, but Karl and Therese hurried, tightly together, to the different offices, cleaners, warehouses and stores which weren’t easy to contact by telephone in order to make orders or complaints, generally trivial things. Therese soon realized that Karl’s help wasn’t something to sniff at, that it contributed more and more to much of their running around. In his company, she never had to wait, as she had often done, for the over-worked business people to listen to her. He walked right up to the desk and knocked on it for a long time with his knuckles, until it had an effect, he yelled over walls of people with his always somewhat exaggerated English, easy to hear over a hundred voices, he went up to people without hesitation, people who had already walked arrogantly away into the deeps of the longest corporate hallways. He didn’t do it for kicks and appreciated every setback, but he felt in a secure position, which gave him the right to act like he did, the Hotel Occidental was a customer you were not allowed to joke with, and Therese in the end, in spite of her business experience, needed the help. “You should always come with me,” she said, sometimes laughing cheerfully as they came out of an especially successful expedition. Only three times during the one and a half months that Karl stayed at Ramses did he spend longer than a few hours in Therese’s small room. Of course, it was smaller than any one of the head cook’s rooms, the couple of things standing in it were generally only stored by the window, but after his experience in the sleeping quarters, Karl understood the appeal of having your own relatively quiet room, and when he said that, even if he didn’t say it directly, Therese noticed too how much he liked her room. She had no secrets from him, and it wouldn’t have been possible to have secrets from him after her visit on the first night. She was an illegitimate child, her father was a building foreman and had arranged for the mother and the child to come after him from Pomerania, but as if that had fulfilled his obligation or as if he were expecting different people than the over-worked woman and the weak child whom he watched arrive at the landing point, he had soon after their arrival wandered off to Canada without any explanation, and the two left behind had not received a letter nor any other piece of news about it, which wasn’t that big a surprise, because now they were lost, nowhere to be found, in the ghettoes of New York’s East Side. Therese once told him – Karl stood next to her by the window and looked out at the street – how her mother had died. How she and her mother on a winter evening – she might’ve been about five years old – hurried with their bundles through the street, looking for a place to sleep. How at first her mother led her by the hand, there was a snow storm and it wasn’t easy to move forward, until her hand got tired and she let go of Therese without looking back, so that now she had to make an effort to hold on tight to her mother’s skirt. Often Therese stumbled and fell, but the mother was delirious and wouldn’t stop. And the snowstorm in the long, straight New York streets! Karl hadn’t yet gone through a New York snowstorm. You went against the wind and it twirled around, you couldn’t open your eyes, always the wind was blowing snow into your face, you ran but got no further, it was a somewhat futile act. A child naturally has an advantage in not having grown so much, it can run underneath the wind and even take a little joy in it all. So Therese couldn’t have entirely understood her mother, and she was solidly convinced that if she had dealt with her mother more intelligently – she had still been such a small child – she wouldn’t have had to suffer such a miserable death. Her mother had already gone two days without work, not even the smallest bit of money was available anymore, the day was performed out in the open without a bite to eat, and in their bundles they only dragged around useless scraps, which they refused to throw away, maybe out of superstition. Now the mother had been hired for the next morning’s work at a construction site within view, but she was afraid, as she tried to explain to Therese for the entire day, that she wouldn’t be able to take advantage of the lucky opportunity, because she felt dead tired, she had already coughed up blood onto the street that morning, frightening the passersby, and her only longing was to come somewhere warm and rest herself. And it was exactly on this evening that it was impossible to find that small place. Wherever a superintendent didn’t show them out of a doorway where they could’ve recovered a little from the weather, they hurried through tight, icy corridors, climbed to the high floors, circled the small terraces of the courtyards, knocked indiscriminately on doors, sometimes they didn’t dare speak to anyone, and then they’d ask anyone who looked at them and once or twice the mother squatted breathless on the stairs a quiet step behind, snatching Therese, who almost resisted, and kissing her with painful force on the lips. If you knew after the fact that these had been their last kisses, you could’ve been a small worm, but you wouldn’t have understood that someone could’ve been so blind as not to see it. In some rooms they came to, the doors were opened to let out the suffocating air, and out from the smoky fog that filled the room as if from a fire, only the figure of someone who stood in the doorframe stepped out, and either through his silence or a few words he proved the impossibility of coming into this particular room. In looking back, it seemed to Therese that her mother had only seriously looked for a place in those first hours, because about after midnight had passed, she didn’t speak to anyone anymore, even though she continued, with small pauses, to hurry without stopping and even though at every house where neither the gates nor the doors were closed, there was life and you met a person at each and every step. Of course, all this running didn’t bring them any further, it was just the greatest effort they could manage, and it might’ve really been barely a crawl. Also, from midnight until five in the morning, Therese didn’t know if they had been in twenty houses or two houses or only one. Being cleverly designed, the corridors of these places make the best use of space but have no consideration for a person’s sense of direction, because they were often coming through the same corridors! Therese already vaguely remembered that they had abandoned the entrance of a house that they had tried forever to get into, but it seemed to her that they turned around in the street right away and fell back to the same house. For the child it was an incomprehensible sorrow, sometimes being held by the mother, sometimes holding on tight to her, now being dragged along without the smallest word of consolation, and the only explanation for all this absurdity was that the mother wanted to run away from her. Because of that, even when the mother was holding onto her hand, Therese held on all the tighter to her mother’s skirt and yelped, just to be certain. She didn’t want to be left behind here, in the middle of these people who pounded up the stairs in front of them, who came on behind them up the winding steps, still unseen, who fought with one another in the hallways by the doors and pushed each other into the rooms. Drunks wandered into the house with musty songs, and luckily, Therese and her mother managed to slip through one of these advancing groups. They knew that late in the night, when you weren’t so careful anymore and no one really stood up for his rights, they could at least force themselves into one of the several shelters they came across, which were rented out by speculators, but Therese didn’t understand that and her mother didn’t want to rest anymore. In the morning, the beginning of a beautiful winter day, they both leaned on a brick building and had maybe slept there a little, but maybe they only stared around with open eyes. They saw that Therese had lost her bundle, and her mother went to slap Therese in punishment for her carelessness, but Therese heard no blows and felt nothing. They went again through the awakening streets, her mother alongside the brick, they came over a bridge, where her mother brushed against the frost on the railings with a hand and they finally reached the exact construction site that the mother had been hired to for the morning – at the time Therese had accepted it, but today she couldn’t understand it. She didn’t say to Therese, if she should wait or go away, and Therese took this as an order to wait, since this matched up with her best wishes. She sat down on a pile of bricks and watched how she took a colored rag tied up in her bundle and put it over a kerchief she had worn for the entire night. As if only the thoughts were able to reach her, Therese was too tired to help her mother. Without reporting to the site’s office, as was usual, and without asking anyone, the mother climbed up a ladder, as if she already knew where she had been assigned. Therese wondered about it, because the female workers were kept busy underneath with loading lime, passing bricks or with other simple tasks. She thought that her mother wanted to complete better paying work and smiled at her sleepily about it. The site wasn’t tall, barely complete at the ground floor, even though the scaffolding for more construction rose into the blue sky, still without connecting timbers. Up above, her mother went skillfully around the bricklayers laying brick on brick, and unbelievably, they didn’t ask her anything, she held carefully with a gentle hand a wooden box which served as railing, and Therese, dozing off, was astounded at this skill and thought she received a friendly glance from her mother. But now the mother came to a small pile of bricks on the gangway, where the railing and the walkway probably stopped, but she didn’t pay attention, walked freely to the pile of bricks, she seemed to lose her skill, she knocked over the pile of bricks and fell over it down into the deep. Many bricks rolled after her, and finally, a longer while later, a heavy board came loose and smashed her below. Therese’s last memory of her mother was of her lying with legs stretched apart in the checkered skirt from Pomerania as the rough board lay on top of her, almost covering her, as the people ran together from all sides and as from the construction above some man yelled down something angry. It had gotten late when Therese had ended her explanation. She had explained in detail how this wasn’t her habit to have to pause with tears in her eyes, especially at unimportant places like the description of the scaffolding rising up alone into the sky. She knew every little thing which had happened after ten years now, and because the sight of her mother up above on a half-finished first floor was the last souvenir of the life of her mother, and because she could not describe it clearly enough to her friend, she wanted to come back to it after the end of her story, but she stopped, laid her face in her hands and didn’t say a word more. There were also happier times in Therese’s room. Right on his first visit Karl had seen a workbook of business correspondence lying around and had asked to borrow it. It was immediately discussed that Karl should do the exercises contained in the book and present it for review to Therese, who had already studied through the book for whatever was necessary for her small errands. Now Karl lay for the entire night, cotton in his ears, downstairs on his bed in the sleeping quarters, shifting through all possible positions for the sake of variety, reading in the book and marking down the exercises in a notebook with a ball-point pen that the head cook had given to him as a reward for very practically laying out and writing up a large list of inventory. Most of the disturbances from the other boys turned out for the good, because he made them give him every small piece of advice on the English language until they were tired and left him in peace. He was often surprised at how the others were completely content with their present positions, didn’t have a sense of its temporary nature – elevator boys as old as twenty years old were not tolerated – did not see the necessity of a decision about their future careers and in spite of Karl’s example read nothing else besides the latest detective stories, which were passed from bed to bed until they were filthy rags. At their future meetings Therese made her corrections with an exaggerated fussiness, it made for conflicting opinions, Karl took as his witness his great New York professor, but that was about as valid to Therese as the grammatical opinions of the elevator boys. She took the pen out of his hand and crossed out parts she was convinced were wrong, but at such doubtful moments, even though in general he could see no greater authority than Therese, Karl crossed out Therese’s cross-outs for the sake of meticulousness. Sometimes even the head cook came over and always decided in Therese’s favor, which didn’t prove a thing, because Therese was her secretary. At the same time, though, she always reconciled the matter, because tea would be boiled, biscuits prepared and Karl had to talk about Europe, usually with a lot of interruptions on the part of the head cook, who always asked him questions and was always astounded, in the process making Karl aware how much had changed there from the ground up in a relatively short time and how much had really become different since her leaving and how much would always be changing. Karl might have been in Ramses about a month when Renell said to him in passing one evening that he had spoken to a man in front of the hotel with the name of Delamarche who was asking after Karl. Now Renell had no reason to hide anything and had said truthfully that Karl was an elevator boy but that because of the protection of the head cook he was going to receive an entirely different position. Karl noticed how gently Delamarche had handled Renell, even inviting him to a small dinner that evening. “I have nothing more to do with Delamarche,” said Karl. “Just be careful with him!” “Me?” said Renell as he stretched and hurried away. He was the most delicate youth in the hotel, and a rumor went around the other boys, without anyone knowing who started it, that he was at the very least being kissed by a distinguished lady who had lived in the hotel for a very long time. For those who knew the rumor, there was a large appeal in seeing this self-confident lady walk by with her calm, easy steps, delicate veil, tightly cinched waist, allowing no suspicion of the slightest possibility of such behavior. She lived on the first floor and Renell’s elevator wasn’t hers, but when the other elevators were momentarily occupied, you couldn’t forbid the guests from entering a different elevator. So it happened that this lady traveled now and again in Karl’s and Renell’s elevator and, actually, only when Renell was working. It could have been chance, but no one believed that, and when the elevator traveled up with the both of them, there was a laboriously suppressed restlessness in the entire column of elevator boys, which had even lead to the intervention of one of the head waiters. Whether the lady had started this, or whether it was just a rumor, in any case Renell had changed, become even more self-confident, left the cleaning entirely to Karl, who was already waiting for the next opportunity to have a thorough discussion about it, and couldn’t be found in the sleeping quarters anymore. No one else had ever so completely walked away from the camaraderie of the elevator boys, because when it came to work they all stuck together and even had an organization recognized by the hotel directors. Karl allowed all this to go through his head, also thinking about Delamarche and performing his duties as always. At midnight he got a small change of pace, because Therese, who often surprised him with small gifts, brought him a large apple and a bar of chocolate. They entertained each other a little, barely disturbed by the interruptions that traveling on the elevator brought along. The conversation came to Delamarche and Karl realized that if he had thought of him as a dangerous person, he had allowed himself to be influenced by Therese, because after Karl’s explanation of him, that’s probably how he seemed to Therese. Nevertheless, in the end Karl only thought of him as a bum who had allowed himself to go bad through some poor luck, someone you could deal with. Therese contradicted him very excitedly and in a long speech encouraged Karl to promise never to speak to Delamarche again. Instead of making this promise, Karl urged her to go to sleep, since it was already long past midnight, and when she refused, he threatened to throw away her letters and they went to her room. When she was finally ready to go away, he said, “Why do you make all this unnecessary trouble for yourself, Therese? Just so that you’ll sleep better, I’ll gladly promise you that I’ll only talk to Delamarche if I can’t avoid it.” Then there were many trips up and down, because the young man on the next elevator was used for someone else’s assignment and Karl had to look after both elevators. There were guests who talked of disorder, and a gentleman accompanying a lady even touched Karl lightly with his walking stick to get him to hurry, a reprimand that was completely unnecessary. If the guests, when they saw that no young man was standing by one of the elevators, would at least have gone to Karl’s elevator, but they didn’t do that, they went to the next elevator and stood there, putting their hands on the door handle or stepping into the elevator, which, according to the most severe paragraph in the rules for the elevator boys, had to be avoided at all costs. So Karl was very tired running here and there without being aware of sufficiently fulfilling his duties. Moreover, at three o’clock in the morning, a busboy he was a little friendly with wanted some help from him now, but he couldn’t do that now by any means, because right now guests were standing by both of his elevators and it took great presence of mind to walk decisively to one group with large strides. He was, however, lucky when the other young man walked over again and yelled a few words of apology because of his absence, even though he probably didn’t feel guilty about it. At four o’clock in the morning there was a little quiet, but Karl needed it urgently. He leaned heavily on the railing next to his elevator, slowly ate an apple, out of which a strong aroma came streaming after the first bite, and looked down a light shaft which was surrounded by a large window of the pantry, behind which shimmered a hanging mass of bananas in the dark.

Der Prügler

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:34:31 +0000

Als K. an einem der nächsten Abende den Korridor passierte, der sein Bureau von der Haupttreppe trennte – er gieng diesmal fast als der letzte nachhause, nur in der Expedition arbeiteten noch zwei Diener im kleinen Lichtfeld einer Glühlampe – hörte er hinter einer Tür, hinter der er immer nur eine Rumpelkammer vermutet hatte, ohne sie jemals selbst gesehen zu haben, Seufzer ausstoßen. Er blieb erstaunt stehn und horchte noch einmal auf um festzustellen ob er sich nicht irrte, – es wurde ein Weilchen still, dann waren es aber doch wieder Seufzer. – Zuerst wollte er einen der Diener holen, man konnte vielleicht einen Zeugen brauchen, dann aber faßte ihn eine derart unbezähmbare Neugierde, daß er die Tür förmlich aufriß. Es war, wie er richtig vermutet hatte, eine Rumpelkammer. Unbrauchbare alte Drucksorten, umgeworfene leere irdene Tintenflaschen lagen hinter der Schwelle. In der Kammer selbst aber standen drei Männer, gebückt in dem niedrigen Raum. Eine auf einem Regal festgemachte Kerze gab ihnen Licht. “Was treibt Ihr hier?” fragte K. sich vor Aufregung überstürzend, aber nicht laut. Der eine Mann, der die andern offenbar beherrschte und zuerst den Blick auf sich lenkte, stak in einer Art dunklern Lederkleidung, die den Hals bis tief zur Brust und die ganzen Arme nackt ließ. Er antwortete nicht. Aber die zwei andern riefen: “Herr! Wir sollen geprügelt werden, weil Du Dich beim Untersuchungsrichter über uns beklagt hast. " Und nun erst erkannte K., daß es wirklich die Wächter Franz und Willem waren, und daß der Dritte eine Rute in der Hand hielt, um sie zu prügeln. “Nun”, sagte K. und starrte sie an, “ich habe mich nicht beklagt, ich habe nur gesagt, wie es sich in meiner Wohnung zugetragen hat. Und einwandfrei habt Ihr Euch ja nicht benommen. " “Herr”, sagte Willem während Franz sich hinter ihm vor dem Dritten offenbar zu sichern suchte, “wenn Ihr wüßtet wie schlecht wir gezahlt sind, Ihr würdet besser über uns urteilen. Ich habe eine Familie zu ernähren und Franz hier wollte heiraten, man sucht sich zu bereichern, wie es geht, durch bloße Arbeit gelingt es nicht, selbst durch die angestrengteste, Euere feine Wäsche hat mich verlockt, es ist natürlich den Wächtern verboten, so zu handeln, es war unrecht, aber Tradition ist es, daß die Wäsche den Wächtern gehört, es ist immer so gewesen, glaubt es mir; es ist ja auch verständlich, was bedeuten denn noch solche Dinge für den, welcher so unglücklich ist verhaftet zu werden. Bringt er es dann allerdings öffentlich zur Sprache, dann muß die Strafe erfolgen. " “Was Ihr jetzt sagt, wußte ich nicht, ich habe auch keineswegs Euere Bestrafung verlangt, mir ging es um ein Princip. " “Franz”, wandte sich Willem zum andern Wächter, “sagte ich Dir nicht, daß der Herr unsere Bestrafung nicht verlangt hat. Jetzt hörst Du, daß er nicht einmal gewußt hat, daß wir bestraft werden müssen. " “Laß Dich nicht durch solche Reden rühren”, sagte der Dritte zu K., “die Strafe ist ebenso gerecht als unvermeidlich.” “Höre nicht auf ihn”, sagte Willem und unterbrach sich nur um die Hand, über die er einen Rutenhieb bekommen hatte schnell an den Mund zu führen, “wir werden nur gestraft, weil Du uns angezeigt hast. Sonst wäre uns nichts geschehn, selbst wenn man erfahren hätte, was wir getan haben. Kann man das Gerechtigkeit nennen? Wir zwei, insbesondere aber ich, hatten uns als Wächter durch lange Zeit sehr bewährt – Du selbst mußt eingestehn, daß wir vom Gesichtspunkt der Behörde gesehn, gut gewacht haben – wir hatten Aussicht vorwärtszukommen und wären gewiß bald auch Prügler geworden, wie dieser, der eben das Glück hatte, von niemandem angezeigt worden zu sein, denn eine solche Anzeige kommt wirklich nur sehr selten vor. Und jetzt Herr ist alles verloren, unsere Laufbahn beendet, wir werden noch viel untergeordnetere Arbeiten leisten müssen, als der Wachdienst ist und überdies bekommen wir jetzt diese schrecklich schmerzhaften Prügel.” “Kann denn die Rute solche Schmerzen machen”, fragte K. und prüfte die Rute, die der Prügler vor ihm schwang. “Wir werden uns ja ganz nackt ausziehn müssen”, sagte Willem. “Ach so”, sagte K. und sah den Prügler genauer an, er war braun gebrannt wie ein Matrose und hatte ein wildes frisches Gesicht. “Gibt es keine Möglichkeit den zwein die Prügel zu ersparen”, fragte er ihn. “Nein”, sagte der Prügler und schüttelte lächelnd den Kopf. “Zieht Euch aus”, befahl er den Wächtern. Und zu K. sagte er: “Du mußt ihnen nicht alles glauben. Sie sind durch die Angst vor den Prügeln schon ein wenig schwachsinnig geworden. Was dieser hier z. B. " – er zeigte auf Willem – “über seine mögliche Laufbahn erzählt hat, ist geradezu lächerlich. Sieh an, wie fett er ist,– die ersten Rutenstreiche werden überhaupt im Fett verloren gehn. – Weißt Du wodurch er so fett geworden ist? Er hat die Gewohnheit allen Verhafteten das Frühstück aufzuessen. Hat er nicht auch Dein Frühstück aufgegessen? Nun ich sagte es ja. Aber ein Mann mit einem solchen Bauch kann nie und nimmermehr Prügler werden, das ist ganz ausgeschlossen.” “Es gibt auch solche Prügler”, behauptete Willem der gerade seinen Hosengürtel löste. “Nein!” sagte der Prügler und strich ihm mit der Rute derartig über den Hals, daß er zusammenzuckte, “Du sollst nicht zuhören, sondern Dich ausziehn. " “Ich würde Dich gut belohnen, wenn Du sie laufen läßt”, sagte K. und zog ohne den Prügler nochmals anzusehn – solche Geschäfte werden beiderseits mit niedergeschlagenen Augen am besten abgewickelt – seine Brieftasche hervor. “Du willst wohl dann auch mich anzeigen”, sagte der Prügler, “und auch noch mir Prügel verschaffen. Nein, nein! " “Sei doch vernünftig”, sagte K., “wenn ich gewollt hätte, daß diese zwei bestraft werden, würde ich sie doch jetzt nicht loskaufen wollen. Ich könnte einfach die Tür hier zuschlagen, nichts weiter sehn und hören wollen und nachhausegehn. Nun tue ich das aber nicht, vielmehr liegt mir ernstlich daran sie zu befreien; hätte ich geahnt, daß sie bestraft werden sollen oder auch nur bestraft werden können hätte ich ihre Namen nie genannt. Ich halte sie nämlich gar nicht für schuldig, schuldig ist die Organisation, schuldig sind die hohen Beamten. " “So ist es”, riefen die Wächter und bekamen sofort einen Hieb über ihren schon entkleideten Rücken. “Hättest Du hier unter Deiner Rute einen hohen Richter”, sagte K. und drückte während er sprach die Rute, die sich schon wieder erheben wollte, nieder, “ich würde Dich wahrhaftig nicht hindern loszuschlagen, im Gegenteil ich würde Dir noch Geld geben, damit Du Dich für die gute Sache kräftigst. " “Was Du sagst, klingt ja glaubwürdig”, sagte der Prügler, “aber ich lasse mich nicht bestechen. Ich bin zum Prügeln angestellt, also prügle ich. " Der Wächter Franz, der vielleicht in Erwartung eines guten Ausganges des Eingreifens von K. bisher ziemlich zurückhaltend gewesen war, trat jetzt nur noch mit den Hosen bekleidet zur Tür, hing sich niederknieend an K.’s Arm und flüsterte: “Wenn Du für uns beide Schonung nicht durchsetzen kannst, so versuche wenigstens mich zu befreien. Willem ist älter als ich, in jeder Hinsicht weniger empfindlich, auch hat er schon einmal vor paar Jahren eine leichte Prügelstrafe bekommen, ich aber bin noch nicht entehrt und bin doch zu meiner Handlungsweise nur durch Willem gebracht worden, der in Gutem und Schlechtem mein Lehrer ist. Unten vor der Bank wartet meine arme Braut auf den Ausgang, ich schäme mich ja so erbärmlich.” Er trocknete mit K.’s Rock sein von Tränen ganz überlaufenes Gesicht. “Ich warte nicht mehr”, sagte der Prügler, faßte die Rute mit beiden Händen und hieb auf Franz ein, während Willem in einem Winkel kauerte und heimlich zusah, ohne eine Kopfwendung zu wagen. Da erhob sich der Schrei, den Franz ausstieß, ungeteilt und unveränderlich, er schien nicht von einem Menschen, sondern von einem gemarterten Instrument zu stammen, der ganze Korridor tönte von ihm, das ganze Haus mußte es hören, “schrei nicht”, rief K., er konnte sich nicht zurückhalten und während er gespannt in die Richtung sah, aus der die Diener kommen mußten, stieß er in Franz, nicht stark aber doch stark genug, daß der Besinnungslose niederfiel und im Krampf mit den Händen den Boden absuchte; den Schlägen entgieng er aber nicht, die Rute fand ihn auch auf der Erde, während er sich unter ihr wälzte, schwang sich ihre Spitze regelmäßig auf und ab. Und schon erschien in der Ferne ein Diener und ein paar Schritte hinter ihm ein zweiter. K. hatte schnell die Tür zugeworfen, war zu einem nahen Hoffenster getreten und öffnete es. Das Schreien hatte vollständig aufgehört. Um die Diener nicht herankommen zu lassen, rief er: “Ich bin es. " “Guten Abend, Herr Prokurist”, rief es zurück. “Ist etwas geschehn?” “Nein nein”, antwortete K., “es schreit nur ein Hund auf dem Hof. " Als die Diener sich doch nicht rührten, fügte er hinzu: “Sie können bei Ihrer Arbeit bleiben.” Um sich in kein Gespräch mit den Dienern einlassen zu müssen, beugte er sich aus dem Fenster. Als er nach einem Weilchen wieder in den Korridor sah, waren sie schon weg. K. aber blieb nun beim Fenster, in die Rumpelkammer wagte er nicht zu gehn und nachhause gehn wollte er auch nicht. Es war ein kleiner viereckiger Hof, in den er hinunter sah, ringsherum waren Bureauräume untergebracht, alle Fenster waren jetzt schon dunkel, nur die obersten fiengen einen Widerschein des Mondes auf. K. suchte angestrengt mit den Blicken in das Dunkel eines Hofwinkels einzudringen, in dem einige Handkarren ineinandergefahren waren. Es quälte ihn, daß es ihm nicht gelungen war, das Prügeln zu verhindern, aber es war nicht seine Schuld, daß es nicht gelungen war, hätte Franz nicht geschrien – gewiß es mußte sehr wehgetan haben, aber in einem entscheidenden Augenblick muß man sich beherrschen – hätte er nicht geschrien, so hätte K., wenigstens sehr wahrscheinlich, noch ein Mittel gefunden, den Prügler zu überreden. Wenn die ganze unterste Beamtenschaft Gesindel war, warum hätte gerade der Prügler, der das unmenschlichste Amt hatte, eine Ausnahme machen sollen, K. hatte auch gut beobachtet, wie ihm beim Anblick der Banknote die Augen geleuchtet hatten, er hatte mit dem Prügeln offenbar nur deshalb Ernst gemacht, um die Bestechungssumme noch ein wenig zu erhöhn. Und K. hätte nicht gespart, es lag ihm wirklich daran die Wächter zu befreien; wenn er nun schon angefangen hatte die Verderbnis dieses Gerichtswesens zu bekämpfen, so war es selbstverständlich, daß er auch von dieser Seite eingriff. Aber in dem Augenblick, wo Franz zu schreien angefangen hatte, war natürlich alles zuende. K. konnte nicht zulassen, daß die Diener und vielleicht noch alle möglichen Leute kämen und ihn in Unterhandlungen mit der Gesellschaft in der Rumpelkammer überraschten. Diese Aufopferung konnte wirklich niemand von K. verlangen. Wenn er das zu tun beabsichtigt hätte, so wäre es ja fast einfacher gewesen, K. hätte sich selbst ausgezogen und dem Prügler als Ersatz für die Wächter angeboten. Übrigens hätte der Prügler diese Vertretung gewiß nicht angenommen, da er dadurch, ohne einen Vorteil zu gewinnen, dennoch seine Pflicht schwer verletzt hätte und wahrscheinlich doppelt verletzt hätte, denn K. mußte wohl, solange er im Verfahren stand, für alle Angestellten des Gerichtes unverletzlich sein. Allerdings konnten hier auch besondere Bestimmungen gelten. Jedenfalls hatte K. nichts anderes tun können, als die Tür zuschlagen, trotzdem dadurch auch jetzt noch für K. durchaus nicht jede Gefahr beseitigt blieb. Daß er noch zuletzt Franz einen Stoß gegeben hatte, war bedauerlich und nur durch seine Aufregung zu entschuldigen.

Kafka 1909 – 1924: de Brescia à Kierling

Sat, 13 Nov 2004 15:11:40 +0000

par Nicolas Cazelles

Montichiari, près de Brescia, Italie du Nord, samedi 11 septembre 1909. La quatrième journée du grand meeting aérien de Brescia débute sous un soleil radieux. La foule, aussi compacte que les jours précédents, se presse de bonne heure dans l’espoir de voir évoluer dans les airs les héros du jour : les Italiens Anzani, Cagno, Calderara ; l’Américain Curtiss ; les Français Rougier, Leblanc, et surtout Blériot, tout auréolé de gloire depuis sa récente traversée de la Manche le 25 juillet ; d’autres encore… Dans cette foule, trois visiteurs, trois citoyens autrichiens originaires de Prague : Franz Kafka, 26 ans, son meilleur ami Max Brod, 25 ans, et Otto Brod, le frère de ce dernier. Ils se sont déplacés tout exprès de Riva, au bord du lac de Garde. Max Brod, dans l’ouvrage qu’il consacre à Kafka en 1937, raconte : «En plein milieu de cette vie idyllique, le journal (…) nous apporta la surprenante nouvelle que le premier meeting aérien italien allait avoir lieu à Brescia. Nous n’avions encore jamais vu d’aéroplane, et c’est dans le plus grand enthousiasme que nous décidâmes de nous rendre à Brescia malgré l’état précaire de notre caisse (…) Kafka surtout poussait à cette excursion… » «Kafka surtout poussait à cette excursion… » : voilà sans doute ce qu’il importait à Brod de souligner en évoquant ce souvenir. Car il développe : Kafka, assure-t-il, était tout sauf un ascète, « il s’intéressait à toutes les actualités, aux nouveautés d’ordre technique, aux débuts du cinéma par exemple (…), il suivait l’évolution moderne avec une inlassable curiosité… » Cette défense appuyée de Kafka a de quoi surprendre : l’écrivain, en 1909, n’avait-il donc rien encore de l’ascète qu’il devint assurément pour une bonne part plus tard ? Etait-il véritablement un curieux, un optimiste, un moderniste, comme le suggère son ami ? Un document précieux, bien que peu connu, peut nous aider à répondre à cette question : il s’agit d’un article rédigé par Kafka dès son retour, et publié presque aussitôt, le 19 septembre, dans Bohemia, le quotidien allemand de Prague. Ce texte d’environ quinze pages standard s’intitule « Les aéroplanes à Brescia » ( « Die Aeroplane in Brescia ») Voici son histoire. Kafka, selon Brod, traversait à cette époque une de ces périodes « de léthargie et de désespoir » qui lui étaient coutumières, et son ami voulut « lui prouver que ses craintes au sujet de son aridité littéraire n’étaient pas fondées. » Constatant l’enthousiasme que soulevait en lui ce meeting aérien, il lui propose alors « une compétition » : « Je demandai à Franz d’écrire tout ce qu’il aurait observé et d’en faire un article (…) Moi aussi, j’écrirais un article, et (…) on ne verrait qu’à la fin qui avait mis dans le mille. » Ainsi, Brod ne proposait rien moins à son ami que de le défier dans son aptitude à restituer le réel. Kafka s’exécute, livrant du même coup à la postérité l’unique reportage qu’il eût jamais écrit : l’auteur à venir du Verdict, de La Métamorphose, du Procès, du Château, de tant d’œuvres si peu réalistes, accepte de jouer le jeu de la vérité ! Mieux encore, on l’a vu, de laisser publier le fruit de son travail ! « Nous sommes arrivés. Devant l’aérodrome s’étend encore une vaste place avec de petites cabanes en bois suspectes… » Ainsi débute l’article que les lecteurs de Bohemia découvrent en première page de leur quotidien. Mais voici comment débutait celui que Brod avait transmis pour publication à l’écrivain Paul Wiegler, responsable des pages artistiques et littéraires : « La Sentinella Bresciana du 9 septembre 1909 annonce avec enthousiasme : ‘Nous avons en ce moment à Brescia une foule comme on n’en avait jamais vu, même pas au moment des grandes courses d’automobiles (…)’ La lecture de ces informations nous inspire, à mes deux amis et à moi-même, à la fois du courage et de la peur. Du courage : car, lorsqu’il y a une affluence aussi terrifiante, tout se passe d’ordinaire de façon fort démocratique, et là où il n’y a pas de places, on est dispensé d’avoir à en chercher une. De la peur : peur de l’organisation italienne pour une entreprise telle que celle-là, peur des comités qui prendront soin de nous, peur des chemins de fer, auxquels la Sentinella Bresciana attribue glorieusement des retards de quatre heures… » Kafka, en effet, avait dû se soumettre aux impératifs de la presse écrite, et il avait accepté, apparemment de bon cœur, de supprimer le long préambule par lequel il relatait les faits et gestes des trois amis, depuis la découverte de l’article de la Sentinella Bresciana jusqu’au moment où ils pénétraient dans le circuito de Montichiari. Mais, des deux versions de l’article, c’est tout naturellement la version d’origine, la plus longue, la plus authentique, qui fut universellement retenue et publiée dans les œuvres complètes de Kafka. Or, n’est-il pas frappant, même si l’on fait la part de l’humour, de constater dans l’ouverture de celle-ci la présence massive, quasi obsédante, et ce dès le premier paragraphe, de cette « peur » (« Angst ») que le lecteur de Kafka retrouve d’un bout à l’autre de ses écrits ? Rien de tel chez Brod, dont l’article, Semaine d’aviation à Brescia ( Flugwoche in Brescia ), parut à son tour à l’automne 1909 dans la revue März 3. Quand bien même il le commence en utilisant lui aussi le « nous » pour désigner les trois amis, il serre de près le thème proposé ( le meeting aérien ), et fait preuve d’entrée de jeu d’un enthousiasme dénué de toute ambiguïté : « Comme s’il n’y avait plus rien d’autre dans le vaste monde, toute la journée nous sommes assis, nous sommes debout, du matin jusqu’au soir, sur l’immense circuit de Brescia. Avons-nous encore une autre patrie que ce bois étiré en clôture, empilé en tribunes, qui brille comme du métal au soleil et brûle sous ses rayons, aussi loin que porte le regard ? Et nous nous sommes si profondément incrustés dans ce champ et sa pelouse gris-vert trouée çà et là de terre brune, dans cette forêt lointaine d’un bleu laiteux qui paraît toute menue à l’horizon tout en le barrant définitivement, dans ce tumulte d’une humanité étrangère, que nous nous disons : après cette réalité que nous sommes en train de voir, tout ce que nous serons amenés à voir plus tard nous fera l’effet d’un rêve… C’est vraiment quelque chose !… » En fait, la comparaison systématique de l’intégralité des deux « reportages » est singulièrement parlante. Elle va nous permettre, jusqu’à un certain point, de désigner le vainqueur de la « compétition » imaginée par Brod, et surtout d’esquisser le portrait de Kafka en jeune écrivain. Mais encore faut-il, au préalable, prendre connaissance de la réalité que les deux reporters amateurs s’étaient donné pour tâche de croquer. Le meeting aérien de Brescia débuta le 8 septembre pour s’achever le 21. C’était le deuxième du genre après la grande semaine d’aviation de Reims, qui s’était déroulée en août sur le circuit de Bétheny, et avait remporté un franc succès. Autant dire que le public était loin d’être blasé, et qu’une telle manifestation ne pouvait manquer de connaître un retentissement considérable. C’est ce qui se produisit : tout au long de ces deux semaines, une foule impressionnante envahit le champ d’aviation de Montichiari, à une vingtaine de kilomètres au sud-est de Brescia. Une foule d’Italiens, bien sûr, mais aussi d’étrangers venus des quatre coins de l’Europe et même d’Amérique. Bref, au-delà de la dimension technologique et sportive de l’événement, il s’agissait également d’un formidable rassemblement populaire et mondain. Et ce sont tout naturellement ces deux aspects de l’événement qui retinrent en priorité l’attention de Kafka et Brod. Les trois amis, on le sait avec certitude, ne consacrèrent qu’une journée au meeting aérien : après avoir passé la nuit du 10 au 11 à Brescia dans une auberge minable dont Kafka se délecte à décrire la crasse, ils empruntèrent au matin un train à vapeur « lamentable », selon Kafka, qui les achemina en une petite heure jusqu’à Montichiari. La journée du 11 s’y déroula pour l’essentiel comme suit. Le matin, entre 10 h. et 14 h., aucun vol digne de ce nom, les spectateurs restent sur leur faim. A 14 h., début de la compétition officielle en la présence d’un grand concours de célébrités : le prince Borghese, Puccini, D’Annunzio… Tentatives infructueuses jusqu’à 15 h., puis Rougier et Blériot effectuent en alternance quatre vols peu significatifs. A 17 h. et quelques, Blériot entreprend un nouvel essai qui lui vaut cette fois les applaudissements du public : il a bouclé deux tours de circuit. Juste après lui, c’est maintenant Curtiss qui décolle, et qui va offrir aux 50 000 visiteurs enthousiastes un splendide spectacle : « il raid dell’Americano », selon la formule de la Sentinella Bresciana du 12, amène l’aviateur, à l’issue de cinq tours de circuit, à couvrir une distance de 50 km. en 49 minutes. Cette performance lui vaut de remporter le Grand Prix International de Brescia. Enfin, entre 18 h. 30 et la clôture du spectacle, à 19 h., le public a droit à une vison saisissante, à en croire le correspondant français du Temps du 12 septembre : « Alors que le Grand Prix de Brescia de 50km. venait d’être remporté par le flegmatique américain, paraissait Rougier, plus élevé au-dessus de l’horizon. En trois orbes immenses il gagna l’atmosphère, diminué de tour en tour, mais profilé nettement sur un ciel multicolore. Le public nombreux qui avait accueilli Curtiss par des vivats, des acclamations, des vociférations, était maintenant silencieux. Rougier montait toujours. Une première fois à 90 mètres, puis dans un dernier passage, face aux tribunes, il atteignit 116 mètres. Alors il redescendit lentement vers le sol. La foule précipitée vers la piste d’atterrissage, déchaînée, heureuse, difficilement contenue, s’empara de Rougier. Vingt bras le saisirent, il fut porté en triomphe, étourdi, renversé, quand il revint au sol ; des femmes se jetaient sur lui, l’embrassaient, lui serraient les mains… » On le voit : après une matinée pauvre en émotions, cette journée du 11 septembre fut, dans son ensemble, à la hauteur des attentes des trois lecteurs de la gazette bresciane. Mais, pour en revenir au « jeu » de Brod, qui des deux écrivains avait le mieux « mis dans le mille » ? Il faut lire la grande presse de l’époque et ses comptes rendus des premiers grands meetings aériens pour comprendre que ceux-ci constituaient des événements collectifs d’une intense charge émotive. Des hommes osaient défier devant leurs semblables des lois qu’il semblait impossible il y a peu encore de bafouer impunément : frêles silhouettes dans des machines volantes non moins frêles faites de bois et de tissu, on les voyait, au péril de leur vie, se fondre dans les lointains ou bien encore monter toujours plus haut, comme s’il ne leur était plus interdit de disputer aux dieux les hauteurs invisibles des cieux. Spectacle inouï, superbe, grandiose, offert à des foules partagées entre l’exultation et la crainte. Assomption de nouveaux héros en lesquels l’humanité pouvait se voir soulevée au-dessus de sa condition terrestre. Perspectives fascinantes également pour tous ceux, plus lucides ou plus posés, qui entrevoyaient déjà les bouleversements que la conquête du ciel allait entraîner en temps de paix comme en temps de guerre. Un meeting aérien, en cette époque pionnière, c’était tout cela en même temps, à voir et à vivre en une communion de milliers d’hommes et de femmes de tous âges et de toutes conditions rassemblés pour quelques jours ou quelques heures autour de leurs nouveaux dieux. Mais laissons la parole à D’Annunzio, lui aussi présent en ce 11 septembre à Montichiari, et témoin exceptionnel, par son emphase même, de cette commune célébration. Voici comment il transpose le champ d’aviation de Montichiari dans son fameux roman Forse che si, forse che no paru un an plus tard, en 1910 : « Le ciel recourbé sur la plaine fut un immense stade bleu enclos de nuages, de montagnes, de forêts. La foule accourut au spectacle comme à une assomption de l’espèce. Le péril sembla l’axe de la vie sublime. Tous les fronts durent se lever (…) Au sommet des mâts, au sommet des hautes bornes pyramidales, au sommet des tours de vedette, les bannières et les flammes multicolores claquaient comme dans les pavoisements de fêtes. Et, comme les anciens pavois des infanteries communales, les façades des clôtures étaient peintes joyeusement aux couleurs des nations, aux emblèmes des chantiers, au nom des timoniers célestes. » Et voici comment il transfigure notre concitoyen Blériot, voyant en lui « …le héros seul, avec son camail de drap brun, avec sa cotte bleue d’ouvrier sur la ceinture de sauvetage, avec son profil aquilin de Franc qui a abaissé la framée, abrité sa bouche sous la moustache comme sous une barrière. » « Mettre dans le mille », était-ce écrire ainsi, pour Brod ? A en juger par l’irrévérence du portrait qu’il brosse de D’Annunzio dans son propre reportage, on peut en douter : « Je le regarde avec curiosité, et non sans émotion. Il porte des chaussures jaunes à bouts blancs vernis. Mais, sans doute parce qu’il a l’air si soigné et une cravate si majestueuse, je remarque une petite tache de boue en forme de cercle sur la jambe gauche de son pantalon et un fil bleu sur son épaule droite. » Et tout son article le confirme : même s’il convient de faire la part de la différence des genres (reportage / fiction), Brod, en abordant le même thème, se situe aux antipodes de la grandiloquence de D’Annunzio. Il manie volontiers l’ironie lorsqu’il décrit toutes les tentatives manquées des pilotes. Il raille les prétentions chauvines des Italiens quand leurs aviateurs cassent leurs machines les unes après les autres. Il ose comparer les aéroplanes à de vulgaires batteuses. Il s’attarde à décrire avec impertinence les monotones extravagances de la mode féminine. Il pétille, il brille. Il sait prendre du recul par rapport à l’événement, et mettre en lumière des travers qui amusent. Mais enfin, cette ultime vision qu’il propose à ses lecteurs s’accorde pleinement avec le début de son article : « Je ne vois plus que cet homme qui passe en claudiquant, fatigué, courbé, touchant légèrement sa casquette de la main, sans lever les yeux, Curtiss, qui remercie d’un air indifférent ces milliers de gens, et marche sans un mot, en imaginant déjà peut-être, une fois de plus, de nouveaux progrès. Il dégage en même temps de la douceur et de l’énergie. » Et l’on distingue ici comme là le même ton, où se mêlent en demi-teinte méditation, poésie, rêverie, mais aussi confiance : « c’est vraiment quelque chose » en effet, semble dire Brod à son lecteur en prenant congé de lui, que de s’abîmer dans la contemplation de ce héros progressant en silence sur la voie qui va s’ouvrir demain devant l’humanité toute entière. Dans sa Semaine d’aviation à Brescia, Brod sut indiscutablement trouver la note juste : sans jamais cacher à ses lecteurs que la beauté du spectacle dépeint n’était pas étrangère au clinquant et aux paillettes, il s’est néanmoins refusé à le priver de sa dimension mythique. Deux années plus tard, à l’automne 1911, Brod convainc Kafka, non sans peine (1), de le laisser publier son article au côté du sien propre dans un recueil qu’il intitule La beauté des images laides (Die Schönheit hässlicher Bilder) : « (…) ces variations vont ensemble, se complètent, s’éclairent, s’embellissent mutuellement », écrivait-il en préface à leurs deux reportages (2). Il avait raison, mais en quel sens ? On pourrait répondre que la mise en regard de leurs deux reportages fait apparaître avec une singulière netteté deux sensibilités artistiques fort éloignées l’une de l’autre. Et l’on pourrait ajouter, pour affiner ce point de vue : autant l’un, Brod, est en prise directe avec le monde comme il va, autant l’autre, Kafka, paraît avoir du mal à s’y sentir chez lui. En d’autres termes : derrière le « reporter » qui rédigea Les Aéroplanes à Brescia en 1909, c’est déjà, indiscutablement, l’écrivain Kafka, avec ses thèmes et ses motifs, avec son ton, avec son style si particulier, que l’on voit se profiler. Et si cet écrivain-là sait en quelque manière « mettre dans le mille » à son tour, ce n’est plus, comme on va le voir, au sens où on l’entend généralement. Kafka introduit donc son article original par un long préambule représentant plus d’un cinquième de l’ensemble. Ce préambule offre quatre développements. Un : la lecture des informations sensationnelles concernant le meeting, et les réactions qu’elle provoque chez les trois amis, avec cette « peur » si fortement soulignée. Deux : en un court paragraphe, l’arrivée du trio « dans le trou noir de la gare de Brescia », et le serment que les trois hommes se prêtent « gravement » de ne jamais se séparer : « N’arrivons-nous pas avec une sorte d’esprit d’hostilité ? », explique Kafka. Trois : une description si étrange de l’auberge où ils sont accueillis le 10 au soir, qu’on se doit de la citer presque entièrement : « L’auberge vers laquelle on nous dirige nous paraît à première vue la plus sale de toutes celles que nous avions vues jusqu’alors, mais nous trouvons bientôt que ce n’est pas si grave. Une saleté bien installée, dont on ne parle plus, une saleté qui ne change plus, qui appartient aux lieux où elle se trouve, qui rend la vie humaine en quelque sorte plus sérieuse et plus terrestre, une saleté d’où notre hôtelier émerge en toute hâte, fier de lui, humble envers nous (…), vraiment, dans de telles conditions, qui aurait encore quelque chose sur le cœur contre cette saleté ? » Enfin, quatre : en un récit non moins étonnant, leur déplacement de Brescia à Montichiari dans un train plus que bondé, où l’on découvre notamment l’auteur, Kafka, « pressé contre un géant debout, les jambes écartées sur les soufflets entre deux wagons, sous une douche de suie et de poussière… » La peur, l’hostilité, la crasse, le géant… : ces thèmes, ces motifs, par leur nature comme par la place qu’ils prennent dans l’article de Kafka, ont de quoi alerter le connaisseur, et l’inciter à regarder de plus près ce « reportage ». « Nous sommes arrivés… » : Kafka aborderait-il enfin le sujet, comme le fait d’emblée Brod, lui qui nous introduit sans détours « sur l’immense circuit de Brescia » ? Pas encore : le voilà qui s’attarde maintenant devant l’aérodrome pour nous parler de « petites cabanes suspectes » et de mendiants obèses tendant des bras qu’il se dit tenté de franchir d’un bond…, puis qui revient subitement en arrière pour faire une nouvelle digression occupant toute une page : « Un soir, à Brescia, nous voulions nous rendre rapidement dans une rue qui, selon nous, devait être assez éloignée. Un cocher demande trois livres, nous en offrons deux… » De quoi s’agit-il ? D’une course en fiacre que les trois amis, le soir du 10, n’ont pas payé le prix convenu avec le cocher, et du prétendu « remords » ou « repentir » qu’ils en conçurent. Et Kafka de conclure, avant de nous faire enfin franchir les portes de l’aérodrome : « Mais le remords ne doit pas nous gâcher notre plaisir sur le champ d’aviation ; nous ne ferions ainsi que récolter de nouveaux remords, et nous courons à l’aérodrome plutôt que nous y allons, dans cette allégresse qui se saisit soudain de chacun de nous à tour de rôle sous ce soleil. » Que d’obstacles, par conséquent, et que d’ombres, avant que le narrateur-auteur puisse connaître pleinement cette joie des sens et cette jubilation qui semblaient pourtant largement partagées par la foule ! Cette difficulté à pénétrer dans le vif du sujet comme sur le champ d’aviation, c’est un premier indice fort des divergences opposant les sensibilités artistiques de Brod et de Kafka. Le second indice, s’il est plus subtil, n’en est pas moins révélateur. Il est à rechercher dans la structure dramatique du récit des événements rapportés par Kafka. Brod et lui, rappelons-le, n’ont passé qu’un jour à Montichiari. Le premier, qui intitule son article « Semaine d’aviation à Brescia », joue le jeu… du mensonge : lorsqu’il écrit qu’ « ils (arrivent) de bon matin, tous (leurs) pores remplis de la poussière du chemin de fer local, et (reprennent) les choses là où (ils les ont) laissées la veille à cause de la lumière qui déclinait », il fait mine d’avoir suivi la compétition de bout en bout, légitimant ainsi le choix de son titre. Le second, lui, en titrant « Les aéroplanes à Brescia », s’affranchit dès l’abord de l’obligation que s’impose Brod, et, tout en respectant d’ailleurs ainsi la réalité vécue, préfère concentrer le récit des événements sur une journée. Il en résulte un resserrement notable de l’action, et l’émergence d’un thème nettement privilégié : celui de l’essor de l’homme et de son propre dépassement. C’est dans ce cadre qu’il nous faut notamment apprécier ces propos quasi aphoristiques que le triomphe de Curtiss inspire à Kafka, et que l’on comparera aux témoignages de Brod et du reporter du Temps : « Il effectue ainsi cinq tours, vole 50 kilomètres en 49’ 24’’ et gagne ainsi le grand prix de Brescia (…) C’est une performance parfaite. Mais comment apprécier des performances parfaites ? Chacun s’estime à la fin capable de performances parfaites ; il semble que pour des performances parfaites le courage ne soit pas nécessaire. Et tandis que Curtiss travaille là-haut au-dessus des forêts, tandis que sa femme (…) se fait du souci pour lui, la foule l’a presque oublié. » ( C’est nous qui soulignons ) Unité de temps, unité d’action, mais aussi unité de lieu. On est en effet frappé, en lisant Kafka, par l’ensemble des moyens qu’il met en œuvre, plus ou moins consciemment sans doute, pour inscrire l’action considérée comme essentielle, à savoir la compétition sportive et ses différentes phases, dans un lieu clos et bien particulier. C’est d’abord, nous l’avons vu, le temps qu’il met pour pénétrer dans le vif du sujet, et la série d’obstacles qu’il dresse entre Riva, point de départ des trois voyageurs, et l’aérodrome : obstacles physiques et matériels, comme la distance à parcourir, le nombre de transports en commun à utiliser, la foule à Brescia, la crasse des hôtels, la cohue dans le train, les mendiants et leurs bras tentaculaires, la foule encore à l’entrée du terrain d’aviation, etc. ; obstacles psychologiques, comme cette « peur » présentée plus haut, ou bien encore cette crainte de l’aliénation, de la perte de soi, qui transparaît dans ces lignes, juste avant la fin : « Nous avons la chance de trouver une voiture (…) et, redevenus enfin des existences indépendantes, nous nous mettons en route. » C’est aussi la vision qu’il nous offre du champ d’aviation lui-même : « il est si grand que tout ce qui s’y trouve semble abandonné… » ; « on a installé ici un désert artificiel », et dans ce « désert ensoleillé », « on ne trouve rien qui distraie le regard » ; « la lumière égale du soleil reste immuable jusque vers cinq heures de l’après-midi », et « il n’y a pas non plus de musique. » Espace public à la fois borné et sans limites, familier et étrange, accueillant et hostile, il évoque pour le connaisseur de Kafka une immense arène où l’homme, à peine visible des spectateurs, se livre à un combat titanesque dont il est en définitive le seul à connaître la tragique beauté. « Que se passe-t-il ? Là, au-dessus de nous, à vingt mètres au-dessus du sol, un homme est prisonnier dans une cage de bois et lutte contre un danger invisible, certes délibérément affronté. Mais nous, en bas, nous sommes là, inexistants, et nous regardons cet homme-là. » Tel lui apparaît Blériot dans son envol au-dessus de notre humaine condition ; mais nous avons déjà rencontré Curtiss et sa « performance parfaite », et Kafka nous propose encore cette dernière image du héros avant de prendre congé : « La route tourne et Rougier paraît si haut qu’on a l’impression de ne plus pouvoir déterminer sa position que par rapport aux étoiles, lesquelles ne vont pas tarder à se montrer dans le ciel, qui s’assombrit déjà. Nous ne cessons pas de nous retourner ; Rougier monte toujours, mais nous nous enfonçons maintenant définitivement dans la Campagna. » Comment , alors, Kafka sut-il « mettre dans le mille » ? En quel sens peut-on soutenir avec Brod que leurs textes « se complètent, s’éclairent, s’embellissent mutuellement » ? Proposons une réponse commune à ces deux questions : si Kafka sut sans doute mieux que Brod mettre en lumière la dimension mythique de l’événement, la grandeur de l’homme s’arrachant à la terre dans son aéroplane, c’est parce que ce thème trouvait de profondes résonances dans sa propre psyché ; mais c’est cet état de choses lui-même qui l’entraîna, comme par une effet de retour, à noyer cette thématique universelle sous le flot de ses préoccupations intimes. En un mot, si vérité il y a dans son texte, il s’agit bien plus de la vérité intérieure de l’homme et de l’écrivain Franz Kafka, que d’une quelconque vérité particulière (le meeting aérien de Brescia) ou générale (la conquête du ciel). Kafka a cette phrase étrange pour décrire le Français Rougier qui monte dans les airs, et dont on ne pourra plus bientôt « déterminer (la) position que par rapport aux étoiles » : « Rougier est assis à ses leviers, comme un monsieur à sa table de travail, à laquelle on peut accéder derrière son dos par une petite échelle. » « Comme un monsieur à sa table de travail ». L’image est en elle-même si singulière, si inattendue, qu’on ne peut résister au besoin de la rapprocher de celle de Blériot « prisonnier dans une cage de bois », et de se dire, au vu de toutes les étrangetés déjà signalées, que Kafka projeta sur la personne des héros-pilotes sa propre problématique. Et c’est du coup l’ensemble de son texte qui va se charger d’une signification nouvelle, et nous aider grandement en effet à esquisser le portrait de Franz Kafka en jeune écrivain. L’homme, ici, tel qu’il se peint lui-même auprès de ses deux compagnons de voyage, est déjà celui que le Journal et la Correspondance nous feront découvrir : craintif, et même, beaucoup plus fondamentalement, pétri d’angoisse (Angst) ; casanier en dépit de ses velléités de rupture ; obsédé par l’hygiène, et conséquemment par la saleté ; à la fois fasciné et troublé par les femmes ; assoiffé d’amitié et solitaire ; jouisseur et ascète ; idéaliste et sceptique… Quant à l’artiste, en l’occurrence à l’écrivain et à l’idée que se fait Kafka de sa mission, de sa condition, des espérances qu’il peut légitimement placer dans ses œuvres, on les voit transparaître avec une étonnante netteté dans les ébauches qu’il nous offre de Blériot, de Curtiss et de Rougier dans l’exercice de leur art. Kafka, décrivant Blériot s’apprêtant à décoller, nous livre la méditation suivante (3) : « C’est avec cette chose minuscule qu’il veut se lancer dans les airs ? Sur l’eau, par exemple, c’est plus facile. On peut s’exercer d’abord sur des mares, puis sur des étangs, puis sur des fleuves et seulement beaucoup plus tard se lancer sur la mer ; pour celui-là, il n’y a que la mer. » Pour le pilote, comme pour l’artiste selon Kafka, il n’y a que la mer. Et pourtant, qui sait rendre justice à ces « performances parfaites » qu’il exécute pour son public au mépris de sa vie ? Telle est l’une des questions essentielles que pose Un artiste de la faim, ce texte de Kafka autrement plus connu que Les aéroplanes à Brescia, cette nouvelle bouleversante dont il relisait les épreuves sur son lit de mort en mai 1924, à Kierling. Kierling, dans la campagne viennoise, au modeste sanatorium du docteur Hoffmann. Kafka y occupe depuis le 19 avril 1924 une belle chambre individuelle avec balcon donnant sur un bois. Il est entouré jour et nuit des soins de Dora Diamant, sa toute jeune compagne, et de son fidèle ami Robert Klopstock, qui a interrompu ses études de médecine pour venir l’assister dans ses derniers moments. Il est perdu : la tuberculose, après le larynx, a maintenant gagné l’épiglotte. Il ne peut ni boire ni manger normalement, ni parler. Sait-il que sa fin est proche ? On l’ignore, mais il note un jour sur un de ces papiers qu’il tend à Dora ou à Klopstock : « Toujours la peur. » Il passe de longues heures sur son balcon, au soleil printanier. Il écrit des lettres, il feuillette des livres, et… il travaille. Il a enfin reçu, à la mi-mai, les épreuves de son dernier recueil de nouvelles, et il entreprend de les corriger. Klopstock témoigne : « L’état physique de Kafka à ce moment et l’ensemble de la situation, puisque lui-même mourait littéralement de faim, était vraiment un spectacle horrible. Après avoir fini de corriger les épreuves (4), ce qui avait représenté pour lui non seulement un immense effort psychique, mais devait avoir été pour lui une sorte de rencontre spirituelle bouleversante, les larmes lui coulèrent longtemps sur les joues. C’était la première fois que je le voyais manifester une émotion de ce genre. Il avait toujours eu le pouvoir de se dominer à un degré surhumain. » (5) (C’est nous qui soulignons) Ce recueil, c’est Un artiste de la faim. Comme l’indique son sous-titre, il contient « quatre histoires » : Première souffrance, Une petite femme, Un artiste de la faim, Joséphine la cantatrice ou le Peuple des souris. Nous allons nous intéresser ici à celle qui donne son titre à l’ensemble, et tâcher de dire en quoi elle s’apparente à ces Aéroplanes à Brescia que Kafka livrait au public quinze ans plus tôt. Le récit Un artiste de la faim fut composé au printemps 1922 et publié pour la première fois dès le mois d’octobre de la même année dans la revue Neue Rundschau. Kafka, dans une lettre à Brod de juin 1922, le juge « tolérable », un jugement d’autant plus précieux qu’il avait émis précisément le même sur ses Aéroplanes à Brescia (6), et que ce récit compte parmi les très rares œuvres qu’il souhaita explicitement voir échapper au feu (7). Publiée quelques mois après sa création, admise par son auteur à lui survivre, corrigée sur épreuves à la veille de sa mort dans les conditions que l’on sait, on voit que cette nouvelle, pour peu que l’on veuille saisir de l’intérieur la personnalité de l’écrivain Kafka, peut légitimement être abordée comme une pièce cardinale de l’ensemble de son oeuvre. Et de fait, dès sa première lecture, on voit à quel point il en est bien ainsi. « Un artiste de la faim » : oui, même s’il est peut-être discutable au plan linguistique, le choix fait par Claude David (8) de traduire ainsi littéralement le titre « Hungerkünstler », paraît tout à fait judicieux, et ceci pour deux raisons. L’une, objective, est que ce mot désigne réellement une catégorie d’individus pratiquant à l’époque une forme d’activité professionnelle, sinon un véritable métier : le « Hungerkünstler » jeûnait publiquement moyennant finances ; il n’y a donc pas de raison pour que ce « métier », pratiqué par certains, ne puisse atteindre comme tout autre la dimension d’un « art ». L’autre, en apparence plus subjective mais fondée sur le texte même de Kafka, est que ce dernier a tout mis en œuvre pour nous donner à voir un artiste à part entière. Le métier du héros, le jeûne, est formellement désigné comme un « art » (« Kunst ») pratiqué par un « artiste » (« Künstler »). L’homme, en sa période faste, a sillonné la moitié de l’Europe avec son impresario, et le spectacle qu’il a offert à son « public » (« Publikum ») présente tous les aspects d’un véritable numéro : seul dans sa cage au sol jonché de paille, exposé vingt-quatre heures sur vingt-quatre aux regards exigeants de la foule dans un « amphithéâtre » qui baigne « dans un éclairage de nuit tamisé », cet artiste exemplaire n’a jamais cessé de tendre vers l’excellence. C’est d’ailleurs pour cette raison même qu’il était « le plus souvent d’humeur mélancolique » lorsqu’il devait cesser de jeûner à l’issue des quarante jours réglementaires : « Pourquoi s’arrêter juste maintenant, au bout de quarante jours ? Il aurait encore pu tenir longtemps, il aurait pu tenir un temps illimité ; pourquoi s’arrêter maintenant, en plein milieu du jeûne, avant même qu’il n’ait atteint le meilleur du jeûne ? Pourquoi voulait-on le priver de la gloire de continuer à jeûner et, non seulement de devenir le plus grand champion de jeûne de tous les temps, ce qu’il était probablement déjà, mais encore de se dépasser lui-même pour atteindre des records inimaginables, car il ne sentait jamais aucune limite à sa faculté de jeûner ? » Ce personnage, à l’instar de Curtiss, est un héros, un champion, un artiste dans son domaine. Et, comme Curtiss, ou plus vraisemblablement comme Kafka décrivant Curtiss en train de « travailler (…) là-haut au-dessus des forêts », il est visiblement sujet à la mélancolie. Se sent-il lui aussi le seul à pouvoir évaluer à sa juste mesure la sévère beauté des « performances parfaites » ? On ne peut en douter lorsqu’on le voit des années plus tard, alors même que sa retraite lui permet enfin de s’adonner librement à son art, rongé d’une incurable tristesse : « (…) et ainsi, le jeûneur continuait à jeûner comme il avait jadis rêvé de le faire, et il y parvenait sans peine, comme il l’avait prédit autrefois ; mais personne ne comptait plus les jours ; personne, pas même le jeûneur lui-même ne savait où en était sa performance et la tristesse prenait possession de son cœur. Et si, par hasard, un oisif s’arrêtait, se moquait du chiffre périmé et parlait de supercherie, c’était bien le mensonge le plus stupide que puissent imaginer l’indifférence et la méchanceté innée, car ce n’était pas le champion de jeûne qui trompait le monde, c’était le monde qui le trompait en le frustrant de son salaire. » Seul et incompris, cet artiste de la faim l’était autrefois . Seul, il le demeure quand, loin de « plonger le monde dans un étonnement justifié », il accomplit son plus long jeûne dans l’indifférence générale. Seul, il l’est plus que jamais en mourant, lui qui confie dans un souffle cet incroyable secret à l’inspecteur du cirque où il achève sa vie : « (…) ‘je n’ai pas pu trouver d’aliment qui me plaise. Si j’en avais trouvé un, crois-moi, je n’aurais pas fait tant de façons et je m’en serais repu comme toi et les autres.’ Ce furent ses derniers mots. » Curtiss et ses « performances parfaites », Blériot dans sa « cage de bois », Rougier « qui monte toujours » en direction des étoiles, assis à ses leviers comme à son bureau : Kafka portraiturait déjà pour son public, en 1909, des artistes étrangement solitaires dans la pratique de leur art. Avec Un artiste de la faim, qui fut écrit en un temps où il se savait définitivement condamné par la maladie, il va beaucoup plus loin dans cette voie : l’accent n’est plus seulement mis sur la singularité de l’artiste pratiquant son métier, mais, de façon beaucoup plus radicale, sur l’incompatibilité de l’art et de la vie. Avec Un artiste de la faim, c’est en effet une vie entière que Kafka nous invite désormais à contempler. Mais pas une vie comme les autres, pas l’existence d’un tel, né et mort à tel endroit, en telle année. Son histoire n’est pas une biographie au sens où on l’entend communément : même si elle s’inscrit clairement dans le temps qui passe, son héros n’a d’autre identité que son statut. Il n’est rien d’autre que ce qu’il fait. Il est « der Hungerkünstler », « l’artiste de la faim », le jeûneur professionnel. Il incarne un mode de vie bien étrange, puisque celui-ci se définit par opposition même à celui de tout un chacun : alors que pour l’homme la nourriture est la condition même de la vie, il choisit, lui, de vivre en s’en privant. Là est sa joie, là est son art. Telle est, telle fut sa vie durant, sa joie d’artiste. Mais le dénouement nous l’apprend : il savait depuis longtemps, depuis toujours peut-être, que cette joie était mauvaise en son principe ; que nulle joie vraie ne peut naître d’un manquement, d’une tare, d’une faute ; que nulle gloire ne peut ni ne doit revenir à un être qui a failli à son devoir d’homme. Et il meurt dans une indifférence qu’il appelle lui-même de ses vœux : « ‘Pardonnez-moi tous !’ dit le jeûneur ; seul l’inspecteur, qui avait mis l’oreille contre la grille, comprit ce qu’il disait. ‘Bien sûr !’ dit l’inspecteur en portant le doigt à son front pour indiquer au personnel l’état dans lequel se trouvait le jeûneur, ‘bien sûr, nous te pardonnons.’ ‘J’ai toujours voulu que vous admiriez mon jeûne’, dit le jeûneur. ‘Mais nous l’admirons !’ dit l’inspecteur, conciliant. ‘Mais il ne faut pas l’admirer !’, dit le jeûneur. ‘Bon, dans ce cas-là, nous ne l’admirons pas’, dit l’inspecteur. » Comment ce récit n’eût-il pas ébranlé Kafka jusqu’au tréfonds en ce mois de mai 1924 ? Comment douter que sa lecture fut pour lui « une sorte de rencontre spirituelle » bouleversante ? Oui, le témoignage de Klopstock emporte assurément l’adhésion. A une condition toutefois : à condition de ne pas relier l’émotion de Kafka, comme son jeune ami semble le faire, aux souffrances réelles et physiques d’un malade incapable de s’alimenter. En relisant les épreuves d’Un artiste de la faim, de la nouvelle seule comme du recueil, c’est sans aucun doute la dimension profondément personnelle et intime de ses quatre histoires qui provoqua chez lui ce choc émotionnel : avec Un artiste de la faim, Première souffrance, Joséphine la cantatrice, et même, dans une certaine mesure, Une petite femme, c’était, quatre fois répétée, toute la vie manquée de Kafka qui défilait devant lui dans une lumière aveuglante. ° °°°°° NOTES (1) « Il veut prendre également mon Brescia pour son livre. Tout ce qu’il y a de bon en moi s’y oppose. » (Journal, 11 novembre 1911) (2) Ces deux textes durent en fin de compte être supprimés de l’ouvrage et ne parurent jamais ensemble. (3) Ce passage fut supprimé de la version publiée par Bohemia. (4) En réalité, il semble que Kafka ne soit pas parvenu jusqu’au bout de sa tâche. (5) Robert Klopstock, cité par Max Brod, Correspondance, 1902-1924. (6) « Une bagatelle tolérable », lettre à Felice Bauer du 20 avril 1914. (7) « De tout ce que j’ai écrit, seuls les livres : Verdict, Soutier, Métamorphose , Colonie pénitentiaire, Médecin de campagne et le récit Un artiste de la faim sont valables. » (Deuxième « testament » de novembre 1922 destiné à Brod). (8) Claude David a présenté, annoté et pour partie traduit les Œuvres complètes de Kafka dans la Bibliothèque de la Pléiade aux Editions Gallimard. Il a également traduit, préfacé et annoté, chez le même éditeur, tous les textes parus du vivant de Kafka. Il est enfin l’auteur de Franz Kafka, une biographie parue chez Fayard en 1989. Pour ce qui concerne la traduction du terme « Hungerkünstler » dans le corps du texte, on observe que David, contrairement à Kafka qui utilise exclusivement ce terme pour désigner son personnage, choisit la variation : à côté de « artiste de la faim », on trouve aussi « champion de jeûne », « jeûneur » et « jeûneur professionnel ». 2 décembre 2003

Franz Kafkas (1) und Guy Davenports (2) Aeropläne in Brescia: hundert Jahre des technischen Fortschritts

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 10:11:44 +0000

von Anna Glazova

Aeropläne in Brescia hieß Franz Kafkas erste Veröffentlichung, sowohl als auch die erste Erzählung, mit der Guy Davenports Schrifstellersweg etwa sechzig Jahre später anfing. Davenports Erzählung basiert teilweise auf Kafkas Feuilleton, teilweise auf Max Brods Biografie (3); unter den Helden begegnet man Kafka, Otto und Max Brod, Wittgenstein, D’Annunzio, Puccini. Dies haben alle Texte von Davenport gemeinsam: Er schreibt über die Orte und die Zeiten, in denen er niemals war, und die er nur als ein absoluter Fremder aus dem größten Abstand (zeitlich wie räumlich) betrachten und bewundern kann:

Ragged Bits of Meaning, Wound on a Star-Shaped Spool for Thread

Sun, 16 Jan 2005 08:46:00 +0000

by Anya Meksin

(The Cares of a Family Man)

«Some say the word Odradek is of Slavonic origin, and try to account for it on that basis. Others again believe it to be of German origin, only influenced by Slavonic. The uncertainty of both interpretations allows one to assume with justice that neither is accurate, especially as neither of them provides an intelligent meaning of the word.

No one, of course, would occupy himself with such studies if there were not a creature called Odradek. At first glance it looks like a flat star-shaped spool for thread, and indeed it does seem to have thread wound upon it; to be sure, they are only old, broken-off bits of thread, knotted and tangled together, of the most varied sorts and colors. But it is not only a spool, for a small wooden crossbar sticks out of the middle of the star, and another small rod is joined to that at a right angle. By means of this latter rod on one side and one of the points of the star on the other, the whole thing can stand upright as if on two legs.

Il bastonatore

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 12:02:24 +0000

Una delle sere successive, attraversando il corridoio che divideva il suo ufficio dalla scalinata principale - quella sera era quasi l’ultimo a tornare a casa, solo nell’ufficio spedizioni due fattorini lavoravano ancora nel piccolo cerchio di luce di una lampadina - da una porta dietro cui, senza mai aver controllato di persona, aveva sempre ipotizzato un ripostiglio, K. udì provenire dei lamenti. Si fermò stupefatto e rimase ancora ad ascoltare per esser certo di non aver sbagliato, - per un attimo ci fu silenzio, ma poi di nuovo si udirono dei lamenti. - In un primo momento intendeva andare a prendere uno dei fattorini per il caso che ci fosse bisogno di testimoni, ma poi lo prese una curiosità così incontrollabile che spalancò letteralmente la porta. Era, come aveva giustamente supposto, un ripostiglio. Dietro la soglia c’erano vecchie stampe inutilizzabili, e, alla rinfusa, vecchie bottiglie d’inchiostro vuote di argilla. Ma nello stesso stanzino c’erano tre uomini, curvi in quello spazio così basso, mentre una candela fissata su uno scaffale li illuminava. “Cosa combinate qui?” chiese K. precipitoso per l’agitazione, ma senza alzare la voce. Uno degli uomini, che evidentemente dominava gli altri e attirava per primo lo sguardo, indossava una specie di abito di cuoio, che lasciava nudi il collo fin giù sul petto e, interamente, le braccia. Costui non rispose. Ma gli altri due gridarono: “Signore! Dobbiamo essere bastonati perché tu ti sei lamentato di noi con il giudice istruttore.” E solo ora K. si accorse che si trattava veramente dei due sorveglianti Franz e Willem, e che il terzo teneva in mano una verga per bastonarli. “Beh”, disse K. guardandoli fisso, “non è che mi sono lamentato, ho solo detto quel che è successo nel mio appartamento. E non si può certo dire che vi siate comportati in modo irreprensibile.” “Signore”, disse Willem mentre Franz cercava evidentemente di nascondersi dietro di lui per proteggersi dal terzo, “se voi sapeste come siamo pagati male ci giudichereste meglio. Io devo mandare avanti una famiglia e Franz qui voleva sposarsi, si cerca di far soldi come si può, con il solo lavoro, per quanto diligente, non ci si riesce, la vostra bella biancheria mi aveva attirato, naturalmente non è permesso ai sorveglianti comportarsi così, non era corretto farlo, ma è tradizione che la biancheria appartenga ai sorveglianti, è sempre stato così, credetemi; e poi si capisce anche che sia così, cosa possono significare cose del genere per chi ha tanta sfortuna da essere arrestato. Ma se questi ne parla apertamente, allora ne segue la punizione.” “Non sapevo quel che dite ora, e neppure volevo in alcun modo che foste puniti, ciò che mi preme è il principio.” “Franz” si rivolse Willem all’altro sorvegliante, “non te lo dicevo io che il signore non voleva che fossimo puniti? Ora lo senti tu stesso, non sapeva neppure che saremmo stati puniti.” “Non lasciarti commuovere da questi discorsi”, disse a K. il terzo, “la punizione è tanto giusta quanto inevitabile.” “Non dargli retta”, disse Willem, interrompendosi per portare veloce alla bocca la mano su cui aveva ricevuto un colpo di verga, “noi veniamo puniti solo perché tu ci hai denunciati. Altrimenti non ci sarebbe successo nulla, neppure se si fosse saputo quel che abbiamo fatto. Si può chiamare giustizia, questa? Noi due, ma soprattutto io, ci siamo comportati bene a lungo come custodi - tu stesso devi riconoscere che dal punto di vista delle autorità abbiamo sorvegliato a dovere - avevamo la prospettiva di far carriera, e presto saremmo anche diventati bastonatori come lui, che ha avuto solo la fortuna di non essere mai stato denunciato da nessuno, perché in effetti una simile denuncia si ha solo molto di rado. E ora, signore, tutto è perduto, la nostra carriera è finita, dovremo adattarci a lavori ancor più umili della sorveglianza, e per di più ci tocca questa bastonatura terribilmente dolorosa.” “Possibile che la verga faccia tanto male”, chiese K. ed esaminò la verga che il bastonatore gli agitava davanti. “Dovremo di sicuro spogliarci completamente”, disse Willem. “Ah, ecco”, disse K. e guardò meglio il bastonatore, che era abbronzato scuro come un marinaio e aveva un’espressione fresca e selvaggia. “Non ci sarebbe una possibilità di risparmiare il bastone a questi due?” gli chiese. “No”, disse il bastonatore, scuotendo il capo con un sorriso. “Spogliatevi”, ordinò ai sorveglianti. Rivolto poi a K. gli disse: “Non devi credere a tutto quel che dicono. Per la paura del bastone, sono già diventati un po’ deboli di testa. Quel che ha raccontato costui, per esempio” - e accennò a Willem - “delle sue possibilità di carriera, è del tutto ridicolo. Guardalo, quanto è grasso, - i primi colpi di verga si perderanno, in genere, nel grasso. - E lo sai perché è tanto grasso? Perché ha l’abitudine di sbafare la colazione a tutti gli arrestati. Non ha sbafato anche la tua? Ecco, te lo avevo detto. Ma un uomo con una pancia del genere non potrà mai diventare bastonatore, è una cosa del tutto esclusa.” “Invece ci sono anche bastonatori così”, affermò Willem, che si era appena sciolto la cintura dei pantaloni. “No!” disse il bastonatore e con la verga lo colpì tanto forte sul collo da fargli fare un salto. “Tu non devi stare a sentire, ma spogliarti.” “Ti ricompenserei bene se tu li lasciassi andare”, disse K. e senza guardare oltre il bastonatore - simili affari è meglio concluderli a occhi bassi da entrambe le parti - estrasse il portafoglio. “Così poi denunceresti anche me”, disse il bastonatore, “e faresti bastonare anche me. No, no!” “Sii ragionevole”, disse K., “se avessi voluto che questi due venissero puniti non vorrei ora pagare per liberarli. Potrei semplicemente chiudere qui la porta, rifiutarmi di vedere e sentire altro e tornarmene a casa. Invece non lo faccio, ma anzi liberarli mi sta seriamente a cuore; se avessi immaginato che la loro punizione sarebbe stata una conseguenza inevitabile o anche solo possibile, non avrei mai fatto il loro nome. Di fatto non li ritengo neppure responsabili, responsabile è l’organizzazione, responsabili sono gli alti funzionari.” “E’ così”, gridarono i sorveglianti, e ricevettero subito una bastonata sulle spalle già nude. “Se qui, sotto i colpi della tua verga, tu avessi un giudice di alto grado”, disse K. abbassando con la mano, mentre parlava, la verga che già stava per alzarsi di nuovo, “non solo non ti impedirei di colpire, ma anzi ti darei del denaro perché tu faccia con energia quest’opera buona.” “Ciò che dici sembra credibile”, disse il bastonatore, “ma io non mi lascio corrompere. Sono pagato per bastonare, e dunque bastono.” Il sorvegliante Franz, il quale, forse sperando in un buon esito dell’intervento di K., si era finora tenuto indietro, si avvicinò ora alla porta vestito dei soli pantaloni, si aggrappò in ginocchio al braccio di K. e sussurrò: “Se non puoi ottenere grazia per entrambi, cerca almeno di liberare me. Willem è più vecchio di me, è meno sensibile sotto ogni punto di vista, e poi già un’altra volta, un paio di anni fa, ha ricevuto una leggera bastonatura, io invece non sono ancora disonorato e mi sono comportato così spinto da Willem, che nel bene e nel male è quello che mi ha insegnato tutto. Giù all’uscita, davanti alla banca, mi aspetta la mia povera fidanzata, mi vergogno talmente.” Con la giacca di K. si asciugò il viso inondato di lacrime. “Non aspetto più”, disse il bastonatore, prese la verga con entrambe le mani e colpì Franz, mentre Willem stava accucciato in un angolo e guardava di nascosto, senza avere il coraggio di voltare la testa. Allora si alzò il grido lanciato da Franz, continuo e immutabile, sembrava non il grido di un uomo, ma di qualche strumento martoriato, l’intero corridoio ne risuonò, tutto l’edificio doveva per forza sentirlo. “Non gridare”, esclamò K. senza potersi trattenere, e mentre guardava teso nella direzione da cui dovevano venire i fattorini, diede una spinta a Franz, non forte e tuttavia abbastanza forte perché quello, privo di sensi, cadesse giù, cercando in un crampo il pavimento con le mani; ciò nonostante non sfuggì ai colpi, la verga lo trovò anche per terra, e mentre Franz si rotolava sotto di essa la sua punta si alzava e si abbassava con regolarità. E già, in lontananza, compariva un fattorino, e qualche passo dietro di lui un altro. K. aveva chiuso velocemente la porta, si era avvicinato a una finestra che dava sul cortile e l’aveva aperta. L’urlo era completamente cessato. Per non far avvicinare i fattorini gridò: “Sono io.” “Buona sera, signor procuratore” gli gridarono in risposta. “E’ successo qualcosa?” “No, no”, rispose K., “è solo un cane che abbaia in cortile.” Siccome i fattorini non si muovevano, aggiunse: “Potete tornare al vostro lavoro.” Per non doversi mettere a parlare con i fattorini, si affacciò alla finestra. Quando, dopo un attimo, guardò di nuovo nel corridoio, se n’erano già andati. K. però rimase ancora un po’ alla finestra, non aveva il coraggio di tornare nel ripostiglio e a casa non aveva voglia di tornare. Ciò che poteva vedere giù era un piccolo cortile quadrato, tutt’intorno erano disposti gli uffici, in quel momento tutte le finestre erano già buie, solo quelle ai piani più alti cominciavano a riflettere il chiarore della luna. K. cercò faticosamente di distinguere qualcosa nel buio di un angolo del cortile, dove alcuni carretti a mano erano ammucchiati uno sull’altro. Si tormentava per non essere riuscito a impedire la bastonatura, ma se aveva fallito non era colpa sua, se Franz non avesse gridato - certo doveva aver sentito male, ma in un momento decisivo bisogna dominarsi - se non avesse gridato K., almeno con ogni probabilità, avrebbe trovato una strada per convincere il bastonatore. Se tutti gli impiegati di grado inferiore erano gentaglia, perché proprio il bastonatore, che di tutti i compiti aveva quello più disumano, doveva fare eccezione? K. aveva ben notato come gli luccicassero gli occhi alla vista della banconota, evidentemente faceva mostra di bastonare sul serio solo per alzare ancora un po’ il prezzo. E K. non avrebbe fatto economia, liberare i sorveglianti gli stava veramente a cuore: dato che aveva intrapreso a combattere le storture di questo tribunale, era naturale che si desse da fare anche da questo lato. Ma nel momento in cui Franz aveva cominciato a gridare, tutto naturalmente era finito. K. non poteva permettere che arrivassero i fattorini e forse chissà chi altri e lo sorprendessero in trattative con quella gente nel ripostiglio. Un sacrificio del genere da lui non poteva certo pretenderlo nessuno. Se avesse avuto intenzione di fare una cosa del genere, allora tanto valeva che si fosse spogliato lui stesso e si fosse offerto al bastonatore al posto dei sorveglianti. E poi, il bastonatore non avrebbe certo accettato un simile scambio, perché in tal modo, senza ricavarne alcun vantaggio, avrebbe tuttavia gravemente mancato al suo dovere, e anzi forse mancato doppiamente, perché K., finché durava il procedimento, doveva certo essere intoccabile per tutti i dipendenti del tribunale. E’ vero che forse, su questo, valevano delle clausole speciali. In ogni caso K. non aveva potuto far altro che chiudere la porta, anche se con questo neppure per lui ogni pericolo era ancora superato. Inoltre si dispiaceva di aver dato, alla fine, una spinta a Franz, cosa giustificabile solo per la sua agitazione.

Heft 6

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 16:01:43 +0000

6 Mai 1912 11 Uhr zum erstenmal seit einiger Zeit vollständiges Mißlingen beim Schreiben. Das Gefühl eines geprüften Mannes.

Traum vor kurzem: Ich fuhr mit meinem Vater durch Berlin in der Elektrischen. Das Großstädtische war vorgestellt von unzähligen regelmäßig aufrechtstehenden zweifarbig gestrichenen, am Ende stumpf abgeglätteten Schlagbäumen. Sonst war alles fast leer, aber das Gedränge dieser Schlagbäume war groß, Wir kamen vor ein Tor, stiegen ohne es zu fühlen aus, traten durch das Tor ein. Hinter dem Tor stieg eine sehr steile Wand aufwärts, die mein Vater fast tanzend erstieg, die Beine flogen ihm dabei so leicht wurde es ihm. Es lag sicher auch einige Rücksichtslosigkeit darin, daß er mir gar nicht half, denn ich kam nur mit der äußersten Mühe, auf allen Vieren, häufig wieder zurückrutschend hinauf, als sei die Wand unter mir steiler geworden. Peinlich war dabei auch, daß sie mit Menschendreck bedeckt war, so daß mir Flocken davon vor allem auf der Brust hängen blieben. Ich sah sie mit geneigtem Gesicht an und fuhr mit der Hand darüber hin. Als ich endlich oben war, flog mir gleich mein Vater, der schon aus dem Innern eines Gebäudes kam, an den Hals und küßte und drückte mich. Er hatte einen mir aus der Erinnerung gut bekannten altmodischen, kurzen, im innern sophaartig gepolsterten Kaiserrock an. “Dieser Dr. von Leyden! Das ist doch ein ausgezeichneter Mensch” rief er immer wieder. Er hatte ihn aber durchaus nicht als Arzt besucht sondern nur als kennenswerten Mann. Ich hatte ein wenig Angst, daß ich auch zu ihm hineinmüßte, es wurde aber nicht verlangt. Links hinter mir sah ich in einem förmlich mit lauter Glaswänden umgebenen Zimmer einen Mann sitzen, der mir den Rücken zuwandte. Es zeigte sich, daß dieser Mann der Sekretär des Professors war, daß mein Vater tatsächlich nur mit ihm gesprochen hatte und nicht mit dem Professor selbst, daß er aber irgendwie durch den Sekretär hindurch die Vorzüge des Professors leibhaftig erkannt hatte, so daß er in jeder Hinsicht zu einem Urteil über den Professor genau so berechtigt war, wie wenn er persönlich mit ihm gesprochen hätte.

"Besonders in den ersten…" (II, 19)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:25:13 +0000

Besonders in den ersten Gymnasialklassen kam ich sehr schlecht fort. Für meine Mutter, die schweigsame stolze, ihr unruhiges Wesen immerfort mit äußerster Kraft beherrschende Frau, war das eine Qual. Sie hatte von meinen Fähigkeiten große Vorstellungen, die sie aber aus Scham niemandem eingestand und für deren Besprechung und Bekräftigung sie deshalb auch keinen Vertrauten hatte, umso quälender waren für sie meine Mißerfolge, die allerdings nicht verschwiegen werden konnten, sich gewissermaßen von selbst eingestanden und eine widerliche Menge Vertrauter erzeugten, nämlich das ganze Professorenkollegium und die Mitschülerschaft. Ich wurde ihr ein trauriges Rätsel. Sie strafte mich nicht, sie zankte nicht; daß ich es an Fleiß wenigstens nicht allzusehr fehlen ließ, sah sie; zuerst glaubte sie an eine Verschwörung der Professoren gegen mich und diesen Glauben hat sie niemals ganz verlassen, aber der Übertritt in ein anderes Gymnasium und mein fast noch schlechteres Fortkommen an diesem, erschütterten ihren Glauben an die Feindseligkeit der Professoren doch ein wenig, den Glauben an mich allerdings nicht. Ich aber lebte unter ihren traurig fragenden Blicken mein unbefangenes Kinderleben weiter. Ich hatte keinen Ehrgeiz; fiel ich nicht durch, war ich zufrieden und wäre ich durchgefallen, eine Drohung die während des ganzen Schuljahres nicht aufhörte,

"Sie standen plötzlich da…" (II, 10)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:03:03 +0000

Sie standen plötzlich da, in einer Reihe, zehn. Sie waren fast alle gleich, hagere, dunkle, kahlrasierte Gesichter mit Geierschnäbeln statt Nasen. Es sind gar keine Menschen, fiel einem bald ein, gibt es Menschen mit derartig eingefallenen Wangen, in deren Höhlung die Haut faltig hinabhängt.

Zwanzig kleine Totengräber, keiner größer als ein durchschnittlicher Tannenzapfen, bilden eine selbstständige Gruppe. Sie haben eine Holzbaracke im Bergwald, dort ruhen sie von ihrer schweren Arbeit aus. Es ist dort viel Rauch, Geschrei und Gesang, wie es eben ist, wenn zwanzig Arbeiter beisammen sind. Wie fröhlich diese Leute sind! Niemand bezahlt sie, niemand rüstet sie aus, niemand hat ihnen einen Auftrag gegeben. Auf eigene Faust haben sie sich ihre Arbeit erwählt, auf eigene Faust führen sie sie aus. Es gibt noch Mannesgeist in unserer Zeit. Nicht jeden würde ihre Arbeit befriedigen, vielleicht befriedigt sie auch diese Leute nicht ganz, aber sie lassen nicht ab vom einmal gefaßten Entschluß, sie sind ja gewöhnt die schwersten Lasten durch das dichteste Gebüsch zu zerren. Von Morgen bis Mitternacht dauert der Festlärm. Die einen erzählen, die andern singen, es gibt auch welche die stumm die Pfeife rauchen, alle aber helfen der großen Schnapsflasche den Tisch umwandern. Um Mitternacht erhebt sich der Führer und schlägt auf den Tisch, die Männer nehmen ihre Mützen vom Nagel; Seile, Schaufeln und Hacken aus der Ecke, sie ordnen sich zum Zuge, immer zwei und zwei.

Oktavheft E (I, 22)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:35:56 +0000

Sie stand beim Fenster und sah auf die stille Gasse hinunter. Hinter ihr im kleinen Zimmer lag angezogen auf dem Bett ihr Mann und schlief. Ein Nachbar kam herein, blickte sich um und gieng wieder. Als unten auf der Gasse die Laternen angezündet wurden, verließ sie das Fenster und begann die Vorbereitungen zum Kaffeekochen

Ein elendes Fuhrwerk selbst auf den vom Elend überfüllten Landstraßen. Großmutter Mutter und drei Kinder lagen im Stroh unter dem niedrigen Wagendach. Der Vater mit einem vierten Kind zur Linken und den Zügeln in der Rechten lenkte das vorwärtsschwankende Pferd. Als sie zum Stadttor kamen

"Unter meinen Mitschülern…" (1909)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:44:14 +0000

Unter meinen Mitschülern war ich dumm, doch nicht der dümmste. Und wenn trotzdem das Letztere von einigen meiner Lehrer meinen Eltern und mir gegenüber nicht selten behauptet worden ist, so haben sie es nur in dem Wahne vieler Leute getan, welche glauben, sie hätten die halbe Welt erobert, wenn sie ein so äußerstes Urteil wagen.

Daß ich aber dumm sei, glaubte man allgemein und wirklich man hatte gute Beweise dafür, die leicht mitgeteilt werden konnten, wenn vielleicht ein Fremder über mich zu belehren war, der anfangs einen nicht üblen Eindruck von mir bekommen hatte und dies vor andern nicht verschwieg.

In der Strafkolonie

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:31:13 +0000

“Es ist ein eigentümlicher Apparat”, sagte der Offizier zu dem Forschungsreisenden und überblickte mit einem gewissermaßen bewundernden Blick den ihm doch wohlbekannten Apparat. Der Reisende schien nur aus Höflichkeit der Einladung des Kommandanten gefolgt zu sein, der ihn aufgefordert hatte, der Exekution eines Soldaten beizuwohnen, der wegen Ungehorsam und Beleidigung des Vorgesetzten verurteilt worden war. Das Interesse für diese Exekution war wohl auch in der Strafkolonie nicht sehr groß. Wenigstens war hier in dem tiefen, sandigen, von kahlen Abhängen ringsum abgeschlossenen kleinen Tal außer dem Offizier und dem Reisenden nur der Verurteilte, ein stumpfsinniger, breitmäuliger Mensch mit verwahrlostem Haar und Gesicht und ein Soldat zugegen, der die schwere Kette hielt, in welche die kleinen Ketten ausliefen, mit denen der Verurteilte an den Fuß- und Handknöcheln sowie am Hals gefesselt war und die auch untereinander durch Verbindungsketten zusammenhingen. Übrigens sah der Verurteilte so hündisch ergeben aus, daß es den Anschein hatte, als könnte man ihn frei auf den Abhängen herumlaufen lassen und müsse bei Beginn der Exekution nur pfeifen, damit er käme.

6. Zweites Gespräch mit der Wirtin

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:58:48 +0000

Vor dem Wirtshaus erwartete ihn der Wirt. Ohne gefragt zu werden, hätte er nicht zu sprechen gewagt, deshalb fragte ihn K., was er wolle. “Hast Du schon eine neue Wohnung?” fragte der Wirt, zu Boden sehend. “Du fragst im Auftrag Deiner Frau”, sagte K., “Du bist wohl sehr abhängig von ihr?” “Nein”, sagte der Wirt, “ich frage nicht in ihrem Auftrag. Aber sie ist sehr aufgeregt und unglücklich Deinetwegen, kann nicht arbeiten, liegt im Bett und seufzt und klagt fortwährend.” “Soll ich zu ihr gehn?” fragte K. “Ich bitte Dich darum”, sagte der Wirt, “ich wollte Dich schon vom Vorsteher holen, horchte dort an der Tür, aber Ihr wart im Gespräch, ich wollte nicht stören, auch hatte ich Sorge wegen meiner Frau, lief wieder zurück, sie ließ mich aber nicht zu sich, so blieb mir nichts übrig als auf Dich zu warten. " “Dann komm also schnell”, sagte K., “ich werde sie bald beruhigen. " “Wenn es nur gelingen wollte”, sagte der Wirt.

Der Fall Robinson

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 16:47:56 +0000

Da klopfte ihm jemand auf die Schulter. Karl, der natürlich dachte, es wäre ein Gast, steckte den Apfel eiligst in die Tasche und eilte, kaum daß er den Mann ansah, zum Aufzug hin. “Guten Abend, Herr Roßmann”, sagte nun aber der Mann, “ich bin es, Robinson.” “Sie haben sich aber verändert”, sagte Karl und schüttelte den Kopf. “Ja es geht mir gut”, sagte Robinson und sah an seiner Kleidung hinunter, die vielleicht aus genug feinen Stücken bestand, aber so zusammengewürfelt war, daß sie geradezu schäbig aussah. Das Auffallendste war eine offenbar zum erstenmal getragene weiße Weste mit vier kleinen schwarz eingefaßten Täschchen, auf die Robinson auch durch Vorstrecken der Brust aufmerksam zu machen suchte. “Sie haben teuere Kleider”, sagte Karl und dachte flüchtig an sein schönes einfaches Kleid, in dem er sogar neben Renell hätte bestehen können und das die zwei schlechten Freunde verkauft hatten. “Ja”, sagte Robinson, “ich kaufe mir fast jeden Tag irgend etwas. Wie gefällt Ihnen die Weste?” “Ganz gut”, sagte Karl. “Es sind aber keine wirklichen Taschen, das ist nur so gemacht”, sagte Robinson und faßte Karl bei der Hand, damit sich dieser selbst davon überzeuge. Aber Karl wich zurück, denn aus Robinsons Mund kam ein unerträglicher Branntweingeruch. “Sie trinken wieder viel”, sagte Karl und stand schon wieder am Geländer. “Nein”, sagte Robinson, “nicht viel” und fügte im Widerspruch zu seiner früheren Zufriedenheit hinzu: “Was hat der Mensch sonst auf der Welt. " Eine Fahrt unterbrach das Gespräch und, kaum war Karl wieder unten, erfolgte ein telephonischer Anruf, laut dessen Karl den Hotelarzt holen sollte, da eine Dame im siebenten Stockwerk einen Ohnmachtsanfall erlitten hatte. Während dieses Weges hoffte Karl im Geheimen, daß Robinson sich inzwischen entfernt haben werde, denn er wollte nicht mit ihm gesehen werden und in Gedanken an Theresens Warnung auch von Delamarche nichts hören. Aber Robinson wartete noch in der steifen Haltung eines Vollgetrunkenen und gerade gieng ein höherer Hotelbeamter im schwarzen Gehrock und Cylinderhut vorüber, ohne glücklicherweise Robinson, wie es schien, besonders zu beachten. “Wollen Sie Roßmann nicht einmal zu uns kommen, wir haben es jetzt sehr fein”, sagte Robinson und sah Karl lockend an. “Laden Sie mich ein oder Delamarche?” fragte Karl. “Ich und Delamarche. Wir sind darin einig”, sagte Robinson. “Dann sage ich Ihnen und bitte Sie Delamarche das Gleiche auszurichten: Unser Abschied war, wenn das nicht schon an und für sich klar gewesen sein sollte, ein endgültiger. Sie beide haben mir mehr Leid getan, als irgend jemand. Haben Sie sich vielleicht in den Kopf gesetzt, mich auch weiterhin nicht in Ruhe zu lassen?” “Wir sind doch Ihre Kameraden”, sagte Robinson und widerliche Tränen der Trunkenheit stiegen ihm in die Augen. “Delamarche läßt Ihnen sagen, daß er Sie für alles Frühere entschädigen will. Wir wohnen jetzt mit Brunelda zusammen, einer herrlichen Sängerin. " Und im Anschluß daran wollte er gerade ein Lied in hohen Tönen singen, wenn ihn nicht Karl noch rechtzeitig angezischt hätte: “Schweigen Sie aber augenblicklich, wissen Sie denn nicht, wo Sie sind.” “Roßmann”, sagte Robinson nur rücksichtlich des Singens eingeschüchtert, “ich bin doch Ihr Kamerad, sagen Sie, was Sie wollen. Und nun haben Sie hier so eine schöne Position, könnten Sie mir einiges Geld überlassen.” “Sie vertrinken es ja bloß wieder”, sagte Karl, “da sehe ich sogar in Ihrer Tasche irgendeine Branntweinflasche aus der Sie gewiß, während ich weg war, getrunken haben, denn anfangs waren Sie ja noch ziemlich bei Sinnen. " “Das ist nur zur Stärkung, wenn ich auf einem Wege bin”, sagte Robinson entschuldigend. “Ich will Sie ja nicht mehr bessern”, sagte Karl. “Aber das Geld! " sagte Robinson mit aufgerissenen Augen. " Sie haben wohl von Delamarche den Auftrag bekommen Geld mitzubringen. Gut ich gebe Ihnen Geld, aber nur unter der Bedingung, daß Sie sofort von hier fortgehn und niemals mehr mich hier besuchen. Wenn Sie mir etwas mitteilen wollen, schreiben Sie an mich. Karl Roßmann, Liftjunge, Hotel occidental, genügt als Adresse. Aber hier dürfen Sie, das wiederhole ich, mich nicht mehr aufsuchen. Hier bin ich im Dienst und habe keine Zeit für Besuche. Wollen Sie also das Geld unter dieser Bedingung?” fragte Karl und griff in die Westentasche, denn er war entschlossen, das Trinkgeld der heutigen Nacht zu opfern. Robinson nickte bloß zu der Frage und atmete schwer. Karl deutete das unrichtig und fragte nochmals: “Ja oder Nein?”

Giselda Leirner: La fille de Kafka

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 16:03:10 +0000

Giselda Leirner:

La fille de Kafka

Editions Joelle Losfeld - Price: 10 euro

Dans ces dix récits brefs, qui en réalité ne font qu’un conte unique, un personnage principal se transforme en de multiples personnages. Tous ces " doubles " oscillent entre la grandeur et la misère, la mesquinerie et la générosité. L’originalité stylistique et narrative se manifeste dès le premier récit, qui donne son titre à l’ouvrage, La fille de Kafka où, après un échange fictif de lettres entre le père et la fille, l’auteur mêle habilement réalité et fiction.

The Robinson Affair

Sun, 03 Dec 2006 16:40:46 +0000

Then someone tapped him on the shoulder. Karl, thinking it was a guest, stuck the apple hurriedlg into a pocket and hurried to the elevator, having barely seen the man. “Good evening, Mr. Rossman,” the man said now. “It’s me, Robinson.” “But you’ve changed,” said Karl and shook his head. “Yeah, it’s going well for me,” said Robinson and looked down at his clothes, which had enough fancy things maybe, but they were so thrown together they almost looked shabby. The most striking piece was a white vest, obviously being worn for the first time, with four small black-rimmed pockets, which Robinson tried to show off by sticking out his chest. “You’ve got expensive clothes on,” said Karl as he thought briefly about his nice simple clothing, in which he could have held his own next to Renell and which his two terrible friends had sold. “Yes,” said Robinson “I buy something else for myself almost everyday. How do you like the vest?” “Very much,” said Karl. “But there aren’t any real pockets, they’re only made that way,” said Robinson, grabbing Karl by the hand to satisfy himself. But Karl fell back, because an unbearable smell of booze came from Robinson’s mouth. “You’re drinking again, a lot,” said Karl and stood by the railing again. “No,” said Robinson, “not much,” and then contradicted his prior satisfaction: “What else has a man to do in the world.” A trip on the elevator interrupted the conversation, and Karl was barely down again when he got a loud order over the telephone to fetch the hotel doctor, because a lady had suffered a fainting spell on the seventh floor. Along the way Karl hoped that Robinson would have gone away in the meantime, because he didn’t want to be seen with him and also didn’t want to hear from Delamarche, Therese’s warnings about him still in his mind. But Robinson was still waiting, with the stiff posture of complete drunkenness, and just then a high-ranking staff member walked by in black tails and a top hat, fortunately without seeming to take special notice of Robinson. “Won’t you come by us just once, Rossman, we have it very good now,” said Robinson, looking temptingly at Karl. “Are you inviting me, or is Delamarche?” “Me and Delamarche. We’re in it together,” said Robinson. “Then I’ll say to you, and I’ll ask you to give the same to Delamarche: Our goodbye was, if it’s not already clear to you, final. The both of you have done me more harm than anyone else. Can’t you get it in your heads to leave me in peace?” “We’re still your comrades” said Robinson, and repulsive tears of drunkenness rose to his eyes. “Delamarche wanted to say to you, that he wants to make up for everything. We live together with Brunelda now, a marvelous singer.” And in closing, he would’ve sung a song in a high pitch, if Karl hadn’t hissed at him in time: “But be quiet right now, don’t you know where you are?” “Rossman,” said Robinson, only scared away from the singing, “I’m still your comrade, you say what you want. And you have such a good position here, could you lend me some money.” “You’ll just drink it again,” said Karl. “I see another liquor bottle in your pocket, which you’ve certainly taken a drink from while I was away, because you were still in your senses a little in the beginning.” “That’s only for keeping me strong when I’m on my way,” said Robinson apologetically. “I don’t want to try to improve you any more,” said Karl. “But the money!” said Robinson with wide open eyes. “You got an errand from Delamarche to bring back money. I’d gladly give you money, but only under the condition that you leave here immediately and never look for me here again. If you want to tell me something, write me. Karl Rossman, Elevator Boy, Hotel Occidental, is enough of an address. But here, I repeat it, you are not allowed to look for me. I work here and have no time for visits. So do you want the money under this condition?” asked Karl and grabbed in his vest pocket, because he had decided to sacrifice his tip money from that night. Robinson barely nodded at the question and breathed heavily. Karl interpreted that incorrectly and asked one more time: “Yes or no?” Then Robinson called him over and whispered in the middle of a heaving motion that was already very obvious: “Rossman, I feel sick.” “Damn it!” Karl swore, and he dragged him with both hands to the railing. And already it poured from Robinson’s mouth into the depths. He hung on Karl, helpless and blind, in the pauses his nausea allowed him. “You are really a good boy,” he then said, or, “It’s stopped,” which wasn’t correct for long, or, “The dogs, they’ve poured their junk into me!” Karl began to walk back and forth out of nervousness and loathing. Robinson was a little hidden here, in a corner next to the elevator, but if someone noticed him, one of those fidgety rich guests who just waited to share a complaint with a staff member walking by, so that furious revenge would be taken on the entire house, or if one of the constantly changing hotel detectives came over, whom no one knew except the management and whom everyone who squinted, maybe out of short-sightedness, was suspected to be. And downstairs anyone still in the restaurant for the night only needed to go into the pantry, notice in astonishment the horrible mess in the light shaft and ask Karl over the telephone what in God’s name had come loose up there. Could Karl disown Robinson then? And if he did, wouldn’t Robinson, instead of apologizing, plead with Karl in his stupidity and desperation? And wouldn’t Karl have to be fired immediately, because then the outrageous thing had happened: an elevator boy, the lowest and most dispensable position in the enormous hierarchy of hotel employees, had sullied the hotel with his friend and either frightened the guests or drove them away entirely? Could an elevator boy be tolerated, who had such friends who were allowed visits during his work hours? Wouldn’t it seem that this elevator boy was a boozer or just plain trouble, because what suspicion could be more clear than that he supplied his friends from the hotel stock, until they carried on just as Robinson did now in the meticulously tidy hotel? And why should this youth restrict himself to stealing groceries, since the chances to steal were really countless, what with the well-known carelessness of the guests, the wardrobes generally standing open, the valuables lying around on the tables, the opened money-boxes, the thoughtlessly thrown about keys? Just then Karl saw in the distance guests climbing up from the cellar bar, where a variety show had just ended. Karl put himself at his elevator and didn’t dare turn toward Robinson for fear of what he might have to see. He was a little curious when he heard no loud noises from there, not even a sigh. He served his guests and traveled with them up and down, but he couldn’t entirely hide his distraction, and on each trip down, he was prepared to find a painful surprise downstairs. Finally he had time again to look after Robinson, who had curled up very small in his corner and pressed his face against his knees. He had slid his round, hard hat away from his forehead. “So leave already,” said Karl softly and certainly. “Here is the money. If you hurry, I can show you the shortest way.” “I won’t be able to leave,” said Robinson, wiping his forehead with a tiny handkerchief. “I will die here. You cannot imagine, how sick I am. Delamarche takes me with him to fancy bars, but I can’t stand that rich stuff, I tell it to Delamarche daily.” “You can’t stay here now,” said Karl. “Think about where you are. If someone were to find you here, you would be punished and I would lose my job. Do you want that?” “I can’t leave,” said Robinson. “I’d gladly jump down there,” and he pointed in-between the railings into the light-shaft. “If I sit here like this, I can still bear it, but I cannot stand up, I already tried it when you were away.” “Then I’ll get you a car and you’ll go to the hospital,” said Karl and shook Robinson’s legs a little, which threatened to fall every moment into full collapse. But scarcely had Robinson heard that word “hospital,” when frightened visions seemed to wake him up, because he loudly began to cry and his hands stretched to Karl to ask for mercy. “Quiet,” said Karl. He knocked him down with a smack of the hands, ran to the elevator boy whom he had stood in for during some nights, asked him the same favor for a short while, hurried back to Robinson, dragged up the eternal weeper with all his strength and whispered to him: “Robinson, if you want me to accept you in, then force yourself now to walk upright a very small stretch of way. I’ll lead you to my bed, where you can stay till you’re well. You’ll be amazed at how soon you recover. But act sensibly now, because people are all over these hallways and my bed is in a general sleeping area. If someone notices you only a little, I can’t do any more for you. And you have to keep your eyes open, I can’t carry you around like a dead man.” “I want to do whatever you think is right,” said Robinson, “but you can’t carry me alone. Couldn’t you get Renell.” “Renell’s not here,” said Karl. “Oh, yes,” said Robinson. “Renell is with Delamarche. The both of them sent me to you. I’ve got everything confused.” Karl used this and other incomprehensible speeches from Delarmarche to push him forward, coming with him luckily to an intersection, where a weakly lit hallway led to the sleeping quarters of the elevator boys. Just then an elevator boy tore out of it in full sprint. Up to now they’d only really had harmless encounters; between four and five o’clock was the quiet time and Karl knew full well that if he couldn’t successfully get Robinson out now, there wouldn’t be any thought of doing so in the early morning and the beginning of daily traffic. In the sleeping quarters on the other end of the hall, a fight or some other event was in progress, you could hear rhythmic hand clapping, excited footsteps and cheers of encouragement. In the half of the hall by the door, you could see only a few unbothered sleepers, most of them were lying on their back and stared into the air, while here and there, one of them sprang out of bed just as he was, dressed or undressed, to see how things stood on the other end of the hall. So Karl brought Robinson, who in the meantime had gotten a little used to walking, pretty well unnoticed to Renell’s bed, because it rested very near the door and luckily was not occupied, while in his own bed, as he saw in the distance, a strange young man he didn’t know slept peacefully. Robinson had barely felt the bed underneath him, when he immediately – with a leg still dangling off the bed – fell asleep. Karl pulled the blanket over his face, believing that he wouldn’t make any trouble in the near future at least, because Robinson would have to be asleep until six o’clock, and by then he would be back and maybe find a way with Renell to take Robinson away. The higher authorities only inspected the sleeping quarters in extraordinary circumstances, the elevator boys had achieved the abolition of regular general inspections years ago, there was nothing to fear from that angle. When Karl was again positioned at his elevator, he saw that his and his neighbors’ elevators were traveling in the upper floors. He waited impatiently for the situation to clear up. His elevator came down earlier than the others, and out of it climbed the young man who had been running through the hallway. “So where have you been then, Rossman?” he asked. “Why did you leave? Why didn’t you report it?” “But I told him he should stand in for me a little while,” answered Karl and showed the young man the neighboring elevator that came down right away. “I’ve covered for him too, for two hours during the highest traffic.” “That is all very good,” said the person being spoken to, “but it’s not enough. Don’t you know you have to report even the shortest absence during work to the office or the head waiter. That’s why you have the telephone right there. I’d have filled in for you gladly, but you know it’s not that easy. Just now there were new guests from the four-thirty express train at both elevators. I couldn’t run to your elevator first and leave my guests waiting, so first I went up with my elevator.” “And now?” asked Karl tensely, since both men were silent. “And now,” said the young man from the neighboring lift, “the head waiter comes over, sees the people from your elevator without service, gets angry and asks me when I run over right away, where you’ve gotten to, I have no idea, since you said nothing to me about where you were going, so he calls the sleeping quarters for another young man to come over here.” “I met you in the hallway,” said Karl’s replacement. Karl nodded. “Naturally,” persisted the other young man, “That’s just what I said, you had asked me to be your stand-in, but he stopped all those excuses. You probably don’t know him. And we should tell you, that you should immediately go to the office. So stop hanging around and run there. Maybe he’ll still forgive you, you were only away for two minutes. Just mention me calmly, you asked me to stand in. I’d rather you didn’t say that you had stood in for me, nothing can happen to me, I had permission, but it’s not good for these things to be talked about and mixed in with situations they had nothing to do with.” “It was the first time I abandoned my post,” said Karl. “It’s always like that, it’s just that no one ever believes it,” said the young man and ran to his elevator, because people were approaching. Karl’s stand-in, a boy about fourteen years old who had some open sympathy for Karl, said: “There have always been many cases where things like this were forgiven. You’re usually moved comfortably to another job. As far as I know, only one person was let go because of such things. You just have to think up a good excuse for yourself. Under no circumstance should you say that you suddenly became sick, because he’ll laugh at you. It’s much better if you say that a guest somewhere had given you a message in a hurry for another guest and you don’t know who the first guest was anymore and you couldn’t find the second.” “No,” said Karl, “It won’t be so bad.” After everything he had heard, he didn’t believe in a good way out of this anymore. And even if this negligence were forgiven, Robinson was still lying in the sleeping quarters as his living guilt, and it was only too likely, because of the irritable nature of the head waiter, that no one would be content with a superficial investigation and Robinson would finally be tracked down. There wasn’t any specific ban on allowing strange people to be taken into the sleeping quarters, but this meant nothing, because even unthinkable things weren’t banned. When Karl walked into the office of the head waiter, he was sitting by his morning coffee, taking a sip and looking at a list that the hotel’s head porter, who was right there, had brought to him to be looked over. He was a large man, made even more broad-shouldered then he naturally was by his lavish, richly decorated uniform – golden chains and ribbons wound around his shoulders and arms. A shiny black mustache, pulled out to a point like the Hungarians wore it, never moved when he quickly turned his head. Because of the weight of all his clothing, the man could only move with difficulty, standing with his legs buckled in sideways to correctly distribute the weight. Karl walked in smoothly and quickly, like he’d gotten used to in the hotel, because the ease and carefulness which was a courtesy in private persons meant laziness in elevator boys. Besides, they mustn’t see his awareness of his guilt by the way he walked in. The head waiter had taken a brief look at the open door, but had then immediately returned to his coffee and his reading, without concerning himself with Karl again. The porter, however, seemed disturbed, maybe by Karl’s presence, maybe he had a secret piece of news or a request to present, whatever the case he looked at Karl angrily every moment, and with his head stiffly inclined toward Karl, he would make eye contact with Karl only to turn back to the head waiter. But Karl believed, it wouldn’t turn out well if he left the office without receiving the order from the head waiter, now that he had already been here once. The head waiter, though, continued to study the list and ate a piece of cake in the meantime, which he shook the sugar off of without stopping his reading. Once a sheet fell from the list to the floor, the porter didn’t once make an attempt to pick it up, he knew he wouldn’t take it up, it wasn’t necessary either, because Karl was already on the job and gave the sheet to the head waiter, who picked it up with a motion of his hands, as if it had flown by itself from the floor. The entire achievement hadn’t been enough, because the porter wouldn’t stop his angry glances. Nevertheless, Karl was more prepared than before. He could take it as a good sign that his affair seemed to have such little importance for the head waiter. It was only understandable in the end. Of course an elevator boy meant absolutely nothing and therefore couldn’t be allowed anything, but even then, because he meant nothing, he could also do nothing extraordinary. Finally, the head waiter in his own youth had been an elevator boy – which was still the pride of this generation of elevator boys – he had been the one who organized the elevator boys for the first time and certainly he had left his position once without permission, even if no one now could compel him to remember it for himself, and you couldn’t allow yourself to forget, that as an elevator boy he saw that his duty was to maintain order with strict severity. But now Karl rested his hopes on the advance of time. Once the office clock reached a quarter to six, every moment could bring back Renell, maybe he was already there, because it must have been noticeable that Robinson hadn’t come back, Delamarche and Robinson couldn’t have stopped far from the Hotel Occidental, as it now seemed to Karl, because otherwise Robinson wouldn’t have found his way here in his miserable condition. If only Renell found Robinson in his bed, which had to happen, then everything was fine. Because, Renell being as practical as he was, especially when it was in his interest, he would take Robinson far from the hotel right away, which could be done very easily, because Robinson would have recovered in the meanwhile and Delamarche was probably waiting in front of the hotel to receive him. Once Robinson was taken away, Karl could confront the waiter much more calmly and because of it could maybe come out with a heavy reprimand. Then he’d discuss with Therese if he could tell the head cook the truth – for his part he saw nothing in the way – and if it were possible, he would get through these things without any special harm. Just as Karl had calmed himself down a little with these reflections and started discretely counting his tips for the evening, because it had seemed to him to be a pretty lucrative one, the head waiter laid the list on the table with the words: “Wait just a moment please, Feodor,” sprang up athletically and screamed so loudly at Karl that at first he was frightened into staring solely at the large black hole of his mouth. “You have abandoned your post without permission. Do you know what that means? That means dismissal. I don’t want to hear any excuses, your fake reasons can only remind me of the entirely sufficient fact that you were not there. If I tolerated that once and forgave you, the next time all forty elevator boys will run off during their work and I will carry all my five thousand guests up the stairs.” Karl was silent. The porter had come nearer and was poking Karl’s jacket, pressing the one wrinkle a little deeper, maybe to make this tiny disorder in Karl’s uniform especially noticeable to the head waiter. “Did you maybe become sick all of a sudden?” asked the head waiter slyly. Karl gave him a searching look and answered: “No.” “So you were never sick?” screamed the head waiter even more strongly. “So you must have some magnificent lie. Hand it over. What kind of excuse do you have?” “I didn’t know you had to ask permission by telephone,” said Karl. “That’s delightful,” said the head waiter as he grabbed Karl by the jacket collar and brought him almost suspended to the elevator regulations, which were nailed up on the wall. The porter also walked behind them to the wall. “There! Read!” said the head waiter and pointed to a paragraph. Karl thought he had to read it to himself. “Out loud!” commanded the head waiter. Instead of reading out loud, Karl said, in hope of calming the head waiter down: “I am acquainted with the paragraph, I’ve also received the regulations and read them thoroughly. But those regulations you don’t need, you forget. I’ve already served for two months and have never abandoned my post.” “You’re going to abandon it now,” said the head waiter as he went to the table and picked up the register again, as if he wanted to read it, but he slung it on the table as if it were a useless rag, and with a strong redness in his forehead and cheeks, he walked back and forth across the room. “Boys like these make this necessary! All this excitement in the night shift!” he shouted once more. “Do you know who wanted a ride up, while this bum was running away from the elevator?” he said to the porter. And he named a name, so that the porter, who knew all the guests and could rank them, shuddered so much that he quickly looked at Karl, as if his mere existence were confirmation enough that the owner of this name had to wait a long time in vain by the elevator that this young man had run away from. “That’s horrible!” said the porter and shook his head for a long time in boundless worry at Karl, who looked at him sadly and thought that he had to atone for the obtuseness of this man. “I already know you,” said the porter and extended his thick, large, stiffly stretched pointing finger. “You are that young man, who never says hello to me. What were you imagining! Everyone walking by the porter’s lodge has to say hello to me. You can do what you want with the rest of the porters, but I demand to be greeted. I’ve acted sometimes as if I didn’t notice, but you can relax, I know well enough who says hello to me or not, you lout.” And he turned from Karl and walked head raised high to the waiter, who, instead of commenting on the porter’s affair, finished his breakfast and glanced over a morning paper that a worker had just delivered to the room. “Sir, Head Porter,” said Karl, who wanted to rein in the matter with the porter during the head waiter’s inattention, because he knew that the porter’s reproach might not disgrace him, but his hostility would. “I most certainly said hello to you, I haven’t been long in America and come from Europe, where we are well known to greet each other much more than is necessary. Naturally, I couldn’t entirely wean myself off of that and for two months in New York, where I moved in some high circles, people advised me at every opportunity to give up my excessive politeness. And yet now I’ve never said hello to you. I said hello to you a few times a day. Of course not every time I saw you, because I came across you a hundred times a day.” “You must say hello to me every time, every time without exception, for the entire time you speak to me, you have to hold your cap in your hand, you speak to me always as “Sir” and never as “You.” And all of it every time and all the time.” “Every time?” Karl repeated softly and questioningly, he remembered now how the porter looked at him strongly and with reproach during his stays in the area, even from the first morning, when he, not quite used to his position, had asked this porter somewhat too boldly, without much fussiness or urgency, if two men hadn’t maybe asked for him and left a photograph for him. “Now you see where such behavior leads,” said the porter, who had again returned close to Karl and pointed to the reading head waiter, as if he were the representative of his vengeance. “In your next job you’ll know enough to greet the porter, even if it’s only in some dive.” Karl saw he had lost his job, because the head waiter had been prepared to say it, the head porter had repeated it as fact, and the confirmation for dismissal was not necessary with the hotel directors when it came to an elevator boy. It had gone more quickly than he had thought, because he had worked for two months as well as he could and certainly better than some of the other boys. But with these things, even in their decisive moments, no one in any part of the world, neither in Europe or America, ever took the matter into consideration, but decided it in the first rage of judgment flying from the mouth. Maybe it would be for the best now, if he said goodbye immediately and left, with the head cook and Therese maybe still asleep, he would be able to say a brief goodbye to spare them disappointment and grief over his behavior, pack his trunk quickly and go out in silence. But if he stayed a day longer – and he would need a little sleep – nothing waited for him but the exaggeration of his affair into a scandal, reproach from all sides, the unbearable sight of Therese’s tears and maybe even the head cook, and for all that there still would remain the punishment. On the other side, however, it irritated him that he faced two enemies here and that with any word he could say, either one or the other would find fault with something and interpret it to its worst conclusion. So he was quiet and enjoyed for the time being the calm that prevailed in the room, because the head waiter kept reading the newspaper and the head porter put the scattered list into numerical order page by page, which was very difficult for him because he was short-sighted. Finally, the head waiter laid the newspaper down yawning, looking at Karl to make sure he was still there and turning the bell on the desk telephone. He said hello many times, but no one reported back. “It doesn’t respond,” he said to the head porter. To Karl, he seemed to watch the telephone with great interest and said: “It’s already a quarter to six. She must be awake already. Ring louder.” At this moment, the telephone rang back without further request. “It’s Head Waiter Isbary,” said the head waiter. “Good morning, Head Cook. I didn’t wake you up, did I? I’m sorry about that. Yes, yes, it’s already a quarter to six. But I’m sorry I frightened you. You should turn off the phone when you sleep. No, not really, there’s really no excuse, especially with the smallness of the matter I want to talk to you about. But of course I have the time, excuse me, I’ll stay by the telephone until it’s right for you.” “She had to run to the telephone in her nightgown,” the head waiter said laughing to the head porter, who the entire time had bent over the telephone box with a tense expression. “I really woke her up, she would otherwise have been woken up by a little girl who types for her on the typewriter, and she must have neglected it today, as an exception. I’m sorry I startled her, she’s so nervous.” “Why didn’t she say anything more?” “She went to see what’s the matter with the girl,” answered the head waiter, already with the receiver to his ear, because it rang again. “She’ll be found,” he said into the telephone again. “You shouldn’t let yourself be frightened by everything, you really need a thorough vacation. Yes, and my small enquiry. It’s the elevator boy, by the name of –” he turned in question to Karl, since he was paying enough attention to be immediately able to help out with his name – “by the name of Karl Rossman, if I remember correctly, so you’ve had some interest in him; unfortunately he has rewarded your kindness terribly, he’s abandoned his post without permission and with all this difficulty has made trouble for me which cannot be overlooked, and so I’ve let him go. I hope you don’t take this dreadfully. How do you mean? Let go, yes, let go. But I told you he abandoned his post. No, I cannot give in there, dear Head Cook. It deals with something under my authority, because a lot rests on this, one youth could spoil the whole group for me. You have to be fiendishly attentive with the elevator boys. No, no, in this situation I cannot do you this favor, as much as I always like to be in your service. And if I forgave him here in spite of everything just to keep my heart-rate up, he cannot stay here, for your sake, yes, for your sake Head Cook. You take an interest in him which he does not deserve and since not only am I acquainted with him, but also yourself, I know this must lead to the most heavy disappointment for you, which I want to spare from you at all cost. I say it with the utmost frankness, even though the stubborn youth stands a few steps in front of me. He is fired, no, no, Head Cook, he is completely fired, he will not be assigned to another job, he is completely useless. Other complaints have come against him. The head porter, Feodor, for example, has also complained about the youth’s inhospitality and impudence. What, isn’t that enough? Yes, dear Head Cook, you are betraying your character on account of this young man. No, don’t take it out on me.” At this moment the porter bent over to the ear of the head waiter and whispered something. The head waiter looked astonished at first and then spoke so quickly into the telephone that Karl didn’t understand him enough at first and took steps closer on his tiptoes. “Dear Head Cook,” he went, “sincerely, I would not have believed you were such a terrible judge of people. Even I’ve heard something about your little angel which will thoroughly change your opinion of him, and I’m almost sorry that I’m the one who has to say it to you. This fine young man, whom you call a model of decency, allowed no free night to go by without running to the city and coming back first thing in the morning. Yes, yes Head Cook, there is evidence to prove this, indisputable evidence, yes. Could you tell me now, maybe, where he got the money for these festivities? How could he keep attention to his work? And would you also like me to list for you what he indulges in when in the city? I want to concern myself especially with getting rid of this young man. And please take it as a reminder of how careful you should be with the boys who come running in here.” “But Sir, Head Waiter,” Karl cried out, pretty much relieved because of this that everything which seemed to occur here was a great mistake, which unexpectedly might turn out in the end to improve his situation. “We have a confusion in front of us. I believe the head porter said to you, that I left every night. But that’s completely incorrect, I am in the sleeping quarters every night, all the boys could confirm that. When I wasn’t sleeping I was learning business correspondence, but I never moved from the sleeping quarters on any night. That is very easy to prove. The head porter mistook me for someone else and now I understood why he thinks I didn’t say hello to him.” “Will you be quiet right now,” screamed the head porter and shook his fist where someone else would have wagged a finger. “I couldn’t be a head porter anymore if I mistook these people. Just listen, Mr. Isbary, I can’t be a head porter anymore if I mistake these people. In my thirty years of service there has never been any confusion, which the hundreds of head waiters who have been here in that time can confirm, but with you, you miserable boy, I should have begun my mistakes. With you, with your noticeably smooth face. What is there to confuse, you could have run every night behind my back to the city and I could tell merely by your face that you’re a gin-soaked bum.” “Stop it, Feodor!” said the head waiter, whose telephone call with the head cook seemed to have suddenly broken off. “The matter is simple enough. In the first place, his evening entertainments come to nothing. Maybe he would like there to be a length investigation into his nightly business. I can already imagine that would please him. It would involve all forty elevator boys, who would naturally confuse everything for him, and take them in as evidence, it would also have to gradually include all personnel as witnesses, the hotel business would be held up for a little while until he’s finally thrown out, so at least he’d have his fun. And so we prefer not to do it. He took the head cook, that good woman, for a fool and that should be enough. I don’t want to hear it anymore, you are fired from your work for omission of duty at your post. I’m giving you a receipt for the finance office, so you’ll be paid your wages up to the present day. With the way you’ve behaved under us, this is simply a gift that I’m making to you only out of consideration for the head cook.” A telephone call kept the head waiter from writing the receipt right away. “The elevator boys are giving me trouble today!” he shouted after hearing the first words. “That is unheard of!” he cried after a short while. And he turned away from the telephone to the head porter and said: “Please, Feodor, hold this boy a little, we’ll still be speaking with him.” And into the telephone he gave the order: “Come up here immediately!” Now the head porter could stomp around, which wouldn’t have been too successful during the discussion. He held Karl tightly by the arm, not with a steady grip, which would have been bearable, but instead he loosened his grip here and there and gradually made it tighter and tighter, so that, with his great strength, it never seemed to stop and Karl’s vision went dark. Not only did he hold Karl, but as if he’d received the order to stretch him out, he raised him up high now and then and shook him, saying again and again in a half-question to the head waiter: “I’m not mistaking him now, I’m not mistaking him now.” It was a relief for Karl when the highest-ranking elevator boy, a certain Bess, an eternally rasping fat youth, walked in and attracted the attention of the head porter. Karl was so tired he barely said hello, when to his astonishment he saw Therese slipping in behind the youth, deathly pale, her clothes disheveled, her hair sticking up. In a moment she was next to him and whispered: “Does the head cook know?” “The head waiter called her,” answered Karl. “Then it’s already fine, everything’s fine,” she said quickly with livened eyes. “No,” said Karl. “You don’t know what they have against me. I have to leave, the head cook is already convinced about that. Please don’t stay here, get out, I’ll come to say goodbye to you.” “But Rossman, what happened to you? Surely you’ll stay with us as long as you like. The head waiter does everything the head cook wants, he loves her, I heard it by chance. So be calm.” “Please, Therese, go away now. I can’t defend myself as well when you’re here. And I have to defend myself, because lies about me are being brought out. But it’s better that I pay attention and can defend myself, there’s more hope for me then that I’ll stay. And so, Therese –” Unfortunately, in sudden pain, he couldn’t refrain from adding quietly: “If only this head porter would let me go! I didn’t know he was my enemy. But he’s always dragging and pushing me around.” “Why did I just say that?” he thought immediately. “No woman can listen to that calmly.” And actually, Therese turned to the head porter without him being able to stop her with his free hand. “Mr. Head Porter, please let Rossman free right now. You’re hurting him. The head cook will personally come right away and then you’ll see that an injustice has happened to him through everything. Let him go, what kind of pleasure can it give you to torment him.” And she grabbed the head porter’s hand. “Orders, little lady, orders,” said the head porter and took Therese graciously with his free hand, while he squeezed Karl strenuously with the other, not only as if he wanted to cause him pain, but also as if he had the goal of owning his arm, which would still take awhile to achieve. Therese needed some time to wrench herself from the head porter’s grasp and wanted, for Karl’s sake, to call out to the head waiter, who was still allowing Bess to explain something to him, when the head cook walked in with quick steps. “Thank God,” Therese cried, and you heard in that room at that moment nothing else but those loud words. The head waiter immediately sprang up and shoved Bess to the side: “So you’re coming too, Madame. On account of such a small thing? I might have suspected it after our talk on the telephone, but I didn’t actually believe it. And right now the matter of your protégé is constantly becoming more troublesome. I’m afraid I won’t actually fire him but will have to have him locked up. Listen for yourself!” And he called to Bess. “I would like to speak a few words with Rossman,” said the head cook and sat in a chair that the head waiter brought for her. “Karl, please come nearer,” she then said. Karl followed close behind, or rather was dragged there by the head porter. “Let him go,” said the head cook, annoyed. “He’s not a bandit yet.” The head porter actually let him go, but pushed him forward so strongly that tears welled up in his eyes for the strength of it. “Karl,” said the head cook, laying her hands calmly in her lap and looking at Karl with her head slightly turned – it wasn’t like an interrogation at all – “I will say to you in front of everyone, that I have complete trust in you. And the head waiter is a just man, I guarantee that. Both of us, basically, would gladly let you stay here.” – She looked fleetingly over at the head waiter, as if she were asking him not to cut in. He didn’t. – “And forget what they might have said to you now. You must not take everything the head porter said to you too hard. He is an excitable man, which is no surprise with his work, but he has a wife and kids and knows that you shouldn’t needlessly torment a young man who has to learn everything by himself, because the rest of the world sees to that.” It was completely quiet in the room. The head porter, demanding an explanation, looked at the head waiter, who looked at the head cook and shook his head. The elevator boy Bess grinned senselessly behind the head waiter’s back. Therese cried for joy and anxiety and spent all her effort not letting anyone hear it. Karl, however, even though this could’ve been taken as a bad sign, did not look at the head cook, who was certainly asking for his glance, but in front of himself at the floor. In his arm, the pain twitched in all directions, his shirt was sticking to a welt and he would’ve liked to take off his jacket and look at the thing. The head cook meant what she said very kindly, but it sounded like an unfortunate way to say it, as if the head cook’s behavior was revealing at last that he deserved no kindness, that he had enjoyed the generosity of the head cook for two months unearned, and yes that he deserved nothing more than to come into the hands of the head porter. “I’m saying this,” continued the head cook, “so that you’ll answer unworried, which you probably would have done already, since I think I know you.” “May I please fetch a doctor in the meantime, the man could bleed to death,” the elevator boy Bess threw in suddenly, very politely but very distressingly. “Go,” said the head waiter to Bess, who ran away immediately. And then to the head cook: “This is the matter. The head porter did not hold the young man down for fun. The elevator boys have discovered, downstairs, in a bed in the sleeping quarters, an unknown, heavy, drunk man. Someone woke him up, of course, and wanted to get him out. But then this man started to make a large racket, again and again crying out that the sleeping quarters belonged to Karl Rossman, whose guest he was, who had brought him in and who would punish anyone who dared touch him. So basically he had to wait for Karl Rossman, he had promised him money and was only going to get it. Please notice this, head cook: promised him money, was going to get it. You notice it too, Rossman,” said the head waiter casually to Karl, who had just then turned to Therese, who stared mesmerized at the head waiter and who again and again either brushed some hair away from her forehead or at least went through the motions of it for her own sake. “But maybe I remind you of some more obligations. The man downstairs had continued saying that the both of you would travel back for a night’s visit with some singer whose name no one understood, since the man could only pronounce it in song.” Here the head waiter interrupted himself, because the head cook, clearly becoming pale, picked herself up from the chair, pushing it back a little. “I’ll spare you anything further,” said the head waiter. “No, please, no,” said the head cook and grabbed his hand. “Just tell me more, I’ll listen to everything, that’s why I’m here.” The head porter, stepping forward as if to say he had seen it all from the beginning, beat his chest and, when the head waiter said, “Yes, you had it right, Feodor!” immediately calmed down and stepped back. “There isn’t much more to explain,” said the head waiter. “Young men being who they are, they laughed at the man at first, then got in a fight with him and since there are always good boxers waiting in line, he just got beaten up and I didn’t dare ask anything else about where and in how many places he bled, because these young men are fearsome boxers and a drunk just makes it easy for them.” “So,” said the head cook, leaning against the chair and looking at the place she had just left. “Say one word, please, Rossman!” she said. Therese was running to the head cook’s present position and hung onto her, which Karl had never seen her do. The head waiter stood just behind the head cook and smoothed the head cook’s small, modest collar, which had turned up a little. The head porter next to Karl said: “So now what?” but he only wanted to hide the punch he gave to Karl in the back. “It is true,” Karl said, with less certainty than he preferred on account of the punch, “that I brought a man into the sleeping quarters.” “We don’t want to know any more,” said the porter on behalf of everyone. The head cook, silent, turned to the head waiter and then to Therese. “I couldn’t help it,” Karl continued. “The man is my comrade from before, he came here to pay a visit after we hadn’t seen each other for two months, but he was so drunk that he couldn’t leave by himself.” The head waiter said quietly to the head cook next to him: “So he came to visit and was so drunk afterwards that he couldn’t leave alone.” The head cook whispered something over her shoulder to the head waiter, who, with an unrelated smile, seemed to make some sort of objection. Therese – Karl was only looking at her – pressed her face against the head cook in complete helplessness and didn’t want to see any more. The only one completely satisfied with Karl’s explanation was the head porter, who repeated one more time: “It’s completely correct, you have to help your drinking buddy,” seeking to force this explanation on everyone present through looks and hand gestures. “So I’m guilty,” Karl said and made a pause as he waited for a friendly word in this trial, which could give him courage for a continued defense, but it didn’t come. “I’m only guilty of bringing a man into the sleeping quarters, his name is Robinson, he’s an Irishman. Everything else he said he said out of drunkenness and is incorrect.” “You didn’t promise him any money?” asked the head waiter. “Yes,” said Karl, and he regretted having forgotten it, out of rashness or absent-mindedness he had portrayed himself as guiltless. “I promised him money, because he begged me for it. But I didn’t want to get it, so I gave him the tips I had earned that night.” As an example, he took the money out of his pocket and showed off a couple of small coins level on his hand. “You’re going off track,” said the head waiter. “If someone should believe you, he’d constantly have to forget what you said before. First you have this man – I don’t believe the name Robinson, since no Irishman in Ireland has ever been called that – first you never promised him money, and then when we ask you unexpectedly, you’ve suddenly promised him money. But we don’t have a trivia game here, we want to hear your justification. But first you didn’t want to get him the money but instead gave him your tips, but then you show you still have this money and therefore wanted to get different money, which explains your long failure to appear. It would have been nothing special in the end if you had wanted to fetch money from your trunk, but you deny that with all your strength, that is something special. Even as you wanted to conceal that you had gotten this man drunk here in the hotel, which no one has any doubts about, because you yourself admitted he came alone but couldn’t leave alone and he himself shouted throughout the sleeping quarters that he was your guest. Two things still remain doubtful, which you could answer yourself, if you want to simplify the matter, but which we could in the end also establish without your assistance. First, how did you get admittance to the pantry, and second, how did you collect this money you were giving away?” “It’s impossible to defend yourself when there’s no good will,” said Karl to himself and didn’t answer the head waiter any more, as much as it was probably hurting Therese. He knew that everything he could say would be seen afterwards entirely differently than he had meant it and that it only remained to be seen what kind of judgment would be found, good or terrible. “He doesn’t answer,” said the head cook. “It’s the most reasonable thing he can do,” said the head waiter. “He’ll think up something else,” said the head porter, carefully stroking his beard with his earlier cruel hand. “Be quiet,” said the head cook to Therese, who for her part began to sob. “You see, he doesn’t answer, how can I do anything for him. I’m the one who was proved wrong in the end in front of the head waiter. Therese, have I, in your judgment, forgotten to do something for him?” How could Therese know that, and what was the point of the head cook shaming herself in front of both these gentleman with these frank questions and requests to this little girl? “Head Cook,” said Karl, picking himself up once more, but with no other purpose than to spare Therese the answer. “I don’t believe I have made such a disgrace of myself, and after enough investigation someone else would discover that.” “Someone else,” said the head porter, pointing with his finger to the head waiter. “That’s was aimed against you, Mr. Isbary.” “Now, Head Cook, it’s half past six, time is up. I think, you will allow me the last word in this all-too tolerantly handled manner.” The small Giacomo was coming in, wanting to talk to Karl, but he gave up and waited, frightened by the pervasive silence. Since Karl’s last words, the head cook had not stopped looking at him, and she didn’t seem to have heard the head waiter’s remarks. Her eyes looked entirely at Karl, they were large and blue, but a little cloudy with age and toil. The way she stood there, weakly rocking the chair in front of her, you could very well have expected her to say at the next moment: “Now Karl, when I think about it, the matter isn’t completely clear just yet and requires a thorough investigation, just like you said. And we should organize it now, whether we agree with it or not, because there must be justice.” Instead of this, however, the head cook said after a small pause no one had dared to interrupt – only the clock rang in confirmation with the head waiter’s comments at half past six, and with it, as everyone knew, all the clocks in the entire hotel clanged in the ear and in the premonition as a doubled twitching of an especially large impatience: “No, Karl, no! We can’t convince ourselves of that. Correct things have a certain appearance, and, I have to say it, there is none of this in your affair. I am allowed to say that, and I have to say it too, because I’m the one who came here with the best conception of you. You see, Therese is also quiet.” (But she wasn’t quiet, she cried.) The head cook faltered in a decision suddenly coming over her and said: “Karl, come here,” and when he came to her – immediately the head waiter and the head porter united behind his back in lively conversation – she put her left arm around him and walked with him and Therese, who followed mindlessly behind, to the far end of the room, where she paced back and forth and said: “It is possible, Karl, and you seem to think it, otherwise I wouldn’t trust it, that an investigation would give you justice in some small matters. So why not? Maybe you did say hello to the head porter. I’d certainly believe it, and I also know what I think of the head porter, you see I’m talking very openly with you. But such small corrections won’t help you at all. The head waiter, whose knowledge of people I’ve learned to cherish over a run of many years, and who is the most reliable person I know, has clearly pronounced you guilty and it seems irrefutable to me. Maybe you just handled it carelessly, and maybe you’re not the person I took you for. And yet,” and then she stopped herself a little and looked quickly back to the two gentleman. “I can’t give up thinking in principle that you’re an upstanding young man.” “Madame Head Cook! Madame Head Cook!” urged the head waiter, who had caught her look. “We’re finishing up,” said the head cook and now spoke faster to Karl: “Listen Karl, so far as I can see, I’m still happy that the head waiter doesn’t want to start an investigation, but if he did want to start it, I would have to stop it in your interest. No one should hear how you managed to entertain that man, who couldn’t have been one of those comrades from before like you pretended, but only someone you carelessly befriended in some bar during the night. Karl, how could you hide all these things from me? If it was unbearable for you in the sleeping quarters, and you began roving through the night for this innocent reason, why didn’t you say a word about it, you knew I wanted to get a room for you but gave it up at your request. It seems now like you preferred the sleeping quarters because you felt uninhibited there. And your money that you stored in my trunk and the tip money you brought every week, young man, where in God’s name did you get the money for your amusement and where would you get that money for your friend? That is a noticeable thing, which I will not allow myself to hint about to the head waiter, because it just might lead to an unavoidable investigation. You absolutely have to leave the hotel and do it as quickly as possible. Go directly to the Motel Brenner – you were there a few times with Therese – they’ll take you in for free on my recommendation” – and the head cook wrote some lines on a ticket with a pen she took out of her blouse, without interrupting what she was saying – “I’ll send your trunk after you, Therese, run to the elevator boys’ wardrobe and pack his trunk.” (But Therese didn’t move, instead wanting, since she had already carried every sorrow, to witness everything now that Karl’s matter was turning for the better thanks to the goodness of the head cook.) Someone opened the door a little without showing himself and immediately closed it again. It must have had something to do with Giacomo, because he walked to the front and said: “Rossman, I have something to deliver to you.” “Coming,” said the head cook and put the ticket in Karl’s pocket as he listened to her with a bowed head. “I’ll hold your money for the time being, you know you can trust it with me. Stay home today and look over your affairs, tomorrow – I have no time today, I’ve already stayed here too long – I’ll come to the Brenner and we’ll see what else we can do for you. I won’t desert you, in any case you should know that by now. You should about the recent past before you worry about the future.” With that she clapped him lightly on the shoulder and went over to the head waiter, Karl lifted his head and looked at the large, imposing woman who walked from him with quiet steps and a relaxed posture. “Aren’t you happy at all,” said Therese, who stayed back by him, “that everything’s turned out so well?” “Oh, yes,” said Karl as he smiled at her, not knowing why he should be so happy about being sent away as a criminal. Joy beamed out of Therese’s eyes, as if it were entirely indifferent to her whether Karl had done anything or not, whether he had been justly judged or not, so long as he was allowed to slip away, either in shame or with honor. So Therese was behaving like she did, who in her own matters was so meticulous, turning over and investigating in her mind any unclear word from the head cook for weeks at a time. He deliberately asked: “Will you my pack my trunk now and send it away?” He had to shake his head against his will for astonishment, because Therese was convinced with this question that there were things in the trunk that had to be kept secret from everyone, so she didn’t allow herself to look at Karl at all, didn’t reach her hand to him at all, but only whispered: “Of course, Karl, right away, right away I’ll pack the trunk.” And she was already running away. But Giacomo didn’t allow any stalling and in the middle of all this waiting he yelled excitedly and loudly: “Rossman, the man is rolling around in the hallway and won’t let anyone take him away. They wanted permission to take him to the hospital, but he protested and maintained you would not tolerate him going to the hospital in any case. You should get an automobile and take him home, you would pay for the automobile. Will you?” “The man has trust in you,” said the head waiter. Karl shrugged his shoulders and counted the money in his hand for Giacomo. “I don’t have any more,” he said then. “I should also ask if you want to go with,” Giacomo continued to ask, jingling the money. “He’s not going with,” said the head cook. “And Rossman,” the head waiter said quickly, not even waiting until Giacomo was outside. “You are dismissed from your position.” The head porter nodded many times, as if the head waiter’s words were his own. “I cannot announce the grounds for your dismissal out loud, because otherwise I would have to have you locked up.” The head porter looked at the head cook noticeably sternly, because he realized that she was the cause of this all-too mild treatment. “Now, go to Bess, change, hand your uniform over to Bess and immediately, I said immediately, leave the house.” The head cook closed her eyes, she was trying to calm Karl down. As he bowed in parting, he looked up fleetingly as the head waiter secretly grabbed the head cook’s hand and played with it. The head porter, stomping his feet, accompanied Karl to the door, which he didn’t let close, but held open himself so he could shout to Karl: “I want to see you going by the front door in a quarter of a minute, remember that.” Karl hurried as much as he could to avoid any trouble at the front door, but everything went much more slowly than he wanted. First, Bess couldn’t be found right away, and now at breakfast time everything was full of people, then it appeared that one of the boys had borrowed Karl’s old pants and Karl had to search the clothes racks by almost all the beds before he found them, so that a whole five minutes had gone by before Karl came to the front door. A lady walked in front of him, in-between four gentlemen. They all went to a large automobile waiting for them, whose back doors were being held open by a valet who stretched his free left arm straight and stiff, looking highly solemn. But Karl vainly hoped to pass unnoticed under all this bustle. Right away the head porter grabbed him by the hand and pulled him in-between two gentlemen whom he apologized to. “You should have been fifteen seconds,” he said and squinted down at Karl as if he were observing a broken watch. “Come over here,” he said then and led him into the large porter’s lodge, which Karl had wanted to see for the longest time, but which he was now walking into with distrust, being pushed by the head porter. He was already in the door, when he turned and made an attempt to push the porter away and escape. “No, no, you go in this way,” said the head porter, turning Karl around. “I’m already fired,” he said, implying that no one in this hotel could give him orders anymore. “So long as I hold you, you are not fired,” said the porter, and that was correct too. In the end, Karl found no reason to resist the porter. What could possibly happen to him? The walls of the porter’s lodge consisted exclusively of enormous windowpanes, through which you could clearly see crowds of people streaming against one another in the vestibule, as if you were in the middle of them. There seemed to be no corner in the entire porter’s lodge, where you could hide from the eyes of the people. As busy as the people outside seemed, with outstretched arms, bowed heads, peering eyes, pieces of luggage held high as they sought their way, they could scarcely avoid throwing a glance into the porter’s lodge, where announcements and messages were always hung up that had importance for the guests as well as the hotel staff. In addition, there was direct traffic into the porter’s lodge from the vestibule, because at two large sliding windows, two under-porters sat and gave out information without interruption on the most various of subjects. Now these were overburdened people, and Karl would have liked to believe that the head porter, so far as he knew him, had weaseled his way out of these positions over the course of his career. These two information liaisons – you wouldn’t believe it if you had seen it from the outside – had at least ten inquiring faces in front of them at all times. A muddle of languages was often exchanged behind these ten questioners, as if someone from each country was represented there. People were always asking simultaneously, always talking over one another. Most of them wanted either to fetch something from the porter’s lodge to deliver something there, so you always saw impatient, waving hands rising up out of the crowd. At one point someone wanted a newspaper, which was suddenly unfolded and for a moment covered all the faces. The two under-porters had to face all this. Plain conversation would not have been enough for their problems, they chattered, especially one of them, a gloomy man whose entire face was surrounded by a dark beard, he gave out information without the slightest interruption. He looked neither at the tabletop, where he constantly performed some odd task, nor at the face of this or that interrogator, but instead stared straight head, just to save his strength and collect himself. The beard generally got in the way of comprehending what he said, and Karl could pick up very little of what he said, which might have been in a foreign language in spite of its English tone. In addition, it was disarming how one piece of information was added to another so that they bled into each other, and often a questioner listened with a strained expression, since he believed his problem was still being dealt with, only to notice after a short while that it had already been dealt with. You had to get used to the fact that the under-porters never asked anyone to repeat a question, even if it was generally understandable and only a little unclear, a barely noticeable shaking of the head indicated that he had no intention of answering this question and it was the business of the questioner to recognize his mistake and formulate a better question. Because of this, a lot of people stood in front of the counter for a very long time. To help the under-porters, each was assigned an errand boy, who would bring everything the under-porters required in hasty runs to bookcases or various boxes. This was the best paid position for young people, if also the most strenuous, in a certain sense they were bothered more than the under-porters, because the porters only had to think and to speak, while these young people had to simultaneously think and run. If they brought something incorrect, the under-porter naturally couldn’t stop hurrying to give them longer instructions, he simply swept off with a jerk whatever they had lain on the table. An interesting episode was the changing of the under-porters, which took place just shortly after Karl entered. This switching had to take place many times over the course of a day, because there was barely a person who could have held up longer than one hour behind the counter. At changing-time a bell rung and two under-porters walked out of a side door in a row, each followed by his errand boy. They lined up idly by the counter and contemplated the people outside for a short while, so they could determine the state of all the answering at the moment. It seemed to them then that the moment had come for them to intervene, they tapped the relieved under-porters on the shoulders, who, although they weren’t concerned with what was going on behind their backs, immediately understood and left their positions. The whole thing went so quickly that it often surprised the people outside and they drew back out of fright at the face suddenly emerging before them. The two free men stretched themselves and washed their steaming heads in two wash basins waiting for them, but the relieved boys weren’t allowed to stretch just yet, since they had something to do for awhile, picking up the objects that had been thrown around the room when they’d been working and laying them in their places. Karl had taken up everything with the most strenuous attentiveness in a few moments, and with a light headache he quietly followed the head porter who continued in front of him. The head porter had observed the large impression this kind of information-giving had made on Karl, and he snatched Karl’s hand and said: “See, this is how you work here.” Karl had not lazed about here in the hotel, but he had no idea of this kind of work and almost completely forgot that the head porter was his great enemy, he looked at him and nodded in silence, acknowledging with the motion of his head. To the head porter, though, that seemed to be an overestimation of the under-porters and maybe an insult to his person, so, as if he were joking with Karl, he yelled without worrying that everyone would hear: “Of course, this here is the stupidest work in the hotel; if you listened for an hour, you’d know all the questions that were posed and the rest don’t have to be answered. If you weren’t so impudent and wicked, if you hadn’t lain about, bummed around, drank and stole, I might have been able to put you at a window, because I only need blockheads for that.” Karl completely failed to hear the abuse insofar as it concerned him, because he was so incensed that the honorable and difficult work of the under-porter, instead of being recognized, was being derided by a man who, if he would have to sit at such a counter just once, would have had to run off after a few minutes under the laughter of the interrogators. “Let me go,” said Karl, his curiosity over the porter’s lodge was more than satisfied. “I want nothing more to do with you.” “That’s not enough to get out of it,” said the head porter, squeezing Karl’s arms so they couldn’t move at all and virtually carrying him to the end of the porter’s lodge. Couldn’t the people outside see this violent act of the head porter? Or if they saw it, how did they interpret it, so that no one even knocked on the windows just to show the head porter that he was being watched and was not allowed to carry on with Karl at his own discretion.

The Metamorphosis - Part One

Thu, 27 Oct 2005 14:52:53 +0000

translated by Alexandros Kypriotis

Ι#

Όταν ο Γκρέγκορ Ζάμσα ξυπνούσε ένα πρωί από ανήσυχα όνειρα, βρέθηκε στο κρεβάτι του μεταμορφωμένος σ’ ένα τεράστιο παράσιτο. Ήτανε ξαπλωμένος με τη ράχη του σκληρή σαν όστρακο κι έβλεπε, όποτε σήκωνε λίγο το κεφάλι, την τουρλωτή, καφετιά, χωρισμένη από τοξοειδείς σκληρύνσεις κοιλιά του, που στην κορφή της η κουβέρτα, έτοιμη να γλιστρήσει και να πέσει εντελώς, δεν μπορούσε να κρατηθεί άλλο. Τα πολλά, σε σύγκριση με το υπόλοιπο μέγεθός του αξιοθρήνητα λεπτά του πόδια τρεμοπαίζανε ανήμπορα μπροστά στα μάτια του.

Das Tier der Synagoge. Über Tiere und Assimilation bei Kafka

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 11:57:35 +0000

Barbara Di Noi, Parma, Italy

Es wurde schon oft vermerkt, wie eng Tier-Motiv und Judentum bei Kafka zueinander gehören, ja unzertrennlich verflochten sind: Es hat also den Anschein, als hätte er auf seine Tiergeschichten das Thema der eigenen jüdischen Abstammung und der damit zusammenhängenden Assimilation gleichsam in chiffrierter, indirekter Form übertragen wollen. Freilich kommen Tiere sowohl in den fragmentarischen Notizen wie auch in ausführlicher Form in den zum Druck bestimmten Texten immer wieder. Das ist der Fall besonders in der zwischen 1920 und dem Tod entstandenen Produktion. So nimmt etwa Josefine oder das Volk der Mäuse einen zwischen Parodie und Gleichnis schillernden Bezug auf die Problematik des Mauschelns. Ebenso wichtig erscheint das mehrschichtige Thema von Judentum und Assimilation in einem unbetitelten erzählerischen Fragment, das zum sogenannten «Hungerkünstler-Heft« gehört und nach Ende Mai 1920 geschrieben wurde. 1 Im Unterschied zu anderen Tierfragmenten wie etwa Kleine Fabel (Konvolut 1920) erreicht er einen gewissen Umfang, obwohl er sich zwischen dem regelrechten Status des in sich vollendeten Textes und dem regelrechten Fragment auf der Kippe hält. Eben die schwingende Bewegung scheint zu den tiefsten und eigentümlichen Zügen zu zählen, wodurch sich das Tier der Synagoge auszeichnet. Das Tier – und zugleich der Text – schwankt ständig zwischen Territorialisierung und Deterritorialisierung und dürfte wohl dadurch Kafkas Bedenken angesicht der zeitgenössischen Aufschwung zionistischer Tendenzen zum Ausdruck bringen. In diesem rätselhaften Tier, das in der Synagoge ansäßig, ihr aber zugleich fremd ist, kündigt sich jene widersprüchliche Geste an, die sich völlig in Josefine die Sängerin (1922) 1 Vgl . KKA NIIApp. 110. 2 entfalten sollte. Das Tier der Synagoge ist eben in der Synagoge ansäßig; sein Dasein ist aber alles andere als gesichert. Das Tier lebt fast dauernd in Angst und ist zugleich angsteinflößend. Es gehört zur Synagoge, fast als wäre es mit deren Architektur verwachsen und doch scheint es immer auf dem Punkt, sie zu verlassen und die Flucht zu ergreifen. Einerseits könnte es das tiefste Inbegriff des Judentums verkörpern; andererseits ist es immer wieder vom „Lärm“ des Gebets erschrocken. II Das Tier der Synagoge ist kein Mischwesen, wie das hybride Geschöpf der Kreuzung; es ist jedoch auch weder Allegorie noch ein symbolisches Tier. Und es ist auch kein zoologisch nachweisbares Wesen. Zwar scheint es zur Art der Nagetieren zu gehören, etwa wie der grabende Protagonist von Kafkas letztem Text (Der Bau), oder wie die Ratten der Erinnerung an die Kaldabahn. Aber sein Wesen wie sein körperliches Aussehen scheint im Vergleich zu den Tieren genannter Texten noch unfassbarer und geheimnisvoller, ja rätselhafter zu sein. Eigentlich werden alle Tiergestalten Kafkas der tiefsten Natur des Gleichnisses gerecht, die eben in der Erkenntnis besteht, dass „das Unfaßbare unfaßbar ist und das haben wir gewußt“. 2 Es ist vielleicht überspitzt, wenn Deleuze/Guattari behaupten, alle Erzählungen Kafkas seien Tiergeschichten. Es ist jedoch wahr, dass alle Kafkas Tiergeschichten parabolischen Charakter besitzen. Eben das Parabolische hat wohl mit der sprachlichen Strategie zu tun, die wir als ständige Umkehrung jeder Aussage bezeichnen dürfen. Jede Aussage kippt in ihren Gegensatz um, ja jede nur anscheinend eindeutige Bedeutung schlägt sich in ihre Antithese über. Das hat jedoch keine regelrechte Zweideutigkeit, sondern eher eine Kippfigur zur Folge, die sich ständig zwischen Ansässigkeit, Stabilität und Flucht, Wanderung schwingt. Das erste vom Text gelieferte Merkmal betrifft die Größe des Tiers. Das Tier, das in „unserem“ Synagoge lebt, gleicht „in der Größe etwa eines Marders“. Also kein Marder, aber dem Marder ähnlich nur was die Größe angeht. Hier fängt vom Gesichtspunkt eines namenlosen, vom außen kommentierenden Mitglieds der jüdischen Gemeinschaft ein Annäherungsversuch an, der jedoch wie fast alles in diesem Text in sich widersprüchlich ist: Dem Tier kann man sich annähern, aber „bis auf eine Entfernung von etwa zwei Metern“. Nur in dieser Entfernung „duldet es das Herankommen“. 3 Eine ähnliche Dialektik von Neugier und Schrecken, von Schaulust und Blickaskese bestimmt die Haltung des Tiers den Menschen gegenüber. Die Menschen, zu der es eigentlich die engste Beziehung hat, sind die Frauen und „sein Lieblingsaufenthalt ist das Gitter der Frauenabteilung“. 4 Das Tier ist also eigentlich als Figur der Grenze zu bezeichnen. Frauen sind überhaupt als Figuren der Liminalität ständig am Rand von Kafkas Texten angesiedelt. Sie entstehen nämlich am Rand oder an der „Falte“ des Blattes. Wie die meisten Frauen oder Weiber Kafkas ist auch das Tier eine Figur der Antinomie, es steht als Darstellung für das, was die Schwelle nicht überschreitet, was also nicht dargestellt werden kann. Eben in seiner Undarstellbarkeit nimmt das Tier der Synagoge zugleich an Judentum und Schreiben teil. Seine Negativität und Undarstellbarkeit sind schon von den ersten Zeilen des Textes ersichtlich: Noch niemand hat das Fell des Tiers berührt (das Tier ist also 2 KKA NII, 131. 3 KKA NII, 405. 4 KKA NII, 406. 3 unberührbar, was es zu einer hermetischen und sakralen Dimension erhebt). Auch die wirkliche Farbe des Fells ist unbekannt und vielleicht stammt eben diese Farbe nur aus demselben Baumaterial der Synagoge. Also wie gesagt, das Tier ist nicht nur in der Synagoge ansäßig, sondern ist in deren Architektur eingebettet. Darin ähnelt es einem Vexierbild, das mal sich vom Hintergrund nicht unterscheiden lässt, mal aber von diesem plötzlich abhebt. Nur angesichts der Frauen scheint das rätselhafte Tier eine deutliche Reaktion zu haben: „mit sichtbarem Behagen krallt es sich in die Maschen des Gitters“. 5 „Krallen“ evoziert als Verb zugleich das Bild von entstellten menschlichen Händen, wie etwa im mythologischen Text Das Schweigen der Sirenen. Die Entstellung der Hand kommt jedoch bei Kafka vor allem in Verbindung mit dem Akt des Schreibens vor, was diesen Krallen ausgesprochen poetologische Bedeutung verleiht; das geht ganz deutlich aus einem Fragment hervor, 6 dem eben die Stelle über die „Magd vom Berg“ vorangeht: Traurig lief des Alten Magd vom Berg, trug den Korb mit Äpfeln voll beladen 7 Eben diese Frauengestalt markiert nach Sabine Gölz jene Grenzzone, 8 an der auch das Tier der Synagoge anzusiedeln ist. Wie bei der Äpfel tragenden Magd hebt sich der Kopf des Tiers mit einer vertikalen Linie sacht von der Schriftoberfläche des Blattes: Der Kopf bildet nämlich den Schwerpunkt des Tiers, das sonst nur aus der horizontalen Fläche des beschriebenen Körpers besteht. Der Kopf des Tieres wird aufrecht getragen, eben wie in der darauffolgenden Notiz: Ich habe meinen Verstand in die Hand vergraben […] aufrecht trage ich den Kopf, aber die Hand hängt müde hinab, der Verstand zieht sie zur Erde. Anders als dieses Ich scheint über das Tier keine Schwerkraft zu walten: „niemand hat es noch auf dem Fußboden gesehen“. 9 Es gehört zum Paradox seiner Natur, dass die Teile seines Körpers untereinander zu streiten scheinen. Es sind besonders die Zähne, die „fast wagrecht“ vorstehen. Das Aussehen seines Körpers wirkt nicht gerade beruhigend, so klingt ziemlich ironisch, wenn gesagt wird, dass das Schrecken nur scheinbar ist: Es sieht allerdings beim ersten Anblick erschreckend aus, besonders der lange Hals, das dreikantige Gesicht, die fast wagrecht vorstehenden Oberzähne, über der Oberlippe eine Reihe langer die Zähne überragender, offenbar ganz harter heller Borstenhaare, das alles kann erschrecken, aber bald muß man erkennen, wie ungefährlich dieser ganze scheinbare Schrecken ist. 10 5 KKA NII, 406. 6 KKA NII, 514: „Ich habe meinen Verstand in die Hand vergraben, gfröhlich, aufrecht trage ich den Kopf, aber die Hand hängt müde hinab, der Verstand zieht sie zur Erde. Sieh nur die kleine, harthuautige, aderndurchzogene, faltenzerrissene, hochädrige, fünffingrige Hand…“ 7 KKA Ni 514 8 S. Gölz, Wenn Ich zu K. geht…., S. 356. 9 KKA N II 407. 10 KKA N II 406. 4 Eigentlich verleiht ihm der lange Hals und das dreikantige Gesicht den Anschein einer Schlange. Die Schlange, liest man in einem Zürauer Fragment, war das erste Haustier Adams (wahrscheinlich nach der Vertreibung aus dem Paradies). Auch das Tier wird als „Haustier der Synagoge“ bezeichnet. III Obwohl in der Synagoge ansäßig, ist das Tier scheuer als ein Waldtier und durch eine unerlässliche Beweglichkeit charakterisiert. Es kann nirgendwo Ruhe finden; ihm haften die Unruhe und die Not des ewigen Juden an. Wie der Jäger Gracchus ist das Tier der Synagoge weder tot noch wirklich lebendig. Es gehört nämlich zu einer anderen Zeitdimension als die sterblichen Menschen: die Dauer seines Lebens umfasst sogar drei Generationen und es wird selbst das Ende der Synagoge überleben, die bald zu einem Getreidespeicher werden könnte. Übrigens wird auch die Gemeinde, die es mit dem Lärm des Gebetes erschreckt, von Jahr zu Jahr kleiner. Während also alles um das Tier herum von einem unaufhaltsamen Verfall ergriffen ist, scheint das Tier selbst ewig und zeitenthoben durchzuhalten. Mit dieser Unwandelbarkeit verbindet sich die akrobatische Fertigkeit des Tiers, eine Art Lust am klettern, die es in die Nähe der Lufthunde der Forschungen eines Hundes rückt. Der Sprung charakterisiert seine Beweglichkeit am besten. Zum Sprung und Klettern ist jedoch das Tier von außen her gezwungen: Man lässt es nämlich nicht zum Gitter der Frauenabteilung, so hält es sich auf dem schmalen Mauervorsprung der gegenüberliegenden Wand auf. Dieser Mauervorsprung entspricht architektonisch genau derjenigen Bewegung der Umkehrung und Umwendung, die typisch für das Tier ist. Am schmalen Weg des Vorsprungs entlang schreitet nämlich das Tier und wendet wieder, wenn er „am Ende“ angekommen ist. Der schmale Weg am Vorsprung erinnert nämlich an die Zeile oder Grenze der Schrift, von der Kafka in den Tagebüchern vom August 1914 schrieb: Kalt und leer. Ich fühle allzusehr die Grenzen meiner Fähigkeit, die, wenn ich nicht vollkommen ergriffen bin, zweifellos nur eng gezogen sind. Und ich glaube selbst im Ergriffensein nur in diese engen Grenzen gezogen zu werden , die ich dann allerdings nicht fühle, da ich gezogen werde. Trotzdem ist in diesen Grenzen Raum zum Leben, und dafür werde ich sie wohl bis zur Verächtlichkeit ausnützen. Die Wende des Tiers entspricht jener Umkehrung des Blicks, die sich im Übergang vom Schreiben zum Gelesenwerden vollzieht. Das Tier vollzieht diese Wendung in der Luft, und die Wendung gelingt ihm immer, obwohl das Tier schon sehr alt ist. Das Tier ist für die Frauen ein „willkommener Vorwand“: das heißt sie lassen sich gerne von seiner Ansicht vom Beten ablenken. Nur wenn sie mehr mit dem Beten beschäftigt wären, könnten sie das Tier „völlig vergessen“. Kafka deutet hier eine weitere Antithese an, und zwar die zwischen dem Beten und der Betrachtung des Tiers. Nur die Frauen, die wirklich fromm beten, lassen sich vom Tier nicht verlocken oder gar verführen. Die anderen würden hingegen das Tier noch näher zu sich locken, „um noch mehr erschrecken zu dürfen“. Mit diesem Schrecken 5 hat es doch ein ganz besonderes Bewandtnis, als wäre es noch jetzt mit der Versuchung der Schlange und dem Verlust des Paradieses verbunden. IV Typisch für das Tier der Synagoge ist die Fertigkeit, mit der es am schmalen, kaum zwei Finger breiten Mauervorsprung entlang laufen kann, um dann, „am Ende angekommen“, wieder zu wenden; Die körperlichen Beweglichkeit des Tiers gleicht der Geste einer schreibenden Hand, hat etwas Strophisches an sich: wie die Strophé oder die Schriftzeile läuft das Tier in einer Richtung, um dann wieder mit einer Umkehrung zum Ursprung, das heißt zum Anfangspunkt zurückzukommen. Aber das Tier ist zugleich Figur der Katastrophé, also Figur des Endes, vielleicht sogar des „am Ende angekommenen“ Judentums. Das Tier ist also nicht nur eine Figur der Liminalität, sondern auch eine des Endes. Als solche verkörpert das Tier das Schreiben und das durch die Assimilation am Ende angekommene Judentum. Das Tier ist altertümlich und zugleich künftig: seine Zeit wird erst kommen, wenn alles aufgehört hat zu enden. Ihm haftet anders gesagt eine messianische Natur an. Das Ich möchte das erschrockene Tier damit trösten, dass die Gemeinde des Städtchens immer kleiner und bald auch die Synagoge nicht mehr existieren wird. An ihrer Stelle wird ein Getreidespeicher entstehen, wo das Tier seine Ruhe bekommen kann. Es ist jedoch unmöglich, das Tier zu trösten, und zwar aus dem Grund, dass es die Sprache der Gemeinschaft weder spricht noch versteht. Am liebsten hat das Tier Ruhe und Stille. Aber das widerspricht wiederum der zum Gebet bestimmten Synagoge. Der Umstand nämlich, dass ihm Ruhe und Stille ungemein wichtig sind, sodass der Lärm seine Existenz sogar bedroht, rückt es in die Nähe eines anderen Tier, des ebenfalls zoologisch schwer zu bestimmenden Tiers von Der Bau: Das schönste an meinem Bau ist aber seine Stille, freilich ist sie trügerisch, plötzlich einmal kann sie unterbrochen werden und alles ist zu Ende, vorläufig aber ist sie noch da, stundenlang kann ich durch meine Gänge schleichen und höre nichts als manchmal das Rascheln irgendeines Kleintiers, das ich dann gleich zwischen meinen Zähne auch zur Ruhe bringe […] sonst ist es still. Die Waldluft weht herein, es ist gleichzeitig warm und kühl, manchmal strecke ich mich aus und drehe mich in dem Gang rundum […] 11 Zwischen beiden Tieren lassen sich sowohl Unterschiede als auch Ähnlichkeiten feststellen. Bei beiden verweist die Liebe zur Ruhe und Stille, wie auch die Tendenz zur kreisförmigen Bewegung auf die Struktur des Narzissmus, die dem Akt des Schreibens zugrunde liegt. 12 Die Stille stellt im Gegensatz zum Lärm der in einer Gemeinschaft 11 Erzählungen 12 Walter H. Sokel, Narzißmus, Magie und die Funktion des Erzählens in Kafkas Beschreibung eines Kampfes, in Der junge Kafka, hrsg. von Gerhard Kurz, S. 135. Mit Bezug auf die zirkuläre Struktur jedes einzelnen Abschnitts von Kafkas Erstling Beschreibung eines Kampfes, vermerkt 6 lebenden Menschen das Element des Schreibenden dar: Die Buchstaben der Schrift sind eben stumm; ein weiterer Berührungspunkt zwischen dem bauenden und grabenden Tier von Der Bau und dem Tier der Synagoge ist eine besonders enge Beziehung zu ihren jeweiligen Architekturen: Das Tier von Der Bau identifiziert sich mit dem unterirdischen Gebäude, das eigentlich aus einem Labyrinth und verschiedenen Burg-Plätzen besteht, wo er seine Vorräte versammelt hat. Die Synagoge des anderen Tiers scheint zwar keine Lebensmittel zu enthalten, es wird jedoch gesagt, dass sie bald zu einem Getreidespeicher umgewandelt werden könnte. Beide Tiere stellen schließlich Betrachtungen an, aber beide sind zugleich furchtsam und scheu: Furcht und Neugier charakterisieren nämlich ihr Verhältnis zu der Außenwelt. Ab und zu verschwindet das Tier der Synagoge „offenbar in irgendeinem Mauerloch, das wir noch nicht entdeckt haben“. Ähnliches gilt für das Tier von Der Bau; der Bau insgesamt, also das Werk, das er durch das Hämmern mit der Stirn erschaffen hat, 13 sieht von außen her nur wie ein großes Loch aus: Ich habe den Bau eingerichtet und es scheint wohlgelungen. Von außen ist eigentlich nur ein großes Loch sichtbar, dieses führt aber in Wirklichkeit nirgends hin […] 14 Schon aus diesem Zitat, das eigentlich das incipit der Erzählung ist, gehen deutlich Ähnlichkeiten und Unterschiede mit dem Tier der Synagoge hervor: Beide Texte drehen sich um Nichtigkeit und Negation: Der Bau, der von außen wie ein Loch, also wie das Produkt des Grabens aussieht, führt in Wirklichkeit nirgends hin. Bei dem Tier der Synagoge wird die Negation dadurch in den Mittelpunkt gerückt, dass jeder Satz wie bereits erwähnt sich in seinen Gegensatz überschlägt. Während das Element des grabenden Tiers in Der Bau die Erde und die Tiefe ist, ist das Tier der Synagoge eigentlich in der Luft zu Hause. Immer wieder wird seine akrobatische Fertigkeit unterstrichen. Obwohl es schon „ein sehr altes Tier ist […] zögert nicht den gewagtesten Luftsprung zu machen, der auch niemals mißlingt, in der Luft hat es sich umgedreht und schon läuft es wieder seinen Weg zurück“. 15 Freilich ist die Luft auch das Element der Lufthunde, die dem jungen Hund der späten Erzählung Forschungen eines Hundes einmal wie eine überirdische Offenbarung entgegenkamen. Aber die Luft ist eigentlich das Element des Schreibens; die Luft stellt das Bindeglied zwischen der Schrift und der ab- und aufsteigenden Bewegung des Lebens dar. Bei dem Tier der Synagoge stehen Neugier und Angst, Lust am Schauen und Streben nach Verborgenheit nebeneinander. Das Tier möchte alles im Blick halten, ohne angeschaut zu werden. Daraus seine dauernde Suche nach einem Versteck. Auch auf diesem Punkt wiederholt sich die Geste der Richtigstellung, mit der das Gesagte widerrufen und korrigiert wird; es wird zunächst gesagt, dass das Tier sich nach den Frauen sehnt. Es folgt dann die Verneinung dieser Behauptung, die sogar die anfängliche Geschlecherdifferenz wieder aufhebt: Sokel, dass solche Geschehensstruktur genau mit Freuds Begriff des «sekundären Narzißmus« übereinstimmt. 13 Erzählungen, 409: „die Erde mußte dort geradezu festgehämmert werden, um den großen schön gewölbten und gerundeten Platz zu bilden. Für eine solche Arbeit aber habe ich nur die Stirn. Mit der Stirn also bin ich tausend und tausend mal tage- und nächtelang gegen die Erde angerannt […]“ 14 Erzählungen, 465. 15 NSF II, 408. 7 Aber in Wirklichkeit drängt sich ja das Tier gar nicht zu ihnen [den Frauen], es kümmert sich, wenn es nicht angegriffen wird, um sie ebenso wenig wie um die Männer, am liebsten würde es wahrscheinlich in der Verborgenheit bleiben […] offenbar in irgendeinem Mauerloch, das wir noch nicht entdeckt haben. Erst wenn man zu beten anfängt, erscheint es, erschreckt durch den Lärm, will es sehn, was geschehen ist, will es wachsam bleiben, will es frei sein, fähig zur Flucht, vor Angst läuft es hervor, aus Angst macht es seine Kapriolen und wagt sich nicht zurückzuziehen, bis der Gottesdienst zu Ende ist. 16 In einem Brief an Max Brod aus dem Jahr 1922 bezeichnete Kafka sein Schreiben als „Lohn für Teufelsdienst“; es sei aus einem „Hinabgehen zu den dunklen Mächten“ hervorgegangen; an anderen Stellen brachte er das Schreiben sogar in Verbindung mit der Magie, indem er auf eine jüdisch-christliche Tradition Bezug nahm. Kafka hat das Schreiben mit den entgegengesetzten Dimensionen der Tiefe und Verborgenheit und der Exhibition, des Sich- Zeigens verbunden. Das Rettungsloch, von dem das Tier in Der Bau seine Betrachtungen anstellt, entspricht dem Loch einer wichtigen Notiz, die aus dem Jahr 1920 stammt und das Wesen des schriftstellerischen Berufs hinterfragt: Es ist ein Mandat. Ich kann meiner Natur nach nur ein Mandat übernehmen, das niemand mir gegeben hat. In diesem Widerspruch, immer nur in einem Widerspruch kann ich leben. Aber wohl jeder, denn lebend stirbt man, sterbend lebt man. So wie z B der Cirkus von einer Leinwand umspannt ist, also niemand, der nicht innerhalb der Leinwand ist, etwas sehen kann. Nun findet aber jemand ein kleines Loch in der Leinwand und kann doch von außen zusehn. 17 Diese Situation von gleichzeitiger Zugehörigkeit und Entfremdung spiegelt die Einstellung des Tiers unseres Texts wider, das sich zwischen Neugier und Angst vor einer hypothetischen Aggression, zwischen Beteiligung und Fremdheit in der Synagoge schwingt. Die Betstunde in der Synagoge entspricht in dem oben zitierten Fragment dem Brüllen der Wildtiere im Cirkus, in dem nur wer innerhalb der Leinwand ist, etwas sehen kann. Es ist allerdings auch möglich, durch ein Loch und nur für einen Augenblick – den Augenblick, in dem wir leben – von außen etwas zu sehen. Diesem augenblicklichen Anschauen hat jedoch in dem Angeschautwerden sein Gegenstück: Um etwas sehen zu können, und zwar um etwas lesen zu können, muss das Tier aus seinem Versteck oder Rettungsloch herauskommen und ins Freie laufen. Seine Kapriolen geschehen nicht aus Lust, sondern aus und vor Angst. Es ist die Angst des sich auf dem Fluchtweg befindenden Tiers, die die künstlichsten akrobatischen Exhibitionen bestimmt. Darin berührt sich das Schicksal dieses Tiers mit dem vieler Künstler Kafkas, deren Fertigkeit eigentlich aus der Angst und der Unfähigkeit zu leben entstammt. Das tiefste Paradox des Tiers besteht nicht so sehr in seiner Zeitenthobenheit, als vielmehr in der kreisförmigen Struktur seiner Zeitlichkeit, in der das Ende mit dem Anfang 16 Erzählungen, S. 407. 17 NSF II, 320. 8 zusammenfällt. Obwohl das Tier schon seit langem dem Ritual der Synagoge beiwohnt, hat es sich daran keineswegs gewöhnt und hört nicht auf, vor dem Lärm zu schrecken. Ein weiteres Merkmal liegt daran, dass das Tier von der theatralischen Beschaffenheit des jüdischen Rituals angezogen wird; aber auch wenn es die Gemeinde mit seinen blanken Augen anzusehen scheint, sieht es aber gewiß niemanden an. In diesem Motiv der „blanken, immer offenen, vielleicht lidlosen Augen“ des Tieres kann man eine Anspielung auf jenes unaufhörliches Anschauen erkennen, von dem Kafka an einer durchgestrichenen Stelle seines letzten Romans Das Schloß spricht: Hat man die Kraft die Dinge unaufhörlich, gewissermassen ohne Augenschliessen anzusehn, sieht man vieles, lässt man aber nur einmal nach und schliesst die Augen verläuft sich alles im Dunkel. 18 Die lidlosen Augen des Tiers von der Synagoge wären vielleicht auf Kleist zurückzuführen, einen deutschen und preußischen Schriftsteller, den Kafka für eigenen Blutsverwandten hielt. Das Tier von der Synagoge ließe sich wohl aufgrund seiner seltsamen Ähnlichkeit mit der Schlange mit der Idee der Sünde und der Vertreibung aus dem Paradies verbinden. Zugleich wird es jedoch von den Symbolen des jüdischen Rituals und Gottesdienstes angezogen (Kafka benutzt in diesem Zusammnehang das Verb „locken“, das wie das verwandte „verlocken“ die Idee von Ablenkung und Verführung beschwört: […] manchmal steigt es auch tief zu den Männern hinab, der Vorhang der Bundeslade wird von einer glänzenden Messingstange getragen, die scheint das Tier zu locken, oft genug schleicht es hin, dort aber sitzt es immer ruhig, nicht einmal wenn es knapp bei der Bundeslade ist, kann man sagen daß es dort stört, mit seinen blanken, immer offenen, vielleicht lidlosen Augen scheint es die Gemeinde anzusehen, sieht aber gewiß niemanden an, sondern blickt nur den Gefahren entgegen, von denen es sich bedroht fühlt. 19 Der Text setzt sein sprachliches Spiel von Rechtfertigung, Widerrufen und Verneinung der Negation fort: die kommentierende Stimme verneint zunächst, dass das Tier von irgend einer Gefahr bedroht ist. Dann wird jedoch schließlich gesagt, dass das Tier nicht ganz sicher in der Synagoge lebt: Man versuchte „vor vielen Jahren“ das Tier von der Synagoge zu vertreiben. Das ist jedoch wiederum nicht ganz sicher, vielleicht handelt es sich „um erfundene Geschichten“. Es ist wohl möglich, dass hier die Krankheit und Unsicherheit der Tradition parodiert wird. Auf dem Punkt, ob das Tier im Gotteshaus bleiben dürfe, waren die Meinungen geteilt. In Wirklichkeit war es unmöglich, es zu vertreiben. Kafkas Parodie über katastrophische Wahrsagungen, die dem Judentum einen nahen Tod prophezeien, ist durch tiefe Zweideutigkeit geprägt: Die Parodie wendet sich zugleich gegen das Judentum, das genau wie das Tier uralt, tot und immer lebendig zugleich ist. Diese Kontinuität und unaufhörliches Dasein des Tiers fällt eigentlich mit dem Charakteristischen dieser Welt zusammen, von dem Kafka in einem Zürauer Fragment geschrieben hatte: 18 Das Schloß, App. 276. 19 NSF II, 409. 9 Das entscheidend Charakteristische dieser Welt ist ihre Vergänglichkeit. In diesem Sinn haben Jahrhunderte nichts vor dem augenblicklichen Augenblick voraus. Die Kontinuität der Vergänglichkeit kann also keinen Trost geben; daß neues Leben aus den Ruinen blüht beweist weniger die Ausdauer des Lebens als des Todes. 20

Der Onkel / Leni

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:35:49 +0000

Eines Nachmittags – K. war gerade vor dem Postabschluß sehr beschäftigt – drängte sich zwischen zwei Dienern, die Schriftstücke hereintrugen K.’s Onkel Karl, ein kleiner Grundbesitzer vom Lande, ins Zimmer. K. erschrak bei dem Anblick weniger, als er schon vor längerer Zeit bei der Vorstellung vom Kommen des Onkels erschrocken war. Der Onkel mußte kommen, das stand bei K. schon etwa einen Monat lang fest. Schon damals hatte er ihn zu sehen geglaubt, wie er ein wenig gebückt, den eingedrückten Panamahut in der Linken die Rechte schon von weitem ihm entgegenstreckte und sie mit rücksichtsloser Eile über den Schreibtisch hin reichte, alles umstoßend, was ihm im Wege war. Der Onkel befand sich immer in Eile, denn er war von dem unglücklichen Gedanken verfolgt, bei seinem immer nur eintägigen Aufenthalt in der Hauptstadt müsse er alles erledigen können, was er sich vorgenommen hatte und dürfe überdies auch kein gelegentlich sich darbietendes Gespräch oder Geschäft oder Vergnügen sich entgehen lassen. Dabei mußte ihm K., der ihm als seinem gewesenen Vormund besonders verpflichtet war, in allem möglichen behilflich sein und ihn außerdem bei sich übernachten lassen. “Das Gespenst vom Lande” pflegte er ihn zu nennen.

François Taillandier legge Il Processo di Kafka

Thu, 31 Jan 2008 14:00:52 +0000

François Taillandier legge Il processo di Franz Kafka

Ed. Metauro, Piccola Biblioteca del Romanzo, pp. 39, 7.50 euro

Lo strano fascino di questo romanzo sta proprio nel suggerire tutti i livelli di senso possibili senza lasciarsi ridurre ad alcuno. Noi percepiamo in tutta evidenza il suo rapporto con la storia del XX secolo, con l’interrogazione metafisica ed esistenziale, coi tormenti segreti della psiche: ci rimanda ad essi, ma rimane nell’ombra. Così come non spiega il mondo che mi circonda, Il processo non si lascia spiegare da esso.

A Fragment from the "Letter to the Father"

Sun, 24 Apr 2005 16:00:36 +0000

Translated into Greek by Alexandros Kypriotis

Σέλεζεν

Πολυαγαπημένε πατέρα,

πρόσφατα με ρώτησες κάποια φορά γιατί ισχυρίζομαι πως σε φοβάμαι. Εγώ δεν ήξερα, ως συνήθως, τι να σου απαντήσω, εν μέρει ακριβώς λόγω του φόβου που νιώθω για σένα, εν μέρει επειδή στην αιτιολόγηση του φόβου αυτού συγκαταλέγονται πάρα πολλές λεπτομέρειες, που εν τη ρύμη του λόγου εγώ ούτε κατά το ήμισυ δεν θα μπορούσα να τις συγκρατήσω. Κι αν εδώ προσπαθώ να σου απαντήσω γραπτώς, μόνο ανολοκλήρωτο κατά πολύ θα αποβεί και τούτο, επειδή και κατά τη γραφή ο φόβος και οι συνέπειές του με κωλύουν έναντί σου κι επειδή το μέγεθος του υλικού εν γένει υπερβαίνει κατά πολύ τη μνήμη μου και το λογικό μου.

«Der Nachbar»: a paper about a translation

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 10:02:05 +0000

by Tanya Ellerbrock

“Der Nachbar” is a short story written by Franz Kafka in February 1917. The story is narrated by a man who owns a business and rents an apartment in an apartment building. The narrator had considered renting the neighboring apartment, however, it has recently been taken by a man named Harras. As with Kafka’s other works, this piece is more than appears on the surface. It builds on the narrator’s paranoia over having another person, who he knows virtually nothing about, in such close quarters. The narrator starts by wondering idly about the young man who has rented the apartment. By the end he is convinced that not only is Harras eavesdropping on his phone conversations, but that he is running all over the city telling other people about them (http//www.kafka.org/transl/english/neighbour.htm).

Philipp Lundberg: Essential Kafka

Fri, 26 Oct 2007 21:32:43 +0000

Phillip Lundberg

Essential Kafka: Rendezvous with ‘otherness’. Five Stories by Franz Kafka

This translation of Kafka has a dual purpose, for starters it intends to provide English readers with a better translation: that Kafka’s prose should find a more fitting analogy in ‘modern (American) English’ whereby it should come to life to a greater degree, and that his underlying philosophy—and I say philosophy in the greater sense—thus, should be grasped more readily. The second purpose is to explore issues regarding translation per se: what is the proper role of the translator? and why are so many translations done so poorly? The five stories included in this book have been carefully selected to present Kafka’s literary genius in its historical genesis: from Metamorphosis (1915), Report to the Academy (1917), In the Penal Colony (1919), The Burrow (1923/24) - to Kafka’s “last word” Josephine the Songstress or The Mouse Folk which was written shortly before Kafka’s death in 1924.

A DEVIL WHO WRITES TO BE LIVED: CREATIVE PERCEPTION AS EXISTENTIAL ENDURANCE--A READING OF KAFKA’S PARADOXICAL PARABLES

Fri, 30 Sep 2005 16:12:57 +0000

by Chuck Richardson

Parables and Paradoxes, Bi-lingual Edition, by Franz Kafka, Schocken Books, New York, 1958.

The Great Short Works of Franz Kafka: A New Translation by Joachim Neugroschel, Scribner Paperback Fiction, 1995.

And, how does it work, exactly—this book that takes us into hell? William H. Gass, Fiction and the Figures of Life 1

Criticism is the highest form of autobiography. Oscar Wilde 2

A belief like a guillotine – as heavy as light. Franz Kafka 3

A Letter to Oskar Pollak (27.01.1904)

Thu, 17 Feb 2005 17:42:04 +0000

Translated into Greek by Alexandros Kypriotis

[27 Ιανουαρίου 1904]

Αγαπητέ Όσκαρ!

Μου έγραψες μιαν ωραία επιστολή, η οποία ήθελε ή ν’ απαντηθεί σύντομα ή καθόλου, και τώρα έχουνε περάσει δεκατέσσερεις ημέρες από τότε, χωρίς εγώ να σου έχω γράψει, τούτο θα ήταν αυτό καθεαυτό ασυγχώρητο, αλλά είχα τους λόγους μου. Πρώτον ήθελα να σου γράψω μόνο πράγματα που θα τα έχω σκεφθεί καλά, επειδή η απάντηση σ’ αυτή την επιστολή μού φαινότανε σημαντικότερη από κάθε άλλη προηγούμενη επιστολή σ’ εσένα – (δυστυχώς αυτό δεν συνέβη)· και δεύτερον διάβαζα τα ημερολόγια του Χέμπελ (1800 σελίδες) απνευστί, ενώ παλαιότερα τσιμπολογούσα μόνο μικρά κομματάκια, τα οποία μου φαίνονταν εντελώς άνοστα. Εν τούτοις το άρχισα ως σύνολο, εντελώς σαν παιγνίδι αρχικά, μέχρι που τελικά όμως ένιωσα σαν άνθρωπος των σπηλαίων, που πρώτα κυλάει γι’ αστείο και για πολλή ώρα έναν ογκόλιθο μπροστά στην είσοδο της σπηλιάς του, ύστερα όμως, όταν ο ογκόλιθος σκοτεινιάζει τη σπηλιά και κόβει τον αέρα, αδιόρατα τρομάζει και με αξιοπερίεργο ζήλο κοιτάζει να βγάλει την πέτρα σπρώχνοντάς την. Αυτή όμως τώρα έχει γίνει δέκα φορές πιο βαρειά κι ο άνθρωπος πρέπει με φόβο να βάλει όλες του τις δυνάμεις, προτού μπει πάλι φως και αέρας. Το ίδιο κι εγώ δεν μπορούσα να πάρω φτερό στο χέρι μου αυτές τις ημέρες, διότι όταν αγναντεύει κανείς μια τέτοια ζωή, που χωρίς κενό ανυψώνεται ολοένα και πιο ψηλά, τόσο ψηλά που ο άλλος ούτε με τα τηλεσκόπιά του δεν τη φθάνει, τότε η συνείδηση δεν μπορεί να βρει ηρεμία. Αλλά κάμνει καλό, όταν η συνείδηση αποκτά φαρδιές λαβωματιές, διότι μ’ αυτές γίνεται πιο ευαίσθητη για κάθε δαγκωματιά. Εγώ πιστεύω ότι θα έπρεπε κανείς μόνο τέτοια βιβλία εν γένει να διαβάζει, που τον δαγκώνουνε και τον κεντάνε. Αν το βιβλίο που διαβάζουμε δεν μας ξυπνά μ’ ένα χτύπημα γροθιάς στο κρανίο, για ποιον λόγο διαβάζουμε τότε το βιβλίο; Για να μας κάμει ευτυχείς, όπως γράφεις; Θεέ μου, ευτυχείς θα ήμαστε ακόμη κι αν δεν είχαμε καθόλου βιβλία, και τέτοια βιβλία, που θα μας κάμνουν ευτυχείς, θα μπορούσαμε εν ανάγκη να γράψουμε κι οι ίδιοι. Χρειαζόμαστε όμως τα βιβλία που επενεργούν επάνω μας σαν δυστυχία που μας πονάει πολύ, όπως ο θάνατος κάποιου που αγαπήσαμε πιο πολύ απ’ τον εαυτό μας, σαν να ήμαστε διωγμένοι σε δάση, μακριά απ’ όλους τους ανθρώπους, σαν αυτοκτονία, ένα βιβλίο πρέπει να είναι το τσεκούρι για την παγωμένη θάλασσα μέσα μας. Αυτό πιστεύω εγώ.

Letter to the Father, Greek Translation by Alexander Kypriotis

Fri, 19 May 2006 12:36:51 +0000

Alexandros Kypriotis

Franz Kafka: Letter to the Father

First translation into Greek from the original manuscripts.

Στην “Επιστολή προς τον πατέρα” ο Φραντς Κάφκα παρουσιάζεται περισσότερο από ποτέ “… σαν γυμνός ανάμεσα σε ντυμένους”, όπως τον χαρακτήρισε η πρώτη μεταφράστριά του στα Τσεχικά, και αγαπημένη του, Μίλενα Γέσενσκα…

Niels Bokhove & Marijke van Dorst, Einmal ein grosser Zeichner [Franz Kafka pictorial artist]

Fri, 19 May 2006 12:20:34 +0000

A collection of all hitherto known drawings of the author Franz Kafka, edited by Niels Bokhove and Marijke van Dorst. Franz Kafka is famous as a writer, but his original wish to become a draughtsman is almost unknown. This edition brings together the fourty drawings ever here and there published. Each drawing is accompanied with one or more texts (in German), belonging to or matching with it . The volume concludes with an afterword (in Dutch) and copious notes to the drawings. A publication on occasion of the decennial jubilee of the Dutch Franz Kafka Circle. Edition in large size (A4), 99 pp. Restricted printing. Salon Saffier, publisher. Orders to: [Marijke van Dorst](mailto:m.vandorst@inter.nl.net?subject=Einmal ein grosser Zeichner), or: Nachtegaalstraat 55 II, NL-3581 AD Utrecht. Tel./fax +31 30 670 10 20. ISBN 90-807595-1-1. - Price € 18,50 (excl. dispatch costs (package and postage) Europe priority € 5,25, standard € 4,00; outside Europe priority € 10,00, standard € 6,50). Order by remittance of total amount to M. van Dorst/Salon Saffier, Postbank 3258980 (or by sending an International Money Order), mentioning ‘Kafka drawings’. N.B. all bank charges etc. for client’s account (OUR)! (IBAN NL 30 - PSTB 0003 2598980. And one HAS to mention “M. van Dorst”, not only “Salon Saffier”, because this last is not linked to the IBAN number in the bank’s system)

Kafka, by Nicholas Murray

Fri, 19 May 2006 12:16:48 +0000


Price:	$19.80

Editorial Reviews

From Publishers Weekly The story is well known: the frail, anxiety-ridden young man in Prague who suffers under an overbearing, uncouth father. Every day he trudges off to his boring job at an insurance company. He is drawn to women yet agonizes about every relationship. At night, he writes away but wins scant recognition. He contracts tuberculosis, and his last, truly miserable years are spent in and out of sanatoriums. His final wish is that all his manuscripts be burned, but his best friend violates the request. Within a few years of his death in 1924, Franz Kafka’s writings about characters ensnared by the world around them for no apparent reason are recognized as brilliant manifestations of literary modernism. Murray (Bruce Chatwin, etc.) is an experienced biographer and effectively relates Kafka’s brief life, trying valiantly to depict a more normal Kafka, a man who lived in society with good friends, enjoyed sex, had wide-ranging intellectual interests and became enamored of Judaism. In Murray’s account, Kafka’s employer valued him highly, and under the imprint of no less a figure than Kurt Wolff, he experienced some literary success. Despite Murray’s best efforts to contain Kafka’s idiosyncrasies, though, the writer remains the tormented soul who created out of his personal anxieties and agonies some of the most acclaimed works of the 20th century. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Kafka's Works

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 15:06:36 +0000

Sought out by leading avant-garde publishers, Kafka reluctantly published a few of his writings during his lifetime. These publications include two sections (1909) from Beschreibung eines Kampfes (1936; Description of a Struggle); Betrachtung (1913; Meditation), a collection of short prose pieces; and other works representative of Kafka’s maturity as an artist–The Judgment, a long story written in 1912; two further long stories, Die Verwandlung (1915; Metamorphosis) and In der Strafkolonie (1919; In the Penal Colony); and a collection of short prose, Ein Landarzt (1919; A Country Doctor). Ein Hungerkünstler (1924; A Hunger Artist), four stories exhibiting the concision and lucidity characteristic of Kafka’s late style, had been prepared by the author but did not appear until after his death.

Lo zio. Leni

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 12:03:23 +0000

Un pomeriggio, mentre K. era molto occupato, appena prima che chiudesse la posta, passando attraverso due inservienti che stavano portando dei documenti scritti si infilò nella stanza lo zio di K., Karl, un piccolo proprietario terriero di campagna. Vedendolo, K. si spaventò meno di quanto si era spaventato un po’ di tempo prima, quando se ne era immaginato l’arrivo; che lo zio dovesse arrivare K. lo sapeva già di sicuro da circa un mese. Già allora gli sembrava di vederlo, un po’ curvo, con il cappello di panama schiacciato nella mano sinistra e mentre gli agitava incontro, già da lontano, la destra, tendendogliela sopra la scrivania con fretta priva di riguardi, rovesciando tutto quel che c’era in mezzo. Lo zio aveva sempre fretta, perché era perseguitato dall’infelice idea che durante la sua permanenza nella capitale, che non durava mai più di un giorno, avrebbe potuto sbrigare tutto quello che si era proposto, senza per di più tralasciare nessun dialogo, o affare, o piacere di cui si offrisse l’occasione. K., che aveva verso di lui, un tempo il suo tutore, degli obblighi particolari, gli doveva essere d’aiuto in ogni modo possibile, e inoltre doveva dargli ospitalità per la notte; K. era solito far riferimento allo zio come al “fantasma che viene dalla campagna”.

Heft 7

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 16:05:23 +0000

II 13 Anläßlich der Korrektur des “Urteils” schreibe ich alle Beziehungen auf, die mir in der Geschichte klar geworden sind, soweit ich sie gegenwärtig habe. Es ist dies notwendig, denn die Geschichte ist wie eine regelrechte Geburt mit Schmutz und Schleim bedeckt aus mir herausgekommen und nur ich habe die Hand, die bis zum Körper dringen kann und Lust dazu hat:

Der Freund ist die Verbindung zwischen Vater und Sohn, er ist ihre größte Gemeinsamkeit. Allein bei seinem Fenster sitzend wühlt Georg in diesem Gemeinsamen mit Wollust, glaubt den Vater in sich zu haben und hält alles bis auf eine flüchtige traurige Nachdenklichkeit für friedlich. Die Entwicklung der Geschichte zeigt nun, wie aus dem Gemeinsamen, dem Freund, der Vater hervorsteigt und sich als Gegensatz Georg gegenüber aufstellt, verstärkt durch andere kleinere Gemeinsamkeiten nämlich durch die Liebe, Anhänglichkeit der Mutter durch die treue Erinnerung an sie und durch die Kundschaft, die ja der Vater doch ursprünglich für das Geschäft erworben hat. Georg hat nichts, die Braut, die in der Geschichte nur durch die Beziehung zum Freund, also zum Gemeinsamen, lebt, und die, da eben noch nicht Hochzeit war, in den Blutkreis, der sich um Vater und Sohn zieht, nicht eintreten kann, wird vom Vater leicht vertrieben. Das Gemeinsame ist alles um den Vater aufgetürmt, Georg fühlt es nur als Fremdes, Selbständiggewordenes, von ihm niemals genug Beschütztes, russischen Revolutionen Ausgesetztes, und nur weil er selbst nichts mehr hat, als den Blick auf den Vater, wirkt das Urteil, das ihm den Vater gänzlich verschließt so stark auf ihn.

"Fort von hier…" (II, 20)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:26:19 +0000

Fort von hier, nur fort von hier! Du mußt mir nicht sagen, wohin Du mich führst. Wo ist Deine Hand, ach ich kann sie im Dunkel nicht ertasten. Hielte ich doch nur schon Deine Hand, ich glaube Du würdest mich dann nicht verwerfen. Hörst Du mich? Bist Du überhaupt im Zimmer. Vielleicht bist Du gar nicht hier. Was sollte Dich auch herlocken in das Eis und den Nebel des Nordens, wo man Menschen gar nicht vermuten sollte. Du bist nicht hier, Du bist ausgewichen diesen Orten. Ich aber stehe und falle mit der Entscheidung darüber, ob du hier bist oder nicht

"Ich sah aus dem Fenster…" (II, 11)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:03:57 +0000

Ich sah aus dem Fenster, müde, halb lag ich. An der Kirchenecke bog ein Bekannter ein, ein Kaufmann, ein alter Mann mit schütterem langen Bart. Er bemerkte mich, freute sich offenbar mich zu sehn und rief, ob ich nicht mitkommen wolle,

Nun entschied es sich und wir landeten. Es war Vollmond und kühl. Wir sprachen nicht, eigentlich nur weil es

Auf einem Spaziergang am Sonntag war ich weiter vor die Stadt gekommen, als ich eigentlich gewollt hatte. Und als ich so weit war, trieb es mich noch weiter. Auf einer Anhöhe stand eine alte viel gekrümmte aber nicht sehr große Eiche. Sie erinnerte mich irgendwie daran, daß es nun endlich aber Zeit sei zurückzukehren. Es war schon genug abendlich geworden. Ich stand vor ihr, strich über ihre harte Rinde und las zwei eingeritzte Namen. Ich las sie aber ohne mir sie zu merken, es war wie ein kindlicher Trotz, der mich, wenn ich schon nicht weitergehen sollte wenigstens hier festhielt, um mich nicht zurückgehn zu lassen. Man ist manchmal im Bann solcher Kräfte, man kann ihn leicht zerreißen, es ist ja nur etwas wie ein zarter Scherz eines Fremden, aber es war Sonntag, nichts war zu versäumen, ich war schon müde und ergab mich deshalb in alles.

Oktavheft F (I, 23)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:37:07 +0000

Die kleine,

Ich bin gewohnt in allem meinem Kutscher zu vertrauen. Als wir an eine hohe weiße seitwärts und oben sich langsam wölbende Mauer kamen, die Vorwärtsfahrt einstellten, die Mauer entlang fahrend sie betasteten und schließlich der Kutscher sagte: Es ist eine Stirn.

Ich begegnete Artur gestern früh im Haustor, er wollte wie er sagte gerade zu mir gehn, da ich nun aber selbst gekommen war giengen wir gemeinsam in sein Zimmer hinauf. Es gab Cigaretten und Schnaps und wir sprachen von Gelegentliche

"Diese Wahl…" (1909)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:45:29 +0000

Diese Wahl ist sehr begrüßenswert. Ein Mann tritt hiemit tatsächlich in eine ihm auch ideell gebührende Stellung und diese Stellung erhält den für sie notwendigen Mann.

Dr. Marschners unablässige Arbeitskraft hat ihn zu so weitreichender und in sich so verzweigter Tätigkeit befähigt, daß ihm der Einzelne nicht leicht gerecht werden kann, da er immer nur einen Teil dieser Tätigkeit zu überblicken vermag. Als langjähriger Sekretär der Anstalt kennt Dr. Marschner ihren ganzen Apparat umso besser, als er selbst an dessen Verbesserung beteiligt war, soweit sein Einfluß bisher eben reichte; seine umfassenden advokatorischen Kenntnisse und Fähigkeiten stellt er der Anstalt zur Verfügung; als gründlichen Schriftsteller kennt und schätzt ihn die fachwissenschaftliche Welt; seinen Einfluß auf die Entwürfe der socialen Gesetzgebung der letzten Jahre (besonders der Haftpflichtgesetze) möge man nicht unterschätzen; als Redner ist er vor den großen, internationalen Versicherungskongressen aufgetreten und auch in Prager Vortragssälen hörten wir in Versicherungsfragen von allgemeiner Wichtigkeit und Aktualität seine immer erwünschten, rasch unterrichtenden Ausführungen; als Dozent der technischen Hochschule verwertet er seine sich gegenseitig vervollkommnenden Kenntnisse und Erfahrungen, um die studierende Jugend für die immer dringlicher werdenden Probleme des socialen Versicherungswesens vorzubereiten; er hat den versicherungstechnischen Kurs an der technischen Hochschule eingerichtet und war hiezu besonders geeignet, da er auch Kenner der Versicherungsmathematik ist; sein pädagogisches Talent, das sich im vorigen Jahr im Versicherungskurs der Prager Handelsakademie auch weitern Kreisen zeigte, erfuhr dadurch öffentliche Anerkennung, daß er zum Mitglied der Staatsprüfungskommission ernannt wurde. Wir fassen zusammen: er ist ein Mann, der in allen Gebieten seines Faches sehr nützlich, sehr ausdauernd gearbeitet hat und arbeitet und der mit allen Generationen unserer Zeit in tätiger fachlicher Verbindung lebt.

Ein Landarzt - Kleine Erzählungen

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:34:48 +0000

Meinem Vater

(Der neue Advokat - Ein Landarzt - Auf der Galerie - Ein altes Blatt - Vor dem Gesetz - Schakale und Araber - Ein Besuch im Bergwerk - Das nächste Dorf - Eine kaiserliche Botschaft - Die Sorge des Hausvaters - Elf Söhne - Ein Brudermord - Ein Traum - Ein Bericht für eine Akademie)

Der neue Advokat

Wir haben einen neuen Advokaten, den Dr. Bucephalus. In seinem Äußern erinnert wenig an die Zeit, da er noch Streitroß Alexanders von Macedonien war. Wer allerdings mit den Umständen vertraut ist, bemerkt einiges. Doch sah ich letzthin auf der Freitreppe selbst einen ganz einfältigen Gerichtsdiener mit dem Fachblick des kleinen Stammgastes der Wettrennen den Advokaten bestaunen, als dieser, hoch die Schenkel hebend, mit auf dem Marmor aufklingendem Schritt von Stufe zu Stufe stieg.

7. Der Lehrer

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:59:39 +0000

Oben traf K. den Lehrer. Das Zimmer war erfreulicher Weise kaum wiederzuerkennen, so fleißig war Frieda gewesen. Es war gut gelüftet worden, der Ofen reichlich geheizt, der Fußboden gewaschen, das Bett geordnet, die Sachen der Mägde, dieser hassenswerte Unrat, einschließlich ihrer Bilder waren verschwunden, der Tisch, der einem früher, wohin man sich auch wendete, mit seiner schmutzüberkrusteten Platte förmlich nachgestarrt hatte, war mit einer weißen gestrickten Decke überzogen. Nun konnte man schon Gäste empfangen, daß K.’s kleiner Wäschevorrat, den Frieda offenbar früh gewaschen hatte, beim Ofen zum Trocknen ausgehängt war, störte wenig. Der Lehrer und Frieda waren bei Tisch gesessen, sie erhoben sich bei K.’s Eintritt, Frieda begrüßte K. mit einem Kuß, der Lehrer verbeugte sich ein wenig. K., zerstreut und noch in der Unruhe des Gespräches mit der Wirtin, begann sich zu entschuldigen, daß er den Lehrer bisher noch nicht hatte besuchen können, es war so als nehme er an, der Lehrer hätte ungeduldig wegen K.’s Ausbleiben nun selbst den Besuch gemacht. Der Lehrer aber in seiner gemessenen Art schien sich nun erst selbst langsam zu erinnern, daß einmal zwischen ihm und K. eine Art Besuch verabredet worden war. “Sie sind ja, Herr Landvermesser”, sagte er langsam, “der Fremde, mit dem ich vor paar Tagen auf dem Kirchplatz gesprochen habe. " “Ja”, sagte K. kurz; was er damals in seiner Verlassenheit geduldet hatte, mußte er hier in seinem Zimmer sich nicht gefallen lassen. Er wandte sich an Frieda und beriet sich mit ihr wegen eines wichtigen Besuches den er sofort zu machen habe und bei dem er möglichst gut angezogen sein müsse. Frieda rief sofort, ohne K. weiter auszufragen, die Gehilfen, die gerade mit der Untersuchung der neuen Tischdecke beschäftigt waren, und befahl ihnen K.’s Kleider und Stiefel, die er gleich auszuziehn begann, unten im Hof sorgfältig zu putzen. Sie selbst nahm ein Hemd von der Schnur und lief in die Küche hinunter um es zu bügeln.

«Es mußte wohl...»

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 16:48:55 +0000

Es mußte wohl eine entlegene Vorstadtstraße sein, in der das Automobil haltmachte, denn ringsum herrschte Stille, am Trottoirrand hockten Kinder und spielten, ein Mann mit einer Menge alter Kleider über den Schultern rief beobachtend zu den Fenstern der Häuser empor, in seiner Müdigkeit fühlte sich Karl unbehaglich als er aus dem Automobil auf den Asphalt trat, den die Vormittagssonne warm und hell beschien. “Wohnst Du wirklich hier?” rief er ins Automobil hinein. Robinson der während der ganzen Fahrt friedlich geschlafen hatte brummte irgendeine undeutliche Bejahung und schien darauf zu warten, daß Karl ihn hinaustragen werde. “Dann habe ich hier also nichts mehr zu tun. Leb wohl”, sagte Karl und machte sich daran, die ein wenig sich senkende Straße abwärts zu gehn. “Aber Karl, was fällt Dir denn ein?” rief Robinson und stand schon vor lauter Sorge ziemlich aufrecht, nur mit noch etwas unruhigen Knien, im Wagen. “Ich muß doch gehn”, sagte Karl, der der raschen Gesundung Robinsons zugesehn hatte. “In Hemdärmeln?” fragte dieser. “Ich werde mir schon noch einen Rock verdienen”, antwortete Karl, nickte Robinson zuversichtlich zu, grüßte mit erhobener Hand und wäre nun wirklich fortgegangen, wenn nicht der Chauffeur gerufen hätte: “Noch einen kleinen Augenblick Geduld mein Herr. " Es zeigte sich unangenehmer Weise, daß der Chauffeur noch Ansprüche auf eine nachträgliche Bezahlung stellte, denn die Wartezeit vor dem Hotel war noch nicht bezahlt. “Nun ja”, rief aus dem Automobil Robinson in Bestätigung der Richtigkeit dieser Forderung, “ich habe ja dort so lange auf Dich warten müssen. Etwas mußt Du ihm noch geben.” “Ja freilich”, sagte der Chauffeur. “Ja wenn ich nur noch etwas hätte”, sagte Karl und griff in die Hosentaschen, trotzdem er wußte daß es nutzlos war. “Ich kann mich nur an Sie halten”, sagte der Chauffeur und stellte sich breitbeinig auf, “von dem kranken Mann dort kann ich nichts verlangen. " Vom Tor her näherte sich ein junger Bursch mit zerfressener Nase und hörte aus einer Entfernung von paar Schritten zu. Gerade machte durch die Straße ein Polizeimann die Runde, faßte mit gesenktem Gesicht den hemdärmligen Menschen ins Auge und blieb stehn. Robinson, der den Polizeimann auch bemerkt hatte, machte die Dummheit, aus dem andern Fenster ihm zuzurufen: “Es ist nichts, es ist nichts”, als ob man einen Polizeimann wie eine Fliege verscheuchen könnte. Die Kinder, welche den Polizeimann beobachtet hatten, wurden nun durch sein Stillstehn auch auf Karl und den Chauffeur aufmerksam und liefen im Trab herbei. Im Tor gegenüber stand eine alte Frau und sah starr herüber.

It must have been . . .

Sun, 03 Dec 2006 16:45:47 +0000

It must have been a remote suburban street where the automobile came to stop, because all around it was quiet, on the pavement children squatted and played, a man with packs of old clothes over his shoulders shouted upwards as he stared at the windows of the houses, Karl felt uncomfortable in his drowsiness as he stepped from the automobile to the asphalt, which seemed warm and bright from the morning. “Do you really live here?” he yelled into the automobile. Robinson, who had slept peacefully during the entire trip, mumbled some indistinct confirmation and seemed to expect that Karl would carry him in. “Then I have nothing else to do. Good luck,” said Karl and started to go down the street, which sloped a little. “But Karl, what do you think you’re doing?” yelled Robinson and out of great concern stood upright in the wagon with somewhat uneasy knees. “I have to go,” said Karl, watching Robinson’s quick recovery. “In your shirt sleeves?” he asked. “I will earn myself a jacket,” answered Karl as he nodded to Robinson confidently, waved at him a raised hand and was really about to go away if the chauffer hadn’t called out: “Just a moment, sir.” There appeared to be the unpleasant matter, that the chauffer demanded an additional payment, because the time he spent waiting in front of the hotel hadn’t been paid for. “Oh, yes,” called Robinson from the automobile in confirmation of the correctness of this demand. “I had to wait so long for you there. You need to give him something.” “Yes, honestly,” said the chauffer. “Yes, if only I had it,” said Karl and reached in his pants pockets even though he knew it was useless. “Then I’ll just hold onto you,” said the chauffer and got up with his legs spread wide apart. “I can’t ask anything of the sick man.” At the gate, a young man with a cut-up nose came closer and listened from a few steps away. Just then a policeman making his rounds saw with his sunken face a man in shirt sleeves and stopped. Robinson, who had also noticed the policeman, was stupid enough to yell at him from the other window: “It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” as if he could shoo away a policeman like a fly. The children, watching the policeman stop, were now paying attention to Karl and the chauffer and ran by in a jog. At the opposite gate an old woman stared. “Rossman,” a voice called then from up high. It was Delamarche, yelling from the balcony of the highest floor. He himself was still indistinct against the blue and white sky, apparently he had a night-shirt on and watched the street with opera glasses. Next to him, a red sun-umbrella was spread out, under which a woman appeared to be sitting. “Hello,” he yelled as loud as he could to make it understandable, “is Robinson there too?” “Yes,” answered Karl, supported strongly by Robinson in the car with a louder “Yes.” “Hello,” he yelled back. “I’m coming right now.” Robinson leaned out of the car. “That is a man,” he said, directing this praise for Delamarche at Karl, the chauffer, the policeman and at anyone who wanted to hear it. Above, on the balcony, which they still looked at absent-mindedly even though Delamarche had already left it, a heavy woman in a red dress picked herself up from under the sun-umbrella, took the opera glasses from the parapet and looked through them to the people below, who only gradually turned away from her. In expectation of Delamarche, Karl stared at the house gate and beyond it to the courtyard, cut through by an almost uninterrupted row of workers who each carried a small, but apparently very heavy, box on his shoulder. The chauffer was walking to his car and cleaned the headlights with a rag to make use of the time. Robinson rubbed his limbs, was surprised to only be in slight pain, which he could feel in spite of the greatest attention, and began to carefully loosen the thick bandages around his legs. The policeman held his dark baton diagonally and waited quietly with great patience, which policemen must have whether they’re in ordinary service or lying in wait. The young man with the cut-up nose sat by the gate and stretched out his legs. The children came closer to Karl, generally with short steps, because even though he didn’t notice them, he seemed to them, on account of his blue shirt-sleeves, to be the most important one of all. With the time it took for Delamarche to arrive, you could appreciate the great height of these houses. And Delamarche came very hurriedly with a fluttering sleeping-gown he had thrown on. “So it’s you two!” he yelled, joyful and stern at the same time. With his large steps he showed off his colored undergarments for a moment. Karl didn’t quite understand why Delamarche walked around so comfortably and openly, as if he were in a country villa, in the middle of the city, in gigantic tenements. Even so, just like Robinson, Delamarche had changed a lot. His dark, clean-shaven, meticulously clean, raw and muscular face looked proud and respectable. The dazzling spark in his eyes, which were still somewhat drawn together, was surprising. His violet sleeping gown was very old, speckled and too big for him, but out of this horrible piece of clothing puffed out an enormous dark necktie made of heavy silk. “Now?” he asked everyone. The policeman walked a little closer and leaned on the hood of the automobile. Karl gave a small explanation. “Robinson is a little frail, but if he gets some rest, he’ll be able to get up the steps; the chauffer here wants an additional payment to the fare I’ve already paid. And now I’m going. Have a good day.” “You’re not going,” said Delamarche. “I already told him that,” Robinson announced from the car. “I’m going,” said Karl and made a couple of steps. But Delamarche was already behind him and pulled him back forcefully. “I said, you’re staying,” he yelled. “But let me go,” Karl said and got himself ready, if necessary, to win his freedom with his fists, even if he had little hope of success against a man like Delamarche. But there stood the policeman, there was the chauffer, here and there walked groups of workers through the otherwise open, quiet street, could you then be patient with the injustice Delamarche was committing against him? He wouldn’t want to be in a room alone with him, but here? Delamarche calmly paid the chauffer, who stuffed in the large, unearned amount with a lot of bowing, and out of thankfulness he went to Robinson and talked to him about the best way to get out. Karl watched this unobserved, maybe Delmarche would take it better if he left quietly, it was naturally best if a fight could be avoided, and so Karl simply went into the street to get away as quickly as he could. The children streamed to Delamarche to make him aware of Karl’s escape, but he didn’t have to intervene, because the policeman, with his baton stretched out in front of him, said: “Stop!” “What’s your name?” he asked, shoving the baton under his arm and slowly taking out a book. Karl looked at him closely for the first time, he was a strong man, but had almost entirely white hair. “Karl Rossman,” he said. “Rossman,” repeated the policeman, but doubtfully, because he was a calm and reasonable man, but Karl, who was coming into contact for the first time with American authorities, already saw a certain suspicion in this repeating of what he said. And actually, his affairs couldn’t be in good standing, because Robinson, who busied himself so much with his own complaints, asked with silent, lively hand-gestures to Delamarche from the car if he might be able to help Karl. But Delamarche resisted him with hasty head shakes and watched idly, his hands in his oversized pockets. The young man by the gate explained to a woman, who was now just walking from the gate, all of the facts from the beginning. The children stood in a semi-circle behind Karl and looked quietly at the policeman. “Show your identification,” said the policeman. This was only a formal question, because if someone doesn’t have a jacket, he also doesn’t have any ID on him. So Karl remained silent, so he could answer the next question in detail and cover up his lack of identification. But the next question was: “So you have no identification?” and Karl now had to answer: “Not with me.” “But that’s bad,” said the policeman, looking thoughtfully around him and clapping the cover of the book with two fingers. “Do you have a job?” asked the policeman at last. “I was an elevator boy,” said Karl. “You were an elevator boy, so you’re not one anymore and where do you live now?” “Now I’ll look for a new job.” “So you were just fired?” “Yes, an hour ago.” “Suddenly?” “Yes,” said Karl and lifted his hand as if in apology. He couldn’t explain the whole story here, and even if it would have been possible, it seemed entirely hopeless to ward off a looming injustice with the explanation of an injustice already suffered. And if he couldn’t hold onto his rights with the goodness of the head cook and the insight of the head waiter, he had nothing to expect from the people here on the street. “And you were fired without a jacket?” asked the policeman. “Yes,” said Karl, it was also part of the personality of the authorities to ask about whatever they saw. (His father must have been very annoyed trying to obtain a passport under the useless questioning of the authorities.) Karl had a great desire to run away, to hide somewhere and not have to listen to any more questions. And now the policeman posed the very question which frightened Karl the most and which, in his nervous apprehension, had caused him to be more thoughtless than he would have been otherwise. “Which hotel were you employed at?” He sunk his head and didn’t answer, he absolutely did not want to answer this question. He couldn’t allow for him to come back to the Hotel Occidental under the escort of a policeman, for there to be interrogations where his friends and enemies would be dragged out, for the head cook to give up entirely her weakened good opinion of Karl, since she, expecting to find him at the Motel Brenner, now found him in the grip of policeman, in his shirtsleeves, without bringing back his visitor’s pass, while the head waiter maybe only nodded in complete understanding and the head porter said that the hand of God had finally nabbed the bum. “He was employed at the Hotel Occidental,” said Delamarche as he walked next to the policeman. “No,” yelled Karl, stamping with his foot, “that is not true.” Delamarche looked at him with a mocking, disparaging look, as if he could have told him entirely other things. Below, the children hustled about at Karl’s excitement, and they ran over to Delamarche so they could look at Karl from there. Robinson had stuck his head completely out of the car and behaved very calmly for all his agitation; here and there a wink of the eye was his only motion. The young man at the gate clapped his hands for fun, the woman next to him gave him a jab with her elbow so he’d quiet down. Just then the workers had a break for breakfast and showed up with big cups of black coffee, in which they stirred loaves of French bread. Some of them sat on the sidewalk, all of them slurped very loudly. “You know this young man well,” the policeman asked Delamarche. “More than I’d like to,” he said. “I did much good in my time with him, but he thanked me very poorly, which you yourself must easily understand after this very short interrogation you’ve had with him.” “Yes,” said the policeman. “He seems to be a stubborn youth.” “That he is,” said Delamarche, “but it’s not his worst quality.” “Really?” said the policeman. “Yes,” said Delamarche, who was well into his speech and was swinging his entire robe with his hands in his pockets, “he’s a fine scoundrel. My friend in the car and I, we had taken him in at the time in poverty, he didn’t know anything about American customs, he came straight from Europe, where no one could have used him either, so we schlepped him along with us, let him live with us, explained everything to him, wanted to get him a job, thought that in spite of all the signs speaking against him we could still make him a useful person, and then he disappears in the night, was just gone and all of it underneath an accompanying circumstance that I’d rather keep quiet about. Was it like that or not?” asked Delamarche at last and plucked at Karl’s shirt sleeves. “Get back, you kids,” yelled the policeman, since they had advanced so far that Delamarche would have almost tripped over a few of them. In the meantime, the workers, who were so far withholding their interest in the interrogation, were also beginning to take notice and had gathered in a dense ring around Karl, where no one cold take a step back anymore, and in everyone’s ears was the incessant, garbled voices of the workers, which were yelled out in some completely incomprehensible mix of Slavic and English words. “Thank you for the information,” said the policeman and saluted in front of Delamarche. “In any case I’ll take him with me and have him given back to the Hotel Occidental.” But Delamarche said: “May I pose the request to hand the youth over entirely to me, I have to bring some things into order with him. I’ll be obliged to escort him back to the hotel myself.” “I can’t do that,” said the policeman. Delamarche said: “Here is my traveling pass,” and gave him a ticket. The policeman looked at it approvingly, but said with a friendly smile, “No, it’s useless.” Karl had been watching Delamarche so closely up to now, that he now saw in him a unique possibility for escape. It was very suspicious how this policeman focused on Karl, but in any case it would be easier to convince Delamarche than the policeman not to take him back to the hotel. And even if Karl came back to the hotel in Delamarche’s hands, it would still be better than if it happened in the escort of a policeman. For the time being, however, Karl didn’t want to give the impression that he actually wanted to go with Delamarche, otherwise everything was ruined. And he impatiently looked at the hands of the policeman, which at every moment could pick themselves up to arrest him. “I at least have to learn why he was let go so suddenly,” said the policeman finally, while Delamarche looked sideways with a glum face and crushed the traveling pass between his fingers. “But he wasn’t let go at all,” yelled Robinson to the surprise of all and rested on the chauffer as he bent as far out of the car as possible. “On the contrary, he has a good position there. He is the highest-ranked in the sleeping quarters and can bring in whomever he wants. It’s just that he’s enormously busy and if someone wants something from him, he has to wait a long time. He always sticks by the head waiter and the head cook and he is a trusted confidant. By no means is he fired. I don’t know why he said that. How could he be fired? I hurt myself badly in the hotel and now he’s gotten the job to take me home and because he didn’t have a jacket just then, he is even traveling without a jacket. I couldn’t wait for him to put on a jacket.” “So now,” said Delamarche with out-stretched arms, as if he were accusing the policeman of not knowing anything about people, and these two words seemed to bring to Robinson’s uncertain speech an irrefutable clarity. “But is that true?” asked the policeman faintly. “And if it’s true, why did the young man say he was fired?” “You should answer,” said Delamarche. Karl looked at the policeman, who was only here to establish order among people who were only thinking of themselves, and some of his general concern leaked into Karl. He didn’t want to lie and held his hands tightly intertwined behind his back. At the gate, a supervisor appeared and clapped his hands to signal that the workers had to go to work again. They spilled their coffee onto the ground and dragged themselves quietly with stumbling steps back into the building. “This’ll go on forever,” said the policeman and wanted to grab Karl by the arm. Karl stepped backwards a little instinctively, felt the free space that had opened up for him on account of the workers marching away, turned around, and set off with a great initial leap into a run. The children broke into their own scream and ran alongside with tiny, outstretched arms for a couple of steps. “Stop him!” yelled the policeman down the long, almost empty street and ran behind Karl, yelling out regularly, in a silent run which showed great strength and practice. It was lucky for Karl that the pursuit took place in an industrial zone. The workers didn’t get along with the authorities. Karl ran down the middle of the road, because he had the least hindrance there, looking here and there at the workers on the sidewalk standing and observing him calmly, while the policeman continued to shout, “Stop him!” and as he took the more intelligent way down the smooth sidewalk, he stretched his baton out at Karl. Karl had little hope and almost completely gave up as the policeman blew his deafening whistle, because they were approaching an intersection which must have contained police patrols. Karl’s only advantage was his light clothing, he flew or rather plunged into the ever steeper street, but on account of his weariness he made too many high, wasteful and useless leaps. In addition, the policeman had his target always in front of his eyes, while for Karl running came second, he had to think things out, pick from various possibilities, always deciding again and again. For the time being, his somewhat desperate plan was to avoid the intersections, since you couldn’t know what was stuck in there, maybe he would run right into a police station; he wanted to hold on to this clear street for as long as it went, running deep down to a bridge that scarcely began before it disappeared into a fog of sun and water. According to this conclusion, he wanted just then to start running faster so he could pass the first intersection in a special rush, when he saw, not too far in front of him, a policeman lying in wait on one of the darkened walls in the shadows of one of the houses, prepared to spring loose on Karl at just the right moment. There was nothing to help him anymore except an alley, and when he heard his name being harmlessly called out of this alley – it seemed to be a mistake at first, because he’d had a buzzing in his ears for the entire time, he didn’t hesitate any more and, to maybe surprise the policemen, turned into the alley with one foot swinging at a right-angle. He had scarcely gone two paces – he had already forgotten the man who had called his name, the second policeman whistled too, you could see his unused strength, distant pedestrians in the alley picked up the pace of their walking – when a hand grabbed Karl out of a small door and took him into a dark corridor with the words, “Be quiet.” It was Delamarche, completely out of breath, with flushed cheeks, his hair sticking to his head. He carried the sleeping robe under his arm and was only dressed in a shirt and flannel underwear. He closed and barred the door, which wasn’t the door into the house but only into an inconspicuous gangway. “One moment,” he said, leaning with his head held high against the wall and breathing heavily. Karl lay tightly against his arm and, half-senseless, pressed his face against his chest. “There go the gentlemen,” said Delamarche as he pointed at something to hear behind the door with his finger. The two policemen really ran by, their running clomped in the empty alley as steel hit against stone. “But you’re taken in respectably here,” Delamarche said to Karl, who was still choking on his breath and couldn’t bring out a word. Delamarche put him on the ground carefully, kneeled next to him, stroked him many times on the forehead and watched him, “It’s okay now,” Karl said finally and stood up with great effort. “Then you’re free,” said Delamarche, who had put on his sleeping robe again and brought Karl in front of him, who held his hands down only out of weakness. From time to time he shook Karl to keep him fresh. “You think you’re tired?” he said. “You could run in the open like a horse, but I had to stay here in the damn gangway and creep through courtyards. By lucky chance, however, I am also a runner.” Out of pride, he punched Karl in the back. “From time to time, this kind of race with the police is good exercise.” “I was already tired when I started running,” said Karl. “There’s no excuse for terrible running,” said Delamarche. “If I hadn’t been there, they would’ve gotten you long ago.” “I agree,” said Karl. “I am very much in debt to you.” “Without a doubt,” said Delamarche. They walked through a long, narrow corridor paved with dark, smooth stones. Here and there, stairways opened to the right or left or you got a look at a large, different hallway. Adults were scarce, only the children played on empty steps. On a landing a small girl stood and cried, so that her entire face shone with tears. Delamarche had barely noticed her when she ran up the stairs with her open mouth gasping for air, first calming down up on top when she convinced herself, after turning around frequently, that no one was following her or would follow her. “I was running after her a moment ago,” said Delamarche laughing and threatened her with his first, so that she screamed and ran off again. And the courtyards they came through were almost entirely abandoned. Only here and there a worker pushed a wheelbarrow in front of him, a woman filled a can with water from a pump, a mailman cut through the whole courtyard with quiet steps, an old man with a white handlebar mustache sat cross-legged in front of a glass door and smoked a pipe, in front of a shipping agency boxes were being unloaded, the idle horses turned their heads calmly, a man in a trench coat with a paper in his hand overlooked the entire job, a window was opened in an office and an employee, who sat at his writing desk, turned away from it and looked thoughtfully towards exactly where Karl and Delamarche were walking. “You couldn’t wish for a quieter neighborhood,” said Delamarche. “In the evening there’s a long, loud noise for a few hours, but during the day it’s perfect here.” Karl nodded, the quiet seemed to be a bit too much for him. “I couldn’t live anywhere else,” said Delamarche, “because Brunelda doesn’t tolerate any noise. Do you know Brunelda? Yes, now you’ll see her. In any case I recommend that you behave as quietly as possible.” As they came to the steps that led to Delamarche’s apartment, the automobile had already left and the youngster with the cut-up nose announced, without any surprise at Karl reappearing somehow, that he’d carried Robinson up the steps. Delamarche barely nodded to him, as if he were a servant who had fulfilled his duty as a matter of course and dragged Karl, who hesitated a little and looked down the sunny street, with him up the stairs. “We are just above,” said Delamarche once while climbing the stairs, but his prediction didn’t want to come true, again and again the stairs set off in a new, imperceptibly different direction. Karl stood still, not so much out of drowsiness but out of helplessness against the length of these stairs. “The apartment is very high,” said Delamarche as they went on again, “but that too has its advantages. You leave very seldom, you’re in a bathrobe all day, we live very comfortably. Of course visitors never come this high.” “Where should these visitors come from?” thought Karl. Finally Robinson appeared at a landing in front of a closed apartment door and now they had arrived; the stairs hadn’t ended yet but kept on going into semi-darkness without anything to indicate their swift conclusion. “I’ve been thinking,” said Robinson faintly, as if he had something on his mind. “Delamarche, bring him in! Rossman, what would you be without Delamarche!” Robinson stood there in his undergarments and tried, so far as it was possible, to wrap himself in a small blanket someone had given him at the Hotel Occidental. It wasn’t clear why he didn’t go into the apartment instead of making passersby laugh. “Is she asleep?” asked Delamarche. “I don’t think so,” said Robinson, “but I preferred to wait for you to come.” “First we have to see if she’s sleeping,” said Delamarche and bent down to the keyhole. After he had looked through it a long time while turning his head in various directions, he picked himself up and said: “You can’t see enough, the blinds are down. She’s sitting on a couch, maybe she’s asleep.” “Is she sick then?” asked Karl, because Delamarche stood there as if he were asking for advice. But now he asked back in a sharp tone: “Sick?” “He doesn’t know her,” Robinson said in apology. A few doors down, two women were walking down the corridor, they wiped their hands on their aprons, looked at Delamarche and Robinson and seemed to be talking about them. A very young girl with gleaming blonde hair sprang out of one door and pressed herself in-between the two women, hanging her arms on them. “Those are repulsive women,” said Delamarche softly, but only in regard for the sleeping Brunelda. “The next time I’ll report them to the police and will get some quiet from them for years. Don’t look,” he hissed at Karl, who couldn’t find any fault in looking at women if they had to wait in the hallway for Brunelda to wake up. He shook his head out of annoyance, as if he wouldn’t take any warnings from Delamarche, and wanted to walk up to the women in order to see them more distinctly, but Robinson held him back at the shirtsleeves with the words, “Rossman, watch yourself,” and Delamarche, already provoked because of Karl, was so angered by the girls’ loud laughing that he threw out his arms and legs with a great rush to hurry away the girls, who disappeared into their doors as if they’d been blown away. “I have to clean this hallway every so often,” said Delamarche as he walked back slowly. Then he remembered Karl’s resistance. “From you, though, I expect entirely different behavior, or you’ll have a terrible time with me.” Then a questioning voice called from the room in a soft, tired tone: “Delamarche?” “Yes,” answered Delamarche and looked kindly at the door. “May we step in?” “O, yes,” it called and Delamarche slowly opened the door, after he had touched the two behind him with a look. They walked into complete darkness. The curtain of the balcony door – there was no window available – was let down to the floor and some light shone through it, but otherwise all the furniture filling the room and all the clothes hanging around contributed to the darkness of the room. The air was damp and you smelled the dust which had collected in the corners, unreachable by any hand. The first thing Karl noticed on walking in were three crates standing tightly against each other. On the couch lay the woman who had earlier been looking down from the balcony. Her red dress had warped out of shape beneath her and hung in a great tail down to the floor, you saw her legs almost to the knees, she wore thick, white wool stockings, she didn’t have any shoes. “It’s hot, Delamarche,” she said, turning her face to the wall and holding out her hand in casual indecision towards Delamarche, who grabbed it and kissed it. Karl was just looking at her double chin, which rolled along with the turning of her head. “Should I have the curtain pulled up?” asked Delamarche. “No, not that,” she said with closed eyes, as if doubtful, “because it would be annoying.” Karl walked to the foot of the couch to get a good look at the woman, he wondered about her complaints, because the heat wasn’t at all unordinary. “Wait, I’ll make it more comfortable for you,” Delamarche said timidly, opening a couple of the buttons around her throat and pulling the clothes apart so that the throat and the beginning of the chest were free, and the delicate, yellow edge of a blouse appeared. “Who is that,” said the woman suddenly and pointed at Karl with her finger. “Why does he stare at me like that?” “You’ll soon start making yourself useful,” Delamarche said and shoved Karl aside while he calmed down the woman with the words: “It’s only the youth I brought with me to be your servant.” “But I don’t want anyone,” she cried. “Why are you bringing strangers into the apartment?” “But this whole time you’ve wanted a servant,” said Delamarche and knelt down; despite its great breadth, there wasn’t the smallest spot next to Brunelda on the couch. “Ah, Delamarche,” she said. “You don’t understand me and don’t understand me.” “Then I really don’t understand you,” said Delamarche and took her face between both hands. “But it’s not happening, if you want him to leave at once.” “If he’s already here now, he should stay,” she said now and Karl was so thankful in his tiredness for these not very friendly words that he, in indistinct thought of the endless stairs he would have had to climb down again, stepped over the peacefully sleeping Robinson in his blanket and said, in spite of all the angry hand gestures of Delamarche: “I thank you for allowing me to stay here a little. I have not slept for twenty-four hours, I’ve worked enough and have had a lot of excitement. I am horribly tired. I don’t really know exactly where I am. But if I just slept a couple of hours you could ship me off without any other consideration and I’ll gladly go.” “You can stay here,” said the woman and added sarcastically: “We’re just overflowing with room here, as you can see.” “So you have to leave,” said Delamarche. “We couldn’t use you here.” “No, he should stay,” the woman continued earnestly now. And Delamarche said to Karl, as if he were carrying out her desire: “So lay down somewhere already.” “He can rest on the curtains, but he has to take off his boots so he doesn’t rip it.” Delamarche pointed Karl to the place that she meant. Between the doors and the three crates was a large pile of various kinds of window curtains thrown about. If you folded them all regularly together with the heaviest on the bottom and laying the lighter up on top and finally pulled out all the different boards and rings of wood stuck in the pile, it would’ve become a tolerable bed, but so far it was only a rocking and gliding mass where Karl laid down in a moment because he was too tired for special sleeping arrangements and had to be careful about making too much of a fuss out of consideration for his hosts. He was almost asleep, when he heard a loud scream, picked himself up and saw Brunelda sitting upright on the couch, her arms spread wide apart to hug Delamarche kneeling in front of her. Karl, for whom the moment was awkward, leaned back again and sank into the curtains to go back to sleep. It was clear to him that he wouldn’t last two days here, but that made it all the more important to get enough sleep, so that he could then be able to decide with all of his mind quickly and correctly. But Brunelda had already noticed Karl’s eyes, torn wide open for weariness, and they’d already scared her once, and she screamed: “Delamarche, I can’t take this heat very well, I’m burning, I must undress, I must bathe, take the two out of the room, wherever you want, in the hallway, on the balcony, I just don’t want to see them. In your own apartment you’re always disturbed. If I were just alone with you, Delamarche. Oh, God, they’re always right there! Look at how that shameless Robinson spreads out his underwear in the presence of a lady. And look at how that strange youth, who was staring at me wildly a moment ago, has just lain down so he could trick me. Just take them away, Delamarche, they’re a burden to me, they lay on my chest, if I die now, it’s because of you.” “They’re outside right away, you just undress,” said Delamarche, going to Robinson and shaking him by the foot, which he raised to his chest. He immediately yelled at Karl: “Karl, stand up! The both of you have to go to the balcony! And you’ll be sorry if you come in before you’re called for! And quickly Robinson” – with that he shook Robinson more strongly – “and you, Rossman, you be careful that I don’t come after you” – with that he clapped loudly two times with his hands. “It’s taking so long!” yelled Brunelda from the couch, when sitting she spread her legs far apart to give them room for her excessively fat body, she could bend down enough to grab her stockings at the furthest end and pull them down a little only with the greatest effort, with much panting and frequent resting, she couldn’t undress entirely, Delamarche had to worry about that, and she waited for him impatiently. So tired he had turned into an idiot, Karl had crawled under the pile and went slowly to the balcony door, a piece of curtain stuffing had wound around his foot and he dragged it along indifferently. In his absent-mindedness he said as he passed by Brunelda, “I wish you a good night,” and wandered then onto the balcony past Delamarche, who pushed the curtain of the balcony door a little to the side. Robinson came immediately behind Karl, not any less tired, because he hummed to himself: “Always someone mistreats another! If Brunelda doesn’t come with, I’m not going to the balcony.” But in spite of this assurance he went out without further resistance, where he immediately lay on the stone floor, since Karl had already sunk into the armchair. When Karl woke up it was already evening, the stars already stood in the sky, the moonlight stood out behind the high houses on the other side of the street. Only after he looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings and after inhaling the cool, fresh air did Karl knew where he was. He had been so careless, he had ignored all the advice of the head cook, all of Therese’s warnings, all of his own apprehensions and was now sitting here quietly on Delamarche’s balcony, having slept here for a whole half a day, as if he weren’t underneath the curtain of Delamarche, his great enemy. On the floor, the lazy Robinson took Karl by the foot, he seemed to have also woken up this way, because he said: “Boy, did you sleep, Rossman! That’s the carelessness of youth. How long did you still want to sleep, I would have let you sleep, but it’s too boring for me here on the floor and I’m very hungry. I’ll ask you to stand up a little, I’ve picked up something to eat under the chair, I would like to take it out. You’ll get some too.” And Karl, standing up, stared as Robinson, without standing up, rolled over on his belly and pulled out from under the chair with out-stretched hands a silver-plated dish of the kind used for holding calling cards. But on this dish was lying half of a completely black sausage, some thin cigarettes, an opened but poorly filled sardine tin which flowed over with oil and a crowd of mostly crushed bon-bons which were turning into a ball. Then a large piece of bread appeared and a sort of perfume bottle which seemed to hold something other than perfume, because Robinson showed it off with a special satisfaction and snapped his fingers at Karl. “Look, Rossman,” said Robinson as he wound around sardine after sardine and wiped the oil off his hands with a wool cloth that Brunelda had forgotten on the balcony. “Look Rossman, this is how you get your food if you don’t want to go hungry. You see, I’ve always been pushed to the side. And if you’re always treated like a dog, you’ll finally think that’s what you are. It’s good you’re here, Rossman, I can at least talk with someone. No one talks to me in this building. We’re hated. And all on account of Brunelda. She is of course a splendid woman. You – ” and he waved Karl closer to himself so he could whisper to him – “I once saw her naked. Oh!” – and in the memory of this joy he began to squeeze Karl’s legs and to hit them until Karl cried out, “Robinson, you’re crazy,” balled his fists and punched him back. “You’re still a child,” said Robinson as he took a dagger he carried on a neck-cord under his shirt, took off the sheath and cut the hard sausage. “You have a lot to learn. But we’re just the right source. Sit down. Don’t you want to eat something? Maybe you’ll get an appetite if you watch me. Don’t you want a drink too? But you don’t want anything. And you’re not that talkative. But it doesn’t matter who you’re with on the balcony so long as it’s someone. Actually, I’m on the balcony quite a bit. Brunelda has a lot of fun with that. Something just needs to happen to her, sometimes she’s cold, sometimes hot, sometimes she wants to sleep, sometimes she wants to comb her hair, sometimes she wants to open her corset, sometimes she wants to dress up and then I’m thrown out onto the balcony. Sometimes she actually does what she says, but most of the time she lies like before on the couch and doesn’t move. Before, I pulled apart the curtain and looked through, but since Delamarche one time – I know he didn’t want to do it, but only did it at Brunelda’s request – hit me with a whip in the face – can you see the streaks? – I don’t dare look through anymore. And so I’m lying here on the balcony and have no pleasure except for eating. The day before yesterday, when I was lying so alone in the evening, the time I was still in my expensive clothes that I unfortunately lost in the hotel – those dogs! ripping the expensive clothes from my body! – when I was lying there so alone and looked down through the railing, everything was so depressing to me and I began to cry. Then, by chance, without my noticing, Brunelda came up to me in her red dress – that fits the best on her – looked at me a little and finally said: ‘Robinson, why are you crying?’ Then she picked up her dress and wiped the tears from my eyes. Who knew what she would have done if Delamarche hadn’t called her immediately and she wouldn’t have had to go back into the room right away. Of course I thought now would be my turn and I asked through the curtain if I was allowed into the room. And what do you think Brunelda said? ‘No!’ she said and ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she said.” “Why do you stay here when they treat you like this?” Karl asked. “Forgive me, Rossman. You don’t ask very reasonably,” answered Robinson. “You’ll stay here too and even if they still treat you miserably. In generally they don’t treat me so badly.” “No,” said Karl, “I am definitely going away and if possible this evening. I’m not staying because of you.” “How will you manage, for example, to get away this evening?” answered Robinson, who had cut the soft part of the bread and was soaking it carefully in the oil of the sardine tin. “How will you get away, when you’re not even allowed to go into the room?” “Why wouldn’t we be allowed to go in?” “So long as we’re not rung for, we are not allowed to go in,” said Robinson, who opened his mouth as wide as possible to devour the greasy bread as he caught with his hand the oil dropping from the bread, so he could dip the remaining bread into the hollow of his hand, which served as a reservoir. “It’s getting much stricter here. First there was only a thin curtain, you couldn’t see through, but in the evening you recognized the silhouettes. That made Brunelda uncomfortable and so I changed her theater coat into the curtain and instead of the old curtain that one had to hang. Now you don’t see anything anymore. Earlier I had always been allowed to ask if I were allowed to go in and someone always answered me ‘yes’ or ‘no’ according to the circumstances, but I probably exploited it too much and asked too often, Brunelda couldn’t stand it – she’s built very weak in spite of her size, she often has headaches and almost always gout in the legs – and so it was certain that I wasn’t allowed to ask any more, but whenever I can go in, the table bell is rung. That gives such a noise it wakes me up from sleep – I had a cat once for my anymore, which was frightened by this loud noise and ran away and never came back. And it hasn’t rung yet today – if it does ring, then not only am I allowed in, but I have to go in – and if it hasn’t rung in a long time, it can still be a long while.” “Yes,” said Karl, “but just because it applies to you, it doesn’t have to apply to me. In general, something applies to a person who lets it happen to himself.” “But,” yelled Robinson, “why shouldn’t it apply to you? Of course it applies to you too. Just wait here quietly with me until it rings. Then you’ll see if you can leave.” “Why don’t you really leave? Is it just because Delamarche is your friend or, more precisely, was one? Is that a life? Wouldn’t it be better in Butterford, where you had first wanted to go? Or even in California, where you have friends?” “Yes,” said Robinson, “no one could have foreseen that.” And before he continued to explain, he said: “To your health, dear Rossman” and took a long pull from the perfume bottle. “We were in a terrible position when you left us so unkindly sitting there. We couldn’t get any work in the first days. Delamarche generally didn’t want any work, he would’ve gotten it, but instead just shipped me off to search and I don’t have any luck. He had only hung around, but it was already almost evening when he brought back only a lady’s purse, it was really very pretty, made of pearls, now he’s given it to Brunelda, but there was almost nothing inside. Then he said we should go begging to apartments, you could find some good things with such an opportunity, and so we went begging, and to make it look better, I sang in front of the apartment doors. And already Delamarche has all the luck, we’re standing in front of just the second apartment, one of the very rich apartments on the ground floor, and I’m singing at the door to the cook and to the servant, when out comes the lady who owns the apartment, Brunelda out on the steps. She might have been tied too tightly and could only come a couple of steps. But how beautiful she looked, Rossman! She had an all-white dress and a red sun umbrella. You wanted to lick her clean. You wanted to drink her up. Oh God, oh God was she beautiful. Such a woman! No, tell me, how can there be such a woman? Of course the girl and the servant ran up to her and almost picked her up the stairs. We were standing to the right and left of the door and said hello, which nobody does here. She stayed behind a little, because she still didn’t have enough breath and now I’m not sure how it happened, I was hungry and not in my senses and she was up close still more beautiful and gigantic and on account of the special corset, I can show it to you in a box, so tight – in short, I touched her butt a little, but very softly mind you, I only touched it like this. Of course no one can tolerate a beggar touching a lady. There was almost no touching at all, but in the end there was touching. Who knows how terribly it would have fallen apart if Delamarche hadn’t immediately slapped me in the face, and it was such a slap in the face that I immediately brought both hands to my cheeks.” “What were you up to?” said Karl, starting to be taken in by the story and sitting down on the floor. “So that was Brunelda?” “Now, yes,” said Robinson, “that was Brunelda.” “Didn’t you say once she’s a singer?” “Yes she is a singer and a great singer,” answered Robinson, who rolled a great mass of bonbons over his tongue, now and then pushing a piece back into his stuffed mouth. “But of course we didn’t know that yet, all we saw was a very rich and refined lady. She acted as if it didn’t happen and maybe she had felt nothing, because I had only grazed her with the tip of my finger. But she was constantly looking at Delamarche, who – he hits it on the mark – looked her right back in the eyes. At that she said to him: “Come in for a little while,” and pointed with sun-umbrella into the apartment, where Delamarche was to go in front of her. Then they both went in and the servant closed the door behind them. They left me outside and I thought it wouldn’t take long and sat on the steps, so I could wait for Delamarche. But instead of Delamarche the servant came out and brought me an entire bowl of soup. “Courtesy of Delamarche!” I said to myself. The servant remained standing and explained a little about Brunelda to me as I ate a little while by myself, and then I saw what importance the visit to Brunelda could have for us. Because Brunelda was a divorced woman, had a large fortune, and was completely self-sufficient. Her former husband, a cocoa manufacturer, still loved her, but she didn’t want to hear the slightest thing from him. He came very often to the apartment, always very elegantly dressed, as if for a wedding – this is true word for word, I know him myself – but the servant didn’t dare ask Brunelda if she’d receive him, in spite of the greatest bribery, because he had already asked a few times and always Brunelda had thrown at his face whatever was at hand. Once it was her large, full hot water bottle and she knocked out a front tooth with it. Yes, Rossman, think about that!” “Where do you know the man from?” asked Karl. “He sometimes comes up here,” said Robinson. “Up here?” Karl struck the ground lightly with his hand out of surprise. “You’d be surprised,” Robinson continued, “I was astonished myself when the servant explained it to me. Just think, when Brunelda wasn’t home, the man was let in by the servant into her room and always took a small something as a memento and always left behind something very expensive and fine for Brunelda, strongly forbidding the servant from saying whose it was. But once – I believe what the servant told me – when he brought some priceless piece of porcelain, Brunelda must have known about it somehow, she immediately threw it to the ground, walked on it, spat on it and did some other things to it, so that the servant could barely carry it away for disgust. “What did the man do to her?” “I don’t really know,” said Robinson. “But I think he doesn’t even know himself. I spoke with him sometimes about it. He waits for me daily there on the street corner, when I come, I have to explain some new thing to him, if I can’t come, he waits for half an hour and goes away again. It was some good additional money for me on the side, because he paid magnificently for the news, but since Delamarche found out about it, I have to deliver everything to him, so I don’t go there so often.” “But what does the man want?” asked Karl. “What does he want? He knows she doesn’t want him.” “Yes,” sighed Robinson, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke into the sky as he swayed his arms. Then he seemed to have decided something and said: “What difference is it to me? All I know is he would gladly give a lot of money to be allowed to lie here on the balcony like us.” Karl stood up, leaned over the railing and looked down into the street. The moon was very visible, but its light hadn’t yet penetrated into the depths of the alleys. The streets, so empty by day, were crowded full of people, especially in front of the gates, everything was done slowly and clumsily, the men in their shirtsleeves, the light dresses of the women could weakly be made out in the dark, nobody had anything on his head. The many surrounding balconies were now occupied completely, depending on the size of the balcony, a family sat under the light of the glow lamp either around a small table or on armchairs in a row or at least they stuck their heads out of the room. The men sat there broad-legged and read newspapers which almost stretched to the ground, their feet stretched out between the railing posts, or they played cards seemingly quietly but with heavy pounding of the table, the women had their laps filled with needlework and were unobservant except for a short glance at the surroundings or the street here and there, a blond fragile woman on the neighboring balcony yawned continually, rolled her eyes and always picked up to her mouth a piece of laundry that she’d just been mending, the children on the small balconies understood they had to hunt after one another, which the parents found very troublesome. Inside many of the rooms a gramophone was set up and blew out songs or orchestra music, no one really noticed the music, but now and then the father of the family made a gesture and someone hurried into the room to put on a new record. At many of the windows you could see completely motionless pairs of lovers, at one window across from Karl such a pair stood upright, the young man had his arm laid around the girl and fondled her breast with his hand. “Do you know any of the people around here?” Karl asked Robinson, who was standing up too and because he was shivering in his blanket he wrapped Brunelda’s blanket around him as well. “Almost no one. That’s a terrible thing in my position,” said Robinson and brought Karl closer so he could whisper in his ear. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have that much to complain about. Brunelda, on account of Delamarche, has sold everything she has and is dragging all her riches here into this suburban apartment so she can dedicate herself completely to him and so that no one disturbs her, which was what Delamarche wanted too.” “And she’s fired the servants?” “Completely correct,” said Robinson. “Where would you put the servants here? These servants are very demanding gentlemen. Once, by Brunelda’s, Delamarche drove out a servant only with slaps in the face, flying one after the other until he was out of the room. Of course the other servants united with him and made some noise in front of the door, when Delamarche came out (I wasn’t a servant at the time, but a houseguest, but at the time I was on the side of the servants) and asked: “What do you want?” The oldest servant, a certain Isidor, said to him: “You have nothing to say to us, our boss is the merciful lady.” As you’ve probably noticed, they worshipped Brunelda very much. But Brunelda, without noticing them, ran to Delamarche, she wasn’t so heavy then as now, hugged him in front of everyone, kissed him and called him ‘beloved Delamarche.’ ‘And send these monkeys away,’ she said finally. Monkeys – that meant the servants, imagine the faces they made. Then Brunelda took Delamarche’s hand to the money-purse she carried on her belt. Delamarche grabbed inside and began to pay off the servants, which Brunelda participated in only insofar as she stood there with an open money-purse on her belt. Delamarche had to grab inside often, because he distributed the money without counting and without checking the demands. Finally he said: Since you don’t want to talk to me, I will speak to you only in the name of Brunelda: ‘Shove off, right now.’ So they were fired, there was still another trial, Delamarche had to go to court once, but I don’t know enough about that. Only after the servant left did Delamarche say to Brunelda: ‘So you don’t have any hired help?’ She said: ‘But there’s Robinson.’ With that Delamarche gave me a punch in the arm and said: ‘Good, you’ll be our servant.’ And Brunelda clicked her tongue at me, if you find the chance, Rossman, let her click her tongue at you, you’ll be surprised how beautiful it is.” “Did you also become Delamarche’s servant?” Robinson heard the pity in the question and answered: “I am a servant, but only a few people notice that. You see, you yourself didn’t know, even though you’ve been with us awhile yet. You saw how I’d been dressed in the night with you at the hotel. I had on the finest of the fine, do servants go dressed like that? It’s only that I’m not allowed to leave often, I have to always be at hand, there’s always something to do in maintaining the household. One person is too little for all the work. Maybe you’ve noticed, we have very many things standing around in the room, which we couldn’t sell during our large move, we had to take it with. Of course we would have been able to ship it away, but Brunelda ships nothing away. Just think about what kind of work it was to carry these things up the stairs.” “Robinson, you carried all this up?” Karl yelled. “Who else?” said Robinson. “There was a hired helper there, a lazy wretch, I had to do most of the work alone. Brunelda stood downstairs by the car, Delamarche upstairs made orders about where to put things, and I was always running back and forth. It took two days, very long, right? but you don’t know at all how many things are in this room, all the boxes are full and behind the boxes everything is stuffed to the ceiling. If we’d taken a couple of people for the move, everything would have been finished soon, but Brunelda wanted to trust no one but myself. That was very nice, but I ruined my health for my entire life, and what do I have besides my health? If I strain myself it stings me here and here and here. Do you actually believe that those young people in the hotel, those leapfrogs – what else are they then? – would have been able to beat me if I’d been healthy. But whatever I’m missing, I won’t say anything to Delamarche and Brunelda, I’ll work so long as it’ll last and when it doesn’t last any more, I’ll lay down and die and then for the first time they’ll say much too late that I was sick and in spite of that was continuing to work more and more and had worked myself to death in their service. Ah, Rossman,” he said at last and dried his eyes on Karl’s shirtsleeve. After a while he said: “Aren’t you cold, standing like that in your shirt.” “Get off it Robinson,” said Karl, “you’re always crying. I don’t believe you’re sick. You look completely healthy, but because you’re always lying out here on the balcony, you think differently to yourself. Sometimes you have a stinging in your chest, I have it too, everyone does. If every person cried like that over every small thing like you, all the people on the balconies would have to cry.” “I know better,” said Robinson and wiped his eyes with the corner of his blanket. “The student who lives next to us with the landlady and who cooked for us too said to me the last time I brought back the dinner plates: ‘Hey, Robinson, are you sick?’ I’m forbidden to speak to people, so I just put down the dishes and wanted to go away. Then he went to me said: ‘Listen, sir, don’t drag these things to their extreme, you’re sick.’ ‘Okay, and what should I do about it,’ I asked. ‘That’s your matter,’ he said and turned around. The others by the table were laughing, we generally have enemies here and I preferred to leave.” “So you believe the people who take you for a fool and don’t believe the people who mean well by you.” “But I have to know how I’m feeling,” continued Robinson, but then he returned again to crying. “You don’t even know what’s wrong with you, you should find an orderly job for yourself somewhere, instead of being Delamarche’s servant. So far as I can judge from your explanation and from what I’ve seen myself, there is no work here except for slavery. No man can take that, I’ll believe you there. But you think, because you’re Delamarche’s friend, that you’re not allowed to leave. That is false, if he doesn’t see what kind of miserable life you lead, you don’t have the slightest responsibility towards him.” “You really believe, Rossman, that I’ll recover if I give up my job here.” “Of course,” said Karl. “Of course,” asked Robinson one more time. “I’m completely certain,” said Karl smiling. “Then I can begin recovering immediately,” Robinson said as he looked at Karl. “Why is that?” he asked. “Because now you’re taking over my job,” answered Robinson. “So who told you that?” asked Karl. “That’s already an old plan. There’s been agreement about that for quite a few days now. It began with Brunelda scolding me because I didn’t keep the apartment clean enough. Of course I promised that I would immediately bring everything into order. But now everything is difficult. For example, in my condition I can’t crawl everywhere to wipe up all the dust, you can’t even move in the middle of the room and certainly not when in-between the furniture and the supplies. And if you want to clean everything thoroughly, you have to push the furniture out of place and do I have to do that alone? And everything has to happen quietly because of Brunelda, who rarely leaves the place and will not be disturbed in the slightest. I also promised to clean everything, but I never really cleaned it. When Brunelda noticed that, she told Delamarche that this couldn’t continue and that they’d have to get a helper. ‘Delamarche,’ she said, ‘I don’t want you to reproach me for not running the household well. I can’t strain myself, you can see that and Robinson isn’t enough, in the beginning he was so fresh and looked around everywhere, but now he’s always tired and sits in a corner most of the time. But a place with as much stuff as ours doesn’t keep itself in order.’ Delamarche thought about what could be done, you can’t just take any random face into such a household, because they watch us from all sides. But because I’m your good friend and heard from Renell how you were struggling in the hotel, I brought you up as a proposal. Delamarche agreed immediately, in spite of the fact that you behaved so rudely in front of him, and of course I was very happy for being so useful. This job was made for you, you are young, strong and clever, while I’m not worth anything anymore. I just want to say, that you are in no way accepted if you don’t please Brunelda, we couldn’t use you then. Just try to be acceptable to her, and I’ll worry about the rest.” “And what will you do when I’m the servant?” asked Karl, he felt so open now that the first shock of Robinson’s pronouncement was over. Delamarche had no worse intention than to make him a servant – if they’d had more terrible intentions, they would certainly have betrayed them to the chattering Robinson – but if it stood like that, then Karl would risk traveling off during the night. You can’t force anyone to take a job. And while Karl’d had enough to worry him before about getting an acceptable and maybe even decent job to keep himself from going hungry, he would’ve taken any job and even preferred a period of unemployment to this job, which was repulsive to him. But he didn’t try at all to make it understandable to Robinson, especially since Robinson was completely biased right now in every judgment by his hope to be relieved by Karl. “I will,” Robinson said, accompanying the words with comforting hand motions – he had his elbows propped up on the railing – “explain everything to you first of all and show you the supplies. You are educated and certainly have beautiful writing, maybe you could make a register of all the things we have. Brunelda has wanted that for a long time. If there’s good weather tomorrow morning, we’ll ask Brunelda to sit on the balcony, and in the meantime we’ll be calm and can work in the room without disturbing her. About that, Rossman, you have to be careful above all things. Just don’t disturb Brunelda. She hears everything, she probably has those sensitive ears as a singer. For example, you’re rolling out the barrel of schnapps standing behind the boxes, it makes a noise because it’s heavy and lies around so many various things that you can’t roll it through the first time. Brunelda, for example, lies quietly on the couch and swats at flies, which bother her very much. You believe this doesn’t concern her and roll your barrel along. She lies as quiet as ever. But in a moment when you’re not expecting it at all and make the slightest noise, she suddenly sits upright, pounds with both hands on the couch so that you can’t see her for the dust – since we’ve been here I haven’t been able to beat out the couch, I can’t, she always lies on it – and begins to scream frightfully, like a man, and screams like that for hours at a time. The neighbors forbid her from singing, but no one can forbid the screaming, she has to scream, it doesn’t happen so often anymore. Delamarche and I are becoming very cautious. It hurts her very much. Once she became unconscious and I – Delamarche was away at the time – I had to fetch the student next door, who sprayed this liquid out of a large bottle, but this liquid had an unbearable smell to it, even now, if you hold your nose to the couch, you can smell it. The student is certainly our enemy, as is everyone here, you have to take care in everything and get involved with no one.” “Robinson,” said Karl, “but that’s difficult work. That’s a beautiful job you’ve recommended for me.” “Don’t worry about it,” said Robinson and shook his head with closed eyes to ward off all of Karl’s possible worry. “The position has advantages no other job can offer. You are always in the area of a woman such as Brunelda, sometimes you sleep in the same room as her, as you can imagine that brings various comforts along with it. You will be richly paid, gold is in piles here, being Delamarche’s friend I’ve gotten nothing, Brunelda’s only given me something when I’ve left, but of course you’ll be paid like any other servant. You won’t be anything special. The most important thing for you, though, is that I will make your job much easier. At first, of course, I’ll do nothing in order to recover, but when I recover just a little, you’ll be able to count on me. I’ll keep the actual serving of Brunelda to myself, and the hair-styling and the dressing, insofar as it’s not already attended to by Delamarche, you’ll only have to look after the upkeep of the rooms, the errands and the difficult household work.” “No, Robinson,” said Karl, “that doesn’t tempt me.” “Don’t do anything stupid, Rossman,” said Robinson, very close to Karl’s face. “Don’t joke around with this beautiful possibility. Where will you receive the same position? Who knows you? Who do you know? We, two men, who have lived a lot and possess much experience, have run around for weeks at a time without getting work. It’s not easy, it can even be desperately difficult.” Karl nodded and was surprised at how reasonable even Robinson could sound. This advice had no validity for him, he couldn’t stay here, in the large city there would have to be a little place for him to find, he knew that for the whole night the guest-houses were filled, you needed servants for the guests, he already had some practice in that, he would insert himself quickly and inconspicuously into such a business. In the house just across the way a small guest house was set up, out of which shot tumultuous music. The entrance door was covered with only a large yellow curtain, which sometimes with the breeze fluttered powerfully into the street. Otherwise it became much quieter in the street. Most of the balconies were dark, in the distance you could see a single light here or there, but you barely held it in your eyes for a short while before the people there picked themselves up, and as they pushed back into the apartment, a man grabbed the lamp and, remaining behind on the balcony to get a short look onto the street, turned out the light. “The night’s already beginning,” Karl said to himself. “If I stay here much longer, I’ll belong to them.” He turned, in order to pull away the curtain from the apartment door. “What do you want?” said Robinson, standing between Karl and the curtain. “I want to leave,” said Karl. “Let me go, just let me go!” “You don’t want to disturb them,” yelled Robinson. “What do you think you’re doing?” And he laid an arm on Karl’s neck, hung on him with his entire weight, wrapped his legs around Karl’s legs, and took him in a moment to the ground. But Karl had learned how to fight a little as an elevator boy, and so he struck Robinson with his fist under the chin, but weakly and with gentleness. Robinson then gave Karl a quick and complete jab in the stomach with his knee, but then both of his hands grabbed his chin, yelling so loudly that a man clapping wildly on the neighboring balcony ordered, “Quiet!” Karl lay still a little, in order to get over the pain that Robinson’s hit had caused. He only turned his face to the curtain, which hung calmly and heavily in front of the dark room. There seemed to be no one in the room, maybe Delamarche and Brunelda had left and Karl already had his freedom. Robinson, really behaving like a guard dog, had finally been completely shaken off.

Advokat / Fabrikant / Maler

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:37:02 +0000

An einem Wintervormittag – draußen fiel Schnee im trüben Licht – saß K. trotz der frühen Stunde schon äußerst müde in seinem Bureau. Um sich wenigstens vor den untern Beamten zu schützen, hatte er dem Diener den Auftrag gegeben, niemanden von ihnen einzulassen, da er mit einer größern Arbeit beschäftigt sei. Aber statt zu arbeiten drehte er sich in seinem Sessel, verschob langsam einige Gegenstände auf dem Tisch, ließ dann aber, ohne es zu wissen den ganzen Arm ausgestreckt auf der Tischplatte liegen und blieb mit gesenktem Kopf unbeweglich sitzen.

La preoccupazione del padre di famiglia

Fri, 11 Mar 2005 22:08:37 +0000

Alcuni dicono che la parola Odradek derivi dallo slavo e cercano di chiarire su questa base la formazione della parola. Altri invece ritengono che derivi dal tedesco, e che dallo slavo sia solo influenzata. L’incertezza di entrambe le interpretazioni però fa a buon diritto concludere che nessuna delle due sia corretta, anche perché nessuna permette di trovare un senso. Naturalmente nessuno si occuperebbe di tali questioni se non esistesse davvero un essere che si chiama Odradek. A prima vista sembra un rocchetto piatto di filo, a forma di stella, e in effetti sembra anche avere del filo arrotolato; si tratta però solo di pezzetti di filo strappati, vecchi, annodati e anche ingarbugliati fra loro, di tipi e colori dei più disparati. Non è però solo un rocchetto, ma dal centro della stella spunta un piccolo bastoncino obliquo, e a questo bastoncino un altro se ne aggiunge ad angolo retto. Aiutandosi da un lato con quest’ultimo bastoncino e dall’altro con un raggio della stella, il tutto può stare in piedi come su due gambe. Si sarebbe tentati di credere che una tale creatura abbia avuto in passato una qualche forma adeguata a uno scopo, e che ora sia semplicemente rotta. Ma sembra che non sia così; per lo meno non se ne trova alcun segno; non si vedono aggiunte o fratture che potrebbero far pensare qualcosa del genere; il tutto sembra certo insensato, ma nel suo genere concluso. D’altronde, non se ne può dire niente di più preciso, perché Odradek è straordinariamente mobile e non si lascia prendere. Si intrattiene ora sul tetto, ora nelle scale, ora nei corridoi, ora nell’atrio. A volte non lo si vede per mesi; evidentemente si è trasferito in altre case; torna poi però invariabilmente in casa nostra. A volte, quando si esce dalla porta, sta proprio lì sotto appoggiato alla ringhiera delle scale, e viene voglia di parlargli. Naturalmente non gli si fanno domande difficili, ma lo si tratta – già la sua piccolezza induce a questo – come un bambino. «Come ti chiami?» gli si chiede. «Odradek», dice. «E dove abiti?» «Senza fissa dimora» dice, e ride; ma è solo una risata come la può emettere chi è senza polmoni. Suona all’incirca come il fruscio delle foglie cadute. Per lo più, con questo il colloquio finisce. D’altronde anche queste risposte non sempre si possono ottenere; spesso resta muto a lungo, come il legno di cui sembra esser fatto. Mi chiedo inutilmente cosa avverrà di lui. Forse che può morire? Tutto ciò che muore ha avuto prima una specie di scopo, una specie di attività sulla quale si è logorato; questo non è il caso di Odradek. Forse dovrà allora un giorno rotolare ancora per le scale trascinando i suoi fili arrotolati fra i piedi dei miei figli, e dei figli dei miei figli? Certo, non fa danno a nessuno; ma questa idea, che possa anche sopravvivermi, mi dà quasi un dolore.

Avvocato. Direttore di fabbrica. Pittore

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 12:04:16 +0000

Un mattino d’inverno - fuori, nella luce torbida, cadeva la neve - K. sedeva nel suo ufficio, già stanchissimo, benché fosse così presto. Per difendersi almeno dagli impiegati di grado inferiore, aveva ordinato al portiere di non far entrare nessuno perché era occupato con un lavoro più impegnativo del solito; ma invece di lavorare si rigirava sulla sedia, spostava lentamente alcuni oggetti sul tavolo e poi, senza accorgersene, abbandonava sulla scrivania il braccio disteso e rimaneva seduto immobile, con il capo chino.

Heft 8

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 16:08:15 +0000

2 Mai 1913

Es ist sehr notwendig geworden wieder ein Tagebuch zu führen. Mein unsicherer Kopf, Felice, der Verfall im Bureau, die körperliche Unmöglichkeit zu schreiben und das innere Bedürfnis danach.

Valli geht hinter dem Schwager, der morgen zur Waffenübung nach Tschotkov einrückt, aus unserer Tür hinaus. Merkwürdig die in diesem Ihm-Folgen liegende Anerkennung der Ehe als Einrichtung, mit der man sich bis in den Grund hinein abgefunden hat.

Die Geschichte der Gärtnerstochter, die mich vorgestern in der Arbeit unterbrach. Ich, der ich durch die Arbeit meine Neurasthenie heilen will, muß hören, daß der Bruder des Fräulein, er hat Jan geheißen und war der eigentliche Gärtner und voraussichtlicher Nachfolger des alten Dvorsky, ja sogar schon Besitzer des Blumengartens sich vor 2 Monaten im Alter von 28 Jahren aus Melancholie vergiftet hat. Im Sommer war ihm verhältnismäßig wohl trotz seiner einsiedlerischen Natur, da er wenigstens mit den Kunden verkehren mußte, im Winter dagegen war er ganz verschlossen. Seine Geliebte war eine Beamtin – urednice – ein gleichfalls melancholisches Mädchen. Sie giengen zusammen oft auf den Friedhof.

"Traurig lief des Alten Magd…" (II, 21)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:27:11 +0000

Traurig lief des Alten Magd vom Berg, trug den Korb mit Äpfeln voll beladen

Ich habe meinen Verstand in die Hand vergraben, fröhlich, aufrecht trage ich den Kopf, aber die Hand hängt müde hinab, der Verstand zieht sie zur Erde. Sieh nur die kleine, harthäutige, aderndurchzogene, faltenzerrissene, hochädrige, fünffingrige Hand, wie gut daß ich den Verstand in diesen unscheinbaren Behälter retten konnte. Besonders vorzüglich ist, daß ich zwei Hände habe. Wie im Kinderspiel frage ich: In welcher Hand habe ich meinen Verstand, niemand kann es erraten, denn ich kann durch Falten der Hände im Nu den Verstand aus einer Hand in die andere übertragen.

"Ein großes Fahnentuch…" (II, 12)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:05:01 +0000

Ein großes Fahnentuch lag auf mir, ich arbeitete mich mühselig hervor. Ich fand mich auf einer Anhöhe, Wiesenland und kahler Felsen wechselten ab. Ähnliche Anhöhen zogen sich wellenförmig nach allen Himmelsrichtungen, die Aussicht gieng weithin, nur im Westen löste Dunst und Glanz der untergehenden Sonne alle Formen auf. Der erste Mensch den ich sah war mein Kommandant, er saß auf einem Stein, die Beine gekreuzt, den Elbogen aufgestützt, den Kopf in der Hand und schlief.

Vom jüdischen Theater (I, 24)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:38:09 +0000

Isaak Löwy

Vom jüdischen Theater.

Mit Ziffern und mit Statistiken werde ich mich im Folgenden nicht abgeben; die überlasse ich den Geschichtsschreibern des jüdischen Theaters. Meine Absicht ist ganz einfach: einige Blätter Erinnerungen an das jüdische Theater mit seinen Dramen, seinen Schauspielern, seinem Publikum, sowie ich das alles in mehr als zehn Jahren gesehen, gelernt und mitgemacht habe, hier vorzulegen oder anders gesagt, den Vorhang zu heben und die Wunde zu zeigen. Nur nach Erkenntnis der Krankheit läßt sich ein Heilmittel finden und möglicherweise das wahre jüdische Theater schaffen.

"Kleine Seele" (1909)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:46:41 +0000

Kleine Seele

springst im Tanze

legst in warme Luft den Kopf

hebst die Füße aus glänzendem Grase

das der Wind in zarte Bewegung treibt

Ein Hungerkünstler

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:39:34 +0000

Vier Geschichte

Erstes Leid

Ein Trapezkünstler – bekanntlich ist diese hoch in den Kuppeln der großen Varietebühnen ausgeübte Kunst eine der schwierigsten unter allen, Menschen erreichbaren – hatte, zuerst nur aus dem Streben nach Vervollkommnung, später auch aus tyrannisch gewordener Gewohnheit sein Leben derart eingerichtet, daß er, so lange er im gleichen Unternehmen arbeitete, Tag und Nacht auf dem Trapeze blieb. Allen seinen, übrigens sehr geringen Bedürfnissen wurde durch einander ablösende Diener entsprochen, welche unten wachten und alles, was oben benötigt wurde, in eigens konstruierten Gefäßen hinauf- und hinabzogen. Besondere Schwierigkeiten für die Umwelt ergaben sich aus dieser Lebensweise nicht; nur während der sonstigen Programmnummern war es ein wenig störend, daß er, wie sich nicht verbergen ließ, oben geblieben war und daß, trotzdem er sich in solchen Zeiten meist ruhig verhielt, hie und da ein Blick aus dem Publikum zu ihm abirrte. Doch verziehen ihm dies die Direktionen, weil er ein außerordentlicher, unersetzlicher Künstler war. Auch sah man natürlich ein, daß er nicht aus Mutwillen so lebte, und eigentlich nur so sich in dauernder Übung erhalten, nur so seine Kunst in ihrer Vollkommenheit bewahren konnte.

8. Das Warten auf Klamm

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:00:33 +0000

Zunächst war K. froh, dem Gedränge der Mägde und Gehilfen in dem warmen Zimmer entgangen zu sein. Auch fror es ein wenig, der Schnee war fester, das Gehen leichter. Nur fing es freilich schon zu dunkeln an und er beschleunigte die Schritte.

Das Schloß, dessen Umrisse sich schon aufzulösen begannen, lag still wie immer, niemals noch hatte K. dort das geringste Zeichen von Leben gesehn, vielleicht war es gar nicht möglich aus dieser Ferne etwas zu erkennen und doch verlangten es die Augen und wollten die Stille nicht dulden. Wenn K. das Schloß ansah, so war ihm manchmal, als beobachte er jemanden, der ruhig dasitze und vor sich hinsehe, nicht etwa in Gedanken verloren und dadurch gegen alles abgeschlossen, sondern frei und unbekümmert; so als sei er allein und niemand beobachte ihn; und doch mußte er merken, daß er beobachtet wurde, aber es rührte nicht im Geringsten an seine Ruhe und wirklich – man wußte nicht war es Ursache oder Folge – die Blicke des Beobachters konnten sich nicht festhalten und glitten ab. Dieser Eindruck wurde heute noch verstärkt durch das frühe Dunkel, je länger er hinsah, desto weniger erkannte er, desto tiefer sank alles in Dämmerung.

«Auf! Auf! rief Robinson...»

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 16:52:04 +0000

“Auf! Auf! " rief Robinson, kaum daß Karl früh die Augen öffnete. Der Türvorhang war noch nicht weggezogen, aber man merkte an dem durch die Lücken einfallenden gleichmäßigen Sonnenlicht, wie spät am Vormittag es schon war. Robinson lief eilfertig mit besorgten Blicken hin und her, bald trug er ein Handtuch, bald einen Wasserkübel, bald Wäsche-und Kleidungsstücke und immer wenn er an Karl vorüberkam, suchte er ihn durch Kopfnicken zum Aufstehn aufzumuntern und zeigte durch Hochheben dessen was er gerade in der Hand hielt, wie er sich heute noch zum letzten mal für Karl plage, der natürlich am ersten Morgen von den Einzelheiten des Dienstes nichts verstehen konnte.

“Get up!” yelled Robinson . . .

Sun, 03 Dec 2006 16:24:59 +0000

“Get up!” yelled Robinson as Karl was just opening his eyes. The curtain hadn’t yet been pulled down, but you could notice how late in the morning it was from the sunlight evenly penetrating through the gaps. Robinson ran urgently with troubled glances here and there, soon he was carrying a towel, then a water bucket, then some laundry and pieces of clothing and always as he came over to Karl, he tried to encourage him to stand up by nodding his head, all the while showing what he was carrying in his hand by holding it out, as if this were the last day he were torturing himself for Karl, who of course couldn’t understand the details of his job on the first morning. But soon Karl saw whom Robinson was actually serving. In an area Karl hadn’t seen yet, separated from the general room by two cabinets, a great bathing was in progress. You could see Brunelda’s head, the exposed throat – her hair was shoved against her face – and the nape of her neck rising over the cabinets, and here and there Delamarche’s raised hand held a sponge that splashed around as Brunelda was washed and scrubbed. You could hear the terse orders Delamarche gave to Robinson, who didn’t hand the things over through the blocked-off entry to the area, but instead had been assigned a small gap in-between the cabinets and a screen, where he had to stretch out his arms as he extended his hands and averted his eyes. “The towel! The towel!” yelled Delamarche. And Robinson, who was already looking for something under the table, had just barely been alerted to this task and was sticking his head out from under the table when it called out again: “Where’s the water, damn it!” and, stretching up over the boxes, Delamarche’s furious expression appeared . So far as Karl understood, everything you usually needed only once for washing and dressing was demanded in every possible order and brought out a number of times. A bucket stood on a small electric stove, warming water, and again and again Robinson carried the heavy load to the wash area between his spread legs. He had so much work to do it was understandable if he didn’t always keep to his orders, and once, when a towel was demanded, he just took a shirt from the large sleeping area in the middle of the room and threw it over the cabinets in a large ball. But Delamarche also had some tough work and he was probably so aggravated with Robinson because he couldn’t satisfy Brunelda by himself – he was so aggravated that he completely ignored Karl. “Oh,” she shrieked and even Karl, otherwise uninvolved, jumped. “You’re hurting me! Go away! I’d rather wash myself than suffer like this. Now I can’t lift up my arm. It’s terrible how you’re pushing up against me. I must have big bruises on my back. Of course you wouldn’t tell me so. Wait, I’ll have Robinson look at me or our little one. No, I won’t do it, but just be a little gentler. Be careful, Delamarche, but I can repeat that all morning, you’re never careful, never. Robinson,” she yelled right away and swung some pantyhose over her head. “Come help me, look at how I’m suffering, this Delamarche, he calls this torture a bath. Robinson, Robinson, where are you, have you lost your heart too?” Karl made a quiet sign to Robinson that he could go in, but Robinson shook his head with lowered eyes, he knew better. “What’s the matter with you?” said Robinson as he bent over to Karl’s ear. “It’s not meant like that. I only went in once, never again. They both tackled me and threw me into the tub, so that I almost drowned. And for days Brunelda scolded me for being shameless and again and again she said, ‘Haven’t you been waiting a long time to be in the bath with me?’ or ‘When will you come to see me in the bath again?’ She only stopped when I begged her for some time on my knees. I’ll never forget that.” And as Robinson explained, Brunelda yelled again and again: “Robinson! Robinson! Where is that Robinson!” However, in spite of the fact that no one came to help her and nothing happened in response – Robinson had sat down by Karl and the both of them looked quietly at the cabinets as Brunelda’s or Delamarche’s head appeared now and then – in spite of that, Brunelda wouldn’t stop complaining loudly about Delamarche. “But Delamarche,” she yelled, “now I don’t feel you washing me at all. Where did you put the sponge? So get to it! If only I could bend down, if only I could move myself! I would show you how you’re supposed to wash. Where are my younger days, where I swam every morning in the Colorado on my parents’ property, the most agile of all my girlfriends. And now! When will you learn to wash me, Delamarche, you wave the sponge around, strain yourself, and I don’t feel a thing. When I said you shouldn’t rub me raw, I didn’t mean I wanted to stand here and catch a cold. If it comes to that, I’ll jump out of the tub and run away just as I am.” But she never carried out these threats – she wouldn’t have been able to do it anyway – Delamarche, out of the fear she could catch cold, seemed to have grabbed her and pushed her into the tub, because there was a strong splashing in the water. “You always do that, Delamarche,” Brunelda said a little more softly. “You flatter me and flatter me again whenever you’ve done something wrong.” Then it was quiet for awhile. “He’s kissing her now,” said Delamarche as he lifted his eyebrows. “So what’s there to do?” asked Karl. Since he had finally decided to stay here, he wanted to perform his duties. He let Robinson, who didn’t answer, stay on the couch while he began to pull out the largest things from the pile that had been pressed together into a bed during the night by the sleepers, so that he could lay everything from this pile into individual order, which hadn’t been done for a week already. “Go look, Delamarche,” Brunelda said. “I think they’re taking our bed apart. With all this you have to think that we’ll never have any peace. You have to be stricter with these two, or else they’ll do whatever they want.” “That has to be the small one with his damned work ethic,” yelled Delamarche, probably wanting to plunge out of the bathing area, Karl threw everything out of his hands, but luckily Brunelda said: “Don’t leave me, Delamarche, don’t leave. This water is so hot, I get very tired. Stay with me, Delamarche.” Karl just noticed now how the steam behind the cabinets rose incessantly. Robinson’s hand landed on his cheek, as if Karl had done something terrible. “Everything stays in the exact same condition as it was,” the voice of Delamarche clanged out. “Don’t you know that Brunelda always rests for an hour after her bath? Horrible mismanagement! Wait until I come for you two. Robinson, you’re probably dreaming again. You, you alone I’ll make responsible for everything that happened. Hold the boy down, nothing will be put into order according to his plans. I can’t get anything from you two when I want something, but when there’s nothing to do, the both of you turn industrious. Go hide somewhere and wait until someone needs you.” But everything was forgotten immediately, because Brunelda whispered very wearily, as if she were overwhelmed by the hot water: “The perfume! Bring the perfume!” “The perfume!” screamed Delamarche. “Get moving!” Yes, but where was the perfume? Karl looked at Robinson, Robinson looked at Karl. Karl realized he had to take matters into his own hands, Robinson had no idea where the perfume was, he just lay down on the floor, running both of his arms under the couch but digging up nothing but balls of dust and woman’s hair. Karl hurried to the dresser standing by the door, but could only find an English novel, magazines and notes and everything was so stuffed in there he couldn’t close the drawers when he had opened them. “The perfume!” sighed Brunelda behind all this. “It’s taking so long! If I could get my perfume today!” Because of Brunelda’s impatience Karl wasn’t allowed to search anything thoroughly, he had to leave after his first superficial impression. The bottle wasn’t on the cabinets, on the cabinets were generally little bottles with medicine and ointment, everything else had already been carried into the bathing area. Maybe the bottle was in the drawer of the dining table. On his way to the dining table, however – Karl thought only about the perfume and nothing else – he knocked together violently with Robinson, who had finally given up the search under the couch and with a dim idea of the perfume’s location ran blindly into Karl. You could distinctly hear their heads slamming together, Karl stayed quiet, Robinson didn’t really hold steady, he screamed persistently and excessively loudly to ease the pain. “They’re fighting instead of looking for the perfume,” said Brunelda. “I’m getting sick of this business, Delamarche, and I’m going to die in your arms. I have to have the perfume,” she yelled. “I absolutely have to have it. I’m not getting out of the bath before someone brings it to me, even if I have to stay here until evening.” And she slammed her fist into the water, you could hear it splashing. But the perfume wasn’t in the dining room drawer, in the end there were some of Brunelda’s beauty supplies such as old powder brushes, little makeup containers, hair brushes, tiny curls and many ragged and stuck-together little things, but the perfume wasn’t there. And then Robinson, who was still screaming in the middle of about a hundred boxes and containers, opened one after the other and dug through them, always dumping half the insides onto the floor where they stayed, usually sewing things and letters, but he couldn’t find anything, which he signaled to Karl through shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. Then Delamarche jumped out of the bathing area in his underclothes as Brunelda cried desperately. Karl and Robinson quit looking and stared at Delamarche, who was all wet through and through, the water running down his face. “Now then, kindly start looking,” he yelled. “Here!” he ordered first for Karl to look and then “There!” for Robinson. Karl really looked and even checked the places Robinson had been ordered to, but he found just as little of the perfume as Robinson, who was eagerly trying to watch Delamarche, who himself stamped up and down the full length of the room and would have preferred to beat up Karl as much as Robinson. “Delamarche,” Brunelda yelled, “at least come dry me. Those two still haven’t found the perfume and are getting everything out of order. They should immediately stop looking. And right away! But they’re still working like always, a box just fell. They shouldn’t lift anything anymore, they should leave everything lying there and get out of the room! Bolt the door behind them and come to me. I’ve already laid too long in the water, my legs have gone completely cold.” “Right away, Brunelda, right away,” Delamarche called back and hurried Karl and Robinson to the door. But before he dismissed them, he gave them the job to fetch breakfast and maybe borrow a good perfume from someone for Brunelda. “Your place is so disorganized and dirty,” said Karl outside in the hallway. “When we get back with breakfast, we’ll need to start organizing.” “If only I weren’t suffering so much,” said Robinson. “And this treatment!” Robinson was certainly upset over the fact that Brunelda made no distinction between himself, who had served for a month already, and Karl, who had just walked in yesterday. But he deserved nothing better and Karl said: “You have to pull yourself together a little.” But, in order not to leave him in his despair, he added: “It’s only a one-time job. I’ll make a bed for you behind the boxes, and if only everything’s organized once, you’ll be able to lie there the entire day, so that you won’t have to worry and will become healthy very soon.” “Now you see how it is with me,” said Robinson, turning his face from Karl so he could be alone with himself and his sorrow. “But will they let me lie there in peace?” “If you want, I’ll talk it over myself with Delamarche and Brunelda.” “Will Brunelda take consideration for someone else?” Robinson yelled and, without preparing Karl, struck out at the door they had just come to. They walked into a kitchen, where a stove in need of repair shot out little black clouds. In front of the stove door stood a woman, who had seen Karl yesterday in the corridor and who with her bare hands was laying pieces of coal into the fire, which she examined from all sides. She sighed as she knelt in an uncomfortable position for an old woman. “And of course these problems come too,” she said as she looked at Robinson, picked herself up laboriously, her hand on the coal-box, and closed the stove door, whose handle she had wrapped up with her apron. “Now, at four o’clock in the afternoon,” – Karl stared at the kitchen clock – “you still need breakfast? What a group!” “Sit down you two,” she then said, “and wait for me to have time for you.” Robinson took Karl to a little stool in the area of the door and whispered to him: “We have to obey her. Actually, we’re dependent on her. We rented the room from her and she can evict us at a moment’s notice. But we can’t change apartments, we would have to move all our things again, and above all things Brunelda is not transportable.” “Aren’t there any other rooms in the hallway?” Karl asked. “There is no one who will take us,” answered Robinson. “Nobody in the entire building would take us.” So they sat on her little stool and waited. The woman ran constantly here and there between two tables, a washtub and the stove. By her yelling they learned that her daughter was sick and she had to worry about all the work, namely the serving and feeding of thirty tenants. And now the oven was defective, the meal would not be complete, in two giant pots a thick soup cooked and no matter how many times the woman examined it with a ladle and allowed it to pour down from up high, the soup would not be successful, it had to be the fault of that terrible fire and so she sat close by the stove door on the floor and worked the poker around in the coals. The smell from it had filled the kitchen, it got her to coughing so much that she grabbed onto a chair and did nothing but cough for minutes at a time. She often made the observation that she wouldn’t deliver breakfasts today, because she neither had the time nor the desire. So on the one hand Karl and Robinson had the order to fetch breakfast, on the other couldn’t force her by any means, they never answered her comments, but remained sitting quietly as before. All around, on chairs and footstools, on and under the tables, even on the ground in a corner, the unwashed breakfast dishes of the tenants stood piled up. There were little cans where you could find a little coffee or milk, on many tiny plates were still some leftover butter, some bread rolls had tumbled far away from a large, fallen baking sheet. There was quite possibly a breakfast in everything taken together, which Brunelda wouldn’t be able to put down if she never learned of its origins. As Karl thought about that and a glance at the clock showed him that they had already been waiting there a half hour and Brunelda was probably raging and Delamarche probably riled up against the servants, the woman yelled at them as she coughed – during which Karl stared at her – “You can sit here, but the breakfast won’t come. Come back in two hours for supper.” “Come on, Robinson,” Karl said, “we’ll put the breakfast together ourselves.” “How?” yelled the woman with an inclined head. “Please be reasonable,” said Karl, “why wouldn’t you give us breakfast? We’ve been waiting now for half an hour already, that’s long enough. You’re paid for everything and we certainly pay a better price than all the others. Of course it’s annoying for you that we breakfast so late, but we are your tenants, we have the habit of breakfasting late and you have to accommodate us a little. Today it’s especially difficult because of your daughter’s illness, but because of that we’re prepared to put our breakfast together from the leftovers, so long as there’s nothing else and you won’t give us a fresh meal.” But the woman didn’t want to get involved with anyone in friendly conversation, even the leftovers of this mass breakfast seemed too good for these tenants; but on the other hand she’d had enough of these two servants’ pushiness, so she snatched a pot and stuck it in Robinson’s belly, who grabbed it after whining a little, so that he could hold the pot to receive the food the woman would find. She loaded the pot with a bunch of things, but the entirety looked like a pile of dirty dishes, not like a serviceable breakfast. Still, as she pushed them out and they hurried bent over, as if they were afraid of the swearing or the jabs, Karl took the pot out of Robinson’s hands, because it didn’t seem secure enough with Robinson. Karl sat down in the hallway with the cup on the floor, once they were far enough away from the landlady’s door, so he could clean out everything in the pot, collect the things that went together, pour the milk together, scrape the leftover butter onto a plate, then remove all signs of usage, and then he’d clean the knives and spoons, evenly cut the half-eaten rolls and give everything a better look. Robinson thought this work was unnecessary and maintained that breakfast had looked worse often enough, but Karl didn’t let that stop him and was quite happy that Robinson wouldn’t be taking part in the work with his dirty fingers. To keep him quiet, Karl had given him, just once he told him, some cake and the thick residue of a tiny container once filled with chocolate. When they came to their apartment and Robinson, without any hesitation, placed his hand on the doorknob, Karl held him back, because it wasn’t yet certain if they were allowed to walk in. “But yes,” said Robinson, “now he’s just doing her hair.” And actually Brunelda was sitting in an armchair with her legs spread wide apart in the stuffy and enclosed room, and Delamarche, standing behind her, combed her short, probably very tangled hair with a deep expression as he bent over. Brunelda wore a loose dress again, but this one was of a pale red color, it was probably a little shorter than it was yesterday, you could see the white, coarse, knitted stockings almost up to the knee. Impatient over how long the combing was taking, Brunelda darted her thick red tongue here and there between her lips, and sometimes with the shout, “But Delamarche!” she tore herself completely free of Delamarche, who waited quietly with an upraised comb until she laid her head back down again. “It’s taking a long time,” said Brunelda to everyone, and she said to Karl in particular: “You need to be a little quicker if you want someone to be happy with you. Don’t take the lazy and greedy Robinson as an example. You had breakfast somewhere in the meantime, I’m telling you that next time I will not tolerate it.” That was very incorrect and Robinson shook his head and moved his lips silently, Karl saw that you could only have an effect on these people if you showed them indisputable results. He took a low Japanese table out from under a table, put a tablecloth over it and placed the things he brought with on top of it. Someone who had seen where the breakfast had come from could have been satisfied with the whole of it, but otherwise, as Karl himself had to say, there were things that could have been criticized. Fortunately, Brunelda was hungry. She nodded pleasantly at Karl as he prepared everything and she often slowed things down as she took away a mouthful with her soft, fat hand that knocked into everything possible. “He did good,” she said, eating noisily, and then brought Delamarche down to the couch as he left the comb stuck in her hair for later work. With one look at the food, Delamarche also became friendly, both were very hungry, their hands hurried back and forth over the dishes. Karl realized that in order to keep people happy here, all he had to do was bring as much as possible, and in recognition of the fact that he had left a few edible items on the floor in the kitchen, he said: “At first I didn’t know how everything had to be arranged, next time I’ll do better.” But even during this speech he knew whom he was speaking to, he was much too self-conscious about these things. Brunelda, satisfied, nodded to Delamarche and gave Karl a handful of crackers in payment.

Nella colonia penale

Thu, 01 Dec 2005 15:27:38 +0000

traduzione: Mauro Nervi

Versione formato Word

«E’ una macchina molto speciale», disse l’ufficiale all’esploratore, e con sguardo in un certo senso ammirato controllò la macchina che pure conosceva così bene. Il viaggiatore sembrava aver consentito solo per cortesia alla richiesta del comandante, il quale lo aveva invitato ad assistere all’esecuzione di un soldato condannato per insubordinazione e insulti a un superiore in grado. In generale, nella colonia penale, l’interesse per questa esecuzione non era molto grande. O almeno, qui nella piccola valle profonda e sabbiosa, circondata da alture spoglie, a parte l’ufficiale e il viaggiatore c’era solo il condannato, un uomo ottuso e dalla bocca larga, con capelli e viso in disordine, e un soldato che teneva in mano la pesante catena in cui confluivano le catene più piccole nelle quali il condannato era costretto al collo e alle articolazioni dei piedi e delle mani, e che erano anche collegate fra loro da altre catene. Inoltre il condannato sembrava docile come un cagnolino, si aveva l’impressione che lo si potesse lasciar libero di correre sulle alture intorno e che bastasse fare un fischio al momento dell’esecuzione per farlo ritornare. Il viaggiatore aveva poca curiosità verso la macchina e con un disinteresse quasi visibile camminava su e giù dietro il condannato, mentre l’ufficiale si occupava degli ultimi preparativi, ora strisciando sotto la macchina, che aveva salde fondamenta nel terreno, ora salendo su una scala per controllare le parti superiori. Erano lavori che, a dire il vero, si sarebbero potuti lasciare a un operaio, ma l’ufficiale li eseguiva con grande zelo, forse per il fatto che era un devoto particolare della macchina, o forse perché, per altri motivi, quel lavoro non si poteva affidare a nessuno. «Ora è tutto pronto!» esclamò alla fine, e scese dalla scala. Era straordinariamente stanco, respirava a bocca spalancata e dietro il colletto d’ordinanza aveva infilato due delicati fazzoletti da donna. «Queste uniformi sono davvero troppo pesanti per i tropici», disse il viaggiatore anziché informarsi della macchina, come l’ufficiale si aspettava. «E’ così», disse l’ufficiale, lavandosi in un secchio lì pronto le mani sporche di olio e grasso, «ma esse rappresentano per noi la patria; e la patria non vogliamo perderla. – Ma ora guardi questa macchina», aggiunse subito, si asciugò le mani con un panno e contemporaneamente indicò la macchina. «Finora c’era ancora bisogno di un lavoro manuale, d’ora in avanti lavorerà completamente da sola». Il viaggiatore con un cenno del capo seguì l’ufficiale. Questi, per cautelarsi da ogni eventualità, disse: «Naturalmente a volte il funzionamento è difettoso: spero che questo non avvenga oggi, ma bisogna sempre aspettarselo. La macchina deve pur funzionare per dodici ore consecutive. Ma se ci sono imprevisti, sono di lieve entità e vengono rimediati subito». «Non vuole sedersi?», chiese alla fine, estrasse da un mucchio una sedia di canne e la offrì al viaggiatore; questi non poté rifiutarla. Ora sedeva al margine di una fossa, nella quale lanciò per un momento uno sguardo. Non era molto profonda. Da una parte della fossa, la terra scavata era ammucchiata come in una parete, mentre dall’altra parte c’era la macchina. «Non so se il comandante le ha spiegato il funzionamento della macchina», disse l’ufficiale. Il viaggiatore fece un gesto vago con la mano; l’ufficiale non chiese di meglio, perché così aveva l’occasione di spiegarlo lui stesso. «Questa macchina», disse, prendendo una biella e appoggiandovisi sopra, «è un’invenzione del nostro precedente comandante. Io ho collaborato fin dai primi tentativi, e ho preso parte a tutti i lavori fino al suo perfezionamento. Ma il merito dell’invenzione appartiene tutto a lui. Ha sentito parlare del nostro precedente comandante? No? Beh, non esagero dicendo che tutta l’organizzazione della colonia penale è opera sua. Noi, i suoi amici, sapevamo già al momento della sua morte che l’organizzazione della colonia è talmente coerente in se stessa che il suo successore, per quanti nuovi progetti avesse in testa, almeno per parecchi anni non avrebbe potuto cambiare niente del vecchio ordinamento. E la nostra previsione si è rivelata giusta; il nuovo comandante ha dovuto riconoscerlo. Peccato che lei non abbia conosciuto il precedente comandante! – Ma», si interruppe l’ufficiale, «io chiacchiero, e qui davanti a noi c’è la macchina. Come può vedere, consiste di tre parti. Nel corso del tempo, queste parti hanno ricevuto dei nomi per dir così popolari. La parte inferiore si chiama il letto, quella superiore il disegnatore, e la parte qui nel mezzo, sospesa, si chiama l’erpice». «L’erpice?» chiese il viaggiatore. Non aveva ascoltato con grande attenzione, il sole cominciava a splendere troppo forte nella valle priva di ombra, era difficile raccogliere i pensieri. Tanto più ammirevole gli appariva l’ufficiale, che spiegava il suo argomento in una divisa stretta, da parata, appesantita dalle spalline e ornata di cordicelle, e che inoltre mentre parlava si dava da fare ad avvitare con un cacciavite. Il soldato sembrava in uno stato d’animo simile a quello del viaggiatore. Si era avvolto a entrambi i polsi le catene del condannato, con una mano si appoggiava alla sua arma, lasciava pendere la testa sulla nuca e non si interessava a niente. Il viaggiatore non se ne meravigliò, perché l’ufficiale parlava francese e certamente il francese non lo capivano né il soldato né il condannato. Però era tanto più notevole che il condannato nonostante tutto si sforzasse di seguire le spiegazioni dell’ufficiale. Con una specie di ostinazione assonnata volgeva lo sguardo sempre là dove l’ufficiale stava indicando, e quando questi fu interrotto da una domanda del viaggiatore anch’egli, come l’ufficiale, si volse a guardarlo. «Sì, l’erpice», disse l’ufficiale, «il nome è adeguato. Gli aghi sono ordinati come in un erpice, e anche, nel complesso, lo strumento viene guidato come un erpice, anche se in un punto solo e con molta maggiore arte. Del resto, lo comprenderà subito. Il condannato viene collocato qui sul letto. – Voglio prima descrivere la macchina e solo in seguito far eseguire di persona la procedura. Così lei potrà seguirla meglio. Inoltre, uno dei denti nell’ingranaggio del disegnatore si è eccessivamente consumato; quando è in funzione fa un gran rumore; purtroppo è difficile qui procurarsi pezzi di ricambio. – Allora, qui c’è il letto, come ho detto. E’ completamente ricoperto con uno strato di ovatta; lo scopo di ciò risulterà chiaro in seguito. Il condannato viene collocato a pancia in giù su questa ovatta, naturalmente nudo; ecco le cinghie qui per le mani, qui per i piedi, qui per il collo, per immobilizzarlo. Qui al lato della testa dove l’uomo, come ho detto, viene posto con il viso, c’è questo piccolo morso di feltro, che può essere facilmente regolato in modo che si introduca con precisione nella bocca dell’uomo. Esso ha lo scopo di impedire le urla e il morso della propria lingua. Naturalmente l’uomo deve prendere per forza in bocca il feltro, altrimenti la cinghia gli spezza il collo.» «Questa è ovatta?» chiese il viaggiatore chinandosi in avanti. «Certo», disse l’ufficiale con un sorriso, «senta lei stesso.» Afferrò la mano del viaggiatore e la fece scorrere sul letto. «E’ un’ovatta preparata in modo particolare, per questo sembra così strana; del suo scopo parlerò più tardi.» Il viaggiatore era già un po’ conquistato dalla macchina; con una mano sugli occhi per proteggersi dal sole, la guardava verso l’alto. Era una costruzione imponente. Il letto e il disegnatore erano di analoghe dimensioni e sembravano due cassapanche scure. Il disegnatore era sollevato di circa due metri sopra il letto; entrambi erano collegati agli angoli com quattroaste di ottone, che quasi lanciavano raggi alla luce del sole. Fra le cassapanche, legato a un filo d’acciaio, oscillava l’erpice. L’ufficiale quasi non aveva notato la precedente indifferenza del viaggiatore, mentre aveva subito intuito il suo attuale, incipiente interesse; si arrestò quindi nelle sue spiegazioni, per dar tempo al viaggiatore di contemplare indisturbato. Il condannato imitava il viaggiatore; siccome non poteva mettere la mano davanti agli occhi, li stringeva con lo sguardo libero verso l’alto. «A questo punto quindi il condannato è sdraiato», disse il viaggiatore, appoggiò la schiena sulla sedia e incrociò le gambe. «Sì», disse l’ufficiale, spinse un po’ indietro il berretto e si passò la mano sul viso caldo, «ora ascolti! Sia il letto che il disegnatore sono forniti di batterie elettriche autonome; il letto le utilizza per se stesso, il disegnatore per l’erpice. Appena l’uomo è assicurato alle cinghie, il letto si mette in movimento. Con minuscole e velocissime oscillazioni vibra contemporaneamente sia di lato che in su e in gù. Forse lei ha visto macchine simili nelle case di cura; ma nel nostro letto tutti i movimenti sono accuratamente calcolati; devono cioè essere accordati con precisione sui movimenti dell’erpice. E a questo erpice è affidata l’esecuzione vera e propria della condanna.» «E cosa dice la condanna?» chiese il viaggiatore. «Non lo sa?» disse stupito l’ufficiale, e si morse le labbra: «Mi perdoni se forse le mie spiegazioni sono disordinate; le chiedo scusa. In effetti, prima le spiegazioni era solito darle il comandante; ma il nuovo comandante si è sottratto a questo onorevole dovere; ma che una visita così elevata» - il viaggiatore cercò di schermirsi con entrambe le mani di fronte al complimento, ma l’ufficiale insistette sulla sua formula - «che una visita così elevata venga tenuta all’oscuro persino della forma della nostra condanna, questa è poi una novità che…». Aveva sulla labbra un’imprecazione, ma si controllò e disse soltanto: «Non sono stato informato, non è colpa mia. D’altronde è anche vero che sono io il più adatto a chiarire le nostre forme di verdetto, perché qui» - e si batté sulla tasca del petto - «io conservo i relativi disegni del precedente comandante.» «Disegni del comandante in persona?» chiese il viaggiatore: «Faceva dunque tutto lui? Era soldato, giudice, costruttore, chimico, disegnatore?» «Proprio così», disse l’ufficiale con un cenno del capo, e con uno sguardo fisso e pensoso. Poi si controllò le mani, che non gli parvero pulite a sufficienza per prendere i disegni; andò quindi al secchio e le lavò ancora una volta. Poi estrasse una piccola cartella di cuoio e disse: «La nostra condanna non suona severa. La regola trasgredita viene scritta con l’erpice sul corpo del condannato. A questo condannato per esempio» - l’ufficiale accennò all’uomo - «verrà scritto sul corpo: Onora il tuo superiore!» Il viaggiatore guardò di sfuggita l’uomo; da quando l’ufficiale lo aveva indicato, teneva la testa abbassata e sembrava tendere l’udito con tutte le sue forze per venire a sapere qualcosa. Ma i movimenti delle sue labbra tumide e compresse mostravano chiaramente che non riusciva a capire nulla. Il viaggiatore avrebbe chiesto volentieri ancora qualcosa, ma alla vista dell’uomo chiese solamente: «Sa della sua condanna?» «No», rispose l’ufficiale, e voleva subito continuare con le sue spiegazioni, ma il viaggiatore lo interruppe: «Non sa della sua condanna?» «No», ripeté l’ufficiale, e si fermò un attimo, come per chiedere al viaggiatore una migliore formulazione della sua domanda, poi disse: «Sarebbe inutile comunicarglielo. Lo verrà a sapere sul suo stesso corpo.» Il viaggiatore voleva tacere, ma poi si rese conto di come il condannato dirigeva lo sguardo su di lui: sembrava chiedere se potesse approvare la procedura che gli era stata descritta. Perciò il viaggiatore, che si era già appoggiato sulla schiena, si piegò di nuovo in avanti e domandò ancora: «Ma che in generale è stato condannato, almeno questo lo sa?» «Nemmeno questo», disse l’ufficiale sorridendo al viaggiatore, come se ora si aspettasse da lui altre strane esternazioni. «No», disse il viaggiatore passandosi una mano sulla fronte, «questo significa allora che l’uomo nemmeno adesso sa come è stata accolta la sua difesa?» «Non ha avuto nessuna occasione di difendersi», disse l’ufficiale guardando di lato, come se parlasse a se stesso e non volesse confondere il viaggiatore con il racconto di cose che per lui stesso erano ovvie. «Deve per forza aver avuto la possibilità di difendersi», disse il viaggiatore alzandosi dalla sedia. L’ufficiale si accorse che vi era il pericolo di essere interrotti a lungo nella spiegazione della macchina; si avvicinò perciò al viaggiatore, lo prese sottobraccio, mostrò con la mano il condannato, il quale, ora che l’attenzione su di lui era divenuta così esplicita, si mise energicamente sull’attenti – anche il soldato diede uno strattone alle catene – e disse: «Le cose stanno in questi termini. Io sono incaricato di fare il giudice in questa colonia penale. Nonostante la mia giovinezza. Questo perché sono stato al fianco del precedente comandante in tutte le faccende penali, e sono quello che conosce meglio la macchina. Il principio base delle mie decisioni è: la colpa è sempre indubbia. Può darsi che altri tribunali non seguano questo principio, perché sono costituiti da più persone e inoltre hanno altri tribunali, più alti, sopra di loro. Ma questo non è il mio caso, o per lo meno non lo era con il precedente comandante. Il nuovo, a dire il vero, si è già divertito a mettere il naso nel mio tribunale, ma finora mi è riuscito di tenerlo lontano, e mi riuscirà anche in futuro. – Lei vuole che le chiarisca questo caso; è un caso molto semplice, così come tutti gli altri. Un capitano stamane ha fatto rapporto che quest’uomo, destinatogli come servitore e che dorme davanti alla sua porta, ha dormito per tutto il tempo di servizio. Il servitore ha il dovere di alzarsi ogni ora e fare il saluto militare davanti alla porta del capitano. Non è certo un dovere pesante, ed è anche necessario per rimanere fresco, sia per la guardia che per il servizio. La notte scorsa il capitano voleva controllare se l’uomo faceva il suo dovere. Quando sono suonate le due, ha aperto la porta e lo ha trovato che dormiva accucciato. Allora ha preso il frustino e lo ha colpito sul volto. Invece di alzarsi e chiedere scusa, quest’uomo ha preso il suo padrone per le gambe, e scuotendolo gli gridava: ‘Butta la frusta, o ti mangio vivo.’ – Questi sono i fatti. Il capitano è venuto da me un’ora fa, io ho registrato la sua relazione e, come allegato, anche la condanna. Poi ho fatto incatenare l’uomo. E’ stato tutto molto semplice. Se avessi prima convocato e interrogato l’uomo, ne sarebbe nata una confusione. Avrebbe mentito, e se io fossi riuscito a confutare le sue menzogne, le avrebbe sostituite con altre, e così via. Invece ora lo tengo in pugno e non mi scappa più. – E’ tutto chiaro ora? Ma il tempo passa, l’esecuzione avrebbe dovuto essere già cominciata, e io non ho ancora finito di spiegare come funziona la macchina.» Costrinse il viaggiatore a sedersi di nuovo, poi si avvicinò di nuovo alla macchina e cominciò: «Come può vedere, l’erpice corrisponde alla forma dell’uomo: questo è l’erpice per il busto, questi sono gli erpici per le gambe. Alla testa è destinato solo questo piccolo puntale. Le risulta chiaro?» Si inchinò amichevole verso il viaggiatore, pronto alle più esaurienti spiegazioni. Il viaggiatore guardò l’erpice con la fronte aggrottata. Le informazioni sulla procedura di quel tribunale non lo avevano soddisfatto. Doveva sempre ripetersi che in fin dei conti questa era una colonia penale, che dunque qui erano necessarie regole speciali e che bisognava procedere in modo marziale fino alla fine. Tuttavia riponeva speranze sul nuovo comandante, il quale evidentemente, sia pure con lentezza, intendeva introdurre una nuova procedura, che non poteva entrare nella testa limitata di questo ufficiale. Seguendo il corso di questi pensieri, domandò: «Il comandante presenzierà all’esecuzione?» «Non è sicuro», disse l’ufficiale, penosamente colpito da questa domanda diretta, e la sua aria amichevole scomparve: «Proprio per questo dobbiamo sbrigarci. Per quanto mi spiaccia, dovrò addirittura abbreviare le mie spiegazioni. Ma domani, quando la macchina sarà di nuovo pulita – il suo unico difetto è quello di sporcarsi molto – le esporrò i dettagli. Ecco dunque l’essenziale. – Quando l’uomo è sdraiato sul letto e questo comincia a scuotersi, l’erpice si abbassa sul corpo. Esso si posiziona da solo in modo da toccare il corpo solo con le punte; una volta completata la procedura, questo filo d’acciaio si tende come una sbarra. E ora il gioco comincia. Un profano non vede differenze esteriori fra punizione e punizione. L’erpice sembra lavorare con uniformità. Vibrando, affonda le sue punte nel corpo, che a sua volta sussulta per i movimenti del letto. Per rendere possibile a chiunque controllare l’esecuzione della condanna, l’erpice è stato fatto in vetro. Assicurare al vetro gli aghi ha comportato alcune difficoltà tecniche, ma dopo molti tentativi ci siamo riusciti. Non ci siamo risparmiati certo gli sforzi. E ora chiunque può vedere attraverso il vetro come si realizza la scritta sul corpo. Non vuole avvicinarsi e vedere meglio gli aghi?» Il viaggiatore si alzò lentamente, si avvicinò e si curvò sopra l’erpice. «Vede», disse l’ufficiale, «due tipi di aghi in disposizione multipla. Ogni ago lungo ha vicino a sé uno corto. Quello lungo scrive, mentre quello corto spruzza acqua, per lavare via il sangue e mantenere sempre chiara la scritta. L’acqua insanguinata viene poi incanalata qui in piccoli condotti, i quali confluiscono in un condotto più grande il cui scarico finisce nella fossa.» L’ufficiale indicò precisamente con la mano la strada che l’acqua insanguinata doveva percorrere. Quando, per rendere il tutto più comprensibile, l’ufficiale afferrò con entrambe le mani lo sbocco del tubo di scarico, il viaggiatore alzò la testa e, tastando dietro di sé con la mano, voleva tornare alla sua sedia. Allora si accorse con spavento che anche il condannato aveva seguito come lui l’invito dell’ufficiale a vedere da vicino l’organizzazione dell’erpice. Aveva tirato un po’ per la catena il soldato addormentato, e si era piegato sul vetro. Lo si vedeva cercare con sguardi dubbiosi ciò che i due signori avevano osservato, ma, poiché gli mancava la spiegazione, non gli poteva riuscire. Si chinava di qua e di là, e sempre di nuovo faceva scorrere lo sguardo sul vetro. Il viaggiatore voleva spingerlo indietro, perché ciò che faceva sarebbe stato con ogni probabilità punito. Ma l’ufficiale trattenne il viaggiatore con una mano, con l’altra prese dal muro una zolla di terra e la lanciò sul soldato. Questi aprì d’un colpo gli occhi, vide ciò che il condannato aveva osato fare, lasciò cadere l’arma, picchiò i tacchi per terra, strattonò indietro il condannato facendolo subito cadere, e poi si mise a guardare dall’alto come quello si voltava facendo tintinnare le catene. «Tiralo su!» gridò l’ufficiale, osservando che il viaggiatore veniva eccessivamente distratto dal condannato. Il viaggiatore si curvò persino un poco oltre l’erpice senza considerarlo, preoccupato solo di stabilire cosa stesse succedendo al condannato. «Trattalo con cura!» gridò ancora l’ufficiale. Corse intorno alla macchina, afferrò di persona il condannato sotto le ascelle e con l’aiuto del soldato lo mise in piedi, benché scivolasse spesso con i piedi. «Ora so tutto», disse il viaggiatore quando l’ufficiale tornò da lui. «Tranne l’essenziale», disse questi, prese il viaggiatore per il braccio e indicò verso l’alto: «Là nel disegnatore c’è l’ingranaggio che determina il movimento dell’erpice, e questo ingranaggio viene programmato in base al disegno che esprime la condanna. Io uso ancora i disegni del precedente comandante. Eccoli,» - estrasse alcuni fogli dalla cartella di cuoio - «ma purtroppo non posso darglieli in mano, sono la cosa più cara che possiedo. Si sieda, glieli mostrerò da questa distanza, potrà vedere tutto per bene.» Mostrò il primo foglio. Il viaggiatore avrebbe detto volentieri qualche parola di apprezzamento, ma vide solo delle linee labirintiche che si incrociavano molte volte, e che coprivano il foglio in maniera così fitta che solo con fatica si potevano riconoscere gli spazi bianchi interposti. «Legga», disse l’ufficiale. «Non ci riesco», disse il viaggiatore. «Ma è chiaro», disse l’ufficiale. «E’ molto artistico», disse evasivo il viaggiatore, «ma non riesco a decifrarlo.» «Già», disse l’ufficiale, rise e mise di nuovo via la cartella, «non è calligrafia per bambini a scuola. Bisogna leggervi a lungo. Alla fine, certamente anche lei potrebbe riconoscere tutto. Naturalmente non deve essere una scrittura semplice; non deve uccidere subito, ma solo in un tempo medio di dodici ore; il punto di svolta è calcolato per la sesta ora. Perciò, la scrittura vera e propria deve essere circondata da molti, molti ornamenti; la vera scrittura circonda il corpo solo in una cintura sottile; il resto del corpo è destinato agli ornamenti. Può apprezzare ora il lavoro dell’erpice e dell’intera macchina? – Guardi dunque!» Saltò su una scala, girò una ruota ed esclamò verso il basso: «Faccia attenzione, si faccia da parte», e tutto entrò in movimento. Non fosse stato per il cigolìo della ruota, sarebbe stato magnifico. Come sorpreso e disturbato da questa ruota, l’ufficiale la minacciò con il pugno, poi allargò le braccia in direzione del viaggiatore come per chiedere scusa, e scese giù velocemente per osservare da sotto il funzionamento della macchina. Ancora c’era qualcosa che non era in ordine, e di cui solo lui si accorgeva; di nuovo si arrampicò su, infilò entrambe le mani dentro il disegnatore, poi, per scendere più velocemente, anziché usare la scala scivolò giù lungo una sbarra e infine con la massima tensione gridò, per farsi sentire in quel rumore, dentro l’orecchio del viaggiatore: «Capisce la procedura? L’erpice comincia a scrivere; quando la prima stesura sulla schiena dell’uomo è finita, lo strato di ovatta ruota e gira il corpo lentamente su un lato, per dare nuovo spazio all’erpice. Nel frattempo i luoghi scritti con le ferite vengono a contatto con l’ovatta, la quale grazie a una speciale preparazione arresta immediatamente il sanguinamento e predispone a un nuovo approfondimento della scrittura. Qui poi i denti sull’orlo dell’erpice alla successiva rotazione del corpo strappano l’ovatta dalle ferite, la gettano nella fossa, e l’erpice ricomincia a lavorare. Così esso può scrivere per tutte le dodici ore. Durante le prime sei ore il condannato è vivo più o meno come prima, solo prova dolore. Dopo due ore il feltro viene rimosso, perché l’uomo non ha più la forza di gridare. Qui dalla parte della testa, in questa ciotola scaldata elettricamente, si mette della pappa calda di riso, dalla quale l’uomo, se ne ha voglia, può prendere quel che riesce a raggiungere con la lingua. Nessuno rinuncia a questa possibilità. Non ho mai visto nessuno rinunciarvi, e la mia esperienza è grande. Solo intorno alla sesta ora il condannato perde il gusto di mangiare. Allora di solito mi inginocchio qui e osservo il fenomeno. E’ raro che l’uomo ingoi l’ultimo boccone, di solito si limita a girarlo in bocca e poi a sputarlo nella fossa. Allora devo ritrarmi, altrimenti mi arriva in faccia. Ma come diventa silenzioso l’uomo intorno alla sesta ora! Anche il più stupido raggiunge la comprensione. E’ una cosa che comincia dagli occhi. Da lì si diffonde a tutto il resto. E’ uno spettacolo che potrebbe sedurre qualcuno a mettersi anche lui sotto l’erpice. Non succede nient’altro, semplicemente l’uomo comincia a decifrare la scrittura, appuntisce le labbra come se fosse in ascolto. Come ha visto, non è facile decifrare la scrittura con gli occhi; ma il nostro uomo la decifra con le proprie ferite. Per la verità, è un lavoro lungo: impiega sei ore per giungere a termine. Ma alla fine l’erpice lo trafigge completamente e lo getta nella fossa, sbattendolo sull’acqua insanguinata e sull’ovatta. Allora il giudizio è compiuto, e io e il soldato lo copriamo di terra.»

Missing Persons: Two Little Riddles About Kafka and Berlin

Sun, 24 Apr 2005 14:41:40 +0000

by Mark Harman

For Franz Kafka, Berlin was not so much the real city on the Spree as his private symbol for much that he felt was lacking in Prague. Already in 1902, as a nineteen-year-old student, he had coined an often-quoted metaphor for Prague: “This little mother has claws.” That fiercely maternal, if jocosely ironic, image already suggests the impossibility of his ever quite breaking loose. And throughout his life he felt that Prague was “very un-homelike, a place of memories, of nostalgia, of pettiness, of shame, of seduction, of the misuse of power.” Berlin, on the other hand, became a screen onto which he could project inaccessible longings and dreams of escape, and he soon integrated it into the web of metaphors through which he viewed his every experience.

Kaufmann Block / Kündigung des Advokaten

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:39:08 +0000

Endlich hatte sich K. doch entschlossen, dem Advokaten seine Vertretung zu entziehn. Zweifel daran, ob es richtig war, so zu handeln, waren zwar nicht auszurotten, aber die Überzeugung von der Notwendigkeit dessen überwog. Die Entschließung hatte K. an dem Tage an dem er zum Advokaten gehen wollte, viel Arbeitskraft entzogen, er arbeitete besonders langsam, er mußte sehr lange im Bureau bleiben und es war schon zehn Uhr vorüber, als er endlich vor der Tür des Advokaten stand. Noch ehe er läutete überlegte er, ob es nicht besser wäre, dem Advokaten telephonisch oder brieflich zu kündigen, die persönliche Unterredung würde gewiß sehr peinlich werden. Trotzdem wollte K. schließlich auf sie nicht verzichten, bei jeder andern Art der Kündigung würde diese stillschweigend oder mit ein paar förmlichen Worten angenommen werden und K. würde, wenn nicht etwa Leni einiges erforschen könnte, niemals erfahren, wie der Advokat die Kündigung aufgenommen hatte und was für Folgen für K. diese Kündigung nach der nicht unwichtigen Meinung des Advokaten haben könnte. Saß aber der Advokat K. gegenüber und wurde er von der Kündigung überrascht, so würde K., selbst wenn der Advokat sich nicht viel entlocken ließ, aus seinem Gesicht und seinem Benehmen alles was er wollte, leicht entnehmen können. Es war sogar nicht ausgeschlossen, daß er überzeugt wurde, daß es doch gut wäre, dem Advokaten die Verteidigung zu überlassen und daß er dann seine Kündigung zurückzog.

Introducción al derecho en la obra de Franz Kafka

Sat, 12 Mar 2005 17:46:18 +0000

by Julio Londoño

(Originalmente publicado en la revista: Universitas Estudiantes #1, Facultad de Ciencias Jurídicas/ Pontificia Universidad Javeriana, Bogotá. Colombia: 2004. Páginas 13 – 23. Agradezco los comentarios del Doctor Gustavo Zafra, la doctora Carmenza Kline y Michael Reed.)

“No hay mayor engaño que creer que una auténtica originalidad es mera cuestión de impulso e inspiración, originar consiste en combinar cuidadosa, paciente y comprensivamente” (Edgar Allan Poe, 1809-1849)

Es conocidala historia de la recuperación de muchas de las obras del escritor Franz Kafka (1833 – 1924), por su amigo y albacea Max Brod; dentro de esta serie se encuentran relatos, fragmentos, cartas, manuscritos, cuadernos y otros documentos donde podemos encontrar la visión que tenía Kafka del derecho; una versión no muy alejada de su vida diaria, puesto que se había titulado en 1906 como abogado de la Universidad Real Imperial Alemana Carlos Fernando de Praga[1] , y se había especializado en derecho de seguros, trabajando con la firma Assicurazioni Generali; posteriormente pasaría a desempeñar otro trabajo en el Instituto de Seguros de Accidentes de Trabajo del Reino de Bohemia, hasta el fin de sus días. Podríamos llegar a pensar que por este último trabajo, Kafka fue uno de los precursores en el ejercicio de una rama para entonces poco conocida que en los últimos años ha venido cobrando importancia: la seguridad social, impregnada en ese entonces de las situaciones externas que se vivía a sus alrededores y que comenta Jorge Luis Borges:

Il commerciante Block. Licenziamento dell'avvocato

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 12:07:24 +0000

Alla fine K. si era deciso a togliere la delega all’avvocato. I dubbi sulla giustezza di una simile azione non si potevano eliminare, ma prevalse la convinzione che essa fosse necessaria. La decisione gli aveva sottratto molta capacità di lavoro nella giornata in cui voleva andare dall’avvocato, lavorava in modo particolarmente lento, dovette rimanere in ufficio a lungo ed erano già passate le dieci quando fu finalmente davanti alla porta dell’avvocato. Fino a un momento prima di suonare si chiese se non sarebbe stato meglio licenziare l’avvocato per telefono o per lettera, il colloquio di persona sarebbe stato certamente assai penoso. Tuttavia alla fine K. non ci volle rinunciare, in ogni altro modo il licenziamento sarebbe stato accolto in silenzio o con qualche frase di circostanza, e se Leni non avesse potuto scoprire qualcosa K. non avrebbe mai saputo come l’avvocato aveva preso il licenziamento e quali conseguenze esso avrebbe avuto secondo la sua opinione, opinione che non era poco importante. Ma standogli seduto di fronte, colto di sorpresa dal licenziamento, anche se l’avvocato non si fosse fatto sfuggire nulla K. avrebbe potuto facilmente capire tutto quel che voleva dal suo volto e dai suoi gesti. Non era neppure escluso per K. di poter essere convinto a lasciare la difesa all’avvocato e quindi revocarne il licenziamento.

Heft 9

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 16:10:45 +0000

Ich trete aus dem Haus um einen kleinen Spaziergang zu machen. Es ist schönes Wetter aber die Gasse ist auffallend leer, nur in der Ferne steht ein städtischer Bediensteter mit dem Wasserschlauch in der Hand und spritzt einen ungeheueren Bogen Wassers die Gasse entlang. “Unerhört” sage ich und prüfe die Spannung des Bogens. “Ein kleiner städtischer Bediensteter” sage ich und blicke wieder auf den Mann in der Ferne. An der Ecke der nächsten Quergasse fechten zwei Herren, stoßen zusammen, fliegen eine weite Strecke auseinander, belauern einander und sind schon wieder beisammen. “Hört doch zu fechten auf, Ihr Herren” sage ich.

Das Ehepaar (II, 22)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:28:13 +0000

Die allgemeine Geschäftslage ist so schlecht, daß ich manchmal, wenn ich im Bureau Zeit erübrige, selbst die Mustertasche nehme, um die Kunden persönlich zu besuchen. Unter anderem hatte ich mir schon längst vorgenommen, einmal zu K. zu gehn, mit dem ich früher in ständiger Geschäftsverbindung gewesen bin, die sich aber im letzten Jahr aus mir unbekannten Gründen fast gelöst hat. Für solche Störungen müssen auch gar nicht eigentliche Gründe vorhanden sein; in den heutigen labilen Verhältnissen entscheidet hier oft ein Nichts, eine Stimmung und ebenso kann auch ein Nichts, ein Wort das Ganze wieder in Ordnung bringen. Es ist aber ein wenig umständlich zu K. vorzudringen; er ist ein alter Mann, in letzter Zeit sehr kränklich und wenn er auch noch die geschäftlichen Angelegenheiten in seiner Hand zusammenhält, so kommt er doch selbst kaum mehr ins Geschäft; will man mit ihm sprechen, muß man in seine Wohnung gehn und einen derartigen Geschäftsgang schiebt man gern hinaus.

"Ich wollte mich im Unterholz verstecken…" (II, 13)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:05:42 +0000

Ich wollte mich im Unterholz verstecken, mit der Hacke bahnte ich mir ein Stück Weges, dann verkroch ich mich und war geborgen.

Jeder Mensch ist eigentümlich (I, 25)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:39:41 +0000

Jeder Mensch ist eigentümlich und kraft seiner Eigentümlichkeit berufen zu wirken, er muß aber an seiner Eigentümlichkeit Geschmack finden. Soweit ich es erfahren habe, arbeitete man sowohl in der Schule als auch zuhause daraufhin die Eigentümlichkeit zu verwischen. Man erleichterte dadurch die Arbeit der Erziehung, erleichterte aber auch dem Kinde das Leben, allerdings mußte es vorher den Schmerz durchkosten, den der Zwang hervorrief. Man wird z. B. einem Jungen, der abends mitten im Lesen einer aufregenden Geschichte ist, niemals durch eine bloß auf ihn eingeschränkte Beweisführung, begreiflich machen können, daß er das Lesen unterbrechen und schlafen gehn muß. Wenn man mir in einem solchen Fall etwa sagte, es sei schon spät, ich verderbe mir die Augen, ich werde früh verschlafen sein und schwer aufstehn, die schlechte dumme Geschichte sei das nicht wert, so konnte ich das zwar ausdrücklich nicht widerlegen, aber eigentlich nur deshalb nicht, weil das alles nicht einmal an die Grenze des Nachdenkenswerten herankam. Denn alles war unendlich oder verlief so ins Unbestimmte, daß es dem Unendlichen gleichzusetzen war, die Zeit war unendlich, es konnte also nicht zu spät sein, mein Augenlicht war unendlich, ich konnte es also nicht verderben, sogar die Nacht war unendlich, es war also keine Sorge wegen des Frühaufstehns nötig und Bücher unterschied ich nicht nach Dummheit und Klugheit, sondern danach, ob sie mich packten oder nicht und dieses packte mich. Das alles konnte ich nicht so ausdrücken, aber es hatte doch das Ergebnis daß ich mit meinen Bitten mir das Weiterlesen zu erlauben lästig wurde oder mich entschloß, auch ohne Erlaubnis weiter zu lesen. Das war meine Eigentümlichkeit. Man unterdrückte sie dadurch, daß man das Gas abdrehte und mich ohne Licht ließ; zur Erklärung sagte man: Alle gehn schlafen, also mußt auch Du schlafen gehn. Das sah ich und mußte es glauben, trotzdem es unbegreiflich war. Niemand will soviel Reformen durchführen wie Kinder. Aber abgesehen von dieser in gewisser Hinsicht anerkennenswerten Unterdrückung blieb doch hier, wie fast überall, ein Stachel, den keine Berufung auf die Allgemeinheit auch nur abstumpfen konnte. Ich blieb nämlich in dem Glauben, daß gerade an diesem Abend niemand in der Welt so gern gelesen hätte’ wie ich. Das konnte mir vorläufig keine Berufung auf die Allgemeinheit widerlegen, umsoweniger als ich sah daß man mir die unbezwingbare Lust zum Lesen nicht glaubte. Erst allmählich und viel später, vielleicht schon bei Abschwächung der Lust, gieng mir eine Art Glaube daran auf, daß viele die gleiche Lust zum Lesen hatten und sich doch bezwangen. Damals aber fühlte ich nur das Unrecht, das mir angetan wurde, ich gieng traurig schlafen und es entwickelten sich die Anfänge des Hasses, der mein Leben in der Familie und von da aus mein ganzes Leben in einer gewissen Hinsicht bestimmt. Das Verbot des Lesens ist zwar nur ein Beispiel, aber ein bezeichnendes, denn dieses Verbot wirkte tief. Man erkannte meine Eigentümlichkeit nicht an; da ich sie aber fühlte, mußte ich – darin sehr empfindlich und immer auf der Lauer – in diesem Verhalten mir gegenüber ein Aburteilen erkennen. Wenn man aber schon diese offen zur Schau gestellte Eigentümlichkeit verurteilte, um wieviel schlimmer mußten die Eigentümlichkeiten sein, die ich aus dem Grunde verborgen hielt, weil ich selbst ein kleines Unrecht in ihnen erkannte. Ich hatte z. B. abend gelesen, trotzdem ich die Schulaufgabe für den nächsten Tag noch nicht gelernt hatte. Das war vielleicht an sich als Pflichtversäumnis etwas sehr Arges, aber um absolute Beurteilungen handelte es sich mir nicht, mir kam es nur auf vergleichsweise Beurteilung an. Vor dieser Beurteilung aber war diese Nachlässigkeit wohl nicht schlimmer als das lange Lesen an sich, besonders da sie in ihren Folgen durch meine große Angst vor Schule und Autoritäten sehr eingeschränkt war; was ich durch Lesen hie und da versäumte, holte ich bei meinem damals sehr guten Gedächtnis am Morgen oder in der Schule leicht nach. Die Hauptsache aber war, daß ich die Verurteilung, die meine Eigentümlichkeit des langen Lesens erfahren hätte, nun mit eigenen Mitteln auf die verborgen gehaltene Eigentümlichkeit der Pflichtversäumnis weiterführte und dadurch zu dem niederdrückendsten Ergebnis kam. Es war so, wie wenn jemand mit einer Rute, die keinen Schmerz verursachen soll, nur zur Warnung berührt wird, er aber nimmt das Flechtwerk auseinander, zieht die einzelnen Rutenspitzen in sich und beginnt nach eigenem Plan sein Inneres zu stechen und zu kratzen, während die fremde Hand noch immer ruhig den Rutengriff hält. Wenn ich mich aber auch damals in solchen Fällen noch nicht schwer strafte, so ist doch jedenfalls sicher, daß ich von meinen Eigentümlichkeiten nie jenen wahren Gewinn zog, der sich schließlich in dauerndem Selbstvertrauen äußert. Vielmehr war die Folge des Vorzeigens einer Eigentümlichkeit die, daß ich entweder den Unterdrücker haßte oder die Eigentümlichkeit als nicht vorhanden erkannte, zwei Folgen die in lügenhafter Weise sich auch verbinden konnten. Hielt ich aber eine Eigentümlichkeit verborgen, dann war die Folge die, daß ich mich oder mein Schicksal haßte, mich für schlecht oder verdammt ansah. Das Verhältnis dieser zwei Gruppen von Eigentümlichkeiten hat sich im Laufe der Jahre äußerlich sehr geändert. Die vorgezeigten Eigentümlichkeiten nahmen immer mehr zu, je näher ich an das mir zugängliche Leben herankam. Eine Erlösung brachte mir das aber nicht, die Menge des Geheimgehaltenen nahm dadurch nicht ab, es fand sich bei verfeinerter Beobachtung, daß niemals alles gestanden werden konnte, selbst von den scheinbar vollständigen Eingeständnissen der frühernZeit zeigte sich später noch die Wurzel im Innern. Aber selbst wenn das nicht gewesen wäre – bei der Lockerung der ganzen seelischen Organisation, die ich ohne entscheidende Unterbrechungen durchgemacht habe, genügte eine verborgene Eigentümlichkeit, um mich so zu erschüttern, daß ich mich mit aller sonstigen Anpassung doch nirgends festhalten konnte. Aber noch ärger. Selbst wenn ich kein Geheimnis bei mir behalten, sondern alles so weit von mir geworfen hätte, daß ich ganz rein dastand, im nächsten Augenblick wäre ich wieder von dem alten Durcheinander überfüllt gewesen, denn meiner Meinung nach wäre das Geheimnis nicht vollständig erkannt und eingeschätzt und infolgedessen durch die Allgemeinheit mir wieder zurückgegeben und neuerdings aufgelegt worden. Das war keine Täuschung, sondern nur eine besondere Form der Erkenntnis, daß zumindest unter Lebenden sich niemand seines Selbst entledigen kann. Wenn z. B. jemand einem Freund das Geständnis macht, daß er geizig ist, so hat er sich für diesen Augenblick dem Freund, also einem maßgebenden Beurteiler gegenüber scheinbar vom Geiz erlöst. Es ist für diesen Augenblick auch gleichgültig, wie es der Freund aufnimmt, also ob er das Vorhandensein des Geizes leugnet oder Ratschläge gibt wie man sich vom Geiz befreien könne oder ob er gar den Geiz verteidigt. Es wäre vielleicht nicht einmal entscheidend, wenn der Freund infolge des Geständnisses die Freundschaft aufsagt. Entscheidend ist vielmehr daß man vielleicht nicht als reuiger aber als ehrlicher Sünder sein Geheimnis der Allgemeinheit anvertraut hat und hofft dadurch wieder die gute und – das ist das wichtigste – freie Kindheit wieder erobert zu haben. Man hat aber nur eine kurze Narrheit und viel spätere Bitterheit erobert. Denn irgendwo liegt auf dem Tisch zwischen dem Geizigen und dem Freund, das Geld, das der Geizige an sich bringen muß und zu dem er immer rascher die Hand hinbewegt. Auf der Hälfte des Weges ist das Geständnis zwar immer schwächer wirkend aber noch erlösend, darüber hinaus nicht mehr, im Gegenteil, es beleuchtet dann nur die sich vorwärtsbewegende Hand. Wirkende Geständnisse sind nur vor oder nach der Tat möglich, die Tat läßt nichts neben sich bestehn, für die Hand, die das Geld zusammenscharrt, gibt es keine Erlösung durch Wort oder Reue, entweder muß die Tat, also die Hand vernichtet werden oder man muß sich im Geiz

"Wir wußten nicht eigentlich"

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:48:02 +0000

Wir wußten nicht eigentlich ob wir das Bedürfnis hatten, einen okkulten Zeichner zu sehn. Und wie es geschieht daß ein leicht und unbemerkt seit jeher vorhandenes Bedürfnis unter einer stärker werdenden Aufmerksamkeit fast entlaufen möchte und nur durch eine bald auftretende Wirklichkeit sich auf den ihm gebührenden Platz festgehalten fühlt, so waren wir schon eine lange Zeit unauffällig neugierig gewesen, vor uns eine jener Damen zeichnen zu sehn die aus innern aber fremden Kräften einem eine Blume hoch vom Mond, dann Tiefseepflanzen, dann durch Verzierung zerzogene Köpfe mit großen Frisuren und Helmen und anderes wie sie es eben müssen.

Ein Damenbrevier

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:47:49 +0000

Wenn man sich in die Welt aufatmend entläßt, wie vom hohen Gerüst der Schwimmer in den Fluß, gleich und später manchmal von Gegenstößen wie ein liebes Kind verwirrt, aber immer mit schönen Wellen zur Seite in die Luft der Ferne treibt, dann mag man wie in diesem Buch ziellos mit geheimem Ziel die Blicke über das Wasser richten, das einen trägt und das man trinken kann und das für den auf seiner Fläche ruhenden Kopf grenzenlos geworden ist.

9. Kampf gegen das Verhör

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:38:54 +0000

Und er riß sich los und ging ins Haus zurück, diesmal nicht an der Mauer entlang, sondern mitten durch den Schnee, traf im Flur den Wirt, der ihn stumm grüßte und auf die Tür des Ausschanks zeigte, folgte dem Wink, weil ihn fror und weil er Menschen sehen wollte, war aber sehr enttäuscht, als er dort an einem Tischchen, das wohl eigens hingestellt worden war, denn sonst begnügte man sich dort mit Fässern, den jungen Herrn sitzen und vor ihm – ein für K. bedrückender Anblick – die Wirtin aus dem Brückengasthaus stehen sah. Pepi, stolz, mit zurückgeworfenem Kopf, ewig gleichem Lächeln, ihrer Würde unwiderlegbar sich bewußt, schwenkend den Zopf bei jeder Wendung, eilte hin und wieder, brachte Bier und dann Tinte und Feder, denn der Herr hatte Papiere vor sich ausgebreitet, verglich Daten, die er einmal in diesem, dann wieder einmal in einem Papiere am andern Ende des Tisches fand, und wollte nun schreiben. Die Wirtin von ihrer Höhe überblickte still mit ein wenig aufgestülpten Lippen wie ausruhend den Herrn und die Papiere, so als habe sie schon alles Nötige gesagt und es sei gut aufgenommen worden. “Der Herr Landvermesser, endlich”, sagte der Herr bei K.’s Eintritt mit kurzem Aufschauen, dann vertiefte er sich wieder in seine Papiere. Auch die Wirtin streifte K. nur mit einem gleichgültigen, gar nicht überraschten Blick. Pepi aber schien K. überhaupt erst zu bemerken, als er zum Ausschankpult trat und einen Kognak bestellte.

9. Kampf gegen das Verhör

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:02:21 +0000

Ausreise Bruneldas

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:22:57 +0000

Eines Morgens schob Karl den Krankenwagen, in dem Brunelda saß, aus dem Haustor. Es war nicht mehr so früh, wie er gehofft hatte. Sie waren übereingekommen, die Auswanderung noch in der Nacht zu bewerkstelligen, um in den Gassen kein Aufsehen zu erregen, das bei Tag unvermeidlich gewesen wäre, so bescheiden auch Brunelda mit einem großen grauen Tuch sich bedecken wollte. Aber der Transport über die Treppe hatte zu lange gedauert, trotz der bereitwilligsten Mithilfe des Studenten, der viel schwächer als Karl war, wie sich bei dieser Gelegenheit herausstellte. Brunelda hielt sich sehr tapfer, seufzte kaum und suchte ihren Trägern die Arbeit auf alle Weise zu erleichtern. Aber es gieng doch nicht anders, als daß man sie auf jeder fünften Treppenstufe niedersetzte, um sich selbst und ihr die Zeit zum notwendigsten Ausruhen zu gönnen. Es war ein kühler Morgen, auf den Gängen wehte kalte Luft wie in Kellern, aber Karl und der Student waren ganz in Schweiß und mußten während der Ruhepausen jeder ein Zipfel von Bruneldas Tuch, das sie ihnen übri-gens freundlich reichte, nehmen, um das Gesicht zu trocknen. So kam es, daß sie erst nach zwei Stunden unten anlangten, wo schon vom Abend her das Wägelchen stand. Das Hineinheben Bruneldas gab noch eine gewisse Arbeit, dann aber durfte man das Ganze für gelungen ansehn, denn das Schieben des Wagens mußte dank den hohen Rädern nicht schwer sein und es blieb nur die Befürchtung, daß der Wagen unter Brunelda aus den Fugen gehen würde. Diese Gefahr mußte man allerdings auf sich nehmen, man konnte nicht einen Ersatzwagen mitführen, zu dessen Bereitstellung und Führung der Student halb im Scherz sich angeboten hatte. Es erfolgte nun die Verabschiedung vom Studenten, die sogar sehr herzlich war. Alle Nichtübereinstimmung zwischen Brunelda und dem Studenten schien vergessen, er entschuldigte sich sogar wegen der alten Beleidigung Bruneldas die er sich bei ihrer Krankheit hatte zu schulden kommen lassen, aber Brunelda sagte, alles sei längst vergessen und mehr als gutgemacht. Schließlich bat sie den Studenten, er möge zum Andenken an sie einen Dollar freundlichst annehmen, den sie mühselig aus ihren vielen Röcken hervorsuchte. Dieses Geschenk war bei Bruneldas bekanntem Geiz sehr bedeutungsvoll, der Student hatte auch wirklich große Freude davon und warf vor Freude die Münze hoch in die Luft. Dann allerdings mußte er sie auf dem Boden suchen und Karl mußte ihm helfen, schließlich fand sie auch Karl unter dem Wagen Bruneldas. Der Abschied zwischen dem Studenten und Karl war natürlich viel einfacher, sie reichten einander nur die Hand und sprachen die Überzeugung aus, daß sie einander wohl noch einmal sehen würden und daß dann wenigstens einer von ihnen – der Student behauptete es von Karl, Karl vom Studenten – etwas Rühmenswertes erreicht haben würde, was bisher leider nicht der Fall war. Dann faßte Karl mit gutem Mut den Griff des Wagens und schob ihn aus dem Tor. Der Student sah ihnen solange nach, als sie noch zu sehen waren und winkte mit einem Tuch. Karl nickte oft grüßend zurück, auch Brunelda hätte sich gerne umgewendet, aber solche Bewegungen waren für sie zu anstrengend. Um ihr doch noch einen letzten Abschied zu ermöglichen, führte Karl am Ende der Straße den Wagen in einem Kreis herum, so daß auch Brunelda den Studenten sehen konnte, der diese Gelegenheit ausnützte, um mit dem Tuch besonders eifrig zu winken.

Fragments

Sun, 03 Dec 2006 16:49:41 +0000

Brunelda’s Departure

One morning Karl pushed the wheelchair where Brunelda was sitting out of the gate. It wasn’t as early as he’d wanted anymore. With the journey begun in the night, they were now coming out into an alley to avoid any excitement, which would have been inevitable by day, no matter how modestly Brunelda wanted to cover herself in a large gray sheet. But the move down the stairs had taken too long, despite the willing assistance of the student, who, as it turned out, was much weaker than Karl. Brunelda held up very bravely, she barely sighed and tried by every means to lighten the work of their carrying. But it couldn’t happen any other way besides setting her down on every fifth step to allow themselves and her the necessary rest. It was a cool morning, a cold wind blew down the corridors as if in a cellar, but Karl and the student were covered in sweat and during the rest breaks had to take corners of Brunelda’s sheet, which she kindly offered to them, so they could dry their faces. So it happened, that they got downstairs after two hours, where a small wagon had stood there overnight. Lifting Brunelda into it took some work, because no matter how everything looked to be a success, since the pulling wouldn’t be difficult on account of the high wheels, there still remained the fear that the wagon would collapse underneath Brunelda. They had to accept that danger, they couldn’t travel with a spare wagon that the student had offered to push half-jokingly. Then came the farewell to the student, who was very cordial about it. All of the disagreements between Brunelda and the student seemed forgotten, he apologized for the old insults he had been guilty of during her sickness, but Brunelda said that everything had been forgotten a long time ago and had been more than made up for. Finally she asked the student if he might take a dollar from her in thanks and friendship, which she looked for laboriously in her many skirts. Because of Brunelda’s renowned stinginess, this gift was full of significance, the student really had great joy over it and threw the coins into the air for joy. Then he had to look for them on the ground and Karl had to help, finally Karl found them under Brunelda’s cart. The goodbye between the student and Karl was much simpler of course, they shook each other’s hands and assured each other that they would see one another again and that at least one of them – the student said it would be Karl, and Karl said the student – would receive some notoriety, which unfortunately was not the case at the moment. Then Karl grabbed the handle of the wagon with good courage and pushed it out the door. The student watched them for as long as he could see them and waved with a handkerchief. Karl nodded back in recognition, Brunelda would have also gladly turned around, but such a movement was too strenuous for her. In order to make a last goodbye possible, Karl turned the cart around in an intersection at the end of the street, so that Brunelda could also see the student, who used this opportunity to wave his handkerchief with a special eagerness. But then Karl said that they weren’t allowed any more breaks, the way was long and they had gotten out much later than had been intended. You could already see carts here and there, and occasionally pedestrians, going to work. Karl didn’t want to say anything more with his remark than he had already said, but Brunelda with her manners understood this differently and covered herself completely with her gray sheet. Karl didn’t object; anyone with a cart covered in gray was very conspicuous, but would’ve been incomparably less conspicuous than an uncovered Brunelda. He pushed very carefully; before turning into a corner, he watched the next street, left the wagon standing if it seemed necessary, and took a few steps out alone, he looked out for awkward encounters, so he waited until they could avoid them or choose a way through a different street. Since had studied all possible routes, he wasn’t about to go significantly out of his way. Obstacles appeared here and there that they needed to be wary of but that hadn’t been foreseen in every detail. So it was that he stepped immediately into a street that rose gently and was very wide to look over and, happily, completely empty, an advantage which he thought to take advantage of in a particular hurry, when a policeman appeared out of the dark corner of a gate and asked Karl what he was carrying in the carefully covered wagon. But he was looking so sternly at Karl, that he had to laugh when he lifted the cover and found the flustered, nervous face of Brunelda. “How?” he said. “I thought you had ten potato sacks in here and now it’s just one woman? Where are you going then? Who are you?” Brunelda didn’t dare to look at the policeman, but only looked to Karl, doubting that even he would be able to save her. But Karl’d had enough experience with police already, it didn’t seem dangerous to him at all. “Please, Miss,” he said, “show him the document you received.” “Oh yes,” said Brunelda and began to look in so hopeless a manner that she must have appeared suspicious. “The lady,” the policeman said with unmistakable irony, “will not find the document.” “Oh, yes,” said Karl calmly, “she certainly has it, she has only mislaid it.” He now started looking himself and took it out from behind Brunelda’s back. The policeman looked at it fleetingly. “So that’s it,” said the policeman smiling. “So the woman here is that woman? And you, little one, worry about the arrangements and the transport? Couldn’t you have found a better job?” Karl merely shrugged his shoulders, this was all the well-known meddling of the police. “Well, have a good trip,” said the policeman when he didn’t get an answer. There was probably some contempt in the words of the policeman, but with that Karl continued without any further acknowledgment, the contempt of the police was better than their attention. Shortly afterwards he had an even more awkward encounter, if that was possible. It was all done chiefly by a man who was pushing a wagon with large milk cans and who would have liked to learn to the last detail what was laying under the gray sheet on Karl’s wagon. It wasn’t possible that he was going the same way as Karl, but he stayed by his side no matter what surprising turns Karl made. First he contented himself with statements such as, “You must have a heavy load,” or, “You’ve piled everything on there terribly, something’s going to fall down from the top.” But later he asked precisely: “What do you have under that cover?” Karl said: “What does it matter to you?” But when the man became still more curious, Karl finally said: “It’s apples.” “So many apples,” said the man astonished and didn’t stop repeating that statement. “That’s an entire harvest,” he then said. “Well, yes,” said Karl. But if he didn’t believe Karl, then he would bother him, he kept coming back and started – for the entire trip – stretching his hand out to the sheet as a joke and daring in the end to pluck at the sheet. What Brunelda must have suffered! Out of consideration for her Karl didn’t let himself get into a fight with the man and went for the next open gate as if that were his destination. “Here I am, home,” he said. “Thanks for the company.” The man remained standing, astonished, in front of the gate and looked at Karl, who calmly went in, to cross the entire courtyard if he had to. The man couldn’t doubt any more, but just to satisfy his spite one last time, he left his wagon, ran behind Karl on tiptoe, and pulled so strongly at the sheet that it almost revealed Brunelda’s face. “So your apples will get some air,” he said and ran back. Karl tolerated that as well, since it finally freed him from the man. He pushed the cart into a corner of the courtyard where some large empty boxes were standing, so he could say some reassuring words to Brunelda under their protection. But he had to speak to her for a long time, because she was completely in tears and implored him in all seriousness to stay here behind the boxes for the entire day and start traveling again at night. Maybe he alone wouldn’t have been able to convince her how big a mistake that would’ve been, but when someone on the other end of the pile of boxes threw an empty box to the ground with a resounding echo in the enormous empty courtyard, she pulled the sheet over herself without risking another word and was probably overjoyed when Karl without any hesitation began traveling immediately. The streets were now becoming lively, but the attention the wagon aroused wasn’t as great as Karl had feared. Maybe it would’ve been smarter to have picked a different time for the move. If such a trip should become necessary again, Karl wanted to try taking her out in the noonday hours. Without being bothered very much, he turned finally into the small dark street where Project Number 25 could be found. In front of the door, a squinting manager stood with a watch in his hand. “Are you usually so late?” he asked. “There were some difficulties,” said Karl. “There are always difficulties, everyone knows that,” said the manager. “But they do not apply in this building. Remember that!” Karl barely listened to such speeches anymore, everyone exploited his own strengths and abused his neighbors. Once you grow accustomed to it, it doesn’t sound any different than the regular chimes of the clock. But what scared him, as he pushed the wagon into the hallway, was the dirt that prevailed here, which, admittedly, he had expected. If you looked closer, there wasn’t any actual dirt. The tiles of the hallway were almost swept clean, the paintings on the walls weren’t old, the artificial palm trees were only a little dusty, and yet everything was slimy and repulsive, it was as if everything were terribly used and could never be cleaned enough to look good again. When he came in, Karl thought gladly about what could be improved here and what joy it would have been to immediately intervene here without any consideration for the probably endless work that would ensue. But he didn’t really know what there was to be done here. He slowly took the sheet off of Brunelda. “Welcome, Madame,” said the manager pretentiously, there wasn’t any doubt that Brunelda made a good impression on him. She noticed this quickly, she understood, while Karl watched with joy, that she had to take advantage of this right away. All the fear of the last few hours disappeared. She [or They] –

Im Dom

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:45:01 +0000

K. bekam den Auftrag, einem italienischen Geschäftsfreund der Bank, der für sie sehr wichtig war und sich zum ersten Mal in dieser Stadt aufhielt, einige Kunstdenkmäler zu zeigen. Es war ein Auftrag, den er zu anderer Zeit gewiß für ehrend gehalten hätte, den er aber jetzt, da er nur mit großer Anstrengung sein Ansehen in der Bank noch wahren konnte, widerwillig übernahm. Jede Stunde, die er dem Bureau entzogen wurde machte ihm Kummer; er konnte zwar die Bureauzeit beiweitem nicht mehr so ausnützen wie früher, er brachte manche Stunden nur unter dem notdürftigsten Anschein wirklicher Arbeit hin, aber desto größer waren seine Sorgen, wenn er nicht im Bureau war. Er glaubte dann zu sehn, wie der Direktor-Stellvertreter, der ja immer auf der Lauer gewesen war, von Zeit zu Zeit in sein Bureau kam, sich an seinen Schreibtisch setzte, seine Schriftstücke durchsuchte, Parteien, mit denen K. seit Jahren fast befreundet gewesen war, empfieng und ihm abspenstig machte, ja vielleicht sogar Fehler aufdeckte, von denen sich K. während der Arbeit jetzt immer aus tausend Richtungen bedroht sah und die er nicht mehr vermeiden konnte. Wurde er daher einmal sei es in noch so auszeichnender Weise zu einem Geschäftsweg oder gar zu einer kleinen Reise beauftragt – solche Aufträge hatten sich in der letzten Zeit ganz zufällig gehäuft – dann lag immerhin die Vermutung nahe, daß man ihn für ein Weilchen aus dem Bureau entfernen und seine Arbeit überprüfen wolle oder wenigstens daß man ihn im Bureau für leicht entbehrlich halte. Die meisten dieser Aufträge hätte er ohne Schwierigkeit ablehnen können, aber er wagte es nicht, denn, wenn seine Befürchtung auch nur im geringsten begründet war, bedeutete die Ablehnung des Auftrags Geständnis seiner Angst. Aus diesem Grunde nahm er solche Aufträge scheinbar gleichmütig hin und verschwieg sogar, als er eine anstrengende zweitägige Geschäftsreise machen sollte, eine ernstliche Verkühlung, um sich nur nicht der Gefahr auszusetzen, mit Berufung auf das gerade herrschende regnerische Herbstwetter von der Reise abgehalten zu werden. Als er von dieser Reise mit wütenden Kopfschmerzen zurückkehrte, erfuhr er, daß er dazu bestimmt sei, am nächsten Tag den italienischen Geschäftsfreund zu begleiten. Die Verlockung, sich wenigstens dieses eine Mal zu weigern, war sehr groß, vor allem war das was man ihm hier zugedacht hatte, keine unmittelbar mit dem Geschäft zusammenhängende Arbeit, die Erfüllung dieser gesellschaftlichen Pflicht gegenüber dem Geschäftsfreund war an sich zweifellos wichtig genug, nur nicht für K., der wohl wußte, daß er sich nur durch Arbeitserfolge erhalten könne und daß es, wenn ihm das nicht gelingen würde, vollständig wertlos war, wenn er diesen Italiener unerwarteter Weise sogar bezaubern sollte; er wollte nicht einmal für einen Tag aus dem Bereich der Arbeit geschoben werden, denn die Furcht nicht mehr zurückgelassen zu werden, war zu groß, eine Furcht, die er sehr genau als übertrieben erkannte, die ihn aber doch beengte. In diesem Fall allerdings war es fast unmöglich einen annehmbaren Einwand zu erfinden, K.’s Kenntnis des Italienischen war zwar nicht sehr groß, aber immerhin genügend; das Entscheidende aber war, daß K. aus früherer Zeit einige kunsthistorische Kenntnisse besaß, was in äußerst übertriebener Weise dadurch in der Bank bekannt geworden war, daß K. eine Zeitlang, übrigens auch nur aus geschäftlichen Gründen, Mitglied des Vereins zur Erhaltung der städtischen Kunstdenkmäler gewesen war. Nun war aber der Italiener, wie man gerüchtweise erfahren hatte, ein Kunstliebhaber und die Wahl K.’s zu seinem Begleiter war daher selbstverständlich.

Nel duomo

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 12:10:15 +0000

K. era stato incaricato di mostrare alcuni monumenti a un corrispondente italiano della banca, assai importante, che veniva per la prima volta in città. Era un incarico che in altri tempi avrebbe certo giudicato un onore, ma che ora, in un momento in cui riusciva a mantenere la sua posizione in banca solo con un grande sforzo, aveva accettato con ripugnanza. Ogni ora sottratta al lavoro in banca lo angustiava; certo non riusciva più neppure alla lontana a sfruttare il tempo d’ufficio come una volta, utilizzava diverse ore per una minima apparenza di vero lavoro, tanto maggiori erano però le preoccupazioni quando non si trovava in ufficio. In tal caso gli sembrava di vedere come il vicedirettore, che certo era sempre in agguato, entrava ogni tanto nel suo ufficio, si sedeva alla sua scrivania, sfogliava i suoi documenti, riceveva e gli sottraeva clienti con i quali K. era da anni quasi in amicizia, e forse scopriva anche degli errori, dai quali ora nel lavoro K. si sentiva sempre minacciato in mille modi, e che non riusciva più a evitare. Se accadeva perciò che lo incaricassero, sia pure in forma onorevole, di un’uscita per affari o anche di un piccolo viaggio - incarichi del genere, per puro caso, si erano accumulati negli ultimi tempi - c’era sempre il pensiero che lo si volesse allontanare un poco dall’ufficio per controllare il suo lavoro, o quanto meno che lo si ritenesse poco indispensabile all’ufficio. La maggior parte di questi incarichi avrebbe potuto declinarli con facilità, ma non ne aveva il coraggio perché, se i suoi timori avevano un fondamento anche minimo, declinare l’incarico significava confessare la sua paura. Per questo motivo accettava simili incarichi con apparente indifferenza e, dovendo una volta fare un impegnativo viaggio d’affari di due giorni, nascose di avere un forte raffreddore, per non esporsi al pericolo di essere esonerato dal viaggio con la scusa del piovoso tempo autunnale che proprio allora dominava. Tornato da questo viaggio con furiosi mal di testa, seppe di essere stato destinato ad accompagnare il giorno dopo il corrispondente italiano. La tentazione di sottrarsi all’impegno almeno questa volta era molto grande, prima di tutto ciò che gli si chiedeva stavolta non era un lavoro direttamente connesso alla banca, l’adempimento di questo dovere sociale nei confronti del corrispondente era abbastanza importante in sé, ma non lo era dal punto di vista di K., il quale sapeva bene di potersi mantenere solo con successi di lavoro, e che in mancanza di questi era perfettamente inutile se fosse anche riuscito, inaspettatamente, ad affascinare questo italiano; non voleva essere spinto fuori dall’ambiente di lavoro neppure per un giorno perché troppo grande era la paura di non essere riammesso più, una paura che riconosceva bene come esagerata, ma che pure lo angustiava. In questo caso comunque era quasi impossibile inventarsi una scusa decente, la conoscenza che K. aveva dell’italiano non era certo grande, tuttavia sufficiente; l’aspetto decisivo era che K. possedeva da tempo alcune conoscenze di storia dell’arte, cosa che in banca era diventata, in forma estremamente esagerata, di dominio pubblico dopo che K. aveva fatto parte, anche qui d’altronde per motivi di lavoro, dell’unione per la salvaguardia dei monumenti artistici cittadini. Ora, l’italiano, a quanto si era appreso, era un amante d’arte e quindi la scelta di K. come suo accompagnatore era stata perciò automatica.

Konvolute

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 16:11:58 +0000

21 Aug. 14 Mit solchen Hoffnungen angefangen und von allen drei Geschichten zurückgeworfen, heute am stärksten. Vielleicht ist es richtig, daß die russische Geschichte nur immer nach dem Proceß gearbeitet werden durfte. In dieser lächerlichen Hoffnung, die sich offenbar nur auf eine mechanische Phantasie stützt, fange ich wieder den Proceß an. – Ganz nutzlos war es nicht.

29 Aug (1914) Schluß eines Kapitels mißlungen, ein anderes schön begonnenes Kapitel werde ich kaum oder vielmehr ganz bestimmt nicht so schön weiterführen können, während es mir damals in der Nacht sicher gelungen wäre. Ich darf mich aber nicht verlassen, ich bin ganz allein.

"Vor dem Stadtor…" (II, 23)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:29:32 +0000

Vor dem Stadtor war niemand, in der Torwölbung niemand. Auf rein gekehrtem Kies kam man hin, durch ein viereckiges Mauerloch sah man in die Zelle der Torwache, aber die Zelle war leer. Das war zwar merkwürdig, aber für mich sehr vorteilhaft, denn ich hatte keine Ausweispapiere, mein ganzer Besitz war überhaupt ein Kleid aus Leder und der Stock in der Hand.

Ich sprach heute mit dem Kapitän in seiner Kajüte. Ich beklagte mich über die Mitpassagiere. Das könne man nicht ein Passagierschiff nennen, zumindest die Hälfte des Volkes, das hier mitfahre, sei schlimmstes Gesindel. Meine Frau wage sich kaum mehr aus der Kabine heraus, aber auch hinter der versperrten Tür fühle sie sich nicht sicher, ich muß bei ihr bleiben

Oktavheft G (II, 2)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:40:40 +0000

Okt. 17

Furcht vor der Nacht, Furcht vor der Nicht-Nacht.

Sinnlosigkeit (zu starkes Wort) der Trennung des Eigenen und Fremden im geistigen Kampf.

Alle Wissenschaft ist Metodik im Hinblick auf das Absolute. Deshalb ist keine Angst vor dem eindeutig Metodischen nötig. Es ist Hülse, aber nicht mehr, als alles außer dem Einen.

Alle kämpfen nur einen Kampf. (Wenn ich angegriffen von der letzten Frage nach Waffen hinter mich greife, kann ich nicht unter den Waffen wählen und selbst wenn ich wählen könnte, müßte ich “fremde” fassen, denn wir haben alle nur einen Waffenvorrat.) Ich kann keinen eigenen führen, glaube ich einmal selbstständig zu sein, sehe ich einmal niemanden um mich, so ergibt sich bald, daß ich infolge der mir nicht gleich oder überhaupt nicht zugänglichen allgemeinen Konstellation diesen Posten übernehmen mußte. Dies schließt natürlich nicht aus, daß es Vorreiter, Nachzügler, Franktireure und alle Gewohnheiten und Sonderbarkeiten der Kriegführung gibt, aber es gibt keinen selbstständig Kriegführenden. (Demütigung] der Eitelkeit Ja, aber auch notwendige und wahrheitsgemäße Ermutigung.

"Skizze zur Einleitung für Richard und Samuel" (1911)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:49:11 +0000

Samuel kennt wenigstens alle oberflächlichen Absichten und Fähigkeiten Richards durch und durch, da er aber präcis und lückenlos zu denken gewöhnt ist, läßt er sich schon von kleinen wenigstens nicht vollständig erwarteten Unregelmäßigkeiten in den Äußerungen Richards überraschen und sie geben ihm zu denken. Das für Richard Peinliche seiner Freundschaft besteht darin, daß Samuel eine nicht öffentlich ausgesprochene Unterstützung niemals braucht, daher auch eine Unterstützung von seiner Seite schon aus Gerechtigkeitssinn niemals fühlen lassen will und infolgedessen keine Unterordnung in der Freundschaft duldet. Sein unbewußter Grundsatz ist, daß das, was man am Freund z. B. bewundert, nicht eigentlich am Freund, sondern am Mitmenschen bewundert werde und die Freundschaft also schon dort tief unten unter allen Unterschieden anfangen müsse. Dieses kränkt nun Richard, der sich oft gern Samuel ergeben würde, der oft Lust hat, ihm begreiflich zu machen, ein wie ausgezeichneter Mensch er ist, der aber damit nur dann anfangen könnte, wenn er die Erlaubnis voraussähe, niemals damit aufhören zu müssen. Immerhin zieht er aus diesem von Samuel ihm aufgedrungenen Verhältnis den fraglichen Vorteil, im Bewußtsein seiner bisher äußerlich bewahrten Unabhängigkeit sich über Samuel zu erheben, ihn klein werden zu sehn und allerdings nur innerlich Forderungen an ihn zu stellen, während er sonst Samuel gern gebeten hätte, sie gegen ihn zu richten. So hat z. B. das Bedürfnis Samuels nach dem Gelde Richards wenigstens für sein Bewußtsein nichts mit ihrer Freundschaft zu tun, während für Richard schon diese Ansicht etwas Bewunderungswürdiges darstellt, da dieses Geldbedürfnis Samuels ihn einerseits verlegen andererseits aber auch wertvoll macht und beides im Kern seiner Freundschaft. Daher kommt es auch, daß Richard trotz seines langsameren Denkens, eingebettet in die Fülle seiner Unsicherheit Samuel eigentlich richtiger beurteilt, als Samuel ihn, da dieser wenn auch mit guter Kombinationskraft in seinem Urteil auf dem kürzesten Weg ihn am sichersten zu fangen glaubt und nicht wartet, bis er sich zu seiner wahren Gestalt beruhigt. Darum ist Samuel auch der eigentliche Beiseitesprecher und der Zurückweichende in diesem Verhältnis. Er nimmt von der Freundschaft scheinbar immer mehr weg, Richard trägt dagegen von seiner Seite immer mehr zu, so daß die Freundschaft immer weiter rückt undzwar merkwürdiger und doch selbstverständlicher Weise in der Richtung zu Samuel hin, bis sie in Stresa halt macht, wo Richard vor lauter Wohlbefinden müde ist, Samuel dagegen so stark ist, daß er alles kann und Richard sogar umzingelt, bis dann in Paris der letzte von Samuel vorhergesehene, von Richard gar nicht mehr erwartete, daher mit Todeswünschen erlittene Stoß kommt, der die Freundschaft zur endlichen Ruhe bringt. Trotz dieser Stellung, die das äußerlich ausschließen würde, ist Richard der bewußtere in der Freundschaft, wenigstens bis Stresa, denn er hat die Reise mit einer fertigen aber einer falschen, Samuel dagegen mit einer erst allerdings durch lange Zeit hin begonnenen aber wahren Freundschaft angetreten. Dadurch kommt Richard auf der Reise immer tiefer in sich hinein, faßt nachlässiger, mit halben Blicken, aber stärkerem Beziehungsgefühl auf, Samuel dagegen kann und muß aus seinem wahren Innern heraus – es verlangt dies sein Wesen, wie seine Freundschaft – also zweifach angetrieben rasch und richtig sehn und Richard oft förmlich tragen. So bewußt eben bis Stresa Richard, von jedem kleinen Vorfall neuerlich gezwungen, in seiner Freundschaft ist und hierin immer Erklärungen geben könnte, die niemand verlangt und er am wenigsten, denn er hat an den bloßen Erscheinungen seiner sich verändernden Freundschaft genug zu tragen, gegenüber allem übrigen was die Reise sonst mit sich bringt, ist er benommen, verträgt schwer die Veränderungen der Hotels, versteht einfache Zusammenhänge nicht, die ihm vielleicht zuhause keine Mühe machen würden, ist oft sehr ernst, aber durchaus nicht aus Langweile, ja nicht einmal aus dem Verlangen einmal von Samuel auf die Wange geklopft zu werden, hat großes Bedürfnis nach Musik und nach Frauen. Samuel kann nur Französisch, Richard Französisch und Italienisch, hiedurch kommt er in Italien, ohne daß es einer von ihnen darauf angelegt hätte und trotzdem Richard weiß daß das Gegenteil wahrscheinlicher wäre, überall dort wo es sich um Auskünfte handelt in eine Art Dienerstellung zu Samuel. Auch kann Samuel Französisch sehr gut, Richard seine beiden Sprachen nicht vollkommen.

Gespräch mit dem Beter

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:49:10 +0000

Es gab eine Zeit, in der ich Tag um Tag in eine Kirche ging, denn ein Mädchen, in das ich mich verliebt hatte, betete dort knieend eine halbe Stunde am Abend, unterdessen ich sie in Ruhe betrachten konnte.

Als einmal das Mädchen nicht gekommen war und ich unwillig auf die Betenden blickte, fiel mir ein junger Mensch auf, der sich mit seiner ganzen mageren Gestalt auf den Boden geworfen hatte. Von Zeit zu Zeit packte er mit der ganzen Kraft seines Körpers seinen Schädel und schmetterte ihn seufzend in seine Handflächen, die auf den Steinen auflagen.

10. Auf der Straße

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:39:42 +0000

K. trat auf die wild umwehte Freitreppe hinaus und blickte in die Finsternis. Ein böses, böses Wetter. Irgendwie im Zusammenhang damit fiel ihm ein, wie sich die Wirtin bemüht hatte ihn dem Protokoll gefügig zu machen, wie er aber standgehalten hatte. Es war freilich keine offene Bemühung, im Geheimen hatte sie ihn gleichzeitig vom Protokoll fortgezerrt, schließlich wußte man nicht ob man standgehalten oder nachgegeben hatte. Eine intrigante Natur, scheinbar sinnlos arbeitend wie der Wind, nach fernen fremden Aufträgen, in die man nie Einsicht bekam.

Ende

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:47:35 +0000

Am Vorabend seines einunddreißigsten Geburtstages – es war gegen neun Uhr abends, die Zeit der Stille auf den Straßen – kamen zwei Herren in K.’s Wohnung. In Gehröcken, bleich und fett, mit scheinbar unverrückbaren Cylinderhüten. Nach einer kleinen Förmlichkeit bei der Wohnungstür wegen des ersten Eintretens wiederholte sich die gleiche Förmlichkeit in größerem Umfange vor K.’s Tür. Ohne daß ihm der Besuch angekündigt gewesen wäre, saß K. gleichfalls schwarz angezogen in einem Sessel in der Nähe der Türe und zog langsam neue scharf sich über die Finger spannende Handschuhe an, in der Haltung wie man Gäste erwartet. Er stand gleich auf und sah die Herren neugierig an. “Sie sind also für mich bestimmt? " fragte er. Die Herren nickten, einer zeigte mit dem Cylinderhut in der Hand auf den andern. K. gestand sich ein, daß er einen andern Besuch erwartet hatte. Er gieng zum Fenster und sah noch einmal auf die dunkle Straße. Auch fast alle Fenster auf der andern Straßenseite waren noch dunkel, in vielen die Vorhänge herabgelassen. In einem beleuchteten Fenster des Stockwerkes spielten zwei kleine Kinder hinter einem Gitter mit einander und tasteten, noch unfähig sich von ihren Plätzen fortzubewegen, mit den Händchen nach einander. “Alte untergeordnete Schauspieler schickt man um mich”, sagte sich K. und sah sich um, um sich nochmals davon zu überzeugen. “Man sucht auf billige Weise mit mir fertig zu werden. " K. wendete sich plötzlich ihnen zu und fragte: “An welchem Teater spielen Sie. " “Teater?” fragte der eine Herr mit zuckenden Mundwinkeln den andern um Rat. Der andere geberdete sich wie ein Stummer, der mit dem widerspenstigen Organismus kämpft. “Sie sind nicht darauf vorbereitet, gefragt zu werden”, sagte sich K. und gieng seinen Hut holen.

«Karl sah an einer Straßenecke...»

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:44:03 +0000

Karl sah an einer Straßenecke ein Plakat mit folgender Aufschrift: “Auf dem Rennplatz in Clayton wird heute von sechs Uhr früh bis Mitternacht Personal für das Teater in Oklahama aufgenommen! Das große Teater von Oklahama ruft Euch! Es ruft nur heute, nur einmal! Wer jetzt die Gelegenheit versäumt, versäumt sie für immer! Wer an seine Zukunft denkt, gehört zu uns! Jeder ist willkommen! Wer Künstler werden will melde sich! Wir sind das Teater, das jeden brauchen kann, jeden an seinem Ort! Wer sich für uns entschieden hat, den beglückwünschen wir gleich hier! Aber beeilt Euch, damit Ihr bis Mitternacht vorgelassen werdet! Um zwölf wird alles geschlossen und nicht mehr geöffnet! Verflucht sei wer uns nicht glaubt! Auf nach Clayton!”

Fine

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 12:11:46 +0000

La sera prima del suo trentunesimo compleanno - erano circa le nove di sera, l’ora in cui le strade si fanno silenziose - in casa di K. giunsero due signori. Erano in abiti da passeggio, pallidi e grassi, con cappelli a cilindro apparentemente inamovibili. Al portone ci fu una piccola schermaglia di cortesie per stabilire chi doveva passare per primo, e la stessa scena si ripeté, più accentuata, davanti alla porta di K. Senza che la visita gli fosse stata annunciata, K. sedeva anche lui vestito di nero su una sedia vicino alla porta e infilava lentamente dei guanti nuovi, ben tesi sulle dita, nell’atteggiamento di chi aspetta ospiti. Si alzò subito, guardando incuriosito i signori. “Dunque siete destinati a me?” chiese. I signori annuirono, uno indicò l’altro con il cilindro in mano. K. confessò a se stesso che si sarebbe aspettato un’altra visita. Andò alla finestra e guardò ancora una volta nella strada buia. Anche le finestre sull’altro lato della strada erano ancora buie, in molte le tende erano abbassate. In una finestra illuminata del pianerottolo due bambini piccoli giocavano fra loro dietro una grata e, ancora incapaci di muoversi dai loro posti, si cercavano allungando le piccole mani. “Mi mandano dei vecchi attori di quart’ordine”, si disse K. e si guardò intorno per convincersene ancora una volta. “Vogliono sbarazzarsi di me a buon mercato.” K. si voltò improvvisamente verso di loro e chiese: “In quale teatro recitate?” “Teatro?” chiese un signore all’altro come per avere consiglio, contraendo gli angoli della bocca. L’altro fece gesti come un muto in battaglia con l’organismo che si oppone ai suoi sforzi. “Non sono preparati a rispondere alle domande”, si disse K., e andò a prendere il cappello.

Heft 10

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 16:12:57 +0000

(November 1914) Pepa zurück. Schreiend, aufgeregt, außer Rand und Band. Geschichte vom Maulwurf, der im Schützengraben unter ihm bohrte und den er für ein göttliches Zeichen ansah, von dort wegzurücken. Kaum war er fort, traf ein Schuß einen Soldaten, der ihm nachgekrochen war und sich jetzt über dem Maulwurf befand. – Sein Hauptmann. Man sah deutlich, wie er gefangen genommen wurde. Am nächsten Tag fand man ihn aber nackt von Bajonetten durchbohrt im Wald. Wahrscheinlich hatte er Geld bei sich, man hatte ihn durchsuchen und berauben wollen, er aber hatte “wie die Offiziere sind” sich nicht freiwillig anrühren lassen. – P. hat vor Wut und Aufregung fast geweint, als er auf dem Weg von der Bahn seinen Chef (den er früher maßlos und lächerlich verehrt hatte) traf, wie er elegant angezogen, parfümiert, mit umgehängtem Gucker ins Teater ging. Einen Monat später machte er es selbst mit einer Karte, die ihm dieser Chef geschenkt hatte. Er gieng zum “Ungetreuen Eckehart” einem Lustspiel. – Geschlafen einmal im Schloß des Fürsten Sapieha, einmal knapp vor österr. feuernden Batterien, wo er in der Reserve lag, einmal in einer Bauernstube, wo in den zwei Betten rechts und links an den Wänden je zwei Frauen, hinter dem Ofen ein Mädchen, und auf dem Fußboden acht Soldaten schliefen. – Strafe für Soldaten. Festgebunden an einem Baum stehn bis zum Blauwerden. Weil er z. B. die Karte meiner Schwester irgendwo gegen die Vorschrift hingegeben hatte, wo sie auch tatsächlich verloren gieng. –

"Die Reise…" (II, 24)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:31:16 +0000

Die Reise, ich weiß es nicht

Sie schläft. Ich wecke sie nicht. Warum weckst Du sie nicht

Es ist mein Unglück und mein Glück. Ich bin unglücklich, daß ich sie nicht wecken kann, daß ich nicht aufsetzen kann den Fuß auf die brennende Türschwelle ihres Hauses, daß ich nicht den Weg kenne zu ihrem Hause, daß ich nicht die Richtung kenne in welcher der Weg liegt, daß ich mich immer weiter von ihr entferne, kraftlos wie das Blatt im Herbstwind sich von seinem Baume entfernt und überdies: ich war niemals an diesem Baume, im Herbstwind ein Blatt, aber von keinem Baum. Ich bin glücklich, daß ich sie nicht wecken kann. Was täte ich wenn sie sich erhöbe, wenn sie aufstehen würde von ihrem Lager, wenn ich aufstehen würde von dem Lager, der Löwe von seinem Lager und mein Gebrüll einbrechen würde in mein ängstliches Gehör

Oktavheft H (II, 3)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:41:58 +0000

Durch Auferlegung einer allzu großen oder vielmehr aller Verantwortung erdrückst Du Dich. Die erste Götzenanbetung war gewiß Angst vor den Dingen, aber damit zusammenhängend auch Angst vor der Notwendigkeit der Dinge und damit zusammenhängend Angst vor der Verantwortung für die Dinge. So ungeheuer erschien diese Verantwortung daß man sie nicht einmal einem einzigen außermenschlichen Wesen aufzuerlegen wagte, denn auch durch Vermittlung bloß eines Wesens wäre die menschliche Verantwortung noch nicht genug erleichtert worden, der Verkehr mit diesem Wesen wäre allzu sehr von Verantwortung befleckt gewesen, deshalb gab man möglichst jedem Ding die Verantwortung für sich selbst, mehr noch, man gab diesen Dingen auch eine gewisse Verantwortung für den Menschen. Man konnte sich nicht genug tun in der Schaffung von Gegengewichten, diese naive Welt war die komplicierteste die es jemals gab, ihre Naivität lebte sich ausschließlich in der brutalen Konsequenz aus.

"Das ist ein Anblick" (1911)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:50:12 +0000

Das ist ein Anblick, wenn die großen Werke, selbst bei willkürlicher Zerteilung, aus ihrem unzerteilbaren Innern immer wieder leben, dann vielleicht ganz besonders in unsere trüben Augen schlagend. Darum hat jede Einzelausgabe, welche die Aufmerksamkeit ein- für allemal an ein Begrenztes hält, ihr tatsächliches Verdienst, gar wenn sie, wie diese Sammlung Kleist’scher Anekdoten, eine neue Einheit respektiert und so den Umfang des Kleist’schen Werkes förmlich vergrößert. Sie vergrößert ihn selbst dann, wenn wir alle diese Anekdoten schon kennen sollten, was aber zur Freude vieler durchaus nicht der Fall sein muß. Der Kenner wird es natürlich erklären können, warum manche dieser Anekdoten in verschiedenen Gesamtausgaben, selbst in der Tempelausgabe, fehlen; der Nichtkenner wird das nicht verstehn, dafür sich aber desto fester an diesen neuen Text halten, den ihm der Verlag Rohwohlt in klarem Druck und ernsthafter Ausstattung (besonders das etwas getönte Papier scheint uns passend) für die Kleinigkeit von 2 Mark liefert.

Gespräch mit dem Betrunkenen

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:50:31 +0000

Als ich aus dem Haustor mit kleinem Schritte trat, wurde ich von dem Himmel mit Mond und Sternen und großer Wölbung und von dem Ringplatz mit Rathaus, Mariensäule und Kirche überfallen.

Ich ging ruhig aus dem Schatten ins Mondlicht, knöpfte den Überzieher auf und wärmte mich; dann ließ ich durch Erheben der Hände das Sausen der Nacht schweigen und fing zu überlegen an:

“Was ist es doch, daß Ihr tut, als wenn Ihr wirklich wäret. Wollt Ihr mich glauben machen, daß ich unwirklich bin, komisch auf dem grünen Pflaster stehend? Aber doch ist es schon lange her, daß du wirklich warst, du Himmel, und du Ringplatz bist niemals wirklich gewesen. "

11. In der Schule

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:40:33 +0000

Ganz durchfroren kam er zuhause an, es war überall finster, die Kerzen in den Laternen waren niedergebrannt, von den Gehilfen geführt, die sich hier schon auskannten, tastete er sich in ein Schulzimmer durch – “Euere erste lobenswerte Leistung”, sagte er in Erinnerung an Klamms Brief – noch halb im Schlaf rief aus einer Ecke Frieda: “Laßt K. schlafen! Stört ihn doch nicht!” so beschäftigte K. ihre Gedanken, selbst wenn sie von Schläfrigkeit überwältigt ihn nicht hatte erwarten können. Nun wurde Licht gemacht, allerdings konnte die Lampe nicht stark aufgedreht werden, denn es war nur sehr wenig Petroleum da. Die junge Wirtschaft hatte noch verschiedene Mängel. Eingeheizt war zwar, aber das große Zimmer, das auch zum Turnen verwendet wurde – die Turngeräte standen herum und hingen von der Decke herab – hatte schon alles vorrätige Holz verbraucht, war auch, wie man K. versicherte, schon sehr angenehm warm gewesen, aber leider wieder ganz ausgekühlt. Es war zwar ein großer Holzvorrat in einem Schupfen vorhanden, dieser Schupfen aber war versperrt und den Schlüssel hatte der Lehrer, der eine Entnahme des Holzes nur für das Heizen während der Unterrichtsstunden gestattete. Das wäre erträglich gewesen, wenn man Betten gehabt hätte um sich in sie zu flüchten. Aber in dieser Hinsicht war nichts anderes da, als ein einziger Strohsack, anerkennenswert reinlich mit einem wollenen Umhängetuch Friedas überzogen, aber ohne Federbett und nur mit zwei groben steifen Decken, die kaum wärmten. Und selbst diesen armen Strohsack sahen die Gehilfen begehrlich an, aber Hoffnung auf ihm jemals liegen zu dürfen, hatten sie natürlich nicht. Ängstlich blickte Frieda K. an; daß sie ein Zimmer und sei es das elendste wohnlich einzurichten verstand, hatte sie ja im Brückenhof bewiesen, aber hier hatte sie nicht mehr leisten können, ganz ohne Mittel, wie sie gewesen war. “Unser einziger Zimmerschmuck sind die Turngeräte”, sagte sie unter Tränen mühselig lächelnd. Aber hinsichtlich der größten Mängel, der ungenügenden Schlafgelegenheit und Heizung versprach sie mit Bestimmtheit schon für den nächsten Tag Abhilfe und bat K. nur bis dahin Geduld zu haben. Kein Wort, keine Andeutung, keine Miene ließ darauf schließen, daß sie gegen K. auch nur die kleinste Bitterkeit im Herzen trug, trotzdem er doch, wie er sich sagen mußte, sie sowohl aus dem Herrenhof als auch jetzt aus dem Brückenhof gerissen hatte. Deshalb bemühte sich aber K. alles erträglich zu finden, was ihm auch gar nicht so schwer war, weil er in Gedanken mit Barnabas wanderte und seine Botschaft Wort für Wort wiederholte, aber nicht so wie er sie Barnabas übergeben hatte, sondern so wie er glaubte, daß sie vor Klamm erklingen werde. Daneben aber freute er sich allerdings auch aufrichtig auf den Kaffee, den ihm Frieda auf einem Spiritusbrenner kochte und verfolgte an dem erkaltenden Ofen lehnend ihre flinken vielerfahrenen Bewegungen, mit denen sie auf dem Kathedertisch die unvermeidliche weiße Decke ausbreitete, eine geblümte Kaffeetasse hinstellte, daneben Brot und Speck und sogar eine Sardinenbüchse. Nun war alles fertig, auch Frieda hatte noch nicht gegessen, sondern auf K. gewartet. Zwei Sessel waren vorhanden, dort saßen K. und Frieda beim Tisch, die Gehilfen zu ihren Füßen auf dem Podium, aber sie blieben niemals ruhig, auch beim Essen störten sie; trotzdem sie reichlich von allem bekommen hatten und noch lange nicht fertig waren, erhoben sie sich von Zeit zu Zeit, um festzustellen, ob noch viel auf dem Tisch war und sie noch einiges für sich erwarten konnten. K. kümmerte sich um sie nicht, erst durch Friedas Lachen wurde er auf sie aufmerksam. Er bedeckte ihre Hand auf dem Tischschmeichelnd mit seiner und fragte leise, warum sie ihnen so vieles nachsehe, ja sogar Unarten freundlich hinnehme. Auf diese Weise werde man sie niemals loswerden, während man es durch eine gewissermaßen kräftige, ihrem Benehmen auch wirklich entsprechende Behandlung erreichen könnte, entweder sie zu zügeln oder was noch wahrscheinlicher und auch besser wäre, ihnen die Stellung so zu verleiden, daß sie endlich durchbrennen würden. Es scheine ja kein sehr angenehmer Aufenthalt hier im Schulhaus werden zu wollen, nun er werde ja auch nicht lange dauern, aber von allen Mängeln würde man kaum etwas merken, wenn die Gehilfen fort wären und sie zwei allein wären in dem stillen Haus. Merke sie denn nicht auch daß die Gehilfen frecher würden von Tag zu Tag, so als ermutige sie eigentlich erst Friedas Gegenwart und die Hoffnung daß K. vor ihr nicht so fest zugreifen werde, wie er es sonst tun würde. Übrigens gäbe es vielleicht ganz einfache Mittel sie sofort ohne alle Umstände los zu werden, vielleicht kenne sie sogar Frieda, die doch mit den hiesigen Verhältnissen so vertraut sei. Und den Gehilfen selbst tue man doch wahrscheinlich nur einen Gefallen, wenn man sie irgendwie vertreibe, denn groß sei ja das Wohlleben nicht, das sie hier führen und selbst das Faulenzen, das sie bisher genossen hatten, werde ja hier wenigstens zum Teil aufhören, denn sie würden arbeiten müssen, während Frieda nach den Aufregungen der letzten Tage sich schonen müsse und er, K., damit beschäftigt sein werde einen Ausweg aus ihrer Notlage zu finden. Jedoch werde er, wenn die Gehilfen fortgehen sollten, dadurch sich so erleichtert fühlen, daß er leicht alle Schuldienerarbeit neben allem sonstigen werde ausführen können.

B.’s Freundin

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:48:12 +0000

In der nächsten Zeit war es K. unmöglich mit Fräulein Bürstner auch nur einige wenige Worte zu sprechen. Er versuchte auf die verschiedenste Weise an sie heranzukommen, sie aber wußte es immer zu verhindern. Er kam gleich nach dem Bureau nachhause, blieb in seinem Zimmer ohne das Licht anzudrehn auf dem Kanapee sitzen und beschäftigte sich mit nichts anderem als das Vorzimmer zu beobachten. Gieng etwa das Dienstmädchen vorbei und schloß die Tür des scheinbar leeren Zimmers, so stand er nach einem Weilchen auf und öffnete sie wieder. Des Morgens stand er um eine Stunde früher auf als sonst, um vielleicht Fräulein Bürstner allein treffen zu können, wenn sie ins Bureau gieng. Aber keiner dieser Versuche gelang. Dann schrieb er ihr einen Brief sowohl ins Bureau als auch in die Wohnung, suchte darin nochmals sein Verhalten zu rechtfertigen, bot sich zu jeder Genugtuung an, versprach niemals die Grenzen zu überschreiten, die sie ihm setzen würde und bat nur ihm die Möglichkeit zu geben, einmal mit ihr zu sprechen, besonders da er auch bei Frau Grubach nichts veranlassen könne, solange er sich nicht vorher mit ihr beraten habe, schließlich teilte er ihr mit, daß er den nächsten Sonntag während des ganzen Tages in seinem Zimmer auf ein Zeichen von ihr warten werde, das ihm die Erfüllung seiner Bitte in Aussicht stelle oder das ihm wenigstens erklären solle, warum sie die Ritte nicht erfüllen könne, trotzdem er doch versprochen habe sich in allem ihr zu fügen. Die Briefe kamen nicht zurück, aber es erfolgte auch keine Antwort. Dagegen gab es Sonntag ein Zeichen, dessen Deutlichkeit genügend war. Gleich früh bemerkte K. durch das Schlüsselloch eine besondere Bewegung im Vorzimmer, die sich bald aufklärte. Eine Lehrerin des Französischen, sie war übrigens eine Deutsche und hieß Montag, ein schwaches blasses, ein wenig hinkendes Mädchen, das bisher ein eigenes Zimmer bewohnt hatte, übersiedelte in das Zimmer des Fräulein Bürstner. Stundenlang sah man sie durch das Vorzimmer schlürfen. Immer war noch ein Wäschestück, oder ein Deckchen oder ein Buch vergessen, das besonders geholt und in die neue Wohnung hinübergetragen werden mußte.

«Sie fuhren zwei Tage...»

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:23:38 +0000

Sie fuhren zwei Tage und zwei Nächte. Jetzt erst begriff Karl die Größe Amerikas. Unermüdlich sah er aus dem Fenster und Giacomo drängte sich solange mit heran, bis die Burschen gegenüber die sich viel mit Kartenspiel beschäftigten dessen überdrüssig wurden und ihm freiwillig den Fensterplatz einräumten. Karl dankte ihnen – Giacomos Englisch war nicht jedem verständlich – und sie wurden im Laufe der Zeit, wie es unter Coupeegenossen nicht anders sein kann, viel freundlicher, doch war auch ihre Freundlichkeit oft lästig, da sie z. B. immer wenn ihnen eine Karte auf den Boden fiel und sie den Boden nach ihr absuchten, Karl oder Giacomo mit aller Kraft ins Bein zwickten. Giacomo schrie dann, immer von neuem überrascht, und zog das Bein in die Höhe, Karl versuchte manchmal mit einem Fußtritt zu antworten, duldete aber im übrigen alles schweigend. Alles was sich in dem kleinen, selbst bei offenem Fenster von Rauch überfüllten Coupee ereignete vergieng vor dem was draußen zu sehen war.

Heft 11

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 16:14:31 +0000

13 Sept. 15 Vorabend von Vaters Geburtstag, neues Tagebuch. Es ist nicht so notwendig wie sonst, unruhig muß ich mich nicht machen, unruhig bin ich genug, aber zu welchem Ziel, wann kommt es, wie kann ein Herz, ein nicht ganz gesundes Herz soviel Unzufriedenheit und soviel ununterbrochen zerrendes Verlangen ertragen.

Die Zerstreutheit, die Gedächtnisschwäche, die Dummheit!

(September 1915) mit Max und Langer Samstag beim Wunderrabbi. Pizkov, Harantova ulice. Viele Kinder auf dem Trottoir und den Treppenstufen. Ein Gasthaus. Oben vollständig finster, blindlings paar Schritte mit vorgehaltenen Händen. Ein Zimmer mit bleichem Dämmerlicht, weißgraue Wände, einige kleine Frauen und Mädchen, weiße Kopftücher, blasse Gesichter, stehn herum, kleine Bewegungen; Eindruck des Blutleeren. Nächstes Zimmer. Alles schwarz, voll mit Männern und jungen Leuten. Lautes Beten. Wir drücken uns in eine Ecke. Kaum sehen wir uns ein wenig um, ist das Gebet zu Ende, das Zimmer leert sich. Ein Eckzimmer mit zwei Fensterwänden mit je 2 Fenstern. Wir werden zu einem Tisch gedrängt, rechts vom Rabbi. Wir wehren uns, “Ihr seid doch auch Juden. " Das stärkste väterliche Wesen macht den Rabbi. Alle Rabbi sehen wild aus, sagte Langer. Dieser im Seidenkaftan, darunter schon Unterhosen sichtbar. Haare auf dem Nasenrücken. Mit Fell eingefaßte Kappe, die er immerfort hin und her rückt. Schmutzig und rein, Eigentümlichkeit intensiv denkender Menschen. Kratzt sich am Bartansatz, schneuzt durch die Hand auf den Fußboden, greift mit den Fingern in die Speisen – wenn er aber ein Weilchen die Hand auf dem Tisch liegen läßt, sieht man das Weiß der Haut, wie man ein ähnliches Weiß nur in Vorstellungen der Kindheit gesehn zu haben glaubt. Damals allerdings waren auch die Eltern rein.

"Im Dunkel der Gasse…" (II, 25)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:32:03 +0000

Im Dunkel der Gasse unter den Bäumen an einem Herbstabend. Ich frage Dich, Du antwortest mir nicht. Wenn Du mir antworten würdest, wenn sich Deine Lippen öffneten, das tote Auge sich belebte und das Wort das mir bestimmt ist erklänge!

Seine Stellung war ihm nicht klar

Wiederholungen. Das Auffangen. Das Auffinden einer Methode.

Es waren sehr verschieden farbige Bäume. Eine Mücke

Es öffnete sich die Tür und es kam, gut im Saft, an den Seiten üppig gerundet, fußlos mit der ganzen Unterseite sich vorschiebend der grüne Drache ins Zimmer herein. Formelle Begrüßung. Ich bat ihn völlig einzutreten. Er bedauerte dies nicht tun zu können, da er zu lang sei. Die Tür mußte also offen bleiben, was recht peinlich war. Er lächelte halb verlegen, halb tückisch und begann:

Aphorismen (II, 4)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 14:43:06 +0000

(Mit * gekennzeichnete Aphorismen sind in der Handschrift mit Bleistift gestrichen)

Der wahre Weg geht über ein Seil, das nicht in der Höhe gespannt ist, sondern knapp über dem Boden. Es scheint mehr bestimmt stolpern zu machen, als begangen zu werden.

Alle menschlichen Fehler sind Ungeduld, ein vorzeitiges Abbrechen des Methodischen, ein scheinbares Einpfählen der scheinbaren Sache.

Es gibt zwei menschliche Hauptsünden, aus welchen sich alle andern ableiten: Ungeduld und Lässigkeit. Wegen der Ungeduld sind sie aus dem Paradiese vertrieben worden, wegen der Lässigkeit kehren sie nicht zurück. Vielleicht aber gibt es nur eine Hauptsünde: die Ungeduld. Wegen der Ungeduld sind sie vertrieben worden, wegen der Ungeduld kehren sie nicht zurück.*

"Einleitungsvortrag über Jargon" (1912)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:51:13 +0000

Vor den ersten Versen der ostjüdischen Dichter möchte ich Ihnen, sehr geehrte Damen und Herren noch sagen, wie viel mehr Jargon Sie verstehen als Sie glauben.

Ich habe nicht eigentlich Sorge um die Wirkung, die für jeden von Ihnen in dem heutigen Abend vorbereitet ist, aber ich will, daß sie gleich frei werde, wenn sie es verdient. Dies kann aber nicht geschehen, solange manche unter Ihnen eine solche Angst vor dem Jargon haben, daß man es fast auf Ihren Gesichtern sieht. Von denen, welche gegen den Jargon hochmütig sind, rede ich gar nicht. Aber Angst vor dem Jargon, Angst mit einem gewissen Widerwillen auf dem Grunde ist schließlich verständlich wenn man will.

Die Aeroplane in Brescia

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:51:37 +0000

Wir sind angekommen. Vor dem Aerodrom liegt noch ein großer Platz mit verdächtigen Holzhäuschen, für die wir andere Aufschriften erwartet hätten, als: Garage, Grand Büfett International und so weiter. Ungeheure in ihren Wägelchen fettgewordene Bettler strecken uns ihre Arme in den Weg, man ist in der Eile versucht, über sie zu springen. Wir überholen viele Leute und werden von vielen überholt. Wir schauen in die Luft, um die es sich hier ja handelt. Gott sei Dank, noch fliegt keiner! Wir weichen nicht aus und werden doch nicht überfahren. Zwischen und hinter den Tausend Fuhrwerken und ihnen entgegen hüpft italienische Kavallerie. Ordnung und Unglücksfälle scheinen gleich unmöglich.

12. Die Gehilfen

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:41:20 +0000

Kaum waren alle fort, sagte K. zu den Gehilfen: “Geht hinaus! " Verblüfft durch diesen unerwarteten Befehl folgten sie, aber als K. hinter ihnen die Tür zusperrte, wollten sie wieder zurück, winselten draußen und klopften an die Tür. “Ihr seid entlassen”, rief K., “niemals mehr nehme ich Euch in meine Dienste. " Das wollten sie sich nun freilich nicht gefallen lassen und hämmerten mit Händen und Füßen gegen die Tür. “Zurück zu Dir, Herr!” riefen sie, als wäre K. das trockene Land und sie daran in der Flut zu versinken. Aber K. hatte kein Mitleid, ungeduldig wartete er, bis der unerträgliche Lärm den Lehrer zwingen werde, einzugreifen. Es geschah bald. “Lassen Sie Ihre verfluchten Gehilfen ein! " schrie er. “Ich habe sie entlassen”, schrie K. zurück, es hatte die ungewollte Nebenwirkung dem Lehrer zu zeigen, wie es ausfiel, wenn jemand kräftig genug war, nicht nur zu kündigen, sondern auch die Kündigung auszuführen. Der Lehrer versuchte nun die Gehilfen gütlich zu beruhigen, sie sollten hier nur ruhig warten, schließlich werde K. sie doch wieder einlassen müssen. Dann ging er. Und es wäre nun vielleicht still geblieben, wenn nicht K. ihnen wieder zuzurufen angefangen hätte, daß sie nun endgiltig entlassen seien und nicht die geringste Hoffnung auf Wiederaufnahme hätten. Daraufhin begannen sie wieder zu lärmen wie zuvor. Wieder kam der Lehrer, aber nun verhandelte er nicht mehr mit ihnen, sondern trieb sie, offenbar mit dem gefürchteten Rohrstab, aus dem Haus.

Staatsanwalt

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:49:12 +0000

Trotz der Menschenkenntnis und Welterfahrung, welche K. während seiner langen Dienstzeit in der Bank erworben hatte, war ihm doch die Gesellschaft seines Stammtisches immer als außerordentlich achtungswürdig erschienen und er leugnete sich selbst gegenüber niemals, daß es für ihn eine große Ehre war einer solchen Gesellschaft anzugehören. Sie bestand fast ausschließlich aus Richtern, Staatsanwälten und Advokaten, auch einige ganz junge Beamte und Advokatursgehilfen waren zugelassen, sie saßen aber ganz unten am Tisch und durften sich in die Debatten nur einmischen, wenn besondere Fragen an sie gestellt wurden. Solche Fragestellungen aber hatten meist nur den Zweck die Gesellschaft zu belustigen, besonders Staatsanwalt Hasterer der gewöhnlich K.’s Nachbar war liebte es auf diese Weise die jungen Herren zu beschämen. Wenn er die große stark behaarte Hand mitten auf dem Tisch spreizte und sich zum untern Tischende wandte, horchte schon alles auf. Und wenn dann dort einer die Frage aufnahm aber entweder sie nicht einmal enträtseln konnte oder nachdenklich in sein Bier sah oder statt zu reden bloß mit den Kiefern schnappte oder gar – das war das Ärgste – in unaufhaltsamem Schwall eine falsche oder unbeglaubigte Meinung vertrat, dann drehten sich die ältern Herren lächelnd auf ihren Sitzen und es schien ihnen erst jetzt behaglich zu werden. Die wirklich ernsten fachgemäßen Gespräche blieben nur ihnen vorbehalten.

Capitoli incompiuti

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 12:13:12 +0000

L’amica della Bürstner#

Nei giorni successivi fu impossibile a K. scambiare anche solo poche parole con la signorina Bürstner. Cercò in diversi modi di avvicinarsi a lei, ma la signorina riusciva sempre a evitarlo. K. tornava a casa subito dopo il lavoro, rimaneva seduto sul divano nella sua stanza a luce spenta, e non si occupava d’altro che di tenere d’occhio l’anticamera. Se ad esempio passava la domestica e chiudeva la porta della stanza che sembrava vuota, lui dopo un po’ si alzava e la riapriva. Alla mattina si alzava un’ora prima del solito per poter magari incontrare da sola la signorina Bürstner quando lei andava in ufficio; ma nessuno di questi tentativi ebbe successo. Allora le scrisse una lettera diretta in ufficio come nella sua stanza, nella quale cercava ancora una volta di giustificarsi, si dichiarava disposto a darle soddisfazione in qualunque modo, prometteva di non oltrepassare mai i limiti che lei gli avrebbe imposto e chiedeva soltanto che gli fosse data la possibilità di parlare una volta con lei, soprattutto perché non poteva fare niente con la signora Grubach finché non si fosse consigliato con lei, e infine le comunicava che la domenica successiva avrebbe aspettato per tutto il giorno nella sua stanza un segnale da lei che gli desse la prospettiva di veder soddisfatta la sua richiesta o che almeno gli chiarisse perché tale richiesta non poteva essere adempiuta, benché lui avesse promesso di adattarsi in tutto alle condizione che la signorina gli avrebbe imposto. Le lettere non tornarono indietro, ma nemmeno ci fu alcuna risposta. Invece la domenica ci fu un segnale di sufficiente chiarezza. Già la mattina presto K., attraverso il buco della serratura, notò un particolare movimento in anticamera, movimento la cui natura fu presto chiara. Un’insegnante di francese, che era però tedesca e si chiamava Montag, una ragazza debole e pallida, un po’ zoppicante, che fino ad allora aveva abitato una stanza propria, si trasferiva nella stanza della signorina Bürstner. Per ore e ore la si vide trascinarsi in anticamera, dimenticava sempre un capo di biancheria, una copertina o un libro, che doveva essere preso volta per volta e trasferito nella nuova abitazione.

Heft 12

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 16:17:03 +0000

15 Sept. 17 Du hast soweit diese Möglichkeit überhaupt besteht, die Möglichkeit einen Anfang zu machen. Verschwende sie nicht. Du wirst den Schmutz, der aus Dir aufschwemmt, nicht vermeiden können, wenn Du eindringen willst. Wälze Dich aber nicht darin. Ist die Lungenwunde nur ein Sinnbild, wie Du behauptest, Sinnbild der Wunde, deren Entzündung Felice und deren Tiefe Rechtfertigung heißt, ist dies so, dann sind auch die ärztlichen Ratschläge (Licht Luft Sonne Ruhe) Sinnbild. Fasse dieses Sinnbild an.

"Dann lag die Ebene…" (II, 26)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:33:16 +0000

Dann lag die Ebene vor K. und in der Ferne weit im Blauen auf einem kleinen Hügel, kaum zu erkennen, das Haus, zu dem er strebte. Aber es dauerte noch bis zum Abend und viele Mal war ihm während des Tages das Ziel aus dem Blick entschwunden, bis er auf schon dunkelndem Feldweg plötzlich am Fuße jenes Hügels stand. “Das ist also mein Haus”, sagte er sich, “ein kleines altes klägliches Haus, aber es ist meines und in paar Monaten soll es anders aussehn. " Und er stieg zwischen Wiesen den Hügel hinauf. Die Tür war offen, ja sie konnte gar nicht geschlossen werden, denn der eine Türflügel fehlte. Eine Katze, die auf der Schwelle gesessen hatte, verschwand mit großem Geschrei, so schreien Katzen sonst nicht. Die Türen der zwei Räume rechts und links von der Treppe waren offen, mit paar halbzerbrochenen alten Möbelstücken ausgestattet, sonst leer. Aber von oben, von der Treppe herab die sich im Finstern verlor fragte eine zitternde fast röchelnde Stimme, wer gekommen sei. K. machte einen großen Schritt über die ersten drei Stufen, die in der Mitte zerbrochen waren – sonderbarer Weise sahen die Bruchstellen frisch aus, als sei es heute oder gestern geschehn – und stieg hinauf. Auch oben war die Zimmertür offen

"Der Dorfschullehrer" (1914-1915)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:52:02 +0000

Diejenigen, ich gehöre zu ihnen, die schon einen kleinen gewöhnlichen Maulwurf widerlich finden, wären wahrscheinlich vom Widerwillen getötet worden, wenn sie den Riesenmaulwurf gesehen hätten, der vor einigen Jahren in der Nähe eines kleinen Dorfes beobachtet worden ist, das dadurch eine gewisse vorübergehende Berühmtheit erlangt hat. Jetzt ist es allerdings schon längst wieder in Vergessenheit geraten und teilt damit nur die Ruhmlosigkeit der ganzen Erscheinung, die vollständig unerklärt geblieben ist, die man aber zu erklären sich auch nicht sehr bemüht hat und die infolge einer unbegreiflichen Nachlässigkeit jener Kreise, die sich darum hätten kümmern sollen und die sich tatsächlich angestrengt um viel geringfügigere Dinge kümmern, ohne genauere Untersuchung vergessen worden ist. Darin daß das Dorf weit von der Eisenbahn abliegt, kann jedenfalls keine Entschuldigung dafür gefunden werden, viele Leute kamen aus Neugierde von weither, sogar aus dem Ausland, nur diejenigen die mehr als Neugierde hätten zeigen sollen, die kamen nicht. Ja, hätten nicht einzelne ganz einfache Leute, Leute, deren gewöhnliche Tagesarbeit ihnen kaum ein ruhiges Aufatmen gestattete, hätten nicht diese Leute uneigennützig sich der Sache angenommen, das Gerücht von der Erscheinung wäre wahrscheinlich kaum über den nächsten Umkreis hinausgekommen. Es muß zugegeben werden, daß selbst das Gerücht, das sich doch sonst kaum aufhalten läßt, in diesem Falle geradezu schwerfällig war, hätte man es nicht förmlich gestoßen, es hätte sich nicht verbreitet. Aber auch das war gewiß kein Grund sich mit der Sache nicht zu beschäftigen, im Gegenteil, auch diese Erscheinung hätte noch untersucht werden müssen. Statt dessen überließ man die einzige schriftliche Behandlung des Falles dem alten Dorflehrer, der zwar ein ausgezeichneter Mann in seinem Berufe war, aber dessen Fähigkeiten ebenso wenig wie seine Vorbildung es ihm ermöglichten, eine gründliche und weiterhin verwertbare Beschreibung geschweige denn eine Erklärung zu liefern. Die kleine Schrift wurde gedruckt und an die damaligen Besucher des Dorfes viel verkauft, sie fand auch einige Anerkennung, aber der Lehrer war klug genug einzusehn, daß seine vereinzelten von niemand unterstützten Bemühungen im Grunde wertlos waren. Wenn er dennoch in ihnen nicht nachließ und die Sache, trotzdem sie ihrer Natur nach von Jahr zu Jahr verzweifelter wurde, zu seiner Lebensaufgabe machte, so beweist dies einerseits wie groß die Wirkung war welche die Erscheinung ausüben konnte und andererseits welche Ausdauer und Überzeugungstreue sich in einem alten unbeachteten Dorflehrer vorfinden kann. Daß er aber unter der abweisenden Haltung der maßgebenden Persönlichkeiten schwer gelitten hat, beweist ein kleiner Nachtrag, den er seiner Schrift folgen ließ, allerdings erst nach einigen Jahren, also zu einer Zeit, als sich kaum jemand mehr erinnern konnte, um was es sich hier gehandelt hatte. In diesem Nachtrag führt er vielleicht nicht durch Geschicklichkeit aber durch Ehrlichkeit überzeugend Klage über die Verständnislosigkeit, die ihm bei Leuten begegnet ist, wo man sie am wenigsten hätte erwarten sollen. Von diesen Leuten sagt er treffend: “Nicht ich, aber sie reden wie alte Dorflehrer. " Und er führt unter anderem den Ausspruch eines Gelehrten an, zu dem er eigens in seiner Sache gefahren ist. Der Name des Gelehrten ist nicht genannt aber aus verschiedenen Nebenumständen läßt sich erraten, wer es gewesen ist. Nachdem der Lehrer große Schwierigkeiten überwunden hatte, um bei dem Gelehrten, bei dem er sich wochenlang vorher angemeldet hatte, überhaupt Einlaß zu erlangen, merkte er schon bei der Begrüßung, daß der Gelehrte in einem unüberwindbaren Vorurteil inbetreff seiner Sache befangen war. In welcher Zerstreutheit er dem langen Bericht des Lehrers zuhörte, den dieser an der Hand seiner Schrift erstattete, zeigte sich in der Bemerkung, die er nach einiger scheinbarer Überlegung machte. “Gewiß es gibt verschiedene Maulwürfe, kleine und große. Die Erde ist doch in ihrer Gegend besonders schwarz und schwer. Nun, sie gibt deshalb auch den Maulwürfen besonders fette Nahrung und sie werden ungewöhnlich groß.” “Aber so groß doch nicht”, rief der Lehrer und maß, in seiner Wut ein wenig übertreibend, zwei Meter an der Wand ab. “0 doch”, antwortete der Gelehrte, dem das Ganze offenbar sehr spaßhaft vorkam, “warum denn nicht” Mit diesem Bescheide fuhr der Lehrer nachhause zurück. Er erzählt, wie ihn am Abend im Schneefall auf der Landstraße seine Frau und seine sechs Kinder erwartet hätten und wie er ihnen das endgiltige Mißlingen seiner Hoffnungen bekennen mußte.

Ein Roman der Jugend

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:53:05 +0000

(Felix Sternheim: Die Geschichte des jungen Oswald. Hyperionverlag Hans von Weber, München 1910).

Ob es will, oder nicht, es ist ein Buch um junge Leute glücklich zu machen.

Vielleicht muß der Leser, während er diesen Roman in Briefform zu lesen beginnt, aus Not ein wenig einfältig werden, denn ein Leser kann nicht gedeihen, beugt man seinen Kopf sogleich mit dem ersten Ruck über den unveränderlichen Strom eines Gefühls. Und vielleicht ist diese Einfalt des Lesers die Ursache, daß ihm die Schwächen des Autors hier im Anfang geradezu morgendlich klar erscheinen: Eine beschränkte Terminologie von Werthers Schatten umkreist, schmerzlich den Ohren mit immer “süß” und immer “hold”. Ein beständig wiederkehrendes Entzücken, dessen Fülle niemals aufgegeben wird, das aber, oft nur noch gerade an den Worten hängend, tot durch die Seiten geht.

13. Hans

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:42:08 +0000

Nach einem Weilchen klopfte es leise. “Barnabas! " schrie K., warf den Besen hin und war mit einigen Sätzen bei der Tür. Über den Namen mehr als über alles andere erschrocken, sah ihn Frieda an. Mit den unsicheren Händen konnte K. das alte Schloß nicht gleich öffnen. “Ich öffne schon”, wiederholte er immerfort, statt zu fragen, wer denn eigentlich klopfe. Und mußte dann zusehn, wie durch die weit aufgerissene Tür nicht Barnabas hereinkam, sondern der kleine Junge, der schon früher einmal K. hatte ansprechen wollen. K. hatte aber keine Lust sich an ihn zu erinnern. “Was willst Du denn hier?” sagte er, “unterrichtet wird nebenan.” “Ich komme von dort”, sagte der Junge und sah mit seinen großen braunen Augen ruhig zu K. auf, stand aufrecht da, die Arme eng am Leib. “Was willst Du also? Schnell! " sagte K. und beugte sich ein wenig hinab, denn der Junge sprach leise. “Kann ich Dir helfen?” fragte der Junge. “Er will uns helfen”, sagte K. zu Frieda und dann zum Jungen: “Wie heißt Du denn?” “Hans Brunswick”, sagte der Junge, “Schüler der vierten Klasse, Sohn des Otto Brunswick, Schustermeisters in der Madeleinegasse. " “Sieh mal, Brunswick heißt Du”, sagte K. und war nun freundlicher zu ihm. Es stellte sich heraus, daß Hans durch die blutigen Striemen, welche die Lehrerin in K.’s Hand eingekratzt hatte, so erregt worden war, daß er sich damals entschlossen hatte K. beizustehn. Eigenmächtig war er jetzt auf die Gefahr großer Strafe hin aus dem Schulzimmer nebenan wie ein Deserteur weggeschlichen. Es mochten vor allem solche knabenhafte Vorstellungen sein, die ihn beherrschten. Ihnen entsprechend war auch der Ernst, der aus allem sprach, was er tat. Nur anfänglich hatte ihn Schüchternheit behindert, bald aber gewöhnte er sich an K. und Frieda und als er dann heißen guten Kaffee zu trinken bekommen hatte war er lebhaft und zutraulich geworden und seine Fragen waren eifrig und eindringlich, so als wolle er möglichst schnell das Wichtigste erfahren um dann selbstständig für K. und Frieda Entschlüsse fassen zu können. Es war auch etwas Befehlshaberisches in seinem Wesen, aber es war mit kindlicher Unschuld so gemischt, daß man sich ihm halb aufrichtig halb scherzend gern unterwarf. Jedenfalls nahm er alle Aufmerksamkeit für sich in Anspruch, alle Arbeit hatte aufgehört, das Frühstück zog sich sehr in die Länge. Trotzdem er in der Schulbank saß, K. oben auf dem Kathedertisch, Frieda auf einem Sessel nebenan, sah es aus, als sei Hans der Lehrer, als prüfe er und beurteile die Antworten, ein leichtes Lächeln um seinen weichen Mund schien anzudeuten, daß er wohl wisse, es handle sich nur um ein Spiel, aber desto ernsthafter war er im übrigen bei der Sache, vielleicht war es auch gar kein Lächeln, sondern das Glück der Kindheit, das die Lippen umspielte. Auffallend spät erst hatte er zugegeben, daß er K. schon kannte, seitdem dieser einmal bei Lasemann eingekehrt war. K. war glücklich darüber. “Du spieltest damals zu Füßen der Frau?” fragte K. “Ja”, sagte Hans, “es war meine Mutter. " Und nun mußte er von seiner Mutter erzählen, aber er tat es nur zögernd und erst auf wiederholte Aufforderung, es zeigte sich nun doch, daß er ein kleiner Junge war, aus dem zwar manchmal besonders in seinen Fragen, vielleicht im Vorgefühl der Zukunft, vielleicht aber auch nur infolge der Sinnestäuschung des unruhig-gespannten Zuhörers fast ein energischer kluger weitblickender Mann zu sprechen schien, der dann aber gleich darauf ohne Übergang nur ein Schuljunge war, der manche Fragen gar nicht verstand, andere mißdeutete, der in kindlicher Rücksichtslosigkeit zu leise sprach, trotzdem er oft auf den Fehler aufmerksam gemacht worden war und der schließlich wie aus Trotz gegenüber manchen dringenden Fragen vollkommen schwieg, undzwar ganz ohne Verlegenheit, wie es ein Erwachsener niemals könnte. Es war überhaupt, wie wenn seiner Meinung nach nur ihm das Fragen erlaubt sei, durch das Fragen der andern aber irgendeine Vorschrift durchbrochen und Zeit verschwendet würde. Er konnte dann lange Zeit stillsitzen mit aufrechtem Körper, gesenktem Kopf, aufgeworfener Unterlippe. Frieda gefiel das so, daß sie ihm öfters Fragen stellte, von denen sie hoffte, daß sie ihn auf diese Weise verstummen lassen würden. Es gelang ihr auch manchmal, aber K. ärgerte es. Im Ganzen erfuhr man wenig, die Mutter war ein wenig kränklich, aber was für eine Krankheit es war, blieb unbestimmt, das Kind, das Frau Brunswick auf dem Schooß gehabt hatte, war Hansens Schwester und hieß Frieda (die Namensgleichheit mit der ihn ausfragenden Frau nahm Hans unfreundlich auf), sie wohnten alle im Dorf, aber nicht bei Lasemann, sie waren dort nur zu Besuch gewesen um gebadet zu werden, weil Lasemann das große Schaffhatte, in dem zu baden und sich herumzutreiben den kleinen Kindern, zu denen aber Hans nicht gehörte, ein besonderes Vergnügen machte; von seinem Vater sprach Hans ehrfurchtsvoll oder ängstlich, aber nur wenn nicht gleichzeitig von der Mutter die Rede war, gegenüber der Mutter war des Vaters Wert offenbar klein, übrigens blieben alle Fragen über das Familienleben wie immer man auch heranzukommen suchte unbeantwortet, vom Gewerbe des Vaters erfuhr man daß er der größte Schuster des Ortes war, keiner war ihm gleich, wie öfters auch auf ganz andere Fragen hin wiederholt wurde, er gab sogar den andern Schustern, z. B. auch dem Vater des Barnabas Arbeit, in diesem letzternFall tat es Brunswick wohl nur aus besonderer Gnade, wenigstens deutete dies die stolze Kopfwendung Hansens an, welche Frieda veranlaßte zu ihm hinunterzuspringen und ihm einen Kuß zu geben. Die Frage, ob er schon im Schloß gewesen sei, beantwortete er erst nach vielen Wiederholungen undzwar mit >Nein<, die gleiche Frage hinsichtlich der Mutter beantwortete er gar nicht. Schließlich ermüdete K., auch ihm schien das Fragen unnütz, er gab darin dem Jungen recht, auch war darin etwas Beschämendes, auf dem Umweg über das unschuldige Kind Familiengeheimnisse ausforschen zu wollen, doppelt beschämend allerdings war, daß man auch hier nichts erfuhr. Und als dann K. zum Abschluß den Jungen fragte, worin er denn zu helfen sich anbiete, wunderte er sich nicht mehr zu hören, daß Hans nur hier bei der Arbeit helfen wolle, damit der Lehrer und die Lehrerin mit K. nicht mehr so zankten. K. erklärte Hans, daß eine solche Hilfe nicht nötig sei, Zanken gehöre wohl zu des Lehrers Natur und man werde wohl auch durch genaueste Arbeit sich kaum davor schützen können, die Arbeit selbst sei nicht schwer und nur infolge zufälliger Umstände sei er mit ihr heute im Rückstand, übrigens wirke auf K. dieses Zanken nicht so wie auf einen Schüler, er schüttele es ab, es sei ihm fast gleichgültig, auch hoffe er dem Lehrer sehr bald völlig entgehn zu können. Da es sich also nur um Hilfe gegen den Lehrer gehandelt habe, danke er dafür bestens und Hans könne wieder zurückgehn, hoffentlich werde er noch nicht bestraft werden. Trotzdem es K. gar nicht betonte und nur unwillkürlich andeutete, daß es nur die Hilfe gegenüber dem Lehrer sei, die er nicht brauche, während er die Frage nach anderer Hilfe offen ließ, hörte es Hans doch klar heraus und fragte, ob K. vielleicht andere Hilfe brauche, sehr gerne würde er ihm helfen und wenn er es selbst nicht imstande wäre, würde er seine Mutter darum bitten und dann würde es gewiß gelingen. Auch wenn der Vater Sorgen hat, bittet er die Mutter um Hilfe. Und die Mutter habe auch schon einmal nach K. gefragt, sie selbst gehe kaum aus dem Haus, nur ausnahmsweise sei sie damals bei Lasemann gewesen, er, Hans, aber gehe öfters hin, um mit Lasemanns Kindern zu spielen und da habe ihn die Mutter einmal gefragt, ob dort vielleicht wieder einmal der Landvermesser gewesen sei. Nun dürfe man die Mutter, weil sie so schwach und müde sei, nicht unnütz ausfragen und so habe er nur einfach gesagt, daß er den Landvermesser dort nicht gesehen habe und weiter sei davon nicht gesprochen worden; als er ihn nun aber hier in der Schule gefunden habe, habe er ihn ansprechen müssen, damit er der Mutter berichten könne. Denn das habe die Mutter am liebsten, wenn man ohne ausdrücklichen Befehl ihre Wünsche erfüllt. Darauf sagte K. nach kurzer Überlegung, er brauche keine Hilfe, er habe alles was er benötige, aber es sei sehr lieb von Hans daß er ihm helfen wolle und er danke ihm für die gute Absicht, es sei ja möglich, daß er später einmal etwas brauchen werde, dann werde er sich an ihn wenden, die Adresse habe er ja. Dagegen könne vielleicht er, K., diesmal ein wenig helfen, es tue ihm leid, daß Hansens Mutter kränkle und offenbar niemand hier das Leiden verstehe; in einem solchen vernachlässigten Falle kann oft eine schwere Verschlimmerung eines an sich leichten Leidens eintreten. Nun habe er, K., einige medicinische Kenntnisse und was noch mehr wert sei, Erfahrung in der Krankenbehandlung. Manches was Ärzten nicht gelungen sei, sei ihm geglückt. Zuhause habe man ihn wegen seiner Heilwirkung immer das bittere Kraut genannt. Jedenfalls würde er gern Hansens Mutter ansehn und mit ihr sprechen. Vielleicht könnte er einen guten Rat geben, schon um Hansens Willen täte er es gern. Hansens Augen leuchteten bei diesem Angebot zuerst auf, verführten K. dazu dringlicher zu werden, aber das Ergebnis war unbefriedigend, denn Hans sagte auf verschiedene Fragen, und war dabei nicht einmal sehr traurig, zur Mutter dürfe kein fremder Besuch kommen, weil sie sehr schonungsbedürftig sei; trotzdem doch K. damals kaum mit ihr gesprochen habe, sei sie nachher einige Tage im Bett gelegen, was freilich öfters geschehe. Der Vater habe sich damals aber über K. sehr geärgert und er würde gewiß niemals erlauben, daß K. zur Mutter komme, ja er habe damals K. aufsuchen wollen, um ihn wegen seines Benehmens zu strafen, nur die Mutter habe ihn davon zurückgehalten. Vor allem aber wolle die Mutter selbst im allgemeinen mit niemandem sprechen und ihre Frage nach K. bedeute keine Ausnahme von der Regel, im Gegenteil, gerade gelegentlich seiner Erwähnung hätte sie den Wunsch aussprechen können, ihn zu sehn, aber sie habe dies nicht getan und damit deutlich ihren Willen geäußert. Sie wolle nur von K. hören, aber mit ihm sprechen wolle sie nicht. Übrigens sei es gar keine eigentliche Krankheit, woran sie leide, sie wisse sehr wohl die Ursache ihres Zustandes und manchmal deute sie sie auch an, es sei wahrscheinlich die Luft hier, die sie nicht vertrage, aber sie wolle doch auch wieder den Ort nicht verlassen, des Vaters und der Kinder wegen, auch sei es schon besser als es früher gewesen war. Das war es etwa, was K. erfuhr; die Denkkraft Hansens steigerte sich sichtlich, da er seine Mutter vor K. schützen sollte, vor K., dem er angeblich hatte helfen wollen; ja zu dem guten Zwecke, K. von der Mutter abzuhalten, widersprach er in manchem sogar seinen eigenen früheren Aussagen, z. B. hinsichtlich der Krankheit. Trotzdem aber merkte K. auch jetzt, daß Hans ihm noch immer gutgesinnt war, nur vergaß er über der Mutter alles andere; wen immer man gegenüber der Mutter aufstellte, er kam gleich ins Unrecht, jetzt war es K. gewesen, aber es konnte z. B. auch der Vater sein. K. wollte dieses Letztere versuchen und sagte, es sei gewiß sehr vernünftig vom Vater, daß er die Mutter vor jeder Störung so behüte und wenn er, K., damals etwas ähnliches nur geahnt hätte, hätte er gewiß die Mutter nicht anzusprechen gewagt und er lasse jetzt noch nachträglich zuhause um Entschuldigung bitten. Dagegen könne er nicht ganz verstehn, warum der Vater, wenn die Ursache des Leidens so klargestellt sei, wie Hans sage, die Mutter zurückhalte sich in anderer Luft zu erholen; man müsse sagen, daß er sie zurückhalte, denn sie gehe nur der Kinder- und seinetwegen nicht fort, die Kinder aber könnte sie mitnehmen, sie müßte ja nicht für lange Zeit fortgehn und auch nicht sehr weit; schon oben auf dem Schloßberg sei die Luft ganz anders. Die Kosten eines solchen Ausfluges müsse der Vater nicht fürchten, er sei ja der größte Schuster im Ort und gewiß habe auch er oder die Mutter Verwandte oder Bekannte im Schloß, die sie gern aufnehmen würden. Warum lasse er sie nicht fort? Er möge ein solches Leiden nicht unterschätzen, K. habe ja die Mutter nur flüchtig gesehn, aber eben ihre auffallende Blässe und Schwäche habe ihn dazu bewogen sie anzusprechen, schon damals habe er sich gewundert, daß der Vater in der schlechten Luft des allgemeinen Bade- und Waschraums die kranke Frau gelassen und sich auch in seinen lauten Reden keine Zurückhaltung auferlegt habe. Der Vater wisse wohl nicht um was es sich handle, mag sich auch das Leiden in der letzten Zeit vielleicht gebessert haben, ein solches Leiden hat Launen, aber schließlich kommt es doch, wenn man es nicht bekämpft, mit gesammelter Kraft und nichts kann dann mehr helfen. Wenn K. schon nicht mit der Mutter sprechen könne, wäre es doch vielleicht gut, wenn er mit dem Vater sprechen und ihn auf dies alles aufmerksam machen würde.

Zu Elsa

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:50:13 +0000

Eines Abends wurde K. knapp vor dem Weggehn telephonisch angerufen und aufgefordert sofort in die Gerichtskanzlei zu kommen. Man warne ihn davor ungehorsam zu sein. Seine unerhörten Bemerkungen darüber, daß die Verhöre unnütz seien, kein Ergebnis haben und keines haben können, daß er nicht mehr hinkommen werde, daß er telephonische oder schriftliche Einladungen nicht beachten und Boten aus der Türe werfen werde – alle diese Bemerkungen seien protokolliert und hätten ihm schon viel geschadet. Warum wolle er sich denn nicht fügen? Sei man nicht etwa ohne Rücksicht auf Zeit und Kosten bemüht in seine verwickelte Sache Ordnung zu bringen? Wolle er darin mutwillig stören und es zu Gewaltmaßregeln kommen lassen, mit denen man ihn bisher verschont habe? Die heutige Vorladung sei ein letzter Versuch. Er möge tun was er wolle, jedoch bedenken, daß das hohe Gericht seiner nicht spotten lassen könne.

Reisen Januar/Februar 1911

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 16:20:40 +0000

Friedländer Reise Jänner

1911

Reichenberger Feber

Ich müßte die Nacht durchschreiben, so viel kommt über mich, aber es ist nur unreines. Was für eine Macht dieses über mich bekommen hat, während ich ihm früher soviel ich mich erinnere mit einer Wendung, einer kleinen Wendung, die mich an und für sich noch glücklich machte, auszuweichen imstande war.

Reichenberger Jude im Koupe macht sich zuerst durch kleine Ausrufe über Schnellzüge, die es nur dem Fahrpreis nach sind bemerkbar. Unterdessen ißt ein magerer Reisender, das was man Windbeutel nennt, mit raschem Schlucken Schinken, Brot und zwei Würste, deren Haut er mit einem Messer durchsichtig kratzt, bis er schließlich alle Reste und Papiere unter die Bank hinter das Heizungsrohr wirft. Während des Essens hat er in dieser unnötigen mir so sympatischen, aber erfolglos nachgeahmten Hitze und Eile zwei Abendblätter mir zugewendet ausgelesen. Abstehende Ohren. Nur verhältnismäßig breite Nase. Wischt mit den fetten Händen Haare und Gesicht, ohne sich schmutzig zu machen, was ich auch nicht darf. Das scheinbar umfangreiche Glied macht in den Hosen einen starken Wulst.

"Die Tür des Zimmers…" (II, 27)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:36:52 +0000

Die Tür des Zimmers ist einen Spalt weit geöffnet, auf dem Korridor ist finster trotzdem schon heller Tag ist. Nur undeutlich sehe ich dort ein dunkles Gesicht, zwei gelblich leuchtende Hände, die sich an den Türpfosten und die Türklinke halten. Die Erscheinung wird bald verschwinden, schon in dem Augenblick als sie sich zeigte, schien sie zu zittern………………….. verschwinden. Sie hat aber einen Auftrag an mich und so muß sie noch bleiben… ………. und sich wehren gegen die Finsternis, die ihrerseits danach strebt sie aufzu……………………. …. in meinem Bett weit vorgebeugt, denn die Stimme ist schwach………………………….. von weit her um Dich zu sehn. Man hat mir Dich als schwach und ………………………… aber mit Recht, wie ich sehe, aber ich machte mir ein noch viel ärgeres…. …………………. bin ich doch mit Deinem Anblick noch nicht ganz unzufrieden…………….. ………………, daß ich Dich überhaupt gefunden habe, wie lange suche…………………….. ……….. der Welt. Der………………….

"Der Unterstaatsanwalt" (1914-1915)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:53:22 +0000

(…) überdrüssig geworden ist, Jagden auf Mißgeburten zu veranstalten, dann wäre allerdings der Bezirksrichter das erste Ziel. Aber sich über ihn zu ärgern ist sinnlos. Darum ärgert sich auch der Unterstaatsanwalt nicht über ihn, er ärgert sich nur über die Dummheit, die einen solchen Menschen auf einen Bezirksrichterposten setzt. Die Dummheit also will Gerechtigkeit üben.

Es ist für die persönlichen Verhältnisse des Unterstaatsanwalts an und für sich sehr bedauerlich, daß er nur einen so niedrigen Rang einnimmt, seinem eigentlichen Bestreben aber würde es vielleicht nicht einmal genügen Oberstaatsanwalt zu sein. Er müßte ein noch viel höherer Staatsanwalt werden, um auch nur alle Dummheit die er vor seinen Augen sieht, unter wirksame Anklage setzen zu können. Zur Anklage gegen den Bezirksrichter würde er sich dabei wahrhaftig nicht herablassen, er würde ihn von der Höhe seines Anklägersitzes nicht einmal erkennen. Wohl aber würde er rings herum eine so schöne Ordnung schaffen, daß der Bezirksrichter nicht in ihr bestehen könnte, daß ihm ohne daß er angerührt würde die Knie zu schlottern anfiengen und er schließlich vergehen müßte. Dann wäre es vielleicht auch an der Zeit, den Fall des Unterstaatsanwaltes selbst aus den versperrten Disciplinargerichten in den offenen Gerichtssaal zu bringen. Dann wäre der Unterstaatsanwalt nicht mehr persönlich beteiligt, er hätte kraft höherer Gewalt die ihm angelegten Ketten zerbrochen und könnte nun selbst über sie zu Gericht sitzen. Er stellt sich vor, daß ihm eine mächtige Persönlichkeit vor der Verhandlung ins Ohr flüstert: “Jetzt wird Dir Genugtuung zuteil werden.” Und nun kommt es zur Verhandlung. Die angeklagten Disciplinarräte lügen natürlich, lügen mit zusammengebissenen Zähnen, lügen so wie nur Leute von Gericht lügen können, wenn die Anklage einmal sie trifft. Aber es ist alles so vorbereitet, daß die Tatsachen selbst alle Lügen von sich abschütteln und sich frei und wahrheitsgemäß vor den Zuhörern entwickeln. Es sind viele Zuhörer da, auf drei Seiten des Saales, nur die Richterbank ist leer, man hat keine Richter gefunden, die Richter drängen sich im engen Raum, wo sonst der Angeklagte steht, und suchen sich vor der leeren Richterbank zu verantworten. Nur der öffentliche Ankläger, der gewesene Unterstaatsanwalt, ist natürlich zugegen und auf seinem gewöhnlichen Platz. Er ist viel ruhiger als sonst, er nickt nur hie und da, alles nimmt den richtigen uhrenmäßigen Gang. Erst jetzt, nachdem der Fall von allen Schriftsätzen, Zeugenaussagen, Verhandlungsprotokollen, Urteilsberatungen und Entscheidungsgründen befreit ist, erkennt man seine sofort überwältigende Einfachheit! Die Angelegenheit selbst liegt etwa fünfzehn Jahre zurück. Der Unterstaatsanwalt war damals in der Residenzstadt, er war als tüchtiger Jurist anerkannt, bei seinen Vorgesetzten sehr beliebt und hatte sogar schon Hoffnung bald vor vielen Mitbewerbern zehnter Staatsanwalt zu werden. Der zweite Staatsanwalt bewies ihm eine besondere Zuneigung und ließ sich von ihm selbst bei nicht ganz unwichtigen Angelegenheiten vertreten. So war es auch bei einem kleinen Majestätsbeleidigungsproceß. Ein Geschäftsangestellter, ein nicht ungebildeter, politisch sehr tätiger Mann hatte in einer Weinstube in halber Trunkenheit das Glas in der Hand eine Majestätsbeleidigung ausgesprochen. Ein wahrscheinlich noch mehr betrunkener Gast am Nebentisch hatte die Anzeige erstattet, er hatte in seiner Betäubung wahrscheinlich gemeint, daß er eine ausgezeichnete Tat ausführe, war sofort um einen Polizeimann gelaufen und glückselig lächelnd mit ihm zurückgekehrt, um ihm den Mann zu übergeben. Später allerdings hielt er an seiner Aussage wenigstens im wichtigsten Teil fest, im übrigen mußte die Majestätsbeleidigung sehr deutlich gewesen sein, denn kein Zeuge konnte sie vollständig leugnen. Ihr Wortlaut aber konnte nicht zweifellos festgestellt werden, die größte Berechtigung hatte die Annahme, daß der Angeklagte mit dem Weinglas auf ein an der Wand hängendes Bild des Königs gezeigt und dabei gesagt hatte: “Du Lump dort oben! " Die Schwere dieser Beleidigung wurde nur durch den damaligen teilweise unzurechnungsfähigen Zustand des Angeklagten gemildert sowie dadurch, daß er die Beleidigung in irgendeiner Verbindung mit der Liedzeile: “solange noch das Lämpchen glüht” vorgebracht und den Sinn des Ausrufes dadurch getrübt hatte. Über die Art der Verbindung zwischen dem Ausruf und dem Lied hatte fast jeder Zeuge eine andere Meinung und der Anzeiger behauptete sogar, ein anderer nicht der Angeklagte habe gesungen. Ungemein erschwerend war für den Angeklagten seine politische Tätigkeit, die es jedenfalls sehr glaubwürdig erscheinen ließ, daß er dessen fähig war, den Ausruf auch bei gänzlicher Nüchternheit und mit vollster Überzeugung zu machen. Der Unterstaatsanwalt erinnert sich sehr genau – er hat ja jene Dinge so oft durchgedacht – wie er jene Anklage fast mit Begeisterung in Angriff nahm, nicht nur weil es ehrenvoll war, einen Majestätsbeleidigungsproceß zu führen sondern weil er den Angeklagten und seine Sache aufrichtig haßte. Da stand ein politischer Streber, dem der ehrliche Beruf eines Geschäftsangestellten nicht genügte, wahrscheinlich weil er ihm die Mittel für Weingelage zu liefern nicht imstande war, ein Mensch mit einer riesenhaften Kinnlade die von einer kräftigen Muskulatur auch riesenhaft bewegt wurde, ein geborener Volksredner der selbst den Untersuchungsrichter anschrie, in diesem Fall leider eine nervöse aufgeregte Natur. Die Untersuchung, welcher der Unterstaatsanwalt aus Interesse an der Sache öfters beigewohnt hatte, war eine fortwährende Zänkerei. Einmal sprang der Untersuchungsrichter auf, das andere Mal der Verhörte und einer donnerte den andern an. Dies wirkte natürlich ungünstig auf die Ergebnisse der Untersuchung ein und als der Unterstaatsanwalt auf diesen Ergebnissen die Anklage aufbauen sollte, mußte er viel Arbeit und Scharfsinn aufwenden, um sie genügend stichhaltig zu machen. Er arbeitete Nächte durch, aber mit Freude. Es waren damals schöne Frühjahrsnächte, das Haus in dessen Erdgeschoß der Unterstaatsanwalt wohnte hatte einen kleinen zwei Schritte breiten Vorgarten, war der Unterstaatsanwalt von der Arbeit ermüdet oder verlangten die sich drängenden Gedanken Ruhe und Sammlung, dann kletterte er aus dem Fenster in den Vorgarten und gieng dort auf und ab oder lehnte mit geschlossenen Augen am Gartengitter. Er hat sich damals nicht geschont, er arbeitete die ganze Anklage mehreremal um, manche Teile zehn- und zwanzigmal. Außerdem häufte sich das für die Hauptverhandlung vorbereitete Material in fast undurchdringlicher Fülle. “Gebe Gott daß ich dieses alles fassen und verwerten kann”, war in den Nächten seine ständige Bitte. Mit der Anklage selbst hielt er seine Arbeit nur zum geringsten Teile für beendet, darum sah er auch das Lob des zweiten Staatsanwalts, mit dem ihm dieser die Anklageschrift nach genauer Prüfung zurückgab, nicht als Lohn sondern nur als Aufmunterung an, und dieses Lob war groß und es kam überdies von einem strengen, wortkargen Mann. Es lautete, wie es der Unterstaatsanwalt in seinen spätern Eingaben oft wiederholte, ohne allerdings den zweiten Staatsanwalt dazu bewegen zu können, sich daran zu erinnern: “Dieses Heft, mein lieber Kollega, enthält nicht nur die Anklage, es enthält aller menschlichen Voraussicht nach auch Ihre Ernennung zum zehnten Staatsanwalt.” Und als der Unterstaatsanwalt bescheiden schwieg, fügte der zweite Staatsanwalt hinzu: “Vertrauen Sie mir.” Zur Hauptverhandlung gieng der Unterstaatsanwalt fest und ruhig. Niemand im Saal kannte alle Feinheiten und Beziehungen der Prozeßsache so wie er. Der Verteidiger war ungefährlich, ein dem Unterstaatsanwalt gut bekanntes, immer schreiendes aber wenig scharfsinniges Männchen. An dem Tag war er gewiß nicht einmal sehr kampflustig, er verteidigte, weil er verteidigen mußte, weil es um ein Mitglied seiner politischen Partei gieng, weil sich vielleicht Gelegenheit zu Tiraden ergeben würde, weil die Parteipresse auf den Fall ein wenig aufmerksam war, aber Hoffnung seinen Klienten durchzubringen hatte er nicht. Der Unterstaatsanwalt erinnert sich noch, wie er diesem Verteidiger kurz vor Beginn der Verhandlung mit schwer unterdrücktem Lächeln zusah; unfähig sich zu beherrschen, wie dieser Verteidiger überhaupt war, warf er auf seinem Tisch alles durcheinander, riß Blätter aus seinen Schriften und wie mit einem Windhauch waren sie sofort mit Notizen bedeckt, unter dem Tisch klapperten inzwischen seine kleinen Füßchen und jeden Augenblick strich er, ohne es zu wissen, mit ängstlicher Bewegung über seine Glatze, als suche er dort irgendwelche Verletzungen. Er schien dem Unterstaatsanwalt ein unwürdiger Gegner zu sein. Als er gleich bei Beginn der Verhandlung aufhüpfte und mit häßlicher pfeifender Stimme den Antrag gestellt hatte, die Verhandlung möge in öffentlicher Sitzung stattfinden, erhob sich der Unterstaatsanwalt fast schwerfällig von seinem Sitz. Alles war so klar und durchdacht, es war als mischten sich alle Leute ringsherum in eine ihm allein gehörige Sache, eine Sache die er ihrem Wesen gemäß in sich selbst zu Ende führen könnte ohne Richter und Verteidiger und ohne Angeklagten.

Eine entschlafene Zeitschrift

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:55:18 +0000

Die Zeitschrift “Hyperion” hat ihre Arbeit halb gezwungen, halb freiwillig beendet und ihre zwölf wie Steinplatten großen, weißen Hefte sollen jetzt abgeschlossen sein. Unmittelbar erinnern an sie nur noch die Hyperionalmanache 1910 und 1911, um die sich das Publikum wie um die unterhaltenden Reliquien eines unbequemen Toten reißt. Der wesentliche Herausgeber war Franz Blei, dieser bewundernswerte Mann, den die Mannigfaltigkeit seiner Talente in die dichteste Literatur hineintreibt, wo er sich aber nicht befreien und halten kann, sondern mit verwandelter Energie zu Zeitschriftengründungen entläuft. Der Verleger war Hans von Weber, dessen Verlag zuerst vom “Hyperion” ganz überdeckt war, heute aber, ohne sich in einer Seitengasse der Literatur zu verstecken, ohne aber auch mit allgemeinen Programmen zu strahlen, einer der zielbewußtesten großen deutschen Verlage geworden ist.

14. Friedas Vorwurf

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:42:53 +0000

Es war höchste Zeit, daß Hans weggegangen war, denn kurz darauf riß der Lehrer die Tür auf und schrie, als er K. und Frieda ruhig bei Tisch sitzen sah: “Verzeiht die Störung! Aber sagt mir, wann wird endlich hier aufgeräumt sein. Wir müssen drüben zusammengepfercht sitzen, der Unterricht leidet, Ihr aber dehnt und streckt Euch hier im großen Turnzimmer und um noch mehr Platz zu haben, habt Ihr auch noch die Gehilfen weggeschickt. Jetzt aber steht wenigstens gefälligst auf und rührt Euch! " Und nur zu K.: “Du holst mir jetzt das Gabelfrühstück aus dem Brückenhof. " Das alles war wütend geschrien, aber die Worte waren verhältnismäßig sanft, selbst das an sich grobe Du. K. war sofort bereit zu folgen, nur um den Lehrer auszuhorchen sagte er: “Ich bin doch gekündigt. " “Gekündigt oder nicht gekündigt, hol mir das Gabelfrühstück”, sagte der Lehrer. “Gekündigt oder nicht gekündigt, das eben will ich wissen”, sagte K. “Was schwätzt Du?” sagte der Lehrer, “Du hast doch die Kündigung nicht angenommen. " “Das genügt um sie unwirksam zu machen?” fragte K. “Mir nicht”, sagte der Lehrer, “das darfst Du mir glauben, wohl aber dem Gemeindevorsteher, unbegreiflicher Weise. Nun aber lauf, sonst fliegst Du wirklich hinaus. " K. war zufrieden, der Lehrer hatte also mit dem Gemeindevorsteher inzwischen gesprochen, oder vielleicht gar nicht gesprochen sondern nur des Gemeindevorstehers voraussichtliche Meinung sich zurechtgelegt und diese lautete zu K.’s Gunsten. Nun wollte K. gleich um das Gabelfrühstück eilen, aber noch aus dem Gang rief ihn der Lehrer wieder zurück, sei es daß er die Dienstwilligkeit K.’s durch diesen besonderen Befehl nur hatte erproben wollen, um sich danach weiterhin richten zu können, sei es daß er nun wieder neue Lust zum Kommandieren bekam und es ihn freute, K. eilig laufen und dann auf seinen Befehl hin wie einen Kellner ebenso eilig wieder wenden zu lassen. K. seinerseits wußte, daß er durch allzugroßes Nachgeben sich zum Sklaven und Prügeljungen des Lehrers machen würde, aber bis zu einer gewissen Grenze wollte er jetzt die Launen des Lehrers geduldig hinnehmen, denn wenn ihm auch der Lehrer, wie sich gezeigt hatte, rechtmäßig nicht kündigen konnte, qualvoll bis zum Unerträglichen konnte er die Stellung gewiß machen. Aber gerade an dieser Stellung lag jetzt K. mehr als früher. Das Gespräch mit Hans hatte ihm neue, zugegebenermaßen unwahrscheinliche, völlig grundlose, aber nicht mehr zu vergessende Hoffnungen gemacht, sie verdeckten sogar fast Barnabas. Wenn er ihnen nachging, und er konnte nicht anders, so mußte er alle seine Kraft darauf sammeln, sich um nichts anderes sorgen, nicht um das Essen, die Wohnung, die Dorfbehörden, ja selbst um Frieda nicht, und im Grunde handelte es sich ja nur um Frieda, denn alles andere kümmerte ihn ja nur mit Bezug auf sie. Deshalb mußte er diese Stellung, welche Frieda einige Sicherheit gab, zu behalten suchen, und es durfte ihn nicht reuen, im Hinblick auf diesen Zweck mehr vom Lehrer zu dulden, als er sonst zu dulden über sich gebracht hätte. Das alles war nicht allzu schmerzlich, es gehörte in die Reihe der fortwährenden kleinen Leiden des Lebens, es war nichts im Vergleich zu dem was K. erstrebte und er war nicht hergekommen um ein Leben in Ehren und Frieden zu führen.

Kampf mit dem Direktor-Stellvertreter

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:50:57 +0000

Eines Morgens fühlte sich K. viel frischer und widerstandsfähiger als sonst. An das Gericht dachte er kaum; wenn es ihm aber einfiel, schien es ihm als könne diese ganz unübersichtlich große Organisation an irgend einer allerdings verborgenen im Dunkel erst zu ertastenden Handhabe leicht gefaßt, ausgerissen und zerschlagen werden. Sein außergewöhnlicher Zustand verlockte K. sogar den Direktor-Stellvertreter einzuladen in sein Bureau zu kommen und eine geschäftliche Angelegenheit, die schon seit einiger Zeit drängte, gemeinsam zu besprechen. Immer bei solchem Anlaß tat der Direktor-Stellvertreter so, als hätte sich sein Verhältnis zu K. in den letzten Monaten nicht im Geringsten geändert. Ruhig kam er wie in den frühern Zeiten des ständigen Wettbewerbes mit K., ruhig hörte er K.’s Ausführungen an, zeigte durch kleine vertrauliche ja kameradschaftliche Bemerkungen seine Teilnahme und verwirrte K. nur dadurch, worin man aber keine Absicht sehen mußte, daß er sich durch nichts von der geschäftlichen Hauptsache ablenken ließ, förmlich bis in den Grund seines Wesens aufnahmsbereit für diese Sache war, während K.’s Gedanken vor diesem Muster von Pflichterfüllung sofort nach allen Seiten zu schwärmen anfiengen und ihn zwangen, die Sache selbst fast ohne Widerstand dem Direktor-Stellvertreter zu überlassen. Einmal war es so schlimm, daß K. schließlich nur bemerkte, wie der Direktor-Stellvertreter plötzlich aufstand und stumm in sein Bureau zurückkehrte. K. wußte nicht was geschehen war, es war möglich daß die Besprechung regelrecht abgeschlossen war, ebensomöglich aber war es, daß sie der Direktor-Stellvertreter abgebrochen hatte, weil ihn K. unwissentlich gekränkt oder weil er Unsinn gesprochen hatte oder weil es dem Direktor-Stellvertreter unzweifelhaft geworden war, daß K. nicht zuhörte und mit andern Dingen beschäftigt war. Es war aber sogar möglich, daß K. eine lächerliche Entscheidung getroffen oder daß der Direktor-Stellvertreter sie ihm entlockt hatte und daß er sich jetzt beeilte sie zum Schaden K.’s zu verwirklichen. Man kam übrigens auf diese Angelegenheit nicht mehr zurück, K. wollte nicht an sie erinnern und der Direktor-Stellvertreter blieb verschlossen; es ergaben sich allerdings vorläufig auch weiterhin keine sichtbaren Folgen. Jedenfalls war aber K. durch den Vorfall nicht abgeschreckt worden, wenn sich nur eine passende Gelegenheit ergab und er nur ein wenig bei Kräften war, stand er schon bei der Tür des Direktor-Stellvertreters um zu ihm zu gehn oder ihn zu sich einzuladen. Es war keine Zeit mehr sich vor ihm zu verstecken, wie er es früher getan hatte. Er hoffte nicht mehr auf einen baldigen entscheidenden Erfolg, der ihn mit einem Mal von allen Sorgen befreien und von selbst das alte Verhältnis zum Direktor-Stellvertreter herstellen würde. K. sah ein, daß er nicht ablassen dürfe, wich er zurück, so wie es vielleicht die Tatsachen forderten, dann bestand die Gefahr, daß er möglicherweise niemals mehr vorwärts kam. Der Direktor-Stellvertreter durfte nicht im Glauben gelassen werden, daß K. abgetan sei, er durfte mit diesem Glauben nicht ruhig in seinem Bureau sitzen, er mußte beunruhigt werden, er mußte so oft als möglich erfahren daß K. lebte und daß er wie alles was lebte, eines Tages mit neuen Fähigkeiten überraschen konnte, so ungefährlich er auch heute schien. Manchmal sagte sich zwar K., daß er mit dieser Methode um nichts anderes als um seine Ehre kämpfe, denn Nutzen konnte es ihm eigentlich nicht bringen, wenn er sich in seiner Schwäche immer wieder dem Direktor-Stellvertreter entgegenstellte, sein Machtgefühl stärkte und ihm die Möglichkeit gab Beobachtungen zu machen und seine Maßnahmen genau nach den augenblicklichen Verhältnissen zu treffen. Aber K. hätte sein Verhalten gar nicht ändern können, er unterlag Selbsttäuschungen, er glaubte manchmal mit Bestimmtheit er dürfe sich gerade jetzt unbesorgt mit dem Direktor-Stellvertreter messen, die unglückseligsten Erfahrungen belehrten ihn nicht, was ihm bei zehn Versuchen nicht gelungen war, glaubte er mit dem elften durchsetzen zu können trotzdem alles immer ganz einförmig zu seinen Ungunsten abgelaufen war. Wenn er nach einer solchen Zusammenkunft erschöpft, in Schweiß, mit leerem Kopf zurückblieb, wußte er nicht, ob es Hoffnung oder Verzweiflung gewesen war, die ihn an den Direktor-Stellvertreter gedrängt hatte, ein nächstes Mal war es aber wieder vollständig eindeutig nur Hoffnung, mit der er zu der Türe des Direktor-Stellvertreters eilte.

Reise August/September 1911

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 20:41:56 +0000

Abfahrt 26. VIII 11 Mittag

die schlechte Idee: Gleichzeitige Beschreibung der Reise und der innerlichen Stellungnahme zu einander die Reise betreffend. Ihre Unmöglichkeit durch einen vorüberfahrenden Wagen mit Bäuerinnen erwiesen. Die heroische Bäuerin (delphische Sibylle). Einer lachenden schläft im Schooß eine, die aufwachend winkt. Durch die Beschreibung von Maxens Gruß wäre falsche Feindschaft in die Beschreibung gekommen.

Ein Mädchen, die spätere Alice Rehberger, steigt in Pilsen ein. Der während der Fahrt bestellte Kaffee wird für den Restaurateur durch grüne kleine Zettel, die an die Fenster geklebt werden angezeigt. Man muß ihn aber mit Zettel nicht nehmen und bekommt ihn auch ohne. Zuerst kann ich sie nicht sehn weil sie neben mir sitzt. Erste gemeinschaftliche Tatsache: Ihr eingepackter Hut fliegt auf Max hinunter. So kommen Hüte schwer durch die Waggontüren herein und leicht durch die großen Fenster wieder heraus. – Max zerstört wahrscheinlich die Möglichkeit einer spätern Beschreibung, indem er als Ehemann um der Erscheinung die Gefährlichkeit zu nehmen, etwas sagen muß, dabei das Wichtige ausläßt, das Lehrhafte hervorhebt und ein wenig verhäßlicht. – “tadellos, herausfeuern 0 Koma 5 Beschleunigung, prompt”, Nesthäkchen im Bureau, Ansichten über Militär, Witze im Bureau (Verwechseln der Hüte im Bureau, Annageln der Kipfel), unser Witz mit der Karte, die sie in München schreiben, die wir von Zürüch an ihr Bureau schicken werden und in der es heißt: “Das Vorausgesagte ist leider eingetroffen .. falscher Zug .. jetzt in Zürich .. 2 Tage vom Ausflug verloren. " Ihre Freude. Sie erwartet aber von uns als Ehrenmännern, daß wir nichts zuschreiben. Automobil in München. Regen, rasche Fahrt (20 Min.) Kellerwohnungperspektive, Führer ruft die Namen der unsichtbaren Sehenswürdigkeiten aus, die Pneumatiks rauschen auf dem nassen Asphalt wie der Apparat im Kinematographen, das deutlichste: die unverhängten Fenster “der vier Jahreszeiten”, die Spiegelung der Lampen im Asphalt wie im Fluß

"… noch nicht hier" (II, 28)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 15:38:01 +0000

(Fortsetzung des vorigen Textträgers)

noch nicht hier und der Fremde hatte es deshalb verhältnismäßig leicht zu kommandieren. Je denfalls saß er nun dem Hungerkünstler so nahe als es überhaupt möglich war und hatte sogar die Keckheit, welche selbst die Saaldiener wieder zu einem allerdings schon nach den ersten Schritten wieder aufgegebenen Vormarsch veranlaßte, aus dem Käfig sich einen Strohhalm zu langen und den Hungerkünstler, der überhaupt nicht völlig wach geworden zu sein schien und wieder schlummerte, ein wenig unter dem Kinn zu kitzeln. “Nun”, sagte er, “willst Du nicht ein wenig aufwachen wenn Besuch da ist?” Das war ein recht rohes Benehmen, wenn man auch dem Mann die freilich vergeblich bleibende Anstrengung ansah, den Hungerkünstler zart, gewissermaßen väterlich oder freundschaftlich zu behandeln. Besonders deutlich war dies, als er jetzt dem nun völlig erwachten und ihn mit seinen großen schwarzen Augen ängstlich ansehenden Hungerkünstler lächelnd zunickte. “Ja”, sagte er, “ich bin es, der alte, Dir und vielleicht nur Dir allein wohlgesinnte Menschenfresser. Einen kleinen Besuch will ich Dir machen, mich erholen an Deinem Anblick, die Nerven ein wenig ausruhn lassen von dem lästigen Volk.” “Du bist ein Menschenfresser?” fragte der Hungerkünstler und drückte die Hand an die Stirn als suche er sich an etwas zu erinnern. “Du hast mich vergessen?” sagte der Menschenfresser, ein wenig gekränkt und noch mehr verwundert als gekränkt, “ist es denn möglich? Du weißt nicht mehr wie wir mit einander spielten? Wie Dich meine roten Haare freuten? Wie Du sie zu Zöpfchen geflochten und gebunden hast? Ähnlich wie diese?” Und er nahm den Hut ab und das Haar quoll wie lebendig, wie in einer tropischen Fülle, zum Teil geflochten, zum Teil in seiner wilden Ursprünglichkeit hervor. Sein Kopf war mächtig, aber die Haarmasse war so groß als gehöre sie einem noch viel mächtigeren Kopf an, der Kopf erschien klein unter ihr. Dabei aber hatte der Anblick nichts Lächerliches, sondern war erschreckend, es war als zeige dies übermenschliche Haar auch übermenschliche Gelüste an und die Kräfte, sie zu verwirklichen.

"Ein junger ehrgeiziger Student" (1914-1915)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:56:11 +0000

Ein junger ehrgeiziger Student, der sich für den Fall der Pferde von Elberfeld sehr interessiert und alles was über diesen Gegenstand im Druck erschienen war genau gelesen und überdacht hatte, entschloß sich auf eigene Faust Versuche in dieser Richtung anzustellen und die Sache von vornherein ganz anders und nach seiner Meinung unvergleichlich richtiger anzufassen als seine Vorgänger. Seine Geldmittel allerdings waren an sich unzureichend, um ihm Versuche im großen Ausmaße zu ermöglichen, und wenn das erste Pferd, das er für seine Versuche ankaufen wollte, sich als starrköpfig erweisen würde, was selbst bei angestrengtester Arbeit erst nach Wochen festgestellt werden kann, so hätte er für längere Zeit keine Aussicht gehabt, mit neuen Versuchen zu beginnen. Doch war er dadurch nicht übermäßig geängstigt, weil nach seiner Methode wahrscheinlich jede Starrköpfigkeit überwunden werden konnte. Jedenfalls gieng er seiner vorsichtigen Natur entsprechend schon bei der Berechnung des Aufwandes, der ihm erwachsen würde, und der Mittel die er aufbringen könnte, ganz planmäßig vor. Den Betrag, den er während des Studiums zum knappen Lebensunterhalt benötigte, hatten ihm bisher seine Eltern, arme Geschäftsleute in der Provinz, regelmäßig jeden Monat geschickt, auf diese Unterstützung gedachte er auch weiterhin nicht zu verzichten, trotzdem er natürlich sein Studium, welches die Eltern von der Ferne mit großen Hoffnungen verfolgten, unbedingt aufgeben mußte, wenn er auf dem neuen Gebiet, das er jetzt betreten würde, die erwarteten großen Erfolge erzielen wollte. Daran daß die Eltern für diese Arbeiten Verständnis haben oder ihn etwa gar darin fördern würden, war nicht zu denken, er mußte ihnen also seine Absichten, so peinlich ihm das war, verschweigen und sie in dem Glauben erhalten, daß er in seinem bisherigen Studium regelmäßig fortschreite. Diese Täuschung seiner Eltern war nur eines der Opfer, die er sich zum Nutzen der Sache auferlegen wollte. Zur Deckung der voraussichtlich großen Kosten, welche für seine Arbeiten erforderlich sein würden, konnte der Beitrag der Eltern nicht genügen. Der Student wollte daher von nun ab den größten Teil des Tages, der bisher seinem Studium gedient hatte, zur Erteilung von privaten Unterrichtsstunden verwenden. Der größte Teil der Nacht aber sollte der eigentlichen Arbeit dienen. Nicht nur weil er durch seine ungünstigen äußern Verhältnisse dazu gezwungen war, wählte der Student die Nachtzeit für den Unterricht des Pferdes aus, auch die neuen Grundsätze, die er in den Unterricht der Pferde einführen wollte, verwiesen ihn auf die Nacht aus verschiedenen Gründen. Auch die kürzeste Ablenkung der Aufmerksamkeit des Pferdes bedeutete seiner Meinung nach für den Unterricht einen unheilbaren Schaden, davor war er in der Nacht möglichst sicher. Die Reizbarkeit, von der Mensch und Tier, wenn sie in der Nacht wachen und arbeiten, ergriffen werden, war in seinem Plan ausdrücklich verlangt. Er fürchtete nicht wie andere Sachverständige die Wildheit des Pferdes, er forderte sie vielmehr, ja er wollte sie erzeugen, zwar nicht durch die Peitsche aber durch das Reizmittel seiner unablässigen Anwesenheit und des unablässigen Unterrichts. Er behauptete im richtigen Unterricht der Pferde dürfe es keine einzelnen Fortschritte geben, einzelne Fortschritte, deren sich in der letzten Zeit verschiedene Pferdeliebhaber so übermäßig rühmten, seien nichts anderes als entweder Erzeugnisse der Einbildung der Erzieher oder aber, was noch schlimmer sei, das deutlichste Zeichen daß es zu einem allgemeinen Fortschritt niemals kommen werde. Er selbst wollte sich vor nichts anderem so hüten als vor der Erzielung einzelner Fortschritte, die Genügsamkeit seiner Vorgänger die mit dem Gelingen kleiner Rechenkunststücke schon etwas erreicht zu haben glaubten, erschien ihm unbegreiflich, es war so als wenn man in der Kindererziehung damit einsetzen wollte, daß man dem Kind, gleichgültig ob es gegen die ganze Menschenwelt blind, taub und gefühllos war, nichts anderes als das kleine Einmaleins einbläute. Das war alles so töricht und die Fehler der andern Pferdeerzieher erschienen ihm manchmal so abschreckend grell, daß er dann sogar Verdacht gegen sich selbst faßte, denn es war ja fast unmöglich, daß ein Einzelner, überdies ein unerfahrener Einzelner, den nur eine unüberprüfte aber allerdings tiefe und geradezu wilde Überzeugung vorwärtstrieb, gegenüber allen Kennern Recht behalten sollte.

Erstes Kapitel des Buches "Richard und Samuel"

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:56:25 +0000

von Max Brod und Franz Kafka

Unter dem Titel “Richard und Samuel – Eine kleine Reise durch mitteleuropäische Gegenden”, wird ein Bändchen die parallelen Reisetagebücher zweier Freunde verschiedenartigen Charakters enthalten.

Samuel ist ein weltläufiger junger Mann, der mit vielem Ernst sich Kenntnisse im großen Stil und ein richtiges Urteil über alle Gegenstände des Lebens und der Kunst zu bilden bestrebt ist, ohne doch jemals nüchtern oder gar pedantisch zu werden. Richard hat keinen bestimmten Interessekreis, läßt sich von rätselhaften Gefühlen, noch mehr von seiner Schwäche treiben, zeigt aber in seinem engen und zufälligen Kreise so viel Intensität und naive Selbstständigkeit, daß er nie zu schrullenhafter Komik ausartet. Dem Berufe nach ist Samuel Sekretär eines Kunstvereines, Richard Bankbeamter. Richard hat Vermögen, arbeitet nur, weil er sich nicht für fähig hält, freie Tage zu ertragen; Samuel muß von seiner (überdies erfolgreichen und sehr geschätzten) Arbeit leben.

15. Bei Amalia

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:44:03 +0000

Endlich – es war schon dunkel, später Nachmittag – hatte K. den Gartenweg freigelegt, den Schnee zu beiden Seiten des Weges hochgeschichtet und festgeschlagen und war nun mit der Arbeit des Tages fertig. Er stand am Gartentor, im weiten Umkreis allein. Den Gehilfen hatte er vor Stunden schon vertrieben, eine große Strecke gejagt, dann hatte sich der Gehilfe irgendwo zwischen Gärtchen und Hütten versteckt, war nicht mehr aufzufinden gewesen und auch seitdem nicht wieder hervorgekommen. Frieda war zuhause und wusch entweder schon die Wäsche oder noch immer Gisas Katze; es war ein Zeichen großen Vertrauens seitens Gisas gewesen, daß sie Frieda diese Arbeit übergeben hatte, eine allerdings unappetitliche und unpassende Arbeit, deren Übernahme K. gewiß nicht geduldet hätte, wenn es nicht sehr ratsam gewesen wäre, nach den verschiedenen Dienstversäumnissen jede Gelegenheit zu benützen, durch die man sich Gisa verpflichten konnte. Gisa hatte wohlgefällig zugesehn, wie K. die kleine Kinderwanne vom Dachboden gebracht hatte, wie Wasser gewärmt wurde und wie man schließlich vorsichtig die Katze in die Wanne hob. Dann hatte Gisa die Katze sogar völlig Frieda überlassen, denn Schwarzer, K.’s Bekannter vom ersten Abend war gekommen, hatte K. mit einer Mischung von Scheu, zu welcher an jenem Abend der Grund gelegt worden war, und unmäßiger Verachtung, wie sie einem Schuldiener gebürte, begrüßt und hatte sich dann mit Gisa in das andere Schulzimmer begeben. Dort waren die zwei noch immer. Wie man im Brückenhof K. erzählt hatte, lebte Schwarzer, der doch ein Kastellanssohn war, aus Liebe zu Gisa schon lange im Dorfe, hatte es durch seine Verbindungen erreicht, daß er von der Gemeinde zum Hilfslehrer ernannt worden war, übte aber dieses Amt hauptsächlich in der Weise aus, daß er fast keine Unterrichtsstunde Gisas versäumte, entweder in der Schulbank zwischen den Kindern saß oder, lieber, am Podium zu Gisas Füßen. Es störte gar nicht mehr, die Kinder hatten sich schon längst daran gewöhnt und dies vielleicht um so leichter, als Schwarzer weder Zuneigung noch Verständnis für Kinder hatte, kaum mit ihnen sprach, nur den Turnunterricht von Gisa übernommen hatte und im übrigen damit zufrieden war in der Nähe, in der Luft, in der Wärme Gisas zu leben. Sein größtes Vergnügen war es neben Gisa zu sitzen und mit ihr Schulhefte zu korrigieren. Auch heute waren sie damit beschäftigt, Schwarzer hatte einen großen Stoß Hefte gebracht, der Lehrer gab ihnen immer auch die seinen, und solange es noch hell gewesen war, hatte K. die zwei an einem Tischchen beim Fenster arbeiten gesehn, Kopf an Kopf, unbeweglich, jetzt sah man dort nur zwei Kerzen flackern. Es war eine ernste schweigsame Liebe, welche die zwei verband, den Ton gab eben Gisa an, deren schwerfälliges Wesen zwar manchmal, wild geworden, alle Grenzen durchbrach, die aber etwas Ähnliches bei andern zu anderer Zeit niemals geduldet hätte, so mußte sich auch der lebhafte Schwarzer fügen, langsam gehn, langsam sprechen, viel schweigen, aber er wurde für alles, das sah man, reichlich belohnt durch Gisas einfache stille Gegenwart. Dabei liebte ihn Gisa vielleicht gar nicht, jedenfalls gaben ihre runden grauen, förmlich niemals blinzelnden, eher in den Pupillen scheinbar sich drehenden Augen auf solche Fragen keine Antwort, nur daß sie Schwarzer ohne Widerspruch duldete sah man, aber die Ehrung von einem Kastellanssohn geliebt zu werden, verstand sie gewiß nicht zu würdigen und ihren vollen üppigen Körper trug sie unverändert ruhig dahin, ob Schwarzer ihr mit den Blicken folgte oder nicht. Schwarzer dagegen brachte ihr das ständige Opfer, daß er im Dorfe blieb; Boten des Vaters, die ihn öfters abholen kamen, fertigte er so empört ab, als sei schon die kurze von ihnen verursachte Erinnerung an das Schloß und an seine Sohnespflicht, eine empfindliche, nicht zu ersetzende Störung seines Glückes. Und doch hatte er eigentlich reichlich freie Zeit, denn Gisa zeigte sich ihm im allgemeinen nur während der Unterrichtsstunden und beim Heftekorrigieren, dies freilich nicht aus Berechnung, sondern weil sie die Bequemlichkeit und deshalb das Alleinsein über alles liebte und wahrscheinlich am glücklichsten war, wenn sie sich zuhause in völliger Freiheit auf dem Kanapee ausstrecken konnte, neben sich die Katze, die nicht störte, weil sie sich ja kaum mehr bewegen konnte. So trieb sich Schwarzer einen großen Teil des Tages beschäftigungslos herum, aber auch dies war ihm lieb, denn immer hatte er dabei die Möglichkeit, die er auch sehr oft ausnützte, in die Löwengasse zu gehn wo Gisa wohnte, zu ihrem Dachzimmerchen hinaufzusteigen, an der immer versperrten Tür zu horchen und dann allerdings wieder wegzugehn, nachdem er im Zimmer ausnahmslos die vollkommenste unbegreifliche Stille festgestellt hatte. Immerhin zeigten sich doch auch bei ihm die Folgen dieser Lebensweise manchmal, aber niemals in Gisas Gegenwart, in lächerlichen Ausbrüchen auf Augenblicke wiedererwachten amtlichen Hochmuts, der freilich gerade zu seiner gegenwärtigen Stellung genug schlecht paßte; es ging dann allerdings meistens nicht sehr gut aus, wie es ja auch K. erlebt hatte.

Das Haus

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:51:37 +0000

Ohne zunächst eine bestimmte Absicht damit zu verbinden, hatte K. bei verschiedenen Gelegenheiten in Erfahrung zu bringen gesucht, wo das Amt seinen Sitz habe, von welchem aus die erste Anzeige in seiner Sache erfolgt war. Er erfuhr es ohne Schwierigkeiten, sowohl Titorelli als auch Wolfhart nannten ihm auf die erste Frage hin die genaue Nummer des Hauses. Später vervollständigte Titorelli mit einem Lächeln, das er immer für geheime ihm nicht zur Begutachtung vorgelegte Pläne bereit hatte, die Auskunft dadurch, daß er behauptete, gerade dieses Amt habe nicht die geringste Bedeutung, es spreche nur aus, was ihm aufgetragen werde und sei nur das äußerste Organ der großen Anklagebehörde selbst, die allerdings für Parteien unzugänglich sei. Wenn man also etwas von der Anklagebehörde wünsche – es gäbe natürlich immer viele Wünsche, aber es sei nicht immer klug, sie auszusprechen – dann müsse man sich allerdings an das genannte untergeordnete Amt wenden, doch werde man dadurch weder selbst zur eigentlichen Anklagebehörde dringen, noch seinen Wunsch jemals dorthin leiten.

Reise Juni/Juli 1912

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 20:45:03 +0000

Reise Weimar-Jungborn vom 28 Juni 1912 – 29 Juli

Freitag 28. V (Juni 1912) Abfahrt Staatsbahn. Gut beisammen. Sokoln verzögern die Zugsabfahrt. Ausgezogen in ganzer Länge auf der Bank gelegen. Elbeufer. Schöne Lage der Orte und Villen, ähnlich den Seeufern. Dresden. Mengen der frischen Waren überall. Reinliche korrekte Bedienung. Ruhig gesetzte Worte. Massives Aussehn der Bauten infolge der Betontechnik, die doch z. B. in Amerika nicht so wirkt. Das sonst ruhige von Wirbelringen marmorierte Elbewasser. – Leipzig. Gespräch mit unserem Dienstmann. Max fragt ihn trotzdem er wie unser Großvater aussieht nach Mädchen. Opels Hotel. Der halbe neue Bahnhof. Schöne Ruine des alten. Gemeinsames Zimmer. Von 4 Uhr ab lebendig begraben, weil Max wegen des Lärms die Fenster zumachen muß. Großer Lärm. Dem Gehör nach zieht ein Wagen den andern hinter sich. Die Pferde wegen des Asphalts wie laufende Reitpferde anzuhören. Das sich entfernende durch seine Unterbrechungen Gassen und Plätze andeutende Läuten der Elektrischen. Abend in Leipzig. Maxens topographischer Instinkt, mein Verlorensein. Dagegen stelle ich, später vom Führer bestätigt, einen schönen Erker am Fürstenhaus fest. Nachtarbeit auf einem Bauplatz, wahrscheinlich auf der Stelle von Auerbachs Keller. Nicht zu beseitigende Unzufriedenheit mit Leipzig. Unentschlossenheit in den Bordellgäßchen. Mein Schuhbandbinden wird von der Gasse zum Fenster hin besprochen. Lockendes Cafe Oriental. “Taubenschlag” Bierstube. Der schwer bewegliche langbärtige Biervater. Seine Frau schenkt ein. Zwei große starke Töchter bedienen. Fächer in den Tischen. Lichtenhainer in Holzkrügen. Schandgeruch wenn man den Deckel öffnet. Ein schwächlicher Stammgast, rötliche magere Wangen, faltige Nase sitzt mit großer Gesellschaft, bleibt dann allein zurück, das Mädchen setzt sich mit ihrem Bierglas zu ihm. Das Bild des vor 12 Jahren verstorbenen Stammgastes, der 14 Jahre lang hergegangen ist. Er hebt das Glas, hinter ihm ein Gerippe. Viele stark verbundene Studenten in Leipzig. Viel Monokel. Kurzer Besuch in einem B. Ein Mädchen mit Brustschmuck nachtmahlt ein Rippchen. Unsere undeutliche Auskunft über den Grund unseres sofortigen Weggehns.

"Blumfeld ein älterer Junggeselle" (1915)

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:57:19 +0000

Blumfeld ein älterer Junggeselle stieg eines Abends zu seiner Wohnung hinauf, was eine mühselige Arbeit war, denn er wohnte im sechsten Stock. Während des Hinaufsteigens dachte er, wie öfters in der letzten Zeit daran, daß dieses vollständig einsame Leben recht lästig sei, daß er jetzt diese sechs Stockwerke förmlich im Geheimen hinaufsteigen müsse um oben in seinem leeren Zimmer anzukommen, dort wieder förmlich im Geheimen den Schlafrock anzuziehn, die Pfeife anzustecken, in der französischen Zeitschrift, die er schon seit Jahren abonniert hatte, ein wenig zu lesen, dazu an einem von ihm selbst bereiteten Kirschenschnaps zu nippen und schließlich nach einer halben Stunde zu Bett zu gehn, nicht, ohne vorher das Bettzeug vollständig umordnen zu müssen, das die jeder Belehrung unzugängliche Bedienerin immer nach ihrer Laune hinwarf. Irgend ein Begleiter, irgendein Zuschauer für diese Tätigkeiten wäre Blumfeld sehr willkommen gewesen. Er hatte schon überlegt, ob er sich nicht einen kleinen Hund anschaffen solle. Ein solches Tier ist lustig und vor allem dankbar und treu; ein Kollege von Blumfeld hat einen solchen Hund, er schließt sich niemandem an, außer seinem Herrn, und hat er ihn paar Augenblicke nicht gesehn, empfängt er ihn gleich mit großem Bellen, womit er offenbar seine Freude darüber ausdrücken will, seinen Herrn, diesen außerordentlichen Wohltäter wieder gefunden zu haben. Allerdings hat ein Hund auch Nachteile. Selbst wenn er noch so reinlich gehalten wird, verunreinigt er das Zimmer. Das ist gar nicht zu vermeiden, man kann ihn nicht jedesmal, ehe man ihn ins Zimmer hineinnimmt, in heißem Wasser baden, auch würde das seine Gesundheit nicht vertragen. Unreinlichkeit in seinem Zimmer aber verträgt wieder Blumfeld nicht, die Reinheit seines Zimmers ist ihm etwas Unentbehrliches, mehrmals in der Woche hat er mit der in diesem Punkte leider nicht sehr peinlichen Bedienerin Streit. Da sie schwerhörig ist, zieht er sie gewöhnlich am Arm zu jenen Stellen des Zimmers, wo er an der Reinlichkeit etwas auszusetzen hat. Durch diese Strenge hat er es erreicht, daß die Ordnung im Zimmer annähernd seinen Wünschen entspricht. Mit der Einführung eines Hundes würde er aber geradezu den bisher so sorgfältig abgewehrten Schmutz freiwillig in sein Zimmer leiten. Flöhe, die ständigen Begleiter der Hunde würden sich einstellen. Waren aber einmal Flöhe da, dann war auch der Augenblick nicht mehr fern, an dem Blumfeld sein behagliches Zimmer dem Hund überlassen und ein anderes Zimmer suchen würde. Unreinlichkeit war aber nur ein Nachteil der Hunde. Hunde werden auch krank und Hundekrankheiten versteht doch eigentlich niemand. Dann hockt dieses Tier in einem Winkel oder hinkt herum, winselt, hüstelt, würgt an irgendeinem Schmerz, man umwickelt es mit einer Decke, pfeift ihm etwas vor, schiebt ihm Milch hin, kurz pflegt es in der Hoffnung, daß es sich, wie dies ja auch möglich ist, um ein vorübergehendes Leiden handelt, indessen aber kann es eine ernsthafte widerliche und ansteckende Krankheit sein. Und selbst wenn der Hund gesund bleibt, so wird er doch später einmal alt, man hat sich nicht entschließen können das treue Tier rechtzeitig wegzugeben und es kommt dann die Zeit, wo einen das eigene Alter aus den tränenden Hundeaugen anschaut. Dann muß man sich aber mit dem halbblinden, lungenschwachen, vor Fett fast unbeweglichen Tier quälen und damit die Freuden, die der Hund früher gemacht hat, teuer bezahlen. So gern Blumfeld einen Hund jetzt hätte, so will er doch lieber noch dreißig Jahre allein die Treppe hinaufsteigen, statt später von einem solchen alten Hund belästigt zu werden, der noch lauter seufzend als er selbst sich neben ihm von Stufe zu Stufe hinaufschleppt.

Großer Lärm

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:58:43 +0000

Ich sitze in meinem Zimmer im Hauptquartier des Lärms der ganzen Wohnung. Alle Türen höre ich schlagen, durch ihren Lärm bleiben mir nur die Schritte der zwischen ihnen Laufenden erspart, noch das Zuklappen der Herdtüre in der Küche höre ich. Der Vater durchbricht die Türen meines Zimmers und zieht im nachschleppenden Schlafrock durch, aus dem Ofen im Nebenzimmer wird die Asche gekratzt, Valli fragt, durch das Vorzimmer Wort für Wort rufend, ob des Vaters Hut schon geputzt ist, ein Zischen, das mir befreundet sein will, erhebt noch das Geschrei einer antwortenden Stimme. Die Wohnungstüre wird aufgeklinkt und lärmt, wie aus katarrhalischem Hals, öffnet sich dann weiterhin mit dem Singen einer Frauenstimme und schließt sich endlich mit einem dumpfen, männlichen Ruck, der sich am rücksichtslosesten anhört. Der Vater ist weg, jetzt beginnt der zartere, zerstreutere, hoffnungslosere Lärm, von den Stimmen der zwei Kanarienvögel angeführt. Schon früher dachte ich daran, bei den Kanarienvögeln fällt es mir von neuem ein, ob ich nicht die Türe bis zu einer kleinen Spalte öffnen, schlangengleich ins Nebenzimmer kriechen und so auf dem Boden meine Schwestern und ihr Fräulein um Ruhe bitten sollte.

16. («K. blieb...»)

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:45:09 +0000

K. blieb mit etwas erstauntem Gesicht zurück, Olga lachte über ihn, zog ihn zur Ofenbank, sie schien wirklich glücklich zu sein darüber, daß sie jetzt mit ihm allein hier sitzen konnte, aber es war ein friedliches Glück, von Eifersucht war es gewiß nicht getrübt. Und gerade dieses Fernsein von Eifersucht und daher auch von jeglicher Strenge tat K. wohl, gern sah er in diese blauen, nicht lockenden, nicht herrischen, sondern schüchtern ruhenden, schüchtern standhaltenden Augen. Es war als hätten ihn für alles dieses hier die Warnungen Friedas und der Wirtin nicht empfänglicher, aber aufmerksamer und findiger gemacht. Und er lachte mit Olga, als diese sich wunderte, warum er gerade Amalia gutmütig genannt habe, Amalia sei mancherlei, nur gutmütig sei sie eigentlich nicht. Worauf K. erklärte, das Lob habe natürlich ihr, Olga gegolten, aber Amalia sei so herrisch, daß sie sich nicht nur alles aneigne, was in ihrer Gegenwart gesprochen werde, sondern daß man ihr auch freiwillig alles zuteile. “Das ist wahr”, sagte Olga ernster werdend, “wahrer als Du glaubst. Amalia ist jünger als ich, jünger auch als Barnabas, aber sie ist es, die in der Familie entscheidet, im Guten und im Bösen, freilich, sie trägt es auch mehr als alle, das Gute wie das Böse. " K. hielt das für übertrieben, eben hatte doch Amalia gesagt, daß sie sich um des Bruders Angelegenheiten z. B. nicht kümmere, Olga dagegen alles darüber wisse. “Wie soll ich es erklären? " sagte Olga, “Amalia kümmert sich weder um Barnabas noch um mich, sie kümmert sich eigentlich um niemanden außer um die Eltern, sie pflegt sie Tag und Nacht, jetzt hat sie wieder nach ihren Wünschen gefragt und ist in die Küche für sie kochen gegangen, hat sich ihretwegen überwunden, aufzustehn, denn sie ist schon unwohl seit Mittag und lag hier auf der Bank. Aber trotzdem sie sich nicht um uns kümmert, sind wir von ihr abhängig, so wie wenn sie die Älteste wäre, und wenn sie uns in unsern Dingen raten würde, würden wir ihr gewiß folgen, aber sie tut es nicht, wir sind ihr fremd. Du hast doch viel Menschenerfahrung, Du kommst aus der Fremde, scheint sie Dir nicht auch besonders klug?” “Besonders unglücklich scheint sie mir”, sagte K., “aber wie stimmt es mit Euerem Respekt vor ihr überein, daß z. B. Barnabas diese Botendienste tut, die Amalia mißbilligt, vielleicht sogar mißachtet.” “Wenn er wüßte, was er sonst tun sollte, er würde den Botendienst, der ihn gar nicht befriedigt, sofort verlassen.” “Ist er denn nicht ausgelernter Schuster” fragte K. “Gewiß”, sagte Olga, “er arbeitet ja auch nebenbei für Brunswick und hätte wenn er wollte Tag und Nacht Arbeit und reichlichen Verdienst.” “Nun also”, sagte K., “dann hätte er doch einen Ersatz für den Botendienst. " “Für den Botendienst? " fragte Olga erstaunt, “hat er ihn denn des Verdienens halber übernommen?” “Mag sein”, sagte K., “aber Du erwähntest doch, daß er ihn nicht befriedigt. " “Er befriedigt ihn nicht und aus verschiedenen Gründen”, sagte Olga, “aber es ist doch Schloßdienst, immerhin eine Art Schloßdienst, so sollte man wenigstens glauben. " “Wie?” sagte K., “sogar darin seid Ihr im Zweifel?” “Nun”, sagte Olga, “eigentlich nicht, Barnabas geht in die Kanzleien, verkehrt mit den Dienern wie ihresgleichen, sieht von der Ferne auch einzelne Beamte, bekommt verhältnismäßig wichtige Briefe, ja sogar mündlich auszurichtende Botschaften anvertraut, das ist doch recht viel und wir könnten stolz darauf sein, wie viel er in so jungen Jahren schon erreicht hat. " K. nickte, an die Heimkehr dachte er jetzt nicht. “Er hat auch eine eigene Livree?” fragte er. “Du meinst die Jacke?” sagte Olga, “nein, die hat ihm Amalia gemacht, noch ehe er Bote war. Aber Du näherst Dich dem wunden Punkt. Er hätte schon längst, nicht eine Livree, die es im Schloß nicht gibt, aber einen Anzug vom Amt bekommen sollen, es ist ihm auch zugesichert worden, aber in dieser Hinsicht ist man im Schloß sehr langsam und das Schlimme ist daß man niemals weiß, was diese Langsamkeit bedeutet; sie kann bedeuten, daß die Sache im Amtsgang ist, sie kann aber auch bedeuten, daß der Amtsgang noch gar nicht begonnen hat, daß man also z. B. Barnabas immer noch erst erproben will, sie kann aber schließlich auch bedeuten, daß der Amtsgang schon beendet ist, man aus irgendwelchen Gründen die Zusicherung zurückgezogen hat und Barnabas den Anzug niemals bekommt. Genaueres kann man darüber nicht erfahren oder erst nach langer Zeit. Es ist hier die Redensart, vielleicht kennst Du sie: >amtliche Entscheidungen sind scheu wie junge Mädchen<. " “Das ist eine gute Beobachtung”, sagte K., er nahm es noch ernster als Olga, “eine gute Beobachtung, die Entscheidungen mögen noch andere Eigenschaften mit Mädchen gemeinsam haben.” “Vielleicht”, sagte Olga, “ich weiß freilich nicht wie Du es meinst. Vielleicht meinst Du es gar lobend. Aber was das Amtskleid betrifft, so ist dies eben eine der Sorgen des Barnabas und da wir die Sorgen gemeinsam haben, auch meine. Warum bekommt er kein Amtskleid, fragen wir uns vergebens. Nun ist aber diese ganze Sache nicht einfach. Die Beamten z. B. scheinen überhaupt kein Amtskleid zu haben; so viel wir hier wissen und soviel Barnabas erzählt, gehen die Beamten in gewöhnlichen, allerdings schönen Kleidern herum. Übrigens hast Du ja Klamm gesehn. Nun ein Beamter, auch ein Beamter niedrigster Kategorie ist natürlich Barnabas nicht und versteigt sich nicht dazu es sein zu wollen. Aber auch höhere Diener, die man hier im Dorf freilich überhaupt nicht zu sehen bekommt, haben nach des Barnabas Bericht keine Amtsanzüge; das ist ein gewisser Trost, könnte man von vorherein meinen, aber er ist trügerisch, denn ist Barnabas ein höherer Diener? Nein, wenn man ihm noch so sehr geneigt ist, das kann man nicht sagen, ein höherer Diener ist er nicht, schon daß er ins Dorf kommt, ja sogar hier wohnt, ist ein Gegenbeweis, die höheren Diener sind noch zurückhaltender als die Beamten, vielleicht mit Recht, vielleicht sind sie sogar höher als manche Beamte, einiges spricht dafür, sie arbeiten weniger und es soll nach Barnabas ein wunderbarer Anblick sein, diese auserlesen großen starken Männer langsam durch die Korridore gehn zu sehn, Barnabas schleicht an ihnen immer herum. Kurz, es kann keine Rede davon sein, daß Barnabas ein höherer Diener ist. Also könnte er einer der niedrigen Dienerschaft sein, aber diese haben eben Amtsanzüge, wenigstens soweit sie ins Dorf herunterkommen, er ist keine eigentliche Livree, es gibt auch viele Verschiedenheiten, aber immerhin erkennt man sofort an den Kleidern den Diener aus dem Schloß, Du hast ja solche Leute im Herrenhof gesehn. Das Auffallendste an den Kleidern ist daß sie meistens eng anliegen, ein Bauer oder ein Handwerker könnte ein solches Kleid nicht brauchen. Nun, dieses Kleid hat also Barnabas nicht, das ist nicht nur etwa beschämend oder entwürdigend, das könnte man ertragen, aber es läßt – besonders in trüben Stunden und manchmal, nicht zu selten, haben wir solche, Barnabas und ich – an allem zweifeln. Ist es überhaupt Schloßdienst, was Barnabas tut, fragen wir dann; gewiß er geht in die Kanzleien, aber sind die Kanzleien das eigentliche Schloß? Und selbst wenn Kanzleien zum Schloß gehören, sind es die Kanzleien, welche Barnabas betreten darf? Er kommt in Kanzleien, aber es ist doch nur ein Teil aller, dann sind Barrieren und hinter ihnen sind noch andere Kanzleien. Man verbietet ihm nicht geradezu weiterzugehn, aber er kann doch nicht weitergehn, wenn er seine Vorgesetzten schon gefunden hat, sie ihn abgefertigt haben und wegschicken. Man ist dort überdies immer beobachtet, wenigstens glaubt man es. Und selbst wenn er weiterginge, was würde es helfen, wenn er dort keine amtliche Arbeit hat und ein Eindringling wäre. Diese Barrieren darfst Du Dir auch nicht als eine bestimmte Grenze vorstellen, darauf macht mich auch Barnabas immer wieder aufmerksam. Barrieren sind auch in den Kanzleien, in die er geht, es gibt also auch Barrieren die er passiert und sie sehn nicht anders aus, als die, über die er noch nicht hinweggekommen ist und es ist auch deshalb nicht von vornherein anzunehmen, daß sich hinter diesen letzteren Barrieren wesentlich andere Kanzleien befinden, als jene in denen Barnabas schon war. Nur eben in jenen trüben Stunden glaubt man das. Und dann geht der Zweifel weiter, man kann sich gar nicht wehren. Barnabas spricht mit Beamten, Barnabas bekommt Botschaften. Aber was für Beamte, was für Botschaften sind es. Jetzt ist er, wie er sagt, Klamm zugeteilt und bekommt von ihm persönlich die Aufträge. Nun, das wäre doch sehr viel, selbst höhere Diener gelangen nicht so weit, es wäre fast zu viel, das ist das Beängstigende. Denk nur, unmittelbar Klamm zugeteilt sein, mit ihm von Mund zu Mund sprechen. Aber es ist doch so? Nun ja, es ist so, aber warum zweifelt dann Barnabas daran daß der Beamte, der dort als Klamm bezeichnet wird, wirklich Klamm ist?” “Olga”, sagte K., “Du willst doch nicht scherzen; wie kann über Klamms Aussehen ein Zweifel bestehn, es ist doch bekannt wie er aussieht, ich selbst habe ihn gesehn. " “Gewiß nicht, K. “, sagte Olga, “Scherze sind es nicht, sondern meine allerernstesten Sorgen. Doch erzähle ich es Dir auch nicht, um mein Herz zu erleichtern und Deines etwa zu beschweren, sondern weil Du nach Barnabas fragtest, Amalia mir den Auftrag gab zu erzählen, und weil ich glaube daß es auch für Dich nützlich ist, genaueres zu wissen. Auch wegen Barnabas tue ich es, damit Du nicht allzugroße Hoffnungen auf ihn setzest, er Dich nicht enttäuscht und dann selbst unter Deiner Enttäuschung leidet. Er ist sehr empfindlich, er hat z. B. heute nacht nicht geschlafen, weil Du gestern abend mit ihm unzufrieden warst, Du sollst gesagt haben, daß es sehr schlimm für Dich ist, daß Du >nur einen solchen Boten< wie Barnabas hast. Diese Worte haben ihn um den Schlaf gebracht, Du selbst wirst wohl von seiner Aufregung nicht viel bemerkt haben, Schloßboten müssen sich sehr beherrschen. Aber er hat es nicht leicht, selbst mit Dir nicht. Du verlangst ja in Deinem Sinn gewiß nicht zu viel von ihm, Du hast bestimmte Vorstellungen vom Botendienst mitgebracht und nach ihnen bemißt Du Deine Anforderungen. Aber im Schloß hat man andere Vorstellungen vom Botendienst, sie lassen sich mit Deinen nicht vereinen, selbst wenn sich Barnabas gänzlich dem Dienst opfern würde, wozu er leider manchmal bereit scheint. Man müßte sich ja fügen, dürfte nichts dagegen sagen, wäre nur nicht die Frage, ob es wirklich Botendienst ist was er tut. Dir gegenüber darf er natürlich keinen Zweifel darüber aussprechen, es hieße für ihn seine eigene Existenz untergraben wenn er das täte, Gesetze grob verletzen, unter denen er ja noch zu stehen glaubt, und selbst mir gegenüber spricht er nicht frei, abschmeicheln, abküssen muß ich ihm seine Zweifel und selbst dann wehrt er sich noch zuzugeben, daß die Zweifel Zweifel sind. Er hat etwas von Amalia im Blut. Und alles sagt er mir gewiß nicht, trotzdem ich seine einzige Vertraute bin. Aber über Klamm sprechen wir manchmal, ich habe Klamm noch nicht gesehn, Du weißt, Frieda liebt mich wenig und hätte mir den Anblick nie gegönnt, aber natürlich ist sein Aussehn im Dorf gut bekannt, einzelne haben ihn gesehn, alle von ihm gehört und es hat sich aus dem Augenschein, aus Gerüchten und auch manchen fälschenden Nebenabsichten ein Bild Klamms ausgebildet, das wohl in den Grundzügen stimmt. Aber nur in den Grundzügen. Sonst ist es veränderlich und vielleicht nicht einmal so veränderlich wie Klamms wirkliches Aussehn. Er soll ganz anders aussehn, wenn er ins Dorf kommt und anders wenn er es verläßt, anders ehe er Bier getrunken hat, anders nachher, anders im Wachen, anders im Schlafen, anders allein, anders im Gespräch und, was hienach verständlich ist, fast grundverschieden oben im Schloß. Und es sind schon selbst innerhalb des Dorfes ziemlich große Unterschiede, die berichtet werden, Unterschiede der Größe, der Haltung, der Dicke, des Bartes, nur hinsichtlich des Kleides sind die Berichte glücklicherweise einheitlich, er trägt immer das gleiche Kleid, ein schwarzes Jackettkleid mit langen Schößen. Nun gehn natürlich alle diese Unterschiede auf keine Zauberei zurück, sondern sind sehr begreiflich, entstehen durch die augenblickliche Stimmung, den Grad der Aufregung, die unzähligen Abstufungen der Hoffnung oder Verzweiflung, in welcher sich der Zuschauer, der überdies meist nur augenblicksweise Klamm sehen darf, befindet, ich erzähle Dir das alles wieder, so wie es mir Barnabas oft erklärt hat und man kann sich im allgemeinen, wenn man nicht persönlich unmittelbar an der Sache beteiligt ist, damit beruhigen. Wir können es nicht, für Barnabas ist es eine Lebensfrage, ob er wirklich mit Klamm spricht oder nicht. " “Für mich nicht minder”, sagte K. und sie rückten noch näher zusammen auf der Ofenbank. Durch alle die ungünstigen Neuigkeiten Olgas war K. zwar betroffen, doch sah er einen Ausgleich zum großen Teile darin, daß er hier Menschen fand, denen es, wenigstens äußerlich, sehr ähnlich ging wie ihm selbst, denen er sich also anschließen konnte, mit denen er sich in vielem verständigen konnte, nicht nur in manchem wie mit Frieda. Zwar verlor er allmählich die Hoffnung auf einen Erfolg der Barnabas’schen Botschaft, aber je schlechter es Barnabas oben ging, desto näher kam er ihm hier unten, niemals hätte K. gedacht, daß aus dem Dorf selbst ein derart unglückliches Bestreben hervorgehen könnte, wie es das des Barnabas und seiner Schwester war. Es war freilich noch beiweitem nicht genug erklärt und konnte sich schließlich noch ins Gegenteil wenden, man mußte durch das gewiß unschuldige Wesen Olgas sich nicht gleich verführen lassen auch an die Aufrichtigkeit des Barnabas zu glauben. “Die Berichte über Klamms Aussehn”, fuhr Olga fort, “kennt Barnabas sehr gut, hat viele gesammelt und verglichen, vielleicht zu viele, hat einmal selbst Klamm im Dorf durch ein Wagenfenster gesehn oder zu sehn geglaubt, war also genügend vorbereitet, ihn zu erkennen und hat doch – wie erklärst Du es Dir? – als er im Schloß in eine Kanzlei kam und man ihm unter mehreren Beamten einen zeigte und sagte, daß dieser Klamm sei, ihn nicht erkannt und auch nachher noch lange sich nicht daran gewöhnen können, daß es Klamm sein sollte. Fragst Du nun aber Barnabas, worin sich jener Mann von der üblichen Vorstellung die man von Klamm hat unterscheidet, kann er nicht antworten, vielmehr er antwortet und beschreibt den Beamten im Schloß, aber diese Beschreibung deckt sich genau mit der Beschreibung Klamms, wie wir sie kennen. >Nun also Barnabas<, sage ich, >warum zweifelst Du, warum quälst Du Dich.< Worauf er dann in sichtlicher Bedrängnis, Besonderheiten des Beamten im Schloß aufzuzählen beginnt, die er aber mehr zu erfinden als zu berichten scheint, die aber außerdem so geringfügig sind – sie betreffen z. B. ein besonderes Nicken des Kopfes oder auch nur die aufgeknöpfte Weste – daß man sie unmöglich ernst nehmen kann. Noch wichtiger scheint mir die Art wie Klamm mit Barnabas verkehrt. Barnabas hat es mir oft beschrieben, sogar gezeichnet. Gewöhnlich wird Barnabas in ein großes Kanzleizimmer geführt, aber es ist nicht Klamms Kanzlei, überhaupt nicht die Kanzlei eines Einzelnen. Der Länge nach ist dieses Zimmer durch ein einziges, von Seitenwand zu Seitenwand reichendes Stehpult in zwei Teile geteilt, einen schmalen, wo einander zwei Personen nur knapp ausweichen können, das ist der Raum der Beamten, und einen breiten, das ist der Raum der Parteien, der Zuschauer, der Diener, der Boten. Auf dem Pult liegen aufgeschlagen große Bücher, eines neben dem andern und bei den meisten stehen Beamte und lesen darin. Doch bleiben sie nicht immer beim gleichen Buch, tauschen aber nicht die Bücher, sondern die Plätze, am erstaunlichsten ist es Barnabas, wie sie sich bei solchem Plätzewechsel an einander vorbeidrücken müssen, eben wegen der Enge des Raums. Vorn eng am Stehpult sind niedrige Tischchen, an denen Schreiber sitzen, welche, wenn die Beamten es wünschen, nach ihrem Diktat schreiben. Immer wundert sich Barnabas, wie das geschieht. Es erfolgt kein ausdrücklicher Befehl des Beamten, auch wird nicht laut diktiert, man merkt kaum daß diktiert wird, vielmehr scheint der Beamte zu lesen wie früher, nur daß er dabei auch noch flüstert und der Schreiber hörts. Oft diktiert der Beamte so leise, daß der Schreiber es sitzend gar nicht hören kann, dann muß er immer aufspringen, das Diktierte auffangen, schnell sich setzen und es aufschreiben, dann wieder aufspringen u. s. f. Wie merkwürdig das ist! Es ist fast unverständlich. Barnabas freilich hat genug Zeit das alles zu beobachten, denn dort in dem Zuschauerraum steht er stunden- und manchmal tagelang, ehe Klamms Blick auf ihn fällt. Und auch wenn ihn Klamm schon gesehen hat und Barnabas sich in Habtacht-Stellung aufrichtet, ist noch nichts entschieden, denn Klamm kann sich wieder von ihm dem Buch zuwenden und ihn vergessen, so geschieht es oft. Was ist es aber für ein Botendienst, der so unwichtig ist? Mir wird wehmütig, wenn Barnabas früh sagt, daß er ins Schloß geht. Dieser wahrscheinlich ganz unnütze Weg, dieser wahrscheinlich verlorene Tag, diese wahrscheinlich vergebliche Hoffnung. Was soll das alles? Und hier ist Schusterarbeit aufgehäuft, die niemand macht und auf deren Ausführung Brunswick drängt. " “Nun gut”, sagte K., “Barnabas muß lange warten, ehe er einen Auftrag bekommt. Das ist verständlich, es scheint hier ja ein Übermaß von Angestellten zu sein, nicht jeder kann jeden Tag einen Auftrag bekommen, darüber müßt Ihr nicht klagen, das trifft wohl jeden. Schließlich aber bekommt doch wohl auch Barnabas Aufträge, mir selbst hat er schon zwei Briefe gebracht.” “Es ist ja möglich”, sagte Olga, “daß wir Unrecht haben zu klagen, besonders ich, die alles nur vom Hörensagen kennt und es als Mädchen auch nicht so gut verstehen kann, wie Barnabas, der ja auch noch manches zurückhält. Aber nun höre wie es sich mit den Briefen verhält, mit den Briefen an Dich z. B. Diese Briefe bekommt er nicht unmittelbar von Klamm, sondern vom Schreiber. An einem beliebigen Tag, zu beliebiger Stunde – deshalb ist auch der Dienst, so leicht er scheint, sehr ermüdend, denn Barnabas muß immerfort aufpassen – erinnert sich der Schreiber an ihn und winkt ihm. Klamm scheint das gar nicht veranlaßt zu haben, er liest ruhig in seinem Buch, manchmal allerdings, aber das tut er auch sonst öfters, putzt er gerade den Zwicker, wenn Barnabas kommt, und sieht ihn dabei vielleicht an, vorausgesetzt daß er ohne Zwicker überhaupt sieht, Barnabas bezweifelt es, Klamm hat dann die Augen fast geschlossen, er scheint zu schlafen und nur im Traum den Zwicker zu putzen. Inzwischen sucht der Schreiber aus den vielen Akten und Briefschaften, die er unter dem Tisch hat, einen Brief für Dich heraus, es ist also kein Brief den er gerade geschrieben hat, vielmehr ist es dem Aussehen des Umschlags nach ein sehr alter Brief, der schon lange dort liegt. Wenn es aber ein alter Brief ist, warum hat man Barnabas so lange warten lassen?Und wohl auch Dich?. Und schließlich auch den Brief, denn er ist ja jetzt wohl schon veraltet. Und Barnabas bringt man dadurch in den Ruf, ein schlechter langsamer Bote zu sein. Der Schreiber allerdings macht es sich leicht, gibt Barnabas den Brief, sagt: >Von Klamm für K.< und damit ist Barnabas entlassen. Nun und dann kommt Barnabas nachhause, atemlos, den endlich ergatterten Brief unter dem Hemd am bloßen Leib und wir setzen uns dann hierher auf die Bank wie jetzt und er erzählt und wir untersuchen dann alles einzeln und schätzen ab, was er erreicht hat und finden schließlich, daß es sehr wenig ist und das wenige fragwürdig und Barnabas legt den Brief weg und hat keine Lust ihn zu bestellen, hat aber auch keine Lust schlafenzugehn, nimmt die Schusterarbeit vor und versitzt dort auf dem Schemel die Nacht. So ist es, K., und das sind meine Geheimnisse und nun wunderst Du Dich wohl nicht mehr, daß Amalia auf sie verzichtet.” “Und der Brief?” fragte K. “Der Brief?” sagte Olga, “nun nach einiger Zeit, wenn ich Barnabas genug gedrängt habe, es können Tage und Wochen inzwischen vergangen sein, nimmt er doch den Brief und geht ihn zustellen. In solchen Äußerlichkeiten ist er doch sehr abhängig von mir. Ich kann mich nämlich, wenn ich den ersten Eindruck seiner Erzählung überwunden habe, dann auch wieder fassen, was er, wahrscheinlich weil er eben mehr weiß, nicht imstande ist. Und so kann ich ihm dann immer wieder etwa sagen: >Was willst Du denn eigentlich Barnabas? Von was für einer Laufbahn, was für einem Ziele träumst Du? Willst Du vielleicht so weit kommen, daß Du uns, daß Du mich gänzlich verlassen mußt? Ist das etwa Dein Ziel? Muß ich das nicht glauben, da es ja sonst unverständlich wäre, warum Du mit dem schon Erreichten so entsetzlich unzufrieden bist? Sieh Dich doch um, ob jemand unter unsern Nachbarn schon so weit gekommen ist. Freilich ihre Lage ist anders als die unsrige und sie haben keinen Grund über ihre Wirtschaft hinauszustreben, aber auch ohne zu vergleichen muß man doch einsehn, daß bei Dir alles in bestem Gange ist. Hindernisse sind da, Fragwürdigkeiten, Enttäuschungen, aber das bedeutet doch nur, was wir schon vorher gewußt haben, daß Dir nichts geschenkt wird, daß Du Dir vielmehr jede einzelne Kleinigkeit selbst erkämpfen mußt, ein Grund mehr, um stolz, nicht um niedergeschlagen zu sein. Und dann kämpfst Du doch auch für uns? Bedeutet Dir das gar nichts? Gibt Dir das keine neue Kraft? Und daß ich glücklich und fast hochmütig bin, einen solchen Bruder zu haben, gibt Dir das keine Sicherheit? Wahrhaftig, nicht in dem, was Du im Schloß erreicht hast, aber in dem, was ich bei Dir erreicht habe, enttäuschest Du mich. Du darfst ins Schloß, bist ein ständiger Besucher der Kanzleien, verbringst ganze Tage im gleichen Raum mit Klamm, bist öffentlich anerkannter Bote, hast ein Amtskleid zu beanspruchen, bekommst wichtige Briefschaften auszutragen, das alles bist Du, das alles darfst Du und kommst herunter und statt daß wir uns weinend vor Glück in den Armen liegen, scheint Dich bei meinem Anblick aller Mut zu verlassen, an allem zweifelst Du, nur der Schusterleisten lockt Dich und den Brief, diese Bürgschaft unserer Zukunft läßt Du liegen. < So rede ich zu ihm und nachdem ich das tagelang wiederholt habe, nimmt er einmal seufzend den Brief und geht. Aber es ist wahrscheinlich gar nicht die Wirkung meiner Worte, sondern es treibt ihn nur wieder ins Schloß und ohne den Auftrag ausgerichtet zu haben, würde er es nicht wagen, hinzugehn. " “Aber Du hast doch auch mit allem recht, was Du ihm sagst”, sagte K., “bewunderungswürdig richtig hast Du alles zusammengefaßt. Wie erstaunlich klar Du denkst! " “Nein”, sagte Olga, “es täuscht Dich, und so täusche ich vielleicht auch ihn. Was hat er denn erreicht? In eine Kanzlei darf er eintreten, aber es scheint nicht einmal eine Kanzlei, eher ein Vorzimmer der Kanzleien, vielleicht nicht einmal das, vielleicht ein Zimmer, wo alle zurückgehalten werden sollen, die nicht in die wirklichen Kanzleien dürfen. Mit Klamm spricht er, aber ist es Klamm? Ist es nicht eher jemand, der Klamm nur ähnlich ist Ein Sekretär vielleicht, wenns hoch geht, der Klamm ein wenig ähnlich ist und sich anstrengt ihm noch ähnlicher zu werden und sich dann wichtig macht in Klamms verschlafener träumerischer Art. Dieser Teil seines Wesens ist am leichtesten nachzuahmen, daran versuchen sich manche, von seinem sonstigen Wesen freilich lassen sie wohlweislich die Finger. Und ein so oft ersehnter und so selten erreichter Mann wie es Klamm ist nimmt in der Vorstellung der Menschen leicht verschiedene Gestalten an. Klamm hat z. B. hier einen Dorfsekretär namens Momus. So? Du kennst ihn? Auch er hält sich sehr zurück, aber ich habe ihn doch schon einigemal gesehn. Ein junger starker Herr, nicht? Und sieht also wahrscheinlich Klamm gar nicht ähnlich. Und doch kannst Du im Dorf Leute finden, die beschwören würden daß Momus Klamm ist und kein anderer. So arbeiten die Leute an ihrer eigenen Verwirrung. Und muß es im Schloß anders sein? Jemand hat Barnabas gesagt, daß jener Beamte Klamm ist und tatsächlich besteht eine Ähnlichkeit zwischen beiden, aber eine von Barnabas immerfort angezweifelte Ähnlichkeit. Und alles spricht für seine Zweifel. Klamm sollte hier in einem allgemeinen Raum, zwischen andern Beamten, den Bleistift hinter dem Ohr, sich drängen müssen? Das ist doch höchst unwahrscheinlich. Barnabas pflegt, ein wenig kindlich, manchmal – dies ist aber schon eine zuversichtliche Laune – zu sagen: >Der Beamte sieht ja Klamm sehr ähnlich, würde er in einer eigenen Kanzlei sitzen, am eigenen Schreibtisch und wäre an der Tür sein Name – ich hätte keine Zweifel mehr. < Das ist kindlich, aber doch auch verständig. Noch viel verständiger allerdings wäre es, wenn Barnabas sich, wenn er oben ist, gleich bei mehreren Leuten erkundigen würde, wie sich die Dinge wirklich verhalten, es stehn doch seiner Angabe nach genug Leute in dem Zimmer herum. Und wären auch ihre Angaben nicht viel verläßlicher als die Angabe jenes, der ungefragt ihm Klamm gezeigt hat, es müßten sich doch zumindest aus ihrer Mannigfaltigkeit irgendwelche Anhaltspunkte, Vergleichspunkte ergeben. Es ist das nicht mein Einfall, sondern der Einfall des Barnabas, aber er wagt nicht, ihn auszuführen; aus Furcht er könnte durch irgendwelche ungewollte Verletzung unbekannter Vorschriften seine Stelle verlieren, wagt er niemanden anzusprechen; so unsicher fühlt er sich; diese doch eigentlich jämmerliche Unsicherheit beleuchtet mir seine Stellung schärfer als alle Beschreibungen. Wie zweifelhaft und drohend muß ihm dort alles erscheinen, wenn er nicht einmal zu einer unschuldigen Frage den Mund aufzutun wagt. Wenn ich das überlege, klage ich mich an, daß ich ihn allein in jenen unbekannten Räumen lasse, wo es derart zugeht, daß sogar er, der eher waghalsig als feig ist, dort vor Furcht wahrscheinlich zittert. "

Fahrt zur Mutter

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 17:52:24 +0000

Plötzlich beim Mittagessen fiel ihm ein er solle seine Mutter besuchen. Nun war schon das Frühjahr fast zu Ende und damit das dritte Jahr seitdem er sie nicht gesehen hatte. Sie hatte ihn damals gebeten an seinem Geburtstag zu ihr zu kommen, er hatte auch trotz mancher Hindernisse dieser Bitte entsprochen und hatte ihr sogar das Versprechen gegeben jeden Geburtstag bei ihr zu verbringen, ein Versprechen, das er nun allerdings schon zweimal nicht gehalten hatte. Dafür wollte er aber jetzt nicht erst bis zu seinem Geburtstag warten, obwohl dieser schon in vierzehn Tagen war, sondern sofort fahren. Er sagte sich zwar, daß kein besonderer Grund vorlag gerade jetzt zu fahren, im Gegenteil, die Nachrichten, die er regelmäßig alle zwei Monate von einem Vetter erhielt, der in jenem Städtchen ein Kaufmannsgeschäft besaß und das Geld, welches K. für seine Mutter schickte, verwaltete, waren beruhigender als jemals früher. Das Augenlicht der Mutter war zwar am Erlöschen, aber das hatte K. nach den Aussagen der Ärzte schon seit Jahren erwartet, dagegen war ihr sonstiges Befinden ein besseres geworden, verschiedene Beschwerden des Alters waren statt stärker zu werden zurückgegangen, wenigstens klagte sie weniger. Nach der Meinung des Vetters hieng dies vielleicht damit zusammen, daß sie seit den letzten Jahren – K. hatte schon bei seinem Besuch leichte Anzeichen dessen fast mit Widerwillen bemerkt – unmäßig fromm geworden war. Der Vetter hatte in einem Brief sehr anschaulich geschildert, wie die alte Frau, die sich früher nur mühselig fortgeschleppt hatte, jetzt an seinem Arm recht gut ausschritt, wenn er sie Sonntags zur Kirche führte. Und dem Vetter durfte K. glauben, denn er war gewöhnlich ängstlich und übertrieb in seinen Berichten eher das Schlechte als das Gute.

Reise September 1913

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 20:46:11 +0000

am 10. Sept. 1913

Zwischen den Säulen der Vorhalle des Parlamentes. Warte auf meinen Direktor. Großer Regen. Vor mir Athene Parthenos mit Goldhelm.

6./IX (1913) Fahrt nach Wien. Dummes Litteraturgeschwätz mit Pick. Ziemlicher Widerwillen. So (wie P.) hängt man an der Kugel der Litteratur und kann nicht los, weil man die Fingernägel hineingebohrt hat, im übrigen aber ist man ein freier Mann und zappelt mit den Beinen zum Erbarmen. Seine Nasenblaskunststücke. Er tyrannisiert mich, indem er behauptet, ich tyrannisiere ihn. – Der Beobachter in der Ecke. – Bahnhof Heiligenstadt, leer mit leeren Zügen. In der Ferne sucht ein Mann den plakatierten Fahrplan ab. (Jetzt sitze ich auf der Stufe der Herme eines Teophil Hansen) Gebeugt, im Mantel, das Gesicht vergeht gegen das gelbe Plakat gehalten. Vorbeifahren an einem kleinen Terassengasthaus. Gehobener Arm eines Gastes. Wien. Dumme Unsicherheiten, die ich schließlich alle respektiere. Hotel Matschakerhof. 2 Zimmer mit einem Zugang. Wähle das Vordere. Unerträgliche Wirtschaft. Muß mit P. noch auf die Gasse. Laufe angeblich zu sehr, laufe noch stärker. Windige Luft. Erkenne alles Vergessene wieder. Schlechter Schlaf. Voll Sorgen. Ein widerlicher Traum (Malek). (Die Frage des Tagebuches ist gleichzeitig die Frage des Ganzen, enthält alle Unmöglichkeiten des Ganzen. In der Eisenbahn überlegte ich es unter dem Gespräch mit P. Es ist unmöglich, alles zu sagen und es ist unmöglich, nicht alles zu sagen. Unmöglich die Freiheit zu bewahren, unmöglich sie nicht zu bewahren. Unmöglich das einzig mögliche Leben zu führen, nämlich beisammen leben, jeder frei, jeder für sich, weder äußerlich noch wirklich verheiratet sein, nur beisammen sein und damit den letzten möglichen Schritt über Männerfreundschaft hinaus getan haben, ganz knapp an die mir gesetzte Grenze, wo sich schon der Fuß aufrichtet. Aber auch das ist eben unmöglich. Letzte Woche fiel mir das einmal vormittag als Ausweg ein, ich wollte es nachmittag schreiben. Nachmittag bekam ich eine Biographie Grillparzers. Er hat das getan, gerade das. (Eben betrachtet ein Herr den Theophil Hansen, ich sitze wie seine Klio) Aber wie unerträglich, sündhaft, widerlich war dieses Leben und doch gerade noch so, wie ich es vielleicht unter größern Leiden, als er, denn ich bin viel schwächer in manchem, zustandebrächte. (Später noch darauf zurückkommen – Traum) Abend noch Lise Weltsch getroffen.

Aus Matlárháza

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 11:59:46 +0000

Aus Matlarhaza. In Matlarhaza ist gegenwärtig eine kleine Ausstellung von Tatra-Bildern von Anton Holub zu sehen, die lebhafte Aufmerksamkeit findet und verdient. Unter den Aquarellen scheinen uns jene aus abendlichen Stimmungen mit ihrem düsteren Ernst den Vorzug zu verdienen, während die Ansichten aus sonnigen Tagen bei aller Feinheit der Töne eine gewisse Erdenschwere noch nicht überwinden können. Vor allem aber gefallen die Federzeichnungen. Mit ihrem zarten Strich, ihrem perspektivischen Reiz, ihrer wohlbedachten bald holzschnittmäßigen, bald mehr der Radierung angenäherten Komposition sind es erstaunlich achtungswerte Leistungen. Gerade solche treue, dabei persönlich betonte Bilder sind mehr als alles andere imstande, den Blick für die Schönheit unserer Berge zu öffnen. Wir würden uns freuen, wenn von diesen Arbeiten bald eine größere und auch einem größeren Publikum zugängliche Ausstellung veranstaltet würde.

17. Amalias Geheimnis

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:45:45 +0000

“Urteile selbst”, sagte Olga, “übrigens klingt es sehr einfach, man versteht nicht gleich, wie es eine große Bedeutung haben kann. Es gibt einen Beamten im Schloß der heißt Sortini. " “Ich habe schon von ihm gehört”, sagte K., “er war an meiner Berufung beteiligt. " “Das glaube ich nicht”, sagte Olga, “Sortini tritt in der Öffentlichkeit kaum auf. Irrst Du Dich nicht mit Sordini, mit >d< geschrieben?” “Du hast recht”, sagte K., “Sordini war es. " “Ja”, sagte Olga, “Sordini ist sehr bekannt, einer der fleißigsten Beamten, von dem viel gesprochen wird, Sortini dagegen ist sehr zurückgezogen und den meisten fremd. Vor mehr als drei Jahren sah ich ihn zum ersten und letzten Mal. Es war am 3. Juli bei einem Fest des Feuerwehrvereins, das Schloß hatte sich auch beteiligt und eine neue Feuerspritze gespendet. Sortini, der sich zum Teil mit Feuerwehrangelegenheiten beschäftigen soll, vielleicht aber war er auch nur in Vertretung da – meistens vertreten sich die Beamten gegenseitig und es ist deshalb schwer die Zuständigkeit dieses oder jenes Beamten zu erkennen – nahm an der Übergabe der Spritze teil, es waren natürlich auch noch Andere aus dem Schloß gekommen, Beamte und Dienerschaft und Sortini war, wie es seinem Charakter entspricht, ganz im Hintergrunde. Es ist ein kleiner schwacher nachdenklicher Herr, etwas was allen die ihn überhaupt bemerkten auffiel, war die Art wie sich bei ihm die Stirn in Falten legte, alle Falten – und es war eine Menge, trotzdem er gewiß nicht mehr als vierzig ist – zogen sich nämlich geradewegs fächerartig über die Stirn zur Nasenwurzel hin, ich habe etwas derartiges nie gesehn. Nun das war also jenes Fest. Wir, Amalia und ich, hatten uns schon seit Wochen darauf gefreut, die Sonntagskleider waren zum Teil neu zurechtgemacht, besonders das Kleid Amalias war sehr schön, die weiße Bluse vorn hoch aufgebauscht, eine Spitzenreihe über der andern, die Mutter hatte alle ihre Spitzen dazu geborgt, ich war damals neidisch und weinte vor dem Fest die halbe Nacht durch. Erst als am Morgen die Brückenhofwirtin uns zu besichtigen kam – " “Die Brückenhofwirtin?” fragte K. “Ja”, sagte Olga, “sie war sehr mit uns befreundet, sie kam also, mußte zugeben, daß Amalia im Vorteil war und borgte mir deshalb, um mich zu beruhigen, ihr eigenes Halsband aus böhmischen Granaten. Als wir dann aber ausgehfertig waren, Amalia vor mir stand, wir sie alle bewunderten und der Vater sagte: >Heute, denkt an mich, bekommt Amalia einen Bräutigam<, da, ich weiß nicht warum, nahm ich mir das Halsband, meinen Stolz, ab und hing es Amalia um, gar nicht neidisch mehr. Ich beugte mich eben vor ihrem Sieg und ich glaubte, jeder müsse sich vor ihr beugen; vielleicht überraschte uns damals, daß sie anders aussah als sonst, denn eigentlich schön war sie ja nicht, aber ihr düsterer Blick, den sie in dieser Art seitdem behalten hat, ging hoch über uns hinweg und man beugte sich fast tatsächlich und unwillkürlich vor ihr. Alle bemerkten es, auch Lasemann und seine Frau, die uns abholen kamen.” “Lasemann?” fragte K. “Ja, Lasemann”, sagte Olga, “wir waren doch sehr angesehn und das Fest hätte z. B. nicht gut ohne uns anfangen können, denn der Vater war dritter Übungsleiter der Feuerwehr.” “So rüstig war der Vater noch?” fragte K. “Der Vater?” fragte Olga, als verstehe sie nicht ganz, “vor drei Jahren war er noch gewissermaßen ein junger Mann, er hat z. B. bei einem Brand im Herrenhof einen Beamten, den schweren Galater, im Laufschritt auf dem Rücken hinausgetragen. Ich bin selbst dabei gewesen, es war zwar keine Feuersgefahr, nur das trockene Holz neben einem Ofen fing zu rauchen an, aber Galater bekam Angst, rief aus dem Fenster um Hilfe, die Feuerwehr kam und mein Vater mußte ihn hinaustragen, trotzdem schon das Feuer gelöscht war. Nun, Galater ist ein schwer beweglicher Mann und muß in solchen Fällen vorsichtig sein. Ich erzähle es nur des Vaters wegen, viel mehr als drei Jahre sind seitdem nicht vergangen und nun sich wie er dort sitzt. " Erst jetzt sah K., daß Amalia schon wieder in der Stube war, aber sie war weit entfernt beim Tisch der Eltern, sie fütterte dort die Mutter, welche die rheumatischen Arme nicht bewegen konnte und sprach dabei dem Vater zu, er möge sich wegen des Essens noch ein wenig gedulden, gleich werde sie auch zu ihm kommen, um ihn zu füttern. Doch hatte sie mit ihrer Mahnung keinen Erfolg, denn der Vater, sehr gierig schon zu seiner Suppe zu kommen, überwand seine Körperschwäche und suchte die Suppe bald vom Löffel zu schlürfen, bald gleich vom Teller aufzutrinken und brummte böse, als ihm weder das eine noch das andere gelang, der Löffel längst leer war ehe er zum Munde kam und niemals der Mund, nur immer der herabhängende Schnauzbart in die Suppe tauchte und es nach allen Seiten, nur in seinen Mund nicht, tropfte und sprühte. “Das haben drei Jahre aus ihm gemacht?” fragte K., aber noch immer hatte er für die Alten und für die ganze Ecke des Familientisches dort kein Mitleid, nur Widerwillen. “Drei Jahre”, sagte Olga langsam, “oder genauer paar Stunden eines Festes. Das Fest war auf einer Wiese vor dem Dorf am Bach, es war schon ein großes Gedränge als wir ankamen, auch aus den Nachbardörfern war viel Volk gekommen, man war ganz verwirrt von dem Lärm. Zuerst wurden wir natürlich vom Vater zur Feuerspritze geführt, er lachte vor Freude als er sie sah, eine neue Spritze machte ihn glücklich, er fing an, sie zu betasten und uns zu erklären, er duldete keinen Widerspruch und keine Zurückhaltung der andern, war etwas unter der Spritze zu besichtigen, mußten wir uns alle bücken und fast unter die Spritze kriechen, Barnabas, der sich damals wehrte, bekam deshalb Prügel. Nur Amalia kümmerte sich um die Spritze nicht, stand aufrecht dabei in ihrem schönen Kleid und niemand wagte ihr etwas zu sagen, ich lief manchmal zu ihr und faßte ihren Arm unter, aber sie schwieg. Ich kann es mir noch heute nicht erklären, wie es kam, daß wir solange vor der Spritze standen und erst, als sich der Vater von ihr losmachte, Sortini bemerkten, der offenbar schon die ganze Zeit über hinter der Spritze an einem Spritzenhebel gelehnt hatte. Es war freilich ein entsetzlicher Lärm damals, nicht nur wie es sonst bei Festen ist; das Schloß hatte nämlich der Feuerwehr auch noch einige Trompeten geschenkt, besondere Instrumente, auf denen man mit der kleinsten Kraftanstrengung, ein Kind konnte das, die wildesten Töne hervorbringen konnte; wenn man das hörte, glaubte man, die Türken seien schon da und man konnte sich nicht daran gewöhnen, bei jedem neuen Blasen fuhr man wieder zusammen. Und weil es neue Trompeten waren, wollte sie jeder versuchen und weil es doch ein Volksfest war erlaubte man es. Gerade um uns, vielleicht hatte sie Amalia angelockt, waren einige solche Bläser, es war schwer die Sinne dabei zusammenzuhalten und wenn man nun auch noch nach dem Gebot des Vaters Aufmerksamkeit für die Spritze haben sollte, so war das das Äußerste was man leisten konnte und so entgieng uns Sortini, den wir ja vorher auch gar nicht gekannt hatten, so ungewöhnlich lange. >Dort ist Sortini<, flüsterte endlich, ich stand dabei, Lasemann dem Vater zu. Der Vater verbeugte sich tief und gab auch uns aufgeregt ein Zeichen uns zu verbeugen. Ohne ihn bisher zu kennen, hatte der Vater seit jeher Sortini als einen Fachmann in Feuerwehrangelegenheiten verehrt und öfters zuhause von ihm gesprochen, es war uns daher auch sehr überraschend und bedeutungsvoll jetzt Sortini in Wirklichkeit zu sehn. Sortini aber kümmerte sich um uns nicht, es war das keine Eigenheit Sortinis, die meisten Beamten scheinen in der Öffentlichkeit teilnahmslos, auch war er müde, nur seine Amtspflicht hielt ihn hier unten, es sind nicht die schlechtesten Beamten welche gerade solche Repräsentationspflichten als besonders drückend empfinden, andere Beamte und Diener mischten sich, da sie nun schon einmal da waren, unter das Volk, er aber blieb bei der Spritze und jeden der sich ihm mit irgendeiner Bitte oder Schmeichelei zu nähern suchte, vertrieb er durch sein Schweigen. So kam es, daß er uns noch später bemerkte, als wir ihn. Erst als wir uns ehrfurchtsvoll verbeugten und der Vater uns zu entschuldigen suchte, blickte er nach uns hin, blickte der Reihe nach von einem zum andern, müde, es war als seufze er darüber, daß neben dem einen immer wieder noch ein zweiter sei, bis er dann bei Amalia haltmachte, zu der er aufschauen mußte, denn sie war viel größer als er. Da stutzte er, sprang über die Deichsel, um Amalia näher zu sein, wir mißverstanden es zuerst und wollten uns alle unter Anführung des Vaters ihm nähern, aber er hielt uns ab mit erhobener Hand und winkte uns dann zu gehn. Das war alles. Wir neckten dann Amalia viel damit, daß sie nun wirklich einen Bräutigam gefunden habe, in unserem Unverstand waren wir den ganzen Nachmittag über sehr fröhlich, Amalia aber war schweigsamer als jemals, >sie hat sich ja toll und voll in Sortini verliebt<, sagte Brunswick, der immer etwas grob ist und für Naturen wie Amalia kein Verständnis hat, aber diesmal schien uns seine Bemerkung fast richtig, wir waren überhaupt närrisch an dem Tag und alle, bis auf Amalia, von dem süßen Schloßwein wie betäubt, als wir nach Mitternacht nachhause kamen.” “Und Sortini?” fragte K. “Ja, Sortini”, sagte Olga, “Sortini sah ich während des Festes im Vorübergehn noch öfters, er saß auf der Deichsel, hatte die Arme über der Brust gekreuzt und blieb so, bis der Schloßwagen kam, um ihn abzuholen. Nicht einmal zu den Feuerwehrübungen ging er, bei denen der Vater damals, gerade in der Hoffnung daß Sortini zusehe, vor allen Männern seines Alters sich auszeichnete. " “Und habt Ihr nicht mehr von ihm gehört?” fragte K. “Du scheinst ja für Sortini große Verehrung zu haben. " “Ja, Verehrung”, sagte Olga, “ja und gehört haben wir auch noch von ihm. Am nächsten Morgen wurden wir aus unserem Weinschlaf durch einen Schrei Amalias geweckt, die andern fielen gleich wieder in die Betten zurück, ich war aber gänzlich wach und lief zu Amalia, sie stand beim Fenster und hielt einen Brief in der Hand, den ihr eben ein Mann durch das Fenster gereicht hatte, der Mann wartete noch auf Antwort. Amalia hatte den Brief – er war kurz – schon gelesen und hielt ihn in der schlaff hinabhängenden Hand; wie liebte ich sie immer wenn sie so müde war. Ich kniete neben ihr nieder und las den Brief. Kaum war ich fertig, nahm ihn Amalia, nach einem kurzen Blick auf mich, wieder auf, brachte es aber nicht mehr über sich, ihn zu lesen, zerriß ihn, warf die Fetzen dem Mann draußen ins Gesicht und schloß das Fenster. Das war jener entscheidende Morgen. Ich nenne ihn entscheidend, aber jeder Augenblick des vorhergehenden Nachmittags ist ebenso entscheidend gewesen. " “Und was stand in dem Brief? " fragte K. “Ja, das habe ich noch nicht erzählt”, sagte Olga, “der Brief war von Sortini, adressiert war er an das Mädchen mit dem Granatenhalsband. Den Inhalt kann ich nicht wiedergeben. Es war eine Aufforderung zu ihm in den Herrenhof zu kommen undzwar sollte Amalia sofort kommen, denn in einer halben Stunde mußte Sortini wegfahren. Der Brief war in den gemeinsten Ausdrücken gehalten, die ich noch nie gehört hatte und nur aus dem Zusammenhang halb erriet. Wer Amalia nicht kannte und nur diesen Brief gelesen hatte, mußte das Mädchen, an das jemand so zu schreiben gewagt hatte, für entehrt halten, auch wenn sie gar nicht berührt worden sein sollte. Und es war kein Liebesbrief, kein Schmeichelwort war darin, Sortini war vielmehr offenbar böse, daß der Anblick Amalias ihn ergriffen, ihn von seinen Geschäften abgehalten hatte. Wir legten es uns später so zurecht, daß Sortini wahrscheinlich gleich abend hatte ins Schloß fahren wollen, nur Amalias wegen im Dorf geblieben war, und am Morgen voll Zorn darüber, daß es ihm auch in der Nacht nicht gelungen war Amalia zu vergessen, den Brief geschrieben hatte. Man mußte dem Brief gegenüber zuerst empört sein, auch die Kaltblütigste, dann aber hätte bei einer andern als Amalia wahrscheinlich vor dem bösen drohenden Ton die Angst überwogen, bei Amalia blieb es bei der Empörung, Angst kennt sie nicht, nicht für sich, nicht für andere. Und während ich mich dann wieder ins Bett verkroch und mir den abgebrochenen Schlußsatz wiederholte: >Daß Du also gleich kommst, oder – ! < blieb Amalia auf der Fensterbank und sah hinaus, als erwarte sie noch weitere Boten und sei bereit, jeden genau so zu behandeln wie den ersten. " “Das sind also die Beamten”, sagte K. zögernd, “solche Exemplare findet man unter ihnen. Was hat Dein Vater gemacht? Ich hoffe er hat sich kräftig an zuständiger Stelle über Sortini beschwert, wenn er nicht den kürzeren und sichereren Weg in den Herrenhof vorgezogen hat. Das Allerhäßlichste an der Geschichte ist ja nicht die Beleidigung Amalias, die konnte leicht gutgemacht werden, ich weiß nicht warum Du so übermäßig großes Gewicht gerade darauflegst; warum sollte Sortini mit einem solchen Brief Amalia für immer bloßgestellt haben, nach Deiner Erzählung könnte man das glauben, gerade das ist aber doch nicht möglich, eine Genugtuung war Amalia leicht zu verschaffen und in paar Tagen war der Vorfall vergessen, Sortini hat nicht Amalia bloßgestellt, sondern sich selbst. Vor Sortini also schrecke ich zurück, vor der Möglichkeit, daß es einen solchen Mißbrauch der Macht gibt. Was in diesem Fall mißlang, weil es klipp und klar gesagt und völlig durchsichtig war und an Amalia einen überlegenen Gegner fand, kann in tausend andern Fällen bei nur ein wenig ungünstigeren Umständen völlig gelingen und kann sich jedem Blick entziehn, auch dem Blick des Mißbrauchten.” “Still”, sagte Olga, “Amalia sieht herüber. " Amalia hatte die Fütterung der Eltern beendet und war jetzt daran die Mutter auszuziehn, sie hatte ihr gerade den Rock losgebunden, hing sich die Arme der Mutter um den Hals, hob sie so ein wenig, streifte ihr den Rock ab und setzte sie dann sanft wieder nieder. Der Vater, immer unzufrieden damit, daß die Mutter zuerst bedient wurde, was aber offenbar nur deshalb geschah, weil die Mutter noch hilfloser war als er, versuchte, vielleicht auch um die Tochter für ihre vermeintliche Langsamkeit zu strafen, sich selbst zu entkleiden, aber trotzdem er bei dem Unnötigsten und Leichtesten anfieng, den übergroßen Pantoffeln, in welchen seine Füße nur lose staken, wollte es ihm auf keine Weise gelingen, sie abzustreifen, er mußte es unter heiserem Röcheln bald aufgeben und lehnte wieder steif in seinem Stuhl. “Das Entscheidende erkennst Du nicht”, sagte Olga, “Du magst ja Recht haben mit allem, aber das Entscheidende war, daß Amalia nicht in den Herrenhof ging; wie sie den Boten behandelt hatte, das mochte an sich noch hingehn, das hätte sich vertuschen lassen; damit aber daß sie nicht hinging, war der Fluch über unsere Familie ausgesprochen und nun war allerdings auch die Behandlung des Boten etwas Unverzeihliches, ja es wurde sogar für die Öffentlichkeit in den Vordergrund geschoben.” “Wie!” rief K. und dämpfte sofort die Stimme, da Olga bittend die Hände hob, “Du, die Schwester, sagst doch nicht etwa, daß Amalia Sortini hätte folgen und in den Herrenhof hätte laufen sollen?” “Nein”, sagte Olga, “möge ich beschützt werden vor derartigem Verdacht, wie kannst Du das glauben. Ich kenne niemanden, der so fest im Recht wäre, wie Amalia bei allem, was sie tut. Wäre sie in den Herrenhof gegangen, hätte ich ihr freilich ebenso Recht gegeben; daß sie aber nicht gegangen ist, war heldenhaft. Was mich betrifft, ich gestehe es Dir offen, wenn ich einen solchen Brief bekommen hätte, ich wäre gegangen. Ich hätte die Furcht vor dem Kommenden nicht ertragen, das konnte nur Amalia. Es gab ja manche Auswege, eine andere hätte sich z. B. recht schön geschmückt und es wäre ein Weilchen darüber vergangen und dann wäre sie in den Herrenhof gekommen und hätte erfahren, daß Sortini schon fort ist, vielleicht daß er gleich nach Entsendung des Boten weggefahren ist, etwas was sogar sehr wahrscheinlich ist, denn die Launen der Herren sind flüchtig. Aber Amalia tat das nicht und nichts ähnliches, sie war zu tief beleidigt und antwortete ohne Vorbehalt. Hätte sie nur irgendwie zum Schein gefolgt, nur die Schwelle des Herrenhofes zur Zeit gerade überschritten, das Verhängnis hätte sich abwenden lassen, wir haben hier sehr kluge Advokaten, die aus einem Nichts alles was man nur will zu machen verstehn, aber in diesem Fall war nicht einmal das günstige Nichts vorhanden, im Gegenteil, es war noch die Entwürdigung des Sortinischen Briefes da und die Beleidigung des Boten.” “Aber was für ein Verhängnis denn”, sagte K., “was für Advokaten; man konnte doch wegen der verbrecherischen Handlungsweise Sortinis nicht Amalia anklagen oder gar bestrafen? " “Doch”, sagte Olga, “das konnte man, freilich nicht nach einem regelrechten Proceß und man bestrafte sie auch nicht unmittelbar, wohl aber bestrafte man sie auf eine andere Weise, sie und unsere ganze Familie und wie schwer diese Strafe ist, das fängst Du nun wohl an zu erkennen. Dir scheint das ungerecht und ungeheuerlich, das ist eine im Dorf völlig vereinzelte Meinung, sie ist uns sehr günstig und sollte uns trösten, und so wäre es auch, wenn sie nicht sichtlich auf Irrtümer zurückgienge. Ich kann Dir das leicht beweisen, verzeih, wenn ich dabei von Frieda spreche, aber zwischen Frieda und Klamm ist, abgesehen davon wie es sich schließlich gestaltet hat, etwas ganz ähnliches vorgegangen wie zwischen Amalia und Sortini und doch findest Du das, wenn Du auch anfangs erschrocken sein magst, jetzt schon richtig. Und das ist nicht Gewöhnung, so abstumpfen kann man durch Gewöhnung nicht, wenn es sich um einfache Beurteilung handelt; das ist bloß Ablegen von Irrtümern. " “Nein, Olga”, sagte K., “ich weiß nicht, warum Du Frieda in diese Sache hereinziehst, der Fall war doch gänzlich anders, misch nicht so Grundverschiedenes durcheinander und erzähle weiter. " “Bitte”, sagte Olga, “nimm es mir nicht übel, wenn ich auf dem Vergleich bestehe, es ist ein Rest von Irrtümern auch hinsichtlich Friedas noch, wenn Du sie gegen einen Vergleich verteidigen zu müssen glaubst. Sie ist gar nicht zu verteidigen, sondern nur zu loben. Wenn ich die Fälle vergleiche, so sage ich ja nicht, daß sie gleich sind, sie verhalten sich zueinander wie weiß und schwarz und weiß ist Frieda. Schlimmstenfalls kann man über Frieda lachen, wie ich es unartiger Weise – ich habe es später sehr bereut – im Ausschank getan habe, aber selbst wer hier lacht, ist schon boshaft oder neidisch, immerhin man kann lachen, Amalia aber kann man, wenn man nicht durch Blut mit ihr verbunden ist, nur verachten. Deshalb sind es zwar grundverschiedene Fälle, wie Du sagst, aber doch auch ähnlich. " “Sie sind auch nicht ähnlich”, sagte K. und schüttelte unwillig den Kopf, “laß Frieda beiseite. Frieda hat keinen solchen saubern Brief, wie Amalia von Sortini bekommen, und Frieda hat Klamm wirklich geliebt, und wer’s bezweifelt, kann sie fragen, sie liebt ihn noch heute. " “Sind das aber große Unterschiede” fragte Olga. “Glaubst Du Klamm hätte nicht ebenso Frieda schreiben können? Wenn die Herren vom Schreibtisch aufstehn, sind sie so; sie finden sich in der Welt nicht zurecht; sie sagen dann in der Zerstreutheit das Allergröbste, nicht alle, aber viele. Der Brief an Amalia kann ja in Gedanken, in völliger Nichtachtung des wirklich Geschriebenen auf das Papier geworfen worden sein. Was wissen wir von den Gedanken der Herren! Hast Du nicht selbst gehört oder es erzählen hören, in welchem Ton Klamm mit Frieda verkehrt hat? Von Klamm ist es bekannt, daß er sehr grob ist, er spricht angeblich stundenlang nichts und dann sagt er plötzlich eine derartige Grobheit, daß es einen schaudert. Von Sortini ist das nicht bekannt, wie er ja überhaupt sehr unbekannt ist. Eigentlich weiß man von ihm nur, daß sein Name dem Sordinis ähnlich ist, wäre nicht diese Namensähnlichkeit, würde man ihn wahrscheinlich gar nicht kennen. Auch als Feuerwehrfachmann verwechselt man ihn wahrscheinlich mit Sordini, welcher der eigentliche Fachmann ist und die Namensähnlichkeit ausnützt, um besonders die Repräsentationspflichten auf Sortini abzuwälzen und so in seiner Arbeit ungestört zu bleiben. Wenn nun ein solcher weltungewandter Mann wie Sortini plötzlich von Liebe zu einem Dorfmädchen ergriffen wird, so nimmt das natürlich andere Formen an, als wenn der Tischlergehilfe von nebenan sich verliebt. Auch muß man doch bedenken, daß zwischen einem Beamten und einer Schusterstochter doch ein großer Abstand besteht, der irgendwie überbrückt werden muß, Sortini versuchte es auf diese Art, ein anderer mags anders machen. Zwar heißt es, daß wir alle zum Schloß gehören und gar kein Abstand besteht und nichts zu überbrücken ist und das stimmt auch vielleicht für gewöhnlich, aber wir haben leider Gelegenheit gehabt, zu sehn, daß es gerade wenn es darauf ankommt, gar nicht stimmt. Jedenfalls wird Dir nach dem allen die Handlungsweise Sortinis verständlicher, weniger ungeheuerlich geworden sein und sie ist tatsächlich mit jener Klamms verglichen viel verständlicher und selbst wenn man ganz nah beteiligt ist, viel erträglicher. Wenn Klamm einen zarten Brief schreibt, ist es peinlicher als der gröbste Brief Sortinis. Verstehe mich dabei recht, ich wage nicht über Klamm zu urteilen, ich vergleiche nur, weil Du Dich gegen den Vergleich wehrst. Klamm ist doch wie ein Kommandant über den Frauen, befiehlt bald dieser bald jener zu ihm zu kommen, duldet keine lange und so wie er zu kommen befiehlt, befiehlt er auch zu gehn. Ach, Klamm würde sich gar nicht die Mühe geben erst einen Brief zu schreiben. Und ist es nun im Vergleich damit noch immer ungeheuerlich, wenn der ganz zurückgezogen lebende Sortini, dessen Beziehungen zu Frauen zumindest unbekannt sind, einmal sich niedersetzt und in seiner schönen Beamtenschrift einen allerdings abscheulichen Brief schreibt. Und wenn sich also hier kein Unterschied zu Klamms Gunsten ergibt, sondern das Gegenteil, so sollte ihn Friedas Liebe bewirken? Das Verhältnis der Frauen zu den Beamten ist, glaube mir, sehr schwer oder vielmehr immer sehr leicht zu beurteilen. Hier fehlt es an Liebe nie. Unglückliche Beamtenliebe gibt es nicht. Es ist in dieser Hinsicht kein Lob, wenn man von einem Mädchen sagt, – ich rede hier beiweitem nicht nur von Frieda – daß sie sich dem Beamten nur deshalb hingegeben hat, weil sie ihn liebte. Sie liebte ihn und hat sich ihm hingegeben, so war es, aber zu loben ist dabei nichts. Amalia aber hat Sortini nicht geliebt, wendest Du ein. Nun ja, sie hat ihn nicht geliebt, aber vielleicht hat sie ihn doch geliebt, wer kann das entscheiden? Nicht einmal sie selbst. Wie kann sie glauben ihn geliebt zu haben, wenn sie ihn so kräftig abgewiesen hat, wie wahrscheinlich noch niemals ein Beamter abgewiesen worden ist. Barnabas sagt, daß sie noch jetzt manchmal zittert von der Bewegung mit der sie vor drei Jahren das Fenster zugeschlagen hat. Das ist auch wahr und deshalb darf man sie nicht fragen; sie hat mit Sortini abgeschlossen und weiß nichts mehr als das; ob sie ihn liebt oder nicht, weiß sie nicht. Wir aber wissen, daß Frauen nicht anders können, als Beamte zu lieben wenn sich diese ihnen einmal zuwenden, ja sie lieben die Beamten schon vorher, so sehr sie es leugnen wollen, und Sortini hat sich Amalia ja nicht nur zugewendet, sondern ist über die Deichsel gesprungen, als er Amalia sah, mit den von der Schreibtischarbeit steifen Beinen ist er über die Deichsel gesprungen. Aber Amalia ist ja eine Ausnahme, wirst Du sagen. Ja, das ist sie, das hat sie bewiesen, als sie sich weigerte zu Sortini zu gehn, das ist der Ausnahme genug; daß sie nun aber außerdem Sortini auch nicht geliebt haben sollte, das wäre nun schon der Ausnahme fast zu viel, das wäre gar nicht mehr zu fassen. Wir waren ja gewiß an jenem Nachmittag mit Blindheit geschlagen, aber daß wir damals durch allen Nebel etwas von Amalias Verliebtheit zu bemerken glaubten, zeigte wohl doch noch etwas Besinnung. Wenn man aber das alles zusammenhält, was bleibt dann für ein Unterschied zwischen Frieda und Amalia Einzig der, daß Frieda tat, was Amalia verweigert hat. " “Mag sein”, sagte K., “für mich aber ist der Hauptunterschied der, daß Frieda meine Braut ist, Amalia aber mich im Grunde nur so weit bekümmert, als sie die Schwester des Barnabas, des Schloßboten ist und ihr Schicksal in den Dienst des Barnabas vielleicht mitverflochten ist. Hätte ihr ein Beamter ein derart schreiendes Unrecht getan, wie es nach Deiner Erzählung anfangs mir schien, hätte mich das sehr beschäftigt, aber auch dies viel mehr als öffentliche Angelegenheit, denn als persönliches Leid Amalias. Nun ändert sich aber nach Deiner Erzählung das Bild in einer mir zwar nicht ganz verständlichen, aber, da Du es bist, die erzählt, in einer genügend glaubwürdigen Weise und ich will diese Sache deshalb sehr gern völlig vernachlässigen, ich bin kein Feuerwehrmann, was kümmert mich Sortini. Wohl aber kümmert mich Frieda und da ist es mir sonderbar, wie Du, der ich völlig vertraute und gerne immer vertrauen will, auf dem Umweg über Amalia immerfort Frieda anzugreifen und mir verdächtig zu machen suchst. Ich nehme nicht an, daß Du das mit Absicht oder gar mit böser Absicht tust, sonst hätte ich doch schon längst fortgehn müssen, Du tust es nicht mit Absicht, die Umstände verleiten Dich dazu, aus Liebe zu Amalia willst Du sie hocherhaben über alle Frauen hinstellen und da Du in Amalia selbst zu diesem Zwecke nicht genug Rühmenswertes findest, hilfst Du Dir damit, daß Du andere Frauen verkleinerst. Amalias Tat ist merkwürdig, aber je mehr Du von dieser Tat erzählst, desto weniger läßt sich entscheiden ob sie groß oder klein, klug oder töricht, heldenhaft oder feig gewesen ist, ihre Beweggründe hält Amalia in ihrer Brust verschlossen, niemand wird sie ihr entreißen. Frieda dagegen hat gar nichts merkwürdiges getan sondern ist nur ihrem Herzen gefolgt, für jeden der sich gutwillig damit befaßt, ist das klar, jeder kann es nachprüfen, für Klatsch ist kein Raum. Ich aber will weder Amalia heruntersetzen, noch Frieda verteidigen, sondern Dir nur klarmachen, wie ich mich zu Frieda verhalte und wie jeder Angriff gegen Frieda gleichzeitig ein Angriff gegen meine Existenz ist. Ich bin aus eigenem Willen hierhergekommen und aus eigenem Willen habe ich mich hier festgehakt, aber alles was seither geschehen ist und vor allem meine Zukunftsaussichten – so trübe sie auch sein mögen, immerhin, sie bestehn – alles dies verdanke ich Frieda, das läßt sich nicht wegdiskutieren. Ich war hier zwar als Landvermesser aufgenommen, aber das war nur scheinbar, man spielte mit mir, man trieb mich aus jedem Haus, man spielt auch heute mit mir, aber wieviel umständlicher ist das, ich habe gewissermaßen an Umfang gewonnen und das bedeutet schon etwas, ich habe, so geringfügig das alles ist, doch schon ein Heim, eine Stellung und wirkliche Arbeit, ich habe eine Braut, die, wenn ich andere Geschäfte habe, mir die Berufsarbeit abnimmt, ich werde sie heiraten und Gemeindemitglied werden, ich habe außer der amtlichen auch noch eine, bisher freilich unausnützbare persönliche Beziehung zu Klamm. Das ist doch wohl nicht wenig? Und wenn ich zu Euch komme, wen begrüßt Ihr? Wem vertraust Du die Geschichte Euerer Familie an? Von wem erhoffst Du die Möglichkeit, sei es auch nur die winzige, unwahrscheinliche Möglichkeit irgendeiner Hilfe? Doch wohl nicht von mir, dem Landvermesser, den z. B. noch vor einer Woche Lasemann und Brunswick mit Gewalt aus ihrem Haus gedrängt haben, sondern Du erhoffst das von dem Mann, der schon irgendwelche Machtmittel hat, diese Machtmittel aber verdanke ich eben Frieda, Frieda, die so bescheiden ist, daß, wenn Du sie nach etwas derartigem zu fragen versuchen wirst, sie gewiß nicht das Geringste davon wird wissen wollen. Und doch scheint es nach dem allen daß Frieda in ihrer Unschuld mehr getan hat als Amalia in allem ihrem Hochmut, denn sieh, ich habe den Eindruck, daß Du Hilfe für Amalia suchst. Und von wem? Doch eigentlich von keinem andern als von Frieda.” “Habe ich wirklich so häßlich von Frieda gesprochen?” sagte Olga, “ich wollte es gewiß nicht und glaubte es auch nicht getan zu haben, aber möglich ist es, unsere Lage ist derart, daß wir mit aller Welt zerfallen sind und fangen wir zu klagen an, reißt es uns fort, wir wissen nicht, wohin. Du hast auch recht, es ist ein großer Unterschied jetzt zwischen uns und Frieda und es ist gut ihn einmal zu betonen. Vor drei Jahren waren wir Bürgermädchen und Frieda, die Waise, Magd im Brückenhof, wir gingen an ihr vorüber, ohne sie mit dem Blick zu streifen, wir waren gewiß zu hochmütig, aber wir waren so erzogen worden. An dem Abend im Herrenhof magst Du aber den jetzigen Stand erkannt haben: Frieda mit der Peitsche in der Hand und ich in dem Haufen der Knechte. Aber es ist ja noch schlimmer. Frieda mag uns verachten, es entspricht ihrer Stellung, die tatsächlichen Verhältnisse erzwingen es. Aber wer verachtet uns nicht alles! Wer sich entschließt uns zu verachten, kommt gleich in die allergrößte Gesellschaft. Kennst Du die Nachfolgerin Friedas? Pepi heißt sie. Ich habe sie erst vorgestern abend kennen gelernt, bisher war sie Zimmermädchen. Sie übertrifft gewiß Frieda an Verachtung für mich. Sie sah mich aus dem Fenster, wie ich Bier holen kam, lief zur Tür und versperrte sie, ich mußte lange bitten und ihr das Band versprechen, das ich im Haare trug, ehe sie mir aufmachte. Als ich es ihr aber dann gab, warf sie es in den Winkel. Nun, sie mag mich verachten, zum Teil bin ich ja auf ihr Wohlwollen angewiesen und sie ist Ausschankmädchen im Herrenhof, freilich sie ist es nur vorläufig und hat gewiß nicht die Eigenschaften die nötig sind, um dort dauernd angestellt zu werden. Man mag nur zuhören, wie der Wirt mit Pepi spricht und mag es damit vergleichen, wie er mit Frieda sprach. Aber das hindert Pepi nicht auch Amalia zu verachten, Amalia, deren Blick allein genügen würde, die ganze kleine Pepi mit allen ihren Zöpfen und Maschen so schnell aus dem Zimmer zu schaffen, wie sie es, nur auf ihre eigenen dicken Beinchen angewiesen, niemals zustande brächte. Was für ein empörendes Geschwätz mußte ich gestern wieder von ihr über Amalia anhören, bis sich dann schließlich die Gäste meiner annahmen, in der Art freilich, wie Du es schon einmal gesehen hast. " “Wie verängstigt Du bist”, sagte K., “ich habe ja nur Frieda auf den ihr gebürenden Platz gestellt, aber nicht Euch herabsetzen wollen, wie Du es jetzt auffaßt. Irgendetwas besonderes hat Euere Familie auch für mich, das habe ich nicht verschwiegen; wie dieses Besondere aber Anlaß zur Verachtung geben könnte, das verstehe ich nicht. " “Ach K. “, sagte Olga, “auch Du wirst es noch verstehn, fürchte ich; daß Amalias Verhalten gegenüber Sortini der erste Anlaß dieser Verachtung war, kannst Du auf keine Weise verstehn?” “Das wäre doch zu sonderbar”, sagte K., “bewundern oder verurteilen könnte man Amalia deshalb, aber verachten? Und wenn man aus mir unverständlichem Gefühl wirklich Amalia verachtet, warum dehnt man die Verachtung auf Euch aus, auf die unschuldige Familie? Daß z. B. Pepi Dich verachtet, ist ein starkes Stück und ich will, wenn ich wieder einmal in den Herrenhofkomme, es ihr heimzahlen. " “Wolltest Du, K. “, sagte Olga, “alle unsere Verächter umstimmen, das wäre eine harte Arbeit, denn alles geht vom Schloß aus. Ich erinnere mich noch genau an den Vormittag, der jenem Morgen folgte. Brunswick, der damals unser Gehilfe war, war gekommen wie jeden Tag, der Vater hatte ihm Arbeit zugeteilt und ihn nachhause geschickt, wir saßen dann beim Frühstück, alle bis auf Amalia und mich waren sehr lebhaft, der Vater erzählte immerfort von dem Fest, er hatte hinsichtlich der Feuerwehr verschiedene Pläne, im Schloß ist nämlich eine eigene Feuerwehr, die zu dem Fest auch eine Abordnung geschickt hatte, mit der manches besprochen worden war, die anwesenden Herren aus dem Schloß hatten die Leistungen unserer Feuerwehr gesehn, sich sehr günstig über sie ausgesprochen, die Leistungen der Schloßfeuerwehr damit verglichen, das Ergebnis war uns günstig, man hatte von der Notwendigkeit einer Neuorganisation der Schloßfeuerwehr gesprochen, dazu waren Instruktoren aus dem Dorf nötig, es kamen zwar einige dafür in Betracht, aber der Vater hatte doch Hoffnung daß die Wahl auf ihn fallen werde. Davon sprach er nun und wie es so seine liebe Art war, sich bei Tisch recht auszubreiten, saß er da, mit den Armen den halben Tisch umfassend, und wie er aus dem offenen Fenster zum Himmel aufsah, war sein Gesicht so jung und hoffnungsfreudig, niemals mehr sollte ich ihn so sehn. Da sagte Amalia mit einer Überlegenheit, die wir an ihr nicht kannten, solchen Reden der Herren müsse man nicht sehr vertrauen, die Herren pflegen bei derartigen Gelegenheiten gern etwas Gefälliges zu sagen, aber Bedeutung habe das wenig oder gar nicht, kaum gesprochen sei es schon für immer vergessen, freilich, bei der nächsten Gelegenheit gehe man ihnen wieder auf den Leim. Die Mutter verwies ihr solche Reden, der Vater lachte nur über ihre Altklugheit und Vielerfahrenheit, dann aber stutzte er, schien etwas zu suchen, dessen Fehlen er erst jetzt merkte, aber es fehlte doch nichts und sagte, Brunswick habe etwas von einem Boten und einem zerrissenen Brief erzählt, und er fragte, ob wir etwas davon wußten, wen es betreffe und wie es sich damit verhalte. Wir schwiegen, Barnabas, damals jung wie ein Lämmchen, sagte irgendetwas besonders Dummes oder Keckes, man sprach von anderem und die Sache kam in Vergessenheit.”

Der Kübelreiter

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 12:00:47 +0000

Verbraucht alle Kohle; leer der Kübel; sinnlos die Schaufel; Kälte atmend der Ofen; das Zimmer vollgeblasen von Frost; vor dem Fenster Bäume starr im Reif; der Himmel, ein silberner Schild gegen den, der von ihm Hilfe will. Ich muß Kohle haben; ich darf doch nicht erfrieren; hinter mir der erbarmungslose Ofen, vor mir der Himmel ebenso; infolgedessen muß ich scharf zwischendurch reiten und in der Mitte beim Kohlenhändler Hilfe suchen. Gegen meine gewöhnlichen Bitten aber ist er schon abgestumpft; ich muß ihm ganz genau nachweisen, daß ich kein einziges Kohlenstäubchen mehr habe und daß er daher für mich geradezu die Sonne am Firmament bedeutet. Ich muß kommen, wie der Bettler, der röchelnd vor Hunger an der Türschwelle verenden will und dem deshalb die Herrschaftsköchin den Bodensatz des letzten Kaffees einzuflößen sich entscheidet; ebenso muß mir der Händler, wütend, aber unter dem Strahl des Gebotes “Du sollst nicht töten!” eine Schaufel voll in den Kübel schleudern.

18. Amalias Strafe

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:46:31 +0000

“Aber kurz darauf wurden wir schon von allen Seiten mit Fragen wegen der Briefgeschichte überschüttet, es kamen Freunde und Feinde, Bekannte und Fremde, man blieb aber nicht lange, die besten Freunde verabschiedeten sich am eiligsten, Lasemann, immer sonst langsam und würdig, kam herein, so als wolle er nur das Ausmaß der Stube prüfen, ein Blick im Umkreis und er war fertig, es sah wie ein schreckliches Kinderspiel aus, als Lasemann sich flüchtete und der Vater von andern Leuten sich losmachte und hinter ihm hereilte, bis zur Schwelle des Hauses und es dann aufgab, Brunswick kam und kündigte dem Vater, er wolle sich selbstständig machen, sagte er ganz ehrlich, ein kluger Kopf, der den Augenblick zu nützen verstand, Kundschaften kamen und suchten in Vaters Lagerraum ihre Stiefel hervor, die sie zur Reparatur hier liegen hatten, zuerst versuchte der Vater die Kundschaften umzustimmen – und wir alle unterstützten ihn nach unsern Kräften – später gab es der Vater auf und half stillschweigend den Leuten beim Suchen, im Auftragsbuch wurde Zeile für Zeile gestrichen, die Ledervorräte, welche die Leute bei uns hatten, wurden herausgegeben, Schulden bezahlt, alles ging ohne den geringsten Streit, man war zufrieden, wenn es gelang, die Verbindung mit uns schnell und vollständig zu lösen, mochte man dabei auch Verluste haben, das kam nicht in Betracht. Und schließlich, was ja vorauszusehn gewesen war, erschien Seemann, der Obmann der Feuerwehr, ich sehe die Szene noch vor mir, Seemann groß und stark, aber ein wenig gebeugt und lungenkrank, immer ernst, er kann gar nicht lachen, steht vor meinem Vater, den er bewundert hat, dem er in vertrauter Stunde die Stelle eines Obmannstellvertreters in Aussicht gestellt hat und soll ihm nun mitteilen, daß ihn der Verein verabschiedet und um Rückgabe des Diploms ersucht. Die Leute die gerade bei uns waren ließen ihre Geschäfte ruhn und drängten sich im Kreis um die zwei Männer. Seemann kann nichts sagen, klopft nur immerfort dem Vater auf die Schulter, so als wolle er dem Vater die Worte ausklopfen, die er selbst sagen soll und nicht finden kann. Dabei lacht er immerfort, wodurch er wohl sich und alle ein wenig beruhigen will, aber da er nicht lachen kann und man ihn noch niemals lachen gehört hat, fällt es niemandem ein zu glauben, daß das ein Lachen sei. Der Vater aber ist von diesem Tag schon zu müde und verzweifelt, um Seemann helfen zu können, ja er scheint zu müde, um überhaupt nachzudenken, um was es sich handelt. Wir waren ja alle in gleicher Weise verzweifelt, aber da wir jung waren, konnten wir an einen solchen vollständigen Zusammenbruch nicht glauben, immer dachten wir, daß in der Reihe der vielen Besucher endlich doch jemand kommen werde, der Halt befiehlt und alles wieder zu einer rückläufigen Bewegung zwingt. Seemann schien uns in unserem Unverstand dafür besonders geeignet. Mit Spannung warteten wir, daß sich aus diesem fortwährenden Lachen endlich das klare Wort loslösen werde. Worüber war denn jetzt zu lachen, doch nur über das dumme Unrecht, das uns geschah. Herr Obmann, Herr Obmann, sagen Sie es doch endlich den Leuten, dachten wir und drängten uns an ihn heran, was ihn aber nur zu merkwürdigen Drehbewegungen veranlaßte. Endlich aber fing er, zwar nicht um unsere geheimen Wünsche zu erfüllen, sondern um den aufmunternden oder ärgerlichen Zurufen der Leute zu entsprechen, doch zu reden an. Noch immer hatten wir Hoffnung. Er begann mit großem Lob des Vaters. Nannte ihn eine Zierde des Vereins, ein unerreichbares Vorbild des Nachwuchses, ein unentbehrliches Mitglied, dessen Ausscheiden den Verein fast zerstören müsse. Das war alles sehr schön, hätte er doch hier geendet. Aber er sprach weiter. Wenn sich nun trotzdem der Verein entschlossen habe, den Vater, vorläufig allerdings nur, um den Abschied zu ersuchen, werde man den Ernst der Gründe erkennen, die den Verein dazu zwangen. Vielleicht hätte es ohne die glänzenden Leistungen des Vaters am gestrigen Fest gar nicht so weit kommen müssen, aber eben diese Leistungen hätten die amtliche Aufmerksamkeit besonders erregt, der Verein stand jetzt in vollem Licht und mußte auf seine Reinheit noch mehr bedacht sein als früher. Und nun war die Beleidigung des Boten geschehn, da habe der Verein keinen andern Ausweg gefunden und er, Seemann, habe das schwere Amt übernommen, es zu melden. Der Vater möge es ihm nicht noch mehr erschweren. Wie froh war Seemann, das hervorgebracht zu haben, aus Zufriedenheit darüber, war er nicht einmal mehr übertrieben rücksichtsvoll, er zeigte auf das Diplom, das an der Wand hing, und winkte mit dem Finger. Der Vater nickte und ging es holen, konnte es aber mit den zitternden Händen nicht vom Haken bringen, ich stieg auf einen Sessel und half ihm. Und von diesem Augenblick war alles zuende, er nahm das Diplom nicht einmal mehr aus dem Rahmen, sondern gab Seemann alles wie es war. Dann setzte er sich in einen Winkel, rührte sich nicht und sprach mit niemandem mehr, wir mußten mit den Leuten allein verhandeln so gut es ging. " “Und worin siehst Du hier den Einfluß des Schlosses? " fragte K. “Vorläufig scheint es noch nicht eingegriffen zu haben. Was Du bisher erzählt hast, war nur gedankenlose Ängstlichkeit der Leute, Freude am Schaden des Nächsten, unzuverlässige Freundschaft, Dinge, die überall anzutreffen sind, und auf Seite Deines Vaters allerdings auch – wenigstens scheint es mir so – eine gewisse Kleinlichkeit, denn jenes Diplom was war es? Bestätigung seiner Fähigkeiten und die behielt er doch, machten sie ihn unentbehrlich desto besser, und er hätte dem Obmann die Sache wirklich schwer nur dadurch gemacht, daß er ihm das Diplom gleich beim zweiten Wort vor die Füße geworfen hätte. Besonders bezeichnend scheint mir aber, daß Du Amalia gar nicht erwähnst; Amalia, die doch alles verschuldet hatte, stand wahrscheinlich ruhig im Hintergrund und betrachtete die Verwüstung.” “Nein, nein”, sagte Olga, “niemandem ist ein Vorwurf zu machen, niemand konnte anders handeln, das alles war schon Einfluß des Schlosses. " “Einfluß des Schlosses”, wiederholte Amalia, die unvermerkt vom Hofe her eingetreten war, die Eltern lagen längst zu Bett, “Schloßgeschichten werden erzählt? Noch immer sitzt Ihr beisammen? Und Du hattest doch gleich Dich verabschieden wollen, K., und nun geht es schon auf zehn. Bekümmern Dich denn solche Geschichten überhaupt? Es gibt hier Leute, die sich von solchen Geschichten nähren, sie setzen sich zusammen, so wie Ihr hier sitzt, und traktieren sich gegenseitig, Du scheinst mir aber nicht zu diesen Leuten zu gehören. " “Doch”, sagte K., “ich gehöre genau zu ihnen, dagegen machen Leute, die sich um solche Geschichten nicht bekümmern und nur andere sich bekümmern lassen, nicht viel Eindruck auf mich. " “Nun ja”, sagte Amalia, “aber das Interesse der Leute ist ja sehr verschiedenartig, ich hörte einmal von einem jungen Mann, der beschäftigte sich mit den Gedanken an das Schloß bei Tag und Nacht, alles andere vernachlässigte er, man fürchtete für seinen Alltagsverstand, weil sein ganzer Verstand oben im Schloß war, schließlich aber stellte es sich heraus, daß er nicht eigentlich das Schloß, sondern nur die Tochter einer Aufwaschfrau in den Kanzleien gemeint hatte, die bekam er nun allerdings und dann war wieder alles gut. " “Der Mann würde mir gefallen, glaube ich”, sagte K. “Daß Dir der Mann gefallen würde”, sagte Amalia, “bezweifle ich, aber vielleicht seine Frau. Nun laßt Euch aber nicht stören, ich gehe allerdings gchlafen und auslöschen werde ich müssen, der Eltern wegen, sie schlafen zwar gleich fest ein, aber nach einer Stunde ist schon der eigentliche Schlaf zuende und dann stört sie der kleinste Schein. Gute Nacht. " Und wirklich wurde es gleich finster, Amalia machte sich wohl irgendwo auf der Erde beim Bett der Eltern ihr Lager zurecht. “Wer ist denn dieser junge Mann, von dem sie sprach”, fragte K. “Ich weiß nicht”, sagte Olga, “vielleicht Brunswick, trotzdem es für ihn nicht ganz paßt, vielleicht aber auch ein anderer. Es ist nicht leicht sie genau zu verstehn, weil man oft nicht weiß, ob sie ironisch oder ernst spricht, meistens ist es ja ernst, aber es klingt ironisch. " “Laß die Deutungen! " sagte K. “Wie kamst Du denn in diese große Abhängigkeit von ihr? War es schon vor dem großen Unglück so? Oder erst nachher? Und hast Du niemals den Wunsch von ihr unabhängig zu werden? Und ist denn diese Abhängigkeit irgendwie vernünftig begründet? Sie ist die jüngste und hat als solche zu gehorchen. Sie hat, schuldig oder unschuldig, das Unglück über die Familie gebracht. Statt dafür jeden neuen Tag jeden von Euch von neuem um Verzeihung zu bitten, trägt sie den Kopf höher als alle, kümmert sich um nichts, als knapp gnadenweise um die Eltern, will in nichts eingeweiht werden, wie sie sich ausdrückt, und wenn sie endlich einmal mit Euch spricht, dann ist es >meistens ernst, aber es klingt ironisch<. Oder herrscht sie etwa durch ihre Schönheit, die Du manchmal erwähnst. Nun Ihr seid Euch alle drei sehr ähnlich, das aber, wodurch sie sich von Euch zweien unterscheidet, ist durchaus zu ihren Ungunsten, schon als ich sie zum ersten Mal sah, schreckte mich ihr stumpfer liebloser Blick ab. Und dann ist sie zwar die jüngste, aber davon merkt man nichts in ihrem Äußern, sie hat das alterslose Aussehn der Frauen, die kaum altern, die aber auch kaum jemals eigentlich jung gewesen sind. Du siehst sie jeden Tag, Du merkst gar nicht die Härte ihres Gesichtes. Darum kann ich auch Sortinis Neigung, wenn ich es überlege, nicht einmal sehr ernst nehmen, vielleicht wollte er sie mit dem Brief nur strafen, aber nicht rufen. " “Von Sortini will ich nicht reden”, sagte Olga, “bei den Herren vom Schloß ist alles möglich, ob es nun um das schönste oder um das häßlichste Mädchen geht. Sonst aber irrst Du hinsichtlich Amalias vollkommen. Sieh, ich habe doch keinen Anlaß Dich für Amalia besonders zu gewinnen und versuche ich es dennoch, tue ich es nur Deinetwegen. Amalia war irgendwie die Ursache unseres Unglücks, das ist gewiß, aber selbst der Vater, der doch am schwersten von dem Unglück getroffen war und sich in seinen Worten niemals sehr beherrschen konnte, gar zuhause nicht, selbst der Vater hat Amalia auch in den schlimmsten Zeiten kein Wort des Vorwurfs gesagt. Und das nicht etwa deshalb weil er Amalias Vorgehn gebilligt hätte; wie hätte er, ein Verehrer Sortinis, es billigen können, nicht von der Ferne konnte er es verstehn, sich und alles was er hatte, hätte er Sortini wohl gern zum Opfer gebracht, allerdings nicht so wie es jetzt wirklich geschah, unter Sortinis wahrscheinlichem Zorn. Wahrscheinlichem Zorn, denn wir erfuhren nichts mehr von Sortini; war er bisher zurückgezogen gewesen, so war es von jetzt ab, als sei er überhaupt nicht mehr. Und nun hättest Du Amalia sehn sollen in jener Zeit. Wir alle wußten, daß keine ausdrückliche Strafe kommen werde. Man zog sich nur von uns zurück. Die Leute hier, wie auch das Schloß. Während man aber den Rückzug der Leute natürlich merkte, war vom Schloß gar nichts zu merken. Wir hatten ja früher auch keine Fürsorge des Schlosses gemerkt, wie hätten wir jetzt einen Umschwung merken können. Diese Ruhe war das Schlimmste. Bei weitem nicht der Rückzug der Leute, sie hatten es ja nicht aus irgendeiner Überzeugung getan, hatten vielleicht auch gar nichts Ernstliches gegen uns, die heutige Verachtung bestand noch gar nicht, nur aus Angst hatten sie es getan und jetzt warteten sie wie es weiter ausgehn werde. Auch Not hatten wir noch keine zu fürchten, alle Schuldner hatten uns gezahlt, die Abschlüsse waren vorteilhaft gewesen, was uns an Lebensmitteln fehlte, darin halfen uns im Geheimen Verwandte aus, es war leicht, es war ja in der Erntezeit, allerdings Felder hatten wir keine und mitarbeiten ließ man uns nirgends, wir waren zum erstenmal im Leben fast zum Müßiggang verurteilt. Und nun saßen wir beisammen bei geschlossenen Fenstern in der Hitze des Juli und August. Es geschah nichts. Keine Vorladung, keine Nachricht, kein Besuch, nichts. " “Nun”, sagte K., “da nichts geschah und auch keine ausdrückliche Strafe zu erwarten war, wovor habt Ihr Euch gefürchtet? Was seid Ihr doch für Leute!” “Wie soll ich es Dir erklären?” sagte Olga. “Wir fürchteten nichts Kommendes, wir litten schon nur unter dem Gegenwärtigen, wir waren mitten in der Bestrafung darin. Die Leute im Dorf warteten ja nur darauf, daß wir zu ihnen kämen, daß der Vater seine Werkstatt wieder aufmachte, daß Amalia, die sehr schöne Kleider zu nähen verstand, allerdings nur für die Vornehmsten, wieder um Bestellungen käme, es tat ja allen Leuten leid, was sie getan hatten; wenn im Dorf eine angesehene Familie plötzlich ganz ausgeschaltet wird, hat jeder irgendeinen Nachteil davon; sie hatten, als sie sich von uns lossagten, nur ihre Pflicht zu tun geglaubt, wir hätten es an ihrer Stelle auch nicht anders getan. Sie hatten ja auch nicht genau gewußt, um was es sich gehandelt hatte, nur der Bote war, die Hand voll Papierfetzen, in den Herrenhof zurückgekommen, Frieda hatte ihn ausgehn und dann wieder kommen gesehn, paar Worte mit ihm gesprochen und das, was sie erfahren hatte, gleich verbreitet, aber wieder gar nicht aus Feindseligkeit gegen uns, sondern einfach aus Pflicht, wie es im gleichen Falle die Pflicht jedes andern gewesen wäre. Und nun wäre den Leuten, wie ich schon sagte, eine glückliche Lösung des Ganzen am willkommensten gewesen. Wenn wir plötzlich einmal gekommen wären mit der Nachricht, daß alles schon in Ordnung sei, daß es z. R. nur ein inzwischen völlig aufgeklärtes Mißverständnis gewesen sei, oder daß es zwar ein Vergehen gewesen sei aber es sei schon durch die Tat gutgemacht oder – selbst das hätte den Leuten genügt – daß es uns durch unsere Verbindungen im Schloß gelungen sei, die Sache niederzuschlagen – man hätte uns ganz gewiß mit offenen Armen wiederaufgenommen, Küsse, Umarmungen, Feste hätte es gegeben, ich habe derartiges bei andern einige Male erlebt. Aber nicht einmal eine solche Nachricht wäre nötig gewesen; wenn wir nur frei gekommen wären und uns angeboten, die alten Verbindungen wiederaufgenommen hätten, ohne auch nur ein Wort über die Briefgeschichte zu verlieren, es hätte genügt, mit Freude hätten alle auf die Besprechung der Sache verzichtet, es war ja, neben der Angst, vor allem die Peinlichkeit der Sache gewesen, weshalb man sich von uns getrennt, einfach um nichts von der Sache hören, nicht von ihr sprechen, nicht an sie denken, in keiner Weise von ihr berührt werden zu müssen. Wenn Frieda die Sache verraten hatte, so hatte sie es nicht getan, um sich an ihr zu freuen, sondern um sich und alle vor ihr zu bewahren, um die Gemeinde darauf aufmerksam zu machen, daß hier etwas geschehen war, von dem man sich auf das sorgfaltigste fernzuhalten hatte. Nicht wir kamen hier als Familie in Betracht, sondern nur die Sache und wir nur der Sache wegen, in die wir uns verflochten hatten. Wenn wir also nur wieder hervorgekommen wären, das Vergangene ruhen gelassen hätten, durch unser Verhalten gezeigt hätten, daß wir die Sache überwunden hatten, gleichgültig auf welche Weise, und die öffentlichkeit so die Überzeugung gewonnen hätte, daß die Sache, wie immer sie auch beschaffen gewesen sein mag, nicht wieder zur Besprechung kommen werde, auch so wäre alles gut gewesen, überall hätten wir die alte Hilfsbereitschaft gefunden, selbst wenn wir dieSache nur unvollständig vergessen hätten, man hätte es verstanden und hätte uns geholfen, sie völlig zu vergessen. Statt dessen aber saßen wir zuhause. Ich weiß nicht worauf wir warteten, auf Amalias Entscheidung wohl, sie hatte damals an jenem Morgen die Führung der Familie an sich gerissen und hielt sie fest. Ohne besondere Veranstaltungen, ohne Befehle, ohne Bitten, fast nur durch Schweigen. Wir andern hatten freilich viel zu beraten, es war ein fortwährendes Flüstern vom Morgen bis zum Abend und manchmal rief mich der Vater in plötzlicher Beängstigung zu sich und ich verbrachte am Bettrand die halbe Nacht. Oder manchmal hockten wir uns zusammen, ich und Barnabas, der ja erst sehr wenig von dem Ganzen verstand und immerfort ganz glühend Erklärungen verlangte, immerfort die gleichen, er wußte wohl daß die sorgenlosen Jahre, die andere seines Alters erwarteten, für ihn nicht mehr vorhanden waren, so saßen wir zusammen ganz ähnlich, K., wie wir zwei jetzt, und vergaßen daß es Nacht wurde und wieder Morgen. Die Mutter war die schwächste von uns allen, wohl weil sie nicht nur das gemeinsame Leid, sondern auch noch jedes einzelnen Leid mitgelitten hat, und so konnten wir mit Schrecken Veränderungen an ihr wahrnehmen, die, wie wir ahnten, unserer ganzen Familie bevorstanden. Ihr bevorzugter Platz war der Winkel eines Kanapees, wir haben es längst nicht mehr, es steht in Brunswicks großer Stube, dort saß sie und – man wußte nicht genau was es war – schlummerte oder hielt, wie die bewegten Lippen anzudeuten schienen, lange Selbstgespräche. Es war ja so natürlich, daß wir immerfort die Briefgeschichte besprachen, kreuz und quer in allen sicheren Einzelnheiten und allen unsicheren Möglichkeiten, und daß wir immerfort im Aussinnen von Mitteln zur guten Lösung uns übertrafen, es war natürlich und unvermeidlich, aber nicht gut, wir kamen ja dadurch immerfort tiefer in das, dem wir entgehen wollten. Und was halfen denn diese noch so ausgezeichneten Einfälle, keiner war ausführbar ohne Amalia, alles war nur Vorberatungen, sinnlos dadurch, daß ihre Ergebnisse gar nicht bis zu Amalia kamen und wenn sie hingekommen wären, nichts anderes angetroffen hätten als Schweigen. Nun, glücklicher Weise verstehe ich heute Amalia besser als damals. Sie trug mehr als wir alle, es ist unbegreiflich wie sie es ertragen hat und noch heute unter uns lebt. Die Mutter trug vielleicht unser aller Leid, sie trug es weil es über sie hereingebrochen ist und sie trug es nicht lange; daß sie es noch heute irgendwie trägt kann man nicht sagen und schon damals war ihr Sinn verwirrt. Aber Amalia trug nicht nur das Leid, sondern hatte auch den Verstand es zu durchschauen, wir sahen nur die Folgen, sie sah den Grund, wir hofften auf irgendwelche kleine Mittel, sie wußte daß alles entschieden war, wir hatten zu flüstern, sie hatte nur zu schweigen, Aug in Aug mit der Wahrheit stand sie und lebte und ertrug dieses Leben damals wie heute. Wie viel besser ging es uns in aller unserer Not als ihr. Wir mußten freilich unser Haus verlassen, Brunswick bezog es, man wies uns diese Hütte zu, mit einem Handkarren brachten wir unser Eigentum in einigen Fahrten hier herüber, Barnabas und ich zogen, der Vater und Amalia halfen hinten nach, die Mutter, die wir gleich anfangs hergebracht hatten, empfing uns, auf einer Kiste sitzend, immer mit leisem Jammern. Aber ich erinnere mich, daß wir selbst während der mühevollen Fahrten – die auch sehr beschämend waren, denn öfters begegneten wir Erntewagen, deren Begleitung vor uns verstummte und die Blicke wandte – daß wir, Barnabas und ich, selbst während dieser Fahrten es nicht unterlassen konnten von unsern Sorgen und Plänen zu sprechen, daß wir im Gespräch manchmal stehen blieben und erst das Halloh des Vaters uns an unsere Pflicht wieder erinnerte. Aber alle Besprechungen änderten auch nach der Übersiedlung unser Leben nicht, nur daß wir jetzt allmählich auch die Armut zu fühlen bekamen. Die Zuschüsse der Verwandten hörten auf, unsere Mittel waren fast zu Ende und gerade zu jener Zeit begann die Verachtung für uns, wie Du sie kennst, sich zu entwickeln. Man merkte, daß wir nicht die Kraft hatten, uns aus der Briefgeschichte herauszuarbeiten und man nahm uns das sehr übel, man unterschätzte nicht die Schwere unseres Schicksals, trotzdem man es nicht genau kannte, man hätte, wenn wir es überwunden hätten, uns entsprechend hoch geehrt, da es uns aber nicht gelungen war, tat man das, was man bisher nur vorläufig getan hatte, endgültig, man schloß uns aus jedem Kreise aus, man wußte daß man selbst die Probe wahrscheinlich nicht besser bestanden hätte als wir, aber um so notwendiger war es sich von uns völlig zu trennen. Nun sprach man von uns nicht mehr wie von Menschen, unser Familienname wurde nicht mehr genannt; wenn man von uns sprechen mußte, nannte man uns nach Barnabas, dem Unschuldigsten von uns; selbst unsere Hütte geriet in Verruf und wenn Du Dich prüfst wirst Du gestehn, daß auch Du beim ersten Eintritt die Berechtigung dieser Verachtung zu merken glaubtest; später als wieder Leute manchmal zu uns kamen, rümpften sie die Nase über ganz belanglose Dinge, etwa darüber daß die kleine Öllampe dort über dem Tisch hing. Wo sollte sie denn anders hängen, als über dem Tisch, ihnen aber erschien es unerträglich. Hängten wir aber die Lampe anderswohin, änderte sich doch nichts an ihrem Widerwillen. Alles was wir waren und hatten, traf die gleiche Verachtung.”

19. Bittgänge

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 18:47:25 +0000

“Und was taten wir unterdessen? Das Schlimmste was wir hätten tun können, etwas wofür wir gerechter hätten verachtet werden dürfen, als wofür es wirklich geschah – wir verrieten Amalia, wir rissen uns los von ihrem schweigenden Befehl, wir konnten nicht mehr so weiter leben, ganz ohne Hoffnung konnten wir nicht leben und wir begannen, jeder auf seine Art, das Schloß zu bitten oder zu bestürmen, es möge uns verzeihn. Wir wußten zwar, daß wir nicht imstande waren etwas gutzumachen, wir wußten auch, daß die einzige hoffnungsvolle Verbindung, die wir mit dem Schlosse hatten, die Sortinis, des unserem Vater geneigten Beamten, eben durch die Ereignisse uns unzugänglich geworden war, trotzdem machten wir uns an die Arbeit. Der Vater begann, es begannen die sinnlosen Bittwege zum Vorsteher, zu den Sekretären, den Advokaten, den Schreibern, meistens wurde er nicht empfangen und wenn er durch List oder Zufall doch empfangen wurde, – wie jubelten wir bei solcher Nachricht und rieben uns die Hände – wurde er äußerst schnell abgewiesen und nie wieder empfangen. Es war auch allzu leicht ihm zu antworten, das Schloß hat es immer so leicht. Was wollte er denn? Was war ihm geschehn? Wofür wollte er eine Verzeihung? Wann und von wem war denn im Schloß auch nur ein Finger gegen ihn gerührt worden? Gewiß er war verarmt, hatte die Kundschaft verloren u. s. f., aber das waren Erscheinungen des täglichen Lebens, Handwerks- und Marktangelegenheiten, sollte sich denn das Schloß um alles kümmern? Es kümmerte sich ja in Wirklichkeit um alles, aber es konnte doch nicht grob eingreifen in die Entwicklung, einfach und zu keinem andern Zweck, als dem Interesse eines einzelnen Mannes zu dienen. Sollte es etwa seine Beamten ausschicken und diese sollten den Kunden des Vaters nachlaufen und sie ihm mit Gewalt zurückbringen? Aber, wendete der Vater dann ein – wir besprachen diese Dinge alle genau zuhause vorher und nachher, in einen Winkel gedrückt, wie versteckt vor Amalia, die alles zwar merkte, aber es geschehen ließ – aber, wendete der Vater dann ein, er beklage sich ja nicht wegen der Verarmung, alles, was er hier verloren habe, wolle er leicht wieder einholen, das alles sei nebensächlich, wenn ihm nur verziehen würde. Aber was solle ihm denn verziehen werden? antwortete man ihm, eine Anzeige sei bisher nicht eingelaufen, wenigstens stehe sie noch nicht in den Protokollen, zumindest nicht in den der advokatorischen Öffentlichkeit zugänglichen Protokollen, infolgedessen sei auch, soweit es sich feststellen lasse, weder etwas gegen ihn unternommen worden, noch sei etwas im Zuge. Könne er vielleicht eine amtliche Verfügung nennen, die gegen ihn erlassen worden sei? Das konnte der Vater nicht. Oder habe ein Eingriff eines amtlichen Organes stattgefunden? Davon wußte der Vater nicht. Nun also wenn er nichts wisse und wenn nichts geschehen sei, was wolle er denn? Was könne ihm verziehen werden? Höchstens daß er jetzt zwecklos die Ämter belästige, aber gerade dieses sei unverzeihlich. Der Vater ließ nicht ab, er war damals noch immer sehr kräftig und der aufgezwungene Müßiggang gab ihm reichlich Zeit. >Ich werde Amalia die Ehre zurückgewinnen, es wird nicht mehr lange dauern<, sagte er zu Barnabas und mir einigemal während des Tages, aber nur sehr leise, denn Amalia durfte es nicht hören; trotzdem war es nur Amalias wegen gesagt, denn in Wirklichkeit dachte er gar nicht an das Zurückgewinnen der Ehre, sondern nur an Verzeihung. Aber um Verzeihung zu bekommen, mußte er erst die Schuld feststellen und die wurde ihm ja in den Ämtern abgeleugnet. Er verfiel auf den Gedanken – und dies zeigte daß er doch schon geistig geschwächt war – man verheimliche ihm die Schuld weil er nicht genug zahle; er zahlte bisher nämlich immer nur die festgesetzten Gebüren, die wenigstens für unsere Verhältnisse hoch genug waren. Er glaubte aber jetzt, er müsse mehr zahlen, was gewiß unrichtig war, denn bei unsern Ämtern nimmt man zwar der Einfachheit halber, um unnötige Reden zu vermeiden, Bestechungen an, aber erreichen kann man dadurch nichts. War es aber die Hoffnung des Vaters, wollten wir ihn darin nicht stören. Wir verkauften was wir noch hatten – es war fast nur noch Unentbehrliches – um dem Vater die Mittel für seine Nachforschungen zu verschaffen und lange Zeit hatten wir jeden Morgen die Genugtuung, daß der Vater, wenn er morgens sich auf den Weg machte, immer wenigstens mit einigen Münzen in der Tasche klimpern konnte. Wir freilich hungerten den Tag über, während das einzige was wir weiterhin durch die Geldbeschaffung bewirkten, war, daß der Vater in einer gewissen Hoffnungsfreudigkeit erhalten wurde. Dieses aber war kaum ein Vorteil. Er plagte sich auf seinen Gängen und was ohne das Geld sehr bald das verdiente Ende genommen hätte, zog sich so in die Länge. Da man für die Überzahlungen in Wirklichkeit nichts Außerordentliches leisten konnte, versuchte manchmal ein Schreiber wenigstens scheinbar etwas zu leisten, versprach Nachforschungen, deutete an daß man gewisse Spuren schon gefunden hatte, die man nicht aus Pflicht, sondern nur dem Vater zuliebe verfolgen werde, – der Vater statt zweifelnder zu werden, wurde immer gläubiger. Er kam mit einer solchen deutlich sinnlosen Versprechung zurück, so als bringe er schon wieder den vollen Segen ins Haus und es war qualvoll anzusehn, wie er immer hinter Amalias Rücken mit verzerrtem Lächeln und groß aufgerissenen Augen auf Amalia hindeutend uns zu verstehen geben wollte, wie die Errettung Amalias, die niemanden mehr als sie selbst überraschen werde, infolge seiner Bemühungen ganz nahe bevorstehe, aber alles sei noch Geheimnis und wir sollten es streng hüten. So wäre es gewiß noch sehr lange weitergegangen, wenn wir schließlich nicht vollständig außerstande gewesen wären, dem Vater das Geld noch zu liefern. Zwar war inzwischen Barnabas von Brunswick als Gehilfe nach vielen Bitten aufgenommen worden, allerdings nur in der Weise daß er abend im Dunkel die Aufträge abholte und wieder im Dunkel die Arbeit zurückbrachte – es ist zuzugeben, daß Brunswick hier eine gewisse Gefahr für sein Geschäft unseretwegen auf sich nahm, aber dafür zahlte er ja dem Barnabas sehr wenig und die Arbeit des Barnabas ist fehlerlos – doch genügte der Lohn knapp nur, um uns vor völligem Hungern zu bewahren. Mit großer Schonung und nach viel Vorbereitungen kündigten wir dem Vater die Einstellung unserer Geldunterstützungen an, aber er nahm es sehr ruhig auf. Mit dem Verstand war er nicht mehr fähig, das Aussichtslose seiner Interventionen einzusehn, aber müde war er der fortwährenden Enttäuschungen doch. Zwar sagte er – er sprach nicht mehr so deutlich wie früher, er hatte fast zu deutlich gesprochen – daß er nur noch sehr wenig Geld gebraucht hätte, morgen oder heute schon hätte er alles erfahren und nun sei alles vergebens gewesen, nur am Geld sei es gescheitert u. s. f., aber der Ton in dem er es sagte, zeigte, daß er das alles nicht glaubte. Auch hatte er gleich, unvermittelt, neue Pläne. Da es ihm nicht gelungen war, die Schuld nachzuweisen und er infolgedessen auch weiter im amtlichen Wege nichts erreichen konnte, mußte er sich ausschließlich aufs Bitten verlegen und die Beamten persönlich angehn. Es gab unter ihnen gewiß auch solche mit gutem mitleidigen Herzen, dem sie zwar im Amt nicht nachgeben durften, wohl aber außerhalb des Amtes, wenn man zu gelegener Stunde sie überraschte. "

20. Olgas Pläne

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 20:00:07 +0000

“Nun galt es wieder irgendeine Beschäftigung für den Vater zu finden, für die er noch fähig war, irgendetwas, was ihn zumindest in dem Glauben erhielt, daß es dazu diene, die Schuld von der Familie abzuwälzen. Etwas derartiges zu finden war nicht schwer, so zweckdienlich wie das Sitzen vor Bertuchs Garten war im Grunde alles, aber ich fand etwas, was sogar mir einige Hoffnung gab. Wann immer bei Ämtern oder Schreibern oder sonstwo von unserer Schuld die Rede gewesen war, war immer wieder nur die Beleidigung des Sortinischen Boten erwähnt worden, weiter wagte niemand zu dringen. Nun, sagte ich mir, wenn die allgemeine Meinung, sei es auch nur scheinbar, nur von der Botenbeleidigung weiß, ließe sich, sei es auch wieder nur scheinbar, alles wieder gutmachen, wenn man den Boten versöhnen könnte. Es ist ja keine Anzeige eingelaufen, wie man erklärt, die Sache hat also noch kein Amt in der Hand und es steht demnach dem Boten frei, für seine Person, und um mehr handelt es sich nicht, zu verzeihen. Das alles konnte ja keine entscheidende Bedeutung haben, war nur Schein und konnte wieder nichts anderes ergeben, aber dem Vater würde es doch Freude machen und die vielen Auskunftgeber, die ihn so gequält hatten, könnte man damit vielleicht zu seiner Genugtuung ein wenig in die Enge treiben. Zuerst mußte man freilich den Boten finden. Als ich meinen Plan dem Vater erzählte, wurde er zuerst sehr ärgerlich, er war nämlich äußerst eigensinnig geworden, zum Teil glaubte er, während der Krankheit hatte sich das entwickelt, daß wir ihn immer am letzten Erfolg gehindert hätten, zuerst durch Einstellung der Geldunterstützung, jetzt durch Zurückhalten im Bett, zum Teil war er gar nicht mehr fähig fremde Gedanken völlig aufzunehmen. Ich hatte noch nicht zuendeerzählt, schon war mein Plan verworfen, nach seiner Meinung mußte er bei Bertuchs Garten weiter warten und, da er gewiß nicht mehr imstande sein würde täglich hinaufzugehn, müßten wir ihn im Handkarren hinbringen. Aber ich ließ nicht ab und allmählich söhnte er sich mit dem Gedanken aus, störend war ihm dabei nur, daß er in dieser Sache ganz von mir abhängig war, denn nur ich hatte damals den Boten gesehn, er kannte ihn nicht. Freilich, ein Diener gleicht dem andern und völlig sicher dessen, daß ich jenen wiedererkennen würde, war auch ich nicht. Wir begannen dann in den Herrenhof zu gehn und unter der Dienerschaft dort zu suchen. Es war zwar ein Diener Sortinis gewesen und Sortini kam nicht mehr ins Dorf, aber die Herren wechseln häufig die Diener, man konnte ihn recht wohl in der Gruppe eines andern Herrn finden und wenn er selbst nicht zu finden war, so konnte man doch vielleicht von den andern Dienern Nachricht über ihn bekommen. Zu diesem Zweck mußte man allerdings allabendlich im Herrenhof sein und man sah uns nirgends gern, wie erst an einem solchen Ort; als zahlende Gäste konnten wir ja auch nicht auftreten. Aber es zeigte sich, daß man uns doch brauchen konnte; Du weißt wohl, was für eine Plage die Dienerschaft für Frieda war, es sind im Grunde meist ruhige Leute, durch leichten Dienst verwöhnt und schwerfällig gemacht, >es möge Dir gehn wie einem Diener< heißt ein Segensspruch der Beamten und tatsächlich sollen, was Wohlleben betrifft, die Diener die eigentlichen Herren im Schloß sein; sie wissen das auch zu würdigen und sind im Schloß, wo sie sich unter seinen Gesetzen bewegen, still und würdig, vielfach ist mir das bestätigt worden und man findet auch hier unter den Dienern noch Reste dessen, aber nur Reste, sonst sind sie dadurch, daß die Schloßgesetze für sie im Dorf nicht mehr vollständig gelten, wie verwandelt; ein wildes, unbotmäßiges, statt von den Gesetzen von ihren unersättlichen Trieben beherrschtes Volk. Ihre Schamlosigkeit kennt keine Grenzen, ein Glück für das Dorf, daß sie den Herrenhof nur über Befehl verlassen dürfen, im Herrenhof selbst aber muß man mit ihnen auszukommen suchen; Frieda nun fiel das sehr schwer und so war es ihr sehr willkommen, daß sie mich dazu verwenden konnte, die Diener zu beruhigen, seit mehr als zwei Jahren zumindest zweimal in der Woche verbringe ich die Nacht mit den Dienern im Stall. Früher, als der Vater noch in den Herrenhof mitgehn konnte, schlief er irgendwo im Ausschankzimmer und wartete so auf die Nachrichten, die ich früh bringen würde. Es war wenig. Den gesuchten Boten haben wir bis heute noch nicht gefunden, er soll noch immer in den Diensten Sortinis sein, der ihn sehr hoch schätzt und soll ihm gefolgt sein, als sich Sortini in entferntere Kanzleien zurückzog. Meist haben ihn die Diener ebensolange nicht gesehn, wie wir, und wenn einer ihn inzwischen doch gesehen haben will, ist es wohl ein Irrtum. So wäre also mein Plan eigentlich mißlungen und ist es doch nicht völlig, den Boten haben wir zwar nicht gefunden und dem Vater haben die Wege in den Herrenhof und die Übernachtungen dort, vielleicht sogar das Mitleid mit mir, soweit er dessen noch fähig ist, leider den Rest gegeben und er ist schon seit fast zwei Jahren in diesem Zustand, in dem Du ihn gesehn hast, und dabei geht es ihm vielleicht noch besser als der Mutter, deren Ende wir täglich erwarten und das sich nur dank der übermenschlichen Anstrengung Amalias verzögert. Was ich aber doch im Herrenhof erreicht habe, ist eine gewisse Verbindung mit dem Schloß; verachte mich nicht, wenn ich sage, daß ich das was ich getan habe, nicht bereue. Was mag das für eine große Verbindung mit dem Schlosse sein, wirst Du Dir vielleicht denken. Und Du hast recht, eine große Verbindung ist es nicht. Ich kenne jetzt zwar viele Diener, die Diener aller der Herren fast, die in den letzten Jahren ins Dorf kamen und wenn ich einmal ins Schloß kommen sollte so werde ich dort nicht fremd sein. Freilich, es sind nur Diener im Dorf, im Schloß sind sie ganz anders und erkennen dort wahrscheinlich niemanden mehr und jemanden mit dem sie im Dorf verkehrt haben, ganz besonders nicht und mögen sie es auch im Stall hundertmal beschworen haben, daß sie sich auf ein Wiedersehn im Schloß sehr freuen. Ich habe es ja übrigens auch schon erfahren, wie wenig alle solche Versprechungen bedeuten. Aber das Wichtigste ist das ja gar nicht. Nicht nur durch die Diener selbst habe ich eine Verbindung mit dem Schloß, sondern vielleicht und hoffentlich auch noch so, daß jemand, der von oben mich und was ich tue beobachtet – und die Verwaltung der großen Dienerschaft ist freilich ein äußerst wichtiger und sorgenvoller Teil der behördlichen Arbeit – daß dann derjenige der mich so beobachtet, vielleicht zu einem milderen Urteil über mich kommt, als andere, daß er vielleicht erkennt, daß ich, in einer jämmerlichen Art zwar, doch auch für unsere Familie kämpfe und die Bemühungen des Vaters fortsetze. Wenn man es so ansieht, vielleicht wird man es mir dann auch verzeihen, daß ich von den Dienern Geld annehme und für unsere Familie verwende. Und noch anderes habe ich erreicht, das allerdings machst auch Du zu meiner Schuld. Ich habe von den Knechten manches darüber erfahren, wie man auf Umwegen, ohne das schwierige und jahrelang dauernde öffentliche Aufnahmsverfahren in die Schloßdienste kommen kann, man ist dann zwar auch nicht öffentlicher Angestellter, sondern nur ein heimlich und halb Zugelassener, man hat weder Rechte noch Pflichten, daß man keine Pflichten hat, ist das Schlimmere, aber eines hat man, da man doch in der Nähe bei allem ist, man kann günstige Gelegenheiten erkennen und benützen, man ist kein Angestellter, aber zufällig kann sich irgendeine Arbeit finden, ein Angestellter ist gerade nicht bei der Hand, ein Zuruf, man eilt herbei, und was man vor einem Augenblick noch nicht war, man ist es geworden, ist Angestellter. Allerdings wann findet sich eine solche Gelegenheit? Manchmal gleich, kaum ist man hingekommen, kaum hat man sich umgesehn, ist die Gelegenheit schon da, es hat nicht einmal jeder die Geistesgegenwart sie so als Neuling gleich zu fassen, aber ein anderesmal dauert es wieder mehr Jahre, als das öffentliche Aufnahmsverfahren, und regelrecht öffentlich aufgenommen kann ein solcher halb Zugelassener gar nicht mehr werden. Bedenken sind hier also genug; sie schweigen aber demgegenüber, daß bei der öffentlichen Aufnahme sehr peinlich ausgewählt wird und ein Mitglied einer irgendwie anrüchigen Familie von vornherein verworfen ist, ein solcher unterzieht sich z. B. diesem Verfahren, zittert jahrelang wegen des Ergebnisses, von allen Seiten fragt man ihn erstaunt seit dem ersten Tag wie er etwas derartig Aussichtsloses wagen konnte, er hofft aber doch, wie könnte er sonst leben, aber nach vielen Jahren, vielleicht als Greis erfährt er die Ablehnung, erfährt daß alles verloren ist und sein Leben vergeblich war. Auch hier gibt es freilich Ausnahmen, darum wird man eben so leicht verlockt. Es kommt vor, daß gerade anrüchige Leute schließlich aufgenommen werden, es gibt Beamte welche förmlich gegen ihren Willen den Geruch solchen Wildes lieben, bei den Aufnahmsprüfungen schnuppern sie in der Luft, verziehn den Mund, verdrehn die Augen, ein solcher Mann scheint für sie gewissermaßen ungeheuer appetitanreizend zu sein und sie müssen sich sehr fest an die Gesetzbücher halten, um dem widerstehn zu können. Manchmal hilft das allerdings dem Mann nicht zur Aufnahme sondern nur zur endlosen Ausdehnung des Aufnahmsverfahrens, das dann überhaupt nicht beendet sondern nach dem Tode des Mannes nur abgebrochen wird. So ist also sowohl die gesetzmäßige Aufnahme als auch die andere voll offener und versteckter Schwierigkeiten und ehe man sich auf etwas derartiges einläßt, ist es sehr ratsam alles genau zu erwägen. Nun daran haben wir es nicht fehlen lassen, Barnabas und ich. Immer wenn ich aus dem Herrenhof kam, setzten wir uns zusammen, ich erzählte das Neueste was ich erfahren hatte, tagelang sprachen wir es durch und die Arbeit in des Barnabas Hand ruhte oft länger als gut war. Und hier mag ich eine Schuld in Deinem Sinne haben. Ich wußte doch daß auf die Erzählungen der Knechte nicht viel Verlaß war. Ich wußte, daß sie niemals Lust hatten mir vom Schloß zu erzählen, immer zu anderem ablenkten, jedes Wort sich abbetteln ließen, dann aber freilich wenn sie im Gang waren, loslegten, Unsinn schwatzten, großtaten, einander in Übertreibungen und Erfindungen überboten, so daß offenbar im endlosen Geschrei, in welchem einer den andern ablöste dort im dunklen Stall, bestenfalls paar magere Andeutungen der Wahrheit enthalten sein mochten. Ich aber erzählte dem Barnabas alles wieder, so wie ich es mir gemerkt hatte und er, der noch gar keine Fähigkeit hatte, zwischen Wahrem und Erlogenem zu unterscheiden und infolge der Lage unserer Familie fast verdurstete vor Verlangen nach diesen Dingen, er trank alles in sich hinein und glühte vor Eifer nach Weiterem. Und tatsächlich ruhte auf Barnabas mein neuer Plan. Bei den Knechten war nichts mehr zu erreichen. Der Bote Sortinis war nicht zu finden und würde niemals zu finden sein, immer weiter schien sich Sortini und damit auch der Bote zurückzuziehn, oft geriet ihr Aussehen und Name schon in Vergessenheit und ich mußte sie oft lange beschreiben, um damit nichts zu erzielen, als daß man sich mühsam an sie erinnerte, aber darüber hinaus nichts über sie sagen konnte. Und was mein Leben mit den Knechten betraf, so hatte ich natürlich keinen Einfluß darauf wie es beurteilt wurde, konnte nur hoffen, daß man es so aufnehmen würde, wie es getan war und daß dafür ein Geringes von der Schuld unserer Familie abgezogen würde, aber äußere Zeichen dessen bekam ich nicht. Doch blieb ich dabei, da ich für mich keine andere Möglichkeit sah, im Schloß etwas für uns zu bewirken. Für Barnabas aber sah ich eine solche Möglichkeit. Aus den Erzählungen der Knechte konnte ich wenn ich dazu Lust hatte, und diese Lust hatte ich in Fülle, entnehmen, daß jemand der in Schloßdienste aufgenommen ist, sehr viel für seine Familie erreichen kann. Freilich, was war an diesen Erzählungen Glaubwürdiges? Das war unmöglich festzustellen, nur daß es sehr wenig war, war klar. Denn wenn mir z. B. ein Knecht, den ich niemals mehr sehn würde oder den ich, wenn ich ihn auch sehn sollte, kaum wiedererkennen würde, feierlich zusicherte, meinem Bruder zu einer Anstellung im Schloß zu verhelfen oder zumindest, wenn Barnabas sonstwie ins Schloß kommen sollte, ihn zu unterstützen, also etwa ihn zu erfrischen, denn nach den Erzählungen der Knechte kommt es vor, daß Anwärter für Stellungen während der überlangen Wartezeit ohnmächtig oder verwirrt werden und dann verloren sind, wenn nicht Freunde für sie sorgen – wenn solches und vieles andere mir erzählt wurde, so waren das wahrscheinlich berechtigte Warnungen, aber die zugehörigen Versprechungen waren völlig leer. Für Barnabas nicht, zwar warnte ich ihn ihnen zu glauben, aber schon daß ich sie ihm erzählte, war genügend, um ihn für meine Pläne einzunehmen. Was ich selbst dafür anführte, wirkte auf ihn weniger, auf ihn wirkten hauptsächlich die Erzählungen der Knechte. Und so war ich eigentlich gänzlich auf mich allein angewiesen, mit den Eltern konnte sich überhaupt niemand außer Amalia verständigen, je mehr ich die alten Pläne des Vaters in meiner Art verfolgte, desto mehr schloß sich Amalia von mir ab, vor Dir oder andern spricht sie mit mir, allein niemals mehr, den Knechten im Herrenhof war ich ein Spielzeug, das zu zerbrechen sie sich wütend anstrengten, kein einziges vertrauliches Wort habe ich während der zwei Jahre mit einem von ihnen gesprochen, nur Hinterhältiges oder Erlogenes oder Irrsinniges, blieb mir also nur Barnabas und Barnabas war noch sehr jung. Wenn ich bei meinen Berichten den Glanz in seinen Augen sah, den er seitdem behalten hat, erschrak ich und ließ doch nicht ab, zu Großes schien mir auf dem Spiel zu sein. Freilich die großen wenn auch leeren Pläne meines Vaters hatte ich nicht, ich hatte nicht diese Entschlossenheit der Männer, ich blieb bei der Wiedergutmachung der Beleidigung des Boten und wollte gar noch daß man mir diese Bescheidenheit als Verdienst anrechne. Aber was mir allein mißlungen war, wollte ich jetzt durch Barnabas anders und sicher erreichen. Einen Boten hatten wir beleidigt und ihn aus den vorderen Kanzleien verscheucht, was lag näher, als in der Person des Barnabas einen neuen Boten anzubieten, durch Barnabas die Arbeit des beleidigten Boten ausführen zu lassen und dem Beleidigten es so zu ermöglichen, ruhig in der Ferne zu bleiben, wie lange er wollte, wie lange er es zum Vergessen der Beleidigung brauchte. Ich merkte zwar gut, daß in aller Bescheidenheit dieses Planes auch Anmaßung lag, daß es den Eindruck erwecken konnte, als ob wir der Behörde diktieren wollten, wie sie Personalfragen ordnen sollte oder als ob wir daran zweifelten, daß die Behörde aus eigenem das Beste anzuordnen fähig war und es sogar schon längst angeordnet hatte, ehe wir nur auf den Gedanken gekommen waren, daß hier etwas getan werden könnte. Doch glaubte ich dann wieder, daß es unmöglich sei daß mich die Behörde so mißverstehe oder daß sie, wenn sie es tun sollte, es dann mit Absicht tun würde, d. h. daß dann von vornherein ohne nähere Untersuchung alles, was ich tue, verworfen sei. So ließ ich also nicht ab und der Ehrgeiz des Barnabas tat das seine. In dieser Zeit der Vorbereitungen wurde Barnabas so hochmütig, daß er die Schusterarbeit für sich, den künftigen Kanzleiangestellten, zu schmutzig fand, ja daß er es sogar wagte, Amalia, wenn sie ihm, selten genug, ein Wort sagte, zu widersprechen undzwar grundsätzlich. Ich gönnte ihm gern diese kurze Freude, denn mit dem ersten Tag, an welchem er ins Schloß ging, war Freude und Hochmut, wie leicht vorauszusehen gewesen war, gleich vorüber. Es begann nun jener scheinbare Dienst, von dem ich Dir schon erzählt habe. Erstaunlich war es, wie Barnabas ohne Schwierigkeiten zum erstenmal das Schloß oder richtiger jene Kanzlei betrat, die sozusagen sein Arbeitsraum geworden ist. Dieser Erfolg machte mich damals fast toll, ich lief, als es mir Barnabas abend beim Nachhausekommen zuflüsterte, zu Amalia, packte sie, drückte sie in eine Ecke und küßte sie mit Lippen und Zähnen, daß sie vor Schmerz und Schrecken weinte. Sagen konnte ich vor Erregung nichts, auch hatten wir ja schon so lange nichts mit einander gesprochen, ich verschob es auf die nächsten Tage. An den nächsten Tagen aber war freilich nichts mehr zu sagen. Bei dem so schnell Erreichten blieb es auch. Zwei Jahre lang führte Barnabas dieses einförmige herzbeklemmende Leben. Die Knechte versagten gänzlich, ich gab Barnabas einen kleinen Brief mit, in dem ich ihn der Aufmerksamkeit der Knechte empfahl, die ich gleichzeitig an ihre Versprechungen erinnerte und Barnabas, sooft er einen Knecht sah, zog den Brief heraus und hielt ihn ihm vor und wenn er wohl auch manchmal an Knechte geriet, die mich nicht kannten, und wenn auch für die Bekannten seine Art den Brief stumm vorzuzeigen, denn zu sprechen wagt er oben nicht, ärgerlich war, so war es doch schändlich daß niemand ihm half und es war eine Erlösung, die wir aus Eigenem uns freilich auch und längst hätten verschaffen können, als ein Knecht, dem vielleicht der Brief schon einigemal aufgedrängt worden war, ihn zusammenknüllte und in einen Papierkorb warf. Fast hätte er dabei, so fiel mir ein, sagen können: >Ähnlich pflegt ja auch Ihr Briefe zu behandeln. < So ergebnislos aber diese ganze Zeit sonst war, auf Barnabas wirkte sie günstig, wenn man es günstig nennen will, daß er vorzeitig alterte, vorzeitig ein Mann wurde, ja in manchem ernst und einsichtig über die Mannheit hinaus. Mich macht es oft sehr traurig ihn anzusehn und ihn mit dem Jungen zu vergleichen, der er noch vor zwei Jahren war. Und dabei habe ich gar nicht den Trost und Rückhalt, den er mir als Mann vielleicht geben könnte. Ohne mich wäre er kaum ins Schloß gekommen, aber seitdem er dort ist, ist er von mir unabhängig. Ich bin seine einzige Vertraute, aber er erzählt mir gewiß nur einen kleinen Teil dessen, was er auf dem Herzen hat. Er erzählt mir viel vom Schloß, aber aus seinen Erzählungen, aus den kleinen Tatsachen, die er mitteilt, kann man bei weitem nicht verstehen, wie ihn dieses so verwandelt haben könnte. Man kann insbesondere nicht verstehn, warum er den Mut, den er als Junge bis zu unserer aller Verzweiflung hatte, jetzt als Mann dort oben so gänzlich verloren hat. Freilich, dieses nutzlose Dastehn und Warten Tag für Tag und immer wieder von neuem und ohne jede Aussicht auf Veränderung, das zermürbt und macht zweifelhaft und schließlich zu anderem als zu diesem verzweifelten Dastehn sogar unfähig. Aber warum hat er auch früher gar keinen Widerstand geleistet? Besonders da er bald erkannte, daß ich recht gehabt hatte und für den Ehrgeiz dort nichts zu holen war, wohl aber vielleicht für die Besserung der Lage unserer Familie. Denn dort geht alles, die Launen der Diener ausgenommen, sehr bescheiden zu, der Ehrgeiz sucht dort in der Arbeit Befriedigung und da dabei die Sache selbst das Übergewicht bekommt, verliert er sich gänzlich, für kindliche Wünsche ist dort kein Raum. Wohl aber glaubte Barnabas, wie er mir erzählte, deutlich zu sehn, wie groß die Macht und das Wissen selbst dieser doch recht fragwürdigen Beamten war, in deren Zimmer er sein durfte. Wie sie diktierten, schnell, mit halb geschlossenen Augen, kurzen Handbewegungen, wie sie nur mit dem Zeigefinger ohne jedes Wort die brummigen Diener abfertigten, die in solchen Augenblicken schwer atmend, glücklich lächelten oder wie sie eine wichtige Stelle in ihren Büchern fanden, voll darauf schlugen und, soweit es in der Enge möglich war, die andern herbeiliefen und die Hälse danach streckten. Das und ähnliches gab Barnabas große Vorstellungen von diesen Männern und er hatte den Eindruck, daß wenn er so weit käme, von ihnen bemerkt zu werden und mit ihnen paar Worte sprechen zu dürfen, nicht als Fremder, sondern als Kanzleikollege, allerdings untergeordnetester Art, Unabsehbares für unsere Familie erreicht werden könnte. Aber soweit ist es eben noch nicht gekommen und etwas was ihn dem annähern könnte wagt Barnabas nicht zu tun, trotzdem er schon genau weiß, daß er trotz seiner Jugend innerhalb unserer Familie durch die unglücklichen Verhältnisse zu der verantwortungsschweren Stellung des Familienvaters selbst hinaufgerückt ist. Und nun, um das Letzte noch zu gestehn: Vor einer Woche bist Du gekommen. Ich hörte im Herrenhof jemanden es erwähnen, kümmerte mich aber nicht darum; ein Landvermesser war gekommen, ich wußte nicht einmal was das ist. Aber am nächsten Abend kommt Barnabas – ich pflegte ihm sonst zu bestimmter Stunde ein Stück Wegs entgegenzugehn – früher als sonst nachhause, sieht Amalia in der Stube, zieht mich deshalb auf die Straße hinaus, drückt dort das Gesicht auf meine Schulter und weint minutenlang. Er ist wieder der kleine Junge von ehemals. Es ist ihm etwas geschehn, dem er nicht gewachsen ist. Es ist als hätte sich vor ihm plötzlich eine ganz neue Welt aufgetan und das Glück und die Sorgen aller dieser Neuheit kann er nicht ertragen. Und dabei ist ihm nichts anderes geschehn, als daß er einen Brief an Dich zur Bestellung bekommen hat. Aber es ist freilich der erste Brief, die erste Arbeit, die er überhaupt je bekommen hat. "

21. («Nun war es also…»)

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 20:01:02 +0000

Nun war es also doch geschehn, was vorauszusehen, aber nicht zu verhindern gewesen war. Frieda hatte ihn verlassen. Es mußte nichts endgiltiges sein, so schlimm war es nicht, Frieda war zurückzuerobern, sie war leicht von Fremden zu beeinflussen, gar von diesen Gehilfen, welche Friedas Stellung für ähnlich der ihren hielten und nun, da sie gekündigt hatten, auch Frieda dazu veranlaßt hatten, aber K. mußte nur vor sie treten, an alles erinnern, was für ihn sprach und sie war wieder reuevoll die seine, gar wenn er etwa imstande gewesen wäre, den Besuch bei den Mädchen durch einen Erfolg zu rechtfertigen, den er ihnen verdankte. Aber trotz diesen Überlegungen, mit welchen er sich wegen Frieda zu beruhigen suchte, war er nicht beruhigt. Noch vor kurzem hatte er sich Olga gegenüber Friedas gerühmt und sie seinen einzigen Halt genannt, nun, dieser Halt war nicht der festeste, nicht der Eingriff eines Mächtigen war nötig, um K. Friedas zu berauben, es genügte auch dieser nicht sehr appetitliche Gehilfe, dieses Fleisch, das manchmal den Eindruck machte, als sei es nicht recht lebendig.

22. («Da sah K. wie er…»)

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 20:02:18 +0000

Da sah K., wie er ziellos umherblickte, weit in der Ferne an einer Wendung des Ganges Frieda; sie tat, als erkenne sie ihn nicht, blickte nur starr auf ihn, in der Hand trug sie eine Tasse mit leerem Geschirr. Er sagte dem Diener, der aber gar nicht auf ihn achtete – je mehr man zu dem Diener sprach, desto geistesabwesender schien er zu werden – er werde gleich zurückkommen, und lief zu Frieda. Bei ihr angekommen, faßte er sie bei den Schultern, so als ergreife er wieder von ihr Besitz, stellte einige belanglose Fragen und suchte dabei prüfend in ihren Augen. Aber ihre starre Haltung löste sich kaum, zerstreut versuchte sie einige Umstellungen des Geschirrs auf der Tasse und sagte: “Was willst Du denn von mir? Geh doch zu den – nun Du weißt ja, wie sie heißen, Du kommst ja gerade von ihnen, ich kann es Dir ansehn. " K. lenkte schnell ab; die Aussprache sollte nicht so plötzlich kommen und bei dem Bösesten, bei dem für ihn Ungünstigsten anfangen. “Ich dachte Du wärest im Ausschank”, sagte er. Frieda sah ihn erstaunt an und fuhr ihm dann sanft mit der einen Hand, die sie frei hatte, über Stirn und Wange. Es war, als habe sie sein Aussehn vergessen und wolle es sich so wieder ins Bewußtsein zurückrufen, auch ihre Augen hatten den verschleierten Ausdruck des mühsamen Sich-Erinnerns. “Ich bin für den Ausschank wiederaufgenommen”, sagte sie dann langsam, als sei es unwichtig was sie sage, aber unter den Worten führe sie noch ein Gespräch mit K. und dies sei das wichtigere, “diese Arbeit taugt nicht für mich, die kann auch eine jede andere besorgen; jede, die aufbetten und ein freundliches Gesicht machen kann und die Belästigung durch die Gäste nicht scheut, sondern sie sogar noch hervorruft, eine jede solche kann Stubenmädchen sein. Aber im Ausschank, da ist es etwas anderes. Ich bin auch gleich für den Ausschank wieder aufgenommen worden, trotzdem ich damals nicht sehr ehrenvoll ihn verlassen habe, freilich hatte ich jetzt Protektion. Aber der Wirt war glücklich, daß ich Protektion hatte und es ihm deshalb leicht möglich war, mich wieder aufzunehmen. Es war sogar so, daß man mich drängen mußte, den Posten anzunehmen; wenn Du bedenkst, woran mich der Ausschank erinnert, wirst Du es begreifen. Schließlich habe ich den Posten angenommen. Hier bin ich nur aushilfsweise. Pepi hat gebeten ihr nicht die Schande zu tun, sofort den Ausschank verlassen zu müssen, wir haben ihr deshalb, weil sie doch fleißig gewesen ist und alles so besorgt hat, wie es nur ihre Fähigkeiten erlaubt haben, eine vierundzwanzigstündige Frist gegeben. " “Das ist alles sehr gut eingerichtet”, sagte K., “nur hast Du einmal meinetwegen den Ausschank verlassen und nun da wir kurz vor der Hochzeit sind kehrst Du wieder in ihn zurück?” “Es wird keine Hochzeit geben”, sagte Frieda. “Weil ich untreu war?” fragte K. Frieda nickte. “Nun sieh, Frieda”, sagte K., “über diese angebliche Untreue haben wir schon öfters gesprochen und immer hast Du schließlich einsehn müssen, daß es ein ungerechter Verdacht war. Seitdem aber hat sich auf meiner Seite nichts geändert, alles ist so unschuldig geblieben wie es war und wie es nicht anders werden kann. Also muß sich etwas auf Deiner Seite geändert haben, durch fremde Einflüsterungen oder anderes. Unrecht tust Du mir auf jeden Fall, denn sieh, wie verhält es sich mit diesen zwei Mädchen? Die eine, die dunkle – ich schäme mich fast, mich so im einzelnen verteidigen zu müssen, aber Du forderst es heraus – die dunkle also ist mir wahrscheinlich nicht weniger peinlich als Dir; wenn ich mich nur irgendwie von ihr fernhalten kann, tue ich es und sie erleichtert das ja auch, man kann nicht zurückhaltender sein, als sie es ist. " “Ja”, rief Frieda aus, die Worte kamen ihr wie gegen ihren Willen hervor; K. war froh, sie so abgelenkt zu sehn; sie war anders, als sie sein wollte, “die magst Du für zurückhaltend ansehn, die schamloseste von allen nennst Du zurückhaltend und Du meinst es, so unglaubwürdig es ist, ehrlich, Du verstellst Dich nicht, das weiß ich. Die Brückenhofwirtin sagt von Dir: leiden kann ich ihn nicht, aber verlassen kann ich ihn auch nicht, man kann doch auch beim Anblick eines kleinen Kindes, das noch nicht gut gehen kann und sich weit vorwagt, unmöglich sich beherrschen, man muß eingreifen.” “Nimm diesmal ihre Lehre an”, sagte K. lächelnd, “aber jenes Mädchen, ob es zurückhaltend oder schamlos ist, können wir bei Seite lassen, ich will von ihr nichts wissen. " “Aber warum nennst Du sie zurückhaltend?” fragte Frieda unnachgiebig, K. hielt diese Teilnahme für ein ihm günstiges Zeichen, “hast Du es erprobt oder willst Du andere dadurch herabsetzen?” “Weder das eine noch das andere”, sagte K., “ich nenne sie so aus Dankbarkeit, weil sie es mir leicht macht, sie zu übersehn und weil ich, selbst wenn sie mich nur öfters ansprechen würde, es nicht über mich bringen könnte wieder hinzugehn, was doch ein großer Verlust für mich wäre, denn ich muß hingehn, wegen unserer gemeinsamen Zukunft, wie Du weißt. Und deshalb muß ich auch mit dem andern Mädchen sprechen, das ich zwar wegen seiner Tüchtigkeit, Umsicht und Selbstlosigkeit schätze, von dem aber doch niemand behaupten kann, daß es verführerisch ist.” “Die Knechte sind anderer Meinung”, sagte Frieda. “In dieser wie auch wohl in vieler anderer Hinsicht”, sagte K. “Aus den Gelüsten der Knechte willst Du auf meine Untreue schließen?” Frieda schwieg und duldete es, daß K. ihr die Tasse aus der Hand nahm, auf den Boden stellte, seinen Arm unter den ihren schob und in kleinem Raum langsam mit ihr hin- und herzugehn begann. “Du weißt nicht was Treue ist”, sagte sie, sich ein wenig wehrend gegen seine Nähe, “wie Du Dich auch zu den Mädchen verhalten magst, ist ja nicht das Wichtigste; daß Du in diese Familie überhaupt gehst und zurückkommst, den Geruch ihrer Stube in den Kleidern, ist schon eine unerträgliche Schande für mich. Und Du läufst aus der Schule fort, ohne etwas zu sagen. Und bleibst gar bei ihnen die halbe Nacht. Und läßt, wenn man nach Dir fragt, Dich von den Mädchen verleugnen, leidenschaftlich verleugnen, besonders von der unvergleichlich Zurückhaltenden. Schleichst Dich auf einem geheimen Weg aus dem Haus, vielleicht gar um den Ruf jener Mädchen zu schonen, den Ruf jener Mädchen! Nein, sprechen wir nicht mehr davon!” “Von diesem nicht”, sagte K., “aber von etwas anderem, Frieda. Von diesem ist ja auch nichts zu sagen. Warum ich hingehn muß, weißt Du. Es wird mir nicht leicht, aber ich überwinde mich. Du solltest es mir nicht schwerer machen als es ist. Heute dachte ich nur für einen Augenblick hinzugehn und nachzufragen, ob Barnabas, der eine wichtige Botschaft schon längst hätte bringen sollen, endlich gekommen ist. Er war nicht gekommen, aber er mußte, wie man mir versicherte und wie es auch glaubwürdig war, sehr bald kommen. Ihn mir in die Schule nachkommen lassen, wollte ich nicht, um Dich durch seine Gegenwart nicht zu belästigen. Die Stunden vergingen und er kam leider nicht. Wohl aber kam ein anderer, der mir verhaßt ist. Von ihm mich ausspionieren zu lassen, hatte ich keine Lust und ging also durch den Nachbargarten, aber auch vor ihm verbergen wollte ich mich nicht, sondern ging dann auf der Straße frei auf ihn zu, mit einer sehr biegsamen Weidenrute, wie ich gestehe. Das ist alles, darüber ist also weiter nichts zu sagen, wohl aber über etwas anderes. Wie verhält es sich denn mit den Gehilfen, die zu erwähnen mir fast so widerlich ist wie Dir die Erwähnung jener Familie? Vergleiche Dein Verhältnis zu ihnen damit, wie ich mich zu der Familie verhalte. Ich verstehe Deinen Widerwillen gegenüber der Familie und kann ihn teilen. Nur um der Sache willen gehe ich zu ihnen, fast scheint es mir manchmal, daß ich ihnen Unrecht tue, sie ausnütze. Du und die Gehilfen dagegen. Du hast gar nicht in Abrede gestellt, daß sie Dich verfolgen und hast eingestanden, daß es Dich zu ihnen zieht. Ich war Dir nicht böse deshalb, habe eingesehn, daß hier Kräfte im Spiel sind, denen Du nicht gewachsen bist, war schon glücklich darüber, daß Du Dich wenigstens wehrst, habe geholfen Dich zu verteidigen und nur weil ich paar Stunden darin nachgelassen habe, im Vertrauen auf Deine Treue, allerdings auch in der Hoffnung daß das Haus unweigerlich verschlossen ist und die Gehilfen endgiltig in die Flucht geschlagen sind – ich unterschätze sie noch immer, fürchte ich – nur weil ich paar Stunden darin nachgelassen habe und jener Jeremias, genau betrachtet ein nicht sehr gesunder, ältlicher Bursche, die Keckheit gehabt hat, ans Fenster zu treten, nur deshalb soll ich Dich, Frieda, verlieren und als Begrüßung zu hören bekommen: >Es wird keine Hochzeit geben. < Wäre ich es nicht eigentlich der Vorwürfe machen dürfte und ich mache sie nicht, mache sie noch immer nicht. " Und wieder schien es K. gut, Frieda ein wenig abzulenken und er bat sie ihm etwas zum Essen zu bringen, weil er schon seit Mittag nichts gegessen habe. Frieda, offenbar auch durch die Bitte erleichtert, nickte und lief etwas zu holen, nicht den Gang weiter wo K. die Küche vermutete, sondern seitlich paar Stufen abwärts. Sie brachte bald einen Teller mit Aufschnitt und eine Flasche Wein, aber es waren wohl nur schon die Reste einer Mahlzeit, flüchtig waren die einzelnen Stücke neu ausgebreitet um es unkenntlich zu machen, sogar Wurstschalen waren dort vergessen und die Flasche war zu dreivierteln geleert. Doch sagte K. nichts darüber und machte sich mit gutem Appetit ans Essen. “Du warst in der Küche?n” fragte er. “Nein, in meinem Zimmer”, sagte sie, “ich habe hier unten ein Zimmer. " “Hättest Du mich doch mitgenommen”, sagte K., “ich werde hinuntergehn, um mich zum Essen ein wenig zu setzen. " “Ich werde Dir einen Sessel bringen”, sagte Frieda und war schon auf dem Weg. “Danke”, sagte K. und hielt sie zurück, “ich werde weder hinuntergehn noch brauche ich mehr einen Sessel.” Frieda ertrug trotzig seinen Griff, hatte den Kopf tief geneigt und biß die Lippen. “Nun ja, er ist unten”, sagte sie, “hast Du es anders erwartet? Er liegt in meinem Bett, er hat sich draußen verkühlt, er fröstelt, er hat kaum gegessen. Im Grunde ist alles Deine Schuld, hättest Du die Gehilfen nicht verjagt und wärst jenen Leuten nicht nachgelaufen, wir könnten jetzt friedlich in der Schule sitzen. Nur Du hast unser Glück zerstört. Glaubst Du, daß Jeremias, solange er im Dienst war, es gewagt hätte mich zu entführen? Dann verkennst Du die hiesige Ordnung ganz und gar. Er wollte zu mir, er hat sich gequält, er hat auf mich gelauert, das war aber nur ein Spiel, so wie ein hungriger Hund spielt und es doch nicht wagt auf den Tisch zu springen. Und ebenso ich. Es zog mich zu ihm, er ist mein Spielkamerad aus der Kinderzeit – wir spielten miteinander auf dem Abhang des Schloßberges, schöne Zeiten, Du hast mich niemals nach meiner Vergangenheit gefragt – doch das alles war nicht entscheidend, solange Jeremias durch den Dienst gehalten war, denn ich kannte ja meine Pflicht als Deine künftige Frau. Dann aber vertriebst Du die Gehilfen und rühmst Dich noch dessen, als hättest Du damit etwas für mich getan, nun in einem gewissen Sinn ist es wahr. Bei Artur gelang Deine Absicht, allerdings nur vorläufig, er ist zart, er hat nicht die keine Schwierigkeit fürchtende Leidenschaft des Jeremias, auch hast Du ihn ja durch den Faustschlag in der Nacht – jener Schlag war auch gegen unser Glück geführt – nahezu zerstört, er flüchtete ins Schloß um zu klagen und wenn er auch bald wieder kommen wird, immerhin er ist jetzt fort. Jeremias aber blieb. Im Dienst fürchtet er ein Augenzucken des Herrn, außerhalb des Dienstes aber fürchtet er nichts. Er kam und nahm mich; von Dir verlassen, von ihm, dem alten Freund, beherrscht, konnte ich mich nicht halten. Ich habe das Schultor nicht aufgesperrt, er zerschlug das Fenster und zog mich hinaus. Wir flogen hierher, der Wirt achtet ihn, auch kann den Gästen nichts willkommener sein, als einen solchen Zimmerkellner zu haben, so wurden wir aufgenommen, er wohnt nicht bei mir, sondern wir haben ein gemeinsames Zimmer. " " Trotz allem”, sagte K., “bedauere ich es nicht, die Gehilfen aus dem Dienst getrieben zu haben. War das Verhältnis so wie Du es beschreibst, Deine Treue also nur durch die dienstliche Gebundenheit der Gehilfen bedingt, dann war es gut, daß alles ein Ende nahm. Das Glück der Ehe inmitten der zwei Raubtiere, die sich nur unter der Knute duckten, wäre nicht sehr groß gewesen. Dann bin ich auch jener Familie dankbar, welche unabsichtlich ihr Teil beigetragen hat, um uns zu trennen. " Sie schwiegen und gingen wieder nebeneinander auf und ab, ohne daß zu unterscheiden gewesen wäre, wer jetzt damit begonnen hätte. Frieda, nahe an K., schien ärgerlich, daß er sie nicht wieder unter den Arm nahm. “Und so wäre alles in Ordnung”, fuhr K. fort, “und wir könnten Abschied nehmen, Du zu Deinem Herrn Jeremias gehn, der wahrscheinlich noch vom Schulgarten her verkühlt ist und den Du mit Rücksicht darauf schon viel zulange allein gelassen hast, und ich allein in die Schule oder, da ich ja ohne Dich dort nichts zu tun habe, sonst irgendwohin, wo man mich aufnimmt. Wenn ich nun trotzdem zögere, so deshalb, weil ich aus gutem Grund noch immer ein wenig daran zweifle, was Du mir erzählt hast. Ich habe von Jeremias den gegenteiligen Eindruck. Solange er im Dienst war, ist er hinter Dir her gewesen und ich glaube nicht, daß der Dienst ihn auf die Dauer zurückgehalten hätte, Dich einmal ernstlich zu überfallen. Jetzt aber, seitdem er den Dienst für aufgehoben ansieht, ist es anders. Verzeih, wenn ich es mir auf folgende Weise erkläre: Seitdem Du nicht mehr die Braut seines Herrn bist, bist Du keine solche Verlockung mehr für ihn wie früher. Du magst seine Freundin aus der Kinderzeit sein, doch legt er – ich kenne ihn eigentlich nur aus einem kurzen Gespräch heute nacht – solchen Gefühlsdingen meiner Meinung nach nicht viel Wert bei. Ich weiß nicht, warum er Dir als ein leidenschaftlicher Charakter erscheint. Seine Denkweise scheint mir eher besonders kühl. Er hat inbezug auf mich irgendeinen, mir vielleicht nicht sehr günstigen Auftrag von Galater bekommen, diesen strengt er sich an auszuführen, mit einer gewissen Dienstleidenschaft, wie ich zugeben will – sie ist hier nicht allzu selten –, dazu gehört, daß er unser Verhältnis zerstört; er hat es vielleicht auf verschiedene Weise versucht, eine davon war die, daß er Dich durch sein lüsternes Schmachten zu verlocken suchte, eine andere, hier hat ihn die Wirtin unterstützt, daß er von meiner Untreue fabelte, sein Anschlag ist ihm gelungen, irgendeine Erinnerung an Klamm, die ihn umgibt, mag mitgeholfen haben, den Posten hat er zwar verloren, aber vielleicht gerade in dem Augenblick, in dem er ihn nicht mehr benötigte, jetzt erntet er die Früchte seiner Arbeit und zieht Dich aus dem Schulfenster, damit ist aber seine Arbeit beendet und, von der Dienstleidenschaft verlassen, wird er müde, er wäre lieber an Stelle Arturs, der gar nicht klagt sondern sich Lob und neue Aufträge holt, aber es muß doch auch jemand zurückbleiben, der die weitere Entwicklung der Dinge verfolgt. Eine etwas lästige Pflicht ist es ihm Dich zu versorgen. Von Liebe zu Dir ist keine Spur, er hat es mir offen gestanden, als Geliebte Klamms bist Du ihm natürlich respektabel und in Deinem Zimmer sich einnisten und sich einmal als ein kleiner Klamm zu fühlen, tut ihm gewiß sehr wohl, das aber ist alles, Du selbst bedeutest ihm jetzt nichts, nur ein Nachtrag zu seiner Hauptaufgabe ist es ihm, daß er Dich hier untergebracht hat; um Dich nicht zu beunruhigen, ist er auch selbst geblieben, aber nur vorläufig, solange er nicht neue Nachrichten vom Schloß bekommt und seine Verkühlung von Dir nicht auskuriert ist. " “Wie Du ihn verleumdest! " sagte Frieda und schlug ihre kleinen Fäuste aneinander. “Verleumden?” sagte K., “nein, ich will ihn nicht verleumden. Wohl aber tue ich ihm vielleicht Unrecht, das ist freilich möglich. Ganz offen an der Oberfläche liegt es ja nicht, was ich über ihn gesagt habe, es läßt sich auch anders deuten. Aber verleumden? Verleumden könnte doch nur den Zweck haben, damit gegen Deine Liebe zu ihm anzukämpfen. Wäre es nötig und wäre Verleumdung ein geeignetes Mittel, ich würde nicht zögern ihn zu verleumden. Niemand könnte mich deshalb verurteilen, er ist durch seine Auftraggeber in solchem Vorteil mir gegenüber, daß ich, ganz allein auf mich angewiesen, auch ein wenig verleumden dürfte. Es wäre ein verhältnismäßig unschuldiges und letzten Endes ja auch ohnmächtiges Verteidigungsmittel. Laß also die Fäuste ruhn. " Und K. nahm Friedas Hand in die seine; Frieda wollte sie ihm entziehn, aber lächelnd und nicht mit großer Kraftanstrengung. “Aber ich muß nicht verleumden”, sagte K., “denn Du liebst ihn ja nicht, glaubst es nur und wirst mir dankbar sein, wenn ich Dich von der Täuschung befreie. Sieh, wenn jemand Dich von mir fortbringen wollte, ohne Gewalt, aber mit möglichst sorgfältiger Berechnung, dann müßte er es durch die beiden Gehilfen tun. Scheinbar gute, kindliche, lustige, verantwortungslose, von hoch her, vom Schloß hergeblasene Jungen, ein wenig Kindheitserinnerung auch dabei, das ist doch schon alles sehr liebenswert, besonders wenn ich etwa das Gegenteil von alledem bin, dafür immerfort hinter Geschäften herlaufe, die Dir nicht ganz verständlich, die Dir ärgerlich sind, die mich mit Leuten zusammenbringen, die Dir hassenswert sind und etwas davon bei aller meiner Unschuld auch auf mich übertragen. Das ganze ist nur eine bösartige, allerdings sehr kluge Ausnützung der Mängel unseres Verhältnisses. Jedes Verhältnis hat seine Mängel, gar unseres; wir kamen ja jeder aus einer ganz andern Welt zusammen und seitdem wir einander kennen, nahm das Leben eines jeden von uns einen ganz neuen Weg, wir fühlen uns noch unsicher, es ist doch allzu neu. Ich rede nicht von mir, das ist nicht so wichtig, ich bin ja im Grunde immerfort beschenkt worden, seitdem Du Deine Augen zum erstenmal mir zuwandtest und an das Beschenktwerden sich gewöhnen ist nicht sehr schwer. Du aber, von allem andern abgesehn, wurdest von Klamm losgerissen, ich kann nicht ermessen, was das bedeutet, aber eine Ahnung dessen habe ich doch allmählich schon bekommen, man taumelt, man kann sich nicht zurechtfinden, und wenn ich auch bereit war Dich immer aufzunehmen, so war ich doch nicht immer zugegen und wenn ich zugegen war, hielten Dich manchmal Deine Träumereien fest oder noch Lebendigeres, wie etwa die Wirtin – kurz es gab Zeiten, wo Du von mir wegsahst, Dich irgendwohin ins Halb-Unbestimmte sehntest, armes Kind, und es mußten nur in solchen Zwischenzeiten in der Richtung Deines Blicks passende Leute aufgestellt werden und Du warst an sie verloren, erlagst der Täuschung, daß das, was nur Augenblicke waren, Gespenster, alte Erinnerungen, im Grunde vergangenes und immer mehr vergehendes einstmaliges Leben, daß dieses noch Dein wirkliches jetziges Leben sei. Ein Irrtum, Frieda, nichts als die letzte, richtig angesehn verächtliche Schwierigkeit unserer endlichen Vereinigung. Komme zu Dir, fasse Dich; wenn Du auch dachtest, daß die Gehilfen von Klamm geschickt sind – es ist gar nicht wahr, sie kommen von Galater – und wenn sie Dich auch mit Hilfe dieser Täuschung so bezaubern konnten, daß Du selbst in ihrem Schmutz und ihrer Unzucht Spuren von Klamm zu finden meintest, so wie jemand in einem Misthaufen einen einst verlorenen Edelstein zu sehen glaubt, während er ihn in Wirklichkeit dort gar nicht finden könnte, selbst wenn er dort wirklich wäre – so sind es doch nur Burschen von der Art der Knechte im Stall, nur daß sie nicht ihre Gesundheit haben, ein wenig frische Luft sie krank macht und aufs Bett wirft, das sie sich allerdings mit knechtischer Pfiffigkeit auszusuchen verstehn. " Frieda hatte ihren Kopf an K.’s Schulter gelehnt, die Arme um einander geschlungen giengen sie schweigend auf und ab. “Wären wir doch”, sagte Frieda, langsam, ruhig, fast behaglich, so als wisse sie, daß ihr nur eine ganz kleine Frist der Ruhe an K.’s Schulter gewährt sei, diese aber wolle sie bis zum Letzten genießen, “wären wir doch gleich, noch in jener Nacht ausgewandert, wir könnten irgendwo in Sicherheit sein, immer beisammen, Deine Hand immer nahe genug, sie zu fassen; wie brauche ich Deine Nähe, wie bin ich, seitdem ich Dich kenne, ohne Deine Nähe verlassen; Deine Nähe ist, glaube mir, der einzige Traum, den ich träume, keinen andern. "

23. («Erst jetzt merkte K….»)

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 20:03:26 +0000

Erst jetzt merkte K. wie still es auf dem Gang geworden war, nicht nur hier in diesem Teil des Ganges, wo er mit Frieda gewesen war und der zu den Wirtschaftsräumen zu gehören schien, sondern auch in dem langen Gang mit den früher so lebhaften Zimmern. So waren also die Herren doch endlich eingeschlafen. Auch K. war sehr müde, vielleicht hatte er aus Müdigkeit sich gegen Jeremias nicht so gewehrt, wie er es hätte tun sollen. Es wäre vielleicht klüger gewesen, sich nach Jeremias zu richten, der seine Verkühlung sichtlich übertrieb – seine Jämmerlichkeit stammte nicht von Verkühlung, sondern war ihm eingeboren und durch keinen Gesundheitstee zu vertreiben – ganz sich nach Jeremias zu richten, die wirklich große Müdigkeit ebenso zur Schau zu stellen, hier auf dem Gang niederzusinken, was ja schon an sich sehr wohltun mußte, ein wenig zu schlummern und dann vielleicht auch ein wenig gepflegt zu werden. Nur wäre es nicht so günstig ausgegangen wie bei Jeremias, der in diesem Wettbewerb um das Mitleid gewiß und wahrscheinlich mit Recht gesiegt hätte und offenbar auch in jedem andern Kampf. K. war so müde, daß er daran dachte, ob er nicht versuchen könnte in eines dieser Zimmer zu gehn, von denen gewiß manche leer waren und sich in einem schönen Bett auszuschlafen. Das hätte seiner Meinung nach Entschädigung für vieles werden können. Auch einen Schlaftrunk hatte er bereit. Auf dem Geschirrbrett, das Frieda auf dem Boden liegen gelassen hatte, war eine kleine Karaffe Rum gewesen. K. scheute nicht die Anstrengung des Rückwegs und trank das Fläschchen leer.

24. ("Wahrscheinlich wäre er…")

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 20:04:37 +0000

Wahrscheinlich wäre er ebenso gleichgültig an Erlangers Zimmer vorübergegangen, wenn Erlanger nicht in der offenen Türe gestanden wäre und ihm gewinkt hätte. Ein kurzer einmaliger Wink mit dem Zeigefinger. Erlanger war zum Weggehn schon völlig bereit, er trug einen schwarzen Pelzmantel mit knappem hochgeknöpften Kragen. Ein Diener reichte ihm gerade die Handschuhe und hielt noch eine Pelzmütze. “Sie hätten schon längst kommen sollen”, sagte Erlanger. K. wollte sich entschuldigen, Erlanger zeigte durch ein müdes Schließen der Augen, daß er darauf verzichte. “Es handelt sich um Folgendes”, sagte er, “im Ausschank war früher eine gewisse Frieda bedienstet, ich kenne nur ihren Namen, sie selbst kenne ich nicht, sie bekümmert mich nicht. Diese Frieda hat manchmal Klamm das Bier serviert. Jetzt scheint dort ein anderes Mädchen zu sein. Nun ist diese Veränderung natürlich belanglos, wahrscheinlich für jeden und für Klamm ganz gewiß. Je größer aber eine Arbeit ist und Klamms Arbeit ist freilich die größte, desto weniger Kraft bleibt, sich gegen die Außenwelt zu wehren, infolgedessen kann dann jede belanglose Veränderung der belanglosesten Dinge ernstlich stören. Die kleinste Veränderung auf dem Schreibtisch, die Beseitigung eines dort seit jeher vorhanden gewesenen Schmutzflecks, das alles kann stören und ebenso ein neues Serviermädchen. Nun stört freilich das alles, selbst wenn es jeden andern und bei jeder beliebigen Arbeit stören würde, Klamm nicht, davon kann gar keine Rede sein. Trotzdem sind wir verpflichtet über Klamms Behagen derart zu wachen, daß wir selbst Störungen, die für ihn keine sind – und wahrscheinlich gibt es für ihn überhaupt keine – beseitigen, wenn sie uns als mögliche Störungen auffallen. Nicht seinetwegen, nicht seiner Arbeit wegen beseitigen wir diese Störungen, sondern unseretwegen, unseres Gewissens und unserer Ruhe wegen. Deshalb muß jene Frieda sofort wieder in den Ausschank zurückkehren, vielleicht wird sie gerade dadurch, daß sie zurückkehrt, stören, nun dann werden wir sie wieder wegschicken, vorläufig aber muß sie zurückkehren. Sie leben mit ihr, wie man mir gesagt hat, veranlassen Sie daher sofort ihre Rückkehr. Auf persönliche Gefühle kann dabei keine Rücksicht genommen werden, das ist ja selbstverständlich, daher lasse ich mich auch nicht in die geringste weitere Erörterung der Sache ein. Ich tue schon viel mehr als nötig ist, wenn ich erwähne, daß, wenn Sie sich in dieser Kleinigkeit bewähren, Ihnen dies in Ihrem Fortkommen gelegentlich nützlich sein kann. Das ist alles was ich Ihnen zu sagen habe. " Er nickte K. zum Abschied zu, setzte sich die vom Diener gereichte Pelzmütze auf und ging vom Diener gefolgt schnell aber ein wenig hinkend den Gang hinab.

25. («Als K. aufwachte,…»)

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 20:05:41 +0000

Als K. aufwachte, glaubte er zuerst, kaum geschlafen zu haben, das Zimmer war unverändert, leer und warm, alle Wände in Finsternis, die eine Glühlampe über den Bierhähnen, auch vor den Fenstern Nacht. Aber als er sich streckte, das Kissen hinunterfiel und Brett und Fässer knarrten, kam gleich Pepi und nun erfuhr er, daß es schon Abend war und er weit über zwölf Stunden geschlafen hatte. Die Wirtin hatte einigemal während des Tages nach ihm gefragt, auch Gerstäcker, der am Morgen, als K. mit der Wirtin gesprochen hatte, hier im Dunkel beim Bier gewartet aber dann K. nicht mehr zu stören gewagt hatte, war inzwischen einmal hier gewesen, um nach K. zu sehn, und schließlich war angeblich auch Frieda gekommen und war einen Augenblick lang bei K. gestanden, doch war sie kaum K.’s wegen gekommen, sondern weil sie verschiedenes hier vorzubereiten hatte, denn am Abend sollte sie ja wieder ihren alten Dienst antreten. “Sie mag Dich wohl nicht mehr?” fragte Pepi, während sie Kaffee und Kuchen brachte. Aber sie fragte es nicht mehr boshaft nach ihrer früheren Art, sondern traurig, als habe sie inzwischen die Bosheit der Welt kennen gelernt, gegenüber der alle eigene Bosheit versagt und sinnlos wird; wie zu einem Leidensgenossen sprach sie zu K. und als er den Kaffee kostete und sie zu sehen glaubte, daß er ihn nicht genug süß finde, lief sie und brachte ihm die volle Zuckerdose. Ihre Traurigkeit hatte sie freilich nicht gehindert, sich heute vielleicht noch mehr zu schmücken als das letzte Mal; an Maschen und an Bändern, die durch das Haar geflochten waren, hatte sie eine Fülle, die Stirn entlang und an den Schläfen waren die Haare sorgfältig gebrannt und um den Hals hatte sie ein Kettchen, das in den tiefen Ausschnitt der Bluse hinabhing. Als K. in der Zufriedenheit, endlich einmal ausgeschlafen zu sein und einen guten Kaffee trinken zu dürfen, heimlich nach einer Masche langte und sie zu öffnen versuchte, sagte Pepi müde: “Laß mich doch” und setzte sich neben ihm auf ein Faß. Und K. mußte sie gar nicht nach ihrem Leid fragen, sie begann selbst gleich zu erzählen, den Blick starr in K.’s Kaffeetopf gerichtet, als brauche sie eine Ablenkung, selbst während sie erzähle, als könne sie, selbst wenn sie sich mit ihrem Leid beschäftige, sich ihm nicht ganz hingeben, denn das ginge über ihre Kräfte. Zunächst erfuhr K., daß eigentlich er an Pepis Unglück schuld sei, daß sie es ihm aber nicht nachtrage. Und sie nickte eifrig während der Erzählung, um keinen Widerspruch K.’s aufkommen zu lassen. Zuerst habe er Frieda aus dem Ausschank fortgenommen und dadurch Pepis Aufstieg ermöglicht. Es ist sonst nichts anderes ausdenkbar, was Frieda hätte bewegen können, ihren Posten aufzugeben, sie saß dort im Ausschank wie die Spinne im Netz, hatte überall ihre Fäden, die nur sie kannte; sie gegen ihren Willen auszuheben, wäre ganz unmöglich gewesen, nur Liebe zu einem Niedrigen, also etwas was sich mit ihrer Stellung nicht vertrug, konnte sie von ihrem Platze treiben. Und Pepi? Hatte sie denn jemals daran gedacht die Stelle für sich zu gewinnen? Sie war Zimmermädchen, hatte eine unbedeutende, wenig aussichtsreiche Stelle, Träume von großer Zukunft hatte sie wie jedes Mädchen, Träume kann man sich nicht verbieten, aber ernstlich dachte sie nicht an ein Weiterkommen, sie hatte sich mit dem Erreichten abgefunden. Und nun verschwand Frieda plötzlich aus dem Ausschank, es war so plötzlich gekommen, daß der Wirt nicht gleich einen passenden Ersatz zur Hand hatte, er suchte und sein Blick fiel auf Pepi, die sich freilich entsprechend vorgedrängt hatte. In jener Zeit liebte sie K. wie sie noch nie jemanden geliebt hatte, sie war monatelang unten in ihrer winzigen dunklen Kammer gesessen und war vorbereitet, dort Jahre und im ungünstigsten Fall ihr ganzes Leben unbeachtet zu verbringen und nun war plötzlich K. erschienen, ein Held, ein Mädchenbefreier und hatte ihr den Weg nach oben freigemacht. Er wußte allerdings nichts von ihr, hatte es nicht ihretwegen getan, aber das verschlug nichts ihrer Dankbarkeit, in der Nacht, die ihrer Anstellung vorherging – die Anstellung war noch unsicher, aber doch schon sehr wahrscheinlich – verbrachte sie Stunden damit, mit ihm zu sprechen, ihm ihren Dank ins Ohr zu flüstern. Und es erhöhte noch seine Tat in ihren Augen, daß es gerade Frieda war, deren Last er auf sich genommen hatte, etwas unbegreiflich Selbstloses lag darin, daß er, um Pepi hervorzuholen, Frieda zu seiner Geliebten machte, Frieda, ein unhübsches, ältliches, mageres Mädchen mit kurzem, schütterem Haar, überdies ein hinterhältiges Mädchen, das immer irgendwelche Geheimnisse hat, was ja wohl mit ihrem Aussehn zusammenhängt; ist am Gesicht und Körper die Jämmerlichkeit zweifellos, muß sie doch wenigstens andere Geheimnisse haben, die niemand nachprüfen kann, etwa ihr angebliches Verhältnis zu Klamm. Und selbst solche Gedanken waren Pepi damals gekommen: ist es möglich, daß K. wirklich Frieda liebt, täuscht er sich nicht oder täuscht er vielleicht gar nur Frieda und wird vielleicht das einzige Ergebnis alles dessen doch nur Pepis Aufstieg sein und wird dann K. den Irrtum merken oder ihn nicht mehr verbergen wollen und nicht mehr Frieda, sondern nur Pepi sehn, was gar keine irrsinnige Einbildung Pepis sein mußte, denn mit Frieda konnte sie es als Mädchen gegen Mädchen sehr wohl aufnehmen, was niemand leugnen wird, und es war doch auch vor allem Friedas Stellung gewesen und der Glanz, den Frieda ihr zu geben verstanden hatte, von welchem K. im Augenblick geblendet worden war. Und da hatte nun Pepi davon geträumt, K. werde, wenn sie die Stellung habe, bittend zu ihr kommen und sie werde nun die Wahl haben, entweder K. zu erhören und die Stelle zu verlieren oder ihn abzuweisen und weiter zu steigen. Und sie hatte sich zurechtgelegt, sie werde auf alles verzichten und sich zu ihm hinabwenden und ihn wahre Liebe lehren, die er bei Frieda nie erfahren könnte und die unabhängig ist von allen Ehrenstellungen der Welt. Aber dann ist es anders gekommen. Und was war daran schuld? K. vor allem und dann freilich Friedas Durchtriebenheit. K. vor allem, denn was will er, was ist er für ein sonderbarer Mensch? Wonach strebt er, was sind das für wichtige Dinge, die ihn beschäftigen und die ihn das Allernächste, das Allerbeste, das Allerschönste vergessen lassen? Pepi ist das Opfer und alles ist dumm und alles ist verloren und wer die Kraft hätte, den ganzen Herrenhof anzuzünden und zu verbrennen, aber vollständig, daß keine Spur zurückbleibt, verbrennen wie ein Papier im Ofen, der wäre heute Pepis Auserwählter. Ja, Pepi kam also in den Ausschank, heute vor vier Tagen, kurz vor dem Mittagessen. Es ist keine leichte Arbeit hier, es ist fast eine menschenmordende Arbeit, aber was zu erreichen ist, ist auch nicht klein. Pepi hatte auch früher nicht in den Tag hineingelebt und wenn sie auch niemals in kühnsten Gedanken diese Stelle für sich in Anspruch genommen hatte, so hatte sie doch reichlich Beobachtungen gemacht, wußte, was es mit dieser Stelle auf sich hatte, unvorbereitet hatte sie die Stelle nicht übernommen. Unvorbereitet kann man sie gar nicht übernehmen, sonst verliert man sie in den ersten Stunden. Gar wenn man sich nach Art der Zimmermädchen hier aufführen wollte. Als Zimmermädchen kommt man sich ja mit der Zeit ganz verloren und vergessen vor, es ist eine Arbeit wie in einem Bergwerk, wenigstens im Gang der Sekretäre ist es so, tagelang sieht man dort, bis auf die wenigen Tagesparteien die hin- und herhuschen und nicht aufzuschauen wagen, keinen Menschen außer den zwei, drei andern Zimmermädchen und die sind ähnlich verbittert. Des Morgens darf man überhaupt nicht aus dem Zimmer, da wollen die Sekretäre allein unter sich sein, das Essen bringen ihnen die Knechte aus der Küche, damit haben die Zimmermädchen gewöhnlich nichts zu tun, auch während der Essenszeit darf man sich nicht auf dem Gang zeigen. Nur während die Herren arbeiten, dürfen die Zimmermädchen aufräumen, aber natürlich nicht in den bewohnten, nur in den gerade leeren Zimmern und diese Arbeit muß ganz leise geschehn, damit die Arbeit der Herren nicht gestört wird. Aber wie ist es möglich, leise aufzuräumen, wenn die Herren mehrere Tage in den Zimmern wohnen, überdies auch die Knechte, dieses schmutzige Pack, drin herumhantieren und das Zimmer, wenn es endlich dem Zimmermädchen frei gegeben ist, in einem solchen Zustand ist, daß nicht einmal eine Sündflut es reinwaschen könnte. Wahrhaftig, es sind hohe Herren, aber man muß kräftig seinen Ekel überwinden, um nach ihnen aufräumen zu können. Die Zimmermädchen haben ja nicht übermäßig viel Arbeit, aber kernige. Und niemals ein gutes Wort, immer nur Vorwürfe, besonders dieser quälendste und häufigste: daß beim Aufräumen Akten verloren gegangen sind. In Wirklichkeit geht nichts verloren, jedes Papierchen liefert man beim Wirt ab, aber Akten gehn freilich doch verloren, nur eben nicht durch die Mädchen. Und dann kommen Kommissionen und die Mädchen müssen ihr Zimmer verlassen und die Kommission durchwühlt die Betten; die Mädchen haben ja kein Eigentum, ihre paar Sachen haben in einem Rückenkorb Platz, aber die Kommission sucht doch stundenlang. Natürlich findet sie nichts; wie sollten dort Akten hinkommen? Was machen sich die Mädchen aus Akten? Aber das Ergebnis sind doch wieder nur durch den Wirt vermittelte Schimpfworte und Drohungen seitens der enttäuschten Kommission. Und niemals Ruhe – nicht bei Tag, nicht bei Nacht. Lärm die halbe Nacht und Lärm vom frühesten Morgen. Wenn man dort wenigstens nicht wohnen müßte, aber das muß man, denn in den Zwischenzeiten je nach Bestellung Kleinigkeiten aus der Küche zu bringen ist doch Sache der Zimmermädchen, besonders in der Nacht. Immer plötzlich der Faustschlag gegen die Tür der Zimmermädchen, das Diktieren der Bestellung, das Hinunterlaufen in die Küche, das Aufrütteln der schlafenden Küchenjungen, das Hinausstellen der Tasse mit den bestellten Dingen vor die Tür der Zimmermädchen, von wo es die Knechte holen – wie traurig ist das alles. Aber es ist nicht das Schlimmste. Das Schlimmste ist vielmehr wenn keine Bestellung kommt, wenn es nämlich in tiefer Nacht, wo alles schon schlafen sollte und auch die meisten endlich wirklich schlafen, manchmal vor der Tür der Zimmermädchen herumzuschleichen anfängt. Dann steigen die Mädchen aus ihren Betten – die Betten sind übereinander, es ist ja dort überall sehr wenig Raum, das ganze Zimmer der Mädchen ist eigentlich nichts anderes als ein großer Schrank mit drei Fächern – horchen an der Tür, knien nieder, umarmen sich in Angst. Und immerfort hört man den Schleicher vor der Tür. Alle wären schon glücklich, wenn er endlich hereinkäme, aber es geschieht nichts, niemand kommt herein. Und dabei muß man sich sagen, daß hier nicht unbedingt eine Gefahr drohen muß, vielleicht ist es nur jemand, der vor der Tür auf und ab geht, überlegt ob er eine Bestellung machen soll und sich dann doch nicht dazu entschließen kann. Vielleicht ist es nur das, vielleicht ist aber etwas ganz anderes. Eigentlich kennt man ja die Herren gar nicht, man hat sie ja kaum gesehn. Jedenfalls vergehn die Mädchen drinnen vor Angst und, wenn es draußen endlich still ist, lehnen sie an der Wand und haben nicht genug Kraft wieder in ihre Betten zu steigen. Dieses Leben wartet wieder auf Pepi, noch heute abend soll sie wieder ihren Platz im Mädchenzimmer beziehn. Und warum? Wegen K. und Frieda. Wieder zurück in dieses Leben dem sie kaum entflohen ist, dem sie zwar mit K.’s Hilfe, aber doch auch mit größter eigener Anstrengung entflohen ist. Denn in jenem Dienst dort vernachlässigen sich die Mädchen, auch die sonst sorgsamsten. Für wen sollen sie sich schmücken? Niemand sieht sie, bestenfalls das Personal in der Küche; welcher das genügt, die mag sich schmücken. Sonst aber immerfort in ihrem Zimmerchen oder in den Zimmern der Herren, welche auch nur in reinen Kleidern zu betreten Leichtsinn und Verschwendung ist. Und immer in dem künstlichen Licht und in der dumpfen Luft – es wird immerfort geheizt – und eigentlich immer müde. Den einen freien Nachmittag in der Woche verbringt man am besten, indem man ihn in irgendeinem Verschlag in der Küche ruhig und angstlos verschläft. Wozu sich also schmücken? Ja, man zieht sich kaum an. Und nun wurde Pepi plötzlich in den Ausschank versetzt, wo, vorausgesetzt daß man sich dort behaupten wollte, gerade das Gegenteil nötig war, wo man immer unter den Augen der Leute war, und darunter sehr verwöhnter und aufmerksamer Herren und wo man daher immer möglichst fein und angenehm aussehn mußte. Nun, das war eine Wendung. Und Pepi darf von sich sagen, daß sie nichts versäumt hat. Wie es sich später gestalten würde, das machte Pepi nicht besorgt. Daß sie die Fähigkeiten hatte, welche für diese Stelle nötig waren, das wußte sie, dessen war sie ganz gewiß, diese Überzeugung hat sie auch noch jetzt und niemand kann sie ihr nehmen, auch heute am Tage ihrer Niederlage nicht. Nur wie sie sich in der allerersten Zeit bewähren würde, das war schwierig, weil sie doch ein armes Zimmermädchen war ohne Kleider und Schmuck und weil die Herren nicht die Geduld haben zu warten, wie man sich entwickelt, sondern gleich ohne Übergang ein Ausschankmädchen haben wollen, wie es sich gebürt, sonst wenden sie sich ab. Man sollte denken, ihre Ansprüche wären nicht gar groß, da doch Frieda sie befriedigen konnte. Das ist aber nicht richtig. Pepi hat oft darüber nachgedacht, ist ja auch öfter mit Frieda zusammengekommen und hat eine Zeitlang sogar mit ihr geschlafen. Es ist nicht leicht Frieda auf die Spur zu kommen und wer nicht sehr acht gibt – und welche Herren geben denn sehr acht? – ist von ihr gleich irregeführt. Niemand weiß genauer als Frieda selbst wie kläglich sie aussieht; wenn man z. B. zum erstenmal sie ihre Haare auflösen sieht, schlägt man vor Mitleid die Hände zusammen, ein solches Mädchen dürfte, wenn es rechtlich zugienge, nicht einmal Zimmermädchen sein; sie weiß es auch und manche Nacht hat sie darüber geweint, sich an Pepi gedrückt und Pepis Haare um den eigenen Kopf gelegt. Aber wenn sie im Dienst ist, sind alle Zweifel verschwunden, sie hält sich für die Allerschönste und jedem weiß sie es auf die richtige Weise einzuflößen. Sie kennt die Leute und das ist ihre eigentliche Kunst. Und lügt schnell und betrügt, damit die Leute nicht Zeit haben, sie genauer anzusehn. Natürlich genügt das nicht für die Dauer, die Leute haben doch Augen und die würden schließlich Recht behalten. Aber in dem Augenblick, wo sie eine solche Gefahr merkt, hat sie schon ein anderes Mittel bereit, in der letzten Zeit z. B. ihr Verhältnis zu Klamm. Ihr Verhältnis mit Klamm! Glaubst Du nicht daran, kannst es ja nachprüfen, geh zu Klamm und frag ihn. Wie schlau, wie schlau. Und wenn Du etwa nicht wagen solltest, wegen einer solchen Anfrage zu Klamm zu gehn und vielleicht mit unendlich wichtigern Anfragen nicht vorgelassen werden solltest und Klamm Dir sogar völlig verschlossen ist – nur Dir und Deinesgleichen, denn Frieda z. B. hüpft zu ihm hinein wann sie will – wenn das so ist, so kannst Du die Sache trotzdem nachprüfen, Du brauchst nur zu warten. Klamm wird doch ein derartig falsches Gerücht nicht lange dulden können, er ist doch gewiß wild dahinter her, was man von ihm im Ausschank und in den Gastzimmern erzählt, das alles hat für ihn die größte Wichtigkeit und ist es falsch, wird er es gleich richtigstellen. Aber er stellt es nicht richtig, nun dann ist nichts richtigzustellen und es ist die lautere Wahrheit. Was man sieht, ist zwar nur, daß Frieda das Bier in Klamms Zimmer trägt und mit der Bezahlung wieder herauskommt, aber das was man nicht sieht, erzählt Frieda und man muß es ihr glauben. Und sie erzählt es gar nicht, sie wird doch nicht solche Geheimnisse ausplaudern, nein, um sie herum plaudern sich die Geheimnisse von selbst aus und da sie nun einmal ausgeplaudert sind, scheut sie sich allerdings nicht mehr auch selbst von ihnen zu reden, aber bescheiden, ohne irgendetwas zu behaupten, sie beruft sich nur auf das ohnehin allgemein Bekannte. Nicht auf alles, davon z. B. daß Klamm, seit sie im Ausschank ist, weniger Bier trinkt als früher, nicht viel weniger, aber doch deutlich weniger, davon spricht sie nicht, es kann ja auch verschiedene Gründe haben, es ist eben eine Zeit gekommen, in der das Bier Klamm weniger schmeckt oder er vergißt gar über Frieda das Biertrinken. Jedenfalls also ist, wie erstaunlich das auch sein mag, Frieda Klamms Geliebte. Was aber Klamm genügt, wie sollten das nicht auch die andern bewundern und so ist Frieda, ehe man sich dessen versieht, eine große Schönheit geworden, ein Mädchen genau so beschaffen, wie es der Ausschank braucht, ja fast zu schön, zu mächtig, schon genügt ihr der Ausschank kaum. Und tatsächlich, es erscheint den Leuten merkwürdig, daß sie noch immer im Ausschank ist; ein Ausschankmädchen zu sein, ist viel; von da aus erscheint die Verbindung mit Klamm sehr glaubwürdig; wenn aber einmal das Ausschankmädchen Klamms Geliebte ist, warum läßt er sie und gar so lange im Ausschank? Warum führt er sie nicht höher? Man kann tausendmal den Leuten sagen, daß hier kein Widerspruch besteht, daß Klamm bestimmte Gründe hat so zu handeln, oder daß plötzlich einmal, vielleicht schon in allernächster Zeit Friedas Erhöhung kommen wird, das alles macht nicht viel Wirkung, die Leute haben bestimmte Vorstellungen und lassen sich durch alle Kunst auf die Dauer von ihnen nicht ablenken. Es hat ja niemand mehr daran gezweifelt, daß Frieda Klamms Geliebte ist, selbst die, welche es offenbar besser wußten, waren schon zu müde um zu zweifeln, “Sei in Teufels Namen Klamms Geliebte”, dachten sie, “aber wenn Du es schon bist, dann wollen wir es auch an Deinem Aufstieg merken.” Aber man merkte nichts und Frieda blieb im Ausschank wie bisher und war im Geheimen noch sehr froh, daß es so blieb. Aber bei den Leuten verlor sie an Ansehn, das konnte ihr natürlich nicht unbemerkt bleiben, sie merkt ja gewöhnlich Dinge, noch ehe sie vorhanden sind. Ein wirklich schönes liebenswürdiges Mädchen muß, wenn es sich einmal im Ausschank eingelebt hat, keine Künste aufwenden; solange es schön ist wird es, wenn nicht ein besonderer unglücklicher Zufall eintritt, Ausschankmädchen sein. Ein Mädchen wie Frieda aber muß immerfort um ihre Stelle besorgt sein, natürlich zeigt sie es verständiger Weise nicht, eher pflegt sie zu klagen und die Stelle zu verwünschen. Aber im Geheimen beobachtet sie die Stimmung fortwährend. Und so sah sie wie die Leute gleichgültig wurden, das Auftreten Friedas war nichts mehr, was auch nur lohnte die Augen zu heben, nicht einmal die Knechte kümmerten sich mehr um sie, die hielten sich verständiger Weise an Olga und dergleichen Mädchen, auch am Benehmen des Wirts merkte sie, daß sie immer weniger unentbehrlich war, immer neue Geschichten von Klamm konnte man auch nicht erfinden, alles hat Grenzen – und so entschloß sich die gute Frieda zu etwas Neuem. Wer nur imstande gewesen wäre, es gleich zu durchschauen! Pepi hat es geahnt, aber durchschaut hat sie es leider nicht. Frieda entschloß sich Skandal zu machen, sie, die Geliebte Klamms, wirft sich irgendeinem Beliebigen, womöglich dem Allergeringsten hin. Das wird Aufsehen machen, davon wird man lange reden und endlich, endlich wird man sich wieder daran erinnern, was es bedeutet Klamms Geliebte zu sein und was es bedeutet diese Ehre im Rausche einer neuen Liebe zu verwerfen. Schwer war es nur, den geeigneten Mann zu finden, mit dem das kluge Spiel zu spielen war. Ein Bekannter Friedas durfte es nicht sein, nicht einmal einer von den Knechten, er hätte sie wahrscheinlich mit großen Augen angesehn und wäre weiter gegangen, vor allem hätte er nicht genug Ernst bewahrt und es wäre mit aller Redefertigkeit unmöglich gewesen zu verbreiten, daß Frieda von ihm überfallen worden sei, sich seiner nicht habe erwehren können und in einer besinnungslosen Stunde ihm erlegen sei. Und wenn es auch ein Allergeringster sein sollte, so mußte es doch einer sein, von dem glaubhaft gemacht werden konnte, daß er trotz seiner stumpfen unfeinen Art sich doch nach niemandem andern als gerade nach Frieda sehnte und kein höheres Verlangen hatte, als – Du lieber Himmel! – Frieda zu heiraten. Aber wenn es auch ein gemeiner Mann sein sollte, womöglich noch niedriger als ein Knecht, viel niedriger als ein Knecht, so doch einer, wegen dessen einen nicht jedes Mädchen verlacht, an dem vielleicht auch ein anderes urteilsfähiges Mädchen einmal etwas Anziehendes finden könnte. Wo findet man aber einen solchen Mann? Ein anderes Mädchen hätte ihn wahrscheinlich ein Leben lang vergeblich gesucht, Friedas Glück führt ihr den Landvermesser in den Ausschank vielleicht gerade an dem Abend, an dem ihr der Plan zum erstenmal in den Sinn kommt. Der Landvermesser! Ja, woran denkt denn K.7 Was hat er für besondere Dinge im Kopf? Will er etwas Besonderes erreichen? Eine gute Anstellung, eine Auszeichnung? Will er etwas derartiges? Nun, dann hätte er es von allem Anfang an anders anstellen müssen. Er ist doch gar nichts, es ist ein Jammer seine Lage anzusehn. Er ist Landvermesser, das ist vielleicht etwas, er hat also etwas gelernt, aber wenn man nichts damit anzufangen weiß, ist es doch auch wieder nichts. Und dabei stellt er Ansprüche; ohne den geringsten Rückhalt zu haben, stellt er Ansprüche, nicht geradezu, aber man merkt daß er irgendwelche Ansprüche macht, das ist doch aufreizend. Ob er denn wisse, daß sich sogar ein Zimmermädchen etwas vergibt, wenn sie länger mit ihm spricht. Und mit allen diesen besondern Ansprüchen plumpst er gleich am ersten Abend in die gröbste Falle. Schämt er sich denn nicht Was hat ihn denn an Frieda so bestochen? Jetzt könnte er es doch gestehn. Hat sie ihm denn wirklich gefallen können, dieses magere gelbliche Ding? Ach nein, er hat sie ja gar nicht angesehn, sie hat ihm nur gesagt, daß sie Klamms Geliebte sei, bei ihm schlug das noch als Neuigkeit ein und da war er verloren. Sie aber mußte nun ausziehn, jetzt war natürlich kein Platz mehr für sie im Herrenhof. Pepi hat sie noch am Morgen vor dem Auszug gesehn, das Personal war zusammengelaufen, neugierig auf den Anblick war doch jeder. Und so groß war noch ihre Macht, daß man sie bedauerte, alle, auch ihre Feinde bedauerten sie; so richtig erwies sich schon am Anfang ihre Rechnung; an einen solchen Mann sich weggeworfen zu haben, schien allen unbegreiflich und ein Schicksalsschlag, die kleinen Küchenmädchen, die natürlich jedes Ausschankmädchen bewundern, waren untröstlich. Selbst Pepi war davon berührt, nicht einmal sie konnte sich ganz wehren, wenn auch ihre Aufmerksamkeit eigentlich etwas anderem galt. Ihr fiel auf, wie wenig traurig Frieda eigentlich war. Es war doch im Grunde ein entsetzliches Unglück, das sie betroffen hatte, sie tat ja auch so als wenn sie sehr unglücklich wäre, aber es war nicht genug, dieses Spiel konnte Pepi nicht täuschen. Was hielt sie also aufrecht? Etwa das Glück der neuen Liebe? Nun, diese Erwägung schied aus. Was war es aber sonst Was gab ihr die Kraft sogar gegen Pepi, die damals schon als ihre Nachfolgerin galt, kühl freundlich zu sein wie immer. Pepi hatte damals nicht genug Zeit darüber nachzudenken, sie hatte zuviel zu tun mit den Vorbereitungen für die neue Stelle. Sie sollte sie wahrscheinlich in paar Stunden antreten und hatte noch keine schöne Frisur, kein elegantes Kleid, keine feine Wäsche, keine brauchbaren Schuhe. Das alles mußte in paar Stunden beschafft werden, konnte man sich nicht richtig ausstatten, dann war es besser auf die Stelle überhaupt zu verzichten, denn dann verlor man sie schon in der ersten halben Stunde ganz gewiß. Nun, es gelang zum Teil. Für Frisieren hat sie eine besondere Anlage, einmal hat die Wirtin sogar sie kommen lassen, ihr die Frisur zu machen, es ist das eine besondere Leichtigkeit der Hand die ihr gegeben ist, freilich fügt sich auch ihr reiches Haar gleich wie man nur will. Auch für das Kleid war Hilfe da. Ihre zwei Kolleginnen hielten treu zu ihr, es ist auch eine gewisse Ehre für sie, wenn ein Mädchen gerade aus ihrer Gruppe Ausschankmädchen wird und dann hätte ihnen ja Pepi später, wenn sie zur Macht gekommen wäre, manche Vorteile verschaffen können. Eines der Mädchen hatte seit langem einen teueren Stoff liegen, es war ihr Schatz, öfters hatte sie ihn von den andern bewundern lassen, träumte wohl davon ihn einmal für sich großartig zu verwenden und – das war sehr schön von ihr gehandelt – jetzt da ihn Pepi brauchte, opferte sie ihn. Und beide halfen ihr bereitwilligst beim Nähen, hätten sie für sich genäht, sie hätten nicht eifriger sein können. Das war sogar eine sehr fröhliche beglückende Arbeit. Sie saßen, jede auf ihrem Bett, eine über der andern, nähten und sangen, und reichten einander die fertigen Teile und das Zubehör hinauf und hinab. Wenn Pepi daran denkt, fällt es ihr umso schwerer aufs Herz, daß alles vergeblich war, und daß sie mit leeren Händen wieder zu ihren Freundinnen kommt. Was für ein Unglück und wie leichtsinnig verschuldet, vor allem von K. Wie sich damals alle freuten über das Kleid. Es schien die Bürgschaft des Gelingens, und wenn sich nachträglich noch ein Platz für ein Bändchen fand, verschwand der letzte Zweifel. Und ist es nicht wirklich schön das Kleid? Es ist jetzt schon zerdrückt und ein wenig fleckig, Pepi hatte eben kein zweites Kleid, hatte Tag und Nacht dieses tragen müssen, aber noch immer sieht man wie schön es ist, nicht einmal die verfluchte Barnabassische brächte ein besseres zustande. Und daß man es nach Belieben zuziehn und wieder lockern kann, oben und unten, daß es also zwar nur ein Kleid ist, aber so veränderlich, das ist ein besonderer Vorzug und war eigentlich ihre Erfindung. Es ist freilich auch nicht schwer für sie zu nähn, Pepi rühmt sich dessen nicht, jungen gesunden Mädchen paßt ja alles. Viel schwerer war es Wäsche und Stiefel zu beschaffen und hier beginnt eigentlich der Mißerfolg. Auch hier halfen die Freundinnen aus, so gut sie konnten, aber sie konnten nicht viel. Es war doch nur grobe Wäsche, die sie zusammenbrachte und zusammenflickte und statt gestöckelter Stiefelchen mußte es bei Hausschuhen bleiben, die man lieber versteckt als zeigt. Man tröstete Pepi: Frieda war doch auch nicht sehr schön angezogen und manchmal zog sie so schlampig herum, daß die Gäste sich lieber von den Kellerburschen servieren ließen als von ihr. So war es tatsächlich, aber Frieda durfte das tun, sie war schon in Gunst und Ansehn; wenn eine Dame einmal beschmutzt und nachlässig angezogen sich zeigt, so ist das umso lockender, aber bei einem Neuling wie Pepi? Und außerdem konnte sich Frieda gar nicht gut anziehn, sie ist ja von allem Geschmack verlassen; hat jemand schon eine gelbliche Haut, so muß er sie freilich behalten, aber er muß nicht, wie Frieda, noch eine tief ausgeschnittene creme Bluse dazu anziehn, so daß einem vor lauter Gelb die Augen übergingen. Und selbst wenn das nicht gewesen wäre, sie war ja zu geizig, um sich gut anzuziehn, alles was sie verdiente, hielt sie zusammen, niemand wußte wofür. Sie brauchte im Dienst kein Geld, sie kam mit Lügen und Kniffen aus, dieses Beispiel wollte und konnte Pepi nicht nachahmen und darum war es berechtigt, daß sie sich so schmückte, um sich ganz zur Geltung zu bringen, gar am Beginn. Hätte sie es nur mit stärkern Mitteln tun können, sie wäre trotz aller Schlauheit Friedas, trotz aller Torheit K.’s, Siegerin geblieben. Es fing ja auch sehr gut an. Die paar Handgriffe und Kenntnisse die nötig waren, hatte sie schon vorher in Erfahrung gebracht. Kaum war sie im Ausschank, war sie dort schon eingelebt. Niemand vermißte bei der Arbeit Frieda. Erst am zweiten Tag erkundigten sich manche Gäste, wo denn eigentlich Frieda sei. Es geschah kein Fehler, der Wirt war zufrieden, den ersten Tag war er in seiner Angst immerfort im Ausschank gewesen, später kam er nur noch hie und da, schließlich überließ er, da, die Kassa stimmte – die Eingänge waren durchschnittlich sogar etwas größer als zu Friedas Zeit – Pepi schon alles. Sie führte Neuerungen ein. Frieda hatte, nicht aus Fleiß, sondern aus Geiz, aus Herrschsucht, aus Angst, jemandem etwas von ihren Rechten abzutreten, auch die Knechte, zum Teil wenigstens, besonders wenn jemand zusah, beaufsichtigt; Pepi dagegen wies diese Arbeit völlig den Kellerburschen zu, die dafür ja auch viel besser taugen. Dadurch erübrigte sie mehr Zeit für die Herrenzimmer, die Gäste wurden schnell bedient, trotzdem konnte sie mit jedem noch paar Worte sprechen, nicht wie Frieda, die sich angeblich gänzlich für Klamm aufbewahrte und jedes Wort, jede Annäherung eines andern als eine Kränkung Klamms ansah. Das war freilich auch klug, denn wenn sie einmal jemanden an sich heranließ war es eine unerhörte Gunst. Pepi aber haßt solche Künste, auch sind sie am Anfang nicht brauchbar. Pepi war zu jedem freundlich und jeder vergalt es ihr mit Freundlichkeit. Alle waren sichtlich froh über die Änderung; wenn sich die abgearbeiteten Herren endlich für ein Weilchen zum Bier setzen dürfen, kann man sie durch ein Wort, durch einen Blick, durch ein Zucken der Achseln förmlich verwandeln. So eifrig fuhren alle Hände durch Pepis Locken, daß sie wohl zehnmal im Tag ihre Frisur erneuern mußte, der Verführung dieser Locken und Maschen widersteht keiner, nicht einmal der sonst so gedankenlose K. So verflogen aufregende, arbeitsvolle aber erfolgreiche Tage. Wären sie nicht so schnell verflogen, wären ihrer doch ein wenig mehr gewesen! Vier Tage sind zu wenig, wenn man sich auch bis zur Erschöpfung anstrengt, vielleicht hätte schon der fünfte Tag genügt, aber vier Tage waren zu wenig. Pepi hatte zwar schon in vier Tagen Gönner und Freunde erworben, hätte sie allen Blicken trauen dürfen, schwamm sie ja, wenn sie mit den Bierkrügen daher kam, in einem Meer von Freundschaft, ein Schreiber namens Bratmeier ist vernarrt in sie, hat ihr dieses Kettchen und Anhängsel verehrt und in das Anhängsel sein Bild gegeben, was allerdings eine Keckheit war – dieses und anderes war geschehn, aber es waren doch nur vier Tage, in vier Tagen kann, wenn Pepi sich dafür einsetzt, Frieda fast, aber doch nicht ganz vergessen werden, und sie wäre doch vergessen worden, vielleicht noch früher, hätte sie nicht vorsorglich durch ihren großen Skandal sich im Mund der Leute erhalten, sie war den Leuten dadurch neu geworden, nur aus Neugierde hätten sie sie gerne wieder gesehn; was ihnen öde bis zum Überdruß geworden war, hatte durch des sonst gänzlich gleichgültigen K. Verdienst wieder einen Reiz für sie, Pepi hätten sie dafür freilich nicht hingegeben, solange sie dastand und durch ihre Gegenwart wirkte, aber es sind meist ältere Herren, schwerfällig in ihren Gewohnheiten, ehe sie sich an ein neues Ausschankmädchen gewöhnen, dauert es, und sei der Tausch noch so vorteilhaft doch paar Tage, gegen den eigenen Willen der Herren dauert es paar Tage, vielleicht nur fünf Tage, aber vier reichen nicht aus, Pepi galt trotz allem noch immer nur als die Provisorische. Und dann das vielleicht größte Unglück, in diesen vier Tagen kam Klamm, trotzdem er während der ersten zwei Tage im Dorfe war, in das Gastzimmer nicht herunter. Wäre er gekommen, das wäre Pepis entscheidende Erprobung gewesen, eine Erprobung übrigens die sie am wenigsten fürchtete, auf die sie sich eher freute. Sie wäre – an solche Dinge rührt man freilich am besten gar nicht mit Worten – Klamms Geliebte nicht geworden und hätte sich auch nicht zu einer solchen hinaufgelogen, aber sie hätte zumindest so nett wie Frieda das Bierglas auf den Tisch zu stellen gewußt, ohne Friedas Aufdringlichkeiten hübsch gegrüßt und hübsch sich empfohlen und wenn Klamm überhaupt in den Augen eines Mädchens etwas sucht, er hätte es in Pepis Augen bis zur völligen Sättigung gefunden. Aber warum kam er nicht Aus Zufall? Pepi hatte das damals auch geglaubt. Die zwei Tage lang erwartete sie ihn jeden Augenblick, auch in der Nacht wartete sie. “Jetzt wird Klamm kommen”, dachte sie immerfort und lief hin und her ohne andern Grund als die Unruhe der Erwartung und das Verlangen, ihn als erste sofort bei seinem Eintritt zu sehn. Diese fortwährende Enttäuschung ermüdete sie sehr, vielleicht leistete sie deshalb nicht soviel als sie hätte leisten können. Sie schlich, wenn sie ein wenig Zeit hatte, hinauf in den Korridor, den zu betreten dem Personal streng verboten ist, dort drückte sie sich in eine Nische und wartete. “Wenn doch jetzt Klamm käme”, dachte sie, “wenn ich doch den Herrn aus seinem Zimmer nehmen und auf meinen Armen in das Gastzimmer hinunter tragen könnte. Unter dieser Last würde ich nicht zusammensinken und wäre sie noch so groß. " Aber er kam nicht. In diesen Korridoren oben ist es so still, das kann man sich gar nicht vorstellen, wenn man nicht dort gewesen ist. Es ist so still, daß man es dort gar nicht lange aushalten kann, die Stille treibt einen fort. Aber immer wieder, zehnmal vertrieben, zehnmal wieder stieg Pepi hinauf. Es war ja sinnlos. Wenn Klamm kommen wollte, würde er kommen; wenn er aber nicht kommen wollte, würde ihn Pepi nicht herauslocken, auch wenn sie in der Nische vor Herzklopfen halb erstickte. Es war sinnlos, aber wenn er nicht kam, war ja fast alles sinnlos. Und er kam nicht. Heute weiß Pepi warum Klamm nicht kam. Frieda hätte eine herrliche Unterhaltung gehabt, wenn sie oben im Korridor Pepi in der Nische, beide Hände am Herzen, hätte sehen können. Klamm kam nicht herunter, weil Frieda es nicht zuließ. Nicht durch ihre Bitten hat sie das bewirkt, ihre Bitten dringen nicht zu Klamm. Aber sie hat, diese Spinne, Verbindungen, von denen niemand weiß. Wenn Pepi einem Gast etwas sagt, sagt sie es offen, auch der Nebentisch kann es hören; Frieda hat nichts zu sagen, sie stellt das Bier auf den Tisch und geht; nur ihr seidener Unterrock, das einzige, wofür sie Geld ausgibt, rauscht. Wenn sie aber einmal etwas sagt, dann nicht offen, dann flüstert sie es dem Gast zu, bückt sich hinab, daß man am Nachbartisch die Ohren spitzt. Was sie sagt, ist ja wahrscheinlich belanglos, aber doch nicht immer, Verbindungen hat sie, stützt die einen durch die andern und mißlingen die meisten – wer würde sich dauernd um Frieda kümmern? – hält hie und da doch eine fest. Diese Verbindungen begann sie jetzt auszunützen, K. gab ihr die Möglichkeit dazu, statt bei ihr zu sitzen und sie zu bewachen, hält er sich kaum zuhause auf, wandert herum, hat Besprechungen hier und dort, für alles hat er Aufmerksamkeit, nur nicht für Frieda, und um ihr schließlich noch mehr Freiheit zu geben, übersiedelt er aus dem Brückenhof in die leere Schule. Das alles ist ja ein schöner Anfang der Flitterwochen. Nun, Pepi ist gewiß die letzte, die K. Vorwürfe deshalb machen wird, daß er es nicht bei Frieda ausgehalten hat; man kann es bei ihr nicht aushalten. Aber warum hat er sie dann nicht ganz verlassen, warum ist er immer wieder zu ihr zurückgekommen, warum hat er durch seine Wanderungen den Anschein erweckt, daß er für sie kämpft. Es sah ja aus, als habe er erst durch die Berührung mit Frieda seine tatsächliche Nichtigkeit entdeckt, wolle sich Friedas würdig machen, wolle sich irgendwie hinaufhaspeln, verzichte deshalb vorläufig auf das Beisammensein, um sich später ungestört für die Entbehrungen entschädigen zu dürfen. Inzwischen verliert Frieda nicht die Zeit, sie sitzt in der Schule, wohin sie ja K. wahrscheinlich gelenkt hat, und beobachtet den Herrenhof und beobachtet K. Boten hat sie ausgezeichnete zur Hand, K.’s Gehilfen, die er ihr – man begreift es nicht, selbst wenn man K. kennt, begreift mans nicht – gänzlich überläßt. Sie schickt sie zu ihren alten Freunden, bringt sich in Erinnerung, klagt darüber, daß sie von einem Mann wie K. gefangen gehalten ist, hetzt gegen Pepi, verkündet ihre baldige Ankunft, bittet um Hilfe, beschwört sie, Klamm nichts zu verraten, tut so, als müsse Klamm geschont werden und dürfe daher auf keinen Fall in den Ausschank hinuntergelassen werden. Was sie den einen gegenüber als Schonung Klamms ausgibt, nützt sie dem Wirt gegenüber als ihren Erfolg aus, macht darauf aufmerksam, daß Klamm nicht mehr kommt; wie könne er denn kommen, wenn unten nur eine Pepi bedient; zwar hat der Wirt keine Schuld, diese Pepi war immerhin noch der beste Ersatz, der zu finden war, nur genügt er nicht, nicht einmal für paar Tage. Von dieser ganzen Tätigkeit Friedas weiß K. nichts; wenn er nicht herumwandert, liegt er ahnungslos zu ihren Füßen, während sie die Stunden zählt, die sie noch vom Ausschank trennen. Aber nicht nur diesen Botendienst leisten die Gehilfen, sie dienen auch dazu K. eifersüchtig zu machen, ihn warm zu halten. Seit ihrer Kindheit kennt Frieda die Gehilfen, Geheimnisse haben sie gewiß keine mehr vor einander, aber K. zu Ehren fangen sie an, sich nach einander zu sehnen und es entsteht für K. die Gefahr, daß es eine große Liebe wird. Und K. tut Frieda alles zu Gefallen, auch das Widersprechendste, er läßt sich von den Gehilfen eifersüchtig machen, duldet aber doch daß alle drei beisammen bleiben, während er allein auf seine Wanderungen geht. Es ist fast als sei er Friedas dritter Gehilfe. Da entscheidet sich Frieda endlich auf Grund ihrer Beobachtungen zum großen Schlag, sie beschließt zurückzukehren. Und es ist wirklich höchste Zeit, es ist bewunderungswürdig, wie Frieda, die Schlaue, dieses erkennt und ausnützt, diese Kraft der Beobachtung und des Entschlusses sind Friedas unnachahmbare Kunst; wenn Pepi sie hätte, wie anders würde ihr Leben verlaufen. Wäre Frieda noch ein, zwei Tage länger in der Schule geblieben, ist Pepi nicht mehr zu vertreiben, ist endgiltig Ausschankmädchen, von allen geliebt und gehalten, hat genug Geld verdient, um die notdürftige Ausstattung blendend zu ergänzen, noch ein, zwei Tage und Klamm ist durch keine Ränke mehr vom Gastzimmer abzuhalten, kommt, trinkt, fühlt sich behaglich und ist, wenn er Friedas Abwesenheit überhaupt bemerkt, mit der Veränderung hoch zufrieden, noch ein, zwei Tage und Frieda mit ihrem Skandal, mit ihren Verbindungen, mit den Gehilfen, mit allem, ist ganz und gar vergessen, niemals kommt sie mehr hervor. Dann könnte sie sich vielleicht desto fester an K. halten und könnte ihn, vorausgesetzt daß sie dessen fähig ist, wirklich lieben lernen? Nein, auch das nicht. Denn mehr als einen Tag braucht auch K. nicht, um ihrer überdrüssig zu werden, um zu erkennen, wie schmählich sie ihn täuscht, mit allem, mit ihrer angeblichen Schönheit, ihrer angeblichen Treue und am meisten mit der angeblichen Liebe Klamms, nur einen Tag noch, nicht mehr, braucht er um sie mit der ganzen schmutzigen Gehilfenwirtschaft aus dem Haus zu jagen, man denke, nicht einmal K. braucht mehr. Und da zwischen diesen beiden Gefahren, wo sich förmlich schon das Grab über ihr zu schließen anfängt, K. in seiner Einfalt hält ihr noch den letzten schmalen Weg frei, da brennt sie durch. Plötzlich – das hat kaum jemand mehr erwartet, es geht gegen die Natur – plötzlich ist sie es, die K., den noch immer sie liebenden, immer sie verfolgenden, fortjagt und unter dem nachhelfenden Druck der Freunde und Gehilfen dem Wirt als Retterin erscheint, durch ihren Skandal viel lockender als früher, erwiesenermaßen begehrt von den Niedrigsten wie von den Höchsten, dem Niedrigen aber nur für einen Augenblick verfallen, bald ihn fortstoßend wie es sich gehört und ihm und allen wieder unerreichbar wie früher, nur daß man früher das alles schon mit Recht bezweifelte, jetzt aber wieder überzeugt worden ist. So kommt sie zurück, der Wirt mit einem Seitenblick auf Pepi zögert – soll er sie opfern, die sich so bewährt hat? – aber bald ist er überredet, zuviel spricht für Frieda und vor allem, sie wird ja Klamm für die Gastzimmer zurückgewinnen. Dabei halten wir jetzt abend. Pepi wird nicht warten, bis Frieda kommt und aus der Übernahme der Stelle einen Triumph macht. Die Kassa hat sie der Wirtin schon übergeben, sie kann gehn. Das Bettfach unten in dem Mädchenzimmer ist für sie bereit, sie wird hinkommen, von den weinenden Freundinnen begrüßt, wird sich das Kleid vom Leib, die Bänder aus den Haaren reißen und alles in einen Winkel stopfen, wo es gut verborgen ist und nicht unnötig an Zeiten erinnert, die vergessen bleiben sollen. Dann wird sie den großen Eimer und den Besen nehmen, die Zähne zusammenbeißen und an die Arbeit gehn. Vorläufig aber mußte sie noch alles K. erzählen, damit er, der ohne Hilfe auch jetzt dies noch nicht erkannt hätte, einmal deutlich sieht, wie häßlich er an Pepi gehandelt und wie unglücklich er sie gemacht hat. Freilich, auch er ist dabei nur mißbraucht worden.

"Quand j'étais singe"

Sun, 23 Jan 2005 14:45:31 +0000

d’après Rapport pour une académie, et des extraits du Journal, des Lettres à Felice, des Fragments narratifs et de la Lettre au Père de Kafka

Création de Céline Agniel et Renaud Danner Mise en scène Céline Agniel

Avec:

Irina Dalle, Renaud Danner, Roland Timsit

Scénographie: Chantal de la Coste

Lumières: Philippe Quillet

Musiques: Gilles Fournier

Costumes: Fabienne Touzi Dit Terzi

En 1917, Kafka, à la veille de son mariage avec Felice Bauer, écrit Rapport pour une académie. Ce récit d’un singe contraint de devenir homme et vedette de music-hall sous la férule impitoyable d’un dompteur-impresario nous a d’abord renvoyé à ces héros du conformisme que les médias d’aujourd’hui “star-académisent”. Mais sous ce récit, écrit à la première personne, se lit aussi l’âpre combat mené par Kafka pour se plier aux absurdes conventions de la représentation sociale. Combat amoureux quotidien dont la correspondance avec sa fiancée Felice porte la trace douloureuse jusqu’à la fin …

Franz Kafka “Aphorisms” on the Stage of the Black Light Theatre Prague of Jirí Srnec

Mon, 17 Jan 2005 21:20:29 +0000

The performances of the Black Light Theatre always offer to the audience the possibility to search under the surface of what they can see, to go behind the limits of the world that can be recognised. They urge to participate intellectually, to think about the destiny of human beings. Now - when we are entering a new millennium - the ensemble of the Black Light Theatre starts dealing with the work of Franz Kafka in Prague, which is the surrealistic reality of all his books, because they think that his hidden messages are still valid, timeless and absolutely vital considering the reality where we have to live. Franz Kafka Aphorisms, a new performance of the Black Light Theatre Prague of Jirí Srnec, is a special stage project and a landmark in the almost 45-year existence of the ensemble of black light theatre generally. To express the thoughts of Kafka, one will use entirely new concept of theatre, which goes beyond the borders of stage genres dance, motion theatre, black light theatre, music and laterna magica - in a synthesis that opens a new view of Kafka and his work and returns his imagination into the contemporary world. The innovative quality of the performance is proved both by the variety of forms used and the use of a new principle of visible control of props, which has not yet been seen in black light theatre so far, in which the movement of an object is accompanied with puppeteer’s dancing inspiring life in it. The non-verbal speech of the black light theatre easily understandable all around the world along with usual flexibility of stage construction will enable high mobility of the performance, which is even improved by a low number of interprets here. Unlike standard black light theatre performances for an ensemble consisting of about twenty members, a new opening will be compiled for a chosen group of seven variable artists, dancers, drama actors and invisible puppeteers, who are noticeable artistic individuals and professionals in their branch.

Einakter

Sun, 16 Jan 2005 19:45:23 +0000

Von Janko Ferk

Eine dunkle Sackgasse in Prag. Lange nach dem „Frühling“. Im Hintergrund streicht jene Katze über die Gasse, die Franz Kafka während eines Landurlaubs bei seiner Lieblingsschwester Ottla eine schlaflose Nacht verursacht hat. Als er sich zur Ruhe begeben wollte, lag die Katze auf seinem Bett und starrte ihn unverwandt an. Der sensible Dichter war unter ihren Augen nicht imstand, sich seiner Kleider zu entledigen und verbrachte die Nacht auf einem Stuhl sitzend.

aus «Gedanken für den Tag»

Sun, 16 Jan 2005 09:01:39 +0000

von Janko Ferk

[…]

DONNERSTAG

Der Schriftsteller Franz Kafka, gelernter und promovierter Jurist, hat sich in seinen Schriften immer wieder mit quasi-rechtlichen Themen befaßt. Auch die Bedeutung der Gerechtigkeit hat er bewußt literarisiert, und zwar im Titorelli-Kapitel seines Romans „Der Prozeß“. Über die Gerechtigkeit schreibt er nicht nur im „Prozeß“, sondern ebenso im „Amerika“-Roman und in der „Strafkolonie“-Erzählung.

Die Gerechtigkeit spielt naturgemäß in Kafkas Privatleben hinein. Als Anfang September 1917 endgültig seine Lungentuberkulose diagnostiziert wird, schreibt er seiner Lieblingsschwester Ottla und stellt seine Krankheit recht merkwürdig dar: „… in dieser Krankheit liegt zweifellos Gerechtigkeit, es ist ein gerechter Schlag, den ich nebenbei gar nicht als Schlag fühle, sondern als etwas im Vergleich zum Durchschnitt der letzten Jahre durchaus Süßes“.

„Es wird gute Arbeit geleistet werden“ „Kafkas Fabriken“ und sein Vertrauen in den technischen Fortschritt, eine Ausstellung

Sat, 20 Nov 2004 14:12:54 +0000

von Uwe Wittstock

Marbach - „Es war spät abend als K. ankam. Das Dorf lag in tiefem Schnee. Vom Schloßberg war nichts zu sehen, Nebel und Finsternis umgaben ihn, auch nicht der schwächste Lichtschein deutete das große Schloß an. Lange stand K. auf der Holzbrücke, die von der Landstraße zum Dorf führte, und blickte in die scheinbare Leere empor.“ – Einer der berühmtesten Romananfänge der modernen Literatur, ganz unaufwendig, und doch ist die Bedrohlichkeit des noch unsichtbaren Schlosses sofort wie mit Händen zu greifen.

Malcolm Pasley dead

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 21:31:42 +0000

The Telegraph:

Sir Malcolm Pasley, 5th Bt, who has died aged 77, was a literary scholar who dedicated himself to the work of Franz Kafka; he was for 28 years tutor in German, and a Fellow, of Magdalen College, Oxford.

In the course of his career, Malcolm Pasley taught and wrote on a number of German authors, including Nietzsche, on whose use of language and metaphor he did some pioneering work.

The Nature of Man and Joseph K.

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 21:30:15 +0000

Taylor Klingensmith

The true nature of every last soul that inhabits Earth lends itself to one overriding theme, that of reproduction and insuring the survival of the human species. This can in no way be denied, as people’s own biochemistry forces them to desire sex and accept a certain responsibility for fulfilling the obligation of creating yet another generation of people to pursue these same goals. Joseph K. falls prey to this inevitable obligation despite the most certainly unique aspects surrounding his life as a whole, and he seems to take to this obligation with a zeal few rarely express. His outstanding circumstances in Franz Kafka’s The Trail fail to restrict Joseph K. in the slightest from being a sexually active person thanks to some abstract attraction all women apparently feel compelled to experience toward him. However, Joseph K. not only utilizes this attraction women feel toward to satisfy his sexual desires, but also makes a keen use of his abilities to attain information and other such convenient things from those he can. This leads one to an issue that remains central to the character of Joseph K. throughout the entire novel, the fact that he uses every woman he comes into contact with in order to further his own ambitions and needs in some fashion, perhaps even to the point of abusing the women in several forms. Yet Joseph K. does not hold the slightest sense of remorse for his actions, acknowledging them, “’I recruit women helpers’, he thought, almost amazed ‘first Fraulein Burstner, then the court usher’s wife, and now this little nurse who seems to have an inexplicable desire for me’"(Kafka 107), but failing to alter his dealings with these women in the slightest way.

Cómo escribía Kafka - Así descifré el enigma de El proceso

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 21:28:00 +0000

Por Guillermo Sánchez Trujillo

Hace 90 años, en su diario, Franz Kafka hizo la primera mención explícita sobre su novela más conocida: El proceso: “He empezado con tantas esperanzas y he sido rechazado por las tres historias, hoy con más fuerza que nunca. Quizá lo correcto sea no trabajar la historia rusa sino después de El proceso. Con esta esperanza ridícula, que evidentemente solo se apoya en una fantasía mecánica, recomienzo El proceso. -Completamente inútil no ha sido”. Diario, 21 agosto, 1914.

Arresto

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 12:52:50 +0000

Qualcuno doveva aver calunniato Josef K., perché un mattino, senza che avesse fatto niente di male, venne arrestato. La cuoca della signora Grubach, la sua affittacamere, che ogni giorno verso le otto gli portava la colazione, questa volta non venne. Ciò non era mai successo. K. aspettò ancora un poco, dal suo cuscino contemplò l’anziana signora che abitava di fronte a lui e che lo osservava con una curiosità per lei del tutto inusuale, infine, disorientato e affamato al tempo stesso, suonò il campanello. Subito qualcuno bussò, ed entrò un uomo che non aveva mai visto in questa casa. Era snello e tuttavia ben piantato, indossava un vestito nero attillato provvisto, come i vestiti da viaggio, di diverse pieghe, tasche, fibbie, bottoni e di una cintura, e che perciò, senza che ne fosse ben chiaro il motivo, sembrava particolarmente pratico. “Chi è lei?” domandò K. e subito si mise a sedere sul letto. Ma l’uomo trascurò la domanda, come se la sua comparsa dovesse essere accettata di per sé, e da parte sua disse soltanto: “Ha suonato?” “Anna deve portarmi la colazione”, disse K. e cercò come prima cosa di stabilire in silenzio, con attenzione e riflessione, chi fosse in realtà l’uomo. Ma costui non si offrì troppo a lungo ai suoi sguardi, si voltò verso la porta aprendola un poco e disse a qualcuno che evidentemente era in piedi subito dietro la porta: “Vuole che Anna gli porti la colazione.” Ne seguì in anticamera una risatina, a giudicare dal suono non era chiaro se vi partecipasse più di una persona. Evidentemente l’estraneo non poteva averne ricavato nuove informazioni, tuttavia col tono di voce di un annuncio formale disse a K.: “Ciò è impossibile”. “Questa sarebbe una novità”, disse K., saltò giù dal letto e si infilò velocemente i pantaloni. “Voglio proprio vedere che razza di gente c’è nell’altra stanza, e come si giustificherà davanti a me la signora Grubach per questa intrusione”. Gli venne subito in mente che sarebbe stato meglio non dire questo ad alta voce e che, così facendo, riconosceva in certa misura all’estraneo un diritto di sorveglianza, ma per il momento la cosa gli parve priva di importanza. L’estraneo invece sembrò intenderla proprio in questo modo, perché disse: “Non preferisce piuttosto rimanere qui?” “Io non intendo né rimanere qui né che lei mi rivolga la parola senza neppure essersi presentato.” “Non avevo cattive intenzioni”, disse l’estraneo, e aprì spontaneamente la porta. Nella stanza accanto, dove K. entrò più lentamente di quanto avrebbe voluto, tutto sembrava a prima vista esattamente come la sera prima. Era il soggiorno della signora Grubach, e forse in questa stanza strapiena di mobili, tovaglie, porcellane e fotografie c’era oggi un po’ più spazio del solito, ma non lo si notava subito, tanto più che la novità principale consisteva nella presenza di un uomo seduto presso la finestra aperta con un libro, dal quale alzò gli occhi proprio in quel momento. “Lei avrebbe dovuto rimanere nella sua stanza! Non glielo ha detto Franz?” “Sì, che cosa vuole lei?” disse K., e con lo sguardo passò da questa nuova conoscenza all’uomo chiamato Franz, che era rimasto sulla soglia della porta, e quindi di nuovo al suo interlocutore. Di nuovo dalla finestra aperta si poteva vedere la vecchia signora, che con curiosità veramente senile era ora passata alla finestra di fronte a questa stanza, per continuare a vedere la scena. “Ora però voglio la signora Grubach, per…”, disse K., e fece un movimento come per andarsene strappandosi dai due uomini, che però stavano a distanza da lui. “No”, disse l’uomo vicino alla finestra, gettò il libro su un tavolino e si alzò in piedi. “Lei non può andarsene, è in arresto.” “Così sembra”, disse K., poi aggiunse: “E perché?” “Questo non siamo autorizzati a dirglielo. Vada nella sua stanza e aspetti. Il procedimento è stato avviato, e lei saprà tutto a tempo debito. Vado già al di là dei miei compiti parlando così amichevolmente. Ma spero che ci sia solo Franz ad ascoltare, e anche lui, contro ogni regola, si è già comportato con amicizia nei suoi confronti. Lei potrà stare tranquillo se solo continua ad avere la fortuna che ha avuto nella designazione dei suoi sorveglianti.” K. voleva sedersi, ma si accorse che non c’era posto se non sulla sedia vicino alla finestra. “Se ne accorgerà, come sia vero tutto ciò”, disse Franz, e gli si avvicinò, contemporaneamente al suo compagno. Soprattutto quest’ultimo era molto più alto di K., e gli dava dei colpetti sulla spalla. Entrambi esaminarono la camicia da notte di K., dicendo che d’ora in poi avrebbe dovuto indossarne una molto più scadente, ma che loro avrebbero custodito questa come tutto il resto della sua biancheria, e gli avrebbero restituito tutto quando la cosa fosse andata a buon fine. “Le conviene dare le cose a noi anziché al deposito”, dissero, “perché al deposito spesso qualcosa viene rubato, e poi dopo un certo tempo tutto viene venduto, senza considerare se il relativo procedimento sia finito oppure no. E poi, specialmente negli ultimi tempi, quanto sono lunghi questi processi! Certo, alla fine lei otterrebbe dal deposito un qualche ricavo, ma prima di tutto questo ricavo è già piccolo di per sé, dato che al momento della vendita conta non tanto l’entità dell’offerta quanto quella della relativa corruzione; e in secondo luogo tali ricavi, come si sa, diminuiscono progressivamente passando di mano in mano e di anno in anno.” K. prestava scarsa attenzione a questo discorso, il diritto di proprietà sulle sue cose, diritto che forse aveva ancora, gli stava a cuore meno dell’avere chiarezza sulla sua posizione; ma in presenza di questa gente non poteva neppure riflettere, la pancia del secondo sorvegliante - poiché solo di sorveglianti poteva trattarsi - urtava in continuazione contro di lui, come per manifestare amicizia, ma se K. alzava gli occhi vedeva, in contrasto con questo corpo massiccio, una faccia asciutta e ossuta, con un grosso naso storto da un lato, che all’insaputa di K. faceva cenni all’altro sorvegliante. Che razza di uomini erano? Di che cosa parlavano? A quali autorità ubbidivano? Eppure K. viveva in uno stato di diritto, ovunque regnava la pace, tutte le leggi erano in vigore, chi poteva osare di piombare così in casa sua? Aveva sempre avuto la tendenza a prender tutto il più possibile alla leggera, a credere al peggio solo quando si presentava, a non farsi preoccupazioni per il futuro, neppure quando le minacce erano grandi. Ma tutto ciò ora non sembrava adeguato alla situazione, il tutto sembrava piuttosto uno scherzo, uno scherzo di cattivo gusto che per ragioni ignote, forse perché oggi era il suo trentesimo compleanno, gli era stato preparato dai suoi colleghi della banca, naturalmente era una cosa possibile, forse sarebbe bastato in qualche modo ridere in faccia ai sorveglianti, e loro avrebbero riso insieme con lui, forse erano solo uscieri presi all’angolo della strada, e ne avevano anche l’aspetto - ciononostante, fin dalla prima apparizione del sorvegliante Franz era assolutamente deciso a non rinunciare al minimo vantaggio che forse poteva avere nei confronti di questa gente. Se in seguito si fosse detto che non aveva capito lo scherzo, questo sembrava a K. un pericolo trascurabile, in compenso ricordava bene - anche se non era sua abitudine imparare dall’esperienza - alcuni casi insignificanti di per sé, nei quali, a differenza dei suoi amici, si era comportato scientemente in maniera imprudente, senza alcuna sensibilità per le possibili conseguenze, e alla fine il risultato lo aveva punito. Questo non doveva più accadere, per lo meno non questa volta, e se tutto era una commedia, ebbene, avrebbe recitato la sua parte.

Ricordando la ferrovia di Kalda

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 12:28:56 +0000

[Diari, quaderno 7, fine agosto 1914:]

Per un certo tempo nella mia vita - sono ormai passati molti anni - ho lavorato in una piccola stazione nell’interno della Russia. Non sono mai stato così abbandonato come laggiù. Per diverse ragioni che ora non vale la pena ricordare, in quel tempo ero alla ricerca proprio di un posto del genere, e quanto più ero assediato dalla solitudine tanto più ero contento, e dunque non voglio neppure ora lamentarmene. Nei primi tempi, l’unica cosa che mi mancava era il da fare. Originariamente, la piccola ferrovia era stata costruita per qualche ragione commerciale, il capitale però non era bastato, la costruzione si era interrotta e invece di portare a Kalda, il centro più grande, distante da noi cinque giorni di viaggio in carrozza, la ferrovia si fermava in un piccolo insediamento nel mezzo di un deserto, dal quale, per arrivare fino a Kalda, ci voleva ancora un intero giorno di viaggio. Ora, anche se fosse arrivata fino a Kalda, la linea sarebbe stata non redditizia per un tempo imprevedibile, perché tutto il suo progetto era sbagliato, il paese aveva bisogno di strade e non di ferrovie; ma nello stato in cui la linea si trovava attualmente non poteva in generale neppure esistere, i due treni che passavano ogni giorno portavano un carico che avrebbe potuto viaggiare su una carrozza leggera, e i passeggeri erano soltanto, d’estate, un paio di contadini. Tuttavia non si voleva abbandonare del tutto la linea perché si sperava, mantenendola in attività, di attirare capitali per finire la costruzione. Anche questa speranza, a mio parere, non era una vera speranza, ma piuttosto disperazione e pigrizia. Si faceva viaggiare il treno finché fossero durati materiale e carbone, si pagava a un paio di operai uno stipendio irregolare e decurtato, come se si trattasse di una gratificazione, e per il resto si aspettava che il tutto cadesse in rovina.

Frammenti per «Il cacciatore Gracco»

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 12:33:07 +0000

[Dalla serie “Jeder Mensch ist eigentümlich”, agosto 1916:]#

La capanna del cacciatore non era lontana dalla capanna dei legnaioli. I legnaioli, dodici, abitavano là, ora che c’era buona neve, per preparare i tronchi che di giorno venivano trasportati nella valle dalle slitte. C’era molto da fare, ma ai lavoratori non sarebbe sembrato troppo se solo avessero dato loro birra a sufficienza. Invece avevano solo un barilotto di medie dimensioni che dovevano suddividere fra loro per una settimana, un compito impossibile. Di questo si lamentavano sempre con il cacciatore, quando questi la sera li andava a trovare. “Avete una vita dura”, diceva il cacciatore annuendo e loro versavano nel suo cuore i loro lamenti.

Il cavaliere del secchio

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 12:36:45 +0000

[Prima versione: quaderno in ottavo B, fine dicembre 1916. Traduzione secondo l’edizione definitiva curata da Kafka e pubblicata sulla rivista Prager Presse, anno 1, n. 270, edizione del mattino del 25 dicembre 1921, supplemento natalizio, p. 22:]

Consumato tutto il carbone; vuoto il secchio; inutile la pala; la stufa che respira aria gelida; la stanza gonfia di gelo; davanti alla finestra, gli alberi rigidi nella brina; il cielo, uno scudo d’argento contro chi cerca da lui un aiuto. Devo procurarmi del carbone; non posso certo morire congelato; dietro di me la stufa impietosa, impietoso il cielo davanti a me; perciò devo andare al trotto in mezzo a loro, e nel frattempo, cercare aiuto dal carbonaio. Questi però è ormai indurito contro le mie solite preghiere; devo dimostrargli con chiarezza che non ho più neppure la più piccola particella di carbone, e che dunque lui rappresenta per me il sole nel firmamento. Devo arrivare come il mendicante intenzionato a morire sulla soglia rantolando di fame, e al quale perciò la cuoca si decide a lasciare i fondi dell’ultimo caffè; similmente il carbonaio, pur schiumante di rabbia, ma sotto il raggio del comandamento “Non uccidere!”, dovrà scaraventarmi nel secchio un’intera badilata.

Frammenti per «Una relazione per un'accademia» - Una relazione per un'accademia

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 12:38:35 +0000

[Quaderno in ottavo D, aprile 1917:]

Frammenti “Rotpeter”

Tutti conosciamo Rotpeter, così come lo conosce mezzo mondo. Ma quando giunse nella nostra città per una esibizione, decisi di conoscerlo più da vicino, personalmente. Non è difficile essere ammessi alla sua presenza. Nelle grandi città, dove tutti sono uomini di mondo e cercano solo di vedere dal più vicino possibile il respiro delle persone famose, potevano sorgere delle difficoltà, ma nella nostra città ci si accontenta di contemplare le meraviglie dal parterre, e perciò, come mi disse il portiere dell’albergo, io ero fino ad allora l’unico che avesse annunciato la propria visita. Il signor Busenau, l’impresario, mi accolse con straordinaria cordialità. Non mi ero aspettato di trovare in lui un uomo così modesto, e quasi meschino. Sedeva nell’anticamera dell’abitazione di Rotpeter e mangiava una minestra di uova. Benché fosse mattina, indossava già il frac serale con cui appariva alle rappresentazioni. Appena mi vide, benché fossi un ospite estraneo e insignificante, saltò su, lui che era titolato degli ordini più alti, re dei domatori, dottore honoris causa delle grandi università, - saltò su, mi strinse la mano, mi obbligò a sedermi, pulì il suo cucchiaio sulla tovaglia e me lo offrì con la massima amicizia, perché finissi di mangiare la sua minestra di uova. Non accettò il mio rifiuto pieno di gratitudine, e voleva imboccarmi di persona. Feci fatica a calmarlo, e a respingerlo insieme con piatto e cucchiaio. “Lei è stato molto gentile a venire”, disse allora con forte accento straniero, “molto gentile. Inoltre lei arriva al momento giusto, non sempre, purtroppo non sempre Rotpeter può ricevere visite, spesso ha orrore di vedere esseri umani; in tal caso nessuno, chiunque sia, viene ammesso, e io stesso, io stesso posso trattare con lui in un certo senso solo professionalmente, sul palcoscenico. Ma subito dopo la rappresentazione devo sparire, se ne va a casa da solo, si rinchiude nella sua stanza e per lo più se ne resta così fino alla sera dopo. Nella sua camera da letto tiene sempre un grosso cestino di frutta, che gli serve per nutrirsi in questi casi. Naturalmente però io non posso lasciarlo incustodito, e così affitto sempre la casa di fronte per sorvegliarlo da dietro le tende.”