Fragments

Franz Kafka

Enduring Dream: She walked along the country road. I didn't see her, I only noticed how she moved as she
walked, how her veil flew, how her foot rose. I sat on the edge of the field and looked into the water of a
shallow brook. She walked through the villages, and children stood in doorways, watching her approach and
then watching her leave.

I stood on the balcony outside my room. It was very high— I counted the rows of windows; it was on the
seventh floor. Down below there were several gardens in a small courtyard, which was enclosed on three
sides. It was obviously in Paris. I went into the room and left the door open. It seemed to be only March or
April, but the day was warm. In a corner stood a small, very light writing table; I could have lifted it with one
hand and swung it around in the air. For now, however, I took a seat. Quill and ink were all laid out, for I
wanted to write a postcard. Uncertain whether I had a card, I was reaching into my pocket when I heard a bird
and noticed, as I turned around, a bird cage out on the balcony. I went out again at once. I had to stand on my
toes to see the bird. It was a canary, which cheered me immensely. I pushed the lettuce which was lodged
between two bars farther into the cage and let the bird nibble on it. Then I turned again to the courtyard,
rubbed my hands, and leaned carelessly over the balustrade. On the other side of the courtyard, someone
appeared to be watching me with opera glasses from his garret—probably because I was a new tenant. It was
indeed petty, but perhaps it was an invalid whose world consisted entirely of the view from his window.
Having found a card in my pocket, I went back into the room to write on it. There was, however, no picture of
Paris on the card. Instead there was a painting titled Evening Prayer. There was a tranquil lake, a few reeds in
the fore- ground, in the middle a boat, and in it a young mother with her child in her arms.

Hail the great swimmer! Hail the great swimmer!" the people shouted. I was coming from the Olympic
Games in Antwerp, where I had just set a world record in swimming. I stood at the top of the steps outside the
train station in my Hometown—where was it?—and looked down at the indiscernible throng in the dusk. A
girl, whose cheek I stroked cursorily, hung a sash around me, on which was written in a foreign language: The
Olympic Champion. An automobile drove up and several men pushed me into it. Two other men drove along
—the mayor and someone else. At once we were in a banquet room. A choir sang down from the gallery as I
entered and all the guests—there were hundreds—rose and shouted, in perfect unison, a phrase that I didn't
exactly understand. To my left sat a minister; I don't know why the word "minister" horrified me so much
when we were introduced. At first I measured him wildly with my glances, but soon composed myself. To my
right sat the mayor's wife, a voluptuous woman; everything about her, particularly her bosom, seemed to
emanate roses and the finest down. Across from me sat a fat man with a strikingly white face, whose name I
had missed during the introductions. He had placed his elbows on the table—a particularly large place had
been made for him—and looked straight ahead in silence. To his right and left sat two beautiful blond girls.
They were cheerful and constantly had something to say, and I looked from one to the other. In spite of the
more than ample lighting, though, I couldn't clearly recognize many of the other guests, perhaps because
everything was in motion. The waiters scurried around, dishes arrived at the tables, and glasses were raised—
indeed, perhaps everything was too well illuminated. There was also a certain disorder—the only disorderly
element, actually-in the fact that several guests, particularly women, were sitting with their backs turned to
the table and, further, in such a way that not even the backs of their chairs were between them and the table,
but rather that their backs were almost touching the table. I drew the attention of the girls across from me to
this, but while they had otherwise been so garrulous, now they said nothing, and instead only smiled at me
with long looks. When a bell rang, the waiters froze in their positions and the fat man across from me rose
and delivered a speech. But why was he so sad? During the speech he dabbed at his face with a handkerchief,
which was quite understandable in light of his obesity, the heat in the room, and the strains of the speech
itself. But I distinctly noticed that the whole effect was merely a clever disguise, meant to conceal the fact that
he was wiping tears from his eyes. Also, although he looked directly at me as he spoke, it was as if he weren't
seeing me, but rather my open grave. After he had finished, I, of course, also stood up and delivered a speech.
I felt compelled to speak, for there was much that needed to be said, both here and probably also elsewhere,
for the public's enlightenment. And so I began:

"Honored guests! I have, admittedly, broken a world record. If, however, you were to ask me how I have
achieved this, I could not answer adequately. Actually, I cannot even swim. I have always wanted to learn, but
have never had the opportunity. How then did it come to be that I was sent by my country to the Olympic
Games? This is, of course, also the question I ask of myself. I must first explain that I am not now in my
fatherland and, in spite of considerable effort, cannot understand a word of what has been spoken. Your first
thought might be that there has been some mistake, but there has been no mistake—I have broken the record,
have returned to my country, and do indeed bear the name by which you know me. All this is true, but
thereafter nothing is true. I am not in my fatherland, and I do not know or understand you. And now
something that is somehow, even if not exactly, incompatible with this notion of a mistake: It does not much
disturb me that I do not understand you and, likewise, the fact that you do not understand me does not seem to
disturb you. I could only gather from the speech of the venerable gentleman who preceded me that it was
inconsolably sad, and this knowledge is not only sufficient, in fact for me it is too much. And indeed, the
same is true of all the conversations I have had here since my return. But let us return to my world record."

I sharpened the scythe and began to cut. Large, dark clumps fell before me, and I stepped through them
without knowing what they were. Voices of warning called out from the village, but I took them for words of
encouragement and went on further. I came to a small wooden bridge. The work was finished and I gave the
scythe to a man who was waiting there. He reached out with one hand for the scythe and with the other
stroked my cheek like a child. In the middle of the bridge I suddenly doubted whether I was on the right path
and called out loudly in the darkness, but nobody answered. Then I went back to the solid ground to ask the
man, but he was no longer there.

How did I get here," I cried. It was a fairly large room, lit only by a soft electric light. I inspected the walls.
There were actually several doors, but upon opening them, I discovered a dark, flat stone wall, which was set
back by perhaps only the width of a hand from the doorway and extended straight up and to both sides into
the infinite distance. There was no way out here. Only one door led into another room, and the prospect there
was more hopeful, but no less unsettling than that of the other doors. I looked into a royal chamber, decorated
in shades of red and gold. There were several wall-size mirrors and an enormous chandelier. But that was not
all.

I was granted permission to enter a strange garden. There were several difficulties to overcome at the
entrance, but finally a man behind a table stood up and fixed a dark green piece of paper to my lapel with a
pin. "That is, of course, a medal," I said jokingly, but the man only patted me on the shoulder as if to reassure
me—but why should I be reassured? I learned from his knowing glance that I could now enter. After a few
steps, however, I remembered that I had not yet paid. I wanted to turn around, but just then I saw a tall woman
in an overcoat made of a coarse, yellowish-gray material bending over the table, counting a number of tiny
coins. "That is for you," the man called out to me over the woman's head, as she stooped very low. "For me?"
I asked in disbelief, and looked behind me to see if indeed someone else had been intended. "Always the same
pettiness," said a gentleman who had come across the lawn, passed on the path directly in front of me, and
then walked away again. "Yes, for you. For who else then? Here one pays for others." I thanked him for this
information, reluctantly as it had been pro- vided, but also drew his attention to the fact that I had not paid for
anyone. "And for whom should you then pay?" said the gentleman in parting. I wanted in any case to wait for
the woman and come to some sort of an understanding with her, but she turned down another path, swishing
off in her coat. A bluish veil streamed grace- fully behind her majestic figure. "You admire Isabella," a stroller
beside me said as he likewise watched her. After a while he said, "That is Isabella."

I sat up and saw, framed by the small rounded window of the boat's cabin, a hand stretched out in greeting,
and the strong face of a woman enveloped by a black scarf. "Mother?" I asked, smiling. "If you wish," she
said. "But you are so much younger than Father?" I said. "Yes," she said, "much younger. He could be my
grandfather and you my husband." "You know," I said, "it is astonishing how one sails along alone in a boat,
and suddenly a woman is there."

Those prepared to die lay on the ground, leaned on the furniture, and, with teeth chattering, groped along the
wall without leaving their places.

Translated from the German by Daniel Slager