258 Chu1>1('r 7 • !:h-mhnl
READING LONG
STORIES AND NOVELS
Brown 3
jC�!usion sunu
up main idea
1
without simply
ng1t
gardening had protected-or at least distracted-her from her loneliness,
isolation, and feelings of inadequacy. Finally, the theme emerges from our
understanding of this woman and the importance of her chrysanthemums.
Understanding Steinbeck's symbolism, therefore, is essential to understanding
how the story works.
The novel is the one bright book of !ife.
-D. H. LAWRENCE
MORE TOPICS FOR WRITING
1. Choose a story from this chapter. Describe your experience of reading that story, and
encountering its symbols. At what pomt did the main symbol's meaning beco me cleai
What in the story indicated the larger importance of that symbol?
2. From any story m this book, select an object, or place, or action chat seems clearly s•
bolic. How do you know? Now select an object, place, or action from the same story ti
clearly seems co signify no more than itself. How can you tell?
3. Analyze the symbolism in a story from "Stories for Further Reading." Some
choices might be "Dead Men's Pach," "The Story of an Hour," and "Where Are Y1
Going, Where Have You Been?" Choose a symbol that recurs over the course of rl
story, and look closely at each appearance it makes. How does the story's use of
symbol evolve?
4. In an essay of 600 to 800 words, compare and contrast the symbolic use of the scape1
in "The Lottery" and "The Ones Who Walk Away from Ornelas."
•
� TERMS FOR rev1e1v
Symbol ► A person, place, or thing in a narrative that suggests meanings beyond its lite1
sense. Symbol is related to allegory, but it works more complexly. A symbol often contai1
multiple meanings and associations.
Convrnlionul symbol ► A literary symbol that has a conventional or customary me:
ing for most readers-for example, a black cat crossing a path or a young bride in a whi1
dress.
Symholi(• ucl ► An action whose significance goes well beyond its literal meaning. In lit,
ature, symbolic acts often involve some conscious or unconscious ritual element such
rebirth, punfication, forgiveness, vengeance, or initiation.
Allegory ► A narrative in which the literal events (persons, places, and things) consistent!
point to a parallel sequence of symbolic equivalents. This narrative strategy is often used
dramame abstract ideas, historical events, religious systems, or political issues. An allegory
two levels of meaning: a literal level that tells a surface story and a symbolic level in which
abstract ideas unfold.
mong the forms of imaginative literature in our language, the novel has been
,the favorite of both writers and readers for more than two hundred years.
il!roadly defined, a novel is a book-length fictional story in prose, whose author tries
create the sense that while we read, we experience actual life.
This sense of actuality, also found in artful short stories, may be the quality that
the novel apart from other long prose narratives. Why do we not apply the
me novel to, for instance, Gulliver's Travels? In his marvel-filled account of Lemuel
iulliver's voyages among pygmies, giants, civilized horses, and noxious humanoid
ine, Jonathan Swift does not seem primarily to care if we find his story credible.
1ough he arrays the adventures of Gulliver in painstaking detail (and, ironically,
1as Gulliver swear to the truth of them), Swift neither attempts nor achieves a con• icing illusion of life. For his book is a fantastic satire that finds resemblances between
hie horses and man's reasoning faculties, between debased apes and man's kinship
ith the beasts.
1
1RIGINS OF THE NOVEL
lnlike other major literary forms-drama, lyric, ballad, and epic-the novel is a relaive newcomer. Originally, the drama in ancient Greece came alive only when actors
:rfonned it; the epic or heroic poem ( from the classic Iliad through the Old English
:If), only when a bard sang or chanted it. But the English novel came to maturity
literate times, in the eighteenth century, and by its nature was something different:
story to be communicated silently in printed books, at whatever moment and at
•hatever pace ( whether quickly or slowly and meditatively) the reader desired.
Some definitions of the novel would more strictly define the form. "The Novel is
picture of real life and manners, and of the time in which it was written," declared
:Iara Reeve in 1785. By so specifying that the novel depicts life in the present day,
1e critic was probably observing the derivation of the word novel. Akin to the
·ench word for "news" (nouvelles), it comes from the Italian nowlla ("something new
ind small"), a term applied to a newly made story taking place in recent times, and
!not a traditional story taking place long ago.
259
\0Vt'lis1ic Methods 261
260 C.hupccr 8 • Hr.ud111g Long !,10ri<''i ancl \owls
Romances
The novel, which is principally a realistic form, is often contrasted with the oth
. prose trad"
• the romance. In genera I terms, romance is a narrer.
maior
1t1on of narrative,
tive mode that employs exotic adventure and idealized emotion rather than reali t~
depiction of character and action. In the romantic mode-out of which most pop~l~~
genre fictions develop--people, actions, and events are depicted more as we wish
chem to be (heroes are very brave, villains are very bad) than as the complex entit'
they usually are. Medieval romances (in both prose and verse) presented chival~~s
t~les of kings, knights, and aristocratic ladies. Modem romances, emerging in t~~
nineteenth century, were represented by adventure novels such as Sir Walter Scott'
Ivanhoe which embodied the symbolic quests and idealized characters of earlies
chivalric tales in slightly more realistic terms, a tradition carried on in contempora~
popular works such as the Stars Wars and James Bond films.
Novels Versus Romances
Also drawing a line between novel and romance, Nathaniel Hawthorne, in his preface to The House of the Set1en Gables ( 1851), restricted the novel "not merely to the
possible, but to the probable and ordinary course of man's experience." A romance
had_no such limi~ations. Such a definition would deny the name of not1el to any fantastic or speculative story-to, say, the Gothic novel and the science fiction novel.
Carefully bestowed, the labels nooel and romance may be useful to distinguish
be_tw~en_ the true-to-life story
usual people in ordinary places (such as George
Eliot~ Silas Mamer o~ Amy Tans The Joy Luck Club) and the larger-than-life story
of darmg deeds and high adventure, set in the past or future or in some timeless land
(such as Walter Scott's Ivanhoe or J. R. R. Tolkien's The Lard of the Rings). This
sense of the actual is, perhaps, the hallmark of a novel, whether or not the events it
relates are literally possible.
A student shouldn't worry too much about the differences between the novel and
romance. In everyday conversation people usually refer to any book-length fictional
narratives as "novels." The important thing to remember is that there are two funda•
mentally different ways of telling a story. The novelistic method stresses the everyday,
realistic aspects. The romantic method stresses the aspects of adventure, surprise, and
wish fulfillment. It is particularly interesting to see the rare occasions when authors
deliberately stray across the boundary between the two modes. In Franz Kafka's Tne
Metamorphosis, for example, the story begins with a fantastic premise-Gregor Samsa
wakes to discover himself turned into a giant insect. This bizarre transformation would
seem the very stuff of romance, but after the first sentence Kafka tells the story in the
most matter-of-fact and realistic way. The stunning quality of Kafka's masterpiece
comes from his novelistic manner of telling his seemingly unrealistic tale.
of
Novels and Journalism
Since both the novel and journalism try to capture the fabric of everyday life, there
has long been a close relationship between the two literary forms. Many novelists,
~mong them Ernest Hemingway, Stephen Crane, and Jack London, began their writ·
mg careers as cub reporters. Ambrose Bierce was the most influential newspaper
satirist of his day.
The two modes of writing, however, remain different. "Literature is the art of
writing something that will be read twice," commented critic and novelist Cyril
C nnolly, "journalism what will be grasped at once." Journalism greatly influences
h 0w novelists depict the world around them. Stephen Crane's "The Open Boat"
(~hapter 6) began as a newspaper accou~t of his ac~ual ex~eriex:ices in a small rowboat after the sinking of the Commodore m 1897. A 1oum~list might have been c~ncent with such a gripping first-person story of surviving a shipwreck, but a great ficuon
writer has the gift of turning personal bad luck into art, and Crane eventually created
a masterpiece of fiction based on fact.
NOVELISTIC METHODS
Many early novels were told in the form of letters. Sometimes these epistolary novels
contained letters by only one character; often they contained letters excha~ged by
several of the characters in the book. By casting his novel Pamela ( 1740) mto the
form of personal letters, Samuel Richardson helped give the story the appearance of
being not invented but discovered from real documents. Alice Walker's The Color
purple (1982) is a more recent epistolary novel, though some of the letters that tell
the scary are addressed to God.
Another method favored by novelists is to write as though setting down a memoir or an autobiography. Daniel Defoe, whose skill in feigning such memoirs was phenomenal, succeeded in writing the supposedly true confessions of a woman retired
from a life of crime, Moll Flanders ( 1722), and in maintaining a vivid truthfulness:
Going through Aldersgate Street, there was a pretty little child who had
been at a dancing-school, and was going home all alone: and my prompter,
like a true devil, set me upon this innocent creature. I talked to it, and it
prattled to me again, and I took it by the hand and led it along till I came to
a paved alley that goes into Bartholomew Close, and I led it in there. The
child said that was not its way home. I said, "Yes, my dear, it is; I'll show you
the way home." The child had a little necklace on of gold beads, and I had
my eye upon that, and in the dark of the alley I scooped, pretending to mend
the child's clog that was loose, and took off her necklace, and the child
never felt it, and so led the child on again. Here, I say, the devil put me
upon killing the child in the dark alley, that it might not cry, but the very
thought frighted me so that I was ready to drop down; but I turned the child
about and bade it go back again .... The last affair left no great concern
upon me, for as I did the poor child no harm, I only said to myself, 1 had
given the parents a just reproof for their negligence in leaving the poor little
lamb to come home by itself, and it would teach them to take more care of it
another time.
What could sound more like the voice of an experienced child-robber than this manner of excusing her crime, and even justifying it?
Some novelists place great emphasis on research and notetaking. James A.
Michener, the internationally best-selling author of novels such as Centennial
(which tracks life in Colorado from prehistory through modem times) and Chesapeake
(which describes 400 years of events on Maryland's Eastern Shore), started work on
a book by studying everything available about his chosen subject. He also traveled
to locations that might appear in the book, interviewed local people, and compiled
immense amounts of scientific, historical, and cultural data. Research alone, however,
262 ( hnptcr 8 ■ Hc11<li111, Long S1uri1•, und '\m ,·I,
is not enough to produce a novel. A novel grows to completion only through the
slow mental process of creation, selection, and arrangement. But raw facts can
sometimes provide a beginning. Many novels started when the author read some
arresting episode in a newspaper or magazine. Theodore Dreiser's impressive study of
a murder, An American Tragedy (l 925), for example, was inspired by a journalist's
account of a real-life case.
Nonfiction Novels
In the 1960s there was a great deal of talk about the nonfiction novel, in which the
author presents actual people and events in story form. The vogue of the nonfiction
novel was created by Truman Capote's In Cold Blood (1966), which depicts an actual
multiple murder and the resulting trial in Kansas. Capote traveled to the scene of the
crime and interviewed all of the principal parties, including the murderers. Norman
Mailer wrote a similar novel, The Executioner's Song (1979), chronicling the life and
death of Gary Gilmore, the Utah murderer who demanded his own execution. More
recently, John Berendt's darkly comic 1994 account of the upper class and under class
of Savannah, Georgia, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil (which also centers on
a murder and the subsequent trial), revived interest in the form.
Perhaps the name "nonfiction novel" (Capote's term for it) is newer than the
form. In the past, writers of autobiography have cast their memoirs into what looks
like novel form: Richard Wright in Black Boy (1945), William Burroughs in Junkie
( 1953 ). Derived from his reporting, John Hersey's Hiroshima ( 1946) reconstructs the
lives of six survivors of the atom bomb as if they were fictional. In reading such works
we may nearly forget we are reading literal truth, so well do the techniques of the
novel lend an air of immediacy to remembered facts.
Historical Novels
A familiar kind of fiction that claims a basis in fact is the historical novel, a detailed
reconstruction of life in another time, perhaps in another place. In some historical
novels the author attempts a faithful picture of daily life in another era, as does Rohen
Graves in l, Claudius (1934), a novel of patrician Rome. More often, history is a backdrop for an exciting story of love and heroic adventure. Nathaniel Hawthorne's Thi
Scarlet Letter (set in Puritan Boston) and Stephen Crane's The Red Badge of Courage
(set on the battlefields of the Civil War) are historical novels in that their authors
lived considerably later than the scenes and events that they depicted, and strove for
truthfulness, by imaginative means.
Other Types of Novels
Other varieties of novel will be familiar to anyone who browses in bookstores: the
mystery or detective novel, che Western novel, the science fiction novel, and oth~r
enduring types. Novels are sometimes said to belong to a category if chey contain
some recognizable kind of structure or theme. Such a category is the Bildungsroman
(German for a "novel of growth and development"), sometimes called the apprenticeship
novel after its classic example, Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship (1796) by Johann
Wolfgang von Goethe. This is the kind of novel in which a youth struggles toward
maturity, seeking, perhaps, some consistent worldview or philosophy of life. ~etimes the apprenticeship novel is evidently derived from the author's recollection
of his own early life: James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) and
Tobias Wolff's Old School (2003).
Hcu,ling 1\ovels 16:1
Picaresques
In a picaresque (another famous category), a likable scoundrel wanders through
adventures, ltvmg by his wits, dupmg the straight citizenry. The name comes from
Spanish: p£caro, "rascal" or "rogue." The classic picaresque novel is the anonymous
Spanish Life of LawriUo de Tonnes (1554), imitated by many English writers, among
them Henry Fielding in his story of a London thief and racketeer, Jonathan Wild
(1743). Mark Twam's Huckleberry Finn (1885) owes something to the tradition; like
early picaresque novels, it 1s told in episodes rather than in one all-unifying plot and is
narrated in the first person by a hero at odds with respectable society ("dismal regular
and decent," Huck Finn calls it). In Twain's novel, however, the traveling swindlers
who claim to be a duke and a dauphin are much more typical rogues of picaresque
fiction than Huck himself, an honest innocent. Modem novels worthy of the name
include Saul Bellow's The Adventures of Augie March (1953), J. P. Donleavy's The
Ginger Man (1965), Erica Jong's Fanny (1981), and Seth Morgan's Homeboy (1990).
Short Novels and Novellas
The term short novel (or npvella) mainly describes the size of a narrative; 1t refers to
a narrative midway in length between a short story and a novel. (E. M. Forster once
said that a novel should be at least 50,000 words in length, and most editors and publishers would agree with that defimtion.) Generally a short novel, like a short story,
focuses on just one or two characters; but, unlike a short story, it has room to examine them in great depth and detail. A short novel also often explores its characters
over a greater period of time.
Many writers, such as Thomas Mann, Henry James, Joseph Conrad, and Willa
Cather, favored the novella as a perfect medium between the necessary compression
of the short story and the potential sprawl of the novel. Franz Kafka's famous novella
The Metamorphosis is included in this book. When the term novelette 1s used, it usually refers (often disapprovingly) to a short novel written for a popular magazine,
especially m such fields as science fiction, romance, the Western, and horror.
READING NOVELS
Trying to perceive a novel as a whole, we may find it helpful to look for the same
elements that we have noticed in reading short stories. By asking ourselves leading
questions, we may be drawn more deeply into the novel's world, and may come to
recognize and appreciate the techniques of the novelist. Does the novel have themes,
or an overall theme? Who is its main character? What is the author's kind of narrative voice? How would we describe the tone, style, and use of irony? Why is this
novel written from one point of view rather than from another? If the novel in question is large and thickly populated, it may help to read it with a pencil and take brief
notes. Forced to put the novel aside and lacer return to it, we may find that the notes
refresh the memory. Once our reading of a novel is finished and we prepare co discuss
It or write about it, it may be a good idea to browse through it again, rereading brief
portions. This method of overall browsing may also help when first approaching a
bulky and difficult novel. Just as an explorer mapping unfamiliar territory may find it
~est to begin by taking an aerial view of it, so too the reader approaching an exceptionally thick and demanding novel may wish, at the start, to look for its general
shape. There is, of course, no shortcut to novel reading, and probably the best method
264 Chuptl'r 8 • lll'ucling Long Stori1:s nnd '\on-ls
1.,·o l'olsto~ 265
is to settle in comfort and read the book through: with your own eyes, not with the
borrowed glasses of literary criticism.
in Yasnaya Polyana, but frequently escaped to St. Petersburg and Western Europe. In
The Future of the Novel
was eventually undermined by the sex-obsessed and guilt-ridden Tolstoy, who engaged m
The death of the novel has been frequently announced. Competition from television, DVDs, video games, and the Internet, some critics claim, will overwhelm the
habit of reading; the public is lazy and will follow the easiest route available for entertainment. But in England and America television and films have been sending
people back in vast numbers to the books they dramatize. Jane Austen has never
lacked readers, but films such as Pride and Prejudice, Emma, Persuasion, and Sense and
Sensibility (not to mention Clueless, a teenage version of Emma set in Beverly Hills,
or Bride and Prejudice, a singing and dancing Bollywood treatment set in modem-day
India) made her one of the world's best-selling novelists. Stylish adaptations of Philip
K. Dick's offbeat science fiction, including Blade Runner, Tot.al Recall, and Minority
Report, have created a cult for his once neglected work. Sometimes Hollywood even
helps bring a good book into print. No one would publish Thomas M. Disch's sophisticated children's novella The Brave Little Toaster, until Walt Disney turned it into a
cartoon movie. A major publisher then not only rushed it into print, but commissioned a sequel.
Meanwhile, each year new novels by the hundreds continue to appear, their
authors wistfully looking for a public. Some of these books reach a mass audience. To
forecast the end of the novel seems risky, for the novel exercises the imagination of
the beholder. Ac any hour, at a touch of the hand, it opens and (with no warmup)
begins to speak. Once printed, it consumes no further energy. Often so small that it
may be carried in a pocket, it may yet survive by its ability to contain multitudes (a
"capacious vessel," Henry James called it): a thing chat is both a work of art and an
amazingly compact system for the storage and retrieval of imagined life.
many mfidelities (which were sometimes followed by the author's unsuccessful renunciations of sex). Despite its many problems . the marriage produced thirteen children. At
Yasnaya Polyana, Tolstoy wrote his two greatest novels, the six-volume War and Peace
( J863- 1869) , which depicts the lives of five aristocratic Russian families dunng the
Napoleonic Wars, and Anna Karenina ( 1877) , which tells the tTagic story of a woman led
try romantic illusions into a destructive adulterous liaison. As T olswy grew older, he became
obsessed with early Christianity. He formulated his own version of Christ's teachings,
stressing simplicity, love, nonviolence, and community property. Excommunicated by the
Orthodox Church, the count, who now dressed m peasant clothing, preached his "Chnstian
anarchism" to the Russian intelligentsia in streams of books and pamphlets. Upset by his
ruined maniage and his inability to renounce his personal wealth, the eighty-two-year-old
Tolstoy fled home one night to enter a monastery. He died of pneumonia a few days later in
a provincial railway station.
Tolstoy is one of the great masters of European Realism. His fame came early and
has never been seriously challenged. Much of his fiction examines a tTagic predicament of
human existence-the difficult search for truth and justice m a world of limited knowledge and
ethical imperfectlon. Tolstoy resolutely believed m the moral development of humanity, but
was also painfully aware of the obsracles to genuine progress. His gripping novella The Death
of Ivan Ilych dramatizes Tolstoy's centTal spiritual concerns. His antiheroic Everyman faces
death with the horrifying realization mat he has not lived a correct or meaningful life.
1862 he wed Sonya Bers, an intellectual middle-class woman. Initially happy, the marriage
Leo Tolstoy
The Death of Ivan Hych
188b
Translated by Louise and Aylmer Maude
The complex and contTadictory Leo Nikolaevich
Tolstoy ( 18 28-1910) is generally consuiered the
greatest Russian novelist. Born on his aristocratic
family's country estate, Yasnaya Polyana, in
centTal Russia, he was arphaned at nme and
raised by his aunts. At siXteen, Tolstoy entered
Kazan University to study law, but soon returned to the family estate. The young count
took off for St. Petersburg and Moscow, where
he led a profligate life-carefully listmg his moral
tTansgressions in his duiry. In 1851 Tolstoy
joined the army and fought in the Caucasus. It
was there that he completed his first book,
Childhood (185 2) , a lyrical memoir. Havmg
served in the Crimean War, he left the army in
1856 to become a writer.
For the next half century the brilliant and perpetually dissatisfied Tolstoy tried to settle
Leo Tolstoy
During an interval m the Melvinski trial in the large building of the Law Courts,
the members and public prosecutor met in Ivan Egorovich Shebek's private room,
where the conversation turned on the celebrated Krasovski case. Fedor Vasilievich
warmly maintained that it was not subject to their jurisdiction, Ivan Egorovich maintained the contrary, while Peter lvanovich, not having entered into the discussion at
the start, took no part in it but looked through the Gazette which had just been
handed m.
"Genclemen," he said, "Ivan Hych has died!"
"You don't say so!"
"Here, read it yourself," replied Peter lvanovich, handing Fedor Vasilievich the
paper still damp from the press. Surrounded by a black border were the words:
"Praskovya Fedorovna Golovina, with profound sorrow, informs relatives and friends
of the demise of her beloved husband Ivan llych Golovin, Member of the Coun of
Justice, which occurred on February the 4th of this year 1882. The funeral will take
place on Friday at one o'clock in the afternoon."
Ivan llych had been a colleague of the gentlemen present and was liked by chem
all. He had been ill for some weeks with an illness said to be incurable. His post had
been kept open for him, but there had been conjectures that in case of his death
Alexeev might receive his appomtment, and that either Vinnikov or Shtabel would
succeed Alexeev. So on receiving the news of Ivan llych's death the first thought of
each of the gentlemen in that pnvate room was of the changes and promotions it
might occasion among themselves or their acquaintances.
5
166 Chnplf'r 8 • Hf'uding Long S1nrir, and .\owls
I .I'<> I olstoy 267
"I shall be sure to get Shtabel's place or Vinnikov's " th h r••d
"I was promise
• d t h at 1ong ago, and the promot1'on me'
oug t re or Vas1·t·ievicL:
r
.
ans
an extra eigh h
11.:
ru bles a year ror me besides the allowance."
t undred
"Now I must apply for my brother-in-law's transfer from Kalu "
Ivanovic~. "My wife will be very glad, and then she won't be able fa, thought Peter
0
do anything for her relations."
say that I never
"I thought he would never leave his bed again ,, said p
I
. h
very sad."
'
ecer vanov1c aloud. "It•,
::Bue what really was the matter with him?"
The doctors couldn't say-at least they could b t
h f h
.
different. When last I saw him I thought he was gec't. u beac o,, t em sa,d something
"A d J h
,
mg etter.
n
aven t been to see him since the holidays I I
"Had he any property?"
• a ways meant to go."
::i
think his wife had a little-but something quite trifling."
.. We shall have to go to see her, but they live so terribly far away"
..~ar away frhom you, you mean. Everything's far away from your p.lace,,
ou see, e never can forgive my livin
h
h
.
•
P:ter lvanovich, smiling at Shebek. Then,
t:lki~t e; shde Jf the river," said
d1fferen~ parts of the city, they returned to the Court. g o t e !Stances between
Besides considerations as to the
'bl
f,
result from Ivan Ilych's death the me~:s;:ct eo;r:~s ers and promotions likely to
aroused, as usual, in all who h;ard of it the com I e de~th(·of a hnea~. a~quaintance
dead and not 1."
p acent ree mg t at It is he who is
;cJf
Each one thought or felt, "Well, he's dead but I'm aliv T"
. .
oi Ivan Ilych's acquaintances, his so-called friends, could n~~ h~~; ~~~ ~~re lft1m~te
c ey would now have to fulfil the very tiresome demands of
. m mg a sot_ at
the funeral service and paying a visit of cond I
h 'dpropr1ety by attending
F"·d V .
o ence to t e w1 ow
e or astlievich and Peter Ivanovich h d be h ·
•
.
Iv:movich had studied law with Ivan II h ad he~ is n~daresc ac~uamtances. Peter
obligations to him.
ye an a cons1 ered himself to be under
Having told his wife at dinner-time of Iv II h' d h
that it might be possible to get her b h an ye / eat and ~f hi_s conjecture
Ivanovich sacrificed his usual nap put o~o~i:re tra~s erreld hto thed1r circuit, Peter
Ilych's house.
'
venmg c ot es, an drove to Ivan
At the entrance stood a carr·
d
b Le .
hall downstairs near the cloak-sta~1::;a
ani~g ~g~i~st hthe wall in the
mented with gold cord and tassels h h
I co~ere Wit c ot of gold, omaTwo ladies in black were taking off t~e~~ fu:dc~:b 1;1tsheid up ":'ithh metal .powder.
of them as Ivan II h' •
b
• eter vanov1c recognized one
.
ye s sister, ut the other was a stranger to him H'
II
Sc h wartz was Just co • d
. b
• 1s co eague
and winked at him, :1~~0 ~:;~~;:~~ Ire inreingdPeter Ivanovic~ enter he stopped
and me."
ye as ma e a mess of thmgs-not like you
::~~}J·
Schwartz's face with his Piccadilly whiskers and his 5 Ii
Ii
.
.
~~~r:~t~:u:~:~:xao:;~!~nptiq:~::ynt which c?ntrastedd w:h ~:e;~ye~f:~g01r~
p
I
.
ere, or so it seeme to Peter Ivanovich
upstai:.erScha;~r::c~i~ll~:::;~ee l~!i:n t~ precede_ hi; and slowly followed them
Ivanovich understood that he wanted t
ut remame where he was, and Peter
evening. The ladies went upstairs to tho ai:r;ng~ where they should play bridge that
e wi ow s room, and Schwartz with seriously
compressed lips but a playful look in his eyes, indicated by a twist of his eyebrows the
m to the right where the body lay.
roo Peter Ivanov1ch, like everyone else on such occasions, entered feeling uncertain
hat he would have to do. All he knew was that at such times it 1s always safe to
w055 oneself. But he was not quite sure whether one should make obeisances while
d~ing so. He therefore adopt~d a middle course.
entering the room he _began
crossing himself and made a slight movement resembling a bow. Ac the same ttme, as
far as the motion of his head and arm allowed, he surveyed the room. Two young
men-apparently nephews, one of whom was a high-school pupil- were leaving the
room, crossing themselves as they did so. An old woman was standing motionless,
and a lady with strangely arched eyebrows was saying something to her in a whisper.
A vigorous, resolute Church Reader, in a frock-coat, was reading something in a
loud voice with an expression that precluded any contradiction. The butler's assiscant, Gerasim, stepping lightly in front of Peter Ivanovich, was strewing something
on the floor. Nottcing this, Peter lvanovich was immediately aware of a faint odor of a
decomposing body.
The last time he had called on Ivan llych, Peter lvanovich had seen Gerasim in
the study. Ivan llych had been particularly fond of him and he was performing the
duty of a sick nurse.
Peter lvanov1ch continued to make the sign of the cross, slightly inclining his
head in an intermediate direction between the coffin, the Reader, and the icons on
che table in a corner of the room. Afterwards, when 1t seemed co him that this movement of his arm in crossing himself had gone on too long, he stopped and began co
look at the corpse.
The dead man lay, as dead men always lie, in a specially heavy way, his rigid
limbs sunk m the soft cushions of the coffin, with the head forever bowed on the pillow. His yellow waxen brow with bald patches over his sunken temples was thrust up
in the way peculiar to the dead, the protruding nose seeming to press on the upper
lip. He was much changed and had grown even thinner since Peter Ivanovich had
last seen him, but, as is always che case with the dead, his face was handsomer and
above all more dignified than when he was alive. The expression on rhe face said chat
what was necessary had been accomplished, and accomplished rightly. Besides this
there was in that expression a reproach and a warning to the living. This warning
seemed to Peter lvanovich out of place, or at least not applicable to him. He felt a
certain discomfort and so he hurriedly crossed himself once more and turned and
went out the door-too hurriedly and too regardless of propriety, as he himself was
aware.
Schwartz was waiting for him in the adjoining room with legs spread wide apart
and both hands toying with his top-hat behind his back. The mere sight of that playful,
well-groomed, and elegant figure refreshed Peter lvanovich. He felt that Schwartz was
above all these happenings and would not surrender to any depressing influences. His
very look said that this incident of a church service for Ivan llych could not be a sufficient reason for infringing the order of the session-in other words, that it would certainly not prevent his unwrapping a new pack of cards and shuffling them that evening
while a footman placed four fresh candles on the table: in fact, that there was no reason
for supposing chat this incident would hinder their spending the evening agreeably.
Indeed he said this in a whisper as Peter lvanovich passed him, proposing that they
should meet for a game at Fedor Vas1lievich's. But apparently Peter lvanovich was not
destined to play bridge that evening. Praskovya Fedorovna (a short, fat woman who
°1:
25
168 Clinp1cr 8 • H,~adiug 1.oug S1ori1•~ und '\on·I,
despite all effons to the contrary had continued to broaden steadily from her should
downwards_ and who had ~he same extra~rdinarily arched eyebrows as the lady who.:
been standing by the coffin), dressed all m black, her head covered with lace, came 00
of her own roo": w,'.ch some ?ther_ ladies_, c~nduct~ them to the room where the dea~
body lay, and said: The service will begm 1rnrned1ately. Please go in."
-~hwar~z, _rna~in? an indefinite ~w, stood still, ev_i~ently neither accepting nor
declmmg this mv1~atton. P~kovya Fedoro~na,: recognmng Peter lvanovich, sighed,
went close up co him, took his hand, and said: I know you were a true friend to Iva
Ilych ..." and looked at him awaiting some suitable response. And Peter lvanovich
knew that, just as it had been the right thing to cross himself in that room, so what
he_ had to do he~e ~as to press her hand, sigh, and say, "Believe me...." So he did all
this and as he did 1t felt that the desired result had been achieved: chat both he and
she were touched.
"Corne with me. I want to speak co you before it begins," said the widow. "Give
me your arm."
Peter Ivanovich gave her his arm and they went to the inner rooms, passing
Schwartz, who winked at Peter lvanovich compassionately.
"That does for our bridge! Don't object if we find another player. Perhaps you
can cut in when you do escape," said his playful look.
.. Peter lvanovic~ sighed still more deeply and despondently, and Praskovya
Fedorovna pressed his arm gratefully. When they reached the drawing-room, upholstered in pink cretonne and lighted by a dim lamp, they sat down at the table-she
on a sofa and Peter lvanovich on a low pouffe, the springs of which yielded spasmodically under his weight. Praskovya Fedorovna had been on the point of warning him to take another seat, but felt that such a warning was out of keeping with
her present condition and so changed her mind. As he sat down on the pouffe
Peter lvanovich recalled how Ivan llych had arranged this room and had consulted
him regarding this pink cretonne with green leaves. The whole room was full of
furniture and knick-knacks, and on her way to the sofa the lace of the widow's
black shawl caught on the carved edge of the table. Peter Ivanovich rose to detach
it, and the springs of the pouffe, relieved of his weight, rose also and gave him a
push. The widow began detaching her shawl herself, and Peter lvanovich again sat
down, suppressing the rebellious springs of the pouffe under him. But the widow
had not quite freed herself and Peter lvanovich got up again, and again the pouffe
rebelled and even creaked. When this was all over she took out a clean cambric
handkerchief and began to weep. The episode with the shawl and the struggle with
the pouffe had cooled Peter lvanovich's emotions and he sat there with a sullen
look on his face. This awkward situation was interrupted by Sokolov, Ivan llych's
butler, who came to report that the plot in the cemetery that Praskovya Fedorovna
had chosen would cost two hundred rubles. She stopped weeping and, looking ac
Peter lvanovich with the air of a victim, remarked m French that it was very hard
for her. Peter lvanovich made a silent gesture signifying his full conviction chat it
must indeed be so.
"Please smoke," she said in a magnanimous yet crushed v01ce, and turned co
discuss with Sokolov the price of the plot for the grave.
Peter lvanovich while lighting his cigarette heard her inquiring very circumscan·
tially into the prices of different plots m the cemetery and finally decide which she
would take. When that was done she gave instructtons about engaging che choir.
Sokolov rhen left the room.
Leo l'ol, toy 269
"I look after everything myself," she cold Peter lvanovich, shifung the albums
chat lay on che cable; and noti_cing that the cab!~ was endan_gered .~Y his ~igar~tte•
ash, she immediately passed him an ashtray, saymg _as she did 5?: l cos:is1der 1t an
affectation to say that my grief ~revents my attending to _Practical a~a'.rs. ~ the
trary, if anything can- I wont say console me, but---d1stract me, 1t 1s seeing to
~~:rything concerning him." She again cook our her handkerchief as if preparing to
but suddenly, as if mastering her feeling, she shook herself and began to speak
cry,
· sorneth·mg I want to talk to you a bo~t."
calmly.
"Butthere 1s
.
Perer Ivanov1ch bowed, keeping control of the springs of the pouffe, which
immediately began quivering under him.
"He suffered terribly the last few days."
"Did he?" said Peter lvanovich.
"Oh, terribly! He screamed unceasmgly, not for minutes but for hours. For the
last three days he screamed incessantly. It was unendurable. 1cannot understand how
I bore it; you could hear him three rooms off. Oh, what I have suffered!"
"Is it possible that he was conscious all that time?" asked Peter lvanov1ch.
"Yes," she whispered. "To the last moment. He rook leave of us a quarter of an
hour before he died, and asked us to take Volodya away."
The thought of the suffering of this man he had known so inumately, first as a
merry little boy, then as a school-mace, and later as a grown-up colleague, suddenly
struck Peter lvanovich with horror, despite an unpleasant consciousness of his own
and this woman's dissimulation. He again saw that brow, and chat nose pressing
down on the hp, and felt afraid for himself.
"Three days of frightful suffering and then death! Why, that might suddenly, at
any time, happen co me," he thought, and for a moment felt terrified. Bue- he did
not himself know how- the customary reflection at once occurred co him that this
had happened co Ivan Hych and not to him, and that it should noc and could not
happen to him, and that to chink that it could would be yielding to depression which
he ought not co do, as Schwartz's expression plainly showed. After which reflecuon
Peter lvanovich felt reassured, and began to ask with interest about the details
of Ivan llych's death, as though death was an accident natural to Ivan Hych bur
certainly not co himself.
After many details of the really dreadful physical sufferings Ivan Hych had 45
endured (which details he learnt only from the effect those sufferings had produced
on Praskovya Fedorovna's nerves) the widow apparently found it necessary to get co
business.
"Oh, Peter lvanovich, how hard it is! How terribly, terribly hard!" and she again
began to weep.
Peter lvanovich sighed and waited for her to finish blowing her nose. When she
had done so he said, "Believe me ..." and she again began talking and brought out
what was evidently her chief concern with him-namely, to question him as to how
she could obtain a grant of money from the government on rhe occasion of her hus•
band's death. She made it appear chat she was asking Peter lvanovich's advice about
her pension, but he soon saw that she already knew about that to the minutest detail,
more even than he did himself. She knew how much could be got out of the govern·
ment in consequence of her husband's death, but wanted to find out whether she
could not possibly extract something more. Peter lvanovich tried to think of some
means of doing so, but after reflecting for a while and, out of propriety, condemning
the government for its niggardliness, he said he thought that nothing more could be
"°
Leo 'I ol~toy 271
got. Then she sighed and evidently began to devise means of getting rid of her visit
Noticing this, he put out his cigarette, rose, pressed her hand, and went out into
anteroom.
In the dining-room where the clock stood that Ivan llych had liked so mu h
and had bought at an antique shop, Peter lvanovich met a priest and a few acqua~tances who had come to attend the service, and he recognized Ivan llych's daughc
a handsome young woman. She was in black and her slim figure appeared slimm:;
than ever. She had a gloomy, decennined, almost angry expression, and bowed to
Peter lvanovich as though he were in some way to blame. Behind her, with the same
offended look, stood a wealthy young man, an examining magistrate, whom Peter
Ivanovich also knew and who was her fiance, as he had heard. He bowed mournfully
to them and was about to pass into the death-chamber, when from under the stair
appeared the figure of Ivan llych's schoolboy son, who was extremely like his fathe/
He seemed a little Ivan llych, such as Peter lvanovich remembered when they studied law cogeth~r. His tear-stained eyes had in them the look that is seen in the eyes
of boys of thirteen or fourteen who are not pure-minded. When he saw Peter
Ivanovich he scowled morosely and shamefacedly. Peter Ivanovich nodded to him
and entered the death-chamber. The service began: candles, groans, incense, tears.
and sobs. Peter lvanovich stood looking gloomily down at his feet. He did not look
once at the dead man, did not yield to any depressing influence, and was one of the
first to leave the room. There was no one in the anteroom, but Gerasim darted out
of the dead man's room, rummaged with his strong hands among the fur coats to find
Peter lvanovich's, and helped him on with it.
"Well, friend Gerasim," said Peter Ivanovich, so as to say something. "It's a sad
affair, isn't it?"
"It's God's will. We shall all come to it some day," said Gerasim, displaying his
teeth-the even, white teeth of a healthy peasant-and, like a man in the thick of
urgent work, he briskly opened the front door, called the coachman, helped Peter
lvanovich into the sledge, and sprang back to the porch as if in readiness for what he
had to do next.
Peter lvanovich found the fresh air particularly pleasant after the smell of
incense, the dead body, and carbolic acid.
"Where to, sir?" asked the coachman.
"It's not too late even now ... I'll call round on Fedor Vasilievich."
He accordingly drove there and found them just finishing the first rubber, so that
it was quite convenient for him to cut in.
ili~
II
Ivan llych's life had been most simple and most ordinary and therefore most
terrible.
He had been a member of the Court of Justice, and died at the age of forty-five. Hi.s
father had been an official who after serving in various ministries and departments m
Petersburg had made the sort of career which brings men to positions from which by
reason of their long service they cannot be dismissed, though they are obviously unfit
to hold any responsible position, and for whom therefore posts are specially created,
which, though fictitious, carry salaries of from six to ten thousand rubles that are n0t
fictitious, and in receipt of which they live on to a great age.
Such was the Privy Councillor and superfluous member of various superfluous
institutions, llya Epimovich Golovin.
}-{e had three sons, of whom Ivan Ilych was the second. The eldest son was following in his father's footsteps _only m _a nother _department, and was already
roaching that stage in the service at which a s1m1lar sinecure would be reached.
t e third son was a failure. He had ruined his prospects in a number of pos1ti?ns and
now serving m the railway department. His father and brothers, and sull more
: i r wives, not merely disliked meeting him, but avoided remembering his existence
less compelled to do so. His sister had roamed Baron Greff, a Petersburg official of
0
~:r father's type. Ivan Ilych was le phenix de la fam1Ue as people said. He was neither
as cold and fonnal as h,s elder brother nor as wild as the younger, but was a happy
an between them- an intelligent, polished, lively, and agreeable man. He had
::died with his younger brother at the School of Law, but the latter had failed to
complete the course and was expelled when he was in the fifth class. Ivan Hych finished the course well. Even when he was at the School of Law he was JU~t what he
mamed for the rest of his life: a capable, cheerful, good-natured, and sociable man,
;ough smct in the fulfillment of what he considered to be his duty: and he considered his duty to be what was so considered by those in authority. Neither as a boy nor
as a man was he a toady, but from early youth was by nacure attracted to people of
high scauon as a fly is drawn to the light, assimilating their ways and views of life and
establishing friendly relations with them. All the enthus1asms of childhood and
youth passed without leavmg much trace on him; he _succumbed to se1:15u_ality, ~o
vanity, and latterly among the highest classes to liberalism, but always w1thm limits
which his insunct unfailingly md1cated to him as correct.
At school he had done thmgs which had fonnerly seemed to him very horrid and
made him feel disgusted with himself when he did chem; but when later on he saw
chat such acuons were done by people of good position and that they did not regard
them as wrong, he was able not exactly to regard them as right, but to forget about
them enurely or not be at all troubled at remembering them.
Having graduated from the School of Law and qualified for the tenth rank of the 60
civil service, and havmg received money from his father for his equipment, Ivan
Ilych ordered himself clothes at Schanner's, the fashionable tailor, hung a medallion
inscribed respice finem 0 on his watch-chain, took leave of his professor and the prince
who was patron of the school, had a farewell dinner with his comrades at Donon's
first-class restaurant, and with his new and fashionable portmanteau, linen, clothes,
,having and other toilet appliances, and a traveling rug all purchased at the best
shops, he set off for one of the provinces where through his father's influence, he had
been attached to the Governor as an official for special service.
In the province Ivan llych soon arranged as easy and agreeable a position for
himself as he had had at the School of Law. He performed his official tasks, made his
career, and at the same time amused himself pleasantly and decorously. Occasionally
he paid official visits to country districts, where he behaved with dignity both to his
superiors and inferiors, and performed the duties entrusted to him, which related
chiefly to the sectarians,0 with an exactness and incorruptible honesty of which he
could not but feel proud.
In official matters, despite his youth and taste for frivolous gaiety, he was
exceedingly reserved, punctilious, and even severe; but in society he was often amusing
~ p/lbl,x de la famille: French for "the prize of the family." respice fincm: Latin for ~Think of the
end (of your life)." sectarians: dissenters from the Orthodox Church.
272 Chapter 8 • H,•mling Loug Storw, unrl \owls
and witty, and always good-natured• correcc •m h.1s manner and bon
G ovemor and h is wife-with whom he was )·k
f h' c
en/ant 0
him.
a e one o t e iamily-1.1.Sed ;o
In the province he had an affair with a lad wh
young lawyer, and there was also a milliner and ~ere o made advances to the e
who "s"t d h d· .
'
were carousals with .d
v1 I e t e istnct, and after-supper visits to a
•
I.
a1 es-de
reputation; and there was too some obse uiousn;ercam ~ut Y•~g street of dou
chief's wife, but all this was done with su~h a ton:o}o ~ ~h1ef _and even to
names could be applied to it. It all came under h
~
reeding that no
faut que jeunesse se passe."o It was all done wit~ :t:~dhg ~f t~e French saying:
French phrases, and above all among peo le of th
an ~• m clean linen,
with the approval of people of rank.
p
e best society and consequ
So Ivan Hych served for five years and then came
h
. .
Th~ ~e~ and reformed judicial institutions were intr~~c:;ge '~ his official
nee e . van Hych became such a new man H
ffi
' an new men
magistrate, and he accepted it though th
• e w~s o ered the post of exam,
him to give up the connections he had ;o::tdwas~n anoter province and obi
met to give him a send-off they had
e an to ma e new ones. His fr,
with a silver cigarette-case 'and he set ~/rouhp_-photograph taken and presented
A
. .
'
to ts new post.
5 exammmg magistrate Ivan Hych was •
.
man, inspiring general res t and c bl
Just as ~omm~ I1fauto and decorous
private life, as he had bee~hen a_pa e of seffp~".1tmg has official duties from h
actmg as an o ictal on special
• H
now as examining magistrate were far more .
.
service. is dut"
his former position it had been I
mterestmg and attractive than before. I
Sch
d
peasant to wear an undress
•f,
d
armer, an to pass through the crowd of ti .
. . uni orm ma e br
rously awaiting an audience with the G
pe t1odnerhs and off1c1als who were timo. h
ovemor an w o envied h·
• h fr
easy gait e went straight into his chief . '
im as wit ee and
. h h·
s pnvate room to have a c
f
d
arette Wit am. But not many people h d h be d"
up o tea an a cig1 er• . I
a t en en 1rectly depende
h"
po ace 01, acta s and the sectarians when he
.
.
nt on Lm-only
treat them politely, almost as comrades a v.:;~c on speftal_missions-and he liked to
had the power to crush them was treatin s :h e ~er~_eu_mg them feel that he who
were then but few such people. But now ; em m ~ i_s s1mpl~, friendly way. There
that everyone without exception e
'h s an ex~mmmg magistrate, Ivan Hych felt
his power, and that he need only 'wr~~n tf, e mos~1mportant and self-satisfied, was in
heading, and this or that important sel; e~ ;~r s on a sheet of paper with a certain
in the role of an accused person or~ . -saus e person would be brought before ham
sit down, would have to stand bef, wh1~ess,dand if he did not choose to allow him to
ore 1m an answer his q
•
I
II
ab used his power; he tried on the co t
uest1ons. van ych never
ness of it and of the possibility of s:rt ra': t~ soften its expr~ssion, but the consciousattraction of his office. In his work its:iT~g its_e~e~t, s~pphed _the _chief interest and
acquired a method of eliminating all co,nsi~ec1a_ y m_has exammauons, he very soon
the case, and reducing even the most
. erataons irrelevant to the legal aspect of
presented on paper only in its extem~~:~~:tfd case to a f~rm i~ which it would be
of the matter, while above all ob
.
P etely excluding his personal opinion
new and Ivan Ilych was one of th/~rv;ng every pre!scribed formality. The work was
rs men to app y the new Code of 1864.o
bon enfanr: French for "a well-behaved child" "II fi
.
comme ilfaut: "as required" rule-abidi
C~
auc que}eUnesse se passe": "Youth doesn't last."
followed by a thorough all:round refor~~f j d· io{ 1864:_;he emancipation of the serfs in 1861 was
u •ca procecutngs. [Translators' note.]
I .,•o 1 ols1o, 17:l
On taking up the post of examinmg ~agistrate in a new t_own, he made new
. ranees and connections, placed himself on a new fooung, and assumed a
31~at different cone. He took up an attitude of rather dignified aloofness
~s the provincial authorities, but picked out the best circle of legal gentlemen
ealthY gentry living in the town and assumed a tone of slight dissatisfaction
:he government, of moderate liberalism, and of enlightened citizenship. At the
e time, without at all altering the elegance of his toilet, he ceased shaving his
and allowed his beard to grow as 1t pleased.
Ivan llych settled down very pleasantly in this new town. The society there,
ich inclined cowards op~ition to the Governor, was fnendly, hts salary was
r, and he began to play vmt, 0 which he found added not a lmle to the pleasure of
for he had a capacity for cards, played good-humoredly, and calculated rapidly
'astutely, so that he usually won.
After living there for two years he met his future wife, Praskovya Fedorovna
,khel, who was the most attractive, clever, and bnlliant girl of the set in which he
ved, and among other amusements and relaxations from h is labors as examining
agistrate, Ivan Ilych established light and playful relauons with her.
While he had been an official on special service he had been accustomed to
nee, but now as an examining magistrate it was exceptional for him to do so. If he
need now, he did it as if to show that though he served under the reformed order of
things, and had reached the fifth official rank, yet when it came to dancing he could
do it better than most people. So at the end of an evening he sometimes danced with
Praskovya Fedorovna, and it was chiefly durmg these dances that he captivated her.
She fell in love with h,m. Ivan Hych had at first no definite intention of marrying,
but when the girl fell m love with him he said to himself: "Really, why shouldn't I
marryr'
Praskovya Fedorovna came of a good family, was not bad-lookmg, and had some 70
little property. Ivan llych might have aspired to a more brilliant match, but even this
was good. He had his salary, and she, he hoped, would have an equal income. She
was well connected, and was a sweet, pretty, and thoroughly correct young woman .
To say that Ivan Hych married because he fell in love with Praskovya Fedorovna and
found that she sympathized with hts views of life would be as incorrect as to say that
he married because his social circle approved of the match. He was swayed by both
these considerations: the marriage gave him personal satisfaction, and at the same
time it was considered the right thing by the most highly placed of his associates.
So Ivan Hych got married.
The preparauons for marriage and the beginning of married life, with its conjugal caresses, the new furniture, new crockery, and new linen, were very pleasant until
his wife became pregnant-so that Ivan llych had begun to think that marriage
would not impair the easy, agreeable, gay, and always decorous character of h is life,
approved of by society and regarded by himself as natural, but would even improve it.
But from the first months of his wife's pregnancy, something new, unpleasant,
depressing, and unseemly, and from which there was no way of escape, unexpectedly
showed itself.
His wife, without any reason--de gaiete de coeur0 as Ivan llych expressed it co
himself-began to disturb the pleasure and propriety of their life. She began to be
1,m1: a form of bridge. !Translators' note.]
de gaieti de coeur: "from pure whim."
274 C,hnp1rr 8 • lll'11<li11g Long Stori•c~ und '\on·l,
jealous without any cause, expected him to devote his whole attention to her f,
fault with everything, and made coarse and ill-mannered scenes.
' oU
At first Ivan Hych hoped to escape from the unpleasantness of this state of affa·
by the same easy and decorous relation to life that had served him hereto£, . 111
tried to ignore his wife's disagreeable moods, continued to live in his usual e~;e· ht
pleasant way, invited friends to his house for a game of cards, and also tried goi y
~o his_club or_spending hi~ evenings with friends. But one day his wife began up~~~:
mg him so vigorously, usmg such coarse words, and continued to abuse him
time he did not fulfil her demands, so resolutely and with such evident determinev_ery
not to give way till he submitted-that is, till he stayed at home and was bored . ation
1USt;&a
s he was-that he became alarmed. He now realized that matrimony-at an
with Praskovya Fedorovna-was not always conducive to the pleasures and ameYn_~te
•r
.
.
ltles
of lue, but on the contrary often mfrmged both comfort and propriety, and that h
must therefore entre~ch hims~lf ag~i_n st su~h infringement. And Ivan Ilych began t:
seek for m~ns of domg so. Hts offk1al ~uttes_were the one thing that imposed upon
Praskovya Fedorovna, and by means of his official work and the duties attached to ·
he began struggling with his wife to secure his own independence.
tt
With the birth of their child, the attempts to feed it and the various failures in
doing so, ~nd with the real and imaginary illnesses of mother and child, in which
Ivan llych s s'.mpathy _was demanded but about which he understood nothing, the
need of securing for himself an existence outside his family life became still more
imperative.
As his wife grew more irritable and exacting and Ivan llych transferred the
center of gravity of his life more and more to his official work, so did he grow to like
his work better and became more ambitious than before.
Very soon, within a year of his wedding, Ivan Hych had realized that marriage,
though 1t may add some comforts to life, is in fact a very intricate and difficult affair
towards which in order to perform one's duty, that is, to lead a decorous life approved
of by society, one must adopt a definite attitude just as towards one's official duties.
And Ivan Hych evolved such an attitude towards married life. He only required of
it those conveniences-dinner at home, housewife, and bed-which it could give
him, and above all that propriety of external forms required by public opinion. For
the rest he looked for light-hearted pleasure and propriety, and was very thankful
when he found them, but if he met with antagonism and querulousness he at once re•
tired into his separate fenced-off world of official duties, where he found satisfaction.
Ivan llych was esteemed a good official, and after three years was made Assistant
Public Prosecutor. His new duties, their importance, the possibility of indicting and
imprisoning anyone he chose, the publicity his speeches received, and the success he
had in all these things, made his work still more attractive.
More children came. His wife became more and more querulous and ill-tempered,
but the attitude Ivan Hych had adopted towards his home life rendered him almost
impervious to her grumbling.
After seven years' service in that town he was transferred to another province as
Public Prosecutor. They moved, but were short of money and his wife did not like the
place they moved to. Though the salary was higher the cost of living was greater,
besides which two of their children died and family life became still more unpleasant
for him.
Praskovya Fedorovna blamed her husband for every inconvenience they encoun·
tered in their new home. Most of the conversations between husband and wife,
•ally as to the children's education, led to topics which recalled former dis•
especi and those disputes were apt to flare up again at any moment. There remained
pur•hose rare periods of amorousness which still came to them at times but did not
on yl:ng. These were islets at which they anchored for a while and then again set
last pon that ocean of veiled hostility which showed itself in their aloofness from
out unother. This aloofness might have grieved Ivan Hych had he considered that it
one;t not to exist, but he now regarded the position as normal, and even made it
ohug al at which he aimed in family life. His aim was to free himself more and more
t ego
d
from those unpleasantnesses and to give them a sem?lance_ of h~rml~ness an pro.
He attained this by spending less and less ttme with his family, and when
priety.
· to safeguard his position
· · by th e presence of outs1'd ers.
bl' ed to be at home he tned
Th:gchief thing, however, was that he had his official ~uties. The whole in_terest of
h' life now centered in the official world and that interest absorbed him. The
ts sciousness of his power, being able to ruin anybody he wished to ruin, the
con
.
• h h·1s
importance, even the external d igrtity o f h is e_ntry _into court, or meetm~s
wit
subordinates, his success with superiors and mfenors, and above all his masterly
handling of cases, of which he was conscious-all this gave him pleasure and filled
his life, together with chats with his colleagues, dinners, and bridge. So that on the
whole Ivan llych's life continued to flow as he considered it should do-pleasantly
and properly.
.
So things continued for another seven years. His eldest daughter was already six•
teen another child had died, and only one son was left, a schoolboy and a subject of
diss;nsion. Ivan llych wanted to put him in the School of Law, but to spite him
Praskovya Fedorovna entered him at the High School. The daughter had been
educated at home and had turned out well: the boy did not learn badly either.
Ill
So Ivan !lych lived for seventeen years after his marriage. He was already a Public Prosecutor of long standing, and had declined several proposed transfers while
awaiting a more desirable post, when an unanticipated and unpleasant occurrence
quite upset the peaceful course of his life. He was expecting to be offered the post of
presiding judge in a University town, but Happe somehow came to the front and
obtained the appointment instead. Ivan Hych became irritable, reproached Happe,
and quarreled both with him and with his immediate superiors-who became colder
to him and again passed him over when other appointments were made.
This was in 1880, the hardest year of Ivan Ilych's life. It was then that it became 85
evident on the one hand that his salary was insufficient for chem to live on, and on
the other that he had been forgotten, and not only this, but that what was for him
the greatest and most cruel injustice appeared to others a quite ordinary occurrence.
Even his father did not consider it his duty to help him. Ivan llych felt himself aban•
cloned by everyone, and that they regarded his position with a salary of 3,500 rubles
as quite normal and even fortunate. He alone knew that with the consciousness of
the injustices done him, with his wife's incessant nagging, and with the debts he had
contracted by living beyond his means, his position was far from nonnal.
In order to save money that summer he obtained leave of absence and went with
his wife to live in the country at her brother's place.
In the country, without his work, he experienced ennui for the first time in his
life, and not only ennui but intolerable depression, and he decided chat it was impos•
sible to go on living like that, and that it was necessary to take energetic measures.
276 Cho1,11·r 8 • Rru,ling Loni: Srori,·, nnd \owl~
1-Nt l'ol~to~ 277
Having passed a sleepless night pacing up and down th
go to Petersburg and bestir himself in order to
. h h e vheranda, he deci
.
h·
d
'
punts t ose w O had r •1 d
C•ate im an to get transferred to another ministry.
,a1 e to a
Next day, despite many protests from his ·£,
d h
Petersburg with the sole object of obtaining a pos;~~t~: sal:r ~~~~er, he staned
a year. He was no longer bent on any particular d
ry
e thousand ru
activity. All he now wanted was an a
.
epartment, or tendency, or k'
h
d
ppomtment to another post • h
t fohusan rubles, either in the administration, in the banks • h ~t ~ salary of
o t e Empress Marya's Institutions o o
. h
, wit
e railways in
.
I
ffi
' r even mt e customs-but "th d
'
it a sa ary o ve thousand rubles and be •
. .
h
I
a to carry
had failed to appreciate him.
m a mtn1Stry ot er than that in which t
And this quest of Ivan Hych 's was crowned with rema k bl
cess. At Kursk an acquaintance of his F I II .
. r ~ e and unexpected
down beside Ivan llych, and told him ~f~ ~et:'~!~t mto t _e first-class carriage,
Kursk announcing that a change was about ~o Just recet~ed by the Governor
lvanov1ch was to be superseded by Ivan Semenovi~~~e place m the ministry: p
The proposed change, apart from its si in
fi R .
Cance for Ivan llych, because by brin .
cance or ussia, had a special sign•
consequently his friend Zachar lvani•~gh o~ward a new man, Peter Petrovich a
since Zachar lvanovich was a friend an~•~ it it was fhhi~hly favorable for Ivan 1iyc
J M
h
o eague o 1s
n oscow t is news was confirmed
d
·h·
found Zachar lvanovich and received a d~J~it/n rea_c mg Petersb~rg Ivan lly
former department of Justice.
promise of an appointment in h
r
': week later he telegraphed to his wife: "Zachar in Mill '
appointment on presentation of report."
er s place. I shall receiv
Thanks to this change of personnel Ivan II h h d
appointment in his former ministry whi~h lacerh. a unexpectedly obt~ined
colleagues besides giving him five tho
~
tm two stages above his fonner
hundred rubles for expenses connected us~~ ~~bles salary and three thousand five
his former enemies and the whole d
wit is _rhmoval. All his ill humor towards
happy.
epartment vams ed, and Ivan Ilych was completely
He returned to the country more cheerful a d
long time. Praskovya Fedorovna also h
n contented than he had been for a
them. Ivan Hych told of how he had ~e:e~~d ?band a truce ~as arranged between
those who had been his enemies were
ete y everybody m Petersburg, how all
envious they were of his appointment pu~ t~ shame hand now fawned on him, how
liked him.
' an ow muc everybody in Petersburg had
Praskovya Fedorovna listened to all this and
.
.
contradict anything, but only made lans for h a_pp~ar~ to believe it. She did not
were going. Ivan Hych saw with delight h ht e1r lltfe m the town to which they
his wife agreed, and that, after a stumbl: ~it ~ p ans w~r~ his_plans, that he and
character of pleasant lightheartedness and' de~~~~was regammg Its due and natural
Ivan Hych had come back for a short ti
j
duties on the 10th of Septembe M
me on Y, for he had to take up his new
~lace, to move all his belonging/fro::~~ve;, ~e needed time to settle into the new
uonal things: in a word to make
h p ovmce, and to buy and order many addiwere almost exactly wha~ Praskov su;..darrangemenhts as he had resolved on, which
ya e orovna too ad decided on.
Empress Marya's lrutitucions: orphanages.
N w that everything had happened so fortunately, and that he and his wife were
~n their aims and moreover saw so little of one another, they got on together
one t~an they had done smce the first years of marriage. Ivan Hych had thought of
ter htS family away with him at once, but the insistence of his wife's brother and
'~ter-in-law, who had suddenly become particularly amiable and friendly to him
his family, induced him to depart alone.
So he departed, and the cheerful state of mind induced by his success and by the
ony between his wife and himself, the one intensifying the other, did not leave
. He found a delightful house, just the thing both he and his wife had dreamt of.
acious, lofty reception rooms in the old style, a con~eniem and dignified stu~y,
for his wife and daughter, a study for his son-it might have been specially built
them- Ivan Hych himself superintended the arrangements, chose the wallpapers,
r lemented the furniture {preferably with antiques which he considered particularly
me j[ faut), and supervised the upholstenng. Everything progressed and progressed
approached the ideal he had set himself: even when things were only half com•
eted they exceeded his expectations. He saw what a refined and elegant character,
e from vulgarity, it would all have when it was ready. On fallmg asleep he pictured to
imself how the reception-room would look. Looking at the yet unfinished drawing,
room he could see the fireplace, the screen, the what-not, the little chairs dotted here
and there, the dishes and plates on the walls, and the bronzes, as they would be when
rverything was in place. He was pleased by the thought of how his wife and daughter,
who shared his taste in this matter, would be impressed by it. They were certainly not
expecting as much. He had been particularly successful m finding, and buying cheaply,
antiques which gave a particularly anstocratic character to the whole place. But in his
letters he intentionally understated everything in order to be able to surpnse them. All
this so absorbed him that his new duties-though he liked his official work-interested
him less than he had expected. Sometimes he even had moments of absentmindedness
during the Court Sessions, and would consider whether he should have straight or
curved cornices for his curtains. He was so interested in it all that he often did things
himself, rearranging the furniture, or rehanging the curtains. Once when mounting a
stepladder to show the upholsterer, who did not understand, how he wanted the hang•
ings draped, he made a false step and slipped, but being a strong and agile man he clung
on and only knocked his side against the knob of the window frame. The bruised place
was painful but the pain soon passed, and he felt particularly bright and well just then.
He wrote: "I feel fifteen years younger." He thought he would have everything ready by
September, but 1t dragged on till mid-October. But the result was charming not only in
his eyes but to everyone who saw it.
In reality it was just what is usually seen in the houses of people of moderate means 100
who want to appear rich, and therefore succeed only in resembling others like them•
selves: there were damasks, dark wood, plants, rugs, and dull and polished bronzes-all
the things people of a certain class have in order to resemble other people of that class.
His house was so like the others that it would never have been noticed, but to him it all
seemed to be quite exceptional. He was very happy when he met his family at the sta•
tion and brought them to the newly furnished house all lit up, where a footman in a
white tie opened the door into the hall decorated with plants, and when they went on
into the drawing-room and the study uttering exclamations of delight. He conducted
them everywhere, drank in their praises eagerly, and beamed with pleasure. At tea that
evening, when Praskovya Fedorovna among other things asked him about his fall, he
laughed and showed them how he had gone flying and had frightened the upholsterer.
Leo Tolsto~ 279
278 Chapter 8 • Henning l..c111g Srorirs 111111 '\o""'~
"It's a good thing I'm a bit of an athlete A
h
blut Idmer~lr knocl ked myself, just here; it hu;ts ;~;nei:,:::u~i:~tbhatv_e, been killed_
a rea y-1t son ya bruise."
' u Its Passing of
So they began living in their new home-in wh. h
they got thoroughly settled in they found the
. ic ' as always happens, when
the increased income, which as alwa s w . y w~re Just one room short-and wi
little, b~t it was all very nice.
Y as Just a lmle (some five hundred rubles) c!
Things went particularly well at first be£
h.
w~ile something had still to be done: th~ thi;e
I ~ was_finally arranged and
thmg moved, and something else adjusted. Tho~gh t~er: :e:: thmg o_rdered, another
husband and wife, they were both so well satisfied a d h d some dtSputes between
passed off without any serious quarrels Wh
h _n a so much to do that it all
rather dull and something seemed to ~ la k~n n~t in~ was left to arrange it became
tances, fonning habits, and life was growin: ~~f;r. ut t ey were then making acquainIvan Hych spent his mornings at the law courts d
first he was generally in a good humo th
an ~ame home to dinner, and at
on accou~t of his house. (Every spot ~n t~~~~b7:cr:~s1onally became irritable just
broken wmdow-blind string, irritated h ·m H h ~ or the upholstery, and every
arra~ging it all that every disturbance of tt distr;ss~ h ~e)o~ed so much trouble to
ran its course as he believed life should do: easily I im. I utdond the whole his life
He got up at nine drank his coff,
d h 'peasant y, an ecorously.
uniform and went to 'the law courts~e+:i::e :h: k r , an~ the~ put on his undress
already been stretched to fit h·
d h d
mess m which he worked had
·
•.
im an e onned it w"th
h· h
mqumes at the chancery, the chance i
. i_ out a itc : petitioners,
tive. In all this the thing was to exci dtself, anthe s~ttangs public and administradisturbs the regular course of official ~ e_ everyt ~ng esh ~nd vital, which always
with people, and then only on off• . lusmessds,an to admtt only official relations
.
ic1a groun
A ma
Id
wantmg some information Ivan Hych
. • h
n wou come, for instance
would have nothing to do. with h. . bas ~Fehm w ose sphere the matter did not lie:
his official capacity something t~:· u~~ bt e man had some business with him in
he would do everything, positive! ev:ou . e expressed ~n ?fficially stamped paper,
tions, and in doing so would maintai::t:n: he could w1th1_n the limits of such relathat is, would observe the courtesies of 1·£, A emblance of frie~dly human relations,
did everything else. Ivan Hych ssesse~e.h. s soon ~s the off1c1al relations ended, so
the official side of affairs and npoot . ht is ca~ac1ty to separate his real life from
.
mix t e two, m the h ·gh
d
d
practice and natural aptitude had brou h .
h
. I est egree, an by long
manner of a virtuoso, he would even a/ t ~~ to ~t a pitch that sometimes, in the
tions mingle. He let himself do th' . obew imseh to let the human and official rela1s Just cause e felt th h
Id
c hose resume the strictly official attitud
.
at e cou at any time he
did it all easily, pleasantly, correctl a~da!am and_dr_op ~he human relation. And he
the sessions he smoked drank tea y,h
d vel~ alrt1sucally. In the intervals between
.
'
, c atte a ttt e about 1· •
• I
era I topics, a little about cards but
f II bo
po ittcs, a 1itt e about gen•
'th
'
most o a a ut offi • I
•
w1 the feelings of a virtuoso-o
f h fi
.
cia appointments. Tired, but
ne o t e rst violins h O h
I d h'
oreh estra with precision-he would t
h
fi w
as P aye 1s part in an
had been out paying calls, or had a v~;it~r;1 ot~ to _nd that his wife and daughter
done his homework with his tutor and ' and t I a~ his ~n had been to school, had
Schools. Everything was as it shouid be ;~s ~ -y ear~mg what is taught at High
Ilych sometimes read a book that wa ~- ter r~~r, 1f they had no visitors, Ivan
evening settled down to work that i/ re i~g ;u~ I iscussed at the time, and in the
'
' a o 1c1a papers, compared the depositions
.:~T
f witnesses, and noted paragraphs of the Code applying to them. This was neither
~ 11 nor amusing. It was dull when he might have been playing bridge, but if no
buidge was available it was at any rate better than doing nothing or sitting with his
~fe. Ivan l\ych's chief pleasure was giving little dinners to which he invited men and
w~men of good social position, and just as his drawing-room resembled all other
;rawing-rooms so did his en1oyable little parties resemble all other such parties.
Once they even gave a dance. Ivan Ilych enjoyed it and everything went off
well, except that it led to a violent quarrel with his wife about the cakes and sweets.
praskovya Fedorovna had made her own plans, but Ivan Ilych insisted on getting
everything from an expensive confectioner and ordered too many cakes, and the
quarrel occurred because some of those cakes were left over and the confectioner's
bill came to forty-five rubles. It was a great and disagreeable quarrel. Praskovya
Fedorovna called him "a fool and an imbecile," and he clutched at his head and
made angry allusions to divorce.
But the dance itself had been enjoyable. The best people were there, and Ivan
Hych had danced with Princess T rufonova, a sister of the distinguished founder of the
Society "Bear My Burden."
The pleasures connected with his work were pleasures of ambition; his social
pleasures were those of vanity; but Ivan Ilych's greatest pleasure was playing bridge.
He acknowledged that whatever disagreeable incident happened in his life, the
pleasure that beamed like a ray of light above everything else was to sit down to
bridge with good players, not noisy partners, and of course to four-handed bridge
(with five players it was annoying to have to stand out, though one pretended not to
mind), to play a clever and serious game (when the cards allowed it}, and then to
have supper and drink a glass of wine. After a game of bridge, especially if he had
won a little (to win a large sum was unpleasant), Ivan llych went to bed in specially
good humor.
So they lived. They formed a circle of acquaintances among the best people and
were visited by people of importance and by young folk. In their views as to their
acquaintances, husband, wife, and daughter were enttrely agreed, and tacitly and
unanimously kept at arm's length and shook off the various shabby friends and
relations who, with much show of affection, gushed into the drawing-room with its
Japanese plates on the walls. Soon these shabby friends ceased to obtrude themselves
and only the best people remained in the Golovins' set.
Young men made up to Lisa, and Petrishchev, an examining magistrate and
Dmitri lvanovich Petrishchev's son and sole heir, began to be so attentive to her that
Ivan Hych had already spoken to Praskovya Fedorovna about it, and considered
whether they should not arrange a party for them, or get up some private theatricals.
So they lived, and all went well, without change, and life flowed pleasantly.
IV
They were all in good health. It could not be called ill health if Ivan Hych sometimes said that he had a queer taste in his mouth and felt some discomfort in his left
side.
But this discomfort increased and, though not exactly painful, grew into a sense
of pressure in his side accompanied by ill humor. And his irritability became worse
and worse and began to mar the agreeable, easy, and correct life that had established
itself in the Golovin family. Quarrels between husband and wife became more and
more frequent, and soon the ease and amenity disappeared and even the decorum
110
Lr.o Tohto) 281
~80 Chup1cr 8 ■ Heading Long Srorics uml \u\'ds
was barely maintained. Scenes again became frequent, and very few of those isl
remained on which husband and wife could Jmeet without an explosion. Prasko~
Fedorovna now had good reason to say that her husband's temper was trying. Wi It
characteristic exaggeration she said he had always had a dreadful temper, and tha/·
had needed all her good nature to put up with it for twenty years. It was true th It
now the quarrels were started by him. His bursts of temper always came just befoat
dinner, often just as he began to eat his soup. Sometimes he noticed that a plate:
dish was chipped, or the food was not right, or his son put his elbow on the table, 0 r
his daughter's hair was not done as he liked it, and for all this he blamed Praskovy:
Fedorovna. At first she retorted and said disagreeable things to him, but once or
twice he fell into such a rage at the beginning of dinner that she realized it was due
to some physical derangement brought on by taking food, and so she restrained herself and did not answer, but only hurried to get the dinner over. She regarded this
self-restraint as highly praiseworthy. Having come to the conclusion that her husband had a dreadful temper and made her life miserable, she began to feel sorry for
herself, and the more she pitied herself the more she hated her husband. She began
to wish he would die; yet she did not want him to die because then his salary would
cease. And this irritated her against him still more. She considered herself dreadfully
unhappy just because not even his death could save her, and though she concealed
her exasperation, that hidden exasperation of hers increased his irritation also.
After one scene in which Ivan Hych had been particularly unfair and after which
he had said in explanation that he certainly was irritable but that it was due to his
not being well, she said that if he was ill it should be attended co, and insisted on his
going to see a celebrated doctor.
He went. Everything took place as he had expected and as it always does. There
was the usual waiting and the important air assumed by the doctor, with which he
was so familiar (resembling that which he himself assumed in court), and the sounding and listening, and the questions which called for answers chat were foregone conclusions and were evidently unnecessary, and the look of importance which implied
that "if only you put yourself in our hands we will arrange everything-we know
indubitably how it has to be done, always in the same way for everybody alike." It was
all just as it was in the law courts. The doctor put on just the same air cowards him as
he himself put on cowards an accused person.
The doctor said that so-and-so indicated that there was so-and-so inside the pa,
tient, but if the investigation of so-and-so did not confirm this, then he must assume
that and that. lf he assumed that and that, then ... and so on. To Ivan Ilych only
one question was important: was his case serious or not? But the doctor ignored that
inappropriate question. From his point of view it was not the one under consideration, the real question was to decide between a floating kidney, chronic catarrh, or
appendicitis. le was not a question of Ivan llych's life or death, but one between a
floating kidney and appendicitis. And chat question the doctor solved brilliantly, as it
seemed to Ivan Hych, in favor of che appendix, with the reservation that should an
examination of the urine give fresh indications the matter would be reconsidered.
All this was just what Ivan llych had himself brilliantly accomplished a thousand
times in dealing with men on trial. The doctor summed up just as brilliantly, looking
over his spectacles triumphantly and even gaily at the accused. From the doctor's
summing up Ivan Hych concluded chat things were bad, but that for the doctor, and
perhaps for everybody else, it was a matter of indifference, though for him it was bad.
And this conclusion struck him painfully, arousing in him a great feeling of pity for
.
ess towards the doctor's indifference to a matter of such impor·inself and o f btttem
l\l
d h d
• f e on the table and
cance.
h"
f chis but rose place t e octor s e
'.
He said not '.ng ~W : k
I , probably often put inappropriate quesnons.
k d with a sigh:
e sic peop e
,
"
reinar e
.
l is this complaint dangerous, or not. • • •
.
.
But tell me, m gre~
t him seemly over his spectacles with one eye, as 1f cohsay.
The docf tor ;~l ~o; keep to the questions put to you, l shall be obliged to ave
"Prisoner, I you
"
you removed fr!omdt~~l~oyu~~ what I consider necessary and proper. The analysis may
"I have a rea Y
d
h.
" And che doctor bowe •
dd
show somet mg more. l 1
ted h1mself disconsolately in his sledge, an rove 120
Ivan llych went outs;w y, sea_ g over what the doctor had said, crying to uanshome, All the way home e was gm~ fie hrases into plam language and find in
late those complica~d, obsc_ure, .~1:~•co:dition bad? ls tt very bad? Or is there as
them an answer to t :nq~~5.!:~~\t seemed to him that the meaning of what the ~ocyet nothing much wr g.
b d Everything in the streets seemed depressmg.
tor had said was chat it wa~ very a
and the shops, were dtsmal. His ache, this
The cabmen, the houses, t e passe~ ~ y,
ment seemed co have acquired a new
dull gnawing ache c_ha~finever cts; t~: ~:~or's d~b1ous remarks. Ivan Hych now
d more senous s1gm cance ro
an
. .h
d oppressive feeling.
• h
watched it wit a new an
ell his wife about it. She listened, but m t e
He reached home ~nd began to t .
. her hat on, ready to go out with her
middle of his account htsl daughrr c~~:~nt:~~~s tedious story, but could not stand it
mother. She sat down re uccant y to 1s .
d
dh
h
did not hear him to the en •
I I
long, an er mot er t~ d " h
·d "Mind now to take your medicine regu ar y.
"Well, I am v~ry g a ' l~lt:;~d Gerasim to the chemist's." And she went to
Give me the prescnpuon an
get ready to go out. .
I
11 h had hardly taken time to breathe, but he
While she was in the room van ye
sighed deeply when she left it.
II,.
"Well" he thought, "perhaps it isn't so bad after a •
• d.
.
which had m
'
d" .
d following the doctors irecttons,
He began taking his me icme an
.
B t then it happened that there was
been altered after the exammatiodn o~ the udnne. fu m the examination of the unne
. . be
n the in icattons rawn ro
.
a contrad ictton twee
I
1 ned out that what was happenmg
h
t
showed
chemse
ves.
t
tur
and th e symptoms t a
h d \d him and that he had either forgotten, or
differed from what the docco~ a to h.
could not however, be blamed for
blundered, or hidden so~ethmg dfrohm '~· e mp\\citly ;nd at first derived some
that, and Ivan llych sull obeye
ts or ers t
d
-b
J
H
comfort from doing so. . . .
h d
Ivan llych's chief occupation was the
From the time of his VISlt to t e ocwr,
d. hygiene and the taking of
exact fulfillment of the doc.tor's }°~~~c:1i~~~~g~:s ';;cretions. Hts chief interests
medicine, and the observauondo
I~ h l h When sickness deaths, or recover,
came to be people's ~il~ents an peop e s_ ea :hen the illness re~embled his own, he
ies were mentioned m his presence, esdpec1~\J
ked questions and applied what he
listened with agitation which he rne to t e, as
'
heard to his own case.
1 b I 11 h ade effortS to force himself to think
The pain did not grow ess, ut v~n ye 1:s nothm agitated him. But as soon
that he was better. And he could ~~1s s~ long lack of s~ccess in his official work,
as he had any unpleasantness wit is wt e, any 1
"ble of his disease. He had
or held bad cards at bridge, he was at once acute y sens1
t>
282 Chnptl'r 8 • H,·1ulin)! Long Srori",; and '\owl,
formerly borne such mischances, hoping soon co adjust what was wrong, co mas
and actain success, or make a grand slam. But now every mischance upset him
plunged hun into despair. He would say to himself: "There now, just as I was be
ning co get better and che medicine had begun to cake effect, comes this accu
misfortune, or unpleasantness ...." And he was furious with the mishap, or with
people who were causing the unpleasantness and killing him, for he felt that this fi
was killing him but could not restrain ic. One would have thought that it should ha
been clear to him chat chis exasperation with circumstances and people aggravac
his illness, and char he ought therefore to ignore unpleasant occurrences. Bue he dre
che very opposite conclusion: he said that he needed peace, and he watched fi
everything that might disturb it and became irritable at the slightest infringement fl
it. His condition was rendered worse by the fact that he read medical books and con-,
suited doctors. The progress of his disease was so gradual that he could deceive him
self when comparing one day with another-the difference was so slight. But when
he consulted the doctors it seemed to him chat he was getting worse, and even very
rapidly. Yet despite this he was continually consulting chem.
That month he went to see another celebrity, who told him almost the same as
the first had done but put his questions rather differently, and the interview with this
celebrity only increased Ivan llych's doubts and fears. A friend of a friend of his, a very
good doctor, diagnosed his illness again quite differently from the others, and though
he predicted recovery, his questions and suppositions bewildered Ivan Hych still more
and increased his doubts. A homeopathist diagnosed the disease in yet another way,
and prescribed medicine which Ivan Hych cook secretly for a week. But after a week,
not feeling any improvement and having lost confidence both in the former doctor's
treatment and in chis one's, he became still more despondent. One day a lady acquaintance mentioned a cure effected by a wonder-working icon. Ivan Hych caught himself
listening attentively and beginning co believe that it had occurred. This incident
alarmed him. "Has my mind really weakened to such an extent?" he asked himself.
"Nonsense! It's all rubbish. I mustn't give way to nervous fears but having chosen a
doctor must keep strictly to his treatment. That is what I will do. Now it's all settled. l
won't chink about it, but will follow the treatment seriously till summer, and then we
shall see. From now there must be no more of chis wavering!" This was easy to say but
impossible to carry out. The pain in his side oppressed him and seemed to grow worse
and more incessant, while the taste in his mouth grew stranger and stranger. It seemed
ro him chat his breach had a disgusting smell, and he was conscious of a loss of appetite
and strength. There was no deceiving himself: something terrible, new, and more
important than anything before in his life, was taking place within him of which he
alone was aware. Those about him did not understand or would not understand it, but
thought everything in the world was going on as usual. That tormented Ivan Hych
more than anything. He saw chat his household, especially his wife and daughter who
were in a perfect whirl of visiting, did not understand anything of it and were annoyed
chat he was so depressed and so exacting, as if he were co blame for it. Though they
cried to disguise it he saw chat he was an obstacle in their path, and that his wife had
adopted a definite line in regard to his illness and kept to it regardless of anything he
said or did. Her attitude was this: "You know," she would say tO her friends, "Ivan Hych
can't do as ocher people do, and keep to the treatment prescribed for him. One day
he'll take his drops and keep strictly to his diet and go to bed in good time, but the
next day unless I watch him he'll suddenly forget his medicine, eat sturgeon-which is
forbidden-and sic up playing cards till one o'clock in the morning."
• "On \y once at
"l
1\ h would ask m vexatton.
hen was that? van ye
••Oh' come,
I'''
h, w,,
"
lvanovic s.
Sh bek"
k "
cer
esterday with e
•
.
ld have kept me awa e.
"Andy
f I hadn't stayed up, this pain w~ku h b t will always make us
"Well, even i_
'll never get well h e t at, u
"Be chat as it may you
.
h
d"
ll h's i\lness as she expressed it bot
ecche
a Fedorovna's attitude to ~van Y[ l
d w~s another of che annoyPras ov~ co him, was that it was his oh"'.n au ta; escaped her involuntarilyochers an d h Ivan llych felt chat t is opm10
h cause er.
aoces e d'd not make it easier for him. . d
bought he noticed, a strange atu·
\,ut chat I law courts too, lvan Hych nouce , ?r t
eo le were watching him inAt thed himself It sometimes seemed to him chat PTh~n again his friends would
d rowar s
•
l
• ht soon be vacant.
,
·f h
fl
tu e_ . l as a man whose p ace m1g
bout his low spirits, as I t e aw u '
quiS1uve y in to chaff him in a friendly '!'ay a . . him, incessantly gnawing at
sudd~~ly be~ unheard-of thing chat was gomg on w1thm agreeable subject for jests.
hornb e/~rres1stibly drawing him away,. wa; a_ ve~vacicy and savoir-faire, which
him an .
·cular irritated him by his JOCU anty,
'
Sch~a;dl~i::; what he himself had been ten v:r:~g~~ cards. They dealt, bending 1}5
rern1~ri:nds came co make up a s~t:nd
d~amonds in his hand andd'.ound ~e
ew cards ro soften them, an e so ,. d su orted him with cwo iamon s.
che n
His armer said "No trumps an . PP d livel . They would make a
had seven.
ul~ be wished for? It ought to b~ iollyf a;
a;ing pain, chat taste in
Wha~ ;:~~ ~:t suddenly Ivan Hych w:s c?nsc1iu~~c~i::!ces he should be pleased
gr_an
h and it seemed ridiculous t at m sue
.
his mout '
h
bl with his
make a grand slam.
·\ M 'kh lov1ch who rapped t eta e
d
to He looked at his partner M1k~a1
I hea:ricks p~shed the cards cou~teously an
strong hand and instead of sn~ct1n~ u~~ght have the pleasure of gache'.ing Ichem up
·ndulgently towards Ivan Ilyc t at e . h nd for them. "Does he think am too
~ichout the trouble of scret~~i~g uo~t ~~:n~lych, and forgetting_ what hedwa~~o:a~
weak to stretch out my arm. t _o _g h
nd slam by three mcks. An w .
he over-trumped his partner, m\Sshmg t e graMikhai\ Mikhaylovich was about it but
hat he saw ow upset
dd
e
most awful of a ll was t
.
dful co realize why he i not car • .
k
did not himself care. And It was dr7a
said• "We can stop if you are ttred. Ta ea
They all saw that he was suffenng, an~ d ;nd he finished the rubber. All were
est" Lie down? No, he was not at all ure ' d diffused this gloom over chem and
~l~my and silent. Ivan llych felt that ~e hat away and Ivan llych was left alone
could not dispel it. They ha~ s~pper an is:~:d and ;as poisoning the lives o~ ocher~,
. h the consciousness chat htS life was po
d more and more deep\y mto his
wit
.
.
d'd not weaken but penetrate
and that chis poison I
.
·d h terror he must go to
whole being.
d . h hysica\ pain bes1 es t e
'
With this consciousness, an wit p
. ht Next morning he had co get up
bed often co lie awake the greater par~of t~e;;~e· .or if he did not go out, spent at
aga;n, dress, go co the \a; courtsd s~::,it:f which• was a torture. An~ he h_a? ~\::
home chose twenty-four ours a ab
th no one who underscoo or p1tte
•
thus all alone on the bnnk of an a yss, wt
k
:~:J :~:
V
b fore the New Year his brocher-inSo one month passed and then a~oter. Ju;t a~ Ilych was at the law courts and
\aw came to town and stayed at their ouse. v
284 Chapter 8 • HeU1ti11g Lo11g Srorii•s nncl \owl~
Praskovya Fedorovna had gone shopping. When Ivan Hych came home and entered
his study he found his brother-in-law there-a healthy, florid man-unpacking his
portmanteau himself. He raised his head on hearing Ivan llych's footsteps and looked
up at him for a moment without a word. That stare told Ivan Ilych everything. His
brother-in-law opened his mouth to utter an exclamation of surprise but checked
himself, and that action confirmed it all.
"I have changed, eh?"
"Yes, there is a change."
And after that, try as he would to get his brother-in-law to return to the subject
of his looks, the latter would say nothing about it. Praskovya Fedorovna came home
and her brother went out to her. Ivan Ilych locked the door and began to examine
himself in the glass, first full face, then in profile. He took up a portrait of himself
taken with his wife, and compared it with what he saw in the glass. The change in
him was immense. Then he bared his arms to the elbow, looked at them, drew the
sleeves down again, sat down on an ottoman, and grew blacker than night.
"No, no, this won't do!" he said to himself, and jumped up, went to the table
took up some law papers, and began to read them, but could not continue. H~
unlocked the door and went into the reception-room. The door leading to the drawing-room was shut. He approached it on tiptoe and listened.
"No, you are exaggerating!" Praskovya Fedorovna was saying.
"Exaggerating! Don't you see it? Why, he's a dead man! Look at his eyes-there's
no light in them. But what is it that is wrong with him?"
"No one knows. Nikolaevich said something, but I don't know what. And
Leshchetitsky0 said quite the contrary ..."
Ivan Ilych walked away, went to his own room, lay down, and began musing:
"The kidney, a floating kidney." He recalled all the doctors had told him of how it
detached itself and swayed about. And by an effort of imagination he tried to catch
that kidney and arrest it and support it. So little was needed for this, it seemed to
him. "No, I'll go to see Peter lvanovich0 again." He rang, ordered the carriage, and
got ready to go.
"Where are you going, Jean?" asked his wife, with a specially sad and exceptionally kind look.
This exceptionally kind look irritated him. He looked morosely at her.
"I must go to see Peter Ivanovich."
He went to see Peter lvanovich, and together they went to see his friend, the
doctor. He was in, and Ivan Ilych had a long talk with him.
Reviewing the anatomical and physiological details of what in the doctor's opinion was going on inside him, he understood it all.
There was something, a small thing, in the vermiform appendix. It might all
come right. Only stimulate the energy of one organ and check the activity of another, then absorption would take place and everything would come right. He got
home rather late for dinner, ate his dinner, and conversed cheerfully, but could not
for a long time bring himself to go back to work in his room. At last, however, he
went to his study and did what was necessary, but the consciousness that he had put
something aside-an important, intimate matter which he would revert to when his
work was done-never left him. When he had finished his work he remembered that
Nikolaetiich, Leshchetitsky: two doctors, the latter a celebrated specialise. [Translators' note.I Perer
lvanovich: That was the friend whose friend was a doctor. [Translators' note.I
Ll'o Tolstoy 28/i
this intimate matter was the thought of his vermiform appendix. But he did not give
himself up to it, and went to the drawing-room for tea. There were callers there,
including the examining magistrate who was a desirable match for his daughter, and
they were conversing, playing the piano, and singing. Ivan llych, as Praskovya
fedorovna remarked, spent that evening more cheerfully than usual, but he never for
a moment forgot that he had postponed the important matter of the appendix. At
eleven o'clock he said good-night and went to his bedroom. Since his illness he had
slept alone in a small room next to his study. He undressed and cook up a novel by
Zola, but instead of reading it he fell into thought, and in his imagination that
desired improvement in the vermiform appendix occurred. There was the absorption
and evacuation and the re-establishment of normal activity. "Yes, that's 1t!" he said
co himself. "One need only assist nature, that's all." He remembered his medicine,
rose, cook it, and lay down on his back watching for the beneficent action of the
medicine and for it to lessen the pain. "I need only take it regularly and avoid all
injurious influences. I am already feeling better, much better." He began couching his
side: it was not painful to the touch. "There, I really don't feel it. It's much better
already." He put out the light and turned on his side ... "The appendix is getting better, absorption is occurring." Suddenly he felt the old, familiar, dull, gnawing pain,
stubborn and serious. There was the same familiar loathsome taste in his mouth. His
heart sank and he felt dazed. "My God! My God!" he muttered. "Again, again! and it
will never cease." And suddenly the matter presented irself in a quite different aspect.
"Vermiform appendix! Kidney!" he said to himself. "It's not a question of appendix
or kidney, but of life and ... death. Yes, life was there and now it is going, gomg and
I cannot stop it. Yes. Why deceive myself? Isn't it obvious to everyone but me that
I'm dying, and that it's only a question of weeks, days ... it may happen this moment.
There was light and now there is darkness. I was here and now I'm going there!
Where?" A chill came over him, his breathing ceased, and he felt only the throbbing
of his heart.
"When l am not, what will there be? There will be nothing. Then where shall I
be when l am no more? Can this be dying? No, I don't want to!" He jumped up and
tried to light the candle, felt for it with trembling hands, dropped candle and candlestick on the floor, and fell back on his pillow.
"What's the use? It makes no difference," he said to himself, staring with wide- 155
open eyes into the darkness. "Death. Yes, death. And none of them knows or wishes
to know it, and they have no pity for me. Now they are playing." (He heard through
the door the distant sound of a song and its accompaniment.) "It's all the same to
them, but they will die too! Fools! I first, and they later, but it will be the same for
them. And now they are merry ... the beasts!"
Anger choked him and he was agonizingly, unbearably miserable. "It is impossible that all men have been doomed to suffer this awful horror!" He raised himself.
"Something must be wrong. I must calm myself-must think it all over from the
beginning." And he again began thinking. "Yes, the beginning of my illness: I
knocked my side, but I was still quite well that day and the next. le hurt a little, then
rather more. I saw the doctors, then followed despondency and anguish, more doctors, and I drew nearer to the abyss. My strength grew less and l kept coming nearer
and nearer, and now I have wasted away and there is no light in my eyes. I think of
the appendix- but this is death! I think of mending the appendix, and all the while
here is death ! Can it really be death?" Agam terror seized him and he gasped for
breath. He leant down and began feeling for the matches, pressing with his elbow
286 Chuptl'r 8 • Hl'uding [,ong ',wrir., 1111d \m·c'b
I.co Tolstoy ~87
on the stand
•
. beside
'II h the
d bed. It was in his way and hu rth·im, h e grew rrunous
• h.
pressed• ond1t SCIh ar er, and upset it• Breathless and m
• d espatr here
r II on h·wit
tt,
L
expecC1ng eat to come immediately.
IS uack,
Meanwhile the visitors were leaving Praskovya f' d
She heard something fall and came in. •
e orovna was seeing them off.
"What has happened?"
''Nothing. I knocked it over accidentally."
She went out and returned with a candle. He lay there antin
• .
I
man,.WWhho h~ ~un a thousand yards, and stared upwards at her ~1th a ~:e:tlyk, like a
at ts 1t, Jean?"
oo •
"N •• o ••• thing. I upset it." ("Why speak of it? She won't understand," he
though~)·
~nd in truth she did not understand. She picked up the stand lie his
hurr'.ed away to see another visitor off. When she came back h '·11 l canh~le, and
lookmg upwards.
e SCI ay on IS back,
"What is it? Do you feel worse?"
"Yes."
She shook her head and sac down
'~Do you know, Jean, I think we.must ask Leshchetitsky to come ands
ee you
h ere.
This meant calling in the famous specialist re di
f
~:!r~:tr:~~:~~d "No." She remained a little l~ng!~ran~h:ne;:~:~
t~~t:~~
While she was kissing him he hat d h fr
h bo
diffi?,ulty refrained from pushing her aw:y. er om t e ttom of his soul and with 110
Good-night. Please God you'll sleep."
"Yes."
VI
ta~ Ilydch shawfthh~c he was dying, and he was in continual despair.
n t e ept o is heart he knew he was d • b
I
corned to the thought, he simply did not and co:ir!ot Ut nor_on y was he not accusTh
II · h h d I
grasp it.
e sy og1sm e a earnt from Kiesewetter's Lo ic· "C • •
mortal, therefore Caius is mortal" had al
dg ·h· atus is a man, men are 175
. b
I
'
ways seeme to im correct as appl'ed c
C ams,I ut certain
•
• th e abstract I o
...r y not as applied to himself• That C ams-man
m
morta ' was penectly correct, but he was not Caius not an b
-was
turde quite, quite separate from all ochers. He had been littl: ~:~~: ma~hbut a creaan a papa, with Mitya and Volodya with the to s
'w1c a mamma
::~ds wt ~en~a;~d with all the joys, griefs, a~d• :e~i~t!:t~h~~~:;r~~~::ibe yout •
at i a_ius ~ow of the smell of that striped leather ball Van a h
d en so fond of? Had Catus kissed his mother's hand like that and d"1d th 1•1kY f ha
~:~:tie: fo~ crus? ~ad he rioted like that at school when the pas:; w: ba~~
d
:;~'.i;i;i~v!~;;;;~~~;~1r~:,tb::1;·F~::'v~:.t:~·~;:
that J ought to d·e
'
. oget er a I erent matter. It cannot be
1 · That wouId be too
terrible."
Such was his feeling.
"If I had to die like Caius I should have known it was so A •
•
Id
have cold me
b h
• n mner voice wou
so, ut t ere was nothing of the sore in me and I and all my friends felc
chat our case was quite different from chat of Caius. And now here it is!" he said to
himself. "le can't be. It's impossible! But here it is. How is this? How is one to understand it?"
He could not understand it, and tried to drive this false, incorrect, morbid
thought away and to replace it by other proper and healthy thoughts. But that
thought, and not the thought only but the reality itself, seemed to come and
confront him.
And to replace that thought he called up a succession of others, hoping to find
in them some support. He tried to get back mto the former current of thoughts that
had once screened the thought of death from him. But strange to say, all that had
fonnerly shut off, hidden, and destroyed his consciousness of death, no longer had
that effect. Ivan Hych now spent most of his time in attempting to re-establish that
old current. He would say to himself: "I will take up my duties again-after all I used
to live by them." And banishing all doubts he would go to the law couns, enter into
conversauon with his colleagues, and sit carelessly as was his wont, scanning the
crowd with a thoughtful look and leaning both his emaciated arms on the arms of
his oak chair; bending over as usual to a colleague and drawing his papers nearer he
would interchange whispers with him, and then suddenly raising his eyes and sitting
erect would pronounce certain words and open the proceedings. But suddenly in the
midst of those proceedings the pain in his side, regardless of the stage the proceedings had reached, would begin its own gnawing work. Ivan llych would cum his
attention co it and try to drive the thought of 1t away, but without success. It would
come and stand before him and look at him, and he would be petrified and the light
would die out of his eyes, and he would again begin asking himself whether It alone
was true. And his colleagues and subordinates would see with surprise and distress
that he, the brilliant and subtle judge, was becoming confused and making mistakes.
He would shake himself, try to pull himself together, manage somehow to bring the
sitting to a close, and return home with the sorrowful consciousness that his judicial labors could not as formerly hide from him what he wanted them to hide, and
could not deliver him from It. And what was worst of all was that It drew his attention co itself not in order to make him take some action but only that he should
look at It, look it straight in the face: look at it and, without doing anything, suffer
inexpressibly.
And co save himself from this condition Ivan llych looked for consolation-new 180
screens-and new screens were found and for a while seemed to save him, but then
they immediately fell to pieces or rather became transparent, as if It penetrated them
and nothing could veil It.
In these latter days he would go into the drawing-room he had arranged-that
drawing-room where he had fallen and for the sake of which (how bitterly ridiculous
it seemed) he had sacrificed his life-for he knew that his illness originated with
that knock. He would enter and see that something had scratched the polished
table. He would look for the cause of this and find that it was the bronze ornamen•
tatton of an album, that had got bent. He would take up the expensive album which
he had lovingly arranged, and feel vexed with his daughter and her friends for their
untidiness-for the album was torn here and there and some of the photographs
turned upside down. He would put it carefully in order and bend the ornamentation
back into position. Then it would occur to him to place all those things in another
comer of the room, near the plants. He would call the footman, but his daughter or
wife would come to help him. They would not agree, and his wife would contradict
I.,.., I ulstoy 289
.?88 Chaplt'r 8 • H,•o<li11g I,oui; Sioric~ und \owls
"Oh, why, sir," and Geras1m's eyes beamed and he showed his glistening white
th "what's a lttcle trouble? It's a case of illness with you, sir."
tee And his deft strong hands did their accustomed task, and he went out of the
m stepping lightly. Five minutes later he as lightly returned.
rOO Ivan llych was sull sitting m the same position m the armchair.
"Geras1m," he said when the latter had replaced the freshly washed utensil.
"Please come here and help me." Geras1m went up to him. "Lift me up. It is hard for
me to get up, and I have sent Dmitri away."
•
Geras1m went up to him, grasped his master with his strong arms deftly but gently, 200
in the same way that he stepped-lifted him, supponed him with one hand, and with
che other drew up his trousers and would have set him down again, but Ivan Ilych asked
to be led to the sofa. Geras1m, without an effort and without apparent pressure, led
him, almost hfung him, to the sofa, and placed him on 1t.
"Thank you. How easily and well you do 1t all!"
Gerasim smiled again and turned to leave the room. But Ivan llych felt his presence such a comfort that he did not want to let him go.
"One thing more, please move up that chair. No, the other one-under my feet.
It is easier for me when my feet are raised."
Geras1m brought the chair, set it down gently in place, and raised Ivan Ilych's
legs on to 1t. It seemed to Ivan llych that he felt better while Gerasim was holding up
him, and he would dispute and grow angry B h
not think about It. It was invisible.
• ut t at was all right, for then he d
But then, when he was moving somethin him If h' •
servants do it. You will hurt yourself again"~ d se dd I~ wife would say: "Let
the screen an~ he would see it. It was just a. flas~ a~~ he~y le dw_ould flash throullft
~ut he would involuntarily pay attention to his s'd "I ~ ohpe It would disappear
Just the same!" And he could no Ion
I e. t sits t ere as before a •
him from behind the flowers. "What~:ri:orlgle: I~:, but could distinctly see it iC:i;glllf
"I
II .
I
a ,or.
at
.
t rea y is so! lost my life over that curtain as I mi h h
'.n~ a fort. ls that possible? How terrible and h st 'd lg t ~ve done when storrn.
1t 1s·"
ow upi • t can t be true•• It cant,
, bur
He would go to his study, lie down and
• be
•
It. And nothing could be done with It :xc aga1ln k al~ne with It: face to face With
ept to oo at it and shudder.
VII
. How !t happened it is impossible to say because it came bo
ttced, but m the third month of Ivan llych's illne h' ·£, a . ut step by step, unnoacquaintan~es, the doctors, the servants, and a~~e i;I;~e, ~ts daughter, his son, his
the whole interest he had for other pe I
h
e himself, were aware that
place, and at last release the living from edv:as \ ether he would soon vacate his
himself released from his sufferings.
e iscom ort caused by his presence and be
:h
. He slept less and less. He was given opium and h pod
• • • .
phme, but this did not relieve him. Th d II d
. y erm1c_ m1ect1ons of morlent condition at first gave him a little r:lie~, bu:p~:is1on he ex~nenced in a somnobecame as distressing as the pain itselfo
y as something new, afterwards It
l
r even more 50
pec1a foods were prepared for him b h d
• '
became increasingly distasteful and d'
. y t eh_octors orders, but all those foods
F h.
isgustmg to im
or is excretions also special arrangements h~d
torment to him every time a torm
f
to be made, and this was a
and the smell, and from knowing th;~~nro; the uncleanliness, the unseemliness,
But just through this most un I ot er person had to take part in it.
Gerasim, the butler's young assistant pa~::a:t matt~r, Ivan Ilych obtained comfon.
was a clean, fresh peasant lad gro '
y came m to carry the things out. Gerasim
bright. At first the sight of hi~ . wnh. sto,ut onR town food and always cheerful and
h d.
' m ts c ean ussian pe s
t at isgusting task embarrassed Ivan Ilych.
a ant costume, engaged on
Once when he got up from the commode too
k
dropped into a soft armchair and looked w· h h wea to_draw up his trousers, he t'IO
with the muscles so sharply marked o h it orror at his bare, enfeebled thighs
G
.
h
n t em.
eras1m wit a firm light tread, his heav boo
• •
and fresh winter air, came in wearing a 1 YH ts emitting a pleasant smell of tar
shirt tucked up over his strong b
c ean essian apron, the sleeves of his print
. k
• are young arms· and refra. • f
1 k
sic master out of consideration for his fi 1·
, d
,_rn_ng rom oo ing at his
beamed from his face, he went up to the ee mgods, an restraining the joy of life that
"G
. ,, d I
comm e.
era~1m.1 sai van Hych in a weak voice.
. Geras1m started, evidently afraid he mi ht ha
•
with a rapid movement turned his fr h k' ~ . ve commmed some blunder, and
the first downy signs of a beard.
es , in ' simple young face which just showed
s •
"Yes, sir?"
"That must be very unpleasant fior you. You must forgive me. I am helpless."
19S
his legs.
"It's better when my legs are higher,'' he said. "Place that cushion under them." zos
Gerasim did so. He again lifted the legs and placed them, and again Ivan Ilych
felt better while Geras1m held his legs. When he set them down Ivan Hych fancied
he felt worse.
"Gerasim," he said. "Are you busy now?"
"Not at all, sir," said Gerasim, who had learnt from the townsfolk how to speak
to genclefolk.
"What have you still to do?"
"What have I to do? I've done everything except chopping the logs for tomorrow."
"Then hold my legs up a bit higher, can you?"
"Of course I can. Why not?" And Gerasim raised his master's legs higher and
Ivan Hych thought that in that position he did not feel any pain at all.
"And how about the logs?"
"Don't trouble about that, sir. There's plenty of time."
Ivan Hych told Gerasim to sit down and hold his legs, and began to talk to him.
And strange to say it seemed to him that he felt better while Gerasim held his legs
up.
After that Ivan Hych would sometimes call Gerasim and get him to hold his legs
on his shoulders, and he liked talking to him. Gerasim did it all easily, willingly, simply, and with a good nature that touched Ivan llych. Health, strength, and vitality in
other people were offensive to him, but Gerasim's strength and vitality did not mortify but soothed him.
What tormented Ivan llych most was the deception, the lie, which for some reason they all accepted, that he was not dying but was simply ill, and that he only need
keep quiet and undergo a treatment and then something very good would result. He,
however, knew that do what they would nothing would come of it, only still more
agonizing suffering and death. This decepuon tortured him-their not wishing to
210
215
\.t'I> TolMo~
291
.!90 Chaptf'r 8 ■ lkatling Long S111ri<$ unrl \o\'f'IS
admit what they all knew and what he knew, but wanting to lie co him concerni
his terrible condition, and wishing and forcing him to participate in that lie. Th
lies-lies enacted over him on the eve of his death and destined to degrade this awful
solemn act to the level of their visitings, their curtains, their sturgeon for dinner_:
were a terrible agony for Ivan Hych. And strangely enough, many times when the
were going through their antics over him he had been within a hairbreadth of call,ny
out to them: "Stop lying! You know and I know that I am dying. Then at least sto:
lying about it!" But he had never had the spirit to do it. The awful, terrible ace of h~
dying was, he could see, reduced by chose about him to the level of a casual, unpleas.
ant, and almost indecorous incident (as if someone entered a drawing-room diffusing
an unpleasant odor) and this was done by that very decorum which he had served all
his life long. He saw chat no one felt for him, because no one even wished to grasp his
position. Only Gerasim recognized it and pitied him. And so Ivan Hych felt at ease
only with him. He felt comforted when Gerasim supported his legs (sometimes all
night long) and refused to go to bed, saying: "Don't you worry, Ivan Ilych. I'll gee
sleep enough lacer on," or when he suddenly became familiar and exclaimed: "If you
weren't sick it would be another matter, but as it is, why should I grudge a little trouble?" Gerasim alone did not lie; everything showed that he alone understood the
facts of the case and did not consider it necessary to disguise them, but simply felt
sorry for his emaciated and enfeebled master. Once when Ivan Hych was sending him
away he even said straight out: "We shall all of us die, so why should I grudge a little
troublet'-expressing the fact chat he did not think his work burdensome, because
he was doing it for a dying man and hoped someone would do the same for him when
his time came.
Apart from this lying, or because of it, what most tormented Ivan Hych was
that no one pitied him as he wished to be pitied. At certain moments after prolonged suffering he wished most of all (though he would have been ashamed to
confess it) for someone to pity him as a sick child is pitied. He longed co be petted
and comforted. He knew he was an important functionary, that he had a beard
turning grey, and that therefore what he longed for was impossible, but still he
longed for it. And in Gerasim's attitude towards him there was something akin to
what he wished for, and so chat attitude comforted him. ]van Hych wanted to weep,
wanted to be petted and cried over, and then his colleague Shebek would come, and
instead of weeping and being petted, Ivan Hych would assume a serious, severe, and
profound air, and by force of habit would express his opinion on a decision of the
Court of Cassation and would stubbornly insist on that view. This falsity around him
and within him did more than anything else to poison his last days.
na
VIII
It was morning. He knew it was morning because Gerasim had gone, and Peter
the footman had come and put out the candles, drawn back one of the curtains, and
begun quietly co tidy up. Whether it was morning or evening, Friday or Sunday,
made no difference, it was all just the same: the gnawing, unmitigated, agonizing pain,
never ceasing for an instant, the consciousness of life inexorably waning but not yet
extinguished, the approach of that ever dreaded and hateful Death which was the
only reality, and always the same falsity. What were days, weeks, hours, in such a case?
"Will you have some tea, sir?"
220
"He wants things to be regular, and wishes the gentlefolk to drink tea in the
morning," thought Ivan Ilych, and only said "No."
,
1·k t move onto the sofa, sir?"
"Wouldn c you_d1 e oh
nd I'm in the way. I am uncleanliness and d1sor"He wants to ti y up t e room, a
,, he thought, and said only:
der,
I e.,
"No, leave me a onb. 1·
bout Ivan Hych stretched out his hand. Peter came m
The man went on ust mg a
•
ready to help. )'J
0P
"What 1s 1t, sir.
•'My watch."
d
•
h'
t r
k the watch which was close at hand an gave It to ts mas e •
Peter too
,,
1
"Half-past eighc.VAr~lthley up. h" (the son) "who has gone to school. Praskovya no
"N 0 sir except as1 y vanov1c
d
1,,
'
' d red me to wake her 1f you asked for her. Shall I o so.
Feciorovna or e,
d ., "Perhaps I'd better have some tea," he thought, and
"No, there s no nee co.
,,
I
•
added aloud: "Yes, bhrindg me :,◊;;v::itych dreaded bemg left alone. "How can I keep
Peter went tot e oor, u
.
d • ""Why not? Perhaps 1t
ed. • ""Peter give me my me icme.
hirn h~re?Oh yes, my ~1:1~~ cook a ;poonful and swallowed it. "No, it won't help.
may sull do me some g •
"h d d d as soon as he became aware of the fam1llt's all tomfoole7, all dec~p;tni ca~'t :li:ve in it any longer. But the pain, why this
iar, sickly, hope ess taste. o, r
t'" And he moaned. Peter turned towards
• ? Jf it would only cease 1ust ror a momen •
patndi h
"
him-;!::/~;~~h~~?.~:% a:~e rv::;y:~e;~oaned nd~t so mu~h with P::;;:;~~:
fr
ental anguish Always an rorever t e same, 1
though thdat wasd, as _ ~:~only it wouid come quicker! If only what would come
endless ays an mg •
h h d th I
1 De h d kness1
No no! Anything rat er t an ea •
quicker. at , ar
•••• '
I
II ch stared at him for a nme
When Peter returned with the tea on a tray, van y
db h I k
in perplexity, not realmng who and what he w~s- Peter was d1sconcerte y t at oo
and his embarrassmeht brough~ Ivan
~tv
~~t':see~~ wash and put on a clean shirt." 235
•A•~~• ~:~~:YI~~ ~;~t ;: ;:~: With pauses for rest, h~ washed hisHhands an~
h d h' h • nd looked m the g1ass. e waster
then his face, cleaned his te~tlhl, bbrushe 1· is ;~ry, ;n which his hair clung to his pallid
rified by what he saw, espec1a y y t e imp
forehead.
.
h
dh k
that he would be still more frightened
W~ile h is s~irt was be~ega:o~d: loo~i;;:t it. Finally he was ready. He dre"'. on a
at the sight ofh1s body, so_
lf.
l ·d d tdown in the armchair to take his tea.
dressing-gown, wrapped h1mseed mba p a1 'an ; began to drink the tea he was again
For a moment he felt refresh ' u~ sootn as e d He finished it with an effort, and
pam a so retume •
aware of the same taste, and the
• l
d d. • d Peter
then lay down stretching out his er,;~ 1s;r
then a sea of despair rages, and
Always the same. ~ow a spar o .openda:1;: u;~he same. When alone he had a
always pain; always pam, al~ays des~rr, a
; t he knew beforehand that with
dreadful and d_isuess;~g~es'.if to: "rn:;~;redo~ of morphine-to lose consciousstl woh ·h
others present 1t wou
h . k of something else. It's impossible,
ness. I will tell him, the doctor, t at e must t m
impossible, to go on like this."
.
. at the door bel\. Per•
An hour and another pass like that. But now there ts a nng d h rful with that
haps it's the doctor? It is. He co~~s in fresh, hear~, ?lum~~~;a~u~~m~thing, but
look on his face thllart seemsdt? sa~: , ~ ; ~:~:i~~::;ttfs expression is out of place
we'll arrange 1t a 1or you 1rect Y·
Leo Tolstoy 293
292 Chuptt•r 8 ■ R1·11<li11g Long !-,tnrics anti \owls
he had sent today for a celebrated specialist who would examine him and have a
5 nsultation with Michael Danilov1ch (their regular doctor).
co "Please don't raise any objections. l am doing thts for my own sake," she said iron. 1\y, lecung it be felt that she was doing it all for his sake and only said this to leave
~rn no right to refuse. He remained silen~, knitti~g his brows. He felt that h~ was so
rrounded and involved 1n a mesh of falsity that 1t was hard to unravel anything.
su Everything she d1d for him was entirely for her own sake, and she told him she
was doing for herself what she actual\y _was doing for herself, as if that was so incredi-
here, but he .has hput it on once for all and can't t a ke •tt o ff- l'k
I e a man wh h
a frock -coat m t e mor_ning to pay a round of calls.
o as put on
The doctor rubs his hands vigorously and reassuring)
"Brr! How cold it is! There's such a sharp frost· just 1:~ m
as if it were only a matter of waiting till h
'
d e warm myself!" he say
thing right.
e was warm, an then he would put eve~~
"Well now, how are you?"
Ivan llych feels that the doctor would like to sa • "W I
that even he feels that this would not d
d
. y.
e..J, how are our affairs?" b
you hadr'
o, an says instead: What sort of a night ha::
ble that he must understand the opposite.
At half-past eleven the celebrated specialist arrived. Again the sounding began
and the significant conversations in his presence and in another room, about the
kidneys and the appendix, and the questions and answers, with such an air of importance that again, instead of the real question of life and death which now alone
confronted him, the question arose of the kidney and appendix which were not
behaving as they ought to and would now be attacked by Michael Danilovich and
t~~ you r~ally nrer ashamed of
a~~ questton,bsa~d
Ivan Ilych says;
never su
es. If only sorne-
Ivan Hych looks at him as much as to sa • "A
lying?" But the doctor does not wish to underst:~d
"J~st as terrible as ever. The pain never leaves me
thmg ..."
I
"Yes, you sick people are always like that
Th
•
enough. Even Praskovya Fedorovna wh .
• • •. • ere, now I thmk I am warm
temperature. Well, now I can say g~- o is 5? P~;ttc~lahr, could find no fault with my
hand.
mommg, an t e doctor presses his patient's
the specialist and forced to amend their ways.
The celebrated specialist took leave of him with a serious though not hopeless
look, and in reply to the timid question lvan l\ych, with eyes glistening with fear and
hope, put to him as to whether there was a chance of recovery, said that he could not
vouch for it but there was a posstbi\ity. The look of hope with which Ivan Ilych
watched the doctor out was so pathetic that Praskovya Fedorovna, seeing it, even
f
Then, dropping his former playfulness he be •
•h
examine the patient, feeling his pulse and ~ak"
ns wit a most serious face to
the sounding and auscultation.
mg ,s temperature, and then begins
wept as she left the room to hand the doctor his fee.
The gleam of hope kindled by the doctor's encouragement did not last long. The 260
same room, the same pictures, curtains, wallpaper, medicine bottles, were all there,
and the same aching suffering body, and Ivan Hych began to moan. They gave him a
Ivan llych knows quite well and d fi • 1
deception, but when the doctor gettin ed ntte y tha_t all this is nonsense and pure
his ear first higher then lower a~d perfiogr own ~n his knee, leans over him, putting
· h • •fi
'
ms vanous gymnastic move
h
wit a s1gni cant expression on his face Ivan Il h b •
•
ments over im
mit to the speeches of the lawyers tho ' h h kye su m1ts to it all as he used to suband why they were lying.
'
ug e new very well that they were all lying
subcutaneous injection and he sank into oblivion.
It was twilight when he came to. They brought him his dmner and he swallowed
some beef tea with difficulty, and then everything was the same again and night was
The doctor, kneeling on the sofa is still
d'
•
Fedorovna's silk dress rustles at the d '
d h soun mg him when Praskovya
having let her know of the doctor's arri:r. an s e is heard scolding Peter for not
She comes in, kisses her husband and at
been up a long time already and onl ' .
one~ proceeds to prove that she has
when the doctor arrived. '
y owmg to a misunderstanding failed to be there
Ivan Hych looks at her, scans her all ove
•
plumpness and cleanness of her hands and
t ~ts agamst her t~e whiteness and 250
of her vivacious eyes. He hates her with h~e:h \ e glf of her hair, and the sparkle
feels for her makes him suffer from her touch. o e sou • And the thrill of hatred he
Her attitude towards him and his disease is still th
adopted a certain relation to his patient which h
e :dame. Just as the doctor had
formed one towards him-that h
d .
e cou not abandon, so had she
h.
If
e was not omg something h
tmse to blame, and that she reproached him lovin I r
~ ough t to do and was
now change that attitude.
g Y ior this-and she could not
~
"You see he doesn't listen to me and doesn't take h· ed' •
And above all he lies in a position that is nod b b d mh· icme ~t th~ proper time.
She described how he made Gerasim holJ~- t I a or im-w1th his legs up."
The doct
•t d h
1s egs up.
or sm1 e wit a contemptuous affabil' h
'd "
These sick people do have foolish fancies of th k.
at sat : What'_s to be done?
When the examination was over the d at m 1' ut we m~st forgive them."
Praskovya Fedorovna announced to Ivan IIyehoc~or.
his as
watch,
and then
t at itookedfat
was o course
he pleased,
but
coming
on.dinner, at seven o'clock, Praskovya Fedorovna came into the room in
After
evening dress, her full bosom pushed up by her corset, and with traces of powder on
her face. She had reminded him in the morning that they were going to the theater.
Sarah Bernhardt was visiting the town and they had a box, which he had insisted on
their taking. Now he had forgotten about it and her toilet offended him, but he concealed his vexation when he remembered that he had himself insisted on their securing a box and going because it would be an instructive and aesthetic pleasure for the
children.
Praskovya Fedorovna came in, self-satisfied but yet with a rather guilty air. She
sat down and asked how he was, but, as he saw, only for the sake of asking and not
in order to learn about it, knowing that there was nothing to learn-and then went
on to what she really wanted to say: that she would not on any account have gone
but that the box had been taken and Helen and their daughter were going, as well as
Petrishchev (the examining magistrate, their daughter's fi.ance), and that it was out
of the question to let them go alone; but that she would have much preferred to sit
with him for a while; and he must be sure to follow the doctor's orders while she was
away."Oh, and Fedor Petrovich" (the fiance) "would like to come in. May he? And
Id~
255
Lisa!"
"All right."
265
294 Chnp1rr 8 ■ Reading Lon~ !,1orw, 111111 \m •·I,
Their daughter came in in full evening dress, her fresh young flesh ex
(making a show of that very flesh which in has own case caused so much sufferi
strong, healthy, evidently in love, and impatient with illness, suffering, and dea
because they interfered with her happiness.
Fedor Petrovich came in too, in evening dress, his hair curled a la Capoul, 0 a ti
stiff collar round his long sinewy neck, an enormous white shirtfront, and n
black trousers tightly stretched over his strong thighs. He had one white glove tight
drawn on, and was holding has opera hat in his hand.
Following him the schoolboy crept in unnoticed, in a new uniform, PC>or little
fellow, and wearing gloves. Terribly dark shadows showed under his eyes, the meaning of which Ivan Hych knew well.
Has son had always seemed pathetic to him, and now it was dreadful to see the
boy's frightened look of pity. It seemed to Ivan Ilych that Vasya was the only one
besides Gerasim who understood and pitied him.
They all sat down and again asked how he was. A silence followed. Lisa asked
her mother about the opera-glasses, and there was an altercation between mother
and daughter as to who had taken them and where they had been put. This occasioned some unpleasantness.
Fedor Petrovich inquired of Ivan Hych whether he had ever seen Sarah
Bernhardt. Ivan Hych dad not at first catch the question, but then replied: "No, have
you seen her before?"
"Yes, in Adrienne Lecouvreur."
Praskovya Fedorovna mentioned some roles in which Sarah Bernhardt was particularly good. Her daughter disagreed. Conversation sprang up as to the elegance
and realism of her acting- the sort of conversation that is always repeated and is
always the same.
In the midst of the conversation Fedor Petrovich glanced at Ivan Hych and became silent. The others also looked at him and grew silent. Ivan Hych was staring
with glittering eyes straight before him, evidently indignant with them. This had to
be rectified, but it was impossible to do so. The silence had to be broken, but for a
time no one dared co break it and they all became afraid that the conventional
deception would suddenly become obvious and the truth become plain to all. Lisa
was the first to pluck up courage and break that silence, but by trying to hide what
everybody was feeling, she betrayed it.
"Well, if we are going it's time to start," she said, looking at her watch, a present
from her father, and with a faint and significant smile at Fedor Petrovich relating to
something known only to them. She got up with a rustle of her dress.
They all rose, said good-night, and went away.
When they had gone it seemed to Ivan Hych that he felt better; the falsity had
gone with them. But the pain remained-that same pain and that same fear that
made everything monotonously alike, nothing harder and nothing easier. Everything
was worse.
Again minute followed minute and hour followed hour. Everything remained
the same and there was no cessation. And the inevitable end of it all became more
and more terrible.
"Yes, send Gerasim here," he replied to a question Peter asked.
~ la Capoul: imitating the hairdo of Victor Capoul, a contemporary French singer.
1...~ Tolstoy :195
IX
. ht She came in on tiptoe, but he heard her, opened 290
His wife returned late atl mg h.
gain She washed to send Gerasim away and to
d made haste to c ose t em a
•
. "N
,,
his eyes, a.n herself, but he opened his eyes and said: o, go away.
·t wath ham
. ,,,
sa "Are you in great ~.am.
"Always rhe same.
"Take some opium."
He agreed and t~k some. S~e wen:::;:~ scare of stupefied misery. It seemed to 2BS
Till about three m the morning h:
arrow deep black sack, but though
·m that he and his pam were bemg t rust into al~ not~ pushed co the bottom. And
~ey were pushed furt~er. and further in they~~~ by suffering. He was frightened yet
this, terrible enough m itself,
accomp~ed but yet cooperated. And suddenly he
wanted to fall through the sac d, e sti:ugg ess Gerasim was sitting at the foot of the
broke through, fell, and regain~ co~~1~~shim~lf lay with his emaciated stockinged
bed dozing quietly and patient y, w h
h ded candle was there and the same
legs rest 1·ng on Gerasim's shoulders; t e same s a
unceasing pam.
"
.
ed
"Go away, Gerasim, he whas~er".
"It's all right, sir. I'll stay a whale.
•t~
"No. Go away."
. ' shoulders turned sideways onto his arm,
He removed his legs from Geras'.m II Geras:m had gone into the next room
and felt sorry for himself. He only watt~ u
I ke a child He wept on account of
and then restrained himself no lo~ger u~ wept 1• of man .the cruelty of God, and
his helplessness, his terrible loneliness, t e crue ty
'
J
the absence of God. d
ll h' , Why hast Thou brought me here? Why, why dost 290
"Why hast Thou one a t as.
1
Thou torment me so tern·bJy."
d
t because there was no answer and
He did not expect an 'answer an yet ;:ph d'd not stir and did not call. He
could be none. The pain grew more :cuteh ~ .: f~r1 What have l done to Thee?
said to himself: "Go on! Strike me! ut w at as i
•
What is it for?"
d e in but even held his breath and
Then he gre~ quiet and n~ on~ ~e:s 1:t:~in; not to an audible voice but to
became all attenuon. It was as t oug e h
. . within him.
the voice of his soul, to the,;urrenthoffithou1 ts ::~~;pcion capable of expression in
"What is it you want? was t e rst c ear
words, that he heard.
Wh d
t," he repeated to himself.
"What do you wane?
at O you wan •
d
29
I'
d
t suffer " he answere •
"What do I want? To ave an not o
' d
. that even his pain did
And again he listened with such concentrate attenuon
not distract him.
.
"To live? How?" asked his inner v01ce.
"
"Why to live as l used co-well and pleasantly. .
d
•
d I
I ,,. che v01ce repeate •
"As you lived before, well an p easant yh. b
ts of his pleasant life. But JC
• • h be
to recall t e est momen
II h
And in imagmauon e gan
f h' I ant life now seemed at a w at
f chose best moments o as p eas
dhood Th re
strange to say none o
fh
h first recollections of chi!
. e ,
they had then seemed-none o t em except t e
'th which it would be possible
in childhood, there had been somet~idng rheallhy ~le~~~e:~ed that happiness existed no
to live if it could return. But the chil w O a e pe
longer, it was like a reminiscence of somebody else.
.
296 (:hnprrr 8 a H 1· l
. 11111 1 \un•ls
cac mg ,oug •Srora•~
Leo Tolstoy 2<17
As soon as the period began which h d
had then seemed joys now melted be£ ~. produced the presenc Ivan ll h
and often nasty.
ore is sight and turned into so yhc· • all
A d h
rnet ing
n t e further he depart d fr
h
t
sent the more wonhless and de b~~ c ildhoo~ and the nearer he cam
Law. A little that was really go: u w~re the Joys. This began with
to the
friendship, and hope. But in th was strll found there-there was Ii h he Schoof
good moments. Then d .
e upper classes there had already be g t earted
service of the Governor usormg thle first years of his official career wh;nn hfewer of s
·
f
• me P easanc mom
.
'
e was •
ones o 1ove for a woman Th
II b
enrs again occurred: they we h tn t
od I
• en a ecame
fi d
re t e
ras gho j acer on again there was Still less hcon use and there was still less /°e
ess t ere was. His marria e a
. t at was good, and the further h o w
it, his wife's bad breath a gd • h mere acc_1denr, then the disenchanrmenc h e Wene t
a d h
n t e sensuality and h
.
h
t at follo
n t ose preoccupations about
ypocr1sy; t en that dead!
. . w
an~ always the same thing. And t~;:y, a year o( it, and two, and ten, :i:1c1a( Ii
ash1f I_ had been going downhill while f~er it_lasred the more deadly it becamcw~~
w at It was. I was going up in public o . u~agmed l was going up. And that :· t
away &om me. And now 't . II d
pmron, but to the same extent J•fi
reaU
"Then what d
. I is a one and there is only death "
I e was ebbi
B . .
oes it mean? Why1 It
, be h .
•
ut if it really has been so ho "bl • can t
t at life is so senseless and h
There is something wrong'" m e and senseless, why muse I die and d· . orrible.
"M b
.
•
ie tn agony'
h
ay e I did nor live as I ought to hav d
".
•
ow could that be, when I did
.
e one, It suddenly occurred to h. "
missedh_from ~is mind this, rh::ir~~cfc:'~pe;ly ?'' hhe re~lied, and immedia~;ly J~~
somer mg quite impossible
o a11t e riddles of life and d h
"Th
•
eat as
en what do you wane now? To liv , L·
.
'
~ouns,,when the usher proclaimed 'Th . e. '.ve how? Live as you lived in th
Judge! he repeated to himself "H h ~ Judg~ is coming!' The judge is com· e tw
angrily. "What is it forl" And.he ere de IS, the Judge. But I am not guilty•" he e mlg'. tede
ued t
d
•
cease crying bur
. h
•
xc aim
o pon er on the same question· Wh
d 'c
hturnrng is face to the wall contt·n
But h oweve
h h
•
Y, an ror w at p
• h
•
ed
r muc
e pondered he found
urpose, is t ere all this horror1
occurr to him, as it often did, char it all resulno answer._ And whenever the rho h;
to have done, he at once recalled th
ted &om his nor having lived as he o ugh
strange an idea.
e correcrnes.s of his whole life and d' . edug t
ISmlSS SO
th
X
. . Another fortnight passed. Ivan 11
lie rn bed but lay on the sofa, facin ti{ec: now no longer left his sofa. He would not
same unceasing agonies and in his oneIi all nearJ all the time. He suffered ever the
~:tii~~: ~hat,,is this? Can it be that i~;;~~h~'~e~ atahys ?n the same insoluble
;, rs at .
• n t e rnner voice answered:
Why these sufferings'" A d h
.
so" Be d
• n t e voice ans
d "Fo
• F yon and besides this there was noth· were '
r no reason-they just are
rom the very beginnin ofh· ·11
mg.
tor, I~an Ilych's life had bee~ div~~~dn~ss, ever since he had first been to see the doc;ow It was despair and the expectation:;:~~ two Contrary and alternating moods:
o;d no~ hope and an intently interested ob~nco~prehended and terrible death,
evg~n~. o; before his eyes there was only a kidervanon ~f the functioning of his
f
~:~t7~:~~ :=~;!~
1
it :a: i~t:x,~~~i:~d:;;_nly that incomprehens~~r/:n~nd
These cwo states of mind had alternated from the very beginning of his illness,
the further it progressed the more doubtful and fantastic became the conception
~e kidney, and the more real the sense of impending death.
He had but to call to mind what he had been three months before and what he 310
now, co call to mind with what regularity he had been going downhill, for every
ibility of hope to be shattered.
Latterly during that loneliness in which he found himself as he lay facing the
ck of che sofa, a loneliness in the midst of a populous town and surrounded by
umerous acquaintances and relations but that yet could not have been more comere anywhere-either at the botcom of the sea or under the earth--during that
cerrible loneliness Ivan Ilych had lived only in memories of the past. Pictures of his
past rose before him one after another. They always began with what was nearest in
rime and then went back to what was most remote- to his childhood-and rested
there. If he thought of the stewed prunes that had been offered him chat day, his
mind went back to the raw shrivelled French plums of his childhood, their peculiar
flavor and the flow of saliva when he sucked their scones, and along with the memory of that taste came a whole series of memories of those days: his nurse, his
brother, and their toys. "No, I mustn't thmk of that. ... It is too painful," Ivan Hych
said to himself, and brought himself back to the present- to the button on the back
of the sofa and the creases in its morocco. "Morocco is expensive, but it does not
wear well: there had been a quarrel about it. It was a different kind of quarrel and a
different kmd of morocco that rime when we tore father's portfolio and were punished, and mamma brought us some tarts...." And again his thoughts dwelt on his
childhood, and agam it was painful and he tried to banish them and fix his mind on
something else.
Then again together with that cham of memories another series passed through
hrs mind-of how his illness had progressed and grown worse. There also the further
back he looked the more life there had been. There had been more of what was good
in life and more of life itself. The two merged together. "Just as the pam went on getting worse and worse, so my life grew worse and worse," he thought. "There is one
bright spot there at the back, at the beginning of life, and afterwards all becomes
blacker and blacker and proceeds more and more rapidly-in inverse ratio to the
square of the distance from death,'' thought Ivan Hych. And the example of a stone
falling downwards with increasing velocity entered his mind. Life, a series of increasing sufferings, flies further and further towards its end-the most terrible suffering. "I
am flying...." He shuddered, shifted himself, and tried to resist, but was already
aware that resistance was impossible, and again, with eyes weary of gazing but unable
to cease seeing what was before them, he stared at the back of the sofa and waitedawaiting that dreadful fall and shock and destruction.
"Resistance is impossible!" he said to himself. "If I could only understand what it
is all for! Bur that too is impossible. An explanation would be possible if it could be
said that I have not lived as I ought to. But it is impossible to say chat,'' and he remembered all the legality, correctitude, and propriety of his life. "That at any rate can
certainly not be admitted," he thought, and his lips smiled ironically as if someone
could see chat smile and be taken in by it. "There is no explanation! Agony, death.
... What for?"
XI
Another two weeks went by in this way and during that fortnight an event
occurred chat Ivan llych and his wife had desired. Petrishchev formally proposed. It
2911 ( hap11•r 8 • H<'11<li11g Long S1oril', u111I \on-I,
happened in the evening. The next day Praskovya Fedorovna came into her
band's room considering how best to inform him of it, but that very night there
been a fresh change for the worse in his condition. She found him still lying on
sofa but in a different position. He lay on his back, groaning and staring fix
straight in front of him.
She began co remind him of his medicines, but he turned his eyes towards
with such a look that she did not finish what she was saying; so great an animosity
her in particular, did that look express.
'
"For Christ's sake let me die in peace!" he said.
She would have gone away, but just then their daughter came in and went up
say good morning. He looked at her as he had done at his wife, and in reply to
mquiry about his health said dryly chat he would soon free them all of himself.
were both silent and after sitting with him for a while went away.
"Is it our fault?" Lisa said to her mother. "It's as if we were to blame! I am
for papa, but why should we be tortured?"
The doctor came at his usual time. Ivan llych answered "Yes" and "No," nev
taking his angry eyes from him, and at last said: "You know you can do nothing £
me, so leave me alone."
"We can ease your sufferings."
"You can't even do that. Let me be."
The doctor went into the drawing-room and told Praskovya Fedorovna that the
case was very serious and that the only resource left was opium to allay her husband's
sufferings, which must be terrible.
It was true, as the doctor said, that Ivan Ilych's physical sufferings were terrible,
but worse than the physical sufferings were his mental sufferings, which were h15
chief torture.
His mental sufferings were due co the face that one night, as he looked at
Gerasim's sleepy, good-natured face with its prominent cheekbones, the question
suddenly occurred to him: "What if my whole life has really been wrong?"
le occurred to him that what had appeared perfectly impossible before, namely
that he had not spent his life as he should have done, might after all be true. It
occurred to him that his scarcely perceptible attempts to struggle against what was
considered good by the most highly placed people, those scarcely noticeable impulses
which he had immediately suppressed, might have been the real thing, and all the
rest false. And his professional duties and the whole arrangement of his life and of his
family, and all his social and official interests, might all have been false. He tried to
defend all those things to himself and suddenly felt the weakness of what he was
defending. There was nothing to defend.
"But if that is so," he said to himself, "and I am leaving chis life with the consciousness that I have lost all that was given me and it is impossible co rectify itwhat then?"
He lay on his back and began co pass his life in review in quite a new way. In the
morning when he saw first his footman, then his wife, then his daughter, and then che
doctor, their every word and movement confirmed to him the awful truth that had
been revealed to him during the night. In them he saw himself-all chat for which he
had lived-and saw clearly that it was not real at all, but a terrible and huge deception
which had hidden both life and death. This consciousness intensified his physical suffering tenfold. He groaned and tossed about, and pulled at his clothing which choked
and stifled him. And he hated them on that account.
oon his
d e of optum and became unconsciou~, but at n
u was given a large os
body away and tossed from stde to stde.
ne
gain He drove every
.• gs began a
•
d d·
l h 3JC
ertn ·f came co him an sat •
, d
y hann and often helps. Hea t Y
His wt e d
do this for me. lt can t o an
"]ean' my .ear,
,,
ple often do it_tde
"
ue opened his eyes w • 'Wh ?lt's unnecessary! However •••
~:,,n.. 1 Take communion.
y
"wuat.
n
She began todcry. I'll send for our pnest. He is such a nice man.
m
"Y s do my ear.
d
d
e, '
n" he muttere •
n h
softened an
"All right. Very we '
nd heard hts confession, lvan h~c V:.as. gs and for a
Wh n the pnesc came a
uently from ts sunenn ,
.
d : fee\ a relief from his doubts an~ c~n~ to think of the vermifonn appendtx
,eerne t there came a ray of hope. He again. e: the sacrament with rears m his eyes.
rnornehnt ossibility of correcting it. He reefew d h felt a moment's ease, and the
and t e p h laid htm down agam a terwar s e
hink of che operation that
When t ey
k . h" again He began to t
f
h
ight \ive awo em ,m
• 1· 1" h
id to himsel .
hope chat e rn d him "To live! l want to ive. e sa .
and when uttering
h d been suggeste co
•
I h1rn after his communion,
a His wife came in to congratu ~~ d·
I conventional words she a e •
the usua
d , ou 1"
3-10
"You feel better, on t y • ·d "Y "
.
II
.
t looking at her he sa1
es.
the tone of her voice, a
W1thdou
her figure the expression of her f~ce,h Id be All you have lived
Her ress,
•
·tis not as tt s ou
•
"
d h same thing "This is wrong, t
h·d · life and death from you.
~:~e:~~ s:il~ live for is _fals;hratt~~~gt~e:.:i~:;red ~~~ his agonizing phy~~~~~~~.
t.h h
ffering a consct0usness of the una .
.
And as soon as he adm,cte
and wit t at su
f . ding shoottng pam
fering again sprang uP'
h.
dded a new sensation o grtn
. ng end And to t is was a
approac h t
•
fu\ H •
f 1·
f suffocauon.
d h " es" was dread • avmg
and;;: :~:ssion of his face ~hehn he utte:edto~th1: face with a rapidity extra. h looked her straight m t e eyes, tu
uttered it, e
d shouted:
dinary in his weak state an
\
I"
or "Go away! Go away and leave me a one.
XII
.
that continued for three days, and was so
hat
moment
the
screaming
began
l d doors without horror. At the
t
From
h
• through two c ose
that
r:
terrible tthhaetaonsn:e~~t~i~fe r~:lized thabt he was l~lltunso,
thac\v~::::::~i::;~ubcs.
momen
d h. d ts were su
• "l 345
had
come,
the
very
end,
an
_tS o~
.
He
had begun by screarnmg
theend
,, h
. d ·n various mtonattons.
"Oh' Ohl Ohl e cne I
0
' 1" a.nd c~nti~ued screaming on the letter d·d· ot exist for him, he struggled in
won t.
d • which time I n
\ f e He
For three whole days, unng be.
hrust by an invisible, resist ess ore_•
~~s
that b~a~\:a~~i;~oc::~~~~;d
de;~; :uugg\es in c::t:;t:,;:;~ed::;~t~t~~r~~;
sktrugg_ e chat he cannot save himself. And evhery mo~ed him He felt chat his agony
nowmg
d
to w at terrm
•
b •
ble
efforts he was drawing neare~ an ;ea;l:ck hole and still more to his ~o~ et~ a his
~~~t~:: f:s:\nd
;;~;t;i;~thi~t~~~g~~r~:: ;i:a:;e~o;s~~:~:Zo~t~/~~; ~::
life had been a ~ rone. d d 'tt caused htm most torment of all.
prevented h •1s moving ,orwar , an
Frnn1. Koflrn :~01
;rno Chnptrr 8 • H,·11cling l.011g S1ori1•,; 1111d \o\'cl~
Suddenly some force struck him in the chest and side, making it still harder t
breathe, and he fell through the hole and there at the bottom was a light. What ha~
happened to him was like the sensation one sometimes experiences in a railway car.
riage when one thinks one is going backwards while one is really going forwards and
suddenly becomes aware of the real direction.
"Yes, it was all not the right thing," he said to himself, "but that's no matter. It
can be done. Bur what is the right thing?" he asked himself, and suddenly grew quiet.
This occurred at the end of the third day, two hours before his death. Just then
his schoolboy son had crepe softly in and gone up to the bedside. The dying man was
still screaming desperately and waving his arms. His hand fell on the boy's head, and
the boy caught ir, pressed it to his lips, and began to cry.
At that very moment Ivan Hych fell through and caught sight of the light, and
it was revealed to him that though his life had not been what it should have been
this could still be rectified. He asked himself, "What is the right thing?" and gre~
still, listening. Then he felt that someone was kissing his hand. He opened his eyes,
looked at his son, and felt sorry for him. His wife came up to him and he glanced at
her. She was gazing at him open-mouthed, with undried tears on her nose and cheek
and a despairing look on her face. He felt sorry for her too.
"Yes, I am making them wretched," he thought. "They are sorry, but it will be
better for them when I die." He wished to say this but had not the strength to utter it
"Besides, why speak? I must act," he thought. With a look at his wife he indicated his
son and said: "Take him away ... sorry for him ... sorry for you too...." He tried to
add, "Forgive me," but said "forgo" and waved his hand, knowing that He whose
understanding mattered would understand.
And suddenly it grew clear to him that what had been oppressing him and would
not leave him was all dropping away at once from two sides, from ten sides, and from
all sides. He was sorry for them, he must act so as not to hurt them: release them and
free himself from these sufferings. "How good and how simple!" he thought. "And
the pain?'' he asked himself. "What has become of it? Where are you, pain?''
He turned his attention to it.
"Yes, here it is. Well, what of it? Let the pain be."
"And death ... where is 1t?"
He sought his former accustomed fear of death and did not find it. "Where is it?
What death?" There was no fear because there was no death.
In place of death there was light.
"So that's what it is!" he suddenly exclaimed aloud. "What joy!"
To him all this happened in a smgle instant, and the meaning of that instant did
not change. For chose present his agony continued for another two hours. Something
rattled in his throat, h1s emaciated body twitched, then the gasping and rattle
became less and less frequent.
"It is finished!" said someone near him.
He heard these words and repeated them in his soul.
"Death is finished," he said to himself. "It is no more!"
He drew in a breath, stopped m the midst of a sigh, stretched out, and died.
Questions
1. Sum up the reacuons of Ivan llych's colleagues to the news of his death. What is implied
m Tolstoy's calling them not friends, but "nearest acquaintances"?
2. What comic elements do you find m the account of the wake that Peter Ivanovich attends?
, . ofth e _corpse and I.ts expression (paragraph 27), what details seem
Tolstoy's description
j. In
I
I' g and meanmgful 1
especial y revea tn
•
d h sco if he had placed the events in
Do you chink T olscoy would hladvbe ilmpri~~c ~pee niniscene of Ivan llych's colleagues at
4.
olo ical order? What wou
e ost t
,
chron g
d h
k scene were to be given lase.
the Jaw courtslalnl t ;I ~ahe when we first meet him, a religious man? Sum up his goals in
Would you ca van_ y1c.,
5, life, his values, and his amtudcs.
II h . h
h the ranks? While he continues
hat "virtues" and abilities does Ivan y~ nse _t r~ug
B
6. Yw
. h•
hat happens to his marnage •
to succeed m is career, w
h I
d ery broken wmdow-blind string,
"Every spot on the tablecloth or thehup obstlery, ananeg~ng it all chat every disturbance of
7.
• H h d d oced so muc trou e to arr
. .
irritated him. e a ev
) Wh d
alee of this passage? What 1s its tone.1
d h . ., (paragraph 104 .
at o you m
. I
it d1stresse im
h'
.hI
llych's attachment co his possessions.
Does the narrator sympat ize wit van . .
h 105 ("He got up at nine ...").
h
nt of Ivan llych's routme m paragrap
. 1
d
8. Cons, elr t c acts coofua full life what higher satisfactions, does chis routine om1c.Wh . h
What e emcn
•
b d'
d today,
at 1st e
ed Ivan llych's illness? How would It probably e iagnose
•
9. What ~us . d
dI
llych's doctors?
narrators amtu e towar van I
d . I
llych's growing isolanon as his progres•
0 I what successive stages docs To stoy ep1ct van
l • s~vc illness sets him more and c:e ap~c!- in the character and conduct of the servant
11. What are we apparently suppo
to a mire
Gerasim?
h I
II ch's justification of his life "pre•
zz. What do you u1:derstand ~om ~he stat:~~ ;~;::rm~nr of all" (paragraph 346)?
vented his movmg forwar 'an tt cau f I
II h's schoolboy son? Why is he crucial co
13. What is memorable in the character o van hs 349-350.)
the story? (Suggestion: Look closely at para~p
'nl Why does he die peacefully?
14 What realiiation allows Ivan llych to triump ov~ pat • f Ivan llych we imagine what
1s: The writer Henri Troyat ~as sa!dbl!ht~ti1~:~fyghw~c~ ~~;i~g, selfish, worldly, nineteenthour own deaths will be. Is tt posst
century Russian 1udge?
Franz Kafka
The Metamorphosis
Translated by John Siscoe
Franz Kafka ( 1883-1924) ~ ~ into a
German-speaking Jewish family m Prague,
Czechoslovakia ( then pan of the A~~oHungarian empire). He was the only surv1Vtng
son of a domineering, successful fatkr. A~ter
earning a law degree ' Kafka worked as a claims
investigator far the state acci~t insur~nce
company. He worked on his stones at mg~t,
especially during his frequent bouts of ins~n~.
He netleT married, and Uiied mostly with his
parents. Kafka was such a careful and se!fconscious writer that he found it difficult to
finish his work and send it out far publication·
During his lifetime he published only a few
thin volumes of short fiction, moS t notably
The Metamorphosis ( 19 I 5) and In the Penal
Fran:r. Kafku
Franz Kafka 30:J
:10:i Cl' auptt>r 8 • Hruding Long Stori,,., mul \owls
I'd back down to his former position. "Getting up this early," he thought,
Colony (I 919) . He never finished to his own sa( f. •
lished posthu~usly): The Trial (1925), The C~s':ftr;:ii o~ZJ three ~ovels (all
Kafka ~as dymg of tuberculosis, he begged his friend and Ii '
Amenka (1927)
bum his uncompleted manuscripts. Brod ponder d .
terary executor Max
~afka' s t~b major novels, The Trial and The Ca:cleth~t~eluep~t tut luckily didn't
rrrespons, le bureaucracies in whose
er the . . . ,
ict uge' remote b
~ks appear startlingly prophetic to r:.s look1_ndi~1d';:1 fe: he!pless and bli~.
ism' World War II, and the Holocaust Hi ha mg_ ac . ~ m m the later light of S
led the poet W H A· _J__
•
s unnng vmon of an alienated ~.i. · uuen to remark at midcent
"Had
mvuem
comes nearest to bearing the sa k'nd { la . ury,
one to name the author
Goethe bor
the.
. me I o re twn to our age as Dante Shake
arguabl
tothe rrs' Kafka is the first one would think of." The Me
s~e'
'y
. most famous opening sentence in twen •
t m~rphos1s,
Kafka s dreamlike fiction at its most brill'iant and most d·isturbmg.
n~th-century literature '
~
~
When Gregor Samsa awoke one mom. fr
self transformed in his bed int
i~g om troubled dreams, he found h'1
o a monstrous insect H
l •
was h ard, as if plated in armor and wh h t·
• e was ymg on his back whi
belly: rounded, brown, and di~ided inti\; ift~ddhis head slightly he could.see h
ket, about to slip off altogether st1·11 b s 11 al~c ~ segments; on top of it the blan
. II
.
•
are y c mgmg His
I
•
patheuca y chm when compared to th
f h. bod. many egs, which seemed
his eyes.
e reSt O ts
Y, flickered helplessly befo
"Whats
' happened to me?" he thou ht I
re
though somewhat small human bedroo g 1• t ~as no dream. His room, a normal
Abov~ the table on which his unpack:;;•fat:it1etly within its four familiar walls.
travelmg salesman-hung the piccur h h d
samples were spread-Samsa was a
zine and had set in a lovely gilt fra e ~ ~ recently cut out ~fan illustrated magascole, sitting upright, and thrusting ::· t: :h:w.ed a lady _wearmg a fur hat and a fur
whole forearm had disappeared.
viewer a thick fur muff, into which her
Gregor's glance then fell on the window
d h
raindrops drumming on the tin sheetin
a~ t _e over~ast sky-one could hear
foundly sad. "What if I went back t 1 g
t e windowsill-made him feel prohe thought. But that wasn't to be ~sheep or a while and forgot all this nonsense,,
· h'
, ror e was used to sle •
h.
'
m is present state was unable to get into th
. . epmg on is right side and
threw himself to his right, he would immediat a~ posmon. N? matter how hard he
have tried a hundred times shutt'n h·
e y roll onto his back again. He must
1 g is eyes so as not co
·
'
h•
•
stoppmg until he began to feel in his sid
1·
h d l s_ee is wnggling legs, not
5
before.
e a ig t u l pam that he had never felt
if
' eth ought, "what an exhaustin • b I'
"My God"h
day in and day out. There are f:
. g JO ve chosen! Always on the go
.h h
ar more womes on th
d h
'
wit t e constant travel the nu1·s
f
k' e roa t an at the office, what
'
ance o ma mg O
•
wretc
meals eaten at odd h
d h
Y ur tram connections the
• hed
ours, an t e casual
•
'
passing, never to see again never to be
. .
acquamtances you meet only in
felt a slight itch on the s~rface of h' c~~t intimate friends. To hell with it all!" He
closer ~o ~he bedpost so that he coul~ li;t tsS~owJy he shov_ed himself on his back
where it itched. It was covered with
ll h~a more easily. He found the place
started to touch it with one of h. 1 s~a wll 1te spots_ he did not understand. He
sent a cold shiver through him. is egs, ut pu ed back immediately, for the contact
l-ld s rn anyone into an idiot. A man needs his sleep. Other salesmen live like
s
1
ul tu men. for example, when l get back to the hotel in the morning to write
Ille:~les l've made, these gentlemen are sitting down to breakfast. If I tried
th . h my director, I'd be fired on the spot. Actually, that might not be such a
t .~1t If I didn't have to curb my tongue because of my parents, I'd have given
.1 erng ago. I'd have gone up to the director and cold him from the bottom of
~e ~ exactly what I thought. That would have knocked him from his desk! It's
;rway co run things, this si~ttng hi~h at a desk an_d talking down t0 employ,
pecial\y when, since the director 1s hard of heanng, they have to approach
'esr Well there's hope yet; as soon as I've saved enough money to pay back
nea .
,
f·
•
I'll d •
hat my parents owe him- that should take another 1ve or six ye~rs- go o 1t
r sure. Then, I'll cut myself completely free. Right now, though, Id better get up,
tllYHetrain
leaves
five."
looked
at atthe
alarm clock ticking on top of the chest of drawers. "God
tllighcy!" he thought. le was half past six and the hands were quietly moving forward,
was later than half past, it was nearly a quarter co seven. Hadn't the alarm clock gone
off? You could see from the bed that it had been correctly set for four o'clock; of course
t must have gone off. Yes, but could he really have slept peacefully through chat
~r-splitting racket? Well, if he hadn't slept peacefully, he'd slept deeply all the
same, But what was he to do now? The next train left at seven, to make it he would
have to rush like mad, and his samples weren't even packed, and he himself wasn't
feeling particularly spry or alert. And even if he were to make the tram, there would
be no avoiding a scene with the director. The office messenger would've been waiting for the five o'clock tram and would've long since reported his not show~ng up.
The messenger, dim-witted and lacking a will of his own, was a cool of the director.
Well, what 1fhe were to call in sick? But that would look embarrassing and suspicious
since in his five years with the firm Gregor had not been sick once. The director himself was sure to come over with the health insurance doctor, would upbraid his parents for their son's laziness, and would cut short all excuses by deferring to the doctor,
who believed that everyone tn the world was a perfectly healthy layabout. And really,
would he be so wrong in this case? Apart from a drowsiness that was hard to account
for after such a long sleep, Gregor really felt quite well, and in fact was exceptionally
hungry.
As he was thinking al\ this at cop speed, without being able to make up his mind
to get out of bed- the alann dock had just struck a quarter to seven-a cautious tap
sounded on the door behind his head. "Gregor," said a voice-it was his mother"it's a quarter to seven. Don't you have a train to catch?" That gentle voice! Gregor
was shocked when he heard his own voice answering hers; unmistakably his own
voice, true, but mixed in with it, like an undertone, a miserable squeaking that
allowed che words to be clearly heard only for a moment before rising up, reverberating, to drown out their meaning, so that no one could be sure if he had heard them
correctly. Gregor wanted to answer fully and give a complete explanation, but under
the circumstances he merely said, "Yes, yes, thank you, Mother, I'm just getting up."
Through the wooden door between them the change in Gregor's voice was probably
not obvious, for his mother, quietly accepting his words, shuffled away. However, this
brief exchange had made the rest of the family aware that Gregor, surprisingly, was
still in the house, and already at one of the side doors his father was knocking, softly,
yet with his fist. "Gregor, Gregor," he called, "what's the matter?" Before long he
304 Chapter 8 • R,•u,ling Lo11g Stori,•s uncl \on•ls
called once more
. .in a' deeper voice, "Gregor? G regor.7" From t h e othe 'd
• • "Gregor ar '
r s1 e door
the sound ofh
. 1s sisters voice' gentle and plamnve.
~h,ere anyth mg I ~?n get you?" Gregor answered the two ~f t~n t you feeling w
I ·m almost
ready. He tried hard to keep h·15 v01ce
• from sound· em at the same
h
atmg t e words with great care, and by insenin Ion
mg strange by en
father went back to his breakfast but h· .
g h · g pauses between the Words
d
,, B
IS sister w 1spered "Gr
I
•
oor. ut Gregor had no intention of opening th d
' d egor, p ease, open
formed, while traveling, the prudent habit of k e . oor,lalnh_ wads thankful for ha
even at home.
eepmg a
is oors locked at •
What he wanted to do now was to et
• I
and above all to eat his breakfast. Only d~en ~~ui~1~t ~;.nt c~lmly, to gee dre
for he understood tha~ mulling things over in bed w:uld l~aJ ~ut what to do
membered how often m the past he had rclt
II . . him nowhere. He
b I .
.
r,
some sma pam m bed
h
y ymg m an uncomfortable position , wh·1ch as soon as h e had' per aps ca
proven to be purely imaginary, and he looked fi
d
.
gotten up
fancies would gradually fade and disappe
;r~ar ~ se~ng how this momi
hadn't the slightest doubt that it was notl,:.r, s or t e c ange in his voice
cold, an occupational hazard of traveling salmg more than the first sign of a se~
Th
.
ff h b
esmen.
rowmg o t e lanket was easy enou h· h h d
and it slipped right off. But the next pan wa! diff~c
only ~otfuffhimself up a Ii
ally wide. He would have needed arms and le s to I~ t, ~spec1a y ~s he was so un
these numerous little legs that never stopped g
. t h1;self up; t~stead he had on
trot at all. As soon as he tried to bend
movm_g an over which he had no c
1
ifhe finally s~ceeded in making it do a:n~/!t;~:~ \~iuld s~raight~n itself out,
waggle about m a high degree of painful agitation
tt ~or, erhs, as I~ set free, wou
lessly in bed?" Gregor said to himself.
• u w at st e pomt of lying use
f
:,i
He thought that he might start by easin the low
•
first, but this lower part, which incidentall g h h d ~r pan of his body out of bed
couldn't form a clear picture, turned out toy e a n_t _yet seen and of which he
slowly. When finally, almost in a fren h
b~ very d1ff1cult to budge-it went so
desperately, he miscalculated his dir:~;io~ ~a~d e~ed hisdstrength and_pushed forward
the foot of the bed and the searin
. h ~
umpe sharply agamst the post at
it was exactly this iower part ofhisg~m he elt told tim that, for right now at least,
So he tried getting the top part ~i:~::s per aps the most tender.
head towards the side of the bed Th·
d y out first, and cautiously turned his
breadth and weight the bulk of his ~r:~:wt?,fnough, and e~entually, despite its
when he finally got his head out over t~ ed y
owed the turning of his head. But
farther, for if he were to let himself fall ~omgeh~ the _b~d he felt t~ afraid to go any
vent him from hurting his head A d .
t is_ pos1t1on only a miracle would prenot lose consciousness· he would benbe1t wasffprec'.sel~ now, at all costs, that he must
B
'
.
tter o staying m bed.
ut when after repeating his efforts he la • h '
• .
once more watched h ' 1· 1 I
Y, Sig mg, m his former position and
is itt e egs struggling w· h
h
'
ever, if that were possible, and saw no wa of _it . one anot er more_ furiously than
le~s confusion, he again told himself that it w br'.ngmg ~aim and or_der mto this mindwisest course would be to stake ev
h'
as impossible to stay m bed and that the
away from the bed. At the same timee::etd;;~,r°fin the hope,. how~ver slight, of getting
of calm reflection was much better th fr _orget to r~mmd hi~self that the calmest
his eyes fixed as firmly as possi'bl
ahn ~nttc resolutions. Dunng this time he kept
.
e on t e wmdow but fi
I h
•
which shrouded even the other side f h
'
un ortunate y t e mommg fog,
o t e narrow street, gave him little comfort and
oi
1
"Already seven o'clock," he said to himself when the alarm clock chimed
. r. "already seven and sttll such a thick fog." And for some nme he lay still,
1tlung quietly, as if in the hope that utter stillness would bring all things back to
they really and normally were.
But then he said to himself: "I must make sure that I'm out of bed before it Strikes
arter past seven. Anyway, by then someone from work will have come to check
qurne, since the office opens before seven." And he immediately set the whole
h of his body rocking with a rhythmic motion in order to swing out of bed. If he
robled out this way he could prevent his head from being inJured by keeping it
ted upward as he fell. His back seemed to be hard; the fall onto the carpet would
bably not hurt it. His greatest worry was the thought of the loud crash he was
und co make; 1t would probably cause anxiety, if not outright fear, on the other
e of the doors. Yet he had to cake the chance.
When Gregor was already half out of bed-his new technique made it more of a
me than a struggle, since all he had to do was to edge himself across by rocking
ck and forth- it struck him how simple tt would be 1fhe could get someone to help
,m. Two strong people-he thought of his father and the maid - would be more
an enough. All they would have to do would be to slip their arms under his curved
back, lift him out of bed, bend down with their burden, and then wait patiently while
he flipped himself right side up onto the floor, where, one might hope, his little legs
would acquire some purpose. Well then, aside from the fact that the doors were
locked, wouldn't it be a good idea to call for help? In spite of his misery, he could not
help smiling at the thought.
He had reached the point where, if he rocked any harder, he was in danger of las- 15
ing his balance, and very soon he would have to commit himself, because in five minutes it would be a quarter past seven-when the doorbell rang. "It's someone from the
office," he said to himself, and almost froze, while his little legs danced even faster. For
a moment everything remained quiet. "They won't open the door," Gregor said to
himself, clutching at an absurd sort of hope. But then, of course, the maid, as usual,
went with her firm tread to the door and opened it. Gregor had only to hear the visitor's first word of greeting to know at once who it was-the office manager himself.
Why was Gregor condemned to work for a firm where the mo.st insignificant failure to
appear instantly provoked the deepest suspicion? Were the employees, one and all,
nothing but scoundrels? Wasn't there among them one man who was true and loyal,
who if, one morning, he were to waste an hour or so of the firm's time, would become
so conscience-stncken as to be driven out of his mind and actually rendered incapable
ofleaving his bed? Wouldn't it have been enough to send an office boy to ask-that is,
if such prying were necessary at all? Did the office manager have to come in person,
and thus demonstrate to an entire family of innocent people that he was the only one
wise enough to properly investigate this suspicious affair? And it was more from the
anxiety caused by these thoughts than by any act of will that Gregor swung himself
out of bed with all his might. There was a loud thump, but not really a crash. The carpet broke his fall somewhat, and his back too was more elastic than he had thought, so
there was only a muffled thud that was relatively unobtrusive. However, he had not
lifted his head carefully enough and had banged 1t; he twisted it and rubbed it against
the carpet in frustration and pain.
•
"Something fell down in there," said the office manager in the room on the left.
Gregor tried to imagine whether something like what had happened to him today
might one day happen to the office manager; really, one had to admit that it was
Fruuz Kafkn :107
306 Chup1,·r ll • llt·udi11g Lung Srorws and \on-ls
possible. But as if in a blunt reply to this question the office manager took
determined steps m the next room and his patent leather boots creaked. F
room on the right his sister was whispering to let him know what was r_
"Gregor, the office manager is here." "I know," said Gregor to himself, butgh
dare speak loudly enough for his sister to hear him.
e
"Gregor," his father now said from the room on the left, "the office m
here and he wants to know why you weren't on the early train. We don't kn
to cell him. Besides, he wants to speak to you in person. So please open the:
sure he'll be kind enough to excuse any untidiness m your room." "Good mo r
Mr. Samsa," the manager was calling out amiably. "He isn't feeling well" s rnd
.
' a,
mother tot he manager, while his father was still speaking at the door. "He's not
sir, believe me. Why else would Gregor miss his train? The boy thinks of nothin
his work. It nearly drives me to distraction the way he never goes out in the eve~
he's been here the last eight days, and every single evening he's stayed at home.
just sits here at the table with us quietly reading the newspapers or looking over
schedules. The only enjoyment he gees is when he's working away with his fretsa
For exa~ple, he spent two _or_ th~~e even~ngs_cut~ing out a lit~le picture frame, y
be surprised at how pretty it ts, 1t s hanging m his room, you II see it in a minute
soon as Gregor opens the door. By che way, I'm glad you've come, sir, we woul
never have gotten him to unlock the door by ourselves, he's so stubborn; and I'm
he's sick, even though he wouldn't admit it this morning." "I'm coming right n
said Gregor, slowly and carefully and not moving an inch for fear of missing as'
word of the conversation. "I can't imagine any other explanation, madam," said
office manager, "I hope it's nothing serious. But on the other hand businessmen
as ourselves--fortunately or unfortunately-very often have to ignore any minor
disposition, smce the demands of business come first." "So, can the office mana
come in now?" asked Gregor's father impatiently, once more knocking on the d
"No," said Gregor. In the room on the left there was an embarrassed silence; in t
room on the right his sister began co sob.
But why didn't his sister go and join the others? Probably because she had just
gotten out of bed and hadn't even begun to dress yet. Then why was she crying,
Because he was in danger of losing his job, and because the director would start once
again dunning his parents for the money they owed him? Yet surely these were matte11
one didn't need to worry about just now. Gregor was still here, and hadn't the slight
est intention of deserting the family. True, at the moment he was lying on the carpet,
and no one aware of his condition could seriously expect him to let the office man•
ager in. But this minor discourtesy, for which in good time an appropriate excuse
could easily be found, was unlikely to result in Gregor's being fired on the spot. And
it seemed to Gregor far more sensible for them now to leave him in peace than to
bother him with their tears and entreaties. But the uncertainty that preyed upon
them excused their behavior.
"Mr. Samsa," the office manager now called in a louder voice, "what's the matter
with you? You've barricaded yourself in your room, giving only yes or no answers,
causing your parents a great deal of needless grief and neglecting-I mention this
only in passing-neglecting your business responsibilities to an unbelievable degree.
I am speaking now in the name of your parents and of your director, and I beg you in
fretsaw: saw with a long, narrow, fine-toothed blade, for cutting thin wooden boards or metal plates
into patterns.
.
a com lete explanation at once. I'm amazed at you, simply
.eriousness to g,ve me Im ~nd reliable person, and now al\ at once you s~em
d 1 took you for a ca
I f
rself Earlier this morning the d1rec~\ned co make a ridicul~us sp~c~:c:~ f~~~our disappearance-I'm referring to
did suggest to me a posstb e
:mrusted to you-but I practically swor~ on md_Y
rns of cash that were re~e
b However, now when I see how mere I•
:n word of honor tat ~h,s c~~~:tt~e\lightest desire to defend you. And ~o~r
tubbom you are, no onge
I came intending co tell you all this m
~:rv
:::~i~: ~:.;; :
:f:;::1~
i:ion
;i:;f:;fyS::~~~~g my umeklh:~~~t;:;~Yt~oi:
vate,
\\ F some ume now your wor
b
ldn't hear it as we • ~:t this is not the prime season for doing business; ~t
e are aware, of course, t
\\- that, Mr. Samsa, does not and must n~t ex1~t.
n for doing no busmess at
tedly forgetting everything else in hts exc'.te• 20
"But sir," Gregor called our, istra~ door' n ht now. A slight md1sposiuon, a dizzy
nt, urm on the verge of openi~g th I'm sJ\ in bed. But I'm feeling better already.
\l has prevented me from gett'.ng ur- .
moment lt seems I'm not quite as well
'
Pl ase be pattent ,or 1ust a
•
dd I ,
etttng up now. e '
.
h
like this can come on so su en y.
It'll ~hought. But really 1~ all nght. Som~~~:gcan tell you, or actually I did have a
last night l was feeling fme, as my pa
.
f . Oh why didn't l report it to
ly
I
t have shown some sign o it.
'
h
ight premoniuon. mus h ' ks ne can et better without having to stay at ome.
e office! But one always t m o
' Ng e of what you've just accused me of has
on my parents. on
h
h
't
lease, sir, h ave mercy
ken a word to me about It. Per aps you ave~
y basis in fact; no on~ has eve_n s~
I can sttll make the eight o'clock cram.
n the latest orders Iv~ se~ltbem. h ny"!'ay, at the office very soon. Please be kind
k ep you sir I I
s owing up
"
Don't Iet me e
' 'd
ve m best wishes to the director.
.
enough to infonn them, an co~ yll yh ut hardly knowing what he was saying,
And while hurriedly blurting a t is o ·1'
h perhaps because of the pracGregor had reached the chest of drawers eas1 y ~~~~: t~ use ,t to lift himself upright.
,,ce he had already gotten in bed,:n~;,:s :~t:al\y intended to show himself, and to
For he actually wanted to open t e
'
h t the others who now wanted to
talk with the manager; he was eat::~ ~~:t~~:. 1~ they recoil~d in horror then h~
see him so much, would say ~bt ·tt·
gd
Id remain peaceably where he was. But if
would take no further respons1 I ,ty anh cdou
to be upset and if he hurried,
'd then he too a no reason
•
'
h
I
they took it aII m sm e .
. ht The first few times, he slipped down t e po could even get to the statton by e1g • . h
I t heave he stood upright. He no
ished surface of the chest, but finally ':It . onh~ absdomen no matter how they hurt.
.
the burning pains m is a
'
I
•
longer paid attenuon to
h b k t of a nearby chair, he c ung to ,ts
Then, allowing himself to fall against t e ac res_ ontrol of himself- he fell silent,
. 11cc
. \e Iegs. N ow he was once more
'
edges with h 1s
. mc
and was able to hear what the manager ;,as~ay1;~~e manager was asking his parents.
"Did you understand a single wo~d. \,,~,~ I God" cried his mother, already in
"He's not trying to make fools of us, is he.
~ h.' Grete' Gretel" she shouted
. I ·11 and we're tormenting ,m.
•
•
h
tears, "maybe he's serious y I
h
h .d They were calling to each ot er
then. "Mocher?" called his sister from t the otd er s1 et. once Gregor is sick. Go get the
• was the voice o f an am•
across Gregor' s room. "You must go to e octor
k' a 7., "That
doctor now. Did you hea~ how Greg~ was sp: :~!.ibty restrained compared to his
ma\," said the manager m a tone ~.. a~. w~s tho shouted through the hall to the
mother's shrillness. "Anna! Anna. kis ~ her d h rry'" And the two girls, their
' h ands, "ge_t a dtoe sm1t
u •could his sister have gotten
kitchen, clapping h ,s
h hanl\-how
skirts rustling, were already running own t e a
!
d·
Franz Kafkn 309
308 <.hup1<•1· 8 ■ lfoudinl( Long Stori<'S 1111d '\owls
dressed so quickly?-and were pulling the front door open. There was no sound
being shut; evidently they had left it standing open, as is the custom in h of
stricken by some great sorrow.
But Gregor now felt much calmer. Though the words he spoke were apparen
no longer understandable, they seemed clear enough to him, even clearer tha
fore, perhaps because ~is hearing had gro~n accustomed t_o their sound. In any:
people were now convinced that something was wrong with him, and were read
help him. The confidence and assurance with which these first measures had y
taken comforted him. He felt himself being drawn back into the human circle
hoped for marvelous and astonishing results from both doctor and locksmith, with
really drawing a distinction between them. To ready his voice for the crucial disc
sion that was now almost upon him, to make it sound as clear as possible, he coug
slightly, as quietly as he could, since for all he knew it might sound different fr
human coughing. Meanwhile in the next room there was utter silence. Perhaps h
parents and the manager were sitting at the table, whispering; perhaps they were a
of them, leaning against the door, listening.
'
Gregor slowly advanced on the door, pushing the chair in front of him. Then
let go of it, grabbed onto the door for support-the pads at the end of his little le
were somewhat sticky-and, leaning against it, rested for a moment after his efforts
Then he started to tum the key in the lock with his mouth. Unfortunately, he didn't
really have any teeth-how was he going to grip the key?-but to make up for that
he clearly had very powerful jaws; with their help he was in fact able to start turning
the key, paying no attention to the fact that he was surely hurting them somehow, for
a brown liquid poured out of his mouth, flowed over the key, and dripped onto the
floor. "Listen," said the manager on the other side of the door, "he's turning the key."
This was a great encouragement to Gregor, but they should all have been cheering
him on, his mother and his father too. "Come on, Gregor," they should have been
shouting, "keep at it, hold on to that key!" And, imagining that they were all intently
following his efforts, he grimly clamped his jaws on the key with all his might.~ the
key continued to tum he danced around the lock, holding himself by his mouth
alone, either hanging onto the key or pressing down on it with the full weight of his
body, as the situation required. The sharper sound of the lock as it finally snapped
free woke Gregor up completely. With a sigh of relief he said to himself, "So I didn't
need the locksmith after all," and he pressed his head down on the handle to open
one wing of the double door.
Because he had to pull the wing in towards him, even when it stood wide open
he remained hidden from view. He had to edge slowly around this wing and to do it
very carefully or he would fall flat on his back as he made his entrance. He was still
busy carrying out this maneuver, with no time to notice anything else, when he
heard the manager give a loud "Oh!"-it sounded like a gust of wind-and now he
could see him, standing closest to the door, his hand over his open mouth, slowly
backing away as if propelled by the relentless pressure of some invisible force. His
mother-in spite of the manager's presence, she was standing there with her hair still
unpinned and sticking out in all directions-first folded her hands and looked at
Gregor's father, then took two steps forward and sank to the floor, her skirts billowing
out all around her and her face completely buried in her breast. His father, glowering,
clenched his fist, as ifhe intended to drive Gregor back into his room; then he looked
around the living room with uncenainty, covered his eyes with his hands, and wept
so hard his great chest shook.
nter the living room, but leaned against the
Now Gregforhma;e ~~ ~=~~t~h:t only half of his body was visible, l~~h;~
ked wing o t e ou
.d • eerin at the others. Meanwhile the day ig t a
d above it cocked to one s~ e, p
g could clearly see a section of the endless,
~..... much brighter; acr~ss t ~ street onheospital-with a row of uniform windows
o.-•·gray b u1·td·i_ng oppos1te-1t
• ·bly sep•
.J,.rk
.
d Thwas . a was still falling, but only in large, v1s1
IP l
ctuatmg its faca e.
e ram
. fl
b
e onto the earth.
,tar~
that looked as th~ugh they were b:1~ la~7st ;~if~i;, for breakfast was
~t the t~ble the breakff:f~~;~:;:;~::;;,s father, who lingered over it for hr~
dte most unportant mea
H ·n on the opposite wall was a photograp o
while reading ~arious ~ewsp:e;~
a~ a lieutenant, with his hand on his sword
~f:;
:!
~dg~~s:~:;~: ::re ;d:~:n!inrr:~:PJ~~/o;a~i:;e;r::, ::: ~:u;~n:e}!: fa~Ji~~
stood open, an as t e
rh,e ha11
f h
•
• down
beyond and the top o t e s~a1rs gom~ ctly ~ware that he was the only one who had
"Well," said Gregor, w o wasp~ e d
d pack up my samples, and be on my
ke t his composure, "I'll go now an g;t re~s~;u can see sir that I'm not stubborn
p "ou will, you will let me go, wont you.
l
'.s h'ard but l couldn't live
way. 1
h l'f f
veling sa esman 1
,
__ ,i I'm willing to work; t e I e ~ 1aTtra h
ff'ce7 You are I Will you give an honest
.inu
•
• th e
without it. Where are you going' sir.
b o t e o ·11 unable
to•work, but t h at,s Just
.
7
A
man
may
e
temporan
y
.
•
d h
•eport about a11 t h is.
h
d d . the past and to bear m mm t at
•time co remember t h e serv1c
• e he as ren ere m lved he, is sure to work wit
• h even
later on, when the present problem has;;en r~:ow v~ry well lam deeply obligated
more energy and diligence than be[~re.
yo\le for my paren,ts and my sister. I'm in
to the director. At the same ~ime, m re~~:m~s 't make things more difficult for me
a tight spot right now, but l \\ g~t au: ~t ~~e o~ce! People don't like traveling sales•
than they already are. Stand up or ;
d f oney and lead lives of luxury. And
men, l know. The~ think they m;h:::a :e:i: this prejudice. But you, m, _hav~ a
there's no compelling reason forh
h
f the staff a better understanding, if 1
.
f h'
t an t e rest o
,
·1
better understand mg o t mg5
h'
lf h s·nce
he is the owner, can be eas1 y
1
may say so, t h an even the director 1mse
k , w o,
ry well that a traveling salesman, who
swayed against an employee. You
now ve so easily fall victim to gossip and bad
is away from the office for most o t e year, c~~ h h ·s powerless to defend himself
luck and groundless accusations, agains\ w ic . e home exhausted from his jour·
since he knows nothing about them untt ' retum;~~at can no longer be traced back
neys he suffers personally from evil consequrce .. g me some word to show that
to their origins. Sir, please don't go away wit out g1vm
l ' ht1" a at Gregor's first words, and was lookm,g
'
you think that I'm at least part y ng
But the office manag~r h~d tume aw yhis mouth agape. And during Gregor s
at him now over one tw1tchmg shoulder,
b t without once taking his eyes off
speech he didn't stand still for even a moment, l u l as if there were some secret
him kept edging towards the door, yetHvery s olw yd,y ·1n the hall and from the sud. h'1s leavmg
• the room• e was afrea
.
h ave
iniunction agamst
h 1· · room' one might
'
h h
k h' last step out o t e ivmg
'
h'
denness with whic e too is
c
B
·n the hall he stretched out is
h
1 f his ioot ut once i
'
I
d
thought he had bume t_ e s? e oh d'
. • f the staircase, as if some supematura
right hand as far as possible m t e irecuon o
rescuer awaited ~im there.
t let the manager leave in this frame of mind, or
Gregor realized that he could no
.
d His parents were incapable of
.
. h h c.
ld be in extreme 1eopar y.
r
his position wit t e nnn wou
h h d
to believe that Gregor was set ior
clearly grasping this; over the years t ey a come
t~o
d
:no ChnJHt'r 8 • H1·udi11t! l.011)1 ',rorics urul '\ovi•I~
Fran7. Kufka :111
life with this firm, and besides they were now so
.
problems that they had lost the ability to foresee preoccuBp1edGwith their im
Th
b
events. ut regor h d
e manager must e overtaken, calmed, swayed and finall
.
a this
Gregor and of his family depended on it' If only h•. .
y cohnvinced; the fu
t' . h h d I d
•
IS sister were ere--sh
ive, s e a a rea y begun to cry while Gregor was still I .
e was
And surely the manager, that ladies' man would'v I'
ed ym~ calmly on his
the door behind them and in the hall talked him/ t IS}~~ fr~\ er; she Would've
there, and he would have to handle this himself ~ ~ fl is I~ t. But his Sister
:~:;dhis ~;;-;ers of movement were, and forgetti~g: w~~f:~:~~~~:\he _had no
pos.s1 Y, even probably, be misunderstood h I
f
gain hts
t~-chrough the opening, and started towards th~ m:n:~;r° oh~ door, Push
~n mg, clinging in a ridiculous manner to the banister ~~hoboyhn~ was on
n:~e~~:~~~~;;:; ~~~u::;t~h~mmediately fell down with a l;ttle c~ds~to
a s~nse of_ physical well-being. His Ii~~~:! ~ea~e~l~~r the f~st t~me that mo
noticed with joy, they were at his command and
groun un er them, and,
;:t:rlehr _dir~tion he mihght desire; and he ;lreadywf:~; ::nt~:;:~:ofi:rryl hi111
is misery was at and. But at that ve
a reco
ing with suppressed motion not far from h· ry mhomendt, _as he lay on the floor r
• h
h ad seemed so completely •overwhelmed I1s mot erh an Just oppos1te
er, she,
widke, spread her fingers, and cried, "Help! •F~:b~~s s;k}e~t,l s~.~~~hedh her arms
nee forward as if to see Gregor better but
h
'. e P:
et en craned
away from him. Forgetting that the table w~~\~ ~a~~ ~me, mc~~~stently, bac
down on it, and, as if in a daze when she bum
. ts . is es was e md her, she
the large coffee pot next to her had t' d ped l~to it, seemed utterly unaware t
onto the carpet.
ippe over an was pouring out a flood of coffi
"Mother, Mother," said Gregor gem! look·
had completely forgotten the office ma y, . m~ up at her. For the moment he
snapping his jaws a few times at the st~~e:f oh t e oth~r hand, he co~ldn't resist
mother scream again; she ran from h g
t e. stream mg coffee. Th1S made h1S
father, who came rushing to her B : ; table ~n1 mto_ the outstretched arms of hts
manager had already reached th~ st~ircare!or_ a ~o u_me now for his parents. The
was looking back for the last tim G
se, with his chm on the banister railing, he
catching up with him but th e. regor dartedhforward, to be as sure as possible of
.
,
e manager must ave guessed h· .
.
sprmted down several steps and d·
ed H
is mtentton, for he
sound echoed throughout the stair-::1~:ar • e was still yelling "Oohh!" and the
Unfortunately the manager's escape seemed
.
had seemed reasonably calm lose all
f
to make his father, who until now
man himself, or at least no; interfer:nse? l{~porti?n. lrut~ad of running after the
right hand the manager's cane which ~ ~t d I ~e:~~ pursuit, he grabbed with his
overcoat, on the chair; with h~ left hanJ h: sn;t~h d md, together with his hat and
table. He began stamping his feet and
. th e up a large newspaper from the
drive Gregor back into his room. Nothi:a~ng e ~ane and news?aper in order to
nothing he said was even understood Ng regor said made any difference, indeed,
his father only stamped the louder. lkhi~t~i:t~r ~ow ~umbly he lowe~ed his head
had flung open a window and was leanin fa at _er ~1s mother, despite the cold,
strong breeze from the street blew ac o ~ r outside tt, h~r face in her hands. A
tains billowed inwards the new
r ssflt e room to the stairwell, the window curacross the floor. His fa;her hissi~pgal~rs uttered on t~e table, stray pages skittered
'
ea savage, mercilessly drove him back. But as
r had had no practice in walking backwards, it was a very slow process. If he
been given a chance to tum around then he would've gotten back into his room
e but he was afraid that the length of time it would take him to tum around
~asperate his father and that at any moment the cane in his father's hand
ht deal him a fatal blo~ on his back or ~is head: In the end, though, he ~ad no
·ce, for he noticed to his horror that while movmg backwards he couldn t even
1
scraight course. And so, looking back anxiously, he began turning around as
3
. pkly as possible, which in reality was very slowly. Perhaps his father divined his
ic intentions, for he did not interfere, and even helped to direct the maneuver
m afar with the up of his cane. If only he would stop that unbearable hissing! It
e Gregor completely lose his concentration. He had turned himself almost all the
y around when, confused by this hissing, he made a mistake and started turning
k the wrong way. But when at last he'd succeeded in getting his head in front of
doorway, he found that his body was too wide to make it through. Of course his
ther, in the state he was in, couldn't even begin to consider opening the other wing
the door co let Gregor in. His mind was on one thing only: to drive Gregor back
to this room as quickly as possible. He would never have permitted the complited preparanons necessary for Gregor to haul himself upright and in that way peraps slip through. Instead, making even more noise, he urged Gregor forward as if the
y were clear. To Gregor the noise behind him no longer sounded like the voice of
merely one father; this really wasn't a joke, and Gregor squeezed himself into the
doorway, heedless of the consequences. One side of his body lifted up, he was pitched
at an angle in the doorway; the other side was scraped raw, ugly blotches stained the
white door. Soon he was stuck fast and couldn't have moved any further by himself.
On one side his little legs hung trembling in the air, while those on the ocher were
painfully crushed agamst t~e floor-when, from behind, his father gave him a hard
blow that was truly a deliverance, and bleeding profusely, he flew far into his room.
Behind him the door was slammed shut with the cane, and then at last everything
was still.
'j'J
II
It was already dusk when Gregor awoke from a deep, almost comatose sleep.
Surely, even 1fhe hadn't been disturbed he would've soon awakened by himself, since
he'd rested and slept long enough; yet it seemed ro him that he'd been awakened by
the sound of hurried steps and the furtive closing of the hallway door. The light from
the electric streetlamps cast pale streaks here and there on the ceiling and the upper
pare of the furniture, but down below, where Gregor was, it was dark. Groping awkwardly with the feelers which he was only now beginning to appreciate, he slowly
pushed himself over to the door to see what had been going on there. His left side felt
as if it were one long, painfully tightening scar, and he was actually limping on his
two rows of legs. One lmle leg, moreover, had been badly hurt during the morning's
events-it was nearly miraculous that only one had been hurt-and it trailed along
lifelessly.
Only when he reached the door did he realize what had impelled him forwardthe smell of something to eat. For there stood a bowl full of fresh milk, in which
floated small slices of white bread. He could almost have laughed for joy, since he was
even hungrier now than he'd been during the morning, and he immediately dipped
his head into the milk, almost up to his eyes. Bur he soon drew it back in disappointment; not only did he find it difficult to eat because of the soreness in his left
Franz Kuflrn
;ua
312 Cl1a1ltcr 8 • n~u<ling Long Storie~ 1111 d '\owls
side-and he was capable of eatin O
•
also because he didn't like th
~k nly if his whole gasping body co
drink, which, no doubt was w~ m1, ~t all, although it had once be:e~tedfrom the bowl almost i~ disgust yahdis sisterledhad brought it in. In fact he this favori
. .
, n craw back
h
.d
'
urned
n t e ivmg room as G
I
to t e m1 die of the
aw
1· I h h l
,
regor cou d se h
h
room
gas t~ t ad been lit. But while this was h e t roug th~ crack in the d.
reading the afternoon paper in a l d . t e hour when hrs. father would oor, t
as well, now there wasn't a sou dou voice to his mother and sometimes usually~
aloud, which his sister was alwa~s t:~,: h~ard. Well, perhaps this custoi:~tis sis.ter
recently been discontinued Still t
g him about or mentioning in her le read1111
scarcely deserted. "What a.q . •,.~ouhgh the apartment was completely ·1 tters, had
If d
U1et ue t e fa ·1 , b
s1 ent •
se ' an ' staring fixedly into the d k
hm1 y s een leading," said Greg ' It~
to provide his parents and h. . ar n~, e felt a genuine pride at hav· o~to him.
what if all this calm pros .1s sister with such a life in such a nice mg en able
• .
•
penty and cont
apartmen B
give m to such thoughts G
'
h entment were to end in horror 7 S
t. ut
the room.
' regor set imself in motion, and h e craw1ed •upoand
as not
d to
Once during the long evenm fi
own
opened a crack and then ui kl g rst one of the side doors and then th
but then had thought bett:,
tut. Someone, it seemed, h,d wanted ';:the, wa,
;f}
the he.sirant visitot to come in ~' '"i"''' now ,mioned himself"' " '° som,tome m
t•\
n~t open ,g,in ,nd he waited i~ ::~t;.::nd out ".'ho it m;ght
But m::
be.
g<t
oc e ' everyone had wanted to co
. • at morning when the doors had oor
doors ~imself-and the others had e~~e1~l b~t nowalfter he'd unlocked one }:~n
came m, and the keys, too, were now on h y ee~ un ocked during the day-nobode
It was late at night bef,ore th e 1·1ght twas
e outside. ,
y
easy f,or Gregor to cell that his pa
d put out m the living room a d •
could plainly hear the three of t~=~t::~h sist.er had stayed up all the while~si~~tt
one would be visiting Gregor before m .ey tiptoed away. As it was obvious that e
template, undisturbed, how best to ommg, he had plenty of time in which to no
room ·
h· h h
rearrange his 1·£, B h
concould~~t; ic
was f~rced to lie flat on the floo/ fi~i /~. t e ?pen, high-ceilinged
Al ccount ior-smce it was, after all th
he im .wath a dread which he
~
•~t:°i:
fun7,.:,,~•~/:;;:1.;;, t :::.::
~::~e :.::~ ~;:k!~:~
witho'ut :
6v,
~"~" he,d, he immedra,et felt v:~ :"c~•gh~y cramped ,nd he could no Jon;;
as Thy wahs too wide to fit completely un~r t~: om~ and his only regret was that
ere e spent the rest of the ni h
• couc •
kept awakenin h.
•h
g c, now ma doze from h' h h
,II of whkh, h~w::;::.i :::~•:~: p,eorpied with wotti;, :~d .~::':,:
rem~m calm and, by being patient and ~~:c _us1on: that for the time being he mus;
famatbt3rhthe burdens that his present con~:~~:~erJ clonsidderation, try to help his
r y t e next morning-the ni ht w
a p ace upon them.
to test the strength of his newly-mad! reso~ ~arely over--Gregor got an opponunit
t~":/
fuli dt'i:"d, opened the h,llw•y doo,- ,nd
_because hi, sistet, who w,s ,!mos:
~t rst, ut when she spotted him undemea~ eh m expectantly. She didn't see him
e somewhere, he couldn't just fl awa
t e couch-well, my God he had to
copnentrodl ~nd sl~mmed the door shJt agai~-~:: awsa~fsoh s~rplrised that she !~st her self• as •if shi s e ,e •t sorry f,or h er be h avior, she
wh e 1t agam
. r·agh t away and tiptoed in,
O
ed;! :fd.~~~~c~h:n;~:ss::t~t~~gG~;;o~haf
i~ohe::th~;~::J~~~:~;f;'
ou s e nottce that he'd let the milk
0
the
0
:~~~
. there, and not from lack of hunger, and would she bring him some other food that
:., mote ,o his caste? If ,he wa.sn'< gomg to do it on het own, h,'d soonet ,t,cve than
II her attention to it, although in fact he was feeling a tremendous urge to dash out
uncle< ,he :ooch, fling himself"· h" ,Stet's feet, and beg het fot something good
.,,. Buth" ststet ,mmed.ately not>ced to het ,stomshmen, iliat the bowl w,; still
~II,
0 with only, little milk spilt ,rnund it. She picked up the bowl ,t once-not, it's
i:,..
uu•• with het l"'e hands but using, tag-,nd carried it om. Gcegot was exttemely
curious to ftnd out what she would bring in its place, and he speculated at leng\h as to
what it might be. But he never would have guessed what his sister, in the goodness of
her heart, actually did. She brought him a wide range of choices, all spread out on an
old newspaper. There were old, half-rotten vegetables; bones left over from dinner,
covered with a congealed white sauce; some raisins and almonds; a piece of cheese
which Gregor two days ago had declared inedible; a slice of plain bread, a slice of
bread and butter, and a slice with butter and salt. In addition to all this she replaced
the bowl. now evidently reserved for Gregor, filled this time with water. And out of a
sense of delicacy, since she knew that Gregor wouldn't eat in front of her, she left in
a hufTY, even turning the key tn the lock in order that Gregor might know that he
was free to make himself as comfortable as possible. Gregor's legs whirred as they propelled him toward the food. Besides, his wounds must have healed completely, for he
no longer felt handicapped, which amazed him. He thought of how, a month ago,
he'd cut his ftnger slightly with his knife and how only the day before yesterday that
little wound had still hurt. "Am I less sensitive now?'' he wondered, greedily sucking
on the cheese, to which, above all the other dishes, he was immediately and strongly
attracted. Tears of joy welled up in his eyes as he devoured the cheese, the vegetables, and the sauce. The fresh foods, on the other hand, were not to his \iking; in fact,
he couldn't stand to smell them and he actually dragged the food he wanted to eat a
little way off. He'd long since finished eating, and was merely lying lazily in the same
spot, when his sister began to slowly turn the key m the lock as a signal for him to
withdraw. He got up at once, although he'd almost fallen asleep, and scurried back
under the couch. But it cook a great deal of self-control for him to remain under the
couch even for the brief time his sister was in the room, for his heavy meal had
swollen his body to some extent and he could scarcely breathe in that confined space.
Between little ftts of suffocation he stared with slightly bulging eyes as his unsuspect·
ing sister took a broom and swept away not only the scraps of what he'd eaten, but
also the food that he'd left untouched-as if these too were no longer any good-and
hurriedly dumped everything into a bucket, which she cov~red with a wooden lid
and carried away. She'd hardly turned her back before Gregor came out from under
the couch to stretch and puff himself out.
So this was how Gregor was fed each day, once in the morning when his parents
and the maid were sci\\ asleep, and again after the family's midday meal, while his
parents took another brief nap and his sister could send the maid away on some
errand or other. His parents didn't want Gregor to starve any more than his sister did,
but perhaps for chem to be directly involved in his feeding was more than they could
bear, or perhaps his sister wanted to shield them even from what might prove to be
no more than a minor discomfort, for they were surely suffering enough as it was.
Gregor was unable to discover what excuses had served to get rid of the doctor 40
and the locksmith chat ftrst morning. Since the others couldn't understand what he
said it never occurred to them, not even to his sister, that he could understand them,
so when his sister was in the room, he had to be satisfied with occasionally hearing
hunz Kufku :n 5
:114 Chuptc•r 8 • U,•,11l111i; Long Swri,•, uud \owl~
her
•
. sighs
. and her appeals t o t he sames
On! 1
s1tuauon--0f
course she cou Id never b•
Y ater, after she began t
.
~mettmes hear a remark tha
.
ecome completely used
•o get
He really liked it today," she~d~as intended to be friendly or co;~ tt-w
when the opposite was the
ay when Gregor had polished
be so i
say almost sadly, "Once a a~:s~ w~ic~ began to happen moreoff a gOOd
But while Gregor wag • • ble d1dn t touch a thing."
and more o
t a . e, to get any news directly he c Id
St·derable amount from thesnad·
of voices he would imm d· Jommg rooms, and as soon a~ h ou overh
again_st it. 1~ th~ early d:y::::c~~~ to ~he approrriate door a~t;r:! ~~ar
way, d1f only indirectly, refer to him ~ t ere wasn ca conversation th d~ w
cusse what they should do
• or two whole days, at eve
at tdn't
least two members of the fa~~rd they kept on doing so betwe: meal, the fa
wanted to be in the a
y were now always at home
meals as well
Furthermore, on the ~:rt~:~: alone, and it would be unthi~~:~~~ly because
she knew of what h d hry
day the cook-it wasn't
I
to leave it
miss her immedi a appened-had on her knees be comp etely clear how
thanked them fo~theelyr,da_nd ~heln she said her goodbyes agqged Gregfor's mother
f:
1sm1ssa with
.
uaner o an h
avor ever bestowed on her in th
tears m her eyes, as if this had b our lat
sole~ vow never to breathe a w~~o~;:h~nd without having to be as~~ tte gr
now his sister togethe .
ts to anyone.
s e
~hough in fact this wa~n't too ;:•th his mother, had to do all the c
•
mg. Gregor kept hearin th
c~ of a chore, since the famil
ook.mg as
any reply except "No th; kse~ vamly urging one another to y ace ~ract1cally
seem to drink an thin ~ • ve had enough," or some s· • eat, w1thouc recei
bee;• and would ;ladlyg~;;~;r. His sister would often ask ~:tl~:~em;rt. ;h~Y di
shed say, in order co
o go out and get it herself Wh her t ed like
.
remove any h • •
•
en e would '
t he Janitor's wife but
h
esttatton on his pare th
n t res
and that would ~ th at dt at point the father would fin;ll at she could always
It w
h
e en of the matter.
y utter an emphatic "N
as on t e very ti t d h
o
sister f h f: . ,
rS ay t at his fathe
fu
get u~ ~;met~::!bf financial situation and ;;~s;::ts I~ account, to both mother and
salvaged from th
1i8nd take a receipt or notebook .fr very now and then he would
ing the complica:~o 1:ta~~h~ business_five years befir: ~:
~mall safe he'd
been looking for The
t en secunng it again afte
•
e heard open.
encouraging ne~ th a~ount that his father gave or at r taking out whatever he'd
the impression that h~t regor had heard since t,e'in . ea_st pare of it, was the 6rst
at least his father h ; father had failed to save a pen~/~prtso~ed. _He'd always had
never asked him a~ ~ever told him otherwise and G om t e rum of his business;
utmost to make the fa~:r : t that tim_e Gregor'; only
for that matter, had
plunged them all into
y orget as quickly as possible th
. had been to do his
dous zeal and had . a Stacie of total despair. And so h h de business failure that had
'
risen a mo t
.
e a set to
k •h
~alesman, which natural!
s overnight from junior clerk to wor wit trem~nm no time at all h ·
y opened up completely new fin
.
become a cravelmg
1s success w ·
anctal opp
••
ard
cash,
which
Id
b
I
.
as
mscantly
translated
b
ortunmes so that
h
delighted family ~u
e aid out on the table under'thy way of commissions, into
least not with th~ sa;:e fad been wonderful times, and :h:ye~ OJ his astonished and
to pay the entire family';
even tho~gh later on Gregor ~d ~ never r_etumed, at
ten used to it both f: ·1 penses, and m face had been d •
en eammg enough
•
am, y and Gregor; they had gratef II omg so. They'd simply got•
u Y accepted the money, and
~!~~e
c~~~:~
::y,
•t gladly but no special warmth went with it. Gregor had remained
fv:: ~is sister.' and 1t was his secret pl~n that she, who unlike Gregor loved
Id play the violin with deep feeling, should next year attend the Con•
, J:1pite the expense w_hich, ~eat as it was, would have to be met in some
. Gregor's brief stays m the city the subiect of the Conservatory would ofnn! in hi.s conversations with his sister, but always only as a beauttful dream
e ~ meant to come crue. His parents weren't happy to hear even these inno•
:arks, but Gregor's ideas on the subject were fmn and he had intended to
solemn announcement on Christmas Eve.
8 h were the thoughts, so futtle in his present condiuon, that ran through his
he stood there, pressed against the door, listening. Somettmes he would grow
':aughly weary that he couldn't listen any more and would carelessly let his
bump against the door, and though he'd pull it back immediately, even the
noise he'd made would be heard in the next room, causing everyone to fall
t. "What's he up to now r' his father would say after a pause, obviously looking at
~oor, and only then would the interrupted conversation gradually be resumed.
Gregor now learned with considerable thoroughness-for his father tended to i5
at his explanations several times, partly because he hadn't dealt with these matin a long ume, and partly because his mother didn't understand everything the
time through- that despite their catastrophic rum a certain amount of capital, a
1 small amount, it's true, had survived intact from the old days, and thanks co the
terest being untouched had even increased slightly. And what was more, the money
ich Gregor had been bringing home every month-he'd kept only a small sum for
mself-hadn't been completely spent and had grown into a udy sum. Gregor nodded
1gerly behind his door, delighted co hear of chis unexpected foresight and thrift. Of
ourse he might have been able to use chis extra money to pay off more of his
father's debt to the director, and thus have brought nearer the day when he could
quit his current 10b, but, given the present circumstances, things were better the
y
way his father had arranged them.
Now the sum of this money wasn't nearly large enough for the family to live off
rhe interest; the principal might support them for a year, or two at the most, but
that was all. So this was really only a sum that was not to be couched, but saved
instead for emergencies. As for money to live on-that would have to be earned.
Though Gregor's father was indeed still healthy, nevertheless he was an old man who
hadn't worked for five years and one from whom not too much should be expected in
any case. During those five years, the first ones of leisure in his hard-working but
unsuccessful life, he had put on a lot of weight and consequently had grown some•
what sluggish. And as for Gregor's elderly mother, was she supposed to start bringing
in money, burdened as she was by her asthma which made it a strain for her to even
walk across the apartment and which kept her gasping for breath every other day on
the couch by the open window? Or should his sister go to work instead-she who
though seventeen was sttll a child and one moreover whom it would be cruel to
deprive of the life she'd led up until now, a life of wearing pretty clothes, sleeping
late, helping around the house, enioying a few modest pleasures, and above all playing the violin? At first, whenever their conversation turned to the need to earn
money, Gregor would let go of the door and fling himself down on the cool leather
couch which stood beside it, for he felt hot with grief and shame.
Often he would lie there all night long, not sleeping a wink, scratching at the
leather couch for hours. Or, undaunted by the great effort it required, he would push
l'rnnz 11.alku ,\II
:116 Chap1cr 8
lku,ling 1.ong Stories and .'.m·,•ls
the chair over co the window Then he
Id
1
the chair, would lean agains; the pane,:~~ar~~:; i: t~ t~e sill and, propped u
sense of freedom that gazing out a wm
. dow used to gi p1
memory ofp
h • e Fby some
•
a shore distance away were now, each da b
.ve im. ?r •~ truth objects
across the street, which he used to curse ~ eco~mg more indistinct; the h •
low completely outside his field of vision, a~;:; hee
~e it all too clear~
ived on Charlotte Street-a uiet b t
a n t nown for a fact th
imagined that he was looking o~t his :in;evertheless urban street-he could
earth had indistinguishably merged as one~ at~ wastela~d where gray sky and a
twice that the armchair had been moved. to1:~ ser_v~nr sister needed only to not'
the cl~ane1 the room, she carefully placed the ;h:t;b~; :ro~ th~ndon, whenev
egan eavmg the inner casement open.
y t e wm ow, and ev
~
~~l~
~
If only Gregor had been bl
k
she'd had to do for him, he co:lde~~v:i:m:o;is ~-is:r and thank her for everych·
they were painful to him. Of course his sister tr~:d ~n ~esses more easily, but as i t :
rassment, and naturally as time passed she gr b er ~t to ease the general embar
over time, gained a clearer sense of wh
ew . etter an better at it. But Gregor 000:
entered the room was a torture to h ' ~t was involved. Even the way in which sh
pausing to shut the door despite th~;~re ohsooner had she stepped in when-not eve~
sight of Gregor's room_:_she wo Id
s e_ nhormally would take in sparing others th
.h.
u run stra1g t over co ch • d
d
e
wit impatient fingers almost as if sh
a
e wm ow an tear it open
t'
b h
'
e were suuocating and sh
Id
ime y t e window, even in the coldest
h
' . e wou remain for some
would terrify Gregor with all this noise an;ea~_er, breachmg deeply. Twice a day she
couch the entire time, knowing full well th:s mg around. He would cower under the
only she could have stood be· . h
~he surely would have spared him thlS· 1'f
mg m t e room with h •
•h h
. Once, about a month after Gregor's metamo im ':It t e windows closed.
ttcular reason for his sister to be u set b hi
rphos1s-so there was really no parusual and caught Gregor as he ga~ed oJt t~ ap~e~rance-she came in earlier than
wouldn't have surprised Gregor if she'd d -~ ~m ow, terrifying in his stillness. It
prevented her from opening the w· d
~chi e not to come in, since his position
. h
l
m ow ng t away but n t I d'd h
m, s e actua ly jumped back and sh h d
•
o on y I s e not come
Gregor had been planning to ambus~t~e:anC:~~a~tranger might h~ve thought that
under the couch, but he had to wait until noon t~ fi er. Of course he immediately hid
s~e seemed much more nervous than usu 1 I h~ ore she came back, and this time
sight of him disgusted her and like!
I~. In t is way he came to realize chat the
had to steel herself not t; run away\;~~e s~ ~ay~ disgust her'. and chat she probably
that stuck out from under the couch. So
g t o even the tmy portion of his body
the bedsheec on his back over co the cou~hon~t~~~kt~_spare her even this, he carried
that he was completely covered a d h. .
im four hours--and spread it so
bent down. If she felt this sheet n ,is sister wouldn't be able to see him even if she
.
b
wasn t necessary then of c
h
ld
smce o viously Gregor wasn't shutting h·
If
ourse s e cou remove it,
himself. But she left the sheet al
d1mGse away so completely in order to amuse
f
. d
one, an
regor even tho h h h
o gramu e when he cautiously lifted th h
1· I _ug t_ t at e caught a look
how his sister was taking to this ne
e s eet a Ltt e with his head in order to see
Durin h fi
w arrangement.
.
g t e rst two weeks, his parents couldn't bri
h
him, and he frequently heard chem re
k' h
ng t emselves to come in to see 50
efforts, whereas previously they'd ft mbear mg ow much they appreciated his sister's
h
1
o en en annoyed with he fi b •
somew at use ess. But now both fath
d
h
r or emg, in their eyes
outside Gregor's door while his sistere;l:;ne;ot e~ had fallen into the habit of waitin~
up t e room, and as soon as she emerged
uld have to tell them every detail of the room's condition, what Gregor had
e w\ow he'd behaved this time, and whether he'd perhaps shown a little improveteO, It wasn't long before his mother began to want to visit Gregor, but his father
d t- ter were at first able to dissuade her by rational arguments to which Gregor liswith great care, and with which he thor~ughly areed. But as time went by she
d be restrained by force, and when she cned out Let me go to Gregor, hes my
O
oh~PPY
boy! Don't you understand that I have to go to him !" Gregor began to think
di ·c might be a good idea if his mother did come in after all, not every day, natuUt 1but, say, once a week. She was really a much more capable person than his sister,
tah~'. for all her courage, was still only a child and had perhaps taken on such a diffi-
J
;ult task only out of a chil~ish impulsiveness.
.
• ,
Gregor's wish to see his mother was soon fulfilled. During the day Gregor d1dn t
nt to show himself at the window, if only out of consideration for his parents. But
:~ few square meters of floor gave him little room to crawl around in, he found _it
hard to lie still even at night, and eating soon ceased to give him any pleasure. So in
rder co distract himself he fell into the habit of crawling all over the walls and the
~eiling. He especially enjoyed hanging from the ceiling; it was completely different
from lying on the floor. He could breathe more freely, a faint pulsing coursed through
his body, and in his state of almost giddy absentmindedness up there, Gregor would
sometimes, to his surprise, lose his grip and tumble onto the floor. But now, of
course, since he had much better control over his body, even such a great fall didn't
hurt him. His sister noticed right away the new pastime Gregor had discovered for
himself- he'd left sticky craces where he'd been crawling- and so she got it into her
head co provide Gregor with as much room as possible to crawl around in by removing all the furniture that was in the way-especially the chest of drawers and the desk.
But she couldn't manage this by herself; she didn't dare ask her father for help; the
maid wouldn't be of any use, for while this girl, who was around sixteen, was brave
enough to stay on after the cook had left, she'd asked to be allowed to always keep
the kitchen door locked, opening it only when specifically asked to do so. This left
his sister with no choice but, one day when her father was out, to ask her mother for
help. And indeed, her mother followed her with joyful, excited cries, although she
fell silent when they reached the door to Gregor's room. Naturally his sister first
made sure that everything in the room was as it should be; only then did she let her
mother come in. Gregor had hurriedly pulled his sheet even lower and had folded it
more tightly and it really did look as if it had been casually tossed over the couch.
This time Gregor also refrained from peeking out from under the sheet; he denied
himself the pleasure of seeing his mother for now and was simply glad that she'd
come after all. "Come on in, he's nowhere in sight," said his sister, apparently leading
his mother in by the hand. Now Gregor could hear the two delicate women moving
the heavy chest of drawers away from its place, his sister stubbornly insisting on
domg the hardest work, ignoring the warnings of her mother, who was afraid her
daughter would overstrain herself. The work took a very long time. After struggling
for over a quarter of an hour, his mother suggested that they might leave the chest
where it was; in the first place, it was just too heavy, they'd never be done before his
father came home and they'd have to leave it in the middle of the room, blocking
Gregor's movements in every direction; in the second place, it wasn't at all certain
that they were doing Gregor a favor in removing the furniture. lt seemed to her that
the opposite was true, the sight of the bare walls broke her heart; and why shouldn't
Gregor feel the same since he'd been used to this furniture for so long and would feel
;H 8 Chupu·r 8 • Hrudi11g Lo11g Sioru•~ all(I '\owls
abandoned in the empty room? "And wouldn't it look as if," his mother c
very softly m fact, she'd been almost whispering the entire time, as if shew
prevent Gregor, whose exact whereabouts she didn't know, from hearing cha
of her voice (she was convinced that he couldn't understand her words)-•~
removing his furniture we were telling him that we'd given up all hope of his
better, and were callously leaving him to his own devices? 1 think the best
would be to try to keep the room exactly the way it was, so that when Gregor
come back to us he'll find everything the same, making it easier for him to 6
what has happened in the meantime."
When he heard his mother's words, Gregor realized that, over the l)ast
months, the lack of having anyone to converse with, together with the monot
life within the family, must have befuddled his mind; there wasn't any other wa
could explain to himself how he could have ever seriously wanted his room cl
out. Did he really want this warm room of his, so comfortably furnished with fa
heirlooms, transfonned into a lair where he'd be perfectly free to crawl ar
every direction, but only at the cost of simultaneously forgetting his human
swiftly and utterly? Just now he'd been on the brink of forgetting, and only
mother's voice, which he hadn't heard for so long, had brought him back. Noth·
should be removed; everything must stay. He couldn't do without the fumitu
soothing influence on his state of mind, and if the furniture were to impede his se
lessly crawling around, that wouldn't be a loss but rather a great advantage.
But unfortunately his sister thought otherwise. She'd become accustomed,
not without some justification, to assuming the role of the acknowledged e
whenever she and her parents discussed Gregor's affairs; so her mother's advice
enough for her to insist now not merely on her original plan of moving the chest and
the desk, but on the removal of every bit of furniture except for the indispensable
couch. Her resolve, to be sure, didn't stem merely from childish stubbornness or from
the self-confidence she had recently and unexpectedly gained at such great cost. For
in fact she'd noticed that while Gregor needed plenty of room to crawl around in, on
the other hand, as far as she could tell, he never used the furniture at all. Perhaps too,
the sentimental enthusiasm of girls her age, which they indulge themselves in at
every opportunity, now tempted Grete to make Gregor's situation all the more terrifying so that she might be able co do more for him. No one but Grete would ever be
likely to enter a room where Gregor ruled the bare walls all alone.
And so she refused to give in to her mother, who in any case, from the sheer
anxiety caused by being in Gregor's room, seemed unsure of herself. She soon fell
silent and began as best she could to help her daughter remove the chest of drawers.
Well, if he must, then Gregor could do without the chest, but the desk had to stay.
And no sooner had the two women, groaning and squeezing, gotten the chest out of
the room than Gregor poked his head out from under the couch co see how he might
intervene as tactfully as possible. But unfortunately it was his mother who came bade
first, leaving Grete in the next room, gripping the chest with her arms and rocking it
back and forth without, of course, being able co budge it from the spot. His mother
wasn't used to the sight of him-it might make her sick; so Gregor, frightened, scut•
tied backwards to the far end of the couch, but he couldn't prevent the front of the
sheet from stirring slightly. That was enough to catch his mother's attention. She
stopped, stood still for a moment, and then went back to Grete.
Gregor kept telling himself that nothing unusual was happening, that only a few 55
pieces of furniture were being moved around. But he soon had to admit that all this
. \ ttle calls to one another, the scraping ~f
of the two women, their '. . were some gigantic commotion rus g and going the floor, affected him as if it
in his head and legs and presse?
ff\icure a~oss every side, and though he ttke~ he wouldn't be able to stand it
on him o; floor he had to accept the ac1t at
from him everything that
y against c e ere 'cteanmg out his room, ca ing awayt his fretsaw and his other
longer 1;e~:ey'd carried off his chest, ;hrf!~~c was practically embedded
;:~\r:yh:~~emc;~:r:~~;:e~r~;::ysde~one ~is heloemm:~~:kry:~~~-e ~;;:~I~
a r-t e ""
. h h I an even in
h
e 1100 b iness school, in ~,g ~ oo • . h the good intentions of t ese two
nt at us
nme left m which co we1g
f: otten since they were so
longerhhad ::i~tence, for that ma~ter,_lhe'd al~os~nZ~gsound being that of their
en w ose w chat they worked m s1 ence, t e
usted by no
.
·
he desk and
\adding steps.
. h
xc room, leaning against t
.
ry, p
while che women were m t e ne
his direction four cimes--smce
And SO, h che1r breath, he broke out, changing w hanging conspicuously on
ing to catc • know what to rescue first- when he sa d' n furs He quickly crawled
really di_dnbt wall the picture of the lady alhl_dhreshseld•h·m
1 fa.st ' soothing his hot
'
otherw1se are
ssed himself
against the gIass, w .1c . e
t least wasn't
about co be
t ~;:dt~:~ Gregor completeIyd h~v~e:di;~!::/s'~~~r~:ing room door, so that he
Y·
b anyone. He tume ts e
rried awa~ tJe women when they returned.
I ead coming back. Grete had put
ould watch d 't taken much of a rest and were~ r h y "We\\ what should we take
They a n h r mother and was almost carrying er. G e 'or's looking down at
her a~ ~ro~~~cee looking around. And then her ey:s.::\h:re~ sh~ kept her compo·
riex%c,sa1ie wall. Probably only because her moche t her from glancing around, and
her m h head down to her mother to preven I t's go back to che living room
e bent er
.
• . "Come on, e
h'
h
su: ,
h in a hollow' quavenng voice.
. . she wanted to get ,s mot er
said, th~ugce" To Gregor, her intentions where obl\v1Wouse.ll 1·ust let her cry! He dung to
for a mmu •
. d
fr m t e wa •
'
, fa
nd then chase him own o
'd ther fly at Grete s ce.
to safety a d h wasn't going to give it up. He ra
.ous· she stepped aside,
his picture an • e ds had made her mother even more anx~ before she ful\y underBut Gt~ s w~:own blotch on the flowered wallp~p~t' an "Oh God oh God!" in
gl:!ta: ;h~g:he was looking at_ w~s ~regor' s~~~::ly
with outs;rec~hed an~s
sth rse scream of a voice, and, as 1f gwmg u~ co "YouI Gregor!" cried his sister, ratr
:er~: che couch, and lay tere ~~~u:;;::\rst w~rds she had addresseds::::\~
~i;l
~7:
~:gh~: ;i~c:n~i;l:i~;;~rp;:i~~ s~;e~:
:~:~x;0 rrer~h~e~[E:;~~~:. c~:
revive her moche_r rom er wa~ stuck to che glass and had to tear ' to his sister.
picture another ume-but he
·f to give some advice, as he used to,
. us \it,
then scuttled into the next room as I
I while she rummaged among vano .
behind her useless y
I d a bottle fell co the floor, a splm•
Instead' he had tO stand
. e splashed on
I ho \ When sh e tumed around she was start e f ' osive med'icm
~sh~~~
ir o/~i~::c\~~~:~r ~~cte; i:~:~,s;~i:; ~s ;~~:et;hl!c~\:~~~:s
im, an
ran' inside with them to her mot er' a~ ocher who was perhaps near
;h~:d'.t~7m~t~?:~:~1~t~i~~:fE:li~ff;:~:trf~l~£;~!.:.:
a to re
d
. t he began craw mg.
tormented by guile an amoe y,
l-r1111z Kullu
:121
l20 Chuptt•r 8 • H,•11rl111i: L1111g ~1m·1t•s uncl \o\'cl~
walls, furniture, and ceiling, until finally, in despair, the room beginning to
around him, he collapsed onto the middle of the large table.
A short time passed; Gregor lay there stupefied. Everything was quiet around
perhaps that was a good sign. Then the doorbell rang. The maid, of course, s
locked up in her kitchen, so Grete had to answer the door. His father was
"What's happened?" were his first words. Grete's expression must've told him ev
thing. Her answers came in muffled tones--she was obviously burying her face in
father's chest. "Mother fainted, but she's better now. Gregor's broken lOOSe." "I
it," her father said. "I told you this would happen, but you women refuse to listen."
was clear to Gregor that his father had put the worst construction on Grete's all
brief account and had assumed that Gregor was guilty of some violent act.
meant that he must calm his father down, since he had neither the time nor the a
ity to explain things to him. So he fled to the door of his room and pressed hi
against it in order that his father might see, as soon as he entered the living r
that Gregor had every intention of returning immediately to his own room and th
was no need to force him back. All they had to do was to open the door and he woo
disappear at once.
But his father wasn't in the mood to notice such subtleties; "Ah!" he roared
he entered, m a voice that sounded at once furious and gleeful. Gregor turned h
head from the door and lifted it towards his father. He really hadn't imagined that
his father would look the way he did standing before him now; true, Gregor had
become too absorbed lately by his new habit of crawling to bother about whatever
else might be going on m the apartment, and he should have anticipated that there
would be some changes. And yet, and yet, could this really be his father? Was thiJ
the same man who used to lie sunk in bed, exhausted, whenever Gregor would set
out on one of his business trips; who would greet him upon his return in the evening
while sitting in his bathrobe in the armchair; who was hardly capable of getting to
his feet, and to show his JOY could only lift up his arms; and who, on those rare times
when the whole family went out for a walk---0n the occasional Sunday or on a legal
holiday-used to painfully shuffle along between Gregor and his mother, who were
slow walkers themselves, and yet he was always slightly slower than they, wrapped
up in his old overcoat, carefully planting his crook-handled cane before him with
every step, and almost invariably stopping and gathering his escort around him
whenever he wanted to say something? Now, however, he held himself very erect,
dressed up in a closely-fitting blue uniform with gold buttons, of the kind worn by
bank messengers. His heavy chin thrust out over the stiff collar of his jacket; his
black eyes stared, sharp and bright, from under his bushy eyebrows; his white hair,
once so rumpled, was combed flat, it gleamed, and the part was meticulously exact.
He tossed his cap-which bore a gold monogram, probably that of some bank-in
an arc across the room so that it landed on the couch, and with his hands in his
pockets, the tails of his uniform's long jacket flung back, his face grim, he went after
Gregor. He probably didn't know himself what he was going to do, but he lifted his
feet unusually high, and Gregor was amazed at the immense size of the soles of his
boots. However, Gregor didn't dwell on these reflections, for he had known from
the very first day of his new life that his father considered only the strictest measures
to be appropriate in dealing with him. So he ran ahead of his father, stopped when
he stood still, and scurried on again when he made the slightest move. In this way
they circled the room several times without anything decisive happening; in fact,
their movements, because of their slow tempo, did not suggest those of a chase. So
,
.
s ecially smce he was afraid that_his
the floor for the ume bemg, e p . . to be particularly offensive.
or k_eght ~onsider any flighdt t~ th~ w~~s ;~~l~t~~~gbe able to keep up even this
er flll
Gregor had to a m1t t at
. I
Gregor had to perform an
I the same, ·nee whenever his father took a smg e st~P•ded since even in his fore for l~:sg~~tmovemencs. He was beginnin! ~: g;:t:~;erin~ on like this, so w~ar~
c1re ser . I gs had never been strong. As h
p .
II his strength for running,
:::~t~r.~~'.pd~::,;v.~ ~:e;;:::~:::h:: ~ff!E::,:v.:t,r,-:::,~~,~:~
even t
n • having almost forgotten that he
f
tricately carved furniture,
~ by :::1 ;;us, admittedly, were pla~~d}1t~;e:~ing sailed overhead, hit the
inst • h s ikes and sharp comers--su e y
le· at once a second one
istliog wbtt a!d rolled nght in front of_h1m. l:hw~s a'.1.;~as :iseless to keep on runr near y,
d petnfied wit iear, t
k
'th
fl ing after it. Gregor stoppe , bo b d h'm He had filled his poc ets w1
e y his father had decided to m ar i • he was throwing one apple after
ing, f~r fr
the bowl on the sideboard and now ood . These little red apples,
e ~u~t fo~:ow at least without botheri~g to t~kefl~or a:ti~~lectrifted. One weaklyan~ ~ ' with one another, rolled aroun on t e .
t causin harm. But another
c:ol11dm~pple grazed Gregor's back, rolling ~ff w1thf1~ imbedJed itself in Gregor's
throw; came flying immediately afterwar act~a h's shocking and unbelievable
on\t ~:egor wanted to drag himself onwar ' ~s I ~u: he felt as if he were nailed t~
bac • • ht disappear if he could only keep moving, f sion of his senses. With his
Pain m1g
d h'
If t m the utter con u
.
I h
and he sp\aye imse_ ou
d his mother, wearing on y er
:;~e he saw the door ofhi~ r~":i~e':~:fi:7; ~:r breathe after she'dhfainfte~·se--h1s sister had remove er
his mother run toward ts at er,
chehm1 t followed by his screaming sister. He saw
the floor. Stumbling over her
rus ou '
k
1· ·ng one by one ontO
h h'
but
h loosened unders irts s 1pp1
b
d him was as one wit
ims:i:ts she flung herself uP<:>n his f~th~rh : r :.:s clas~ed around his father's neck,
now Gregor's sight grew dim-an wit
begged for Gregor's ltfe.
J
~~~
Ill
.
de him suffer for over a month-the apple
Ore or's serious wound, which ~a. der no one having the courage to
remainel imbedded in his flesh asda ;1s1~~ ~~s~:~her'that Gregor, despite his presen~
remove it-seemed t_o have persua e ;;mber of the family who shouldn't ~ tr~ate
Pathetic and disgusttng shape, w:s ~1- Id ty required them to swallow their disgust
the contrary, ,amt ta u
as an enemy. On
d
h 'ng more
I
and to endure him, to endure him an not I
d G~e or to suffer a permanent ass
And though his wou_n d probably ~ad ~:ui~ehe we~e some disabled war veteran,
of mobility, and though tt now too~~1m, --crawling above ground level was ou~
many a long minute to creep acrossh. tsdroo11_1oration of his condition he was gr~n~e
of the question-ye~ tn ret~r~ ~rh~~scoe~e;;etely: each day around dusk the ltv1;~
a compensation which saus _1e h habit of watching closely for an_h~u-~r /
room door-which he was m t e . in the darkness of his room, mv1s1 e rom
ahead of time-was opened, an: \y1~gl family sitting at the table lit by the lamp
the living room, he could see t e ~ o e ·f by general consent, instead of the way
·sten to their conversation as I
and couId l I
h' h
he'd done before.
I
h 1·vely conversations of old, tho~e upon ~tn
True, these were no onger_ t f \ I
he'd settled wearily into his damp
I
Gregor had mused somewhat wist u y as
:J22 Chapl«·r 8 • 11 ..adi11g Long ~torfrs and \owl,
some tiny hocel room. Things were now very quiet for the most part. Soon aft
ner his father would fall asleep in his armchair, while his mother and sisterer
admonish each other to be quiet; his mother, bending forward under the light
sew fine lingerie for a fashion store; his sister, who had found work as a s~l
would study shorthand and French in the evenings, hoping to obtain a better .
the future. Sometimes his father would wake up, as ifhe hadn't the slightest idea
he'd been asleep, and would say to his mother, "Look how long you've been se
again today!" and then would fall back to sleep, while his mother and sister w
exchange weary smiles.
With a kind of perverse obstinacy his father refused to take off his messen
uniform even in the apartment; while his robe hung unused on the clothes hook,
would sleep fully dressed in his chair, as if he were always ready for duty and w
waiting even here for the voice of his superior. As a result his uniform, which ha
been new m the first place, began to get dirty in spite of all his mother and s·
could do to care for it, and Gregor would often spend entire evenings gazing at
garment covered with stains and with its constantly polished buttons gleaming,
which the old man would sit, upright and uncomfortable, yet peacefully asleep.
As soon as the clock would strike ten, his mother would try to awaken his fath
with soft words of encouragement and then persuade him to go to bed, for this wasn'
any place in which to get a decent night's sleep, and his father badly needed his rest,
since he had to be at work at six in the morning. But with the stubbornness that had
possessed him ever since he'd become a bank messenger he would insist on staying at
the table a little while longer, though he invariably would fall asleep again, and then
it was only with the greatest difficulty that he could be persuaded to trade his chair
for bed. No matter how much mother and sister would urge him on with little admonishments, he'd keep shaking his head for a good fifteen minutes, his eyes closed, and
wouldn't get up. Gregor's mother would tug at his sleeve, whisper sweet words into
his ear; and his sister would leave her homework to help her mother, but it was all
useless. He only sank deeper mto his armchair. Not until the two women would lift
him up by the arms would he open his eyes, look now at one, now at the other, and
usually say, "What a life. So this is the peace of my old age." And leaning on the two
women he would get up laboriously, as if he were his own greatest burden, and would
allow the women to lead him to the door, where, waving them aside, he continued
on his own, while Gregor's mother abandoned her sewing and her sister her pen so
that they might run after his father and continue to look after him.
Who in this overworked and exhausted family had time to worry about Gregor
any more than was absolutely necessary? Their resources grew more limited; the maid
was now dismissed after all; a gigantic bony cleaning woman with white hair flutter•
ing about her head came in the mornings and evenings to do the roughest work; Gregor's
mother took care of everything else, in addition to her sewing. It even happened that
certain pieces of family jewelry which his mother and sister had worn with such
pleasure at parties and celebrations in days gone by, were sold, as Gregor found out
one evening by listening to a general discussion of the prices they'd gone for. But
their greatest complaint was that they couldn't give up the apartment, which was too
big for their current needs, since no one could figure out how they would move
Gregor. But Gregor understood clearly enough that it wasn't simply consideration
for him which prevented them moving, since he could have easily been transported
in a suitable crate equipped with a few air holes. The main reason preventing them
from moving was their utter despair and the feeling that they had been struck by a
· · d their friends and relatives. What
far greater than any thhat hd~: ev: v:;:ost: his father fetched breakfast for
rcune
nds of the poor t ey 1 to e
lf for the underwear of strangers,
worl~ de':1a r officials, his mother sacrificed herse h beck and cal\ of customer~;
banks m1~:ck and forth behind th~ counters/::is e And the wound in Gregor s
sister ~;ked the strength for anyt~mg be~o;and si~ter, after putting his father to
theY a ache once more when his _mot
d t huddled together cheek to
k began to the room, ignored their wor , an "sa
t Gre r was back in the
. returndt t:other said, "Close that door, Grete, h so th:implfstared at the table
eek, an . is h ext room the women wept toget er or
hile mt en
h
rk, w
. l without sleep. Sometimes e
th dry eJ::~nt the days and nights alm~t~;::rd once agam assume control of
?r: that the next time the d~r ~pe~~ d s Now, after a long absence, there
agin . ' ffairs as he'd done m t e o
ay •
the salesmen and the awrene fa_m1edly ~ ah.IS thoughts the director and the managher, friends from other firms, a
ar m
d
er two or t ree
h'
ppe
kably stupid erran runn '
n t·ng memory-a cas ier at
the remar
. . l h 1 -a sweet uee 1
. ed
ices,
'd tone of the provmc1a ote s
'
he all came to him mix
chamberma~h~m he'd courted earnestly bur,~ooi510;\;~~ot:en. But instead of help·
a hat score
ers and with people whom he a rea y o d he was glad when they
up wi~h stradngh.,s family they were all unapproodoachab\e, aryn about his family; he was
him an
h
• no m
to wor
Id 't
ing
At other times e was m
.
d and although he cou n
faded away. with rage at how badly he was be~ng create v~rtheless tried to think up
utter~~=\!~~thing that might tempt his :PP:::~i ~:~fly his, even if he was~'t ~un·
unag f
. g into the pantry to take w at
g . ht like as a treat, his sister'
ways~og:~;er bothering to consider wha~ Gr';J~;e1;lunch, would shove any sot
t
qft~s~~t:u;:::o~~ ::::i!~ ~:: :~~:tl:::::l;ig:~~~~:i;::t1~~:e!
food had been picked at, or-as wa~ ~o~e he broom. Nowadays she would c ~an t e
she would sweep !tout ~i~~e\~:~~n'~ h:ve done it any fasther.flStrea~~~;:t:h;;
mm the evening, an
. l h
and there on t e oor.
,
roo h
l\s balls of dust and dirt ay ere . h. self in some corner that was
along t e wa •
. G
ld stauon im
h
h
ever his sister would come m, . r~gor wou there might serve as a reproac to er:
particularly objectionable, as if his pdre~ncefor weeks without her mending her_wdays,
babl could have remame t ere
d but she'd made up her mm to
:: :~J~:sly :ould see the dirt as tearly ~s he;~~\•couchiness that was comp~etel~
1
\eave it.hAt thedswamhi:~ :~:~~ ::s
the entire fami~Yn t:tg;~:
new to er an
.
• On one occas10
.h
Ore or's room was to remain her prerog~uve~hich she managed to accomphs on1y
bj~ted his room to a thorough cleamn11 h . dampness being a further annoyance
:ith the aid of several buckets of wa~er-~ t
on the couch. But his mother's ~und
to Gregor' who lay flat, unha~py, a;;,r ;::i::ening, as soon a~ ?regor's sister :~t~~:t
ishment was not long m co~mg. deeply insulted, into the hvmg room,fand Both
the difference in his room, s e ran,
. h nds burst into a fit o tears.
d for his mother's uplifted, beseechmg l
of his armchair-at first loo~ed
r~:nts-the father, naturally, had been start~ .::d in the father on his right side
~n~:~~:
~~:~~~t~d
1;:
d;
~n w~th helpless am~z::~~u~~~.:t:::~~:e~~~red wi;~ the sistts
0
fi~::t;0°!1~~~
;;:m!~~: : ti:~~;t side yelling at the _sisgt:~ t~:atgs~:/f;~::: wh: was halhf outbolf
' ,
• The mother was trym
.
b
nded t e ta e
Gregor s room agam. d
hile the sister, shaking with so s, pau
his mind, mto their be room w
Frunz Kuflcu 32!;
with her little fists, and Gregor h. d I
thought to close the door and spa:ss~. o~~ly with rage because not on f
But even if his sister, worn ou: bim t i_s scene and this commotion e o them
care of Gregor as she once had . y h,er Job at the store, had gotten •.
place so that Gregor wouldn't ~It w~sn t really necessary for his mothtired oft
This ancient widow whose po ~ ~cted. For now the cleaning wo er to take
the hard times in h~r Ion Ii£ we ' ony frame had no doubt he( man Was th
least bit inquisitive, she h!d e, wat t at all repelled by Gregor. Wit~ her thr
at the sight of Gregor-wh onct y chance, opened the door to Gr o~t being
forth although no one was c~a!:n;~ :ompletedly by surprise, began ru~~~~; ~tn
over her belly. From then on
. im-stoo there in amazement her
ack
a crack and peek in on h. ' morn mg and evening, she never failed
hands fol
probably meant to be fr1·e1nmd.lAt tirsht she also would call him to her ut~ opehn his d
"1 I
y, sue as "C
, smg p ras
bust ook at that old dung beetle'" G
ome on over here, you old dung b !es
o~~y~ouh· Id rlem~in motionless wh~re ~:g;:;:u:1~t rdesponhd dto such forms o;:~r
is c eanmg woman •
d
e oor a never be
!ike it, had been given ord~r:n;~~leaof rintlessly disturbing him when::;:e~ed.
mg, when a heavy rain erha
. n is room every day! Once earl .
s e fe
against the window pa~~. Gr~::/~gn of the already approaching'spri:gi:~hi mo~.
s~arted in with her phrases that he eca;e so_;xasperated when the clea~in; eat1n,
~~
1
c~~~~f~~
:~::rs:;:a:
;i~;e~ni:e:~t:a~;:~eB~~!~s~~~d ~:i; fr;h:;~~ ~;•
mouth wide open. Obviously she di~~~rng it high in t~e air, stood there ;i:~mply
hands had first come crashing down
~plan on shutting it until the chai . ter
:;~~~
;i~t:t::~~/sked as Gregor turned ~:k :~~1:\~:c:~1; 1~
noht ~01d·ng ;h~~ug!
B
e c air own again
h
y now Gregor was eating next to
h.
t _e food set out for him would he take a n~t mg. ~n!y when he happened to
spit most of it out again. At 6rst h .
_bite, hold it m his mouth for hours ~~ by
r~m that kept him from eatinge
that it was his anguish at the
o~h:
quickly become accustomed The'f: .
as those very changes to which h
to store things for which th~re
a~ily had fallen into the habit of usin h e had
of these things now, since on:asn t a~y place anywhere else, and there!, t e room
~::~~n:;1
s~:~
~~;Y:,t~::::; ~;~~k:::::i~~~~~?£:h:~ t:1.:;;,::~~1.E:
a
om ut smce they were now settled .
passion for neatness, not only in
. pa;;en~, and especially in the kitchen Th tn a~dboarders, throughout the entire
~- • es1des, they'd brought most of their ~y co~ n'~abide useless, let alone dirty
is meant that many objects were now
wn ouse old goods along with them'
~ny r~ale value, couldn't just be thrown :i:erf!~us, which, while clearly withou~
th~egor; room, and so did the ash bucket and the1t e~. All these things ended up in
h mg! t a~ wasn't being used at the mom
e ~r age can from the kitchen. Anyt e c elalnmg woman, who was always i:~t was s1mdply tossed into Gregor's room by
genera y saw only h b.
.
tremen ous hurry ~
cle~ning woman int:n~:d ~:c~~~eq~:~ioi aid the ~and that. h:i~t~~a~~:ha~;e;i;
per aphs s~e planned on throwing them all or t bese _things when she had the time or
ever t ey d happened to I d
out, ut m fact there the r
.
'
;:~ethrou~h the junk pil:.\:tefir:;P~::J;;~~~s is~rbing them !s
wasn t any other space to crawl in but 1 Phy cause he was forced to since
,
ater e took
•
'
a growmg p 1easure in these
f
~;:~~:!~~h~~;
bles even though they left him dead tired and so sad that he would lte motionless
hours. Since the boarders would sometimes have their dinner at home m the
eel living room, on those evenings the door between that room and Gregor's
rid remain shut. But Gregor didn't experience the door's not being open as a hard.. in fact there had been evenings when he'd ignored the open door and had lain,
,p~ticed by the family, in the darkest comers of his room. But one time the cleaning
:an left the door slightly ajar, and it remained ajar when the boarders came in that
ening and the lamp was lit. They sat down at the head of the table, where Gregor,
is mother and his father had sat in the old days; they unfolded their napkins, and
icked up their knives and forks. At once his mother appeared at the kitchen door
!arrying a platter of meat and right behind her came his sister carrying a platter piled
high with potatoes. The steaming food gave off a thick vapor. The platters were set
down in front of the boarders, who bent over them as if to examine them before eat,
ing, and in fact the one sitting in the middle, who was apparently looked up to as an
authority by the other two, cut into a piece of meat while it was still on the platter,
evidently to determine if 1t was tender enough or whether perhaps it should be sent
back to the kitchen. He was satisfied, and both mother and daughter, who'd been
watching anxiously, breathed a sigh of relief and began to smile.
The family itself ate in the kitchen. Even so, before going to the kitchen his 10
father came into the living room, bowed once and, cap in hand, walked around the
table. The boarders all rose together and mumbled something into their beards.
When they were once more alone, they ate in almost complete silence. It seemed
strange to Gregor that, out of all the noises produced by eating, he distinctly heard
the sound of their teeth chewing; it was as if he were being told you needed teeth in
order to eat and that even with the most wonderful toothless jaws, you wouldn't be
able to accomplish a thing. "Yes, I'm hungry enough," Gregor told himself sadly, "but
not for those things. How well these boarders feed themselves, while I waste away."
That very evening-during this whole time Gregor couldn't once remember
hearing the violin- the sound of violin playing came from the kitchen. The boarders had already finished their dmner, the one in the middle had pulled out a newspaper, handed one sheet each to the other two, and now they were leaning back,
reading and smoking. When the violin began to play, they noticed it, stood up, and
tiptoed to the hall doorway where they stood together in a tight group. They must
have been heard in the kitchen for his father called, "Does the playing bother you,
gentlemen? We can stop it at once." "On the contrary," said the gentleman in the
middle, "wouldn't the young lady like to come and play in here where it's much
more roomy and comfortable?" "Why, certainly," called Gregor's father, as if he
were the violinist. Soon his father came in carrying the music stand, his mother the
sheet music, and his sister the violin. His sister calmly got everything ready for
playing; his parents- who had never rented out rooms before and so were overly
polite to the boarders-didn't even dare to sit down in their own chairs. His father
leaned against the door, slipping his right hand between the buttons of his uniform's jacket, which he'd kept buttoned up; but his mother was offered a chair by
one of the gentlemen, and, leaving it where he happened to have placed it, she sat
off to one side, in the comer.
His sister began to play; his father and mother, on either side, closely followed
the movements of her hands. Gregor, attracted by the playing, had moved a little far,
ther forward and already had his head in the living room. He was hardly surprised
that recently he'd shown so little concern for others, although in the past he'd taken
;}26 Chaptt·r 8 • Hteuding Long S1orir,; uml '\il\"rls
pride ~n being considerate. Now more than ever he had ood r
den, smce .he dwas completely covered w1·th the d ust t h at glay everywh
eason to remain
• h· h1"d•
an was sttrre up by the slightest movement. Moreov
•ere m is room
d
food
er, threads,was
hairs, and
, h"clung to his back and sides, his i'nd•a
merence to everything
h scra~
""of
,or im to have gotten onto his back and rubbed himself de n
• muc too great
he had once
• h·1s cond~mon
. agamst
the, carpet• as
. done several times a day· And desp1te
h
toe Tge beis way a little further across the spotless 1·ivmg
• room fl oor e wasn t ashamed
d h
o
sure, no one took any notice of him Th fa ·t
•
by '.he violin-playing. The boa«Je,,, howeve<. whe
y was comple<ely a!.orned
their hands in their pockets, much too close ~o tho a _at first placed themselves,
every one of them to have followed the score wh':hmus1c stand-close enough for
sister-soon retreated to the w1'ndow, muttering
'. to
I
surely
one
a must
th have
• h flustered his'
owered. And there they remained wh'I
no er,
th wit their
• heads
I e h'is fa th er watched
l
seeme
a too .obvious
that they had been d"isappomte
• d •m their em
It
.
h anxiously.
fh
ll
d entertammg
g . or
violin-playing; they had had en h f h
_opes o earing
oodit was only out of politeness that the contin oug o t entire performance,
and
It was especially obvious, by the way the; blew t~e~! to l~t their peac~ be disturbed.
~oses-it floated upwa«ls to the ceiling-just how i\lsmo e ou~ of the" mouth, anrl
slSter was playing so beautiful\ Her f:
. . at ease t ey were. And yet his
carefully followed the notes
the ac~ w~ mclmed to one side, and her sad eyes
keeping his head close to the floor so~~:~\h _regor cr~w~ed forward a little fanher
animal, that mu,ic could move him so, He
:r:t ~•g t possibly meet. Wa, he,.;
an unknown nourishment he yearned f. H
e was bemg shown the way to
reached his sister, to tug at her skirt anJ:~ lee ~s ieten~in~~ to press on until he
bring her violin into his room, for n~ one her: w~~,;~w mt is way_that she should
He would never let her out of his room
.
onor her playing as he would.
last his horrifying appearance would be ag%~-' ~t leas\;ot for as long as he lived; at
at once, hissing and spitting at the atta~i:rs 'tt·e ~ou
at every door of his room
to remain with him, she would do so of her .ow~ sister,. owever, wouldn't be forced
on the couch, leaning towards him and 1·
.
fr~e w1\ She would sit beside him
tended to send her to the Conservatory 1ste~1~g ~s e_ cin ded that he had firmly inwould've announced this to everyone •1:s~ ~h;is:;1s o7,un~ ha~n't in~ervened, he
and gone by now?-without payin th 1· h
as-_ or adn t Chmtmas come
this declaration his sister would b; s e s ig ;es~ attention to any objection. After
Gregor would lift himself up to her s~ ~re t at_she would burst into tears, and
she had started her job, she had kept bou e~ ahnd k1~bher on her neck, which, since
"M S
,,, .
are, wit out n hon or collar
r. amsa. cned the middle gentleman to G
, f:
•
ing another word pointed with his. d fi
Gregor s ather, and without wast•
The violin stopped, the middle ge~~eex ng~r t
~ -go~, who was slowly advancing.
and then looked at Gregor again Ins~at sf d _
11:g is ead, smiled first at his friend
to think it more important to s~th ~a
Jivmg Gregor away, his father seemed
and appeared to consider Greg e t e ar er~, although they weren't
upset at all
or more entertaining th
h
• 1•
ather rushed over to them and with
h d
an t e v10 m-playing. His
f:their room and at the same time bloc~~~~~t~ie: arcs tried t~ her_d them back into
actually got
regor
hisfabody.
. a little angry-it wasn't c Iear wh eth ertoh_is was
d with
t h·
h ,Now they
•
or to t eu dawning realization that the h d h d ll 1
~e o is t er s behavior
h
door neighbor
like Gregor. They dem1nd~ a t a ~ng, w1thou_t knowing it, a nextown anns now as well tugged nervo sl
anattons from his father, raised their
.,.,,.m~ th.,ir room Meanwhil h"
y at t e1r beards, and only slowly backed away
.
e is sister had managed to overcome the bewildered
td
~
J·
1:(;
~
~
~
~x~
,. in«> which she'd C..llen when her playing hrul been so abruptly intenup<ed, and
'fer same ,nomenr.s ,pen< holding the violin and bow in her slackly dangltng hands
';d s<aring at the score as if she were still playing, she suddenly pulled herself
'ogeth«, placed her ins«ument on hor mother's lap-She was still sitting in her chair
r ith t,e, lungs heaving, gasping for brearh-and ran into the n<xt room, which the
;...rders, under pressure from her rather, ':'ere ev_er more swiftly approaching. One
rould see pillows and blanker.s fty,ng h,gh ,n the atr and then neatly amngmg themso\,,es under hO sister's practical hands. Before ,he gentlemen had even reached their
ro0tn, she had finished mak,ing the beds and had slipped out.
Once again a perverse stubbornness seemed to grip Gregor's father, to the extent 75
rh&t he forgot to pay hiS tenants the respect still due rhem. He kepr on pu,hing and
,t,oving until rhe middle gentleman, who was already standing in rhe room', door•
waY, b,ought him up shon with a thunderous stamp of his foor. "l hereby declare," he
,aid, ,atsing his hand and looking around for Gregor's moth« and sO«r as well, ",hat
'°"'ide<ing the dogusting conditions prevailing m this aparrment and in this
r,mily"- h«e he suddenly spat on the floor- "I'm giving immediate norice.
}'laturallv I'm not going to pay • penny for the rime I've spent here; on rhe cont,ary, l
,hall be seriously considering bringing some sort of action against you with daims
that-I assure you-will be very easy to substantiate." He stopped speaking and
,.,red ahead of him, as if expecting something. And ind«d his two friends chimed
,ight in, saying "We'r< givmg ,mmediare notice too." Whereupon he grabbed ,he
doorknob and slammed the door shut with a crash.
Gregor's father, groping his way and staggering forward, collapsed into his arm•
chain It looked as if he were m«ching himself out for his usual evening nap, but his
heavily drooping hoad, looking as if it had lost all means of support, showed thtlt he
""anything but a,leep. All this time Gr- hrul lain quietly right whore the boo«l•
ers had first seen him, His disawaintment over the failure of his plan, and perhaps
also the weakness caused by eating so htt\e for so long, made movement an impossi·
btliry. He foared with some degree of wraintY that at the very next moment the
whole catastrophe would fall on his head, and he waited, He wasn't even startled
when the violin slipped from his mother's trembling fingers and fell off her lap with a
reverberating
clatter.said his sister, pounding the table with her hand by way of pre"Dear parents,"
amble, "we can't go on like this. Maybe you don't realize it, but I do. l refuse to utter
my brother's name in the presence of this monster, and ,o all I have to say is, we've
got to try to get rid of it. We've done everything humanly possible to take care of it
and put up with it; 1 don't think anyone can blame us in the least."
"She's absolutely right," said his father to himself. His mother, still crying to
catch her breath, with a wild look m her eyes, began to cough, her cupped hand muf,
fling His
the sister
sound.rushed over to his mother and held her forehead. His father seemed to
have been led to more definite thoughts by Grete's words; he was sitting up straight
and wying with his messenger's cap, which lay on the table among the dishes left
over from the boarders' dinner. From time to time he would glance over at Gregor's
motionless
form"We must
try to get rid of it," said his sister, speaking only to her father since her so
mother's coughing was such that she was incapable of hearing a word. "lt will be the
death of you both. l can see it coming. People who have to work as hard as we do
can't stand this constant torture at home. I can't stand it anymore either." And she
:J28 Chapter 8 • Hrodi11g Long Strnil!s 1111<1 \owls
burst out sobbing so violently _that he~ tears ran down onto her mother's face, wh
she wiped chem away mechanically with her hand.
"But, my child," said her father with compassion and remarkable understand·
"what should we do?"
Gregor's sister co~ld only shrug her shoulders as a sign of the helplessnes.s that
had overcome her while she wept, m contrast to her earlier self-confidence.
"If he could understan1 us," said her father tentatively; Gregor's sister, through
her tears, shook her hand violently to indicate how impossible that was.
"If he could understand us," repeated her father, closing his eyes so as to take•
his daughter's belief chat this was impossible, "then perhaps we might be able tn
reach some agreement with him, but the way things are--"
to
"He's got to go," cried Gregor's sister, "it's the only way, Father. You just hav
to gee rid of the idea that this is Gregor. Our real misfortune is having believed it fo:
so lo~~- ~ut ho~ can it be Gregor?_ If it wer~, he ~ould've realized a long time ago
chat Its 1mposs1ble for human beings co live with a creature like that, and he
would've left on his own accord. Then we would've lose a brother, but we'd have
been able co go on living and honor his memory. But the way things are, this animal
persecutes us, drives away our boarders, obviously it wants to take over the whole
apartment and make us sleep in the gutter. Look, Father," she suddenly screamed
"he's at it again!" And in a panic which Gregor found incomprehensible his siste;
abandoned his mother, and actually pushing herself from the chair as if she would
rather sacrifice her mother than remain near Gregor, she rushed behind her father,
who, startled by chis behavior, got up as well, half raising his arms in front of Grete
as if to protect her.
Gregor hadn't the slightest desire co frighten anyone, least of all his sister. He
had merely started to tum around in order to go back to his room, a procedure which
admittedly looked strange, since in his weakened condition he had to use his head to
help him in this difficult maneuver, several times raising it and then knocking it
against the floor. He stopped and looked around. His good intentions seemed to have
been understood; the panic had only been temporary. Now, silent and sad, they all
looked at him. His mother lay in her armchair with her legs outstretched and pressed
together, her eyes almost closed from exhaustion. His father and sister sat side by
side, and his sister had put her arm around her father's neck.
"Now maybe they'll let me cum around," thought Gregor, resuming his efforts.
He couldn't stop panting from the strain, and he also had to rest from time to time.
At least no one harassed him and he was left alone. When he had finished turning
around, he immediately began co crawl back in a straight line. He was amazed at the
distance between him and his room and couldn't understand how, weak as he was,
he'd covered the same stretch of ground only a little while ago almost without being
aware of ic. Completely intent on crawling rapidly, he scarcely noticed chat neither
a word nor an exclamation came from his family to interrupt his progress. Only
when he reached the doorway did he turn his head; not all the way, for he felt his
neck growing stiff, but enough to see that behind him all was as before except that
his sister had gotten to her feet. His last glimpse was of his mother, who by now was
fast asleep.
He was barely inside the room before the door was slammed shut, bolted, and
locked. Gregor was so frightened by the sudden noise behind him that his little legs
collapsed underneath him. It was his sister who had been in such a hurry. She'd been
standing there, ready and waiting, and then had sprung swiftly forward, before
"At last!" she cried co her parents as she turned
d even heard h er coming.
h
Oregor a
k
he keY in the loc •
k d h ·mself looking around in the darkness. He soon
t
"And now?'' Gregor as e
i bl '
e This didn't surprise him; rather it
. overed that he was no longe~ a e t: n:1~:~cually been able to propel himself
diSCrned to him strange that unt~ now e he felt relauvely comfortable. It was
~ h these thin htcle legs. In ot er r~pec~s
med to him to be growing fainter
.,wit chat his enttre body ached, but t le pamhseeThe rotten apple in his back and
crue
d
ould go away a toget er.
ch d h·
d fainter an soon w .
l c vered with fine dust, hardly bo ere ,m
anch . _aamed area around tt, complete y o
d love Hts own belief that he
e mJJ
c •1 • h deep emotton an
•
more. He recalled his ,amt y wit
c.
h h 1·s sister's He remained m this
anY
•f anything even nrmer t an
•
h
must disappear was, t ful fl '
unttl the tower clock struck three in t e mom•
state of empty and peace re ecuon
l bn htenmg outside his window. Then,
.
He could still just sense the generad g d from his nostrils came his last
ins\ h's head sank all the way own, an
involuntan Y, 1
f eb1e breath.
ppeared--0ut of sheer energy lllO
e Early chat morning, when the cle~m~g r=:nn: matter how often she'd been
and impattence she always slammed a t e er 'ss1ble anywhere in the apartment
asked not to, so hard that sleep was no \on; ~u\iar when she paid Gregor her
once she'd arrived-she didn't notice any; mg there so snll on purpose, pretending
usual bnef visit. She thou~ht that hd;: ~::gto be very clever. As she happened to
chat his feelings were hurt, she~:• . kl Gregor with it from the doorway. Whe~
be holding a long broom, she me to uc ~ d . bbed it into Gregor a little, and It
this too had no effect, sh~~ami a::i:e 1:;e ;thout meeting resistance that ~he
was only when she shov
,m o
h p h.
stood she opened her eyes wide,
began to take notice. Quickly real1zin~ ow t mgs she t~re open the bedroom door
gave a soft whistle, and without "'.'asttnt a~y :~- "Come and look, it's had it, it's
elled ac the top of her lungs mto t e ar
•
dY
AA
'
"
lying there, dead and done or. . h .
rria e bed, crying to absorb the shock the
Mr. and Mrs. Samsa sat up mt detr ma fi g able to comprehend the meaning
deaning woman had given them ant·
rst ~~d Mr Samsa on one side, Mrs.
of her words. Then they quickly c im bl o~t o er his shoulders Mrs. Samsa wore
Samsa on the other. Mr. Samsa th~ewf ah_ an het o:ntered Gregor'; room. Meanwhile
. h
. d essed in this as ,on t ey
bo d , • l
only h er mg tgown, r
h G
h d been sleeping since the ar ers amva •
the door to che living room, w :e ~te ~f h 'd never gone to bed, and the pallor of
opened as well. Grete was fully . r:,~ad~~ •a:ke~ Mrs. Samsa and looked inquiring at
her face seemed to confinn th1s.h
id have checked for herself, or guessed at the
the cleaning woman, although s e coTuh ' c
" said the cleaning woman, and
.
.
tigate " at s ,or sure,
M
h
truth without avmg to mves'
• a ood way to one side with her broom." rs.
to prove it she pushed Gregor s corpse hg l .
"Well" said Mr. Samsa, now
Samsa made a mo~e as if to stt h::j/ a:i t~e':~e wom;n followed his exampl~thanks be to God. He crosse ,mff h •
·d "Just look how thin he was. Its
k her eyes o t e corpse, sat •
h •
Grete, wh o never too
h.
Th food came out just as it was w en it
been a long time since he's eaten anyt mg\. le fl
d dry· this was only now obvi, body was comp ece Y at an
'
d.
d
came in." Indeed ' G regor s
. ed
. l"ttle legs and nothing else istracte
ous because the body was no longer ra,s on 1ts t
Y:;1
the eye.
. \ hile Grete " said Mrs. Samsa with a
"Come to our room wit~ us:;:~!~ ~a:k ac,the co~e, followed her ~arents
sad smile, and Grete, not w1t~o
h
h door and opened the windows
into the bedroom. The deaning woman s ut t e
Fr11111. l<ul'kn 3:H
wide. Although it was early in the morning, there was a certain mildness in
fresh air. After all, these were the last days of March.
The three boarders came out of their rooms and looked around in amazeme
their breakfast; they had been forgotten. "Where's our breakfast?" the middle gnt
man asked the cleaning woman in a sour tone. But she put her finger to her lips
then quickly and quietly beckoned to the gentlemen to enter Gregor's room. So'
did, and, with their hands in the pockets of their somewhat threadbare jackets
stood in a circle around Gregor's corpse in the now sunlit room.
'
At that point the bedroom door opened and Mr. Samsa, wearing his uni£,
appeared with his wife on one arm and his daughter on the other. They all looked
little tearful; from time to time Grete would press her face against her father's sle
"Leave my home at once," Mr. Sarnsa told the three gentlemen, pointing to
door without letting go of the women. "What do you mean?" said the middle gene
man, who, somewhat taken aback, smiled a sugary smile. The other two held ch
hands behind their backs, and kept rubbing them together as if cheerfully ant1cipati
a major argument which they were bound to win. "I mean just what I say," replied Mr.
Samsa, and advanced in a line with his two companions directly on the middle
boarder. At first this gentleman stood still, looking at the floor as if the thoughts inside
his head were arranging themselves in a new pattern. "Well, so we'll be off," he then
said, looking up at Mr. Samsa as if, suddenly overcome with humility, he was asking
permission for even this decision. Mr. Samsa, his eyes glowering, merely gave him a
few brief nods. With that the gentleman, taking long strides, actually set off in the direction of the hall; his two friends, who had been listening for some time with their
hands quite still, now went hopping right along after him, as if they were afraid that
Mr. Samsa might reach the hall before them and cut them off from their leader. Once
in the hall the three of them took their hats from the coat rack, pulled their canes
from the umbrella stand, bowed silently, and left the apartment. Impelled by a suspi•
cion that would tum out to be utterly groundless, Mr. Samsa led the two women out
onto the landing; leaning against the banister railing they watched the three gentlemen as they marched slowly but steadily down the long staircase, disappearing at every
floor when the staircase made a tum and then after a few moments reappearing once
again. The lower they descended the more the Samsas' interest in them waned; and
when a butcher's boy with a basket on his head came proudly up the stairs towards the
gentlemen and then swept on past chem, Mr. Samsa and the women quickly left the
banister and, as if relieved, returned to the apartment.
They decided to spend this day resting and going for a walk; not only did they
deserve this break from work, they absolutely needed it. And so they sat down at the
table to write their three letters excusing themselves, Mr. Samsa to the bank man•
ager, Mrs. Samsa to her employer, and Grete to the store's owner. While they were
writing, the cleaning woman came by to say that she was leaving now, since her
morning's work was done. At first the three letter writers merely nodded without
looking up, but when the cleaning woman made no move to go, they looked up at
her, annoyed. "Well?" asked Mr. Samsa. The cleanmg woman stood in the doorway,
smiling as if she had some wonderful news for the family, news she wasn't about to
share until they came nght out and asked her to. The little ostnch feathers in her
hat, which stood up nearly straight in the air and which had irritated Mr. Samsa the
entire time she had worked for them, swayed gently in every direction. "What can
we do for you?" asked Mrs. Samsa, whom the cleaning woman respected the most.
"Well," the cleaning woman replied, with such good-humored laughter that she had
' h
o worry about getting rid of that thing
• "you don t ave t f" Mrs Samsa and G rete b ent o ver
b £ re continumg,
pause e ooom- lt's already been taken car~~ •. Mr ·samsa, who realized that the
che ne:,ct r if they intended to keep on wntl~f'
• ed her firmly with an out·
eir ~ette:so:an was about to go int~ th~ d:~~:• :1;~:d to tell her story, she sud·
an1ngd hand, Seeing chat she w~sn t goinghurr ; clearly insulted, she called out,
retche embered that she was m_ldlgreatd l ft ~he apartment with a terrible slam·
enlY rem bod "whirled around w1 y, an e
Bye, every
y,
·
l from his
. f doors.
.
" .d M Samsa, but without getting a rep y
,ng \ '\I be dismissed tonight, sa1
r.
ed t have ruined their tenuous peace
"Sh~ daughter, for the cleaning wo~an see~ re:ained there holding each othr
wife~r d 'They got up, went to the w,_n ~w_, an d them and watched chem quiet y
of min • Samsa turned around in his c air towar me over here. Let chose old uou·
tightly. M~- Then he called out, "Come on ;1ow, co
" The cwo women promptly
fo some ume.
l l
•deration ior me, too.
l
r I
And have a itt e cons1
h.
d ·ckly finished their etters.
bles a o~~~. hurried over to him, caressed im, a: ~~er, something they hadn't d~ne
obeYThed
ll three of chem left the apartment g
on the outskircs of the city.
en a
t the open country
h
d cook a streetcar out o
letel bathed in warm sunin m_ont s, ;~ich they had all co them~e\ves, w~s c~~p sseitheir prospects for the
1:1e1r t::~ing comfortably bac~ in their sears~ :or :i~ad, since all three of t~em
light. h. h on closer inspecuon seemed co
h about them in any deta1lfutr~b7 w~ich-though they'd never as~ed on:s:~t;course the greatest immediha l . each case very advantageous an pr?m
me about when they found a new
wer~ inrovement in their situation would quickly cover wa easier to maintain than
ate imp t one that was smaller, cheaper, a~d I~ e
t~ey were talking on in this
apartrnen •
h. h G or had chosen ior t em.
l
h watched
their current one, w ic
reg d M S msa almost simultaneous y, as t ey
it occurred to both Mr. an
rs. a. '. us chat in spite of all the recent troudaughter become more and mre v~va~~~ blossomed into a pretty and shapely
bles chat had turned her cheeks pa e'. s /ng almost unconsciously through glance~f
irl Growing quieter now, commu~1ca I find her a good husband. And it w~s a~d
:he~ reflected chat soon it woduld be ttmJ gt~od intentions that at the end of their n e
.
f their new reams an
d
in confi rmanon o
c.
d screeched her young ho y.
their daughter got up urst an
Xs
:::ir
•
H d'd he come to his partic•
•
. before his transformation? ow '
1 What was Gregor s occupation .
h. fi '
.
• ular job? What keeps him working for isb rm.
gigantic insect, he is mostly intent ho~
d' over he has ecome a
fb d how to get to ts
2 When Gregor wakes to isc .
h sis-how to get out o e •
h' odd
• the practical implications of his met~mo;h~w he has been changed. What does t is
b d so on. He never wonders w y o
.
JO • an
) d h
ecognize
reaction suggest about G regor!
.
. • ct (paragraph 25 , 0 t ey r
. It as1
3 When Gregor's parents first see the g1~ant1c m5:st about their attitude coward their son.
• their son? What do their initial reacuonsGsugg fter his transformation? How do these
I
ber react to regor a
4. How does each famt y mem h 1 Wh t do they have in common.1
h
1
reactions differ from one anot er.
ah
d' What seems to have remained t e same.
h' s about Gregor have been c ange •
5. What t mg
..
.
How does
List specific qualmes.
. I in the Samsa family apartment.
6 The Metamorphosis takes place almost enme y
• the story's setting shape its them_es?
the family must "get rid of" the inse~t! What
Which family member first de~fi1des tha~oes the family's decision affect Gregor.
7. rauona
. le i's givenl• In what spec1 c ways
th,
"'..esttons
;J!:12 Urnp1 rr 8 • 1!,•11<li11g (.011 ,.. Siori,·,
c,'
, 11111
l\
I
(I\'(' ,' ,
8 . : w ~es rhe family react to Gregor's death?
9.
s rete change in the course of the sto .?
IO. In what ways is Gregor's meta morph .
rybo.1£ so, how does she change'
os1s sym lie?
•
WRITING effectively
Franz Kafka on Writinrr
D'
o
iscussing The 1Jletanwrplwsi11
My friend Alfred Kam f
.
the author as "a new : ••• a1m1red Kafka's story The Mecamorph . H
c. 1
' ore pro10und and th f◄
os1s. e des .
Du ring a walk with
Fran K
ere ore more significant Ed
en
new admirer of his but arousezd a~ha o~ the Altsradter Ringo I told rr Al~~n Pae
Kafka'
'
neit er interest
d
im auuut t
s expression showed that
d'
.
nor un ersranding. On th
how:;r· ~as filled With a zeal fo:disc~~:~:~:~! hisI book was distastefu{t~ohi~
e ero of the story is called S
"'
so was tactless.
•
Kafka. Five letters m each wo d Th amsa, I said. "It sounds like a c
the K in the word Kafka Th Ar. ,,e S m the word Samsa has the rypto~am f,
Kafka .
• e •..
same position as
" . interrupted me.
It 1s not a crypt
S
ho
,
ogram. amsa is not
I
m~. sis is not a confession, although it i~~e y Kafk~, and nothing else. The Me
"I k_now nothing about that.''
in a certain sense-an indiscretion " ra" Is _it i;erhaps delicate and discreet to lk
•
"It isn t usual in good society."
ta about the bugs in one's own fumil ,.,
You see ~hat bad manners I have."
y.
.~afka smiled. He wished to dismiss th
.
It seems to me that the d1S· t1·nct· bee subJect. Bur I did not wish to
10n
h ere " I •d "The
tween ood d
•
Ka;:1s~ood st~llecamarphosis is a terrible dreagm, a :~i~f:cmanner~ hardly applies
"
•
oncepnon.''
. The dream reveals the realit wh
of life- the terror of art. But no yl,
ich conception lags behind. That 1 h h
w must go home.''
st e orror
From Conversations with K. ,n,_
a,~ by Gustav Janouch
THINKING ABOUT LONG STORIES
Writing about a long story or novella
AND NOVELS
so much to analyze and co 'd
ma.y seem overwhelming The
•I d
ns1 er. You
d
.
•
re can seem t be
~:£ ~;.~~i:!:;~::~:; t:~.;.~'!:~;:::~~;~,~~o::::.~~;.r:!::
P an express your responses
• Be aware that characters in a I
personalities. In a short story ch:nger narrative often have more complex
'
racters are often presented .
in terms of two
Ahstit.drer Ring: a major street in Prague.
three basic personality traits. But in a long story or novella, characters are
orually drawn with more depth and shading-and sometimes even contra•
:ctory elements-to their personalities. In reading a long story, you should
be alert to all the different aspects of a characters nature.
Consider that a longer narrative allows for more development. Often the
intention of a short story is to reveal a personality or a situation as it is,
,nuch in the manner of showing a snapshot or drawing back a curtain. But a
longer story requires movement and development to sustain the reader's
interest. As you read, notice the-often subtle-changes that may take
place in the protagonist as he or she initiates or otherwise experiences the
events of the narrative.
• Review the work. As a long story or novella unfolds, your recollections of
the earlier parts of the text may be pushed aside as new events and situations
occur. A first-rate work of fiction will yield a wealth of interconnections of
language, images, actions, and ideas. After you finish reading the work, by
going through the text again you may often see much more in the story than
you did the first time around.
HECKLIST: Writing About Long Stories and Novels
O What is the protagonist's situation at the beginning of the work?
O What is the protagonist's main objective at the beginning?
:J What changes take place in the protagonist's situation as the narrative proceeds?
D How does the protagonist react to these changes? How does his or
her response to stress reveal the protagonist's basic nature?
D Who are the story's other important characters, and what are their
relationships to the protagonist?
D Can anyone be described as an antagonist?
D Compare and contrast the beginning of the story with its conclusion.
D Don't try to put everything in your essay. The longer and more
involved the text is, the more Important it is to focus on the main
points and be selective in the choice of textual details.
D Try to put your ideas in some logical order.
D Outline the main points of your argument to see clearly what is rel•
evant to that argument and what is not.
WRITING ASSIGNMENT FOR A RESEARCH PAPER
This challenging assignment for a research paper comes from Professor Michael Cass of Mercer
University. He asked his students ro select the fiction writer whose work impressed them most.
Each student had to write a paper defending chat aurhor's claim to literary greatness and
research the author, using at least five critical sources. The student had to present clear reasons
why the author was a major writer and to support the argument with both examples from the
writer's work and statements from cntics. Choose an author from rhis book whose greatness
you would defend. Here is a short research paper by a student in Professor Cass's class,
Stephanie Crowe, who discussed why she believed that Franz Kafka was a great wmer.
;1;14 Cl,uptt•r 8 • R<'ucli11g Long S1ori<'~ urul \owls
SAMPLE STUDENT RESEARCH PAPER
Crowe 2
Crowe 1
Stephanie Crowe
Professor Cass
English 120
21 November 2009
)nm.id11etwn of
essa1 wp,c
L
r uanon <>f
~ ondary smnct
l
I
Qu<>tanon from
strondary SOIITCt
imt grored ,nw
sentn1ec
T ,p,c=una on
Kafl<a as mjlumct
IAssumpnons
u r,lainuJ
Topic
fttlarimuhi/>
smunct
on Kafl<a'5
Im time
IO
I
Kaflca's Greatness
Although most of his major works remained unfinished and unpublished at
his untimely death in 1924, Franz Kafka has gradually come to be considered one
of the great writers of the twentieth century. By 1977, well over ten thousand
works of commentary had appeared on Kafka, and many more have been written
since then (Goodden 2). According to critic Peter Heller, Kafka represents the
"mainstream of German literary and intellectual tradition," a nihilistic tradition
which extends from Goethe and Lessing to the present (289).
Not only is Kafka generally considered one of the greatest fiction writers
of the modem era, he is also indisputably one of the most influential. In his
1989 study, After Kafka, Shimon Sandbank discusses Kafka's influence on a
dozen modem writers, including Sartre, Camus, Beckett, Borges, and Ionesco.
His effects on these writers differ. Some borrow his understated, almost passive
prose style while others adopt his recurrent images and themes. Whatever the
specific elements they use, however, Kafka's ability to influence these writers is
another measure of his stature.
Great literature often gives us the stories and images to understand our
own age, a process that necessmly includes understanding our deepest
problems. The twentieth century, to borrow a phrase from W. H. Auden, was
mostly an "Age of Anxiety." Most modem people are no longer bound to follow
the occupations, behaviors, and beliefs of theu parents, but they gain this
newfound freedom at the expense of a constant, difficult search for identity.
The personal quest for meaningful identity often leads to despau. This
"existential crisis" is the basis for many contemporary problems including the
decline of religion, the rise of totalitarianism, the breakdown of social identity,
and the decay of traditional family structure.
Kafka's works dramatize these problems memorably because they provide
us with myths, images, stories, and situations that describe the particular
crises of the early twentieth century. When faced with the modem challenge of
not having a predetermined social or religious identity, Kaflca's characters
attempt to find certainty. The problem, however, is that they are
desperat ely
. .
.
d
usuallY afraid to do anything decisive because everything is uncertam. Au en
observed:
Far from being confident of success, the Kaflca hero is convinced from
the start that he is doomed to fail, as he is also doomed, being who he
is, to make prodigious and unending efforts to reach it [the goal].
Indeed, the mere desue to reach the goal is itseU a proof, not that he
is one of the elect, but that he is under a special curse. {162)
One way that Kafka memorably dramatizes the modem struggle for identity
. by reversing the traditional quest story. In a quest story, the hero knows the
;oat that he wants to achieve and has some confidence that he will be able to
achieve it. As he tries to reach the goal, he must overcome various enemies and
obstacles. Nin a typical Kafka story, on the other hand, the goal is peculiar to
the hero himself: he has no competitors" (Auden 162). His question then .
becomes not a practical "Can I succeed?" but instead a vague and problematic
"What should I do?" Unable to answer this question satisfactorily, the hero
becomes increasingly alienated from his own surroundings. This alienation is
yet another symptom of "the inhumanity of modem society" that Kafka so
memorably portrayed (Kuna 62).
Kafka also distinguishes himself as a great writer because he created a
distinctive sty\e that effectively dramatizes modem problems. Although
Kafka's fiction often describes extreme situations, his prose usually seems
strangely calm and detached. He uses "clear and simple language" that paints
•concrete pictures of human beings, pictures that, in a sense, have to speak for
themselves" (Cooper 19). These haunting images (the unreachable castle, the
unknown laws, the unspecified trial) dramatize the mysterious struggles of the
characters.
Kafka also uses his style to separate himself from his characters, a
technique that develops a contrast between the calmness of his style and
the nervous desperation of his characters (Heller 237). For example, the
opening of Kafka's novella The Metamorphosis, which is perhaps the most
famous first sentence in modem fiction, describes an outrageous event-a
young man who wakes up transformed into a giant bug-in a strangely
matter-of-fact tone. This contrast is important because it reminds us of the
desperation of modem man imprisoned in a world he can neither understand
nor control.
Qu<~aaonfmm 1
strondary source,
se1 off
I
from ltxl
J
Topic setimce
tlaburates on how
Kofl<a',uork
refkcu 1w nme
I
-'
--,
Vtrlxuim
q,wuu,onfrotn
secondary SOMrc•
' Top,c serutnet on
relanon>lu/>
b,1wetn Ko/Jul'5
~ ima his 5r,1e
I
Top,c stntence
I on Kafl<a'5 sr,le 1
tnrol'p()l'Otl!S
crirical llitw
j
;J;J6 Chap1cr H • H,•uding l.011g Sro1·il's nnrl ,\ ovt'(s
Samplt· Stu,li·nt Hcs1·11rch Pupi,r :1:17
-
Tnpic s.ntmct un
I Kafka's sryk of
Iamb,gu~
Tof>ic s.nlfflce
0n Kafka's
COtn/:Jkxiry
Kafka's
Topic s.ntence
cenrral
1
""I
theme incorporates
I q,.o<anun from
s,condary .IOltrce
l
I';~';' ~;L,
f7
Quo1auon from
1 primary .!Oltrce
I
Crowe 3
Perhaps the most interesting feature of Kafka's style is his ability t
o create
wor.lcs that cannot be explained by a single interpretation. Because he allows
his pictures to #speak for themselves/ "Kafka's texts have been subject to a
v~ety of widely divergent approaches" (Heller 236). Another critic, speaking
directly of The Metamorphosis, agrees: "Gregor's transformation has a double
meaning: it is both an escape from his oppressive life and a representation or
even an intensification of it" (Goldfarb), Therefore, no single interpretation
~an a_dequately explain an entire work of Kafka's. Most interpretations rnay
illuminate particular moments in a work, but inevitably they lead to a dead
end when pressed to explain the whole narrative. Whether one is reading on a
social, moral, psychological, metaphysical, theological, or existential level,
Kafka "tends to suspend all distinction and thus to revert to total ambiguity"
(Heller 285). According to Heller, this characteristic mysteriousness becomes
"the epitome of his art" (230).
Auden believed that the impossibility of interpreting Kafka's work is
essential in defining him as an important and influential writer, He says that
"Kafka is a great, perhaps the greatest, master of the pure parable, a literary
genre about which a critic can say very little worth saying" (159). Since the
meaning of a parable is different for each individual, critics cannot explain them
without revealing their own visions and values. Kafka develops stories with
important symbols that are easily identified; attempting to interpret these
symbols, however, only leads to frustration.
The frustration that comes from trying to interpret Kafka's works
exemplifies his recurrent, and particularly twentieth-century, theme, which
Peter Heller has described as man's "ever frustrated, ever defeated striving for
self-realization in an inhuman human universe in which he is alienated from
himself and from the world he lives in" (305). Kafka uses his characteristic
difficult symbolism and ambiguity, along with his theme of hopelessness and
despair, as a common thread that binds all of his works together.
Kafka's book The Great Wall of China contains several short pieces which
have a slightly less desperate tone than that of The Metamorphosis. Many of
the stories in The Great Wall of China, however, still present the theme of
hopelessness. In the reflection entitled "The Problem of Our Laws," Kafka
examines the origins and legitimacy of law. This parable begins with the
j narrator stating, Hour laws are not generally known; they are kept secret by the
small group of nobles who rule us" (147). Next, the narrator goes through a
Crowe 4
laborious process of rationally questioning why only the nobility kn~ws the
laws, whether the laws really exist, and whether it will ever be possible for
common men to know the laws. He finally concludes that the only way
. to .know
the law would be a quiet revolution that ends nobility. But even this solu~on,
• futile • The nobility cannot be eliminated because they provide the
he realizes, lS
only order that exists. While this parable makes several interesting points, _its
structure is essentially static. The narrator ends where he began-trapped m an
unknowable world.
One of Kafka's unfinished novels, The Trial, also concentrates on the
unknown symbol of the Law. In the novel, Joseph K. is arrested for a crime that
no one ever knows. Joseph, like most of Kafka's characters, is a common man
with an uneventful life who admits that he knows little of the Law. The drama
of the novel is the protagonist's hopeless attempts to master an unknown and
impossible situation. Joseph K.'s life itself becomes a trial, although he is never
sentenced. Finally, one year after his arrest, two men come and murder him.
Instead of trying to understand the Law, "In the end he appears to accept the
verdict as a release from the condition of despair," and "dies like an animal,
without comprehending the rationale of the Law which condemns him" (Heller
280-81). Like many men, before his death K. is struggling to discover his
identity in relation to the Law that governs him; however, K.'s hopeless life
ends with a pointless murder.
Kafka's other great, unfinished novel, The Castle, also concentrates on the
theme of unknowability and despair. Instead of trying to understand the Law,
K. in The Castle has another impossible quest, his attempt to enter the castle of
the local ruler to report for duty as a land surveyor. His constant efforts,
however, prove futile. As in The Trial, the protagonist is at the mercy
of an arbitrary and unknowable Law:
In many ways the castle functions like a secret court system:
the officials decide and carry out policies that are conceived as
stipulations of law; they lean on their law books, try to serve the law,
and know the clandestine ways of law. Many decisions are arrived at
arbitrarily and remain secret; even legal actions such as an official
indictment can be kept hidden for some time. (Heidsieck 3)
Only when X. lies on his deathbed does a call from the castle come, giving him
permission to live in the town. Once again, the protagonist suffers hopelessly
and dies in despair.
,.Topic senrence on j
Ltheme_
..,
Topic sencence on
I
theme
I
T('rlll~ fnr ll('vicw 3:i9
:J:18 Chu1,wr ll ■ II(•urt·mg I.ong .-,rom·~
'- • und '\o\'t·I~
Crowe 7
Crowe 5
Kuna, Franz. Franz Kafka: Literature as Corrective Punishment. Bloomington:
h ~le.The Trial emphasizes political and psychological themes
c aractenstic of the twentieth century, The Castle f
• •
identity crisis. The Metamorph .
.
. . ocuses on the religious
os1s examines surular themes of identi
Indiana UP, 1974. Print.
sandbank, Shimon. After Kafka: The Influence of Kafka's Fiction. Athens: U of
Georgia P, 1989. Print.
personal
and family level. All of these works focus on modem hum ty• on a
.
difficult struggle to define its place in existence.
aruty's
Concluswn sums
upargumen1
Thesis .sentence
makes debatabl,
cklim
Kafka, through his works, accurately describes the modem co • •
many by using memorable images and a distincti
•
ndition of
style influenced many twentieth
.
ve style. This characteristic
-century wnters and readers. While diffi lt
and somewhat bleak Kafka's ofte
•
cu
of man's conditi'
,l
n ambiguous, yet understated dramatizations
on• a ong with his tasting
• influence,
•
greatness.
form the foundation of his
MORE TOPICS FOR WRITING
1. What do lvan llych and Gregor Samsa have m common? In what ways are their lives and
deaths dissimilar?
2, Choose a thematic concern of either The Death of 111cm llych or The Metamorphosis; some
possibilities are work, romantic love, and the family. Develop a thesis about what your
story has to say on your chosen theme. Now choose three key moments from the story to
back up your argument. Make your case in a medium-length paper (600 to 1,000 words);
be sure to quote as needed from the text.
3, In one carefully thought-out paragraph, sum up what you believe Tolstoy is saying in The
of ll!an Hych.
4. Death
Compare Tolstoy's short novel with another story of spiritual awakening: Flannery
O'Connor's "Revelation" or "A Good Man ls Hard to Find." In each, what brings about
Crowe 6
Works Cited
Auden,159-70.
W. H. "The
I Without a Sell•" Th e Dyers
, Hand. New York: Random, 1989.
Print.
the enlightenment of the central character?
5, ls The Metamorphosis a horror story? What elements does Katl<a's story share with horror
fiction or films you have known? How does The Metamorphosis differ?
6. Compare and contrast Gregor Samsa's relationships with the people in his life to Miss
Emily's relationships with those around her in "A Rose for Emily."
7, Explore how Gregor Samsa's metamorphosis into a giant insect is symbolic of his earlier
Cooper,and
Gabriele
and Language: In the Stream of Thoughts
Li.., RiBon Natzmer
'd
• Kafka
.
JC•
vem e, CA: Ariadne, 1991. Print.
life and relations with his family. (For a discussion of literary symbols, see Chapter 7,
8, "Symbol.")
Write a metamorphosis story of your own. Imagine a character who turns overnight into
something quite other than himself or herself. As you describe that character's struggles,
try for a mix of tragedy and grotesque comedy, as found in The Metamorphosis.
Goldfarb' Sheldon. "Cn·tical Essay on The Metamorphosis." Short St • Jo
Students.
Ed. Jennifer Snuth.
• Vol. 12. Detroit: Gale, 2001 Nones
.
a r
Literature
. . Resource Center• Gale• Web• 19 Sept ember 2009.• • p g.
Goodden,
for Christina.
Our Time uPoints
Ed An of Departure. " The Kafka Debate: New Perspectives
. .
. . gel Flores. New York: Gordian 1988 2-9 Prin
He1dsieck, Arnold. "Commuruty,
• Delusion and Anti-Semitism
'
in• Kafk• , Tht.
Castle." Gennan Studies Program. German Dept., U of Southerna~alif: •
n.d. Web. 19 September 2009 · <httP•·//www.usc.edu/dept/LAS/
rrua,
•
••
H U german/track/heidsiec/KafkaAntisemitis
p
"
m1v-<1.
.,,1..u.aAntisenutism.pdf>
e er, eter. Kafka: The Futility of Stri • " •
•
•
U of Massachusetts P, 1966. 227-3:.g~~:~lectzc:s and Nihilism. Amherst:
Kafka, Sch
Franz.k "The Problem of Our Laws. " The Great Wall of China. New York·
oc en, 1946. 147-49. Print.
•
► TERMS FOR reVt('W
•
Novt>l ► An extended work of fictional prose narrative. The term mxiel usually implies a
book-length narrative.
Novelln
In modem terms, a prose narrative longer than a short story but shorter than a
novel. Unlike a short story, a novella is long enough to be published independently as a brief
►
book.
Rom11m~l' ► In general terms, romance is a narrative mode that employs exotic adventure
and idealized emotion rather than realistic depiction of character and action. In the romantic
mode, people, actions, and events are depicted more as we wish them to be (heroes are very
brave, villains are very bad) than in the complex forms in which they usually exist. Most popular fiction genres-such as mystery, horror, adventure, science fiction--develop from this
mode.
:Ho Chup11•r 8 • R,•uiliug Loug Srorirs u111I ,\11vrf5
I lislorical flc·Hon ► A type of fiction • h .
In historical fiction, the author ofren att~~ w tch the narrativ_e is set in another tirne
the period. While it may depict real histori~:I fig~~~:e:: a fa}thfu~ piclture of daily lifurd
ters ma carefully reconstructed version of a
. I '
re o ten tt paces imaginary
parttcu ar era.
c
Nc_mllclion nowl ► A genre m which act I
usmg the techniques of fiction.
ua events are presented as a novel-length s
LATIN AMERICAN
FICTION
Picure8C'fUc> ► A type of narrative, usual(
scoundrel at odds with respectable society
a novel, that. presents the life of a 1·
(Spanish for "rascal" or "rogue") wh
• e n~rrator of a picaresque was originally t
gullible. This type of narrative rare!
rec~unrs ts or her adventures tricking the _a
cures follow in a loose chronologicaror~::. tightly constructed plot, and the episodes o:'~t
TI{
i
t,;J>i11lolury novC"I ► Novel in wh· h h
.
ic t e story ts told b
fl
,
more o f t he characters. This form often lends a
h . _Y way o etters Written by on
~ut~or may have discovered these letters even ~aut he~1c1ty to the story, an illusion thate
mation.
'
oug t ey are a product of the author's i
Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.
-JORGE LUIS BORGES
lliltl1mgHrtmu111 ► German for "no I Of
h
· h'
ve
growr and develo
" So
~pprentices •P novel, this genre depicts a ouch w
pment.
metimes called
mg of a worldv1ew or philoSOphy of life. }'
ho struggles toward maturity and the fi
B
efore the middle of the twentieth century Latin America produced a number
of highly talented novelists, but their work had relatively little impact outside
their region-and often little impact beyond their own individual nations. For the
most part, these novels fit into the tradition of realism that dominated European literature in the late nineteenth century, and often pursued a social agenda, emphasizing the economic and geographical characteristics that were unique to the writer's
own country. It was relatively rare for the fiction of any individual nation to be published or even to circulate in the other countries of Spanish America. One author
who transcended these limits was the Guatemalan novelist Miguel Angel Asturias
( 1899-1974), who is credited with introducing some of the techniques of Modem ism
into Latin American fiction and who would go on to win the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1967.
But even Asturias felt that Latin American literature, while powerful, remained
provincial. In a 1970 interview he said, "To believe that we Latin Americans are
going to teach Europeans to reflect, to philosophize, to write egocentric or psychological novels, to believe that we are already a mature enough society to produce a
Proust or a Goethe-that would be daydreaming and self-deception." His remarks
exemplified the marginality still felt by most Latin American writers of his generation.
"EL BOOM"
Asturias underestimated the growing influence and appeal of Latin American literature. By 1970 Latin American fiction had begun to capture international attention.
A new generation of fiction writers had emerged who had been profoundly influenced by the great Modernists of American, British, and European literature. In their
hands, formal literary style relaxed to incorporate common speech, sudden shifts of
tone, and extravagant wordplay. Characterization became more complex and multilayered, and instead of straightforward, realist narrative there were now often fractured time sequences and fantastic events. These young writers were the catalysts of
an explosion of creativity--commonly referred to as "El Boom"-that transformed
Latin America into one of the centers of modem world fiction.
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CONTENTS
Preface
x\ ii
To the Instn«:tor .xxi
F1cT10N
l'ALKJ,C wrn1Amy Tan
For permission to use copyrighted material, grateful acknowledgment is made to the copyright holders on
pp. 728-731, which are hereby made part of this copyright page.
1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kennedy, X. J.
a
Tl IE AHT OF FICTIO\ ;;
An introduction to fiction/ X. J. Kennedy, Dana Gioia.-! I th ed.
p.cm.
Includes index.
ISBN 978-0-205-68788-6
I. Fiction-Collections.
PN6120.2.15 20IO
808.3---0cZ2
READING A STORY
2
TYPES OF SJ IOHT FICTIO\
6
W. Sm11PrHt'I ,ll,mglmm, TIH' Appoi11t111<'rll in Sumurra 6
A servant tries to gallop away from Death m this lnief sardonic fable retold in
memorable form lry a popular storyteller.
I. Gioia, Dana. II. Title.
At>H(I/J, Thi' ;\orth \\'ind and tlw Sun
7
The North Wind and the Sun argue who 1s stronger and decide co try their powers on
an unsuspecnng traveler.
2009029675
/Jidptli, Tiu• Tortoi;,t> aiul tlu- Cl'csr II
A fable ihat gives another dimension to Andrew Lang's quip, "He missed an
invaluable opportunity to hold his tongue. "
Copyright@ 2010, 2007, and 2005 by X. J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. This publication is protected by Copyright
and permission should be obtained from the publisher prior to any prohibited reproduction, storage in a retrieval system, or transmission in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or likewise. To obtain permission(s) to use material from this work, please submit a wrmen request to
Pearson Education, Inc., Permissions Department, One Lake Street, Upper Saddle River, New Jersey
07458 or you may fax your request to 201-236-3290.
C/1u<111g T:.u, l11dl'p1·11d(•1t<·1• 10
The Pnnce of Ch' u asks the philosopher Chuang T tu to become his ad11isor and gets
a surprising reply m this classic Chinese fable.
Jr,kob t1ml Wi/1,e/m Crimm, Codfutlwr Death 11
Neither God nor the De111l came to the christening. In this stark folktale,
a young man recewes magical powers with a string atUJChed.
Pl,OT 1·1
Tl IE SI IOHT STOHY n
I
J"/111 l 'p,lil,:e, ;\ & P
Longman
is an imprint of
-------
ISBN-13 : 9784205- 68788-6
ISBN-IO: 0-205-68788-1
PEARSON
14 2022
16
ln walk three girls m nothing but bathing suits , and Sammy finds himself no longer an
aproned checkout clerk but an annored knighi .
www.pearsonhighered.com
Jolm l 'Julike 011 Wrili11g, \X hy \\ rit<•?
21
iii