The Great Wall of China

by Franz Kafka

  The title story, ‘Description of a Struggle’, a very early work of Kafka’s (it has much in common with the little opening labyrinth described in ‘The Burrow’), is not included here. It exists in two separate manuscript versions, which Max Brod conflated in an attempt to produce a coherent and readable text. It would run contrary to the principles of this edition to reprint the English rendering of Brod’s conflation; on the other hand, the only satisfactory alternative would have been to offer translations of both versions, and this would have meant giving excessive prominence to what is undeniably an immature work. ‘The Bucket Rider’ is also excluded, since it is now known to have appeared during Kafka’s lifetime, and so it belongs henceforth among the published works. Against this, certain posthumous pieces have been added which are clearly capable of standing on their own, and which Brod himself presented elsewhere as independent works: ‘The Proclamation’, ‘New Lamps’, ‘The Collected Aphorisms’, ‘An Everyday Occurrence’, ‘The Truth about Sancho Panza’, ‘The Silence of the Sirens’, and ‘Prometheus’.

  The principles governing Brod’s original selection of the shorter posthumous works were not entirely clear or consistent, but the basic decisions he took in 1931 have now become so well established that it seems right to adhere to them. At the same time it is worth remembering that there are some pieces, published either in The Diaries or in the collection Wedding Preparations in the Country and Other Posthumous Prose Writings (Secker & Warburg, 1954), which may have no less claim to be considered among the ‘major short works’ left by Kafka at his death.

  Essentially, therefore, this volume is traditional in its list of contents; but within these traditional limits it can claim a quite new fidelity to the author’s text.

  Oxford MALCOLM PASLEY

  May 1991

  NOTES

  The Village Schoolmaster (December 1914). This story has previously been published as ‘The Giant Mole’. Kafka always referred to it as ‘Dorfschullehrer’ (‘Village Schoolmaster’).

  p. 13: After ‘… about something quite different’ a passage of twenty-five lines, deleted in the MS, has been omitted.

  Blumfeld, an Elderly Bachelor (probably February 1915). No author’s title. This translation, with very minor amendments, is that of Tania and James Stern.

  p. 19: After ‘… his French magazine’ a passage of thirty lines, deleted in the MS, has been omitted.

  The Warden of the Tomb (December 1916). No author’s title. There is a fair copy of this work, in the author’s typescript, as far as p. 42 ‘on the other hand he is the only one…’ This typescript shows little change from the MS version, on which our text has to be based from that point. After the stage direction on p. 44 ‘Goes to the window, looks out’, there follows a long deleted scene which is now omitted. It was replaced by the concluding passage translated here. Apart from this final section the translation, with minor amendments, is that of Willa and Edwin Muir.

  The Bridge (December 1916). No author’s title.

  The Hunter Gracchus. No author’s title. This story exists in four separate fragmentary versions. The first two were written in December 1916. Although conflated in previous editions they are textually distinct: the first consists of narrative and dialogue, the second takes the form of a written account by Gracchus. The third fragment was written in the author’s diary of 6 April 1917, and is reproduced here for the sake of completeness. The fourth fragment, the conversation between Gracchus and the visitor to his boat, was written at about the same time.

  p. 48: Riva. A town on the shores of Lake Garda, often visited by Kafka.

  The Proclamation (December 1916). No author’s title.

  The Great Wall of China (Early 1917). Author’s title: ‘Beim Bau der chinesischen Mauer’.

  p. 66: ‘The emperor, so it is told…’: the remainder of this paragraph was published by the author, with minor alterations, as ‘Eine kaiserliche Botschaft’ (‘A Message from the Emperor’).

  p. 68: After ‘… lord of the village’ a passage of twenty-eight lines, deleted in the MS, has been omitted.

  p. 69: ‘among our people…’: at this point in the MS there follow some deleted attempts to find a transition to the next section beginning ‘Such was the world…’ One of them runs as follows: ‘The above indications may perhaps suffice for it to be understood what the decision to build the wall signified in a world of this kind.’

  p. 70: The final passage, printed in brackets, is deleted in the MS; it is reproduced here, exceptionally, to show how this last completed part of the story was linked to the earlier parts in the author’s mind.

  The Knock at the Manor Gate (early 1917). No author’s title.

  My Neighbour (April 1917). No author’s title.

  A Crossbreed (April 1917). Author’s title. Several passages previously included in this story were deleted in the MS and are omitted here.

  New Lamps (August/September 1917). No author’s title.

  The Collected Aphorisms (October 1917 to February 1918). No author’s title. Previously published under the title ‘Reflections on Sin, Suffering, Hope, and the True Way’. Late in 1920 Kafka copied out these aphorisms on separate numbered sheets; he then made a further fair copy, in typescript, on which this text is based. It seems likely that he considered publication.

  An Everyday Occurrence (October 1917). No author’s title. The previous titles (‘A Common Confusion’, ‘An Everyday Confusion’) rest on a faulty reading of the manuscript.

  The Truth about Sancho Panza (October 1917). No author’s title.

  The Silence of the Sirens (October 1917). No author’s title.

  Prometheus (January 1918). No author’s title. The translation is based on that of Willa and Edwin Muir.

  He: Aphorisms from the 1920 Diary, untitled. These aphoristic notes were entered in Kafka’s diary between 6 January and 29 February 1920. All the sheets on which they were written, except the first, were then torn from the book – presumably when he sent his diaries to Milena Jesenská. The whole sequence is restored here for the first time.

  p. 107: a picture. Probably ‘Boulter’s Lock, Sunday Afternoon’, oil painting by Edward John Gregory (as reproduced in The Studio, 15 November 1909).

  p. 109: the Laurenziberg. A hill on the outskirts of Prague.

  p. 110: Casinelli’s. A Prague bookshop.

  The City Coat of Arms

  Poseidon

  Fellowship

  At Night

  The Refusal

  The Problem of Our Laws

  The Conscription of Troops

  The Test

  The Vulture

  The Helmsman

  The Top

  A Little Fable

  Homecoming

  All the above stories were written in late 1920. Only ‘The Problem of Our Laws’ is an original title (‘Zur Frage der Gesetze’). The translations of ‘Poseidon’, ‘Fellowship’, ‘The Refusal’, ‘The Test’, ‘The Vulture’, ‘The Helmsman’, and ‘The Top’ are by Tania and James Stern, slightly amended where necessary.

  The Departure (early 1922). No author’s title.

  Advocates (early 1922). No author’s title. The translation is based on that of Tania and James Stern.

  Investigations of a Dog (autumn 1922). No author’s title.

  p. 154: After ‘… that I truly expect no longer’ a passage of twenty-five lines, deleted in the MS, is omitted.

  The Married Couple (late 1922). Author’s title: ‘Das Ehepaar’. This story exists in two MS versions. The later one, which is followed here, is a very careful fair copy and suggests that Kafka considered publication.

  A Comment (December 1922). Previously published as ‘Give it up!’ The present title is the author’s (‘Ein Kommentar’).

  On Parables (probably 1922 or 1923). No author’s title.

  The Burrow (winter 1923–4). No author’s title. In the case of this story a revised German text has already been published (Der Heizer, In der Strafkolonie, Der Bau, Cam
bridge University Press, 1966).

  THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER

  THOSE, and I am one of them, who find even a little ordinary-sized mole disgusting, would probably have died of disgust if they had seen the giant mole that was observed a few years ago, not far from a small village which gained a certain passing notoriety on that account. Today, of course, that village has long since sunk back into obscurity, and thus merely shares the ingloriousness of the whole incident, which has remained wholly unexplained and which indeed no one has taken much trouble to explain; and so, as the result of an incomprehensible apathy in those very circles which should have concerned themselves with it, and which do in fact concern themselves energetically with far more trifling matters, the affair has been forgotten without ever having been closely examined. This can certainly not be excused by the fact that the village lies a long way off from the railway; many people came great distances out of curiosity, even from abroad; it was only those who should have shown something more than curiosity that failed to come. In fact, if it had not been for a few quite simple people, people whose ordinary daily work hardly permits them a moment’s peaceful relaxation, if these people had not selflessly taken the matter up, the rumour of this particular phenomenon would probably never have spread beyond the immediate locality. It must be admitted that even rumour, which is after all usually impossible to restrain, was in this case positively sluggish; unless it had been literally pushed it would never have spread. But that was certainly no reason for refusing to take an interest in the matter; on the contrary, here was another phenomenon which ought to have been investigated.

  Instead of that the writing-up of the case was left exclusively to the old schoolmaster, and he, though an excellent man in his own profession, was equipped neither by his abilities nor his training to produce a thorough and generally serviceable description, let alone an explanation. His little treatise was printed, and had a good sale among the visitors to the village in those days; it even received some measure of recognition, but the teacher was wise enough to realize that these fragmentary efforts of his, in which no one supported him, were basically worthless. The fact that he continued with them none the less, and made this question, which by its very nature became more hopeless from year to year, into his life’s work, proves on the one hand the extremely powerful effect that the appearance of the mole was capable of producing, and on the other how much tenacity and firmness of conviction may be found in an old and obscure village schoolmaster. But that he suffered deeply from the cool attitude of the recognized authorities is proved by a small supplement with which he followed his treatise up; though that was not until some years later, in other words at a time when there was hardly anyone left who could remember what it was all about. In this supplement he complains – and his argument carries conviction by its honesty if not by its skill – of the lack of understanding he had met with among people where it was least to be expected. Of such people he remarks appositely: ‘It is not I, it is they who talk like old village schoolmasters.’ And among other things he quotes the pronouncement of a scholar whom he had gone to see expressly about his affair. The name of this scholar is not mentioned, but from a number of attendant circumstances it is possible to deduce who it was. It was only after great difficulty that the teacher even succeeded in gaining access to this authority, despite the fact that he had announced his visit weeks in advance, and then he at once perceived from the manner of his reception that the scholar was in the grip of an immovable prejudice in respect of his affair. The absence of mind with which he listened to the long account that the teacher gave him, on the basis of his monograph, can be gauged from the comment that he made, after a pause for ostensible reflection: ‘The soil in your neighbourhood is known to be particularly black and rich. Well, so it also provides moles with particularly rich nourishment, and they become exceptionally large.’ ‘But not as large as all that!’ cried the teacher, and exaggerating a little in his fury he measured off a couple of yards against the wall. ‘Oh certainly,’ replied the scholar, who evidently regarded the whole thing as highly amusing. With that verdict the teacher returned home. He recounts how his wife and six children were waiting for him that evening by the side of the main road in a snowstorm, and how he had to confess to them the final collapse of his hopes.

  At the time that I read of the scholar’s behaviour towards the teacher I was not even acquainted with the teacher’s main treatise. But I immediately decided to collect and collate on my own account everything that I could discover about the case. Since I could hardly attack the scholar with my bare fists, I would at least use my pen to defend the teacher, or more exactly, not so much defend the teacher as defend the good intentions of an honest but uninfluential man. I must admit that I regretted this resolve later, for I soon became aware that in carrying it out I should place myself in a curious position. On the one hand even my own influence was nothing like sufficient to change the scholar’s mind in the teacher’s favour, let alone change public opinion, while on the other the teacher was bound to notice that I was less concerned with his own main objective, which was to prove the fact of the great mole’s appearance, than with the defence of his honesty, which of course seemed to him self-evident and to require no defence. So what was bound to happen was that I, while wishing to ally myself with the teacher, would meet with no understanding on his part, and probably that instead of helping I would need a new helper myself, who was most unlikely to be forthcoming. Besides, I had saddled myself with a great deal of work by taking this decision. If I wanted to convince, I could not afford to invoke the teacher, for of course he had been unable to carry conviction. A knowledge of his treatise would only have confused me, and I therefore refrained from reading it before my own work was completed. In fact, I did not even make contact with the teacher. It is true that he learned indirectly of my inquiries, but he did not know whether I was working for him or against him. Indeed he probably even suspected the latter, although he later denied it, for I have evidence to show that he placed a number of obstacles in my path. This was quite easy for him, since I was naturally compelled to undertake afresh all the investigations which he had already carried out, and so he was always in a position to forestall me. But that was the sole objection that could justifiably be made to my mode of procedure, moreover it was an unavoidable objection, and was deprived of much of its force by the caution, indeed the self-denial, with which I came to my conclusions. But in all other respects my own treatise was quite free from the teacher’s influence, and perhaps I was even excessively scrupulous on this point; it was just as if no one had investigated the matter before, as if I had been the first to interrogate the eye-witnesses and the ear-witnesses, the first to put the evidence together, the first to draw conclusions.

  Later, when I read the teacher’s monograph – it had a very circumstantial title: ‘A mole, of a size greater than ever previously observed’ – I did in fact find that we were at variance on a number of major points, though we both believed we had proved our principal point, namely, the existence of the mole. However, these individual points of disagreement prevented the friendly relations growing up between us that I had still hoped for despite everything. On his side there developed something like hostility. True, he always remained modest and humble in his behaviour towards me, but that only made his real feelings the more obvious. The truth was that in his opinion I had done both him and his cause nothing but harm, and my own belief that I had been, or could have been, of any help to him was at best foolishness, and more probably arrogance or trickery. He was particularly fond of pointing out that all his previous opponents had displayed their opposition, if at all, only in confidential discussion, or anyway only by word of mouth, while I had considered it necessary to rush straight into print with all my objections. Moreover, the few opponents of his who had really occupied themselves with the matter, if but superficially, had at least listened to his, the teacher’s, opinion, that is to say the authoritative opinion, before they e
xpressed their own; while I, on the strength of evidence that had been unsystematically collected and partially misunderstood, had published conclusions which, even if correct on the principal matter at issue, could not fail to appear implausible, as much to the general public as to educated people. But the faintest hint of implausibility was the worst thing that could happen in this case. To these reproaches which he brought forward, albeit in a veiled manner, I could easily have found an answer – for instance his treatise itself represented just about the height of implausibility – but it was less easy to contend with his further suspicions, and that was why I was always extremely guarded in my dealings with him. For what he secretly believed was that I had tried to deprive him of the fame that belonged to him as the first public champion of the mole.

  Now of course there was no fame attaching to him whatsoever, merely a little ridicule, and even that was restricted to a progressively diminishing circle and I certainly had no wish to compete for it. Besides, in the foreword to my treatise I had expressly declared that the teacher must be regarded for all time as the discoverer of the mole – not that he was its discoverer in any case – and that it was solely my personal sympathy with the teacher’s fate that had moved me to compose the treatise. ‘It is the aim of this work’ – so I ended up in rather too resounding a manner, but it matched the strength of my feelings at the time – ‘to help the teacher’s monograph gain the publicity it deserves. Should this aim be achieved, then it is right that my own name, which has become temporarily and only indirectly associated with this affair, should be expunged from it forthwith.’ Thus I disclaimed positively any major part in the affair; it was almost as if I had somehow anticipated the teacher’s unbelievable accusation. Nevertheless it was precisely in that passage that he found a handle against me, and I cannot deny that what he said – or rather indicated – did contain some apparent trace of justification; indeed it sometimes struck me that he showed almost more penetration where I was concerned than he had done in his treatise. What he asserted was that my foreword was disingenuous. If my sole purpose had really been to publicize his treatise, why had I not dealt with him and his treatise exclusively, why had I not demonstrated its virtues, its irrefutability, why had I not restricted myself to emphasizing and making clear the significance of the discovery, why had I intruded myself instead into the actual making of the discovery, while passing over his treatise in utter silence? Did I perhaps imagine that the discovery had not already been made? Did I suppose that anything further remained to be done in that respect? But if I really thought it was necessary for me to make the discovery all over again, why was it that I solemnly renounced all claim to the discovery in my foreword? That could have been false modesty, but it was really something worse. I was belittling the discovery, I was only drawing attention to it in order to belittle it, I had investigated it only to lay it aside; by that time the matter had perhaps quietened down a little, then along I had come and stirred it up again, but in doing so I had made the teacher’s position more difficult than ever. What did the teacher care about the defence of his honesty? His concern was for the matter at issue, and for that alone. And that was what I had betrayed, because I failed to understand it, because I could not appreciate it properly, because I lacked all feeling for it. It was worlds beyond the grasp of my intellect. He sat there opposite me, looking at me calmly with his old, wrinkled face and yet that was precisely what he thought of me.