by Franz Kafka
But the wrong they do themselves the assistants cannot see. For instance, they almost always arrive late at the office. Blumfeld, their superior, who from his earliest youth has considered it natural to arrive half an hour before the office opens – not from ambition or an exaggerated sense of duty but simply from a certain feeling of decency – often has to wait more than an hour for his assistants. Chewing his breakfast roll he stands behind his desk, looking through the accounts in the seamstresses’ little books. Soon he is immersed in his work and thinking of nothing else when suddenly he receives such a shock that his pen continues to tremble in his hand for some while afterwards. One of the assistants has dashed in, looking as though he is about to collapse; he is holding on to something with one hand while the other is pressed against his heaving chest. All this, however, simply means that he is making excuses for being late, excuses so absurd that Blumfeld purposely ignores them, for if he didn’t he would have to give the young man a well-deserved thrashing. As it is, he just glances at him for a moment, points with outstretched hand at the cubicle, and turns back to his work. Now one really might expect the assistant to appreciate his superior’s kindness and hurry to his place. No, he doesn’t hurry, he dawdles about, he walks on tiptoe, slowly placing one foot in front of the other. Is he trying to ridicule his superior? No. Again it’s just that mixture of fear and self-complacency against which one is powerless. How else explain the fact that even today Blumfeld, who has himself arrived unusually late in the office and now after a long wait – he doesn’t feel like checking the books – sees, through the clouds of dust raised by the stupid servant with his broom, the two assistants sauntering peacefully along the street? Arm in arm, they appear to be telling one another important things which, however, are sure to have only the remotest and very likely irrelevant connections with the office. The nearer they approach the glass door, the slower they walk. One of them seizes the door handle but fails to turn it; they just go on talking, listening, laughing. ‘Hurry out and open the door for our gentlemen!’ shouts Blumfeld at the servant, throwing up his hands. But when the assistants come in, Blumfeld no longer feels like quarrelling, ignores their greetings, and goes to his desk. He starts doing his accounts, but now and again glances up to see what his assistants are up to. One of them seems very tired, yawns and rubs his eyes. When hanging up his overcoat he takes the opportunity to lean against the wall. In the street he seemed lively enough, but the proximity of work tires him. The other assistant, however, is eager to work, but only work of a certain kind. For a long time it has been his wish to be allowed to sweep. But this is work to which he is not entitled; sweeping is exclusively the servant’s job; in itself Blumfeld would have nothing against the assistant sweeping, let the assistant sweep, he can’t make a worse job of it than the servant, but if the assistant wants to sweep then he must come earlier, before the servant begins to sweep, and not spend on it time that is reserved exclusively for office work. But since the young man is totally deaf to any argument, at least the servant – that half-blind old buffer whom the boss would certainly not tolerate in any department but Blumfeld’s and who is still alive only by the grace of the boss and God – at least the servant might be sensible and hand the broom for a moment to the young man who, being clumsy, would soon lose his interest and run after the servant with the broom in order to persuade him to go on sweeping. It appears, however, that the servant feels especially responsible for the sweeping; one can see how he, the moment the young man approaches him, tries to grasp the broom more firmly with his trembling hands; he even stands still and stops sweeping so as to direct his full attention to the ownership of the broom. The assistant doesn’t actually plead in words, for he is afraid of Blumfeld, who is ostensibly doing his accounts; moreover, ordinary speech is useless, since the servant can be made to hear only by excessive shouting. So at first the assistant tugs the servant by the sleeve. The servant knows, of course, what it is about, glowers at the assistant, shakes his head and pulls the broom nearer, up to his chest. Whereupon the assistant folds his hands and pleads. Actually, he has no hope of achieving anything by pleading, but the pleading amuses him and so he pleads. The other assistant follows the goings-on with low laughter and seems to think, heaven knows why, that Blumfeld can’t hear him. The pleading makes not the slightest impression on the servant, who turns round and thinks he can safely use the broom again. The assistant, however, has skipped after him on tiptoe and, rubbing his hands together imploringly, now pleads from another side. This turning of the one and skipping of the other is repeated several times. Finally the servant feels cut off from all sides and realizes – something which, had he been slightly less stupid, he might have realized from the beginning – that he will be tired out long before the assistant. So, looking for help elsewhere, he wags his finger at the assistant and points at Blumfeld, suggesting that he will lodge a complaint if the assistant refuses to desist. The assistant realizes that if he is to get the broom at all he’ll have to hurry. So he impudently makes a grab for it. An involuntary scream from the other assistant heralds the imminent decision. The servant saves the broom once more by taking a step back and dragging it after him. But now the assistant is up in arms: with open mouth and flashing eyes he leaps forward, the servant tries to escape, but his old legs wobble rather than run, the assistant tugs at the broom and though he doesn’t succeed in getting it he nevertheless causes it to drop and in this way it is lost to the servant. Also apparently to the assistant for, the moment the broom falls, all three, the two assistants and the servant, are paralysed, for now Blumfeld is bound to discover everything. And sure enough Blumfeld at his peephole glances up as though taking in the situation only now. He stares at each one with a stern and searching eye, even the broom on the floor does not escape his notice. Perhaps the silence has lasted too long or perhaps the assistant can no longer suppress his desire to sweep, in any case he bends down – albeit very carefully, as though about to grab an animal rather than a broom – seizes it, passes it over the floor, but, when Blumfeld jumps up and steps out of his cubicle, promptly casts it aside in alarm. ‘Both of you back to work! And not another sound out of you!’ shouts Blumfeld, and with an outstretched hand he directs the two assistants back to their desks. They obey at once, but not shamefaced or with lowered heads, rather they squeeze themselves stiffly past Blumfeld, staring him straight in the eye as though trying in this way to stop him from beating them. Yet they might have learned from experience that Blumfeld on principle never beats anyone. But they are over-apprehensive, and without any tact keep trying to protest their real or imaginary rights.
THE WARDEN OF THE TOMB
Small workroom, high window, beyond it a bare treetop. PRINCE at writing table, leaning back in chair, looking out of window. CHAMBERLAIN, white beard, youthfully squeezed into tight jacket, standing against wall near centre door.
Pause.
PRINCE [turning from window:] Well?
CHAMBERLAIN: I cannot recommend it, your Highness.
PRINCE: Why?
CHAMBERLAIN: I can’t quite formulate my objections at the moment. I’m expressing only a fraction of what’s on my mind when I quote the universal saying: ‘Let the dead rest in peace.’
PRINCE: That’s my opinion, too.
CHAMBERLAIN: In that case I haven’t properly understood.
PRINCE: So it seems. [Pause.] Perhaps the only thing that disconcerts you is that instead of going ahead with the arrangement, I announced it to you first.
CHAMBERLAIN: The announcement certainly burdens me with great responsibility which I must endeavour to live up to.
PRINCE: Don’t speak of responsibility! [Pause.] Let’s see. Hitherto the tomb in the Friedrichspark has been guarded by a warden who lives in a lodge at the park’s entrance. Was there anything wrong with this?
CHAMBERLAIN: Certainly not. The tomb is more than four hundred years old and has always been guarded in this way.
PRINCE: It could be an abuse. But it isn’t a
n abuse, is it?
CHAMBERLAIN: It is a necessary arrangement.
PRINCE: All right then, a necessary arrangement. I’ve been here in the castle quite some time now, have gained some insight into details which hitherto have been entrusted to strangers – they manage fairly well – and I’ve come to this conclusion: the Warden up there in the park is not enough. There must also be a guard down in the tomb. It probably won’t be a pleasant job. But experience has proved that willing and suitable people can be found for any job.
CHAMBERLAIN: Needless to say, any orders issued by your Highness will be carried out, even if the necessity of the order is not fully understood.
PRINCE [starting up]: Necessity! Do you mean to say that a guard at the park gate is necessary? The Friedrichspark belongs to the castle park, is entirely surrounded by it. The castle park itself is amply guarded – by the army, what’s more. So why a special guard for the Friedrichspark? Isn’t this a mere formality? A pleasant deathbed for the wretched old man who is keeping watch there?
CHAMBERLAIN: Formality it is, but a necessary one. A demonstration of reverence for the illustrious dead.
PRINCE: And what about the guard in the tomb itself?
CHAMBERLAIN: In my opinion this would have a police connotation. It would mean a real guarding of unreal things beyond the human sphere.
PRINCE: For my family this tomb represents the frontier of humanity, and it’s on this frontier that I wish to post a guard. As for the police connotation, as you call it, we can question the Warden himself. I’ve sent for him. [Rings a bell.]
CHAMBERLAIN: He’s a confused old man, if I may say so, already quite out of hand.
PRINCE: If that’s so, all the more reason for strengthening the guard in the way I’ve suggested.
[Enter servant.]
PRINCE: The Warden of the tomb!
[Servant leads in Warden, holding him tight round the waist to prevent him from collapsing. Ancient red livery hanging loosely about Warden, brightly polished silver buttons, several decorations. Cap in hand, he trembles under the gentlemen’s gaze.]
PRINCE: Put him on the divan!
[Servant lays him down and goes off. Pause. A faint rattling in Warden’s throat.]
PRINCE [again in armchair]: Can you hear?
[WARDEN tries to answer but fails, is too exhausted, sinks back again.]
PRINCE: Try to pull yourself together. We’re waiting.
CHAMBERLAIN [leaning over Prince]: What could this man give information about? And credible and important information at that? He ought to be taken straight to bed.
WARDEN: Not to bed – still strong – fairly – can still hold my end up.
PRINCE: So you should. You’ve only just turned sixty. Granted, you look very weak.
WARDEN: I’ll pick up in no time – feel better in a minute.
PRINCE: It wasn’t meant as a reproach. I’m only sorry you aren’t feeling well. Have you anything to complain about?
WARDEN: Hard work – hard work – not complaining – but very weak – wrestling bouts every night.
PRINCE: What d’you say?
WARDEN: Hard work.
PRINCE: You said something else.
WARDEN: Wrestling bouts.
PRINCE: Wrestling bouts? What kind of wrestling bouts?
WARDEN: With the blessed ancestors.
PRINCE: I don’t understand. D’you have bad dreams?
WARDEN: No dreams – don’t sleep.
PRINCE: Then let’s hear about these – these wrestling bouts.
[WARDEN remains silent.]
PRINCE [to Chamberlain]: Why doesn’t he speak?
CHAMBERLAIN [hurrying to Warden]: He may die any minute.
[PRINCE stands up.]
WARDEN [as Chamberlain touches him]: Don’t, don’t, don’t! [Fights off Chamberlain’s hands, then collapses in tears.]
PRINCE: We’re tormenting him.
CHAMBERLAIN: How?
PRINCE: I don’t know.
CHAMBERLAIN: Coming to the castle, having to present himself here, the sight of your Highness, this questioning – he no longer has the wits to face all this.
PRINCE [still staring at the Warden]: That’s not it. [Goes to divan, bends over Warden, takes his little skull in his hands.] Mustn’t cry. What are you crying for? We wish you well. I realize your job isn’t easy. You’ve certainly deserved well of my family. So stop crying and tell us all about it.
WARDEN: But I’m so afraid of that gentleman there – [Looks at Chamberlain, more threateningly than afraid.]
