by Franz Kafka
The hunter nodded and passed the tip of his tongue between his lips: ‘Yes, the doves fly on ahead of me. But do you think, Mr Burgomaster, that I should remain in Riva?’
‘That I cannot yet say,’ replied the burgomaster. ‘Are you dead?’
‘Yes,’ said the hunter, ‘as you see. Many years ago, indeed it must be an uncommonly long time ago, I fell from a rock in the Black Forest – that is in Germany – when I was hunting a chamois. Since then I have been dead.’
‘But you are alive too,’ said the burgomaster.
‘To some extent,’ said the hunter, ‘to some extent I am alive too. My death boat went off course; a wrong turn of the wheel, a moment’s absence of mind on the part of the helmsman, the distraction of my lovely native country, I cannot tell what it was; I only know this, that I remained on earth and that ever since my boat has been sailing earthly waters. So I, who asked for nothing better than to live among my mountains, travel after my death through all the lands of the earth.’
‘And you have no part in the other world?’ asked the burgomaster, knitting his brow.
‘I am for ever,’ replied the hunter, ‘on the great stairway that leads up to it. On that infinitely wide and open stairway I clamber about, sometimes up, sometimes down, sometimes on the right, sometimes on the left, always in motion. But when I soar up with a supreme effort and can already see the gate shining above me, I wake up on my old boat, still forlornly stranded in some earthly sea. The fundamental error of my one-time death grins at me in my cabin; Julia, the boatman’s wife, knocks at the door and brings to my bier the morning drink of the land whose coasts we happen to be passing.’
‘A terrible fate,’ said the burgomaster, raising his hand defensively. ‘And you bear no blame for it?’
‘None,’ said the hunter, ‘I was a hunter; am I to be blamed for that? I was assigned my place as a hunter in the Black Forest, where there were still wolves in those days; I used to lie in ambush, shoot, hit my mark, flay the skins from my victims: am I to be blamed for that? My labours were blessed. I was known as the great hunter of the Black Forest. Am I to be blamed for that?’
‘I am not called upon to decide the matter,’ said the burgomaster, ‘but it seems to me too that all is blameless enough. But who, then, is to blame?’
‘The boatman,’ said the hunter.
‘And now you have a mind to stay here in Riva with us?’
‘I have no mind,’ said the hunter with a smile, and to excuse the jest he laid his hand on the burgomaster’s knee. ‘I am here, more than that I do not know, more than that I cannot do. My boat has no rudder, it is driven by the wind that blows in the nethermost regions of death.’
2
Nobody will read what I write here, nobody will come to help me; even if there were a commandment to help me, all the doors of all the houses would stay closed, all the windows would stay closed, all the people would lie in their beds with the blankets drawn over their heads, the whole earth one great nocturnal lodging. And there is sense in that, for nobody knows of me, and if anyone knew of me he would not know where I could be found, and if anyone knew where I could be found he would not know how to help me. The idea of wanting to help me is a sickness, and it has to be cured in bed.
All this I know, and so I am not writing to summon help, even though in my lack of self-control I have moments, such as this one for instance, when I seriously consider it. But it will probably suffice to drive out such thoughts if I look round me and call to mind where I am, and where – as I may well be permitted to assert – I have been living for centuries.
As I write this I am lying on a wooden board; I wear – it is no pleasure to look at me – a filthy winding-sheet; my hair and beard, grey and black, are inextricably entangled; my legs are covered by a large woman’s shawl of flower-patterned silk with long fringes. At my head stands a sacramental candle and gives me light. On the wall opposite me is a little picture, obviously of a bushman, who is aiming his spear at me and taking cover as best he can behind a magnificently painted shield. On ships one comes across many stupid depictions, but this is one of the stupidest. Otherwise my wooden cage is quite empty. Through the hole in the side come the warm airs of the southern night, and I can hear the water slapping against the old bark.
I have been lying here ever since the time when I, still the live hunter Gracchus at home in the Black Forest, was hunting a chamois and fell. Everything happened in good order. I gave chase, I fell, I bled to death in a ravine, I was dead, and this bark was supposed to convey me to the next world. I can still remember how cheerfully I stretched myself out on this board for the first time; never had the mountains heard such song from me as was heard then by these four still shadowy walls. I had been glad to live and was glad to die; before stepping aboard I joyfully flung down my miserable accoutrements, rifle, knapsack, hunting coat, that I had always worn with pride, and I slipped into my winding sheet like a girl into her wedding-dress. I lay there and waited.
Then there happened…
3
In the little harbour, which apart from fishing boats is normally used only by the two passenger steamers that ply the lake, there lay today a strange bark. A clumsy old craft, relatively low and very broad, as filthy as if it had been swamped with bilge water, which still seemed to be dripping down the yellowish sides; the masts incomprehensibly tall, the upper third of the mainmast snapped; wrinkled, coarse, yellowish-brown sails stretched in confusion between the yards; patchwork, too weak for the slightest gust.
I gazed in astonishment at it for a time, waited for someone to show himself on deck; no one appeared. A workman sat down beside me on the harbour wall. ‘Whose ship is that?’ I asked, ‘this is the first time I’ve seen it.’ ‘It puts in every two or three years,’ said the man, ‘and belongs to the hunter Gracchus.’
4
‘What is it you say, hunter Gracchus, you have been sailing for hundreds of years by now in this old boat?’
‘For fifteen hundred years.’
‘And always in this ship?’
‘Always in this bark. Bark, I believe, is the correct expression. You aren’t familiar with nautical matters?’
‘No, I never gave them a thought until today, until I heard about you, until I boarded your ship.’
‘Don’t apologize. I come from inland too. I was no seafarer, never wanted to be, mountains and forests were my friends, and now – most ancient of mariners, hunter Gracchus, patron saint of sailors, hunter Gracchus, prayed to by the cabin-boy as he wrings his hands, cowering in the crow’s-nest on a stormy night. Don’t laugh.’
‘Me laugh? Certainly not. With a beating heart I stood before your cabin door, with a beating heart I entered. Your friendly manner calms me a little, but I’ll never forget whose guest I am.’
‘You’re right, of course. However it may be, I am hunter Gracchus. Won’t you drink some of this wine? I don’t know the brand, but it’s sweet and heavy, the master looks after me well.’
‘Not just now, thank you, I’m too restless. Later perhaps, if you can bear with me that long. Who is the master?’
‘The owner of the bark. They are really excellent men, these masters. Except that I don’t understand them. I don’t mean their language, although of course I often don’t understand their language either. But that is by the by. Over the centuries I‘ve learned languages enough, and I could be an interpreter between the men of the present and their forebears of old. But I don’t understand the way the masters’ minds work. Perhaps you can explain it to me.’
‘I’m not very hopeful. How could I explain anything to you, since I’m no more than a babbling babe by comparison?’
‘Don’t talk like that, I won’t have it. You would oblige me if you’d be a little more manly, more self-assured. What am I to do with a mere shadow of a guest? I’ll puff him through the porthole into the lake. There are several explanations that I require. You who roam around outside can give me them. But if you sit trembling here at my
table, and deceive yourself into supposing that you have forgotten what little you know, then you may as well clear out at once. I believe in speaking plainly.’
‘There’s something in what you say. I really do have the advantage of you in some respects. So I’ll try to control myself. Ask away!’
‘It’s far, far better for you to exaggerate in that direction and imagine that you have a certain superiority. But you must understand me properly. I’m a human being like you, but many centuries older and as many centuries more impatient. Well, we were going to speak of the masters. Pay attention. And drink some wine, to sharpen your wits. Don’t be shy. Take a good swig. There’s another large shipload of it.’
‘Gracchus, this is an excellent wine. Here’s health to the master!’
‘Pity he died today. He was a good man and he departed peacefully. Fine, grown-up children stood at his deathbed, at the foot of the bed his wife fainted away, but his last thought was for me. A good man, a Hamburger.’
‘Heavens above, a Hamburger, and you know down here in the south that he died today?’
‘Well? Should I not know when my master dies? You really are a bit simple.’
‘Are you trying to insult me?’
‘No, not at all, I do it unintentionally. But you should show less amazement and drink more wine. As for the masters, it’s like this: originally the bark belonged to no one.’
‘Gracchus, one request. Tell me first briefly but coherently how things really stand with you. To be honest: I simply don’t know. You of course take these things for granted and assume, as is your way, that the whole world knows about them. But in this brief human life – and life really is brief, Gracchus, try to grasp that – in this brief life one has one’s hands full enough doing the best for oneself and one’s family. And interesting as the hunter Gracchus is – this is conviction, not flattery – there’s no time to think about him, to inquire about him, let alone worry about him. Perhaps on one’s deathbed, like your Hamburger – that I don’t know. Then, perhaps, a busy man has his first chance to stretch himself out and let the green hunter Gracchus stroll for once through his idle thoughts. But otherwise, it’s as I’ve said: I knew nothing about you, business brought me down here to the harbour, the gang-plank was in place, I walked across – but now I’d like to hear something coherent about you.’
‘Ah, coherent. The old, old stories. All the books are full of it, in all the schools the teachers draw it on the blackboard, the mother dreams of it while suckling her child, and you, my friend, sit here and ask me how it hangs together. You must have had an exceptionally dissipated youth.’
‘Possibly, as is typical of anyone’s youth. But as for you, I think you would find it very useful just to look round in the world a bit. It may seem funny to you, and sitting here it surprises even me, but the fact is you are not the talk of the town; however many subjects may be discussed, you are not among them; the world goes on its way and you pursue your journey, but until today I have never noticed that your paths have crossed.’
‘These are your observations, my dear friend, other people have made others. There are only two possibilities here. Either you are concealing what you know about me, and are doing so with some definite motive. In which case let me tell you frankly, you are on the wrong track. Or alternatively: you really believe that you can’t remember me, because you are confusing my story with someone else’s. In that case I can only tell you: I am – no, I can’t, everyone knows it, and I of all people am supposed to tell you! It’s so long ago. Ask the historians! Agape in their studies, they observe what happened in the distant past, and they describe it continually. Go to them, and then come back. It’s so long ago. How can I be expected to retain it in this overcrowded brain?’
‘Wait, Gracchus, I’ll make it easier for you, I’ll ask you some questions. Where do you come from?’
‘From the Black Forest, as everyone knows.’
‘Of course, from the Black Forest. And so you used to hunt there in about the fourth century?’
‘I say, do you know the Black Forest?’
‘No.’
‘You really don’t know anything. The little child of the helmsman knows more, truly far more, than you do. Who wafted you in here anyway? It’s a calamity. Your initial modesty was indeed only too well justified. You’re a mere nothing that I’m filling up with wine. So now you don’t even know the Black Forest. And I was born there. Until I was twenty-five I hunted there. If only the chamois hadn’t led me on – well, now you know it – I’d have had a long and happy hunter’s life, but I was lured by the chamois! I fell and was killed on the rocks below. Don’t ask any more. Here I am, dead, dead, dead. Don’t know why I’m here. Was loaded on to the death boat as is right and proper, a miserable corpse, the three or four ministrations were performed upon me, as on everyone – why make an exception for the hunter Gracchus? – everything was in order, I lay stretched out in the boat.’
THE PROCLAMATION
IN our house, this vast building on the outskirts of the town, a tenement-house whose fabric is interspersed with indestructible medieval ruins, there were today distributed, on this foggy ice-cold winter morning, copies of the following proclamation:
To all my fellow tenants.
I possess five toy rifles; they are hanging in my wardrobe, one on each hook. The first belongs to me, the others may be claimed by anyone who wishes; if there are more than four claimants the extra ones must bring their own rifles with them and deposit them in my wardrobe. For uniformity is essential, without uniformity we shall get nowhere. Incidentally, I have only rifles that are quite useless for any other purpose, the mechanism is broken, the corks are torn off, only the cocks still click. So it will not be difficult to obtain more such rifles if required. But in principle even people without rifles will be acceptable to begin with; at the decisive moment those of us who have rifles will rally round those who are unarmed. A tactical method that proved itself with the first American farmers against the Red Indians; why should it not prove successful here as well, since after all the conditions are similar? And so it is even possible to do without rifles permanently. And even the five rifles are not absolutely necessary, and it is only because they just happen to be there that they may as well be used. But should the four others not wish to carry them, then let them do without. In that case I alone, as the leader, will carry one. But we should have no leader, and so I too will break up my rifle or put it away.
That was the first proclamation. Nobody in our house has the time or the wish to read proclamations, let alone to think them over. Before long the little sheets of paper were floating in the current of filth that, starting from the attics and fed by all the corridors, pours down the staircase and there struggles with the opposing current that swirls up from below. But after a week there came a second proclamation:
Fellow tenants!
So far nobody has sent in his name to me. Apart from the hours when I have to earn my living I have been continuously at home, and during the periods of my absence, when the door of my room has always been left open, there has been a sheet of paper on my table where anybody who wished could enter his name. Nobody has done so.
THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA
THE Great Wall of China has been completed at its most northerly point. From the south-east and the south-west it came up in two sections that were united here. This system of piecemeal construction was also followed within each of the two great armies of labour, the eastern army and the western army. It was done by forming gangs of about a score of labourers, whose task it was to erect a section of wall about five hundred yards long, while the adjoining gang built a stretch of similar length to meet it. But after the junction had been effected the work was not then continued, as one might have expected, where the thousand yards ended; instead the labour-gangs were sent off to continue their work on the wall in some quite different region. This meant of course that many great gaps were left, which were only filled in by slow and gradual sta
ges, and some indeed not until after the completion of the wall had actually been announced. It is even said that there are gaps which have never been filled in at all, and according to some people they are far larger than the completed sections, but this assertion may admittedly be no more than one of the many legends that have grown up round the wall, and which no single person can verify, at least not with his own eyes and his own judgement, owing to the great extent of the structure.
Now one might think at first that it would have been more advantageous in every way to build continuously, or at least continuously within each of the two main sections. After all the wall was intended, as is commonly taught and recognized, to be a protection against the peoples of the north. But how can a wall protect if it is not a continuous structure? Indeed, not only does such a wall give no protection, it is itself in constant danger. These blocks of wall, left standing in deserted regions, could easily be destroyed time and again by the nomads, especially since in those days, alarmed by the wall-building, they kept shifting from place to place with incredible rapidity like locusts, and so perhaps had an even better picture of how the wall was progressing than we who were building it. Nevertheless the work could probably not have been carried out in any other way. To understand this one must consider the following: the wall was to be a protection for centuries; accordingly, scrupulous care in the construction, use of the architectural wisdom of all known periods and peoples, and a permanent sense of personal responsibility on the part of the builders were indispensable prerequisites for the work. For the meaner tasks it was indeed possible to employ ignorant day labourers from the populace, men, women, or children, anyone who was prepared to work for good money; but even for the supervision of four labourers an intelligent man with architectural training was necessary, a man who was capable of sensing in the depths of his heart what was at stake. And of course the higher the task, the greater the requirements. And such men were actually available, if not in the multitudes which this work could have absorbed, yet still in considerable numbers.
