The Metamorphosis — Episode 3

Gregor's serious wound, from which he suffered for over a month — the apple stayed lodged in his flesh as a visible memento, since nobody dared to remove it — seemed to have reminded even his father that Gregor, despite his present sad and repulsive shape, was a member of the family, who must not be treated like an enemy; that, on the contrary, family duty required them to swallow their disgust and to endure, to endure and nothing more.

And although Gregor had probably lost the use of his limbs for ever through his wound, and for the time being needed long, long minutes to cross his room, like an old invalid — climbing the walls was out of the question — he was given for this worsening of his condition what he considered a perfectly adequate compensation: every evening the living-room door, which he had taken to watching closely for an hour or two beforehand, was opened, so that, lying in the darkness of his room, invisible from the living room, he could see the whole family at the lamplit table and listen to their talk — with general permission, as it were, and so quite differently from before.

Of course, these were no longer the lively conversations of earlier times, which Gregor had always remembered with a certain longing in small hotel rooms, when he had had to throw himself, exhausted, into damp sheets. Now it was mostly very quiet. Soon after supper his father fell asleep in his armchair; his mother and sister urged each other to be quiet; his mother, bent far forward under the lamp, sewed fine underwear for a fashion shop; his sister, who had taken a job as a shop assistant, studied shorthand and French in the evenings, so that she might one day get a better position. Sometimes his father woke up and, as if he had no idea that he had been asleep, said to his mother: “How long you've been sewing again today!” and fell asleep again at once, while mother and sister smiled wearily at each other.

With a kind of stubbornness his father refused to take off his servant's uniform even at home; and while his dressing gown hung uselessly on its hook, he dozed fully dressed in his chair, as if he were always ready for duty and were waiting, even here, for the voice of his superior. Gregor would often spend whole evenings looking at this uniform, stained all over, its gold buttons always polished and shining, in which the old man slept, very uncomfortably and yet peacefully.

Who in this overworked and exhausted family had time to worry about Gregor more than was absolutely necessary? The household was cut back more and more; the maid was dismissed after all; a huge, bony charwoman with white hair fluttering round her head came mornings and evenings to do the heaviest work. Some of the family jewellery, which his mother and sister had once worn with such delight at parties and celebrations, was sold, as Gregor learned one evening from the general discussion of the prices they had got. But the greatest lament was always that they could not leave this flat, which was far too big for their present circumstances, because nobody could think how Gregor was to be moved. Yet Gregor saw clearly that it was not only consideration for him that prevented a move, for he could easily have been transported in a suitable box with a few air holes; what chiefly kept the family from moving was their complete hopelessness, and the thought that they had been struck by a misfortune such as had struck no one else among all their relatives and acquaintances.

No longer thinking about what might especially please Gregor, his sister now hurriedly pushed some food or other into his room with her foot before running off to the shop in the morning and at midday, and in the evening, regardless of whether it had perhaps been tasted or — most often — left completely untouched, swept it out again with a flick of the broom. Streaks of dirt ran along the walls; here and there lay balls of dust and filth.

The charwoman, an old widow who, thanks to her strong, bony frame, had probably survived the worst that a long life could bring, felt no real disgust for Gregor. At first she even called him over, with words she probably thought friendly, such as “Come over here, you old dung beetle!” or “Just look at the old dung beetle!” To such remarks Gregor made no reply, but stayed motionless where he was, as if the door had not been opened at all.

Gregor now ate almost nothing. One of the rooms of the flat had been let to three lodgers. These serious gentlemen — all three had full beards, as Gregor once saw through a crack in the door — were obsessed with order, not only in their own room but, since they now lived here, in the whole household, and especially in the kitchen. They could not bear anything useless, let alone dirty. And so many things that could not be sold, but that nobody wanted to throw away, wandered into Gregor's room — and so did the ash bin and the rubbish bin from the kitchen.

One evening the charwoman had left the living-room door a little open, and it stayed open even when the lodgers came in and the lamp was lit. They sat down at the head of the table, where in earlier days father, mother and Gregor had sat, unfolded their napkins and took their knives and forks in their hands. The family itself ate in the kitchen. “I do have an appetite,” Gregor said to himself anxiously, “but not for these things. How these lodgers stuff themselves, and I'm dying!”

On that very evening — Gregor could not remember having heard the violin once in all that time — it sounded from the kitchen. The lodgers had finished their supper and were leaning back, reading the newspaper and smoking. When the violin began, they grew attentive, got up and went on tiptoe to the hall door. They must have been heard in the kitchen, for the father called: “Perhaps the gentlemen find the playing unpleasant? It can be stopped at once.” “On the contrary,” said the middle gentleman, “wouldn't the young lady like to come in here and play in this room, where it is so much more comfortable?” “Oh, please,” cried the father, as if he were the violinist.

The sister began to play. Gregor, drawn by the music, had ventured a little further forward, and already had his head in the living room. He was hardly surprised that lately he had shown so little consideration for the others; once, that consideration had been his pride. And yet he had more reason than ever to hide, for the dust that lay everywhere in his room had covered him too; threads, hairs and scraps of food clung to his back and sides. Even so, he was not ashamed to advance a little way across the spotless living-room floor.

Nobody paid any attention to him. The family was completely absorbed in the violin; the lodgers, on the other hand, soon withdrew to the window with lowered heads, talking in murmurs. It was all too plain that they had hoped to hear beautiful or entertaining playing, were disappointed, and were putting up with the performance only out of politeness. And yet the sister was playing so beautifully. Her face was tilted to one side, and her eyes followed the lines of music, searching and sad. Gregor crawled a little further forward and kept his head close to the floor, so that he might perhaps meet her eyes. Was he an animal, that music could move him so? He felt as if the way were being shown to him to the unknown nourishment he longed for. He was determined to push forward to his sister, to tug at her skirt and so let her know that she should come into his room with her violin, for nobody here appreciated her playing as he would. He would never let her out of his room again, at least not as long as he lived. She would sit beside him on the sofa and bend her ear down to him, and he would confide in her that he had firmly intended to send her to the music conservatory, and that, if the misfortune had not come in between, he would have announced it to everyone last Christmas — surely Christmas was over by now? — whatever anybody said.

“Mr Samsa!” cried the middle gentleman to the father and, without wasting another word, pointed his forefinger at Gregor, who was slowly moving forward. The violin fell silent. The father hurried over and tried, with his arms spread wide, to push the lodgers back into their room and at the same time to block their view of Gregor with his body. Now they really did become a little angry. In the doorway of their room the middle gentleman stamped his foot like thunder, and the father stopped. “I hereby declare,” he said, raising his hand and looking round for the mother and sister as well, “that in view of the disgusting conditions that prevail in this flat and this family” — here he spat briefly and decisively on the floor — “I give notice on my room with immediate effect. I shall of course not pay a penny for the days I have lived here.” At once his two friends joined in: “We too give notice with immediate effect.” Then he seized the door handle and shut the door with a crash.

The father staggered to his chair and let himself fall into it. Gregor had lain all this time, quite still, on the spot where the lodgers had caught him. Disappointment at the failure of his plan, and perhaps also the weakness caused by so much hunger, made it impossible for him to move. Not even the violin startled him, as it slipped from his mother's trembling fingers, fell from her lap, and gave out a ringing note.

“Dear parents,” said the sister, striking the table with her hand by way of introduction, “things can't go on like this. Maybe you don't see it, but I do. I won't say my brother's name in front of this creature, so all I will say is: we must try to get rid of it. We have done everything humanly possible to look after it and put up with it. I don't think anyone can blame us in the slightest.”

“She's absolutely right,” said the father to himself.

“If he understood us,” said the father, half questioning; the sister, through her tears, shook her hand violently to show that this was unthinkable.

“It has to go,” cried the sister, “that's the only answer, Father. You just have to try to get rid of the idea that it's Gregor. The fact that we believed it for so long — that is our real misfortune. But how can it be Gregor? If it were Gregor, he would have understood long ago that people can't live with an animal like that, and he would have gone away of his own accord. Then we would have no brother, but we could go on living and honour his memory.”

But it did not occur to Gregor at all to frighten anyone, least of all his sister. He had simply begun to turn round so as to go back to his room. He was amazed at the great distance that separated him from it, and could not understand how, weak as he was, he had covered the same ground a short while before almost without noticing. Only when he was already in the doorway did he turn his head — not completely, for he felt his neck growing stiff — and he still saw that nothing behind him had changed, except that his sister had stood up. His last glance fell on his mother, who was now fast asleep.

He was hardly inside his room when the door was hastily pushed shut, bolted and locked. The sudden noise behind him frightened Gregor so much that his little legs gave way under him. It was his sister who had been in such a hurry. She had been standing ready and waiting, and had sprung forward so lightly that Gregor had not heard her coming. “At last!” she called to her parents, as she turned the key in the lock.

“And now?” Gregor asked himself, and looked around in the dark. He soon discovered that he could no longer move at all. It did not surprise him; if anything, it seemed unnatural that until now he had actually been able to move about on these thin little legs. Otherwise he felt relatively comfortable. He thought back on his family with tenderness and love. His conviction that he must disappear was, if possible, even firmer than his sister's. He remained in this state of empty and peaceful reflection until the church clock struck three in the morning. He still saw the first brightening of the sky outside the window. Then, without his willing it, his head sank all the way down, and his last breath passed faintly from him.

When the charwoman came early in the morning, she found nothing special at first. Only when she pushed him with her broom and he slid away without any resistance did she understand. She opened her eyes wide and whistled to herself; then she threw open the door of the bedroom and called loudly into the darkness: “Come and have a look — it's dead; there it lies, dead as a doornail!”

“Dead?” said Mrs Samsa. “Well,” said Mr Samsa, “now we can thank God.” He crossed himself, and the three women followed his example. Grete, who did not take her eyes off the body, said: “Look how thin he was. He hadn't eaten anything for such a long time.” The charwoman shut the door and opened the window wide. Although it was early in the morning, a certain mildness was already mixed into the fresh air. After all, it was already the end of March.

Then all three of them left the flat together, which they had not done for months, and took the tram out into the open country beyond the town. The carriage, where they sat alone, was full of warm sunshine. Leaning back comfortably in their seats, they discussed their prospects for the future, and it turned out that, looked at closely, these were not at all bad, for all three of them had jobs which were excellent and, above all, promising. The greatest immediate improvement would of course come from moving to another flat; they now wanted a smaller, cheaper one, but better situated and altogether more practical than the present one, which Gregor had chosen. While they were talking, it struck Mr and Mrs Samsa, almost at the same moment, as they watched their daughter growing livelier and livelier, how in recent times, despite all the worry that had made her cheeks pale, she had blossomed into a pretty, shapely young woman. Growing quieter, and communicating almost unconsciously through glances, they thought that it would soon be time to find her a good husband. And it seemed to them like a confirmation of their new dreams and good intentions when, at the end of their journey, their daughter was the first to get up and stretch her young body.