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Frank Kafka
Up in the Gallery
This translation by Ian Johnston of Malaspina University-College, Nanaimo,
BC, (now Vancouver Island University) has certain copyright restrictions. For information please use the
following link: Copyright.
For comments or question please contact Ian Johnston. For more links to Kafka
e-texts in English click here.
This text was last revised on February 21, 2009]
Up in the
Gallery
If some frail tubercular lady circus rider were to be driven in
circles around and around the arena for months and months without interruption
in front of a tireless public on a swaying horse by a merciless whip-wielding
master of ceremonies, spinning on the horse, throwing kisses and swaying at the
waist, and if this performance, amid the incessant roar of the orchestra and
the ventilators, were to continue into the ever-expanding, gray future,
accompanied by applause, which died down and then swelled up again, from hands
which were really steam hammers, perhaps then a young visitor to the gallery
might rush down the long staircase through all the levels, burst into the ring,
and cry “Stop!” through the fanfares of the constantly adjusting orchestra.
But since things are not like that—since a beautiful lady, in
white and red, flies in through curtains which proud men in livery open in
front of her, since the director, with the devotion of an animal, seeks her
eyes, breathes in her direction, and, as a precaution, lifts her up on the
dapple-gray horse, as if she were his granddaughter, the one he loved more than
anything else, as she starts a dangerous journey, but he cannot decide to give
the signal with his whip and finally, controlling himself, gives it a crack,
runs right beside the horse with his mouth open, follows the rider’s leaps with
a sharp gaze, hardly capable of comprehending her skill, tries to warn her by
calling out in English, furiously castigating the grooms holding hoops, telling
them to pay the most scrupulous attention, and begs the orchestra, with
upraised arms, to be quiet before the great somersault, finally lifts the small
woman down from the trembling horse, kisses her on both cheeks, and considers
no public tribute adequate, while she herself, supported by him, high on the
tips of her toes, with dust swirling around her, arms outstretched and little
head thrown back, wants to share her luck with the entire circus—since this is
how things are, the visitor to the gallery puts his face on the railing and,
sinking into the final march as if into a difficult dream, weeps, without
realizing it.
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