A Little Woman
She is a little woman, naturally quite slim, and tightly laced. She is always dressed the same whenever I see her. Her dress is made of a grayish-yellow fabric, resembling the color of wood, and it is discreetly adorned with tassels or button-like hangings of the same color. She never wears a hat, and her dull, fair hair is smooth but worn loosely, though not untidy. Despite her being tightly laced, her movements are quick and light, though sometimes she overdoes her quietness. She often puts her hands on her hips and abruptly turns the upper part of her body sideways with surprising swiftness.
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| Franz Kafka. |
Her hand makes a particular impression on me. I can only describe it by saying I’ve never seen fingers so sharply distinguished from each other, yet her hand has no anatomical peculiarities—it is a perfectly normal hand.
This little woman, however, is very displeased with me. She always finds something objectionable in me, and I seem to irritate her at every step. If life could be divided into the smallest fragments, I am sure that each piece of mine would be an offense to her. I’ve often wondered why I offend her so deeply. Perhaps my very existence offends her sense of beauty, justice, habits, traditions, and hopes. There are such utterly incompatible natures, but why does it upset her so much? We have no connection that would compel her to suffer because of me. She could simply regard me as an utter stranger—which I am—and this should end her torment. I’ve never forced myself into her attention and would welcome being forgotten by her. It would bring her peace.
I’m not concerned for myself, even though I find her resentment troubling. However, I understand that my discomfort is nothing compared to the suffering she seems to endure. Yet, it’s clear that her suffering isn’t out of affection for me. She’s not interested in improving me or helping my development, nor does she care about my personal growth. Her only concern is her personal interest: seeking revenge for the torment I cause her and preventing any future discomfort from my existence. Once, I tried to suggest a way to put an end to her resentment, but my suggestion only enraged her further. I will never try that again.
I feel a certain responsibility, even though we are complete strangers. Despite her visible suffering caused by her resentment towards me, I can’t remain indifferent to it. I’ve been told, more frequently of late, that she often rises in the morning pale and exhausted, suffering from headaches and barely able to work. Her family is concerned and puzzled about the cause of her condition. I am the only one who knows that it stems from her daily vexation with me.
True, I’m not as concerned as her family; she is tough and resilient. Anyone capable of such strong feelings is also capable of enduring their effects. However, I suspect some of her suffering is pretended to attract public suspicion against me. She is too proud to openly admit that my very existence torments her, but she also can’t remain silent about her inner turmoil. So, she shows signs of secret sorrow, perhaps hoping to draw public attention to the matter. She may even hope that the public will rise against me and condemn me more effectively than she could on her own. But if that’s her hope, she’s deluding herself. The public wouldn’t find me as objectionable as she does, even under a microscope.
Nevertheless, if it became widely known that my behavior is making her ill, some might question my actions. They might ask, "Why do you torment this poor woman? Will you continue until she dies?" What answer could I give? If I deny her illness, I might seem heartless, and if I admit to it, I would be admitting to indifference. I could not claim sympathy for her, as she is a stranger to me, and the connection between us is entirely her own creation. People might not believe me, but they would still form a negative impression of me.
So, what can I do? The only course is to change myself just enough to lessen her resentment. Not to eliminate it entirely—that’s impossible—but perhaps to alleviate her torment. I’ve considered whether I’m so satisfied with myself that I wouldn’t attempt change for her sake. I’ve tried, honestly, and some changes have occurred, but they’ve had no effect. How could they? Her objection to me is fundamental, and nothing can remove it, not even my absence.
I can’t imagine that such a sharp-witted woman doesn’t understand the futility of her actions and my inability to conform to her desires. But being a fighter by nature, she forgets this in her lust for battle. My disposition, unfortunately, urges me to respond with gentleness to her violent outbursts, which only exacerbates the situation.
I once mentioned this matter to a friend in passing, expecting it to be dismissed as trivial. However, my friend took it more seriously than I anticipated, even suggesting I leave for a time. But departure is precisely what I must avoid. The affair, though small, should remain as it is—a personal matter not involving the outside world. My friend’s remarks, while not teaching me anything new, strengthened my resolution to keep the matter contained.
Upon reflection, I realize that any changes in this situation are not in the affair itself, but in my attitude toward it. I’ve become more composed and understanding of its nature, though still somewhat irritated by the continued strain.
I’m less disturbed now by the thought that no decisive crisis is likely to come. Despite her frequent outbursts, there’s no real danger of the situation escalating beyond its current state. The world is too busy to concern itself with such matters, and though her sufferings repeat themselves, they don’t signal anything new.
So, from any perspective, it appears that if I maintain my current course—keeping the affair within its narrow limits—I can continue my life untroubled by the world, despite her continued outbursts.
