The Problem of Filial Devotion in Franz Kafka’s “The Judgment”
The study of the relationship between a parent and child is, in essence, the study of myriad dualities. The first duality begins at the moment of birth, when the child slowly ascends into life, while the parent slowly descends toward death. Stemming from the primary duality of life and death emerges secondary, but no less vital, ones, such as devotion and neglect, pity and fear, and vanity and guilt. A parent and child perpetually walk along the lines between these opposing forces; this, in turn, is what defines their relationship. If “The Judgment,” Franz Kafka’s brief and deceptively simple story, is one thing, it is the study of the tenuous and tragicomic bond that exists between a father and son. Even during the moments when the son seems to be throwing dirt prematurely onto his father’s grave, it’s his unwavering devotion towards his father that ultimately determines his actions. At the onset, the opposing forces that haunt the psyches of the two characters percolate insidiously beneath the surface of reality, until they slowly become palpable and ultimately explode with the force of “an almost endless stream of traffic” (16). Fittingly, as a study of dualities, the story begins “at the very height of spring” (3), and ends with an irrecoverable fall.
The story begins with the son, Georg Bendemann, writing a letter to his friend, who has spent the past several years running a fledgling business in Russia, with the purpose of telling him about his recent engagement to Frieda Brandenfeld, “a girl from a well-to-do family” (7). Writing the letter “at the very height of spring,” while looking out his window “at the river, the bridge, and the hills on the farther bank with their tender green” (3), this opening scene is nothing less than idyllic, and reads, in the words of critic Heinz Politzer, “like a joyous hymn on a bachelor’s break with his past” (Politzer 53). However, the nature of Georg’s past isn’t clear until his family life is mentioned, that “two years ago his mother had died and since then he and his father had shared the household together,” and further an allusion to the family business, in which his father had “insist(ed) on having everything his own way” and was “still active in” (5). Here, the line is blurred between the past and present, and, in turn, between the present and future.
Since his mother’s death, Georg’s filial devotion has remained intact in at least two aspects, working and living with his widowed father. With his engagement, however, the nature of the son and father’s relationship is suddenly called into question, not just within the family business, but within their lives at home. Will he continue to contribute to the family business? The seems to be the case, since “the business had prospered most unexpectedly, the staff had to be redoubled, the volume was five times as great... further progress lay just ahead” (5), but how much longer will the son allow the aging father to be a part of this recent upsurge? More importantly, what will the living situation be like once the wedding occurs? Will the bride and groom care for the elderly father, or will they leave him to fend for himself? With the engagement, the reality of devotion becomes overshadowed by the possibility of neglect.
After he finishes the letter to his friend, he walks toward his father’s room. Note, he is neither able to mail the letter right away (it’s Sunday), nor does he want to mail it, without first telling his father about it. His father’s room “he had not entered for months” (7), which might be either a sign of devotion, as he might respect his father’s privacy, or neglect, as he has failed to check up on his father’s living conditions, which, as it turns out, appears to be the polar opposite of Georg’s. In contrast to the serene view and uninterrupted light that bleeds into his own room, “Georg was startled at how dark his father’s room was, even on this sunny morning. He had not remembered that it was overshadowed by the high wall on the other side of the narrow courtyard” (7-8). As Politzer observes, “the way to his father’s room leads Georg into the interior of his house as well as of his own mind. When he enters, he is struck by the darkness which prevails” (Politzer 54). His father’s breakfast remains on a table, “little of which seemed to have been consumed” (8). So far, the reader sees an old man alone in a dark room, with a meal that is barely eaten, in the middle of morning during spring; the bleakness of the scene is self-evident.
When Georg says to his father, “before I mailed the letter I wanted to let you know” (9), the weight of the letter seems to increase substantially. It’s as if the engagement will not be valid until the letter is mailed, i.e. until he has been met with his father’s approval. In a single phrase, he is showing his devotion towards his father, while at the same time letting him know that the days are numbered in which they will live together. The absent friend, in this instance, represents the middle ground between the father and son. Kafka, himself, in a diary entry regarding the story, referred to him as “the link between father and son, he is their strongest bond” (Kafka 214). When he says aloud, “I didn’t want to tell him about my engagement at first. Out of consideration for him- that was the only reason. You yourself know how difficult a man he is” (8-9), Georg is addressing his father about his friend, but this could just as likely have been him addressing his friend about his father. It’s as if Georg is speaking to his father passive agressively, not of the relationship between himself and his friend, nor of himself and his fiancee, but of the future of their own strained relationship.
Up to this point, the tension of their relationship is implied through subtext and ominous hints of foreshadowing, such as Georg “trying to meet his father’s eye” (8). However, it’s when Georg’s father responds to the proposal of the letter being mailed that the tension begins to bare its teeth: “You’ve come to me about this business, to talk it over and get my advice. No doubt that does you honor. But it’s nothing, it’s worse than nothing, if you don’t tell me the whole truth.” The monologue that follows is brief, devastating, and possibly shows the seeds of dementia. The death of “our dear mother” is brought up, along with an accusation of practices “done behind my back” in the family business, and ends with a question as unexpected as it is disturbing: “Do you really have this friend in St. Petersburg?” Significantly, in this moment, the question of whether or not the friend exists doesn’t seem vital enough for Georg to address, even though his sanity is ostensibly being put into question. He can deal with a question of sanity, but not of devotion. His initial response shows signs of neither anger, nor fear, nor concern for his father’s well-being, but that of “embarrassment,” as he retorts, “‘never mind my friends. A thousand friends could never replace my father for me’” (9). Again, the reader observes the blurred line between devotion and neglect. On the one hand, he is telling his father he is worth more than “a thousand friends,” which implies devotion, but the word “replace” sticks out, which implies neglect. In this context, the word “replace” sounds as though he has already buried his father, if not in reality, then within his mind. He further states, “I can’t do without you in the business, you know that very well, but if the business is going to undermine your health, I’m ready to close it down tomorrow for good’” (10). On the surface, this sounds like a devoted son, but the reader knows from before that, in Georg’s mind, “further progress lay just ahead” (5) in the business. Therefore, it can be inferred that the business will go on with or without the old man.
Once his father’s health is put into question, Georg decides that the old man should “go to bed now for a while.” Following another remark from his father, this time not asking but telling him he has no friend in St. Petersburg (“You’ve always been one for pulling people’s legs and you haven’t hesitated even when it comes to me”), which Georg quietly disregards, he is then shown “lifting his father from the chair and slipping off his dressing gown as he stood there... quite feebly” (10), and shortly thereafter, “lowering his father into the chair again and carefully taking off the knitted drawers he wore.” His father’s underwear is soiled. By “lowering” him, his devotion has been overshadowed by an unmistakable image of neglect. Georg acknowledges this as such: “It should certainly have been his duty to see that his father had clean changes of underwear.” The significance of this scene cannot be overstated, as it represents the first moment of the story in which there is no turning back; the “height of spring” is over. For the first time, the long-term question of filial devotion is brought into question directly, where thoughts of the past, present, and future collide into a singular reality: “He had not yet explicitly discussed with his fiancee what arrangements should be made for his father, for they had both silently taken it for granted that he would remain alone in the old apartment. But now he made a quick, firm decision to take him into his own future home. It almost looked, on closer inspection, as if the care he meant to devote to his father there might come too late” (11).
This sets the stage for what is arguably the most enigmatic image of the story. As Georg carries his father to bed in his arms, “it gave him a dreadful feeling to observe that while he was taking the few steps toward the bed, the old man cradled against his chest was playing with his watch chain.” The strange image becomes even more strange when Georg “could not put him down on the bed, so firmly did he hang on to the watch chain” (11). As tempting as it might seem to read into the ripe symbolism of this scene, the reader at this moment must pay heed to an insight of the Italian critic and Kafka scholar Roberto Colasso: “Kafka can’t be understood if he isn’t taken literally. But the literal must be grasped in all its power and in the vastness of its implications” (Colasso 25). In his essay, Politzer muses, “does this image indicate the father’s childishness, his playful contempt of the son, his weakness and helplessness, or the firm grip he has on Georg? Is he clinging to the “time” of Georg’s life in order to extend his own? Or does he attempt to separate Georg from the “time” of his life, that is, to kill him already here? The silent gesture is as opaque as it is portentous” (Politzer 57). First, it must be addressed that the image of the father playing with his son’s watch, in all of its strangeness, overshadows another strange, no less than disturbing image, that preceded it, that of Georg carrying his father to bed. A man, who shortly before was said to still be “active in the business” (5), and who, just moments before, stood up and was perceived as “still a giant of a man” (8) by his son, is now being treated as an invalid. When Georg fears that “the care he meant to devote his father... might come to late” (11), his first reaction to carry his father in his arms, almost as an attempt toward making amends. Consequently, the image of the father playing with the watch and not letting go can be seen as emblematic of him trying to decide whether or not to forgive his son, or whether or not he’s willing to let him go; the watch chain is obviously attached to Georg, so is the father, in fact, holding onto the chain, or hanging onto Georg? The watch chain, like the “friend” in St. Petersburg, serves as a middle ground between the father and son’s relationship; while the friend represents a psychological middle ground, the watch chain could be seen as a physical middle ground, albeit a short-lived one, just as their time on Earth together is short-lived.
As Georg lays his father in bed and places a blanket on top of him, the latter asks innocuously, “‘Am I well covered up now?’” But then he repeats the question, “seeming to be particularly intent on the answer.” On the literal end, the son is looking out for his father’s health, while, at the same time, removing him from the community of the living. We must remember that this is a “Sunday morning” (3) and he is being put back into bed not long after he has gotten up. On the symbolic end, it’s as if Georg is burying his father alive. When Georg “tuck(s) the blanket more closely around him” and responds to his father’s question after it’s asked a second time by saying “‘don’t worry, you’re well covered up’” (12), we observe a son intent on making his father comfortable, while simultaneously condemning him to a premature death.
Once his father responds with an emphatic “‘No!’” the watershed moment of the narrative occurs. “Flinging the blanket back so violently that for a moment it hovered unfolded in the air, he stood upright in bed. With one hand he lightly touched the ceiling to steady himself.” The father, inexplicably, has become rejuvenated. The language, itself, has transitioned from a rhetoric of falling to a rhetoric of rising. Instead of the phrases “covered up” and “tucked in,” we now see “hovered unfolded,” “stood upright,” and “touched the ceiling.” The father has risen from his bed and, in a sense, from an early death. “You wanted to cover me up, I know, my little puppy, but I’m far from being covered up yet. And even if this is the last bit of strength I have, it’s enough for you, more than enough. Fortunately, a father doesn’t need to be taught how to see through his own son” (12).
The scene began with the line blurred between devotion and neglect, with Georg taking care of his father, while simultaneously pushing him away. When his father rises from his bed, almost as a whole new character, we see the line blurred between fear and pity, with regard to how Georg perceives his father. While the biographical implications of the text is of limited concern here, Politzer observes, “In old Bendemann, Kafka seized a likeness of his father and treated it as an Oedipal tyrant very much the way the expressionists used to treat their father images; he strove to elevate it to a godlike figure endowed with omniscience, omnipotence, and the authority of absolute jurisdiction,” and further on, “(the father) adds an extraordinary longevity to his gigantic appearance, outgrowing the son in time as well as in space” (Politzer 60-61). Prior to this scene, the fear, and subsequent pity, that Georg feels toward his father was merely implied. Shortly before, in a moment of barely concealed fear, we hear Georg observe that “in business hours, (father)’s quite different... how solidly he sits here and folds his arms over his chest” (8). In contrast, we sense a glimmer of pity when he kneels down beside his father: “In the old man’s weary face he saw the abnormally large pupils staring at him fixedly from the corners of the eyes” (10). Finally, when the son looks up at “the terrifying image of his father (12), as the latter “stood up quite unsupported and kicked his legs about... (and) shone with insight,” Georg resorts to “(shrinking) into a corner, as far away from his father as possible” (13). Here, the son’s pity toward his father is clearly overshadowed by an overwhelming feeling of fear. However, while fear dominates his psyche for the remainder of the narrative, pity remains an unshakable force.
Beginning with the aforementioned image of the watch chain, it should not be forgotten that comedy plays a major role in the final pages of the story. At times, it’s difficult to grasp, on account of the tragic and claustrophobic feeling that dominates throughout. Nothing is gratuitous in Kafka’s fiction, and the way he incorporated comedy was no exception. In “The Judgment,” Kafka uses comic elements as an extension of the fear and pity that Georg feels toward his father, and they should really be referred to as tragicomic. Once Georg’s father rises from his bed, while “lightly touch(ing) the ceiling to steady himself” (a tragicomic image, in itself), Georg begins to make fun of his father, calling him a “comedian!” as a way to compensate for the fear he feels toward him. However, as tragicomedies often go, the tragic stands triumphant. Right after he screams “comedian!” at his father, Georg “realized at once the harm done, and, his eyes bulging in his head, bit his tongue- though too late- until the pain made his knees buckle.” Just as comedy remains subordinate to tragedy, pity remains subordinate to fear. Furthermore, to add insult to injury, Georg’s father always has an answer for his son: “‘Yes, of course I’ve been playing a comedy! A comedy! That’s the perfect word for it! What other consolation was left for your poor old widowed father?’” This not only applies to Georg’s words, but to all of Georg’s actions and desires; his father, in the closing moments, undermines them all. In response to Georg’s engagement, old Bendemann insinuates that his fiancee is a whore: “because she lifted her skirts... you went after her, and in order to have your way with her undisturbed you have disgraced our mother’s memory” (13). In response to Georg’s confidence about a bright future in the family business, his father insinuates that he’s incompetent, or even corrupt: “What else was left to me, in my back room, plagued by a disloyal staff... and my son strutting through the world, closing deals that I had prepared for him” (13-14). Finally, in response to Georg speaking about his friend, whose very existence was just moments ago put into question, his father reveals that he has kept a surreptitious correspondence with him: “I have established a fine connection with your friend, and I have your customers in my pocket!” Georg, then, thinks to himself, “‘He has pockets even in his undershirt!” while he imagines that “this observation... could expose him for a fool for all the world to see,” but this feeling is short-lived, and “in his distraction he kept on forgetting everything” (14). While the accusations and realizations have become too much for Georg to bear, he is not ready to admit this to himself. However, the harder he tries to keep his dignity, the further he falls into the pit of despair. When his father, while referring to the friend, says, “‘he knows everything a hundred times better than you do yourself, with his left hand he crumples up your letters unopened while with his right he holds mine and reads them through... he knows everything a thousand times better!” the son can only respond with the loud, but anemic words, “‘Ten thousand times!” in apparent desperation, in order to “make fun of his father,” but “in his very mouth the words turned deadly earnest” (15). In his essay “Tradition and Betrayal in ‘Das Urteil,” Russell Berman observes that “language gets the better of (Georg), or remains beyond his grasp, sometimes erratic, sometimes recalcitrant, but never fully under his control. Without an effective command of language, he is hardly in a position to argue his own case... his several interjections during the father’s outburst, all intended to ward off the attack, turn out to be pitifully inadequate” (Berman 95).
While Georg’s interjections are primarily rooted in pity and fear, they are also rooted in vanity and guilt. It should not be forgotten that Georg was thinking very highly of himself in the opening moments of the story. He had a friend, a fiancee, and a stable job under his belt. Within minutes after entering his father’s room, he now has lost all three, or at least the former security he had felt with all three, purely based on his father’s words. All of Georg’s sources of pride, in turn, become reflections of guilt and neglect. Georg’s father uses the fiancee as a symbol for his son’s neglect towards his departed mother, but he undoubtably views her as a symbol for his son’s subsequent neglect towards him, as well. He uses his job in much the same way, although it involves just the father and son, and no outside forces. Finally, the fact that Georg had no idea that his friend and father were corresponding, while it appears on the surface as both strange and comical, is a symbol of Georg’s neglect on two counts, toward his friend and his father. While earlier Georg had defended himself, saying that “a thousand friends could never replace my father for me” (9), it appears that, for the father, just one friend has replaced his son.
In the end, the dualities of the father and son’s relationship (devotion and neglect, pity and fear, and vanity and guilt) collide into a moment of the final judgment: “‘So now you know there is more in the world than just you. Till now you’ve known only about yourself! An innocent child, yes, that you were, truly, but still more truly have you been a devilish human being!- And therefore take note: I sentence you now to death by drowning!’” which is followed immediately by Georg’s acquiescence: “Georg felt himself driven from the room, the crash with which his father collapsed on the bed behind him still rang in his ears as he fled,” rushing down the staircase “as if its steps were an inclined plane” (15). Berman argues that the very nature of this judgment is, in a sense, “oxymoronic.” He further states that “Georg stands accused of aspiring to independence and maturity too ambitiously, while he is also attacked for still being childish” (Berman 95). Herein lies the paradox of filial devotion. The father is clearly dependent on his son, has controlled vital aspects of Georg’s life, has prevented him from marrying and living a life of his own, and yet Georg is criticized for being self-involved and being ignorant of the outside world. Georg is unable to win, either by staying with his father or leaving.
The image that must not be overlooked is “the crash with which his father collapsed on the bed behind him” (15), which the reader sees but Georg only hears. When Georg had placed his father in bed earlier, it was an implied judgment. While his father condemns him to death by drowning, Georg had unwittingly condemned his father to death by being “laid in bed” (11). With the implied judgment, therefore, came the implied death. Old Bendemann, also, must be held accountable, for his own death. While condemning his own son to death, who is still a bachelor without children, he is condemning his family name to death. From this perspective, whether or not old Bendemann has died in the end is inconsequential; with the son’s death, the father dies, regardless.
Georg’s filial devotion is never seen as being stronger than in the moments following his father’s judgment; therefore, the final duality of devotion and neglect directly correlates with the first, and all-encompassing, duality of life and death. He not only obeys his father’s condemnation, but “feels himself driven from the room” (15), as though his actions are a mere extension of his father’s words. Once he reaches the bridge, he holds onto the railing “as a starving man clutches for food. He swung himself over, like the accomplished gymnast he had been in his youth, to his parents’ pride.” The words “as a starving man clutches for food” is pathetic, and the image of swinging himself over “like the accomplished gymnast he had been in his youth” is tragically comic, while the mention of “his parents’ pride” is the one purely tragic moment of the story. His own pride (i.e. his own identity) no longer matters, only the pride of his parents. The friend, the fiancee, and the job have all evaporated, and the promising future he had once perceived to be at his fingertips has been reduced to a solitary image of his childhood. Before he lets himself go, he calls out in a “faint voice” his final words: “‘Dear parents, I have always loved you,’” which, as Politzer observes, “reveal that he considers the conflict even at its fatal conclusion as a family affair” (Politzer 59). In the end, as Georg “let(s) himself drop” (16), we are shown that the only thing more implacable than a father’s judgment is a son’s devotion.
Works Cited
Berman, Russell A. “Tradition and Betrayal in ‘Das Urteil.’” A Companion to the Works of Franz Kafka. Ed. James Rolleston. New York: Camden House, 2002. 85-99.
Calasso, Roberto. K. Milan: Adelphi Edizioni, 2002; New York: Vintage International, 2006.
Kafka, Franz. Diaries, 1910-1923. Ed. Max Brod. New York: Schocken Books, 1948.
Kafka, Franz. “The Judgment.” The Sons. New York: Schocken Books, 1989. 3-16.
Politzer, Heinz. “The Breakthrough: 1912.” Franz Kafka: Parable and Paradox. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1966. 48-82.