The Metamorphosis

Now I have to get up. My train leaves at five o'clock." He looked over at the alarm-clock ticking away by the chest of drawers. Good God, he thought, it was half-past six, and the hands were going quietly on. It was past the half-hour, already nearly quarter to. Could the alarm have failed to ring? One saw from the bed that it was properly set for four o'clock. Certainly it had rung. Yes, but was it possible to sleep through that noise which made the furniture shake? Now, it's true he'd not slept quietly, but evidently he'd slept all the more deeply. Still, what should he do now? The next train left at seven o'clock. To catch that one he would have to go in a mad rush. The sample-collection wasn't packed up yet, and he really didn't feel particularly fresh and active. And even if he caught the train there was no avoiding a blow-up with the boss, because the firm's errand-boy would have waited for the five o'clock train and reported the news of his absence long ago. He was the boss's minion without backbone or intelligence. Well then, what if he reported in sick? But that would be extremely embarrassing and suspicious, because during his five years' service Gregor hadn't been sick even once. The boss would certainly come with the doctor from the health-insurance company, and would reproach his parents for their lazy son, and cut short all objections with the insurance doctor's comments. For him everyone was completely healthy, but really lazy about work. And besides, would the doctor in this case be totally wrong? Apart from a really excessive drowsiness after the long sleep, Gregor in fact felt quite well, and even had a really strong appetite. As he was thinking all this over in the greatest haste, without being able to make the decision to get out of bed, the alarm-clock was indicating exactly quarter to seven. There was a cautious knock on the door by the head of the bed. "'Gregor,' a voice called. It was his mother. "'It's quarter to seven. Don't you want to be on your way?' The soft voice. Gregor was startled when he heard his voice answering. It was clearly and unmistakably his earlier voice, but in it was intermingled as if from below an irrepressibly painful squeaking which left the words positively distinct only in the first moment, and distorted them in the reverberation, so that one didn't know if one had heard correctly. Gregor wanted to answer in detail and explain everything, but in these circumstances he confined himself to saying, "'Yes, yes, thank you, mother. I'm getting up right away.' Because of the wooden door the change in Gregor's voice was not really noticeable outside, so his mother calmed down with this explanation and shuffled off. However, as a result of the short conversation, the other family members became aware that Gregor was unexpectedly still at home, and already his father was knocking on one side door, weakly but with his fist. "'Gregor! Gregor!' he called out. "'What's going on?' And after a short while he urged him on again in a deeper voice. "'Gregor! Gregor!' At the other side door, however, his sister knocked lightly. "'Gregor! Are you all right? Do you need anything?' Gregor directed answers in both directions. "'I'll be ready right away.' He made an effort with the most careful articulation, and by inserting long pauses between the individual words to remove everything remarkable from his voice. His father turned back to his breakfast. However, the sister whispered, "'Gregor, open the door, I beg you!' Gregor had no intention of opening the door, but congratulated himself on his precaution, acquired from travelling, of locking all doors during the night, even at home. First he wanted to stand up quietly and undisturbed, get dressed, above all have breakfast, and only then consider further action, for, he noticed this clearly, by thinking things over in bed he would not reach a reasonable conclusion. He remembered that he had already often felt a light pain or other in bed, perhaps the result of an awkward lying position, which later turned out to be purely imaginary when he stood up, and he was eager to see how his present fantasies would gradually dissipate. That the change in his voice was nothing other than the onset of a real chill, an occupational illness of commercial travellers, of that he had not the slightest doubt. It was very easy to throw aside the blanket. He needed only to push himself up a little, and it fell by itself. But to continue was difficult, particularly because he was so unusually wide. He needed arms and hands to push himself upright. Instead of these, however, he had only many small limbs which were incessantly moving with very different motions, and which, in a sense, were not able to move at all.