Josephine the Songstress
by Franz Kafka
But for Josephine this was just too much!-she got so cheeky, such a superior, condescending smile played upon her lips such as, until then, I had never seen-she whose external demeanor is truly as sweet as sweet can be, that even in our folk where the fair sex always tend toward being affable, Josephine still stands out in her charming amiability... but now she seemed downright crude; it may be that due to her heightened sensibilities as an "artiste" she noticed this right away too and, so, she got a better grip upon herself. In any event, she denied that there might be any relation whatsoever between her art and whistling and for those who think otherwise all that she has is contempt and, most probably, pure hatred that, naturally, she tries to cover up and she won't even admit it to herself. And it's not as if she did this for her own benefit since these contrarians-to which camp I myself halfway belong-we don't find her performances to be any less amazing than everybody else, we're just as much amongst the overwhelming crowd of her admirers; but Josephine, Josephine doesn't want simply that she amaze her audience, rather she wants to amaze us in her own particular manner, amazement in itself doesn't mean a thing to her. And when you take your seat in her auditorium then you understand her position, opposition is only possible at a great distance; sitting there before her it's quite clear that what she's whistling is no whistling. Since whistling belongs amongst our unconscious habits, our second nature as it were, so you might think that people would whistle in her auditorium; after all we feel good in her presence and we tend to whistle whenever we're feeling good; but nobody whistles in her presence, rather, it's as still as still can be-quiet as a mouse-it's as if the peace that we yearn for and which our whistling would disturb, it's as if this peace were to be partially granted to us and, so, we stay silent. Is it her singing that so captivates us?... or rather, much more, is it the celebratory sobriety of our stillness that encompasses her weak, little voice? It once happened that some small urchin, an innocent little thing, started into whistling during one of Josephine's performances. Now, it was quite the same as what we were hearing from Josephine there up in front-and totally unconcerned about this unexpected variation in her routine Josephine continued right on in her timid whistling, and so here within the public this little chickabiddy having inadvertently forgotten herself was whistling along too...