The Castle《城堡》（中）

Madness, absolute madness, one begins to feel confused oneself when
one plays with such mad ideas.' 'No,' said K., I've no intention of getting
confused; my thoughts hadn't gone so far as you imagined, though, to tell
the truth, they were on that road. For the moment the only thing that
surprises me is that Hans's relations expected so much from his marriage
and that these expectations were actually fulfilled, at the sacrifice of your
sound heart and your health, it is true. The idea that these facts were
connected with Klamm occurred to me, I admit, but not with the
bluntness, or not till now with the bluntness that you give it - apparently
with no object but to have a dig at me, because that gives you pleasure.
Well, make the most of your pleasure! My idea, however, was this: first
of all Klamm was obviously the occasion of your marriage. If it hadn't
been for Klamm you wouldn't have been unhappy and wouldn't have been
sitting doing nothing in the garden, if it hadn't been for Klamm Hans
wouldn't have seen you sitting there, if it hadn't been that you were
unhappy a shy man like Hans would never have ventured to speak, if it
hadn't been for Klamm Hans would never have found you in tears, if it
hadn't been for Klamm the good old uncle would never have seen you
sitting there together peacefully, if it hadn't been for Klamm you wouldn't
have been indifferent to what life still offered you, and therefore would
never have married Hans. Now in all this there's enough of Klamm
already, it seems to me. But that's not all. If you hadn't been trying to
forget, you certainly wouldn't \ have overtaxed your strength so much and
done so splendidly 11 with the inn. So Klamm was there too. But apart
from that Klamm is also the root cause of your illness, for before your
marriage your heart was already worn out with your hopeless^ passion for
him. The only question that remains now is, what made Hans's relatives
so eager for the marriage? You yourself said just now that to be Klamm's
mistress is a distinction that can't be lost, so it may have been that that
attracted them. But besides that, I imagine, they had the hope that the
lucky star that led you to Klamm - assuming that it was a lucky star, but
you maintain that it was - was your star and so would rei
nstant to you an(^ not leave you quite so quickly and suddenly as Klamm
did.' 'Do Vu mcan aH this in earnest?' asked the landlady. 'Yes, in earnest,'
replied K. immediately, 'only I consider Hans's relations were neither
entirely right nor entirely wrong :n their hopes, and I think, too, I can see
the mistake that they made. In appearance, of course, everything seems to
have succeeded. Hans is well provided for, he has a handsome wife, is
looked up to, and the inn is free of debt. Yet in reality everything has not
succeeded, he would certainly have been much happier with a simple girl
who gave him her first love, and if he sometimes stands in the inn there as
if lost, as you complain, and because he really feels as if he were lost -
without being unhappy over it, I grant you, I know that much about him
already - it's just as true that a handsome, intelligent young man like him
would be happier with another wife, and by happier I mean more
independent, industrious, manly. And you yourself certainly can't be
happy, seeing you say you wouldn't be able to go on without these three
keepsakes, and your heart is bad, too. Then were Hans's relatives
mistaken in their hopes? I don't think so. The blessing was over you, but
they didn't know how to bring it down.' Then what did they miss doing?'
asked the landlady. She was lying outstretched on her back now gazing
up at the ceiling. 'To ask Klamm,' said K. 'So we're back at your case
again,' said the landlady. 'Or at yours,' said K. 'Our affairs run parallel.'
'What do you want from Klamm?' asked the landlady. She had sat up, had
shaken out the pillows so as to lean her back against them, and looked K.
full in the eyes. 'I've told you frankly about my experiences, from which
you should have been able to learn something. Tell me now as frankly
what you want to ask Klamm. I've had great trouble in persuading Frieda
to go up to her room and stay there, I was afraid you wouldn't talk freely
enough in her presence.' 'I have nothing to hide,' said K. 'But first of all I
want to draw your attention to something. Klamm forgets immediately,
you say. Now in the first place that seems very improbable to
me, and secondly it is undemonstrable, obviously nothing more than
legend, thought out moreover by the flappcrish minds of those who have
been in Klamm's favour. I'm surprised that you believe in such a banal
invention.' 'It's no legend,' said the landlady, 'it's much rather the result of
general experience.' 'I see, a thing then to be refuted by further
experience,' said K. 'Besides there's another distinction still between your
case and Frieda's. In Frieda's case it didn't happen that Klamm never
summoned her again, on the contrary he summoned her but she didn't
obey. It's even possible that he's still waiting for her.' The landlady
remained silent, and only looked K. up and down with a considering stare.
At last she said: Til try to listen quietly to what you have to say. Speak
frankly and don't spare my feelings. I've only one request. Don't use
Klamm's name. Call him "him" or something, but don't mention him by
name.' 'Willingly,' replied K., 'but what I want from him is difficult to
express. Firstly, I want to see him at close quarters; then I [ want to hear
his voice; then I want to get from him what his attitude is to our marriage.
What I shall ask from him after that depends on the outcome of our
interview. Lots of things may come up in the course of talking, but still
the most important thing for me is to be confronted with him. You see I
haven't yet spoken with a real official. That seems to be more difficult to
manage than I had thought. But now I'm put under the obligation of
speaking to him as a private person, and that, in my opinion, is much
easier to bring about. As an official I can only speak to him in his bureau
in the Castle, which may be inaccessible, or - and that's questionable, too
- in the Herrenhof. But as a private person I can speak to him anywhere,
in a house, in the street, wherever I happen to meet him. If I should find
the official in front of me, then I would be glad to accost him as well, but
that's not my primary object.' 'Right,' said the landlady pressing her face
into the pillows as if she were uttering something shameful, 'if by using
my influence I can manage to get your request for an interview passed on
to Klamm, promise me to do nothing on your own account until the reply
comes back.' 86
your whims. The matter is urgent, you see, specify after the unfortunate
outcome of my talk with the Superintendent.' 'That excuse falls to the
ground/ said the landlady, 'the cuperintendent is a person of no
importance. Haven't you found ^at out? He couldn't remain another day in
his post if it weren't for his wife, who runs everything.' 'Mizzi?' asked K.
The landlady nodded. 'She was present,' said K- 'Did she express her
opinion?' asked the landlady. 'No,' replied K., 'but I didn't get the
impression that she could.' 'There,' said the landlady, 'you sec how
distorted your view of everything here is. In any case: the
Superintendent's arrangements for you are of no importance, and I'll talk
to his wife when I have time. And if I promise now in addition that
Klamm's answer will come in a week at latest, you can't surely have any
further grounds for not obliging me.' 'All that is not enough to influence
me,' said K. 'My decision is made, and I would try to carry it out even if
an unfavourable answer were to come. And seeing that this is my fixed
intention, I can't very well ask for an interview beforehand. A thing that
would remain a daring attempt, but still an attempt in good faith so long
as I didn't ask for an interview, would turn into an open transgression of
the law after receiving an unfavourable answer. That frankly would be far
worse.' 'Worse?' said the landlady. 'It's a transgression of the law in any
case. And now you can do what you like. Reach me over my skirt.'
Without paying any regard to K.'s presence she pulled on her skirt and
hurried into the kitchen. For a long time already K. had been hearing
noises in the dining-room. There was a tap ping on the kitchen-hatch. The
assistants had unfastened it and were shouting that they were hungry.
Then other faces appeared at it. One could even hear a subdued song
being chanted by several voices. Undeniably K.'s conversation with the
landlady had greatly Delayed the cooking of the midday meal, it was not
ready yet 87
and the customers had assembled. Nevertheless nobody had dared to set
foot in the kitchen after the landlady's order. But now when the observers
at the hatch reported that the landlady was coming, the maids
immediately ran back to the kitchen, and as K. entered the dining-room a
surprisingly large cornpany, more than twenty, men and women - all
attired in provincial but not rustic clothes - streamed back from the hatch
to the tables to make sure of their seats. Only at one little table in the
corner was a married couple seated already with a few children. The man,
a kindly, blue-eyed person with disordered grey hair and beard, stood
bent over the children and with a knife beat time to their singing, which
he perpetually strove to soften. Perhaps he was trying to make them
forget their hunger by singing. The landlady threw a few indifferent
words of apology to her customers, nobody complained of her conduct.
She looked round for the landlord, who h"d fled from the difficulty of the
situation, however, long ago. 'ihen she went slowly into the kitchen; she
did not take any more notice of K., who hurried to Frieda in her room.
TTPSTAIRS K. ran into the teacher. The room was improved LJ almost
beyond recognition, so well had Frieda set to work. It was well aired, the
stove amply stoked, the floor scrubbed, the bed put in order, the maids'
filthy pile of things and even their photographs cleared away; the table,
which had literally struck one in the eye before with its crust of
accumulated dust, was covered with a white embroidered cloth. One was
in a position to receive visitors now. K.'s small change of underclothes
hanging before the fire - Frieda must have washed them early in the
morning - did not spoil the impression much. Frieda and the teacher were
sitting at the table, they rose at K.'s entrance. Frieda greeted K. with a
kiss, the teacher bowed slightly. Distracted and still agitated by his talk
with the landlady, K. began to apologize for not having been able yet to
visit the teacher; it was as if he were assuming that the teacher had called
on him finally because he was impatient at K.'s absence. On the other 88
that sometime or other there had been some mcn- n between K. and
himself of a visit. 'You must be, Land r j-veyor,' he said slowly, 'the
stranger I had a few words with he other day in the church square.' 'I am,'
replied K. shortly; he behaviour which he had submitted to when he felt
homeless he did not intend to put up with now here in his room. He
turned to Frieda and consulted with her about an important visit which he
had to pay at once and for which he would need his best clothes. Without
further inquiry Frieda called over the assistants, who were already busy
examining the new tablecloth, and commanded them to brush K.'s suit
and shoes - which he had begun to take off - down in the yard. She
herself took a shirt from the line and ran down to the kitchen to iron it.
Now K. was left alone with the teacher, who was seated silently again at
the table; K. kept him waiting for a little longer, drew off his shirt and
began to wash himself at the tap. Only then, with his back to the teacher,
did he ask him the reason for his visit. 'I have come at the instance of the
Parish Superintendent,' he said. K. made ready to listen. But as the noise
of the water made it difficult to catch what K. said, the teacher had to
come nearer and lean against the wall beside him. K. excused his washing
and his hurry by the urgency of his coming appointment. The teacher
swept aside his excuses, and said: 'You were discourteous to the Parish
Superintendent, an old and experienced man who should be treated with
respect.' 'Whether I was discourteous or not I can't say,' said K. while he
dried himself, 'but that I had other things to think of than polite behaviour
is true enough, for my existence is at stake, which is threatened by a
scandalous official bureaucracy whose particular failings I needn't
mention to you, seeing that you're an acting member of it yourself. Has
the Parish Superintendent complained about me?' 'Where's the man that
he would need to complain of?' asked the teacher. 'And even if there was
anyone, dp you think he would ever do it? I've only made out at his
dictation a short protocol on your interview, and that has shown me
clearly enough how kind the Superintendent was and whai your answers
were like.' 89
While K. was looking for his comb, which Frieda must have cleared away
somewhere, he said: 'What? A protocol? Drawn up afterwards in my
absence by someone who wasn't at the in. terview at all? That's not bad.
And why on earth a protocol? Was it an official interview, then?' 'No,'
replied the teacher, 'a semi-official one, the protocol too was only
semi-official. It was merely drawn up because with us everything must be
done in strict order. In any case it's finished now, and it doesn't better
your credit.' K., who had at last found the comb, which had been tucked
into the bed, said more calmly: 'Well, then, it's finished. Have you come
to tell me that?' 'No,' said the teacher, 'but I'm not a machine and I had to
give you my opinion. My instructions are only another proof of the
Superintendent's kindness; I want to emphasize that his kindness in this
instance is incomprehensible to me, and that I only carry out his
instructions because it's my duty and out of respect to the Superintendent.'
Washed and combed, K. now sat down at the table to wait for his shirt
and clothes; he was not very curious to know the message that the teacher
had brought, he was influenced besides by the landlady's low opinion of
the Superintendent. 'It must be after twelve already, surely?' he said,
thinking of the distance he had to walk; then he remembered himself, and
said: 'You want to give me some message from the Superintendent.' 'Well,
yes,' said the teacher, shrugging his shoulders as if he were discarding all
responsibility. 'The Superintendent is afraid that, if the decision in your
case takes too long, you might do something rash on your own account.
For my own part I don't know why he should fear that - my own opinion
is that you should just be allowed to do what you like. We aren't your
guardian angels and we're not obliged to run after you in all your doings.
Well and good. The Superintendent, however, is of a different opinion. He
can't of course hasten the decision itself, which is a matter for the
authorities. But in his own sphere of jurisdiction he wants to provide a
temporary and truly generous settlement; it simply lies with you to accept
it. He offers you provisionally the post of school janitor.' At first K.
thought very little of the offer made him, but the fact that an offer had
been made seemed to him not without significance. It seemed to point r
C fact that in the Superintendent's opinion he was in a to look after
himself, to carry out projects against the Town Council itself was
preparing certain counter measures. And how seriously they were taking
the matter ! The teacher, who had already been waiting for a while, and
who before that, moreover, had made out the protocol, must of course
have been told to run here by the Superintendent. When the teacher saw
that he had made K. reflect at last, he went on: 'I put my objections. I
pointed out that up till now a janitor hadn't been found necessary; the
churchwarden's wife cleared up the place from time to time, and Fraulein
Gisa, the second teacher, overlooked the matter. I had trouble enough
with the children, I didn't want to be bothered by a janitor as well. The
Superintendent pointed out that all the same the school was very dirty. I
replied, keeping to the truth, that it wasn't so very bad. And, I went on,
would it be any better if we took on this man as janitor? Most certainly
not. Apart from the fact that he didn't know the work, there were only two
big classrooms in the school, and no additional room; so the janitor and
his family would have to live, sleep, perhaps even cook in one of the
classrooms, which could hardly make for greater cleanliness. But the
Superintendent laid stress on the fact that this post would keep you out of
difficulties, and that consequently you would do your utmost to fill it
creditably; he suggested further, that along with you we would obtain the
services of your wife and your assistants, so that the school should be
kept in first-rate order, and not only it, but the school-garden as well. I
easily proved that this would not hold water. At last the Superintendent
couldn't bring forward a single argument in your favour; he laughed and
merely said that you were a Land Surveyor after all and so should be able
to lay out the vegetable beds beautifully. Well, against a joke there's no
argument, and so I came to you with the proposal.' 'You've taken your
trouble for nothing, teacher,' said 1C. 'I have no intention of accepting the
post.' 'Splendid!' said the teacher. 'Splendid I You decline quite
unconditionally,' and he took his hat, bowed, and went. Immediately
afterwards Frieda came rushing up the stairs an excited face, the shirt still
unironed in her hand; she did 9*
not reply to K.'s inquiries. To distract her he told her about the teacher
and the offer; she had hardly heard it when she flung the shirt on the bed
and ran out again. She soon came back, but with the teacher, who looked
annoyed and entered without any greeting. Frieda begged him to have a
little patience - obviously she had done that already several times on the
way up - then drew K. through a side door of which he had never
suspected the existence, on to the neighbouring loft, and then at last, out
of breath with excitement, told what had happened to her. Enraged that
Frieda had humbled herself by making an avowal to K., and - what was
still worse - had yielded to him merely to secure him an interview with
Klamm, and after all had gained nothing but, so she alleged, cold and
moreover insincere professions, the landlady was resolved to keep K. no
longer in her house; if he had connexions with the Castle, then he should
take advantage of them at once, for he must leave the house that very day,
that very minute, and she would only take him back again at the express
order and command of the authorities; but she hoped it would not come to
that, for she too had connexions with the Castle and would know how to
make use of them. Besides, he was only in the inn because of the
landlord's negligence, and moreover he was not in a state of destitution,
for this very morning he had boasted of a roof which was always free to
him for the night. Frieda of course was to remain; if Frieda wanted to go
with K. she, the landlady, would be very sorry; down in the kitchen she
had sunk into a chair by the fire and cried at the mere thought of it. The
poor, sick woman; but how could she behave otherwise, now that, in her
imagination at any rate, it was a matter involving the honour of Klamm's
keepsakes? That was how matters stood with the landlady. Frieda of
course would follow him, K., wherever he wanted to go. Yet the position
of both of them was very bad in any case, just for that reason she had
greeted the teacher's offer with such joy; even if it was not a suitable post
for K., yet it was - that was expressly insisted on - only a temporary post;
one would gain a little time and would easily find other chances, even if
the final decision should turn out to be unfavourable. 'If it comes to the
worst,' cried Frieda at last, falling on K.'s neck, 'we'll 92
away, what is there in the village to keep us? But for the time being,
darling, we'll accept the offer, won't we? I've fetched the eacher back
again, you've only to say to him "Done", that's all, and we'll move over to
the school.' 'It's a great nuisance,' said K. without quite meaning it, for ue
was not much concerned about his lodgings, and in his underclothes he
was shivering up here in the loft, which without wall or window on two
sides was swept by a cold draught, 'you've arranged the room so
comfortably and now we must leave it. I would take up the post very,
very unwillingly; the few snubs I've already had from the teacher have
been painful enough, and now he's to become my superior, no less. Jf we
could only stay here a little while longer, perhaps my position might
change for the better this very afternoon. If you would only remain here
at least, we could wait on for a little and give the teacher a non-committal
answer. As for me, if it came to the worst, I could really always find a
lodging for the night with gar -' Frieda stopped him by putting her hand
over his mouth. 'No, not that,' she said beseechingly, 'please never
mention that again. In everything else I'll obey you. If you like I'll stay on
here by myself, sad as it will be for me. If you like, we'll refuse the offer,
wrong as that would seem to me. For look here, if you find another
possibility, even this afternoon, why, it's obvious that we would throw up
the post in the school at once; nobody would object And as for your
humiliation in front of the teacher, let me see to it that there will be none;
I'll speak to him myself, you'll only have to be there and needn't say
anything, and later, too, it will be just the same, you'll never be made to
speak to him if you don't want to, I - I alone - will be his subordinate in
reality, and I won't be even that, for I know his weak points. So you see
nothing will be lost if we take on the post, and a great deal if we refuse it;
above all, if you don't wring something out of the Castle this very day,
you'll never manage to find, even for yourself, anywhere at all in the
village to spend the night in, anywhere, that is, of which I needn't be
ashamed as your future wife. And if you don't manage to find a roof for
the night, do you really expect me to sleep here in my warm room, while
I know that you are wandering about out 93
there in the dark and cold?' K., who had been trying to warm himself all
this time by clapping his chest with his arms like a carter, said: 'Then
there's nothing left but to accept; come along 1' When they returned to the
room he went straight over to the fire; he paid no attention to the teacher;
the latter, sitting at the table, drew out his watch and said: 'It's getting
late.' 'I know, but we're completely agreed at last,' said Frieda, 'we accept
the post.' 'Good,' said the teacher, 'but the post is offered to the Land
Surveyor; he must say the word himself.' Frieda came to K.'s help.
'Really,' she said, 'he accepts the post. Don't you, K.?' So K. could confine
his declaration to a simple 'Yes,' which was not even directed to the
teacher but to Frieda. 'Then,' said the teacher, 'the only thing that remains
for me is to acquaint you with your duties, so that in that respect we can
understand each other once and for all. You have, Land Surveyor, to clean
and heat both classrooms daily, to make any small repairs in the house,
further, to look after the class and gymnastic apparatus personally, to keep
the garden path free of snow, run messages for me and the lady teacher,
and look after ail the work in the garden in the warmer seasons of the year.
In return for that you have the right to live in whichever one of the
classrooms you like; but, when both rooms are not being used at the same
time for teaching, and you are in the room that is needed, you must of
course move to the other room. You mustn't do any cooking in the school;
in return you and your dependants will be given your meals here in the
inn at the cost of the Town Council. That you must behave in a manner
consonant with the dignity of the school, and in particular that the
children during school hours must never be allowed to witness any
unedifying matrimonial scenes, I mention only in passing, for as an
educated man you must of course know that. In connexion with that I
want to say further that we must insist on your relations with Fraulein
Frieda being legitimized at the earliest possible moment. About all this
and a few other trifling matters, an agreement will be made out, which as
soon as you move over to the school must be signed by you.' To K. all
this seemed of no importance, as if it did not concern him or at any rate
did not 94
bind him; but the self-importance of the teacher irritated him, and he said
carelessly: 'I know, they're the usual duties.' To jpe away the impression
created by this remark Frieda inquired about the salary. 'Whether there
will be any salary,' said fac teacher, 'will only be considered after a
month's trial service.' 'But that is hard on us,' said Frieda. 'We'll have to
marry on practically nothing, and have nothing to set up house on.
Couldn't you make a representation to the Town Council, sir, to give us a
small salary at the start? Couldn't you advise that?' 'No,' replied the
teacher, who continued to direct his words to K. 'Representations to the
Town Council will only be made if I give the word, and I shan't give it.
The post has only been given to you as a personal favour, and one can't
stretch a favour too far, if one has any consciousness of one's obvious
responsibilities.' Now K. intervened at last, almost against his will. 'As for
the favour, teacher,' he said, 'it seems to me that you're mistaken. The
favour is perhaps rather on my side.' 'No,' replied the teacher, smiling
now that he had compelled K. to speak at last. 'I'm completely grounded
on that point. Our need for a janitor is just about as urgent as our need for
a Land Surveyor. Janitor, Land Surveyor, in both cases it's a burden on
our shoulders. I'll still have a lot of trouble thinking out how I'm to justify
the post to the Town Council. The best thing and the most honest thing
would be to throw the proposal on the table and not justify anything.'
'That's just what I meant,' replied K., 'you must take me on against your
will. Although it causes you grave perturbation, you must take me on. But
when one is cornpelled to take someone else on, and this someone else
allows himself to be taken on, then he is the one who grants the favour.'
'Strangel' said the teacher. 'What is it that compels us to take you on? The
only thing that compels us is the Superintendent's kind heart, his too kind
heart. I see, Land Surveyor, that you'll have to rid yourself of a great
many illusions, before you can become a serviceable janitor. And remarks
such as these hardly produce the right atmosphere for the granting of an
eventual salary. I notice, too, with regret that your attitude will give me a
great deal of trouble yet; all this time - I've seen it with my own eyes and
yet can scarcely believe it - you've been talking to me 95
in your shirt and drawers.' 'Quite so,' exclaimed K. with laugh, and he
clapped his hands. 'These terrible assistants, where have they been all this
time?' Frieda hurried to the door; the teacher, who noticed that K. was no
longer to be drawn into conversation, asked her when she would move
into the school. 'To-day,' said Frieda. 'Then to-morrow I'll come to inspect
matters,' said the teacher, waved a good-bye, and made to go out through
the door, which Frieda had opened for herself, but ran into the maids,
who already were arriving with their things to take possession of the
room again; and he, who made way for nobody, had to slip between them:
Frieda followed him. 'You're surely in a hurry,' said K., who this time was
very pleased with the maids; 'had you to push your way in while we're
still here?' They did not answer, only twisted their bundles in
embarrassment, from which K. saw the wellknown filthy rags projecting.
'So you've never washed.your things yet,' said K. It was not said
maliciously, but actually with a certain indulgence. They noticed it,
opened their hard mouths in concert, showed their beautiful animal-like
teeth and laughed noiselessly, 'Come along,' said K., 'put your things
down, it's your room after all.' As they still hesitated, however - the room
must have seemed to them all too well transformed - K. took one of them
by the arm to lead her forward. But he let her go at once, so astonished
was the gaze of both, which, after a brief glance between them, was now
turned unflinchingly on K. 'But now you've stared at me long enough,' he
said, repelling a vague, unpleasant sensation, and he took up his clothes
and boots, which Frieda, timidly followed by the assistants, had just
brought, and drew them on. The patience which Frieda had with the
assistants, always incomprehensible to him, now struck him again. After a
long search she had found them below peacefully eating their lunch, the
untouched clothes which they should have been brushing in the yard
crumpled in their laps; then she had had to brush everything herself, and
yet she, who knew how to keep the common people in their places, had
not even scolded them, and instead spoke in their presence of their grave
negligence as if it were a trifling peccadillo, and even slapped one of
them lightly, almost caressingly, on the cheek. 96
K. would have to talk to her about this. But now it time to be gone. 'The
assistants will stay here to help u with the removing,' he said. They were
not in the least leased with this arrangement; happy and full, they would
have glao< ^ a ^tl^c exercise- Only when Frieda said, 'Certainly, Ou stay
here,' did they yield. 'Do you know where I'm going?' Lked K. 'Yes,'
replied Frieda. 'And you don't want to hold me back any longer?' asked K.
'You'll find obstacles enough,' she replied, 'what does anything I say
matter in comparison!' She kissed K. good-bye, and as he had had
nothing at lunch-time, /rave him a little packet of bread and sausage
which she had brought for him from downstairs, reminded him that he
must not return here again but to the school, and accompanied him, with
her hand on his shoulder, to the door. 8 AT first K. was glad to have
escaped from the crush of the JL\ maids and the assistants in the warm
room. It was freezing a little, the snow was firmer, the going easier. But
already darkness was actually beginning to fall, and he hastened his steps.
The Castle, whose contours were already beginning to dissolve, lay silent
as ever; never yet had K. seen there the slightest sign of life - perhaps it
was quite impossible to recognize anything at that distance, and yet the
eye demanded it and could not endure that stillness. When K. looked at
the Castle, often it seemed to him as if he were observing someone who
sat quietly there hi front of him- gazing, not lost in thought and so
oblivious of everything, but free and untroubled, as if he were alone with
nobody to observe him, and yet must notice that he was observed, and all
the same remained with his calm not even slightly disturbed; and really -
one did not know whether it was cause or effect - the gaze of the observer
could not remain concentrated there, but slid away. This impression
to-day was strengthened still further by the early dusk; the longer he
looked, the less he could make out and the deeper everything *as lost in
the twilight. 97
Just as K. reached the Herrenhof, which was still unlightcd, a window
was opened in the first storey, and a stout, smooth shaven young man in a
fur coat leaned out and then remained at the window. He did not seem to
make the slightest response to K.'s greeting. Neither in the hall nor in the
taproom did K. meet anybody; the smell of stale beer was still worse than
last time; such a state of things was never allowed even in the inn by the
bridge. K. went straight over to the door through which he had observed
Klamm, and lifted the latch cautiously, but the door was barred; then he
felt for the place where the peephole was, but the pin apparently was
fitted so well that he could not find the place, so he struck a match. He
was starded by a cry. In the corner between the door and the till, near the
fire, a young girl was crouching and staring at him in the flare of the
match, with partially opened sleep-drunken eyes. She was evidently
Frieda's successor. She soon collected herself and switched on the electric
light; her expression was cross, then she recognized K. 'Ah, the Land
Surveyor,' she said smiling, held out her hand, and introduced herself.
'My name is Pepi.' She was small, redcheeked, plump; her opulent
reddish golden hair was twisted into a strong plait, yet some of it escaped
and curled round her temples; she was wearing a dress of grey
shimmering material, falling in straight lines, which did not suit her in the
least; at the foot it was drawn together by a childishly clumsy silken band
with tassels falling from it, which impeded her movements. She inquired
after Frieda and asked whether she would come back soon. It was a
question which verged on insolence. 'As soon as Frieda went away,' she
said next, 'I was called here urgendy because they couldn't find anybody
suitable at the moment; I've been a chambermaid till now, but this isn't a
change for the better. There's lots of evening and night work in this job,
it's very tiring, I don't think I'll be able to stand it. I'm not surprised that
Frieda threw it up.' 'Frieda was very happy here,' said K., to make her
aware definitely of the difference between Frieda and herself, which she
did not seem to appreciate. 'Don't you believe her,' said Pepi. 'Frieda can
keep a straight face better than other people can. She doesn't admit what
she doesn't want to admit, and so nobody noticed that she 98
, anything to admit. I've been in service here with u
several years already. We've slept together all that time in same bed, yet
I'm not intimate with her, and by now I'm rite out of her thoughts, that's
certain. Perhaps her only 2>nd * ^ ^ lanthat tells a story ^' 'Frieda is my fiancee,' said K., searching at the same
time for'the peephole in the door. CI know,' said Pcpi, 'that's just the
reason why I've told you. Otherwise it wouldn't have any interest for you.'
'I understand/ said K. 'You mean that I should be proud to have won such
a reticent girl?' 'That's so,' said she, laughing triumphantly, as if she had
established a secret understanding with K. regarding Frieda. But it was
not her actual words that troubled K. and deflected him for a little from
his search, but rather her appearance and her presence in this place.
Certainly she was much younger than Frieda, almost a child still, and her
clothes were ludicrous; she had obviously dressed in accordance with the
exaggerated notions which she had of the importance of a barmaid's
position. And these notions were right enough in their way in her, for this
position of which she was still incapable had come to her unearned and
unexpectedly, and only for the time being; not even the leather reticule
which Frieda always wore on her belt had been entrusted to her. And her
ostensible dissatisfaction with the position was nothing but showing off.
And yet, in spite of her childish mind, she too, apparently, had
connexions with the Castle; if she was not lying, she had been a
chambermaid; without being aware of what she possessed she slept
through the days here, and though if he took this tiny, plump slightly
round-backed creature in his arms he could not extort from her what she
possessed, yet that could bring him in contact with it and inspirit him for
his difficult task. Then could her case now be much the same as Frieda's?
Oh, no, it was different. One had only to think of Frieda's look to know
that. K. would never have touched Pepi. All the same he had to lower his
eyes tor a little now, so greedily was he staring at her. 'It's against orders
for the light to be on,' said Pepi, switchmg u off again. 'I only turned it on
because you gave me such a 99
fright. What do you want here really? Did Frieda forget any. thing?' 'Yes,'
said K., pointing to die door, 'a table-cover, a white embroidered
table-cover, here in the next room.' 'Yes, her table-cover,' said Pepi. 'I
remember it, a pretty piece of work. \ helped with it myself, but it can
hardly be in that room.' 'Frieda thinks it is. Who lives in it, then?' asked.
K. 'Nobody,' said Pcpi, 'it's the gentlemen's room; the gentlemen eat and
drink there; that is, it's reserved for that, but most of them remain upstairs
in their rooms.' 'If I knew,' said K., 'that nobody was in there just now, I
would like very much to go in and have a look for the table-cover. But
one can't be certain; Klamm, for instance, is often in the habit of sitting
there.' 'Klamm is certainly not there now,' said Pepi. 'He's making ready
to leave this minute, the sledge is waiting for him in the yard.' Without a
word of explanation K. left the taproom at once; when he reached the hall
he returned, instead of to the door, to the interior of the house, and in a
few steps reached the courtyard. How still and lovely it was here I A
four-square yard, bordered on three sides by the house buildings, and
towards the street - a side-street which K. did not know - by a high white
wall with a huge, heavy gate, open now. Here where the court was, the
house seemed stiller than at the front; at any rate the whole first storey
jutted out and had a more impressive appearance, for it was encircled by a
wooden gallery closed in except for one tiny slit for looking through. At
the opposite side from K. and on the ground floor, but in the corner where
the opposite wing of the house joined the main building, there was an
entrance to the house, open, and without a door. Before it was standing a
dark, closed sledge to which a pair of horses was yoked. Except for the
coachman, whom at that distance and in the falling twilight K. guessed at
rather than recognized, nobody was to be seen. Looking about him
cautiously, his hands in his pockets, K. slowly coasted round two sides of
the yard until he reached the sledge. The coachman - one of the peasants
who had been the other night in the taproom - smart in his fur coat,
watched K. approaching non-committally, much as one follows the
movements of a cat. Even when K. was standing beside him and had 100
-e , and the horses were becoming a little restive at feeing a man lommg
out t the dusk, he remained completely detached. That exactly suited K.'s
purpose. Leaning against the 11 of the house he took out his lunch,
thought gratefully of crieda and her solicitous provision for him, and
meanwhile peered into the house. A very angular and broken stair led
Downwards and was crossed down below by a low but appar^y deep
passage; everything was clean and whitewashed, sharply and distinctly
defined. The wait lasted longer than K. had expected. Long ago he bad
finished his meal, he was getting chilled, the twilight had changed into
complete darkness, and still Klamm had not arrived. 'It might be a long
time yet,' said a rough voice suddenly, so near to him that K. started. It
was the coachman, who, as if waking up, stretched himself and yawned
loudly. 'What might be a long time yet?' asked K., not ungrateful at being
disturbed, for the perpetual silence and tension had already become a
burden. 'Before you go away,' said the coachman. K. did not understand
him, but did not ask further; he thought that would be the best means of
making the insolent fellow speak. Not to answer here in this darkness was
almost a challenge. And actually the coachman asked, after a pause:
'Would you like some brandy?' 'Yes,' said K. without thinking tempted
only too keenly by the offer, for he was freezing. 'Then open the door of
the sledge,' said the coachman; 'in the side pocket there are some flasks,
take one and have a drink and then hand it up to me. With this fur coat it's
difficult for me to get down.' K. was annoyed at being ordered about, but
seeing that he had struck up with the coachman he obeyed, even at the
possible risk of being surprised by Klamm in the sledge. He opened the
wide door and could without more ado have drawn a flask out of the side
pocket which was fastened to the inside of the door; but now that it was
open he felt an impulse which he could not withstand to go inside the
sledge; all he wanted was to sit there for a minute. He slipped inside. The
warmth within the sledge was extraordinary, and it remained although the
door, which K. did not dare to close, was wide open. One could not tell
whether it was a seat one was sitting on, so completely 101
was one surrounded by blankets, cushions, and furs; one could turn and
stretch on every side, and always one sank into soft, ness and warmth. His
arms spread out, his head supported on pillows which always seemed to
be there, K. gazed out of the sledge into the dark house. Why was Klamm
such a long time in coming? As if stupefied by the warmth after his long
wait in the snow, K. began to wish that Klamm would come soon. The
thought that he would much rather not be seen by Klamm in his present
position touched him only vaguely as a faint disturbance of his comfort.
He was supported in this obliviousness by the behaviour of the coachman,
who certainly knew that he was in the sledge, and yet let him stay there
without once demanding the brandy. That was very considerate, but still
K. wanted to oblige him. Slowly, without altering his position, he reached
out his hand to the side-pocket. But not the one in the open door, but the
one behind him in the closed door; after all, it didn't matter, there were
Basks in that one too. He pulled one out, unscrewed the stopper, and
smelt; involuntarily he smiled, the perfume was so sweet, so caressing,
like praise and good words from someone whom one likes very much, yet
one does not know clearly what they are for and has no desire to know,
and is simply happy in the knowledge that it is one's friend who is saying
them. 'Can this be brandy?' K. asked himself doubtfully and took a taste
out of curiosity. Yes, strangely enough it was brandy, and burned and
warmed him. How wonderfully it was transformed in drinking out of
something which seemed hardly more than a sweet perfume into a drink
fit for a coachman I 'Can it be?' K. asked himself as if self-reproachfully,
and took another sip. Then - as K. was just in the middle of a long swig -
everything became bright, the electric lights blazed inside on the stairs, in
the passages, in the entrance hall, outside above the door Steps could be
heard coming down the stairs, the flask fell from K.'s hand, the brandy
was spilt over a rug, K. sprang out of the sledge, he had just time to slam
the door to, which made 'a loud noise, when a gentleman came slowly out
of the house. The only consolation that remained was that it was not
Klamm, or was not that rather a pity? It was the gentleman whom K. had
102
Iready seen at the window on the first floor. A young man, very
Vj^Jooking, pink and white, but very serious. K., too, looked. thin1
gravely, but his gravity was on his own account. Really uc would have
done better to have sent his assistants here, they ouldn't have behaved
more foolishly than he had done. The gentleman still regarded him in
silence, as if he had not enough breath in his overcharged bosom for what
had to be said. This is unheard of,' he said at last, pushing his hat a little
back on his forehead. What next? The gentleman knew nothing
apparently of K.'s stay in the sledge, and yet found something that was
unheard of? Perhaps that K. had pushed his way in as far as the courtyard?
'How do you come to be here?' the gentleman asked next, more softly
now, breathing freely again, resigning himself to the inevitable. What
questions to ask! And what could one answer? Was K. to admit simply
and flatly to this man that his attempt, begun with so many hopes, had
failed? Instead of replying, K. turned to the sledge, opened the door, and
retrieved his cap, which he had forgotten there. He noticed with
discomfort that the brandy was dripping from the footboard. Then he
turned again to the gentleman, to show him that he had been in the sledge
gave him no more compunction now, besides that wasn't the worst of it;
when he was questioned, but only then, he would divulge the fact that the
coachman himself had at least asked him to open the door of the sledge.
But the real calamity was that the gentleman had surprised him, that there
had not been enough time left to hide from him so as afterwards to wait in
peace for Klamm, or rather that he had not had enough presence of mind
to remain in the sledge, close the door and wait there among the rugs for
Klamm, or at least to stay there as long as this man was about. True, he
couldn't know of course whether it might not be Klamm himself who was
coming, in which case it would naturally have been much better to accost
him outside the sledge. Yes, there had been many things here for thought,
but now there was none, for this was the end. Come with me,' said the
gentleman, not really as a cornmand, for the command lay not in the
words, but in a slight, 103
studiedly indifferent gesture of the hand which accompanied them. Tm
waiting here for somebody/ said K., no longer i^ the hope of any success,
but simply on principle. 'Come,' said the gentleman once more quite
imperturbably, as if he wanted to show that he had never doubted that K.
was waiting for somebody. 'But then I would miss the person I'm waiting
for,' said K. with an emphatic nod of his head. In spite of everything that
had happened he had the feeling that what he had achieved thus far was
something gained, which it was true he only held now in seeming, but
which^he must not relinquish all the same merely on account of a polite
command. 'You'll miss him in any case, whether you go or stay,' said the
gendeman, expressing himself bluntly, but showing an unexpected
consideration for K.'s line of thought. 'Then I would rather wait for him
and miss him,' said K. defiantly; he would certainly not be driven away
from here by the mere talk of this young man. Thereupon with his head
thrown back and a supercilious look on his face the gentleman closed his
eyes for a few minutes, as if he wanted to turn from K's senseless
stupidity to his own sound reason again, ran the tip of his tongue round
his slightly parted lips, and said at last to the coachman: 'Unyoke the
horses.' Obedient to die gendeman, but with a furious side-glance at K.,
the coachman had now to get down in spite of his fur coat, and began
very hesitatingly - as if he did not so much expect a counter-order from
the gentleman as a sensible remark from K. - to back the horses and the
sledge closer to the side wing, in which apparently, behind a big door,
was the shed where the vehicles were kept. K. saw himself deserted, the
sledge was disappearing in one direction, in the other, by the way he had
come himself, the gentleman was receding, both it was true very slowly,
as if they wanted to show K. that it was still in his power to call them
back. Perhaps he had this power, but it would have availed him nothing;
to call the sledge back would be to drive himself away. So he remained
standing as one who held the field, but it was a victory which gave him
no joy. Alternately he looked at the backs of the gentleman and the
coachman. The gentleman had already reached the door through which K.
had first come into 104
the courtyard; yet once more he looked back, K. fancied he saw him
shaking his head over such obstinacy, then with a short, jgcisive, final
movement he turned away and stepped into the hall, where he
immediately vanished. The coachman remained or a while still in the
courtyard, he had a great deal of work tvith the sledge, he had to open the
heavy door of the shed, back the sledge into its place, unyoke the horses,
lead them to their stalls; all this he did gravely, with concentration,
evidently without any hope of starting soon again, and this silent
absorption which did not spare a single side-glance for K. seemed to the
latter a far heavier reproach than the behaviour of the gentleman. And
when now, after finishing his work in the shed, the coachman went across
the courtyard in his slow, rolling walk, closed the huge gate and then
returned, all very slowly, while he literally looked at nothing but his own
footprints in the snow and finally shut himself into the shed; and now as
all the electric lights went out too - for whom should they remain on? -
and only up above the slit in the wooden gallery still remained bright,
holding one's wandering gaze for a little, it seemed to K. as if at last those
people had broken off all relations with him, and as if now in reality he
were freer than he had ever been, and at liberty to wait here in this place
usually forbidden to him as long as he desired, and had won a freedom
such as hardly anybody else had ever succeeded in winning, and as if
nobody could dare to touch him or drive him away, or even speak to him;
but - this conviction was at least equally strong - as if at the same time
there was nothing more senseless, nothing more hopeless, than this
freedom, this waiting, this inviolability. 9 AID he tore himself free and
went back into the house - this time not along the wall but straight
through the snow and met the landlord in the hall, who greeted him in
silence and pointed towards the door of the taproom. K. followed the hint,
for he was shivering, and wanted to see human faces; but he was greatly
disappointed when he saw there, sitting at a little 105
table - which must have been specially set out, for usually The customers
put up with upturned barrels - the young gentleman and standing before
him - an unwelcome sight for K. - the landlady from the Bridge Inn. Pepi,
proud, her head thrown back and a fixed smile on her face, conscious of
her incontestable dignity, her plait nodding with every movement, hurried
to and fro, fetching beer and then pen and ink, for the gentleman had
already spread out papers in front of him, was comparing dates which he
looked up now in this paper, then again in a paper at the other end of the
table, and was preparing to write. From her full height the landlady
silently overlooked the gentleman and the papers, her lips pursed a little
as if musing; it was as if she had already said everything necessary and it
had been well received. 'The Land Surveyor at last,' said the gentleman at
K.'s entrance, looking up briefly, then burying himself again in his papers.
The landlady, too, only gave K. an indifferent and not in the least
surprised glance. But Pepi actually seemed to notice K. for the first time
when he went up to the bar and ordered a brandy. K. leaned there, his
hands pressed to his eyes, oblivious of everything. Then he took a sip of
the brandy and pushed it back, saying it was undrinkable. 'All the
gentlemen drink it,' replied Pepi curdy, poured out the remainder, washed
the glass and set it on the rack. "The gentlemen have better stuff as well,'
said K. 'It's possible,' replied Pepi, 'but I haven't,' and with that she was
finished with K. and once more at the gentleman's service, who, however,
was in need of nothing, and behind whom she only kept walking to and
fro in circles, making respectful attempts to catch a glimpse of the papers
over his shoulder; but that was only her senseless curiosity and
self-importance, which the landlady, too, reprehended with knitted brows.
Then suddenly the landlady's attention was distracted, she stared,
listening intently, into vacancy. K. turned round, he could not hear
anything in particular, nor did the others seem to hear anything; but the
landlady ran on tiptoe and taking large steps to the door which led to the
courtyard, peered through the keyhole, turned then to the others with
wide, staring eyes and flushed cheeks, signed to them with her finger to
106
near, and now they peered through the keyhole by turns; C landlady had,
of course, the lion's share, but Pepi, too, was sidered; the gentleman was
on the whole the most indifferC t of the three. Pepi and the gentleman
came away soon, but , landlady kept on peering anxiously, bent double,
almost I eeling; one had almost the feeling that she was only implor. ^
keyhole now to let her through, for there had certainly tJ!n nothing more
to see for a Jong time. When at last she got passed her hand over her face,
arranged her hair, took a deep breath, and now at last seemed to be trying
with reluctance to accustom her eyes again to the room and the people in
it, K. said, not so much to get his suspicions confirmed, as to forestall the
announcement, so open to attack did he feel now: 'Has Klamm gone
already then?' The landlady walked past him in silence, but the gentleman
answered from his table: 'Yes, of course. As soon as you gave up your
sentry go, TClamm was able to leave. But it's strange how sensitive he is.
Did you notice, landlady, how uneasily Klamm looked round him?' The
landlady did not appear to have noticed it, but the gentleman went on:
'Well, fortunately there was nothing more to be seen, the coachman had
effaced even the footprints in the snow.' 'The landlady didn't notice
anything,' said K., but he said it without conviction, merely provoked by
the gentleman's assertion, which was uttered in such a final and
unanswerable tone. 'Perhaps I wasn't at the keyhole just then,' said the
landlady presently, to back up the gentleman, but then she felt compelled
to give Klamm his due as well, and added: 'All the same, I can't believe in
this terrible sensitiveness of Klamm. We are anxious about him and try to
guard him, and so go on to infer that he's terribly sensitive. That's as it
should be and it's certainly Klamm's will. But how it is in reality we don't
know. Certainly, Klamm will never speak to anybody that he doesn't want
to speak to, no matter how much trouble this anybody may take, and no
matter how insufferably forward he may be; but that fact alone, that
Klamm will never speak to him, never allow him to come into his
presence, is enough in itself: why after all should it follow that he isn't
able to endure seeing this anybody? At any rate, it can't be proved, seeing
that it will never come 107
ic gentleman nodded eagerly. "That is essentially >, of course,' he said, 'if
I expressed myself a little to the test.' The my opinion too, differently, it
was to make myself comprehensible to the Land Surveyor. All the same
it's a fact that when Klamm stepped out of the doorway he looked round
him several times. 'Perhaps he was looking for me,' said K. 'Possibly,' said
the gentleman. 'I hadn't thought of that.' They all laughed, Pcpi, who
hardly understood anything that was being said, loudest of all. 'Seeing
we're all so happy here now,' the gentleman went on, 'I want to beg you
very seriously, Land Surveyor, to enable me to complete my papers by
answering a few questions.' 'There's a great deal of writing there,' said K.
glancing at the papers from where he was standing. 'Yes, a wretched
bore,' said the gentleman laughing again, 'but perhaps you don't know yet
who I am. I'm Momus, Klamm's village secretary.' At these words
seriousness descended on the room; although the landlady and Pepi knew
quite well who the gentleman was, yet they seemed staggered by the
utterance of his name and rank. And even the gentleman himself, as if he
had said more than his judgement sanctioned, and as if he were resolved
to escape at least from any after-effects of the solemn import implicit in
his own words, buried himself in his papers and began to write, so that
nothing was heard in the room but the scratching of his pen. 'What is that:
village secretary,' asked K. after a pause. The landlady answered for
Momus, who now that he had introduced himself did not regard it seemly
to give such explanations himself: 'Herr Momus is Klamm's secretary in
the same sense as any of Klamm's secretaries, but his official province,
and if I'm not mistaken, his .official standing' - still writing Momus shook
his head decidedly and the landlady amended her phrase - 'well, then, his
official province, but not his official standing, is confined to the village.
Herr Momus dispatches any clerical work of Klamm's which may
become necessary in the village and as Klamm's deputy receives any
petitions to Klamm which may be sent by the village.' As, still quite
unimpressed by these facts, K. looked at the landlady with vacant eyes,
she added in a halfembarrassed tone: That's how it's arranged; all the
gentlemen in the Castle have their village secretaries.' Momus, who had
108
listening far more attentively than K., supplied the \,dlady with a
supplementary fact: 'Most of the village 3 retaries work only for one
gentleman, but I work for s for Klamm and for Vallabene.' 'Yes,' went on
the landI Av remembering now on her side too, and turning to K., 'Her'r
Momus works for two gentlemen, for Klamm and for Vallabene, and so is
twice a village secretary.' 'Actually twice,' aid K., nodding to Momus -
who now, leaning slightly forward, looked him full in the face-as one
nods to a child whom one has just heard being praised. If there was a
certain contempt in the gesture, then it was either unobserved or else
actually expected. Precisely to',K., it seemed, who was not considered
worthy even to be seen in passing by Klamm, these people had described
in detail the services of a man out of Klamm's circle with the unconcealed
intention of evoking K.'s recognition and admiration. And yet K. had no
proper appreciation of it; he, who with all his powers strove to get a
glimpse of Klamm, valued very little, for example, the post of a Momus
who was permitted to live in Klamm's eye; for it was not Klamm's
environment in itself that seemed to him worth striving for, but rather that
he, K., he only and no one else, should attain to Klamm, and should attain
to him not to rest with him, but to go on beyond him, farther yet, into the
Castle. And he looked at his watch and said: 'But now I must be going
home.' Immediately the position changed in Momus's favour. 'Yes, of
course,' the latter replied, 'the school work calls. But you must favour me
with just a moment of your time. Only a few short questions.' *I don't feel
in the mood for it,' said K. and turned towards the door. Momus brought
down a document on the table and stood up; 'In the name of Klamm I
command you to answer my questions.' 'In the name of Klamm!' repeated
K., 'does he trouble himself about my affairs, then?' 'As to that,' replied
Momus, 'I have no information and you certainly have still less; we can
safely leave that to him. All the same I cornmand you by virtue of my
function granted by Klamm to stay here and to answer.' 'Land Surveyor,'
broke in the landlady, 'I refuse to advise you any further, my advice till
now, the most well-meaning that you could have got, has been cast back
at me 109
in the most unheard-of manner; and I have come here to Momus-I have
nothing to hide-simply to give the office adequate idea of your behaviour
and your intentions and to pro. tect myself for all time from having you
quartered on me again* that's how we stand towards each other and that's
how we'll always stand, and if I speak my mind accordingly now, I don't
do it, I can tell you, to help you, but to ease a little the hard job which
Hcrr Momus is bound to have in dealing with a man like you. All the
same, just because of my absolute frankness and I couldn't deal otherwise
than frankly with you even if I were to try - you can extract some
advantage for yourself out of what I say, if you only take the trouble. In
the present case I want to draw your attention to this, that the only road
that can lead you to Klamm is through this protocol here of Herr Momus.
But I don't want to exaggerate, perhaps that road won't get you as far as
Klamm, perhaps it will stop long before it reaches him; the judgement of
Herr Momus will decide that But in any case that's the only road that will
take you in the direction of Klamm. And do you intend to reject that road,
for nothing but pride?' 'Oh, madam,' said K., 'that's neither the only road
to Klamm, nor is it any better than the others. But you, Mr Secretary,
decide this question, whether what I may say here can get as far as
Klamm or not.' 'Of course it can,' said Momus, lowering his eyes proudly
and gazing at nothing, 'otherwise why should I be secretary here?' 'Now
you sec, madam,' said K., 'I don't need a road to Klamm, but only to Mr
Secretary.' 'I wanted to throw open this road for you,' said the landlady,
'didn't I ofTer this morning to send your request to Klamm? That might
have been done through Herr Momus. But you refused, and yet from now
on no other way will remain for you but this one. But frankly, after your
attempt on Klamm's privacy, with much less prospect of success. All the
same this last, any, vanishing, yes, actually invisible hope, is your only
one.' 'How is it, madam,' said K., 'that originally you tried so hard to keep
me from seeing Klamm, and yet now take my wish to sec him quite
seriously, and seem to consider me lost largely on account of the
miscarrying of my plan? If at advise me sincerely from your heart against
you no
trying to see at * flow can yu Pssibly drive me on h road to Klamm now,
apparendy just as sincerely, even hough it's admitted that the road may
not reach as far as him?' 'Am I driving you on?' asked the landlady. 'Do
you call it , jvjng you on when I tell you that your attempt is hopeless? j.
Would really be the limit of audacity if you tried in that way push the
responsibility on to me. Perhaps it's Herr Momus's presence that
encourages you to do it. No, Land Surveyor, I'm not trying to drive you
on to anything. I can admit only one mistake, that I overestimated you a
little when I first saw you. Your immediate victory over Frieda frightened
me, I didn't jjnow what you might still be capable of. I wanted to prevent
further damage, and thought that the only means of achieving that was to
shake your resolution by prayers and threats. Since then I have learned to
look on the whole thing more calmly. You can do what you like. Your
actions may no doubt leave deep footprints hi the snow out there in the
courtyard, but they'll do nothing more.' "The contradiction doesn't seem
to me to be quite cleared up/ said K., 'but I'm content with having drawn
attention to it. But now I beg you, Mr Secretary, to tell me whether the
landlady's opinion is correct, that is, that the protocol which you want to
take down from my answers can have the result of gaining me admission
to Klamm. If that's the case, I'm ready to answer all your questions at
once. In that direction I'm ready, indeed, for anything.' 'No,' replied
Momus, 'that doesn't follow at all. It's simply a matter of keeping an
adequate record of this afternoon's happenings for Klamm's village
register. The record is already complete, there are only two or three
omissions which you must fill in for the sake of order; there's no other
object in view and no other object can be achieved.' K. gazed at die
landlady in silence. 'Why arc you looking at me?' asked she, 'did I say
anything else? He's always like that, Mr Secretary, he's always like that.
Falsifies the information one gives him, and then maintains that he
received false information. I've told him from the first and I tell him again
to-day that he hasn't the faintest prospect of being received by Klamm;
well, if there's no prospect in any case he won't alter that fact by means of
this protocol. Could anything XXX
be clearer? I said further that this protocol is the only real offi. cial
connexion that he can have with Klamm. That too is surely clear and
incontestable enough. But if in spite of that he won't believe me, and
keeps on hoping-I don't know why or with what idea - that he'll be able to
reach Klamm, then so long as he remains in that frame of mind, the only
thing that can help him is this one real official connexion he has with
Klamm, in other words, this protocol. That's all I have said, and whoever
main, tains the contrary twists my words maliciously.' 'If that is so,
madam,' said K., 'then I beg your pardon, and I've misunderstood you; for
I thought-erroneously, as it turns out now-that I could take out of your
former words that there was still some very tiny hope for me.' 'Certainly,'
replied the landlady, 'that's my meaning exactly. You're twisting my words
again, only this time in the opposite way. In my opinion there is such a
hope for you, and founded actually on this protocol and nothing else. But
it's not of such a nature that you can simply fall on Herr Momus with the
question: "Will I be allowed to see Klamm if I answer your questions?"
When a child asks questions like that people laugh, when a grown man
does it it is an insult to all authority; Herr Momus graciously concealed
this under the politeness of his reply. But the hope that I mean consists
simply in this, that through the protocol you have a sort of connexion, a
sort of connexion perhaps with Klamm. Isn't that enough? If anyone
inquired for any service which might earn you the privilege of such a
hope, could you bring forward the slightest one? For the last time, that's
the best that can be said about this hope of yours, and certainly Herr
Momus in his official capacity could never give even the slightest hint of
it. For him it's a matter, as he says, merely of keeping a record of this
afternoon's happenings, for the sake of order; more than that he won't say,
even if you ask him this minute his opinion of what I've said.' 'Will
Klamm, then, Mr Secretary,' asked K., 'read the protocol?' 'No,' replied
Momus, 'why should he? Klamm can't read every protocol, in fact he
reads none. "Keep away from me with your protocols!" he usually says.'
'Land Surveyor,' groaned the landlady, 'you exhaust me with such
questions. Do you think it's necessary, or even simply desirable, that
Klamm should read 112
his protocol an<^ become acquainted word for word with the Cities of
your life? Shouldn't you rather pray humbly that A,C protocol should be
concealed from Klamm-a prayer, howvcf, that would be just as
unreasonable as the other, for who n hide anything from KJamm even
though he has given many signs of his sympathetic nature? And is it even
necessary for #hat you call your hope? Haven't you admitted yourself that
you would be content if you only got the chance of speaking to jClatnm,
even if he never looked at you and never listened to you? And won't you
achieve that at least through the protocol, perhaps much more?' 'Much
more?' asked K. 'In what way?' 'If you wouldn't always talk about things
like a child, as if they were for eating) Who on earth can give any answer
to such questions? The protocol will be put in Klamm's village register,
you have heard that already, more than that can't be said with certainty.
But do you know yet the full importance of the protocol, and of Herr
Momus, and of the village register? Do you know what it means to be
examined by Herr Momus? Perhaps -to all appearances at least-he doesn't
know it himself. He sits quietly there and does his duty, for the sake of
order, as he says. But consider that Klamm appointed him, that he acts in
Klamm's name, that what he does, even if it never reaches Klamm, has
yet Klamm's assent in advance. And how can anything have Klamm's
assent that isn't filled by his spirit? Far be it from me to offer Herr
Momus crude flattery besides he would absolutely forbid it himself - but
I'm speaking of him not as an independent person, but as he is when he
has Klamm's assent, as at present; then he's an instrument in the hand of
Klamm, and woe to anybody who doesn't obey him.' The landlady's
threats did not daunt K.; of the hopes with which she tried to catch him he
was weary. Klamm was far away. Once the landlady had compared
Klamm to an eagle, and that had seemed absurd in K.'s eyes, but it did not
seem absurd now; he thought of Klamm's remoteness, of his impregnable
dwelling, of his silence, broken perhaps only by cries such as K. had
never yet heard, of his downward-pressing gaze, which could never be
proved or disproved, of his wheelings which could never be disturbed by
anything that K. did down below, "3
which far above he followed at the behest of incomprehensibly laws and
which only for instants were visible-all these things Klamm and the eagle
had in common. But assuredly these had nothing to do with the protocol,
over which just now Mornus was crumbling a roll dusted with salt, which
he was eating with beer to help it out, in the process all the papers
becoming covered with salt and caraway seeds. 'Good night,' said K. 'I've
no objection to any kind of examination,' and now he went at last to the
door. 'He's going after all,' said Momus almost anxiously to the landlady.
'He won't dare,' said she; K. heard nothing more, he was already in the
hall. It was cold and a strong wind was blowing. From a door on the
opposite side came the landlord, he seemed to have been keeping the hall
under observation from behind a peephole. He had to hold the tail of his
coat round his knees, the wind tore so strongly at him in the hall. 'You're
going already, Land Surveyor?' he asked. 'You're surprised at that?' asked
K. 'I am,' said the landlord, 'haven't you been examined then?' 'No,'
replied K. 'I didn't let myself be examined.' 'Why not?' asked the landlord.
'I don't know,' said K., 'why I should let myself be examined, why I
should give in to a joke or an official whim. Perhaps some other time I
might have taken it on my side too as a joke or as a whim, but not to-day.'
'Why certainly, certainly,' said the landlord, but he agreed only out of
politeness, not from conviction. 'I must let the servants into the taproom
now,' he said presently, 'it's long past their time. Only I didn't want to
disturb the examination.' 'Did you consider it as important as all that?'
asked K. 'Well, yes,' replied the landlord. 'I shouldn't have refused,' said K.
'No,' replied the landlord, 'you shouldn't have done that.' Seeing that K.
was silent, he added, whether to comfort K. or to get away sooner: 'Well,
well, the sky won't rain sulphur for all that.' 'No,' replied K., 'the weather
signs don't look like it.' And they parted laughing. ...
IO STEPPED out into the windswept street and peered into .. the
darkness. Wild, wild weather. As if there were some connexion between
the two he reflected again how the landlady had striven to make him
accede to the protocol, and how he had stood out. The landlady's attempt
had of course not been a straightforward one, surreptitiously she had tried
to put him against the protocol at the same time; in reality he could not
tell whether he had stood out or given in. An intriguing nature, acting
blindly, it seemed, like the wind, according to strange and remote behests
which one could never guess at. He had only taken a few steps along the
main street when he saw two swaying lights in the distance; these signs of
life gladdened him and he hastened towards them, while they, too, made
in his direction. He could not tell why he was so disappointed when he
recognized the assistants. Still, they were coming to meet him, evidently
sent by Frieda, and the lanterns which delivered him from the darkness
roaring round him were his own; nevertheless he was disappointed, he
had expected something else, not those old acquaintances who were such
a burden to him. But the assistants were not alone; out of the darkness
between them Barnabas stepped out. 'Barnabas!' cried K. and he held out
his hand, 'have you come to see me?' The surprise at meeting him again
drowned at first all the annoyance which he had once felt at Barnabas. 'To
see you,' replied Barnabas unalterably friendly as before, 'with a letter
from Klamm.' 'A letter from Klamm!'cried K.throwing back his head.
'Lights here!' he called to the assistants, who now pressed close to him on
both sides holding up their lanterns. K. had to fold the large sheet in small
compass to protect it from the wind while reading it. Then he read: 'To
the Land Surveyor at the Bridge Inn. The surveying work which you have
carried out thus far has ken appreciated by me. The work of the assistants,
too, deserves Praise. You know how to keep them at their jobs. Do not
slacken in your efforts 1 Carry your work on to a fortunate contusion.
Any interruption would displease me. For the rest be "5
easy in your mind; the question of salary will presently be decided. I shall
not forget you.' K. only looked up from the letter when the assistants, who
read far more slowly than he, gavc three loud cheers at the good news and
waved their lanterns. 'Be quiet,' he said, and to Barnabas: "There's been a
misunderstanding.' Barnabas did not seem to comprehend. "There's been
a misunderstanding,' K. repeated, and the weariness he had felt in the
afternoon came over him again, the road to the schoolhouse seemed very
long, and behind Barnabas he could sec his whole family, and the
assistants were still jostling him so closely that he had to drive them away
with his elbows; how could Frieda have sent them to meet him when he
had commanded that they should stay with her? He could quite well have
found his own way home, and better alone, indeed, than in this cornpany.
And to make matters worse one of them had wound a scarf round his
neck whose free ends flapped in the wind and had several times been
flung against K.'s face; it is true, the other assistant had always
disengaged the wrap at once with his long, pointed, perpetually mobile
fingers, but that had not made things any better. Both of them seemed to
have considered it an actual pleasure to walk here and back, and the wind
and the wildness of the night threw them into raptures. 'Get out I' shouted
K., 'seeing that you've come to meet me, why haven't you brought my
stick? What have I now to drive you home with?' They crouched behind
Barnabas, but they were not too frightened to set their lanterns on their
protector's shoulders, right and left; however, he shook them off at once.
'Barnabas,' said K., and he felt a weight on his heart when he saw that
Barnabas obviously did not understand him, that though his tunic shone
beautifully when fortune was there, when things became serious no help
for to be found in him, but only dumb opposition, opposition against
which one could not fight, for Barnabas himself was helpless, he could
only smile, but that was of just as little help as the stars up there against
this tempest down below. 'Look what Klamm has written!' said K.,
holding the letter before his face. 'He has been wrongly informed. I
haven't done any surveying at all, and you see yourself how much the
assistants are worth. And obviously, too, 1 116
t interrupt work which I've never begun; I can't even itc the gentleman's
displeasure, so how can I have earned his preciation? As for being easy in
my mind, I can never be hat' 'I'M see to **' ^^ Barnabas, who all the time
had been ing past the letter, which he could not have read in any case fr
nc was hiding it too close to his face. 'Oh,' said K., , u promise me that
you'll see to it, but can I really believe you? I'm in need of a trustworthy
messenger, now more than ever.' _ bit his lip with impatience. 'Sir,'
replied Barnabas, with a gentle inclination of the head-K. almost allowed
himself to be seduced by it again into believing Barnabas - Til certainly
see to it, and I'll certainly see to the message you gave me last time as
well.' 'Whatl' cried K., 'haven't you seen to that yet then? Weren't you at
the Castle next day?' 'No,' replied Barnabas, 'my father is old, you've seen
him yourself, and there happened to be a great deal of work just then, I
had to help him, but now I'll be going to the Castle again soon.' 'But what
are you thinking of, you incomprehensible fellow?' cried K., beating his
brow with his fist, 'don't Klamm's affairs come before everything else,
then? You're in an important position, you're a messenger, and yet you fail
me in this wretched manner! What does your father's work matter?
Klamm is waiting for this information, and instead of breaking your neck
hurrying with it to him, you prefer to clean the stable 1' 'My father is a
cobbler,' replied Barnabas calmly, 'he had orders from Brunswick, and I'm
my father's assistant* 'Cobbler-ordersBrunswick!' cried K. bitingly, as if
he wanted to abolish the words for ever. 'And who can need boots here in
these eternally empty streets? And what is all this cobbling to me? I
entrusted you with a letter, not so that you might mislay it and crumple it
on your bench, but that you might carry it at once to Klamm!' K. became
a little more composed now as he remembered that after all Klamm had
apparently been all this time in the Herrenhof and not in the Castle at all;
but Barnabas exasperated him again when, to prove that he had not
forgotten K.'s first message, he now began to recite it. 'Enough! I don't
want to hear any more,' he said. 'Don't be angry with me, sir,' said
Barnabas, and as if unconsciously wishing to show disapproval of K. he
117
withdrew his gaze from him and lowered his eyes, but probably he was
only dejected by K.'s outburst Tm not angry with o said K., and his
exasperation turned now against himself. ' with you, but it's a bad lookout
for me only to have a messenger like you for important affairs.' 'Look
here,' said Barnabas, and it was as if, to vindicate his honour as a
messenger, he was saying more than he should, 'Klamm is really not
waiting for your message, he's actually cross when I arrive. "Another new
message," he said once, and generally he gets up when he sees me
coming in the distance and goes into the next room and doesn't receive
me. Besides, it isn't laid down that I should go at once with every
message; if it were laid down of course I would go at once; but it isn't laid
down, and if I never went at all, nothing could be said to me. When I take
a message it's of my own free will.' 'Well and good,' replied K., staring at
Barnabas and intentionally ignoring the assistants, who kept on slowly
raising their heads by turns behind Barnabas's shoulder as from a trapdoor,
and hastily disappearing again with a soft whistle in imitation of the
whistling of the wind, as if they were terrified at K.; they enjoyed
themselves like this for a long time. 'What it's like with Klamm I don't
know, but that you can understand everything there properly I very much
doubt, and even if you did, we couldn't better things there. But you can
carry a message and that's all I ask you. A quite short message. Can you
carry it for me to-morrow and bring me the answer to-morrow, or at least
tell me how you were received? Can you do that and will you do that? It
would be of great service to me. And perhaps I'll have a chance yet of
rewarding you properly, or have you any wish now, perhaps, that I can
fulfil?' 'Certainly I'll carry out your orders,' said Barnabas. 'And will you
do your utmost to carry them out as well as you can, to give the message
to Klamm himself, to get a reply from Klamm himself, and immediately,
all this immediately, to-morrow, in the morn* ing, will you do that?' Til
do my best,' replied Barnabas, 'but I always do that.' 'We won't argue any
more about it now,' said K. This is the message: "The Land Surveyor.
begs the Director to grant him a personal interview; he accepts in advance
any conditions which may be attached to the permission 118
this. He is driven to make this request because until now very
intermediary has completely failed; in proof of this he dvances the fact
that till now he has not carried out any surveying a* all, and according to
the information given him by the villag6 Superintendent will never carry
out such work; consenuently ft is w^ humiliation and despair that he has
read the last letter of the Director; only a personal interview with the
Director can be of any help here. The Land Surveyor knows how
extraordinary his request is, but he will exert himself to make his
disturbance of the Director as little felt as possible; he submits himself to
any and every limitation of time, also any stipulation which may be
considered necessary as to the number of words which may be allowed
him during the interview, even with ten words he believes he will be able
to manage. In profound respect and extreme impatience he awaits your
decision.' K. had forgotten himself while he was speaking, it was as if he
were standing before Klamm's door talking to the porter. 'It has grown
much longer than I had thought,' he said, 'but you must learn it by heart, I
don't want to write a letter, it would only go the same endless way as the
other papers.' So for Barnabas's guidance, K. scribbled it on a scrap of
paper on the back of one of the assistants, while the other assistant held
up the lantern; but already K. could take it down from Barnabas's
dictation, for he had retained it all and spoke it out correctly without
being put off by the misleading interpolations of the assistants. 'You've an
extraordinary memory,' said K., giving him the paper, 'but now show
yourself extraordinary in the other thing as well. And any requests? Have
you none? It would reassure me a little -I say it frankly - regarding the
fate of my message, if you had any.' At first Barnabas remained silent,
then he said : 'My sisters send you their greetings.' 'Your sisters,' replied
K. 'Oh, yes, the big strong girls.' 'Both send you their greetings, but
Amalia in particular,' said Barnabas, besides it was she who brought me
this letter for you to-day from the Castle.' Struck by this piece of
information, K. asked : Couldn't she take my message to the Castle as
well? Or Couldn't you both go and each of you try your luck?' 'Amalia '
allowed into the Chancellery,' said Barnabas, 'otherwise 119
she would be very glad to do it.' Til come and see you perhaps
to-morrow,' said K., 'only you come to me first with the answer. I'll wait
for you in the school. Give my greetings to your sisters too.' K.'s promise
seemed to make Barnabas very happy, and after they had shaken hands he
could not help touchingK. lightly on the shoulder. As if everything were
once more as it had been when Barnabas first walked into the inn among
the peasants in all his glory, K. felt his touch on his shoulder as a
distinction, though he smiled at it. In a better mood now, he let the
assistants do as they pleased on the way home. II HE reached the school
chilled through and through, it was quite dark, the candles in the lanterns
had burned down; led by the assistants, who already knew their way here,
he felt his road into one of the classrooms. 'Your first praiseworthy
service,' he said, remembering Klamm's letter. Still half-asleep Frieda
cried out from the corner: 'Let K. sleep I Don't disturb him!' so entirely
did K. occupy her thoughts, even though she had been so overcome with
sleep that she had not been able to wait up for him. Now a light was got,
but the lamp could not be turned up very far, for there was only a little
paraffin left. The new household was still without many necessaries. The
room had been heated, it was true, but it was a large one, sometimes used
as the gymnasium - the gymnastic apparatus was standing about and
hanging from the ceiling-and it had already used up all the supply of
wood - had been very warm and cosy too, as K. was assured, but
unfortunately had grown quite cold again. There was, however, a large
supply of wood in a shed, but the shed was locked and the teacher had the
key; he only allowed this wood to be used for heating the school during
teaching hours. The room could have been endured if there had been beds
where one might have taken refuge. But in that line there was nothing but
one sack stuffed with straw, covered with praiseworthy tidiness by a
woollen rug of Frieda's, but with no feather-bed and only two rough, stiff
blankets, which hardly served to keep one warm. And it was precisely at
this wretched 120
of straw that the assistants were staring greedily, but of course without
any hope of ever being allowed to lie on it. Frieda looked anxiously at K.;
that she knew how to make a room, even the most wretched, habitable,
she had proved in the Bridge Inn, but here she had not been able to make
any headway, quite without means as she was. 'Our only ornaments are
the gymnastic contraptions,' said she, trying to smile through her tears.
But for the chief deficiencies, the lack of sleeping accommodation and
fuel, she promised absolutely to find help the very next day, and begged
K. only to be patient till then. From no word, no hint, no sign could one
have concluded that she harboured even the slightest trace of bitterness
against K. in her heart, although, as he had to admit himself, he had torn
her away first from the Herrcnhof and now from-the Bridge Inn as well.
So in return K. did his best to find everything tolerable, which was not
difficult for him, indeed, because in thought he was still with Barnabas
repeating his message word for word, not however as he had given it to
Barnabas, but as he thought it would sound before Klamm. After all,
however, he was very sincerely glad of the coffee which Frieda had
boiled for him on a spirit burner, and leaning against the almost cold
stove followed the nimble, practised movements with which she spread
the indispensable white table-cover on the teacher's table, brought out a
flowered cup, then some bread and sausage, and actually a tin of sardines.
Now everything was ready; Frieda, too, had not eaten yet, but had waited
for K. Two chairs were available, there K. and Frieda sat down to their
table, the assistants at their feet on the dais, but they could never stay
quiet, even while eating they made a disturbance. Although they had
received an ample store of everything and were not yet nearly finished
with it, they got up from time to time to make sure whether there was still
anything on the table and they could still expect something for
themselves; K. paid no attention to them and only began to take notice
when Frieda laughed at them. He covered her hand with his tenderly and
asked softly why she was so indulgent to them and treated even their
naughtiness so kindly. In this way one would never get rid of them, while
through a certain degree of severity, which besides 121
was demanded by their behaviour, one could manage either to curb them
or, what was both more probable and more desirable, to make their
position so hot for them that they would have finally to leave. The school
here didn't seem to be a very pleasant place to live in for long, well, it
wouldn't last very long in any case; but they would hardly notice all the
drawbacks if the assist, ants were once gone and they two had the quiet
house to themselves; and didn't she notice, too, that the assistants were
becoming more impudent every day, as if they were actually encouraged
now by Frieda's presence and the hope that K. wouldn't treat them with
such firmness as he would have done in other circumstances? Besides,
there were probably quite simple means of getting rid of them at once,
without ceremony, perhaps Frieda herself knew of these, seeing that she
was so well acquainted with all the circumstances. And from all
appearances one would only be doing the assistants a favour if one got rid
of them in some way, for the advantage they got by staying here couldn't
be great, and besides the lazy spell which they must have enjoyed till now
must cease here, to a certain extent at any rate, for they would have to
work while Frieda spared herself after the excitements of the last few
days, and he, K., was occupied in finding a way out of their painful
position. All the same, if the assistants should go away, he would be so
relieved that he felt he could quite easily carry out all the school work in
addition to his other duties. Frieda, who had been listening attentively,
stroked his arm and said that that was her opinion too, but that perhaps he
took the assistants' mischief too seriously; they were mere lads, full of
spirits and a little silly now that they were for the first time in strange
service, just released from the strict discipline of the Castle, and so a little
dazed and excited; and being in that state they of course committed lots
of follies at which it was natural to be annoyed, but which it would be
more sensible to laugh at. Often she simply couldn't keep from laughing.
All the same she absolutely agreed with K. that it would be much better
to send the assistants away and be by themselves, just the two of them.
She pressed closer to K. and hid her face on his shoulder. And there she
whispered something so low that K. had to bend 122
.. head to hear; it was that all the same she knew of no way ( dealing
with the assistants and she was afraid that all that tf had suggested would
be of no avail So far as she knew it ' jc. himself who had asked for them,
and now he had them Dd would have to keep them. It would be best to
treat them as a joke, which they certainly were; that would be the best
way to pot up with them. K. was displeased by her answer: half in jest,
half in earnest, he replied that she seemed actually to be in league with
them, or at least to have a strong inclination in their favour; well, they
were good-looking lads, but there was nobody who couldn't be got rid of
if only one had the will, and he would show her that that was so in the
case of the assistants. Frieda said that she would be very grateful to him if
he could manage it. And from now on she wouldn't laugh at them any
more, or have any unnecessary talk with them. Besides she didn't find
anything now to laugh at, it was really no joke always to be spied on by
two men, she had learned to look at the two of them with K.'s eyes. And
she actually shrank a little when the assistants got up again, partly to have
a look at the food that was left, partly to get to the bottom of the
continued whispering. K. employed this incident to increase Frieda's
disgust for the assistants, drew her towards him, and so side by side they
finished their supper. Now it was time to go to bed, for they were all very
sleepy; one of the assistants had actually fallen asleep over his food; this
amused the other one greatly, and he did his best to get the others to look
at the vacant face of his companion, but he had no success. K. and Frieda
sat on above without paying any attention. The cold was becoming so
extreme that they shirked going to bed; at last K. declared that the room
must be heated, otherwise it would be impossible to get to sleep. He
looked round to see if he could find an axe or something. The assistants
knew of one and fetched it, and now they proceeded to the wood shed. In
a few minutes the flimsy door was smashed and torn open; as if they had
never yet experienced anything so glorious, the assistants began to carry
the wood into the classroom, hounding each other on and 123
knocking against each other; soon there was a great pile, the stove was set
going, everybody lay down round it, the assistants were given a blanket to
roll themselves in-it was quite ample for them, for it was decided that one
of them should always remain awake and keep the fire going - and soon it
was so hot round the stove that the blankets were no longer needed, the
lamps were put out, and K. and Frieda happily stretched themselves out to
sleep in the warm silence. K. was awakened during the night by some
noise or other, and in his first vague sleepy state felt for Frieda; he found
that, instead of Frieda, one of the assistants was lying beside him.
Probably because of the exacerbation which being suddenly awakened is
sufficient in itself to cause, this gave him the greatest fright that he had
ever had since he first came to the village. With a cry he sat up, and not
knowing what he was doing he gave the assistant such a buffet that he
began to cry. However the whole thing was cleared up in a moment.
Frieda had been awakened-at least so it had seemed to her-by some huge
animal, a cat probably, which had sprung on to her breast and then leapt
away again. She had got up and was searching the whole room for the
beast with a candle. One of the assistants had seized the opportunity to
enjoy the sack of straw for a little, an attempt which he was now bitterly
repenting. Frieda could find nothing, however; perhaps it had only been a
delusion, she went back to K. and on the way she stroked the crouching
and whimpering assistant over the hair to comfort him, as if she had
forgotten the evening's conversation. K. said nothing, but he asked the
assistant to stop putting wood on the fire, for owing to almost all the heap
having been squandered the room was already too hot. 12 NEXT morning
nobody awoke until the school-children were there, standing with gaping
eyes round the sleepers. This was unpleasant, for on account of the
intense heat, which now towards morning had given way, however, to a
coldness which could be felt, they had all taken off everything but their
shirts, 124
and just as ^^ were beginning to put on their clothes, Gisa, the lady
teacher, appeared at the door, a fair, tall, beautiful, but somewhat stiff
young woman. She was evidently prepared for the new janitor, and
seemed also to have been given her instructions by the teacher, for as
soon as he appeared at the door, she began: 'I can't put up with this. This
is a fine state of affairs. You have permission to sleep in the classroom,
but that's all; I arn not obliged to teach in your bedroom. A janitor's
family that loll in their beds far into the forenoon 1 Faugh 1' Well,
something might be said about that, particularly as far as the family and
the beds were concerned, thought K., while with Frieda's help - the
assistants were of no use, lying on the floor they looked in amazement at
the lady teacher and the children _ he dragged across the parallel bars and
the vaulting horse, threw the blanket over them, and so constructed a little
room in which one could at least get on one's clothes protected from the
children's gaze. He was not given a minute's peace, however, for the lady
teacher began to scold because there was no fresh water in the washing
basin-K. had just been thinking of fetching the basin for himself and
Frieda to wash in, but he had at once given up the idea so as not to
exasperate the lady teacher too much, but his renunciation was of no avail,
for immediately afterwards there was a loud crash; unfortunately, it
seemed, they had forgotten to clear away the remains of the supper from
the teacher's table, so she sent it all flying with her ruler and everything
fell on the floor; she didn't need to bother about the sardine oil and the
remainder of the coffee being spilt and the coffee-pot smashed to pieces,
the janitor of course could soon clear that up. Clothed once more, K. and
Frieda, leaning on the parallel bars, witnessed the destruction of their few
things. The assistants, who had obviously never thought of putting on
their clothes, had stuck their heads through a fold of the blankets near the
floor, to the great delight of the children. What grieved Frieda most was
naturally the loss of the coffee-pot; only when K. to comfort her assured
her that he would go immediately to the village Superintendent and
demand that it should be replaced, and see that this was done, was she
able to gather her ^ together sufficiently to run out of their stockade in her
125
chemise and skirt and rescue the table-cover at least from being stained
any more. And she managed it, though the lady teacher to frighten her
kept on hammering on the table with the ruler in the most nerve-racking
fashion. When K. and Frieda were quite clothed they had to compel the
assistants-who seemed to be struck dumb by these events-to get their
clothes on as well; had not merely to order them and push them, indeed,
but actually to put some of their clothes on for them. Then, when all was
ready, K. shared out the remaining work; the assistants were to bring in
wood and light the fire, but in the other classroom first, from which
another and greater danger threatened, for the teacher himself was
probably already there. Frieda was to scrub the floor and K. would fetch
fresh water and set things to rights generally. For the time being breakfast
could not be thought of. But so as to find out definitively the attitude of
the lady teacher, K. decided to issue from their shelter himself first, the
others were only to follow when he called them; he adopted this policy on
the one hand because he did not want the position to be compromised in
advance by any stupid act of the assistants, and on the other because he
wanted Frieda to be spared as much as possible; for she had ambitions
and he had none, she was sensitive and he was not, she only thought of
the petty discomforts of the moment, while he was thinking of Barnabas
and the future. Frieda followed all his instructions implicitly, and scarcely
took her eyes from him. Hardly had he appeared when the lady teacher
cried amid the laughter of the children, which from now on never stopped:
'Slept well?' and as K. paid no attention - seeing that after all it was not a
real question but began to clear up the washstand, she asked: 'What have
you been doing to my cat?' A huge, fat old cat was lying lazily
outstretched on the table, and the teacher was examining one of its paws
which was evidently a little hurt. So Frieda had been right after all, this
cat had not of course leapt on her, for it was past the leaping stage, but it
had crawled over her, had been terrified by the presence of people in the
empty house, had concealed itself hastily, and in its unaccustomed hurry
had hurt itself. K. tried to explain this quietly to the lady teacher, but the
only thing she had eyes for was the injury itself and she replied: 126
\Vell, then it's your fault through coming here. Just look at ^js,' and she
called K. over to the table, showed him the paw, gjid before he could get
a proper look at it, gave him a whack with the tawse over the back of his
hand; the tails of the tawse were blunted, it was true, hut, this time
without any regard for the cat, she had brought them down so sharply that
they raised bloody weals. 'And now go about your business,' she said
impatiently, bowing herself once more over the cat. Frieda, who had been
looking on with the assistants from behind the parallel bars, cried out
when she saw the blood. K. held up his hand in front of the children and
said: 'Look, that's what a sly, wicked cat has done to me.' He said it,
indeed, not for the children's benefit, whose shouting and laughter had
become continuous, so that it needed no further occasion or incitement,
and could not be pierced or influenced by any words of his. But seeing
that the lady teacher, too, only acknowledged the insult by a brief
side-glance, and remained still occupied with the cat, her first fury
satiated by the drawing of blood, K. called Frieda and the assistants, and
the'work began. When K. had carried out the pail with the dirty water,
fetched fresh water, and was beginning to turn out the classroom, a boy of
about twelve stepped out from his desk, touched K.'s hand, and said
something which was quite lost in the general uproar. Then suddenly
every sound ceased and K. turned round. The thing he had been fearing
all morning had come. In the door stood the teacher; in each hand the
little man held an assistant by the scruff of the neck. He had caught them,
it seemed, while they were fetching wood, for in a mighty voice he began
to shout, pausing after every word: 'Who has dared to break into the
wood-shed? Where is the villain, so that I may annihilate him?' Then
Frieda got up from the floor, which she was trying to clean near the feet
of the lady teacher, looked across at K. as if she were" trying to gather
strength from him, and said, a little of her old superciliousness in her
glance and bearing: 'I did it, Mr Teacher. I couldn't think of any other way.
If the classrooms were to be heated in time, the wood-shed had to be
opened; I didn't dare to ask you for the key in the middle of die night, my
fiance* was at the Hcrrenhof, it was
possible that he might stay there all night, so I had to decide for myself. If
I have done wrongly, forgive my inexperience; I've been scolded enough
by my fiance", after he saw what had happened. Yes, he even forbade me
to light the fires early, because he thought that you had shown by locking
the wood-shed that you didn't want them to be put on before you came
yourself. So it's his fault that the fires are not on, but mine that the shed
has been broken into.' 'Who broke open the door?' asked the teacher,
turning to the assistants, who were still vainly struggling to escape from
his grip. "The gentleman,' they both replied, and, so that there might be
no doubt, pointed at K. Frieda laughed, and her laughter seemed to be still
more conclusive than her words; then she began to wring out in the pail
the rag with which she had been scrubbing the floor, as if the episode had
been closed with her declaration, and the evidence o the assistants were
merely a belated jest Only when she was at work on her knees again did
she add: 'Our assistants are mere children who in spite of their age should
still be at their desks in school. Last evening I really did break open the
door myself with the axe, it was quite easy, I didn't need the assistants to
help me, they would only have been a nuisance. But when my fiand
arrived later in the night and went out to see the damage and if possible
put it right, the assistants ran out after him, likely because they were
afraid to stay here by themselves, and saw my fiano working at the
broken door, and that's why they say now-but they're only children-' True,
the assistants kept on shaking their heads during Frieda's story, pointed
again at K. and did their best by means of dumb show to deflect her from
her story; but as they did not succeed they submitted at last, took Frieda's
words as a command, and on being questioned anew by the teacher made
no reply. 'So,' said the teacher, 'you've been lying? Or at least you've
groundlessly accused the janitor?' They still remained silent, but their
trembling and their apprehensive glances seemed to indicate guilt. 'Then
I'll give you a sound thrashing straight away,' he said, and he sent one of
the children into the next room for his cane. Then as he was raising it,
Frieda cried: The assistants have told the truth!' flung her scrubbing-cloth
in despair into the 128
pail, so that the water splashed up on every side, and ran behind tjje
parallel bars, where she remained concealed. 'A lying crew!' remarked the
lady teacher, who had just finished bandaging the pawr, and she took the
beast into her lap, for which it was almost too big. 'So it was the janitor,'
said the teacher, pushing the assistants away and turning to K., who had
been listening all the time leaning on the handle of his broom: "This fine
janitor who out of cowardice- allows other people to be falsely accused of
his own villainies/ 'Well,' said K., who had not missed the fact that
Frieda's intervention had appeased the first uncontrollable fury of the
teacher, 'if the assistants had got a little taste of the rod I shouldn't have
been sorry; if they get off ten times when they should justly be punished,
they can well afford to pay for it by being punished unjustly for once. But
besides that it would have been very welcome to me if a direct quarrel
between me and you, Mr Teacher, could have been avoided; perhaps you
would have liked it as well yourself too. But seeing that Frieda has
sacrificed me to the assistants now-' here K. paused, and in the silence
Frieda's sobs could be heard behind the screen -'of course a clean breast
must be made of the whole business.' 'Scandalous 1' said the lady teacher.
'I am entirely of your opinion, Fraulein Gisa,' said the teacher. 'You,
janitor, are of course dismissed from your post for these scandalous
doings. Your further punishment I reserve meantime, but now clear
yourself and your belongings out of the house at once. It will be a
genuine relief to us, and the teaching will manage to begin at last. Now
quick about it!' 'I shan't move a foot from here,' said K. 'You're my
superior, but not the person who engaged tne for this post; it was the
Superintendent who did that, and I'll only accept notice from him. And he
certainly never gave me this post so that I and my dependants should
freeze here, butas you told me yourself-to keep me from doing anything
thoughtless or desperate. To dismiss me suddenly now would therefore be
absolutely against his intentions; till I hear the contrary from his own
mouth I refuse to believe it Besides it may possibly be greatly to your
own advantage, too, if I don't accept your notice, given so hastily.' 'So you
don't accept it?' asked the 129
teacher. K. shook his head. 'Think it over carefully/ said the teacher, 'your
decisions aren't always for the best; you should reflect, for instance, on
yesterday afternoon, when you refused to be examined.' 'Why do you
bring that up now?' asked K. 'Because it's my whim,' replied the teacher,
'and now I repeat for the last tune, get out!' But as that too had no effect
the teacher went over to the table and consulted in a whisper with
Fraulefo Gisa; she said something about the police, but the teacher
rejected it, finally they seemed in agreement, the teacher ordered the
children to go into his classroom, they would be taught there along with
the other children. This change delighted everybody, the room was
emptied in a moment amid laughter and shouting, the teacher and
Fraulein Gisa followed last. The latter carried the class register, and on it
in all its bulk the perfectly indifferent cat. The teacher would gladly have
left the cat behind, but a suggestion to that effect was negatived
decisively by Fraulein Gisa with a reference to K.'s inhumanity. So, in
addition to all his other annoyances, the teacher blamed K. for the cat as
well. And that influenced his last words to K., spoken when he reached
the door: 'The lady has been driven by force to leave the room with her
children, because you have rebelliously refused to accept my notice, and
because nobody can ask of her, a young girl, that she should teach in the
middle of your dirty household affairs. So you are left to yourself, and
you can spread yourself as much as you like, undisturbed by the
disapproval of respectable people. But it won't last for long, I promise
you that.' With that he slammed the door. 13 HARDLY was everybody
gone when K. said to the assistants: 'Clear out I* Disconcerted by the
unexpectedness of the command, they obeyed, but when K. locked the
door behind them they tried to get in again, whimpered outside and
knocked on the door. *You are dismissed,' cried K., 'never again will I
take you into my service!' But that, of course, was just what they did not
want, and they kept hammering on the door 130
their hands and feet. 'Let us back to you, sir!' they cried, if they were
being swept away by a flood and K. were dry kfld. But K. did not relent,
he waited impatiently for the unbearable din to force the teacher to
intervene. That soon hap pcned. 'Let your confounded assistants inl* he
shouted. Tvc dismissed them,' K. shouted back; it had the incidental
effect of showing the teacher what it was to be strong enough not merely
to giyc noticc> ut to enforce it. The teacher next tried to soothe the
assistants by kindly assurances that they had only to wait quietly and K.
would have to let them in sooner or later. Then he went away. And now
things might have settled down if K. had not begun to shout at them again
that they were finally dismissed once and for all, and had not the faintest
chance of being taken back. Upon that they recommenced their din. Once
more the teacher entered, but this time he no longer tried to reason with
them, but drove them, apparently with his dreaded rod, out of the house.
Soon they appeared in front of the windows of the gymnasium, rapped on
the panes and cried something, but their words could no longer be
distinguished. They did not stay there long either, in the deep snow they
could not be as active as their frenzy required. So they flew to the railings
of the school garden and sprang on to the stone pediment, where,
moreover, though only from a distance, they had a better view of the
room; there they ran to and fro holding on to the railings, then remained
standing and stretched out their clasped hands beseechingly towards K.
They went on like this for a long time, without thinking of the uselcssness
of their efforts; they were as if obsessed, they did not even stop when K.
drew down the window blinds so as to rid himself of the sight of them. In
the now darkened room K.' went over to the parallel bars to look for
Frieda. On encountering his gaze she got up, put her hair in order, dried
her tears and began in silence to prepare the coffee. Although she knew of
everything, K. forn^lly announced to her all the same that he had
dismissed the assistants. She merely nodded. K. sat down at one of the
desks jnd followed her tired movements. It had been her unfailing
veliness and decision that had given her insignificant physique
its beauty; now that beauty was gone. A few days of living with K. had
been enough to achieve this. Her work in the taproom had not been light,
but apparently it had been more suited to her. Or was her separation from
Klamm the real cause of her falling away? It was the nearness of Klamm
that had made her so irrationally seductive; that was the seduction which
had drawn K. to her, and now she was withering in his arms. 'Frieda,' said
K. She put away the coffee-mill at once and went over to K. at his desk.
'You're angry with me?' asked she. 'No,* replied K. 'I don't think you can
help yourself. You were happy in the Herrenhof. I should have let you
stay there.' 'Yes,' said Frieda, gazing sadly in front of her, 'you should
have let me stay there, I'm not good enough for you to live with. If you
were rid of me, perhaps you would be able to achieve all that you want.
Out of regard for me you've submitted yourself to the tyranny of the
teacher, taken on this wretched post, and are doing your utmost to get an
interview with Klamm. All for me, but I don't give you much in return.'
'No, no,' said K., putting his arm round her comfortingly. 'All these things
are trifles that don't hurt me, and it's not only on your account that I want
to get to Klamm. And then think of all you've done for me! Before I knew
you I was going about in a blind circle. Nobody took me up, and if I made
up to anybody I was soon sent about my business. Ancl when I was given
the chance of a little hospitality it was with people that I always wanted to
run away from, like Barnabas's family -' 'You wanted to run away from
them? You did? Darling!' cried Frieda eagerly, and after a hesitating 'Yes,'
from K., sank back once more into her apathy. But K. had no longer
resolution enough to explain in what way everything had changed for the
better for him through his connexion with Frieda. He slowly took away
his arm and they sat for a little in silence, until - as if his arm had given
her warmth and comfort, which now she could not do without - Frieda
said: 'I won't be able to stand this life here. If you want to keep me with
you, we'll have to go away somewhere or other, to the south of France, or
to Spain.' 'I can't go away,' replied K. 'I came here to stay. I'll stay here.'
And giving utterance to a self-contradiction which he made no effort to
cx- 13*
tain, nc added as if to himself: 'What could have enticed me " this
desolate country except the wish to stay here?' Then he ^ on: 'But you
want to stay here too, after all it's your own country. Only you miss
Klamm and that gives you desperate ideas.' 'I n"58 Klamm?' said Frieda.
'I've all I want of Klamm here, too much Klamm; it's to escape from him
that I want to go away. It's not Klamm that I miss, it's you. I want to go
away fr your sake, because I can't get enough of you, here where
everything distracts me. I would gladly lose my pretty looks, I would
gladly be sick and ailing, if I could be left in peace with you.' K. had only
paid attention to one thing. 'Then Klamm is still in communication with
you?' he asked eagerly, 'he sends for you?' 'I know nothing about Klamm,'
replied Frieda, 'I was speaking just now of others, I mean the assistants.'
'Oh, the assistants,' said K. in disappointment, 'do they persecute you?'
'Why, have you never noticed it?' asked Frieda. 'No,' replied K., trying in
vain to remember anything, 'they're certainly importunate and lascivious
young fellows, but I hadn't noticed that they had dared to lift their eyes to
you.' 'No?' said Frieda, 'did you never notice that they simply weren't to
be driven out of our room in the Bridge Inn, that they jealously watched
all our movements, that one of them finished up by taking my place on
that sack of straw, that they gave evidence against you a minute ago so as
to drive you out of this and ruin you, and so as to be left alone with me?
You've never noticed all that?' K. gazed at Frieda without replying. Her
accusations against the assistants were true enough, but all the same they
could be interpreted far. more innocently as simple effects of the
ludicrously childish, irresponsible, and undisciplined characters of the
two. And didn't it also speak against their guilt that they had always done
their best to go with K. everywhere and not to be left with Frieda? K.
halfsuggested this. 'It's their deceit,' said Frieda, 'have you never seen
through it? Well, why have you driven them away, if not for those
reasons?' And she went to the window, drew the blind aside a little,
glanced out, and then called K. over. The assistants were still clinging to
the railings; tired as they must have been by now, they still gathered their
strength together every 133
now and then and stretched their arms out beseechingly towards the
school. So as not to have to hold on all the time, one of them had hooked
himself on to the railings behind by the tail of his coat. 'Poor things 1
Poor things 1* said Frieda. 'You ask why I drove them away?' asked K.
'You were the sole cause of that.' 'I?' asked Frieda without taking her eyes
from the assistants. 'Your much too kind treatment of the assistants,' said
K., 'the way you forgave their offences and smiled at them and stroked
their hair, your perpetual sympathy for them - "Poor things! Poor things
1" you said just now and finally this last thing that has happened, that you
haven't scrupled even to sacrifice me to save the assistants from a
beating.' 'Yes, that's just it, that's what I've been trying to tell you, that's
just what makes me unhappy, what keeps me from you even though I
can't think of any greater happiness than to be with you all the time,
without interruption, endlessly, even though I feel that here in this world
there's no undisturbed place for our love, neither in the village nor
anywhere else; and I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could
clasp each other in our arms as with iron bars, and I would hide my face
in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see
us any more. But here - look, there are the assistants I It's not you they
think of when they clasp their hands, but me.' 'And it's not I who am
looking at them,' said K., 'but you,' 'Certainly, me,' said Frieda almost
angrily, 'that's what I've been saying all the time; why else should they be
always at my heels, even if they are messengers of Klamm's?'
'Messengers of Klamm's?' repeated K. extremely astonished by this
designation, though it seemed natural enough at the same time. 'Certainly,
messengers of Klamm's,' said Frieda. 'Even if they are, still they're silly
boys, too, who need to have more sense hammered into them. What ugly
black young demons they are, and how disgusting the contrast is between
their faces, which one would say belonged to grown-ups, almost to
students, and their silly childish, behaviour. Do you think I don't see that?
It makes me feel ashamed for them. Well, that's just it, they don't repel me,
but I feel ashamed for them. I can't help looking at them- 134
\Vhen one ought to be annoyed with them, I can only laugh at rhein.
When people want to strike them, I can only stroke rheir hair. And when
I'm lying beside you at night I can't sleep and must always be leaning
across you to look at them, one of them lying rolled up asleep in the
blanket and the other kneeling before the stove door putting in wood, and
I have to bend forward so far that I nearly waken you. And it wasn't the
cat that frightened me - oh, I've had experience of cats and I've bad
experience as well of disturbed nights in the taproom - it wasn't the cat
that frightened me, I'm frightened at myself. No, it didn't need that big
beast of a cat to waken me, I start up at the slightest noise. One minute
I'm afraid you'll waken and spoil everything, and the next I spring up and
light the candle to force you to waken at once and protect me.' 'I knew
nothing of all this,' said K., 'it was only a vague suspicion of it that made
me send them away; but now they're gone, and perhaps everything will be
all right.' 'Yes, they're gone at last,' said Frieda, but her face was worried,
not happy, 'only we don't know who they are. Messengers of Klamm's I
call them in my mind, though not seriously, but perhaps they are really
that. Their eyes - those ingenuous and yet flashing eyes - remind me
somehow of Klamm's; yes, that's it, it's Klamm's glance that sometimes
runs through me from their eyes. And so it's not true when I say that I'm
ashamed for them. I only wish it were. I know quite well that anywhere
else and in anyone else their behaviour would seem stupid and offensive,
but in them it isn't. I watch their stupid tricks with respect and admiration.
But if they're Klamm's messengers who'll rid us of them? And besides
would it be a good thing to be rid of them? Wouldn't you have to fetch
them back at once in that case and be happy if they were still willing to
come?' 'You want me to bring them back again?' asked K. 'No, no I' said
Frieda, 'it's the last thing I desire. The sight of them, if they were to rush
in here now, their joy at seeing me again, the way they would hop round
like children and stretch out their arms to me like men; no, I don't I would
be able to stand that. But all the same when I that if you keep on
hardening your heart to them, it keep you, perhaps, from ever getting
admittance to
Klamm, I want to save you by any means at all from such con. sequences.
In that case my only wish is for you to let them 1$ In that case let them in
now at once. Don't bother about mewhat do I matter? I'll defend mysell as
long as I can, but if j have to surrender, then I'll surrender with the
consciousness that that, too, is for your sake.' 'You only strengthen me in
my decision about the assistants,' said K. 'Never will they come in with
my will. The fact that I've got them out of this proves at least that in
certain circumstances they can be managed, and therefore, in addition,
that they have no real connexion with Klamm. Only last night I received a
letter from Klamm from which it was clear that Klamm was quite falsely
informed about the assistants, from which again one can only draw the
conclusion that he is completely indifferent to them, for if that were not
so he would certainly have obtained exact information about them. And
the fact that you see Klamm in them proves nothing, for you're still,
unfortunately, under the landlady's influence and see Klamm everywhere.
You're still Klamm's sweetheart, and not my wife yet by a long chalk.
Sometimes that makes me quite dejected, I feel then as if I had lost
everything, I feel as if I had only newly come to the village, yet not full of
hope, as I actually came, but with the knowledge that only
disappointments await me, and that I will have to swallow them down
one after another to the very dregs. But that is only sometimes,' K. added
smiling, when he saw Frieda's dejection at hearing his words, 'and at
bottom it merely proves one good thing, that is, how much you mean to
me. And if you order me now to choose between you and the assistants,
that's enough to decide the assistants' fate. What an idea, to choose
between you and the assistants I But now I want to be rid of them finally,
in word and thought as well. Besides who knows whether the weakness
that has come over us both mayn't be due to the fact that we haven't had
breakfast yet?' "That's possible,' said Frieda, smiling wearily and going
about her work. K., too, grasped the broom again. After a while there was
a soft rap at the door. 'Barnabas!' cried K., throwing down the broom, and
with a few steps he was at the door. Frieda stared at him, more terrified at
the nan* 136
, anything else. With his trembling hands K.. could not turn he old lock
immediately. Til open in a minute/ he kept on neating* instead of asking
who was actually there. And then h nad to face the fact that through the
wide-open door came not Barnabas, but the little boy who had tried to
speak to him before. But K. had no wish to be reminded of him. 'What
AO you want here?' he asked. 'The classes are being taught next door.'
'I've come from there,' replied the boy, looking up at K. quietly with his
great brown eyes, and standing at attention, with his arms by his side.
'What do you want then? Out with it I' said K., bending a little forward,
for the boy spoke in a low voice. 'Can I help you?' asked the boy. 'He
wants to help us' said K. to Frieda, and then to the boy: 'What's your
name?' 'Hans Brunswick,' replied the boy, 'fourth standard, son of Otto
Brunswick, master cobbler in Madeleinegasse.' 'I see, your name is
Brunswick,' said K., now in a kinder tone. It came out that Hans had been
so indignant at seeing the bloody weals which the lady teacher had raised
on K.'s hand, that he had resolved at once to stand by K. He had boldly
slipped away just now from the classroom next door at the risk of severe
punishment, somewhat as a deserter goes over to the enemy. It may
indeed have been chiefly some such boyish fancy that had impelled him.
The seriousness which he evinced in everything he did seemed to indicate
it. Shyness held him back at the beginning, but he soon got used to K. and
Frieda, and when he was given a cup of good hot coffee he became lively
and confidential and began to question them eagerly and insistently, as if
he wanted to know the gist of the matter as quickly as possible, to enable
him to come to an independent decision about what they should do. There
was something imperious in his character, but it was so mingled with
childish innocence that they submitted to it without resistance,
half-smilingly, half in earnest. In any case he demanded all their attention
for himself; work completely stopped, the breakfast lingered on
unconscionably. Although Hans was sitting at one of the scholars' desks
ad K. in a chair on the dais with Frieda beside him, it looked 48 if Hans
were the teacher, and as if he were examining them ^d passing judgement
on their answers. A faint smile round 137
his soft mouth seemed to indicate that he knew quite well that all this was
only a game, but that made him only the m0r serious in conducting it;
perhaps, too, it was not really a srniL but the happiness of childhood that
played round his lips Strangely enough he only admitted quite late in the
conversation that he had known K. ever since his visit to Lasemann's. K.
was delighted. 'You were playing at the lady's feet?' asked K. 'Yes,'
replied Hans, 'that was my mother.' And now he had to tell about his
mother, but he did so hesitatingly and only after being repeatedly asked;
and it was clear now that he was only a child, out of whose mouth, it is
true - especially in his questions - sometimes the voice of an energetic,
far-seeing man seemed to speak; but then all at once, without transition,
he was only a schoolboy again who did not understand many of the
questions, misconstrued others, and in childish inconsiderateness spoke
too low, although he had the fault repeatedly pointed out to him, and out
of stubbornness silently refused to answer some of the other questions at
all, quite without embarrassment, however, as a grown-up would have
been incapable of doing. He seemed to feel that he alone had the right to
ask questions, and that by the questions of Frieda and K. some regulation
were broken and time wasted. That made him sit silent for a long time,
his body erect, his head bent, his underlip pushed out. Frieda was so
charmed by his expression at these moments that she sometimes put
questions to him in the hope that they would evoke it. And she succeeded
several times, but K. was only annoyed. All that they found out did not
amount to much. Hans's mother was slightly unwell, but what her illness
was remained indefinite; the child which she had had in her lap was
Hans's sister and was called Frieda (Hans was not pleased by the fact that
her name was the same as the lady's who was questioning him), the
family lived in the village, but not with Lasemann - they had only been
there on a visit and to be bathed, seeing that Lasemann had the big tub in
which the younger children, to whom Hans didn't belong, loved to bathe
and splash about. Of his father Hans spoke now with respect* now with
fear, but only when his mother was not occupying the conversation;
compared with his mother his father evidently was 138
Of little account, but all their questions about Brunswick's family Kfe
remained, in spite of their efforts, unanswered. K. learned that the father
had the biggest shoemaker's business in the place, nobody could compete
with him, a fact which quite remote questions brought again and again; he
actually gave out work to the other shoemakers, .for example to
Barnabas's father; in this last case he had done it of course as a special
favour - at least Hans's proud toss of the head seemed to hint at this, a
gesture which made Frieda run over and give him a kiss. The question
whether he had been in the Castle yet he only answered after it had been
repeated several times, and with a 'No.' The same question regarding his
mother he did not answer at all. At last K.. grew tired; to him, too, these
questions seemed useless, he admitted that the boy was right; besides
there was something humiliating in ferreting out family secrets by taking
advantage of a child; doubly humiliating, however, was the fact that in
spite of his efforts he had learned nothing. And when to finish the matter
he asked the boy what was the help he wanted to offer, he was no longer
surprised to hear that Hans had only wanted to help with the work in the
school, so that the teacher and his assistant might not scold K. so much. K.
explained to Hans that help of that kind was not needed, scolding was
part of the teacher's nature and one could scarcely hope to avoid it even
by the greatest diligence, the work itself was not hard, and only because
of special circumstances had it been so far behind that morning, besides
scolding hadn't the same effect on K. as on a scholar, he shook it off, it
was almost a matter of indifference to him, he hoped, too, to get quite
clear of the teacher soon. Though Hans had only wanted to help him in
dealing with the teacher, however, he thanked him sincerely, but now
Hans had better return to his class, with luck he would not be punished if
he went back at once. Although K. did not emphasize and only
involuntarily suggested that it was simply help in dealing with the teacher
which he did not require, leaving the question of other kinds of help open,
Hans caught the suggestion clearly and asked whether perhaps K. needed
any other assistance; he would be very glad to help him, and if he were nt
in a position to help him himself, he would ask his mother 139
to do so, and then it would be sure to be all right. When his father had
difficulties, he, too, asked Hans's mother for help. And his mother had
already asked once about K., she herself hardly ever left the house, it had
been a great exception for her to be at Lasemann's that day. But he, Hans,
often went there to play with Lasemann's children, and his mother had
once asked him whether the Land Surveyor had ever happened to be there
again. Only his mother wasn't supposed to talk too much, seeing she was
so weak and tired, and so he had simply replied that he hadn't seen the
Land Surveyor there, and nothing more had been said; but when he had
found K. here in the school, he had had to speak to him, so that he might
tell his mother the news. For that was what pleased his mother most,
when without her express command one did what she wanted. After a
short pause for reflection K. said that he did not need any help, he had all
that he required, but it was very good of Hans to want to help him, and he
thanked him for his good intentions; it was possible that later he might be
in need of something and then he would turn to Hans, he had his address.
In return perhaps he, K., might be able to offer a little help; he was sorry
to hear that Hans's mother was ill and that apparently nobody in the
village understood her illness; if it was neglected like that a trifling
malady might sometimes lead to grave consequences. Now he, K., had
some medical knowledge, and, what was of still more value, experience
in treating sick people. Many a case which the doctors had given up he
had been able to cure. At home they had called him 'The Bitter Herb' on
account of his healing powers. In any case he would be glad to see Hans's
mother and speak with her. Perhaps he might be able to give her good
advice, for if only for Hans's sake he would be delighted to do it. At first
Hans's eyes lit up at this offer, exciting K. to greater urgency, but the
outcome was unsatisfactory, for to several questions Hans replied,
without showing the slightest trace of regret, that no stranger was allowed
to visit his mother, she had to be guarded so carefully; although that day
K. had scarcely spoken to her she had had to stay for several days in bed,
a thing indeed that often happened. But his father had then been very
angry with K. and he would certainly never 140
K. to come to the house; he had actually wanted to seek out at the time to
punish him for his impudence, only Hans's Bother had held him back. But
in any case his mother never Canted to talk with anybody whatever, and
her inquiry about . was no exception to the rule; on the contrary, seeing he
had been, mentioned, she could have expressed the wish to see him, but
she hadn't done so, and in that had clearly made known her will. She only
wanted to hear about K. but she did not want to speak to him. Besides it
wasn't any real illness that she was suffering from, she knew quite well
the cause of her state and often had actually indicated it; apparently it was
the climate here that she could not stand, but all the same she would not
leave the place, on account of her husband and children, besides, she was
already better in health than she used to be. Here K. felt Hans's powers of
thought visibly increasing in his attempt to protect his mother from K.,
from K. whom he had ostensibly wanted to help; yes, in the good cause of
keeping K. away from his mother he even contradicted in several respects
what he had said before, particularly in regard to his mother's illness.
Nevertheless K. remarked that even so Hans was still well disposed
towards him, only when his mother was in question he forgot everything
else; whoever was set up beside his mother was immediately at a
disadvantage; just now it had been K., but it could as well be his father,
for example. K. wanted to test this supposition and said that it was
certainly thoughtful of Hans's father to shield his mother from any
disturbance, and if he, K., had only guessed that day at this state of things,
he would never have thought of venturing to speak to her, and he asked
Hans to make his apologies to her now. On the other hand he could not
quite understand why Hans's father, seeing that the cause of her sickness
was so clearly known as Hans said, kept her back from going somewhere
else to get well; one had to infer that he kept her back, for she only
remained on his account and the children's, but she could take the
children with her, and she need not have to go away for any long time or
for any great distance, even up on the Castle Hill the air was quite
different. Hans's father had no need to fear the cost of the holiday, seeing
e was the biggest shoemaker in the place, and it was pretty 141
certain that he or she had relations or acquaintances in the Castle who
would be glad to take her in. Why did he not let her go P He shouldn't
underestimate an illness like this, K. had only seen Hans's mother for a
minute, but it had actually been her striking pallor and weakness that had
impelled him to speak to her. Even at that time he had been surprised that
her husband had let her sit there in the damp steam of the washing and
bathing when she was ill, and had put no restraint either on his loud talk
with the others. Hans's father really did not know the actual state of
things; even if her illness had improved in the last few weeks, illnesses
like that had ups and downs, and in the end, if one did not fight them,
they returned with redoubled strength, and then the patient was past help.
Even if K. could not speak to Hans's mother, still it would perhaps be
advisable if he were to speak to his father and draw his attention to all
this. Hans had listened intently, had understood most of it, and had been
deeply impressed by the threat implicit in this dark advice. Nevertheless
he replied that K. could not speak to his father, for his father disliked him
and would probably treat him as the teacher had done. He said this with a
shy smile when he was speaking of K., but sadly and bitterly when he
mentioned his father. But he added that perhaps K. might be able to speak
to his mother all the same, but only without his father's knowledge. Then
deep in thought Hans stared in front of him for a little-just like a woman
who wants to do something forbidden and seeks an opportunity to do it
without being punished - and said that the day after to-morrow it might be
possible, his father was going to the Herrenhof in the evening, he had a
conference there; then he, Hans, would come in the evening and take K.
along to his mother, of course, assuming that his mother agreed, which
was however very improbable. She never did anything at all against the
wishes of his father, she submitted to him in everything, even in things
whose unreasonableness he, Hans, could see through. Long before this K.
had called Hans up to the dais, drawn him between his knees, and had
kept on caressing him cornfortingly. The nearness helped, in spite of
Hans's occasional
fccalcitrance, to bring about an understanding. They agreed 0ally to the
following: Hans would first tell his mother the gfltire truth, but, so as to
make her consent easier, add that K. Canted to speak to Brunswick
himself as well, not about her at a|l) but about his own affairs. Besides
this was true; in the course of the conversation K. had remembered that
Brunsflrick, even if he were a bad and dangerous man, could scarcely be
his enemy now, if he had been, according to the information of the
Superintendent, the leader of those who, even if only on political grounds,
were in favour of engaging a Land Surveyor. .'$ arrival in the village must
therefore have been welcomed by Brunswick. But in that case his morose
greeting that first day and the dislike of which Hans spoke were almost
incomprehensible - perhaps, however, Brunswick had been hurt simply
because K. had not turned to him first for help, perhaps there existed
some other misunderstanding which could be cleared up by a few words.
But if that were done K. might very well secure in Brunswick a supporter
against the teacher, yes and against the Superintendent as well; the whole
official plot-for was it anything else really?-by means of which the
Superintendent and the teacher were keeping him from reaching the
Castle authorities and had driven him into taking a janitor's post, might be
unmasked; if it came anew to a fight about K. between Brunswick and the
Superintendent, Brunswick would have to include K. on his side, K.
would become a guest in Brims' wick's house, Brunswick's fighting
resources would be put at his disposal in spite of the Superintendent; who
could tell what he might not be able to achieve by those means, and in
any case he would often be in the lady's company - so he played with his
dreams and they with him, while Hans, thinking only of his mother,
painfully watched K.'s silence, as one watches a doctor who is sunk in
reflexion while he tries to find the proper remedy for a grave case. With
K.'s proposal to speak to Brunswick about his post as Land Surveyor
Hans was in agreement, but only because by means of this his mother
would be shielded from his father, and because in any case it was only a
last resort ^hich with good luck might not be needed. He merely asked
farther how K. was to explain to his father the lateness of the MS
visit, and was content at last, though his face remained a little overcast,
with the suggestion that K. would say that his unendurable post in the
school and the teacher's humiliating treatment had made him in sudden
despair forget all caution. Now that, so far as one could see, everything
had been provided for, and the possibility of success at least conceded,
Hans, freed from his burden of reflexion, became happier, and chatted for
some time longer with K. and afterwards with Frieda - who had sat for a
long time as if absorbed by quite different thoughts, and only now began
to take part in the conversation again. Among other things she asked him
what he wanted to become; he did not think long but said he wanted to be
a man like K. When he was asked next for his reasons he really did not
know how to reply, and the question whether he would like to be a janitor
he answered with a decided negative. Only through further questioning
did they perceive by what roundabout ways he had arrived at his wish.
K.'s present condition was in no way enviable, but wretched and
humiliating; even Hans saw this clearly without having to ask other
people; he himself would have certainly preferred to shield his mother
from K.'s slightest word, even from having to see him. In spite of this,
however, he had come to K. and had begged to be allowed to help him,
and had been delighted when K. agreed; he imagined, too, that other
people felt the same; and, most important of all, it had been his mother
herself who had mentioned K.'s name. These contradictions had
engendered in him the belief that though for the moment K. was wretched
and looked down on, yet in an almost unimaginable and distant future he
would excel everybody. And it was just this absurdly distant future and
the glorious developments which were to lead up to it that attracted Hans;
that was why he was willing to accept K. even in his present state. The
peculiar childish' grown-up acuteness of this wish consisted in the fact
that Hans looked on K. as on a younger brother whose future would reach
further than his own, the future of a very little boy. And it was with an
almost troubled seriousness that, driven into a corner by Frieda's
questions, he at last confessed those things. K. only cheered him up again
when he said that he knew what Hans 144
envied him for; it was for his beautiful walking-stick, which Hans had
been playing with constantly during the conversation. Now K. knew how
to produce sticks like that, and if their plan were successful he would
make Hans an even more beautiful one. It was no longer quite clear now
whether Hans had not really meant merely the walkingstick, so happy
was he made by K.'s promise; and he said goodbye with a glad face, not
without pressing K.'s hand firmly and saying: 'The day after to-morrow,
then.' It had been high time for Hans to go, for shortly afterwards the
teacher flung open the door and shouted when he saw K. and Frieda
sitting idly at the table: 'Forgive my intrusion, But will you tell me when
this place is to be finally put in order? We have to sit here packed like
herring, so that the teaching can't go on. And there are you lolling about
in the big gymnasium, and you've even sent away the assistants to give
yourselves more room. At least get on to your feet now and get a move
onl' Then to K.: 'Now go and bring me my lunch from the Bridge Inn.' All
thiswas delivered in a furious shout, though the words were
comparatively inoffensive. K. was quite prepared to obey, but to draw the
teacher he said: 'But I've been given notice.' 'Notice or no notice, bring
me my lunch,' replied the teacher.'Notice or no notice, that's just what I
want to be sure about,' said K. 'What nonsense is this?' asked the teacher.
'You know you didn't accept the notice.' 'And is that enough to make it
invalid?' asked K. 'Not for me,' said the teacher, 'you can take my word
for that, but for the Superintendent, it seems, though I can't understand it.
But take to your heck now, or else I'll fling you out in earnest.' K. was
content the teacher then had spoken with the Superintendent, or perhaps
he hadn't spoken after all, but had merely thought over carefully the
Superintendent's probable intentions, and these had weighed in K.'s
favour. Now K. was setting out hastily to get the lunch, but the teacher
called him back from the very doorway, either because he wanted by this
counter order to test K.'s willingness to serve, so that he might know how
far he could go in future, r because a fresh fit of imperiousness had seized
him, and it him pleasure to make K. run to and fro like a waiter.
On his side K. knew that through too great compliance he would only
become the teacher's slave and scapegoat, but within tain limits he
decided for the present to give way to the fellow'* caprices, for even if
the teacher, as had been shown, had n0 the power to dismiss him, yet he
could certainly make the post so difficult that it could not be borne. And
the post was more important in K.'s eyes now than ever before. The
conversation with Hans had raised new hopes in him, improbable, he
admitted, completely groundless even, but all the same not to be put out
of his mind; they almost superseded Barnabas himself. If he gave himself
up to them-and there was no choice-then he must husband all his strength,
trouble about nothing else, food, shelter, the village authorities, no not
even about Friedaand in reality the whole thing turned only on Frieda, for
everything else only gave him anxiety in relation to her. For this reason
he must try to keep this post which gave Frieda a certain degree of
security, and he must not complain if for this end he were made to endure
more at die teacher's hands than he would have had to endure in the
ordinary course. All that sort of thing could be put up with, it belonged to
the ordinary continual petty annoyances of life, it was nothing compared
with what K. was striving for, and he had not come here simply to lead an
honoured and comfortable life. And so, as he had been ready to run over
to the inn, he showed himself now willing to obey the second order, and
first set the room to rights so that the lady teacher and her children could
come back to it. But it had to be done with all speed, for after that K. had
to go for the lunch, and the teacher was already ravenous. K. assured him
that it would all be done as he desired; for a little the teacher looked on
while K. hurried up, cleared away the sack of straw, put back the
gymnastic apparatus in its place, and swept the room out while Frieda
washed and scrubbed the dais. Their diligence seemed to appease the
teacher, he only drew their attention to the fact that there was a pile of
wood for the fire outside the door - he would not allow K. further access
to the shed, of course-and then went back to his class with the threat that
he would return soon and inspect. 146
After a few minutes of silent work Frieda asked K. why he submitted so
humbly to the teacher now. The question was asked in a sympathetic,
anxious tone, but K., who was thinking of little Frieda had succeeded in
keeping her original promise to shield him from the teacher's orders and
insults, merely replied shortly that since he was the janitor he must fulfil
the janitor's duties. Then there was silence again until K., reminded
vividly by this short exchange of words that Frieda had been for a long
time lost in anxious thought-and particularly through almost the whole
conversation with Hans-asked her bluntly while he carried in the
firewood what had been troubling her. Slowly turning her eyes upon him
she replied that it was nothing definite, she had only been thinking of the
landlady and the truth of much of what she said. Only when K. pressed
her did she reply more consecutively after hesitating several times, but
without looking up from her work-not that she was thinking of it, for it
was making no progress, but simply so that she might not be compelled to
look at K. And now she told him that during his talk with Hans she had
listened quietly at first, that then she had been startled by certain words of
his, then had begun to grasp the meaning of them more dearly, and that
ever since she had not been able to cease reading into his words a
confirmation of a warning which the landlady had once given her, and
which she had always refused to believe. Exasperated by all this
circumlocution, and more irritated than touched by Frieda's tearful,
complaining voice-but annoyed above all because the landlady was
coming into his affairs again, though only as a recollection, for in person
she had had little success up till now - K. flung the wood he was carrying
in his arms on to the floor, sat down on it, and in tones which were now
serious demanded the whole truth. 'More than once,' began Frieda, 'yes,
since the beginning, the landlady has tried to make me doubt you, she
didn't hold that you were lying, on the contrary she said that you were
childishly open, but your character was so different from ours, she said,
*t, even when you spoke frankly, it was bound to be difficult *r us to
believe you; and if we did not listen to good advice ** would have to
learn to believe you through bitter experience. M7
Even she with her keen eye for people was almost taken in. But after her
last talk with you in the Bridge Inn-I am only rc. peating her own
words-she woke up to your tricks, she said and after that you couldn't
deceive her even if you did your best to hide your intentions. But you hid
nothing, she repeated that again and again, and then she said afterwards:
Try to listen to him carefully at the first favourable opportunity, not super,
ficially, but carefully, carefully. That was all that she had done and your
own words had told her all this regarding myself; That you made up to
me-she used those very words-only because I happened to be in your way,
because I did not actually repel you, and because quite erroneously you
considered a barmaid the destined prey of any guest who chose to stretch
out his hand for her. Moreover, you wanted, as the landlady learned at the
Herrenhof, for some reason or other to spend that night at the Herrenhof,
and that could in no circumstances be achieved except through me. Now
all that was sufficient cause for you to become my lover for one night, but
something more was needed to turn it into a more serious affair. And that
something more was Klamm. The landlady doesn't claim to know what
you want from Klamm, she merely maintains that before you knew me
you strove as eagerly to reach Klamm as you have done since. The only
difference was this, that before you knew me you were without any hope,
but that now you imagine that in me youhave a reliable means of reaching
Klamm certainly and quickly and even with advantage to yourself. How
startled I was-but that was only a superficial fear without deeper
causewhen you said to-day that before you knew me you had gone about
here in a blind circle. These might actually be the same words that the
landlady used, she, too, says that it's only since you have known me that
you've become aware of your goal. That's because you believe you have
secured in me a sweetheart of Klamm's, and so possess a hostage which
can only be ransomed at a great price. Your one endeavour is to treat with
Klamm about this hostage. As in your eyes I am nothing and the price
everything, so you are ready for any concession so far as I'm concerned,
but as for the price you're adamant. So it's a matter of indifference to you
that I've lost my post at the 148
ijerrenhof and that I've had to leave the Bridge Inn as well, a er of
indifference that I have to endure the heavy work in the school. You have
no tenderness to spare for me, you hardly even time for me, you leave me
to the assistants, the idea of being jealous never comes into your mind,
my only value for you is that I was old Klamm's sweetheart, in your
ignorance you exert yourself to keep me from forgetting Klamm, so that
when the decisive moment comes I should not make any resistance; yet at
the same time you carry on a feud with the landlady, the only one you
think capable of separating me from you, and that's why you brought your
quarrel with her to a crisis, so as to have to leave the Bridge Inn with me;
but that, so far as I'm concerned, I belong to you whatever happens, you
haven't the slightest doubt. You think of the interview with Klamm as a
business deal, a matter of hard cash. You take every possibility into
account; providing that you reach your end you're ready to do anything;
should Klamm want me you are prepared to give me to him, should he
want you to suck to me you'll stick to me, should he want you to fling me
out, you'll fling me out, but you're prepared to play a part too; if it's
advantageous to you, you'll give out that you love me, you'll try to
combat his indifference by emphasizing your own littleness, and then
shame him by the fact that you're his successor, or you'll be ready to carry
him the protestations of love for him which you know I've made, and beg
him to take me on again, of course on your terms; and if nothing else
answers, then you'll simply go and beg from him in the name of K. and
wife. But, the landlady said finally, when you see then that you have
deceived yourself in everything, in your assumptions and in your hopes,
in your ideas of Klamm and his relations with me, then my purgatory will
begin, for then for the first time I'll be in reality the only possession you'll
have to fall back on, but at the same time it will be a possession that has
proved to be worthless, and you'll treat it accordingly, seeing that .you
have no feeling for me but the feeling of ownership.' With his lips tightly
compressed K. had listened intently, the wood he was sitting on had
rolled asunder though he had not noticed it, he had almost slid on to the
floor, and now at 149
last he got up, sat down on the dais, took Frieda's hand, she feebly tried to
pull away, and said: 'In what you've haven't always been able to
distinguish the landlady's thoughts from your own.' "They're the
landlady's sentiment, purely,' said Frieda, 'I heard her out because I
respected her but it was the first time in my life that I completely and
wholly refused to accept her opinion. All that she said seemed to me so
pitiful, so far from any understanding of how things stood between us.
There seemed actually to be more truth to me IQ the direct opposite of
what she said. I thought of that sad morning after our first night together.
You kneeling beside me with a look as if everything were lost. And how it
really seemed then that in spite of all I could do, I was not helping you
but hindering you. It was through me that the landlady had become your
enemy, a powerful enemy, whom even now you still undervalue; it was
for my sake that you had to take thought, that you had to fight for your
post, that you were at a disadvantage before the Superintendent, that you
had to humble yourself before the teacher and were delivered over to the
assistants, but worst of all for my sake you had perhaps lost your chance
with Klamm. That you still went on trying to reach Klamm was only a
kind of feeble endeavour to propitiate him in some way. And I told myself
that the landlady, who certainly knew far better than I, was only trying to
shield me by her suggestions from bitter self-reproach. A well-meant but
superfluous attempt. My love for you had helped me through everything,
and would certainly help you on too, in the long run, if not here in the
village, then somewhere else; it had already given a proof of its power, it
had rescued you from Barnabas's family.' 'That was your opinion, then, at
the time,' said K., 'and has it changed since?' 'I don't know,' replied Frieda,
glancing down at K.'s hand which still held hers, 'perhaps nothing has
changed; when you're so close to me and question me so calmly, then I
think that nothing has changed. But in reality -' she drew her hand away
from K., sat erect opposite him and wept without hiding her face; she
held her tear-covered face up to him as if she were weeping not for
herself and so had nothing to hide, but as if she were weeping over K.'s
treachery and so the pain of seeing her tears was hi9 150
But in reality everything has changed since I've listened ''"you talking
with that boy. How innocently you began asking l the family, about this
and thatl To me you looked just due you did that night when you came
into the taproom, i im- tuous and frank, trying to catch my attention with
such a childlike eagerness. You were just the same as then, and all I
wished was that the landlady had been here and could have listened to
you, and then we should have seen whether she could soil stick to her
opinion. But then quite suddenly-I don't know how it happened - I
noticed that you were talking to him with a hidden intention. You won his
trust-and it wasn't easy to win-by sympathetic words, simply so that you
might with greater ease reach your end, which I began to recognize more
and more clearly. Your end was that woman. In your apparently solkitous
inquiries about her I could see quite nakedly your simple preoccupation
with your own affairs. You were betraying that woman even before you
had won her. In your words I recognized not only my past, but my future
as well, it was as if the landlady were sitting beside me and explaining
everything, and with all my strength I tried to push her away, but I saw
clearly the hopelessness of my attempt, and yet it was not really myself
who was going to be betrayed, it was not I who was really being betrayed,
but that unknown woman. And then when I collected myself and asked
Hans what he wanted to be and he said he wanted to be like you, and I
saw that he had fallen under your influence so completely already, well
what great difference was there between him, being exploited here by you,
the poor boy, and myself that time in the taproom?' 'Everything,' said K.,
who had regained his composure in listening. Everything that you say is
in a certain sense justifiable, it is not untrue, it is only partisan. These arc
the landlady's ideas, my enemy's ideas, even if you imagine that they're
your own; and that comforts me. But they're instructive, one can learn a
great deal from the landlady. She didn't express them to me personally,
although she did not spare my feelings ^ other ways; evidently she put
this weapon in your hands 10 the hope that you would employ it at a
particularly bad or 15*
decisive point for me. If I am abusing you, then she is abusing you in the
same way. But, Frieda, just consider; even if every, thing were just as the
landlady says, it would only be shameful on one supposition, that is, that
you did not love me. Then only then, would it really seem that I had won
you through calculation and trickery, so as to profiteer by possessing you.
In that case it might even have been part of my plan to appear before you
arm-in-arm with Olga so as to evoke your pity, and the landlady has
simply forgotten to mention that too in her list of my offences. But if it
wasn't as bad as all that, if it wasn't a sly beast of prey that seized you that
night, but you came to meet me, just as I went to meet you, and we found
one another without a thought for ourselves, in that case, Frieda, tell me,
how would things look? If that were really so, in acting for myself I was
acting for you too, there is no distinction here, and only an enemy could
draw it. And that holds in everything, even in the case of Hans. Besides,
in your condemnation of my talk with Hans your sensitiveness makes you
exaggerate things morbidly, for if Hans's intentions and my own don't
quite coincide, still that doesn't by any means amount to an actual
antagonism between them, moreover our discrepancies were not lost on
Hans, if you believe that you do grave injustice to the cautious little man,
and even if they should have been all lost on him, still nobody will be any
the worse for it, I hope.' 'It's so difficult to see one's way, K.,' said Frieda
with a sigh. 'I certainly had no doubts about you, and if I have acquired
something of the kind from the landlady, I'll be only too glad to throw it
of! and beg you for forgiveness on my knees, as I do, believe me, all the
time, even when I'm saying such horrible things. But the truth remains
that you keep many things from me; you come and go, I don't know
where or from where. Just now when Hans knocked you cried out
Barnabas's name. I only wish you had once called out my name as
lovingly as for some incomprehensible reason you called that hateful
name. If you have no trust in me, how can I keep mistrust from rising? ft
delivers me completely to the landlady, whom you justify in appearance
by your behaviour. Not in everything, I won't say that you justify her in
everything, for was it not on my account 152
alone that you sent the assistants packing? Oh, if you but knew ith what
passion I try to find a grain of comfort for myself in all that you do and
say, even when it gives me pain.' 'Once and for all, Frieda,' said K., 'I
conceal not the slightest thing from you. See how the landlady hates me,
and how she does her best to get you away from me, and what despicable
means she uses, and how you give in to her, Frieda, how you give in to
herl Tell me, now, in what way do I hide anything from you? That I want
to reach Klamm you know, that you can't help me to do it and that
accordingly I must do it by my own efforts you know too; that I have not
succeeded up till now you see for yourself. Am I to humiliate myself
doubly, perhaps, by telling you of all the bootless attempts which have
already humiliated me sufficiently? Am I to plume myself on having
waited and shivered in vain all an afternoon at the door of Klamm's
sledge? Only too glad not to have to think of such things any more, I
hurry back to you, and I am greeted again with all those reproaches from
you. And Barnabas? It's true I'm waiting for him. He's Klamm's
messenger, it isn't I who made him that.' 'Barnabas again I cried Frieda. 'I
can't believe that he's a good messenger.' 'Perhaps you're right,' said K.,
'but he's the only messenger that's sent to me.' 'All the worse for you,' said
Frieda, 'all the more reason why you should beware of him."
'Unfortunately he has given me no cause for that till now,' said K. smiling.
'He comes very seldom, and what messages he brings are of no
importance; only the fact that they come from Klamm gives them any
value.' 'But listen to me,' said Frieda, 'for it is not even Klamm that's your
goal now, perhaps that disturbs me most of all; that you always longed for
Klamm while you had me was bad enough, but that you seem to have
stopped trying to reach Klamm now is much worse, that's something
which not even the landlady foresaw. According to the landlady your
happiness, a questionable and yet very real happiness, would end on the
day when you finally recognized that the hopes you founded on Klamm
were in vain. But now you don't wait any longer even for that day, a
young lad suddenly comes in and you begin to fight with him for his
mther, as if you were fighting for your very life.* 'You've
understood my talk with Hans quite correctly,' said K., 'it w really so. But
is your whole former life so completely from your mind (all except the
landlady, of course, who allow herself to be wiped out), that you can't
remember longer how one must fight to get to the top, especially when
OQ begins at the bottom? How one must take advantage of every, thing
that offers any hope whatever? And this woman comes from the Castle,
she told me herself on my first day here, when I happened to stray into
Lasemann's. What's more natural than to ask her for advice or even for
help; if the landlady only knows the obstacles which keep one from
reaching Klamm, then this woman probably knows the way to him, for
she has come here by that way herself.' The way to Klamm?' asked Frieda.
'To Klamm, certainly, where else?' said K. Then he jumped up: 'But now
it's high time I was going for the lunch.' Frieda implored him to stay,
urgently, with an eagerness quite disproportionate to the occasion, as if
only his staying with her would confirm all the comforting things he had
told her. But K. was thinking of the teacher, he pointed towards the door,
which any moment might fly open with a thunderous crash, and promised
to return at once, she was not even to light the fire, he himself would see
about it. Finally Frieda gave in in silence. As K. was stamping through
the snow outside-the path should have been shovelled free long ago,
strange how slowly the work was getting forward I - he saw one of the
assistants, now dead tired, still holding to the railings. Only one, where
was the other? Had K. broken the endurance of one of them, then, at least?
The remaining one was certainly still zealous enough, one could see that
when, animated by the sight of K., he began more feverishly than ever to
stretch out his arms and roll his eyes. 'His obstinacy is really wonderful,'
K. told himself, but had to add, 'he'll freeze to the railings if he keeps it
up.' Outwardly, however, K. had nothing for the assistant but a
threatening gesture with his fist, which prevented any nearer approach;
indeed the assistant actually retreated for an appreciable distance. Just
then Frieda opened one of the windows so as to air the room before
putting on the fire, as she had promised K. Inimediately the assistant
turned his attention from K., and crept '54
f irresistibly attracted to the window. Her ace torn between ^ for the
assistant and a beseeching helpless glance which she t at K- Frieda put
her hand out hesitatingly from the C dow, it was not clear whether it
was a greeting or a corn^ nd to go away, nor did the assistant let it deflect
him from ,. resolve to come nearer. Then Frieda closed the outer window
hastily, but remained standing behind it, her hand on the sash, with her
head bent sideways, her eyes wide, and a fixed smile a her face. Did she
know that standing like that she was more likely to attract the assistant
than repel him? But K. did not look back again, he thought he had better
hurry as fast as he could and get back quickly. 14 AT long last, late in the
afternoon, when it was already dark, K. had cleared the garden path, piled
the snow high on either side, beaten it down hard, and also accomplished
his work for the day. He was standing by the garden gate in the middle of
a wide solitude. He had driven off the remaining assistant hours before,
and chased him a long way, but the fellow had managed to hide himself
somewhere between the garden and the schoolhouse and could not be
found, nor had he shown himself since. Frieda was indoors either starting
to wash clothes or still washing Gisa's cat; it was a sign of great
confidence on Gisa's part that this task had been entrusted to Frieda, an
unpleasant and uncalled-for task, indeed, which K. would not have
suffered her to attempt had it not been advisable in view of their various
shortcomings to seize every opportunity of securing Gisa's goodwill. Gisa
had looked on approvingly while K. brought down the little children's
bath from the garret, heated water, and finally helped to put the cat
carefully into the bath. Then she actually left the cat entirely in charge of
Frieda, for Schwarzcr, K.'s acquaintance of the first evening, bad arrived,
had greeted K. with a mixture of embarrassment (arising out of the events
of that evening) and of unmitigated contempt such as one accords to a
debtor, and had vanished with
Gisa into the other schoolroom. The two of diem were still there.
Schwarzer, K. had been told in the Bridge Inn, had been living in the
village for some time, although he was a castellans son, because of his
love for Gisa, and through his influential connexions had got himself
appointed as a pupil-teacher, a posi. tion which he filled chiefly by
attending all Gisa's classes, either sitting on a school bench among the
children, or preferably at Gisa's feet on the teacher's dais. His presence
was no longer a disturbance, the children had got quite used to it, all the
more easily, perhaps, because Schwarzer neither liked nor understood
children and rarely spoke to them except when he took over the
gymnastic lesson from Gisa, and was content merely to breathe the same
air as Gisa and bask in her warmth and nearness. The only astonishing
thing about it was that in the Bridge Inn at least Schwarzer was spoken of
with a certain degree of respect, even if his actions were ridiculous rather
than praiseworthy, and that Gisa was included in this respectful
atmosphere. It was none the less unwarranted of Schwarzer to assume
that his position as a pupil-teacher gave him a great superiority over K.,
for this superiority was non-existent. A school janitor was an important
person to the rest of the staff-and should have been especially so to such
an assistant as Schwarzer-a person not to be lightly despised, who should
at least be suitably conciliated if professional considerations were not
enough to prevent one from despising him. K. decided to keep this fact in
mind, also that Schwarzer was still in his debt on account of their first
evening, a debt which had not been lessened by the way in which events
of succeeding days had seemed to justify Schwarzer's reception of him.
For it must not be forgotten that this reception had perhaps determined
the later course of events. Because of Schwarzer the full attention of the
authorities had been most unreasonably directed to K. at the very first
hour of his arrival, while he was still a complete stranger in the village
without a single acquaintance or an alternative shelter; overtired with
walking as he was and quite helpless on his sack of straw, he had been at
the mercy of any official action. One night later might have made all the
difference, things might have gone quietly and been only half noticed. At
any rate nobody would 156
known anything about him or have had any suspicions, there would have
been no hesitation in accepting him at least for one day as a stray
wanderer, his handiness and trustworthiness would have been recognized
and spoken of in the neighbourhood, and probably he would soon have
found accommodation somewhere as a servant. Of course the authorities
would have found him out. But there would have been a big difference
between having the Central Bureau, or whoever was on the telephone,
disturbed on his account in the middle of the night by an insistent
although ostensibly humble request for an immediate decision, made, too,
by Schwarzer, who was probably not in the best odour up there, and a
quiet visit by K. to the Superintendent on the next day during official
hours to report himself in proper form as a wandering stranger who had
already found quarters in a respectable house, and who would probably
be leaving the place in another day's time unless the unlikely were to
happen and he found some work in the village, only for a day or two, of
course, since he did not mean to stay longer. That, or something like that,
was what would have happened had it not been for Schwarzer. The
authorities would have pursued the matter further, but calmly, in the
ordinary course of business, unharassed by what they probably hated
most, the impatience of a waiting client. Well, all that was not K.'s fault, it
was Schwarzer's fault, but Schwarzer was the son of a castellan, and had
behaved with outward propriety, and so the matter could only be visited
on K.'s head. And what was the trivial cause of it all? Perhaps an
ungracious mood of Gisa's that day, which made Schwarzer roam
sleeplessly all night, and vent his annoyance on K. Of course on the other
hand one could argue that Schwarzer's attitude was something K. had to
be thankful for. It had been the sole precipitant of a situation K. would
never by himself have achieved, nor have dared to achieve, and which the
authorities themselves would hardly have allowed, namely, that from the
very beginning without any dissimulation he found himself confronting
the authorities face to face, in so fcur as that was at all possible. Still, that
was a dubious gift, it spared K. indeed the necessity of lying and
contriving, but it him almost defenceless, handicapped him anyhow in the
struggle, and might have driven him to despair had he not been able to
remind himself that the difference in strength between the authorities and
himself was so enormous that all the guile of which he was capable
would hardly have served appreciably to reduce the difference in his
favour. Yet that was only a reflexion for his own consolation, Schwarzer
was none the less in his debt, and having harmed K. then could be called
upon now to help. K. would be in need of help in the quite trivial and
tentative opening moves, for Barnabas seemed to have failed him again.
On Frieda's account K. had refrained all day from going to Barnabas's
house to make inquiries; in order to avoid receiving Barnabas in Frieda's
presence he had laboured out of doors, and when his work was done had
continued to linger outside in expectation of Barnabas, but Barnabas had
not come. The only thing he could do now was to visit the sisters, only
for a minute or two, he would only stand at the door and ask, he would be
back again soon. So he thrust the shovel into the snow and set off at a run.
He arrived breathless at the house of Barnabas, and after a sharp knock
flung the door open and asked, without looking to see who was inside:
'Hasn't Barnabas come back yet?' Only then did he notice that Olga was
not there, that the two old people, who were again sitting at the far end of
the table in a state of vacancy, had not yet realized what was happening at
the door and were only now slowly turning their faces towards it, and
finally that Amalia had been lying beside the stove under a blanket and in
her alarm at K.'s sudden appearance had started up with her hand to her
brow in an effort to recover her composure. If Olga had been there she
would have answered immediately, and K. could have gone away again,
but as it was he had at least to take a step or two towards Amalia, give her
his hand which she pressed in silence, and beg her to keep the startled old
folks from attempting to meander through the room, which she did with a
few words. K. learned that Olga was chopping wood in the yard, that
Amalia, exhausted-for what reason she did not say-had had to lie down a
short time before, and that Barnabas had not yet indeed returned, but must
return very soon, for he never stayed 158
overnight in the Castle. K. thanked her for the information, wbich left
him at liberty to go, but Amalia asked if he would not wait to see Olga.
However, she added, he had already spoken to Olga during the day. He
answered with surprise that he had not, and asked if Olga had something
of particular importance to say to him. As if faintly irritated Amalia
screwed Up her mouth silently, gave him a nod, obviously in farewell,
and lay down again. From her recumbent position she let her eyes rest on
him as if she were astonished to see him still there. Her gaze was cold,
clear, and steady as usual, it was never levelled exactly on the object she
regarded but in some disturbing way always a little past it, hardly
perceptibly, but yet unquestionably past it, not from weakness, apparently,
nor from embarrassment, nor from duplicity, but from a persistent and
dominating desire for isolation, which she herself perhaps only became
conscious of in this way. K. thought he could remember being baffled on
the very first evening by that look, probably even the whole hatefulness
of the impression so quickly made on him by this family was traceable to
that look, which in itself was not hateful but proud and upright in its
reserve. 'You are always so sad, Amalia,' said K., 'is anything troubling
you? Can't you say what it is? I have never seen a country girl at all like
you. It never struck me before. Do you really belong to this village? Were
you born here?' Amalia nodded, as if K. had only put the last of those
questions, and then said: 'So you'll wait for Olga?' 'I don't know why you
keep on asking me that,' said K. 'I can't stay any longer because my
fiancee's waiting for me at home.' Amalia propped herself on one elbow;
she had not heard of the engagement. K. gave Frieda's name. Amalia did
not know it. She asked if Olga knew of their betrothal. K. fancied she did,
for she had seen him with Frieda, and news like that was quick to fly
round in a village. Amalia assured him, however, that Olga knew nothing
about it, and that it would make her very unhappy, for she seemed to be in
love with K. She had not directly said so, for she was very reserved, but
love betrayed itself involuntarily. K. was convinced that Amalia was
mistaken. Amalia smiled, and this smile of hers, although sad, lit up her
gloomy face, made her silence eloquent, her strangeness '59
intimate, and unlocked a mystery jealously guarded hitherto, a mystery
which could indeed be concealed again, but never so completely. Amalia
said that she was certainly not mistaken, she would even go further and
affirm that K., too, had an in. clination for Olga, and that his visits, which
were ostensibly concerned with some message or other from Barnabas,
were really intended for Olga. But now that Amalia knew all about it he
need not be so strict with himself and could come oftener to see them.
That was all she wanted to say. K. shook his head, and reminded her of
his betrothal. Amalia seemed to set little store by this betrothal, the
immediate impression she received from K., who was after all
unaccompanied, was in her opinion decisive, she only asked when K. had
made the girl's acquaintance, for he had been but a few days in the village.
K. told her about his night at the Herrenhof, whereupon Amalia merely
said briefly that she had been very much against his being taken to the
Herrenhof. She appealed for confirmation to Olga, who had just come in
with an armful of wood, fresh and glowing from the frosty air, strong and
vivid, as if transformed by the change from her usual aimless standing
about inside. She threw down the wood, greeted K. frankly, and asked at
once after Frieda. K. exchanged a look with Amalia, who seemed,
however, not at all disconcerted. A little relieved, K. spoke of Frieda more
freely than he would otherwise have done, described the difficult
circumstances in which she was managing to keep house in a kind of way
in the school, and in the haste of his narrative- for he wanted to go home
at once-so far forgot himself when bidding them goodbye as to invite the
sisters to come and pay him a visit. He began to stammer in confusion,
however, when Amalia, giving him no time to say another word,
interposed with an acceptance of the invitation; then Olga was compelled
to associate herself with it But K., still harassed by the feeling that he
ought to go at once, and becoming uneasy under Amalia's gaze, did not
hesitate any longer to confess that the invitation had been quite
unpremeditated and had sprung merely from a personal impulse, but that
unfortunately he could not confirm it since there was a great hostility, to
him quite ^incomprehensible, between 160
r w cried* and their family. 'It's not hostility,* said Amalia, getting o from
her couch and flinging the blanket behind her, 'it's othing s ig as
tnat>lt%& onty a parrot repetition of what she hears everywhere. And
now, go away, go to your young woman, T can see you're in a hurry. You
needn't be afraid that we'll come, I only said it at first for fun, put of
mischief. But you can come often enough to see us, there's nothing to
hinder you, ou can always plead Barnabas's messages as an excuse. I'll
make it easier for you by telling you that Barnabas, even if he has a
message from the Castle for you, can't go all the way up to the school to
find you. He can't trail about so much, poor boy, he wears himself out in
the service, you'll have to come yourself to get the news.' K. had never
before heard Amalia utter so many consecutive sentences, and they
sounded differently from her usual comments, they had a kind of dignity
which obviously impressed not only K. but Olga too, although she was
accustomed to her sister. She stood a little to one side her arms folded, in
her usual stolid and somewhat stooping posture once more, with her eyes
fixed on Amalia, who on the other hand looked only at K. 'It's an error,'
said K., 'a gross error to imagine that I'm not in earnest in looking for
Barnabas, it's my most urgent wish, really my only wish, to get my
business with the authorities properly settled. And Barnabas has to help
me in that, most of my hopes are based on him. I grant he has
disappointed me greatly once as it is, but that was more my fault than his;
in the bewilderment of my first hours in the village I believed that
everything could be settled by a short walk in the evening, and when the
impossible proved impossible I blamed him for it. That influenced me
even in my opinion of your family and of you. But that is all past, I think
I understand you better now, you are even -' K. tried to think of the exact
word, but could not find it immediately, so contented himself with a
makeshift -'You seem to be the most good-natured people in the village so
far as my experience goes. But now, Amalia, you're putting me off the
track again by your depreciation - if not of your brother's service-then of
the importance he has for me. Perhaps you aren't acquainted with his
affairs, in which casc it doesn't matter, but perhaps you arc acquainted
with 161
^^BP^ them-and that's the impression I incline to have-in which case it's a
bad thing, for that would indicate that your brother is deceiving me.'
'Calm yourself,' cried Amalia, Tm UQ* acquainted with them, nothing
could induce me to become acquainted with them, nothing at all, not even
my consideration for you, which would move me to do a great deal, for,
as you say, we are good-natured people. But my brother's affairs are his
own business, I know nothing about them except what I hear by chance
now and then against my will. On the other hand Olga can tell you all
about them, for she's in his confidence.' And Amalia went away, first to
her parents, with whom she whispered, then to the kitchen; she went
without taking leave of K., as if she knew that he would stay for a long
time yet and that no good-bye was necessary. SEEING that with a
somewhat astonished face K. remained standing where he was, Olga
laughed at him and drew him towards the settle by the stove, she seemed
to be really happy at the prospect of sitting there alone with him, but it
was a contented happiness without a single hint of jealousy. And precisely
this freedom of hers from jealousy and therefore from any kind of claim
upon him did K. good, he was glad to look into her blue eyes which were
not cajoling, nor hectoring, but shyly simple and frank. It was as if the
warning of Frieda and the landlady had made him, not more susceptible
to all those things, but more observant and more discerning. And he
laughed with Olga when she expressed her wonder at his calling Amalia
good-natured, of all things, for Amalia had many qualities, but
good-nature was certainly not one of them. Whereupon K. explained that
of course his praise had been meant for Olga, only Amalia was so
masterful that she not only took to herself whatever was said in her
presence, but induced other people of their own free will to include her in
everything. 'That's true,' said Olga becoming more serious, 'truer than you
think. Amalia's younger than me, and younger than Barnabas, but hers is
the 162
,lecisivc voice in the family for good or for ill, of course she has the
burden of it more than anybody, the good as well as the bad.' K.. thought
that an exaggeration, for Amalia had just said that she paid no attention,
for instance, to her brother's flairs, while Olga knew all about them. 'How
can I make it Jcar?' said Olga, 'Amalia bothers neither about Barnabas nor
-bout me, she really bothers about nobody but the old people whom she
tends day and night; now she has just asked them again if they want
anything and has gone into the kitchen to cook them something, and for
their sakes she has overcome her indisposition, for she's been ill since
midday and been lying here on the settle. But although she doesn't bother
about us we're as dependent on her as if she were the eldest, and if she
were to advise us in our affairs we should certainly follow her advice,
only she doesn't do it, she's different from us. You have experience of
people, you come from a strange land, don't you think, too, that she's
extraordinarily clever?' 'Extraordinarily unhappy is what she seems to
me,' said K., 'but how does it go with your respect for her that Barnabas,
for example, takes service as a messenger, in spite of Amalia's evident
disapproval, and even her scorn?' 'If he knew what else to do he would
give up being a messenger at once, for it doesn't satisfy him.' 'Isn't he an
expert shoemaker?' asked K. 'Of course he is,' said Olga, 'and in his spare
time he does work for Brunswick, and if he liked he could have enough
work to keep him going day and night and earn a lot of money.' 'Well
then,' said K.., 'that would be an alternative to his services as a
messenger.' 'An alternative?' asked Olga in astonishment. 'Do you think
he does it for money?' 'Maybe he does,' said K., 'but didn't you say he was
discontented?' 'He's discontented, and for various reasons,' said Olga, 'but
it's Castle service, anyhow a kind of Castle service, at least one would
suppose so.' 'What!' said K., 'do you even doubt that?' 'Well,' said Olga,
'not really, Barnabas goes into the bureaux and is accepted by the
attendants as one of themselves, he sees various officials, too, from the
distance, is entrusted with relatively important letters, even with verbally
delivered messages, that's a good deal, after all, and we should be proud
of what he has achieved for a young man of his years.' 163
K. nodded and no longer thought of going home. 'He has a uniform of his
own, too?' he asked. 'You mean the jacket?' said Olga. 'No, Amalia made
that for him long before he became a messenger. But you're touching on a
sore spot now. He ought long ago to have had, not a uniform, for there
aren't many in the Castle, but a suit provided by the department, and he
has been promised one, but in things of that kind the Castle moves slowly,
and the worst of it is that one never knows what this slowness means; it
can mean that the matter's being considered, but it can also mean that it
hasn't yet been taken up, that Barnabas for instance is still on probation,
and in the long run it can also mean that the whole thing has been settled,
that for some reason or other the promise has been cancelled, and that
Barnabas will never get his suit. One can never find out exactly what is
happening, or only a long time afterwards. We have a saying here,
perhaps you've heard it: Official decisions are as shy as young girls.'
"That's a good observation,' said K., he took it still more seriously than
Olga, 'a good observation, and the decisions may have other
characteristics in common with young girls.' 'Perhaps,' said Olga. 'But as
far as the official suit's concerned, that's one of Barnabas's great sorrows,
and since we share all our troubles, it's one of mine too. We ask ourselves
in vain why he doesn't get an official suit. But the whole affair is not just
so simple as that. The officials, for instance, apparently have no official
dress; so far as we know here, and so |ar as
Barnabas tells us, the officials go about in their ordinary clothes, very fine
clothes, certainly. Well, you've seen Klamm. Now, Barnabas is certainly
not an official, not even one in the lowest category, and he doesn't
overstep his limitations so far as to want to be one. But according to
Barnabas, the highergrade servants, whom one certainly never sees down
here in the village, have no official dress; that's a kind of comfort, one
might suppose, but it's deceptive comfort, for is Barnabas a high-grade
servant? Not he; however partial one might be towards him one couldn't
maintain that, the fact that he comes to the village and even lives here is
sufficient proof of the contrary, for the higher-grade servants are even
more inaccessible than the officials, perhaps rightly so, perhaps they are
even of higher 164
rank than many an official, there's some evidence of that, they work less,
and Barnabas says it's a marvellous sight to see these tall and
distinguished men slowly walking through the corridors, Barnabas always
gives them a wide berth. Well, he might be one of the lower-grade
servants, then, but these always have an official suit, at least whenever
they come down into the village, it's not exactly a uniform, there are
many different versions of it, but at any rate one can always tell Castle
servants by their clothes, you've seen some of them in the Herrenhof. The
most noticeable thing about the clothes is that they're mostly closefitting,
a peasant or a handworker couldn't do with them. Well, a suit like that
hasn't been given to Barnabas and it's not merely the shame of it or the
disgrace-one could put up with thatbut the fact that in moments of
depression - and we often have such moments, none too rarely, Barnabas
and I-it makes us doubt everything. Is it really Castle service Barnabas is
doing, we ask ourselves then; granted, he goes into the bureaux, but are
the bureaux part of the real Castle? And even if there are bureaux actually
in the Castle, are they the bureaux that Barnabas is allowed to enter? 'He's
admitted into certain rooms, but they're only a part of the whole, for there
are barriers behind which there are more rooms. Not that he's actually
forbidden to pass the barriers, but he can't very well push past them once
he has met his chiefs and been dismissed by them. Besides, everybody is
watched there, at least so we believe. And even if he did push on farther
what good would it be to him, if he had no official duties to carry out and
were a mere intruder? And you mustn't imagine that these barriers are a
definite dividing-line; Barnabas is always impressing that on me. There
are barriers even at the entrance to the rooms where he's admitted, so you
see there are barriers he can pass, and they're just the same as the ones
he's never yet passed, which looks as if one oughtn't to suppose that
behind the ultimate barriers the bureaux are any different from those
Barnabas has already seen. Only that's what we do suppose in moments
of depression. And the doubt doesn't stop there, we can't keep it within
bounds. Barnabas sees officials, Barnabas is given messages. But who are
those officials, and 165
what are the messages? Now, so he says, he's assigned to Klamm, who
gives him his instructions in person. Well, that would be a great favour,
even higher-grade servants don't get so far as that, it's almost too much to
believe, almost terrifying. Only think, directly assigned to Klamm,
speaking with him face to face! But is it really the case? Well, suppose it
is so, then why does Barnabas doubt that the official who is referred to as
Klamm is really Klamm?' 'Olga,' said K., 'you surely must be joking; how
can there be any doubt about Klamm's appearance, everybody knows
what he looks like, even I have seen him.' 'Of course not, K.,' said Olga.
Tm not joking at all, I'm desperately serious. Yet I'm not telling you all
this simply to relieve my own feelings and burden yours, but because
Amalia charged me to tell you, since you were asking for Barnabas, and
because I think too that it would be useful for you to know more about it.
I'm doing it for Barnabas's sake as well, so that you won't pin too many
hopes upon him, and suffer disappointment, and make him suffer too
because of your disappointment. He's very sensitive, for instance he didn't
sleep all night because you were displeased with him yesterday evening.
He took you to say that it was a bad lookout for you to have only a
messenger like him. These words kept him off his sleep. I don't suppose
that you noticed how upset he was, for Castle messengers must keep
themselves well under control. But he hasn't an easy time, not even with
you, although from your point of view you don't ask too much of him, for
you have your own prior conception of a messenger's powers and make
your demands accordingly. But in the Castle they have a different
conception of a messenger's duties, which couldn't be reconciled with
yours, even if Barnabas were to devote himself entirely to the task, which,
unfortunately, he often seems inclined to do. Still, one would have to
submit to that and raise no objections if it weren't for the question
whether Barnabas is really a messenger or not. Before you, of course, he
can't express any doubt of it whatever, to do that would be to undermine
his very existence and to offend grievously against laws which he
believes himself still plighted to, and even to me he doesn't speak freely, I
have to cajole him and kiss his doubts out of him, and even then he re-
166
to admit that his doubts arc doubts. He has something of A ma i *"m- And
I'm sure that he doesn't tell me everything, Ithough I'm his sole confidante.
But we do often speak about Klaflim, whom I've never seen; you know
Frieda doesn't like me and has never let me look at him, still his
appearance is well known in the village, some people have seen him,
everybody has heard of him, and out of glimpses and rumours and
through various distorting factors an image of Kiamm has been
constructed which is certainly true in fundamentals. But only in
fundamentals. In detail it fluctuates, and yet perhaps not so much as
Kiamm's real appearance. For he's reported as having one appearance
when he comes into the village and another on leaving it; after having his
beer he looks different from what he does before it, when he's awake he's
different from when he's asleep, when he's alone he's different from when
he's talking to people, and - what is incomprehensible after all that - he's
almost another person up in the Castle. And even within the village there
are considerable differences in the accounts given of him, differences as
to his height, his bearing, his size, and the cut of his beard; fortunately
there's one thing in which all the accounts agree, he always wears the
same clothes, a black morning coat with long tails. Now of course all
these differences aren't the result of magic, but can be easily explained;
they depend on the mood of the observer, on the degree of his excitement,
on the countless graduations of hope or despair which are possible for
him when he sees Klamm, and besides, he can usually see Klamm only
for a second or two. I'm telling you all this just as Barnabas has often told
it to me, and, on the whole, for anyone not personally interested in the
matter, it would be a sufficient explanation. Not for us, however; it's a
matter of life or death for Barnabas whether it's really Klamm he speaks
to or not.' 'And for me no less,' said K., and they moved nearer to each
other on the settle. All this depressing information of Olga's certainly
affected K., but he regarded it as a great consolation to find other people
who were at least externally much in the same situation as himK> with
whom he could join forces and whom he could touch at many points, not
merely at a few points as in Frieda's case. 167
He was indeed gradually giving up all hope of achieving success through
Barnabas, but the worse it went with Barnabas in the Castle the nearer he
felt drawn to him down here; never would K. have believed that in the
village itself such a despaired struggle could go on as Barnabas and his
sister were involved in. Of course it was as yet far from being adequately
explained and might turn out to be quite the reverse, one shouldn't let
Olga's unquestionable innocence mislead one into taking Barnabas's
uprightness for granted. 'Barnabas is familiar with all those accounts of
Klamm's appearance,' went on Olga, 'he has collected and compared a
great many, perhaps too many he even saw Klamm once through a
carriage window in the village, or believed he saw him, and so was
sufficiently prepared to recognize him again, and yet-how can you
explain this?- when he entered a bureau in the Castle and had one of
several officials pointed out to him as Klamrr he didn't recognize him,
and for a long time afterwards couldn't accustom himself to the idea that
it was Klamm. But if you ask Barnabas what was the difference between
that Klamm and the usual description given of Klamm, he can't tell you,
or rather he tries to tell you and describes the official of the Castle, but his
description coincides exactly with the descriptions we usually hear of
Klamm. Well then, Barnabas, I say to him, why do you doubt it, why do
you torment yourself? Whereupon in obvious distress he begins to reckon
up certain characteristics of the Castle official, but he seems to be
thinking them out rather than describing them, and besides that they are
so trivial - a particular way of nodding the head, for instance, or even an
unbuttoned waistcoat - that one simply can't take them seriously. Much
more important seems to me the way in which Klamm receives Barnabas.
Barnabas has often described it to me, and even sketched the room. He's
usually admitted into a large room, but the room isn't Klamm's bureau,
nor even the bureau of any particular official. It's a room divided into two
by a single reading-desk stretching all its length from wall to wall; one
side is so narrow that two people can hardly squeeze past each other, and
that's reserved for the officials, the other side is spacious, and that's where
clients wait, spectators, servants, messengers. On the desk there 168
are great books lying open, side by side, and officials stand by, ost of
them reading. They don't always stick to the same hook, yet lt isn>t ^c
books that they change but their places, nd it always astounds Barnabas to
see how they have to squeeze oast each other when they change places,
because there's so little room. In front of the desk and close to it there are
small j0vv tables at which clerks sit ready to write from dictation,
virhenever the officials wish it. And the way that is done always amazes
Barnabas. There's no express command given by the official, nor is the
dictation given in a loud voice, one could hardly tell that it was being
given at all, the official just seems to go on reading as before, only
whispering as he reads, and the clerk hears the whisper. Often it's so low
that the clerk can't hear it at all in his seat, and then he has to jump up,
catch what's being dictated, sit down again quickly and make a note of it,
then jump up once more, and so on. What a strange business 1 It's almost
incomprehensible. Of course Barnabas has time enough to observe it all,
for he's often kept standing in the big room for hours and days at a time
before Klamm happens to see him. And even if Klamm sees him and he
springs to attention, that needn't mean anything, for Klamm may turn
away from him again to the book and forget all about him. That often
happens. But what can be the use of a messenger-service so casual as that?
It makes me quite doleful to hear Barnabas say in the early morning that
he's going to the Castle. In all likelihood a quite useless journey, a lost
day, a completely vain hope. What's the good of it all? And here's
cobbler's work piled up which never gets done and which Brunswick is
always asking for.' 'Oh, well,' said K., 'Barnabas has just to hang on till he
gets a commission. That's understandable, the place seems to be
over-staffed, and everybody can't be given a job every day, you needn't
complain about that, for it must affect everybody. But in the long run
even a Barnabas gets commissions, he has brought two letters already to
me.' 'It's possible, of course/ answered Olga, 'that we're wrong in
complaining, especially a girl like me who knows things only from
hearsay and can't understand it all so well as Barnabas, who certainly
keeps many things to himself. But let me tell you how the letters are
given 169
out, your letters, for example. Barnabas doesn't get these l directly from
Klamm, but from a clerk. On no particular ay at no particular hour - that's
why the service, however easy u appears, is really very exhausting, for
Barnabas must be always on the alert - a clerk suddenly remembers about
him and gives him a sign, without any apparent instructions from Klamtn
who merely goes on reading in his book. True, sometimes Klamm is
polishing his glasses when Barnabas comes up, but he often does that,
anyhow-however, he may take a look at Barnabas then, supposing, that is,
that he can see anything at all without his glasses, which Barnabas doubts;
for Klamm's eyes are almost shut, he generally seems to be sleeping and
only polishing his glasses in a kind of dream. Meanwhile the clerk hunts
among the piles of manuscripts and writings under his table and fishes out
a letter for you, so it's not a letter newly written, indeed, by the look of
the envelope, it's usually a very old letter, which has been lying there a
long time. But if that is so, why do they keep Barnabas waiting like that?
And you too? And the letter too, of course, for it must be long out of date.
That's how they get Barnabas the reputation of being a bad and slow
messenger. It's all very well for the clerk, he just gives Barnabas the letter,
saying: "From Klamm for K." and so dismisses him. But Barnabas comes
home breathless, with his hardly won letter next to his bare skin, and then
we sit here on the settle like this and he tells me about it and we go into
all the particulars and weigh up what he has achieved and find ultimately
that it's very little, and questionable at that until Barnabas lays the letter
down with no longer any inclination to deliver it, yet doesn't feel inclined
to go to sleep either, and so sits cobbling on his stool all night. That's how
it is, K., and now you have all my secrets and you can't be surprised any
longer at Amalia's indifference to them.' 'And what happens to the letter?'
asked K.'The letter?' said Olga. 'Oh, some time later when I've plagued
Barnabas enough about it, it may be days or weeks later, he picks it up
again and goes to deliver it. In such practical matters he's very dependent
on me. For I can usually pull myself together after I've recovered from
the first impression of what he has told me, but he can't, probably be- 170
he knows more. So I always find something or other to to him, such as
"What are you really aiming at Barnabas? kind of career, what ambition
are you dreaming of? you thinking of climbing so high that you'll have to
leave os to leave me, completely behind you? Is that what you're aiming
at? How can I help believing so when it's, the only possible explanation
why you're so dreadfully discontented with all you've done already? Only
take a look round and see whether any of our neighbours has got on so
well as you. I admit their situation is different from ours and they have no
grounds for ambition beyond their daily work, but even without making
comparisons it's easy to see that you're all right. Hindrances there may be,
doubts and disappointments, but that only means, what we all knew
beforehand, that you get nothing without paying for it, that you have to
fight for every trivial point; all the more reason for being proud instead of
downcast. And aren't you fighting for us as well? Doesn't that mean
anything to you? Doesn't that put new strength into you? And the fact that
I'm happy and almost conceited at having such a brother, doesn't that give
you any confidence? It isn't what you've achieved in the Castle that
disappoints me, but the little that I'm able to achieve with you. You're
allowed into the Castle, you're a regular visitor in the bureaux, you spend
whole .days in the same room as Klamm, you're an officially recognized
messenger, with a claim on an official suit, you're entrusted with
important commissions, you have all that to your credit, and then you
come down here and instead of embracing me and weeping for joy you
seem to lose all heart as soon as you set eyes on me, and you doubt
everything, nothing interests you but cobbling, and you leave the letter,
the pledge of our future, lying in a corner." That's how I speak to him, and
after I've repeated the same words day after day he picks up the letter at
last with a sigh and goes off. Yet probably it's not the effect of what I say
that drives him out, but a desire to go to the Castle again, which he dare
not do without having delivered his message.' 'But you're absolutely right
in everything you say,' said K., 'it's Dazing how well you grasp it all.
What an extraordinarily clear mind you have!' 'No,' said Olga, 'it takes
you in, and 171
perhaps it takes him in too. For what has he really achieved? He's allowed
into a bureau, but it doesn't seem to be even a bureau. He speaks to
Klamm, but is it Klamm? Isn't it rather someone who's a little like Klamm?
A secretary, perhaps, at the most, who resembles Klamm a little and takes
pains to increase the resemblance and poses a little in Klamm's sleepy
and dreamy style. That side of his nature is the easiest to imitate there are
many who try it on, although they have sense enough not to attempt
anything more. And a man like Klamm who is so much sought after and
so rarely seen is apt to take different shapes in people's imagination. For
instance, Klamm has a village secretary here called Momus. You know
him, do you? He keeps well in the background too, but I've seen him
several times. A stoutly-built young man, isn't he? And so evidently not in
the least like Klamm. And yet you'll find people in the village who swear
that Momus is Klamm, he and no other. That's how people work their
own confusion. Is there any reason why it should be different in the
Castle? Somebody pointed out that particular official to Barnabas as
Klamm, and there is actually a resemblance that Barnabas has always
questioned. And everything goes to support his doubt. Are we to suppose
that Klamm has to squeeze his way among other officials in a common
room with a pencil behind his ear? It's wildly improbable. Barnabas often
says, somewhat like a child and yet in a child's mood of trustfulness: "The
official is really very like Klamm, and if he were sitting in his own office
at his own desk with his name on the door I would have no more doubt at
all." That's childish, but reasonable. Of course it would be still more
reasonable of Barnabas when he's up there to ask a few people about the
truth of things, for judging from his account there are plenty of men
standing round. And even if their information were no more reliable than
that of the man who pointed out Klamm of his own accord, there would
be surely some common ground, some ground for comparison, in the
various things they said. That's not my idea, but Barnabas's, yet he doesn't
dare to follow it out, he doesn't venture to speak to anybody for fear of
offending in ignorance against some unknown rule and so losing his job;
you see how uncertain he feels; and this miserable uncertainty of his 172
a clearer light on his position there than all his descriptions. How
ambiguous and threatening everything must appear to him when he won't
even risk opening his mouth to put an innocent question! When I reflect
on that I blame myself for letting him into those unknown rooms, which
have such an effect on him that, though he's daring rather than cowardly,
he apparently trembles with fright as he stands there.' 'Here I think you've
touched on the essential point,' said K. 'That's it After all you've told me, I
believe I can see the matter clearly. Barnabas is too young for this task.
Nothing he tells you is to be taken seriously at its face value. Since he's
beside himself with fright up there, he's incapable of observing, and when
you force him to give an account of what he has seen you get simply
confused fabrications. That doesn't surprise me. Fear of the authorities is
born in you here, and is further suggested to you all your lives in the most
various ways and from every side, and you yourselves help to strengthen
it as much as possible. Still, I have no fundamental objection to that; if an
authority is good why should it not be feared? Only one shouldn't
suddenly send an inexperienced youngster like Barnabas, who has never
been farther than this village, into the Castle, and then expect a truthful
account of everything from him, and interpret each single word of his as
if it were a revelation, and base one's own life's happiness on the
interpretation. Nothing could be more mistaken. I admit that I have let
him mislead me in exactly the same way and have set hopes upon him
and suffered disappointments through him, both based simply on his own
words, that is to say, with almost no basis.' Olga was silent. 'It won't be
easy for me,' went on K., 'to talk you out of your confidence in your
brother, for I see how you love him and how much you expect from him.
But I must do it, if only for the sake of that very love and expectation.
For let me point out that there's always something- I don't know what it
is-that hinders you from seeing clearly how much Barnabas has-I'll not
say achieved-but has had bestowed on him. He's permitted to go into the
bureaux, or if you prefer, into an antechamber, well let it be an
antechamber, it has doors that lead on , barriers which can be passed if
one has the courage. To 173
I me, for instance, even this antechamber is utterly inaccessible for the
present at least Who it is that Barnabas speaks to there I have no idea,
perhaps the clerk is the lowest in the whole staff but even if he is the
lowest he can put one in touch with the next man above him, and if he
can't do that he can at least give the other's name, and if he can't even do
that he can refer to somebody who can give the name. This so-called
Klamm may not have the smallest trait in common with the real one, the
resemblance may not exist except in the eyes of Barnabas, half, blinded
by fear, he may be the meanest of the officials, he may not even be an
official at all, but all the same he has work of some kind to perform at the
desk, he reads something or other in his great book, he whispers
something to the clerk, he thinks something when his eye falls on
Barnabas once in a while, and even if that isn't true and he and his acts
have no significance whatever he has at least been set there by somebody
for some purpose. All that simply means that something is there,
something which Barnabas has the chance of using, something or other at
the very least; and that it is Barnabas's own fault if he can't get any further
than doubt and anxiety and despair. And that's only on the most
unfavourable interpretation of things, which is extremely improbable. For
we have the actual letters which I certainly set no great store on, but more
than on what Barnabas says. Let them be worthless old letters, fished at
random from a pile of other such worthless old letters, at random and
with no more discrimination than the love-birds show in the fairs when
they pick one's fortune out of a pile; let them be all that, still they have
some bearing on my fate. They're evidently meant for me, although
perhaps not for my good, and, as the Superintendent and his wife have
testified, they arc written in Klamm's own hand, and, again on the
Superintendent's evidence, they have a significance which is only private
and obscure, it is true, but still great.' 'Did the Superintendent say that?'
asked Olga. 'Yes, he did,' replied K. 'I must tell Barnabas that,' said Olga
quickly; 'that will encourage him greatly.' 'But he doesn't need
encouragement,' said K.; 'to encourage him amounts to telling him that
he's right, that he has only to go on as he is doing now, but that is just the
way he
.will never achieve anything by. If a man has his eyes bound you can
encourage him as much as you like to stare through the bandage, but he'll
never see anything. He'll be able to see only when the bandage is
removed. It's help Barnabas needs, not encouragement. Only think, up
there you have all the inextricable complications of a great authority-I
imagined that I had an approximate conception of its nature before I came
here, but how childish my ideas were! -up there, then, you have the
authorities and over against them Barnabas, nobody more, only Barnabas,
pathetically alone, where it would be enough honour for him to spend his
whole life cowering in a dark and forgotten corner of some bureau.' 'Don't
imagine, K., that we underestimate the difficulties Barnabas has to face,'
said Olga, 'we have reverence enough for the authorities, you said so
yourself.' 'But it's a mistaken reverence,' said K., 'a reverence in the
wrong place, the kind of reverence that dishonours its object. Do you call
it reverence that leads Barnabas to abuse the privilege of admission to
that room by spending his time there doing nothing, or makes him when
he comes down again belittle and despise the men before whom he has
just been trembling, or allows him because he's depressed or weary to put
off delivering letters and fail in executing commissions entrusted to him?
That's far from being reverence. But I have a further reproach to make,
Olga; I must blame you too, I can't exempt you. Although you fancy you
have some reverence for the authorities, you sent Barnabas into the Castle
in all his youth and weakness and forlornness, or at least you didn't
dissuade him from going.' 'This reproach that you make,' said Olga, 'is
one I have made myself from the beginning. Not indeed that I sent
Barnabas to the Castle, I didn't send him, he went himself, but I ought to
have prevented him by all the means in my power, by force, by craft, by
persuasion. I ought to have prevented him, but if I had to decide again
this very day, and if I were to feel as keenly as I did then and still do the
straits Barnabas is in, and our whole family, and if Barnabas, fully
conscious of the responsibility and danger ahead of him, were once more
to free himself from me with a smile and set off, I wouldn't hold him back
even to-day, in spite of all that has happened in between, 175
and I believe that in my place you would do exactly the same. You don't
know the plight we arc in, that's why you're unfair to all of us, and
especially to Barnabas. At that time we had more hope than now, but even
then our hope wasn't great, but our plight was great, and is so still. Hasn't
Frieda told you any. thing about us?' 'Mere hints,' said K., 'nothing
definite, but the very mention of your name exasperates her.' 'And has the
landlady told you nothing either?' 'No, nothing.' 'Nor any. body else?'
'Nobody.' 'Of course; how could anybody tell you anything? Everyone
knows something about us, either the truth, so far as it is accessible, or at
least some exaggerated rumour, mostly invention, and everybody thinks
about us more than need be, but nobody will actually speak about it,
people are shy of putting these things into words. And they're quite right
in that. It's difficult to speak of it even before you, K., and when you've
heard it all it's possible-isn't it? -that you'll go away and not want to have
anything more to do with us, however little it may seem to concern you.
Then we should have lost you, and I confess that now you mean almost
more to me than Barnabas's service in the Castle. But yet-and this
argument has been distracting me all the evening-you must be told,
otherwise you would have no insight into our situation, and, what would
vex me most of all, you would go on being unfair to Barnabas. Complete
accord would fail between us, and you could neither help us, nor accept
our additional help. But there is still one more question: Do you really
want to be told?' 'Why do you ask?' said K., 'if it's necessary, I would
rather be told, but why do you ask me so particularly?' 'Superstition,' said
Olga. 'You'll become involved in our affairs, innocent as you are, almost
as innocent as Barnabas.' 'Tell me quickly,' said K., 'I'm not afraid. You're
certainly making it much worse than it is with such womanish fussing.'
AMALIA'S SECRET 'Judge for yourself,' said Olga, 'I warn you it
sounds quite simple, one can't comprehend at first why it should be of
any importance. There's a great official in the Castle called Sortini.' 'I've
heard of him already' said K., 'he had something to do 176
with bringing me here.' 'I don't think so,' said Olga, 'Sortini hardly vec
comes into the open. Aren't you mistaking him for Sordini, spelt with a
"d"?' 'You're quite right,' said K., 'Sordini it was.' 'Yes,' said Olga, 'Sordini
is well known, one of the most industrious of the officials, he's often
mentioned; Sortini on the other hand is very retiring and quite unknown
to most people. More than three years ago I saw him for the first and last
time. It was on the third of July at a celebration given by the Fire Brigade,
the Castle too had contributed to it and provided a new fire-engine.
Sortini, who was supposed to have some hand in directing die affairs of
the Fire Brigade, but perhaps he was only deputizing for someone
else-the officials mostly hide behind each other like that, and so it's
difficult to discover what any official is actually responsible for-Sortini
took part in the ceremony of handing over the fire-engine. There were of
course many other people from the Castle, officials and attendants, and
true to his character Sortini kept well in the background. He's a small,
frail, reflective-looking gentleman, and one thing about him struck all the
people who noticed him at all, the way his forehead was furrowed; all the
furrows-and there were plenty of them although he's certainly not more
than forty-were spread fanwise over his forehead, running towards the
root of his nose. I've never seen anything like it. Well then, we had that
celebration. Amalia and I had been excited about it for weeks beforehand,
our Sunday clothes had been done up for the occasion and were partly
new, Amalia's dress was specially fine, a white blouse foaming high in
front with one row of lace after the other, our mother had taken every bit
of her lace for it. I was jealous, and cried half the night before the
celebration. Only when the Bridge Inn landlady came to see us in the
morning-' The Bridge Inn landlady?' asked K. Yes,' said Olga, 'she was a
great friend of ours, well, she came and had to admit that Amalia was the
finer, so to console me she lent me her own necklace of Bohemian
garnets. When we were ready to go and Amalia was standing beside me
and we were all admiring her, my father said: "To-day, mark my words,
Amalia will find a husband"; then, I don't know why, I took my necklace,
my great pride, and hung it round Amalia's neck, and wasn't 177
jealous any longer. I bowed before her triumph and I felt that everyone
must bow before her, perhaps what amazed us so much was the difference
in her appearance, for she wasn't really beautiful,but her sombre glance,
and it has kept the same quality since that day, was high over our heads
and involuntarily one had almost literally to bow before her. Everybody
remarked on it, even Lasemann and his wife who came to fetch us.'
'Lasemann?' asked K. 'Yes, Lasemann,' said Olga, 'we were in high
esteem, and the celebration couldn't well have begun without us, for my
father was the third in command of the Fire Brigade.' 'Was your father
still so active?' asked K. 'Father?' returned Olga, as if she did not quite
comprehend, 'three years ago he was still relatively a young man, for
instance, when a fire broke out at the Herrenhof he carried an official,
Galater, who is a heavy man, out of the house on his back at a run. I was
there myself, there was no real danger, it was only some dry wood near a
stove which had begun to smoke, but Galater was terrified and cried for
help out of the window, and the Fire Brigade turned out, and father had to
carry him out although the fire was already extinguished. Of course
Galater finds it difficult to move and has to be careful in circumstances
like that. I'm telling you this only on father's account; not much more than
three years have passed since then, and look at him now.' Only then did K.
become aware that Amalia was again in the room, but she was a long way
off at the table where her parents sat, she was feeding her mother who
could not move her rheumaticky arms, and admonishing her father
meanwhile to wait in patience for a little, it would soon be his turn. But
her admonition was in vain, for her father, greedily desiring his soup,
overcame his weakness and tried to drink it first out of the spoon and then
out of the bowl, and grumbled angrily when neither attempt succeeded;
the spoon was empty long before he got it to his lips, and his mouth never
reached the soup, for his drooping moustache dipped into it and scattered
it everywhere except into his mouth. 'And have three years done that to
him?' asked K., yet he could not summon up any sympathy for the old
people, and for that whole corner with the table in it he felt only repulsion.
'Three years replied Olga slowly, 'or, more precisely, 178 ^B^
hours at that celebration. The celebration was held on a the village, at the
brook; there was already a large crowd there when we arrived, many
people had come in from eighbouring villages, and the noise was
bewildering. Of course .my father took us first to look at the fire-engine,
he laughed with delight when he saw it, the new fire-engine made him
happy. He began to examine it and explain it to us, he wouldn't hear of
any opposition or holding back, but made every one of us stoop and
almost crawl under the engine if there was something there he had to
show us, and he smacked Barnabas for refusing. Only Amalia paid no
attention to the engine, she stood upright beside it in her fine clothes and
nobody dared to say a word to her, I ran up to her sometimes and took her
arm, but she said nothing. Even to-day I cannot explain how we came to
stand for so long in front of the fire-engine without noticing Sortini until
the very moment my father turned away, for he had obviously been
leaning on a wheel behind the fire-engine all the time. Of course there
was a terrific racket all round us, not only the usual kind of noise, for the
Castle had presented the Fire Brigade with some trumpets as well as the
engine, extraordinary instruments on which with the smallest effort - a
child could do it - one could produce the wildest blasts; to hear them was
enough to make one think the Turks were there, and one could not get
accustomed to them, every fresh blast made one jump. And because the
trumpets were new everybody wanted to try them, and because it was a
celebration, everybody was allowed to try. Right at our ears, perhaps
Amalia had attracted them, were some of these trumpet blowers. It was
difficult to keep one's wits about one, and obeying fadier and attending to
the fire-engine was the utmost we were capable of, and so it was that
Sortini escaped our notice for such a long time, and besides we had no
idea who he was. "There is Sortini," Lasemann whispered at last to my
father - I was beside him - and father, greatly excited, made a deep bow,
and signed to us to do the same. Without having met till now father had
always honoured Sortini as an authority in Fire Brigade matters, and had
often spoken of him at home, so it was a very astonishing and important
matter for us actually to see Sortini with our own eyes. 179
Sortini, however, paid no attention to us, and in that he wasn't peculiar,
for most of the officials hold themselves aloof in public besides he was
tired, only his official duty kept him there. It', not the worst officials who
find duties like that particularly try. and anyhow there were other officials
and attendants ming. ling with the people. But he stayed by the
fire-engine and discouraged by his silence all those who tried to approach
him with some request or piece of flattery. So it happened that he didn't
notice us until long after we had noticed him. Only as we bowed
respectfully and father was making apologies for us did he look our way
and scan us one after another wearily, as if sighing to find that there was
still another and another to look at, until he let his eyes rest on Amalia, to
whom he had to look up, for she was much taller than he. At the sight of
her he started and leapt over the shaft to get nearer to her, we
misunderstood him at first and began to approach him, father leading the
way, but he held us off with uplifted hand and then waved us away. That
was all. We teased Amalia a lot about having really found a husband, and
in our ignorance we were very merry the whole of that afternoon. But
Amalia was more silent than usual. "She's fallen head over ears in love
with Sortini," said Brunswick, who is always rather vulgar and has no
comprehension of natures like Amalia's. Yet this time we were inclined to
think that he was right, we were quite mad all that day, and all of us, even
Amalia, were as if stupefied by the sweet Castle wine when we came
home about midnight.' 'And Sortini?' asked K. 'Yes, Sortini,' said Olga, 'I
saw him several times during the afternoon as I passed by, he was sitting
on the engine shaft with his arms folded, and he stayed there till the
Castle carriage came to fetch him. He didn't even go over to watch the
fire-drill at which father, in the very hope that Sortini was watching,
distinguished himself beyond all the other men of his age.' 'And did you
hear nothing more from him?' asked K. 'You seem to have a great regard
for Sortini.' 'Oh, yes, regard,' said Olga, 'oh, yes, and hear from him we
certainly did. Next morning we were roused from our heavy sleep by a
scream from Amalia; the others rolled back into their beds again, but I
was completely awake and ran to her. She was standing by the 180
n holding a letter in her hand which had just been given h the window by
a man who was still waiting for an answer. The letter was short, and
Amalia had already read it, add held it in her drooping hand; how I
always loved her when she was tired like that I I knelt down beside her
and read the letter. Hardly had I finished it when Amalia after a brief
glance at me took it back, but she couldn't bring herself to read it again,
and tearing it in pieces she threw the fragments in the face of the man
outside and shut the window. That was the morning which decided our
fate. I say "decided", but every minute of the previous afternoon was just
as decisive.' 'And what was in the letter?' asked K. 'Yes, I haven't told you
that yet,' said Olga, 'the letter was from Sortini addressed to the girl with
the garnet necklace. I can't repeat the contents. It was a summons to come
to him at the Herrenhof, and to come at once, for in half an hour he was
due to leave. The letter was couched in the vilest language, such as I have
never heard, and I could only half guess its meaning from the context.
Anyone who didn't know Amalia and saw this letter must have considered
a girl who could be written to like that as dishonoured, even if she had
never had a finger laid on her. And it wasn't a love letter, there wasn't a
tender word in it, on the contrary Sortini was obviously enraged because
the sight of Amalia had disturbed him and distracted him in his work.
Later on we pieced it all together for ourselves; evidently Sortini had
intended to go straight to the Castle that evening, but on Amalia's account
had stayed in the village instead, and in the morning, being very angry
because even overnight he hadn't succeeded in forgetting her, had written
the letter. One couldn't but be furious on first reading a letter like that,
even the most cold-blooded person might have been, but though with
anybody else fear at its threatening tone would soon have got the upper
hand, Amalia only felt anger, fear she doesn't know, neither for herself
nor for others. And while I crept into bed again repeating to myself the
closing sentence, which broke off in the middle, "See that you come, at
once, or else - I" Amalia remained on the windowscat looking out, as if
she were expecting further messengers and were prepared to treat them
all as she had done the first.' 181
T 'So that's what the officials are like,' said K. reluctantly, 'that's the kind
of type one finds among them. What did your father do? I hope he
protested energetically in the proper quarter, if For didn't prefer a shorter
and quicker way of doing it at the Herrenhof. The worst thing about the
story isn't the insult to Amalia, that could easily have been made good, I
don't know why you lay such exaggerated stress upon it; why should such
a letter from Sortini shame Amalia for ever? - which is what one would
gather from your story, but that's a sheer impossibility, it would have been
easy to make up for it to Amalia, and in a few days the whole thing might
have blown over, it was himself that Sortini shamed, and not Amalia. It's
Sortini that horrifies me, the possibility of such an abuse of power. The
very thing that failed this one time because it came naked and
undisguised and found an effective opponent in Amalia, might very well
succeed completely on a thousand other occasions in circumstances just a
little less favourable, and might defy detection even by its victim.' 'Hush,'
said Olga, 'Amalia's looking this way.' Amalia had finished giving food to
her parents and was now busy taking off her mother's clothes. She had
just undone the skirt, hung her mother's arms round her neck, lifted her a
little, while she drew the skirt off, and now gently set her down again.
Her father, still affronted because his wife was being attended to first,
which obviously only happened because she was even more helpless than
he, was attempting to undress himself; perhaps, too, it was a reproach to
his daughter for her imagined slowness; yet although he began with the
easiest and least necessary thing, the removal of the enormous slippers in
which his feet were loosely stuck, he could not get them pulled off at all,
and wheezing hoarsely was forced to give up trying, and leaned back
stiffly in his chair again. 'But you don't realize the really decisive thing",'
said Olga, 'you may be right in all you say, but the decisive thing was
Amalia's not going to the Hcrrenhof; her treatment of the messenger
might have been excused, it could have been passed over; but it was
because she didn't go that the curse was laid upon our family, and that
turned her treatment of the messenger into an unpardonable offence, yes,
it was even brought forward openly later as the chief offence.' 'What!'
cried 182
tr at once, lowering his voice again, as Olga raised her hands imploringly,
'do you, her sister, actually say that Amalia should have run to the
Herrenhof after Sortini?' 'No,' said Olga, 'Heaven preserve me from such
a suspicion, how can you believe that? I don't know anybody who's so
right as Amalia in everything she does. If she had gone to the Herrenhof I
should of course have upheld her just the same; but her not going was
heroic. As for me, I confess it frankly, had I received a letter like that I
should have gone. I shouldn't have been able to endure the fear of what
might happen, only Amalia could have done that. For there were many
ways of getting round it; another girl, for instance, might have decked
herself up and wasted some time in doing it and then gone to the
Herrenhof only to find that Sortini had left, perhaps to find that he had
left immediately after sending the messenger, which is very probable, for
the moods of the gentlemen are fleeting. But Amalia neither did that nor
anything else, she was too deeply insulted, and answered without reserve.
If she had only made some pretence of compliance, if she had but crossed
the threshold of the Herrenhof at the right moment, our punishment could
have been turned aside, we have very clever advocates here who can
make a great deal out of a mere nothing, but in this case they hadn't even
the mere nothing to go on, there was, on the contrary, the disrespect to
Sortini's letter and the insult to his messenger.* 'But what is all this about
punishment and advocates?' said K. 'Surely Amalia couldn't be accused or
punished because of Sortini's criminal proceedings?' 'Yes,' said Olga, 'she
could, not in a regular suit at law, of course; and she wasn't punished
directly, but she was punished all right in other ways, she and the whole
family, and how heavy the punishment has been you are surely beginning
to understand. In your opinion it's unjust and monstrous, but you're the
only one in the village of that opinion, it's an opinion favourable to us,
and ought to comfort us, and would do that if it weren't so obviously
based on error. I can easily prove that, and you must forgive me if I
mention Frieda by the way, but between Frieda and Klamm, leaving aside
the final outcome of the two affairs, the first preliminaries were much the
same as between Amalia and Sortini, 183
and yet, although that might have shocked you at the beginning you
accept it now as quite natural. And that's not merely be! cause you're
accustomed to it, custom alone couldn't blunt one's plain judgement, it's
simply that you've freed yourself from prejudice.' 'No, Olga,' said K., 'I
don't see why you drag in Frieda, her case wasn't the same, don't confuse
two such different things, and now go on with your story.' 'Please don't be
offended,' said Olga, 'if I persist in the comparison, it's a lingering trace of
prejudice on your part, even in regard to Frieda that makes you feel you
must defend her from a comparison. She's not to be defended, but only to
be praised. In comparing the two cases, I don't say they're exactly alike,
they stand in the same relation as black to white, and the white is Frieda.
The worst thing one can do to Frieda is to laugh at her, as I did in the bar
very rudely - and I was sorry for it later - but even if one laughs it's out of
envy or malice, at any rate one can laugh. On the other hand, unless one
is related to her by blood, one can only despise Amalia. Therefore the two
cases are quite different, as you say, but yet they are alike.' 'They're not at
all alike,' said K., and he shook his head stubbornly, 'leave Frieda out of it,
Frieda got no such fine letter as that of Sortini's, and Frieda was really in
love with Klamm, and, if you doubt that, you need only ask her, she loves
him still.' 'But is that really a difference?' asked Olga. 'Do you imagine
Klamm couldn't.have written to Frieda in the same tone? That's what the
gentlemen arc like when they rise from their desks, they feel out of place
in the ordinary world and in their distraction they say the most beastly
things, not all of them, but many of them. The letter to Amalia may have
been the thought of a moment, thrown on the paper in complete disregard
for the meaning to be taken out of it What do we know of the thoughts of
these gentlemen? Haven't you heard of, or heard yourself, the tone in
which Klamm spoke to Frieda? Klamm's notorious for his rudeness, he
can apparently sit dumb for hours and then suddenly bring out something
so brutal that it makes one shiver. Nothing of that kind is known of
Sortini, but then very little is known of him. All that's really known about
him is that his name is like Sordini's. If it weren't for that resemblance
between the two names prob- 184
be wouldn't be known at all. Even as the Fire Brigade uthority apparently
he's confused with Sordini, who is the real uthority, and who exploits the
resemblance in name to push things on to Sortini's shoulders, especially
any duties falling on him as a deputy, so that he can be left undisturbed to
his work. when a man so unused to society as Sortini suddenly felt
himself in love with a village girl, he'll naturally take it quite differently
from, say, the joiner's apprentice next door. And one must remember, too,
that between an official and a village cobbler's daughter there's a great
gulf fixed which has to be somehow bridged over, and Sortini tried to do
it in that way, where someone else might have acted differently. Of course
we're all supposed to belong to the Castle, and there's supposed to be no
gulf between us, and nothing to be bridged over, and that may be true
enough on ordinary occasions, but we've had grim evidence that it's not
true when anything really important crops up. At any rate, all that should
make Sortini's methods more comprehensible to you, and less monstrous;
compared with Klamm's they're comparatively reasonable, and even for
those intimately affected by them much more endurable. When Klamm
writes a loving letter it's much more exasperating than the most brutal
letter of Sortini's. Don't mistake me, I'm not venturing to criticize Klamm,
I'm only comparing the two, because you're shutting your eyes to the
comparison. Klamm's a kind of tyrant over women, he orders first one
and then another to come to him, puts up with none of them for long, and
orders them to go just as he ordered them to come. Oh, Klamm wouldn't
even give himself the trouble of writing a letter first. And in comparison
with that is it so monstrous that Sortini, who's so retiring, and whose
relations with women are at least unknown, should condescend for once
to write in his beautiful official hand a letter, however abominable? And
if there's no distinction here in Klamm's favour, but the reverse, how can
Frieda's love for him establish one? The relation existing between the
women and the officials, believe me, is very difficult, Or rather very easy
to determine. Love always enters into it. There's no such thing as an
official's unhappy love affair. So in respect it's no praise to say of a girl -
I'm referring to many 185
others besides Frieda - that she gave herself to an official only out of love.
She loved him and gave herself to him, that was all there's nothing
praiseworthy in that. But you'll object that Amalia didn't love Sortini.
Well, perhaps she didn't love him, but then after all perhaps she did love
him, who can decide? Not even she herself. How can she fancy she didn't
love him when she rejected him so violently, as no official has ever been
rejected? Barnabas says that even yet she sometimes trembles with the
violence of the effort of closing the window three years ago. That is true,
and therefore one can't ask her anything; she has finished with Sortini,
and that's all she knows; whether she loves him or not she does not know.
But we do know that women can't help loving the officials once they give
them any encouragement, yes, they even love them beforehand, let them
deny it as much as they like, and Sortini not only gave Amalia
encouragement, but leapt over the shaft when he saw her; although his
legs were stiff from sitting at desks he leapt right over the shaft. But
Amalia's an exception, you will say. Yes, that she is, that she has proved
in refusing to go to Sortini, that's exception enough, but if in addition she
weren't in love with Sortini, she would be too exceptional for plain
human understanding. On that afternoon, I grant you, we were smitten
with blindness, but the fact that in spite of our mental confusion we
thought we noticed signs of Amalia's being in love, showed at least some
remnants of sense. But when all that's taken into account, what difference
is left between Frieda and Amalia? One thing only, that Frieda did what
Amalia refused to do.' 'Maybe,' said K., 'but for me the main difference is
that I'm engaged to Frieda, and only interested in Amalia because she's a
sister of Barnabas's, the Castle messenger, and because her destiny may
be bound up with his duties. If she had suffered such a crying injustice at
the hands of an official as your tale seemed to infer at the beginning, I
should have taken the matter up seriously, but more from a sense of
public duty than from any personal sympathy with Amalia. But what you
say has changed the aspect of the situation for me in a way I don't quite
understand, but am prepared to accept, since it's you who tell me, and
therefore I want to drop the whole affair; I'm no meno- 186
bet of the Fire Brigade, Sortini means nothing to me. But Frieda means
something to me, I have trusted her completely and want to go on trusting
her, and it surprises me that you go out of your way, while discussing
Amalia, to attack Frieda and try to shake my confidence in her. I'm not
assuming that you're doing it with deliberate intent, far less with
malicious intent, for in that case I should have left long ago. You're not
doing it deliberately, you're betrayed into it by circumstances, impelled by
your love for Amalia you want to exalt her above all other women, and
since you can't find enough virtue in Amalia herself you help yourself out
by belittling the others. Amalia's act was remarkable enough, but the
more you say about it the less clearly can it be decided whether it was
noble or petty, clever or foolish, heroic or cowardly; Amalia keeps her
motives locked in her own bosom and no one will ever get at them.
Frieda, on the other hand, has done nothing at all remarkable, she has
only followed her own heart, for anyone who looks at her actions with
goodwill that is clear, it can be substantiated, it leaves no room for slander.
However, I don't want either to belittle Amalia or to defend Frieda, all I
want is to let you see what my relation is to Frieda, and that every attack
on Frieda is an attack on myself. I came here of my own accord, and of
my own accord I have settled here, but all that has happened to me since I
came, and, above all, any prospects I may have - dark as they are, they
still exist - I owe entirely to Frieda, and you can't argue that away. True, I
was engaged to come here as a Land Surveyor, yet that was only a pretext,
they were playing with me, I was driven out of everybody's house, they're
playing with me still to-day; but how much more complicated die game is
now that I have, so to speak, a larger circumference - which means
something, it may not be much - yet I have already a home, a position and
real work to do, I have a promised wife who takes her share of my
professional duties when I have other business, I'm going to her and
become a member of the community, and besides official connexion I
have also a personal connexion with Klamm, although as yet I haven't
been able to make use of it. That's surely quite a lot? And when I come to
you, why do you me welcome? Why do you confide the history of your
187
family to me? Why do you hope that I might possibly help you? Certainly
not because I'm 'the Land Surveyor whom Lasem^ and Brunswick, for
instance, turned out of their house a week ago, but because I'm a man
with some power at my back. But that I owe to Frieda, to Frieda who is so
modest that if you were to ask her about it, she wouldn't know it existed.
And so, considering all this, it seems that Frieda in her innocence has
achieved more than Amalia in all her pride, for may I say that I have the
impression that you're seeking help for Amalia. And from whom? In the
last resort from no one else but Frieda.' 'Did I really speak so abominably
of Frieda?' asked Olga, 'I certainly didn't mean to, and I don't think I did,
still, it's possible; we're in a bad way, our whole world is in ruins, and
once we begin to complain we're, carried farther than we realize. You're
quite right, there's a big difference now between us and Frieda, and it's a
good thing to emphasize it once in a while. Three years ago we were
respectable girls and Frieda an outcast, a servant in the Bridge Inn, we
used to walk past her without looking at her, I admit we were too arrogant,
but that's how we were brought up. But that evening in the Herrenhof
probably enlightened you about our respective positions to-day. Frieda
with the whip in her hand, and I among the crowd of servants. But it's
worse even than that! Frieda may despise us, her position entitles her to
do so, actual circumstances compel it. But who is there who doesn't
despise us? Whoever decides to despise us will find himself in good
company. Do you know Frieda's successor? Pepi, she's called. I met her
for the first time the night before last, she used to be a chambermaid. She
certainly outdoes Frieda in her contempt for me. She saw me through the
window as I was coming for beer, and ran to the door and locked it, so
that I had to beg and pray for a long time and promise her the ribbon from
my hair before she would let me in. But when I gave it to her she threw it
into a corner. Well, I can't help it if she despises me, I'm partly dependent
on her goodwill, and she's the barmaid in the Herrenhof. Only for the
time being, it's true, for she certainly hasn't the qualities needed for
permanent employment there. One only has to overhear how the landlord
speaks to Pepi and compare it with his tone to 188
Frieda. But that doesn't hinder Pepi from despising even Amalia, Amalia,
whose glance alone would be enough to drive pepi with all her plaits and
ribbons out of the room much faster than her own fat legs would ever
carry her. I had to listen again yesterday to her infuriating slanders against
Amalia until the customers took my part at last, although only in the kind
of way you have seen already.' 'How touchy you are,' said K. 'I only put
Frieda in her right place, but I had no intention of belittling you, as you
seem to think. Your family has a special interest for me, I have never
denied it; but how this interest could give me cause for despising you I
can't understand.' 'Oh, ach,' said Olga, 'I'm afraid that even you will
understand it yet; can't you even understand that Amalia's behaviour to
Sortini was the original cause of our being despised?' 'That would be
strange indeed,' said K., 'one might admire or condemn Amalia for such
an action, but despise her? And even if she is despised for some reason I
can't comprehend, why should the contempt be extended to you others,
her innocent family? For Pepi to despise you, for instance, is a piece of
impudence, and I'll let her know it if ever I'm in the Herrenhof again.' 'If
you set out, K.,' said Olga, 'to convert all the people who despise us you'll
have your work cut out for you, for it's all engineered from the Castle. I
can still remember every detail of that day following the morning I spoke
of. Brunswick, who was our assistant then, had arrived as usual, taken his
share of the work and gone home, and we were sitting at breakfast, all of
us, even Amalia and myself, very gay, father kept on talking about the
celebration and telling us his plans in connexion with the Fire Brigade,
for you must know that the Castle has its own Fire Brigade which had
sent a deputation to the celebration, and there had been much discussion
about it, the gentlemen present, from the Castle had seen that
performance of our Fire Brigade, had expressed great approval, and
compared the Castle Brigade unfavourably with ours, so there had been
some talk of reorganizing the Castle Brigade with the help of instructors
from the village; there were several possible candidates, but father had
hopes that he would be chosen. That was what he was discussing, and in
his usual delightful way had sprawled over the table until he 189
embraced half of it in his arms, and as he gazed through the open window
at the sky his face was young and shining with hope, and that was the last
time I was to see it like that. Then Amalia, with a calm conviction we had
never noticed in her be. fore, said that too much trust shouldn't be placed
in what the gentlemen said, they were in the habit of saying pleasant
things on such occasions, but it meant little or nothing, the words were
hardly out of their mouths before they were forgotten, only of course
people were always ready to be taken in again next time. Mother forbade
her to say things like that, but father only laughed at her precocious air of
wisdom, then he gave a start, and seemed to be looking round for
something he had only just missed - but there was nothing missing - and
said that Brunswick had told him some story of a messenger and a
torn-up letter, did we know anything of it, who was concerned in it, and
what it was all about? We kept silent; Barnabas, who was as youthful then
as a spring lamb, said something particularly silly or cheeky, the subject
was changed, and the whole affair forgotten.' AMALIA'S PUNISHMENT
'But not long afterwards we were overwhelmed with questions from all
sides about the story of the letter, we were visited by friends and enemies,
acquaintances and complete strangers. Not one of them stayed for any
length of time, and our best friends were the quickest to go. Lasemann,
usually so slow and dignified, came in hastily as if only to see the size of
the room, one look round it and he was gone, it was like a horrible kind of
children's game when he fled, and father, shaking himself free from some
other people, ran after him to the very door and then gave it up;