VIII
At first K. was glad to have escaped from the crush of the 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 recognise 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 gazing in front of him, 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 today was strengthened still further by the early dusk; the longer he looked, the less he could make out and the deeper everything was lost in the twilight.
Just as K. reached the Herrenhof, which was still unlighted, 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 startled 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 recognised K. “Ah, the Land Surveyor,” she said smiling, held out her hand and introduced herself. “My name is Pepi.” She was small, red-cheeked, 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 enquired 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 urgently 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 had anything to admit. I’ve been in service here with her several years already. We’ve slept together all that time in the same bed, yet I’m not intimate with her, and by now I’m quite out of her thoughts, that’s certain. Perhaps her only friend is the old landlady of the Bridge Inn, and that tells a story too.” “Frieda is my fiancée,” said K., searching at the same time for the peephole in the door. “I know,” said Pepi, “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 connections 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 for a little now, so greedily was he staring at her.
“It’s against orders for the light to be on,” said Pepi, switching it off again. “I only turned it on because you gave me such a fright. What do you want here really? Did Frieda forget anything?” “Yes,” said K., pointing to the 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. I 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 Pepi, “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 turned, 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! A foursquare 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 were yoked. Except for the coachman, whom at that distance and in the falling twilight K. guessed at rather than recognised, 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 greeted him, and the horses were becoming a little restive at seeing a man looming out of the dusk, he remained completely detached. That exactly suited K.’s purpose. Leaning against the wall of the house he took out his lunch, thought gratefully of Frieda and her solicitous provision for him, and meanwhile peered into the inside of the house. A very angular and broken stair led downwards and was crossed down below by a low but apparently deep passage; everything was clean and whitewashed, sharply and distinctly defined.
The wait lasted longer than K. had expected. Long ago he had 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 wakening 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 was one surrounded by blankets, cushions and furs; one could turn and stretch on every side, and always one sank into softness 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 flasks 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! “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 already seen at the window on the first floor. A young man, very good-looking, pink and white, but very serious. K. too looked at him gravely, but his gravity was on his own account. Really he would have done better to have sent his assistants here, they couldn’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, began 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 command, for the command lay not in the words, but in a slight, studiedly indifferent gesture of the hand which accompanied them. “I’m waiting here for somebody,” said K., no longer in 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 gentleman, 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 the gentleman, 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 the courtyard; yet once more he looked back, K. fancied he saw him shaking his head over such obstinancy, then with a short, decisive, final movement he turned away and stepped into the hall, where he immediately vanished. The coachman remained for a while still in the courtyard, he had a great deal of work with 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.