IX
And 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 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 curtly, 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 come near, and now they peered through the keyhole by turns; the landlady had, of course the lion’s share, but Pepi too was considered; the gentleman was on the whole the most indifferent of the three. Pepi and the gentleman came away soon, but the landlady kept on peering anxiously, bent double, almost kneeling; one had almost the feeling that she was only imploring the keyhole now to let her through, for there had certainly been nothing more to see for a long time. When at last she got up, passed her hands 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, Klamm was able to leave. But it’s strange how sensitive he is. Did you notice, landlady, how uneasily Klamm looked around 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 to the test.” The gentleman nodded eagerly. “That is essentially my opinion too, of course,” he said, “if I expressed myself a little 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, Pepi, 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, the 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 judgment sanctioned, and as if he were resolved to escape at least from any aftereffects 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 despatches 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 half-embarrassed tone: “That’s how it’s arranged; all the gentlemen in the Castle have their village secretaries.” Momus, who had been listening far more attentively than K., supplied the landlady with a supplementary fact: “Most of the village secretaries work only for one gentleman, but I work for two, for Klamm and for Vallabene.” “Yes,” went on the landlady, remembering now on her side too, and turning to K.: “Herr Momus works for two gentlemen, for Klamm and for Vallabene, and so is twice a village secretary.” “Actually twice,” said 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’ 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 command 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 in the most unheard of manner; and I have come here to Herr Momus—I have nothing to hide—simply to give the office an adequate idea of your behaviour and your intentions and to protect 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 Herr 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 judgment 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 see, 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 offer 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, tiny, 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 see him quite seriously, and seem to consider me lost largely on account of the miscarrying of my plan? If at one time you can advise me sincerely from your heart against trying to see Klamm at all, how can you possibly drive me on the road to Klamm now, apparently just as sincerely, even though 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 driving you on when I tell you that your attempt is hopeless? It would really be the limit of audacity if you tried in that way to push the responsibility on to me. Perhaps it’s Herr Momus’ 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 know 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 in 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 the landlady in silence. “Why are 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 today 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 be clearer? I said further that this protocol is the only real official connection 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 connection he has with Klamm, in other words this protocol. That’s all I have said, and whoever maintains 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 connection, a sort of connection perhaps with Klamm. Isn’t that enough? If anyone enquired for any services 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 this protocol and become acquainted word for word with the trivialities of your life? Shouldn’t you rather pray humbly that the protocol should be concealed from Klamm—a prayer, however, that would be just as unreasonable as the other, for who can hide anything from Klamm even though he has given many signs of his sympathetic nature? And is it even necessary for what you call your hope? Haven’t you admitted yourself that you would be content if you only got the chance of speaking to Klamm, 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, which far above he followed at the behest of incomprehensible 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 Momus 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 carroway seeds.
“Good night,” said K. “I’ve an 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 at a whim, but not today.” “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.