XIII

XIII

Hardly was everybody gone when K. said to the assistants: “Clear out!” 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 with their hands and feet. “Let us back to you, sir!” they cried, as if they were being swept away by a flood and K. were dry land. But K. did not relent, he waited impatiently for the unbearable din to force the teacher to intervene. That soon happened. “Let your confounded assistants in!” he shouted. “I’ve dismissed them,” K. shouted back; it had the incidental effect of showing the teacher what it was to be strong enough not merely to give notice, but 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 hope 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 uselessness 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. formally announced to her all the same that he had dismissed the assistants. She merely nodded. K. sat down at one of the desks and followed her tired movements. It had been her unfailing liveliness 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. And when I was given the chance of a little hospitality it was with people that I always wanted to run away from, like Barnabas’ 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 connection 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 explain, he added as if to himself: “What could have enticed me to this desolate country except the wish to stay here?” Then he went 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 miss 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 for 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. half suggested 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 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! Poor things!” 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!’ 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 at the assistants! 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 grownups, 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. When one ought to be annoyed with them, I can only laugh at them. When people want to strike them, I can only stroke their 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 had 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!” 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 think I would be able to stand that. But all the same when I remember that if you keep on hardening your heart to them, it will keep you, perhaps, from ever getting admittance to Klamm, I want to save you by any means at all from such consequences. In that case my only wish is for you to let them in. In that case let them in now at once. Don’t bother about me; what do I matter? I’ll defend myself as long as I can, but if I 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 connection 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! 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 name than anything else. With his trembling hands K. could not turn the old lock immediately. “I’ll open in a minute,” he kept on repeating, instead of asking who was actually there. And then he had to face the fact that through the wide-open door came in, 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 do 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!” 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 and K. in a chair on the dais with Frieda beside him, it looked as if Hans were the teacher, and as if he were examining them and passing judgment on their answers. A faint smile round his soft mouth seemed to indicate that he knew quite well that all this was only a game, but that made him only the more serious in conducting it; perhaps too it was not really a smile 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, farseeing 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 grownup 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’ 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 of little account, but all their questions about Brunswick’s family life 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, in fact which quite remote questions brought out again and again; he actually gave out work to the other shoemakers, for example to Barnabas’ 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 emphasise 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 not in a position to help him himself, he would ask his mother 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 allow K. to come to the house; he had actually wanted to seek K. out at the time to punish him for his impudence, only Hans’s mother had held him back. But in any case his mother never wanted to talk with anybody whatever, and her enquiry about K. 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 her illness was already better than it 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. marked 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 that he was the biggest shoemaker in the place, and it was pretty 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? 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 tomorrow 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 comfortingly. The nearness helped, in spite of Hans’s occasional recalcitrance, to bring about an understanding. They agreed finally to the following: Hans would first tell his mother the entire truth, but, so as to make her consent easier, add that K. wanted to speak to Brunswick himself as well, not about her at all, but about his own affairs. Besides this was true; in the course of the conversation K. had remembered that Brunswick, 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. K.’s 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 Brunswick’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 reflection 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 which with good luck might not be needed. He merely asked further how K. was to explain to his father the lateness of the 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 reflection, became happier, and chattered 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 questions 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 envied him for; it was for his beautiful walking-stick, which was lying on the table and with which Hans had been playing absently 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 walking-stick, 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 tomorrow, 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 on!” Then to K. “Now go and bring me my lunch from the Bridge Inn.” All this was 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 heels 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, or because a fresh fit of imperiousness had seized him, and it gave 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 certain limits he decided for the present to give way to the fellow’s caprices, for even if the teacher, as had been shown, had not 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 Frieda⁠—and 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 the 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.

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 how 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 clearly, 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, that, even when you spoke frankly, it was bound to be difficult for us to believe you; and if we did not listen to good advice we would have to learn to believe you through bitter experience. 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 repeating 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 superficially, 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 you have 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 cause⁠—when you said today 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 Herrenhof and that I’ve had to leave the Bridge Inn as well, a matter of indifference that I have to endure the heavy work here in the school. You have no tenderness to spare for me, you have 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 once 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 stick 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 emphasising 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 last he got up, sat down on the dais, took Frieda’s hand, which she feebly tried to pull away, and said: “In what you’ve said I haven’t always been able to distinguish the landlady’s sentiments from your own.” “They’re the landlady’s sentiments 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 in 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 that 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’ 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 teachery and so the pain of seeing her tears was his due⁠—“But in reality everything has changed since I’ve listened to you talking with that boy. How innocently you began asking about the family, about this and that! To me you looked just as you did that night when you came into the taproom, impetuous 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 still 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 recognise more and more clearly. Your end was that woman. In your apparently solicitous enquiries 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 are 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 in other ways; evidently she put this weapon in your hands in the hope that you would employ it at a particularly bad or decisive point for me. If I am abusing you, then she is abusing you in the same way. But Frieda, just consider; even if everything 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 off 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? It 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 alone that you sent the assistants packing? Oh, if you but knew with 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 her? 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!” 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 recognised 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 mother, as if you were fighting for your very life.” “You’ve understood my talk with Hans quite correctly,” said K., “it was really so. But is your whole former life so completely wiped from your mind (all except the landlady, of course, who won’t allow herself to be wiped out), that you can’t remember any longer how one must fight to get to the top, especially when one begins at the bottom? How one must take advantage of everything that offers any hope whatever? And this woman comes from the Castle, she told me so 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!⁠—he saw one of the assistants, now dead tired, still holding to the railing. 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. Immediately the assistant turned his attention from K., and crept as if irresistibly attracted to the window. Her face torn between pity for the assistant and a beseeching helpless glance which she cast at K., Frieda put her hand out hesitatingly from the window, it was not clear whether it was a greeting or a command to go away, nor did the assistant let it deflect him from his 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 on 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.