XVII
Before the dark Herrenhof a little group of men were standing, two or three had lanterns with them, so that a face here and there could be distinguished. K. recognised only one acquaintance, Gerstäcker the carrier. Gerstäcker greeted him with the enquiry: “You’re still in the village?” “Yes,” replied K. “I’ve come here for good.” “That doesn’t matter to me,” said Gerstäcker, breaking out into a fit of coughing and turning away to the others.
It turned out that they were all waiting for Erlanger. Erlanger had already arrived, but he was consulting first with Momus before he admitted his clients. They were all complaining at not being allowed to wait inside and having to stand out there in the snow. The weather wasn’t very cold, but still it showed a lack of consideration to keep them standing there in front of the house in the darkness, perhaps for hours. It was certainly not the fault of Erlanger, who was always very accommodating, knew nothing about it, and would certainly be very annoyed if it were reported to him. It was the fault of the Herrenhof landlady, who in her positively morbid determination to be refined, wouldn’t suffer a lot of people to come into the Herrenhof at the same time. “If it absolutely must be and they must come,” she used to say, “then in Heaven’s name let them come one at a time.” And she had managed to arrange that the clients, who at first had waited simply in a passage, later on the stairs, then in the hall, and finally in the taproom, were at last pushed out into the street. But even that had not satisfied her. It was unendurable for her to be always “besieged,” as she expressed herself, in her own house. It was incomprehensible to her why there should need to be clients waiting at all. “To dirty the front-door steps,” an official had once told her, obviously in annoyance, but to her this pronouncement had seemed very illuminating, and she was never tired of quoting it. She tried her best—and she had the approval in this case of the clients too—to get a building set up opposite the Herrenhof where the clients could wait. She would have liked best of all if the interviews and examinations could have taken place outside the Herrenhof altogether, but the officials opposed that, and when the officials opposed her seriously the landlady naturally enough was unable to gainsay them, though in lesser matters she exercised a kind of petty tyranny, thanks to her indefatigable, yet femininely insinuating zeal. And the landlady would probably have to endure those interviews and examinations in the Herrenhof in perpetuity, for the gentlemen from the Castle refused to budge from the place whenever they had official business in the village. They were always in a hurry, they came to the village much against their will, they had not the slightest intention of prolonging their stay beyond the time absolutely necessary, and so they could not be asked, simply for the sake of making things more pleasant in the Herrenhof, to waste time by transferring themselves with all their papers to some other house. The officials preferred indeed to get through their business in the taproom or in their rooms, if possible while they were at their food, or in bed before retiring for the night, or in the morning when they were too weary to get up and wanted to stretch themselves for a little longer. Yet the question of the erection of a waiting-room outside seemed to be nearing a favourable solution; but it was really a sharp blow for the landlady—people laughed a little over it—that this matter of a waiting-room should itself make innumerable interviews necessary, so that the lobbies of the house were hardly ever empty.
The waiting group passed the time by talking in half-whispers about those things. K. was struck by the fact that, though their discontent was general, nobody saw any objection to Erlanger’s summoning his clients in the middle of the night. He asked why this was so and got the answer that they should be only too thankful to Erlanger. It was only his goodwill and his high conception of his office that induced him to come to the village at all, he could easily if he wished—and it would probably be more in accordance with the regulations too—he could easily send an undersecretary and let him draw up statements. Still, he usually refused to do this, he wanted to see and hear everything for himself, but for this purpose he had to sacrifice his nights, for in his official timetable there was no time allowed for journeys to the village. K. objected that even Klamm came to the village during the day and even stayed for several days; was Erlanger, then, a mere secretary, more indispensable up there? One or two laughed good-humouredly, others maintained an embarrassed silence, the latter gained the ascendancy, and K. received hardly any reply. Only one man replied hesitatingly, that of course Klamm was indispensable, in the Castle as in the village.
Then the front door opened and Momus appeared between two attendants carrying lamps. “The first who will be admitted to Herr Elanger,” he said, “are Gerstäcker and K. Are these two men here?” They reported themselves, but before they could step forward Jeremiah slipped in with a “I’m a waiter here,” and, greeted by Momus with a smiling slap on the shoulder, disappeared inside. “I’ll have to keep a sharper eye on Jeremiah,” K. told himself, though he was quite aware at the same time that Jeremiah was probably far less dangerous than Arthur who was working against him in the Castle. Perhaps it would actually have been wiser to let himself be annoyed by them as assistants, than to have them prowling about without supervision and allow them to carry on their intrigues in freedom, intrigues for which they seemed to have special facilities.
As K. was passing Momus the latter started as if only now did he recognise in him the Land Surveyor. “Ah, the Land Surveyor?” he said, “the man who was so unwilling to be examined and now is in a hurry to be examined. It would have been simpler to let me do it that time. Well, really it’s difficult to choose the right time for a hearing.” Since at these words K. made to stop, Momus went on: “Go in, go in! I needed your answers then, I don’t now.” Nevertheless K. replied, provoked by Momus’s tone: “You only think of yourselves. I would never and will never answer merely because of someone’s office, neither then nor now.” Momus replied: “Of whom, then, should we think? Who else is there here? Look for yourself!”
In the hall they were met by an attendant who led them the old way, already known to K., across the courtyard, then into the entry and through the low, somewhat downward sloping passage. The upper storeys were evidently reserved only for higher officials, the secretaries, on the other hand, had their rooms in this passage, even Erlanger himself, although he was one of the highest among them. The servant put out his lantern, for here it was brilliant with electric light. Everything was on a small scale, but elegantly finished. The space was utilised to the best advantage. The passage was just high enough for one to walk without bending one’s head. Along both sides the doors almost touched each other. The walls did not quite reach to the ceiling, probably for reasons of ventilation, for here in the low cellar-like passage the tiny rooms could hardly have windows. The disadvantage of those incomplete walls was that the passage, and necessarily the rooms as well, were noisy. Many of the rooms seemed to be occupied, in most the people were still awake, one could hear voices, hammering, the clink of glasses. But the impression was not one of particular gaiety. The voices were muffled, only a word here and there could be indistinctly made out, it did not seem to be conversation either, probably someone was only dictating something or reading something aloud; and precisely from the rooms where there was a clinking of glasses and plates no word was to be heard, and the hammering reminded K. that he had been told sometime or other that certain of the officials occupied themselves occasionally with carpentry, model engines and so forth, to recuperate from the continual strain of mental work. The passage itself was empty except for a pallid, tall, thin gentleman in a fur coat, under which his night clothes could be seen, who was sitting before one of the doors. Probably it had become too stuffy for him in the room, so he had sat down outside and was reading a newspaper, but not very carefully; often he yawned and left off reading, then bent forward and glanced along the passage, perhaps he was waiting for a client whom he had invited and who had omitted to come. When they had passed him the servant said to Gerstäcker: “That’s Pinzgauer.” Gerstäcker nodded: “He hasn’t been down here for a long time now,” he said. “Not for a long time now,” the servant agreed.
At last they stopped before a door which was not in any way different from the others, and yet behind which, so the servant informed them, was Erlanger. The servant got K. to lift him on to his shoulders and had a look into the room through the open slit. “He’s lying down,” said the servant climbing down, “on the bed, in his clothes it’s true, but I fancy all the same that he’s asleep. Often he’s overcome with weariness like that, here in the village, what with the change in his habits. We’ll have to wait. When he wakes up he’ll ring. Besides, it has happened before this for him to sleep away all his stay in the village, and then when he woke to have to leave again immediately for the Castle. It’s voluntary, of course, the work he does here.” “Then it would be better if he just slept on,” said Gerstäcker, “for when he has a little time left for his work after he wakes, he’s very vexed at having fallen asleep, and tries to get everything settled in a hurry, so that one can hardly get a word in.” “You’ve come on account of the contract for the carting for the new building?” asked the servant. Gerstäcker nodded, drew the servant aside and talked to him in a low voice, but the servant hardly listened, gazed away over Gerstäcker, whom he overtopped by more than a head, and stroked his hair slowly and seriously.