II

II

When by a turn in the road K. recognised that they were near the inn, he was greatly surprised to see that darkness had already set in. Had he been gone for such a long time? Surely not for more than an hour or two, by his reckoning. And it had been morning when he left. And he had not felt any need of food. And just a short time ago it had been uniform daylight, and now the darkness of night was upon them. “Short days, short days,” he said to himself, slipped off the sledge, and went towards the inn.

At the top of the little flight of steps leading into the house stood the landlord, a welcome figure, holding up a lighted lantern. Remembering his conductor for a fleeting moment K. stood still, there was a cough in the darkness behind him, that was he. Well, he would see him again soon. Not until he was level with the landlord, who greeted him humbly, did he notice two men, one on either side of the doorway. He took the lantern from his host’s hand and turned the light upon them; it was the men he had already met, who were called Arthur and Jeremiah. They now saluted him. That reminded him of his soldiering days, happy days for him, and he laughed. “Who are you?” he asked, looking from one to the other. “Your assistants,” they answered. “It’s your assistants,” corroborated the landlord in a low voice. “What?” said K. “are you my old assistants whom I told to follow me and whom I am expecting?” They answered in the affirmative. “That’s good,” observed K. after a short pause. “I’m glad you’ve come.” “Well,” he said, after another pause, “you’ve come very late, you’re very slack.” “It was a long way to come,” said one of them. “A long way?” repeated K., “but I met you just now coming from the Castle.” “Yes,” said they, without further explanation. “Where is the apparatus?” asked K. “We haven’t any,” said they. “The apparatus I gave you?” said K. “We haven’t any,” they reiterated. “Oh, you are fine fellows!” said K., “do you know anything about surveying?” “No,” said they. “But if you are my old assistants you must know something about it,” said K. They made no reply. “Well, come in,” said K. pushing them before him into the house.

They sat down then all three together over their beer at a small table, saying little, K. in the middle with an assistant on each side. As on the other evening, there was only one other table occupied by a few peasants. “You’re a difficult problem,” said K., comparing them, as he had already done several times, “how am I to know one of you from the other? The only difference between you is your names, otherwise you’re as like as.⁠ ⁠…” He stopped, and then went on involuntarily, “you’re as like as two snakes.” They smiled. “People usually manage to distinguish us quite well,” they said in self-justification. “I am sure they do,” said K., “I was a witness of that myself, but I can only see with my own eyes, and with them I can’t distinguish you. So I shall treat you as if you were one man and call you both Arthur, that’s one of your names, yours, isn’t it?” he asked one of them. “No,” said the man, “I’m Jeremiah.” “It doesn’t matter,” said K. “I’ll call you both Arthur. If I tell Arthur to go anywhere you must both go, if I give Arthur something to do you must both do it, that has the great disadvantage for me of preventing me from employing you on separate jobs, but the advantage that you will both be equally responsible for anything I tell you to do. How you divide the work between you doesn’t matter to me, only you’re not to excuse yourselves by blaming each other, for me you’re only one man.” They considered this, and said: “We shouldn’t like that at all.” “I don’t suppose so,” said K.; “of course you won’t like it, but that’s how it has to be.” For some little time one of the peasants had been sneaking round the table and K. had noticed him; now the fellow took courage and went up to one of the assistants to whisper something. “Excuse me,” said K., bringing his hand down on the table and rising to his feet, “these are my assistants and we’re discussing private business. Nobody is entitled to disturb us.” “Sorry, sir, sorry,” muttered the peasant anxiously, retreating backwards towards his friends. “And this is my most important charge to you,” said K., sitting down again. “You’re not to speak to anyone without my permission. I am a stranger here, and if you are my old assistants you are strangers too. We three strangers must stand by each other therefore, give me your hands on that.” All too eagerly they stretched out their hands to K. “Never mind the trimming,” said he, “but remember that my command holds good. I shall go to bed now, and I recommend you to do the same. Today we have missed a day’s work, and tomorrow we must begin very early. You must get hold of a sleigh for taking me to the Castle and have it ready outside the house at six o’clock.” “Very well,” said one. But the other interrupted him. “You say ‘very well,’ and yet you know it can’t be done.” “Silence,” said K. “You’re trying already to dissociate yourselves from each other.” But then the first man broke in: “He’s right, it can’t be done, no stranger can get into the Castle without a permit.” “Where does one apply for a permit?” “I don’t know, perhaps to the Castellan.” “Then we’ll apply by telephone, go and telephone to the Castellan at once, both of you.” They rushed to the instrument, asked for the connection⁠—how eager they were about it! in externals they were absurdly docile⁠—and enquired if K. could come with them next morning into the Castle. The “No” of the answer was audible even to K. at his table. But the answer went on and was still more explicit, it ran as follows: “Neither tomorrow nor at any other time.” “I shall telephone myself,” said K., and got up. While K. and his assistants hitherto had passed nearly unremarked except for the incident with the one peasant, his last statement aroused general attention. They all got up when K. did, and although the landlord tried to drive them away, crowded round him in a close semicircle at the telephone. The general opinion among them was that K. would get no answer at all. K. had to beg them to be quiet, saying he did not want to hear their opinion.

The receiver gave out a buzz of a kind that K. had never before heard on a telephone. It was like the hum of countless children’s voices⁠—but yet not a hum, the echo rather of voices singing at an infinite distance⁠—blended by sheer impossibility into one high but resonant sound which vibrated on the ear as if it were trying to penetrate beyond mere hearing. K. listened without attempting to telephone, leaning his left arm on the telephone shelf.

He did not know how long he had stood there, but he stood until the landlord pulled at his coat saying that a messenger had come to speak with him. “Go away!” yelled K. in an access of rage, perhaps into the mouthpiece, for someone immediately answered from the other end. The following conversation ensued: “Oswald speaking, who’s there?” cried a severe, arrogant voice with a small defect in its speech, as seemed to K., which its owner tried to cover by an exaggerated severity. K. hesitated to announce himself, for he was at the mercy of the telephone, the other could shout him down or hang up the receiver, and that might mean the blocking of a not unimportant way of access. K.’s hesitation made the man impatient. “Who’s there?” he repeated, adding, “I should be obliged if there was less telephoning from down there, only a minute ago somebody rang up.” K. ignored this remark, and announced with sudden decision: “The Land Surveyor’s assistant speaking.” “What Land Surveyor? What assistant?” K. recollected yesterday’s telephone conversation, and said briefly, “Ask Fritz.” This succeeded, to his own astonishment. But even more than at his success he was astonished at the organisation of the Castle service. The answer came: “Oh, yes. That everlasting Land Surveyor. Quite so. What about it? What assistant?” “Joseph,” said K. He was a little put out by the murmuring of the peasants behind his back, obviously they disapproved of his ruse. He had no time to bother about them, however, for the conversation absorbed all his attention. “Joseph?” came the question. “But the assistants are called⁠ ⁠…” there was a short pause, evidently to enquire the names from somebody else, “Arthur and Jeremiah.” “These are the new assistants,” said K. “No, they are the old ones.” “They are the new ones, I am the old assistant; I came today after the Land Surveyor.” “No,” was shouted back. “Then who am I?” asked K. as blandly as before.

And after a pause the same voice with the same defect answered him, yet with a deeper and more authoritative tone: “You are the old assistant.”

K. was listening to the new note, and almost missed the question: “What is it you want?” He felt like laying down the receiver. He had ceased to expect anything from this conversation. But being pressed, he replied quickly: “When can my master come to the Castle?” “Never,” was the answer. “Very well,” said K., and hung the receiver up.

Behind him the peasants had crowded quite close. His assistants, with many side glances in his direction, were trying to keep them back. But they seemed not to take the matter very seriously, and in any case the peasants, satisfied with the result of the conversation, were beginning to give ground. A man came cleaving his way with rapid steps through the group, bowed before K. and handed him a letter. K. took it, but looked at the man, who for the moment seemed to him the more important. There was a great resemblance between this newcomer and the assistants, he was slim like them and clad in the same tight-fitting garments, had the same suppleness and agility, and yet he was quite different. How much K. would have preferred him as an assistant! He reminded K. a little of the girl with the infant whom he had seen at the tanner’s. He was clothed nearly all in white, not in silk, of course; he was in winter clothes like all the others, but the material he was wearing had the softness and dignity of silk. His face was clear and frank, his eyes larger than ordinary. His smile was unusually joyous; he drew his hand over his face as if to conceal the smile, but in vain. “Who are you?” asked K. “My name is Barnabas,” said he, “I am a messenger.” His lips were strong and yet gentle as he spoke. “Do you approve of this kind of thing?” asked K., pointing to the peasants for whom he was still an object of curiosity, and who stood gaping at him with their open mouths, coarse lips, and literally tortured faces⁠—their heads looked as if they had been beaten flat on top and their features as if the pain of the beating had twisted them to the present shape⁠—and yet they were not exactly gaping at him, for their eyes often flitted away and studied some indifferent object in the room before fixing on him again, and then K. pointed also to his assistants who stood linked together, cheek against cheek, and smiling, but whether submissively or mockingly could not be determined, all these he pointed out as if presenting a train of followers forced upon him by circumstances, and as if he expected Barnabas⁠—that indicated intimacy, it occurred to K.⁠—always to discriminate between him and them. But Barnabas⁠—quite innocently, it was clear⁠—ignored the question, letting it pass as a well-bred servant ignores some remark of his master only apparently addressed to him, and merely surveyed the room in obedience to the question, greeting by a pressure of the hand various acquaintances among the peasants and exchanging a few words with the assistants, all with a free independence which set him apart from the others. Rebuffed but not mortified, K. returned to the letter in his hand and opened it. Its contents were as follows:

“My dear Sir, As you know, you have been engaged for the Count’s service. Your immediate superior is the Superintendent of the village, who will give you all particulars about your work and the terms of your employment, and to whom you are responsible. I myself, however, will try not to lose sight of you. Barnabas, the bearer of this letter, will report himself to you from time to time to learn your wishes and communicate them to me. You will find me always ready to oblige you, in so far as that is possible. I desire my workers to be contented.”

The signature was illegible, but stamped beside it was “Chief of Department X.” “Wait a little!” said K. to Barnabas, who bowed before him, then he commanded the landlord to show him to his room, for he wanted to be alone with the letter for a while. At the same time he reflected that Barnabas, although so attractive, was still only a messenger, and ordered a mug of beer for him. He looked to see how Barnabas would take it, but Barnabas was obviously quite pleased and began to drink the beer at once. Then K. went off with the landlord. The house was so small that nothing was available for K. but a little attic room, and even that had caused some difficulty, for two maids who had hitherto slept in it had had to be quartered elsewhere. Nothing indeed had been done but to clear the maids out, the room was otherwise quite unprepared, no sheets on the single bed, only some pillows and a horseblanket still in the same rumpled state as in the morning. A few sacred pictures and photographs of soldiers were on the walls, the room had not even been aired; obviously they hoped that the new guest would not stay long, and were doing nothing to encourage him. K. felt no resentment, however, wrapped himself in the blanket, sat down at the table, and began to read the letter again by the light of a candle.

It was not a consistent letter; in part it dealt with him as with a free man whose independence was recognised, the mode of address, for example, and the reference to his wishes. But there were other places in which he was directly or indirectly treated as a minor employee, hardly visible to the Heads of Departments; the writer would try to make an effort “not to lose sight” of him, his superior was only the village superintendent to whom he was actually responsible, probably his sole colleague would be the village policeman. These were inconsistencies, no doubt about it. They were so obvious that they had to be faced. It hardly occurred to K. that they might be due to indecision; that seemed a mad idea in connection with such an organisation. He was much more inclined to read into them a frankly offered choice, which left it to him to make what he liked out of the letter, whether he preferred to become a village worker with a distinctive but merely apparent connection with the Castle, or an ostensible village worker whose real occupation was determined through the medium of Barnabas. K. did not hesitate in his choice, and would not have hesitated even had he lacked the experience which had befallen him since his arrival. Only as a worker in the village, removed as far as possible from the sphere of the Castle, could he hope to achieve anything in the Castle itself; the village folk, who were now so suspicious of him, would begin to talk to him once he was their fellow-citizen, if not exactly their friend; and if he were to become indistinguishable from Gerstäcker or Lasemann⁠—and that must happen as soon as possible, everything depended on that⁠—then all kinds of paths would be thrown open to him, which would remain not only forever closed to him but quite invisible were he to depend merely on the favour of the gentlemen in the Castle. There was of course a danger, and that was sufficiently emphasised in the letter, even elaborated with a certain satisfaction, as if it were unavoidable. That was sinking to the workman’s level⁠—service, superior, work, terms of employment, responsible, workers⁠—the letter fairly reeked of it, and even though more personal messages were included they were written from the standpoint of an employer. If K. were willing to become a workman he could do so, but he would have to do it in grim earnest, without any other prospect. K. knew that he had no real compulsory discipline to fear, he was not afraid of that, and in this case least of all, but the pressure of a discouraging environment, of a growing resignation to disappointment, the pressure of the imperceptible influences of every moment, these things he did fear, but that was a danger he would have to guard against. Nor did the letter pass over the fact that if it should come to a struggle K. had had the hardihood to make the first advances; it was very subtly indicated and only to be sensed by an uneasy conscience⁠—an uneasy conscience, not a bad one⁠—it lay in the three words “as you know,” referring to his engagement in the Count’s service. K. had reported his arrival, and only after that, as the letter pointed out, had he known that he was engaged.

K. took down a picture from the wall and stuck the letter on the nail, this was the room he was to live in and the letter should hang there.

Then he went down to the inn parlour. Barnabas was sitting at a table with the assistants. “Oh, there you are,” said K. without any reason, only because he was glad to see Barnabas, who jumped to his feet at once. Hardly had K. shown his face when the peasants got up and gathered round him, it had become a habit of theirs to follow him round. “What are you always following me about for?” cried K. They were not offended, and slowly drifted back to their seats again. One of them in passing said casually in apology, with an enigmatic smile which was reflected on several of the other’s faces: “There’s always something new to listen to,” and he licked his lips as if news were meat and drink to him. K. said nothing conciliatory, it was good for them to have a little respect for him, but hardly had he reached Barnabas when he felt a peasant breathing down the back of his neck. He had only come, he said, for the saltcellar, but K. stamped his foot with rage and the peasant scuttled away without the saltcellar. It was really easy to get at K., all one had to do was to egg on the peasants against him, their persistent interference seemed much more objectionable to him than the reserve of the others, nor were they free from reserve either, for if he had sat down at their table they would not have stayed. Only the presence of Barnabas restrained him from making a scene. But he turned round to scowl at them, and found that they too were all looking at him. When he saw them sitting like that, however, each man in his own place, not speaking to one another and without any apparent mutual understanding, united only by the fact that they were all gazing at him, he concluded that it was not out of malice that they pursued him, perhaps they really wanted something from him and were only incapable of expressing it, if not that, it might be pure childishness, which seemed to be in fashion at the inn; was not the landlord himself childish, standing there stock-still gazing at K. with a glass of beer in his hand which he should have been carrying to a customer, and oblivious of his wife, who was leaning out of the kitchen hatch calling to him?

With a quieter mind K. turned to Barnabas; he would have liked to dismiss his assistants, but could not think of an excuse. Besides, they were brooding peacefully over their beer. “The letter,” began K., “I have read it. Do you know the contents?” “No,” said Barnabas, whose look seemed to imply more than his words. Perhaps K. was as mistaken in Barnabas’s goodness as in the malice of the peasants, but his presence remained a comfort. “You are mentioned in the letter, too, you are supposed to carry messages now and then from me to the Chief, that’s why I thought you might know the contents.” “I was only told,” said Barnabas, “to give you the letter, to wait until you had read it, and then to bring back a verbal or written answer if you thought it needful.” “Very well,” said K., “there’s no need to write anything; convey to the Chief⁠—by the way, what’s his name? I couldn’t read his signature.” “Klamm,” said Barnabas. “Well, convey to Herr Klamm my thanks for his recognition and for his great kindness, which I appreciate, being as I am one who has not yet proved his worth here. I shall follow his instructions faithfully. I have no particular requests to make for today.” Barnabas, who had listened with close attention, asked to be allowed to recapitulate the message. K. assented, Barnabas repeated it word for word. Then he rose to take his leave.

K. had been studying his face the whole time, and now he gave it a last survey. Barnabas was about the same height as K., but his eyes seemed to look down on K., yet that was almost in a kind of humility, it was impossible to think that this man could put anyone to shame. Of course he was only a messenger, and did not know the contents of the letters he carried, but the expression in his eyes, his smile, his bearing, seemed also to convey a message, however little he might know about it. And K. shook him by the hand, which seemed obviously to surprise him, for he had been going to content himself with a bow.

As soon as he had gone⁠—before opening the door he had leaned his shoulder against it for a moment and embraced the room generally in a final glance⁠—K. said to the assistants: “I’ll bring down the plans from my room, and then we’ll discuss what work is to be done first.” They wanted to accompany him. “Stay here,” said K. Still they tried to accompany him. K. had to repeat his command more authoritatively. Barnabas was no longer in the hall. But he had only just gone out. Yet in front of the house⁠—fresh snow was falling⁠—K. could not see him either. He called out: “Barnabas!” No answer. Could he still be in the house? Nothing else seemed possible. None the less K. yelled the name with the full force of his lungs. It thundered through the night. And from the distance came a faint response, so far away was Barnabas already. K. called him back, and at the same time went to meet him; the spot where they encountered each other was no longer visible from the inn.

“Barnabas,” said K., and could not keep his voice from trembling. “I have something else to say to you. And that reminds me that it’s a bad arrangement to leave me dependent on your chance comings for sending a message to the Castle. If I hadn’t happened to catch you just now⁠—how you fly along, I thought you were still in the house⁠—who knows how long I might have had to wait for your next appearance.” “You can ask the Chief,” said Barnabas, “to send me at definite times appointed by yourself.” “Even that would not suffice,” said K., “I might have nothing to say for a year at a time, but something of urgent importance might occur to me a quarter of an hour after you had gone.”

“Well,” said Barnabas, “shall I report to the Chief that between him and you some other means of communication should be established instead of me?” “No, no,” said K., “not at all, I only mention the matter in passing, for this time I have been lucky enough to catch you.” “Shall we go back to the inn,” said Barnabas, “so that you can give me the new message there?” He had already taken a step in the direction of the inn. “Barnabas,” said K., “it isn’t necessary, I’ll go a part of the way with you.” “Why don’t you want to go to the inn?” asked Barnabas. “The people there annoy me,” said K., “you saw for yourself how persistent the peasants are.” “We could go into your room,” said Barnabas. “It’s the maids’ room,” said K., “dirty and stuffy⁠—it’s to avoid staying there that I want to accompany you for a little, only,” he added, in order finally to overcome Barnabas’ reluctance, “you must let me take your arm, for you are surer of foot than I am.” And K. took his arm. It was quite dark, K. could not see Barnabas’ face, his figure was only vaguely discernible, he had had to grope for his arm a minute or two.

Barnabas yielded and they moved away from the inn. K. realised, indeed, that his utmost efforts could not enable him to keep pace with Barnabas, that he was a drag on him, and that even in ordinary circumstances this trivial accident might be enough to ruin everything, not to speak of side-streets like the one in which he had got stuck that morning, out of which he could never struggle unless Barnabas were to carry him. But he banished all such anxieties, and was comforted by Barnabas’ silence; for if they went on in silence then Barnabas, too, must feel that their excursion together was the sole reason for their association.

They went on, but K. did not know whither, he could discern nothing, not even whether they had already passed the church or not. The effort which it cost him merely to keep going made him lose control of his thoughts. Instead of remaining fixed on their goal they strayed. Memories of his home kept recurring and filled his mind. There, too, a church stood in the marketplace, partly surrounded by an old graveyard which was again surrounded by a high wall. Very few boys had managed to climb that wall, and for some time K., too, had failed. It was not curiosity which had urged them on. The graveyard had been no mystery to them. They had often entered it through a small wicket-gate, it was only the smooth high wall that they had wanted to conquer. But one morning⁠—the empty, quiet marketplace had been flooded with sunshine, when had K. ever seen it like that either before or since?⁠—he had succeeded in climbing it with astonishing ease; at a place where he had already slipped down many a time he had clambered with a small flag between his teeth right to the top at the first attempt. Stones were still rattling down under his feet, but he was at the top. He stuck the flag in, it flew in the wind, he looked down and round about him, over his shoulder, too, at the crosses mouldering in the ground, nobody was greater than he at that place and that moment. By chance the teacher had come past and with a stern face had made K. descend. In jumping down he had hurt his knee and had found some difficulty in getting home, but still he had been on the top of the wall. The sense of that triumph had seemed to him then a victory for life, which was not altogether foolish, for now so many years later on the arm of Barnabas in the snowy night the memory of it came to succour him.

He took a firmer hold, Barnabas was almost dragging him along, the silence was unbroken. Of the road they were following all that K. knew was that to judge from its surface they had not yet turned aside into a by-street. He vowed to himself that however difficult the way and however doubtful even the prospect of his being able to get back, he would not cease from going on. He would surely have strength enough to let himself be dragged. And the road must come to an end some time. By day the Castle had looked within easy reach, and, of course, the messenger would take the shortest cut.

At that moment Barnabas stopped. Where were they? Was this the end? Would Barnabas try to leave him? He wouldn’t succeed. K. clutched his arm so firmly that it almost made his hand ache. Or had the incredible happened, and were they already in the Castle or at its gates? But they had not done any climbing so far as K. could tell. Or had Barnabas taken him up by an imperceptibly mounting road? “Where are we?” said K. in a low voice, more to himself than to Barnabas. “At home,” said Barnabas in the same tone. “At home?” “Be careful now, sir, or you’ll slip. We go down here.” “Down?” “Only a step or two,” added Barnabas, and was already knocking at a door.

A girl opened it, and they were on the threshold of a large room almost in darkness, for there was no light save for a tiny oil lamp hanging over a table in the background. “Who is with you, Barnabas?” asked the girl. “The Land Surveyor,” said he. “The Land Surveyor,” repeated the girl in a louder voice, turning towards the table. Two old people there rose to their feet, a man and a woman, as well as another girl. They greeted K. Barnabas introduced the whole family, his parents and his sisters Olga and Amalia. K. scarcely glanced at them and let them take his wet coat off to dry at the stove.

So it was only Barnabas who was at home, not he himself. But why had they come here? K. drew Barnabas aside and asked: “Why have you come here? Or do you live in the Castle precincts?” “The Castle precincts?” repeated Barnabas, as if he did not understand. “Barnabas,” said K., “you left the inn to go to the Castle.” “No,” said Barnabas, “I left it to come home, I don’t go to the Castle till the early morning, I never sleep there.” “Oh,” said K., “so you weren’t going to the Castle, but only here”⁠—the man’s smile seemed less brilliant, and his person more insignificant⁠—“Why didn’t you say so?” “You didn’t ask me, sir,” said Barnabas, “you only said you had a message to give me, but you wouldn’t give it in the inn parlour, or in your room, so I thought you could speak to me quietly here in my parents’ house. The others will all leave us if you wish⁠—and, if you prefer, you could spend the night here. Haven’t I done the right thing?” K. could not reply. It had been simply a misunderstanding, a common, vulgar misunderstanding, and K. had been completely taken in by it. He had been bewitched by Barnabas’ close-fitting, silken-gleaming jacket, which, now that it was unbuttoned, displayed a coarse dirty grey shirt patched all over, and beneath that the huge muscular chest of a labourer. His surroundings not only corroborated all this but even emphasised it, the old gouty father who progressed more by the help of his groping hands than by the slow movements of his stiff legs, and the mother with her hands folded on her bosom, who was equally incapable of any but the smallest steps by reason of her stoutness. Both of them, father and mother, had been advancing from their corner towards K. ever since he had come in, and were still a long way off. The yellow-haired sisters, very like each other and very like Barnabas, but with harder features than their brother, great strapping wenches, hovered round their parents and waited for some word of greeting from K. But he could not utter it. He had been persuaded that in this village everybody meant something to him, and indeed he was not mistaken, it was only for these people here that he could feel not the slightest interest. If he had been fit to struggle back to the inn alone he would have left at once. The possibility of accompanying Barnabas to the Castle early in the morning did not attract him. He had hoped to penetrate into the Castle unremarked in the night on the arm of Barnabas, but on the arm of the Barnabas he had imagined, a man who was more to him than anyone else, the Barnabas he had conceived to be far above his apparent rank and in the intimate confidence of the Castle. With the son of such a family, however, a son who integrally belonged to it, and who was already sitting at table with the others, a man who was not even allowed to sleep in the Castle, he could not possibly go to the Castle in the broad light of day, it would be a ridiculous and hopeless undertaking.

K. sat down on a window-seat where he determined to pass the night without accepting any other favour. The other people in the village, who turned him away or were afraid of him, seemed much less dangerous, for all that they did was to throw him back on his own resources, helping him to concentrate his powers, but such ostensible helpers as these who on the strength of a petty masquerade brought him into their homes instead of into the Castle, deflected him, whether intentionally or not, from his goal and only helped to destroy him. An invitation to join the family at table he ignored completely, stubbornly sitting with bent head on his bench.

Then Olga, the gentler of the sisters, got up, not without a trace of maidenly embarrassment, came over to K. and asked him to join the family meal of bread and bacon, saying that she was going to fetch some beer. “Where from?” asked K. “From the inn,” she said. That was welcome news to K. He begged her instead of fetching beer to accompany him back to the inn, where he had important work waiting to be done. But the fact now emerged that she was not going so far as his inn, she was going to one much nearer, called the Herrenhof. None the less K. begged to be allowed to accompany her, thinking that there perhaps he might find a lodging for the night; however wretched it might be he would prefer it to the best bed these people could offer him. Olga did not reply at once, but glanced towards the table. Her brother stood up, nodded obligingly, and said: “If the gentleman wishes.” This assent was almost enough to make K. withdraw his request, nothing could be of much value if Barnabas assented to it. But since they were already wondering whether K. would be admitted into that inn and doubting its possibility, he insisted emphatically upon going, without taking the trouble to give a colourable excuse for his eagerness; this family would have to accept him as he was, he had no feeling of shame where they were concerned. Yet he was somewhat disturbed by Amalia’s direct and serious gaze, which was unflinching and perhaps a little stupid.

On their short walk to the inn⁠—K. had taken Olga’s arm and was leaning his whole weight on her as earlier on Barnabas, he could not get along otherwise⁠—he learned that it was an inn exclusively reserved for gentlemen from the Castle, who took their meals there and sometimes slept there whenever they had business in the village. Olga spoke to K. in a low and confidential tone, to walk with her was pleasant, almost as pleasant as walking with her brother. K. struggled against the feeling of comfort she gave him, but it persisted.

From outside, the new inn looked very like the inn where K. was staying. All the houses in the village resembled one another more or less, but still a few small differences were immediately apparent here; the front steps had a balustrade, and a fine lantern was fixed over the doorway. Something fluttered over their heads as they entered, it was a flag with the Count’s colours. In the hall they were at once met by the landlord, who was obviously on a tour of inspection; he glanced at K. in passing with small eyes that were either screwed up critically or half-asleep, and said: “The Land Surveyor mustn’t go anywhere but into the bar.” “Certainly,” said Olga, who took K.’s part at once, “he’s only escorting me.” But K. ungratefully let go her arm and drew the landlord aside. Olga meanwhile waited patiently at the end of the hall. “I should like to spend the night here,” said K. “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said the landlord. “You don’t seem to be aware that this house is reserved exclusively for gentlemen from the Castle.” “Well, that may be the rule,” said K., “but it’s surely possible to let me sleep in a corner somewhere:” “I should be only too glad to oblige you,” said the landlord, “but besides the strictness with which the rule is enforced⁠—and you speak about it as only a stranger could⁠—it’s quite out of the question for another reason; the Castle gentlemen are so sensitive that I’m convinced they couldn’t bear the sight of a stranger, at least unless they were prepared for it; and if I were to let you sleep here, and by some chance or other⁠—and chances are always on the side of the gentlemen⁠—you were discovered, not only would it mean my ruin but yours too. That sounds ridiculous, but it’s true.” This tall and closely-buttoned man who stood with his legs crossed, one hand braced against the wall and the other on his hip, bending down a little towards K. and speaking confidentially to him, seemed to have hardly anything in common with the village, even although his dark clothes looked like a peasant’s finery. “I believe you absolutely,” said K., “and I didn’t mean to belittle the rule, although I expressed myself badly. Only there’s something I’d like to point out, I have some influence in the Castle, and shall have still more, and that secures you against any danger arising out of my stay here overnight, and is a guarantee that I am able fully to recompense any small favour you may do me.” “Oh, I know,” said the landlord, and repeated again, “I know all that.” Now was the time for K. to state his wishes more clearly, but this reply of the landlord’s disconcerted him, and so he merely asked, “Are there many of the Castle gentlemen staying in the house tonight?” “As far as that goes, tonight is favourable,” returned the landlord, as if in encouragement, “there’s only one gentleman.” Still K. felt incapable of urging the matter, but being in hopes that he was as good as accepted, he contented himself by asking the name of the gentleman. “Klamm,” said the landlord casually, turning meanwhile to his wife who came rustling towards them in a remarkably shabby, old-fashioned gown overloaded with pleats and frills, but of a fine city cut. She came to summon the landlord, for the Chief wanted something or other. Before the landlord complied, however, he turned once more to K., as if it lay with K. to make the decision about staying all night. But K. could not utter a word, overwhelmed as he was by the discovery that it was his patron who was in the house. Without being able to explain it completely to himself he did not feel the same freedom of action in relation to Klamm as he did to the rest of the Castle, and the idea of being caught in the inn by Klamm, although it did not terrify him as it did the landlord, gave him a twinge of uneasiness, much as if he were thoughtlessly to hurt the feelings of someone to whom he was bound by gratitude; at the same time, however, it vexed him to recognise already in these qualms the obvious effects of that degradation to an inferior status which he had feared, and to realise that although they were so obvious he was not even in a position to counteract them. So he stood there biting his lips and said nothing. Once more the landlord looked back at him before disappearing through a doorway, and K. returned the look without moving from the spot, until Olga came up and drew him away. “What did you want with the landlord?” she asked. “I wanted a bed for the night,” said K. “But you’re staying with us!” said Olga in surprise. “Of course,” said K., leaving her to make what she liked of it.