The Castle (33 page)

But barren of results as all this time was in other ways, it had a good effect on Barnabas, if one can call it a good thing that he grew prematurely old, became a man before his time, yes, even in some ways more grave and sensible than most men. Often it makes me sad to look at him and compare him with the boy that he was only two years ago.

And with it all I'm quite without the comfort and support that, being a man, he could surely give me. Without me he could hardly have got into the Castle, but since he is there, he's independent of me. I'm his only intimate friend, but I'm certain that he only tells me a small part of what he has on his mind. He tells me a great many things about the Castle, but from his stories, from the trifling details that he gives, one can't understand in the least how those things could have changed him so much. In particular I can't understand how the daring he had as a boy - it actually caused us anxiety - how he can have lost it so completely up there now that he's a man. Of course all that useless standing about and waiting all day, and day after day, and going on and on without any prospect of a change, must break a man down and make him unsure of himself and in the end actually incapable of anything - else but this hopeless standing about.

But why didn't he put up a fight even at the beginning?

Especially seeing that he soon recognized that I had been right and that there was no opportunity there for his ambition, though there might be some hope perhaps for the betterment of our family's condition. For up there, in spite of the servants' whims, everything goes on very soberly, ambition seeks its sole satisfaction in work, and as in this way the work itself gains the ascendancy, ambition ceases to have any place at all, for childish desires there's no room up there. Nevertheless Barnabas fancied, so he has told me, that he could clearly see how great the power and knowledge even of those very mentionable officials were into whose bureau he is allowed. How fast they dictated, with half-shut eyes and brief gestures, merely by raising a finger quelling the surly servants, and making thern smile with happiness even when they were checked. Or perhaps rinding an important passage in one of the books and becoming quite absorbed in it, while the others would crowd round as near as the cramped space would allow them, and crane their necks to see it. These things and other things of the same kind gave Barnabas a great idea of those men, and he had the feeling that if he could get the length of being noticed by them and could venture to address a few words to them, not as a stranger, but as a colleague - true a very subordinate colleague - in the bureau, incalculable things might be achieved for our family.

But things have never got that length yet, and Barnabas can't venture to do anything that might help towards it, although he's well aware that, young as he is, he's been raised to the difficult and responsible position of chief breadwinner in our family on account of this wholt unfortunate affair.

And now for the final confession. It was a week after your arrival. I heard somebody mentioning it in the Herrenhof, but didn't pay much attention. A Land Surveyor had come and I didn't even know what a Land Surveyor was. But next evening Barnabas - at an agreed hour I usually set out to go a part of the way to meet him - came home earlier than usual, saw Amalia in the sittingroom, drew me out into the street, laid his head on my shoulder, and cried for several minutes. He was again the little boy he used to be.

Something had happened to him that he hadn't been prepared for. It was as if a whole new world had suddenly opened to him, and he could not bear the joy and the anxieties of all this newness. And yet the only thing that had happened was that he had been given a letter for delivery to you. But it was actually the first letter, the first commission, that he had ever been given."

Olga stopped.

Everything was still except for the heavy, occasionally disturbed breathing of the old people.

K. merely said casually, as if to round off Olga's story: "You've all been playing with me. Barnabas brought me the letter with the air of an old much occupied messenger, and you as well as Amalia - who at that time must have been in with you - behaved as if carry

- messages and the letter itself were matters of indifference."

"You must distinguish between us," said Olga. "Barnabas had in made a happy boy again by the letter, in spite of all the doubts that he had about his capability. He confined those doubts to himself and me, but he felt it a point of honour to look like a real messenger, as according to his ideas real messengers looked. So although his hopes were now rising to an official uniform I had to alter his trousers, and in two hours, so that they would have some resemblance at least to the close-fitting trews of the official uniform, and he might appear in them before you, knowing, of course, that on this point you could be easily taken in.

So much for Barnabas.

But Amalia really despises his work as a messenger, and now that he seemed to have had a little success - as she could easily guess from Barnabas and myself and our talking and whispering together - she despised it more than ever. So she was speaking the truth, don't deceive yourself about that. But if I, K., have seemed to slight Barnabas's work, it hasn't been with any intention to deceive you, but from anxiety. These two letters that have gone through Barnabas's hands are the first signs of grace, questionable as they are, that our family has received for three years. This change, if it is a change and not deception - deceptions are more frequent than changes - is connected with your arrival here, our fate has become in a certain sense dependent on you, perhaps these two letters are only a beginning, and Barnabas's abilities will be used for other things than these two letters concerning you - we must hope that as long as we can - for the time being, however, everything centres on you.

Now up in the Castle we must rest content with whatever our lot happens to be, but down here we can, it may be, do something ourselves, that is, make sure of your goodwill, or at least save ourselves from your dislike, or, what's more important, protect you as far as our strength and experience go, so that your connexion with the Castle - by which we might perhaps be helped too - might not be lost.

Now what was our best way of bringing that about?

To prevent you from having any suspicion of us when we appealed - I preached you - for you're a stranger here and because of the certain to be full of suspicion, full of justifiable suspicion. And besides, we're despised by everybody and you must be influence by the general opinion, particularly through your fiancee how could we put ourselves forward without quite unintentionally setting ourselves up against your fiancee, and so offering you?

And the messages, which I had read before you got them - Barnabas didn't read them, as a messenger he couldn't allow himself to do that - seemed at the first glance obsolete and not of much importance, yet took on the utmost importance in as much as they referred you to the Superintendent. Now in these circumstances how were we to conduct ourselves towards you? If we emphasized the letters' importance, we laid ourselves under suspicion by overestimating what was obviously unimportant, and in pluming ourselves as the vehicle of these messages we should be suspected of seeking our own ends, not yours.

More, in doing that we might depreciate the value of the letter itself in your eyes and so disappoint you sore against our will. But if we didn't lay much stress on the letters we should lay ourselves equally under suspicion, for why in that case should we have taken the trouble of delivering such an unimportant letter, why should our actions and our words be in such clear contradiction, why should we in this way disappoint not only you, the addressee, but also the sender of the letter, who certainly hadn't handed the letter to us so that we should belittle it to the addressee by our explanations? And to hold the mean, without exaggeration on either side, in other words to estimate the just value of those letters, is impossible, they themselves change in value perpetually, the reflections they give rise to are endless, and chance determines where one stops reflecting, and so even our estimate of them is a matter of chance.

And when on the top of that there came anxiety about you, everything became confused, and you mustn't judge whatever I said too severely. When, for example - as once happened

- Barnabas arrived with the news that you were dissatisfied with his work, and in his first distress - his professional vanity was wounded too I must admit - resolved to retire from the service altogether, then to make good the mistake I was certainly ready to deceive, to lie, to do anything, no matter how if it would only . But even then I would have been doing it, at least in my opinion, as much for your sake as for ours."

There was a knock.

Olga ran to the door and unfastened it.

A strip of light from a dark lantern fell across the threshold. The late visitor put questions in a whisper and was answered in the same way, but was not satisfied and tried to force his way to the room. Olga found herself unable to hold him back any longer and called to Amalia, obviously hoping that to keep the old people from being disturbed in their sleep Amalia would do anything to eject the visitor. And indeed she hurried over at once, pushed Olga aside, and stepped into the street and closed the door behind her. She only remained there for a moment, almost at once she came back again, so quickly had she achieved what had proved impossible for Olga. K. then learned from Olga that the visit was intended for him. It had been one of the assistants, who was looking for him at Frieda's command. Olga had wanted to shield K. from the assistant. If K. should confess his visit here to Frieda later, he could, but it must not be discovered through the assistant.

K. agreed.

But Olga's invitation to spend the night there and wait for Barnabas he declined, for himself he might perhaps have accepted for it was already late in the night and it seemed to him that now, whether he wanted it or not, he was bound to this family in such a way that a bed for the night here, though for many reasons painful, nevertheless, when one considered this common bond, was the most suitable for him in the village.

All the same he declined it, the assistant's visit had alarmed him, it was incomprehensible to him how Frieda, who knew his wishes quite well, and the assistants, who had learned to fear him, had come together again like this, so that Frieda didn't scruple to send an assistant for him, only one of them, too, while the other had probably remained to keep her company. He asked Olga whether she had a whip, she hadn't one, but she had a good hazel switch, and he took it. Then he asked whether were was any other way out of the house, there was one through the yard, only one had to clamber over the wall of the neighbouring garden and walk through it before one reached the street.

K. decided to do this.

While Olga was conducting through the yard, K. tried hastily to reassure her fears, told her that he wasn't in the least angry at the small artifices she had told him about, but understood them very well, thanked her for the confidence she had shown in him in telling him her story and asked her to send Barnabas to the school as soon as he arrived, even if it were during the night. It was true, the messages which Barnabas brought were not his only hope, otherwise things would be bad indeed with him, but he didn't by any means leave them out of account, he would hold to them and not forget Olga either, for still more important to him than the messages themselves was Olga, her bravery, her prudence, if he had to choose between Olga and Amalia it wouldn't cost him much reflection. And he pressed her hand cordially once more as he swung himself on to the wall of the neighbouring garden.

When he reached the street he saw indistinctly in the darkness that a little farther along the assistant was still walking up and down before Barnabas's house. Sometimes he stopped and tried to peep into the room through the drawn blinds. K. called to him.

Without appearing visibly startled he gave up his spying on the house and came towards K.

"Who are you looking for?" asked K., testing the suppleness of the hazel switch on his leg.

"You," replied the assistant as he came nearer.

"But who are you?" asked K. suddenly, for this did not appear to be the assistant.

He seemed older, wearier, more wrinkled, but fuller in the face, his walk too was quite different from the brisk walk of the assistants, which gave an impression as if their joints were charged with electricity. It was slow, a little halting, elegantly valetudinarian.

"You don't recognize me?" asked the man, "Jeremiah, your old assistant."

"I see," said K. tentatively producing the hazel switch again, which he had concealed behind his back. "But you look quite different."

"It's because I'm by myself," said Jeremiah. "When I'm by myself then all my youthful spirits are gone."

"But where is Arthur?" asked K.

"Arthur?" said Jeremiah. "The little dear? He has left the service. You were rather hard and rough on us, you know, and the gentle soul couldn't stand it. He's gone back to the Castle to put oa a complaint."

"And you?" asked K.

"Ìm able to stay here," said Jeremiah, "Arthur is putting in a complaint for me too."

"What have you to complain about, then?" asked K.

"That you can't understand a joke. What have we done? Jested a little, laughed a little, teased your fiancee a little. And all according to our instructions, too. When Galater sent us to you -"

"Galater?" asked K.

"Yes, Galater," replied Jeremiah, "he was deputizing for Klamm himself at the time.

When he sent us to you he said: "I took a good note of it, for that's our business.

You're to go down there as assistants to the Land Surveyor."

We replied: "But we don't know anything about the work."

Thereupon he replied: "That's not the main point. If it's necessary, he'll teach you it The main thing is to cheer him up a little. According to the reports I've received he takes everything too seriously. He has just got to the village, and starts off thinking that a great experience, whereas in reality it's nothing at all. You must make him see that."