The Castle (35 page)

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 under-secretary 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 time-table 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 Erlanger," he said, "are Gerstacker and K., are these two men here?"

They reported themselves, but before they could step forward Jeremiah slipped in with an "Ìm a waiter here,"and, greeted by Momus with a smiling slap on the shoulder, disappeared inside.

"Ìll 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, jntrigues for which they seemed to have special facilities.

As K. was passing Momus the latter started as if only now did he recognize 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 utilized 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 sound of glasses and plates no word was to be heard, and the mering reminded K. that he had been told some time or 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 Gerstacker: "That's Pinzgauer."

Gerstacker 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 Gerstacker, "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.

Gerstacker nodded, drew the servant aside, talked to him in a low voice, but the servant hardly listened, gazed away over Gerstacker, whom he overtopped by more than a head, and stroked his hair slowly and seriously.

Then, as he was looking round aimlessly, K. saw Frieda far away at a turn of the passage.

She behaved as if she did not recognize him and only stared at him expressionlessly.

She was carrying a tray with some empty dishes in her hand. He said to the servant, who, however, paid no attention whatever to him the more one talked to the servant the more absent-minded he seemed to become - that he would be back in a moment, and ran off to Frieda.

Reaching her he took her by the shoulders as if he were seizing his own property again, and asked her a few unimportant questions with his eyes holding hers. But her rigid bearing hardly as much as softened, to hide her confusion she tried to rearrange the dishes on the tray and said: "What do you want from me? Go back to the others - oh, you know whom I mean, you've just come from them, I can see it."

K. changed his tactics immediately.

The explanation mustn't come so suddenly, and mustn't begin with the worst point, the point most unfavourable to himself. "I thought you were in the taproom," he said.

Frieda looked at him in amazement and then softly passed her free hand over his brow and cheeks. It was as if she had forgotten what he looked like and were trying to recall it to mind again, even her eyes had the veiled look of one who was painfully trying to remember.

"I've been taken on in the taproom again," she said slowly at last, as if it did not matter what she said, but as if beneath her words she were carrying on another conversation with K. which was more important - "this work here is not for me, anybody at all could do it. Anybody who can make beds and look good-natured and doesn't mind the advances of the boarders, but actually likes them. Anybody who can do that can be a chambermaid. But in the taproom, that's quite different. I've been taken on straight away for the taproom again, in spite of the fact that I didn't leave it with any great distinction, but, of course, I had a word put in for me. But landlord was delighted that I had a word put in for me to it easy for him to take me on again. It actually ended by the having to press me to take on the post.

When you reflect what the taproom reminds me of you'll understand that. Finally I decided to take it on. I'm only here temporarily. Pepi begged not to put her to the shame of having to leave the taproom at once, and seeing that she has been willing and has done everything to the best of her ability, we have given her a twenty-four hours' extension."

"That's all very nicely arranged," said K., "but once you left the taproom for my sake, and now that we're soon to be married are you going back to it again?"

"There will be no marriage," said Frieda.

"Because I've been unfaithful to you?" asked K.

Frieda nodded.

"Now, look here, Frieda," said K. "we've often talked already about this alleged unfaithfulness of mine, and every time you've had to recognize finally that your suspicions were unjust. And since then nothing has changed on my side, all I've done has remained as innocent as it was at first and as it must always remain. So something must have changed on your side, through the suggestions of strangers or in some way or other.

You do me an injustice in any case, for just listen to how I stand with those two girls.

The one, the dark one I'm almost ashamed to defend myself on particular points like this, but you give me no choice - the dark one, then, is probably just as displeasing to me as to you. I keep my distance with her in every way I can, and she makes it easy, too, no one could be more retiring than she is."

"Yes," cried Frieda, the words slipped out as if against her will, K. was delighted to see her attention diverted, she was not saying what she had intended - "Yes, you may look upon her as retiring, you tell me that the most shameless creature of them all is retiring, and incredible as it is, you mean it honestly, you're not shamming, I know. The Bridge Inn landlady once said of you : "I can't abide him, but I can't let him alone, either, one simply can't control oneself when one sees a child that can hardly walk trying to go too far for it, one simply has to interfere.""

"Pay attention to her advice for this once," said K. smiling, "but that girl - whether she's retiring or shameless doesn't matter - I don't want to hear any more about her."

"But why do you call her retiring?" asked Frieda obdurtely - K. considered this interest of hers a favourable sign "have you found her so, or are you simply casting a reflexion on somebody else?"

"Neither the one nor the other," said K., "I call her that out of gratitude, because she makes it easy for me to ignore her, and because if she said even a word or two to me I couldn't bring myself to go back again, which would be a great joss to me, for I must go there for the sake of both our futures, as you know. And it's simply for that reason that I have to talk with the other girl, whom I respect, I must admit, for her capability, prudence, and unselfishness, but whom nobody could say was seductive."

"The servants are of a different opinion," said Frieda.

"On that as on lots of other subjects," said K. "Are you going to deduce my unfaithfulness from the tastes of the servants?"

Frieda remained silent and suffered K. to take the tray from her, set it on the floor, and put his arm through hers, and walk her slowly up and down in the corner of the passage.

"You don't know what fidelity is," she said, his nearness putting her a little on the defensive, "what your relations with the girl may be isn't the most important point. The fact that you go to that house at all and come back with the smell of their kitchen on your clothes is itself an unendurable humiliation for me. And then you rush out of the school without saying a word. And stay with them, too, the half of the night. And when you're asked for, you let those girls deny that you're there, deny it passionately, especially the wonderfully retiring one. And creep out of the house by a secret way, perhaps actually to save the good name of the girls, the good name of those girls. No, don't let us talk about it any more."

"Yes, don't let us talk of this," said K., "but of something else, Frieda. Besides, there's nothing more to be said about it. You know why I have to go there. It isn't easy for me, but I overcome my feelings. You shouldn't make it any harder for me than it is.

To-night I only thought of dropping in there for a minute to see whether Barnabas had come at last, for he had an important message which he should have brought long before.

He hadn't come, but he was bound to come very soon, so I was assured, and it seemed very probable too. I didn't want to let him come after me, for you to be insulted by his presence.

The hours passed and unfortunately he didn't. But another came all right, a man whom I hate. I had no insention of letting myself be spied on by him, so I left through the neighbour's garden, but I didn't want to hide from him either and I went up to him frankly when I reached the street, with a very good and supple hazel switch, I admit.

That is all, so there's nothing more to be said about it.

But there's plenty to say about something else.

What about the assistants, the very mention of whose name is as repulsive to me as that family is to yours. Compare your relations with them with my relations with that family.

I understand your antipathy to Barnabas's family and I can share it. It's only for the sake of my affairs that I go to see them, sometimes it almost seems to me that I'm abusing and exploiting them.