1,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: e-artnow
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Franz Kafka's "The Castle" is a profound exploration of existentialism and bureaucracy, immersed in a nightmarish landscape that reflects the absurdities of modern life. Written in a fragmented, often disjointed narrative style, the novel follows the protagonist, K., as he struggles to gain access to the elusive Castle that governs a nameless village. The text is rich with surreal imagery and symbolism, characterized by Kafka's characteristic blend of bleak humor and despair, effectively conveying themes of isolation, longing, and the perpetual quest for meaning amid incomprehensible structures of authority. Franz Kafka, a Czech-speaking Jewish writer born in Prague, lived in a world marked by social upheaval and personal alienation. His deep-seated concerns about bureaucratic institutions and their impact on the individual were likely influenced by his own experiences in a rigid, oppressive society. Kafka's personal struggles with identity, faith, and belonging provide a foundational context for understanding the intricate layers of his works, particularly "The Castle," which was published posthumously in 1926. For readers intrigued by the complexities of human existence and the often absurd nature of societal systems, "The Castle" is an essential read. Kafka's haunting prose invites contemplation and reflection, making it not only a significant literary work but also a means of grappling with one's own search for purpose and understanding in an unpredictable world. This translation has been assisted by artificial intelligence.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
The Castle
Table of Contents
Chapter I.
It was late in the evening when K. arrived. The village was covered in deep snow. The mountain on which the castle was situated was invisible; fog and darkness surrounded it, and not even the faintest glimmer of light hinted at the great castle. K. stood for a long time on the wooden bridge that led from the country road to the village and looked up into the apparent emptiness. Then he went to find a place to spend the night. The innkeeper was still awake, and although he had no rooms to let, he was extremely surprised and confused by the late arrival and wanted to let K. sleep in the inn parlor on a straw mattress. K. agreed. Some of the farmers were still drinking beer, but he didn't want to talk to anyone, so he fetched the straw mattress from the attic himself and lay down near the stove. It was warm, the farmers were quiet, and he scanned them with his tired eyes a little, then fell asleep.
But a short time later he was awakened. A young man, dressed in city clothes, with an actor's face, narrow eyes, strong eyebrows, stood with the innkeeper beside him. The farmers were also still there, some had turned their chairs around to see and hear better. The young man apologized very politely for waking K., introduced himself as the son of the castle castellan, and then said: "This village is the property of the castle, and anyone who lives or stays here lives or stays, so to speak, in the castle. No one is allowed to do so without the count's permission. But you do not have such permission, or at least you have not shown it."
K. had half raised himself up, had smoothed his hair, looked at the people from below and said, "Which village have I come to? Is there a castle here?"
"Indeed," said the young man slowly, while here and there someone shook their head at K., "the castle of Count Westwest."
"And you have to have permission to stay the night?" K. asked, as if he wanted to convince himself that he hadn't dreamt the earlier messages.
"You have to have permission," was the answer, and there was a great deal of mockery in it for K., as the young man, with outstretched arm, asked the innkeeper and the guests: "Or don't you have to have permission?"
"Then I'll have to get permission," said K., yawning and pushing the blanket off him as if he wanted to get up.
"Yes, but from whom?" asked the young man.
"From the count," said K., "there's no other way."
"At midnight to get permission from the count?" cried the young man, and took a step back.
"Isn't that possible?" asked K. calmly. "Why did you wake me then?"
Now the young man was beside himself. "Vagabond manners!" he shouted. "I demand respect for the count's authority! I woke you up to inform you that you must leave the count's domain immediately."
"Enough of this comedy," K. said, speaking very softly, then he lay down and pulled the blanket over himself. "You are going a little too far, young man, and I will come back to your behavior tomorrow. The innkeeper and the gentlemen over there are witnesses, insofar as I need witnesses at all. But otherwise let it be said that I am the surveyor the count has sent for. My assistants with the equipment will follow tomorrow in the wagon. I did not want to miss the march through the snow, but unfortunately I strayed from the path a few times and that is why I arrived so late. I already knew from my own experience, even before your instruction, that it was too late to report to the castle now. That is why I was satisfied with this night's lodging here, which you had the - to put it mildly - discourtesy to disturb. That concludes my explanations. Good night, gentlemen." And K. turned to face the stove. "Surveyor?" he heard hesitantly asked behind him, and then there was general silence. But the young man soon recovered and said to the innkeeper in a tone that was subdued enough to be taken as consideration for K.'s sleep but loud enough for him to understand: "I'll make the inquiry by telephone." What do you mean, there's a telephone in this village inn as well? They were excellently equipped. In detail it surprised K., but on the whole he had certainly expected it. It turned out that the telephone was almost above his head, in his sleepiness he had overlooked it. If the young man had to use the telephone, then there was no way he could spare K.'s sleep, even if he wanted to. The only question was whether K. should let him use the telephone. He decided to allow it. But then there was no point in playing asleep, so he returned to lying on his back. He saw the farmers shyly moving together and discussing, the arrival of a surveyor was nothing minor. The kitchen door had opened, the landlady's mighty figure stood there, and the landlord approached her on tiptoe to report to her. And now the telephone conversation began. The castellan was asleep, but a sub-castellan, one of the sub-castellans, a Mr. Fritz, was there. The young man, who introduced himself as Schwarzer, told how he had found K., a man in his thirties, quite ragged, sleeping quietly on a straw mattress, with a tiny backpack as a pillow, a knotted stick within reach. Naturally, he was suspicious of him, and since the innkeeper had apparently neglected his duty, it was his, Schwarzer's, duty to get to the bottom of it. K. had reacted very ungraciously to being awakened, interrogated and threatened with expulsion from the county, as it had finally turned out, perhaps rightly, because he claimed to be a surveyor appointed by the Count. Of course it was at least a formal duty to check the claim, and so Schwarzer asked Mr. Fritz to inquire at the central chancellery whether a surveyor of this kind was really expected, and to phone the answer immediately.
Then there was silence. Fritz made inquiries and they waited for the answer. K. remained as he was, didn't even turn around, didn't seem curious, stared ahead. Schwarzer's story, a mixture of malice and caution, gave him an idea of the kind of diplomatic education that even small people like Schwarzer had at their disposal in the castle. And they didn't lack for diligence there either; the central office had night duty. And it apparently provided answers very quickly, because Fritz was already ringing. This report seemed very short, though, because Schwarzer immediately angrily threw down the receiver. "No sign of the surveyor, a mean, lying tramp, but probably worse." For a moment K. thought everyone, Schwarzer, the farmers, the innkeeper and his wife, would pounce on him. To avoid at least the first rush, he hid under the blanket. Then the phone rang again, and, as it seemed to K., particularly loudly. He slowly poked his head out again. Although it was unlikely that it was about K. again, everyone stopped and Schwarzer returned to the phone. He listened to a long explanation and then said softly: "So it was a mistake? That's very unpleasant for me. The office manager himself made the call? Strange, strange. How should I explain it to the surveyor?"
K. pricked up his ears. So the castle had appointed him surveyor. On the one hand, this was unfavorable for him, because it showed that they knew everything they needed to know about him in the castle, had weighed up the balance of power, and were smilingly taking up the fight. On the other hand, it was also favorable, because it proved, in his opinion, that he was underestimated and that he would have more freedom than he could have hoped for in the first place. And if they thought that this intellectually superior recognition of his surveying would keep him in constant terror, they were mistaken; it gave him a slight sense of superiority, but that was all.
K. waved away the shyly approaching Schwarzer; he refused to move into the innkeeper's room, as he was urged to do, and only accepted a sleeping draught from the innkeeper, landlady a washbasin with soap and a towel, and he didn't even have to ask for the hall to be cleared, because everyone pushed out with their faces turned away, so as not to be recognized by him tomorrow. The lamp was extinguished and he finally had peace. He slept deeply, hardly disturbed once or twice by rats scurrying past, until morning.
After breakfast, which, like all of K.'s provisions, the innkeeper said should be paid for by the castle, he wanted to go straight to the village. But since the innkeeper, with whom he had so far only spoken the most necessary things in memory of his behavior yesterday, kept turning around him with silent requests, he took pity on him and let him sit down with him for a while.
"I don't know the count yet," said K., "he is supposed to pay well for good work, is that true? When one travels so far from one's wife and children, as I do, one also wants to bring something home."
"In this regard, the gentleman has no need to worry; one never hears any complaints about poor pay." – "Well," said K., "I am not one to be shy and I can also tell a count my opinion, but it is of course much better to get along peacefully with the gentlemen."
The innkeeper was sitting opposite K. on the edge of the windowsill, which was the most comfortable place he dared sit, and he kept looking at K. with large, brown, fearful eyes. At first he had pressed close to K., and now it seemed as if he wanted to run away. Was he afraid of being questioned about the count? Did he fear the unreliability of the "sir" for whom he thought K. was? K. had to distract him. He looked at his watch and said, "Now my assistants will soon be coming, will you be able to accommodate them here?"
"Certainly, sir," he said, "but will they not be staying in the castle with you?"
Did he give up the guests so easily and gladly, and K. in particular, whom he unconditionally referred to the castle?
"That's not certain yet," said K., "first I have to find out what kind of work they have for me. If, for example, I work down here, then it will also be more sensible to live down here. I also fear that I wouldn't like the life up in the castle. I always want to be free."
"You don't know the castle," said the innkeeper softly.
"Of course," said K., "one should not judge prematurely. For the time being, I know nothing more about the castle than that they know how to choose the right surveyor there. Perhaps there are other advantages there." And he got up to free himself from the innkeeper, who was biting his lips restlessly. This man's trust was not easy to win.
On his way out, K. noticed a dark portrait in a dark frame against the wall. He had already seen it from his bed, but had not distinguished the details at that distance and had thought that the actual picture had been taken out of the frame and that only a black back cover was visible. But it was a picture, as it turned out, a half-length portrait of a man around fifty years old. He held his head so low on his chest that one could hardly see his eyes; the high, heavy forehead and the strong, down-curved nose seemed decisive for the lowering. The full beard, pressed against the chin due to the position of the head, stood out further down. The left hand lay spread in the full hair, but could no longer lift the head. "Who is that?" asked K. "The count?" K. stood before the picture and did not even look around at the innkeeper. "No," said the innkeeper, "the castellan." – "They have a fine castellan at the castle, that's true," said K., "it's a shame that he has such a wayward son." "No," said the innkeeper, pulled K. down a little towards him and whispered in his ear: "Schwarzer exaggerated yesterday, his father is only a sub-castellan and even one of the lowest." At that moment the innkeeper seemed like a child to K. "The scoundrel!" said K., laughing, but the innkeeper did not laugh with him, but said, "His father is powerful too." "Go!" said K. "You think everyone is powerful. Do you think I am powerful, too?" "You," he said timidly, but earnestly, "I don't think you're powerful." "So you're a good observer after all," said K., "because, to be honest, I'm really not powerful. And as a result I probably have no less respect for the powerful than you, only I'm not as honest as you and don't always want to admit it." And K. patted the innkeeper lightly on the cheek to comfort him and make him more inclined to talk. Now he smiled a little. He really was a young boy with his soft, almost beardless face. How did he come to have a broad, elderly wife, who could be seen behind a peep-hole in the room next door, busying herself in the kitchen, with her elbows far from her body? K. did not want to press him further, not wanting to chase away the smile that had finally come. So he just gave him a hint to open the door, and stepped out into the beautiful winter morning.
Now he saw the castle above, clearly outlined in the clear air and further emphasized by the snow, which, lying everywhere in a thin layer, imitates all forms. Incidentally, there seemed to be much less snow on top of the mountain than here in the village, where K. was no less laboriously moving forward than yesterday on the country road. Here the snow reached up to the windows of the huts and weighed heavily on the low roof, but up on the mountain everything rose freely and lightly, at least it seemed so from here.
All in all, the castle, as it appeared from a distance, met K.'s expectations. It was neither an old knight's castle nor a new magnificent building, but an extensive complex consisting of a few two-storey buildings, but many low buildings standing close together; if one had not known that it was a castle, one might have taken it for a small town. K. saw only one tower, and it was impossible to tell whether it belonged to a residential building or a church. Flocks of crows circled around it.
His eyes fixed on the castle, K. went on, nothing else concerned him. But as he approached, the castle disappointed him; it was really only a rather miserable-looking town, made up of village houses, distinguished only by the fact that perhaps everything was built of stone; but the paint had long since fallen off, and the stone seemed to be crumbling away. K. vaguely remembered his hometown; it was hardly inferior to this alleged castle. If all that mattered to K. was the visit, then it would have been a shame to have traveled so far and he would have been wiser to visit the old home again, where he hadn't been in so long. And in his mind, he compared the church tower of his hometown with the tower up there. That tower, determined, without hesitation, tapering straight up, broad-roofed, finished with red tiles, an earthly building – what else can we build? – but with a higher goal than the low row of houses and with a clearer expression than the dull working day has. The tower up here – it was the only one visible – the tower of a residential building, as it now appeared, perhaps the main castle, was a monotonous round tower, partly covered by ivy, with small windows that were now – there was something insane about it – and a balcony-like top, whose battlements were uncertain, irregular, brittle, as if drawn by a fearful or careless child's hand, jagged into the blue sky. It was as if a gloomy inhabitant of the house, who should have justly locked himself away in the furthest room of the house, had broken through the roof and stood up to show himself to the world. K. stood still again, as if in standing still he had more power of judgment. But he was disturbed. Behind the village church, where he had stopped – it was actually only a chapel, extended like a barn to accommodate the community – was the school.
A low, long building, curiously combining the character of the makeshift and the very old, it lay behind a fenced garden, which was now a snowfield. The children had just come out with the teacher. They surrounded the teacher in a dense crowd, all eyes fixed on him, chattering incessantly from all sides, K. did not understand their rapid speech at all. The teacher, a young, small, narrow-shouldered man, but without it being ridiculous, very upright, had already noticed K. from a distance, although apart from his group, K. was the only person far and wide. K., as a stranger, greeted him first, especially such a commanding little man. "Good afternoon, teacher," he said.
At a stroke the children fell silent. The teacher might have liked this sudden silence as a preparation for his words. "You are looking at the castle?" he asked more gently than K. had expected, but in a tone as if he did not approve of what K. was doing. "Yes," said K., "I am a stranger here, only in town since yesterday evening." "You don't like the castle?" the teacher asked quickly. "What?" K. asked back, a little taken aback, and repeated the question in a milder form: "Do I like the castle?" Why do you assume that I don't like it?"
"No stranger likes it," said the teacher. Not wanting to say anything unwelcome here, K. changed the subject and asked, "You probably know the count?" - "No," said the teacher, turning to leave. But K. didn't give up and asked again, "What? You don't know the count?" "How should I know him?" the teacher said quietly, adding loudly in French, "Have consideration for the presence of innocent children." K. took this as grounds for asking, "Could I visit you, teacher, sometime? I'll be staying here for a long time and I already feel a bit abandoned; I don't belong with the farmers and I don't belong with the castle either." – "There's not much difference between the farmers and the castle," said the teacher. "Maybe so," said K., "but that doesn't change my situation. Could I visit you sometime?" "I live in Schwanengasse, near the butcher." That was more an address than an invitation, but K. said, "All right, I'll come." The teacher nodded and marched on with the children, who immediately started shouting again. They soon disappeared down a steeply sloping lane.
K., however, was distracted, annoyed by the conversation. For the first time since his arrival, he felt real tiredness. The long journey here didn't seem to have bothered him at first, he had wandered through the days, quietly, step by step! – But now the consequences of the excessive effort were showing, at the wrong time, of course. He was irresistibly drawn to seek new acquaintances, but each new acquaintance increased his fatigue. If, in his present state, he forced himself to extend his walk at least to the entrance of the castle, more than enough had been done.
So he walked on, but it was a long way. The road, the main street of the village, did not lead to the castle hill, it only led close to it, but then, as if on purpose, it turned away, and even if it did not move away from the castle, it did not come any closer to it either. K. always expected that the road to the castle would finally turn in, and only because he expected it did he continue walking; apparently due to his tiredness, he hesitated to leave the road, and he was amazed at the length of the village, which seemed to have no end, with the small houses andand snow and the absence of people. Finally, he broke free of the road and continued along a narrow lane. The snow was even deeper, and it took a great deal of effort to pull his sinking feet out of the snow. He broke out in a sweat and then suddenly came to a stop, unable to go any further.
Well, he was not abandoned, there were farm huts to the right and left. He made a snowball and threw it against a window. Immediately the door opened – the first opening door in the whole village – and an old farmer, in a brown fur jacket, his head tilted sideways, friendly and weak, stood there. "May I come in a little?" said K. "I am very tired." He did not hear at all what the old man said, gratefully he accepted that a plank was pushed out to him, which saved him from the snow, and with a few steps he stood in the room.
A large room in the twilight. At first, the man coming from outside couldn't see anything. K. stumbled against a wash tub; a woman's hand held him back. There was a lot of children's screaming coming from a corner. Smoke rolled out of another corner and turned the semi-light into darkness. K. was standing as if in a cloud. "He's drunk," someone said. "Who are you?" shouted a commanding voice, and, probably addressing the old man, "Why did you let him in? Do you let everything that creeps around in the streets in?" "I am the land surveyor for the count," said K., trying to justify himself to the still unseen person. "Oh, it's the land surveyor," said a female voice, and now there was complete silence. "You know me?" asked K. "Certainly," said the same voice briefly. The fact that K. was known did not seem to recommend him.
Finally the smoke lifted a little, and K. was able to get his bearings slowly. It seemed to be a general washing day. Laundry was being washed near the door. But the smoke had come from the other corner, where two men were bathing in steaming water in a wooden tub the size of which K. had never seen before – it was about the size of two beds. But even more surprising, without one knowing exactly what was surprising about it, was the right-hand corner. From a large gap, the only one in the back wall of the room, came pale snowlight, probably from the courtyard, and gave the dress of a woman who was lying almost asleep in a high armchair in the far corner, a glow like silk. She was carrying an infant at her breast. A couple of children were playing around her. They were farm children, as could be seen, but she did not seem to belong to them, of course, illness and fatigue can make anyone look rough.
"Sit down!" said one of the men, a bearded man, who also had a moustache, under which he always kept his mouth open, puffing, pointed, funny to look at, with his hand over the edge of the tub at a chest and splashed K. with warm water all over his face. The old man who had let K. in was already sitting on the chest, dozing. K. was grateful to finally be allowed to sit down. Now no one was taking care of him. The woman at the wash-trough, blonde and full of youth, sang softly while working; the men in the bath stomped and turned; the children wanted to approach them, but were repeatedly driven back by powerful water splashes that did not spare K. either, which did not spare K. either, drove them back again and again. The woman in the armchair lay as if lifeless, not even looking down at the child at her breast, but gazing vaguely upwards.
K. had probably been looking at her for a long time, at this unchangingly beautiful, sad image, but then he must have fallen asleep, because when he woke up, called by a loud voice, his head was lying on the shoulder of the old man next to him. The men had finished their bath, and now the children were playing in it, supervised by the blonde woman. They stood dressed in front of K. The loud bearded man turned out to be the lesser of the two. The other, no taller than the bearded man and with a much smaller beard, was a quiet, slow-thinking man of broad build, with a broad face, his head bowed. "Mr. Surveyor," he said, "you can't stay here. Forgive the rudeness." – "I didn't want to stay either," said K., "just to rest a little. That's been done, and now I'm leaving." "You are probably surprised at our lack of hospitality," said the man, "but hospitality is not our custom, we have no need of guests." A little refreshed by sleep, a little more alert than before, K. was pleased with the man's frankness. He moved more freely, leaning on his stick here and there, approaching the woman in the armchair. He was also the tallest person in the room.
"Of course," said K., "why would you need guests? But here and there you need someone, for example me, the surveyor." – "I don't know," said the man slowly, "if you were summoned, then you are probably needed. That's probably an exception, but we, we little people, stick to the rules, you can't blame us for that." "No, no," said K., "I have only to thank you, you and everyone here." And unexpectedly for everyone, K. turned around formally in one leap and stood in front of the woman. She looked at K. with tired, blue eyes. A silk, transparent headscarf reached down to the middle of her forehead, and the infant was sleeping at her breast. "Who are you?" K. asked dismissively – it was unclear whether the contempt was for K. or for her own answer – she said, "A girl from the castle."
All this had taken only a moment. K. was immediately seized on either side by one of the men and was silently but with all his strength dragged to the door, as if there were no other means of communication. The old man was pleased about something and clapped his hands. The washerwoman also laughed at the children, who were suddenly making a mad noise.
K., however, was soon standing in the street, the men watching him from the threshold. It was snowing again; nevertheless, it seemed a little brighter. The bearded man called impatiently, "Where do you want to go?" "This way leads to the castle, this way to the village." K. did not answer him, but to the other, who seemed to him, despite his superiority, the more affable, he said, "Who are you? Whom do I have to thank for the stay?" – "I am the master tanner Lasemann," was the answer, "but you don't have to thank anyone." – "All right," said K., "maybe we'll meet again." "I don't think so," said the man. At that moment, the man with the full beard shouted with a raised hand, "Good day, Artur, good day, Jeremias!" K. turned around, so there were still people in the street after all! From the direction of the castle, two young men of medium height came, both very slender, in tight clothes, and very similar in face. Their complexions were a dark brown, from which a goatee in its particular blackness nevertheless stood out. They walked surprisingly fast in these road conditions, throwing their slender legs in time. "What do you have?" shouted the fully bearded man. You could only communicate with them by shouting, they walked so fast and did not stop. "Business!" they shouted back laughing. "Where?" – "At the inn." – "I'm going there too!" shouted K. suddenly louder than all the others. He had a great desire to be taken along by the two; their acquaintance didn't seem very rewarding to him, but they were obviously good, encouraging companions. They heard K.'s words, but just nodded and were already gone.
K. was still standing in the snow, and had little desire to lift his foot out of the snow and sink it a little further into the depths. The master tanner and his companion, satisfied that they had finally gotten K. out of the way, pushed their way slowly through the slightly open door into the house, always looking back at K., and K. was alone with the snow enveloping him. "Opportunity for a little despair," occurred to him, "if only I were standing here by chance, not on purpose."
Then a tiny window opened in the hut on the left; closed it had looked deep blue, perhaps in the reflection of the snow, and was so tiny that when it was now open, not the whole face of the person looking out could be seen, but only the eyes, old, brown eyes. "There he is," K. heard a tremulous woman's voice say. "It's the surveyor," said a man's voice. Then the man came to the window and asked, not unkindly, but in a way that suggested he was concerned about the state of the street in front of his house: "Who are you waiting for?" "For a carriage to take me somewhere," said K. "No carriages come here," said the man, "there's no traffic." – "But this is the road to the castle," K. objected. "Nevertheless, nevertheless," the man said with a certain implacability, "there is no traffic here." Then both were silent. But the man was obviously considering something, because he still kept the window open from which smoke was pouring. "A bad road," K. said, to help him.
But he only said, "Yes, of course."
But after a while he did say, "If you like, I'll drive you in my sledge." – "Do that, please," said K., delighted, "how much do you want for it?" – "Nothing," said the man. K. was very surprised. "You're the surveyor, aren't you," said the man, explaining, "and belong to the castle. Where do you want to go, then?" "To the castle," said K. quickly. "Then I won't go," said the man immediately. "I belong to the castle," said K., repeating the man's own words. "Maybe so," said the man dismissively. "Then take me to the inn," said K. "All right," said the man, "I'll come along in the sledge in a moment." The whole thing didn't make the impression of particular friendliness, but rather of a kind of very selfish, anxious, almost pedantic endeavor to get K. away from the place in front of the house.
The courtyard gate opened and a small sledge for light loads, completely flat, without any kind of seat, pulled by a weak little horse, came out, behind it the man, stooped, weak, limping, with a lean, red, snuffy face that appeared particularly small due to a wool scarf tightly wrapped around his head. The man was visibly ill and had only come out to be able to transport K. away. K. mentioned something to that effect, but the man waved it aside. K. only learned that he was the carrier Gerstäcker and that he had taken this uncomfortable sleigh because it was just standing there and taking another would have taken too much time. "Sit down," he said, and pointed with his whip to the back of the sleigh. "I'll sit next to you," said K. "I'll walk," said Gerstäcker. "Why?" asked K. "I'll walk," repeated Gerstäcker, and had a coughing fit that shook him so much that he had to brace his legs in the snow and hold on to the edge of the sleigh with his hands. K. said nothing more, sat down at the back of the sledge, the cough slowly subsided and they set off.
The castle up there, already strangely dark, which K. had hoped to reach that same day, was moving away again. But as if to give him a sign of a temporary farewell, a bell sounded there, a happy, lilting bell that made his heart tremble for at least a moment, as if it threatened him – for the sound was also painful – the fulfillment of what he longed for uncertainly. But soon this great bell fell silent and was replaced by a weak, monotonous little bell, perhaps still up above, perhaps already in the village. This tinkling was certainly better suited to the slow journey and the miserable but relentless cart driver.
"Hey," K. suddenly shouted – they were already near the church, the way to the inn was not far, K. dared to say something – "I am very surprised that you dare to drive me around on your own responsibility, are you allowed to?" Gerstäcker didn't care and continued to walk quietly next to the horse. "Hey!" shouted K., and he gathered some snow from the sledge and hit Gerstäcker right in the ear with it. Now Gerstäcker stopped and turned around; but when he saw K. standing so close to him – the sledge had moved on a little further – this stooped, somewhat battered figure, the red, tired, narrow face with somehow different cheeks, one flat, the other sunken, the open, listening mouth with only a few scattered teeth, he had to repeat what he had said earlier out of spite, now out of compassion, whether Gerstäcker could not be punished for transporting K. "What do you want?" asked Gerstäcker, not understanding, but not expecting any further explanation either. He called to the horse and they set off again.
Chapter II.
When they – K. recognized it at a turn in the road – were almost at the inn, it was already completely dark, to his astonishment. Had he been gone so long? But only an hour or two, according to his calculations, and in the morning he had set out, and he had had no desire to eat, and until recently there had been even daylight, and only now darkness. "Short days, short days!" he said to himself, slid off the sled, and went towards the inn.
At the top of the house's small front steps, the innkeeper was standing, very welcome to him, holding a lantern aloft and shining it towards him. Briefly remembering the driver, K. stopped, somewhere in the dark someone coughed, that was he. Well, he would see him again soon. Only when he was upstairs with the innkeeper, who greeted him humbly, did he notice a man on either side of the door. He took the lantern from the innkeeper's hand and illuminated the two men; they were the men he had already met and who had been called Artur and Jeremias. They now saluted. Remembering his military days, those happy times, he laughed. "Who are you?" he asked, looking from one to the other. "Your assistants," they replied. "They are the assistants," the innkeeper confirmed quietly. "What?" asked K. "You are my old assistants, whom I had followed, whom I am expecting?" They said yes. "That's good," said K. after a while, "it's good that you came." "But," said K. after a little pause, "you are very late, you are very careless." "It was a long way," said one of them. "A long way," repeated K., "but I met you coming from the castle." "Yes," they said, without further explanation. "Where are the instruments?" asked K. "We have none," they said. "The instruments I entrusted to you," said K. "We have none," they repeated. "Oh, you people!" said K. "Do you know anything about land surveying?" "No," they said. "But if you are my old assistants, you must understand this," said K. They remained silent. "Then come," said K., and pushed them in front of him into the house.
The three of them sat in the inn, rather silent, at the beer, at a small table, K. in the middle, the two journeymen on his right and left. Otherwise, only one table was occupied by farmers, similar to the evening before. "It's hard with you," said K. and, as he often did, compared their faces, "how am I supposed to tell you apart? You only differ in name, otherwise you are as similar to each other as" – he faltered, then continued involuntarily – "otherwise you are as similar to each other as snakes." They smiled. "We can be distinguished," they said by way of justification. "I believe it," said K., "I myself was a witness of it, but I see only with my eyes, and with those I cannot distinguish you. I will therefore treat you as one man and call you both Arthur, since that is one of you. Is it you?" – K. asked one of them. "No," he said, "my name is Jeremiah." "It doesn't matter," said K., "I'll call you both Arthur. If I send Arthur somewhere, you both go; if I give Arthur a job, you both do it. This is a great disadvantage for me, that I can't use you for separate work, but it has the advantage that you bear joint and undivided responsibility for everything I assign you. How you divide the work among yourselves is of no concern to me, but you must not quarrel with each other, for me you are one man." They considered this and said, "That would be quite unpleasant for us." – "Of course it would," said K., "of course it would be unpleasant for you, but it's the way it is." For a little while K. had seen one of the farmers lurking around the table, finally he made up his mind, went up to an assistant and wanted to whisper something to him. "Excuse me," said K., banging his hand on the table and standing up, "these are my assistants, and we are now having a discussion. No one has the right to disturb us." "Oh please, oh please," said the farmer anxiously and went back to his companions. "You must remember this above all," said K., sitting down again. "You may not speak to anyone without my permission. I am a stranger here, and if you are my old colleagues, then you are also strangers. The three of us strangers must therefore stick together, so give me your hands." All too willingly they held them out to K. "Let go of them," he said, "but my order stands. I will now go to sleep and I advise you to do the same. Today we missed a work day, tomorrow the work must begin very early. You have to get a sleigh to ride to the castle and be ready with it here in front of the house at six o'clock." – "All right," said one. But the other interrupted: "You say, 'All right,' and yet you know it's impossible." – "Quiet," said K., "you're starting to differ from each other." But now the first one said, "He's right, it's impossible, no stranger is allowed in the castle without permission." – "Where do you apply for permission?" – "I don't know, maybe to the castellan." – "Then we'll apply there by telephone. Telephone the castellan at once, both of you!" They ran to the telephone, got the connection – how they crowded there! Outwardly they were ridiculously obedient – and asked if K. might come with them to the castle tomorrow. K. heard the "No!" of the answer as far as his table. But the answer was even more detailed, it was: "Neither tomorrow nor any other time." - "I will telephone myself," said K. and stood up. While K. and his assistants had so far been given little attention, apart from the incident of the one farmer, his last remark attracted general attention. Everyone rose with K., and although the innkeeper tried to push them back, they grouped around him in a narrow semicircle by the device. The prevailing opinion among them was that K. would not receive an answer at all. K. had to ask them to be quiet, he was not asking for their opinions.
From the earpiece came a humming sound that K. had never heard before when using the telephone. It was as if a single high but strong voice were forming out of this buzzing in an almost impossible way, striking the ear as if demanding to penetrate deeper than just the poor ear. K. listened without speaking, his left arm resting on the telephone desk.
He didn't know how long he listened; so long until the innkeeper tugged at his coat and told him that a messenger had arrived for him. "Go away!" K. shouted, perhaps into the telephone, because someone answered. The following conversation ensued: "This is Oswald, who is this?" it called, a strict, haughty voice, with a slight speech impediment, as it seemed to K., which it tried to compensate for by adding even more severity. K. hesitated to give his name; he was defenceless against the telephone, the other could thunder down at him, put down the earpiece, and K. would have blocked a possibly important path. K.'s hesitation made the man impatient. "Who's there?" he repeated, adding, "I would prefer it if there wasn't so much telephoning on that side; there was a phone call just a moment ago." K. did not respond to this remark and announced with a sudden decision, "This is the assistant to the land surveyor." "Which assistant? Which gentleman? Which surveyor?" K. recalled yesterday's telephone conversation. "Ask Fritz," he said briefly. It helped, to his own amazement. But even more than the fact that it helped, he was amazed at the uniformity of the service there. The answer was, "I know. The eternal surveyor. Yes, yes. What next? Which assistant?" "Joseph," said K. The murmur of the farmers behind him disturbed him a little; they obviously did not agree with his failure to report properly. But K. had no time to deal with them, because the conversation took up a lot of his attention. "The assistants are called" – a small pause, apparently he was demanding the names from someone else – "Artur and Jeremias." "They are the new assistants," said K. "No, they are the old ones." – "They are the new ones, but I am the old one who followed the surveyor today." – "No!" it now shouted. "So who am I?" asked K., as calm as before. And after a pause, the same voice with the same speech impediment said, but it sounded like a different, deeper, more respectful voice: "You are the old assistant."
K. listened to the tone of the voice and almost missed the question, "What do you want?" He would have liked to put the receiver down. He expected nothing more from this conversation. Only out of obligation did he quickly ask, "When may my master come to the castle?" – "Never," was the answer. "All right," said K. and hung up the receiver.
The farmers behind him had already moved quite close to him. The assistants, glancing at him repeatedly, were busy keeping the farmers away from him. But it seemed as if they were only acting, and the farmers, satisfied with the result of the conversation, slowly gave way. Then their group was divided from behind at a rapid pace by a man who bowed to K. and handed him a letter.
K. held the letter in his hand and looked at the man, who seemed more important to him at the moment. There was a great similarity between him and the assistants, he was as slim as they were, just as scantily dressed, and just as agile and nimble as they were, but still quite different.
If only K. had preferred to have him as an assistant! He reminded him a little of the woman with the baby that he had seen at the master tanner's. He was dressed almost entirely in white, not in silk, but in a winter dress like all the others, but it had the delicacy and solemnity of a silk dress. His face was bright and open, his eyes oversized. His smile was tremendously encouraging; he ran his hand over his face as if to chase away the smile, but he did not succeed. "Who are you?" asked K. "My name is Barnabas," he said. "I am a messenger." His lips opened and closed, firm yet gentle, as he spoke. "Do you like it here?" K. asked, pointing to the farmers, for whom he still hadn't lost interest. They looked with their tortured faces - the skull looked as if it had been flattened on top and the facial features had formed in the pain of being beaten - their bulging lips, their open mouths, but then again didn't look, because sometimes their gaze wandered and, before returning, lingered on some indifferent object, and then they looked again., their lips, their open mouths, but then again they weren't looking either, because sometimes their eyes wandered and before returning would rest on some unimportant object, and then K. would point to the assistants, who were holding each other, cheek to cheek and smiling, one didn't know whether it was a humble or mocking smile. He showed him all of them, as if he were presenting a retinue forced upon him by special circumstances, and expecting - and this was the point of intimacy that mattered to K. - that Barnabas would constantly distinguish between him and them. But Barnabas – in all innocence, of course, that was evident – didn't even take up the question, let it wash over him, like a well-trained servant lets a word from the master that is only seemingly directed at him, only looked around in the direction of the question, greeted acquaintances among the farmers with a wave of his hand, and exchanged a few words with his assistants, all of which he did freely and independently, without mixing with them. K. returned – rejected but not embarrassed – to the letter in his hand and opened it. Its wording was: "Dear Sir! As you know, you have been accepted into the manor's service. Your immediate superior is the village headman, who will also tell you everything you need to know about your work and the pay conditions, and to whom you will also be accountable. Nevertheless, I will not lose sight of you either. Barnabas, the bearer of this letter, will check on you from time to time to see how you are doing and report back to me. You will always find me willing to help you as much as possible. It is important to me to have satisfied workers." The signature was not legible, but it was stamped: The Board of the X. "Wait!" K. said to Barnabas, who was bowing, then he called the innkeeper to show him a room, he wanted to be alone with the letter for a while. He remembered that Barnabas, for all the affection he had for him, was nothing more than a messenger, and had him give him some beer. He watched how he took it, and he accepted it willingly, drinking at once. Then K. went with the innkeeper. In the cottage they had been able to prepare only a small attic room for K., and even that had caused difficulties, because two maids who had previously slept there had to be accommodated elsewhere. Actually, they had done nothing but move the maids; otherwise the room was probably unchanged, no bedding for the only bed, just a few pillows and a horse blanket left as everything had been left after the last night. On the wall were a few pictures of saints and photographs of soldiers. It seemed that the room had not even been aired, apparently the new guest was not expected to stay long, and so no effort was made to keep him. But K. agreed to everything, wrapped himself in his blanket, sat down at the table and began to read the letter again by the light of a candle.
It was not uniform; there were places where he was spoken to as if he were a free man whose own will was recognized, such was the heading, such was the place that concerned his wishes. But there were also places where he was openly or covertly treated as a lowly laborer barely noticed by the headquarters of that board. The board had to make an effort "not to lose sight of him." His superior was only the village head, to whom he was even accountable. His only colleague was perhaps the village policeman. These contradictions were undoubtedly intentional, they were so visible. The insane thought, in the face of such an authority, that indecision had played a part here, hardly crossed K.'s mind. On the contrary, he saw in it an obvious choice, it was up to him what he wanted to make of the letter's instructions, whether he wanted to be a village laborer with an honorable but only apparent connection to the castle, or an apparent village laborer who in reality let Barnabas's messages determine his entire working relationship. K. did not hesitate to choose, nor would he have done so even without the experiences he had already had. Only as a village laborer, as far away as possible from the lords of the castle, was he able to achieve anything in the castle. These people in the village, who were still so suspicious of him, would start talking when he had become, if not their friend, then at least their fellow citizen, and once he was once he was indistinguishable from Gerstäcker or Lasemann – and that had to happen very quickly, everything depended on it – then all the paths that would have remained closed to him forever if it had only depended on the gentlemen above and their mercy would certainly open up to him in one fell swoop. Of course, there was a danger, and it was emphasized enough in the letter, presented with a certain glee, as if it were inescapable. It was the being a worker. Service, superiors, work, wage regulations, accountability, workers, the letter was full of them, and even when something else, more personal, was said, it was said from that point of view. If K. wanted to become a worker, he could become one, but then in all terrible seriousness, without any prospect elsewhere. K. knew that he was not threatened with real force, he did not fear that here, but he did fear the force of the discouraging environment, the force of the imperceptible influences of every moment, the force of getting used to disappointments.
The letter did not conceal the fact that K., if it came to a fight, had had the audacity to start; it was said with subtlety, and only a restless conscience - a restless, not a bad one - could notice it, it was the three words "as you know" regarding his acceptance into the service. K. had reported for duty, and since then he knew, as the letter put it, that he had been accepted.
K. took a picture from the wall and hung the letter on the nail; he would live in this room, and the letter should hang here.
Then he went down to the dining room. Barnabas was sitting with the assistants at a small table. "Oh, there you are," said K., without reason, just because he was glad to see Barnabas. He jumped up immediately. As soon as K. had entered, the farmers rose to approach him; it had already become their habit to always follow him. "What do you want from me all the time?" K shouted. They didn't take offense and slowly turned back to their seats. One of them said, as he left, by way of explanation, lightly, with an unintelligible smile that some of the others picked up: "You always hear something new," and he licked his lips as if the new were a food. K. said nothing conciliatory; it was good if they gained a little respect for him, but no sooner had he sat down with Barnabas than he already felt the breath of a farmer at his neck; he came, as he said, to get the salt cellar, but K. stamped his foot in annoyance, and the farmer left without the salt cellar. It was really easy to get at K. You just had to set the farmers against him, for example. Their stubborn participation seemed more malicious to him than the closed-mindedness of the others, and besides, it was also closed-mindedness, because if K. had sat down at their table, they would certainly not have stayed there. Only the presence of Barnabas prevented him from making a fuss. But he turned around threateningly towards them, and they also turned towards him. But as he saw them sitting there, each in his own place, without consulting each other, without any visible connection between them, only connected by the fact that they were all staring at him, it seemed to him as if it was not malice that made them follow him; perhaps they really wanted something from him and just couldn't say it, and if it wasn't that, then perhaps it was just childishness that seemed to be at home here; wasn't the innkeeper childlike, too, who held a glass of beer that he was supposed to bring to some guest with both hands, stood still, looked at K. and didn't hear a call from the landlady, who had leaned out of the kitchen window?
K. turned more calmly to Barnabas. He would have liked to get rid of the assistants, but found no excuse. They were quietly looking at their beer, by the way. "I read the letter," K. began. "Do you know what it says?" "No," said Barnabas, his look seemed to say more than his words. Perhaps K. was mistaken here, as with the farmers he was mistaken for the better, when the good remained in his presence. "There is also talk of you in the letter, you are supposed to pass on messages between me and the board from time to time, so I thought you knew the content." – "I was only instructed," said Barnabas, "to hand over the letter, wait until it has been read and, if it seems necessary to you, to bring back a verbal or written reply." – "Very well," said K., "there is no need for a letter. Just convey my thanks to the head of the board - what is his name? I couldn't read the signature." – "Klamm," said Barnabas. "So convey my thanks to Mr. Klamm for the reception, as well as for his special kindness, which I, as someone who has not yet proven himself here, appreciate. I will act entirely according to his intentions. I have no special requests today." Barnabas, who had been paying close attention, asked to repeat the order to K. K. allowed it, and Barnabas repeated everything word for word. He then stood up to say goodbye.
K. had been scrutinizing his face the whole time, now he did it for the last time. Barnabas was about K.'s height, yet his gaze seemed to look down on K., but it was an almost humble gesture, it was impossible for this man to shame anyone. Of course, he was only a messenger and didn't know the contents of the letters he had to deliver, but his look, his smile, his walk seemed to be a message, even if he didn't know about this either. And K. shook his hand, which obviously surprised him, because he had only wanted to bow.
Immediately after he had left - before opening the door, he had still leaned a little with his shoulder on the door and with a glance that was no longer directed at any one person, he had looked around the room - K. said to the assistants: "I'll get my notes from the room, then we'll discuss the next work." They wanted to go with him. "Stay!" said K. They still wanted to go with him. K. had to repeat the order even more sternly. Barnabas was no longer in the hallway. But he had just left. Yet K. did not see him in front of the house either – new snow was falling. He called, "Barnabas!" No answer. Should he still be in the house? There seemed to be no other possibility. Nevertheless, K. still shouted the name at the top of his voice. The name thundered through the night. And from afar came a weak reply; Barnabas must have come that far already. K. called him back and went to meet him at the same time; where they met, they were no longer visible from the inn.
"Barnabas," said K., and he could not stop his voice from trembling, "I wanted to tell you something. I realize that it's rather inconvenient that I have to rely on your chance visits when I need something from the castle. If I hadn't happened to catch you now – the way you fly, I thought you were still in the house – who knows how long I would have had to wait for your next appearance." – "You can," said Barnabas, "ask the board to let me always come at certain times that you specify." – "Even that wouldn't be enough," said K., "maybe I don't want to say anything for a year, but just a quarter of an hour after you leave, something that can't be postponed." "Shall I then," said Barnabas, "report to the management that a connection is to be established between it and you that goes beyond me?" "No, no," said K., "not at all, I just mentioned this matter in passing, since this time I still managed to reach you." "Shall we," said Barnabas, "go back to the inn so that you can give me the new order there?" He had already taken a step towards the house. "Barnabas," said K., "there is no need, I will walk a little way with you." – "Why don't you want to go to the inn?" asked Barnabas. "The people there bother me," said K., "you saw the intrusiveness of the farmers yourself." – "We can go to your room," said Barnabas. "It's the maids' room," said K., "dirty and musty; I wanted to walk with you for a bit so as not to have to stay there; you just have to," K. added, finally overcoming his hesitation, "let me take your arm, because you walk more surely." And K. took his arm. It was completely dark, K. couldn't see his face at all, his figure was indistinct, he had sought Barnabas' arm only a little while before.
