by Franz Kafka
K., who had half-risen and smoothed his hair, looked at the people from below and said: “What village have I wandered into? So there is a castle here?”
“Why, of course,” the young man said slowly, while several peasants here and there shook their heads at K., “the Castle of Count Westwest.”
“And one needs permission to spend the night here?” asked K., as though he wanted to persuade himself that he hadn’t perhaps heard the previous statements in a dream.
“Permission is needed” was the reply, and this turned into crude mockery at K.’s expense when the young man, stretching out his arm, asked the landlord and the guests: “Or perhaps permission is not needed?”
“Then I must go and get myself permission,” said K., yawning and pushing off the blanket, as though he intended to get up.
“Yes, but from whom?” asked the young man.
“From the Count,” said K., “there doesn’t seem to be any alternative.”
“Get permission from the Count, now, at midnight?” cried the young man, stepping back a pace.
“Is that not possible?” K. asked calmly. “Then why did you wake me up?”
The young man now lost his composure, “The manners of a tramp!” he cried. “I demand respect for the Count’s authorities. I awakened you to inform you that you must leave the Count’s domain at once.”
“Enough of this comedy,” said K. in a remarkably soft voice as he lay down and pulled up the blanket: “You are going a little too far, young man, and I shall deal with your conduct tomorrow. The landlord and those gentlemen there will be my witnesses, should I even need witnesses. Besides, be advised that I am the land surveyor sent for by the Count. My assistants and the equipment are coming tomorrow by carriage. I didn’t want to deprive myself of a long walk through the snow, but unfortunately lost my way a few times, which is why I arrived so late. That it was too late then to report to the Castle is something that was already apparent to me without the benefit of your instructions. That’s also the reason why I decided to content myself with these lodgings, where you have been so impolite—to put it mildly—as to disturb me. I have nothing further to add to that statement. Good night, gentlemen.” And K. turned toward the stove.
“Land surveyor?” he heard someone asking hesitantly behind his back, and then everyone was silent. But the young man soon regained his composure and said to the landlord, softly enough to suggest concern for K.’s sleep, yet loudly enough to be audible to him: “I shall inquire by telephone.” So there was even a telephone in this village inn? They were certainly well equipped. True, certain details took K. by surprise, but on the whole everything was as expected. As it turned out, the telephone hung from the wall almost directly above his head, in his sleepiness he had overlooked it. If the young man had to use the telephone, then even with the best intentions he could not avoid disturbing K.’s sleep, it was simply a matter of deciding whether or not to let him use the telephone, K. decided to allow it. But then of course it no longer made sense to pretend he was asleep, so he turned over on his back again. He watched the peasants gathering timidly and conferring, the arrival of a land surveyor was no trifling matter. The door to the kitchen had opened; filling the doorway was the mighty figure of the landlady, the landlord approached her on tiptoes in order to report to her. Then the telephone conversation began. The steward was asleep, but a substeward, one of the substewards, a Mr. Fritz, was there. The young man, who introduced himself as Schwarzer, said that he had found K., a man in his thirties, rather shabby-looking, sleeping quietly on a straw mattress, with a tiny rucksack for a pillow and a knobby walking stick within reach. Well, he had of course suspected him, and since the landlord had obviously neglected his duty, it was his, Schwarzer’s, duty to investigate the matter. K.’s response on being awakened, questioned, and duly threatened with expulsion from the Count’s domain had been most ungracious but perhaps not unjustifiably so, as had finally become evident, for he claimed to be a land surveyor summoned by the Count. He was dutybound to check this claim, if only as a formality, and so Schwarzer was asking Mr. Fritz to inquire at the central office whether a land surveyor of that sort was really expected and to telephone immediately with the answer.
Then there was silence, Fritz made his inquiries over there while everyone here waited for the answer, K. stayed where he was, did not even turn around, seemed completely indifferent, stared into space. With its mixture of malice and caution Schwarzer’s story gave him a sense of the quasi-diplomatic training that even lowly people at the Castle such as Schwarzer could draw on so freely. Nor did they show any lack of diligence there, the central office had a night service. And obviously answered very quickly, for Fritz was already on the line again. Yet it seemed to be a brief message, since Schwarzer immediately threw down the receiver in a rage. “Just as I said,” he shouted, “no trace of a land surveyor, only a liar and a common tramp, and probably worse still.” For a moment K. thought that everybody, Schwarzer, the peasants, the landlord and landlady, was about to jump on him, and he crawled all the way under the blanket to escape at least the first assault, when—he was slowly stretching his head back out—the telephone rang again, especially loud, it seemed to K. Although it was unlikely that this call also concerned K., everyone froze, and Schwarzer came back to the telephone. After listening to a fairly long explanation, he said softly: “So it’s a mistake? This is most unpleasant. The department head himself telephoned? Odd, very odd! And how am I supposed to explain this to the land surveyor?”
K. listened intently. So the Castle had appointed him land surveyor. On one hand, this was unfavorable, for it showed that the Castle had all necessary information about him, had assessed the opposing forces, and was taking up the struggle with a smile. On the other hand, it was favorable, for it proved to his mind that they underestimated him and that he would enjoy greater freedom than he could have hoped for at the beginning. And if they thought they could keep him terrified all the time simply by acknowledging his surveyorship—though this was certainly a superior move on their part—then they were mistaken, for he felt only a slight shudder, that was all.
After waving aside Schwarzer, who was timidly approaching, K. rejected their insistent pleas that he move into the landlord’s room, accepted only a nightcap from the landlord and a wash basin with soap and towel from the landlady, and did not even have to request that the room be cleared, for all rushed to the door, averting their faces so that he wouldn’t recognize them tomorrow, then the lamp was extinguished and he finally had some peace. He slept soundly until morning, only briefly disturbed once or twice by scurrying rats.
After breakfast, which the landlord said would be covered by the Castle along with K.’s full board, he wanted to go immediately to the village. Recalling the landlord’s conduct yesterday, K. spoke to him only when strictly necessary, but since the landlord kept circling him in a silent plea, K. took pity on him and let him sit down for a moment beside him.
“I still haven’t met the Count,” said K., “they say he pays good money for good work, is that so? Anybody traveling as far from his wife and child as I am wants to have something to take home with him.”
“The gentleman need have no worries in that regard, one doesn’t hear any complaints about bad pay here.”
“Well,” said K., “I’m not at all shy and am quite capable of saying what I think, even to a Count, though it is naturally far better if one can remain on friendly terms with those gentlemen.”
The landlord sat opposite K. on the edge of the window seat, not daring to sit more comfortably and keeping his large, anxious brown eyes fixed on K. At first he had thrust himself on K., but now it seemed as if he wanted to run away. Was he afraid of being questioned about the Count? Was he afraid that the “gentleman” whom he saw in K. was unreliable? K. had to distract him. He looked at the clock and said: “Well, my assistants will be here soon, can you put them up?”
“Certainly, sir,” he said, “but won’t they be staying
with you at the Castle?”
Was he parting that easily and that gladly with his guests, especially K., whom he was quite determined to transfer to the Castle?
“That hasn’t been settled,” said K., “first I must find out what kind of work they have for me. For instance, if I’m to work down here, then it would make more sense for me to live here, too. And I fear that the life up there at the Castle wouldn’t appeal to me. I want to be free at all times.”
“You don’t know the Castle,” the landlord said softly.
“Of course,” said K, “one shouldn’t judge matters too hastily. All I can say about the Castle for now is that they know how to choose the right land surveyor. There might be other advantages there, too.” And he stood up in order to release the landlord—who kept anxiously biting his lips—from his presence. It certainly wasn’t easy to win the confidence of this man.
On the way out, K. observed on the wall a dark portrait in a dark frame. He had already noticed it from his bed, but unable to discern any details from that distance, he had thought that the actual picture had been taken from the frame, and only the dark backing was to be seen. But it was indeed a picture, as now became evident, the half-length portrait of a man around fifty. He held his head so low over his chest that one barely saw his eyes, the drooping seemed to be caused by the high, ponderous forehead and the powerful, crooked nose. His beard, pressed in at the chin owing to the position of his head, jutted out farther below. His left hand was spread out in his thick hair but could no longer support his head. “Who is that,” asked K., “the Count?” K. stood before the picture and did not even turn to glance at the landlord. “No,” said the landlord, “the steward.” “They do have a handsome steward at the Castle, that’s for sure,” said K., “what a pity his son turned out so badly.” “No,” said the landlord, drawing K. down and whispering in his ear, “Schwarzer exaggerated yesterday, his father is only a substeward, and one of the lowest at that.” Just then the landlord seemed like a child to K. “The rascal,” said K., laughing, but the landlord said without laughing: “Even his father is powerful.” “Come on!” said K., “you consider everyone powerful. Me too, perhaps?” “No,” he said, timidly but gravely, “I do not consider you powerful.” “Well, you’re very observant, then,” said K., “for, speaking in confidence now, I’m really not powerful at all. And so I probably have no less respect for those with power than you do, only I’m not as honest as you are and don’t always care to admit it.” K. tapped the landlord on the cheek in order to comfort him and to gain his affection. And now he even gave a little smile. He was really a boy with his soft, almost beardless face. How had he come by his stout, older wife, whom one could see through a small window, bustling about with her elbows sticking out? Yet K. did not want to question him any further and risk chasing away the smile he had finally elicited, so he merely signaled to him to open the door and stepped out into the beautiful winter morning.
Now he saw the Castle above, sharply outlined in the clear air and made even sharper by the snow, which traced each shape and lay everywhere in a thin layer. Besides, there seemed to be a great deal less snow up on the hill than here in the village, where it was no less difficult for K. to make headway than it had been yesterday on the main road. Here the snow rose to the cottage windows only to weigh down on the low roofs, whereas on the hill everything soared up, free and light, or at least seemed to from here.
On the whole the Castle, as it appeared from this distance, corresponded to K.’s expectations. It was neither an old knight’s fortress nor a magnificent new edifice, but a large complex, made up of a few two-story buildings and many lower, tightly packed ones; had one not known that this was a castle, one could have taken it for a small town. K. saw only one tower, whether it belonged to a dwelling or a church was impossible to tell. Swarms of crows circled round it.
Keeping his eyes fixed upon the Castle, K. went ahead, nothing else mattered to him. But as he came closer he was disappointed in the Castle, it was only a rather miserable little town, pieced together from village houses, distinctive only because everything was perhaps built of stone, but the paint had long since flaked off, and the stone seemed to be crumbling. Fleetingly K. recalled his old hometown, it was scarcely inferior to this so-called Castle; if K. had merely wanted to visit it, all that wandering would have been in vain, and it would have made more sense for him to visit his old homeland again, where he had not been in such a long time. And in thought he compared the church tower in his homeland with the tower up there. The church tower, tapering decisively, without hesitation, straightaway toward the top, capped by a wide roof with red tiles, was an earthly building—what else can we build?—but with a higher goal than the low jumble of houses and with a clearer expression than that of the dull workday. The tower up here—it was the only one in sight—the tower of a residence, as now became evident, possibly of the main Castle, was a monotonous round building, in part mercifully hidden by ivy, with little windows that glinted in the sun—there was something crazy about this—and ending in a kind of terrace, whose battlements, uncertain, irregular, brittle, as if drawn by the anxious or careless hand of a child, zigzagged into the blue sky. It was as if some melancholy resident, who by rights ought to have kept himself locked up in the most out-of-the-way room in the house, had broken through the roof and stood up in order to show himself to the world.
Again K. stood still, as if he had greater powers of judgment at a standstill. But he was distracted. Behind the village church, beside which he had stopped—it was actually only a chapel with a barnlike annex to accommodate the congregation—was the school. A long, low building, an odd combination of makeshift and ancient features, it lay behind a fenced-in garden, which was now a field of snow. Just then the children came out with their teacher. Bunched about the teacher, the children all had their eyes on him, there was constant chatter from all sides, K. could not follow their rapid speech. The teacher, a small narrow-shouldered young man but also, without thereby seeming ridiculous, quite erect, had fixed his eyes from afar on K., who was the only person anywhere around, aside from the teacher’s group. As a stranger, K. was the first to say hello, especially faced with such a domineering little man. “Good day, Teacher,” he said. All of a sudden the children fell silent; having this sudden silence before he spoke must have pleased the teacher. “You’re taking a look at the Castle?” he asked, more gently than K. had expected, but as though he did not approve of what K. was doing. “Yes,” said K., “I’m a stranger here, I only arrived in the village yesterday evening.” “You don’t like the Castle?” the teacher said quickly. “What?” countered K., somewhat baffled, but then, rephrasing the question more delicately, he said: “Do I like the Castle? What makes you think I don’t like it?” “Strangers never do,” said the teacher. To avoid giving offense then, K. changed the subject and asked: “You must know the Count?” “No,” said the schoolteacher, and he was about to turn aside, but K. did not give up and asked again: “So you don’t know the Count?” “How could I know him?” the schoolteacher said softly, adding loudly in French: “Keep in mind that there are innocent children present.” To K. this was sufficient justification for asking: “Teacher, could I call on you? I’ll be staying for some time and already feel a little isolated, I don’t belong among the peasants nor in all likelihood at the Castle.” “There is no difference between the peasants and the Castle,” said the teacher. “Maybe so,” said K., “but that has no effect on my situation. May I call on you?” “I live in Swan Street at the butcher’s.” Though this sounded more like an address than an invitation, K. said: “Very well, I shall come.” The schoolteacher nodded and moved on with his little bunch of children, who instantly resumed their shouting. They soon disappeared down a steep side street.
But K. was distracted, the conversation had irritated him. For the first time since coming here, he felt truly tired. At first, the long journey hadn’t seemed like much of a strain to him—how he had kept wandering
through the days, steadily, one step at a time!—but the consequences of those exertions had to go and make themselves felt now, at the worst possible time, of course. He felt an irresistible urge to seek out new acquaintances, but each new acquaintance had only increased his weariness. In his present state, if he could force himself to prolong this walk to the Castle entrance, that would be more than enough.
So he set off again, but it was a long way. The street he had taken, the main street in the village, did not lead to the Castle hill, it only went close by, then veered off as if on purpose, and though it didn’t lead any farther from the Castle, it didn’t get any closer either. K. kept expecting the street to turn at last toward the Castle and it was only in this expectation that he kept going; no doubt out of weariness he was reluctant to leave this street, what amazed him, too, was the length of this village, which wouldn’t end, again and again those tiny little houses and the frost-covered windowpanes and the snow and not a living soul—finally he tore himself away from this clinging street, a narrow side street took him in, the snow here was even deeper, lifting his sinking feet was hard work, he broke out in perspiration, suddenly came to a stop and could go no farther.
Well, he certainly wasn’t abandoned, there were peasant cottages right and left, he made a snowball and threw it at a window. The door opened right away—the first door to open on his way through the village—and standing there was an old peasant in a heavy brown fur jacket, head tilted sideways, friendly and weak. “May I join you for a little while?” said K., “I’m very tired.” He didn’t hear anything the old man said, but gratefully accepted the plank being pushed toward him, which immediately rescued him from the snow, and after taking a few steps he stood in the room.