by Franz Kafka
A girl opened it, they were now standing on the threshold of a large room that lay almost in darkness, for there was only a tiny oil lamp hanging over a table on the left toward the back. “Who is with you, Barnabas?” the girl asked. “The surveyor,” he said. “The surveyor,” said the girl, repeating his answer more loudly in the direction of the table. At that, two old people, a man and his wife, stood up, and a girl as well. They greeted K. Barnabas introduced him to everyone, it was his parents and his sisters, Olga and Amalia. K. scarcely looked at them, they removed his wet coat to dry it by the stove, K. let this happen.
So it was not they who were at home, only Barnabas was at home. But why were they here? K. took Barnabas aside and said: “Why did you go home? Or do you live in the Castle precincts?” “In the Castle precincts?” Barnabas repeated, as if he did not understand K. “Barnabas,” said K., “you wanted to go from the inn to the Castle.” “No, sir,” said Barnabas, “I wanted to go home, I only go to the Castle in the morning, I never sleep there.” “So,” said K., “you didn’t want to go to the Castle, only as far as here”—to K. his smile seemed fainter, and he himself more insignificant—“why didn’t you say so?” “You never asked, sir,” said Barnabas, “you merely wanted to give me another message, but neither in the taproom nor in your own room, so I thought you could give it to me here at my parents’ house without anybody disturbing you—they will go away at once, if that’s the order you give—besides, if you prefer to be with us, you can spend the night here. Haven’t I done the right thing?” K. was unable to answer. So it was a misunderstanding, a low vulgar misunderstanding, and K. had completely abandoned himself to it. He had let himself be spellbound by the shimmering, silky, tight-fitting jacket, which Barnabas now unbuttoned, revealing underneath a coarse, dirt-gray, often-mended shirt over the powerful square chest of a farmhand. And everything else was not only in keeping with this but even outdid it, the old gout-ridden father, who moved more with the help of his groping hands than of his stiff trailing legs, and the mother who, hands clasped on her breast, could because of her girth only take the tiniest of steps; ever since he had entered, Barnabas’s father and mother had been trying to approach him from their corner, but they were still nowhere near him. The sisters, blondes, who resembled each other and Barnabas, too—though with harsher features than Barnabas—were big strong country girls; they surrounded the new arrivals, expecting some greeting from K.; yet he couldn’t say a word, he had been convinced that everyone in the village mattered to him, and this was probably true, but these people in particular meant absolutely nothing to him. If he could have managed the way back to the inn alone, he would have left at once. The possibility of going to the Castle with Barnabas tomorrow morning did not tempt him at all. He had wanted to press on to the Castle, at night, unnoticed, led by Barnabas, but by Barnabas as he had struck him till now, a man who was closer to him than everyone else he had met here thus far and who, so he had also believed then, possessed close connections with the Castle far exceeding his apparent rank. But as for the son of this family, who fully belonged to it and already was sitting at the table with them, a man who significantly enough wasn’t even allowed to sleep at the Castle, to go arm in arm with him to the Castle in broad daylight was impossible, a ridiculous, hopeless endeavor.
K. sat down on a window seat, determined to spend the night there and not to accept any other services from this family. The people in the village, who sent him away or at least feared him, were less dangerous, it seemed to him, since they essentially threw him back on his own resources and thus helped him to preserve his strength, whereas those seeming helpers who, instead of taking him to the Castle, led him by means of a little masquerade to their family, distracted him, whether intentionally or not, and were draining all his strength. Completely ignoring an invitation from the family table, he remained on his window seat, with his head bent.
Then Olga, the gentler of the two sisters, rose, came over, and with a touch of girlish embarrassment asked him to join them at the table, they had already put out bread and bacon, she would go to get beer. “But from where?” K. asked. “From the inn,” she said. K. was pleased to hear this, he asked that instead of getting beer she accompany him to the inn, important tasks still awaited him there. It now turned out, though, that she did not want to go to his inn, only to one much closer by, to the Gentlemen’s Inn. Nonetheless, K. asked whether he could accompany her, they might have a place for the night, he thought; no matter what it was like, he would rather have it than the best bed in this house. Olga did not answer at once, she glanced back at the table. Her brother stood up, nodded eagerly, and said: “If that’s what the gentleman wants—” This approval almost prompted K. to withdraw his request, anything that man could approve must be worthless. Yet when they brought up the question whether K. would be admitted to the inn and everyone doubted it, he insisted all the more urgently on going, though without troubling to invent a plausible reason for his request; this family had to accept him as he was, somehow he had no shame where they were concerned. Only Amalia shook his confidence slightly in that respect with her grave, fixed, imperturbable, and perhaps rather dull gaze.
On the short walk to the inn—K. took Olga’s arm and let himself be pulled, what else could he do, much as he had done earlier with her brother—he discovered that this inn was reserved exclusively for the Castle gentlemen, who, whenever they had anything to do in the village, would eat and sometimes even spend the night there. Olga spoke with K., softly and as if on familiar terms, it was pleasant walking with her, almost as pleasant as with her brother, K. struggled against this sense of well-being, but it persisted.
Outwardly the inn was very similar to the inn where K. was staying, there were hardly any great outward differences in the village, but one could detect certain minor differences right away, there was a balustrade on the front steps and a handsome lantern attached over the door; as they entered, a cloth fluttered over their heads, it was a flag with the Count’s colors. In the hallway they immediately encountered the landlord, evidently on a tour of inspection; with small eyes he looked quizzically or sleepily at K. in passing and said: “The surveyor may go no farther than the taproom.” “Of course,” said Olga, immediately taking K.’s side, “he only came with me!” But K., ungrateful, let go of Olga and took the landlord aside, meanwhile Olga waited patiently at the end of the corridor. “I would like to spend the night here,” said K. “Unfortunately, that’s impossible,” said the landlord, “you don’t seem to realize yet that this house is reserved exclusively for the gentlemen from the Castle.” “That may be the regulation,” said K., “but you can surely let me sleep in a corner somewhere.” “I should very much like to oblige you,” said the landlord, “but, leaving aside the severity of the actual regulation, which you speak of in the manner of a stranger, that is simply impracticable since the gentlemen are extremely sensitive, I am convinced that they cannot bear the sight of a stranger, or not without forewarning at least; so if I let you spend the night here and by chance—and chance is always on the gentlemen’s side—somebody were to come across you, not only would I be lost, but so too would you. This sounds ridiculous, but it’s true.” This tall, rather reserved gentleman, who had one hand braced against the wall, the other on his hip, his legs crossed and body tilted slightly toward K., and was speaking to him in confidence, no longer seemed to belong in this village, though his suit was festive only by peasant standards. “I believe you completely,” said K., “and don’t by any means underestimate the importance of the actual regulation, however clumsily I may have expressed myself. There’s only one other thing to which I wish to draw your attention, I have valuable connections at the Castle and will obtain others that are even more valuable, these will shield you from any danger possibly arising from my overnight stay and guarantee that I can express fitting gratitude for this small favor.” “I know,” said the landlord, and then he repeated: “I know that.” K. could have stated his wish more empha
tically, but distracted by this particular response, he merely asked: “Are many gentlemen from the Castle spending the night here?” “In that respect the situation tonight is quite favorable,” the landlord said, almost enticingly, “only one gentleman has stayed.” K. still found it impossible to insist, he was hoping that by now he almost had permission to stay, so he simply asked for the gentleman’s name. “Klamm,” the landlord said casually, turning to his wife, who came rustling along dressed in clothes that were oddly threadbare, outmoded, and laden with pleats and frills, but city finery nonetheless. She came to get the landlord, the director desired something. Before he left, the landlord turned to K., as though the decision about the overnight stay no longer rested with him but with K. K., however, was unable to say a word; especially surprising to him was the presence of his superior; unable to explain this to himself, he felt that he couldn’t deal as freely with Klamm as he generally did with the Castle, and though it wouldn’t have been as terrifying as the landlord assumed if Klamm had caught him there, it would nonetheless have led to an awkward unpleasantness, as if he had, say, frivolously inflicted suffering on someone he was indebted to, yet it still oppressed him greatly to see that the consequences he feared, such as his being a subordinate, a worker, were becoming evident and that he couldn’t overcome them even here, where they were so blatant. He stood thus, silently biting his lips. Before disappearing into a doorway, the landlord looked back at him again, K. stared after him and did not move from the spot until Olga came and pulled him away. “What did you want from the landlord?” asked Olga. “I wanted to spend the night here,” said K. “But you’re spending the night with us,” said Olga in astonishment. “To be sure,” said K., leaving it to her to interpret the words he had spoken.
III.
FRIEDA
In the taproom, large but empty in the middle, there were a few peasants along the walls, leaning against barrels or sitting on them, but they looked different from the people at K.’s inn. The ones here were more neatly and uniformly dressed in a coarse gray-yellow material with bulky jackets and tight-fitting trousers. Small men, at first glance they seemed quite alike, with their flat bony yet round-cheeked faces. All were quiet and barely moved except to train their eyes on the new arrivals, slowly and indifferently. Still, because they were so numerous and because it was so silent they had a certain effect on K. He took Olga’s arm again to let these people know why he was here. In a corner a man, an acquaintance of Olga’s, rose and was about to approach them, but with her linked arm K. turned her in another direction, she alone could notice this, and she accepted it with a smiling sideglance at him.
The beer was served by a young girl called Frieda. A nondescript little blonde with sad features, thin cheeks, and a surprising gaze, a gaze of exceptional superiority. When this gaze descended on K., it seemed to him to be a gaze that had already decided matters concerning him, whose existence he himself still knew nothing about, but of whose existence that gaze now convinced him. K. kept watching Frieda from the side even while she spoke with Olga. Olga and Frieda didn’t seem to be friends, they merely exchanged a few cold words. K. wanted to help them out, so he asked abruptly: “Do you know Mr. Klamm?” Olga burst out laughing. “Why are you laughing?” K. asked irritably. “But I’m not laughing,” she said, though she kept on laughing. “Olga is still a rather childish girl,” said K., bending down over the counter so as to draw Frieda’s gaze firmly back toward him. But she kept her eyes lowered and said softly: “Do you want to see Mr. Klamm?” K. said yes. She pointed to a door right beside her on the left. “Here’s a little peephole, you can look through here.” “And what about these people?” asked K. She pouted out her lower lip, and with an uncommonly soft hand pulled K. to the door. Through the small hole, which evidently had been drilled for the purpose of observation, he could see almost the entire room next door. At a desk in the center on a comfortable armchair sat Mr. Klamm, harshly illuminated by a lightbulb hanging in front of him. A medium-sized, fat, ponderous gentleman. His face was still smooth, but his cheeks had begun to sag a little under the weight of the years. His black mustache stuck out on the sides. A precariously balanced pince-nez, which reflected the light, concealed his eyes. Had Mr. Klamm been sitting directly facing the desk, K. would have seen only his profile, but since Klamm was turned straight toward him, he had a full view of his face. Klamm had put his left elbow on the desk and his right hand, which held a Virginia cigar, was resting on his knee. On the desk was a beer glass; since the desk had a high rim, K. could not see clearly whether there were any documents lying there, but to him the desk seemed empty. In order to make sure, he asked Frieda to look through the hole and tell him what she saw. But since she had just been in the room, she could confirm right away that there were no documents lying there. K. asked Frieda whether he had to leave now, but she said he could look as long as he wanted. Now K. was alone with Frieda; Olga, he fleetingly noted, had indeed found her way to her acquaintance and sat high up on a barrel, kicking her feet. “Frieda,” said K. in a whisper, “do you know Mr. Klamm very well?” “Oh, yes,” she said, “very well.” She leaned over next to K., playfully arranging her blouse, which, as K. only now noticed, was a thin low-cut creamcolored garment, hanging like a foreign object from her poor body. Then she said: “Don’t you remember how Olga laughed?” “Yes, the rude thing,” said K. “Well,” she said in a conciliatory tone, “there was cause for laughter, you asked whether I know Klamm, actually I’m”—at this point she involuntarily straightened up a little and her victorious gaze, which had absolutely nothing to do with the conversation, passed over K. again—“actually I’m his mistress.” “Klamm’s mistress,” said K. She nodded. “Well,” said K., smiling, so that things wouldn’t get too serious between them, “then I consider you a very respectable person.” “You’re not alone in that,” Frieda said affably, though without returning his smile. K. had a means of combatting this arrogance and employed it by asking: “Have you ever been at the Castle?” But this didn’t work, for she responded: “No, but isn’t it sufficient that I’m here in the taproom?” Her ambition was obviously boundless and it was on K., apparently, that she sought to appease it. “Of course,” said K., “here in the taproom it is you who does the landlord’s work.” “That’s true,” she said, “and I began as a stable maid at the Bridge Inn.” “With those delicate hands,” said K. half-quizzically, not knowing whether he was merely flattering her or had himself really been conquered by her. Her hands were indeed small and delicate, but they could also be called weak and expressionless. “Nobody paid any attention to that then,” she said, “and even now—” K. looked at her quizzically, she shook her head and broke off. “Of course,” said K., “you have your secrets and aren’t about to tell them to someone you’ve only known for half an hour, someone who still hasn’t even had a chance to tell you about his situation.” This remark proved inopportune, it was as if he had awakened Frieda from a slumber favorable to him, she took from the leather bag hanging from her belt a small wooden stick, stopped the peephole with it, and said to K., clearly checking herself so that he wouldn’t notice the change in her attitude, “As for you, I know all about you, you’re the surveyor,” and then she added, “but I must get back to work now,” and she went to her place behind the counter while here and there several of the people rose to get their empty glasses refilled. K. wanted to speak with her again, unobtrusively, so he took an empty glass from a stand and went up to her: “Just one more thing, Miss Frieda,” he said, “the achievement of working one’s way up from stable girl to barmaid is quite extraordinary and one that requires exceptional strength, but does this mean that such a person has reached the ultimate goal? Absurd question! Your eyes, don’t laugh at me now, Miss Frieda, your eyes speak not so much of the past struggle as of that to come. But the world puts up great resistance, the higher the goals, the greater the resistance, and it’s no disgrace to secure help, even that of a little man without influence who is struggling just a
s much. Perhaps we could get together sometime for a quiet talk, without all these eyes staring at us.” “I don’t know what you want,” she said, and her voice now seemed to echo not the victories of her life but its infinite disappointments, “perhaps you want to take me from Klamm. Good heavens!” she said, clapping her hands. “You’ve seen through me,” K. said as if wearied by such great mistrust, “that precisely was my most secret goal. You were supposed to leave Klamm and become my mistress. And now of course I can go. Olga!” cried K., “we’re going home.” Obediently Olga slid from the barrel, but she couldn’t immediately free herself from the friends encircling her. At that, Frieda said softly, with a menacing glance at K.: “When can I speak with you?” “Can I spend the night here?” asked K. “Yes,” said Frieda. “Can I stay here now?” “Go with Olga, so I can get rid of these people here. And then after a while you can come back.” “Fine,” said K., and he waited impatiently for Olga. But the peasants wouldn’t let her go, they had made up a dance with Olga in the middle, and during this round dance one of them, always at a cry from the whole group, went up to Olga, grasped her firmly by the hips, and whirled her about several times, the round went ever faster, their hungrily rattling shouts gradually merged into a single sound, Olga, who had tried earlier to break out of the circle with a smile, was now simply reeling about from one to the other, with her hair undone. “That’s the sort of people they send me,” said Frieda, biting her thin lips in anger. “Who are they?” asked K. “Klamm’s servants,” said Frieda, “he always brings these people with him, their presence shatters me. I barely know what I have been telling you, Surveyor, if I said anything bad, forgive me, it’s the presence of these people that’s to blame, they’re the most despicable and repulsive creatures I know, and yet it’s their beer glasses I have to fill. How often have I asked Klamm to leave them at home; even if I have to put up with the other gentlemen’s servants, he, at least, could show some consideration, but it’s useless asking, an hour before he comes they always burst in, like cows into a shed. But now they’re really going to be put in the shed, where they belong. If you weren’t here, I would tear open this door and Klamm would have to drive them out himself.” “Well, can’t he hear them?” asked K. “No,” said Frieda, “he’s asleep.” “What!” cried K., “he’s asleep? But when I looked into the room, he was still awake, sitting at his desk.” “And he’s still sitting there like that,” said Frieda, “even when you saw him, he was asleep—if not, do you think I would have let you look in there?—that was his sleeping position, the gentlemen sleep a great deal, it’s hardly possible to understand this. Besides, if he didn’t sleep so much, how could he stand these people. But now I’ll have to drive them out myself.” Taking a whip from the corner, she leaped toward the dancers in one high but not entirely secure leap, the way, say, a little lamb leaps. At first, they turned to face her as if a new dancer had come, and indeed for a moment it seemed as if Frieda was about to drop the whip, but then she raised it again. “In the name of Klamm,” she cried, “into the shed, all of you into the shed,” they saw now that this was serious, and in a fear that K. found incomprehensible began rushing toward the back, where under the pressure of the first arrivals a door opened, night air streamed in, all of them disappeared with Frieda, who was evidently driving them across the courtyard into the shed. But in the silence that had suddenly fallen K. heard steps in the corridor. In order to shield himself somehow, he leaped behind the counter, which was the only place to hide; being in the taproom wasn’t forbidden K., but since he wanted to spend the night here, he had to avoid being seen. So when the door actually was opened, he slid under the counter. Of course, being found here wasn’t without danger either, but then the excuse of having hidden from the peasants, who had suddenly gone on a rampage, wouldn’t sound implausible. It was the landlord, “Frieda!” he cried, pacing up and down the room several times, fortunately Frieda soon came back and didn’t mention K., she merely complained about the peasants, and then in an effort to find K. went behind the counter, K. could touch her foot there and from then on he felt safe. Since Frieda didn’t mention K., the landlord finally had to do so. “And where is the surveyor?” he asked. He was in any case a courteous man, who had acquired his cultivation through constant and relatively open dealings with people far outranking him, yet he spoke to Frieda in an especially deferential manner, this was all the more striking since he didn’t stop talking like an employer dealing with an employee, and a rather cheeky one at that. “I forgot all about the surveyor,” said Frieda, putting her small foot on K.’s chest. “He must have left long ago.” “I didn’t see him, though,” said the landlord, “and I was in the corridor almost the entire time.” “But he’s not here,” said Frieda coolly. “Perhaps he hid somewhere,” said the landlord, “if my own impression is any indication, one oughtn’t to put anything past him.” “He could hardly be that impudent,” said Frieda, pressing her foot down more firmly on K. In her being there was something gay and free, which K. hadn’t noticed before, and it got out of hand, quite unexpectedly, when she laughingly said: “Perhaps he’s hiding down here,” bent down to K., kissed him lightly, jumped back up, and said sadly: “No, he isn’t here.” But the landlord, too, gave cause for astonishment when he said: “I find it most unpleasant not knowing for certain whether he has left. This is not simply a matter of Mr. Klamm, it is also a matter of the regulation. But the regulation applies to you, Miss Frieda, as well as to me. You’re responsible for the taproom, I shall search through the rest of the house. Good night! Sleep well!” He could scarcely have left the room when Frieda switched off the electric light and joined K. under the counter. “My darling! My sweet darling!” she said in a whisper, but without touching K.; as if unconscious in her love she lay on her back and stretched out her arms, time must have seemed endless in her happy love, she sighed rather than sang some little song. Then she started, for K. was still silent, lost in thought, and like a child she began to tug at him: “Come, it’s stifling down here,” they embraced each other, her small body was burning in K.’s hands; they rolled a few paces in an unconscious state from which K. repeatedly but vainly tried to rescue himself, bumped dully against Klamm’s door, and then lay in the small puddles of beer and other rubbish with which the floor was covered. Hours passed there, hours breathing together with a single heartbeat, hours in which K. constantly felt he was lost or had wandered farther into foreign lands than any human being before him, so foreign that even the air hadn’t a single component of the air in his homeland and where one would inevitably suffocate from the foreignness but where the meaningless enticements were such that one had no alternative but to go on and get even more lost. And so, initially at least, it came not as a shock but as a consoling glimmer when from Klamm’s room a deep, commanding, yet also indifferent voice called out for Frieda. “Frieda,” said K. in Frieda’s ear, relaying the cry. With almost innate obedience Frieda was about to jump to her feet, but then, realizing where she was, she stretched, laughed softly, and said: “I will not go, I will never go to him again.” K. wanted to object, he wanted to urge her to go to Klamm, and began to gather what was left of her blouse, but he couldn’t speak, for he was all too happy having Frieda in his arms, all too anxiously happy, since it seemed to him that if Frieda abandoned him all he possessed would abandon him too. And as though Frieda had been fortified by K.’s consent, she clenched her fist, knocked on the door, and cried: “I’m with the surveyor. I’m with the surveyor.” Klamm now fell silent. Yet K. rose, knelt beside Frieda, and looked about in the dull earlymorning light. What had happened? Where were his hopes? What could he expect from Frieda, now that all was betrayed. Instead of advancing with utmost caution in a manner befitting the size of the enemy and the goal, he had rolled about all night in the beer puddles, which now gave off an overpowering smell. “What have you done?” he said to himself. “We are lost, the two of us.” “No,” said Frieda, “only I am lost, but I have won you. And hush now. But look at the wa
y those two are laughing.” “Who?” asked K., turning around. Sitting on the counter were his two assistants, they were somewhat tired from lack of sleep, but cheerful, it was the kind of cheerfulness that comes from the faithful fulfillment of duty. “What do you want here?” K. shouted as though they were to blame for everything, he looked about for the whip that Frieda had in the evening. “We had to come looking for you,” said the assistants, “you never came back down to the taproom, so we looked for you at Barnabas’s and finally found you here. We’ve been sitting here all night. This isn’t easy work, that’s for sure.” “I need you by day, not at night,” said K., “go away!” “Well, it is day now,” they said, without moving. It was indeed day, the gate to the courtyard opened, the peasants poured in, also Olga, whom K. had completely forgotten; Olga was as lively as last evening despite the disheveled state of her clothes and hair; from the doorway her eyes sought K. “Why didn’t you go home with me,” she said, almost in tears. “For the sake of a woman like that,” she said, and then repeated the remark several times. Frieda, who had gone away for a moment, came back with a small bundle of clothes. Sadly, Olga moved aside. “Now we can go,” said Frieda, obviously meaning that they should go to the inn by the bridge. K. walked with Frieda, the assistants followed, that was the procession; the peasants were showing great contempt for Frieda, this was understandable, for she had handled them strictly up to now; one of them even took a stick and held it out as if he wouldn’t let her go until she had jumped over it, but the look in her eyes was enough to drive him away. Outside in the snow K. breathed somewhat more easily, this time the joy of being outside made it easier to bear the difficulties along the way; if K. had been on his own, he could have made even better progress. At the inn he went straight to his room and lay down on the bed, Frieda arranged a place to sleep for herself on the floor beside it, the assistants had pushed their way into the room and were driven out, but they came back in through the window. K. was too tired to drive them out again. The landlady came up for the sole purpose of greeting Frieda, who called her “little mother”; the greetings that followed were incomprehensibly effusive, with kisses and long embraces. And in any case there wasn’t much peace to be had in that little room, the maids in their men’s boots often came clattering in, bringing things or removing them. Whenever they needed something from the bed, which was crammed with various objects, they inconsiderately pulled it out from under K. Frieda, though, they greeted as one of their own. Despite this commotion, K. stayed in bed all day and all night. Frieda did some small chores for him. Next morning, when he finally got up, feeling greatly refreshed, it was already the fourth day of his stay in the village.