by Franz Kafka
VIII.
WAITING FOR KLAMM
At first K. was glad to have escaped the crush of maids and assistants in that warm room. Besides, it was almost freezing, the snow was firmer, the walking easier. Only it was getting darker, and he hastened his step.
The Castle, whose contours were already beginning to dissolve, lay still as ever, K. had never seen the slightest sign of life up there, perhaps it wasn’t even possible to distinguish anything from this distance, and yet his eyes demanded it and refused to tolerate the stillness. When K. looked at the Castle, it was at times as if he were watching someone who sat there calmly, gazing into space, not lost in thought and therefore cut off from everything, but free and untroubled; as if he were alone, unobserved; and yet it could not have escaped him that someone was observing him, but this didn’t disturb his composure and indeed—one could not tell whether through cause or effect—the observer’s gaze could not remain fixed there, and slid off. Today this impression was further reinforced by the early darkness, the longer he looked, the less he could make out, and the deeper everything sank into the twilight.
Just as K. reached the Gentlemen’s Inn, which was still dark, a window opened on the second floor, and a fat clean-shaven young gentleman in a fur coat leaned out, then stood by the window, and didn’t seem to respond with even the slightest nod to K.’s greeting. K. did not encounter anybody in the corridor or the taproom; the smell of stale beer in the taproom was even worse than of late, this sort of thing surely never happened at the inn by the bridge. K. immediately went to the door through which he had recently observed Klamm, pressed the handle cautiously, but the door was locked; he felt about for the peephole, but the catch was no doubt so evenly inset that he couldn’t find the spot, so he lit a match. At that, he was startled by a shout. In the corner between the door and the sideboard near the stove cowered a young girl in the light of the flaring match and stared at him with laboriously opened, sleep-filled eyes. This was obviously Frieda’s successor. Quickly she recovered her composure, turned on the electric light, an angry expression still on her face, then recognized K. “Oh, the surveyor,” she said smiling, and she held out her hand to him and introduced herself, “my name is Pepi.” She was small, rosy, and healthy; her plentiful reddish-blond hair was plaited in a thick braid and curled about her face; she wore a dress of shiny gray material that scarcely suited her, hung straight down, and was gathered below in a clumsy, childlike manner by a silk band ending in a bow, so that it restricted her movements. She asked about Frieda, whether she would be back soon. The question almost verged on malice. “I was summoned at once,” she then said, “urgently, when Frieda left, because after all they can’t use just any old person in this position, I was a chambermaid until then, but this hasn’t been a good exchange for me. There’s a great deal of evening and night work here, it’s very tiring, I shall probably find it unbearable, it doesn’t surprise me that Frieda gave it up.” “Frieda was always very satisfied here,” said K., in order to finally alert Pepi to the difference that existed between Frieda and herself and that she failed to take into account. “Don’t believe her,” said Pepi, “Frieda can control herself in a way almost nobody else can. If she doesn’t want to confess something, she simply doesn’t confess it, so nobody even knows she has something to confess. But I have been in service with her here for several years, we have always slept together in the same bed, but I’m not all that close to her, and she certainly never even thinks of me now. Her only friend perhaps is the old landlady from the Bridge Inn, but that too is indicative.” “Frieda is my fiancée,” said K., as he attempted to find the peephole in the door. “I know,” said Pepi, “that’s why I’m telling you this. Otherwise it would be of no importance to you.” “I understand,” said K., “you mean I can be proud of having won myself such a reserved girl.” “Yes,” she said, laughing happily, as though she had gained K.’s complicity in a furtive agreement concerning Frieda.
Yet it was not actually the words that bothered K. and distracted him slightly from his search but rather her appearance and her presence in this place. Of course, she was indeed considerably younger than Frieda, almost childlike, and her clothes were ridiculous, for she had obviously dressed in a manner that reflected her exaggerated notions of a barmaid’s importance. And in a way these notions of hers were even justified, for she had probably been granted the position, for which she was still altogether unsuited, unexpectedly, without merit, and only temporarily, for she hadn’t even been entrusted with the small leather bag that Frieda always wore on her belt. And as for her supposed dissatisfaction with the position, that was nothing but arrogance. And yet despite her childish lack of common sense, even she probably had connections with the Castle; she had, unless she was lying, been a chambermaid; without any knowledge of what she possessed, she dozed away her days here, and though one couldn’t snatch the possession from her by embracing this small, fat, slightly round-backed body, one could touch it and cheer oneself up for the difficult path ahead. So this was perhaps no different than with Frieda? Oh yes, it was different. One only had to think of the look on Frieda’s face to understand this. K. would never have touched Pepi. Still, for a moment he had to cover his eyes, so lecherously was he staring at her.
“There’s no need for the light,” said Pepi, switching it off again, “I only turned it on because you gave me such a fright. What are you doing here? Has Frieda forgotten something?” “Yes,” said K., pointing to the door, “right next door, a tablecloth, a crocheted white tablecloth.” “Oh yes, her tablecloth,” said Pepi, “I remember, a beautiful piece, I even helped her with it, but it’s hardly in that room.” “Frieda thinks so. Anyhow, who lives there?” asked K. “Nobody,” said Pepi, “it’s the gentlemen’s room, that’s where the gentlemen eat and drink, or rather it is meant for their use, but most gentlemen stay upstairs in their rooms.” “If I knew,” said K., “that there was nobody next door, I’d gladly go in to look for the tablecloth. But one cannot be certain of that; Klamm, for instance, likes to sit there.” “Klamm is certainly not there now,” said Pepi, “indeed he’s about to leave, the sleigh is already waiting in the courtyard.”
Immediately, without a word of explanation, K. left the taproom and once in the corridor turned, not toward the exit, but toward the interior of the house, and in just a few steps reached the courtyard. How still and beautiful it was here! A four-sided courtyard closed off on three sides by the building and toward the street—a side street unfamiliar to K.—by a high white wall with a large, heavy, and now open gate. Here, on the side facing the courtyard, the building seemed taller than in front, or at least the second floor had been fully finished and seemed bigger, for it was surrounded by a wooden gallery, entirely closed except for a narrow opening at eye level. Diagonally opposite K., still in the central section but right in the corner, where it joined the side-wing opposite, was an open entrance to the house with no door. Before it stood a dark, closed sleigh, to which two horses were harnessed. Except for the coachman, whose presence at this distance in the twilight K. suspected rather than perceived, there wasn’t a soul in sight.
Hands in his pockets, looking about carefully, K. went around two sides of the courtyard, staying close to the wall until he reached the sleigh. Sunk in his fur coat, the coachman—one of the peasants who had been in the taproom the other evening—had watched K. approach, impassively, as one follows the progress of a cat. Even when K. came and stood next to him, greeting him, and the horses grew somewhat restless because of the man appearing out of the dark, he remained entirely unconcerned. This was agreeable to K. Leaning against the wall, he unpacked his food, thought gratefully of Frieda, who had been so solicitous, and peered into the interior of the house. A stairway turning at a right angle led downward and was crossed at the bottom by a low but seemingly deep passageway, everything was clean, whitewashed, set off sharply and evenly.
The wait took longer than K. had expected. He had long since finished the food, it was
bitterly cold, the twilight had already yielded to complete darkness, and yet there was still no sign of Klamm. “It can take a lot longer,” said a coarse voice all of a sudden, so close to K. that he started. It was the coachman, who, as if awakening, stretched and yawned loudly. “What can take a lot longer?” asked K., pleased by the interruption, for the constant stillness and tension had grown irksome. “Till you leave,” said the coachman. K. did not understand him, but asked no more questions, he believed this was the best way to get this arrogant person to speak. Not answering here in the dark was already incitement enough. And indeed a moment later the coachman asked: “Would you like some cognac?” “Yes,” said K. without thinking, all too tempted by the offer, for he was shivering. “Then open the sleigh,” said the coachman, “there are a few bottles in the side pocket, take one, have a drink, and then hand it to me. It’s too awkward getting down with this fur coat on.” K. was annoyed at having to lend a hand, but seeing as he was already mixed up with the coachman, he obeyed, even at the risk of having someone like Klamm, say, catch him in the sleigh. He opened the wide door and could easily have pulled the bottle out of the bag fixed to the inner door, but now that the door was open he had such an urge to enter the sleigh that he could not resist, he would only sit there a moment. He slipped in. How extraordinarily warm it was in the sleigh, and it didn’t cool off, even though the door, which K. did not dare close, was wide open. And there wasn’t even any way of knowing if one was sitting on a bench, there were so many blankets, cushions, and furs; on each side one could turn and stretch in every direction and always sink down soft and warm. With his arms extended, his head supported by the abundant supply of cushions, K. gazed from the sleigh into the dark house. Why was it taking Klamm so long to come down? As if dazed by the warmth after having stood so long in the snow, K. wished that Klamm would finally come. The thought that he would rather not be seen by Klamm occurred to him only vaguely, as a slight distraction. His forgetfulness was reinforced by the conduct of the coachman, who must have known that he was in the sleigh, but left him here without even asking for the cognac. That was considerate, but of course K. wanted to do him a service; cumbersomely, without changing position, he reached over to the side pocket, not to the one on the open door, that was too far, but to the one on the closed door behind him; but it didn’t matter, there were bottles here too. He took one out, unscrewed the cap, smelled it, and then had to smile involuntarily; the smell was so sweet, so pleasing, so much like praise and kind words from someone whom you’re very fond of, though you don’t quite know what it is all about and do not want to know either and are simply happy in the knowledge that it is he who is saying such things. “And this is supposed to be cognac?” K. asked dubiously, trying it out of curiosity. But it was indeed cognac, oddly enough, warm and burning. How it changed as one drank, from something that was virtually no more than a bearer of sweet fragrance into a drink fit for a coachman. “Can it be?” K. asked as though reproaching himself, and drank again.
At that—just as K. was engaged in taking a long sip—it became bright, the electric light came on, not only inside, on the stairs, in the passage, and in the corridor, but outside above the entrance. Footsteps could be heard descending the stairs, the bottle fell from K.’s hand, cognac spilled onto a fur, K. jumped from the sleigh, he had no sooner slammed the door with a thud than a gentleman came slowly out of the house. The only consolation, it seemed, was that it wasn’t Klamm, or was that actually cause for regret? It was the gentleman whom K. had already seen at the second-floor window. A young gentleman, extremely good-looking, pale and reddish, but quite grave. K. gave him a gloomy look as well, but it was really aimed at himself. It would after all have been better to have sent the assistants here, for even they would have been capable of conducting themselves as he had done. The gentleman opposite still hadn’t spoken, as if there weren’t enough breath in his extremely broad chest for the words about to be spoken. “This is really terrible,” he then said, pushing his hat off his forehead a little. What? Though the gentleman didn’t know about K.’s having been in the sleigh, he already thought something was terrible? That K. had, say, penetrated into the courtyard? “Now how did you get here?” the gentleman asked, more softly, already exhaling, reconciled to the inevitable. What questions! What answers! Perhaps he should assure the gentleman that the path on which he had set out with such hope had led nowhere? Instead of answering him, K. turned to the sleigh, opened the door, and retrieved his cap, which he had left inside. With discomfort he noticed that the cognac was dripping onto the footboard.
Then he turned toward the gentleman again; he was no longer hesitant to reveal that he had been in the sleigh, that wasn’t the worst part; if he were asked, but only then, he would certainly not refrain from saying that the coachman himself had given the order, at least the one to open the sleigh. Actually, the worst part was that the gentleman had surprised him and that there hadn’t been enough time to hide from him and to wait undisturbed for Klamm, or rather, that he hadn’t shown sufficient presence of mind to stay in the sleigh, close the door, and wait there on the fur blankets for Klamm, or at the very least to stay there while the gentleman was still around. True, he couldn’t have known whether Klamm himself might not come now, in which case it would naturally have been better not to greet him outside. Yes, several things ought to have been taken into consideration here, but not now, for it was all over.
“Come with me,” said the gentleman, not quite as an order, and yet it was an order, not so much in the words as in the accompanying gesture, a short and deliberately indifferent wave. “I’m waiting here for someone,” K. said, no longer in hope of success, but simply as a matter of principle. “Come,” the gentleman repeated, not in the least deterred, as if he wanted to show that he had never doubted that K. was waiting for somebody. “But then I’ll miss the person I’m waiting for,” said K., flinching. Regardless of everything that had happened, he had the feeling that what he had achieved here was a kind of possession, which he only apparently retained but that needn’t be surrendered simply upon some arbitrary command. “You’ll miss him whether you wait or go,” said the gentleman, whose opinion certainly was dismissive but also showed remarkable indulgence for K.’s train of thought: “Then I would rather miss him as I wait,” said K. defiantly, it would take more than mere words from this young gentleman to drive him away. At that the gentleman, with a superior expression on his tilted face, closed his eyes for a moment, as though he wanted to leave K.’s unreasonableness behind and resume his own reasoning, ran the tip of his tongue over the lips of his barely open mouth, and said to the coachman: “Unharness the horses!”