by Franz Kafka
XV.
AT AMALIA’S
Finally—it was already dark, late afternoon—K. had cleared the garden path, piled the snow on both sides, beaten it down, and was now finished with the day’s work. He stood at the garden gate, the only person anywhere around. He had driven away the assistant hours ago, chased him a great distance, then the assistant had hidden himself somewhere between the little garden and the sheds, simply wasn’t to be found and hadn’t come out since. Frieda was at home, already washing the clothes or still at work on Gisa’s cat; it was a sign of great trust on Gisa’s part that she had turned this task over to Frieda, an unappetizing and unsuitable task, and K. certainly wouldn’t have tolerated Frieda’s undertaking it had it not been quite advisable, after their various derelictions of duty, to use every opportunity to make Gisa feel obliged to them. Gisa had watched with pleasure as K. carried the small children’s tub down from the attic, as water was warmed up and as, finally, with great care, they lifted the cat into the tub. And then Gisa had even left the cat entirely in Frieda’s care, since Schwarzer, K.’s acquaintance from the first evening, had appeared, greeted K. with a mixture of diffidence—for which the foundation had been laid that evening—and the unbridled contempt that befits a mere janitor, and then gone into the other schoolroom with Gisa. The two of them were still there. According to what K. had been told at the Bridge Inn, Schwarzer, who was after all the son of a steward, had, out of love for Gisa, been living for some time now in the village and had succeeded through his connections in getting the council to appoint him to the post of assistant teacher but had chiefly discharged those duties by almost never missing Gisa’s classes, where he sat on a bench between the children or, preferably, on the podium at Gisa’s feet. This was no longer a distraction, the children had long since grown used to it, perhaps all the more readily given that Schwarzer showed no affection for, nor understanding of, children, barely spoke to them, having merely taken over Gisa’s gymnastics class and being otherwise content to live in the proximity, the air, the warmth of Gisa. His greatest pleasure was to sit next to Gisa, correcting copybooks with her. Today too they were busy with the same task, Schwarzer had brought along a large pile of copybooks, the teacher always gave them his, too, and while it was still light outside K. had seen the two of them working over a small table, their heads close together, immobile, all one could see there now were two flickering candles. It was a serious, silent love that united the two, its tone in fact set by Gisa, whose lethargic being sometimes went wild and broke all bounds but who on any other occasion would never have tolerated anything of the sort from others, and so even the lively Schwarzer was obliged to comply and to walk slowly, speak slowly, be silent much of the time; but for all this he was, as one could see, amply rewarded with Gisa’s simple calm presence. At the same time Gisa may not have loved him at all, at any rate her round and literally unblinking gray eyes, in which only the pupils seemed to move, gave no answer to such questions; though one could see that she tolerated Schwarzer without protest, she certainly didn’t know how to appreciate the honor of being loved by the son of a steward and always carried her full, voluptuous body in the same quiet manner, whether Schwarzer was following her with his eyes or not. Schwarzer, on the other hand, constantly made for her the sacrifice of remaining in the village; the messengers from his father who often came to pick him up he dismissed with great anger, as if such brief reminders of the Castle and of his duty as a son were seriously, irreparably compromising his happiness. And yet he actually had a great deal of free time, for Gisa generally let him see her only during classes and copybook corrections, though not out of calculation but simply because she particularly valued comfort and thus solitude and was probably happiest at home, completely free, stretched out on the settee with the cat, which wouldn’t disturb her, for it could barely move now. And so Schwarzer wandered about most of the day with nothing to do, but he liked that too, since it gave him an opportunity, which he often took advantage of, to go to Lion Street where Gisa lived, to climb the stairs to her small attic room, to listen at her always locked door, and then to leave, having always noticed in the room the most perfect inexplicable silence. Still, even in him the consequences of this kind of life occasionally manifested themselves, though never in Gisa’s presence, in the form of briefly rekindled, ridiculous outbursts of official arrogance, which were not exactly suited to his present position; and then things certainly didn’t turn out well, as K. knew from experience.
The only astonishing part was that people, at least those at the Bridge Inn, still spoke of Schwarzer with a certain respect, even concerning matters that were more ridiculous than significant, and this respect also extended to Gisa. But still it was wrong that Schwarzer should think that he, an assistant teacher, was greatly superior to K., there was no such superiority, a janitor is an important person for the teaching staff, even for a teacher such as Schwarzer, and if one cannot avoid despising him for reasons of social class, then one should at least make one’s disdain more tolerable by providing him with something suitable in return. K. intended to think about this some other time; besides, Schwarzer was indebted to him since that first evening, and the fact that the following few days had justified Schwarzer’s reception of him didn’t lessen that debt. For the thing to remember here was that his reception may have set the course for all subsequent events. Because of Schwarzer the full attention of the authorities had focused on K. right away in that first hour, rather absurdly so, for he was then a complete stranger in the village, without acquaintances, without a refuge, exhausted after the long walk, lying utterly helpless on the straw mattress, at the mercy of each official intervention. Had it been only one night later, everything would have happened differently, smoothly, virtually out of sight. In any case nobody would have known about him and they wouldn’t have become suspicious or hesitated before letting him spend a day here as a journeyman, they would have noticed his usefulness and reliability, the news about him would have spread throughout the neighborhood, and he would probably have soon found a place somewhere as a farmhand. Of course he would not have evaded the authorities. But there was a great difference between the main office, or whoever came to the telephone there, being aroused in the middle of the night and pressured into making an immediate decision, yes, pressured, seemingly with humility but actually with annoying persistence—by none other than Schwarzer, who was probably unpopular up at the Castle—a great difference between that and K. himself knocking on the door at the council chairman’s during office hours the following day and registering as a foreign journeyman who had already found a place to sleep at a local citizen’s and would probably continue his journey next day, unless, and this was most unlikely, he found work here, but then only for a few days, since he hadn’t the slightest intention of staying longer. This is what would have happened, or something of that sort, had it not been for Schwarzer. The authorities would have gone on dealing with the matter, but calmly through official channels, unruffled by the impatience of the individual party, whom they probably considered especially repugnant. Well of course K. was innocent in all this, the guilt lay with Schwarzer, but Schwarzer was the son of a steward, and outwardly he had indeed behaved correctly, so they could make K. alone pay for it. And what was the ridiculous reason for all this? Perhaps a bad-tempered mood of Gisa’s that day, owing to which Schwarzer couldn’t sleep and roamed about at night before finally taking out his woes on K. Of course from another point of view you could argue that K. owed a great deal to Schwarzer’s behavior. Only in that way had something become possible that K. would never have achieved on his own, would never have dared to attempt and that the authorities for their part would scarcely have admitted, namely, he had approached the authorities without making any shady moves, face to face, openly, insofar as this was at all possible with them. But that was a terrible gift; true, it spared K. a great many lies and deceptions, but it also deprived him of almost all his defenses, hampered him in the struggle and wou
ld have made him despair if he had not been obliged to tell himself that the difference between himself and the authorities in terms of power was so enormous that all the lies and cunning he would have been capable of wouldn’t have produced any significant reduction of that difference to his advantage and would necessarily have had to remain more or less negligible. But this was merely a thought with which K. was consoling himself, Schwarzer nevertheless owed him a favor; if he had harmed K. earlier, perhaps he could help in the near future, K. would continue to need help with the most trivial tasks, with the very first preconditions, since even Barnabas seemed to have failed. For Frieda’s sake, K. been reluctant to call at Barnabas’s to make inquiries; so as not to have to receive him in front of Frieda, he had worked outside and had stayed on here after work, waiting for Barnabas, but Barnabas hadn’t come. Well, the only course left was to go to the sisters, but only for a little while, he would simply ask them from the threshold, he would be back before long. And he rammed the shovel into the snow and ran. Breathless he arrived at Barnabas’s house, knocked quickly, flung open the door, and, without glancing around the room, asked: “Hasn’t Barnabas come?” It was only then he noticed that Olga wasn’t there, that the two old people were once again sitting half-asleep at a far-off table, that they hadn’t realized yet what happened at the door and were slow to turn their heads, and, finally, that Amalia lay on the bench by the stove covered with a few blankets and, in her initial fright at K.’s appearance, started and put her hand on her forehead in order to pull herself together. Had Olga been here, she would have answered immediately and K. could have left, but now he had to take those few steps over to Amalia, hold out his hand, which she silently pressed, and ask that she prevent her startled parents from wandering about, which she did with a couple of words. K. learned that Olga was chopping wood in the courtyard, and that Amalia, who was exhausted—she didn’t say why—had had to lie down a short while ago and, though Barnabas still hadn’t come, he would have to come soon, for he never stayed overnight at the Castle. K. thanked her for the information, now he could go; but Amalia asked whether he would wait a moment for Olga, unfortunately he no longer had time, and then Amalia asked whether he had already talked to Olga today, he said no in astonishment and asked whether Olga had anything special to tell him, Amalia screwed up her mouth as though she were slightly annoyed, nodded silently to K.—this was clearly a signal for him to leave—and lay back down again. From her reclining position she scrutinized him, as though surprised he was still there. Her gaze was cold, clear, as immobile as ever, it wasn’t directly fixed on what she was observing, but instead—and this was unsettling—went past it, only slightly, ever so imperceptibly, but undeniably so; it didn’t seem to be weakness, embarrassment, or dishonesty that caused this but rather a constant desire for solitude that dominated all other feelings and that she herself had perhaps only become conscious of in this way. K. thought he recalled that he had already been preoccupied by that gaze the first evening and that the disagreeable impression this family had instantly created was probably due to that gaze, which was not inherently disagreeable but rather proud and honest in its reserve. “You’re always so sad, Amalia,” said K., “is there something tormenting you? Can’t you tell me what it is? I have never seen a country girl like you. This has only just occurred to me today, right now. Are you from the village? Were you born here?” Amalia said yes, as if K. had asked only the second question, and then she said: “So you will wait for Olga?” “I don’t know why you keep asking me the same question,” said K. “I cannot stay because my fiancée is waiting for me at home.” Amalia was leaning on her elbow, she had never heard of his fiancée. K. mentioned her name, Amalia did not know her. She asked whether Olga knew of the engagement, K. thought she probably knew, Olga had actually seen him with Frieda; besides, news like that spread quickly in the village. But Amalia assured him that Olga knew nothing of this and that it would make her very unhappy since she seemed to be in love with K. She hadn’t spoken openly about this, for she was quite reserved, but then love always betrays itself involuntarily. K. said he was convinced that Amalia was mistaken. Amalia smiled, and her smile, sad though it was, brightened her bleak, drawn face, made her silence eloquent and her strangeness familiar, it was the surrender of a secret, the surrender of some hitherto closely guarded possession that could be reclaimed, but never fully. Amalia said she certainly wasn’t mistaken, she knew even more than that, she knew, for instance, that K. was also fond of Olga and that his visits, supposedly for some messages of Barnabas’s, were actually intended for Olga alone. But now that Amalia knew everything, he needn’t be so strict and could come by often. That’s all she had wanted to tell him. K. shook his head and reminded her of the engagement. Amalia didn’t seem to waste much thought on the engagement; the immediate impression of K. standing alone there was decisive for her, she merely asked when K. had met the girl, for he had been in the village only a few days. K. mentioned his going that evening to the Gentlemen’s Inn, upon which Amalia merely said curtly that she was very much against his being taken to the Gentlemen’s Inn. Turning to Olga, who came in just then with an armful of wood, she asked for confirmation; Olga, refreshed and fortified by the cold air, seemed vigorous and energetic as if transformed by work very different in nature from her usual lethargic standing about in this room. She threw down the wood, greeted K. boldly, and immediately asked about Frieda. K. gave Amalia a meaningful look, but she did not seem to think that her opinion had been refuted. A little irritated about this, K. spoke of Frieda in greater detail than he might otherwise have done, described the difficult conditions under which she had successfully run a household of sorts in the schoolhouse, and became so carried away in his haste to finish his account—he really wanted to go home at once—that by way of saying goodbye he invited the sisters to visit him sometime. But here he started and faltered, whereas Amalia immediately announced, without letting him say a word, that she would accept the invitation, Olga also had to go along with this, and did so. Yet K., hard-pressed because of the need to leave quickly and also uneasy under Amalia’s scrutiny, did not hesitate to admit without further embroidery that the invitation was ill-considered, having been prompted solely by personal sentiments, and that unfortunately he couldn’t honor it because of the great enmity between Frieda and the Barnabas household, which he found incomprehensible. “It isn’t enmity,” said Amalia, getting up from the bench and throwing the blanket down behind her, “it’s nothing that significant, only a slavish repetition of common opinion. And so go now, go to your fiancée, I can see you’re in a hurry. Besides, you needn’t fear our coming to visit, I first said yes, but only as a joke, out of malice. But you can come to see us often, there’s surely nothing to prevent that, and you can always use Barnabas’s messages as a pretext. I will make this even easier for you by telling you that even if Barnabas does bring you a message from the Castle he can no longer take it all the way to the school. He cannot run about so much, poor boy, his duties are wearing him out, you will have to come yourself to pick up your messages.” K. had never heard Amalia speak continuously at such length, it even sounded different from her normal speech, for it had a certain majesty, which was felt not only by K. but apparently also by Olga, her sister, who was after all well used to her; she stood a little to the side, hands in her lap, once again in her usual posture, legs apart, slightly stooped, keeping her eyes fixed on Amalia, who was looking only at K. “It’s a mistake,” said K., “a great mistake if you think I’m not serious about waiting for Barnabas; my greatest and indeed my only wish is to settle my affairs with the authorities. And Barnabas should help me to accomplish this, many of my hopes lie with him. True, he has disappointed me greatly, but that was more my fault than his. In the confusion of the first few hours I thought I could accomplish everything by means of a short evening walk, and when the impossible proved impossible I blamed him for it. It even affected my opinion of your family and of you. But that’s over, I think I can u
nderstand you better now, you’re even—” K. was searching for the right word, but couldn’t find it right away and made do with a rough equivalent—“perhaps you’re more good-natured than any of the other villagers, more so at least than the ones I have met so far. But Amalia, you’re putting me off again by belittling, if not your brother’s service, then what he means to me. Perhaps you aren’t initiated into Barnabas’s affairs, and that’s good; I am therefore willing to let the matter rest, but perhaps you are initiated—this seems more likely to me—and that’s bad, for it would mean that your brother is deceiving me.” “Calm down,” said Amalia, “I’m not initiated, nothing could persuade me to let myself be initiated, not even consideration for you, and I would do quite a lot for you, for we are, as you said, good-natured. But my brother’s affairs are his own concern, I know nothing about them other than what I get to hear now and then by chance, against my will. But Olga can give you the full story since she is his confidante.” And Amalia left, going first to her parents, with whom she exchanged whispers, and then to the kitchen; she had gone away without taking leave of K., as though she knew that he would stay a long time and that there was no need to say goodbye.