by Franz Kafka
Olga broke off. It was quiet except for her parents’ heavy and at times rattlelike breathing. K. said casually, as if elaborating on Olga’s story: “You put on a show for my benefit. Like an old, harried messenger Barnabas delivered the letter, and you as well as Amalia, who for once sided with you, pretended that the messenger service and the letters were simply something on the side.” “You must distinguish between the two of us,” said Olga, “those two letters made Barnabas a happy child again, despite all his doubts about his task. He confesses these doubts only to himself and to me, but he wants to find honor in your eyes by acting like a real messenger, the way he thinks real messengers act. And therefore, to give you one example, despite his increasing hope of obtaining an official suit, I had to tailor his trousers within two hours, so that they would at least resemble the tight-fitting trousers of the official clothing and he could pass muster in front of you, who in that respect are of course still quite easy to deceive. So much for Barnabas. But Amalia really despises the messenger service, and now that he’s apparently had some minor success, which she can easily detect from the way Barnabas and I sit about whispering, she despises it even more than before. She is therefore telling the truth, don’t ever fool yourself by doubting that. K., if I sometimes disparaged the messenger service, it was not with any intention of deceiving you but out of fear. The two letters that have passed through Barnabas’s hands so far are the first, if still rather doubtful, signs of favor that our family has received in three years. This change, if it actually is a change in fortune rather than an illusion—illusions are more common than changes in fortune—is connected to your arrival here, our fate has become somewhat dependent on you, perhaps these two letters are only the beginning and Barnabas’s occupation will soon go beyond delivering messages dealing with you—let’s hope so, for as long as we can—but for now everything is aimed solely at you. Up there we have to be satisfied with whatever they assign us, but down here perhaps we can do something for ourselves as well, namely: assure ourselves of your favor or at least preserve ourselves from your dislike or, most important, protect you to the best of our ability and experience so that you don’t end up losing your connection to the Castle, which we might be able to live on. What would be the best way to bring this about? So that you’re not suspicious of us when we approach you, for you are a stranger here and are no doubt filled with suspicion about everything, filled with justified suspicion. Besides, people despise us, and you’re influenced by that prevailing view, especially through your fiancée, so how should we get through to you without for example, however unintentionally, opposing your fiancée and hurting your feelings. And the messages, which I read carefully before you received them—Barnabas didn’t read them, as a messenger he wouldn’t allow himself to do so—first seemed quite unimportant, obsolete; they undermined their own importance by referring you to the council chairman. And how should we treat you in that regard? If we stressed their importance we would make people suspect that we were overrating something that was obviously so unimportant merely so as to recommend ourselves to you as the bearers of this news and to pursue our own ends instead of yours, and in the end we might even devalue the news in your eyes, and in that way, very much against our will, deceive you. But if we didn’t attach much importance to the letters we should make ourselves just as suspect, for why were we taking the time to deliver these unimportant letters, why did our behavior contradict our words, why were we deceiving not only you, the addressee, but our employer, who certainly hadn’t handed us the letters so that we would go and make statements that might lessen their value for the addressee. And staying in the middle between the exaggerations, that is, weighing the letters correctly is impossible, their value keeps changing, the thoughts that they prompt are endless and the point at which one happens to stop is determined only by accident and so the opinion one arrives at is just as accidental. And if fear for your sake comes into this too, then everything becomes confused; you shouldn’t judge these words of mine too harshly. If, for instance, as actually happened once, Barnabas comes with the news that you’re dissatisfied with his service as a messenger and that he himself has, in the initial shock and unfortunately not without showing some sign of a messenger’s testiness, offered to resign from this service, then I could, in order to make amends for the error, deceive, lie, swindle, and do absolutely any bad thing if it would only help. But then I’m doing it, at least that’s what I believe, as much for your sake as for ours.”
Someone knocked. Olga ran to the door and unlocked it. A streak of light from a covered lantern breached the darkness. The belated visitor asked questions in a whisper and received answers in a whisper but wasn’t satisfied with that and tried to force his way into the room. Olga evidently couldn’t hold him back any longer and therefore called Amalia, obviously in hopes that Amalia would, in an effort to protect her parents’ sleep, do anything to get rid of the visitor. And she actually did hurry over, push Olga aside, step out into the street, and shut the door behind her. It took only a moment, she came back right away, having quickly accomplished what Olga had been unable to do.
K. then learned from Olga that the visit had been intended for him, it had been one of the assistants, who had come to look for him on instructions from Frieda. Olga had tried to shield K. from the assistant; if K. wanted to confess his visit here to Frieda later on he was free to do so, but it shouldn’t be discovered by the assistant; K. gave his approval. But he declined Olga’s offer that he spend the night here waiting for Barnabas; he might have accepted this on its own merits, for it had already become quite late and it seemed to him that he was now so connected to this family, whether he wanted to be or not, that a night’s lodgings here, though perhaps embarrassing for other reasons, would because of that connection be the most natural place in the entire village for him; nevertheless, he refused, the assistant’s visit had startled him, it was incomprehensible to him that Frieda, who knew what he wanted, and the assistants, who had learned to fear him, should have teamed up again in such a way that Frieda even went so far as to send an assistant for him, but only one, the other must have stayed behind with her. He asked Olga whether she had a whip but she did not have one, though she had a good willow switch, which he took; then he asked whether there was any other exit from the house, there was one such exit through the courtyard, only then you had to clamber over the fence of the next-door garden and cross that garden before you came to the street. K. resolved to do so. While Olga was leading him across the courtyard to the fence, K. attempted to calm her worries by explaining that far from being angry at her because of the little tricks in her story he actually understood her quite well and wished to thank her for the confidence she had in him, which she had demonstrated through her story; he instructed her to send Barnabas back to the schoolhouse the moment he returned, even if it was still dark. Though Barnabas’s messages weren’t his only hope, otherwise he would be in a bad way, he certainly didn’t want to give them up, he wanted to hold on to them without forgetting Olga; almost more important to him than the messages was Olga herself, her bravery, her prudence, her cleverness, and her sacrifices for her family. If given a choice between Olga and Amalia, it wouldn’t take long to decide. And he pressed her hand warmly as he swung himself up onto the fence of the adjacent garden.
Once he stood out on the street he saw, insofar as he could see anything at all on this bleak night, the assistant walking back and forth up there outside Barnabas’s house, sometimes coming to a halt in an effort to shine a light through a curtained window into the room. K. called out to him; without seeming at all startled, he gave up spying on the house and came toward K. “Who are you looking for?” asked K., testing the suppleness of the willow switch on his thigh. “You,” said the assistant, coming closer. “Well, who are you?” K. suddenly said, since it did not seem to be the assistant. He seemed older, wearier, more wrinkled, but with a fuller face, even his gait was completely different from the assistants’, which was nimble
, as though their joints were electrified; he walked slowly, limping slightly, elegantly infirm. “You don’t recognize me,” said the man, “I’m Jeremias, your old assistant.” “Oh?” said K., pulling out the willow switch, which he had hidden behind his back. “But you look quite different.” “That’s because I’m alone,” said Jeremias. “When I’m alone, carefree youth is gone.” “So where’s Artur?” asked K. “Artur?” asked Jeremias, “the little darling? He has given up his duties. But you were a little too harsh with us. The delicate soul couldn’t stand it. He went back to the Castle and is filing a complaint against you.” “And you?” asked K. “I was able to stay,” said Jeremias, “Artur is filing the complaint for me too.” “What are you complaining about?” asked K. “We are complaining,” said Jeremias, “that you cannot take a joke. Now then, what did we do? Joked a bit, laughed a bit, teased your fiancée a bit. And all this, by the way, in accordance with instructions. When Galater sent us to you—” “Galater?” asked K. “Yes, Galater,” said Jeremias, “he was Klamm’s substitute at the time. When he sent us to you, he said—I remember since that’s what we’re referring to—‘You’re being sent there as assistants of the surveyor.’ We said: ‘But we don’t know anything about that kind of work.’ At that he said: ‘That isn’t so important; if it becomes necessary he will teach you. But it’s important that you should cheer him up a bit. From what I hear, he takes everything very seriously. He has come to the village and right away thinks this is some great event, but in reality it’s nothing at all. You should teach him that.’ ” “Well,” said K., “was Galater right and did you carry out your instructions?” “I don’t know,” said Jeremias, “in that short time it may not have been possible. All I know is that you were very crude, and that’s what we’re complaining about. I don’t understand how you, who are after all only an employee, and not even a Castle employee at that, can fail to see that this kind of duty is hard work and that it’s very wrong to make the work even more difficult for the worker, in a willful, almost childish manner, as you have done. How thoughtless it was of you to leave us freezing at the fence, or again how, on the mattress, you struck Artur an almost mortal blow, Artur, someone who feels the pain of a cross word for days; how that afternoon you chased me back and forth in the snow in such a way that I needed an hour to recover from the mad rush. After all, I’m no longer young!” “Dear Jeremias,” said K., “everything that you’re saying is right, only you should raise this matter with Galater. He sent the two of you here of his own free will, I didn’t request you from him. And since I didn’t ask for you, I was free to send you back and would rather have done so peacefully than by use of force, but that’s clearly how the two of you wanted it. By the way, when you first came to me, why didn’t you speak as openly as you do now?” “Because I was on duty,” said Jeremias, “but that goes without saying.” “And you’re no longer on duty?” asked K. “No longer,” said Jeremias, “Artur has given notice at the Castle, or at least the procedure is under way and should free us at last.” “But you’re still looking for me as though you were on duty,” said K. “No,” said Jeremias. “I’m looking for you only to reassure Frieda. When you left her because of the Barnabas girls she was very unhappy, not so much at the loss as at your having betrayed her, though she had seen it coming a long time and had already suffered a lot because of it. I had just come back to the schoolhouse window to see whether you mightn’t have become more reasonable. But you weren’t there, only Frieda was, sitting on a school bench, weeping. So I went up to her, and we came to an understanding. And everything has already been taken care of. I’m a room waiter at the Gentlemen’s Inn, at least while my case at the Castle remains unresolved, and Frieda is back in the taproom. It’s certainly better for Frieda this way. It made no sense for her to become your wife. Besides, you could not appreciate the sacrifice she was willing to make for you. But the good woman is having second thoughts, perhaps she actually wronged you, perhaps you weren’t really at Barnabas’s. Even though there was of course no doubt at all as to your whereabouts, I came here to establish conclusively that that was indeed the case; for after all that great excitement Frieda finally deserves a good night’s sleep, as do I. So I came here and not only found you but on the side also noticed the way those girls are at your beck and call. Especially that black-haired one—a real wildcat—put herself out for you. Well, each to his own taste. In any case there was no need for you to make that detour through the next-door garden, I know that path.”