by Franz Kafka
He was still shaking his head about it when the assistant stepped up beside him and pointed out three gentlemen sitting there in the outer room on a bench. They had been waiting to see K. for some time. Now that the assistant was speaking to K. they stood up, each seeking a favorable opportunity to approach K. before the others. Since the bank had been inconsiderate enough to waste their time in the waiting room, they were not about to show any further consideration themselves. “Sir,” one of them was saying. But K. had asked the assistant to bring him his winter coat and, as the assistant helped him on with it, said to all three: “Pardon me, gentlemen, but unfortunately I have no time to receive you now. I do beg your pardon, but I have an urgent business errand to attend to and have to leave immediately. You see how long I’ve been tied up. Would you be so kind as to come again tomorrow, or some other time? Or could we possibly handle the matter by phone? Or could you tell me briefly now what it is you wanted and I’ll give you a full reply in writing. Of course the best thing would be to come again soon.” K.’s suggestions so astonished the gentlemen, who had evidently waited entirely in vain, that they stared at each other in total speechlessness. “It’s settled then?” asked K., turning to the assistant, who now brought him his hat as well. Through the open door of K.’s office one could see that the snow was falling much more heavily outside. Therefore K. turned up his coat collar and buttoned it up to his neck.
Just at that moment the vice president stepped out of the adjoining room, smiled as he saw K. in his winter coat conferring with the men, and asked: “Are you on your way out, Herr K.?” “Yes,” said K., drawing himself up, “I have a business errand to attend to.” But the vice president had already turned to the other men. “And these gentlemen?” he asked. “I believe they’ve been waiting a long time.” “We’ve already worked that out,” said K. But now the men could be held back no longer; they surrounded K. and declared that they wouldn’t have waited all these hours if they hadn’t had important business that needed to be discussed at once, in detail and privately, person to person. The vice president listened to them for a while, regarded K., who held his hat in his hand and was wiping a few spots of dust off it, and then said: “Gentlemen there’s a simple solution. If you’ll be kind enough to come along with me, I will gladly confer with you in place of the financial officer. Of course your business must be discussed at once. We’re businessmen like yourselves, and we know how valuable a businessman’s time is. Won’t you come in?” And he opened the door that led into the waiting room of his office.
How good the vice president was at appropriating everything K. was forced to relinquish! But wasn’t K. relinquishing more than was really necessary? While he was running off to an unknown painter with vague and, he must admit, quite slender hopes, his reputation here was suffering irreparable damage. It would probably have been much better to remove his winter coat and try to win back at least the two gentlemen who were still waiting in the next room. And K. might have tried to do so, had he not seen the vice president in his office, searching through the bookcase as if it were his own. As K. approached the door in agitation, the vice president exclaimed: “Oh, you haven’t left yet.” He turned his face toward him, its many deeply scored lines seeming to signal strength rather than age, and immediately renewed his search. “I was looking for the copy of a contract,” he said, “that the firm’s representative says you’re supposed to have. Won’t you help me look?” K. took a step, but the vice president said: “Thanks, I’ve just found it,” and turned back into his office with a thick stack of documents that obviously contained much more than just the copy of the contract.
“I’m no match for him at the moment,” K. said to himself, “but once I’ve dispensed with my personal difficulties, he’s going to get it and get it good.” Somewhat comforted by this thought, K. instructed the assistant, who had been holding the hall door open for him for some time, to inform the president when he got the chance that he was out on a business errand, then left the bank, almost happy to be able to devote himself totally to his case for a while.
He drove at once to the painter, who lived in a suburb that lay in a completely opposite direction from the one with the law court offices. It was an even poorer neighborhood; the buildings were darker, the narrow streets filled with filth floating slowly about on the melting snow. In the building where the painter lived, only one wing of the great double door stood open; at the bottom of the other wing, however, near the wall, there was a gaping hole from which, just as K. approached, a disgusting, steaming yellow fluid poured forth, before which a rat fled into the nearby sewer. At the bottom of the steps a small child was lying face down on the ground, crying, but it could hardly be heard above the noise coming from a sheet-metal shop beyond the entranceway. The door of the workshop stood open; three workers were standing around some object in a half-circle, beating on it with hammers. A great sheet of tin hanging on the wall cast a pale shimmer that flowed between two workers, illuminating their faces and work aprons. K. merely glanced at all this; he wanted to finish up here as fast as possible, just see what he could learn from the painter with a few words and go straight back to the bank. If he had even the slightest success here, it would still have a good effect on that day’s work at the bank. On the third floor he was forced to slow his pace; he was completely out of breath; the steps were unusually high and the flights unusually long, and the painter supposedly lived right at the top in an attic room. The air was oppressive as well; there was no stairwell, the narrow stairs were closed in on both sides by walls with only a few small windows here and there, high up near the ceiling. Just as K. paused for a moment, a few little girls ran out of an apartment and rushed on up the stairs laughing. K. followed them slowly, caught up with one of the girls, who had stumbled and remained behind the others, and asked as they continued to climb the stairs together: “Does a painter named Titorelli live here?” The girl, thirteen at most, and somewhat hunchbacked, poked him with her elbow and peered up at him sideways. Neither her youth nor her deformity had prevented her early corruption. She didn’t even smile, but instead stared boldly and invitingly at K. Ignoring her behavior, K. asked: “Do you know the painter Titorelli?” She nodded and asked in turn: “What do you want with him?” K. thought it would be to his advantage to pick up a little quick knowledge about Titorelli: “I want him to paint my portrait,” he said. “Paint your portrait?” she asked, opening her mouth wide and pushing K. lightly with her hand, as if he had said something extraordinarily surprising or gauche; then she lifted her little skirt, which was extremely short to begin with, with both hands and ran as fast as she could after the other girls, whose cries were already disappearing indistinctly above. At the very next landing, however, K. met up with all the girls again. They had evidently been informed of K.’s intentions by the hunchback and were waiting for him. They stood on both sides of the steps, pressed themselves against the walls so that K. could pass comfortably between them, and smoothed their smocks with their hands. Their faces as well as the guard of honor they formed conveyed a mixture of childishness and depravity. Above, at the head of the group of girls, who now closed around K. laughingly, was the hunchback, who took over the lead. It was thanks to her that K. found his way so easily. He had intended to go straight on up the stairs, but she showed him he had to take a stairway off to the side to reach Titorelli. The stairway that led to him was particularly narrow, extremely long, without a turn, visible along its entire length, and ended directly at Titorelli’s door. This door, which compared to the rest of the stairway was relatively well illuminated by a small skylight set at an angle above it, was constructed of unfinished boards, upon which the name Titorelli was painted in red with broad brushstrokes. K. was barely halfway up the stairs with his retinue when the door above them opened slightly, apparently in response to the sound of all the feet, and a man appeared in the crack of the door, seemingly dressed only in his nightshirt. “Oh!” he cried as he saw the crowd approaching, and disappeared. T
he hunchback clapped her hands with joy and the rest of the girls pushed behind K. to hurry him along.
They weren’t even all the way up yet, however, when the painter flung the door open wide and with a deep bow invited K. to enter. The girls, on the other hand, he fended off, he wouldn’t let a single one in, no matter how they begged, no matter how hard they tried to push their way in, if not with his permission, then against his will. Only the hunchback managed to slip under his outstretched arm, but the painter raced after her, seized her by the skirts, whirled her once around him, and then set her back down in front of the door with the other girls, who had not dared cross the threshold when the painter abandoned his post. K. didn’t know how to judge all this; it looked as if the whole thing was happening on friendly terms. The girls by the door craned their necks one after the other, called out various humorously intended remarks to the painter that K. couldn’t catch, and the painter laughed as well while the hunchback almost flew in his hands. Then he shut the door, bowed to K. again, held out his hand, and introduced himself: “I’m Titorelli, the artist.” K. pointed to the door, behind which the girls were whispering, and said: “You seem very popular here in the building.” “Oh those brats!” said the painter, and tried in vain to button his nightshirt around his neck. He was barefoot as well, and otherwise wore nothing but a pair of roomy yellow linen trousers, tied with a belt whose long end dangled loosely. “Those brats are a real burden to me,” he went on, giving up on his nightshirt, the last button of which had now come off, and fetching a chair, on which he made K. sit. “I painted one of them once—she isn’t even here today—and they’ve been pestering me ever since. If I’m here, they only come in when I let them, but if I go away, there’s always at least one of them here. They’ve had a key made to my door and lend it to each other. You can’t imagine how annoying that is. For instance I come home with a lady I’m supposed to paint, open the door with my key, and find let’s say the hunchback sitting at the little table there, painting her lips red with the brush, while her little sisters, the ones she’s supposed to be watching, wander around making a mess in every corner of the room. Or, as happened only yesterday, I come home late at night—in light of which I hope you’ll pardon my state and the disorder of the room—I come home late at night and start to get in bed when something pinches my leg; I look under the bed and pull out another one. Why they push themselves on me so I don’t know; you’ll have noticed yourself that I don’t try to lure them in. Of course they disturb my work too. If this atelier weren’t provided for me free, I would have moved out long ago.” Just then a small voice called from behind the door, softly and timidly: “Titorelli, can we come in yet?” “No,” answered the painter. “Not even just me?” it asked again. “Not even you,” said the painter, walking over to the door and locking it.
In the meantime K. had been looking around the room; he would never have imagined that anyone could refer to this miserable little room as an atelier. You could scarcely take two long strides in any direction. Everything was made of wood, the floor, the walls, the ceiling; you could see narrow cracks between the boards. A bed stood against the wall across from K., piled high with bedding of various colors. On an easel in the middle of the room stood a painting covered by a shirt with its arms dangling to the floor. Behind K. was the window, through which one could see no farther in the fog than the snow-covered roof of the neighboring building.
The key turning in the lock reminded K. that he had intended to stay only a short while. So he pulled the manufacturer’s letter from his pocket, handed it to the painter, and said: “I learned about you from this gentleman, whom you know, and I’ve come at his suggestion.” The painter skimmed through the letter and tossed it onto the bed. Had the manufacturer not clearly spoken of Titorelli as someone he knew, a poor man dependent upon his alms, one might have easily believed Titorelli had no idea who the manufacturer was, or at any rate couldn’t recall him. Moreover, the painter now asked: “Do you wish to buy paintings or to have your portrait painted?” K. looked at the painter in amazement. What was in that letter? K. had taken it for granted that the manufacturer’s letter informed the painter that K. wished only to inquire about his trial. He had rushed over too quickly, without thinking! But now he had to give the painter some sort of answer, so he said with a glance at the easel: “Are you working on a painting now?” “Yes,” said the painter and tossed the shirt that was hanging over the easel onto the bed alongside the letter. “It’s a portrait. A nice job, but it’s not quite finished yet.” Luck was on K.’s side; the opportunity to talk about the court was being handed to him on a platter, for it was clearly the portrait of a judge. Moreover it was strikingly similar to the painting in the lawyer’s study. Of course this was a completely different judge, a fat man with a black bushy beard that hung far down the sides of his cheeks, and that had been an oil painting, while this was faintly and indistinctly sketched in pastel. But everything else was similar, for here too the judge was about to rise up threateningly from his throne, gripping its arms. “That must be a judge,” K. started to say, but then held back for a moment and approached the picture as if he wanted to study it in detail. He was unable to interpret a large figure centered atop the back of the throne and asked the painter about it. “I still have some work to do on it,” answered the painter, taking a pastel crayon from the little table and adding a few strokes to the contours of the figure, without, however, making it any clearer to K. in the process. “It’s the figure of Justice,” the painter finally said. “Now I recognize it,” said K., “there’s the blindfold over her eyes and here are the scales. But aren’t those wings on her heels, and isn’t she in motion?” “Yes,” said the painter, “I’m commissioned to do it that way, it’s actually Justice and the goddess of Victory in one.” “That’s a poor combination,” said K. smiling, “Justice must remain at rest, otherwise the scales sway and no just judgment is possible.” “I’m just following the wishes of the person who commissioned it,” said the painter. “Yes, of course,” said K. who hadn’t meant to hurt anyone’s feelings by his remark. “You’ve painted the figure the way it actually appears on the throne.” “No,” said the painter, “I’ve seen neither the figure nor the throne, that’s all an invention; but I was told what to paint.” “What do you mean?” asked K., intentionally acting as if he didn’t really understand the painter; “that’s surely a judge sitting in a judge’s chair.” “Yes,” said the painter, “but it’s not a high judge, and he hasn’t ever sat in a throne like that.” “And yet he allows himself to be portrayed in such a solemn pose? He’s sitting there like the president of the court.” “Yes, the gentlemen are vain,” said the painter. “But they have higher permission to be painted that way. There are precise instructions as to how each of them may be portrayed. But unfortunately it’s impossible to judge the details of his attire and the chair in this picture; pastels aren’t really suitable for these portraits.” “Yes,” said K., “it’s strange that it’s done in pastel.” “The judge wanted it that way,” said the painter, “it’s intended for a lady.” Looking at the painting seemed to have made him want to work on it; he rolled up the sleeves of his nightshirt, picked up a few pastels, and K. watched as, beneath the trembling tips of the crayons, a reddish shadow took shape around the judge’s head and extended outward in rays toward the edges of the picture. Gradually this play of shadow surrounded the head like an ornament or a sign of high distinction. But, except for an imperceptible shading, brightness still surrounded the figure of Justice, and in this brightness the figure seemed to stand out strikingly; now it scarcely recalled the goddess of Justice, or even that of Victory, now it looked just like the goddess of the Hunt. The painter’s work attracted K. more than he wished; at last, however, he reproached himself for having been there so long without having really undertaken anything for his own case. “What’s the name of this judge?” he asked suddenly. “I’m not allowed to say,” replied the painter; he was bent low over the painting and poin
tedly ignoring his guest, whom he had at first received so courteously. K. assumed this was a passing mood and was annoyed because it was causing him to lose time. “I take it you’re a confidant of the court?” he asked. The painter laid aside his pastels at once, straightened up, rubbed his hands together, and looked at K. with a smile. “Just come straight out with the truth,” he said, “you want to learn something about the court, as it says in your letter of introduction, and you discussed my paintings first to win me over. But I don’t hold that against you, you had no way of knowing that doesn’t work with me. Oh, come on!” he said sharply, as K. tried to object. And then continued: “By the way, your remark was quite accurate, I am a confidant of the court.” He paused as if to allow K. time to come to terms with this fact. Now the girls could be heard again behind the door. They were probably crowding around the keyhole; perhaps they could see in through the cracks as well. K. made no attempt to excuse himself, not wishing to sidetrack the painter, but neither did he wish the painter to become too arrogant and move as it were beyond his reach, so he asked: “Is that an officially recognized position?” “No,” said the painter curtly, as if that was all he had to say about it. But K. had no wish to see him fall silent and said: “Well, such unofficial positions often carry more influence than ones that are recognized.” “That’s how it is with mine,” said the painter, and nodded with a frown. “I discussed your case yesterday with the manufacturer; he asked me whether I would be willing to help you, I replied: ‘The man can come see me sometime,’ and I’m pleased to see you here so soon. You seem to be taking the affair to heart, which doesn’t surprise me in the least, of course. But wouldn’t you like to take your coat off?” Although K. intended to stay for only a short while, the painter’s suggestion was quite welcome. The air in the room had gradually become oppressive; he had glanced over several times at a small and obviously unlit iron stove in the corner; the closeness in the room was inexplicable. As he took off his winter coat and then unbuttoned his jacket as well, the painter said apologetically: “I have to keep it warm. It’s cozy in here, isn’t it? The room is well situated in that respect.” K. did not reply to this, but actually it wasn’t the warmth that made him uncomfortable, it was the muggy atmosphere that rendered breathing difficult; the room probably hadn’t been aired for ages. This unpleasantness was intensified for K. by the fact that the painter had him sit on the bed, while he himself sat before the easel in the only chair in the room. Moreover the painter seemed to misunderstand K.’s reason for remaining perched on the edge of the bed; he even told K. to make himself comfortable and, when K. hesitated, he walked over and pressed him deep into the bedding and pillows. Then he returned to his chair and finally asked his first factual question, which made K. forget everything else. “Are you innocent?” he asked. “Yes,” said K. Answering this question was a positive pleasure, particularly since he was making the statement to a private citizen, and thus bore no true responsibility. No one had ever asked him so openly. To savor this pleasure to the full, he added: “I am totally innocent.” “Well then,” said the painter, bowing his head and apparently considering this. Suddenly he lifted his head again and said: “If you’re innocent, then the matter is really quite simple.” K.’s face clouded over; this so-called confidant of the court was talking like an ignorant child. “My innocence doesn’t simplify the matter,” said K. He had to smile in spite of himself and shook his head slowly. “A number of subtle points are involved, in which the court loses its way. But then in the end it pulls out some profound guilt from somewhere where there was originally none at all.” “Yes, yes, of course,” said the painter, as if K. were needlessly interrupting his train of thought. “But you are innocent?” “Well, yes,” said K. “That’s the main thing,” said the painter. He couldn’t be swayed by counterarguments, but in spite of his decisiveness, it wasn’t clear whether he was speaking from conviction or indifference. K. wanted to determine that first, and so he said: “You certainly know the court much better than I do; I don’t know much more about it than what I’ve heard, from all sorts of people of course. But they’re all in agreement that charges are never made frivolously, and that the court, once it brings a charge, is convinced of the guilt of the accused, and that it is difficult to sway them from this conviction.” “Difficult?” asked the painter, throwing one hand in the air. “The court can never be swayed from it. If I were to paint all the judges in a row on this canvas and you were to plead your case before them, you would have more success than before the actual court.” “Yes,” K. said to himself, forgetting that he had only intended to sound out the painter.