The Trial: A New Translation Based on the Restored Text

by Franz Kafka

  “Look at the two of you sitting together,” cried Leni, who had returned with the bowl and paused at the door. In fact they were sitting quite close to one another; the slightest turn and they would bump their heads; the merchant, who apart from his short stature also stooped, had forced K. to bend low if he wanted to hear everything. “Just give us another minute,” K. said, putting Leni off, and the hand he still left placed on the merchant’s twitched impatiently. “He wanted me to tell him about my trial,” the merchant said to Leni. “Go ahead and tell him,” she said. She spoke tenderly to the merchant, but condescendingly as well, which didn’t please K; after all, as he now realized, the man had some merit, at least he had experience in these matters and could communicate it. Leni probably judged him unfairly. He watched with annoyance as Leni took the candle from the merchant, who had been gripping it firmly the whole time, wiped his hand with her apron, and then knelt down beside him to scratch away some wax that had dripped onto his trousers. “You were going to tell me about the shysters,” K. said, pushing Leni’s hand away without comment. “What do you think you’re doing?” asked Leni, giving K. a small tap and resuming her task. “Yes, the shysters,” said the merchant, and passed his hand across his brow, as if he were thinking. K. tried to prompt him by saying: “You wanted immediate results and so you went to the shysters.” “That’s right,” said the merchant, but didn’t continue. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to talk about it in front of Leni,” thought K., suppressing his impatience to hear the rest at once and pressing him no further.

  “Did you tell him I was here?” he asked Leni. “Of course,” she said, “he’s waiting for you. Now leave Block alone; you can always talk with Block later; he’s staying here after all.” K. hesitated a moment longer. “You’re staying here?” he asked the merchant; he wanted him to answer for himself, not to have Leni talking about the merchant as if he weren’t there; he was filled with hidden resentment against Leni today. Again only Leni answered: “He often sleeps here.” “Sleeps here?” cried K.; he’d thought the merchant would simply wait for him while he dealt quickly with the lawyer, and that they would then leave together and discuss everything thoroughly, without interruption. “Yes,” said Leni, “not everyone is allowed to see the lawyer whenever they wish, like you, Josef. You don’t seem at all surprised that the lawyer is receiving you at eleven o’clock at night, in spite of his illness. You take what your friends do for you too much for granted. Well, your friends do it gladly, or at least I do. I don’t want or need any other thanks than that you’re fond of me.” “Fond of you?” K. thought for a moment, and only then did it occur to him: “Well, I am fond of her.” Nevertheless he said, ignoring all the rest: “He receives me because I’m his client. If I needed outside help for that too, I’d be bowing and scraping at every step.” “He’s being very bad today, isn’t he?” Leni asked the merchant. “Now I’m the one who isn’t here,” thought K., and almost grew angry with the merchant as well, as the latter, adopting Leni’s rude manner, said: “The lawyer has other reasons for receiving him too. His case is much more interesting than mine. And his trial is in its beginning stages, and therefore probably not particularly muddled yet, so the lawyer still enjoys dealing with it. Things will be different later on.” “Yes, yes,” said Leni, and glanced at the merchant with a smile, “how he rattles on! You don’t dare believe him at all,” here she turned to K., “he’s as gossipy as he is sweet. Maybe that’s why the lawyer doesn’t like him. At any rate, he only sees him if he’s in a good mood. I’ve been trying hard to change that, but it’s impossible. Just think, sometimes I tell him Block’s here and it’s three days before he receives him. If Block isn’t on the spot when called, however, all is lost, and he has to be announced anew. That’s why I let Block sleep here; he’s been known to ring for him in the night. So now Block is ready nights as well. Sometimes, of course, if Block does prove to be here, the lawyer then retracts the order to admit him.” K. threw a questioning glance at the merchant. The merchant nodded and said as frankly as he had in speaking with K. earlier, perhaps forgetting himself in his embarrassment: “Yes, you grow very dependent on your lawyer later on.” “He’s just making a show of complaining,” said Leni. “He enjoys sleeping here, as he’s often confessed to me.” She walked over to a little door and pushed it open. “Do you want to see his bedroom?” she asked. K. walked over and gazed from the threshold into the low, windowless room, completely filled by a narrow bed. The only way to get into the bed was to climb over the bedposts. At the head of the bed was a niche in the wall in which a candle, inkwell and quill, as well as a sheaf of papers, probably trial documents, were meticulously arranged. “You sleep in the maid’s room?” asked K. and turned back toward the merchant. “Leni lets me have it,” answered the merchant, “it’s very convenient.” K. took a long look at him; perhaps his first impression of the merchant had been correct after all; he was experienced in these matters, since his trial had been under way for a long time, but he had paid dearly for that experience. Suddenly K. could no longer stand the sight of the merchant. “Put him to bed,” he cried to Leni, who seemed to have no idea what he meant. He himself wanted to see the lawyer, and by dismissing him, to free himself not only from the lawyer, but from Leni and the merchant as well. But before he reached the door, the merchant addressed him softly: “Herr K.” K. turned around with an angry look. “You’ve forgotten your promise,” said the merchant, and leaned forward imploringly from his chair toward K., “you were going to tell me a secret.” “That’s true,” said K., glancing at Leni as well, who regarded him attentively, “well, listen: it’s hardly a secret by now of course. I’m going to see the lawyer now to dismiss him.” “He’s dismissing him,” cried the merchant, jumping up from his chair and racing about the kitchen with his arms in the air. Again and again he cried out: “He’s dismissing his lawyer.” Leni immediately started for K., but the merchant got in her way and she struck him with her fists. Still clenching her fists, she ran after K., who, however, had a sizable lead. He had already entered the lawyer’s room when Leni caught up with him. He’d almost shut the door behind him, but Leni, who held the door open with her foot, grabbed him by the arm and tried to pull him back. He squeezed her wrist so hard, however, that she groaned and let him go. She didn’t dare enter the room at once, and K. locked the door with the key.

  “I’ve been waiting a long time for you,” said the lawyer from his bed, placing on the nightstand a document he’d been reading by candlelight and donning a pair of glasses, through which he peered sharply at K. Instead of apologizing, K. said: “I’ll be leaving soon.” Because K.’s remark was not an apology, the lawyer ignored it and said: “I’ll not see you again at such a late hour.” “That’s in accord with my desires,” said K. The lawyer looked at him inquisitively. “Sit down,” he said. “As you wish,” said K., pulling a chair up to the nightstand and sitting down. “It looked to me like you locked the door,” said the lawyer. “Yes,” said K., “because of Leni.” He intended to spare no one. But the lawyer asked: “Was she being too forward again?” “Too forward?” K. asked. “Yes,” said the lawyer with a chuckle, fell prey to a fit of coughing, then started chuckling again once it had passed. “You’ve no doubt noticed how forward she is?” he asked, patting K. on the hand he’d braced distractedly on the nightstand and now quickly withdrew. “You don’t attach much importance to it,” said the lawyer as K. remained silent, “so much the better. Otherwise I might have had to offer you my apologies. It’s a peculiarity of hers I’ve long since forgiven her for, and I wouldn’t bring it up at all if you hadn’t locked the door just now. This peculiarity, and of course you’re probably the last person I need to explain this to, but you look so perplexed that I will, this peculiarity consists in the fact that Leni finds most defendants attractive. She’s drawn to all of them, loves all of them, and of course appears to be loved by them in turn; she occasionally amuses me with stories about it, when I let her. I’m not nearly as surprised as
you seem to be. If you have an eye for that sort of thing, defendants are indeed often attractive. It is of course remarkable, in a sense almost a natural phenomenon. It’s clear no obvious change in appearance is noticeable once a person has been accused. The situation differs from a normal court case; most defendants continue to lead a normal life and, if they find a good lawyer who looks out for them, they aren’t particularly hampered by the trial. Nevertheless, an experienced eye can pick out a defendant in the largest crowd every time. On what basis? you may ask. My reply won’t satisfy you. The defendants are simply the most attractive. It can’t be guilt that makes them attractive, for—at least as a lawyer I must maintain this—they can’t all be guilty, nor can it be the coming punishment that renders them attractive in advance, for not all of them will be punished; it must be a result, then, of the proceedings being brought against them, which somehow adheres to them. Of course some are even more attractive than others. But they’re all attractive, even that miserable worm, Block.”

  By the time the lawyer had finished, K. had completely regained his composure; he even nodded emphatically at his final words, which reconfirmed his original conviction that the lawyer, now as always, was attempting to divert his attention from the main question by conveying general information having nothing to do with the matter at hand, which was what he had actually accomplished in K.’s case. The lawyer no doubt noticed that K. was putting up more resistance than usual on this occasion, for he now fell silent in order to allow K. a chance to speak, and when K. said nothing, he asked: “Have you come with some special purpose in mind today?” “Yes,” said K., shading the candle with his hand slightly, so he could see the lawyer better, “I wanted to tell you that as of today I no longer wish for you to represent me.” “Do I understand you correctly?” the lawyer asked, rising halfway up in bed and propping himself with one hand on the pillows. “I assume so,” said K., who was sitting there tensely, on the alert. “Well now, we can discuss this plan,” said the lawyer after a pause. “It’s no longer a plan,” said K. “That may be,” said the lawyer, “but still we mustn’t be too hasty.” He used the word “we” as if he had no intention of freeing K, as if he were still his advisor, even if he were no longer his legal representative. “There’s nothing hasty about it,” said K., standing up slowly and stepping behind his chair, “it’s been carefully considered, perhaps at even too great a length. The decision is final.” “Then permit me just a few more remarks,” said the lawyer, pulling off the quilt and sitting up on the edge of the bed. His bare, white-haired legs trembled in the cold. He asked K. to pass him a blanket from the divan. K. fetched the blanket and said: “There’s no reason to risk catching cold.” “The cause is important enough,” said the lawyer as he pulled the quilt around his upper body and then wrapped the blanket around his legs. “Your uncle is my friend, and I’ve grown fond of you as well over the course of time. I admit that openly. I needn’t be ashamed of it.” These emotional sentiments on the old man’s part were not welcomed by K., for they forced him to a more detailed explanation he would have preferred to avoid, and they disconcerted him as well, as he admitted openly to himself, although they could never, of course, cause him to retract his decision. “I appreciate your kind feelings,” he said, “and I realize you did as much as you could in my case, and in a manner you thought was in my interest. Recently, however, I’ve become convinced that isn’t enough. Naturally I would never attempt to persuade you, a much older and more experienced man, to adopt my point of view; if I’ve sometimes tried to do so instinctively, please forgive me, but as you say, the cause is important enough, and I’m convinced it’s necessary to intervene much more actively in the trial than has been done to this point.” “I understand,” said the lawyer, “you’re impatient.” “I’m not impatient,” said K., slightly irritated and choosing his words less carefully now. “You may have noticed during my first visit, when I came here with my uncle, that I wasn’t particularly concerned about the trial; when I wasn’t forcibly reminded of it, so to speak, I forgot it entirely. But my uncle insisted I ask you to represent me, and I did it to oblige him. One would have thought the trial would weigh less heavily upon me then; the point of engaging a lawyer is to shift the burden of the trial in part from one’s self. But the opposite occurred. I never had as many worries about the trial as I did from the moment you began to represent me. When I was on my own I did nothing about my case, but I hardly noticed it; now, on the other hand, I had someone representing me, everything was set so that something was supposed to happen, I kept waiting expectantly for you to take action, but nothing was done. Of course you passed on various bits of information about the court I might not have garnered from anyone else. But I don’t find that sufficient when the trial is positively closing in on me in secret.” K. had pushed the chair away and was standing there with his hands in his pockets. “From a certain point onward in one’s practice,” the lawyer said softly and calmly, “nothing really new ever happens. How many clients at a similar stage in their trial have stood before me as you do now and spoken similar words.” “Then all those similar clients,” said K. “were as much in the right as I am. That doesn’t refute what I say.” “I wasn’t trying to refute you,” said the lawyer, “but I was about to add that I expected better judgment from you than from the others, particularly since I’ve given you a greater insight into the workings of the court and my own actions than I normally do for clients. And now I’m forced to realize that in spite of everything, you have too little confidence in me. You don’t make things easy for me.” How the lawyer was humbling himself before K.! With no consideration at all for the honor of his profession, which was doubtless most sensitive in such matters. And why was he doing it? He appeared to be a busy lawyer and a rich man as well, so the loss of the fee itself or of one client couldn’t mean that much to him. And given his illness, he should be thinking about reducing his workload anyway. Nevertheless, he was holding on tight to K. Why? Was it out of personal consideration for his uncle, or did he truly find K.’s trial so extraordinary that he hoped to distinguish himself on K.’s behalf, or—the possibility could never be entirely dismissed—on behalf of his friends at court? His demeanor revealed nothing, no matter how sharply K. scrutinized him. You might almost think he was awaiting the effect of his words with a deliberately blank expression. But he evidently interpreted K.’s silence all too positively, for he now continued: “You will have noticed I have a large office but employ no staff. Things used to be different; there was a time when several young lawyers worked for me, but today I work alone. That’s due in part to a change in my practice, in that I restrict myself increasingly to legal matters like yours, in part to a deepening insight I’ve gained through such cases. I found I didn’t dare delegate this work to anyone else if I wished to avoid sinning against my client and the task I’d undertaken. But the decision to handle everything myself had certain natural consequences: I had to turn down most requests to represent clients and could only relent in cases I found of particular interest—well, there are plenty of wretched creatures, even right in this neighborhood, ready to fling themselves on the smallest crumb I cast aside. And I fell ill from overwork as well. Nevertheless, I don’t regret my decision; perhaps I should have refused more cases than I did, but devoting myself entirely to the trials I did take on proved absolutely necessary and was rewarded by success. I once read an essay in which I found the difference between representing a normal case and representing one of this sort expressed quite beautifully. It said: one lawyer leads his client by a slender thread to the judgment, but the other lifts his client onto his shoulders and carries him to the judgment and beyond, without ever setting him down. That’s how it is. But I wasn’t quite accurate when I said I never regretted this difficult task. When, as in your case, it’s so completely misunderstood, well then, I almost do regret it.” This speech, instead of convincing K., merely increased his impatience. From the lawyer’s tone, he gathered some sense of what awaited him
if he gave in, the vain promises that would begin anew, the references to progress on the petition, to the improved mood of the court officials, but also to the immense difficulties involved—in short, everything K. already knew ad nauseam would be trotted out once again to lure him with vague hopes and torment him with vague threats. He had to put a clear stop to that, and so he said: “What steps will you take in my case if you continue to represent me?” The lawyer bowed to even this insulting question and answered: “I’ll continue along the lines I’ve already taken.” “I knew it,” said K., “well, there’s no need to waste another word.” “I’ll make one more attempt,” said the lawyer, as if what was upsetting K. was affecting to him instead. “I suspect that what’s led both to your false judgment of my legal assistance and to your general behavior is that, in spite of being an accused man, you’ve been treated too well, or to put it more accurately, you’ve been treated with negligence, with apparent negligence. There’s a reason for this as well; it’s often better to be in chains than to be free. But I’d like to show you how other defendants are treated; perhaps you’ll be able to draw a lesson from it. I’m going to call Block in now; unlock the door and sit down here beside the nightstand.” “Gladly,” said K. and did as the lawyer asked; he was always ready to learn. But as a general precaution, he asked as well: “You do understand, however, that I’m dispensing with your services?” “Yes,” said the lawyer, “but you can still retract that decision today.” He lay back down in bed, pulled the quilt up to his chin, and turned toward the wall. Then he rang.