The Trial: A New Translation Based on the Restored Text

by Franz Kafka

  “I knew nothing of this friendship,” said the president, and only a faint friendly smile softened the severity of these words.

  TO ELSA

  One evening shortly before quitting time, K. was instructed by phone to appear immediately at the law court offices. He was warned against any failure to obey. His outrageous statements—that the interrogations were useless, that they could and would yield nothing, that he would refuse to appear again, that he would ignore all summons, whether by phone or in writing, and throw any messengers out the door—all these statements had been entered into the record and had already done him considerable damage. Why was he refusing to cooperate? After all, weren’t they attempting to straighten out his complex case, regardless of the time and cost? Was he going to wantonly disturb this process and force them to violent measures he had thus far been spared? Today’s summons was a final attempt. He could do as he wished, but he should bear in mind that the high court could not permit itself to be mocked.

  Now K. had set up his visit with Elsa for that evening, and this alone was reason enough not to appear in court; he was pleased he could justify his failure to appear before the court, although of course he would never make use of this excuse, and what’s more would probably have refused to appear in court even if he’d had no other obligation of any kind that evening. Nevertheless, fully aware he had a good excuse, he asked over the phone what would happen if he didn’t come. “We’ll know how to find you,” was the reply. “And will I be punished for failing to come of my own free will?” asked K. and smiled in anticipation of what he would hear. “No,” was the reply. “Splendid,” said K., “but then what possible reason do I have to comply with today’s summons?” “People generally avoid inciting the court to exercise its powers on them,” said the voice, becoming fainter and finally dying away. “It would be very unwise not to incite them,” thought K. as he left, “after all, one should try to get to know those powers.”

  He drove directly to Elsa without delay. Leaning back comfortably in the corner of the cab, his hands in his coat pockets—it was already turning cool—he observed the busy streets. He meditated with a certain satisfaction on the fact that if the court was truly in session, he was causing it no small difficulty. He hadn’t said clearly whether or not he would appear in court; thus the judge was waiting, perhaps the entire assembly was waiting; K. alone would fail to appear, to the particular disappointment of the gallery. Unperturbed by the court, he was heading exactly where he wanted to go. For a moment he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t absentmindedly given the driver the court’s address, so he called out Elsa’s address loudly to him; the driver nodded, he had been given no other. From then on K. gradually forgot about the court, and thoughts of the bank began to occupy him fully once more, as in earlier times.

  STRUGGLE WITH THE VICE PRESIDENT

  One morning K. felt much fresher and more resistant than usual. He scarcely thought about the court at all; when it did come to mind, however, it seemed to him as if there must be some grip, hidden of course, one would have to feel about in the dark, by means of which this huge and totally obscure organization could easily be seized, pulled up, and destroyed. His unusual state even tempted K. to invite the vice president into his office to discuss a business matter that had been pending for some time. On such occasions the vice president always acted as if his relationship to K. had not changed in the least over the past months. He would enter calmly, just as in the early period of his continuous rivalry with K., listen equally calmly to K.’s exposition, show his interest by brief remarks of a confidential and even comradely nature, and would confuse K., but not necessarily intentionally, only by refusing to allow himself to be deflected in any way from the main business at hand and devoting himself to the affair literally to the depths of his being, while in the face of this model of conscientiousness K.’s thoughts would begin at once to swarm in every direction, forcing him to turn the matter itself over to the vice president with scarcely any show of resistance. On one occasion things got so bad that K. finally took notice only when the vice president stood up abruptly and returned to his office without a word. K. didn’t know what had happened; it was possible that the conference had come to a proper conclusion, but it was equally possible that the vice president had broken it off because K. had unknowingly offended him, or said something nonsensical, or because it had become abundantly clear to the vice president that K. was no longer listening and had his mind on other things. It was even possible that K. had made some ludicrous decision, or that the vice president had elicited it from him and was now rushing to put it into effect, to K.’s detriment. The affair had not been brought up again either; K. had no wish to recall it and the vice president himself remained taciturn; there were no further visible consequences of course, at least for the time being. In any case K. was not intimidated by the incident, and whenever a suitable opportunity arose and he felt even partially up to it, he would be right at the vice president’s door, ready to enter or to invite him into his own office. Now was not the time to hide from him, as he had done in the past. He no longer hoped for a quick and decisive victory that would free him all at once from every care and automatically reestablish his old relationship to the vice president. K. realized he didn’t dare let up; if he retreated, as the state of things perhaps demanded, there was a chance he might never be able to advance again. The vice president must not be left with the impression that K. had been disposed of; he mustn’t be allowed to sit quietly in his office under that impression, he had to be disturbed, he had to be made aware as often as possible that K. was alive, and that, like all living things, he might one day show surprising new capabilities, no matter how harmless he appeared at the moment. Indeed K. sometimes told himself that he was simply struggling to protect his honor, for in actuality it could do him little good in his present state of weakness to keep confronting the vice president, strengthening the latter’s feeling of power and giving him the opportunity to make observations and take measures precisely suited to the immediate circumstances. But K. could not change his behavior; he succumbed to self-deception: he sometimes believed quite firmly that he could now compete with the vice president without worrying; the most disheartening practical experiences taught him nothing, and if he failed at a thing ten times, he thought he could succeed on the eleventh try, in spite of the fact that everything went wrong with unvarying regularity. When, after such a confrontation, he came away exhausted, perspiring, his mind empty, he no longer knew if it had been hope or despair that had driven him to the vice president, but next time it was again totally clear that hope alone impelled him toward the vice president’s door.

  So it was today as well. The vice president entered at once, then paused near the door, polished his pince-nez in a newly adopted habit, and regarded first K. and then, in order not to be too obviously concerned with K., the whole room as well, in greater detail. He seemed to be taking advantage of the opportunity to test his vision. K. withstood his gaze, even smiled slightly, and invited the vice president to sit down. He himself dropped into his armchair, moved it as close as possible to the vice president, picked up the necessary papers immediately from his desk, and began his report. At first the vice president scarcely seemed to listen. The surface of K.’s desk was bordered by a low carved balustrade. The entire desk was splendid work and even the balustrade was firmly set into the wood. But the vice president acted as if he had just discovered it was coming loose and attempted to correct the problem by banging on the balustrade sharply with his index finger. K. started to break off his report, but the vice president urged him to go on, since, as he explained, he was listening carefully and following it all. But while K. was unable in the meantime to elicit a single pertinent remark from him, the balustrade appeared to call for special measures, for the vice president now pulled out his pocket knife, took K.’s ruler as a counterlever, and attempted to pry up the balustrade, in all likelihood to make it easier to push it back in more firmly. K. had i
ncorporated a completely new type of proposal in his report, one he expected would make a major impression on the vice president, and as he now came to this proposal he could hardly contain himself, so caught up was he in his own work, or rather so pleased was he to enjoy the increasingly rare conviction that he still was of importance to the bank, and that his ideas had the power to vindicate him. Perhaps this way of defending himself was best, not only in the bank but in his trial as well, much better perhaps than any other defense he had tried thus far or planned. Since he was speaking rapidly, K. had no time to draw the vice president explicitly away from his work on the balustrade; he merely stroked the balustrade two or three times with his free hand as he read aloud, as if in reassurance, to show the vice president, almost without realizing it, that there was no problem with the balustrade and that even if there were, it was more important at the moment for him to listen, and more proper than any repair work. But, as is often the case with active men who devote themselves solely to mental labor, this small practical task had excited the zeal of the vice president; a section of the balustrade had at last indeed been lifted, and it was now a case of reinserting the little pegs in their respective holes. This was the most difficult task yet. The vice president had to stand up and try to press the balustrade back into the desktop with both hands. But in spite of all his efforts it wouldn’t go in. While he had been reading aloud—ad-libbing a good deal as well—K. had only dimly perceived that the vice president had arisen. Although he had almost never lost sight of the vice president’s activities, he had nonetheless assumed that the vice president’s movements were still related in some way to his presentation, so he stood up as well, and with his finger pressed beneath a figure he held out a sheet of paper to the vice president. In the meantime, however, the vice president had come to realize that the pressure of his hands was insufficient, and so with sudden decisiveness he sat on the balustrade with his full weight. Of course that did it; now the little pegs went squeaking into the holes, but in the rush one peg broke off and in another place the delicate upper strip broke in two. “Poor-quality wood,” said the vice president with annoyance, got off the desk and sat

  THE BUILDING

  With no definite purpose in mind at first, K. had tried on various occasions to discover the location of the office from which the initial notification of his case had been issued. He found out without difficulty; both Titorelli and Wolfhart gave him the exact number of the building the first time he asked. Later, with a smile that he always held in reserve for secret plans that K. had not submitted for his assessment, Titorelli filled in this information by maintaining that the office was not of the slightest importance, that it simply communicated whatever it was instructed to, and was merely the external agent of the vast Office of Prosecution itself, which was of course inaccessible to the parties involved. So if you wished something from the Office of Prosecution—there were always many wishes of course, but it wasn’t always wise to express them—then naturally you had to turn to the lower office in question, but in doing so you could neither make your way to the actual Office of Prosecution, nor ever convey your wish to them.

  K. was already familiar with the painter’s nature, so he didn’t contradict him, nor inquire further, but simply nodded and took note of what had been said. Again it seemed to him, as so often in the recent past, that as far as torture went, Titorelli was filling in quite amply for the lawyer. The only difference consisted in the fact that K. was less dependent on Titorelli, and could get rid of him easily if he liked, further that Titorelli was extremely communicative, indeed even garrulous, though less so now than formerly, and finally that K. for his part could certainly torture Titorelli as well.

  And so he did in this matter, often speaking of the building in a tone that implied he was hiding something from Titorelli, as if he had established contacts with the office, which, however, had not yet been developed to the point where they could be revealed without danger; but if Titorelli then pressed him for further details, K. suddenly changed the subject and didn’t mention it again for a long time. He took pleasure in these small victories; he felt then that he understood the people on the periphery of the court much better; now he could toy with them, almost join them himself, gaining for the moment at least the improved overview afforded, so to speak, by standing on the first step of the court. What difference did it make if he were to end up losing his place on the level below? A further possibility of escape was offered here as well, he need only slip in among the ranks of these people; if, due to their inferior status or for any other reason, they were unable to aid him in his trial, they could at least take him in and hide him; indeed if he thought it all through carefully and carried it out secretly, he felt they could scarcely refuse to serve him in this way, particularly not Titorelli, since K. was after all his benefactor now, and a close acquaintance.

  K. did not nourish hopes of such and similar nature on a daily basis; in general he still was quite discerning and was careful not to overlook or skip over any difficulty, but at times—mostly states of total exhaustion in the evening after work—he found consolation in the most trifling and, what is more, equivocal incidents of the day. Then he would generally lie on the divan in his office—he could no longer leave his office without an hour’s rest on the divan—and mentally assemble his observations. He did not restrict himself narrowly to those people connected with the court, for here in half sleep they all mingled; he forgot then the magnitude of the court’s tasks, it seemed to him as if he were the only defendant and all the others were walking about as officials and lawyers in the halls of a courthouse, even the dullest of them with his chin resting on his chest, his lips pursed, and the fixed stare of someone meditating on matters of great account. Then the tenants of Frau Grubach always stepped forward as a closed group, standing side by side, their mouths gaping like an accusing chorus. There were many strangers among them, for K. had long since ceased paying the least attention to the affairs of the boardinghouse. Because so many of them were strangers he felt uncomfortable regarding the group more closely, but he had to do so from time to time when he sought among them for Fräulein Bürstner. For example, as he scanned the group quickly, two totally unknown eyes suddenly gleamed at him and brought him to a stop. Then he couldn’t find Fräulein Bürstner; but when, in order to avoid any mistake, he searched again, he found her right in the middle of the group, her arms around two men standing on either side of her. That made absolutely no impression on him, particularly because this sight was nothing new, but merely the indelible memory of a photograph on the beach he had once seen in Fräulein Bürstner’s room. All the same this sight drove K. away from the group, and even though he often returned there, now he hurried back and forth through the courthouse with long strides. He still knew his way around the rooms quite well, forlorn passages he could never have seen seemed familiar to him, as if he had been living there forever; details kept impressing themselves upon his brain with painful clarity: for example, a foreigner strolling through a lobby, dressed like a bullfighter, his waist carved inward as if by knives, with a short stiff little jacket of coarse yellow lace, a man who allowed K. to gaze at him in unremitting astonishment, without ever pausing in his stroll for an instant. K. slipped around him, stooping low, and stared at him wide-eyed. He knew all the patterns of the lace, all the frayed fringes, every swing of the little jacket, and still he hadn’t seen enough. Or rather he had long since seen more than enough, or even more accurately had never wanted to see it in the first place, but it held him fast. “What masquerades foreign countries offer!” he thought, and opened his eyes still wider. And he trailed after this man until he rolled over on the divan and pressed his face into the leather.

  JOURNEY TO HIS MOTHER

  Suddenly at lunch it occurred to him that he ought to visit his mother. Spring was drawing to a close, and with it the third year since he’d seen her. She’d asked him at that time to visit her on his birthday, and in spite of several obstacles he had c
omplied with her wish, and even made her a promise to spend every birthday with her, a promise, it must be said, that he had already broken twice. Now, however, to make up for it, he wouldn’t wait until his birthday, although it was just two weeks away, but would go at once. He did tell himself there was no particular reason to go just now; on the contrary, the reports he received every two months from his cousin, who owned a shop in the village and administered the money K. sent for his mother, were more reassuring than ever before. His mother’s vision was failing, to be sure, but K. had been expecting that for years after what the doctors had said; other than that her condition had improved and various ailments of old age had abated rather than worsening, or at any rate she complained less. In his cousin’s judgment this might be connected with the fact that over the past few years—K. had already noticed, almost with repugnance, minor signs of this during his last visit—she had become excessively pious. His cousin had described quite vividly in a letter how the old woman, who had previously struggled to drag herself about, now positively strode along on his arm when he took her to church on Sunday. And K. could trust his cousin, for he was normally overanxious, and tended to exaggerate the negative aspects of his report rather than the positive ones.