The coachman, submissive toward the gentleman but with an angry side-glance at K., finally had to climb down in his fur coat, and then, very hesitantly, as though he did not so much expect the gentleman to rescind his order as K. to change his mind, began to draw the horses and sleigh backwards to the side wing, in which, apparently behind a large gate, the stable with the carriage shed was to be found. K. saw himself being left alone, on one side the sleigh was retreating, as was also, on the other, along the very path K. himself had taken, the young gentleman, though both went quite slowly, as though wanting to show K. that it was still in his power to call them back.
Perhaps he had that power, but it would have done him no good; to call the sleigh back would be to drive himself away. So he stood still, the only one who had held his ground, but it was a victory that gave no joy. He looked at the gentleman and then at the coachman. The gentleman had already reached the door through which K. had first entered the courtyard, he glanced back again, K. thought he could see him shake his head over such stubbornness, and then in a resolute, brief, final motion, he turned around and entered the corridor, where he immediately disappeared. The coachman remained in the courtyard, the sleigh gave him a great deal of work to do, he had to open the heavy stable door, drive the sleigh in backwards, unharness the horses, and lead them to their stalls, he did all this gravely, lost in thought, having given up all hope of an excursion; the man’s silent bustle without even a glance in his direction seemed to K. a far harsher reproach than the conduct of the gentleman. And now when after finishing his work in the stable the coachman walked straight across the courtyard with his slow swaying gait, closed the large gate, then came back, all this slowly and meticulously, focusing only on his own tracks in the snow, then locked the stable behind him, and all the electric lights went out—for whom should they have shone?—and only the opening above in the wooden gallery remained bright and briefly arrested one’s wandering gaze, it seemed to K. as if they had broken off all contact with him, but as if he were freer than ever and could wait as long as he wanted here in this place where he was generally not allowed, and as if he had fought for this freedom for himself in a manner nobody else could have done and as if nobody could touch him or drive him away, or even speak to him, yet—and this conviction was at least equally strong—as if there were nothing more senseless, nothing more desperate, than this freedom, this waiting, this invulnerability.
IX.
THE STRUGGLE AGAINST THE INTERROGATION
And he tore himself away and went back toward the house, this time not along the wall but straight through the snow, in the corridor he met the landlord, who greeted him silently and pointed to the taproom door, he followed his gesture because he was cold and because he wanted to see people, but was very disappointed when he saw the young gentleman sitting at a little table, which had surely been put there specifically for that purpose since they usually made do with barrels, and standing in front of him—an oppressive sight for K.—the landlady from the Bridge Inn. Pepi, proud, with her head thrown back, always the same smile, unshakably conscious of her dignity, swinging her braid at every turn, hurried to and fro, brought beer and then pen and ink, for the gentleman had spread papers out in front of him and was comparing figures, which he found, now in this paper, now in another at the far end of the table, and was about to start writing. From her full height the landlady gazed down in silence at the gentleman and his papers, her lips slightly pursed, as though she had said all that was necessary and it had been well received. “The surveyor, finally,” said the gentleman, glancing up as K. entered, then burying himself once again in his papers. The landlady, too, merely looked at K. indifferently, not at all surprised. Pepi, though, seemed to notice K. only when he went up to the counter and ordered a cognac.
K. leaned on it, put his hand over his eyes, and ignored everything else. Then he sipped some of the cognac and pushed it away, saying it was undrinkable. “All of the gentlemen drink it,” Pepi said curtly, poured out the rest, washed the small glass, and put it on the shelf. “The gentlemen have something better than this,” said K. “Possibly,” said Pepi, “but I don’t,” and at that she had finished with K. and was again at the service of the gentleman, who did not require anything, though, and so she merely walked from one side to the other behind him, deferentially attempting to look over his shoulder at the papers, yet this was nothing but idle curiosity and boastfulness, which even the landlady criticized by knitting her eyebrows.
Yet all of a sudden the landlady pricked up her ears and, listening intently, stared into space. K. turned around, he heard nothing out of the ordinary, the others apparently hadn’t heard anything either, but the landlady, with long strides and on tiptoe, ran to the rear door, which led to the courtyard, looked through the keyhole, turned to the others with wide-open eyes and a flushed face, beckoning them with her finger; and each one looked through, the landlady got the most turns, but Pepi was not left out either, the gentleman being the most indifferent of the three. Pepi and the gentleman soon came back, now only the landlady was still straining to see, bending over, almost kneeling, you almost had the impression she was pleading with the keyhole to let her through, for there had probably been nothing to see for some time now. Yet when she finally stood up, passed her hands over her face, fixed her hair, took a deep breath, evidently obliged to readjust her eyes to the room and to the people here, which she reluctantly did, K. said, not so as to confirm what he already knew but to ward off an attack that he almost feared, so vulnerable was he now: “So Klamm is already gone?” The landlady walked past him in silence, but from his little table the gentleman said: “Yes, certainly. Once you gave up your sentry post, Klamm was naturally able to leave. But it’s wonderful how sensitive the gentleman is! Landlady, did you notice how uneasily Klamm looked about him?” The landlady appeared not to have noticed it, but the gentleman went on: “Well, fortunately there was no longer anything to be seen, the coachman had smoothed out the footprints in the snow with a broom.” “The landlady didn’t notice anything,” said K., not in hope of success but simply irritated by the gentleman’s assertion, which had been made to sound so conclusive and irreversible. “Perhaps I wasn’t at the keyhole just then,” the landlady said, coming to the gentleman’s defense, but then, wanting to give Klamm his due, she added: “Still, I don’t believe in this great sensitivity of Klamm’s. We are indeed concerned about him, we try to protect him, on the assumption that Klamm is extremely sensitive. That is fine and certainly the will of Klamm. How the situation is in reality, though, we don’t know. Certainly, Klamm will never speak to anyone he doesn’t want to speak to, no matter how strenuously a certain individual exerts himself and no matter how insufferably he pushes himself to the fore, but this fact alone, that Klamm will never speak to him, will never allow him to come face to face with him, is already quite enough, for in reality why shouldn’t he be capable of enduring the sight of anybody whomsoever. This cannot be proved, for it’ll never come to a test.” The gentleman nodded eagerly. “I am of course of the same opinion,” he said, “if I put the matter a little differently just now, it was only so as to make it comprehensible for the surveyor. It’s correct, though, that after coming outside, Klamm did look around repeatedly in a half circle.” “Perhaps he was looking for me,” said K. “Possibly,” said the gentleman, “that never occurred to me.” Everybody laughed, Pepi, who barely understood any of this, the loudest.
“Since we’re all so cheerfully assembled,” said the gentleman, “I would ask, sir, that you give me some information to complete my files.” “A lot of writing goes on here,” said K., looking from a distance at the files. “Yes, a bad habit,” said the gentleman, laughing again, “but perhaps you still don’t know who I am. I am Momus, Klamm’s village secretary.” After those words were spoken, the entire room became serious; although the landlady and Pepi clearly knew the gentleman well, they still seemed upset by the reference to his name and title. And even the gentleman himself, a
s though what he had said exceeded his own comprehension, and as if he wanted to flee all traces of the solemnity his words had subsequently acquired, buried himself in his files and began to write, and then there was not a sound in the room save for his pen. “And so what is that: village secretary?” K. asked after a little while. The landlady, speaking on behalf of Momus, who, now that he had introduced himself, considered it inappropriate to offer any further explanation, said: “Mr. Momus is Klamm’s secretary, just like any of Klamm’s secretaries, but his office, and also, if I’m not mistaken, his jurisdiction—” Momus shook his head vigorously as he wrote and the landlady corrected herself, “so it’s only his official seat, not his official jurisdiction, that is confined to the village. Mr. Momus handles all of Klamm’s written work in the village and is first to receive all petitions sent to Klamm from the village.” Since K., still little affected by these matters, was gazing at her blankly, she added in a half-embarrassed voice: “That’s the arrangement, all of the gentlemen from the Castle have their own village secretaries.” Momus, who had followed everything more closely than had K., elaborated for the benefit of the landlady: “Most village secretaries work only for a single gentleman, but I work for two, for Klamm and for Vallabene.” “Yes,” said the landlady, in turn recalling that this was indeed so and turning to K., “Mr. Momus works for two gentlemen, for Klamm and for Vallabene, so he is a village secretary twice over.” “Twice over, indeed!” said K., nodding at Momus, who was almost leaning forward and gazing straight up at K., just as one nods at a child whom one has just heard being praised in one’s presence. If there was a certain contempt in K.’s remark, it either passed unnoticed or was exactly what they wanted. For they were discussing the merits of a man from Klamm’s immediate entourage in front of K., who wasn’t even sufficiently worthy to be seen by Klamm, not even by chance, and they did so with the unconcealed intention of provoking K.’s recognition and praise. And yet K. didn’t truly feel so inclined; striving as he was with all his might to gain a glimpse of Klamm, he had little respect for the post of a Momus, who was allowed to live in sight of Klamm; far be it from him to feel admiration or even envy since it was not the closeness to Klamm in itself that was worth striving for but rather that he, K., and he alone, not anybody else with his wishes, or anybody else’s, should approach Klamm, and approach him not so as to rest there with him but to get past him and go on into the Castle.
And he looked at his watch and said: “But I must go home now.” Immediately the relationship changed in Momus’s favor. “Why, of course,” said Momus, “your janitorial duties beckon. But you must give me another moment. Just a few short questions.” “I don’t feel like it,” said K., and he started toward the door. Slamming a file on the table, Momus stood up: “In the name of Klamm, I call upon you to answer my questions.” “In the name of Klamm?” K. repeated. “Is he concerned about my affairs, then?” “That,” said Momus, “is something I have no opinion about and you surely even less so; so the two of us need have no qualms in leaving the matter to him. Nevertheless, by virtue of the position bestowed upon me by Klamm, I call upon you to stay and answer.” “Surveyor,” the landlady broke in, “I’ll be careful not to give you any more advice, my previous suggestions, the most well-meant suggestions conceivable, were turned down in a most disgraceful way, and I came here to the secretary—I have nothing to hide—only so as to notify the administration of your conduct and intentions in an appropriate manner and to guard against the possibility of your ever being lodged with me again, that’s how things stand between the two of us and this isn’t likely to change, and so if I give you my opinion, I do so not to help you but to ease somewhat the difficult task of the secretary, who has to deal with a person such as you. Still—and it’s only by being frank that I can associate with you at all, and then only with great reluctance—you can profit from what I say; you need only have the desire to do so. And just in case you do, I should like to draw your attention to the following: in your case the only path leading to Klamm passes through the secretary’s depositions. But I don’t wish to exaggerate, perhaps this path doesn’t lead to Klamm, perhaps it ends long before it reaches him; that decision is made by the secretary at his own discretion. Anyhow, for you this is the only path that does at least lead in Klamm’s direction. And you want to give up the only path, for no reason other than contrariness?” “Oh, Landlady,” said K., “it is not the only path leading to Klamm, nor is it of greater value than the others. And it is you, Mr. Secretary, who decides whether or not anything I might say here will reach Klamm.” “Certainly,” said Momus, lowering his eyes with pride and gazing right and left, where there was nothing to be seen, “why else would I be secretary?” “You see, Landlady,” said K., “it’s not to Klamm that I need a path, but first to the secretary.” “That’s the path I wanted to open up for you,” said the landlady, “didn’t I offer this morning to forward your request to Klamm? That would have happened through the secretary. But you rejected the offer, and now you have no alternative. Of course, after your performance today, after your attempt to waylay Klamm, you’ll have even less prospect of success. But this final, tiniest, vanishing, even nonexistent hope is your only hope.” “How is it, Landlady,” said K., “that initially you tried so hard to prevent me from pressing on to Klamm, and now you take my request so seriously and seem to think I’m lost, as it were, if my plans fail? If at one point it was possible to advise me sincerely from the bottom of one’s heart against any attempt to reach Klamm, how can one now with seemingly equal sincerity almost push me along the path to Klamm, which of course may never lead to him.” “So I’m pushing you, am I?” said the landlady. “Do you mean that I’m pushing you when I call your attempts hopeless? Now that truly would be the height of audacity, if in this way you were trying to shift your own responsibility for yourself onto me. Might it be the presence of the secretary that prompts you to do so? No, Surveyor, I’m certainly not pushing you to do anything at all. I have only one thing to confess, that when I first saw you, I may have overestimated you a little. Your quick victory over Frieda frightened me, I didn’t know what you might still be capable of, I wanted to ward off additional misfortunes and thought the only way I could bring this about was by shocking you with pleas and threats. Meanwhile I have learned to think about everything more calmly. You may do exactly as you like. In the snow outside in the courtyard your deeds will perhaps leave deep footprints, but that’s all.” “I don’t think the contradiction is entirely resolved,” said K., “but I’m satisfied now that I have alerted you to it. But, Secretary, I would ask you to tell me whether the landlady’s opinion is correct, namely, whether the deposition you want to take from me could lead to my being allowed to appear before Klamm. If that is so, then I’m ready to answer all questions right away. In that respect I am certainly ready for everything.” “No,” said Momus, “there are no such connections. I’m simply interested in getting a precise description of this afternoon for Klamm’s village registry. The description is ready, you need only fill in two or three gaps, simply as a matter of form, there is no other objective and none can be attained.” K. looked in silence at the landlady. “Why are you looking at me,” the landlady asked, “isn’t that exactly what I told you? He’s always like this, Secretary, he’s always like this. Distorts the information given to him, then claims he’s been given the wrong information. I have been telling him for ever and ever, and once again today, that there isn’t the slightest chance of his being received by Klamm; now if there is no such chance, he won’t get it through this deposition either. Could anything be clearer than that? Besides, I’ve been telling him that this deposition is the only truly official connection that he can have with Klamm, but this too is altogether clear and indubitable. Yet if he doesn’t believe me, and constantly hopes—I don’t know why and to what end—to be able to reach Klamm, then his sole hope, if one keeps to his train of thought, lies in the only truly official connection that he has with Klamm, namely, in thi
s deposition. That’s all I have said, and anyone who says otherwise is twisting my words maliciously.” “Landlady, if that is so,” said K., “then please excuse me, for I have indeed misunderstood you; I gathered from your earlier remarks, mistakenly as it now turns out, that there is the tiniest hope for me.” “Certainly,” said the landlady, “I think so, but now you’re twisting my words again, only this time the other way around. I think there is some such hope for you, but it is based solely on this deposition. Yet the situation isn’t such that you can simply attack the secretary with the question: ‘Will I be allowed to see Klamm if I answer the questions.’ When a child asks in such a way, one laughs, when an adult does so, it’s an insult to the office; except the secretary has graciously concealed this through the delicacy of his reply. But the hope I have in mind has to do with your possessing through the deposition a kind of connection, perhaps a kind of connection, with Klamm. Isn’t that hope enough? If you were asked about the accomplishments that make you worthy of the gift of such hope, could you come up with anything at all? Of course, one cannot speak more precisely about this hope, and in his official capacity the secretary in particular would not be able to give even the slightest hint of this. For him it is, as he said, only a matter of getting a description of this afternoon, simply as a matter of form, he will say no more, even if you were to question him right now about my statements.” “So then, Secretary,” asked K., “will Klamm read this deposition?” “No,” said Momus, “why should he? After all, Klamm cannot read every deposition, and indeed he reads none: ‘Don’t come anywhere near me with those depositions!’ he often says.” “Surveyor,” the landlady complained, “you exhaust me by asking such questions. For is it truly necessary, let alone desirable, that Klamm should read this deposition and get to know the trifling details of your life, word for word, wouldn’t you prefer to request most humbly that the report be hidden from Klamm, a request by the way that would be just as foolish as your previous one, for who can hide anything from Klamm, but one that would nonetheless reveal a more sympathetic character. And is this necessary for what you call your hope? Didn’t you yourself state that you’d be satisfied if you could only have an opportunity to speak in the presence of Klamm, even if he neither looked at you nor listened to you? And through this deposition won’t you obtain at least that much, and perhaps far more?” “Far more?” asked K., “in what way?” “If only you didn’t always, like a child, insist on having everything served up right away in edible form,” cried the landlady. “For who can come up with answers to such questions? The deposition goes into Klamm’s village registry, this you have already heard and no more can be said with any certainty. But can you truly grasp the full meaning of the deposition, of the secretary, of the village registry? Do you know what it means to be interrogated by the secretary? This is something that he himself may not, or probably doesn’t, know. He sits here quietly doing his duty, simply as a matter of form, as he said. But remember that he was appointed by Klamm, that he works in Klamm’s name, that everything he does, even if Klamm never hears about it, still has Klamm’s approval from the outset. And how can anything have Klamm’s approval that isn’t filled with his spirit? Far be it from me to want to flatter the secretary blatantly, he himself would even forbid this, but I’m not talking about his personality as an independent individual but rather about what he is when he has Klamm’s approval, as he does now, for instance. Then he is an instrument upon which Klamm’s hand lies, and woe betide anybody who will not submit to him.”