He would have liked to have a confidential conversation with Frieda, but the assistants, with whom Frieda even joked and laughed every now and then, prevented this through their intrusive presence. Otherwise they weren’t demanding, they had settled down in a corner of the floor on two old skirts; their goal, which they often discussed with Frieda, was to avoid disturbing the surveyor and to take up as little room as possible, they made various attempts to bring that about, always to the accompaniment of whispers and giggles, by drawing in their arms and legs and huddling together, all one could see in their corner in the twilight was a large knot. Still, certain experiences in broad daylight had, alas, made it clear that they were attentive observers, they were constantly staring over at K., playing seemingly childish games, using their hands as telescopes and resorting to other such antics, or simply blinking at him while appearing to be engaged chiefly in tending their beards, which they set great store on and compared on countless occasions for length and thickness, letting Frieda be the judge. From his bed K. often watched the antics of the three of them with utter indifference.
Now when he felt strong enough to get up out of bed, they all rushed over to serve him. Yet he still wasn’t strong enough to resist their offers, he saw that in this way he was becoming somewhat dependent on them, which could have negative consequences, but he simply had to let it happen. Besides, it wasn’t so terribly unpleasant, sitting at the table drinking the good coffee Frieda had brought, warming himself at the stove Frieda had stoked, having the assistants run up and down the stairs ten times in their clumsy eagerness to bring him soap, water, a comb, a mirror, and finally, since K. had softly uttered a wish that could be interpreted that way, a little glass of rum.
Amid all this ordering and serving, more out of good cheer than in hope of success, K. said: “Now go away, you two, I have no further wishes for the present, and I want to speak to Miss Frieda alone,” and since he saw no outright protest in their faces, he added by way of amends: “And then the three of us will go to the council chairman, wait for me downstairs in the taproom.” Oddly enough, they complied, except for saying before they left: “We could also wait here,” to which K. responded: “I know, but I don’t want that.”
K. was annoyed but in a certain sense glad too, when Frieda, who had sat down on his lap once the assistants had left, said: “What have you got against the assistants, darling? We needn’t keep secrets from them. They are loyal.” “Loyal,” said K., “they’re constantly lying in wait for me, it is senseless and also quite repulsive!” “I think I know what you mean,” she said, clasping his neck and attempting to say something else, but she couldn’t go on, and since the chair stood by the bed they stumbled over it and fell down. They lay there, but without abandoning themselves as fully as that time at night. She sought something and he sought something, in a fury, grimacing, they sought with their heads boring into each other’s breasts; their embraces and arched bodies, far from making them forget, reminded them of their duty to keep searching, like dogs desperately pawing at the earth they pawed at each other’s bodies, and then, helpless and disappointed, in an effort to catch one last bit of happiness, their tongues occasionally ran all over each other’s faces. Only weariness made them lie still and be grateful to each other. Then the maids came up, “Look at the way they’re lying there,” one of them said, and out of pity she threw a sheet over them.
Later, when K. extricated himself from the sheet and looked about, the two assistants were back in their corner—this didn’t surprise him—warning each other to be serious by pointing at K. and saluting—but in addition to that, the landlady was sitting by the bed, knitting a sock, a small task ill-suited to her huge frame, which almost darkened the room. “I’ve been waiting a long time,” she said, lifting her wide face, which was criss-crossed and lined with age, but for all its massiveness, it was still smooth and had perhaps once been beautiful. Her words sounded like a reproach, an inappropriate one, for K. certainly hadn’t asked that she come. So he merely acknowledged her words with a nod and sat up, Frieda, too, stood up, but she moved away from K. and leaned against the landlady’s chair. “Landlady,” K. said distractedly, “could you postpone whatever you want to tell me until I get back from the council chairman’s? I have an important meeting there.” “Believe me, Surveyor, this is a more important matter,” said the landlady, “that is probably only about some work, while this is about a human being, about Frieda, my dear girl.” “Oh, I see,” said K., “then, yes indeed, though I don’t understand why you cannot leave this up to us.” “Out of love, out of concern,” said the landlady, and she drew Frieda’s head toward her; standing, Frieda only came up to the shoulder of the seated landlady. “If Frieda has such confidence in you,” said K., “so must I. Only a moment ago Frieda called my assistants loyal, so we’re among friends. And I can therefore tell you, Landlady, that I think it best that Frieda and I should marry, and very soon at that. Certainly, it’s unfortunate, most unfortunate, that I cannot replace what Frieda has lost through me, her position at the Gentlemen’s Inn and her friendship with Klamm.” Frieda raised her face, her eyes were full of tears, they did not seem at all triumphant. “Why me? Why was I chosen for this?” “What?” K. and the landlady asked with one voice. “She’s confused, the poor child,” said the landlady, “confused because of the coming together of so much happiness and misfortune.” And as if to confirm this, Frieda threw herself at K., kissed him wildly, and then, crying and embracing him as if there were nobody else in the room, fell on her knees before him. As he stroked Frieda’s hair with both hands, K. said to the landlady: “You seem to agree with me?” “You’re a man of honor,” said the landlady, who, even though her voice was tearful and she looked somewhat decrepit and had trouble breathing, still found the strength to say: “The only issue now is what kind of assurances you will have to give Frieda, for no matter how much I respect you you’re still a stranger, you cannot give references, we here know nothing about your domestic situation, so assurances are needed, but you, dear sir, can understand this, since it was, after all, you who pointed out how much Frieda is losing through this connection with you.” “Certainly, assurances, of course,” said K., “those are probably best given at the notary’s, though some other authorities of the Count may also start meddling with this. By the way, there’s something I absolutely must do before the wedding. I must speak with Klamm.” “That’s impossible,” said Frieda, rising slightly and pressing against K., “what an idea!” “I must,” said K., “and if I don’t succeed, you must.” “I cannot, K., I cannot,” said Frieda, “Klamm will never speak to you. How can you believe that Klamm will speak to you?” “But he would speak to you?” asked K. “No, that isn’t so,” said Frieda, “not to me, not to you, those are utter impossibilities.” She turned to the landlady, extending her arms: “Landlady, just see what he’s asking for.” “You’re odd, Surveyor,” said the landlady, who looked frightening now that she was sitting more upright, with her legs spread apart and her powerful knees pressing up through her thin skirt, “you’re asking for the impossible.” “Why is it impossible?” asked K. “I shall explain it to you,” the landlady said in a voice that sounded as though the explanation were not a final favor but the first in a series of punishments that she was handing out, “I shall gladly explain that to you. True, I don’t belong to the Castle and am only a woman and am only the landlady in one of the lowest-ranking inns—no, not the lowest-ranking, though not far from it—and so you may not attach any weight to my explanation, but I have gone through life with my eyes open and have come to know many different people and have had to carry the entire weight of the inn alone, for though my husband is a good lad all right, he isn’t a landlord and will never understand the meaning of responsibility. For instance, it’s only through his negligence—I was about to collapse that evening from exhaustion—that you are here in the village and can sit there on the bed in peace and comfort.” “What?” K. asked, awakening from a certain distraction, roused more by curiosity than by anger. “It’s only thanks to his negligence,” cried the landlady again, pointing at K. with her raised forefinger. Frieda tried to calm her. “What is it you want,” said the landlady, turning her entire body in one quick motion, “the surveyor has asked me and I must answer him. Otherwise, how can he possibly understand something that is absolutely self-evident to us, namely, that Mr. Klamm will never speak to him—why am I saying ‘will’—can never speak to him. Listen here, Surveyor!, Mr. Klamm is a gentleman from the Castle, and that signifies in and of itself, even leaving aside Klamm’s other position, a very high rank, but what are you? You, the very person whom we are so humbly imploring that he might deign to consider marriage. You’re not from the Castle, you’re not from the village, you are nothing. Unfortunately, though, you are something, a stranger, one who is superfluous and gets in the way everywhere, one who is a constant source of trouble and who, for instance, makes it necessary for us to dislodge the maids, one who seduces our dearest little Frieda, one whose intentions are utterly unknown here, but who is unfortunately the very person to whom we must give her away. On the whole, though, I’m not blaming you for all this; I have already seen too much in life not to be able to bear this sight as well. But stop for a moment to consider the nature of your request. You expect a man like Klamm to speak to you. It pained me to hear that Frieda let you look through the peephole, in doing so, she was already seduced. But tell me, how could you bear the sight of Klamm? You needn’t say a word, I know, you had little difficulty bearing it. Indeed you cannot really see Klamm at all, and this isn’t arrogance on my part, for neither can I. You expect Klamm to speak to you, but he doesn’t even speak to people from the village, has never spoken to anyone from the village. It certainly was a great distinction for Frieda, a distinction that I, too, shall be proud of until the end of my days, that he would at least call her name and she could speak to him whenever she wished and was allowed to use the peephole, and yet he never spoke to her. And as for his calling Frieda now and then, that isn’t necessarily as significant as one might care to think, he merely called Frieda’s name—who knows what his intentions are?—and Frieda’s decision to rush over was naturally her own business and the fact that she was admitted without difficulty is simply due to the goodness of Klamm, but nobody can claim that he actually called her. And now all that, such as it was, is finished for all time. Klamm may still call Frieda’s name, that may be so, but a girl of that sort, who has consorted with you, will certainly never be admitted again. And there’s one thing, one thing this little head of mine cannot understand, how could a girl whom some people call Klamm’s mistress—and by the way I consider that a rather exaggerated term—even let you touch her?”
“It’s certainly odd,” said K., and he took Frieda on his lap; she yielded right away, though with her head down, “but it shows, I think, that everything isn’t quite as you think. For instance, you’re certainly right to say I am nothing in Klamm’s eyes, and even if I insist on speaking to Klamm and refuse to let your explanations deter me, this doesn’t mean I could bear the sight of Klamm if there weren’t a door separating us, or wouldn’t run from the room the moment he appeared. But such fears, even if they’re justified, are still no reason for me not to risk going ahead. Yet if I can stand up to him, he needn’t even speak to me, I’ll be sufficiently gratified on seeing the effect my words have on him, and if they have none, or if he doesn’t hear a word I say, I will still have gained something from the chance to speak frankly to a person with power. But you, Landlady, with your wide experience of life and people, and Frieda, who as of yesterday was still Klamm’s mistress—I don’t see why I should drop the term—can no doubt easily arrange for me to talk to Klamm; if there’s no other way, then at the Gentlemen’s Inn, perhaps he’s still there today as well.”
“That’s impossible,” said the landlady, “and I can see you’re incapable of understanding this. But anyhow, tell me, what do you want to talk to Klamm about?”
“About Frieda, of course,” said K.
“About Frieda?” asked the landlady, baffled, turning to Frieda. “Do you hear, Frieda, he, he wants to talk about you to Klamm, to Klamm.”
“Oh, Landlady,” said K., “you’re such a clever woman, so worthy of respect and yet you’re frightened by every little thing. Well, I want to talk to him about Frieda, there’s nothing monstrous about that, it’s only natural. For you’re certainly mistaken again if you think Frieda lost all meaning for Klamm from the very moment I arrived. If that’s what you think, you’re underestimating him. I have the distinct feeling that it’s presumptuous of me to lecture you on the subject, but I simply cannot avoid it. Nothing can have changed in Klamm’s relationship to Frieda because of me. Either there was no significant relationship—and that’s precisely what those who deprive Frieda of her honorable title as mistress are suggesting—in which case it doesn’t exist today, or else there was one, but then how could it have been disturbed by me, by someone who, as you rightly said, is a mere nothing in Klamm’s eyes? One believes such things in the first moment of fright, but a little thought ought to straighten it out. By the way, we should let Frieda say what she thinks.”
Looking into the distance, her cheek resting on K.’s chest, Frieda said: “It’s certainly as Mother says: Klamm doesn’t want to have anything more to do with me. But certainly not because you came here, darling, nothing like that could ever shake him. But I believe it was through Klamm’s work that we found each other under the counter, blessed, not accursed, be the hour!”
“If that’s so,” said K. slowly, for Frieda’s words were sweet, he closed his eyes for several seconds to let the words permeate him, “if that’s so, then there’s even less reason to fear an interview with Klamm.”
“Frankly,” said the landlady, gazing down from her height at K., “you sometimes remind me of my husband, you’re just as stubborn and childlike as he. You’ve been in the village a few days and already think you know everything better than everyone here, better than me, an old woman, and better than Frieda, who has heard and seen so much at the Gentlemen’s Inn. I’m not denying it’s possible to accomplish something that runs absolutely counter to the rules and the old traditions, I myself have never experienced anything of the sort, but such instances are said to occur, this may be so, but they certainly don’t occur the way you go about it, simply by saying ‘no, no’ all the time and by swearing to do what you think and by ignoring the most well-meant advice. Do you really think I’m concerned about you? Did I do anything for you while you were still on your own? Although that wouldn’t have been such a bad thing and might have prevented certain incidents. All I said to my husband about you then was: ‘Stay away from him.’ That would also be the case with me now if Frieda hadn’t become entangled in your fate. It is to her—whether you like it or not—that you owe my care and even my respect. And you cannot simply turn me away, for I’m the only person who watches over little Frieda with motherly concern, and I hold you strictly accountable. Perhaps Frieda is right and everything that has happened is the will of Klamm, but now I know nothing about Klamm, I shall never again speak to him, he’s completely beyond my reach, but you sit here, keep my Frieda, and are in turn—why shouldn’t I say this?—kept by me. Yes, kept by me, young man, for if I ever threw you out, just try to find lodgings anywhere in the village, even in a doghouse!”
“Thanks,” said K., “you’ve spoken frankly and I believe you entirely. So my position is that uncertain, and in connection with that, Frieda’s position, too!”
“No,” the landlady broke in furiously, “in that respect Frieda’s position has nothing whatsoever to do with yours. Frieda belongs in my house, and nobody has any right to call her position here uncertain.”
“Fine, fine,” said K., “I’ll concede you’re right this time, too, especially since Frieda—for reasons unknown to me—seems too afraid of you to get involved. So, for now, let’s just stick to me. My position is utterly uncertain, you’re not denying that, but rather struggling to prove it. As in everything you say, that’s mostly right, but not entirely so. Just one instance, I do know of a good night’s lodging that I can use.”
“Where? Where?” Frieda and the landlady cried eagerly, almost in one voice, as if both had the same reason for asking.
“At Barnabas’s,” said K.
“That riffraff,” cried the landlady, “that slippery riffraff! At Barnabas’s! Do you hear—” and she turned toward the assistants’ corner, but they had come out quite a while ago and now stood arm in arm behind the landlady, who, as if needing support, seized one by the hand, “do you hear where the gentleman hangs out, at Barnabas’s! He’s sure to find lodgings there, oh, if only he had liked it better there than at the Gentlemen’s Inn! But where have the two of you been?”
“Landlady,” said K. before the assistants could answer, “those are my assistants, but you treat them as if they were your assistants and my warders. On every other subject I’m at least willing to engage in a polite discussion of your opinions, but not concerning my assistants, for that’s an absolutely clear-cut affair. So I request that you not speak to my assistants, and if my request should not suffice, I shall forbid my assistants to answer you.”
“So I’m not allowed to speak to you,” said the landlady, and all three laughed, the landlady derisively but more softly than K. had expected, the assistants in their usual way, meaning everything and nothing, disclaiming all responsibility.
“Now don’t get angry,” said Frieda, “you must try to understand why we’re so upset. One could say that it’s solely thanks to Barnabas that the two of us are together now. When I first caught sight of you in the taproom—you came in arm in arm with Olga—I did already know a few things about you, but on the whole I felt completely indifferent about you. Yet you weren’t the only one, I felt indifferent about almost everything, almost everything. Indeed, I felt dissatisfied then about many things and annoyed by many more, but what an odd sort of dissatisfaction and annoyance it was. If someone insulted me, say one of the guests in the taproom—they were always after me, you saw those fellows there, but others came who were far worse, Klamm’s servants weren’t the worst—if one of them insulted me, what difference did that make to me? I felt as if the incident had happened many years before or as if it hadn’t happened to me or as if I had only heard people speak of it or as if I myself had forgotten it. But I cannot describe it, I cannot even imagine it anymore, that’s how much everything has changed since Klamm abandoned me—”
And Frieda broke off her story, lowered her head sadly, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Look,” cried the landlady, sounding as though she herself weren’t speaking but were lending Frieda her voice, she moved closer as well and was now sitting beside Frieda, “Surveyor, look at the results of your actions, and your assistants too—but then of course I’m not supposed to speak to them—may watch and learn a lesson from this. You wrenched Frieda out of the happiest state ever granted her, and could do so largely because Frieda herself, owing to her childlike, exaggerated sense of compassion, couldn’t bear to see you hanging on Olga’s arm and thus seemingly at the mercy of Barnabas’s family. She rescued you and sacrificed herself. And now that this has happened and Frieda has given up all she had in exchange for the happiness of sitting on your knee, you come and pass off as your greatest trump card the fact that you once had the opportunity to spend the night at Barnabas’s. You’re probably trying to prove you’re not dependent on me. Certainly, if you really had spent the night at Barnabas’s, you would be so little dependent on me that you would have to leave my house at once, and double-quick, too.”
“I don’t know the sins of the Barnabas family,” said K., carefully lifting Frieda, who seemed lifeless, placing her on the bed, and getting up again, “perhaps you’re right in this case, though I was certainly right when I requested that you leave our affairs, Frieda’s and mine, in our hands. You said something about love and concern, I haven’t noticed much of that, but I have noticed great hatred and contempt and talk of banishment from the house. If your goal was to get Frieda to leave me or me to leave Frieda, then you went about this quite cleverly, but I don’t think you’ll succeed, and if you do—and now for a change let me be the one to give you a dark warning—you’ll regret it bitterly. As for the lodgings you’re providing me with—you must mean this awful hole—it isn’t at all clear that this is a voluntary offer on your part, it seems more likely that the Count’s authorities have issued a directive to this effect. I shall report now that I was given notice here, and if they assign other lodgings to me, you may well breathe more easily, but I’ll certainly breathe more deeply. And now I’m going to see the council chairman about this and several other matters. You could at least take care of Frieda, whom you’ve seriously harmed with those so-called motherly talks of yours.”
Then he turned to the assistants. “Come,” he said, then he took Klamm’s letter from the hook and was about to go. Although the landlady had watched him silently, his hand was already on the latch before she spoke: “Surveyor, I have a parting thought for you, for no matter what you say or how many insults you heap on an old woman like me, you are still the future husband of Frieda. And that’s the only reason why I even bother telling you that you’re dreadfully ignorant about the situation here, one’s head buzzes from listening to you and from comparing your opinions and ideas with the real situation. Your ignorance cannot be remedied all at once, and perhaps not at all, but many things can get better if you would only show a little faith in me and always keep in mind how ignorant you are. And then you will, say, become less unjust toward me and begin to sense how shocked I was—I still haven’t recovered from the shock—when I noticed that my dearest little one has, so to speak, abandoned the eagle to unite with a blindworm, but the actual relationship is worse still, and I’m constantly trying to forget all about it, because otherwise I couldn’t speak calmly to you at all. Oh, now you’re angry at me again! No, don’t go yet, you must first listen to my final request: Wherever you go, keep in mind that you’re the most ignorant person here and be careful; here with us you’ll be out of harm’s way with Frieda present, so you may chatter to your heart’s content, you can even show us how you plan to talk to Klamm, but in reality, in reality … please, oh please don’t do it.”
She stood up, swaying somewhat with excitement, approached K., took his hand, and looked at him pleadingly. “Landlady,” said K., “I cannot understand why you humiliate yourself over such a trifling matter by pleading with me like this. If, as you say, it’s impossible for me to speak to Klamm, then I won’t succeed whether you plead with me or not. If it were actually possible, though, why shouldn’t I do it, especially since, after your main objection has fallen by the wayside, your other fears will be very doubtful. Certainly, I am ignorant, that at least is true, sadly enough for me, but the advantage here is that those who are ignorant take greater risks, and so I’ll gladly put up with my deficient knowledge and its undoubtedly serious consequences for a little while, for as long as my energy holds out. But those consequences essentially concern only me, and so, particularly for that reason, I cannot understand why you are pleading with me. After all, you will certainly always take care of Frieda, and if I ever vanished from Frieda’s sight, that would inevitably be good news for you. So what are you afraid of? Surely you aren’t afraid—those who are ignorant naturally consider everything possible”—here K. opened the door—“surely you aren’t afraid for Klamm’s sake?” The landlady looked after him in silence as he hurried down the stairs followed by the assistants.