The Castle: A New Translation Based on the Restored Text Page 10

  “That’s possible,” the chairman said, and he fell silent.

  “She’s beautiful,” said K., “though rather pale and sickly. She probably comes from the Castle?” this was said half as a question.

  The chairman glanced at the clock, poured medicine into a spoon, and swallowed it quickly.

  “So you are merely acquainted with the office furnishings at the Castle?” K. asked rudely.

  “Yes,” said the chairman, with an ironic and yet grateful smile, “they’re the most important thing about it. As for Brunswick: if we could expel him from the community, virtually everyone would be happy, Lasemann not least of all. But Brunswick gained some influence at that time, he’s not a speaker but a shouter, and that’s good enough for some. And so I was forced to lay the matter before the council, which by the way was Brunswick’s only success at first, since the council naturally decided by a large majority to have nothing to do with the surveyor. That too was years ago, but the matter still hasn’t died down, partly through the conscientiousness of Sordini, who tried to probe the motives of both majority and opposition by means of the most meticulous inquiries, partly through the stupidity and ambition of Brunswick, who has various personal contacts with the authorities that he was able to bring into play thanks to his boundless imagination. Sordini, though, didn’t let himself be duped by Brunswick—how could Brunswick dupe Sordini?—but precisely so as not to be duped, he had to set up new inquiries, but before they had ended Brunswick had already thought up something else, he’s actually quite quick, that’s one form his stupidity takes. And now I’m going to talk about a special feature of our official apparatus. In keeping with its precision it is extremely sensitive. When a matter has been deliberated on at great length, it can happen, even before the deliberations have ended, that suddenly, like lightning, in some unforeseeable place, which cannot be located later on, a directive is issued that usually justly, but nonetheless arbitrarily, brings the matter to a close. It’s as if the official apparatus could no longer bear the tension and irritation stemming year in year out from the same perhaps inherently trivial affair and had all by itself, without help from the officials, made the decision. Of course, there was no miracle and some official or other certainly wrote the directive or reached an unwritten decision, at any rate one cannot determine from down here, or indeed even from the administrative offices, which official reached the decision in this case and on what grounds. This is only determined much later by the control agencies, and so we never get to hear any more about it, and anyhow by then the matter would scarcely interest anybody. Now, as I said, it’s precisely these decisions that are mostly excellent, the only disturbing thing is that one only gets to hear about them when it’s too late, for one is still passionately discussing a matter that has long since been resolved. I don’t know whether such a decision was reached in your case—there is evidence both for and against—but if that had happened, they would have sent for you and you would have set off on that long journey, which would have taken time, while Sordini would have been working on the same case to the point of exhaustion, Brunswick would have kept up his intrigues, and I would have been tormented by both. I’m only suggesting this as a possibility, but the following I know for sure: A control agency discovered meanwhile that many years previously Department A had sent the local council an inquiry concerning a surveyor, but still hadn’t received a reply. Recently they sent me an inquiry that actually resolved the entire matter, Department A was satisfied with my reply stating that no surveyor was needed, Sordini had to acknowledge that he wasn’t responsible for the case and that he had—though of course through no fault of his own—gone to a great deal of useless, nerve-wracking trouble. If new work hadn’t come pouring in as usual from all sides, and if your case hadn’t been only a very minor case—the most minor of minor cases, one could almost say—we would all have breathed sighs of relief, even Sordini would, I believe, have done so, Brunswick was the only one who muttered about it, but that was quite ridiculous. And just imagine how disappointed I was, Surveyor, after the happy conclusion of the entire affair—and a great deal of time has gone by since then—when suddenly you appear and it seems as if everything is about to begin all over again. That I want to prevent this from happening, insofar as it lies in my power, is something you’ll surely understand, won’t you?”

  “Certainly,” said K., “but I have an even better understanding of the dreadful mistreatment that I, and perhaps the laws as well, are being subjected to here. I, for one, know how to combat this.”

  “How do you plan to do so?” asked the chairman.

  “I cannot give that away,” said K.

  “I don’t want to intrude,” said the chairman, “but keep in mind that you have in me—I don’t want to say a friend, since we’re actually total strangers—a business acquaintance, as it were. The only thing I shall not permit is your being taken on as a surveyor, but otherwise you can always approach me with confidence, though only within the limits of my power, which isn’t great.”

  “You’re always saying that I am going to be taken on as surveyor,” said K., “but I have already been taken on, here’s Klamm’s letter.”

  “Klamm’s letter,” said the chairman, “well, it is valuable and even venerable because of Klamm’s signature, which appears to be genuine, but otherwise—still, I wouldn’t risk saying anything about it on my own. Mizzi!” he called, adding: “But what are you doing?”

  The assistants, who had been left unobserved for such a long time, and Mizzi, had evidently not found the file they were looking for and had then tried to lock everything up in the cabinet again, but the jumble of files was so large that they hadn’t succeeded. Then it had surely been the assistants who had hit upon the idea that they were now carrying out. They had put the cabinet on the floor, stuffed all the files in, then sat down with Mizzi on the cabinet door and were now trying to force it down slowly.

  “So the file hasn’t been found,” said the chairman, “a pity, but of course you already know the story, we no longer need the file, besides it’ll turn up, it must be at the teacher’s, he has many more files. But come here with the candle, Mizzi, so you can read the letter with me.”

  Mizzi came over, she looked even more insignificant and gray sitting on the edge of the bed and clasping her strong and vigorous husband, who had his arm around her. All one could make out in the candlelight was her small face with its distinct stern lines, softened only by the decay of age. She had barely looked at the letter when she clasped her hands lightly, “From Klamm,” she said. They read the letter together, whispering to each other from time to time, and finally, as the assistants shouted “Hurrah,” for they had finally pushed the cabinet door shut, and Mizzi watched them in silent gratitude, the chairman said:

  “Mizzi agrees with me completely, and now I can probably risk saying what I think. This letter isn’t an official letter but rather a private one. That is already clearly apparent from the heading ‘My dear Sir!’ Besides, it doesn’t say a word about your having been taken on as surveyor, rather it refers only in general terms to the lordly services, and even then the phrasing isn’t binding, since you have merely been taken on ‘as you know,’ in other words, the burden of proving that you’ve been taken on rests with you. Lastly, you’re referred exclusively to me, the chairman, who, as your immediate superior, will provide you with all further particulars, and that has, of course, already been largely taken care of. All this is utterly clear to anyone who is capable of reading official letters and therefore better still at reading unofficial ones; that you, a stranger, cannot make this out doesn’t surprise me. All in all, the letter merely means that Klamm intends to look after you personally, should you be accepted into the lordly services.”

  “Chairman,” said K., “you interpret the letter so well that all that’s finally left is a signature on a blank sheet of paper. Can’t you see how you’re disparaging the name of Klamm, which you pretend to respect.”

  “That
is a misunderstanding,” said the chairman, “the significance of the letter hasn’t escaped me, nor am I disparaging it with my interpretation, quite the contrary. A private letter from Klamm has far greater significance than would an official letter, but not the significance you give it.”

  “You know Schwarzer?” asked K.

  “No,” said the chairman, “perhaps you do, Mizzi? You don’t either. No, we don’t know him.”

  “That’s odd,” said K., “he is the son of a substeward.”

  “Dear Surveyor,” said the chairman, “how am I supposed to know all the sons of all the substewards?”

  “Fine,” said K., “then you have to believe me when I say it’s he. The day I came, I had an annoying encounter with this Schwarzer. He then made inquiries by telephone, spoke to a substeward called Fritz, and was told they had taken me on as surveyor. How do you explain that, Chairman?”

  “Quite simple,” said the chairman, “you haven’t ever really come into contact with our authorities. All those contacts are merely apparent, but in your case, because of your ignorance of the situation here, you think they’re real. As for the telephone: look, in my own house, though I certainly deal often enough with the authorities, there’s no telephone. At inns and in places like that it may serve a useful purpose, along the lines, say, of an automated phonograph, but that’s all. Have you ever telephoned here, you have? Well then, perhaps you can understand me. At the Castle the telephone seems to work extremely well; I’ve been told the telephones up there are in constant use, which of course greatly speeds up the work. Here on our local telephones we hear that constant telephoning as a murmuring and singing, you must have heard it too. Well, this murmuring and singing is the only true and reliable thing that the local telephones convey to us, everything else is deceptive. There is no separate telephone connection to the Castle and no switchboard to forward our calls; when anyone here calls the Castle, all the telephones in the lowest-level departments ring, or all would ring if the ringing mechanism on nearly all of them were not, and I know this for certain, disconnected. Now and then, though, an overtired official needs some diversion—especially late in the evening or at night—and turns on the ringing mechanism, then we get an answer, though an answer that’s no more than a joke. That’s certainly quite understandable. For who can claim to have the right, simply because of some petty personal concerns, to ring during the most important work, conducted, as always, at a furious pace? Nor can I understand how even a stranger can believe that if he calls Sordini, for instance, it really is Sordini who answers. Quite the contrary, it’s probably a lowly filing clerk from an entirely different department. But it can also happen, if only at the most auspicious moment, that someone telephones the lowly filing clerk and Sordini himself answers. Then of course it’s best to run from the telephone before hearing a sound.”

  “But that isn’t how I saw it,” said K. “I couldn’t have known the details, but I had little confidence in those telephone conversations and always knew that the only things that are of any real significance are those one discovers or accomplishes at the Castle itself.”

  “No,” said the chairman, seizing one phrase, “those telephone answers are of ‘real significance,’ how could it be otherwise? How could the information supplied by a Castle official be meaningless? I said so already in relation to Klamm’s letter. All these statements have no official meaning; if you attach official meaning to them, you’re quite mistaken, though their private meaning as expressions of friendship or hostility is very great, usually greater than any official meaning could ever be.”

  “Fine,” said K., “if all that is indeed so, then I must have plenty of good friends at the Castle; on closer inspection the idea the department had many years ago of possibly sending for a surveyor at some point was a friendly gesture toward me, and from then on there was one such gesture after the other until it came to a bad end with my being enticed here and threatened with being thrown out.”

  “There is some truth in your view,” said the chairman, “you’re right that the Castle’s statements shouldn’t be taken literally. Still, caution is always necessary, not only here, and the more important the statement, the greater the need for caution. But what you then say about your being enticed here I find incomprehensible. If you had paid closer attention to my observations, you would know that the question of your being summoned here is far too difficult to be dealt with in one little conversation.”

  “Well, then,” said K., “the only possible conclusion is that everything is very unclear and insoluble except for my being thrown out.”

  “Who would dare to throw you out, Surveyor,” said the chairman, “it’s precisely the lack of clarity in the preliminary questions that guarantees you the most courteous treatment, only it seems that you are too sensitive. Nobody is keeping you here, but that still doesn’t mean you’re being thrown out.”

  “Oh, Chairman,” said K., “now it’s once again you who is seeing certain matters far too clearly. I shall list for you certain things that keep me here: the sacrifices I had to make to get away from home, the long difficult journey, the reasonable hopes I held out for myself of being taken on here, my complete lack of fortune, the impossibility of finding suitable work at home, and finally, my fiancée, who comes from here.”

  “Oh, Frieda!” said the chairman, not at all surprised. “I know. But Frieda would follow you anywhere. As for the rest, though, certain considerations must indeed be taken into account and I shall report this to the Castle. If a decision comes or if it’s necessary to question you again, I shall send for you. Do you approve of this?”

  “No, absolutely not,” said K., “what I want from the Castle is not charity, but my rights.”

  “Mizzi,” said the chairman to his wife, who still sat pressed up against him, dreamily playing with Klamm’s letter, which she had turned into a little boat; startled, K. now took it away from her, “Mizzi, my leg is beginning to hurt again, we’ll have to change the compress.”

  K. rose, “Then I shall take my leave,” he said. “Yes,” said Mizzi, who was already preparing some ointment, “besides, it’s too drafty.” K. turned around; upon hearing K.’s comment the assistants had in their usual misplaced zeal immediately opened both door panels. Obliged to shield the sickroom from the powerful blast of cold air, K. was only able to bow quickly to the chairman. Then, dragging the assistants along, he ran from the room, quickly closing the door.

  VI.

  SECOND CONVERSATION WITH THE LANDLADY

  Waiting for him in front of the inn was the landlord. Without being asked, he wouldn’t have dared to speak, so K. asked what he wanted. “Have you found new housing?” the landlord asked, looking at the ground. “You’re asking on your wife’s instructions,” said K., “you’re probably quite dependent on her?” “No,” said the landlord, “I’m not asking on her instructions. But she’s very upset and unhappy because of you, cannot work, is always lying in bed, sighing and complaining.” “Should I go to her?” asked K. “Please do,” said the landlord, “I tried to get hold of you at the chairman’s, I listened at the door, but the two of you were talking, I didn’t want to interrupt, besides I was worried because of my wife, ran back, but she wouldn’t let me in, so I had no choice but to wait for you.” “Then come quickly,” said K., “I’ll soon calm her down.” “If only that were possible,” said the landlord.

  They went through the bright kitchen, where three or four maids, scattered about doing odd chores, literally froze at the sight of K. Even in the kitchen one could already hear the landlady sighing. She lay in a windowless alcove separated from the kitchen by a light wooden partition. There was room only for a large double bed and a wardrobe. The bed was so positioned that one could see the whole kitchen and supervise the work from it. But from here in the kitchen one could barely see anything in the alcove, it was quite dark there, only the white and red bedclothes shimmered through a little. Not until one had gone in and one’s eyes had adjusted could on
e make out the details.

  “So you’ve finally come,” the landlady said feebly. She lay stretched out on her back, evidently had trouble breathing, and had thrown back the down quilt. In bed she looked much younger than in her usual clothes, but the little nightcap of delicate lacework that she wore, though too small and swaying back and forth on her hair, made the decay of her face seem pitiable. “How could I have come?” said K. gently, “after all, you never sent for me.” “You shouldn’t have kept me waiting so long,” said the landlady with an invalid’s stubbornness. “Sit down,” she said, pointing to the edge of the bed, “but the rest of you go away.” Besides the assistants, the maids too had meanwhile pushed their way in. “I should go away, too, Gardena?” said the landlord, K. was hearing the woman’s name for the first time. “Of course,” she said slowly, and as though she had other thoughts on her mind, she added absentmindedly: “Why should you of all people stay?” Yet once all of them had withdrawn to the kitchen—this time even the assistants followed immediately, but then they were after a maid—Gardena showed enough presence of mind to realize one could hear everything that was said here from the kitchen, for the alcove had no door, and so she ordered them all to leave the kitchen. This happened at once.

  “Please, Surveyor,” said Gardena, “right inside the wardrobe there’s a shawl, hand it to me, I want to pull it up over me, I cannot stand the down quilt, it’s so hard to breathe.” And once K. had given her the shawl, she said: “Look, it’s a beautiful shawl, isn’t it?” To K. it seemed like an ordinary woolen shawl, he felt it once again merely to be obliging, but said nothing. “Yes, it’s a beautiful shawl,” Gardena said, and covered herself up with it. She was now lying there quietly, all her ailments seemed to have vanished; she even remembered her hair, which was disheveled from lying in bed, sat up a moment and adjusted her hairdo slightly round her nightcap. She had a full head of hair.