The Trial: A New Translation Based on the Restored Text Read online

  Today K. no longer thought of shame; the petition had to be written. If he couldn’t find time for it at the office, which was quite likely, he would have to do it nights at home. And if the nights weren’t sufficient, he would have to take a leave of absence. Anything but stop halfway, that was the most senseless course of all, not only in business, but anywhere, at any time. Admittedly, the petition meant an almost endless task. One needn’t be particularly faint of heart to be easily persuaded of the impossibility of ever finishing the petition. Not because of laziness or deceit, the only things that kept the lawyer from finishing, but because without knowing the nature of the charge and all its possible ramifications, his entire life, down to the smallest actions and events, would have to be called to mind, described, and examined from all sides. And what a sad job that was. Perhaps, someday after retirement, it might provide a suitable occupation for a mind turned childish, and help to while away the lengthening days. But now, when K. needed all his wits for his work, when, given that he was still on the rise and already a threat to the vice president, every hour went speeding by, and when he wished to enjoy the brief evenings and nights as a young man, now he was supposed to start writing his petition. Once more his thoughts ended in lament. Almost involuntarily, simply to put an end to them, he felt for the button of the buzzer connected to the waiting room. As he pressed it he looked up at the clock. It was eleven o’clock; he had been daydreaming for two hours, a long and valuable stretch of time, and was of course even wearier than before. Nevertheless the time had not been wasted, he had reached decisions that might prove of value. Along with assorted mail, the assistant brought in two business cards from gentlemen who had been waiting to see K. for some time. They were in fact very important customers of the bank, who should not have been left waiting on any account. Why had they shown up at such an inopportune time, and why, the gentlemen seemed to respond in turn from behind the closed door, did the industrious K. use prime business time for his private affairs. Tired from what he had already gone through, and tiredly awaiting what was yet to come, K. rose to greet the first of them.

  He was a short, jovial gentleman, a manufacturer K. knew well. He apologized for interrupting K. in the midst of important work, while K. apologized in turn for keeping the manufacturer waiting so long. But even this apology was delivered so mechanically and with such false emphasis that the manufacturer, had he not been entirely engrossed in the business at hand, would surely have noticed it. Instead he hurriedly pulled figures and tables from every pocket, spread them before K., explained various entries, corrected a small error in the calculations that he’d caught in even this hasty survey, reminded K. of a similar transaction he had concluded with him around a year ago, mentioned in passing that this time another bank was making great sacrifices to secure the deal, and finally fell silent to hear K.’s reaction. K. had actually followed the manufacturer’s explanations closely at first and had been caught up by the thought of a major business deal, but unfortunately not for long; he soon stopped listening, nodded a while longer at the more emphatic exclamations of the manufacturer, but in the end abandoned even that and limited himself to staring at the bald head bent over the papers, wondering when the manufacturer would finally realize that his entire presentation was in vain. As he now fell silent, K. actually believed at first it was meant to give him an opportunity to confess he could no longer listen. But to his regret he saw from the expectant gaze of the manufacturer, who was obviously prepared for any possible rejoinder, that the business conference was going to continue. So he ducked his head as if at an order and began moving his pencil back and forth above the papers, stopping here and there to stare at a number. The manufacturer sensed objections: perhaps the figures weren’t really firm, perhaps they weren’t truly conclusive, in any case the manufacturer placed his hand on the papers and, drawing right up against K., launched once more into a general description of the project. “It’s complicated,” K. said, pursing his lips, and since the papers, the only thing he could grasp, were covered, he slumped against the arm of his chair. He glanced up only weakly even when the door to the head office opened and, somewhat blurred, as if behind a gauzy veil, the figure of the vice president appeared. K. gave this no further thought, but simply observed the result, which pleased him greatly. For the manufacturer immediately jumped up from his chair and rushed toward the vice president; K. would have had him move ten times faster however, for he feared the vice president might disappear. His fear was unwarranted: the gentlemen met, shook hands, and walked together toward K.’s desk. The manufacturer complained because the financial officer had shown so little inclination for the project and pointed toward K. who, beneath the vice president’s gaze, bent over the papers once more. As the two leaned against the desk and the manufacturer now began to try to win over the vice president, it seemed to K. as if the two men, whose size he mentally exaggerated, were negotiating with each other about him. Slowly he tried to ascertain with cautiously upturned eyes what was happening above him, took one of the sheets of paper from the desk without looking at it, placed it on the palm of his hand, and lifted it at last to the men as he himself stood up. He had nothing in particular in mind as he did so, but simply acted in the belief that he would have to behave thus when he finally prepared the grand petition that would totally exonerate him. The vice president, who had followed the conversation with the closest attention, simply glanced at the sheet, not even bothering to read it, since whatever was of importance to the financial officer was of no importance to him, took it from K.’s hand, said: “Thanks, I already know all about it,” and laid it back calmly on the desk. K. gave him a bitter sidelong glance. But the vice president didn’t notice at all, or if he did notice, it only amused him; he laughed aloud several times, put the manufacturer at an obvious loss once with a shrewd reply, but quickly smoothed things over by raising an objection to his own position, and finally invited him to join him in his office, where they could bring the matter to a close. “It’s a very important project,” he said to the manufacturer, “I see that quite clearly. And our chief financial officer”—even this remark was actually addressed only to the manufacturer—“will certainly be pleased if we take it off his hands. It’s a matter that requires calm consideration. But he appears overburdened today, and a number of people have already been waiting hours for him in the outer office.” K. retained just enough self-control to turn away from the vice president and direct his friendly but rigid smile solely to the manufacturer; otherwise he made no attempt to intervene, leaned forward slightly with both hands propped on his desk like a clerk at his station, and looked on as the two men continued talking, picked up the papers from the desk, and disappeared into the head office. While still in the doorway the manufacturer turned, said he wouldn’t take his leave as yet, but would of course inform the financial officer of the outcome of the discussion, and that he still had one other small matter to mention to him.

  At last K. was alone. He had no intention of admitting any other clients, and he was only vaguely conscious of how pleasant it was that the people outside believed he was still dealing with the manufacturer, so that no one, not even his assistant, could enter. He went to the window, sat down on the broad sill, held on tightly to the handle with one hand, and looked out onto the square. The snow was still falling; the day had not yet brightened.

  He sat like that for a long time, without knowing what was actually troubling him, just glancing over his shoulder with a start from time to time at the door to the waiting room, where he mistakenly thought he heard a noise. But when no one arrived, he relaxed, went to the washbasin, washed his face with cold water, and returned to his place at the window with a clearer head. The decision to take charge of his own defense appeared more momentous now than he had originally assumed. So long as he had shifted the burden of his defense to his lawyer the trial had not affected him all that much; he had observed it from afar and could scarcely be touched by it directly; he could check up on his case wh
enever he wished, but he could also pull his head back whenever he wanted to. Now, on the other hand, if he intended to undertake his own defense, he would have to expose himself fully to the court for the moment; the result would eventually be his full and definitive release, but in order to achieve this, he must temporarily place himself in far greater danger than before. If he had any doubts on that score, today’s meeting with the vice president and the manufacturer offered ample proof. How could he have just sat there, totally paralyzed by the mere decision to defend himself? What would things be like later? The days that lay ahead! Would he find the path that led through it all to a favorable end? Didn’t a painstaking defense—and any other kind would be senseless—didn’t a painstaking defense simultaneously imply the necessity of cutting himself off as far as possible from everything else? Would he successfully survive that? And how was he supposed to do that here at the bank? It wasn’t just a matter of the petition, for which a leave might perhaps suffice, although requesting one just now would be taking a great chance; it was a matter of an entire trial, the length of which was unforeseeable. What an obstacle had suddenly been thrown in the path of K.’s career!

  And now he was expected to work for the bank?—He glanced over at the desk.—Now he was supposed to admit clients and deal with them? While his trial rolled on, while the officials of the court were up there in the attic going over the trial documents, he was supposed to conduct bank business? Didn’t that seem like a form of torture, sanctioned by the court, a part of the trial itself, accompanying it? And would anyone in the bank take his special situation into account when judging his work? No one, not ever. His trial was not entirely unknown, although it wasn’t quite clear who knew about it and how much. He hoped, however, that the rumor had not yet reached the vice president; otherwise there would have already been some clear sign of how, without the least regard for collegiality or common decency, he would use it against K. And the president? There was no doubt that he was favorably inclined toward K., and if he were to learn about the trial, he would probably try to make things easier for K. as far as he could, but with little success to be sure, since now that the counterweight K. had offered up to this point was starting to weaken, he was falling increasingly under the influence of the vice president, who was also taking advantage of the president’s precarious state of health to strengthen his own position. Then what hope was there for K.? Perhaps he weakened his own resistance by such reflections, and yet it was also necessary to avoid self-deception and to see everything as clearly as possible at that moment.

  For no particular reason, simply to avoid returning to his desk for the time being, he opened the window. It was hard to open; he had to use both hands to turn the handle. Then fog mingled with smoke blew in through the window from top to bottom and filled the room with the faint smell of burning. A few flakes of snow drifted in as well. “A nasty autumn,” the manufacturer said behind him, having entered the room unnoticed after leaving the vice president. K. nodded and looked nervously at the manufacturer’s briefcase, from which he would now no doubt pull the papers to report the results of his discussion with the vice president. The manufacturer, however, followed K.’s gaze, tapped his briefcase, and said without opening it: “You want to hear how it turned out. Not too badly. I’ve practically got a signed contract in my pocket. A charming man, your vice president, but not without his dangerous side.” He laughed, shook K.’s hand, and tried to get him to laugh as well. But now it struck K. as suspicious that the manufacturer didn’t want to show him the papers, and he found nothing in the manufacturer’s remarks to laugh about. “My dear sir,” said the manufacturer, “you’re probably suffering from the weather. You look so dejected today.” “Yes,” said K. and pressed his hand to his forehead, “a headache, family problems.” “Yes, indeed,” said the manufacturer, who was always in a hurry and could listen to no one patiently, “each of us has his cross to bear.” K. had instinctively taken a step toward the door, as if he wished to see the manufacturer out, but the latter said: “I had one other small matter to mention, my dear sir. I’m afraid I may perhaps be adding to your burdens today with this, but I’ve already been here twice in the recent past and forgot it both times. If I put it off any longer it will probably lose its point altogether. But that would be too bad, since my information is perhaps not entirely without value.” Before K. had time to reply, the manufacturer stepped up close to him, tapped him on the chest with his knuckle, and said quietly: “You’re involved in a trial, right?” K. stepped back and exclaimed at once: “The vice president told you that.” “Oh, no,” said the manufacturer, “how would the vice president know?” “And you?” asked K., immediately calmer. “I find out things about the court now and then,” said the manufacturer. “Such as the information I wanted to pass on to you.” “So many people are connected with the court!” said K. with bowed head and led the manufacturer over to the desk. They sat down again as before and the manufacturer said: “I don’t have much information to offer, unfortunately. But you shouldn’t neglect even the smallest item in these matters. And I feel an urge to help you somehow, no matter how modest that help might be. We’ve been good business friends up to now, haven’t we? Well, then.” K. started to beg his pardon for the way he had behaved at that day’s conference, but the manufacturer would not be interrupted; he shoved his briefcase high under his arm to show he was in a hurry and went on: “I know about your trial from a certain Titorelli. He’s a painter; Titorelli is just the name he goes by as an artist, I don’t know his real one. He’s been coming to my office off and on for years, bringing small paintings for which I always give him a sort of alms—he’s almost a beggar. They’re pretty pictures by the way, landscapes of heaths and the like. These sales—we’re both long since used to them—go smoothly enough. But at one point he started repeating his visits too often, I raised objections, we started talking; I was interested in how he managed to support himself on his art alone and learned to my astonishment that his major source of income was portrait painting. He said he worked for the court. For which court, I asked. And then he told me about the court. You can no doubt well imagine how astonished I was at his stories. Since then, whenever he visits, I hear some item of news about the court, and so I’ve gradually gained a certain insight into the matter. Of course Titorelli gossips a lot, and I often have to turn him off, not simply because he surely lies as well, but above all because a businessman like myself, almost collapsing beneath the burdens of his own affairs, can’t spend too much time worrying about those of others. But that’s beside the point. Perhaps—it occurred to me now—Titorelli could be of some help to you; he knows several judges, and even if he doesn’t have much influence himself, he could still advise you on how to gain access to various influential people. And even if this sort of advice is not in and of itself crucial, in my opinion it might take on great importance in your possession. After all, you’re practically a lawyer. I always say: Chief Financial Officer K. is practically a lawyer. Oh, I have no worries about your trial. But would you like to visit Titorelli? With my recommendation he’ll certainly try to do everything he can. I really think you should go. It doesn’t have to be today of course, some time or other, at your convenience. Of course—let me add this—you mustn’t feel obliged to actually visit Titorelli just because I’m the one who advised you to do so. No, if you think you can get along without him, it would be better to leave him out of it entirely. Perhaps you already have some precise plan Titorelli might disturb. Then no, you most assuredly shouldn’t go. A person is naturally reluctant to allow himself to be advised by a fellow like that. As you wish, then. Here’s the letter of introduction and here’s the address.”

  Disappointed, K. took the letter and stuck it in his pocket. Even in the most favorable of cases, any advantage he might gain from the recommendation was small compared to the harm that lay in the fact that the manufacturer knew about his trial, and that the painter was spreading the news about. He could hardly force himsel
f to offer a few words of thanks to the manufacturer, who was already on his way to the door. “I’ll go there,” he said, as he saw the manufacturer off at the door, “or, since I’m so busy right now, I’ll write to say he should come to my office sometime.” “I knew you’d figure out how best to handle it,” said the manufacturer. “Of course I thought you’d prefer to avoid inviting people like this Titorelli to the bank to discuss your trial. It’s not always a good idea to send letters to such people either. But you’ve no doubt thought everything over carefully and know what to do.” K. nodded and accompanied the manufacturer on through the waiting room. In spite of his calm exterior, he was shocked at himself. He’d only said he would write Titorelli to show the manufacturer that he appreciated his recommendation and that he would seriously consider the possibility of getting together with Titorelli, but if he had thought that Titorelli’s assistance might be of use, he would not have hesitated to actually write to him. The resulting danger, however, had not occurred to him until the manufacturer made his remark. Could he really rely so little on his own judgment already? If he could allow himself to send an explicit letter of invitation to a man of questionable character to come to the bank, in order, separated only by a door from the vice president, to seek his advice on his trial, was it not possible, and even probable, that he was overlooking other dangers, or heading straight for them? There wouldn’t always be someone standing at his side to warn him. And now of all times, when he should be gathering all his strength to act, previously unknown doubts about his own judgment had to arise. Were the difficulties he was having carrying out his office work going to begin in his trial as well? Certainly now he no longer understood how he could ever have considered writing to Titorelli and inviting him to the bank.