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

  Leni appeared almost simultaneously with the sound of the bell; she tried to ascertain what had happened with a few quick glances; the fact that K. was sitting quietly by the lawyer’s bed seemed to reassure her. She nodded with a smile to K., who stared fixedly at her. “Get Block,” said the lawyer. But instead of going to get him, she simply stepped outside the door, called out: “Block! To the lawyer!” and then, no doubt because the lawyer was still turned toward the wall and paying no attention, slipped behind K.’s chair. She kept distracting him from that point on, leaning over the back of his chair, or running her fingers, quite gently and surreptitiously of course, through his hair, and stroking his cheeks. Finally K. tried to stop her by grabbing her hand, which, after a brief resistance, she surrendered to him.

  Block arrived immediately in response to the summons but stopped at the door and seemed to be debating whether or not he should enter. He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head, as if listening to hear if the order to see the lawyer might be repeated. K. might have encouraged him to enter, but he had decided to make a clean break, not only with his lawyer, but with everything that went on in his apartment, and so he remained motionless. Leni too was silent. Block saw that at least he wasn’t being driven away and entered on tiptoe, his face tense, his hands clenched behind him. He had left the door open for a possible retreat. He didn’t even glance at K. but instead gazed only at the puffy quilt beneath which the lawyer, who had moved right against the wall, could not even be seen. Then, however, his voice was heard: “Block here?” he asked. This query delivered a virtual blow to Block, who had already advanced a good way forward, striking him in the chest and then in the back so that he stumbled, came to a stop with a deep bow, and said: “At your service.” “What do you want?” asked the lawyer; “you’ve come at an inopportune time.” “Wasn’t I summoned?” asked Block, more to himself than to the lawyer, lifting his hands protectively and ready to retreat. “You were summoned,” said the lawyer, “but you’ve still come at an inopportune time.” And after a pause he continued: “You always come at inopportune times.” Once the lawyer began speaking, Block no longer looked at the bed, but instead stared off somewhere into a corner and merely listened, as if the sight of the speaker was too blinding to bear. Listening was difficult too, however, for the lawyer was speaking to the wall, softly and rapidly. “Do you wish me to leave?” asked Block. “You’re here now,” said the lawyer. “Stay!” One would have thought the lawyer had threatened to flog Block, not grant his wish, for now Block began to tremble in earnest. “Yesterday,” said the lawyer, “I visited the third judge, my friend, and gradually brought the conversation around to you. Do you want to know what he said?” “Oh, please,” said Block. Since the lawyer didn’t reply at once, Block repeated his entreaty, and stooped as if to kneel. But then K. lashed out at him: “What are you doing?” he cried. Since Leni tried to stop his outburst, he seized her other hand as well. It was no loving embrace in which he held them; she groaned several times and tried to pull her hands away. Block was the one punished for K.’s outburst, however, for the lawyer asked him: “Who’s your lawyer?” “You are,” said Block. “And other than me?” asked the lawyer. “No one but you,” said Block. “Then don’t listen to anyone else,” said the lawyer. Block accepted this totally; he measured K. with an angry glance and shook his head vigorously. Translated into words, his gestures would have constituted a tirade of abuse. And this was the man K. had wished to engage in friendly conversation about his own case! “I won’t disturb you further,” said K., leaning back in his chair, “kneel down or crawl around on all fours, do just as you like, it makes no difference to me.” But Block did have a sense of honor after all, at least as far as K. was concerned, for he headed toward him, brandishing his fists and crying out as loudly as he dared in the lawyer’s presence: “You can’t talk to me like that, it’s not allowed. Why are you insulting me? And in front of the lawyer, who tolerates both you and me merely out of compassion? You’re no better a person than I am, for you’re a defendant too and also on trial. But if you remain a gentleman in spite of that, then I’m as much a gentleman as you, if not a greater one. And I wish to be addressed as one, especially by you. But if you think you’re privileged because you’re allowed to sit here quietly and listen while I, as you put it, crawl around on all fours, then let me remind you of the old legal maxim: a suspect is better off moving than at rest, for one at rest may be on the scales without knowing it, being weighed with all his sins.” K. said nothing; he simply stared fixedly in astonishment at this flustered man. How many transformations he had undergone in just this past hour! Was it the trial that cast him about so, and kept him from distinguishing his friends from his enemies? Couldn’t he see that the lawyer was intentionally humiliating him, with no other goal on this occasion but to parade his power before K. and by so doing perhaps intimidate K. as well? But if Block was incapable of recognizing that, or feared the lawyer so much that this knowledge was of no help, how was he clever or bold enough to deceive the lawyer and conceal the fact that he had other lawyers working for him as well. And how did he dare to attack K., who could betray his secret at any time. But he dared more than this; he approached the lawyer’s bed and began complaining about K. there as well: “Herr Huld,” he said, “you’ve heard how this man speaks to me. His trial can still be reckoned in hours and he’s already trying to give me advice, me, a man who’s been on trial for five years. He even abuses me. Knows nothing and abuses me, a man who has studied closely, to the best of my poor abilities, what decency, duty, and court custom demand.” “Don’t worry about anyone else,” said the lawyer, “just do what seems right to you.” “Certainly,” said Block, as if building up his own courage, and, with a quick sidelong glance, he knelt at the side of the bed. “I’m on my knees, sir,” he said. But the lawyer said nothing. Block caressed the quilt cautiously with one hand. In the silence that now reigned Leni said, as she freed herself from K.’s hands: “You’re hurting me. Leave me alone. I’m going to Block.” She went over and sat down on the edge of the bed. Block was greatly pleased by her arrival; he begged her at once with urgent but silent gestures to plead his cause with the lawyer. He evidently needed the lawyer’s information badly, perhaps only so that it could be used by his other lawyers. Leni apparently knew just how to approach the lawyer; she pointed to the lawyer’s hand and pursed her lips as if for a kiss. Block immediately kissed it and at Leni’s prompting, did so twice more. But still the lawyer said nothing. Then Leni leaned over the lawyer, displaying her fine figure as she stretched forward and bent down close to his face to stroke his long white hair. That finally wrested a response from him. “I hesitate to tell him,” said the lawyer, and you could see how he shook his head slightly, perhaps to enjoy the touch of Leni’s hand more fully. Block listened with bowed head, as if he were breaking some rule by doing so. “Why do you hesitate?” asked Leni. K. had the feeling he was listening to a carefully rehearsed dialogue that had occurred many times before, and would occur many times again, one that would remain forever fresh only to Block. “How has he behaved today?” asked the lawyer, instead of answering. Before replying, Leni looked down at Block for a few moments as he raised his hands to her and wrung them imploringly. At last she nodded gravely, turned to the lawyer, and said: “He’s been quiet and industrious.” An elderly merchant, a man with a long beard, begging a young woman to put in a good word for him. Even if he had his own ulterior motives, nothing could justify his actions in the eyes of his fellow man. It almost dishonored the onlooker. K. didn’t see how the lawyer could possibly have believed this performance would win him over. If he had not already driven him away, this scene would have done so. So the lawyer’s methods, to which K., fortunately, had not been long enough exposed, resulted in this: that the client finally forgot the entire world, desiring only to trudge along this mistaken path to the end of his trial. He was no longer a client, he was the lawyer’s dog. If the lawyer had ordered him to crawl under the b
ed, as into a kennel, and bark, he would have done so gladly. K. listened critically and coolly, as if he had been commissioned to mentally record everything, render an account of it at a higher level, and file a report. “What did he do all day?” asked the lawyer. “I locked him in the maid’s room, where he generally stays anyway,” said Leni, “so that he wouldn’t bother me while I was working. I checked on what he was doing from time to time through the peephole. He was always kneeling on the bed with the documents you loaned him open on the windowsill, reading them. That made a positive impression on me; the window opens only onto an air shaft and offers hardly any light. That Block was reading in spite of this made me realize how obedient he is.” “I’m glad to hear it,” said the lawyer. “But did he understand what he was reading?” Block moved his lips constantly during this conversation, apparently formulating the replies he hoped Leni would give. “Of course I can’t really say for sure,” said Leni. “At any rate I could see he was reading carefully. He spent the whole day reading the same page, and would move his finger along the lines as he read. Whenever I looked in he was sighing, as if he were finding it hard to read. The texts you gave him are probably hard to understand.” “Yes,” said the lawyer, “of course they are. And I don’t imagine he does understand any of them. They’re simply meant to give him some idea of the difficulty of the battle I’m waging in his defense. And for whom am I waging this difficult battle? For—ludicrous as it may sound—for Block. He must learn the full import of that as well. Did he study without a break?” “Almost without a break,” said Leni, “there was just one time when he asked me for a drink of water. I passed him a glass through the peephole. Then at eight o’clock I let him out and gave him something to eat.” Block gave K. a sidelong glance, as if something praiseworthy had been said about him and must surely have impressed K. as well. He seemed quite hopeful now; he moved more freely and shifted about on his knees. It was therefore all the more obvious when he froze at the following words from the lawyer: “You’re praising him,” said the lawyer. “But that’s just why I find it hard to speak. For the judge’s remarks were not at all favorable, for Block or his trial.” “Not favorable?” asked Leni. “How could that be?” Block looked at her expectantly, as if he thought her capable of turning to his favor the words long since spoken by the judge. “Not favorable,” said the lawyer. “He was annoyed that I even brought up Block’s name. ‘Don’t talk about Block,’ he said. ‘He’s my client,’ I said. ‘You’re letting him take advantage of you,’ he said. ‘I don’t consider his case a lost cause,’ I said. ‘You’re letting him take advantage of you,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said. ‘Block works hard on his trial and always tries to keep up with it. He practically lives with me in order to stay current. One doesn’t always find such commitment. It’s true he’s an unpleasant person, has bad manners and is dirty, but with regard to procedural matters he’s irreproachable.’ I said irreproachable; I was intentionally exaggerating. To which he replied: ‘Block is simply cunning. He’s gained a good deal of experience and knows how to protract a trial. But his ignorance far outweighs his cunning. What do you think he would say if he were to learn that his trial hasn’t even begun yet, if someone were to tell him that the bell that opens the trial still hasn’t rung.’ Quiet, Block,” said the lawyer, for Block was starting to rise up on his wobbly knees and was apparently about to ask for an explanation. Now for the first time the lawyer addressed Block directly at length. His tired eyes roamed about, at times aimlessly, at times focusing on Block, who slowly sank to his knees again beneath his gaze. “The judge’s remark is of no importance for you,” said the lawyer. “Don’t go into shock at every word. If you do it again, I won’t disclose anything further to you. I can’t even begin a sentence without having you stare at me as if I were about to deliver your final judgment. You should be ashamed here in front of my client! You’ll undermine his faith in me as well. What is it you want? You’re still alive, you’re still under my protection. It’s senseless anxiety! You’ve read somewhere that in some cases the final judgment comes unexpectedly from some chance person at some random moment. With numerous reservations that’s true of course, but it’s equally true that your anxiety disgusts me and that I see in it a lack of necessary faith. What have I said after all? I’ve repeated a judge’s remark. You know that various views pile up around these proceedings until they become impenetrable. For instance this judge assumes a different starting point for the trial than I do. A difference of opinion, that’s all. There is an old tradition that a bell is rung at a certain stage in the trial. In this judge’s view it marks the beginning of the trial. I can’t tell you everything that speaks against this at the moment, nor would you understand it all; suffice it to say a great deal speaks against it.” Embarrassed, Block ran his fingers through the fur of the bedside rug; the anxiety caused by the judge’s statement caused him to forget for a moment his own subservience to the lawyer; he now thought only of himself, turning the judge’s words over, examining them from all sides. “Block,” said Leni in a tone of warning, lifting him up a bit by the collar. “Leave that fur alone and listen to the lawyer.”

  IN THE CATHEDRAL

  An Italian business associate of major importance to the bank was visiting the city for the first time, and K. had been assigned to show him a few of its artistic treasures. At any other time he would have considered the assignment an honor, but now that he was expending so much effort defending his prestige at the bank, he accepted it reluctantly. Every hour away from the office troubled him; it was true he could no longer use his office time as efficiently as before; he spent many an hour in only the most superficial appearance of actual work, but that made him all the more worried when he was away from the office. He pictured the vice president, who was always lurking about, entering his office from time to time, sitting down at his desk, rifling through his papers, receiving customers who over the years had almost become K.’s friends, luring them away, yes, perhaps even discovering errors, which K. felt threatened by from a thousand directions as he worked, errors he could no longer avoid. So no matter how much it honored him, whenever he was given any assignment that required a business call or even a short trip—as chance would have it, the number of such assignments had mounted recently—the suspicion was never far removed that they were trying to get him out of the office for a while to check on his work, or at the very least, that they thought they could spare him easily at the office. He could have turned down most of the assignments with no difficulty, but he didn’t dare, for if there was any justification at all for his fear, refusing the assignment would be taken as an admission of his anxiety. For this reason he accepted such assignments with apparent equanimity, even concealing a bad cold when faced with a strenuous two-day business trip, so that there would be no risk of his being held back due to the prevailing rainy autumn weather. Returning from the trip with a raging headache, he discovered he was supposed to host the Italian colleague the following day. The temptation to refuse, at least on this occasion, was strong, particularly since what he was being asked to do bore no direct relationship to his work at the bank; fulfilling this social duty for a business colleague was doubtless important in itself, but not to K., who was well aware that only success in the office could protect him, and that if he couldn’t manage that, even proving unexpectedly charming to the Italian would be of no value at all; he didn’t want to be forced away from work even for a day, for the fear that he might not be allowed to return was too great, a fear that he knew all too well was far-fetched but that nonetheless oppressed him. In this case of course it was almost impossible to invent a plausible excuse; K.’s Italian was not particularly fluent, but it was adequate; the decisive argument, however, was that K. had some knowledge of art history, acquired in earlier days; this had become known at the bank and blown far out of proportion because for a time, and solely for business reasons as it happened, K. had belonged to the Society for the Preservation of Municipal Works of Art.
Since rumor had it that the Italian was an art lover, the choice of K. as a guide had been obvious.

  It was a very wet and windy morning as K., full of irritation at the day before him, entered his office at seven o’clock in hopes of accomplishing at least some work before the visitor took him away from everything. He was very tired, having spent half the night preparing himself somewhat by poring over an Italian grammar; the window at which he was accustomed to sit all too often in recent days attracted him more than his desk, but he resisted and sat down to work. Unfortunately his assistant entered immediately and announced that the president had asked him to see if K. was in yet; if he was, would he be so kind as to come over to the reception room, since the gentleman from Italy had already arrived. “I’ll be right there,” said K., stuck a small dictionary in his pocket, tucked an album of city sights he had brought for the visitor under his arm, and walked through the vice president’s office into the head office. He was happy that he’d arrived at the office so early and was immediately available, which no one could seriously have expected. The vice president’s office was still empty of course, as in the depths of night; the assistant had probably been asked to call him to the reception room too, but without success. As K. entered the reception room the two men rose from their deep armchairs. The president wore a friendly smile and was obviously delighted at K.’s arrival; he handled the introductions at once, the Italian shook K.’s hand warmly, and laughingly called someone an early riser; K. wasn’t sure exactly whom he meant, for it was an odd expression, and it took K. a moment or so to guess its sense. He answered with a few smooth sentences that the Italian responded to with another laugh, nervously stroking his bushy, gray-blue mustache several times. This mustache was obviously perfumed, one was almost tempted to draw near and sniff it. When they were all seated and had launched into a brief preliminary conversation, K. realized with discomfort that he understood only bits and pieces of what the Italian was saying. When he spoke slowly, he could understand almost everything, but those were rare exceptions; for the most part the words literally poured from his lips, and he shook his head in seeming pleasure as they did so. At such times, however, he kept falling into some dialect or other that didn’t really sound like Italian to K., but that the president not only understood but also spoke, something K. should have predicted, of course, since the Italian came from southern Italy, and the president had spent a few years there himself. At any rate K. realized he would have little chance of understanding the Italian, for his French was hard to follow too, and his mustache hid the movement of his lips, the sight of which might otherwise have helped him out. K. began to foresee various difficulties; for the moment he’d given up trying to follow the Italian—given the presence of the president, who understood him so easily, it was an unnecessary strain—and limited himself to observing peevishly the way he sat so deeply yet lightly in the armchair, how he tugged repeatedly at his short, sharply tailored jacket, and how once, lifting his arms and fluttering his hands, he tried to describe something K. couldn’t quite follow, even though he leaned forward and stared at his hands. In the end K., who was now simply glancing mechanically back and forth during the conversation, began to fall prey to his earlier fatigue and at one point to his horror caught himself, just in time fortunately, starting to rise absentmindedly, turn around, and leave. Finally the Italian glanced at his watch and jumped up. After he had taken leave of the president, he pressed up so near to K. that K. had to shove his armchair back in order to move at all. The president, who had surely seen in K.’s eyes the difficulty in which he found himself with the Italian, intervened in their conversation so delicately and cleverly that it seemed as if he were only making minor suggestions, while in reality he was succinctly conveying the sense of everything the Italian, who kept on interrupting him, was saying. K. gathered from him that the Italian still had a few business errands to attend to, that his time was unfortunately limited, that it was certainly not his intention to try to rush through every sight, and that he had decided—provided, of course, it met with K.’s approval, the decision was entirely up to him—to visit just the cathedral, but to take a really good look at it. He was looking forward to visiting it in the company of such a learned and amiable companion—by this he meant K., who was interested in nothing but trying to tune out the Italian and quickly grasp the president’s words—and if it was convenient, he would like to meet him at the cathedral about two hours from now, say around ten. He thought he could surely make it there by then. K. responded appropriately, the Italian shook hands, first with the president, then with K., then with the president again, and walked to the door accompanied by them both, still half turned to them, not quite finished talking even yet. K. remained for a short time with the president, who appeared to be feeling worse than usual today. He thought he owed some sort of apology to K. and said—they were standing in close intimacy—that at first he’d intended to accompany the Italian himself, but then—he offered no specific reason why—he’d decided to send K. instead. If he didn’t understand the Italian at first, he mustn’t let that bother him, he would soon begin to catch on, and even if there was a lot he didn’t understand, that wouldn’t be so terrible, since it really didn’t matter that much to the Italian whether anyone understood him or not. Moreover, K.’s Italian was surprisingly good and he was certain everything would go fine. With that K. was dismissed. He spent his remaining free time copying down various special terms he would need for the tour of the cathedral from the dictionary. It was a terribly tedious task; assistants brought in mail, clerks came with various inquiries, pausing at the door when they saw K. was busy, but refusing to stir until K. had heard them out, the vice president missed no opportunity to disturb K., entering several times, taking the dictionary from his hand and leafing through it, obviously at random; clients even appeared in the semidarkness of the waiting room when the door opened, bowing hesitantly, trying to attract his attention, but unsure whether or not they had been seen—all this revolved around K. as if he were an axis, while he himself listed the words he would need, looked them up in the dictionary, copied them down, practiced pronouncing them, and finally tried to learn them by heart. But his once excellent memory seemed to have abandoned him totally; at times he got so mad at the Italian for causing all this trouble that he buried the dictionary under stacks of paper with the firm intention of making no further preparations; but then he would realize that he couldn’t just parade past the artworks in the cathedral in total silence with the Italian, and he would pull the dictionary out again in even greater rage.