The Castle (39 page)

This, however, does not even need to be the one who is in the highest degree competent in regard to the case, what is decisive here is the organization and its particular needs of the moment. That is the general situation.

And now, Land Surveyor, consider the possibility that through some circumstances or other, in spite of the obstacles already described to you, which are in general quite sufficient, an applicant does nevertheless, in the middle of the night, surprise a secretary who has a certain degree of competence with regard to the given case. I dare say you have never thought of such a possibility? I am quite prepared to believe it. Nor is it at all necessary to think of that for it does, after all, practically never occur.

What sort of and quite specially constituted, small, skilful grain would an applicant have to be in order to slip through the incomparable sieve?

You think it cannot happen at all?

You are right, it cannot happen at all.

But some night - for who can vouch for everything? - it does happen.

Admittedly, I don't know anyone among my acquaintances to whom it has ever happened, well, it is true that proves very little, the circle of those acquaintances is restricted in comparison to the number involved here, and besides it is by no means certain that a secretary to whom such a thing has happened will admit it, since it is, after all, a very personal affair and one that in a sense gravely touches the official sense of shame.

Nevertheless my experience does perhaps prove that what we are concerned with is a matter so rare, actually only existing by way of rumour, not confirmed by anything else at all, that there is, therefore, really no need to be afraid of it. Even if it were really to happen, one can - one would think - positively render it harmless by proving to it, which is very easy, that there is no room for it in this world.

In any case it is morbid to be so afraid of it that one hides, say, under the quilt and does not dare to peep out. And even if this perfect improbability should suddenly have taken on shape, is then everything lost? On the contrary. That everything should be lost is yet more improbable than the most improbable thing itself. Granted, if the applicant is actually in the room things are in a very bad way. It constricts the heart.

"How long will you be able to put up resistance?" one wonders.

But it will be no resistance at all, one knows that. You must only picture the situation correctly. The never-beheld, always-expected applicant, truly thirstingly expected and always reasonably regarded as out of reach - there this applicant sits. By his mute presence, if by nothing else, he constitutes an invitation to penetrate into his poor life, to look around there as in one's own property and there to suffer with him under the weight of his futile demands. This invitation in the silent night is beguiling.

One gives way to it, and now one has actually ceased to function in one's official capacity. It is a situation in which it very soon becomes impossible to refuse to do a favour.

To put it precisely, one is desperate.

To put it still more precisely, one is very happy for the defenceless position in which one sits here waiting for the applicant to utter his plea and knowing that once it is uttered one must grant it, even if, at least in so far as one has oneself a general view of the situation, it positively tears the official organization to shreds: this is, I suppose, the worst thing that can happen to one in the fulfilment of one's duties, above all - apart from everything else - because it is also a promotion, one surpassing all conceptions, that one here for the pioment usurps. For it is inherent in our position that we are not empowered to grant pleas such as that with which we are here concerned, yet through the proximity of this nocturnal applicant our official powers do in a manner of speaking grow, we pledge ourselves to do things that are outside our scope.

Indeed, we shall even fulfil our pledges.

The applicant wrings from us in the night, as the robber does in the forest, sacrifices of which we should otherwise never be capable.

Well, all right, that is the way it is now when the applicant is still there, strengthening us and compelling us and spurring us on, and while everything is still half unconsciously under way. But how it will be afterwards, when it is all over, when, sated and carefree, the applicant leaves us and there we are, alone, defenceless in the face of our misuse of official power - that does not bear thinking of.

Nevertheless, we are happy.

How suicidal happiness can be!

We might, of course, exert ourselves to conceal the true position from the applicant.

He himself will scarcely notice anything of his own accord. He has, after all, in his own opinion probably only for some indifferent, accidental reasons -being overtired, disappointed, ruthless and indifferent from over-fatigue and disappointment - pushed his way into a room other than the one he wanted to enter, he sits there in ignorance, occupied with his thoughts, if he is occupied at all, with his mistake or with his fatigue.

Could one not leave him in that situation?

One cannot.

With the loquacity of those who are happy one has to explain everything to him. Without being able to spare oneself in the slightest one must show him in detail what has happened and for what reasons this has happened, how extraordinarily rare and how uniquely great the opportunity is, one must show how the applicant, though he has stumbled into this opportunity in utter helplessness such as no other being is capable of than precisely an applicant, can, however, now, if he wants to, Land Surveyor, dominate everything and to that end has to do nothing but in some way or other put forward his plea, for which fulfilment is already what which indeed it is already coming to meet, all this one tn show.

It is the official's hour of travail. But when one has do even that, then, Land Surveyor, all that is essential has been done, then one must resign oneself and wait."

K. was asleep, impervious to all that was happening, his head, which had at first been lying on his left arm on top of the bedpost, had slid down as he slept and now hung unsupported, slowly dropping lower. The support of the arm above was no longer sufficient. Involuntarily K. provided himself with new support by planting his right hand firmly against the foot of the bed whereby he accidentally took hold of Burgel's foot, which happened to be sticking up under the quilt. Burgel looked down and abandoned the foot to him, tiresome though this might be.

Now there came some vigorous knocking on the partition wall.

K. started up and looked at the wall.

"Isn't the Land Surveyor there?" a voice asked.

"Yes," Burgel said, freed his foot from K.'s hold and suddenly stretched wildly and wantonly like a little boy.

"Then tell him it's high time for him to come over here," the voice continued.

There was no consideration shown for Burgel or for whether he might still require K.'s presence.

"It's Erlanger," Burgel said in a whisper, seeming not at all surprised that Erlanger was in the next room.

"Go to him at once, he's already annoyed, try to conciliate him. He's a sound sleeper.

But still, we have been talking too loudly. One cannot control oneself and one's voice when one is speaking of certain things.

Well, go along now, you don't seem able to shake yourself out of your sleep.

Go along, what are you still doing here?

No, you don't need to apologize for being sleepy, why should you?

One's physical energies last only to a certain limit. Who can help the fact that precisely this limit is significant in other ways too?

No, nobody can help it That is how the world itself corrects the deviations in its course and maintains the balance. This is indeed an excellent, time and again unimaginably excellent arrangement, even if in other respects dismal and cheerless. Well, go along, I don't know why you look at me like that. If you delay much longer Erlanger will be down on roe, and that is something I should very much like to avoid."

"Go along now.

Who knows what awaits you over there?

Everything here is full of opportunities, after all. Only there are, of course, opportunities that are, in a manner of speaking, too great to be , made use of, there are things that are wrecked on nothing but themselves.

Yes, that is astonishing.

For the rest, I hope I shall now be able to get to sleep for a while after all. Of course, it is five o'clock by now and the noise will soon be beginning. If you would only go!"

Stunned by suddenly being woken up out of deep sleep, still boundlessly in need of sleep, his body aching all over from having been in such an uncomfortable position, K.

could for a long time not bring himself to stand up, but held his forehead and looked down at his lap. Even Burgel's continual dismissals would not have been able to make him go, it was only a sense of the utter uselessness of staying any longer in this room that slowly brought him to it. How indescribably dreary this room seemed to him. Whether it had become so or had been so all the time, he did not know. Here he would not even succeed in going to sleep again. This conviction was indeed the decisive factor. Smiling a little at this, he rose supporting himself wherever he found any support, on the bed, on the wall, on the door, and, as though he had long ago taken leave of Burgel, left without saying good-bye.

Problaly he would have walked past Erlanger's room just as indifferently if Erlanger had not been standing in the open door, beckoning to him.

One short sign with the forefinger.

Erlanger was already completely dressed to go out, he wore a black fur coat with a tight collar buttoned up high. A servant was just handing him his gloves and was still holding a fur cap.

"You should have come long ago," Erlanger said.

K. tried to apologize.

Wearily shutting his eyes, Erlanger indkated that ne was not interested in hearing apologies.

"The matter is as follows," he said. "Formerly a certain Frieda was employed in toe taproom. I only know her name, I don't know the girl herself, she is no concern of mine.

This Frieda sometimes served Klamm with beer.

Now there seems to be another girl. Well, this change is, of course, probably of no importance anyone, and quite certainly of none to Klamm. But the bigger a job is, and Klamm's job is, of course, the biggest, the less strength is left over for protecting oneself against the external world, and as a result any unimportant alteration in the most unimportant things can be a serious disturbance. The smallest alteration on the writing-desk, the removal of a duty spot that has been there ever since anyone can remember, all this can be disturbing, and so, in the same way, can a new barmaid.

Well of course, all of this, even if it would disturb anyone else and in any given job, does not disturb Klamm. That is quite out of the question. Nevertheless we are obliged to keep such a watch over Klamm's comfort that we remove even disturbances that are not such for him - and probably there are none whatsoever for him - if they strike us as being possible disturbances.

It is not for his sake, it is not for the sake of his work, that we remove these disturbances, but for our sake, for the sake of our conscience and our peace of mind. For this reason this Frieda must at once return to the taproom. Perhaps she will be disturbing precisely through the fact of her return. Well, then we shall send her away again, but, for the time being, she must return. You are living with her, as I am told, therefore arrange immediately for her return. In this no consideration can be given to personal feelings, that goes without saying, of course, hence I shall not enter into the least further discussion of the matter. I am already doing much more than is necessary if I mention that if you show yourself reliable in this trivial affair it may on some occasion be of use to you in improving your prospects. That is all I have to say to you."

He gave K. a nod of dismissal, put on the fur cap handed to him by the servant, and, followed by the servant, went down the passage, rapidly, but limping a little.

Sometimes orders that were given here were very easy to carry out, but this case did not please K. Not only because the order affected Frieda and, though intended as an order, sounded to K. like scornful laughter, but above all because what it confronted K.

with was the futility of all his endeavours and orders, the unfavourable and the favourable, disregarded him, and even the most favourable probably had an ultimate unfavourable core, but in any case they all disregarded him, and he was in much too lowly a position to be able to intervene or, far less, to silence them and to gain a hearing for his own voice.

If Erlanger waves you off, what are you going to do?

And if he were not to wave you off, what could you say to him?

True, K. remained aware that his weariness had to-day done him more harm than all the unfavourableness of circumstances, but why could he, who had believed he could rely on his body and who would never have started out on his way without that conviction, why could he not endure a few bad nights and one sleepless night, why did he become so unmanageably tired precisely here where nobody was tired or, rather, where everyone was tired all the time, without this, however, doing any damage to the work, indeed, even seeming to promote it?

The conclusion to be drawn from this was that this was in its way a quite different sort of fatigue from K.'s. Here it was doubtless fatigue amid happy work, something that outwardly looked like fatigue and was actually indestructable repose, indestructable peace. If one is a little tired at noon, that is part of the happy natural course of the day.

"For the gentlemen here it is always noon," K. said to himself.

And it was very much in keeping with this that now, at five o'clock, things were beginning to stir everywhere on each side of the passage. This babel of voices in the rooms had something extremely merry about it. Once it sounded like the jubilation of children getting ready for a picnic, another time like daybreak in a hen-roost, like the joy of being in complete accord with the awakening day.