The Castle (5 page)

"No," said Barnabas, whose look seemed to imply more than his words.

Perhaps K. was as mistaken in Barnabas's goodness as in the malice of the peasants, but his presence remained a cornfort. "You are mentioned in the letter, too, you are supposed to carry messages now and then from me to the Chief, that's why I thought you might know the contents."

"I was only told," said Barnabas, "to give you the letter, to wait until you had read it,and then to bring back a verbal or written answer if you thought it needful."

"Very well," said K., "there's no need to write anything; convey to the Chief - by the way, what's his name? I couldn't read his signature."

"Klamm," said Barnabas.

"Well, convey to Herr Klamm my thanks for his recognition and for his great kindness, which 1 appreciate, being as I am one who has not yet proved his worth here. I shall follow his instructions faithfully. I have no particular requests to make for to-day."

Barnabas, who had listened with close attention, asked to be allowed to recapitulate the message. K. assented, Barnabas repeated it word for word. Then he rose to take his leave. K. had been studying his face the whole time, and now he gave it a last survey.

Barnabas was about the same height as K., but his eyes seemed to look down on K., yet that was almost in a kind of humility, it was impossible to think that this man could put anyone to shame. Of course he was only a messenger, and did not know the contents of the letters he carried, but the expression in his eyes, his smile, his bearing, seemed also to convey a message', however little he might know about it. And K. shook him by the hand, which seemed obviously to surprise him, for he had been going to content himself with a bow. As soon as he had gone - before opening the door he had leaned his shoulder against it for a moment and embraced the room generally in a final glance - K. said to the assistants: "Ìll bring down the plans from my room, and then we'll discuss what work is to be done first."

They wanted to accompany him.

"Stay here," said K.

Still they tried to accompany him. K. had to repeat his command more authoritatively.

Barnabas was no longer in the hall. But he had only just gone out. Yet in front of the house - fresh snow was falling - K. could not see him either. He called out: "Barnabas!"

No answer.

Could he still be in the house?

Nothing else seemed possible. None the less K. yelled the name with the full force of his lungs. It thundered through the night. And from the distance came a faint response, so far away was Barnabas already. K. called him back, and at the same time went to meet him; the spot where they encountered each other was no longer visible from the inn.

"Barnabas," said K., and could not keep his voice from trembling, "I have something else to say to you. And that reminds me that it's a bad arrangement to leave me dependent on your chance comings for sending a message to the Castle. If I hadn't happened to catch you just now - how you fly along, I thought you were still in the house - who knows how long I might have had to wait for your next appearance."

"You can ask the Chief," said Barnabas, "to send me at definite times appointed by yourself."

"Even that would not suffice," said K., "I might have nothing to say for a year at a time, but something of urgent importance might occur to me a quarter of an hour after you had gone."

"Well," said Barnabas, "shall I report to the Chief that between him and you some other means of communication should be established instead of me?"

"No, no," said K., "not at all, I only mention the matter in passing, for this time I have been lucky enough to catch you."

"Shall we go back to the inn," said Barnabas, "so that you can give me the new message there?"

He had already taken a step in the direction of the inn.

"Barnabas," said K., "it isn't necessary, I'll go a part of the way with you."

"Why don't you want to go to the inn?" asked Barnabas.

"The people there annoy me," said K., "you saw for yourself how persistent the peasants are."

"We could go into your room," said Barnabas.

"It's the maids' room," said K., "dirty and stuffy - it's to avoid staying there that I want to accompany you for a little, only," he added, in order finally to overcome Barnabas's reluctance, "you must let me take your arm, for you are surer of foot than I am."

And K. took his arm. It was quite dark, K. could not see Barnabas's face, his figure was only vaguely discernible, he had had to grope for his arm a minute or two. Barnabas yielded and they moved away from the inn. K. realized, indeed, that his utmost efforts could not enable him to keep pace with Barnabas, that he was a drag on him, and that even in ordinary circumstances this trivial accident might be enough to ruin everything, not to speak of side-streets like the one in which he had got stuck that morning, out of which he could never struggle unless Barnabas were to carry him. But he banished all such anxieties, and was comforted by Barnabas's silence; for if they went on in silence then Barnabas, too, must feel that their excursion together was the sole reason for their association.

They went on, but K. did not know whither, he could discern nothing, not even whether they had already passed the church or not. The effort which it cost him merely to keep going made him lose control of his thoughts. Instead of remaining fixed on their goal they strayed. Memories of his home kept recurring and filled his mind. There, too, a church stood in the marketplace, partly surrounded by an old graveyard which was again surrounded by a high wall. Very few boys had managed to climb that wall, and for some time K., too, had failed. It was not curiosity which had urged them on. The graveyard had been no mystery to them. They had often entered it through a small wicket-gate, it was only the smooth high wall that they had wanted to conquer. But one morning - the empty, quiet marketplace had been flooded with sunshine, when had K. ever seen it like that either before or since? - he had succeeded in climbing it with astonishing ease; at a place where he had already slipped down many a time he had clambered with a small flag between his teeth right to the top at the first attempt. Stones were still rattling down under his feet, but he was at the top. He stuck the flag in, it flew in the wind, he looked down and round about him, over his shoulder, too, at the crosses mouldering in the ground, nobody was greater than he at that place and that moment. By chance the teacher had come past and with a stern face had made K. descend. In jumping down he had hurt his knee and had found some difficulty in getting home, but still he had been on the top of the wall. The sense of that triumph had seemed to him then a victory for life, which was not altogether foolish, for now so many years later on the arm of Barnabas in the snowy night the memory of it came to succour him.

He took a firmer hold, Barnabas was almost dragging him along, the silence was unbroken. Of the road they were following all that K. knew was that to judge from its surface they had not yet turned aside into a by-street. He vowed to himself that, however difficult the way and however doubtful even the prospect of his being able to get back, he would not cease from going on. He would surely have strength enough to let himself be dragged. And the road must come to an end some time. By day the Castle had looked within easy reach, and, of course, the messenger would take the shortest cut. At that moment Barnabas stopped.

Where were they?

Was this the end?

Would Barnabas try to leave him?

He wouldn't succeed. K. clutched his arm so firmly that it almost made his hand ache.

Or had the incredible happened, and were they already in the Castle or at its gates? But they had not done any climbing so far as K. could tell. Or had Barnabas taken him up by an imperceptibly mounting road?

"Where are we?" said K. in a low voice, more to himself than to Barnabas.

"At home," said Barnabas in the same tone.

"At home?"

"Be careful now, sir, or you'll slip. We go down here."

"Down?"

"Only a step or two," added Barnabas, and was already knocking at a door. A girl opened it, and they were on the threshold of a large room almost in darkness, for there was no light save for a tiny oil lamp hanging over a table in the background.

"Who is with you, Barnabas?" asked the girl.

"The Land Surveyor," said he.

"The Land Surveyor," repeated the girl in a louder voice, turning towards the table.

Two old people there rose to their feet, a man and a woman, as well as another girl.

They greeted K. Barnabas introduced the whole family, his parents and his sisters Olga and Amalia. K. scarcely glanced at them and let them take his wet coat off to dry at the stove. So it was only Barnabas who was at home, not he himself. But why had they come here? K. drew Barnabas aside and asked:

"Why have you come here? Or do you live in the Castle precincts?"

"The Castle precincts?" repeated Barnabas, as if he did not understand.

"Barnabas," said K., "you left the inn to go to the Castle."

"No," said Barnabas, "I left it to come home, I don't go to the Castle till the early morning, I never sleep there." "Oh," said K., "so you weren't going to the Castle, but only here" - the man's smile seemed less brilliant, and his person more insignificant -

"Why didn't you say so?"

"You didn't ask me, sir," said Barnabas, "you only said you had a message to give me, but you wouldn't give it in the inn parlour, or in your room, so I thought you could speak to me quietly here in my parents' house. The others will all leave us if you wish -

and, if you prefer, you could spend the night here. Haven't I done the right thing?"

K. could not reply. It had been simply a misunderstanding, a common, vulgar misunderstanding, and K. had been completely taken in by it. He had been bewitched by Barnabas's closefitting, silken-gleaming jacket, which, now that it was unbuttoned, displayed a coarse, dirty grey shirt patched all over, and beneath that the huge muscular chest of a labourer. His surroundings not only corroborated all this but even emphasized it, the old gouty father who progressed more by the help of his groping hands than by the slow movements of his stiff legs, and the mother with her hands folded on her bosom, who was equally incapable of any but the smallest steps by reason of her stoutness. Both of them, father and mother, had been advancing from their corner towards K. ever since he had come in, and were still a long way off. The yellow-haired sisters, very like each other and very like Barnabas, but with harder features than their brother, great strapping wenches, hovered round their parents and waited for some word of greeting from K. But he could not utter it. He had been persuaded that in this village everybody meant something to him, and indeed he was not mistaken, it was only for these people here that he could feel not the slightest interest. If he had been fit to struggle back to the inn alone he would have left at once. The possibility of accompanying Barnabas to the Castle early in the morning did not attract him. He had hoped to penetrate into the Castle unremarked in the night on the arm of Barnabas, but on the arm of the Barnabas he had imagined, a man who was more to him than anyone else, the Barnabas he had conceived to be far above his apparent rank and in the intimate confidence of the Castle. With the son of such a family, however, a son who integrally belonged to it, and who was already sitting at table with the others, a man who was not even allowed to sleep in the Castle, he could not possibly go to the Castle in the broad light of day, it would be a ridiculous and hopeless undertaking.

K. sat down on a window-seat where he determined to pass the night without accepting any other favour. The other people in the village, who turned him away or were afraid of him, seemed much less dangerous, for all that they did was to throw him back on his own resources, helping him to concentrate his powers, but such ostensible helpers as these who on the strength of a petty masquerade brought him into their homes instead of into the Castle, deflected him, whether intentionally or not, from his goal and only helped to destroy him. An invitation to join the family at table he ignored completely, stubbornly sitting with bent head on his bench. Then Olga, the gentler of the sisters, got up, not without a trace of maidenly embarrassment, came over to K. and asked him to join the family meal of bread and bacon, saying that she was going to fetch some beer.

"Where from?" asked K.

"From the inn," she said.

That was welcome news to K. He begged her instead of fetching beer to accompany him back to the inn, where he had important work waiting to be done. But the fact now emerged that she was not going so far as his inn, she was going to one much nearer, called the Herrenhof. None the less K. begged to be allowed to accompany her, thinking that there perhaps he might find a lodging for the night; however wretched it might be he would prefer it to the best bed these peqple could offer him. Olga did not reply at once, but glanced towards the table. Her brother stood up, nodded obligingly and said:

"If the gentleman wishes."

This assent was almost enough to make K. withdraw his request, nothing could be of much value if Barnabas assented to it. But since they were already wondering whether K. would be admitted into that inn and doubting its possibility, he insisted emphatically upon going, without taking the trouble to give a colourable excuse for his eagerness; this family would have to accept him as he was, he had no feeling of shame where they were concerned. Yet he was somewhat disturbed by Amalia's direct and serious gaze, which was unflinching and perhaps a little stupid.

On their short walk to the inn - K. had taken Olga's arm and was leaning his whole weight on her as earlier on Barnabas, he could not get along otherwise - he learned that it was an inn exclusively reserved for gentlemen from the Castle, who took their meals there and sometimes slept there whenever they had business in the village. Olga spoke to K. in a low and confidential tone; to walk with her was pleasant, almost as pleasant as walking with her brother. K. struggled against the feeling of comfort she gave him, but it persisted. From outside the new inn looked very like the inn where K. was staying. All the houses in the village resembled one another more or less, but still a few small differences were immediately apparent here; the front steps had a balustrade, and a fine lantern was fixed over the doorway. Something fluttered over their heads as they entered, it was a flag with the Count's colours. In the hall they were at once met by the landlord, who was obviously on a tour of inspection; he glanced at K. in passing with small eyes that were cither screwed up critically, or half-asleep, and said: