The Trial - Franz Kafka (best novels for students TXT) 📗

on his winter overcoat but could not bring himself to put it on. Most of all he would have liked to pack everything together and run out to the fresh air. Not even the girls could induce him to put his coat on, even though they were already loudly telling each other that he was doing so. The painter still had to interpret K.‘s mood in some way, so he said, “I expect you’ve deliberately avoided deciding between my suggestions yet. That’s good.

I would even have advised against making a decision straight away.

There’s no more than a hair’s breadth of difference between the advantages and disadvantages. Everything has to be carefully weighed up. But the most important thing is you shouldn’t lose too much time.”

“I’ll come back here again soon,” said K., who had suddenly decided to put his frock coat on, threw his overcoat over his shoulder and hurried over to the door behind which the girls now began to scream. K. thought he could even see the screaming girls through the door. “Well, you’ll have to keep your word,” said the painter, who had not followed him, “otherwise I’ll to the bank to ask about it myself.” “Will you open this door for me,” said K. pulling at the handle which, as he noticed from the resistance, was being held tightly by the girls on the other side. “Do you want to be bothered by the girls?” asked the painter.

“It’s better if you use the other way out,” he said, pointing to the door behind the bed. K. agreed to this and jumped back to the bed. But instead of opening that door the painter crawled under the bed and from underneath it asked K., “Just a moment more, would you not like to see a picture I could sell to you?” K. did not want to be impolite, the painter really had taken his side and promised to help him more in the future, and because of K.‘s forgetfulness there had been no mention of any payment for the painter’s help, so K. could not turn him down now and allowed him to show him the picture, even though he was quivering with impatience to get out of the studio. From under the bed, the painter withdrew a pile of unframed paintings. They were so covered in dust that when the painter tried to blow it off the one on top the dust swirled around in front of K.‘s eyes, robbing him of breath for some time. “Moorland landscape,” said the painter passing the picture to K.

It showed two sickly trees, well separated from each other in dark grass. In the background there was a multi-coloured sunset. “That’s nice,” said K. “I’ll buy it.” K. expressed himself in this curt way without any thought, so he was glad when the painter did not take this amiss and picked up a second painting from the floor. “This is a counterpart to the first picture,” said the painter. Perhaps it had been intended as a counterpart, but there was not the slightest difference to be seen between it and the first picture, there were the trees, there the grass and there the sunset. But this was of little importance to K. “They are beautiful landscapes,” he said, “I’ll buy them both and hang them in my office.” “You seem to like this subject,”

said the painter, picking up a third painting, “good job I’ve still got another, similar picture here.” The picture though, was not similar, rather it was exactly the same moorland landscape. The painter was fully exploiting this opportunity to sell off his old pictures. “I’ll take this one too,” said K. “How much do the three paintings cost?”

“We can talk about that next time,” said the painter. “You’re in a hurry now, and we’ll still be in contact. And besides, I’m glad you like the paintings, I’ll give you all the paintings I’ve got down here.

They’re all moorland landscapes, I’ve painted a lot of moorland landscapes. A lot of people don’t like that sort of picture because they’re too gloomy, but there are others, and you’re one of them, who love gloomy themes.” But K. was not in the mood to hear about the professional experiences of this painter cum beggar. “Wrap them all up!” he called out, interrupting the painter as he was speaking, “my servant will come to fetch them in the morning.” “There’s no need for that,” said the painter. “I expect I can find a porter for you who can go with you now.” And, at last, he leant over the bed and unlocked the door. “Just step on the bed, don’t worry about that,” said the painter, “that’s what everyone does who comes in here.” Even without this invitation, K. had shown no compunction in already placing his foot in the middle of the bed covers, then he looked out through the open door and drew his foot back again. “What is that?” he asked the painter.

“What are you so surprised at?” he asked, surprised in his turn. “Those are court offices. Didn’t you know there are court offices here? There are court offices in almost every attic, why should this building be any different? Even my studio is actually one of the court offices but the court put it at my disposal.” It was not so much finding court offices even here that shocked K., he was mainly shocked at himself, at his own naïvety in court matters. It seemed to him that one of the most basic rules governing how a defendant should behave was always to be prepared, never allow surprises, never to look, unsuspecting, to the right when the judge stood beside him to his left - and this was the very basic rule that he was continually violating. A long corridor extended in from of him, air blew in from it which, compared with the air in the studio, was refreshing. There were benches set along each side of the corridor just as in the waiting area for the office he went to himself.

There seemed to be precise rules governing how offices should be equipped. There did not seem to be many people visiting the offices that day. There was a man there, half sitting, half laying, his face was buried in his arm on the bench and he seemed to be sleeping; another man was standing in the half-dark at the end of the corridor. K. now climbed over the bed, the painter followed him with the pictures. They soon came across a servant of the court - K. was now able to recognise all the servants of the court from the gold buttons they wore on their civilian clothes below the normal buttons - and the painter instructed him to go with K. carrying the pictures. K. staggered more than he walked, his handkerchief pressed over his mouth. They had nearly reached the exit when the girls stormed in on them, so K. had not been able to avoid them. They had clearly seen that the second door of the studio had been opened and had gone around to impose themselves on him from this side. “I can’t come with you any further!” called out the painter with a laugh as the girls pressed in. “Goodbye, and don’t hesitate too long!” K. did not even look round at him. Once on the street he took the first cab he came across. He now had to get rid of the servant, whose gold button continually caught his eye even if it caught no-one else’s. As a servant, the servant of the court was going to sit on the coach-box. But K. chased him down from there. It was already well into the afternoon when K. arrived in front of the bank.

He would have liked to leave the pictures in the cab but feared there might be some occasion when he would have to let the painter see he still had them. So he had the pictures taken to his office and locked them in the lowest drawer of his desk so that he could at least keep them safe from the deputy director’s view for the next few days.

 

Chapter Eight

Block, the businessman - Dismissing the lawyer K. had at last made the decision to withdraw his defence from the lawyer. It was impossible to remove his doubts as to whether this was the right decision, but this was outweighed by his belief in its necessity. This decision, on the day he intended to go to see the lawyer, took a lot of the strength he needed for his work, he worked exceptionally slowly, he had to remain in his office a long time, and it was already past ten o’clock when he finally stood in front of the lawyer’s front door. Even before he rang he considered whether it might not be better to give the lawyer notice by letter or telephone, a personal conversation would certainly be very difficult. Nonetheless, K. did not actually want to do without it, if he gave notice by any other means it would be received in silence or with a few formulated words, and unless Leni could discover anything K. would never learn how the lawyer had taken his dismissal and what its consequences might be, in the lawyer’s not unimportant opinion. But sitting in front of him and taken by surprise by his dismissal, K. would be able easily to infer everything he wanted from the lawyer’s face and behaviour, even if he could not be induced to say very much. It was not even out of the question that K. might, after all, be persuaded that it would be best to leave his defence to the lawyer and withdraw his dismissal.

 

As usual, there was at first no response to K.‘s ring at the door.

“Leni could be a bit quicker,” thought K. But he could at least be glad there was nobody else interfering as usually happened, be it the man in his nightshirt or anyone else who might bother him. As K. pressed on the button for the second time he looked back at the other door, but this time it, too, remained closed. At last, two eyes appeared at the spy-hatch in the lawyer’s door, although they weren’t Leni’s eyes.

Someone unlocked the door, but kept himself pressed against it as he called back inside, “It’s him!”, and only then did he open the door properly. K. pushed against the door, as behind him he could already hear the key being hurriedly turned in the lock of the door to the other flat. When the door in front of him finally opened, he stormed straight into the hallway. Through the corridor which led between the rooms he saw Leni, to whom the warning cry of the door opener had been directed, still running away in her nightshirt . He looked at her for a moment and then looked round at the person who had opened the door. It was a small, wizened man with a full beard, he held a candle in his hand. “Do you work here?” asked K. “No,” answered the man, “I don’t belong here at all, the lawyer is only representing me, I’m here on legal business.”

“Without your coat?” asked K., indicating the man’s deficiency of dress with a gesture of his hand. “Oh, do forgive me!” said the man, and he looked at himself in the light of the candle he was holding as if he had not known about his appearance until then.

“Is Leni your lover?” asked K. curtly. He had set his legs slightly apart, his hands, in which he held his hat, were behind his back.

Merely by being in possession of a thick overcoat he felt his advantage over this thin little man. “Oh God,” he said