The Castle

whose real occupation was determined through the medium of Barnabas. K. did not hesitate in his choice, and would not have hesitated even had he lacked the experience which had befallen him since his arrival. Only as a worker in the village, removed as far as possible from the sphere of the Castle, could he hope to achieve anything in the Castle itself; the village folk, who were now so suspicious of him, would begin to talk to him once he was their fellow-citizen, if not exactly their friend; and if he were to become indistinguishable from Gerstäcker or Lasemann⁠—and that must happen as soon as possible, everything depended on that⁠—then all kinds of paths would be thrown open to him, which would remain not only forever closed to him but quite invisible were he to depend merely on the favour of the gentlemen in the Castle. There was of course a danger, and that was sufficiently emphasised in the letter, even elaborated with a certain satisfaction, as if it were unavoidable. That was sinking to the workman’s level⁠—service, superior, work, terms of employment, responsible, workers⁠—the letter fairly reeked of it, and even though more personal messages were included they were written from the standpoint of an employer. If K. were willing to become a workman he could do so, but he would have to do it in grim earnest, without any other prospect. K. knew that he had no real compulsory discipline to fear, he was not afraid of that, and in this case least of all, but the pressure of a discouraging environment, of a growing resignation to disappointment, the pressure of the imperceptible influences of every moment, these things he did fear, but that was a danger he would have to guard against. Nor did the letter pass over the fact that if it should come to a struggle K. had had the hardihood to make the first advances; it was very subtly indicated and only to be sensed by an uneasy conscience⁠—an uneasy conscience, not a bad one⁠—it lay in the three words “as you know,” referring to his engagement in the Count’s service. K. had reported his arrival, and only after that, as the letter pointed out, had he known that he was engaged.

K. took down a picture from the wall and stuck the letter on the nail, this was the room he was to live in and the letter should hang there.

Then he went down to the inn parlour. Barnabas was sitting at a table with the assistants. “Oh, there you are,” said K. without any reason, only because he was glad to see Barnabas, who jumped to his feet at once. Hardly had K. shown his face when the peasants got up and gathered round him, it had become a habit of theirs to follow him round. “What are you always following me about for?” cried K. They were not offended, and slowly drifted back to their seats again. One of them in passing said casually in apology, with an enigmatic smile which was reflected on several of the other’s faces: “There’s always something new to listen to,” and he licked his lips as if news were meat and drink to him. K. said nothing conciliatory, it was good for them to have a little respect for him, but hardly had he reached Barnabas when he felt a peasant breathing down the back of his neck. He had only come, he said, for the saltcellar, but K. stamped his foot with rage and the peasant scuttled away without the saltcellar. It was really easy to get at K., all one had to do was to egg on the peasants against him, their persistent interference seemed much more objectionable to him than the reserve of the others, nor were they free from reserve either, for if he had sat down at their table they would not have stayed. Only the presence of Barnabas restrained him from making a scene. But he turned round to scowl at them, and found that they too were all looking at him. When he saw them sitting like that, however, each man in his own place, not speaking to one another and without any apparent mutual understanding, united only by the fact that they were all gazing at him, he concluded that it was not out of malice that they pursued him, perhaps they really wanted something from him and were only incapable of expressing it, if not that, it might be pure childishness, which seemed to be in fashion at the inn; was not the landlord himself childish, standing there stock-still gazing at K. with a glass of beer in his hand which he should have been carrying to a customer, and oblivious of his wife, who was leaning out of the kitchen hatch calling to him?

With a quieter mind K. turned to Barnabas; he would have liked to dismiss his assistants, but could not think of an excuse. Besides, they were brooding peacefully over their beer. “The letter,” began K., “I have read it. Do you know the contents?” “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 comfort. “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