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: “I’ll 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’ 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’ 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. realised, 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’ 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
