K. became impatient, and began: “You asked me, madam, whether I had found other lodgings yet.” “I asked you?” said the landlady, “no, you’re mistaken.” “Your husband asked me a few minutes ago.” “That may well be,” said the landlady, “I’m at variance with him. When I didn’t want you here, he kept you here, now that I’m glad to have you here, he wants to drive you away. He’s always like that.” “Have you changed your opinion of me so greatly, then?” asked K. “In a couple of hours?” “I haven’t changed my opinion,” said the landlady more feebly again, “give me your hand. There, and now promise to be quite frank with me and I’ll be the same with you.” “Right,” said K., “but who’s to begin first?” “I shall,” said the landlady. She did not give so much the impression of one who wanted to meet K. halfway, as of one who was eager to have the first word.
She drew a photograph from under the pillow and held it out to K. “Look at that portrait,” she said eagerly. To see it better K. stepped into the kitchen, but even there it was not easy to distinguish anything on the photograph, for it was faded with age, cracked in several places, crumpled and dirty. “It isn’t in very good condition,” said K. “Unluckily, no,” said the landlady, “when one carries a thing about with one for years it’s bound to be the case. But if you look at it carefully, you’ll be able to make everything out, you’ll see. But I can help you; tell me what you see, I like to hear anyone talk about the portrait. Well, then?” “A young man,” said K. “Right,” said the landlady, “and what is he doing?” “It seems to me he’s lying on a board stretching himself and yawning.” The landlady laughed. “Quite wrong,” she said. “But here’s the board and here he is lying on it,” persisted K. on his side. “But look more carefully,” said the landlady in annoyance, “is he really lying down?” “No,” said K. now, “he’s floating, and now I can see it, it’s not a board at all, but probably a rope, and the young man is taking a high leap.” “You see!” replied the landlady triumphantly, “he’s leaping, that’s how the official messengers practise. I knew quite well that you would make it out. Can you make out his face, too?” “I can only make out his face very dimly,” said K., “he’s obviously making a great effort, his mouth is open, his eyes tightly shut and his hair fluttering.” “Well done,” said the landlady appreciatively, “nobody who never saw him could have made out more than that. But he was a beautiful young man. I only saw him once for a second and I’ll never forget him.” “Who was he then?” asked K. “He was the messenger that Klamm sent to call me to him the first time.”
K. could not hear properly, his attention was distracted by the rattling of glass. He immediately discovered the cause of the disturbance. The assistants were standing outside in the yard hopping from one foot to the other in the snow, behaving as if they were glad to see him again; in their joy they pointed each other out to him and kept tapping all the time on the kitchen window. At a threatening gesture from K. they stopped at once, tried to pull one another away, but the one would slip immediately from the grasp of the other and soon they were both back at the window again. K. hurried into the annex where the assistants could not see him from outside and he would not have to see them. But the soft and as it were beseeching tapping on the windowpane followed him there too for a long time.
“The assistants again,” he said apologetically to the landlady and pointed outside. But she paid no attention to him, she had taken the portrait from him, looked at it, smoothed it out and pushed it again under her pillow. Her movements had become slower, but not with weariness, but with the burden of memory. She had wanted to tell K. the story of her life and had forgotten about him in thinking of the story itself. She was playing with the fringe of her wrap. A little time went by before she looked up, passed her hand over her eyes, and said: “This wrap was given me by Klamm. And the nightcap, too. The portrait, the wrap and the nightcap, these are the only three things of his I have as keepsakes. I’m not young like Frieda, I’m not so ambitious as she is, nor so sensitive either, she’s very sensitive; to put it bluntly, I know how to accommodate myself to life, but one thing I must admit, I couldn’t have held out so long here without these three keepsakes. Perhaps these three things seem very trifling to you, but let me tell you, Frieda, who has had relations with Klamm for a long time, doesn’t possess a single keepsake from him. I have asked her, she’s too fanciful, and too difficult to please besides; I, on the other hand, though I was only three times with Klamm—after that he never asked me to come again, I don’t know why—I managed to bring
