K. felt uncomfortable listening to these tales, much as they interested him. “How long ago was all that, then?” he asked with a sigh.
“Over twenty years ago,” replied the landlady, “considerably over twenty years.”
“So one remains faithful to Klamm as long as that,” said K. “But are you aware, madam, that these stories give me grave alarm when I think of my future married life?”
The landlady seemed to consider this intrusion of his own affairs unseasonable and gave him an angry sidelook.
“Don’t be angry, madam,” said K., “I’ve nothing at all to say against Klamm. All the same by force of circumstances I have come in a sense in contact with Klamm; that can’t be gainsaid even by his greatest admirer. Well, then. As a result of that I am forced whenever Klamm is mentioned to think of myself as well, that can’t be altered. Besides, madam,” here K. took hold of her reluctant hand, “reflect how badly our last talk turned out and that this time we want to part in peace.”
“You’re right,” said the landlady bowing her head, “but spare me. I’m not more touchy than other people; on the contrary, everyone has his sensitive spots, and I have only this one.”
“Unfortunately it happens to be mine too,” said K., “but I promise to control myself. Now tell me, madam, how I am to put up with my married life in face of this terrible fidelity, granted that Frieda, too, resembles you in that?”
“Terrible fidelity!” repeated the landlady with a growl. “Is it a question of fidelity? I’m faithful to my husband—but Klamm? Klamm once chose me as his mistress, can I ever lose that honour? And you ask how you are to put up with Frieda? Oh, Land Surveyor, who are you after all, that you dare to ask such things?”
“Madame,” said K. warningly.
“I know,” said the landlady controlling herself, “but my husband never put such questions. I don’t know which to call the unhappier, myself then or Frieda now. Frieda who saucily left Klamm, or myself whom he stopped asking to come. Yet it is probably Frieda, though she hasn’t even yet guessed the full extent of her unhappiness, it seems. Still, my thoughts were more exclusively occupied by my unhappiness then, all the same, for I had always to be asking myself one question, and in reality haven’t ceased to ask it to this day: Why did this happen? Three times Klamm sent for me, but he never sent a fourth time, no, never a fourth time! What else could I have thought of during those days? What else could I have talked about with my husband, whom I married shortly afterwards? During the day we had no time—we had taken over this inn in a wretched condition and had to struggle to make it respectable—but at night! For years all our nightly talks turned on Klamm and the reason for his changing his mind. And if my husband fell asleep during those talks I woke him and we went on again.”
“Now,” said K., “if you’ll permit me, I’m going to ask a very rude question.”
The landlady remained silent.
“Then I mustn’t ask it,” said K. “Well, that serves my purpose as well.”
“Yes,” replied the landlady, “that serves your purpose as well, and just that serves it best. You misconstrue everything, even a person’s silence. You can’t do anything else. I allow you to ask your question.”
“If I misconstrue everything, perhaps I misconstrue my question as well, perhaps it’s not so rude after all. I only want to know how you came to meet your husband and how this inn came into your hands.”
The landlady wrinkled her forehead, but said indifferently: “That’s a very simple story. My father was the blacksmith, and Hans, my husband, who was a groom at a big farmer’s place, came often to see him. That was just after my last meeting with Klamm. I was very unhappy and really had no right to be so, for everything had gone as it should, and that I wasn’t allowed any longer to see Klamm was Klamm’s own decision. It was as it should be then, only the grounds for it were obscure. I was entitled to enquire into them, but I had no right to be unhappy; still I was, all the same, couldn’t work, and sat in our front garden all day. There Hans saw me, often sat down beside me. I didn’t complain to him, but he knew how things were, and as he is a good young man, he wept with me. The wife of the landlord at that time had died and he had consequently to give up business—besides he was already an old man. Well, once as he passed our garden and saw us sitting there, he stopped, and without more ado offered us the inn to rent, didn’t ask for any money in advance, for he trusted us, and set the rent at a very low figure. I didn’t want to be a burden on my father, nothing else mattered to me, and so thinking of the inn and of my new work that might perhaps help me to forget a little, I gave Hans my hand. That’s the whole story.”
There was silence for a little, then K. said: “The behaviour of the landlord was generous, but rash, or had he particular grounds for trusting you both?”
“He knew Hans well,” said the landlady; “he was Hans’ uncle.”
“Well then,” said K., “Hans’ family must have been very anxious to be connected with you?”
“It may be so,” said the landlady, “I don’t know. I’ve never bothered about it.”
“But it must
