displease me. For the rest be easy in your mind; the question of salary will presently be decided. I shall not forget you.” K. only looked up from the letter when the assistants, who read far more slowly than he, gave three loud cheers at the good news and waved their lanterns. “Be quiet,” he said, and to Barnabas: “There’s been a misunderstanding.” Barnabas did not seem to comprehend. “There’s been a misunderstanding,” K. repeated, and the weariness he had felt in the afternoon came over him again, the road to the schoolhouse seemed very long, and behind Barnabas he could see his whole family, and the assistants were still jostling him so closely that he had to drive them away with his elbows; how could Frieda have sent them to meet him when he had commanded that they should stay with her? He could quite well have found his own way home, and better alone, indeed, than in this company. And to make matters worse one of them had wound a scarf round his neck whose free ends flapped in the wind and had several times been flung against K.’s face; it is true, the other assistant had always disengaged the wrap at once with his long, pointed, perpetually mobile fingers, but that had not made things any better. Both of them seemed to have considered it an actual pleasure to walk here and back, and the wind and the wildness of the night threw them into raptures. “Get out!” shouted K., “seeing that you’ve come to meet me, why haven’t you brought my stick? What have I now to drive you home with?” They crouched behind Barnabas, but they were not too frightened to set their lanterns on their protector’s shoulders, right and left; however he shook them off at once. “Barnabas,” said K., and he felt a weight on his heart when he saw that Barnabas obviously did not understand him, that though his tunic shone beautifully when fortune was there, when things became serious no help was to be found in him, but only dumb opposition, opposition against which one could not fight, for Barnabas himself was helpless, he could only smile, but that was of just as little help as the stars up there against this tempest down below. “Look what Klamm has written!” said K., holding the letter before his face. “He has been wrongly informed. I haven’t done any surveying at all, and you see yourself how much the assistants are worth. And obviously too I can’t interrupt work which I’ve never begun; I can’t even excite the gentleman’s displeasure, so how can I have earned his appreciation? As for being easy in my mind, I can never be that.” “I’ll see to it,” said Barnabas, who all the time had been gazing past the letter, which he could not have read in any case, for he was holding it too close to his face. “Oh,” said K., “you promise me that you’ll see to it, but can I really believe you? I’m in need of a trustworthy messenger, now more than ever.” K. bit his lips with impatience. “Sir,” replied Barnabas with a gentle inclination of the head—K. almost allowed himself to be seduced by it again into believing Barnabas—“I’ll certainly see to it, and I’ll certainly see to the message you gave me last time as well.” “What!” cried K., “haven’t you see to that yet then? Weren’t you at the Castle next day?” “No,” replied Barnabas, “my father is old, you’ve seen him yourself, and there happened to be a great deal of work just then, I had to help him, but now I’ll be going to the Castle again soon.” “But what are you thinking of, you incomprehensible fellow?” cried K. beating his brow with his fist, “don’t Klamm’s affairs come before everything else then? You’re in an important position, you’re a messenger, and yet you fail me in this wretched manner? What does your father’s work matter? Klamm is waiting for this information, and instead of breaking your neck hurrying with it to him, you prefer to clean the stable!” “My father is a cobbler,” replied Barnabas calmly, “he had orders from Brunswick, and I’m my father’s assistant.” “Cobbler-orders-Brunswick!” cried K. bitingly, as if he wanted to abolish the words forever. “And who can need boots here in these eternally empty streets? And what is all this cobbling to me? I entrusted you with a letter, not so that you might mislay it and crumple it on your bench, but that you might carry it at once to Klamm!” K. became a little more composed now as he remembered that after all Klamm had apparently been all this time in the Herrenhof and not in the Castle at all; but Barnabas exasperated him again when, to prove that he had not forgotten K.’s first message, he now began to recite it. “Enough! I don’t want to hear any more,” he said. “Don’t be angry with me, sir,” said Barnabas, and as if unconsciously wishing to show disapproval of K. he withdrew his gaze from him and lowered his eyes, but probably he was only dejected by K.’s outburst. “I’m not angry with you,” said K., and his exasperation turned now against himself. “Not with you, but it’s a bad lookout for me only to have a messenger like you for important affairs.” “Look here,” said Barnabas, and it was as if, to vindicate his honour as a messenger, he was saying more than he should, “Klamm is really not waiting for your message, he’s actually cross when I arrive. ‘Another new message,’ he said once, and generally he gets up when he sees me coming in the distance and goes into the next room and doesn’t receive me. Besides, it isn’t laid down that I should go at once with every
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