exasperating than the most brutal letter of Sortini’s. Don’t mistake me, I’m not venturing to criticise Klamm, I’m only comparing the two, because you’re shutting your eyes to the comparison. Klamm’s a kind of tyrant over women, he orders first one and then another to come to him, puts up with none of them for long, and orders them to go just as he ordered them to come. Oh, Klamm wouldn’t even give himself the trouble of writing a letter first. And in comparison with that is it so monstrous that Sortini, who’s so retiring, and whose relations with women are at least unknown, should condescend for once to write in his beautiful official hand a letter, however abominable? And if there’s no distinction here in Klamm’s favour, but the reverse, how can Frieda’s love for him establish one? The relation existing between the women and the officials, believe me, is very difficult, or rather very easy to determine. Love always enters into it. There’s no such thing as an official’s unhappy love affair. So in that respect it’s no praise to say of a girl—I’m referring to many others besides Frieda—that she gave herself to an official only out of love. She loved him and gave herself to him, that was all, there’s nothing praiseworthy in that. But you’ll object that Amalia didn’t love Sortini. Well, perhaps she didn’t love him, but then after all perhaps she did love him, who can decide? Not even she herself. How can she fancy she didn’t love him, when she rejected him so violently, as no official has ever been rejected? Barnabas says that even yet she sometimes trembles with the violence of the effort of closing the window three years ago. That is true, and therefore one can’t ask her anything; she has finished with Sortini, and that’s all she knows; whether she loves him or not she does not know. But we do know that women can’t help loving the officials once they give them any encouragement, yes, they even love them beforehand, let them deny it as much as they like, and Sortini not only gave Amalia encouragement, but leapt over the shaft when he saw her; although his legs were stiff from sitting at desks he leapt right over the shaft. But Amalia’s an exception, you will say. Yes, that she is, that she has proved in refusing to go to Sortini, that’s exception enough, but if in addition she weren’t in love with Sortini, she would be too exceptional for plain human understanding. On that afternoon, I grant you, we were smitten with blindness, but the fact that in spite of our mental confusion we thought we noticed signs of Amalia’s being in love, showed at least some remnants of sense. But when all that’s taken into account, what difference is left between Frieda and Amalia? One thing only, that Frieda did what Amalia refused to do.” “Maybe,” said K., “but for me the main difference is that I’m engaged to Frieda, and only interested in Amalia because she’s a sister of Barnabas’s, the Castle messenger, and because her destiny may be bound up with his duties. If she had suffered such a crying injustice at the hands of an official as your tale seemed to infer at the beginning, I should have taken the matter up seriously, but more from a sense of public duty than from any personal sympathy with Amalia. But what you say has changed the aspect of the situation for me in a way I don’t quite understand, but am prepared to accept, since it’s you who tell me, and therefore I want to drop the whole affair, I’m no member of the Fire Brigade, Sortini means nothing to me. But Frieda means something to me, I have trusted her completely and want to go on trusting her, and it surprises me that you go out of your way, while discussing Amalia, to attack Frieda and try to shake my confidence in her. I’m not assuming that you’re doing it with deliberate intent, far less with malicious intent, for in that case I should have left long ago. You’re not doing it deliberately, you’re betrayed into it by circumstances, impelled by your love for Amalia you want to exalt her above all other women, and since you can’t find enough virtue in Amalia herself you help yourself out by belittling the others. Amalia’s act was remarkable enough, but the more you say about it the less clearly can it be decided whether it was noble or petty, clever or foolish, heroic or cowardly; Amalia keeps her motives locked in her own bosom and no one will ever get at them. Frieda, on the other hand, has done nothing at all remarkable, she has only followed her own heart, for anyone who looks at her actions with goodwill that is clear, it can be substantiated, it leaves no room for slander. However, I don’t want either to belittle Amalia or to defend Frieda, all I want is to let you see what my relation is to Frieda, and that every attack on Frieda is an attack on myself. I came here of my own accord, and of my own accord I have settled here, but all that has happened to me since I came, and, above all, any prospects I may have—dark as they are, they still exist—I owe entirely to Frieda, and you can’t argue that away. True, I was engaged to come here as a Land Surveyor, yet that was only a pretext, they were playing with me, I was driven out of everybody’s house, they’re playing with me still today; but how much more complicated the game is now that I have, so to speak, a larger circumference—which means something, it may not be much—yet I have already a home, a position and real work to do, I have a promised wife who takes her share of my professional
Вы читаете The Castle
