up beside him and drew his attention to the three gentlemen who were
waiting on a bench in the ante-room. They had already been waiting to
see K. for a long time. Now that the servitor was speaking with K. they
had stood up and each of them wanted to make use of the opportunity to
see K. before the others. It had been negligent of the bank to let them
waste their time here in the waiting room, but none of them wanted to
draw attention to this. "Mr. K., ..." one of them was saying, but K.
had told the servitor to fetch his winter coat and said to the three of
them, as the servitor helped him to put it on, "Please forgive me,
gentlemen, I'm afraid I have no time to see you at present. Please do
forgive me but I have some urgent business to settle and have to leave
straight away. You've already seen yourselves how long I've been
delayed. Would you be so kind as to come back tomorrow or some time? Or
perhaps we could settle your affairs by telephone. Or perhaps you would
like to tell me now, briefly, what it's about and I can then give you a
full answer in writing. Whatever, the best thing will be for you to
come here again." The gentlemen now saw that their wait had been
totally pointless, and these suggestions of K.'s left them so astounded
that they looked at each other without a word. "That's agreed then, is
it?" asked K., who had turned toward the servitor bringing him his hat.
Through the open door of K.'s office they could see that the snowfall
outside had become much heavier. So K. turned the collar of his coat up
and buttoned it up high under his chin. Just then the deputy director
came out of the adjoining room, smiled as he saw K. negotiating with
the gentlemen in his winter coat, and asked, "Are you about to go out?"
"Yes," said K., standing more upright, "I have to go out on some
business." But the deputy director had already turned towards the
gentlemen. "And what about these gentlemen?" he asked. "I think they've
already been waiting quite a long time." "We've already come to an
understanding," said K. But now the gentlemen could be held back no
longer, they surrounded K. and explained that they would not have been
waiting for hours if it had not been about something important that had
to be discussed now, at length and in private. The deputy director
listened to them for a short while, he also looked at K. as he held his
hat in his hand cleaning the dust off it here and there, and then he
said, "Gentlemen, there is a very simple way to solve this. If you
would prefer it, I'll be very glad to take over these negotiations
instead of the chief clerk. Your business does, of course, need to be
discussed without delay. We are businessmen like yourselves and know the
value of a businessman's time. Would you like to come this way?" And he
opened the door leading to the ante-room of his own office.
The deputy director seemed very good at appropriating everything that
K. was now forced to give up! But was K. not giving up more than he
absolutely had to? By running off to some unknown painter, with, as he
had to admit, very little hope of any vague benefit, his renown was
suffering damage that could not be repaired. It would probably be much
better to take off his winter coat again and, at the very least, try to
win back the two gentlemen who were certainly still waiting in the next
room. If K. had not then glimpsed the deputy director in his office,
looking for something from his bookshelves as if they were his own, he
would probably even have made the attempt. As K., somewhat agitated,
approached the door the deputy director called out, "Oh, you've still
not left!" He turned his face toward him--its many deep folds seemed to
show strength rather than age--and immediately began once more to
search. "I'm looking for a copy of a contract," he said, "which this
gentleman insists you must have. Could you help me look for it, do you
think?" K. made a step forward, but the deputy director said, "thank
you, I've already found it," and with a big package of papers, which
certainly must have included many more documents than just the copy of
the contract, he turned and went back into his own office.
"I can't deal with him right now," K. said to himself, "but once my
personal difficulties have been settled, then he'll certainly be the
first to get the effect of it, and he certainly won't like it."
Slightly calmed by these thoughts, K. gave the servitor, who had already
long been holding the door to the corridor open for him, the task of
telling the director, when he was able, that K. was going out of the
bank on a business matter. As he left the bank he felt almost happy at
the thought of being able to devote more of himself to his own business
for a while.
He went straight to the painter, who lived in an outlying part of town
which was very near to the court offices, although this area was even
poorer, the houses were darker, the streets were full of dirt that
slowly blew about over the half-melted snow. In the great gateway to
the building where the painter lived only one of the two doors was open,
a hole had been broken open in the wall by the other door, and as K.
approached it a repulsive, yellow, steaming liquid shot out causing
some rats to scurry away into the nearby canal. Down by the staircase
there was a small child lying on its belly crying, but it could hardly
be heard because of the noise from a metal-workshop on the other side
of the entrance hall, drowning out any other sound. The door to the
workshop was open, three workers stood in a circle around some piece of
work that they were beating with hammers. A large tin plate hung on the
wall, casting a pale light that pushed its way in between two of the
workers, lighting up their faces and their work-aprons. K. did no more
than glance at any of these things, he wanted to get things over with
here as soon as possible, to exchange just a few words to find out how
things stood with the painter and go straight back to the bank. Even if
he had just some tiny success here it would still have a good effect on
his work at the bank for that day. On the third floor he had to slow
down his pace, he was quite out of breath--the steps, just like the
height of each floor, were much higher than they needed to be and he'd
been told that the painter lived right up in the attic. The air was
also quite oppressive, there was no proper stairwell and the narrow
steps were closed in by walls on both sides with no more than a small,
high window here and there. Just as K. paused for a while some young
girls ran out of one of the flats and rushed higher up the stairs,
laughing. K. followed them slowly, caught up with one of the girls who
had stumbled and been left behind by the others, and asked her as they
went up side by side, "Is there a painter, Titorelli, who lives here?"
The girl, hardly thirteen years old and somewhat hunchbacked, jabbed
him with her elbow and looked at him sideways. Her youth and her bodily
defects had done nothing to stop her being already quite depraved. She
did not smile once, but looked at K. earnestly, with sharp, acquisitive
eyes. K. pretended not to notice her behaviour and asked, "Do you know
Titorelli, the painter?" She nodded and asked in reply, "What d'you
want to see him for?" K. thought it would be to his advantage quickly to
find out something more about Titorelli. "I want to have him paint my
portrait," he said. "Paint your portrait?" she asked, opening her mouth
too wide and lightly hitting K. with her hand as if he had said
something extraordinarily surprising or clumsy, with both hands she
lifted her skirt, which was already very short, and, as fast as she
could, she ran off after the other girls whose indistinct shouts lost
themselves in the heights. At the next turn of the stairs, however, K.
encountered all the girls once more. The hunchbacked girl had clearly
told them about K.'s intentions and they were waiting for him. They
stood on both sides of the stairs, pressing themselves against the wall
so that K. could get through between them, and smoothed their aprons
down with their hands. All their faces, even in this guard of honour,
showed a mixture of childishness and depravity. Up at the head of the
line of girls, who now, laughing, began to close in around K., was the
hunchback who had taken on the role of leader. It was thanks to her
that K. found the right direction without delay--he would have continued
up the stairs straight in front of him, but she showed him that to
reach Titorelli he would need to turn off to one side. The steps that
led up to the painter were especially narrow, very long without any
turning, the whole length could be seen in one glance and, at the top,
at Titorelli's closed door, it came to its end. This door was much
better illuminated than the rest of the stairway by the light from a
small skylight set obliquely above it, it had been put together from
unpainted planks of wood and the name 'Titorelli' was painted on it in
broad, red brushstrokes. K. was no more than half way up the steps,
accompanied by his retinue of girls, when, clearly the result of the
noise of all those footsteps, the door opened slightly and in the crack
a man who seemed to be dressed in just his nightshirt appeared. "Oh!" he
cried, when he saw the approaching crowd, and vanished. The hunchbacked
girl clapped her hands in glee and the other girls crowded in behind K.
to push him faster forward.
They still had not arrived at the top, however, when the painter up
above them suddenly pulled the door wide open and, with a deep bow,
invited K. to enter. The girls, on the other hand, he tried to keep
away, he did not want to let any of them in however much they begged
him and however much they tried to get in--if they could not get in with
his permission they would try to force their way in against his will.
The only one to succeed was the hunchback when she slipped through under
his outstretched arm, but the painter chased after her, grabbed her by
the skirt, span her once round and set her down again by the door with
the other girls who, unlike the first, had not dared to cross the
doorstep while the painter had left his post. K. did not know what he
was to make of all this, as they all seemed to be having fun. One behind
the other, the girls by the door stretched their necks up high and
called out various words to the painter which were meant in jest but
which K. did not understand, and even the painter laughed as the
hunchback whirled round in his hand. Then he shut the door, bowed once
more to K., offered him his hand and introduced himself, saying,
"Titorelli, painter." K. pointed to the door, behind which the girls
were whispering, and said, "You seem to be very popular in this
building." "Ach, those brats!" said the painter, trying in vain to
fasten his nightshirt at the neck. He was also bare-footed and, apart
from that, was wearing nothing more than a loose pair of yellowish linen
trousers held up with a belt whose free end whipped to and fro. "Those
kids are a real burden for me," he continued. The top button of his
nightshirt came off and he gave up trying to fasten it, fetched a chair
for K. and made him sit down on it. "I painted one of them once--she's
not here today--and ever since then they've been following me about. If
I'm here they only come in when I allow it, but as soon as I've gone out
there's always at least one of them in here. They had a key made to my
door and lend it round to each other. It's hard to imagine what a pain
that is. Suppose I come back home with a lady I'm going to paint, I open
the door with my own key and find the hunchback there or something, by
the table painting her lips red with my paintbrush, and meanwhile her
little sisters will be keeping guard for her, moving about and causing
chaos in every corner of the room. Or else, like happened yesterday, I
might come back home late in the evening--please forgive my appearance
and the room being in a mess, it is to do with them--so, I might come
home late in the evening and want to go to bed, then I feel something
pinching my leg, look under the bed and pull another of them out from
under it. I don't know why it is they bother me like this, I expect
you've just seen that I do nothing to encourage them to come near me.
And they make it hard for me to do my work too, of course. If I didn't
get this studio for nothing I'd have moved out a long time ago." Just
then, a little voice, tender and anxious, called out from under the
door, "Titorelli, can we come in now?" "No," answered the painter. "Not
even just me, by myself?" the voice asked again. "Not even just you,"
said the painter, as he went to the door and locked it.
Meanwhile, K. had been looking round the room, if it had not been
pointed out it would never have occurred to him that this wretched
little room could be called a studio. It was hardly long enough or
broad enough to make two steps. Everything, floor, walls and ceiling,
was made of wood, between the planks narrow gaps could be seen. Across
from where K. was, the bed stood against the wall under a covering of
many different colours. In the middle of the room a picture stood on an
easel, covered over with a shirt whose arms dangled down to the ground.
Behind K. was the window through which the fog made it impossible to
see further than the snow covered roof of the neighbouring building.
The turning of the key in the lock reminded K. that he had not wanted
to stay too long. So he drew the manufacturer's letter out from his
pocket, held it out to the painter and said, "I learned about you from
this gentleman, an acquaintance of yours, and it's on his advice that
I've come here." The painter glanced through the letter and threw it
down onto the bed. If the manufacturer had not said very clearly that
Titorelli was an acquaintance of his, a poor man who was dependent on
his charity, then it would really have been quite possible to believe
that Titorelli did not know him or at least that he could not remember
him. This impression was augmented by the painter's asking, "Were you
wanting to buy some pictures or did you want to have yourself painted?"
K. looked at the painter in astonishment. What did the letter actually
say? K. had taken it as a matter of course that the manufacturer had
explained to the painter in his letter that K. wanted nothing more with
him than to find out more about his trial. He had been far too rash in
coming here! But now he had to give the painter some sort of answer
and, glancing at the easel, said, "Are you working on a picture
currently?" "Yes," said the painter, and he took the shirt hanging over
the easel and threw it onto the bed after the letter. "It's a portrait.
Quite a good piece of work, although it's not quite finished yet." This
was a convenient coincidence for K., it gave him a good opportunity to
talk about the court as the picture showed, very clearly, a judge.
What's more, it was remarkably similar to the picture in the lawyer's
office, although this one showed a quite different judge, a heavy man
with a full beard which was black and bushy and extended to the sides
far up the man's cheeks. The lawyer's picture was also an oil painting,
whereas this one had been made with pastel colours and was pale and
unclear. But everything else about the picture was similar, as this
judge, too, was holding tightly to the arm of his throne and seemed
ominously about to rise from it. At first K. was about to say, "He
certainly is a judge," but he held himself back for the time being and
went closer to the picture as if he wanted to study it in detail. There
was a large figure shown in the middle of the throne's back rest which
K. could not understand and asked the painter about it. That'll need
some more work done on it, the painter told him, and taking a pastel
crayon from a small table he added a few strokes to the edges of the
figure but without making it any clearer as far as K. could make out.
"That's the figure of justice," said the painter, finally. "Now I see,"
said K., "here's the blindfold and here are the scales. But aren't those
wings on her heels, and isn't she moving?" "Yes," said the painter, "I
had to paint it like that according to the contract. It's actually the
figure of justice and the goddess of victory all in one." "That is not a
good combination," said K. with a smile. "Justice needs to remain
still, otherwise the scales will move about and it won't be possible to
make a just verdict." "I'm just doing what the client wanted," said the
painter. "Yes, certainly," said K., who had not meant to criticise
anyone by that comment. "You've painted the figure as it actually
appears on the throne." "No," said the painter, "I've never seen that
figure or that throne, it's all just invention, but they told me what
it was I had to paint." "How's that?" asked K. pretending not fully to
understand what the painter said. "That is a judge sitting on the
judge's chair, isn't it?" "Yes," said the painter, "but that judge
isn't very high up and he's never sat on any throne like that." "And he
has himself painted in such a grand pose. He's sitting there just like
the president of the court." "Yeah, gentlemen like this are very vain,"
said the painter. "But they have permission from higher up to get
themselves painted like this. It's laid down quite strictly just what
sort of portrait each of them can get for himself. Only it's a pity that
you can't make out the details of his costume and pose in this picture,
pastel colours aren't really suitable for showing people like this."
"Yes," said K., "it does seem odd that it's in pastel colours." "That's
what the judge wanted," said the painter, "it's meant to be for a
woman." The sight of the picture seemed to make him feel like working,
he rolled up his shirtsleeves, picked up a few of the crayons, and K.
watched as a reddish shadow built up around the head of the judge under
their quivering tips and radiated out the to edges of the picture. This
shadow play slowly surrounded the head like a decoration or lofty
distinction. But around the figure of Justice, apart from some
coloration that was barely noticeable, it remained light, and in this
brightness the figure seemed to shine forward so that it now looked
like neither the God of Justice nor the God of Victory, it seemed now,
rather, to be a perfect depiction of the God of the Hunt. K. found the
painter's work more engrossing than he had wanted; but finally he
reproached himself for staying so long without having done anything
relevant to his own affair. "What's the name of this judge?" he asked
suddenly. "I'm not allowed to tell you that," the painter answered. He
was bent deeply over the picture and clearly neglecting his guest who,
at first, he had received with such care. K. took this to be just a
foible of the painter's, and it irritated him as it made him lose time.
"I take it you must be a trustee of the court," he said. The painter
immediately put his crayons down, stood upright, rubbed his hands
together and looked at K. with a smile. "Always straight out with the
truth," he said. "You want to learn something about the court, like it
says in your letter of recommendation, but then you start talking about
my pictures to get me on your side. Still, I won't hold it against you,
you weren't to know that that was entirely the wrong thing to try with
me. Oh, please!" he said sharply, repelling K.'s attempt to make some
objection. He then continued, "And besides, you're quite right in your
comment that I'm a trustee of the court." He made a pause, as if
wanting to give K. the time to come to terms with this fact. The girls
could once more be heard from behind the door. They were probably
pressed around the keyhole, perhaps they could even see into the room
through the gaps in the planks. K. forewent the opportunity to excuse
himself in some way as he did not wish to distract the painter from what
he was saying, or else perhaps he didn't want him to get too far above
himself and in this way make himself to some extent unattainable, so he
asked, "Is that a publicly acknowledged position?" "No," was the
painter's curt reply, as if the question prevented him saying any more.
But K. wanted him to continue speaking and said, "Well, positions like
that, that aren't officially acknowledged, can often have more influence
than those that are." "And that's how it is with me," said the painter,
and nodded with a frown. "I was talking about your case with the
manufacturer yesterday, and he asked me if I wouldn't like to help you,
and I answered: 'He can come and see me if he likes,' and now I'm
pleased to see you here so soon. This business seems to be quite
important to you, and, of course, I'm not surprised at that. Would you
not like to take your coat off now?" K. had intended to stay for only a
very short time, but the painter's invitation was nonetheless very
welcome. The air in the room had slowly become quite oppressive for him,
he had several times looked in amazement at a small, iron stove in the
corner that certainly could not have been lit, the heat of the room was
inexplicable. As he took off his winter overcoat and also unbuttoned
his frock coat the painter said to him in apology, "I must have warmth.
And it is very cosy here, isn't it. This room's very good in that
respect." K. made no reply, but it was actually not the heat that made
him uncomfortable but, much more, the stuffiness, the air that almost
made it more difficult to breathe, the room had probably not been
ventilated for a long time. The unpleasantness of this was made all the
stronger for K. when the painter invited him to sit on the bed while he
himself sat down on the only chair in the room in front of the easel.
The painter even seemed to misunderstand why K. remained at the edge of
the bed and urged K. to make himself comfortable, and as he hesitated
he went over to the bed himself and pressed K. deep down into the
bedclothes and pillows. Then he went back to his seat and at last he
asked his first objective question, which made K. forget everything
else. "You're innocent, are you?" he asked. "Yes," said K. He felt a
simple joy at answering this question, especially as the answer was
given to a private individual and therefore would have no consequences.
Up till then no-one had asked him this question so openly. To make the
most of his pleasure he added, "I am totally innocent." "So," said the
painter, and he lowered his head and seemed to be thinking. Suddenly he
raised his head again and said, "Well if you're innocent it's all very
simple." K. began to scowl, this supposed trustee of the court was
talking like an ignorant child. "My being innocent does not make things
simple," said K. Despite everything, he couldn't help smiling and
slowly shook his head. "There are many fine details in which the court
gets lost, but in the end it reaches into some place where originally
there was nothing and pulls enormous guilt out of it." "Yeah, yeah,
sure," said the painter, as if K. had been disturbing his train of
thought for no reason. "But you are innocent, aren't you?" "Well of
course I am," said K. "That's the main thing," said the painter. There
was no counter-argument that could influence him, but although he had
made up his mind it was not clear whether he was talking this way
because of conviction or indifference. K., then, wanted to find out and
said therefore, "I'm sure you're more familiar with the court than I am,
I know hardly more about it than what I've heard, and that's been from
many very different people. But they were all agreed on one thing, and
that was that when ill thought-out accusations are made they are not
ignored, and that once the court has made an accusation it is convinced
of the guilt of the defendant and it's very hard to make it think
otherwise." "Very hard?" the painter asked, throwing one hand up in the
air. "It's impossible to make it think otherwise. If I painted all the
judges next to each other here on canvas, and you were trying to defend
yourself in front of it, you'd have more success with them than you'd
ever have with the real court." "Yes," said K. to himself, forgetting
that he had only gone there to investigate the painter.
One of the girls behind the door started up again, and asked,
"Titorelli, is he going to go soon?" "Quiet!" shouted the painter at
the door, "Can't you see I'm talking with the gentleman?" But this was
not enough to satisfy the girl and she asked, "You going to paint his
picture?" And when the painter didn't answer she added, "Please don't
paint him, he's an 'orrible bloke." There followed an incomprehensible,
interwoven babble of shouts and replies and calls of agreement. The
painter leapt over to the door, opened it very slightly--the girls'
clasped hands could be seen stretching through the crack as if they
wanted something--and said, "If you're not quiet I'll throw you all
down the stairs. Sit down here on the steps and be quiet." They probably
did not obey him immediately, so that he had to command, "Down on the
steps!" Only then it became quiet.