she had thrown back the eiderdown. In bed she looked much younger than when she was fully dressed, but all the same the lacy nightcap she wore was too small for her, and perched unsteadily on top of her head, making her worn face look pitiable. ‘How could I have come?’ asked K. gently. ‘You didn’t send for me.’ ‘You shouldn’t have kept me waiting so long,’ said the landlady, with the fretful persistence of an invalid. ‘Well, sit down,’ she said, pointing to the edge of the bed. ‘And you others go away.’ For not only K.’s assistants but also the maids had now come in as well. ‘Do you want me to go too, Gardena?’* asked the landlord, and for the first time K. heard his wife’s name. ‘Of course,’ she said slowly, and as if her thoughts were elsewhere she added, distractedly: ‘Why should you of all people stay?’ But when all the others had withdrawn to the kitchen—and this time even the assistants went at once, though the fact was that they were chasing one of the maids—Gardena was obviously paying enough attention to realize that everything said here could be heard from there, for the little room had no door, so she ordered everyone to leave the kitchen too. They obeyed at once. ‘Now, Mr Land Surveyor,’ Gardena said, ‘there’s a shawl hanging at the front of the wardrobe. Please will you give it to me? I want to cover myself with it, I can’t bear the weight of this eiderdown, I’m breathing with such difficulty.’ And when K. had brought her the shawl, she said: ‘See this, fine fabric, isn’t it?’ It looked to K. like perfectly ordinary woollen fabric, and he felt it, simply to please her, but made no comment. ‘Yes, very fine fabric,’ said Gardena, wrap-ping it around her. Now she lay there peacefully, and did not seem to be suffering any longer. She even noticed that her hair was untidy from the way she had been lying on it, and sitting up for a little while she rearranged it round the nightcap. She had thick hair.

K. was getting impatient, and said: ‘Ma’am, you sent to ask if I had found other lodgings.’ ‘I sent to ask you that?’ asked the land-lady. ‘No, you’re mistaken.’ ‘But your husband has just asked me.’ ‘I can believe that,’ said the landlady. ‘I’ve been at daggers drawn with him. When I didn’t want to have you staying here, he let you stay; now that I’m happy to have you here he’s driving you away. He’s always doing that kind of thing.’ ‘Have you changed your mind about me so much,’ said K., ‘in just a couple of hours?’ ‘I haven’t changed my mind,’ said the landlady, sounding weaker again. ‘Give me your hand. There. And now promise to be perfectly frank with me, and I will be frank with you.’ ‘Good,’ said K. ‘Which of us is going to begin?’ ‘I will,’ said the landlady. She did not give the impression that she was ready to oblige K., but just seemed eager to speak first.

She took a photograph out from under her pillow and handed it to K. ‘Look at that picture,’ she asked earnestly. To get a better view of it, K. stepped into the kitchen, but even there it wasn’t easy to make anything out, for the photograph had faded with age, and was cracked, crumpled, and stained in many places. ‘It’s not in very good condition,’ said K. ‘I’m afraid not, I’m afraid not,’ said the landlady. ‘That’s what happens when you carry something on your person over the years. But if you look at it closely I’m sure you’ll be able to see everything. I can help you out; just tell me what you see. I like to hear about that picture. What do you see in it, then?’ ‘A young man,’ said K. ‘Quite right,’ said the landlady, ‘and what is he doing?’ ‘I think he’s lying on a plank, stretching and yawning.’ The landlady laughed. ‘That’s quite wrong,’ she said. ‘But here’s the plank, and there he is lying on it,’ said K., sticking to his own opin-ion. ‘Look more closely,’ said the landlady, annoyed. ‘Is he really lying down?’ ‘Why, no,’ said K. now. ‘He’s not lying down, he is in the air, and now I see it isn’t a plank, it’s probably a cord, and the young man is doing the high jump.’ ‘There you are, then,’ said the landlady, pleased. ‘He’s jumping, yes. That’s how the official mes-sengers practise. I knew you’d see what it was. Can you see his face too?’ ‘Very little of it,’ said K. ‘He’s obviously making a great effort, his mouth is open, his eyes are narrowed, and his hair is flying in the air.’ ‘Very good,’ said the landlady approvingly. ‘As you never saw him in person you can’t make out any more. But he was a hand-some lad. I saw him only once, briefly, and I shall never forget him.’ ‘Who was he, then?’ asked K. ‘He was the messenger,’ said the land-lady, ‘the messenger who was first sent by Klamm to summon me to see him.’
K. wasn’t listening closely; the sound of something tapping on glass distracted his attention. He soon found out the cause of the disturbance. The assistants were standing in the yard, shifting from foot to foot in the snow. They looked pleased to see K. again, cheer-fully pointed him out to each other, and kept on tapping at the kitchen window. At a menacing movement from K. they stopped that at once, trying to push one another back, but each kept escaping the other, and soon they were back at the window. K. hurried into the little room, where the assistants couldn’t see him from outside and he didn’t have to see them. But that soft and imploring tapping on the windowpane still followed him.

‘It’s those assistants again,’ he told the landlady by way of apology, pointing to the yard outside. However, she took no notice of him; she had taken the picture back, and now she looked at it, smoothed it out, and pushed it under the pillow again. Her movements were slower now, but not from weariness, they were slow under the burden of memory. She had wanted K. to talk to her, and as he did so she had forgotten about him. She was playing with the fringe of her shawl. Only after a little while did she look up, pass her hand over her eyes, and say: ‘This shawl came from Klamm too. And so did this night-cap. The photograph, the shawl, and the nightcap, they’re my three mementoes of him. I’m not young like Frieda, I don’t aim as high as she does, nor am I so tender-hearted, she’s very tender-hearted. In short, I know what’s right and proper, but I have to confess that without those three things I could probably never have borne it here for so long, probably not even for a day. These three mementoes may perhaps appear small things to you, but then, you see, Frieda was intimate with Klamm for so long, but she has no memento of him at all. I asked her; she is so impassioned and so insatiable, while I, on the other hand, who was with Klamm only those three times—he didn’t send for me any more after that, I don’t know why—I took those mementoes away with me, guessing how short my time would be. Well, you have to look after yourself. Klamm never gives any-thing away of his own accord, but if you see something suitable lying about there, you can ask for it.’

K. felt uncomfortable listening to these stories, much as they also affected him. ‘How long ago is all this?’ he asked with a sigh.
‘Over twenty years,’ said the landlady, ‘well over twenty years ago.’
‘And you’ve been faithful to Klamm so long?’ said K. ‘But ma’am, do you realize that when you make such confessions you are causing me severe anxiety when I think of my forthcoming marriage?’
The landlady thought it unseemly for K. to bring up his own affairs, and cast him an angry sideways glance.
‘Don’t look so cross, ma’am,’ said K. ‘I’m not saying a word against Klamm, but through the force of circumstance I do have a certain connection with him; Klamm’s greatest admirer couldn’t deny that. Well then. As a result of what you say, I can’t help think-ing of myself at the mention of Klamm, there’s no altering that. Moreover, ma’am,’ and here K. took her faltering hand, ‘remember how badly our last conversation turned out, and recollect that this time we want to part on good terms.’
‘You are right,’ said the landlady, bowing her head, ‘but spare me. I am no more sensitive than anyone else, far from it, but we all have our sensitive spots, and this is mine—my only one.’
‘Unfortunately it is also mine,’ said K. ‘But I will certainly control myself. However, tell me, ma’am, how am I to bear this terrible fidelity to Klamm in my own marriage, always supposing that Frieda is like you in this point?’
‘Terrible fidelity,’ repeated the landlady suddenly. ‘Is it fidelity? I am faithful to my husband, but Klamm? Klamm once made me his mistress, can I ever lose that rank? And you ask how you are to bear it in Frieda? Oh, Mr Land Surveyor, who are you to dare to ask such a question?’
‘Madam!’ said K. in a tone of warning.

‘I know,’ said the landlady, caving in,