Yes, it is said that we all belong to the castle, and there is no distance at all, no gap to be bridged, and in the usual way that may be so, but unfortunately we’ve had an opportunity of seeing that when it comes to the point it isn’t. Anyway, all this will have made it easier for you to understand Sortini’s behaviour and see it as less monstrous. In fact, compared with Klamm’s it is indeed far easier to understand and far easier to bear, even to someone closely concerned. When Klamm writes an affectionate letter it is more embarrassing than the coarsest letter that Sortini could pen. Don’t misunderstand me, I wouldn’t venture to judge Klamm, I’m only making the comparison because you won’t hear of it. But Klamm acts like a military commander with women, he orders now one of them and now another to come to him, he doesn’t keep any of them for long, and then he orders them to leave again in just the same way. Oh, Klamm wouldn’t even give himself the trouble of writing a letter at all. And is it, by comparison, still a monstrous thing for Sortini, who keeps himself to himself so much, about whose relationships with women we know nothing, to say the least, to sit down one day and write a letter in his fine official handwriting, even if it is a dis-gusting letter? And if there is no difference between that and Klamm’s favours, but rather the opposite, then will Frieda’s love create one? The relationship between the women and the officials, believe me, is very difficult to judge, or perhaps very easy. There is never any lack of love in this place. The officials’ love is never unre-quited. In that respect it isn’t praise to say of a girl—and of course I’m not talking about Frieda—that she gave herself to an official only because she loved him. She loved him and gave herself to him, yes, but there is nothing praiseworthy in it. However, you will say that Amalia did not love Sortini. Well, she didn’t love him, or perhaps she did love him after all, who can say? Not even Amalia herself. How can she think she loved him if she rejected him in such strong terms? Very likely no official was ever rejected in those terms before. Barnabas says that she still sometimes trembles with the same emo-tion as when she closed the window three years ago. That’s true too, so there’s no need to ask her; she has broken with Sortini, and that’s all she knows, she has no idea whether she loves him or not.
But we know that women can’t help loving officials when the officials turn to them, indeed, they love the officials even before that, much as they may deny it, and Sortini didn’t just turn to Amalia, he jumped over the shafts of the fire engine at the sight of her, he jumped over them with his official legs still stiff from sitting working at his desk. But Amalia is an exception, you will say. Yes, she is, she showed it when she refused to go to Sortini, that was exceptional enough. However, to say that in addition she didn’t love Sortini would be almost too exceptional, that would be beyond understanding. We were certainly blind that afternoon, but the fact that we thought we saw something of Amalia’s lovesick state even through the mists before our eyes showed that we did have some idea of it. Well, put all this together, and what’s the difference between Frieda and Amalia then? Only that Frieda did what Amalia wouldn’t do.’ ‘Maybe,’ said K., ‘but for me the main difference is that Frieda is my fiancée, while fundamentally Amalia matters to me only in being the sister of Barnabas, who is a castle messenger, and perhaps her fate is linked to Barnabas’s employment. If an official had done her such a great injustice as it seemed to me at first from your story, it would have weighed on my mind a great deal, but even so, more as a public scandal than because of Amalia’s private suffering. Now, after your story, the picture does indeed change into one that I don’t entirely understand, but you are the one telling the tale and making it sound plausible enough, so I’ll be perfectly happy to drop the subject entirely, I am no fireman, what does Sortini matter to me? Frieda does matter to me, however, and it is strange to me that you, whom I trusted entirely and would like to go on trusting, keep attacking Frieda through Amalia in that roundabout way, trying to make me suspect her. I don’t think you are doing it on purpose, let alone with malicious intent, or I would have had to leave long ago. So you aren’t doing it on purpose, circum-stances make you do it, out of love for Amalia you try to elevate her above all other women, and as you can’t find enough that’s praise-worthy in Amalia herself for your purpose, you resort to running other women down. What Amalia did is remarkable, but the more you tell me about it, the less anyone can say whether it was a great or a small thing to do, clever or foolish, heroic or cowardly. Amalia keeps her reasons to herself, and no one will worm them out of her. Frieda, on the other hand, has done nothing remarkable, only fol-lowed her heart. That’s clear to all who look at the situation in the right light, anyone can see that, there’s no room for gossip.
However, I don’t want to run Amalia down myself or defend Frieda, I just want to make my feelings for Frieda clear to you, and point out that any attack on Frieda is also an attack on me. I came here of my own free will, and I have settled here of my own free will, but all that has hap-pened since, and above all my future prospects—sombre as they may be, still, they do exist—all this I owe to Frieda, there’s no arguing that away. It is true that I was appointed here as a land surveyor, but that was only for show, people were playing with me, driving me from pillar to post, and they are still playing with me today, but it’s so much more involved now, I have gained in stature, so to speak, and that in itself is something. Little as it all may mean, I have a home, a position, and real work; I have a fiancée who, when I have other business, will do my work for me, I am going to marry her and become a member of this community, and outside the official rela-tionship I have a personal one with Klamm, even if so far I admit I have been unable to exploit it. Isn’t that something? And when I visit you, who is it you’re welcoming in? To whom do you confide your family’s story? From whom do you hope for a chance of some kind of help, even if only a tiny, improbable chance? Not from the land surveyor who only a week ago was forcibly expelled from Lasemann’s house by the householder himself and Brunswick, no, you hope to get it from a man who already has a certain power, but I owe that power to Frieda, who is so modest that if you were to try asking her about it she would certainly claim to know nothing at all. And yet it seems to me that Frieda in her innocence has done more than Amalia in all her arrogance, because you see, I have the impression that you are looking for help for Amalia. And from whom? In fact from none other than Frieda.’ ‘Did I really speak so badly of Frieda?’ said Olga. ‘I certainly didn’t mean to, and I didn’t think I had, but it is possible, in our situation we are at odds with all the world, and if we begin to complain of our fate we get carried away, we hardly know where.
And you are right, there is a great difference now between us and Frieda, and it is as well to emphasize that for once. Three years ago we were well-to-do girls, and Frieda only an orphan who was dairy-maid at the Bridge Inn; we passed her by without a glance, we were certainly too arrogant, but that’s how we had been brought up. That evening in the Castle Inn, however, you saw the present state of affairs: Frieda with the whip in her hand, and I among the servants. But it is even worse. Frieda may despise us, that’s in line with her position, it’s inevitable in the circumstances. However, who does not despise us? Those who decide to despise us join the vast majority of society. Do you know Frieda’s successor? Her name is Pepi. I met her only yesterday evening; she used to be a chambermaid.
