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