Лабораторная работа №1 1 страница

OLGA' S PLANS

"Then we had to find some occupation for Father that he could still do, anything that would at least support him in his belief that his work served to shift the guilt away from the family. Find­ing something like that wasn't difficult, for anything, essentially, could match the effectiveness of sitting outside Bertuch's garden, yet I found something that gave hope even to me. Each time the question of our guilt was raised in offices, by clerks, or elsewhere, there was only talk of the insult to Sortini's messenger, nobody dared to probe any further. Well, I said to myself, if people in general know only of the insult to the messenger, even if only seemingly so, then it would be possible, again even if only seem­ingly so, to make amends for everything if we succeeded in ap­peasing the messenger. Of course no complaint arrived, as has been stated, nor has the matter been taken up by any agency, and

so the messenger is, in his capacity as an individual—and that's all that matters here—free to forgive. All of this couldn't possibly be of decisive importance, was merely an illusion, might once again lead nowhere, but still it would please Father, and in this way one might almost manage, perhaps even to his satisfaction, to drive into a corner the numerous information givers who had tormented him. But first, of course, the messenger had to be found. When I told Father of my plan, at first he became very an­noyed; you see, he had become extremely stubborn, partly in the belief, which had come to him during his illness, that we had al­ways prevented him from obtaining final victory, first by ending his subsidy and then by keeping him in bed, and partly because he was no longer capable of grasping the ideas of anybody else. I had not even come to the end of my story when my plan was re­jected; he believed that he had to continue waiting at Bertuch's garden and that we should take him there in the handcart be­cause he would no longer be able to climb up there every day. But I didn't relent and gradually he became reconciled to the idea, all that disturbed him was his complete dependence upon me, since I was the only one who had seen the messenger at the time, Fa­ther didn't know him. Of course one servant resembles the next, and even I wasn't entirely sure that I could recognize that one. Then we began to go to the Gentlemen's Inn to look among the servants there. True, he had been a servant of Sortini's and Sor­tini no longer came to the village, but the gentlemen often switch servants, we could surely find him in some other gentleman's group, and even if we didn't find him we might be able to gather information about him from the other servants. To that end we would have to spend every evening at the Gentlemen's Inn, and we weren't particularly welcome anywhere, especially not in a place of that sort, and of course it wasn't possible for us to go there as paying guests. But as it turned out, they actually were able to find some use for us, I'm sure you know what a torment the servants were for Frieda, mostly they are on the whole quiet people, the easy work makes them spoiled and ponderous, 'May you fare like a servant' is how officials wish somebody well, and

it's said that when it comes to the good life the servants are the true masters at the Castle; they certainly do know how to appre­ciate that and while at the Castle, where they must move about under its laws, they are calm and dignified, I have heard various reports confirming this, and even among the servants here you find traces of it, but only traces, because in the village the laws of the Castle are no longer entirely applicable to them, they seem transformed, having turned into a wild, unruly horde, governed not by the laws but by their insatiable drives. Their shameless-ness knows no bounds, it's lucky for the village that they can leave the Gentlemen's Inn only upon orders, but at the Gentle­men's Inn itself one has to try to get along with them; well, Frieda found that very difficult so she was very glad she could use me to calm the servants; for over two years now I have spent the night in the stable with the servants, at least twice a week. Earlier, when Father was still able to go to the Gentlemen's Inn he slept somewhere in the taproom waiting for the news that I used to bring in the morning. It was little enough. To this day we haven't found the messenger we sought, they say he's still working for Sortini, who has high regard for him, the messenger must have followed Sortini when he withdrew to more distant offices. The servants haven't seen him any more recently than we have, and if one of them insists that he has, then it's probably a mistake. So my plan might seem to have failed, but that isn't quite so, we haven't actually found the messenger, and the treks to the Gen­tlemen's Inn and the nights spent there, and perhaps even his compassion for me, if he's still capable of any such thing, have unfortunately almost finished off Father, and he has been in the condition in which you saw him for almost two years, but he may be faring better than Mother, whose end we expect each day, for it's been postponed only thanks to the superhuman efforts of Amalia. But what I did manage to do at the Gentlemen's Inn was establish a certain connection with the Castle; don't despise me if I say that I don't regret having acted as I did. But what could that important connection to the Castle possibly be, you may be ask­ing yourself. And you're right, it certainly isn't an important con-

nection. But I have come to know many servants, the servants of almost all the gentlemen who have come to the village over the last few years, and if I do reach the Castle someday, I won't be a stranger there. Of course, that was only the servants in the village, they're completely different at the Castle and probably wouldn't even recognize anyone anymore, especially not some­one they have associated with in the village, even if they had sworn a hundred times in the stable that they were eagerly antic­ipating a reunion at the Castle. Besides, I know from experience how little all such promises mean. But that certainly isn't the most important thing. It's not only through the servants them­selves that I have a connection with the Castle but perhaps also hopefully in such a way that whoever is observing me and my ac­tions from up there—and managing the large staff of servants is of course an extremely important and vexatious part of official work—that the person observing me in that manner will perhaps reach a milder verdict about me than anyone else would, perhaps he will recognize that I too am fighting, no matter how miserably, for the sake of our family, and am continuing Father's efforts. If that is how they see things, then perhaps I will also be forgiven for accepting money from the servants and for using it for our family. And I accomplished something else, though you blame me for this too. I found out from the domestics that it is possible, for instance, in roundabout ways, without difficult official applica­tion proceedings, to enter the Castle services, but then you're not an official employee, only a secret semi-probationer, you don't have rights or duties, it's harder not having duties, though you do have some since you're close to everything and can notice favor­able opportunities and take advantage of them, you aren't an em­ployee, but then by chance some kind of work can turn up; just then there's no employee around, someone cries, you hurry over and the very thing that a moment ago you were not, namely an employee, you then become. But when can such opportunities be found? Sometimes right away, you have barely entered, barely looked around, and the opportunity is already at hand, but it is not everyone who already has, as a novice, enough presence of

mind to immediately seize the chance, at other times this takes years longer than the proceedings for public admission, and for such semi-probationers there's no possibility whatsoever of a reg­ular public admission. So a good many doubts arise; but they be­come moot since the candidates for public admission are most painstakingly selected, and any member of a family found to be in any way disreputable is immediately rejected; if such a person subjects himself to this proceeding, for instance, and spends years trembling about the outcome, everyone will ask in astonishment how he could dare to attempt anything so pointless, but he does have hope, for otherwise how could he live, though after many years, perhaps as an old man, he learns that he was rejected, finds out that all is lost and that his life was in vain. Of course here too there are exceptions, which is why one is so easily tempted. It sometimes happens that it's precisely those disreputable people who are finally accepted, there are some officials who very much against their own will love the smell of that sort of wild game, and during admission exams they sniff the air, twist their mouths, roll their eyes, men like that somehow seem to stir their appetite, and they must cling to the law books in order to be able to resist. But sometimes that doesn't help the man gain admission but only endlessly prolongs the admission proceedings, which are not ter­minated but simply broken off after the man dies. Thus both the legal admission and the other kind are full of open and hidden difficulties, and it certainly makes sense to weigh everything care­fully before getting mixed up in anything of that sort. Well, we did not fail to do so, Barnabas and I. Each time I came from the Gentlemen's Inn we sat down together, I talked about my latest discovery, we discussed it for days, and it wasn't good that the work in Barnabas's hands went untouched for so long. And here I may be at fault from your point of view. After all, I knew the domestics' stories weren't very reliable. I knew that they never had the slightest desire to tell me about the Castle and always diverted attention elsewhere, they made us beg for each word, but of course once they got going, they let rip, talked gibberish, bragged, outdid one another with exaggerations and fabrica-

tions, so that the constant shouting everybody took turns at in­side the dark stable must have obviously at best contained only a few meager hints of the truth. I told all this to Barnabas, just as I had seen it, and he, who was still utterly incapable of separating truth from lies and, because of our family circumstances, almost thirsted with longing for these matters, drank everything in, and glowed with fervor for more. And my new plan did indeed rely on Barnabas. No more could be accomplished through the do­mestics. Sortini's messenger was not to be found and would never be found; Sortini, and therefore his messenger too, seemed to have receded ever farther, people had often forgotten their ap­pearance and their names, so I often had to describe them at length, with no result other than that they remembered them with great difficulty, but that's all they could say about them. And as far as my life with the domestics was concerned, I had no say of course in how they pronounced judgment on it, and could only hope that they would take that episode in the spirit in which it had been engaged in and therefore deduct a small part of our family's guilt, but I got no outward signs of that. Still, I kept it up since I could see no other possibility of our accomplishing any­thing at the Castle. For Barnabas, though, I could see a possibil­ity of that sort. From the domestics' stories I could deduce, if I wanted to, as I certainly do, that anyone who is admitted to the Castle services can accomplish a great deal for his family. But then, of course, how credible were these stories? That was im­possible to determine, but I knew it was little enough. For if, say, I was solemnly assured by a domestic, whom I would never see again or would hardly recognize even if I did, that he would help my brother find a position at the Castle, or at least support him if Barnabas were somehow to enter the Castle, say by providing him with refreshment, for according to the stories the domestics tell, in the course of the excessively long waiting periods it does happen that applicants for positions faint or become confused and then they are lost, unless their friends watch out for them— when these warnings alerted me to such matters and much else besides, they were probably justified, but the promises accompa-

nying them were absolutely empty. But not for Barnabas, whom I cautioned against believing in such promises, but even the mere mention of them won him over to my plans. The examples I gave didn't greatly impress him, he was far more impressed with the stories of the domestics. And so I was actually thrown back on my own resources, no one except for Amalia could get through to our parents, the more I pursued Father's old plans in my own way, the more Amalia cut herself off from me; she still speaks to me in front of you and others, but not when the two of us are alone; for the domestics at the Gentlemen's Inn I was a plaything, which they kept trying to break; throughout those two years I have never said an intimate word to any of them, nothing but dis­simulation, lies, or craziness, so I had only Barnabas to turn to, and Barnabas was still very young. While informing him of all this, I noticed the gleam in his eyes, which he still has; I was star­tled but didn't give up, for I thought the stakes were too high. True, I didn't have the great if empty plans of my father, and I also lacked the determination that men possess, I stuck to the task of making amends for the insult to the messenger and even wanted to get credit for my modesty. But what I had failed to do alone I now wanted to achieve through Barnabas in a different and more secure way. After we had insulted a messenger and dri­ven him from the front offices, we took what was surely the most natural step and offered them a new messenger in the shape of Barnabas, who would carry out the duties of the insulted mes­senger and thus make it possible for the insulted party to bide his time quietly someplace, at some remove, for as long as he wanted, for as long as he needed to forget the insult. But I fully realized that, for all its modesty, this plan wasn't lacking in pre­sumption, for it might seem as though we wanted to dictate to the authorities how they should settle personnel matters or as if we doubted that the authorities were capable of arranging every­thing in the best way through their own devices and had even made arrangements long before it dawned on us that anything could be done here. But then again I thought it impossible that the authorities should misunderstand me in that way or, even if

they did, that they would do so intentionally, that they would in other words reject everything I do from the outset, without fur­ther scrutiny. So I didn't relent, and Barnabas's ambition took care of the rest. During the preparations Barnabas became so ar­rogant that he began to feel that a shoemaker's job was too dirty for a future office employee like him, and on those rare occasions when Amalia spoke to him he even had the audacity to contra­dict her outright. I didn't begrudge him this short-lived joy, for, as could easily have been foreseen, on the very first day he went to the Castle his joy and his arrogance instantly disappeared. It was the start of that apparent service I've already told you about. It was astonishing that Barnabas had no difficulty entering the Cas­tle, or rather the office which has become his workplace, as it were. This success almost made me go mad, the moment Barnabas whis­pered me news of it when he came home I ran to Amalia, grabbed her, pressed her into a corner, and kissed her with lips and teeth, causing her to weep in pain and fright. I was so agitated I couldn't say a word, besides we hadn't spoken to each other in a long time, I therefore put off the conversation for a few days. But of course over the next few days there was no reason to talk. After those rapid gains, that was it. And then for two years Barnabas led that monotonous wrenching life. The domestics let us down completely; I gave Barnabas a short letter to take along, commending him to the care of the domestics, whom I at the same time reminded of their promises, and whenever Barnabas saw a domestic he pulled out the letter and held it up in front of his eyes, and though he had probably come across domestics who didn't know me, and though his way of showing the letter without saying a word—he doesn't dare to speak up there— irritated my acquaintances, all the same it was shameful that nobody helped him, and it was a deliverance, which we admit­tedly could have brought about a long time ago on our own, when a domestic, who may have several times had the letter thrust at him, crumpled it up and threw it into a wastebasket. It even occurred to me that he could almost have said: 'After all, you treat letters the same way too.' But, however fruitless this

entire period, it had a positive effect on Barnabas, if one wants to describe as positive his aging before his time and prematurely be­coming a man, in some ways earnest and insightful beyond man­hood itself. It often saddens me to look at him and to compare him with the youth he was even two years ago. And yet I do not get from him any of the consolation and support that he might be able to give me as a man. Without me, he would hardly have got into the Castle, but ever since going up there he has become in­dependent of me. I'm the only one he confides in, but he proba­bly tells me only a fraction of what he has on his mind. He tells me a great deal about the Castle, but from his stories, from the little facts he discloses, it's impossible to gather how this can have so greatly transformed him. It is especially difficult to understand why up there, as a man, he has so completely lost the courage which, when he was a boy, was enough to drive us to despair. Of course this futile standing around, this waiting around over and over again for days on end without any prospect of change, is wearying and fills you with despair and finally even makes you unable to do anything better than stand around in desperation. But why didn't he resist earlier? Especially since he soon noticed that I had been right and that there was nothing there to further his goal, though one could probably take advantage of certain things to improve our family's lot. For up there everything, ex­cept for the whims of the servants, is quite modest, and since ambition seeks fulfillment in work and the task itself becomes paramount, eventually all ambition disappears; there is no rea­son to indulge in childish wishes there. Still, Barnabas was con­vinced, he told me, that he could clearly see how power and knowledge were wielded even by those rather dubious officials whose rooms he could enter. How they dictated, quickly, with half-closed eyes and brief gestures; how, only with their index finger, wordlessly, they dispatched the surly servants who, breath­ing heavily at such moments, smiled happily, or how they found an important passage in their books, pounded on it, and the others, insofar as this was possible in the confined space, ran up and stretched their necks out toward it. Such things gave Bar-

nabas exalted ideas about these men and he had the impression that if he advanced far enough to be noticed and could exchange a few words with them not as a stranger but as an office col­league, if only of the most subordinate kind, then it would be possible to obtain unforeseen benefits for our family. But things have simply not yet gone that far, and Barnabas doesn't dare to undertake anything that might take him closer to that goal, though he is keenly aware that within the family, because of the unfortunate circumstances and despite his youth, he has moved up and taken on the heavy responsibility of acting as head of the family. And there's one other thing I must confess: It has been a week now since you arrived. I heard someone say so at the Gentlemen's Inn but paid no attention to it; a land surveyor had come, I didn't even know what that was. But the following evening Barnabas comes home earlier than usual—at a set time I used to go to meet him partway—and seeing Amalia in the room, he pulls me out onto the street, presses his face down on my shoulder, and weeps for several minutes. He has again become the little boy he once was. Something has happened to him, and he's clearly no match for it. It's as if a completely new world has opened up before him and he cannot stand the happiness and worries stemming from the novelty of it all. And yet all that hap­pened to him was that he received a letter to deliver to you. Still, it is the first letter, the first task he has ever been given. "

Olga broke off. It was quiet except for her parents' heavy and at times rattlelike breathing. K. said casually, as if elaborating on Olga's story: "You put on a show for my benefit. Like an old, harried messenger Barnabas delivered the letter, and you as well as Amalia, who for once sided with you, pretended that the mes­senger service and the letters were simply something on the side." "You must distinguish between the two of us," said Olga, "those two letters made Barnabas a happy child again, despite all his doubts about his task. He confesses these doubts only to himself and to me, but he wants to find honor in your eyes by acting like a real messenger, the way he thinks real messengers act. And therefore, to give you one example, despite his increasing hope

of obtaining an official suit, I had to tailor his trousers within two hours, so that they would at least resemble the tight-fitting trousers of the official clothing and he could pass muster in front of you, who in that respect are of course still quite easy to de­ceive. So much for Barnabas. But Amalia really despises the mes­senger service, and now that he's apparently had some minor success, which she can easily detect from the way Barnabas and I sit about whispering, she despises it even more than before. She is therefore telling the truth, don't ever fool yourself by doubting that. K., if I sometimes disparaged the messenger service, it was not with any intention of deceiving you but out of fear. The two letters that have passed through Barnabas's hands so far are the first, if still rather doubtful, signs of favor that our family has re­ceived in three years. This change, if it actually is a change in for­tune rather than an illusion—illusions are more common than changes in fortune—is connected to your arrival here, our fate has become somewhat dependent on you, perhaps these two let­ters are only the beginning and Barnabas's occupation will soon go beyond delivering messages dealing with you—let's hope so, for as long as we can—but for now everything is aimed solely at you. Up there we have to be satisfied with whatever they assign us, but down here perhaps we can do something for ourselves as well, namely: assure ourselves of your favor or at least preserve ourselves from your dislike or, most important, protect you to the best of our ability and experience so that you don't end up losing your connection to the Castle, which we might be able to live on. What would be the best way to bring this about? So that you're not suspicious of us when we approach you, for you are a stranger here and are no doubt filled with suspicion about every­thing, filled with justified suspicion. Besides, people despise us, and you're influenced by that prevailing view, especially through your fiancée, so how should we get through to you without for example, however unintentionally, opposing your fiancée and hurting your feelings. And the messages, which I read carefully before you received them—Barnabas didn't read them, as a messenger he wouldn't allow himself to do so—first seemed quite

unimportant, obsolete; they undermined their own importance by referring you to the council chairman. And how should we treat you in that regard? If we stressed their importance we would make people suspect that we were overrating something that was obviously so unimportant merely so as to recommend ourselves to you as the bearers of this news and to pursue our own ends instead of yours, and in the end we might even devalue the news in your eyes, and in that way, very much against our will, deceive you. But if we didn't attach much importance to the letters we should make ourselves just as suspect, for why were we taking the time to deliver these unimportant letters, why did our behavior contradict our words, why were we deceiving not only you, the addressee, but our employer, who certainly hadn't handed us the letters so that we would go and make statements that might lessen their value for the addressee. And staying in the middle between the exaggerations, that is, weighing the letters correctly is impossible, their value keeps changing, the thoughts that they prompt are endless and the point at which one happens to stop is determined only by accident and so the opinion one ar­rives at is just as accidental. And if fear for your sake comes into this too, then everything becomes confused; you shouldn't judge these words of mine too harshly. If, for instance, as actually hap­pened once, Barnabas comes with the news that you're dissatis­fied with his service as a messenger and that he himself has, in the initial shock and unfortunately not without showing some sign of a messenger's testiness, offered to resign from this service, then I could, in order to make amends for the error, deceive, lie, swin­dle, and do absolutely any bad thing if it would only help. But then I'm doing it, at least that's what I believe, as much for your sake as for ours."

Someone knocked. Olga ran to the door and unlocked it. A streak of light from a covered lantern breached the darkness. The belated visitor asked questions in a whisper and received answers in a whisper but wasn't satisfied with that and tried to force his way into the room. Olga evidently couldn't hold him back any longer and therefore called Amalia, obviously in hopes that

Amalia would, in an effort to protect her parents' sleep, do any­thing to get rid of the visitor. And she actually did hurry over, push Olga aside, step out into the street, and shut the door behind her. It took only a moment, she came back right away, having quickly accomplished what Olga had been unable to do.

K. then learned from Olga that the visit had been intended for him, it had been one of the assistants who had come to look for him on instructions from Frieda. Olga had tried to shield K. from the assistant; if K. wanted to confess his visit here to Frieda later on he was free to do so, but it shouldn't be discovered by the as­sistant; K. gave his approval. But he declined Olga's offer that he spend the night here waiting for Barnabas; he might have ac­cepted this on its own merits, for it had already become quite late and it seemed to him that he was now so connected to this fam­ily, whether he wanted to be or not, that a night's lodgings here, though perhaps embarrassing for other reasons, would because of that connection be the most natural place in the entire village for him; nevertheless, he refused, the assistant's visit had startled him, it was incomprehensible to him that Frieda, who knew what he wanted, and the assistants, who had learned to fear him, should have teamed up again in such a way that Frieda even went so far as to send an assistant for him, but only one, the other must have stayed behind with her. He asked Olga whether she had a whip but she did not have one, though she had a good wil­low switch, which he took; then he asked whether there was any other exit from the house, there was one such exit through the courtyard, only then you had to clamber over the fence of the next-door garden and cross that garden before you came to the street. K. resolved to do so. While Olga was leading him across the courtyard to the fence, K. attempted to calm her worries by ex­plaining that far from being angry at her because of the little tricks in her story he actually understood her quite well and wished to thank her for the confidence she had in him, which she had demonstrated through her story; he instructed her to send Barnabas back to the schoolhouse the moment he returned, even if it was still dark. Though Barnabas's messages weren't his only

hope, otherwise he would be in a bad way, he certainly didn't want to give them up, he wanted to hold on to them without for­getting Olga; almost more important to him than the messages was Olga herself, her bravery, her prudence, her cleverness, and her sacrifices for her family. If given a choice between Olga and Amalia, it wouldn't take long to decide. And he pressed her hand warmly as he swung himself up onto the fence of the garden next door.

Once he stood out on the street he saw, insofar as he could see anything at all on this bleak night, the assistant walking back and forth up there outside Barnabas's house, sometimes coming to a halt in an effort to shine a light through a curtained window into the room. K. called out to him; without seeming at all startled, he gave up spying on the house and came toward K. "Who are you looking for?" asked K., testing the suppleness of the willow switch on his thigh. "You," said the assistant, coming closer. "Well, who are you?" K. suddenly said, since it did not seem to be the assistant. He seemed older, wearier, more wrinkled, but with a fuller face, even his gait was completely different from the assistants', which was nimble, as though their joints were electri­fied; he walked slowly, limping slightly, elegantly infirm. "You don't recognize me," said the man, "I'm Jeremias, your old assis­tant." "Oh?" said K., pulling out the willow switch, which he had hidden behind his back. "But you look quite different." "That's because I'm alone," said Jeremias. "When I'm alone, carefree youth is gone." "So where's Artur?" asked K. "Artur?" asked Jeremias, "the little darling? He has given up his duties. But you were a little too harsh with us. The delicate soul couldn't stand it. He went back to the Castle and is filing a complaint against you." "And you?" asked K. "I was able to stay," said Je­remias, "Artur is filing the complaint for me too." "What are you complaining about?" asked K. "We are complaining," said Jere­mias, "that you cannot take a joke. Now then, what did we do? Joked a bit, laughed a bit, teased your fiancée a bit. And all this, by the way, in accordance with instructions. When Galater sent us to you—" "Galater?" asked K. "Yes, Galater," said Jeremias,