by Franz Kafka
Behind the door a girl started asking again: “Titorelli, isn’t he going to leave pretty soon?” “Quiet,” the painter yelled at the door, “can’t you see that I’m having a conference with this gentleman?” But that didn’t satisfy the girl, who instead asked: “Are you going to paint him?” And when the painter didn’t reply she added: “Please don’t paint him; he’s so ugly.” A confusion of unintelligible cries of agreement followed. The painter sprang to the door, opened it a crack—the clasped hands of the girls could be seen stretched out imploringly—and said: “If you don’t be quiet, I’m going to throw you all down the stairs. Sit down on the steps and keep still.” Apparently they didn’t obey right away, so that he had to make it a command: “Down on the steps!” Only then was it quiet.
“Pardon me,” said the painter, turning to K. again. K. had scarcely glanced toward the door; he’d left it entirely up to the painter whether and how he was to be protected. Even now he hardly moved as the painter bent down to him and, in order not to be heard outside, whispered in his ear: “Those girls belong to the court as well.” “What?” asked K., jerking his head away and staring at the painter. But the latter sat down in his chair again and said half in jest, half in explanation: “Everything belongs to the court.” “I hadn’t noticed that,” K. said curtly; the painter’s general statement stripped the reference to the girls of any disturbing quality. Even so, K. gazed for a while at the door, behind which the girls were now sitting quietly on the steps. Only one had poked a piece of straw through a crack between the boards and was moving it slowly up and down.
“You don’t seem to have a general overview of the court yet,” said the painter; he had spread his legs wide and was tapping his toes on the floor. “But since you’re innocent, you won’t need one. I’ll get you off on my own.” “How are you going to do that?” asked K. “You said yourself just a moment ago that the court is entirely impervious to proof.” “Impervious only to proof brought before the court,” said the painter, and lifted his forefinger, as if K. had missed a subtle distinction. “But it’s another matter when it comes to behind-the-scene efforts, in the conference rooms, in the corridors, or for example even here in the atelier.” What the painter now said seemed less improbable to K.; on the contrary it stood in close agreement with what K. had heard from others as well. Yes, it was even filled with hope. If the judges could really be swayed as easily through personal contacts as the lawyer had suggested, then the painter’s contacts with vain judges were particularly important and should by no means be underestimated. The painter would fit perfectly into the circle of helpers K. was gradually assembling about him. His organizational talents had once been highly praised at the bank; here, where he was entirely on his own, he had an excellent opportunity to test them to the full. The painter observed the effect of his explanation on K. and then asked with a certain anxiety: “Have you noticed I sound almost like a lawyer? It’s constantly interacting with gentlemen of the court that influences me. Of course I profit greatly from it, but I tend to lose a good deal of artistic energy.” “How did you first come in contact with the judges?” asked K.; he wanted to win the painter’s confidence before directly enlisting his aid. “That was quite simple,” said the painter, “I inherited the connection. My father himself was a court painter. It’s one post that’s always hereditary. New people are of no use for it. The rules for painting the various levels of officials are so numerous, so varied, and above all so secret, that they simply aren’t known beyond certain families. There in that drawer, for example, I have my father’s notes, which I show to no one. But only someone who knows them is equipped to paint the judges. Nevertheless, even if I were to lose them, I still carry so many rules in my head that no one could ever dispute my right to the post. Every judge wants to be painted like the great judges of old, and only I can do that.” “That’s an enviable situation,” said K., who was thinking about his own position in the bank, “so your position is unshakable?” “Yes, unshakable,” said the painter, proudly lifting his shoulders. “And that allows me to take a chance now and then helping a poor man with his trial.” “And how do you do that?” asked K., as if he were not the one the painter had just called a poor man. But the painter wouldn’t be sidetracked, saying instead: “In your case, for example, since you’re entirely innocent, I plan to undertake the following.” This repeated reference to his innocence was beginning to annoy K. At times it seemed to him as if, by such remarks, the painter was insisting upon a favorable outcome to the trial as a precondition for his help, which thus amounted to nothing on its own of course. But in spite of these doubts, K. controlled himself and didn’t interrupt the painter. He didn’t want to do without the painter’s help, he was sure of that, and that help seemed no more questionable than the lawyer’s. In fact K. far preferred the former, because it was offered more simply and openly.
The painter had pulled his chair closer to the bed and continued in a low voice: “I forgot to ask first what sort of release you want. There are three possibilities: actual acquittal, apparent acquittal, and protraction. Actual acquittal is best of course, but I don’t have the slightest influence on that particular result. In my opinion there’s not a single person anywhere who could have an influence on an actual acquittal. In that case the defendant’s innocence alone is probably decisive. Since you’re innocent, it would actually be possible to rely on your innocence alone. But then you wouldn’t need help from me or anyone else.”
This orderly presentation took K. aback at first, but then he said, as quietly as the painter: “I think you’re contradicting yourself.” “How?” the painter asked patiently and leaned back with a smile. This smile made K. feel as if he were trying to reveal contradictions not so much in the words of the painter as in the legal process itself. Nevertheless he did not retreat, but said: “You remarked earlier that the court is impervious to proof; later you restricted this to the public aspect of the court, and now you even claim that an innocent man needs no help at all before the court. That’s a contradiction in itself. Moreover you also stated earlier that judges can be personally influenced, although you now deny that actual acquittal, as you call it, can ever be achieved through personal influence. That’s a second contradiction.” “These contradictions can be easily explained,” said the painter. “We’re talking about two different things here, what the Law says, and what I’ve experienced personally; you mustn’t confuse the two. In the Law, which I’ve never read, mind you, it says of course on the one hand that an innocent person is to be acquitted; on the other hand it does not say that judges can be influenced. My own experience, however, has been precisely the opposite. I know of no actual acquittals but know many instances of influence. Of course it’s possible that in the cases I’m familiar with no one was ever innocent. But doesn’t that seem unlikely? In all those cases not one single innocent person? Even as a child I listened closely to my father when he talked about trials at home, and the judges who came to his atelier discussed the court as well; in our circles no one talked of anything else; from the moment I was allowed to go to court I attended constantly, heard the crucial stages of innumerable trials, followed them insofar as they could be followed, and—I must admit—I never saw a single actual acquittal.” “Not a single acquittal then,” said K. as if speaking to himself and to his hopes. “That confirms the opinion I’ve already formed of this court. So it has no real point in that respect either. A single hangman could replace the entire court.” “You mustn’t generalize,” said the painter, displeased, “I’ve spoken only of my own experience.” “That’s quite enough,” said K., “or have you heard of acquittals in earlier times?” “Such acquittals are said to have occurred, of course,” said the painter. “But that’s extremely difficult to determine. The final verdicts of the court are not published, and not even the judges have access to them; thus only legends remain about ancient court cases. These tell of actual acquittals, of course, even in a majority of cases; you can believe them, but they ca
n’t be proved true. Nevertheless they shouldn’t be entirely ignored; they surely contain a certain degree of truth, and they are very beautiful; I myself have painted a few pictures based on such legends.” “Mere legends can’t change my opinion,” said K., “I assume these legends can’t be cited in court?” The painter laughed. “No, they can’t,” he said. “Then it’s useless talking about them,” said K.; he was accepting all the painter’s opinions for the time being, even if he considered them improbable and they contradicted other reports. He didn’t have time right now to examine the truth of everything the painter said, let alone to disprove it; the best he could hope for was to induce the painter to help him somehow, even if it was not in any crucial way. So he said: “Let’s leave actual acquittal aside then; you mentioned two further possibilities.” “Apparent acquittal and protraction. It can only be one of those two,” said the painter. “But don’t you want to take off your jacket before we discuss them? You must be hot.” “Yes,” said K., who up to then had been concentrating solely on the painter’s explanations but whose forehead now broke out in heavy sweat as he was reminded of the heat. “It’s almost unbearable.” The painter nodded, as if he could well understand K.’s discomfort. “Couldn’t we open the window?” K. asked. “No,” said the painter. “It’s just a pane of glass set in the wall; it can’t be opened.” K. now realized that he had been hoping the whole time that either the painter or he would suddenly walk to the window and throw it open. He was prepared to inhale even the fog with an open mouth. The sense of being entirely cut off from outside air made him dizzy. He struck the featherbed beside him softly and said in a weak voice: “That’s uncomfortable and unhealthy.” “Oh, no,” said the painter in defense of his window. “Since it can’t be opened, it holds in the heat better than a double-paned window, even though it’s only a single sheet of glass. If I want to air things out, which is hardly necessary, since air comes in through all the cracks between the boards, I can open one of my doors, or even both of them.” Somewhat comforted by this explanation, K. looked around for the second door. The painter noticed this and said: “It’s behind you; I had to block it with the bed.” Only then did K. see the little door in the wall. “This room is really too small for an atelier,” said the painter, as if wishing to forestall a criticism on K.’s part. “I’ve had to arrange things as best I could. Of course the bed is very poorly situated in front of the door. That’s the door the judge I’m currently painting always uses, for example, and I’ve given him a key to it so he can wait for me here in the atelier, even when I’m not at home. But he generally arrives early in the morning while I’m still asleep. Of course I’m always awakened from a sound sleep when the door by the bed opens. You’d lose any respect you have for judges if you could hear the curses I shower on him as he climbs across my bed in the morning. Of course I could take the key away from him, but that would only make matters worse. All the doors here can be torn off their hinges with a minimum of effort.” Throughout these remarks, K. had been debating whether or not to take off his jacket; he finally realized that he wouldn’t be able to stand it much longer if he didn’t, so he removed his jacket, but laid it over his knee so that he could put it back on immediately in case the conversation came to an end. He had barely removed his jacket when one of the girls cried out: “He’s taken off his jacket now,” and they could all be heard rushing to the cracks to see the show for themselves. “The girls think I’m going to paint you and that’s why you’ve taken off your jacket,” said the painter. “I see,” said K., only slightly amused, for he didn’t feel much better than before, even though he was now sitting in his shirtsleeves. Almost grumpily, he asked: “What were the two other possibilities called?” He had already forgotten the terms. “Apparent acquittal and protraction,” said the painter. “The choice is up to you. Both can be achieved with my help, not without an effort of course, the difference in that respect being that apparent acquittal requires a concentrated but temporary effort, while protraction requires a far more modest but continuous one. First, then, apparent acquittal. If that’s what you want, I’ll write out a certification of your innocence on a sheet of paper. The text of such certification was handed down to me by my father and is totally unchallengeable. Then I’ll make the rounds of the judges I know with the certification. Let’s say I start by submitting the certification to the judge I’m painting now, this evening, when he comes for his sitting. I submit the certification to him, explain to him that you’re innocent, and act as a personal guarantor for your innocence. It’s not a mere formality, it’s a truly binding surety.” In the painter’s eyes lay something akin to reproach that K. would place the burden of such a surety upon him. “That would be very kind of you,” said K. “And the judge would believe you and still not actually acquit me?” “Just as I said,” answered the painter. “Nor is it absolutely certain that every judge would believe me; some judge or other, for example, might demand that I bring you to him personally. Then you would have to come along. In that case the battle is already half won, of course, particularly since I’d instruct you carefully in advance how to conduct yourself before the judge in question. Things are more difficult in the case of those judges who turn me away from the very start—and that will happen too. We’ll just have to give up on those, not without trying several times of course, but we can afford that, since individual judges can’t decide the issue. Now when I’ve gathered enough judges’ signatures on the certification, I take it to the judge who’s currently conducting your trial. Perhaps I have his signature already, then things go a little more quickly than usual. In general there aren’t many more obstacles then, that’s the period of highest confidence for the defendant. It’s remarkable but true that people are more confident at this stage than after the acquittal. No further special effort is required. The judge has on the certification the surety of a number of judges; he can acquit you with no second thoughts, and, after going through various formalities, will no doubt do so, to please me and his other acquaintances. You, however, leave the court a free man.” “So then I’m free,” K. said hesitantly. “Yes,” said the painter, “but only apparently free, or more accurately, temporarily free. Judges on the lowest level, and those are the only ones I know, don’t have the power to grant a final acquittal, that power resides only in the highest court, which is totally inaccessible to you and me and everyone else. We don’t know what things look like up there, and incidentally, we don’t want to know. Our judges, then, lack the higher power to free a person from the charge, but they do have the power to release them from it. When you are acquitted in this sense, it means the charge against you is dropped for the moment but continues to hover over you, and can be reinstated the moment an order comes from above. Because I have such a close relationship with the court, I can also explain how the distinction between actual and apparent acquittal reveals itself in purely formal terms in court regulations. In an actual acquittal, the files relating to the case are completely discarded, they disappear totally from the proceedings, not only the charge, but the trial and even the acquittal are destroyed, everything is destroyed. An apparent acquittal is handled differently. There is no further change in the files except for adding to them the certification of innocence, the acquittal, and the grounds for the acquittal. Otherwise they remain in circulation; following the law court’s normal routine they are passed on to the higher courts, come back to the lower ones, swinging back and forth with larger or smaller oscillations, longer or shorter interruptions. These paths are unpredictable. Externally it may sometimes appear that everything has been long since forgotten, the file has been lost, and the acquittal is absolute. No initiate would ever believe that. No file is ever lost, and the court never forgets. Someday—quite unexpectedly—some judge or other takes a closer look at the file, realizes that the case is still active, and orders an immediate arrest. I’m assuming here that a long time has passed between the apparent acquittal and the new arrest; that’s possible, and I know of such cases; but
it’s equally possible that the acquitted individual leaves the court, returns home, and finds agents already there, waiting to arrest him again. Then of course his life as a free man is over.” “And the trial begins all over again?” K. asked, almost incredulously. “Of course,” said the painter, “the trial begins all over again, but it is again possible, just as before, to secure an apparent acquittal. You must gather all your strength again and not give up.” Perhaps the painter added this final remark because he had noticed that K. had slumped slightly. “But isn’t effecting a second acquittal more difficult than the first?” K. said, as if he now wished to anticipate any further revelations from the painter. “That can’t be said for certain,” replied the painter. “You mean, I take it, that the judges’ judgment might be unfavorably influenced with regard to the defendant because of the second arrest. That’s not the case. The judges have foreseen this arrest from the moment of the original acquittal. So in fact it has scarcely any effect. But there are no doubt countless other reasons why the judge’s mood as well as his legal opinion on the case may differ, and the efforts for a second acquittal must therefore be adapted to the changed circumstances and be as strong in general as they were for the first acquittal.” “But this second acquittal isn’t final either,” said K., turning his head away coldly. “Of course not,” said the painter, “the second acquittal is followed by a third arrest, the third acquittal by a fourth arrest, and so on. That’s inherent in the very concept of apparent acquittal.” K. was silent. “Apparent acquittal obviously doesn’t strike you as an advantage,” said the painter, “perhaps protraction would suit you better. Shall I explain to you the nature of protraction?” K. nodded. The painter had leaned back expansively in his chair, his nightshirt gaped open, he had shoved a hand inside it and was scratching his chest and sides. “Protraction,” said the painter, gazing straight ahead for a moment, as if searching for a fully accurate explanation, “protraction is when the trial is constantly kept at the lowest stage. To accomplish this the defendant and his helper, in particular his helper, must remain in constant personal contact with the court. I repeat, this doesn’t require the same effort it takes to secure an apparent acquittal, but it does require a much higher level of vigilance. You can’t let the trial out of your sight; you have to visit the relevant judge at regular intervals, and any extra chance you get as well, and try to keep him as well disposed as possible in all ways; if you don’t know the judge personally, you have to try to influence him through judges you do know, although you still don’t dare dispense with the direct conferences. If nothing is omitted in this respect, you can be sufficiently assured that the trial will never progress beyond its initial stage. The trial doesn’t end of course, but the defendant is almost as safe from a conviction as he would be as a free man. Compared with apparent acquittal, protraction offers the advantage that the defendant’s future is less uncertain; he’s spared the shock of sudden arrests, and he doesn’t have to worry, at what may be precisely the worst time in terms of other circumstances, about taking on the stress and strain connected with securing an apparent acquittal. Of course protraction also has certain disadvantages for the accused that must not be underestimated. I don’t mean the fact that the defendant is never free; he’s not free in a true sense in the case of an apparent acquittal either. It’s a different sort of disadvantage. The trial can’t come to a standstill without some reason that’s at least plausible. So something must happen outwardly in the trial. Therefore various measures must be taken from time to time, the defendant has to be interrogated, inquiries conducted, and so forth. The trial must be kept constantly spinning within the tight circle to which it’s artificially restricted. Of course that involves certain inconveniences for the defendant, which on the other hand you mustn’t imagine as all that bad. After all, it’s a merely formal matter; for example the interrogations are quite brief; if you don’t have the time or inclination to attend you can excuse yourself; with certain judges you can even set up a long-term schedule together in advance; in essence it’s merely a matter of reporting to your judge from time to time, since you’re a defendant.” Even as these last words were being spoken, K. placed his jacket over his arm and rose. “He’s standing up already,” came an immediate cry from beyond the door. “Are you leaving so soon?” asked the painter, who had risen as well. “It must be the air here that’s driving you away. I feel terrible about that. There was more I wanted to tell you. I had to sum things up briefly. But I hope it was all clear.” “Oh, yes,” said K., whose head ached from the effort he had made to force himself to listen. In spite of this assurance, the painter summed things up again, as if offering K. a word of comfort for the journey home: “Both methods have this in common: they prevent the accused from being convicted.” “But they also prevent an actual acquittal,” said K. softly, as if ashamed of the realization. “You’ve grasped the heart of the matter,” the painter said quickly. K. placed his hand on his winter coat, but he couldn’t even make up his mind to put on his jacket. He would have preferred to bundle them both up and rush out into the fresh air with them. The girls couldn’t get him to put them on either, even though they called out to one another prematurely that he was doing so. The painter wished to get some sense of K.’s thoughts, so he said: “You probably still haven’t reached a decision with regard to my suggestions. I approve of that. In fact I would have advised against a quick decision. There’s only a hair’s difference between the advantages and disadvantages. Everything has to be weighed quite carefully. Of course you don’t want to lose too much time either.” “I’ll come again soon,” said K., who, making an abrupt decision, put on his jacket, threw his coat over his shoulders, and hastened to the door, behind which the girls now began to shriek. K. felt as if he could see the shrieking girls through the door. “But you have to keep your word,” said the painter, who hadn’t followed him, “otherwise I’ll come to the bank myself to inquire about it.” “Unlock the door, will you,” said K., pulling at the handle, which the girls, as he could tell from the counterpressure, were holding tight from the outside. “Do you want the girls bothering you?” asked the painter. “Why don’t you use this way out instead?” and he pointed to the door behind the bed. That was fine with K., and he sprang back to the bed. But instead of opening the door, the painter crawled under the bed and asked from below: “Just a minute. Wouldn’t you like to see a painting I could sell you?” K. didn’t wish to be impolite; the painter really had taken his side and promised continued help, and due to K.’s own forgetfulness there had been no discussion of how K. might reimburse him for his help, so K. couldn’t deny him now; he let him show his picture, even though he was trembling with impatience to leave the atelier. From beneath the bed the painter dragged a pile of unframed paintings so deeply covered in dust that when the painter tried to blow it away from the one on top, the dust whirled up before K.’s eyes, and for some time he could scarcely breathe. “A landscape of the heath,” said the painter, and handed K. the painting. It showed two frail trees, standing at a great distance from one another in the dark grass. In the background was a multicolored sunset. “Nice,” said K., “I’ll buy it.” K. had spoken curtly without thinking, so he was glad when, instead of taking it badly, the painter picked up another painting from the floor. “Here’s a companion piece to that picture,” said the painter. It may have been intended as a companion piece, but not the slightest difference could be seen between it and the first one: here were the trees, here was the grass, and there the sunset. But that made little difference to K. “They’re nice landscapes,” he said, “I’ll take both of them and hang them in my office.” “You seem to like the subject,” said the painter, and pulled out a third painting, “luckily enough, I have a similar one right here.” It was not merely similar, however, it was exactly the same landscape. The painter was taking full advantage of the chance to sell his old pictures. “I’ll take that one too,” said K. “What do I owe you for the three of them?” “We’ll talk about that nex
t time,” said the painter, “you’re in a hurry now and we’ll be keeping in touch, after all. By the way, I’m glad you like the paintings; I’ll throw in all the pictures I have under here. They’re all heath landscapes, I’ve painted a lot of heath landscapes. Some people are put off by paintings like these because they’re too somber, but others, and you’re among them, have a particular love for the somber.” But K. was in no mood to discuss the mendicant artist’s professional life just then. “Pack up all the paintings,” he cried, interrupting the painter, “my assistant will come by tomorrow and pick them up.” “That’s not necessary,” said the painter. “I think I can find a porter to go with you now.” And at last he leaned across the bed and opened the door. “Don’t be shy about stepping on the bed,” said the painter, “everyone who comes in this way does.” K. wouldn’t have worried about it even without being told; he’d already put his foot in the middle of the featherbed; then he looked through the open door and drew his foot back again. “What’s that?” he asked the painter. “What do you find so surprising?” he asked, himself surprised. “Those are the law court offices. Didn’t you know there were law court offices here? There are law court offices in practically every attic, why shouldn’t they be here too? In fact my atelier is part of the law court offices too, but the court has placed it at my disposal.” K. wasn’t so shocked at having found law court offices here; he was more shocked at himself, at his ignorance when it came to the court. It seemed to him a basic rule of behavior that the defendant should always be prepared, never be caught by surprise, never be looking blankly to the right when a judge was standing on his left—and it was precisely this basic rule that he was constantly breaking. A long corridor stretched before him, from which air drifted that made the air in the atelier seem refreshing by comparison. Benches stood on both sides of the hall, just as in the waiting room of K.’s court offices. There seemed to be precise guidelines for the furnishings of these offices. There weren’t many parties there at the moment. A man sat there, half reclining; he had buried his face in his arm and seemed to be sleeping; another stood in semidarkness at the end of the hallway. K. now stepped across the bed; the painter followed him with the pictures. They soon met a court usher—K. had already learned to recognize the court ushers by the gold button they wore among the ordinary buttons on their civilian suits—and the painter instructed him to follow K. with the pictures. K. swayed rather than walked, with his handkerchief pressed to his mouth. They had almost reached the exit when the girls, from whom K. was not to be spared after all, stormed toward them. They had evidently seen the other door of the atelier being opened and had made a detour to force their way in from this side. “I can’t accompany you any farther,” said the painter, laughing beneath the press of girls. “Goodbye! And don’t take too long thinking about it!” K. didn’t even look back. On the street he took the first cab that came his way. He was anxious to be rid of the usher, whose gold button kept catching his eye, even though no one else probably noticed it. In his eagerness to serve, the usher even tried to take a seat on the coachbox, but K. chased him down. It was long past noon when K. arrived at the bank. He would have liked to leave the paintings in the cab, but he was afraid he might have to account for them to the painter at some point. So he ordered them taken into his office and locked them in the bottom drawer of his desk, to store them safely away from the vice president’s eyes for at least the next few days.
