They had meanwhile reached the taproom; why the landlord, angry though he was, had brought K. here wasn’t entirely clear, perhaps he had actually noticed that right now K.’s weariness made it impossible for him to leave the inn. Without waiting for an invitation to sit down, K. literally sank onto one of the barrels. It felt good to be in the dark. In this large room there was only a single weak electric bulb burning over the beer taps. Outside, too, it was still completely dark, and there seemed to be snow flurries. Once inside in the warmth, one had to be grateful and make sure one would not be thrown out. The landlord and the landlady were still standing in front of him, as though he actually posed a certain threat, as though one could not rule out the possibility, given his utter unreliability, that he would suddenly jump up and attempt to invade the corridor again. Besides, they themselves were tired after the nighttime fright and the early rising, especially the landlady, who wore a rustling silklike, carelessly buttoned and tied, full-skirted brown dress—where had she found it in the rush?—and, resting her head, as if it had snapped, upon her husband’s shoulder, she dabbed her eyes with an elegant little handkerchief while now and then aiming childishly nasty looks at K. In order to calm the couple, K. said that everything they had just told him was completely new to him but that though he had not known about it he hadn’t wanted to stay so long in the corridor, where he really had nothing to do and certainly hadn’t wanted to torment anybody, all this had happened merely because of his extreme weariness. He thanked them for putting a stop to that embarrassing scene. If he were called to account, he would welcome the opportunity, for only in that way could he ensure that his conduct would not be generally misinterpreted. Only weariness was to blame. But this weariness came from his still not being used to the strain of the interrogations. After all, he hadn’t been here all that long. Once he had more experience at this, nothing like that would ever be possible again. Perhaps he was taking the interrogations too seriously, but that alone was hardly a drawback. He had had to go through two interrogations, one shortly after the other, the first with Bürgel and the other with Erlanger, the first especially had exhausted him, but the second hadn’t lasted long, Erlanger had simply asked him for a favor, but the two together were more than he could bear at once, perhaps this sort of thing would also be too much for anybody, say for the landlord. After the second interrogation all he had managed to do was stagger out. It had almost been a sort of drunkenness—that was the first time he had seen and heard the two gentlemen, and he also had to come up with answers for them. So far as he knew, everything had turned out rather well, but then there had occurred that misfortune which, after what had happened earlier, they could scarcely blame him for. Unfortunately, only Erlanger and Bürgel had known about his condition and would certainly have taken care of him and averted everything that had subsequently occurred, but Erlanger had had to leave right after the interrogation, evidently to go to the Castle, and Bürgel, probably exhausted from that same interrogation—so how could K. have survived it without weakening?—had fallen asleep and even slept right through the distribution of the files. Had K. been given a similar opportunity he would have used it with pleasure and gladly given up all forbidden glimpses, and this all the more readily given that he had been in such a state that he couldn’t see anything, so even the most sensitive gentlemen could have appeared before him without fear.
The mentioning of both interrogations, especially that of Erlanger, and the respect with which K. had spoken of the gentlemen, made the landlord more favorably disposed toward him. He already seemed prepared to fulfill K.’s request for permission to put a board over the barrels and to sleep there, at least until dawn; the landlady clearly opposed that and, vainly tugging here and there at her dress, which she had only just noticed was in disarray, shook her head repeatedly; a seemingly long-standing quarrel about the cleanliness of the house was about to break out. To K. in his weariness the couple’s conversation seemed far more significant than usual. Being driven away from here seemed to him a misfortune that surpassed everything he had experienced up to now. That must not be allowed to happen, even if the landlord and landlady were to be united against him. K. lay in wait, doubled up on the barrel, watching the two of them. Until the landlady, who with her unusual sensitivity, which had struck K. a long time ago, suddenly stepped aside, and—most likely she had begun talking to the landlord about other matters—cried: “See how he’s looking at me! It’s about time you sent him away!” But K., seizing this opportunity, for by now he was absolutely confident, almost even to the point of indifference, that he would stay, said: “I’m not looking at you, only at your dress.” “Why my dress?” asked the landlady, agitated. K. shrugged. “Come,” said the landlady to the landlord, “he must be drunk, the lout. We’ll let him sleep off his stupor here,” and she gave an order that Pepi, who at a call from her had appeared out of the dark, unkempt, tired, casually holding a broom, should throw K. a cushion.
XXV.
When K. awoke, he thought at first that he had barely slept, the room had not changed, it was empty and warm, the walls in the dark, a single lightbulb over the beer taps, and outside the windows too, night. But when he stretched out, the pillow fell to the floor and the board and barrels creaked, Pepi came at once and he learned that it was already late evening and that he had slept for well over twelve hours. The landlady had asked for him several times during the day, as had Gerstäcker, who had waited here in the dark in the morning over a beer while K. spoke with the landlady, but then hadn’t dared to disturb K., had since come back once looking for K., and finally even Frieda had supposedly come in and had stood for a moment beside K.; still, she had scarcely come because of K. but rather because she had to get some things ready here, for this evening she was supposed to take up her old duties again. “So she doesn’t like you anymore?” Pepi asked, while bringing him coffee and cake. Yet she didn’t ask maliciously, as she used to do, but sadly, as though she had meanwhile become acquainted with the malice of the world, in the face of which all one’s own malice gives way and becomes meaningless; she spoke to K. as though to a fellow sufferer, and when he was sipping the coffee and she thought she saw that it wasn’t sweet enough for him, she ran to get him a full sugar bowl. Still, her sadness hadn’t prevented her from prettying herself, perhaps even more today than last time; she had a wealth of bows and ribbons, which were plaited through her hair, and along the forehead and temples her hair had been carefully crimped, and around her neck she wore a small chain, which hung down into the low neckline of her blouse. When K., satisfied now that he had finally had enough sleep and was able to drink some good coffee, stealthily reached for a bow and attempted to undo it, Pepi said wearily: “Would you leave me alone,” and sat down on a barrel next to him. And K. didn’t even have to ask her about her sorrow, she herself began to talk right away, fixing her gaze on K.’s pot of coffee as though she needed some distraction even while she was talking, as though she were incapable, even while preoccupied with her sorrow, of abandoning herself completely to it, for that would exceed her strength. In the first place K. found out that he himself was to blame for Pepi’s misfortune but that she wasn’t reproaching him for that. And she nodded eagerly as she spoke, in order to forestall K.’s objections. First, he had taken Frieda from the taproom and thus enabled Pepi to advance. It would otherwise be difficult to imagine what could have induced Frieda to give up her post, she was just sitting there in the taproom like a spider in its web, had threads everywhere that only she knew of; stealing her away against her will would have been absolutely impossible; only love for an inferior, something in other words that was incompatible with her position, could drive her from her post. And Pepi? Had she ever thought of securing the position for herself? She was a chambermaid, had an insignificant and scarcely promising post; like all girls, she dreamed of a great future—one cannot prevent oneself from dreaming—but gave no serious thought to moving on, she had resigned herself to what she had already achieved. And
then all of a sudden Frieda disappeared from the taproom; that had happened so suddenly that the landlord didn’t have a suitable replacement at hand, he looked about and his eye fell on Pepi, who had admittedly pushed her way to the fore. At the time she loved K. as she had never loved anybody else, for months she had sat downstairs in her tiny dark bedchamber and was prepared to spend years there unnoticed and at worst her entire life, and then all of a sudden K. had appeared, a hero, a rescuer of maidens, and had opened the way to the top for her. True, he didn’t know anything about her, hadn’t done it for her sake, but this didn’t lessen her gratitude, the night before she was taken on—it was not yet clear that she would be taken on, but it was quite likely—she spent hours talking to him and whispering thanks in his ear. And his deed became even more exalted in her eyes, for it was precisely Frieda he had burdened himself with; there was something incomprehensibly selfless about his having, with the aim of bringing Pepi to the fore, made Frieda his mistress, Frieda, an unattractive, oldish, thin girl with short, sparse hair, and, what’s more, a devious girl who always has some secret or other, which surely has something to do with her looks; if the wretchedness of her face and body is incontestable, then at least she must have some other secrets that nobody can check on, such as her supposed relationship with Klamm. And at the time Pepi even had thoughts such as these: is it possible that K. really loves Frieda, is he not deceiving himself, or could it be that he might only be deceiving Frieda, and so all that will happen is that Pepi will advance, and will K. then notice the mistake or no longer wish to hide it and no longer see Frieda, but only Pepi, which wasn’t necessarily an insane idea of Pepi’s, for she was certainly well able to compete with Frieda, one girl against another, nobody could deny it, and it was above all else Frieda’s position and the brilliance that Frieda had been able to give it that had blinded K. just then. And then Pepi had dreamed that once she had the position K. would come and plead with her, and then she would have the choice of either granting K.’s plea and losing the post, or of rejecting him and climbing higher. And she had planned to give up everything and to go down to him and to teach him the true love that he could never experience with Frieda and that is independent of every position of honor in the world. But that is not what happened. And what was to blame for that? K. above all, and then of course Frieda’s slyness. K. above all, for what does he want, and how strange a person is he? What is he striving for, what are the important things that make him so preoccupied and make him forget what is nearest and best and most beautiful? Pepi is sacrificed and everything is idiotic and everything is lost, and anybody who had the strength to set the entire Gentlemen’s Inn on fire and burn it down, without leaving a trace, to burn it up like a sheet of paper in a stove, today he would be Pepi’s chosen one. Well, so Pepi came to the taproom, it was four days ago today, shortly before lunch. The work here isn’t easy, it is almost murderous work, but then the things to be gained aren’t insignificant either. Pepi hadn’t simply lived from day to day before that, and in her wildest thoughts she would never have claimed this post for herself, but she had already made numerous observations, knew what was involved in the post, and hadn’t taken it on unprepared. You certainly couldn’t take it on unprepared, for if you did you would lose it in the first hour or two. Even if you were willing to conduct yourself like the chambermaids here. As a chambermaid, you do after a while feel quite lost and forgotten, it’s like working in a mine, at least it’s like that in the secretaries’ corridor, for days you see nobody other than the odd daytime parties, who flit about and don’t dare look up, nobody except for two or three other chambermaids, and they are just as embittered. In the morning you aren’t even allowed out of your room, the secretaries want to be left to themselves, the domestics carry in their meals from the kitchen, the chambermaids usually don’t have anything to do with that and during mealtimes they aren’t even allowed to appear in the corridor. It’s only while the gentlemen are at work that the chambermaids are allowed to tidy up, though not of course in the occupied rooms, but only in those that happen to be empty, and that work must be done very quietly so that the gentlemen’s work is not disturbed. But how is it possible to tidy up quietly if the gentlemen occupy the rooms for days at a time, and what’s more if the domestics, that dirty riffraff, also go about their business in there, so that when the room finally is turned over to the chambermaids, it is in such a state that not even the Flood could make it clean. Truly, they are highranking gentlemen, but you have to struggle hard to overcome your revulsion in order to be able to tidy up after them. The chambermaids really don’t have too much work, but it is strenuous. And never a kind word, nothing but constant reproaches, especially this, the most tormenting and most frequent of them all: that in the course of the tidying-up files have been lost. In reality nothing is ever lost, every scrap of paper is handed to the landlord, but files naturally do get lost, only not by the girls. And then commissions come and the girls have to leave their room while the commission is rummaging through their beds; of course the girls don’t have any possessions, their few things fit in a rucksack, but all the same the commission searches for hours. Of course it doesn’t find anything; how could files possibly end up there? What interest could girls have in files? Once again, though, the only results are the insults and threats conveyed by the disappointed commission through the landlord. And never any peace—not by day, not by night. Noise half the night and noise from earliest morning. If only one didn’t have to live there, but one must, for in between mealtimes it’s the chambermaids’ job to go and get little things from the kitchen when given the order, especially at night. Always the sudden banging of a fist on the chambermaids’ door, the dictating of the order, the rushing down to the kitchen, the shaking of the sleeping kitchen lads out of their sleep, the placing of the tray with the things that have been ordered outside the chambermaids’ door, where the domestics pick it up—how sad all of this is. But that isn’t the worst thing. The worst thing rather is when we get no orders; deep at night, sometimes at a time when everybody should be asleep and most people are finally asleep, something or other starts creeping about outside the chambermaids’ door. Then the girls climb out of their beds—the beds are arranged one above the other, there is really very little space, the entire maids’ room is actually no more than a large cabinet with three compartments—listen at the door, kneel down, and embrace one another in fear. And all this time you can hear the prowler at the door. By now everyone would be glad if he would finally come in, but nothing happens, nobody comes in. And you have to remind yourself that there doesn’t have to be any danger lurking there, maybe it’s only someone walking to and fro outside the door, wondering whether or not to place an order and in the end unable to decide to do so. Maybe that’s all it is, but maybe it’s something quite different. Actually you don’t even know the gentlemen, you have barely seen them. In any case, the girls inside are dying of fright and when it has finally become quiet outside they lean against the wall and don’t have the strength to climb back into their beds. That life again awaits Pepi, this very evening she’s supposed to take up her old place in the chambermaids’ room again. And why? Because of K. and Frieda. Back to the life she’s barely fled, not only with the help of K. but also through great efforts of her own. For while serving there the girls neglect their appearance, even those who are most careful otherwise. Who should they pretty themselves for? Nobody sees them, at most the kitchen staff; anybody happy with that is perfectly free to pretty herself. For the rest, though, to have to be constantly in their small room, or in the gentlemen’s rooms, which it’s silly and a waste to enter even simply wearing clean clothes. And always in that artificial light and stuffy air—the stove is constantly lit—and certainly always tired. The best way to spend the one free afternoon in the week is to sleep through it in some pantry off the kitchen, calmly and fearlessly. So why pretty oneself? You barely even get dressed. And then all of a sudden Pepi was transferred to the taproom, where, if you wanted
to establish yourself, precisely the opposite was needed, where you were constantly being observed by people, including some quite spoiled and attentive gentlemen, so you always had to be as refined and pleasant-looking as possible. Well, that was quite a change. And Pepi may say of herself that she spared no effort. What would happen later on was of no concern to Pepi. She knew that she had the qualities needed for this post, was quite certain of it, and still had that belief, which nobody can take from her, not even today on the day of her defeat. Only having to prove herself in the early days, that was difficult, because she was after all only a poor chambermaid without clothes or jewels, and because the gentlemen hadn’t the patience to wait and see how you turn out but wanted a barmaid right away, without any gap, as is only appropriate, for they turn aside if that isn’t the case. One might think their demands weren’t all that great, for after all even Frieda could satisfy them. But that is not so. Pepi often thought about this, often got together with Frieda, and for a time even slept with her. It is not easy to figure out Frieda and anybody who doesn’t pay close attention—well, do any of the gentlemen pay close attention?—is immediately misled by her. Nobody realizes as keenly as Frieda herself how wretched she looks; the first time you see her letting down her hair, say, you clutch your hands with pity, and if everything were done by rights, a girl of that sort should not even be a chambermaid; she knows it too, and many nights she wept over it, pressed herself up against Pepi, and wound Pepi’s hair around her own head. But when she’s on duty, all her doubts disappear, she thinks she’s the most beautiful of all and knows how to convince everybody of that. She understands people, and that is her true skill. And is quick to lie and deceive so that people don’t have time to take a closer look at her. Of course in the long run that isn’t enough, people do have eyes, and in the end they would be proved right. But no sooner has she noticed this kind of danger than she comes up with some other measure, most recently, for instance, her relationship with Klamm. Her relationship with Klamm! If you don’t believe that, you can always check, go to Klamm and ask him. How sly, oh how sly! And if, say, you don’t dare go to Klamm with a question like that, and if you aren’t admitted with some infinitely more important questions and Klamm shuts himself off completely from you—only from you and people of your sort, since Frieda, for instance, skips in to see him whenever she likes—if that is so, then you can still check the matter, all you need do is wait. Klamm won’t be able to tolerate such a false rumor for long, he must after all be wildly eager to discover what is being said about him in the taproom and in the public rooms, all this is of the greatest importance to him, and if it’s wrong, then he will correct it at once. But he hasn’t corrected it, so it doesn’t need to be corrected, it is the utter truth. All you actually see is Frieda taking beer into Klamm’s room and then coming out with the payment, but Frieda describes what one cannot see, and one has to take her at her word. But she doesn’t even describe it, she isn’t about to blurt out secrets like that, no, all around her the secrets blurt out on their own and once they’re blurted out, she herself no longer hesitates to talk about them, modestly, without making claims, referring only to matters that are already common knowledge. But not to everything, not, for instance, to the fact that ever since she came to the taproom Klamm has been drinking less beer than he used to, not a great deal less, but clearly less all the same, she says nothing about this; well, there may be various reasons for that, beer has lost its appeal for Klamm just now or maybe he even forgot all about beer drinking over Frieda. So at any rate, however astonishing this may seem, Frieda is Klamm’s mistress. How could anything that is good enough for Klamm fail to draw admiration from the others, and so before you know what is happening Frieda has become a great beauty, a girl who is made to fit the needs of the taproom and is almost too beautiful, too powerful; but now the taproom is barely good enough for her. And people even find it odd that she’s still in the taproom; to be a barmaid is no small thing; from that point of view her relationship with Klamm seems quite credible; but once the barmaid has become Klamm’s mistress, why does he leave her in the taproom, especially so long? Why doesn’t he lead her higher? One can tell people a thousand times that there’s no contradiction here, that Klamm has definite reasons for acting like this, or that Frieda will be raised all of a sudden, perhaps even in the very near future, but this has barely any effect, people have definite ideas and in the end they refuse to let sleight-of-hand of any kind distract them. Nobody even doubted anymore that Frieda is the mistress of Klamm; even those who obviously knew better had become too tired to doubt it, “In the name of the devil, be Klamm’s mistress,” they were thinking, “but if you are that already, we want to see signs of it in your rising up.” But they saw no such signs and Frieda remained in the taproom, and secretly she was even quite happy that everything remained as it was. But she lost prestige among the people; this couldn’t of course have escaped her notice, she usually notices things even before they happen. A really charming beautiful girl, once settled in the taproom, doesn’t have to use tricks; so long as she is beautiful, barring some particularly unfortunate coincidence, she will remain a barmaid. But a girl like Frieda has to worry about her position constantly, though of course she doesn’t show it, understandably enough; instead she usually complains and curses the post. But in secret she is constantly observing the general mood. And so she saw that people were becoming indifferent, that they no longer thought it worthwhile to lift up their eyes when Frieda came in, that even the domestics no longer bothered with her but rather clung for understandable reasons to Olga and girls of that sort, and she also saw from the landlord’s conduct that she was becoming less and less indispensable, one couldn’t continue inventing new stories about Klamm, there’s a limit to everything—and so dear Frieda decided to try something new. But who could possibly have seen through that right away! Pepi suspected it, but unfortunately she failed to see through it. Frieda decided to create a scandal; she, Klamm’s mistress, would throw herself at the first comer, if possible at the lowest of the low. This would cause a stir, they would talk about it a long time and finally, finally they will once again remember what it means to be Klamm’s mistress and what it means to reject this honor in the intoxication of a new love. The only difficulty was how to find the appropriate man with whom this clever game could be played. It couldn’t be an acquaintance of Frieda’s, not even one of the domestics, he would probably have stared wide-eyed at her and gone his way, above all else he wouldn’t have maintained sufficient seriousness, and it would have been impossible even with the greatest eloquence to spread the rumor that Frieda had been accosted by him, hadn’t been able to ward him off, and had in a moment of oblivion succumbed to him. And even if it had to be the lowest of the low, it still had to be someone of whom one could credibly claim that despite his dull and unrefined manner he longed for nobody but Frieda and had no higher wish—good heavens!—than to marry Frieda. But even if it had to be a common man, perhaps lower even than a laborer, far lower than a laborer, then he would still have to be a man who wouldn’t make you the laughingstock of every girl and might even seem attractive to some judicious girl. But where do you find a man like that? Another girl would probably have spent her entire life vainly looking for him, but Frieda’s good fortune guides the surveyor into the taproom, perhaps on the very evening that the plan first crosses her mind. The surveyor! So what is K. thinking of? What extraordinary ideas go through his head? Is there something special that he wants to achieve? A good appointment, a prize? Does he want something of that sort? Well then he should have gone about the whole thing very differently from the very start. He is nothing, though; it’s painful even to think about his situation. He’s a surveyor, perhaps that is something since he has learned a trade, but if you don’t have any idea what to do with that, it’s still nothing. And he still makes demands; without having the least bit of support he makes demands, not directly but you can still see he’s making certain demands, and naturally this
is irritating enough. For did he not know that even a chambermaid demeans herself somewhat if she talks to him at any length. And then with all these special demands of his, on that very first evening he goes and falls with a thud into the crudest trap. So is he not ashamed of himself? Well, what was it about Frieda that won him over? For he could own up to it now. Had she really succeeded in pleasing him, that thin yellowish creature? Oh no, he never even looked at her, she simply told him that she was Klamm’s mistress; that still struck him as a novelty at the time and so he was lost. But then she had to move out, there was naturally no room for her at the Gentlemen’s Inn anymore. Pepi saw her again the morning before the move, the staff had come running, everybody was eager to get a look. And she still had such power that people pitied her; everybody, even her enemies, pitied her; so at the very beginning her calculation proved correct; her having thrown herself away on a man such as that seemed incomprehensible to everyone, a stroke of fate; the little kitchen maids, who of course admire every barmaid, were inconsolable. Even Pepi was affected by it, even she couldn’t completely resist, though her attention was actually directed elsewhere. She noticed that Frieda wasn’t all that sad. But basically it was a terrible misfortune that had befallen her, she herself acted as though she were very unhappy, but that wasn’t good enough, Pepi wouldn’t allow herself to be deceived by that game. What kept her going? Perhaps the happiness of her new love? Well, there could be no question of that. But what else could it be? Where did she get the strength to be as coolly amicable as ever, even with Pepi, who was regarded as her successor. Pepi hadn’t the time to think about all this just then, she had too much to do with the preparations for the new post. She was probably supposed to start in a few hours and had no beautiful hairdo, no elegant dress, no fine underclothing, no serviceable shoes. All of that had to be put together in a few hours; if you could not fit yourself out properly, then it was better to relinquish the post entirely, for otherwise you would certainly lose it before half an hour had gone by. Well, she almost managed. She has a special talent for hairdressing, the landlady once asked her for a hairdo, it’s a special nimbleness with her hands that has been given to her, but then her thick hair is easy to manage. For the dress too there was help at hand. Her two colleagues remained loyal to her, they regard it as something of an honor when a girl from within their own group becomes a barmaid, and besides, later on, if Pepi had gained power she could have provided them with some advantages. One of the girls had left some precious material, her treasure, lying around for a long time, she had often let the others admire it and probably dreamed of putting it to splendid use at some point, but then—and that was nicely done on her part—since Pepi needed it, she gave it up. And both of them helped her very eagerly with the sewing; had they been sewing for themselves, they couldn’t have shown greater zeal. It was even cheerful and gratifying work. They sat there, each on her own bed, one above the other, sewing and singing, passing the finished pieces and accessories up and down. When Pepi thinks about it, her heart grows even heavier at the thought that everything was in vain and that she is going back emptyhanded to her friends. What a misfortune and how frivolously it had been brought about, especially by K. How pleased everyone had been about the dress. It seemed a guarantee of success, and after it was finished and they had found room for one more small ribbon, the last doubts vanished. And isn’t the dress really beautiful? It’s already crushed and a little stained, Pepi didn’t even have a second dress, she had to wear this one day and night, but you can still see how beautiful it is, it’s something not even that accursed Barnabas woman could have come up with. And then the way you can draw it tight and loosen it again as you wish, at the top and the bottom, and the way, although it’s only a dress, it can be so easily changed, was a particular advantage and was actually something she had invented. Of course she isn’t difficult to sew for, Pepi wasn’t boasting about this, anything will look good on healthy young girls. It was far more difficult to get hold of underclothing and boots and this actually is where the misfortune begins. Here, too, her girlfriends helped out as best they could, but they weren’t able to do much. For it was only coarse underclothing that she gathered and sewed, and instead of boots with high heels she had to make do with slippers, which you feel better hiding than showing. They consoled Pepi: after all, Frieda didn’t dress very prettily either and traipsed about so sloppily at times that the guests would rather be served by the cellar boys than by her. That was true, but this was something Frieda could permit herself, for she had already won favor and prestige; if at some point a lady shows up dirty and carelessly dressed, that only makes her all the more enticing, but what about a novice like Pepi? And in any case Frieda was completely incapable of dressing well; she’s utterly lacking in taste; if a person happens to have yellowish skin, then she is of course stuck with it; she needn’t, like Frieda, deck herself out in a cream blouse with a low neckline, and almost blind you with the sight of all that yellow. And even if that hadn’t been so, she was really too stingy to dress well; everything she earned she held on to, nobody knew what for. On duty she didn’t need money, she made do with lies and dodges, Pepi could not and would not follow this example; she was therefore justified in prettying herself in this way so as to show herself to her best advantage, especially at the start. Had she had great resources to draw on, she would, in spite of Frieda’s slyness, in spite of K.’s foolishness, have emerged the victor. Things certainly got off to a good start. She had already acquainted herself with the few little skills and bits of knowledge that were necessary. No sooner was she in the taproom than she had settled in. At work nobody missed Frieda. It wasn’t until the second day that a number of guests asked where Frieda was. There hadn’t been any mistakes, the landlord was satisfied; on the first day in his anxiety he was always in the taproom, later on he came only now and then, and finally, since the cashbook tallied—the receipts were even a little higher on average than in Frieda’s day—he handed everything over to Pepi. She came up with a few innovations. Frieda had, not out of diligence but rather out of stinginess, imperiousness, and fear of giving up her rights to others, supervised the domestics, to some extent anyhow, particularly when there was somebody looking; by contrast, Pepi assigned that entire task to the cellar boys, who are more adept at it. That way she could spend more time on the gentlemen’s rooms; the guests were quickly served, but she could still say a few words to each one, unlike Frieda, who claimed that she was reserving herself for Klamm alone and took every word, every approach from other men to be an insult to Klamm. But of course that was clever of her, for if she ever let anyone approach her, it was an enormous favor. But Pepi hates tricks like that, and in any case they’re not useful when you’re just starting there. Pepi was friendly to each of the customers and each one repaid her with his friendliness. All of them were clearly pleased with the change; when the exhausted gentlemen finally manage to sit down over beer for a moment, you can literally transform them with a glance or a shrug of the shoulders. So eagerly did all of them run their hands through Pepi’s curls that she probably had to redo her hair ten times a day; nobody can resist the lure of these curls and bows, not even K., who is so absentminded otherwise. And that’s the way those exciting, strenuous, but successful days flew by. If only they hadn’t flown by so quickly, if only there had been a few more of them! Four days are too few, even when you’re exerting yourself to the point of exhaustion, perhaps a fifth day would have been enough, but four days were too few. True, in those four days Pepi had found some patrons and friends; if she could have trusted all of the looks she was given every time she came in with mugs of beer, she would be awash in a sea of friendship; a clerk called Bratmeier is crazy about her, he bestowed on her this small chain and a pendant, which he had put his portrait into, that certainly was cheeky of him—that and a few other things had happened, but still it had only been four days; but if Pepi put her mind to it, in four days Frieda could almost be forgotten, though not completely, but all the same
she would have been forgotten, perhaps even earlier, if she hadn’t taken the precaution of putting her name on people’s lips with her big scandal; in this way she had become a novelty to people, simply out of curiosity they would have liked to see her again; the very thing they had grown sick and tired of now held some attraction for them again, thanks to K., whom they regarded with utter indifference otherwise, though they wouldn’t have given up Pepi in exchange, so long as she was there making her presence felt in the taproom, but they are mostly older gentlemen, cumbersome in their habits, it does take a few days for them to get used to a new barmaid, no matter how advantageous the change may be; quite against the wishes of the gentlemen themselves it does take a few days, maybe only five, but four aren’t enough, for despite everything they regarded Pepi merely as a temporary. And then possibly the greatest misfortune, that in those four days, Klamm, even though he had been in the village those first two days, didn’t come down to the public room. Had he come, that would have been the decisive test for Pepi, a test, incidentally, that she was least afraid of and even looked forward to. She wouldn’t—but of course it’s best not to go near matters like that with words—wouldn’t have become Klamm’s mistress and wouldn’t have lied her way up to a position like that, but she could have put the beer glass down on the table at least as nicely as Frieda had done, could have welcomed the guests in a pleasant manner and taken leave of them just as pleasantly, without any of Frieda’s pushiness, and if Klamm ever looks for anything in a girl’s eyes, then Pepi’s eyes would have completely satisfied him. But why did he not come? By chance? Pepi had even believed that at the time. During those two days she expected him any moment, and even during the night she waited for him. “No, Klamm will come,” she thought constantly, running back and forth simply out of restless expectation and the wish to be the first to see him the moment he came. This constant disappointment made her tired, perhaps that’s why she did not accomplish as much as she might have accomplished. When she had the time, she sneaked up to the corridor, which the staff is strictly forbidden to enter, squeezed into an alcove, and waited. “If Klamm would only come,” she thought, “if only I could take the gentleman out of his room and carry him in my arms down to the public room. I wouldn’t collapse under the burden, no matter how big it was.” But he did not come. In those corridors upstairs it’s so silent, one cannot imagine it if one hasn’t been there. It’s so silent that one cannot stand it there for long, the silence drives one away. Again and again, ten times, Pepi was driven away, but ten times she went back up. That was quite pointless. If Klamm wanted to come, then he would come, but if he did not want to come, Pepi would not entice him out, even though with her pounding heart she was almost suffocating in the alcove. It was pointless, but if he didn’t come, then almost everything else was pointless, too. And he did not come. Pepi now knows why Klamm didn’t come. Frieda would have been wonderfully amused had she been able to see Pepi in the alcove in the corridor, with both hands on her heart. Klamm didn’t come down because Frieda wouldn’t let him. It wasn’t through her pleas that she had accomplished this, her pleas don’t reach Klamm. But she, the spider, has connections nobody knows anything about. When Pepi says something to a guest, she says it openly, the next table can hear it; Frieda has nothing to say to them, she puts the beer on the table and leaves; all one can hear is the rustling of her silk petticoat, the only thing she spends money on. But when she does say something, she does not do so openly, she whispers it to the guest, bending down so that the people at the next table prick up their ears. The things she says are probably quite trivial, but not always, she does have connections, uses some to support others, and if most of them lead nowhere—who would want to have to bother about Frieda all the time?—one or the other of those connections does work. And she now began to exploit these connections, K. gave her the opportunity to do so; instead of sitting with her and keeping watch over her, he hardly ever stays at home, wanders about, has discussions here and there, is attentive to everything, only not to Frieda, and in order to give her even more freedom moves from the Bridge Inn into the empty schoolhouse. What a wonderful way to begin a honeymoon. Well, Pepi is certainly the last one who will reproach K. for not being able to stand being with Frieda; one simply cannot stand being with her. But then why hasn’t he left her altogether, why has he gone back to her again and again, why has he created the impression through his wanderings that he is fighting for her. It even looked as if it was only through his contact with Frieda that he had discovered his actual insignificance, and in an effort to make himself worthy of Frieda and somehow claw his way to the top, he had abandoned their life together temporarily, but only in order to be able to make up later on for the privations without being disturbed. Meanwhile Frieda loses no time, she sits in the schoolhouse, to which she probably steered K., and observes the Gentlemen’s Inn and observes K. She has excellent messengers at hand, namely, K.’s assistants, whom K.—this is incomprehensible, even if you know K. it’s incomprehensible—leaves entirely to her. She sends them to her old friends, reawakens their memories of her, complains of being held captive by a man such as K., agitates against Pepi, announces she’ll soon be back, asks for help, begs them not to reveal anything to Klamm, acts as though Klamm has to be protected and can therefore on no account be allowed down to the taproom. What to some she makes out to be consideration for Klamm, she uses with the landlord as an example of her success, pointing out that Klamm doesn’t come down anymore; how could he come if the person serving in the taproom is only a Pepi; true, it isn’t the landlord’s fault, for this Pepi was the best replacement he was able to find, only she won’t do, not even for a few days. K. knows nothing about all these activities of Frieda’s; when he’s not wandering about, he lies at her feet unawares while she counts the hours that keep her from the taproom. But the assistants do more than carry messages, they also serve to make K. jealous and to keep his blood warm. Frieda has known the assistants since childhood, they certainly don’t have secrets to keep from one another anymore, but in K.’s honor they begin to long for each other, and the danger for K. is that this will turn into a great love. And K. does everything Frieda wants, even the most contradictory things, allows himself to become jealous because of the assistants, but permits the three of them to stay together while he wanders off on his own. It’s almost as if he were Frieda’s third assistant. Finally Frieda decides, on the strength of her observations, to strike a great blow, she decides to return. And it actually is high time for that, it’s admirable how this sly Frieda senses it and takes advantage of it, Frieda’s inimitable skill lies in her powers of observation and resolve; if Pepi had that, how different her life would be! Had Frieda only stayed in the schoolhouse another day or two, Pepi cannot be driven out, is a barmaid for good, loved and kept by all, has earned enough money to add some splendid things to her meager wardrobe, and in another day or two Klamm can no longer be kept from the public room by means of intrigue, he comes, drinks, feels comfortable, and if he even notices Frieda’s absence he is extremely pleased with the change, another day or two and Frieda with her scandal, her connections, the assistants, all of that, is completely forgotten, she’s never mentioned again. Then she might cling to K. all the more tightly, and might if she were capable of this truly learn to love him? No, that wouldn’t happen either. For even K. doesn’t need more than a day to become tired of her and to recognize how dreadfully she deceives him in everything, in her so-called beauty, in her so-called fidelity, and most of all in her so-called love of Klamm; only one day more, that’s all it takes for him to chase her and that whole filthy assistant mess from the house; even K. doesn’t need any more than that. And just then, between these two dangers, when the grave is beginning to close above her, K. in his simplemindedness keeps the last narrow path open for her, just then she takes to her heels. All of a sudden—and this is something hardly anybody was expecting anymore, for it goes against nature—all of a sudden it is she who is pushing away K., who still lo
ves her and constantly pursues her, and it is she who with some helpful pressure from friends and assistants appears to the landlord as a savior, all the more enticing owing to her scandal, desired by the lowest as well as the highest, as has been proved, but who was only enthralled with the lowest for a moment and soon pushed him away, as is only fitting, and is as unattainable for him and for everyone else as she used to be, except that earlier one had just doubted all this but now one had been persuaded again. So she returns, the landlord with a side glance at Pepi hesitates—should he sacrifice the barmaid who proved her worth?—but he’s soon persuaded, so much speaks in favor of Frieda, especially since she’ll woo Klamm back to the public rooms. And now it’s already evening. Pepi won’t wait until Frieda comes and makes a triumphant show out of taking on the post. She has already handed over the cashbook to the landlady, she can leave. The bed compartment in the chambermaids’ room downstairs is prepared for her, she will go down, be greeted by her tearful friends, rip the dress from her body, the ribbons from her hair, and stuff everything into a corner where it is well hidden and doesn’t needlessly remind her of times that ought to be forgotten. Then she will take the big bucket and the broom, clench her teeth, and get down to work. But first she had to tell all this to K., who even now couldn’t have made this out without some help, so that he for once would see clearly how horribly he has treated Pepi and how unhappy he has made her. Of course he too has been subjected to nothing but mistreatment.