could manage it without K.’s support, just as K.’s presence would certainly not contribute
to its effectiveness. So he began slowly to move off, feeling his way along the pew on
tiptoe until he was in the broad center aisle, where he advanced undisturbed except for the
ringing noise that his lightest footstep made on the stone flags and the echoes that sounded
from the vaulted roof faintly but continuously, in manifold and regular progression. K. felt
a little forlorn as he advanced, a solitary figure between the rows of empty seats, perhaps
with the priest’s eyes following him; and the size of the Cathedral struck him as bordering
on the limit of what human beings could bear. When he came to the seat where he had left
the album he simply snatched the book up without stopping and took it with him. He had
almost passed the last of the pews and was emerging into the open space between himself
and the doorway when he heard the priest lifting up his voice. A resonant, well-trained
voice. How it rolled through the expectant Cathedral! But it was no congregation the priest
was addressing, the words were unambiguous and inescapable, he was calling out: “Joseph
K.!”
K. paused and stared at the ground before him. For the moment he was still free, he
could continue on his way and vanish through one of the small, dark, wooden doors that
faced him at no great distance. It would simply indicate that he had not understood the call,
or that he had understood it and did not care. But if he were to turn round he would be
caught, for that would amount to an admission that he had understood it very well, that he
was really the person addressed, and that he was ready to obey. Had the priest called his
name a second time K. would certainly have gone on, but as everything remained silent,
though he stood waiting a long time, he could not help turning his head a little just to see
what the priest was doing. The priest was standing calmly in the pulpit as before, yet it was
obvious that he had observed K.’s turn of the head. It would have been like a childish game
of hide-and-seek if K. had not turned right round to face him. He did so, and the priest
beckoned him to come nearer. Since there was now no need for evasion, K. hurried back —
he was both curious and eager to shorten the interview — with long flying strides toward
the pulpit. At the first rows of seats he halted, but the priest seemed to think the distance
still too great; he stretched out an arm and pointed with sharply bent fore-finger to a spot
immediately before the pulpit. K. followed this direction too; when he stood on the spot
indicated he had to bend his head far back to see the priest at all. “You are Joseph K.,” said the priest, lifting one hand from the balustrade in a vague gesture. “Yes,” said K., thinking
how frankly he used to give his name and what a burden it had recently become to him;
nowadays people he had never seen before seemed to know his name. How pleasant it was
to have to introduce oneself before being recognized! “You are an accused man,” said the
priest in a very low voice. “Yes,” said K., “so I have been informed.” “Then you are the
man I seek,” said the priest. “I am the prison chaplain.” “Indeed,” said K. “I had you
summoned here,” said the priest, “to have a talk with you.” “I didn’t know that,” said K. “I
came here to show an Italian round the Cathedral.” “That is beside the point,” said the
priest. “What is that in your hand? Is it a prayer book?” “No,” replied K., “it is an album of
sights worth seeing in the town.” “Lay it down,” said the priest. K. threw it away so
violently that it flew open and slid some way along the floor with disheveled leaves. “Do
you know that your case is going badly?” asked the priest. “I have that idea myself,” said