possibility must exist, K. had of late given much thought to it. And should the priest know
of such a possibility, he might perhaps impart his knowledge if he were appealed to,
although he himself belonged to the Court and as soon as he heard the Court impugned had
forgotten his own gentle nature so far as to shout K. down. “Won’t you come down here?”
said K. “You haven’t got to preach a sermon. Come down beside me.” “I can come down
now,” said the priest, perhaps repenting of his outburst. While he detached the lamp from
its hook he said: “I had to speak to you first from a distance. Otherwise I am too easily
influenced and tend to forget my duty.”
K. waited for him at the foot of the steps. The priest stretched out his hand to K. while
he was still on the way down from a higher level. “Have you a little time for me asked K.
“As much time as you need,” said the priest, giving K. the small lamp to carry. Even close
at hand he still wore a certain air of solemnity. “You are very good to me,” said K. They
paced side by side up and down the dusky aisle. “But you are an exception among those
who belong to the Court. I have more trust in you than in any of the others, though I know
many of them. With you I can speak openly.” “Don’t be deluded,” said the priest. “How am
I being deluded?” asked K. “You are deluding yourself about the Court,” said the priest.
“In the writings which preface the Law that particular delusion is described thus: before the
Law stands a doorkeeper. To this doorkeeper there comes a man from the country who
begs for admittance to the Law. But the doorkeeper says that he cannot admit the man at
the moment. The man, on reflection, asks if he will be allowed, then, to enter later. `It is
possible,’ answers the doorkeeper, `but not at this moment.’ Since the door leading into the
Law stands open as usual and the doorkeeper steps to one side, the man bends down to
peer through the entrance. When the doorkeeper sees that, he laughs and says: `If you are
so strongly tempted, try to get in without my permission. But note that I am powerful. And
I am only the lowest doorkeeper. From hail to hail, keepers stand at every door, one more
powerful than the other. And the sight of the third man is already more than even I can
stand.’ These are difficulties which the man from the country has not expected to meet, the
Law, he thinks, should be accessible to every man and at all times, but when he looks more closely at the doorkeeper in his furred robe, with his huge pointed nose and long thin
Tartar beard, he decides that he had better wait until he gets permission to enter. The
doorkeeper gives him a stool and lets him sit down at the side of the door. There he sits
waiting for days and years. He makes many attempts to be allowed in and wearies the
doorkeeper with his importunity. The doorkeeper often engages him in brief conversation,
asking him about his home and about other matters, but the questions are put quite
impersonally, as great men put questions, and always conclude with the statement that the
man cannot be allowed to enter yet. The man, who has equipped himself with many things
for his journey, parts with all he has, however valuable, in the hope of bribing the
doorkeeper. The doorkeeper accepts it all, saying, however, as he takes each gift: `I take
this only to keep you from feeling that you have left something undone.’ During all these
long years the man watches the doorkeeper almost incessantly. He forgets about the other
doorkeepers, and this one seems to him the only barrier between himself and the Law. In
the first years he curses his evil fate aloud; later, as he grows old, he only mutters to
himself. He grows childish, and since in his prolonged study of the doorkeeper he has