asked by my friend to say something to you, that’s all. She wanted to come herself, but she
is feeling a little unwell today. She asks you to excuse her and listen to me instead. She
would not have said anything more to you, in any case, than I am going to say. On the
contrary, I fancy that I can actually tell you more, as I am relatively impartial. Don’t you
think so too ?” “Well, what is there to say ?” replied K., who was weary of seeing Fräulein Montag
staring so fixedly at his lips. Her stare was already trying to dominate any words he might
utter. “Fräulein Bürstner evidently refuses to grant me the personal interview I asked for.”
“That is so,” said Fräulein Montag, “or rather that isn’t it at all, you put it much too harshly.
Surely, in general, interviews are neither deliberately accepted nor refused. But it may
happen that one sees no point in an interview, and that is the case here. After that last
remark of yours I can speak frankly, I take it. You have begged my friend to communicate
with you by letter or by word of mouth. Now, my friend, at least that is what I must
assume, knows what this conversation would be about, and is therefore convinced, for
reasons of which I am ignorant, that it would be to nobody’s benefit if it actually took
place. To tell the truth, she did not mention the matter to me until yesterday and only in
passing, she said among other things that you could not attach very much importance to
this interview either, for it could only have been by accident that you hit on the idea, and
that even without a specific explanation you would soon come to see how silly the whole
affair was, if indeed you didn’t see that already. I told her that that might be quite true, but
that I considered it advisable, if the matter were to be completely cleared up, that you
should receive an explicit answer. I offered myself as an intermediary, and after some
hesitation my friend yielded to my persuasions. But I hope that I have served your
interests, too, for the slightest uncertainty even in the most trifling matter is always a
worry, and when, as in this case, it can be easily dispelled, it is better that that should be
done at once.” “Thank you,” said K. and he slowly rose to his feet, glanced at Fräulein
Montag, then at the table, then out through the window — the sun was shining on the house
opposite — and walked to the door. Fräulein Montag followed him for a few steps, as if she
did not quite trust him. But at the door they had both to draw back, for it opened and
Captain Lanz entered. This was the first time that K. had seen him close at hand. He was a
tall man in the early forties with a tanned, fleshy face. He made a slight bow which
included K. as well as Fräulein Montag, then went up to her and respectfully kissed her
hand. His movements were easy. His politeness toward Fräulein Montag was in striking
contrast to the treatment which she had received from K. All the same, Fräulein Montag
did not seem to be offended with K., for she actually purposed, K. fancied, to introduce
him to the Captain. But K. did not wish to be introduced, he was not in the mind to be
polite either to the Captain or to Fräulein Montag, the hand-kissing had in his eyes turned
the pair of them into accomplices who, under a cloak of the utmost amiability and altruism,
were seeking to bar his way to Fräulein Bürstner. Yet he fancied that he could see even
more than that, he recognized that Fräulein Montag had chosen a very good if somewhat
two-edged weapon. She had exaggerated the importance of the connection between
Fräulein Bürstner and K., she had exaggerated above all the importance of the interview he
had asked for, and she had tried at the same time so to manipulate things as to make it