which his uncle was dealing with the matter caused him some perturbation. It was not very
flattering to be driven to a poor man’s lawyer as a petitioner. “I did not know,” he said,
“that in a case like this one could employ a lawyer.” “But of course,” said his uncle. “That’s
obvious. Why not? And now tell me everything that has happened up to now, so that I have some idea where we stand.” K. at once began his story and left out no single detail,
for absolute frankness was the only protest he could make against his uncle’s assumption
that the case was a terrible disgrace. Fräulein Bürstner’s name he mentioned only once and
in passing, but that did not detract from his frankness, since Fräulein Bürstner had no
connection with the case. As he told his story he gazed out through the window and noted
that they were approaching the very suburb where the Law Court had its attic offices; he
drew his uncle’s attention to this fact, but his uncle did not seem to be particularly struck
by the coincidence. The taxi stopped before a dark house. His uncle rang the bell of the
first door on the ground floor; while they were waiting he bared his great teeth in a smile
and whispered: “Eight o’clock, an unusual time for clients to call. But Huld won’t take it
amiss from me.” Behind a grille in the door two great dark eyes appeared, gazed at the two
visitors for a moment, and then vanished again; yet the door did not open. K. and his uncle
assured each other that they had really seen a pair of eyes. “A new maid, probably afraid of
strangers,” said K.’s uncle and knocked again. Once more the eyes appeared and now they
seemed almost sad, yet that might have been an illusion created by the naked gas-jet which
burned just over their heads and kept hissing shrilly but gave little light. “Open the door !”
shouted K.’s uncle, banging upon it with his fists, “we’re friends of Herr Huld.” “Herr Huld
is ill,” came a whisper from behind them. A door had opened at the other end of the little
passage and a man in a dressing-gown was standing there imparting this information in a
hushed voice. K.’s uncle, already furious at having had to wait so long, whirled round
shouting: “Ill? You say he’s ill?” and bore down almost threateningly on the man as if he
were the alleged illness in person. “The door has been opened,” said the man, indicated the
lawyer’s door, caught his dressing-gown about him, and disappeared. The door really was
open, a young girl — K. recognized the dark, somewhat protuberant eyes — was standing in
the entrance hail in a long white apron, holding a candle in her hand. “Next time he a little
smarter in opening the door,” K.’s uncle threw at her instead of a greeting, while she
sketched a curtsy. “Come on, Joseph,” he cried to K., who was slowly insinuating himself
past the girl. “Herr Huld is ill,” said the girl, as K.’s uncle, without any hesitation, made
toward an inner door. K. was still glaring at the girl, who turned her back on him to bolt
the house door; she had a doll-like rounded face; not only were her pale cheeks and her
chin quite round in their modeling, but her temples and the line of her forehead as well.
“Joseph!” K.’s uncle shouted again, and he asked the girl: “Is it his heart?” “I think so,” said
the girl, she had now found time to precede him with the candle and open the door of a
room. In one corner, which the candlelight had not yet reached, a face with a long beard
was raised from a pillow. “Leni, who is it?” asked the lawyer, who, blinded by the
candlelight, could not recognize his visitors. “It’s your old friend Albert,” said K.’s uncle.
“Oh, Albert,” said the lawyer, sinking back on his pillow again, as if there were no need to
keep up appearances before this visitor. “Are you really in a bad way?” asked K.’s uncle,
sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I can’t believe it. It’s one of your heart attacks and it’ll