steps, which were covered with a yellowish carpet, were shown in the picture. “Perhaps
that is my Judge,” said K., pointing with his finger at the picture. “I know him,” said Leni,
and she looked at the picture too. “He often comes here. That picture was painted when he was young, but it could never have been in the least like him, for he’s a small man, almost
a dwarf. Yet in spite of that he had himself drawn out to that length in the portrait, for he’s
madly vain like everybody else here. But I’m a vain person, too, and very much upset that
you don’t like me in the least.” To this last statement K. replied merely by putting his arm
round her and drawing her to him; she leaned her head against his shoulder in silence. But
to the rest of her remarks he answered: “What’s the man’s rank?” “He is an Examining
Magistrate,” she said, seizing the hand with which K. held her and beginning to play with
his fingers. “Only an Examining Magistrate again,” said K. in disappointment. “The higher
officials keep themselves well hidden. But he’s sitting in a chair of state.” “That’s all
invention,” said Leni, with her face bent over his hand. “Actually he is sitting on a kitchen
chair, with an old horse-rug doubled under him. But must you eternally be brooding over
your case?” she queried slowly. “No, not at all,” said K. “In fact I probably brood far too
little over it.” “That isn’t the mistake you make,” said Leni. “You’re too unyielding, that’s
what I’ve heard.” “Who told you that?” asked K.; he could feel her body against his breast
and gazed down at her rich, dark, firmly knotted hair. “I should give away too much if I
told you that,” replied Leni. “Please don’t ask me for names, take my warning to heart
instead, and don’t be so unyielding in future, you can’t fight against this Court, you must
confess to guilt. Make your confession at the first chance you get. Until you do that, there’s
no possibility of getting out of their clutches, none at all. Yet even then you won’t manage
it without help from outside, but you needn’t trouble your head about that, I’ll see to it
myself.” “You know a great deal about this Court and the intrigues that prevail in it!” said
K., lifting her on to his knee, for she was leaning too heavily against him. “That’s better,”
she said, making herself at home on his knee by smoothing her skirt and pulling her blouse
straight. Then she clasped both her hands round his neck, leaned back, and looked at him
for a long time. “And if I don’t make a confession of guilt, then you can’t help me?” K.
asked experimentally. “I seem to recruit women helpers,” he thought almost in surprise;
“first Fräulein Bürstner, then the wife of the usher, and now this little nurse who appears to
have some incomprehensible desire for me. She sits there on my knee as if it were the only
right place for her !” “No,” said Leni, shaking her head slowly, “then I can’t help you. But
you don’t in the least want my help, it doesn’t matter to you, you’re stiff-necked and never
will be convinced.” After a while she asked: “Have you got a sweetheart?” “No,” said K.
“Oh, yes, you have,” she said. “Well, yes, I have,” said K. “Just imagine it, I have denied
her existence and yet I am actually carrying her photograph in my pocket.” At her entreaty
he showed her Elsa’s photograph; she studied it, curled up on his knee. It was a snapshot
taken of Elsa as she was finishing a whirling dance such as she often gave at the cabaret,
her skirt was still flying round her like a fan, her hands were planted on her firm hips, and
with her chin thrown up she was laughing over her shoulder at someone who did not
appear in the photograph. “She’s very tightly laced,” said Leni, indicating the place where
in her opinion the tight-lacing was evident. “I don’t like her, she’s rough and clumsy. But