detail. A large figure rising in the middle of the picture from the high back of the chair he
could not identify, and he asked the painter whom it was intended to represent. It still
needed more detail, the painter replied, and fetched a crayon from a table, armed with
which he worked a little at the outline of the figure, but without making it any more
recognizable to K. “It is Justice,” said the painter at last. “Now I can recognize it,” said K.
“There’s the bandage over the eyes, and here are the scales. But aren’t there wings on the
figure’s heels, and isn’t it flying?” “Yes,” said the painter, “my instructions were to paint it
like that; actually it is Justice and the goddess of Victory in one.” “Not a very good
combination, surely,” said K., smiling. “Justice must stand quite still, or else the scales will
waver and a just verdict will become impossible.” “I had to follow my client’s
instructions,” said the painter. “Of course,” said K., who had not wished to give any
offense by his remark. “You have painted the figure as it actually stands above the high
seat.” “No,” said the painter, “I have neither seen the figure nor the high seat, that is all
invention, but I am told what to paint and I paint it.” “How do you mean?” asked K.,
deliberately pretending that he did not understand. “It’s surely a Judge sitting on his seat of
justice?” “Yes,” said the painter, “but it is by no means a high Judge and he has never sat
on such a seat in his life.” “And yet he has himself painted in that solemn posture? Why, he
sits there as if he were the actual President of the Court.” “Yes, they’re very vain, these
gentlemen,” said the painter. “But their superiors give them permission to get themselves
painted like that. Each one of them gets precise instructions how he may have his portrait
painted. Only you can’t judge the detail of the costume and the seat itself from this picture,
unfortunately, pastel is really unsuited for this kind of thing.” “Yes,” said K., “it’s curious
that you should have used pastel.” “My client wished it,” said the painter, “he intends the
picture for a lady.” The sight of the picture seemed to have roused his ardor, he rolled up
his shirt-sleeves, took several crayons in his hand, and as K. watched the delicate crayonstrokes
a reddish shadow began to grow round the head of the Judge, a shadow which
tapered off in long rays as it approached the edge of the picture. This play of shadow bit by
bit surrounded the head like a halo or a high mark of distinction. But the figure of Justice
was left bright except for an almost imperceptible touch of shadow; that brightness brought
the figure sweeping right into the foreground and it no longer suggested the goddess of
Justice, or even the goddess of Victory, but looked exactly like a goddess of the Hunt in
full cry. The painter’s activities absorbed K. against his will, and in the end he began to
reproach himself for having stayed so long without even touching on the business that
brought him. “What is the name of this Judge?” he asked suddenly. “I’m not allowed to
tell,” replied the painter, stooping over the picture and ostentatiously ignoring the guest
whom at first he had greeted with such consideration. K. put this down to caprice and was
annoyed that his time should be wasted in such a manner. “You’re in the confidence of the
Court, I take it?” he asked. The painter laid down his crayons at once, straightened himself,
rubbed his hands, and looked at K. with a smile. “Come out with the truth,” he said. “You
want to find out something about the Court, as your letter of recommendation told me, I
may say, and you started talking about my paintings only to win me over. But I don’t take
that ill, you could hardly know that that wasn’t the right way to tackle me. Oh, please don’t apologize!” he said sharply, as K. tried to make some excuse. And then he continued: