that charges are never made frivolously, and that the Court, once it has brought a charge
against someone, is firmly convinced of the guilt of the accused and can be dislodged from
that conviction only with the greatest difficulty.” “The greatest difficulty ?” cried the
painter, flinging one hand in the air. “The Court can never be dislodged from that
conviction. If I were to paint all the Judges in a row on one canvas and you were to plead
your case before it, you would have more hope of success than before the actual Court.” “I
see,” said K. to himself, forgetting that he merely wished to pump the painter.
Again a girl’s voice piped from behind the door: “Titorelli, won’t he be going away
soon now?” “Quiet, there!” cried the painter over his shoulder. “Can’t you see that I’m
engaged with this gentleman?” But the girl, not to be put off, asked: “Are you going to
paint him?” And when the painter did not reply she went on: “Please don’t paint him, such
an ugly man as that.” The others yelled agreement in a confused jabbering. The painter
made a leap for the door, opened it a little — K. could see the imploring, outstretched,
clasped hands of the girls — and said: “If you don’t stop that noise I’ll fling you all down
the stairs. Sit down here on the steps and see that you keep quiet.” Apparently they did not
obey him at once, for he had to shout in an imperious voice: “Down with you on the steps
!” After that all was still.
“Excuse me,” said the painter, returning to K. again. K. had scarcely glanced toward
the door, he had left it to the painter to decide whether and in what manner he was to be
protected. Even now he scarcely made a movement when the painter bent down to him and
whispered in his ear, so that the girls outside might not hear: “These girls belong to the
Court too.” “What?” cried K., screwing his head round to stare at the painter. But Titorelli
sat down again on his chair and said half in jest, half in explanation: “You see, everything
belongs to the Court.” “That’s something I hadn’t noticed,” said K. shortly; the painter’s
general statement stripped his remark about the girls of all its disturbing significance. Yet
K. sat gazing for some time at the door, behind which the girls were now sitting quietly on
the stairs. One of them had thrust a blade of straw through a crack between the planks and
was moving it slowly up and down.
“You don’t seem to have any general idea of the Court yet,” said the painter,
stretching his legs wide in front of him and tapping with his shoes on the floor. “But since
you’re innocent you won’t need it anyhow. I shall get you off all by myself.” “How can you
do that?” asked K. “For you told me yourself a few minutes ago that the Court was quite
impervious to proof.” “Impervious only to proof which one brings before the Court,” said
the painter, raising one finger as if K. had failed to perceive a fine distinction. “But it is
quite a different matter with one’s efforts behind the scenes; that is, in the consultingrooms,
in the lobbies or, for example, in this very studio.” What the painter now said no
longer seemed incredible to K., indeed it agreed in the main with what he had heard from
other people. More, it was actually hopeful in a high degree. If a judge could really be so
easily influenced by personal connections as the lawyer insisted, then the painter’s connections with these vain functionaries were especially important and certainly not to be
undervalued. That made the painter an excellent recruit to the ring of helpers which K. was
gradually gathering round him. His talent for organization had once been highly praised in
the Bank, and now that he had to act entirely on his own responsibility this was his chance
to prove it to the uttermost. Titorelli observed the effect his words had produced upon K.
and then said with a slight uneasiness: “Perhaps it strikes you that I talk almost like a