you have neither the time nor the inclination to go, you can excuse yourself; with some
Judges you can even plan your interviews a long time ahead, all that it amounts to is a
formal recognition of your status as an accused man by regular appearances before your
Judge.” Already while these last words were being spoken K. had taken his jacket across
his arm and got up. “He’s getting up now,” came the cry at once from behind the door.
“Are you going already?” asked the painter, who had also got up. “I’m sure it’s the air here
that is driving you away. I’m sorry about it. I had a great deal more to tell you. I have had
to express myself very briefly. But I hope my statements were lucid enough.” “Oh, yes,”
said K., whose head was aching with the strain of forcing himself to listen. In spite of K.’s
confirmation, the painter went on to sum up the matter again, as if to give him a last word
of comfort: “Both methods have this in common, that they prevent the accused from
coming up for sentence.” “But they also prevent an actual acquittal,” said K. in a low
voice, as if embarrassed by his own perspicacity. “You have grasped the kernel of the
matter,” said the painter quickly. K. laid his hand on his overcoat, but could not even
summon the resolution to put on his jacket. He would have liked best of all to bundle them
both together and rush out with them into the fresh air. Even the thought of the girls could
not move him to put on his garments, although their voices were already piping the
premature news that he was doing so. The painter was anxious to guess K.’s intentions, so
he said: “I take it that you haven’t come to any decision yet on my suggestions. That’s right.
In fact, I should have advised you against it had you attempted an immediate decision. It’s
like splitting hairs to distinguish the advantages and disadvantages. You must weigh
everything very carefully. On the other hand you mustn’t lose too much time either.” “I’ll
come back again soon,” said K., in a sudden fit of resolution putting on his jacket, flinging
his overcoat across his shoulders, and hastening to the door, behind which the girls at once
began shrieking. K. felt he could almost see them through the door. “But you must keep
your word,” said the painter, who had not followed him, “or else I’ll have to come to the
Bank myself to make inquiries.” “Unlock this door, will you?” said K., tugging at the
handle, which the girls, as he could tell from the resistance, were hanging on to from
outside. “You don’t want to be bothered by the girls, do you?” asked the painter. “You had better take this way out,” and he indicated the door behind the bed. K. was perfectly
willing and rushed back to the bed. But instead of opening the bedside door the painter
crawled right under the bed and said from down there: “Wait just a minute. Wouldn’t you
like to see a picture or two that you might care to buy?” K. did not want to be discourteous,
the painter had really taken an interest in him and promised to help him further, also it was
entirely owing to K.’s distractedness that the matter of a fee for the painter’s services had
not been mentioned, consequently he could not turn aside his offer now, and so he
consented to look at the pictures, though he was trembling with impatience to be out of the
place. Titorelli dragged a pile of unframed canvases from under the bed; they were so
thickly covered with dust that when he blew some of it from the topmost, K. was almost
blinded and choked by the cloud that flew up. “Wild Nature, a heathscape,” said the
painter, handing K. the picture. It showed two stunted trees standing far apart from each
other in darkish grass. In the background was a many-hued sunset. “Fine,” said K., “I’ll buy
it.” K.’s curtness had been unthinking and so he was glad when the painter, instead of being