offended, lifted another canvas from the floor. “Here’s the companion picture,” he said. It
might be intended as a companion picture, but there was not the slightest difference that
one could see between it and the other, here were the two trees, here the grass, and there
the sunset. But K. did not bother about that. “They’re fine prospects,” he said. “I’ll buy both
of them and hang them up in my office.” “You seem to like the subject,” said the painter,
fishing out a third canvas. “By a lucky chance I have another of these studies here.” But it
was not merely a similar study, it was simply the same wild heathscape again. The painter
was apparently exploiting to the full this opportunity to sell off his old pictures. “I’ll take
that one as well,” said K. “How much for the three pictures?” “We’ll settle that next time,”
said the painter. “You’re in a hurry today and we’re going to keep in touch with each other
anyhow. I may say I’m very glad you like these pictures and I’ll throw in all the others
under the bed as well. They’re heathscapes every one of them, I’ve painted dozens of them
in my time. Some people won’t have anything to do with these subjects because they’re too
somber, but there are always people like yourself who prefer somber pictures.” But by now
K. had no mind to listen to the professional pronouncements of the peddling painter.
“Wrap the pictures up,” he cried, interrupting Titorelli’s garrulity, “my attendant will call
tomorrow and fetch them.” “That isn’t necessary,” said the painter. “I think I can manage to
get you a porter to take them along with you now.” And at last he reached over the bed and
unlocked the door. “Don’t be afraid to step on the bed,” he said. “Everybody who comes
here does that.” K. would not have hesitated to do it even without his invitation, he had
actually set one foot plump on the middle of the feather bed, but when he looked out
through the open door he drew his foot back again. “What’s this?” he asked the painter.
“What are you surprised at?” returned the painter, surprised in his turn. “These are the Law
Court offices. Didn’t you know that there were Law Court offices here? There are Law
Court offices in almost every attic, why should this be an exception? My studio really
belongs to the Law Court offices, but the Court has put it at my disposal.” It was not so
much the discovery of the Law Court offices that startled K.; he was much more startled at
himself, at his complete ignorance of all things concerning the Court. He accepted it as a
fundamental principle for an accused man to be always forearmed, never to let himself be caught napping, never to let his eyes stray unthinkingly to the right when his judge was
looming up on the left — and against that very principle he kept offending again and again.
Before him stretched a long passage, from which was wafted an air compared to which the
air in the studio was refreshing. Benches stood on either side of the passage, just as in the
lobby of the offices that were handling K.’s case. There seemed, then, to be exact
regulations for the interior disposition of these offices. At the moment there was no great
coming and going of clients. A man was half sitting, half reclining on a bench, his face was
buried in his arms and he seemed to be asleep; another man was standing in the dusk at the
end of the passage. K. now stepped over the bed, the painter following him with the
pictures. They soon found an usher — by this time K. recognized these men from the gold
button added to the buttons on their ordinary civilian clothing– and the painter gave him
instructions to accompany K. with the pictures. K. tottered rather than walked, keeping his
handkerchief pressed to his mouth. They had almost reached the exit when the girls came
rushing to meet them, so K. had not been spared even that encounter. The girls had