No More Learning

The deputy director
listened to them for a short while, he also looked at K. as he held his
hat in his hand cleaning the dust off it here and there, and then he
said, "Gentlemen, there is a very simple way to solve this. If you
would prefer it, I'll be very glad to take over these negotiations
instead of the chief clerk. Your business does, of course, need to be
discussed without delay. We are businessmen like yourselves and know
the value of a businessman's time. Would you like to come this way? "
And he opened the door leading to the ante-room of his own office.

The deputy director seemed very good at appropriating everything
that K. was now forced to give up! But was K. not giving up more than
he absolutely had to? By running off to some unknown painter, with, as
he had to admit, very little hope of any vague benefit, his renown was
suffering damage that could not me repaired. It would probably be much
better to take off his winter coat again and, at the very least, try to
win back the two gentlemen who were certainly still waiting in the next
room. If K. had not then glimpsed the deputy director in his office,
looking for something from his bookshelves as if they were his own, he
would probably even have made the attempt. As K. , somewhat agitated,
approached the door the deputy director called out, "Oh, you've still
not left! " He turned his face toward him - its many deep folds seemed
to show strength rather than age - and immediately began once more to
search. "I'm looking for a copy of a contract," he said, "which this
gentleman insists you must have. Could you help me look for it, do you
think? " K. made a step forward, but the deputy director said, "thank
you, I've already found it," and with a big package of papers, which
certainly must have included many more documents than just the copy of
the contract, he turned and went back into his own office.

"I can't deal with him right now," K. said to himself, "but once
my personal difficulties have been settled, then he'll certainly be the
first to get the effect of it, and he certainly won't like it. "
Slightly calmed by these thoughts, K. gave the servitor, who had already
long been holding the door to the corridor open for him, the task of
telling the director, when he was able, that K. was going out of the
bank on a business matter. As he left the bank he felt almost happy at
the thought of being able to devote more of himself to his own business
for a while.

He went straight to the painter, who lived in an outlying part of
town which was very near to the court offices, although this area was
even poorer, the houses were darker, the streets were full of dirt that
slowly blew about over the half-melted snow. In the great gateway to
the building where the painter lived only one of the two doors was open,
a hole had been broken open in the wall by the other door, and as K.
approached it a repulsive, yellow, steaming liquid shot out causing some
rats to scurry away into the nearby canal. Down by the staircase there
was a small child lying on its belly crying, but it could hardly be
heard because of the noise from a metal-workshop on the other side of
the entrance hall, drowning out any other sound. The door to the
workshop was open, three workers stood in a circle around some piece of
work that they were beating with hammers. A large tin plate hung on the
wall, casting a pale light that pushed its way in between two of the
workers, lighting up their faces and their work-aprons. K. did no more
than glance at any of these things, he wanted to get things over with
here as soon as possible, to exchange just a few words to find out how
things stood with the painter and go straight back to the bank. Even if
he had just some tiny success here it would still have a good effect on
his work at the bank for that day. On the third floor he had to slow
down his pace, he was quite out of breath - the steps, just like the
height of each floor, were much higher than they needed to be and he'd
been told that the painter lived right up in the attic. The air was
also quite oppressive, there was no proper stairwell and the narrow
steps were closed in by walls on both sides with no more than a small,
high window here and there. Just as K. paused for a while some young
girls ran out of one of the flats and rushed higher up the stairs,
laughing. K. followed them slowly, caught up with one of the girls who
had stumbled and been left behind by the others, and asked her as they
went up side by side, "Is there a painter, Titorelli, who lives here? "
The girl, hardly thirteen years old and somewhat hunchbacked, jabbed him
with her elbow and looked at him sideways. Her youth and her bodily
defects had done nothing to stop her being already quite depraved. She
did not smile once, but looked at K. earnestly, with sharp, acquisitive
eyes. K. pretended not to notice her behaviour and asked, "Do you know
Titorelli, the painter? " She nodded and asked in reply, "What d'you
want to see him for? " K. thought it would be to his advantage quickly
to find out something more about Titorelli. "I want to have him paint
my portrait," he said. "Paint your portrait? " she asked, opening her
mouth too wide and lightly hitting K. with her hand as if he had said
something extraordinarily surprising or clumsy, with both hands she
lifted her skirt, which was already very short, and, as fast as she
could, she ran off after the other girls whose indistinct shouts lost
themselves in the heights. At the next turn of the stairs, however, K.
encountered all the girls once more. The hunchbacked girl had clearly
told them about K. 's intentions and they were waiting for him. They
stood on both sides of the stairs, pressing themselves against the wall
so that K. could get through between them, and smoothed their aprons
down with their hands. All their faces, even in this guard of honour,
showed a mixture of childishness and depravity. Up at the head of the
line of girls, who now, laughing, began to close in around K. , was the
hunchback who had taken on the role of leader. It was thanks to her
that K. found the right direction without delay - he would have
continued up the stairs straight in front of him, but she showed him
that to reach Titorelli he would need to turn off to one side.
The steps that led up to the painter were especially narrow, very long
without any turning, the whole length could be seen in one glance and,
at the top, at Titorelli's closed door, it came to its end. This door
was much better illuminated than the rest of the stairway by the light
from a small skylight set obliquely above it, it had been put together
from unpainted planks of wood and the name 'Titorelli' was painted on it
in broad, red brushstrokes. K. was no more than half way up the steps,
accompanied by his retinue of girls, when, clearly the result of the
noise of all those footsteps, the door opened slightly and in the crack
a man who seemed to be dressed in just his nightshirt appeared. "Oh! "
he cried, when he saw the approaching crowd, and vanished. The
hunchbacked girl clapped her hands in glee and the other girls crowded
in behind K. to push him faster forward.

They still had not arrived at the top, however, when the painter
up above them suddenly pulled the door wide open and, with a deep bow,
invited K. to enter. The girls, on the other hand, he tried to keep
away, he did not want to let any of them in however much they begged him
and however much they tried to get in - if they could not get in with
his permission they would try to force their way in against his will.
The only one to succeed was the hunchback when she slipped through under
his outstretched arm, but the painter chased after her, grabbed her by
the skirt, span her once round and set her down again by the door with
the other girls who, unlike the first, had not dared to cross the
doorstep while the painter had left his post. K. did not know what he
was to make of all this, as they all seemed to be having fun. One
behind the other, the girls by the door stretched their necks up high
and called out various words to the painter which were meant in jest but
which K. did not understand, and even the painter laughed as the
hunchback whirled round in his hand. Then he shut the door, bowed once
more to K. , offered him his hand and introduced himself, saying,
"Titorelli, painter". K. pointed to the door, behind which the girls
were whispering, and said, "You seem to be very popular in this
building. " "Ach, those brats! " said the painter, trying in vain to
fasten his nightshirt at the neck. He was also bare-footed and, apart
from that, was wearing nothing more than a loose pair of yellowish linen
trousers held up with a belt whose free end whipped to and fro. "Those
kids are a real burden for me," he continued. The top button of his
nightshirt came off and he gave up trying to fasten it, fetched a chair
for K. and made him sit down on it. "I painted one of them once - she's
not here today - and ever since then they've been following me about.
If I'm here they only come in when I allow it, but as soon as I've gone
out there's always at least one of them in here. They had a key made to
my door and lend it round to each other. It's hard to imagine what a
pain that is. Suppose I come back home with a lady I'm going to paint,
I open the door with my own key and find the hunchback there or
something, by the table painting her lips red with my paintbrush, and
meanwhile her little sisters will be keeping guard for her, moving about
and causing chaos in every corner of the room. Or else, like happened
yesterday, I might come back home late in the evening - please forgive
my appearance and the room being in a mess, it is to do with them - so,
I might come home late in the evening and want to go to bed, then I feel
something pinching my leg, look under the bed and pull another of them
out from under it. I don't know why it is they bother me like this, I
expect you've just seen that I do nothing to encourage them to come near
me. And they make it hard for me to do my work too, of course. If I
didn't get this studio for nothing I'd have moved out a long time ago. "
Just then, a little voice, tender and anxious, called out from under the
door, "Titorelli, can we come in now? " "No," answered the painter.
"Not even just me, by myself? " the voice asked again. "Not even just
you," said the painter, as he went to the door and locked it.

Meanwhile, K. had been looking round the room, if it had not been
pointed out it would never have occurred to him that this wretched
little room could be called a studio. It was hardly long enough or
broad enough to make two steps. Everything, floor, walls and ceiling,
was made of wood, between the planks narrow gaps could be seen. Across
from where K. was, the bed stood against the wall under a covering of
many different colours. In the middle of the room a picture stood on an
easel, covered over with a shirt whose arms dangled down to the ground.
Behind K. was the window through which the fog made it impossible to see
further than the snow covered roof of the neighbouring building.

The turning of the key in the lock reminded K. that he had not
wanted to stay too long. So he drew the manufacturer's letter out from
his pocket, held it out to the painter and said, "I learned about you
from this gentleman, an acquaintance of yours, and it's on his advice
that I've come here". The painter glanced through the letter and threw
it down onto the bed. If the manufacturer had not said very clearly
that Titorelli was an acquaintance of his, a poor man who was dependent
on his charity, then it would really have been quite possible to believe
that Titorelli did not know him or at least that he could not remember
him. This impression was augmented by the painter's asking, "Were you
wanting to buy some pictures or did you want to have yourself painted? "
K. looked at the painter in astonishment. What did the letter actually
say? K. had taken it as a matter of course that the manufacturer had
explained to the painter in his letter that K. wanted nothing more with
him than to find out more about his trial. He had been far too rash in
coming here! But now he had to give the painter some sort of answer
and, glancing at the easel, said, "Are you working on a picture
currently? " "Yes," said the painter, and he took the shirt hanging over
the easel and threw it onto the bed after the letter. "It's a portrait.
Quite a good piece of work, although it's not quite finished yet. " This
was a convenient coincidence for K. , it gave him a good opportunity to
talk about the court as the picture showed, very clearly, a judge.
What's more, it was remarkably similar to the picture in the lawyer's
office, although this one showed a quite different judge, a heavy man
with a full beard which was black and bushy and extended to the sides
far up the man's cheeks. The lawyer's picture was also an oil painting,
whereas this one had been made with pastel colours and was pale and
unclear. But everything else about the picture was similar, as this
judge, too, was holding tightly to the arm of his throne and seemed
ominously about to rise from it. At first K. was about to say, "He
certainly is a judge," but he held himself back for the time being and
went closer to the picture as if he wanted to study it in detail. There
was a large figure shown in middle of the throne's back rest which K.
could not understand and asked the painter about it. That'll need some
more work done on it, the painter told him, and taking a pastel crayon
from a small table he added a few strokes to the edges of the figure but
without making it any clearer as far as K. could make out. "That's the
figure of justice," said the painter, finally. "Now I see," said K. ,
"here's the blindfold and here are the scales. But aren't those wings
on her heels, and isn't she moving? " "Yes," said the painter, "I had to
paint it like that according to the contract. It's actually the figure
of justice and the goddess of victory all in one. " "That is not a good
combination," said K. with a smile. "Justice needs to remain still,
otherwise the scales will move about and it won't be possible to make a
just verdict. " "I'm just doing what the client wanted," said the
painter. "Yes, certainly," said K. , who had not meant to criticise
anyone by that comment. "You've painted the figure as it actually
appears on the throne. " "No," said the painter, "I've never seen that
figure or that throne, it's all just invention, but they told me what it
was I had to paint. " "How's that? " asked K. pretending not fully to
understand what the painter said. "That is a judge sitting on the
judge's chair, isn't it? " "Yes," said the painter, "but that judge
isn't very high up and he's never sat on any throne like that. " "And he
has himself painted in such a grand pose? He's sitting there just like
the president of the court. " "Yeah, gentlemen like this are very vain,"
said the painter. "But they have permission from higher up to get
themselves painted like this. It's laid down quite strictly just what
sort of portrait each of them can get for himself. Only it's a pity
that you can't make out the details of his costume and pose in this
picture, pastel colours aren't really suitable for showing people like
this. " "Yes," said K. , "it does seem odd that it's in pastel colours. "
"That's what the judge wanted," said the painter, "it's meant to be for
a woman. " The sight of the picture seemed to make him feel like
working, he rolled up his shirtsleeves, picked up a few of the crayons,
and K. watched as a reddish shadow built up around the head of the judge
under their quivering tips and radiated out the to edges of the picture.
This shadow play slowly surrounded the head like a decoration or lofty
distinction. But around the figure of Justice, apart from some
coloration that was barely noticeable, it remained light, and in this
brightness the figure seemed to shine forward so that it now looked like
neither the God of Justice nor the God of Victory, it seemed now,
rather, to be a perfect depiction of the God of the Hunt. K. found the
painter's work more engrossing than he had wanted; but finally he
reproached himself for staying so long without having done anything
relevant to his own affair. "What's the name of this judge? " he asked
suddenly. "I'm not allowed to tell you that," the painter answered. He
was bent deeply over the picture and clearly neglecting his guest who,
at first, he had received with such care. K. took this to be just a
foible of the painter's, and it irritated him as it made him lose time.
"I take it you must be a trustee of the court," he said. The painter
immediately put his crayons down, stood upright, rubbed his hands
together and looked at K. with a smile. "Always straight out with the
truth," he said. "You want to learn something about the court, like it
says in your letter of recommendation, but then you start talking about
my pictures to get me on your side. Still, I won't hold it against you,
you weren't to know that that was entirely the wrong thing to try with
me. Oh, please! " he said sharply, repelling K. 's attempt to make some
objection. He then continued, "And besides, you're quite right in your
comment that I'm a trustee of the court. " He made a pause, as if
wanting to give K. the time to come to terms with this fact. The girls
could once more be heard from behind the door. They were probably
pressed around the keyhole, perhaps they could even see into the room
through the gaps in the planks. K. forewent the opportunity to excuse
himself in some way as he did not wish to distract the painter from what
he was saying, or else perhaps he didn't want him to get too far above
himself and in this way make himself to some extent unattainable, so he
asked, "Is that a publicly acknowledged position?
" "No," was the
painter's curt reply, as if the question prevented him saying any more.
But K. wanted him to continue speaking and said, "Well, positions like
that, that aren't officially acknowledged, can often have more influence
than those that are. " "And that's how it is with me," said the painter,
and nodded with a frown. "I was talking about your case with the
manufacturer yesterday, and he asked me if I wouldn't like to help you,
and I answered: 'He can come and see me if he likes', and now I'm
pleased to see you here so soon. This business seems to be quite
important to you, and, of course, I'm not surprised at that. Would you
not like to take your coat off now? " K. had intended to stay for only a
very short time, but the painter's invitation was nonetheless very
welcome. The air in the room had slowly become quite oppressive for
him, he had several times looked in amazement at a small, iron stove in
the corner that certainly could not have been lit, the heat of the room
was inexplicable. As he took off his winter overcoat and also
unbuttoned his frock coat the painter said to him in apology, "I must
have warmth. And it is very cosy here, isn't it. This room's very good
in that respect. " K. made no reply, but it was actually not the heat
that made him uncomfortable but, much more, the stuffiness, the air that
almost made it more difficult to breathe, the room had probably not been
ventilated for a long time. The unpleasantness of this was made all the
stronger for K. when the painter invited him to sit on the bed while he
himself sat down on the only chair in the room in front of the easel.
The painter even seemed to misunderstand why K. remained at the edge of
the bed and urged K. to make himself comfortable, and as he hesitated he
went over to the bed himself and pressed K. deep down into the
bedclothes and pillows. Then he went back to his seat and at last he
asked his first objective question, which made K. forget everything
else. "You're innocent, are you? " he asked. "Yes," said K. He felt a
simple joy at answering this question, especially as the answer was
given to a private individual and therefore would have no consequences.
Up till then no-one had asked him this question so openly. To make the
most of his pleasure he added, "I am totally innocent. " "So," said the
painter, and he lowered his head and seemed to be thinking. Suddenly he
raised his head again and said, "Well if you're innocent it's all very
simple. " K. began to scowl, this supposed trustee of the court was
talking like an ignorant child. "My being innocent does not make things
simple," said K. Despite everything, he couldn't help smiling and
slowly shook his head. "There are many fine details in which the court
gets lost, but in the end it reaches into some place where originally
there was nothing and pulls enormous guilt out of it. " "Yeah, yeah,
sure," said the painter, as if K. had been disturbing his train of
thought for no reason. "But you are innocent, aren't you? " "Well of
course I am," said K. "That's the main thing," said the painter. There
was no counter-argument that could influence him, but although he had
made up his mind it was not clear whether he was talking this way
because of conviction or indifference. K. , then, wanted to find out and
said therefore, "I'm sure you're more familiar with the court than I am,
I know hardly more about it than what I've heard, and that's been from
many very different people. But they were all agreed on one thing, and
that was that when ill thought-out accusations are made they are not
ignored, and that once the court has made an accusation it is convinced
of the guilt of the defendant and it's very hard to make it think
otherwise. " "Very hard? " the painter asked, throwing one hand up in the
air. "It's impossible to make it think otherwise. If I painted all the
judges next to each other here on canvas, and you were trying to defend
yourself in front of it, you'd have more success with them than you'd
ever have with the real court. " "Yes," said K. to himself, forgetting
that he had only gone there to investigate the painter.

One of the girls behind the door started up again, and asked,
"Titorelli, is he going to go soon? " "Quiet! " shouted the painter at
the door, "Can't you see I'm talking with the gentleman? " But this was
not enough to satisfy the girl and she asked, "You going to paint his
picture? " And when the painter didn't answer she added, "Please don't
paint him, he's an 'orrible bloke. " There followed an incomprehensible,
interwoven babble of shouts and replies and calls of agreement. The
painter leapt over to the door, opened it very slightly - the girls'
clasped hands could be seen stretching through the crack as if they
wanted something - and said, "If you're not quiet I'll throw you all
down the stairs. Sit down here on the steps and be quiet. " They
probably did not obey him immediately, so that he had to command, "Down
on the steps! " Only then it became quiet.

"I'm sorry about that," said the painter as he returned to K. K.
had hardly turned towards the door, he had left it completely up to the
painter whether and how he would place him under his protection if he
wanted to. Even now, he made hardly any movement as the painter bent
over him and, whispering into his ear in order not to be heard outside,
said, "These girls belong to the court as well. " "How's that? " asked
K. , as he leant his head to one side and looked at the painter. But the
painter sat back down on his chair and, half in jest, half in
explanation, "Well, everything belongs to the court. " "That is
something I had never noticed until now," said K. curtly, this general
comment of the painter's made his comment about the girls far less
disturbing. Nonetheless, K. looked for a while at the door, behind
which the girls were now sitting quietly on the steps. Except, that one
of them had pushed a drinking straw through a crack between the planks
and was moving it slowly up and down. "You still don't seem to have
much general idea of what the court's about", said the painter, who had
stretched his legs wide apart and was tapping loudly on the floor with
the tip of his foot. "But as you're innocent you won't need it anyway.
I'll get you out of this by myself. " "How do you intend to do that? "
asked K. "You did say yourself not long ago that it's quite impossible
to go to the court with reasons and proofs. " "Only impossible for
reasons and proofs you take to the court yourself" said the painter,
raising his forefinger as if K. had failed to notice a fine distinction.
"It goes differently if you try to do something behind the public court,
that's to say in the consultation rooms, in the corridors or here, for
instance, in my studio. " K. now began to find it far easier to believe
what the painter was saying, or rather it was largely in agreement with
what he had also been told by others. In fact it was even quite
promising. If it really was so easy to influence the judges through
personal contacts as the lawyer had said then the painter's contacts
with these vain judges was especially important, and at the very least
should not be undervalued. And the painter would fit in very well in
the circle of assistants that K. was slowly gathering around himself.
He had been noted at the bank for his talent in organising, here, where
he was placed entirely on his own resources, would be a good opportunity
to test that talent to its limits. The painter observed the effect his
explanation had had on K. and then, with a certain unease, said, "Does
it not occur to you that the way I'm speaking is almost like a lawyer?
It's the incessant contact with the gentlemen of the court has that
influence on me. I gain a lot by it, of course, but I lose a lot,
artistically speaking. " "How did you first come into contact with the
judges, then? " asked K. , he wanted first to gain the painter's trust
before he took him into his service. "That was very easy," said the
painter, "I inherited these contacts. My father was court painter
before me. It's a position that's always inherited. They can't use new
people for it, the rules governing how the various grades of officials
are painted are so many and varied, and, above all, so secret that no-
one outside of certain families even knows them. In the drawer there,
for instance, I've got my father's notes, which I don't show to anyone.
But you're only able to paint judges if you know what they say.
Although, even if I lost them no-one could ever dispute my position
because of all the rules I just carry round in my head. All the judges
want to be painted like the old, great judges were, and I'm the only one
who can do that. " "You are to be envied," said K. , thinking of his
position at the bank. "Your position is quite unassailable, then? "
"Yes, quite unassailable," said the painter, and he raised his shoulders
in pride. "That's how I can even afford to help some poor man facing
trial now and then. " "And how do you do that? " asked K. , as if the
painter had not just described him as a poor man. The painter did not
let himself be distracted, but said, "In your case, for instance, as
you're totally innocent, this is what I'll do. " The repeated mention of
K. 's innocence was becoming irksome to him. It sometimes seemed to him
as if the painter was using these comments to make a favourable outcome
to the trial a precondition for his help, which of course would make the
help itself unnecessary. But despite these doubts K. forced himself not
to interrupt the painter. He did not want to do without the painter's
help, that was what he had decided, and this help did not seem in any
way less questionable than that of the lawyer. K. valued the painter's
help far more highly because it was offered in a way that was more
harmless and open.

The painter had pulled his seat closer to the bed and continued in
a subdued voice: "I forgot to ask you; what sort of acquittal is it you
want? There are three possibilities; absolute acquittal, apparent
acquittal and deferment. Absolute acquittal is the best, of course,
only there's nothing I could do to get that sort of outcome. I don't
think there's anyone at all who could do anything to get an absolute
acquittal. Probably the only thing that could do that is if the accused
is innocent. As you are innocent it could actually be possible and you
could depend on your innocence alone. In that case you won't need me or
any other kind of help. "

At first, K. was astonished at this orderly explanation, but then,
just as quietly as the painter, he said, "I think you're contradicting
yourself. " "How's that? " asked the painter patiently, leaning back with
a smile. This smile made K. feel as if he were examining not the words
of the painter but seeking out inconsistencies in the procedures of the
court itself. Nonetheless, he continued unabashed and said, "You
remarked earlier that the court cannot be approached with reasoned
proofs, you later restricted this to the open court, and now you go so
far as to say that an innocent man needs no assistance in court. That
entails a contradiction. Moreover, you said earlier that the judges can
be influenced personally but now you insist that an absolute acquittal,
as you call it, can never be attained through personal influence. That
entails a second contradiction. " "It's quite easy to clear up these
contradictions," said the painter. "We're talking about two different
things here, there's what it says in the law and there's what I know
from my own experience, you shouldn't get the two confused. I've never
seen it in writing, but the law does, of course, say on the one hand
that the innocent will be set free, but on the other hand it doesn't say
that the judges can be influenced. But in my experience it's the other
way round. I don't know of any absolute acquittals but I do know of
many times when a judge has been influenced. It's possible, of course,
that there was no innocence in any of the cases I know about. But is
that likely? Not a single innocent defendant in so many cases? When I
was a boy I used to listen closely to my father when he told us about
court cases at home, and the judges that came to his studio talked about
the court, in our circles nobody talks about anything else; I hardly
ever got the chance to go to court myself but always made use of it when
I could, I've listened to countless trials at important stages in their
development, I've followed them closely as far as they could be
followed, and I have to say that I've never seen a single acquittal. "
"So. Not a single acquittal," said K. , as if talking to himself and his
hopes. "That confirms the impression I already have of the court. So
there's no point in it from this side either. They could replace the
whole court with a single hangman. " "You shouldn't generalise," said
the painter, dissatisfied, "I've only been talking about my own
experience. " "Well that's enough," said K. , "or have you heard of any
acquittals that happened earlier? " "They say there have been some
acquittals earlier," the painter answered, "but it's very hard to be
sure about it. The courts don't make their final conclusions public,
not even the judges are allowed to know about them, so that all we know
about these earlier cases are just legends. But most of them did
involve absolute acquittals, you can believe that, but they can't be
proved. On the other hand, you shouldn't forget all about them either,
I'm sure there is some truth to them, and they are very beautiful, I've
painted a few pictures myself depicting these legends. " "My assessment
will not be altered by mere legends," said K. "I don't suppose it's
possible to cite these legends in court, is it? " The painter laughed.
"No, you can't cite them in court," he said. "Then there's no point in
talking about them," said K. , he wanted, for the time being, to accept
anything the painter told him, even if he thought it unlikely or
contradicted what he had been told by others. He did not now have the
time to examine the truth of everything the painter said or even to
disprove it, he would have achieved as much as he could if the painter
would help him in any way even if his help would not be decisive. As a
result, he said, "So let's pay no more attention to absolute acquittal,
but you mentioned two other possibilities. " "Apparent acquittal and
deferment. They're the only possibilities," said the painter. "But
before we talk about them, would you not like to take your coat off?
You must be hot. " "Yes," said K. , who until then had paid attention to
nothing but the painter's explanations, but now that he had had the heat
pointed out to him his brow began to sweat heavily. "It's almost
unbearable. " The painter nodded as if he understood K. 's discomfort
very well. "Could we not open the window? " asked K. "No," said the
painter. "It's only a fixed pane of glass, it can't be opened. " K. now
realised that all this time he had been hoping the painter would
suddenly go over to the window and pull it open. He had prepared
himself even for the fog that he would breathe in through his open
mouth. The thought that here he was entirely cut off from the air made
him feel dizzy. He tapped lightly on the bedspread beside him and, with
a weak voice, said, "That is very inconvenient and unhealthy. " "Oh no,"
said the painter in defence of his window, "as it can't be opened this
room retains the heat better than if the window were double glazed, even
though it's only a single pane. There's not much need to air the room
as there's so much ventilation through the gaps in the wood, but when I
do want to I can open one of my doors, or even both of them. " K. was
slightly consoled by this explanation and looked around to see where the
second door was. The painter saw him do so and said, "It's behind you,
I had to hide it behind the bed. " Only then was K. able to see the
little door in the wall. "It's really much too small for a studio
here," said the painter, as if he wanted to anticipate an objection K.
would make. "I had to arrange things as well as I could. That's
obviously a very bad place for the bed, in front of the door. For
instance when the judge I'm painting at present comes he always comes
through the door by the bed, and I've even given him a key to this door
so that he can wait for me here in the studio when I'm not home.
Although nowadays he usually comes early in the morning when I'm still
asleep. And of course, it always wakes me up when I hear the door
opened beside the bed, however fast asleep I am.