“Yes,” replied the landlady, “that serves your purpose as well, and just that serves it best. You misconstrue everything, even a person’s silence. You can’t do anything else. I allow you to ask your question.”
“If I misconstrue everything, perhaps I misconstrue my question as well, perhaps it’s not so rude after all. I only want to know how you came to meet your husband and how this inn came into your hands.”
The landlady wrinkled her forehead, but said indifferently: “That’s a very simple story. My father was the blacksmith, and Hans, my husband, who was a groom at a big farmer’s place, came often to see him. That was just after my last meeting with Klamm. I was very unhappy and really had no right to be so, for everything had gone as it should, and that I wasn’t allowed any longer to see Klamm was Klamm’s own decision. It was as it should be then, only the grounds for it were obscure. I was entitled to enquire into them, but I had no right to be unhappy; still I was, all the same, couldn’t work, and sat in our front garden all day. There Hans saw me, often sat down beside me. I didn’t complain to him, but he knew how things were, and as he is a good young man, he wept with me. The wife of the landlord at that time had died and he had consequently to give up business—besides he was already an old man. Well, once as he passed our garden and saw us sitting there, he stopped, and without more ado offered us the inn to rent, didn’t ask for any money in advance, for he trusted us, and set the rent at a very low figure. I didn’t want to be a burden on my father, nothing else mattered to me, and so thinking of the inn and of my new work that might perhaps help me to forget a little, I gave Hans my hand. That’s the whole story.”
There was silence for a little, then K. said: “The behaviour of the landlord was generous, but rash, or had he particular grounds for trusting you both?”
“He knew Hans well,” said the landlady; “he was Hans’ uncle.”