And after a pause the same voice with the same defect answered him, yet with a deeper and more authoritative tone: “You are the old assistant.”
K. was listening to the new note, and almost missed the question: “What is it you want?” He felt like laying down the receiver. He had ceased to expect anything from this conversation. But being pressed, he replied quickly: “When can my master come to the Castle?” “Never,” was the answer. “Very well,” said K. , and hung the receiver up.
Behind him the peasants had crowded quite close. His assistants, with many side glances in his direction, were trying to keep them back. But they seemed not to take the matter very seriously, and in any case the peasants, satisfied with the result of the conversation, were beginning to give ground. A man came cleaving his way with rapid steps through the group, bowed before K. and handed him a letter. K. took it, but looked at the man, who for the moment seemed to him the more important. There was a great resemblance between this newcomer and the assistants, he was slim like them and clad in the same tight-fitting garments, had the same suppleness and agility, and yet he was quite different. How much K. would have preferred him as an assistant! He reminded K. a little of the girl with the infant whom he had seen at the tanner’s. He was clothed nearly all in white, not in silk, of course; he was in winter clothes like all the others, but the material he was wearing had the softness and dignity of silk. His face was clear and frank, his eyes larger than ordinary. His smile was unusually joyous; he drew his hand over his face as if to conceal the smile, but in vain. “Who are you?” asked K. “My name is Barnabas,” said he, “I am a messenger.” His lips were strong and yet gentle as he spoke. “Do you approve of this kind of thing?” asked K. , pointing to the peasants for whom he was still an object of curiosity, and who stood gaping at him with their open mouths, coarse lips, and literally tortured faces—their heads looked as if they had been beaten flat on top and their features as if the pain of the beating had twisted them to the present shape—and yet they were not exactly gaping at him, for their eyes often