Page 173 - the-trial

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 stu-
dio. 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 neighbour-
ing building.
The turning of the key in the lock reminded K. that he
had not wanted to stay too long. So he drew the manufac-
turer’s letter out from his pocket, held it out to the painter
and said, “I learned about you from this gentleman, an ac-
quaintance 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 im-
pression was augmented by the painter’s asking, “Were you
wanting to buy some pictures or did you want to have your-
self painted?” K. looked at the painter in astonishment.

1 The Trial