Introduction
The publication in 1967 of Briefe an Felice (Letters to Felice) led to a reinterpretation of many of Kafkaâs works, including The Trial. These letters to Felice Bauer, to whom Kafka was twice engaged, revealed the extent to which the novel represented an attempt by Kafka to solve a life crisis that was threatening not only his ability to write but his sanity. Autobiographical interpretations of any novel are notoriously unreliable, but in the case of Franz Kafka the connection between life and literature is indisputable. Both Josef K. and Kafka were valued employees in their respective professions; both were bachelors; both were outsiders, unable to integrate successfully with society. Several details in the text make it clear that the novel is set in Prague, where Kafka was living at the time of its composition; and FrĂ€ulein BĂŒrstnerâs name almost always appears as F.B. in the manuscript of The Trial â the same initials as Felice Bauer.
Kafkaâs ïŹrst meeting with her took place on 13th August 1912 at the house of Max Brodâs parents. Kafka wrote in his diary:
âFrl. Felice Bauer: when I arrived at Brodâs on 13. viii she was sitting at the table and looked like a servant.â
The importance of this encounter emerged just over a month later when Kafka â who had written Das Urteil (The Sentence) âat one sittingâ, starting on the evening of 22nd September 1912 and ïŹnishing it on the 23rd â dedicated the story to Felice Bauer. It deals with Georg Bendemann who, having become engaged, wishes to found a family and free himself from his fatherâs inïŹuence â a situation which mirrored Kafkaâs relationship with his own father. Marriage as a means to freedom is an important theme in Kafkaâs writings and receives its most extended treatment in Brief an den Vater (1919).
Yet marriage, in Kafkaâs eyes, meant that he would be compelled to renounce his calling as a writer. On 13th July he writes a contradictory passage in his diary:
âIncapable of tolerating life alone⊠I must be alone much of the time. My achievements are merely a result of being alone.â
This conïŹict â the wish to share his life with a woman and the fear of thereby jeopardizing his freedom to write â can be seen in the way he twice broke off his engagement to Felice. He ïŹrst proposed to her during early June 1914 in Berlin; soon after his return to Prague, however, he conïŹdes to his diary (6th June 1914):
âHave returned from Berlin. I felt bound like a criminal â no worse than if I had been chained up in a corner and could only be visited with policemen present.â
Kafkaâs fear of marriage, which he now regards as a sort of incarceration, intensiïŹes in the following weeks; his letters to Felice become cooler; he warns her of the dangers of marriage. Realizing that he is causing her anguish, he travels to Berlin on 20th July with a close friend, Ernst Weiss, in order to meet Felice and discuss his predicament. The diary entry of 23rd July 1914 describes their discussions, his meeting with her parents and the breaking off of their engagement.
Back in Prague, he begins his life of solitude. Many of his friends and acquaintances had been called up to ïŹght in the war, including his two brothers-in-law. His eldest sister Elly, now that her husband was at the front, moved with her children into the parental home, leaving Kafka free to live in her house. On 3rd August 1914 he writes in his diary:
âAlone at my sisterâs⊠Utter solitude. No longed-for wife opens the door. Within a month I would have had to marry. A terrible word.â
Equally terrible, however, was the solitude. The only way to make sense of this lonely existence was through literature. Through writing. To justify the life he had chosen, it was imperative for him to write an important work. Inspiration is imminent. On 7th August 1914 he writes:
âYesterday and today I wrote four sides, insigniïŹcant triïŹesâŠâ
And on 15th August:
âIâve been writing for a few days now, and hope it continues. Iâm not yet as secure and immersed in work as I was two years ago, but my life has acquired a meaning, my regulated, empty, insane bachelor existence has acquired a justiïŹcation. I can once more conduct a dialogue with myself, and no longer sit staring into an utter void. Only this way can things improve.â
The new work in question was none other than The Trial, as we learn from the diary entry for 21st August 1914:
âBegan with such hopes and have suffered setbacks with all three stories, especially today. Perhaps itâs right that I should only work on the Russian story [âErinnerungen an die Kaldabahnâ] after The Trial. With such risible hope, clearly based merely on mechanical imagination, I am starting The Trial again. â Not entirely without success.â
In the following weeks he works frenetically at the novel, and from 11th August to 1st October completes two-thirds of the work. His frenzy is mirrored in his method. He begins with the ïŹrst and last chapters, then ïŹlls in the middle, working on several chapters at once, without sketches or any preliminary planning. When at the beginning of October inspiration begins to ïŹag, he takes a week off work in an attempt to ïŹnish the novel. The events of the novel echo this creative struggle. In the chapter called âLawyer. Manufacturer. Painterâ, K. decides to compose a written petition, a defence document, but has to recognize that âthe difïŹculties of drawing up the petition were overwhelmingâ. And a few lines later there is a passage that quite clearly alludes obliquely to the difïŹculties Kafka was encountering in ïŹnishing his novel: âToday K. no longer felt any shame, the petition had to be drafted. If he could ïŹnd no time for this at the ofïŹce, which was very likely, he would have to do it in his lodgings at night. And if the nights were not enough, he would have to take a holiday.â A passage from the chapter entitled âIn the Cathedralâ further conïŹrms Kafkaâs problems with writerâs block: ââAre you aware that your trial is going badly?â the priest asked. âThatâs how it looks to me too,â K. said. âIâve tried as hard as I possibly can, but so far without success. Of course, I havenât completed my petition yet.ââ When this passage was written in November 1914, Kafka feared he would never ïŹnish the novel, and the diary bears witness to his rapidly increasing despair: âFor four days now Iâve hardly worked, an hour at most and only a few linesâ (21st October). The next day he confesses: âWork has come to a virtual standstill.â Five weeks later, on 30th November 1914, he has reached his nadir: âI can write no more. I have reached my end.â
His thoughts turn once more to Felice. âToy with the idea of returning to F.â (1st November). And on 30th November he writes with withering honesty: ââŠI should like for the time being to win F. again. I shall deïŹnitely attempt it, provided that revulsion at myself does not prevent me.â He writes to her and arranges a meeting in January 1915. On 20th January 1915 he ïŹnishes The Trial. Two days later he meets Felice in Bodenbach on the Czech border, and although his diary entry shows the encounter was not a success (she listened passively as he read her extracts from The Trial and merely made a lukewarm request to borrow the manuscript), they renewed their engagement in July 1917, only to break it off in December of the same year. They were poles apart. Kafka complained to his diary that whereas he was determined to live for literature, Felice was more interested in âcosy accommodation, the factory, plentiful food, a heated room and sleep from 11 p.m. onâ. In a letter to Max Brod, dated 17th November, he confesses that he has been a failure in his family, his profession, society, and as a lover. The ïŹnal sentence of The Trial has an unmistakably autobiographical ring about it: âIt was as if the shame would outlive him.â
A detailed reading of Letters to Felice and the diaries suggests that Kafka wrote the novel to justify the existence he had chosen â The Trial, in other words, represents his written defence in the trial he had in his imagination initiated against himself, and which was to consider the warring claims of literature and family life â an interpretation that becomes apparent when in the penultimate chapter, âIn the Cathedralâ, the priest says to K. (who has just explained the difïŹculties he was experiencing in âcompleting his petitionâ): âYou seek too much outside help, especially from women.â
â Richard Stokes
The Trial
Arrest
Someone must have been slandering Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything wrong, he was arrested. The cook, employed by his landlady Frau Grubach, who brought him his breakfast each morning at about eight oâclock, failed to appear. That had never happened before. K. waited for a while and, with his head on the pillow, looked at the old lady in the house opposite who was observing him with a quite uncharacteristic curiosity, but then, feeling both hungry and disturbed, he rang the bell. At once there was a knock at the door and a man entered whom he had never seen in the house before. He was slim and yet solidly built, he wore a closely ïŹtting black suit which, like a travellerâs outïŹt, was provided with various pleats, pockets, buckles, buttons and a belt, and as a result seemed eminently practical, although its purpose remained unclear. âWho are you?â K. asked, and immediately began to sit up in bed. But the man ignored the question, as if his presence required no explanation, and merely said: âYou rang?â âTell Anna to bring me my breakfast,â said K., trying to work out through silent observation and reïŹection who the man could be. The man, however, did not submit to this scrutiny for long, but turned instead to the door which he opened a little in order to tell someone who was clearly standing directly behind it: âHe wants Anna to bring him his breakfast.â There was a brief snigger from the adjoining room, and it was not clear from the sound whether several people might not be involved. Although the stranger could scarcely have learnt anything new from this, he now said to K., as if making an announcement: âThat is not possible.â âIâve never heard that before,â said K., who leapt out of bed and quickly pulled on his trousers. âI must ïŹnd out who these people are in there, and see what explanation Frau Grubach can give for such a disturbance.â He realized at once, of course, that he should not have said this out loud, and that by doing so he had in a sense acknowledged the strangerâs right to preside over his actions, but it did not seem important to him at that moment. Still, the stranger took it in that way, for he said: âHadnât you better stay here?â âI have no wish to stay here nor to be addressed by you, until you tell me who you are.â âI was only trying to help,â the stranger said, and now opened the door of his own accord. The adjoining room, which K. entered more slowly than he had intended, looked at ïŹrst glance almost exactly as it had done the previous evening. It was Frau Grubachâs living room, perhaps there was slightly more space than usual among all the furniture, rugs, china and photographs with which it was crammed, but it was not immediately obvious, especially as the most striking change was the presence of a man who was sitting at the open window, reading a book, from which he now looked up. âYou should have stayed in your room! Didnât Franz tell you that?â âYes, but what do you want?â K. asked, looking from this new acquaintance to the man called Franz, who was still standing in the doorway, and then back again. Through the open window the old woman could be seen again, she had moved with truly senile curiosity to the window exactly opposite, so that she could continue to keep an eye on everything. âI wish to see Frau Grubachââ K. said, making a move to break free from the two men and leave the room, even though they were standing some distance away from him. âNo,â said the man at the window, and he threw the book onto a small table and stood up. âYou may not leave, youâve been arrested.â âSo it seems,â said K. âBut why?â he asked. âWe are not authorized to tell you. Go to your room and wait. Proceedings have already been initiated, and you will be told everything in due course. Iâm doing more than I should by talking to you in such a friendly way. But I hope no one can hear except Franz, and he himself has deïŹed regulations by being so friendly towards you. If you continue in the future to be as fortunate as you have been in your warders, you will have reason to be conïŹdent.â K. wanted to sit down, but then saw that there was no seat in the entire room, except the chair by the window. âYouâll come to realize the truth of all this,â said Franz, as he walked towards him with the other man. The latter in particular towered over K. and kept tapping him on the shoulder. Both of them examined K.âs nightshirt, and said that he would now have to wear one of much poorer quality, but that they would look after this one and the rest of his underwear which, if his case turned out well, they would return to him. âItâs better to give us these things than hand them over to the depot,â they said, âbecause a fair amount of theft goes on at the depot, and besides, they sell everything after a time, regardless of whether the proceedings in question have been concluded or not. And you canât imagine how long cases like this have taken, especially recently! Of course youâd get the proceeds from the depot in the end, but ïŹrstly, they donât amount to very much, because the price is not based on the size of the offer but on the size of the bribe, and secondly, experience shows that such proceeds dwindle, as year by year they pass from hand to hand.â K. hardly paid any attention to these remarks, he attached little importance to any rights he might have to dispose of his own things, it was much more important for him to get a clear picture of his position, but he could not even think in the presence of these men; the belly of the second warder â they could of course be no more than warders â kept prodding him in a positively friendly way, yet if he looked up, he caught sight of a face that was completely at odds with that fat body, a desiccated, bony face with a prominent nose, twisted to one side, that was conferring above his head with the other warder. What sort of people were they? What were they talking about? To which authority did they belong? K., after all, lived in a legal state, there was universal peace in the land, all the laws were upheld, who had the temerity to assault him in his own home? He had always tended to take things lightly, to believe the worst only when the worst happened, making no provision for the future, even when everything looked black and threatening. But that did not now seem to be the right approach, one could of course consider the whole thing a joke, a crude joke which for some unknown reason his colleagues at the bank were playing on him, perhaps because today was his thirtieth birthday, that was of course possible, perhaps all he had to do was laugh knowingly in the wardersâ faces and they would laugh with him, perhaps they were porters picked off the street, they were not unlike porters â nonetheless, from the moment he had ïŹrst seen the warder called Franz, he had been utterly determined not to surrender even the slightest advantage he might hold over these people. K. knew there was a slight risk that someone might say later that he could not take a joke, but although it was not in his nature to learn from experience, he remembered a few incidents, unimportant in themselves, when, unlike his friends, he had deliberately set out to behave recklessly without the slightest regard for possible consequences, and had suffered as a result. That was not going to happen again, not this time at any rate, if it was all a piece of play-acting, he would go along with it.
He was still free. âExcuse me,â he said, and walked quickly between the warders into his room. âHe seems a reasonable fellow,â he heard one of them say behind him. Having reached his room, he quickly opened the drawer of his desk, where everything lay in perfect order, but he was so agitated that he could not at ïŹrst ïŹnd the identity papers he was looking for. Eventually he found his bicycle licence and was about to take this to the warders when it occurred to him that the document was too trivial, and he went on looking until he found his birth certiïŹcate. As he was going back into the next room, the door opposite opened and Frau Grubach was preparing to come in. She was only visible for a second, for as soon as she saw K. she was clearly seized with embarrassment, apologized, vanished and shut the door with the utmost care. âBut please come in,â was all that K. had been able to say. But now he stood with his papers in the middle of the room, still looking at the door, which did not open again, until he was roused by a shout from the warders who were sitting at a table by the open window and devouring, as he now saw, his breakfast. âWhy didnât she come in?â he asked. âSheâs not allowed to,â the tall warder said, âyouâre under arrest.â âBut how can I be under arrest? Especially in this manner?â âYouâre at it again,â the warder said, and dipped his slice of bread and butter in the honeypot. âWe donât answer questions like that.â âYouâll have to answer them,â K. told him. âHere are my identity papers. Now show me yours, especially the warrant for my arrest.â âGood God!â the warder said, âwhy canât you just accept your situation, instead of insisting on annoying us unnecessarily, we who are probably now closer to you than anyone else you know.â âItâs true, take our word for it,â said Franz, not raising the coffee cup to his lips but staring at K. with a long and no doubt meaningful yet incomprehensible look. Without wishing to, K. found himself drawn into a staring match with Franz, but at last he thumped his papers and said: âHere are my identity papers.â âWhatâs that got to do with anything?â the tall warder cried out. âYouâre behaving worse than a child. What is it you want? Do you think youâll get this wretched case of yours over quicker by wrangling with us, your warders, about identity papers and arrest warrants? We are lowly ofïŹcials who can barely understand such documents, and our only role in your case is to guard you for ten hours a day and get paid for it. Thatâs all we are, but we are quite capable of understanding that the high authorities we serve, before ordering such an arrest, inform themselves in great detail about the reasons for that arrest and the person theyâre arresting. Thereâs no possibility of a mistake. Our ofïŹcials, in as much as I know them, and I know only the lowest category, never go looking for guilt in the population, but are, as the law states, attracted by guilt and must then send us warders out. Thatâs the law. Where could there be a mistake in that?â âI donât know this law,â K. said. âSo much the worse for you,â the warder said. âIt probably only exists in your imagination,â said K., who wanted somehow to insinuate his way into his wardersâ thoughts, turn them to his own advantage or accustom himself to them. But the warder merely said dismissively: âYou soon will.â Franz interrupted and said: âSee, Willem, he admits he doesnât know the law, yet claims heâs innocent.â âYouâre quite right, but itâs impossible to make a man like that see reason,â the other said. K. said nothing more; âDo I really have to let myself be confused,â he thought, âby the idle talk of these mere minions, for they admit themselves thatâs all they are. In any case, theyâre talking of things they simply donât understand. Itâs only their stupidity that gives them such conïŹdence. A few words with someone on my own intellectual level would make everything incomparably clearer than talking interminably with these two.â He paced up and down a few times in the uncluttered part of the room, across the way he saw the old woman who had pulled a much older man to the window and was now holding him in a tight embrace; K. felt he must put an end to this farce: âTake me to your superior,â he said. âWhen heâs so inclined, not before,â said the warder called Willem. âAnd now I advise you,â he added, âto go to your room, stay calm and wait and see what they decide to do with you. We advise you not to get distracted by useless thoughts, but to pull yourself together, great demands will be made on you. We have deserved better treatment from you, considering how accommodating weâve been, you are forgetting that, whatever else we may be, we are at least free men compared with you, that is no small advantage. Nonetheless we are prepared, if you have money, to bring you a little breakfast from the cafĂ© opposite.â
K. stood still for a little while, without replying to this offer. Perhaps if he were to open the door of the adjoining room or even the door into the hall, neither of them would dare to stop him, perhaps the simplest solution would be to bring the whole matter to a head. On the other hand they might indeed grab hold of him, and once he had been knocked to the ïŹoor he would lose all the superiority which, in a sense, he still had over them. He therefore preferred the safety of whatever solution would arise in the natural course of events, and went back to his room without another word being said by either him or the warders.
He threw himself onto his bed and took from the bedside table a nice apple he had put aside the previous evening for his breakfast. It was all the breakfast he would be having now, and yet it was, as he told himself when he took his ïŹrst big bite, much better than the breakfast he would have had from the ïŹlthy night cafĂ©, as a favour from the warders. He felt conïŹdent and at ease, although he was missing work at the bank this morning, that would easily be excused in view of the comparatively high position he held there. Should he give the real reason? He intended to do so. If they didnât believe him, which would be understandable in the circumstances, he could call Frau Grubach as a witness or even the two old people across the way, who were probably even now moving to the window opposite him. It surprised K., at least from the wardersâ perspective, that they had forced him into the room and left him alone there, where it would be ten times easier to kill himself. At the same time he asked himself, from his own perspective, what reason he could possibly have for doing that. Because the pair of them were sitting in the next room and had intercepted his breakfast? Killing himself would have been so senseless that, even if he had wanted to, its very senselessness would have prevented...