JOURNEY TO HIS MOTHER

Suddenly at lunch it occurred to him that he ought to visit his mother. Spring was drawing to a close, and with it the third year since he’d seen her. She’d asked him at that time to visit her on his birthday, and in spite of several obstacles he had complied with her wish, and even made her a promise to spend every birthday with her, a promise, it must be said, that he had already broken twice. Now, however, to make up for it, he wouldn’t wait until his birthday, although it was just two weeks away, but would go at once. He did tell himself there was no particular reason to go just now; on the contrary, the reports he received every two months from his cousin, who owned a shop in the village and administered the money K. sent for his mother, were more reassuring than ever before. His mother’s vision was failing, to be sure, but K. had been expecting that for years after what the doctors had said; other than that her condition had improved and various ailments of old age had abated rather than worsening, or at any rate she complained less. In his cousin’s judgment this might be connected with the fact that over the past few years—K. had already noticed, almost with repugnance, minor signs of this during his last visit—she had become excessively pious. His cousin had described quite vividly in a letter how the old woman, who had previously struggled to drag herself about, now positively strode along on his arm when he took her to church on Sunday. And K. could trust his cousin, for he was normally overanxious, and tended to exaggerate the negative aspects of his report rather than the positive ones.

Be that as it may, K. had now decided to go; among other distressing things, he had recently noted a certain tendency toward self-pity, an almost irresistible urge to give in to every desire—well, in this case his weakness was at least serving a good purpose.

He stepped to the window to gather his thoughts, then had his meal cleared away at once, sent his assistant to Frau Grubach to inform her of his departure and bring back an attaché case in which Frau Grubach was to pack whatever she thought necessary, then gave Herr Kühne a few business assignments to handle in his absence, scarcely even irritated this time by Herr Kühne’s rude manner, which had now become habitual, of receiving assignments with his face averted, as if he knew quite well what needed to be done and endured the communication of these assignments merely for form’s sake, and last of all went to see the president. When he requested a two-day leave of absence because he needed to visit his mother, the president naturally asked if K.’s mother were ill. “No,” said K., without further explanation. He was standing in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Frowning, he thought things over. Had he perhaps made preparations for departure too hastily? Wouldn’t it be better to remain here? What did he want there? Was he going out of mere sentimentality? And out of sentimentality possibly neglecting some important matter here, an opportunity to intervene, which might turn up any day or hour now, since the trial seemed to have been at a standstill for weeks and scarcely a single piece of concrete news about it had reached him? And might he not shock the old woman as well, without wishing to of course, but against his will, since so many things were happening now against his will. And his mother was not even asking for him. Previously, pressing invitations from his mother had appeared regularly in his cousin’s letters, but for some time now they had not. He wasn’t going for his mother’s sake then, that was clear. But if he was going in hopes of something, for his own sake, then he was a total fool and would reap only final despair as a reward for his foolishness. But as if all these doubts were not his own, but being pushed upon him instead by strangers, he suddenly snapped out of his reverie and stuck with his decision to go. In the meantime the president, either by chance, or more likely out of special consideration for K., had bent over a newspaper; now he raised his eyes, held his hand out to K. as he arose, and without a single further question wished him a pleasant journey.

K. then waited in his office for his assistant, pacing up and down; saying as little as possible, he warded off the vice president, who came in several times to try to discover the reason for K.’s departure; when K. finally had his attaché case, he hurried straight down to the cab, which he had ordered in advance. He was already on the stairs when, at the last moment, Kullych the clerk appeared at the top, holding in his hand a letter he had started, apparently wanting to ask K. for some instruction about it. K. tried to wave him off, but dull-witted as this big-headed blond fellow was, he misunderstood the gesture and raced after him in perilous leaps and bounds, waving the sheet of paper in his hand. K. was so exasperated by this that when Kullych caught up with him on the stairs he grabbed the letter from his hand and tore it to pieces. When, once in the cab, K. turned around, there stood Kullych, who probably still didn’t understand what he’d done wrong, still in the same spot, gazing after the departing cab, while beside him the porter tugged his cap sharply. K. was still one of the highest officials in the bank; if he tried to deny it, the porter would refute him. And in spite of all his arguments to the contrary, his mother thought he was the president of the bank and had been for years now. He wouldn’t fall in her opinion, no matter what damage his reputation had suffered otherwise. Perhaps it was a good sign that just before leaving, he had convinced himself he could still seize a letter from a clerk, even one who was connected with the court, and tear it to pieces without a word of apology. Of course what he would have liked to do best he couldn’t: give Kullych two loud slaps on his pale round cheeks.