CHAPTER 97
These were the days before “the new awakening” or “the new way of life,” as modern slogans have it. But if K failed to toss away his old self and throw himself into becoming a new man, it was not for want of such concepts. Rather, it was because he could not bear to reject a self and a past that had been so noble and exalted. One might even say that it had been his reason for living. So his failure to rush headlong in pursuit of love must not be read as proof that his love was lukewarm. No matter how fierce was the passion that gripped him, the fact is he was paralyzed, transfixed by the contemplation of his own past. Only something so momentous as to drive from his consciousness all thoughts of before and after could have propelled him forward. And with his eyes fixed on the past, he had no choice but to continue along its trajectory. Also, there was in K a kind of obduracy and power of endurance lacking in modern men. In this respect I was confident that I knew him well.
For me, that evening was relatively peaceful. I followed K to his room, settled myself beside his desk, and deliberately chattered on for a while about nothing in particular. He looked annoyed. No doubt a light of victory glinted in my eye, and my voice held a note of triumph. After I’d spent some time warming my hands over his brazier, I returned to my room. Just for that moment I felt that, though K was in every way superior to me, for once I had nothing to fear from him.
Soon I drifted into a calm sleep. But I was awakened by the sudden sound of my name. Turning to look, I saw that the sliding doors were partly open, and K’s dark shape was standing there. The desk lamp still glowed in the room beyond. Stunned by the sudden change in my world, for a long moment I could only lie there, speechless and staring.
“Are you in bed already?” K asked. He always stayed up late.
“What is it?” I said, addressing K’s shadowy phantom shape.
“Nothing really,” he replied. “I just dropped in on my way back from the bathroom to check if you were asleep yet.” With the lamplight behind him, I could make out nothing of his expression. His voice, however, was if anything calmer than usual.
After a moment he slid the doors carefully closed. Darkness instantly returned to my room. I closed my eyes again, to shut out the blackness and dream in peace. I remember nothing more. But the next morning when I recalled the incident, it struck me as somehow strange. Had I perhaps dreamed it? I wondered.
Over breakfast I asked him about it. Yes, he said, he had opened the doors and called my name.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, but he gave only a vague reply.
We lapsed into silence. Then he abruptly asked if I was sleeping well lately. The question struck me as rather odd.
That day our lectures would begin at the same time, so we set off together. The previous night’s incident had been bothering me all morning, and I brought up the subject again as we walked. He still gave no satisfactory answer, however. “Did you want to continue our earlier conversation?” I asked.
He vehemently denied it. This firm response seemed like a curt reminder that he had said he wouldn’t talk about it anymore. He always had a fierce pride in his own consistency, I reminded myself. Then I found myself recalling how he had spoken of “resolve.” Suddenly this simple word, until that moment quite insignificant, began strangely to oppress me.