The Knock at the Manor Gate

''Story by Franz Kafka. Copied from wikisource.''

It was a hot summer’s day. I was coming along the homeward road with my sister and passed the gate of a manor. I do not know if she knocked at it out of sheer mischief or merely threatened to do so with her fist and did not. A hundred yards farther up where the road turns left began a village. We were not acquainted with this village, but just after the first house people came out and waved at us. Whether out of friendliness or warning, they were apparently frightened and stooping in dismay. They pointed in the direction of the manor we had passed and reminded us of the knock at the gate. The landlord had brought an action against us and an investigation was to begin at once. I was very calm and calmed my sister also. She probably hadn’t even made any knock—and even had she done so, nowhere in the world was there proof of it. I tried to make the people around us understand. They listened, but withheld judgment. Later they said, not only my sister, but I too was to be charged. I nodded, smiling. We looked back at the manor, as when one observes a distant plume of smoke and waits for the flame. Dust rose, covering everyone. Only the points of the tall lances were visible. And scarcely had the troop vanished into the manor grounds when presently their horses appeared to have turned round, and were headed towards us. I pushed my sister aside—I would sort things out on my own. She refused to let me go by myself. I said she should at least change her clothes, so that she might come better-dressed before the gentlemen. In the end she followed and took the long way to the house. Soon the riders were upon us, nor had they alighted from their horses before they had asked for my sister. “She’s not here at the moment,” I answered anxiously, “but she'll come later.” The answer was received quite indifferently; it seemed significant above all that they had found me. There were two main gentlemen: the judge, a young, lively man; and his quiet assistant who was named Assmann. I was asked to enter a peasants’ cottage. Slowly, shaking my head and adjusting my braces, I sat down under the sharp gaze of the gentlemen at work. I still believed the word of honour, given by any of these peasants, would be enough for the townsfolk to set me free. But when I had crossed the threshold of the cottage, the judge, who sprang forward already expecting me, said: “I feel sorry for this man.” However, it was beyond all doubt that by this he did not mean my present state of affairs, but rather what would happen to me. The room looked more like a prison-cell than a cottage: large flagstones, utterly bare walls, immured by an iron ring; something was in the middle--half platform, half operating table.

Could I still taste other air than the prison’s? That is the great question; or on the contrary—it would be, if I still had some prospect of release.