Before the Law
Before the law stands a doorkeeper. To this doorkeeper there comes a man
from the country and prays for admittance to the Law. But the doorkeeper
says that he cannot grant admittance at the moment. The man thinks it over
and asks if he will be allowed in later. "It is possible," says the
doorkeeper, "but not at the moment." Since the gate stands open as usual,
and the doorkeeper steps to one side, the man stoops to peer through the
gateway into the interior. Observing that, the doorkeeper laughs and says:
"If you are so drawn to it, just try to go in despite my veto. But take
note: I am powerful. And I am only the least of the doorkeepers. From hall
to hall there is one doorkeeper after another, each more powerful than the
last. The third doorkeeper is already so terrible that even I cannot bear
to look at him." These are difficulties the man from the country has not
expected; the Law, he thinks, should surely be accessible at all times and
to everyone, but as he now takes a closer look at the doorkeeper in his fur
coat, with his big sharp nose and long thin, black Tartar beard, he decides
that it is better to wait until he gets permission to enter. The doorkeeper
gives him a stool and lets him sit down at one side of the door. There
he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be admitted, and
wearies the doorkeeper by his importunity. The doorkeeper frequently has
little interviews with him, asking him questions about his home and many
other things, but the questions are put indifferently, as great lords put
them, and always finish with the statement that he cannot be let in yet. The
man, who has furnished himself with many things for his journey, sacrifices
all he has, however valuable to the doorkeeper. The doorkeeper accepts
everything, but always with the remark: "I am only taking it to keep you from
thinking you have omitted anything." During these many years the man fixes
his attention almost continuously on the doorkeeper. He forgets the other
doorkeepers, and this first one seems to him the sole obstacle preventing
access to the Law. He curses his bad luck, in his early years boldly and
loudly; later, as he grows old, he only grumbles to himself. He becomes
childish, and since in his yearlong comtemplation of the doorkeeper he
has come to know even the fleas in his fur collar, he begs the fleas to help
him and to change the doorkeeper's mind. At length his eyesight begins to
fail, and he does not know whether the world is darker or whether his eyes
are only deceiving him. Yet in his darkness he is now aware of a radiance
that streams inextinguishably from the gatway of the Law. Now he has not
very long to live. Before he dies, all his experiences in these long years
gather themselves in his head to one point, a question he has not yet asked
the doorkeeper. He waves him nearer since he can no longer raise his
stiffening body. The doorkeeper has to bend low toward him, for the
difference in height between them has altered much to the man's disadvantage.
"What do you want to know now?" asks the doorkeeper; "you are insatiable."
"Everyone strives to reach the Law," says the man, "so how does it happen
that for all these many years no one but myself has ever begged for
admittance?" The doorkeeper recognizes the man has reached his end, and,
to let his failing senses catch the words, roars in his ear: "No one else
could ever be admitted here, since this gate was made only for you. I am
now going to shut it."
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
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