by Franz Kafka
And now I’m going to eat and go to the foreign exchange—a typical morning in the office.
[Prague, August 13, 1920]fn15
Friday
I don’t exactly know why I am writing, probably because I’m nervous, which is why I answered the special delivery letter I received from you yesterday evening with a clumsy telegram this morning. After I check at Schenker’s this afternoon I’ll answer you immediately.160
Otherwise our correspondence on this subject will lead again and again to the conclusion that you are bound to your husband by a virtually sacramental, indissoluble marriage (how nervous I am, my ship must have lost its rudder somehow during these last days), and that I am bound by an identical marriage to—I don’t know, but I often feel the gaze of this terrible wife. And the strange thing is that, although each of these marriages is indissoluble—so there’s actually nothing more to be said—the indissolubility of one creates the indissolubility of the other or at least reinforces it and vice versa. But nothing remains except the judgment in your words: ‘It will never be,’ and let us never speak of the future again, just of the present.161
This truth is absolute, unshakable, the pillar supporting the world, and still I confess I feel (but this is merely a feeling; however, the truth remains, remains absolute. You know whenever I want to write something like the following the swords immediately begin to approach, slowly, their points forming a wreath around me—the most perfect torture; when they begin to graze me—not cut, just graze me—it’s already so terrible I betray everything at once, with my first scream: you, me, everything)—so only on this assumption do I confess that writing letters about things like this makes me feel (I repeat for my life’s sake: this is merely a feeling) as if I were living somewhere in Central Africa and had lived there all my life and wanted to share with you who live in Europe, in the middle of Europe, my unshakable opinions about the next political configuration. But this is just a simile, a stupid, clumsy, wrong, sentimental, lamentable, intentionally blind simile, nothing more: please, swords!
You’re right to quote your husband’s letter, and although I can’t say I understand everything exactly (do not send me the letter), I can see that it is written by a ‘single’ man, one who wants to ‘marry.’ What does his occasional ‘infidelity’ matter? It isn’t even ‘infidelity,’ since you both walk the same road, just that he veers a little to the left along the way. What does this ‘infidelity’ matter, which will keep welling up in any case in your deepest sorrow as in your deepest happiness? What does this ‘infidelity’ matter compared to my eternal bond!
I did not misunderstand you concerning your husband. You keep pouring the whole mystery of your indestructible unity, this rich inexhaustible mystery, into worrying about his boots. There’s something about that which tortures me; I don’t know exactly what. It’s really very simple; if you were to leave him he’ll either live with another woman or move into a boarding house, and his boots will be polished better than they are now. This is silly and not silly, I don’t know what it is about these remarks that causes me such pain. Maybe you know.
Yesterday I went to see Laurin; he wasn’t in his office; today I spoke with him on the telephone and interrupted him right in the middle of correcting one of your essays. He says he wrote your husband yesterday, and that he should appeal directly to Masaryk’s secretary, who is an acquaintance of Laurin.—Yesterday I wrote to Pick at Haindorf-Ferdinandstal.—162
Your birthday wouldn’t have had to be spoiled if you’d written me earlier about the money. I’m bringing it along. But we may not see each other at all; in this confusion it’s entirely possible.
There’s another thing. You write about people who share their mornings and evenings and those who don’t. In my opinion, precisely the latter situation is the more favorable. They have possibly, or certainly, done something bad, and the filth of this scene derives essentially from their being strangers—as you correctly observe—and it is physical filth just like the filth in an apartment that has never been occupied and is suddenly, savagely torn open. This is bad but nothing crucial, nothing actually decisive in heaven and on Earth has happened, it really is just ‘playing with a ball,’ as you call it. It’s as if Eve had indeed picked the apple (sometimes I think I understand the Fall like no one else), but just to show it to Adam—because she liked it. It was the biting that was decisive; of course playing with the apple also wasn’t allowed, but neither was it prohibited.
[Prague, August 17–18, 1920]
Tuesday
So it’ll be another 10–14 days before I get an answer to this letter;163 compared to the way it’s been, that’s almost like being abandoned, isn’t it? And just now I feel there are some things I have to tell you, unsayable things, unwritable—not to make up for something I did wrong in Gmünd, not to save something which has drowned, but to make it utterly clear to you how I am doing, so that you won’t let yourself be frightened away from me. After all, that can happen with people, despite everything. Sometimes I feel as though I had lead weights so heavy they’re bound to pull me down into the deepest sea in a minute, and anyone who wanted to grab me or even ‘save’ me would just let me go, not out of weakness or even desperation, but simply out of sheer annoyance. Now, naturally this isn’t addressed to you, but to your pale reflection, barely recognizable by a tired, empty head (neither unhappy nor excited—almost a condition to be grateful for).
So yesterday I went to see Jarmila. Since it was so important to you I didn’t want to postpone it by a single day—to tell the truth, the thought of having to speak with Jarmila at all made me uneasy, and I preferred to get it over with at once, despite my being unshaven (this time it wasn’t merely gooseflesh), which could hardly affect the outcome of my mission. I went up there around 6:30; the doorbell didn’t ring, knocking didn’t help, the Národní Listy was in the mailbox, evidently there was nobody home. I stood around a little while, two women came in from the courtyard, one of them Jarmila, the other possibly her mother. I recognized J at once, although she hardly resembles her photograph, much less you.
[…]164
We left the house at once and walked up and down for about 10 minutes behind the former military academy. What surprised me most was that she was very talkative, contrary to what you had foreseen, although admittedly just for these 10 minutes. She talked almost incessantly, reminding me very much of that letter of hers you once sent me. A loquaciousness that is somehow independent of the speaker—this time it was even more striking, since it wasn’t about such concrete details as were in that letter. Her liveliness is partly explained by the fact that, as she said, she has been upset about the whole affair for several days now, she has wired Haas on account of Werfel, and (still without an answer) has wired you and written by special delivery.165 Following your request she immediately burned the letters, not knowing any other way she could quickly put your mind to rest, which is also why she had already thought of going to see me this afternoon, to at least discuss it with someone who also knew about the whole thing. (She is evidently under the impression that she knows where I live, because of the following: one autumn, I think—or maybe it was already spring, I don’t know for sure—I went rowing with Ottla and little Růženka, the girl who had prophesied my impending end in the Schönbornpalais. In front of the Rudolphinum we met Haas with a woman whom I didn’t even notice at the time, it was Jarmila. Haas told her my name and Jarmila mentioned that she had occasionally spoken with my sister years ago at the swimming school; because the swimming school was very Christian at the time, Jarmila had remembered my sister as a Jewish curiosity. At the time we lived opposite the swimming school and Ottla had pointed out our apartment.166 So that’s the whole long story.) This is why she was honestly glad I had come, why she was so animated—incidentally, also unhappy—about these entanglements which have most assuredly, most assuredly stopped and which, as she almost passionately assured me, will most assuredly, most assuredly have no further consequences. My
ambition, however, was unsatisfied, I had wanted to burn the letters myself and scatter the ashes over the Belvedere—admittedly without seeing the importance of doing so, but I was so caught up in the task I had been assigned.
She said little about herself: she sits at home all the time—her face proves this—speaks to no one, only goes out on occasion to check for something in a bookstore or else to mail a letter. Apart from that she just talked about you (or was it me talking about you, it’s hard to distinguish after the fact). When I mentioned how happy you had been when you saw—having received a letter from Berlin—that there was a possibility Jarmila might visit you, she said she could hardly understand how happiness was possible and least of all how it might come from her. It sounded simple and believable. I said old times can’t just be erased and they always contain possibilities that might spring to life. She said yes, that might happen if people were together, and recently she had been looking forward to seeing you very much, and it seemed to her so obviously necessary for you to be here—she pointed to the ground several times; her hands were animated as well—here, here, here.
In one respect she reminds me of Staša; whenever they talk about you, both are in the underworld, speaking wearily about you who are alive. But Jarmila’s underworld is definitely different; in the other case it is the person looking on who suffers, here it is Jarmila. I have the feeling she needs indulgence.
[…]167
We said goodbye quickly in front of her house.
Beforehand she had also annoyed me somewhat with a tedious account of a particularly beautiful picture of you she wanted to show me. Finally it turned out she had had this photograph in her hand when she was burning all her papers and letters before leaving for Berlin; she had looked for it again this very afternoon, but in vain.
Then I sent you an exaggerated telegram saying your instructions had been carried out. But could I have done more? And are you satisfied with me?
It’s senseless to ask, considering this letter won’t arrive for 14 days, but maybe this will only be a small addition to the general senselessness of my request: do not let yourself be scared away from me—if it is at all possible in this unsteady world (where, when one is torn away, one is simply torn away and can’t do anything about it)—even if I disappoint you once or a thousand times or right now or perhaps always right now. Incidentally, that isn’t a request and isn’t directed to you at all; I don’t know where it is directed. It’s simply the oppressed breathing of an oppressed chest.
Wednesday
Your letter from Monday morning. Since that Monday morning or rather since Monday noon, when the beneficial effects of the trip had already worn off a little (apart from everything else, every trip is a recuperation in itself, a being-grabbed-by-the-collar, a being-shaken-through-and-through)—since then I have been singing one single song for you, incessantly; it’s always different and always the same, as rich as a dreamless sleep, boring and exhausting, so that it even puts me to sleep sometimes. Be glad you don’t have to hear it, be glad you’ll be protected from my letters for so long.
O ye knowers of human nature! What do I have against your polishing his boots so beautifully: go ahead and polish them beautifully, then put them in the corner and let it be done with. It’s only that you polish them in your mind all day long, sometimes that torments me (and doesn’t clean the boots).
[Prague, August 19–23, 1920]
Thursday
I kept wanting to hear a different sentence than you did, this one: ‘You’re mine.’168 And why that one in particular? It doesn’t even mean love, just nearness and night.
Yes, the lie was great and I shared in its telling, but what’s even worse is I did so in the corner, just for myself, playing innocent.
Unfortunately you keep assigning me tasks which have already been taken care of by the time I get there. If you have so little trust in me and are just trying to build my self-confidence a little, then it’s too obvious a ploy. Pick writes he has already answered Frau Milena Pollak’s request last week (who is this difficult three-footed creature?). By the way, he doesn’t seem to have a publisher, but is coming to Prague at the end of August and will look for one then. I recently heard a rumor that Ernst Weiss is critically ill and without money and that a collection is being taken up for him in Franzensbad.169 Do you know anything about that?
I don’t understand what Jarmila’s telegram (which was sent before we met) has to do with me or even with jealousy. She did seem pleased that I showed up (because of you), but much more pleased that I left (because of me or more precisely herself).
IN THE MARGIN: Did Laurin write? And what did the lawyer say?
You really could have written a few more words about your cold, did you catch it in Gmünd or on the way home from the café? Incidentally, we’re still having a beautiful summer here, even on Sunday it rained only in southern Bohemia; I was proud, the whole world could see from my soaking clothes that I was coming from the direction of Gmünd.
Friday
When read very close up it’s impossible to understand the misery you’re living in at the moment, it has to be held further away, but even then it’s difficult to read.
You misunderstood what I said about claws, although it really wasn’t understandable. What you say about Gmünd is correct and in the broadest sense. For instance, I remember you asked whether I hadn’t been unfaithful to you in Prague. It was half in jest half in earnest half indifferent—again the 3 halves because it was impossible. You had my letters and were asking that. How was such a question possible? And if that wasn’t enough, I go on and make it even more impossible. I said, yes, I had been faithful to you. How can it happen that one speaks like that? On that day we spoke and listened to each other often and for a long time, like strangers.
My Viennese friend’s name is not Jeiteles, in fact he’s not my friend at all; I don’t know him, he’s an acquaintance of Max’s who arranged the whole thing. However, the ad will somehow make it into the Presse, that’s easily taken care of here in a local advertisement office.170
Jarmila came to see me late yesterday afternoon (I don’t know where she got my current address). I wasn’t home, she left a letter for you and a penciled note asking me to send you the letter because although she has your address in the country, it doesn’t seem safe enough to her.
I haven’t called Vlasta yet,171 I can’t really bring myself to do so; after 9 I could only call her from the office, and I telephone so badly when surrounded by employees (we don’t have a booth) that the switchboard operator generally refuses to connect me. I also forgot her surname and what would I do if your father answered? I’d rather write her; it would probably have to be in Czech?
You don’t mention the lawyer?
The ad will appear Wednesday for the first time. Will possible responses be forwarded to Vienna?
Monday
So there, it didn’t take so long after all, I’ve received the 2 letters from Salzburg—may things turn out well in Gilgen. Of course, it’s already autumn, this cannot be denied. I’m doing badly, I’m doing well, whichever you prefer; hopefully my health will last a little while into autumn. We’ll still have to write or talk about Gmünd—that’s partly why I’m doing badly—no, it’s not like that at all, just the opposite, I’ll write about it in greater detail—I’m enclosing Jarmila’s letter.172 I responded to her visit with a pneumatic letter saying I’d be happy to send you her letter, but only if it didn’t contain anything urgent, since I didn’t think I’d have your address for another week.
She hasn’t written back.
If it’s possible please send me a view of your apartment!
[Prague, August 26, 1920]
Thursday
I read the letter in pencil first. In Monday’s letter I just skimmed over an underlined passage, then I preferred to leave it alone a while; I’m so anxious and it’s such a bad thing one can’t throw oneself with all one’s being into every word; then, in case this word were attack
ed, one could totally defend oneself or else face total annihilation. But here, too, there is not only death, but also disease.
Even before I had finished reading the letter—you yourself write something similar in the end—it occurred to me you might be able to stay there a little longer, as long as the autumn permits. Wouldn’t this be possible?
The letters from Salzburg came quickly; from Gilgen it takes a while, but I also get other bits of news here and there. Polgar’s sketches in the paper about the lake—they’re sad beyond measure,173 and perplexing, since they’re funny nonetheless—well that’s not much, but then there’s also news from Salzburg, the Festival, the uncertain weather—now this news isn’t funny; you left too late—then sometimes I make Max tell me about Wolfgang and Gilgen, he was very happy there as a boy, it must have been better in the old days. But all that wouldn’t amount to much if it weren’t for the Tribuna, this daily possibility of finding something of yours, and occasionally actually finding it. Do you dislike my talking about it? But I enjoy reading it so much. And who should talk about it if not I, your best reader? Even earlier, before you said you sometimes think of me when writing, I felt it was connected with me, that is, I held it pressed against me; now because you have expressly said so, it almost makes me even more anxious and when for instance I read about a hare in the snow I can almost see myself there, running.174
IN THE MARGIN: 100 K daily, so cheap, couldn’t you stay there longer, in Gilgen, Wolfgang, Salzburg, or elsewhere?
IN THE MARGIN: I consider Max’s intervention with Topič out of the question, that’s really too clumsy of Pick to want to hide behind Max; he didn’t write that to me, but promised he’d look for something himself when he comes to Prague.175
I spent a good hour on the Sophieninsel with Landauer’s essay; I understand how the details of the translation made you angry—but after all it was a loving anger as well—nonetheless it is beautiful and even if it doesn’t go a step deeper, at least it shuts the reader’s eyes enough for him to take this step. Incidentally, the material which attracts you is strange; the three essays (Claudel, Landauer, ‘Letters’)176 belong together after all. How did you arrive at Landauer? (In this issue of Kmen there’s also the first good original piece I’ve read there; I can’t remember the author’s name exactly—Vladislav Vančura or something like that.)177
