Letters to Milena

by Franz Kafka

  Now I will again say something dumb on the same subject, it’s dumb of me to say something I think is correct when I know it will hurt me. And on top of that Milena is still going on about anxiety, striking my chest or asking: jste žid?fn1 which in Czech has the same movement and sound. Don’t you see how the fist is pulled back in the word ‘jste,’ so as to gain muscle power? And then in the word ‘žid’ the happy blow, flying unerringly forward? The Czech language of ten produces such side effects on the German ear. For example, you once asked how it happened that I made my stay here dependent on one letter, and then you immediately answered your own question: nechápu.fn2 A strange word in Czech and even in your mouth it is so severe, so callous, cold-eyed, stingy, and most of all like a nutcracker, pronouncing it requires three consecutive cracks of the jaw or, more exactly, the first syllable makes an attempt at holding the nut, in vain, the second syllable then tears the mouth wide open, the nut now fits inside, where it is finally cracked by the third syllable, can you hear the teeth? Particularly this final, absolute closing of the lips at the end prohibits the other person from expressing anything to the contrary, which is actually quite good at times, for instance when the other person is babbling as much as I am now. Whereupon the babbler replies, entreatingly: ‘But people only babble if they’re a little happy for once.’

  In any event, no letter came from you today. And what I really intended to say in the end remains unsaid. Next time. Tomorrow I’d like very, very much to hear something from you, the last words I heard you say before the door slammed shut—all slamming doors are detestable—were terrible.

  F

  It’s possible that the 3 syllables also signify the 3 movements of the Apostles on the Prague clock. Arrival, making an appearance, and angry departure.

  [Meran, May 31, 1920]

  Monday

  So now for the explanation I promised yesterday:

  I don’t want (Milena, help me! Understand more than I am saying) I don’t want (this isn’t stuttering) to come to Vienna, because I couldn’t stand the mental stress. I am spiritually ill, my lung disease is nothing but an overflowing of my spiritual disease. I’ve been sick like this since the 4 or 5 years of my first two engagements. (It took some time before I finally understood why your last letter was so cheerful; I constantly forget the fact that you’re so young, maybe not even 25, maybe just 23. I am 37, almost 38, almost older by a whole short generation, almost white-haired from all the old nights and headaches.) I don’t want to unfold to you the whole long story with its veritable forest of details, which still scare me, like a child, except that I lack a child’s power to forget. What all three engagements had in common was that everything was my fault, entirely and unquestionably my fault. I made both girls unhappy and, to be sure—here I am only referring to the first, I cannot speak about the second, she is sensitive, any word, even the friendliest, would be the most monstrous insult, which I understand—and to be sure only because she (who might have sacrificed herself had I wanted her to) was unable to make me abidingly happy, calm, determined, capable of marriage, despite my repeated and entirely voluntary assurances that this was the case, despite the fact that I sometimes loved her desperately, despite the fact I knew of no worthier aspiration than marriage. For almost 5 years I kept battering away at her (or at myself if you prefer) but fortunately she proved unbreakable, a Prussian-Jewish mixture, a strong triumphant mixture.26 I myself was not so strong, anyway all she had to do was suffer, while I had to batter away and suffer.

  The end, even though I was just beginning, I can’t write anything more, explain anything more; of course I should describe the spiritual illness, I should mention the other reasons for not leaving, a telegram arrived ‘Meet at Karlsbad eighth request letter.’27 I confess it made a terrible face when I opened it, despite the fact that it was sent by the most selfless, tranquil, modest being and that it stems ultimately from my own desire. I can’t explain this right now, since I cannot appeal to a description of the disease. But this much is certain: I’m leaving here Monday. Occasionally I look at the telegram and can scarcely read it—as if it contained a secret code, one which erases the above message and reads: Travel via Vienna!—an obvious order but without a trace of the terror orders always contain. I won’t do it, even just at first glance it’s senseless not to take the short route via Munich but one twice as long through Linz and then even further via Vienna. I am conducting an experiment: a sparrow is sitting on the balcony and waiting for me to throw him some bread from my table; but instead I toss it onto the floor next to me in the middle of the room. The sparrow is standing outside and sees the food of his life there in the semidarkness, enticing beyond measure, he shakes himself, he’s more inside than out, but here inside is darkness and next to the bread am I, the mysterious power. Nonetheless he hops over the threshold, a few more jumps, but he doesn’t dare go any further and suddenly frightened he flies away. But what vitality lies hidden in this pitiful bird—after a while he’s back, inspecting the situation. I strew some more crumbs to make it easier for him, and if I hadn’t driven him off with a slight movement—intentionally-unintentionally (which is the way of secret forces)—he would have obtained his bread.

  The fact is that my vacation will be over at the end of June and for a change I would like to go somewhere else in the country; moreover it’s already getting very hot here. She wanted to go too; now we’re supposed to meet there, I’ll stay a few days, then perhaps a few more days in Konstantinsbad with my parents, and next travel on to Prague. Looking over these travel plans, and comparing them to my mental state, I feel a little like Napoleon must have felt if, while at the same time he was designing the Russian campaign, he had known exactly what the outcome would be.

  Back when your first letter arrived—I believe it was shortly before the intended wedding (the plans for which, by way of example, were quite exclusively my doing)—I was happy and showed it to her. Later—no, nothing more, and I won’t tear up this letter a second time, our characters have similar traits but I don’t have any oven nearby and there are certain indications which make me fear that I once wrote to that girl on the back of one of these unfinished letters.28

  But all this is immaterial, even without the telegram I wouldn’t have been able to go to Vienna, on the contrary, the telegram is more of an argument in favor of the trip. I will definitely not come, however if I should—it won’t happen—find myself in Vienna after all, much to my terrible surprise, then I won’t need either breakfast or dinner, but more likely a stretcher where I can lie down for a while.

  Farewell, it won’t be an easy week here—

  F

  If you’d like to write me a word in Karlsbad, poste restante, no, not until Prague.

  What kind of monstrous schools are those where you teach, 200 pupils, 50 pupils.29 I’d like to have a seat by the window in the last row, for one hour, then I would forgo any meeting with you (which won’t happen anyway), forgo all trips and—enough, this endless white paper burns out one’s eyes, which is why one writes.

  That was in the afternoon, now it’s almost 11. I have arranged it the only way I can at the moment. I wired Prague to say I cannot come to Karlsbad, I’ll explain this by my state of confusion, which is true on the one hand but not very consistent on the other, since it was precisely because of this confusion that I had wanted to go to Karlsbad in the first place. This is how I play with a real live human being. But I can’t do anything else; in Karlsbad I would be incapable of either speech or silence, or more precisely: I would be speaking even with my silence, because at the moment I am nothing but a single word. Now there is no doubt that I will travel Monday via Munich, and not through Vienna—I don’t know where, Karlsbad, Marienbad, in any case alone. I may write to you, but I won’t receive your letters for 3 weeks, not until I’m in Prague.

  […] in order to make everything up to you.30

  [Meran, June 1, 1920]

  Tuesday

  I figure: written on Saturday,
in spite of Sunday already arrived Tuesday noon, on Tuesday torn from the hands of the maid, such wonderful mail service, and Monday I’m supposed to leave and give it up.

  You are so kind to worry, you miss my letters, yes, there were a few days last week when I didn’t write, but I have every day since Saturday, so that you’ll receive 3 letters in the meanwhile, which will make you praise the letterless time. You will realize that absolutely all of your fears are justified, namely, that I am very mad at you in general and in particular your letters contained many things I did not like, the feuilletons annoyed me, etc. No, Milena, you shouldn’t be afraid of all that, but the opposite should make you tremble!

  It’s so wonderful to have received your letter, to have to answer it with my sleepless brain. I can’t think of anything to write, I’m just walking around here between the lines, underneath the light of your eyes, in the breath of your mouth like in some beautiful happy day, which stays beautiful and happy even if my head is sick, tired, and if I have to leave Monday via Munich.

  F

  You ran home on my account, out of breath? Then aren’t you sick and don’t I have to worry about you anymore? It really is like that, I don’t have any worries at all—no, I’m exaggerating as much now as I was back then—but it’s the kind of worry I’d have if you were here under my supervision, if I were simultaneously giving you nourishment with the milk I drink, giving you strength with the air I breathe, as it wafts up from the garden; no, all that isn’t enough, it would have to give you much more strength than it does me.

  For various reasons I will probably not leave Monday, but a little later. However, then I’m traveling directly to Prague; recently they added a direct express train, Bozen–Munich–Prague. In case you still want to write me a few lines, you could; if they don’t reach me they will be forwarded to Prague.

  Stay good to me!

  F.

  I really am a paragon of stupidity. I am reading a book about Tibet; at the description of a settlement in the mountains on the Tibetan border my heart suddenly grows heavy, so hopelessly forlorn does the village seem to me, so far from Vienna. What I consider stupid is the idea that Tibet is far from Vienna. Would it really be far?

  [Meran, June 2, 1920]

  Wednesday

  Your two letters arrived together, at noon; they aren’t there to be read, but to be unfolded, to rest one’s face on while losing one’s mind. But now it turns out to be a good thing that it is partly lost, for then the rest will hold out as long as possible. And that is why my 38 Jewish years have this to say in face of your 24 Christian years:

  How’s this? And where are the laws of the world and the entire police force of heaven? You’re 38 years old and probably more tired than mere age can possibly make you. Or more correctly: You aren’t tired at all, just restless, just afraid of taking one step on this Earth teeming with pitfalls, which is why you always keep both feet in the air at once, you aren’t tired, just afraid of the terrible fatigue which will follow this terrible restlessness and (after all, you’re Jewish and know what it is to be fearful and anxious) which may—at best—be visualized as sitting in the garden of the insane asylum behind Karlsplatz, staring into space like an idiot.

  All right, so that’s your position. You’ve fought a few battles, making both friend and foe unhappy in the process (what’s more, you only had friends, good, kind people, not a single enemy)—this has already transformed you into an invalid, one of those who tremble at the sight of a toy pistol and now, now suddenly you feel you’re being called to join the great battle to save the world. Wouldn’t that be very strange?

  Also consider the fact that perhaps the best time of your life, which you haven’t really discussed with anyone yet, was those 8 months spent in a village about 2 years ago, when you felt that you had come to terms with everything, that you were free of everything except what was unquestionably locked within yourself, free of letters, the 5-year-old Berlin correspondence, protected by your illness, requiring very little change, having merely to redraw the old narrow outlines of your character a little more firmly (after all, underneath the gray hair your face has hardly changed since you were six years old).31

  Unfortunately over the past 1½ years you have discovered that wasn’t all, you could hardly have sunk any deeper (I’m excluding last autumn when I was respectably struggling for marriage), you could hardly have dragged another soul any further down along with you, a good, kind girl, self-effacing in her selflessness, so that there was no exit anywhere, not even deeper down.32

  So far so good, and now Milena calls you with a voice that pierces your heart as strongly as it does your reason. Of course Milena doesn’t know you, she has been blinded by a few stories and letters; she is like the sea, as strong as the sea with its masses of water, crashing down with all their might, but nonetheless by some mistake, following the whim of the dead and above all distant moon. She doesn’t know you and perhaps her wanting you to come is an augury of truth. You can be certain your actual presence will no longer blind her. Is this why you don’t want to go, tender soul, because that is exactly what you fear?

  But granted: you do have 100 other inner reasons for not going (you really do) and another external one besides, namely that you won’t be able to speak to Milena’s husband or even see him, and you will be equally incapable of speaking to or seeing Milena if her husband isn’t there—granted all of that, there are still two arguments against:

  First, when you say you’re coming, Milena may not even want you to come anymore, not at all out of fickleness, but merely exhaustion, which is understandable; she will be happy and relieved to let you travel as you want to.

  In the second place, just go to Vienna! Milena is only thinking about the moment when the door is opened. Of course it will be opened, but what next? Then a lanky, emaciated man will be standing there, smiling amiably (which he will do incessantly, he inherited that from an old aunt who also used to smile incessantly, but in both cases more out of embarrassment than by design) and who will then sit down where he is told to. With that the ceremonies will be over, since he will scarcely speak, he lacks the strength to do so (my new tablemate here commented yesterday on the silent man’s vegetarian board: ‘I consider meat absolutely essential for mental labor’), he won’t even be happy, as he also lacks the strength for that.33

  So you see, Milena, I’m speaking frankly. But you are intelligent, the whole time you have been noticing that I do indeed speak the truth (the full truth, unconditional and accurate to a hair), but that I do so too frankly. After all, I could have shown up without this announcement and disenchanted you without any further ado. But the fact I did not is only further proof of my candor, my weakness.

  I’m staying another 14 days, mainly because I’m ashamed and afraid to go back with these results to show for my cure. At home and at work—which is especially annoying—they expect my leave to produce something approaching full recovery.34 Their interrogations are torture: How much weight have you put on this time? And I’m losing weight. Don’t worry about spending money! (Directed at my stinginess.) And I do pay my board, but cannot eat. Jokes like that.

  So much more to say, but the letter would never be sent. There is one more thing I did want to say: if toward the end of the 14 days you still want me to come as definitely as you did on Friday, then I’ll come—

  F.

  [Meran, June 3, 1920]

  Thursday

  You see, Milena, I’m lying on the deck chair in the morning, naked, half in the sun half in the shade, after an almost sleepless night; how could I have slept since I—who am too light for sleep—was constantly flying around you, and since I really was afraid (just as you wrote today) about ‘what had fallen into my lap,’ afraid the way they describe the prophets, who were weak children (already or still doesn’t matter) and they heard the Voice calling them and didn’t want to and they were afraid and planted their feet on the ground and felt fear tearing through their brain and it’s true they ha
d already heard voices before and didn’t know why this Voice had such a fearful ring—was it because their ears were weak or was the Voice so strong?—nor did they know, for, after all, they were children, that the Voice had already triumphed and that their fear was simply its scout, sent in advance to find lodgings and appropriate them. But none of this meant they would necessarily become prophets, for although many hear the Voice, it is still objectively very questionable whether they are worthy of it; and the safest course would be to categorically say they aren’t—this is how I was lying there when your two letters arrived.

  I think there is one idiosyncracy that we share, Milena: we are so shy and anxious that almost every letter is different, almost every one is frightened by the previous letter and even more so by the reply. It’s easy to see that you aren’t like this by nature, and I, perhaps even I am not like this by nature, but this has almost become my nature, passing only when I am desperate or, at most, angry, and needless to say: when I am afraid.

  Sometimes I feel we have a room with two doors on opposite sides and each of us is holding his doorknob and, at the bat of one person’s eyelash, the other jumps behind his door, and now if the first person utters a single word, the second is sure to close the door behind him, so that he can no longer be seen. He is bound to reopen the door, though, since it may be a room impossible to leave. If only the first person weren’t exactly like the second, then he would be calm and pretend not to care in the slightest about the second; he would slowly go about ordering this room the way he would any other. But instead, he repeats the same thing at his door; occasionally even both people are standing behind their doors at the same time and the beautiful room is empty.