Letters to Milena

by Franz Kafka

  IN THE MARGIN: You misunderstood about the ‘level,’ I didn’t mean it that way, I’ll explain soon.

  Sunday was worse. Actually I had wanted to go to the cemetery and that would have been the right thing to do, but I spent the whole morning in bed and in the afternoon I had to go to my sister’s inlaws, where I had never been before. Then it was 6:00. Back to the office to ask if a telegram had arrived. Nothing. What now? Check what’s playing in the theater, since Jílovský had very briefly (he was in a hurry) mentioned that Staša was going to a Wagner opera on Monday. Next, I read that the performance begins at 6:00, but at 6:00 we have our rendezvous. Bad. What now? Go check the house in the Obstgasse. It’s quiet, no one going in, no one going out, I wait a little, first in front of the house and then across the street: nothing—houses like that are so much wiser than the people who stare at them. And now? Into the Lucerna building, where Dobré Dílo used to be on display.81 It’s no longer there. So maybe Staša’s house, an easy decision since I’m sure she can’t be home right now. A peaceful pretty house, with a small garden in back. Because a padlock is hanging on the front door, I can ring the bell with impunity. Downstairs a brief conversation with the building superintendent just in order to pronounce the words ‘Libešic’ and ‘Jílovský’; unfortunately there was no possibility of saying ‘Milena.’ And now? Now the dumbest part. I walk into the Café Arco, where I haven’t been for years, in order to find somebody who knows you.82 Fortunately no one was there and I was able to leave right away. Not many more Sundays like that, Milena!

  F

  IN THE MARGIN: Thank you very much for the pictures, but Jarmila does not look like you, at most only in a certain light, a certain glow which covers her face as well as yours.

  IN THE MARGIN: Yesterday I couldn’t write, everything in Vienna was too dark for me.

  [Prague, July 13, 1920]

  Tuesday, a little later

  17)

  How tired you sound in your letter from Saturday evening. There is a lot I’d have to say about this letter, but I’m not going to say anything to such a tired person—I am tired as well; to tell the truth my head is completely unrested and aching for the first time since I arrived in Vienna. I won’t say a thing, just seat you in the armchair (you claim you haven’t done enough nice things for me, but is there anything nicer, any greater honor you can show me than simply being with me and allowing me to sit in front of you?). So now I seat you in the chair, unable to grasp the scope of my fortune with words eyes hands and my poor heart, my happiness that you are here and really mine. And actually it’s not at all you I love, but rather the existence you have bestowed on me.

  I won’t talk about Laurin today, or about the girl either; this will all take its course, how distant it all is.

  F

  What you say about the Poor Fiddler is entirely correct. If I said it didn’t mean anything to me I was only being cautious, since I didn’t know how you would like it, also because I’m ashamed of the story, as though I had written it myself and the beginning is indeed wrong and it does have a number of defects, ridiculous moments, dilettantish features, and deadly affectations (which are especially noticeable when read aloud, I could show you where) and particularly this way of practicing music is a lamentably ridiculous invention; it is enough to make the girl (and the whole world, too, myself included) so extremely angry that she hurls everything in her shop at the story, until it is torn to pieces by its own elements, a fate it richly deserves. Of course there’s no more beautiful fate for a story than for it to disappear, and in this way. Even the narrator, that droll psychologist, will agree to this completely, since he himself is probably the real poor fiddler, playing this story as unmusically as possible, exaggeratedly thanked by the tears from your eyes.

  [Prague, July 13, 1920]

  Tuesday

  Your two telegrams are right here; I understand, as long as there were letters from Jarmila you didn’t ask about mail for Kramer—it’s all right;83 above all you shouldn’t be the least bit afraid I might do something on my own without obtaining your approval beforehand. But the main thing is that, after an almost sleepless night, at last I’m sitting in front of this letter which seems to me infinitely important. None of the letters I sent you from Prague would have needed to be written, not even the last ones, and only this one has a right to exist, or rather the others might exist but this one would have to be considered the most important. Unfortunately I won’t be able to tell you the smallest part of what I was saying to you yesterday evening after leaving Staša, or what I was telling you last night or this morning. Still the main thing is that no matter what the others—beginning with Laurin then Staša and on to people I don’t know, extending in a wide radius with you at the center—no matter what they say about you in their pretentious wisdom, their bestial dullness (although animals aren’t that dull-witted), their devilish kindness, their murderous love—I, I, Milena will know to the end of my days that you will do the right thing whatever you decide, whether you remain in Vienna or come here or stay hovering between Prague and Vienna or now do one thing now the other. What in the world would I be doing with you if I didn’t know that. Just as there is no place in the deep sea which isn’t under the greatest pressure, so it is with you—but all other life is a disgrace and makes me sick. I used to think I couldn’t stand living, couldn’t stand people, and I was very ashamed of myself; but now you are confirming that it wasn’t life which seemed unbearable to me.

  Staša is awful, I’m sorry. Yesterday I wrote you about her but didn’t dare send the letter.84 As you said, she is warm, friendly, beautiful, and svelte, but terrible. She was once your friend and so there must have been a heavenly light in her eyes at one time, but it has been utterly, frighteningly extinguished. One shudders with horror at her as if at a fallen angel. I don’t know what happened to her, probably her husband has extinguished her. She is tired and dead and doesn’t know it. When I want to imagine hell I think about her and her husband and repeat this sentence to myself, my teeth chattering: ‘Then we’ll run into the forest.’ Forgive me, Milena, dear dear Milena forgive me, but that’s the way it is.

  IN THE MARGIN: I am very much in favor of the Chicago plan, under the condition that errand boys who can’t run errands will also be employed.85

  Of course I was only with her for ¾ of an hour—in her apartment and then on the way to the German theater. I was overly friendly, overly talkative, overly confident; after all, it was also an opportunity finally just to talk about you and you kept her true face hidden from me for a long time. What a stony forehead she has and how golden shines the inscription there which reads: ‘I am dead and despise anyone who isn’t.’ But of course she was friendly and we discussed all possible aspects of going to Vienna, but I cannot convince myself that it would be a good thing if she went: perhaps for her.

  Then in the evening I went to see Laurin, he was not in the editorial office—I was late—so I talked for a while with a man I know from before; we sat on the couch where Reiner lay down for the last time a few months back.86 The man had been with him throughout that last evening and told me a thing or two.

  So the day was too much for me and I couldn’t sleep; moreover my sister had come back from Marienbad with her husband and child for 2 days—on account of the Spanish uncle—and the beautiful apartment was no longer empty. But see how kind people are to me (I’m just saying that, as if by mentioning it to you they might be repaid for their kindness). They left me alone in the bedroom, removed one bed, distributed themselves among the other rooms not yet cleaned up, and left the bathroom to me, confining their own washing to the kitchen, etc. Yes, I’m doing well.

  Yours

  Somehow I’m not at all in agreement with this letter; these are merely the last remnants of an extremely intense, extremely secret conversation.

  [Prague, July 14, 1920]

  Wednesday

  You write: ‘Yes, you are right, I do love him.87 But F., I also love you’—I a
m reading this sentence very exactly, pausing in particular at the also—it’s all correct. You would not be Milena if it weren’t correct and what would I be if you weren’t, and it’s also better that you write it from Vienna than say it in Prague. All this I perfectly understand, maybe better than you and yet out of some weakness I can’t get over the sentence, it reads endlessly, and finally I’m transcribing it here for you to see as well and for us to read together, temple to temple. (Your hair against my temple.)

  That was written by the time your two letters in pencil arrived. Can you believe I didn’t know they would come. But I really did know, though only in my depths, and we don’t always live there, preferring instead to live on Earth, where life assumes its most pitiful form. I don’t know why you are constantly afraid I might do something on my own. Haven’t I written clearly enough about this? And I only wired Frau Kohler because I hadn’t received an answer to my telegram or any news at all for practically 3 days—and bad days at that—I was almost forced to think you were ill.

  Yesterday I saw my doctor, he found me in much the same shape as I had been before Meran: the three months passed by my lung hardly leaving a trace, in the top of the left lung the disease is as fresh as ever. He considers this result bleak; I think it’s pretty good, for what would I look like if I had spent this time in Prague? He also thinks I didn’t put on any weight; according to my calculations, however, I gained about 3 kilograms. In the fall he wants to try giving me injections, but I don’t think I’ll be able to stand that.

  When I compare these results with the way you’re squandering your own health—because you don’t have any choice, I hardly need add—it sometimes seems to me that instead of ever living together, we will just be able to lie down next to one another, comfortable and content, in order to die. But whatever happens it will be close to you.

  By the way, I know—contrary to what the doctor thinks—that all I need to recover (at least halfway) is peace and quiet, although a special kind of quiet—or if looked at another way, a special kind of disquiet.

  Naturally I’m very happy about what you said concerning Staša’s letter. She considers your current position a surrender, mentions your father as well—in her mouth this is enough for me to hate him, whom I basically love—in short, concerning all this, she says practically the dumbest thing that can be imagined, even if one were to strain very hard; she doesn’t have to strain herself at all, however, it just pours out of those beautiful lips. And of course—this should not be forgotten—it is love through and through; she is holding out her arms to you even from her grave.

  It’s the French national holiday; below my window, troops are marching home from the parade. I feel—breathing your letters—there’s something magnificent about it. Not the pomp, not the music, not the marching, not the old Frenchman escaped from a (German) waxworks marching in front of his unit, wearing red trousers and a blue tunic—but some manifestation of forces calling from the depths: ‘Despite all this, you dumb people, marching and being shoved along, trusting to the point of savagery—despite all this, we will not abandon you, even in your moments of greatest folly, least of all then.’ And I close my eyes to gaze into those depths, and am almost engulfed in you.

  At last they have brought me the stack of documents which had accumulated for me; just think, since I returned to work I’ve written exactly 6 official letters, and they tolerate this. To my immense satisfaction I was unable to get hold of all the work waiting for me until today, thanks to the laziness of the department which was keeping it for me. But now it’s here. None of this matters, however, if I’ve had enough sleep. But today it was still pretty bad.

  F

  [Prague, July 15, 1920]

  Thursday

  Just briefly before I leave for the office: I didn’t want to say anything, at least not now, while you are fighting this terrible battle—I’ve been choking on it for 3 days—but it’s impossible not to, I have to, after all it’s my battle as well. You may have noticed that I haven’t slept for several nights. It’s simply the ‘fear.’ It really is stronger than I am, it tosses me around at will, I don’t know up from down anymore or right from left. This time it began with Staša. There truly is a sign above her saying: ‘Abandon all hope ye who enter here.’ Besides that, there were 2, 3 remarks which got mixed up in your last letter. These remarks made me happy, but only despairingly so, since although what you say about the fear is very persuasive—to mind, heart, and body all at once—I have an even deeper conviction—I don’t know exactly where—which evidently nothing can persuade. Finally—this really contributed to weaken me—the wonderful calming-uncalming effect left by your physical presence is wearing off as the days go by. If only you were already here! As it is I have no one, no one here except the fear, together we roll through the nights locked in each other’s arms. This fear is really something very serious which strangely enough was always only directed at the future, no, that’s not right. Moreover, it is partly explained by the fact that it constantly forces me to realize I must admit—and this is a great confession—that Milena, too, is only human. What you say about this is really very beautiful and kind—having heard that I wouldn’t want to hear anything else; nevertheless, to maintain that the stakes here are not very high is a very questionable assertion. After all, this fear is not merely my private fear—although it also is, terribly enough—but it is also the fear inherent in all faith since time began.

  Just having written you that cools my head.

  Yours

  [Prague, July 15, 1920]

  Thursday, later

  The night-letter from the Weisser Hahn and the Monday letter have arrived, the first is presumably the later one, but it’s not entirely clear.88 I only read through them once quickly; now I have to answer you immediately, and ask you not to think badly of me. What Staša wrote was empty, disgusting nonsense—how can you believe I might think she’s right? How far Vienna must be from Prague that you can think such a thing, and how close it is to lie next to one another in the woods, and how long ago it has been. And this isn’t jealousy, just a game with you in the middle, because I want to grasp you from all sides, and this means from a jealous point of view as well but I will stop since this is silly—simply the unhealthy dreams that come from being alone. You also have the wrong idea about Max; yesterday I finally gave him your regards, annoyed (see above!) because he is always receiving your regards. He usually has an explanation for everything, however, so he explained that the only reason you keep sending him regards is because I never conveyed his warmest regards to you: it’s about time I should do so, then you would probably stop and I would be reassured. Maybe so, anyway I’m giving it a try.

  And otherwise don’t worry at all on my account, Milena, the last thing we need is for you to be worrying about me. If it weren’t for the ‘fear’ which has been gripping me for a few days and which I complained about to you this morning, I’d be almost completely well. Incidentally, why did you say, back then in the forest, that you, too, had not imagined it any differently? It was up in the forest, on the second day. I divide the days very clearly, the first was unsure, the second oversure, the third day was full of regret, and the fourth was the good one.

  I am sending right away to Frau Kohler 100 Czech krone in 50 K notes and 100 Austrian krone—all I have on hand right now. Next time it would be better if you knew another way of sending money other than registered mail. For example, it’s also possible to wire money poste restante, although not under a pseudonym; you have to use your real name. And as far as the month in the country is concerned, why is your father’s money or Laurin’s better than mine? In any case, that doesn’t matter, just never say that you’re asking for much. And Jarmila? Is she coming?

  But now I have to go to my sister’s wedding.—By the way,89 why am I a human being, with all the torments this extremely vague and horribly responsible condition entails? Why am I not, for example, the happy wardrobe in your room, which has you in full view whe
never you’re sitting in your chair or at your desk or when you’re lying down or sleeping (all blessings upon your sleep!)? Why am I not that? Because I would break down with grief if I had seen your misery during these last days, or even if—you should leave Vienna.

  F

  The feeling that you will soon have a passport is very comforting.

  Max’s address is Prague V, Ufergasse 8, but because of his wife it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to write there. He also has two other addresses—precisely because of his wife or, if you prefer, for his own sake: one c/o Dr. Felix Weltsch, Prague, Universitätsbibliothek, or simply mine.90

  [Prague, July 15, 1920]

  Thursday

  Afternoon, myrtle in buttonhole, more or less about my wits despite my tortured head (separation, separation!), I managed to make it through the wedding feast sitting between my brother-in-law’s two kind sisters. But now I’m exhausted.

  Behold the stupidity of an unrested man! As I discovered at the post office, the registered letter would have to be unsealed—not a good idea, considering the money. Now I could have sent it another way or—if it were just regular mail—then at least I could have sent it directly to you, poste-restante. But there I was, already standing with the envelope in front of the mailbox and so I simply took a chance and sent it to Frau Kohler. I hope it arrives.

  What an easy life it will be when we’re together—I’m a fool to write about it!—question and answer, glance for glance. And now I have to wait till Monday at the earliest for your answer to the letter I wrote this morning. Understand me correctly and stay good to me—

  F

  [Prague, July 16, 1920]

  Friday

  I wanted to excel in your eyes, show my strength of will, wait before writing you, first finish a document, but the room is empty, no one is minding me—it’s as if someone said: leave him alone, can’t you see how engrossed he is in his own affairs, it’s as if he had a fist in his mouth. So I only wrote half a page and am once again with you, lying on this letter like I lay next to you back then in the forest.