Letters to Milena

by Franz Kafka

  [Prague, August 1, 1920]

  Sunday evening

  Very quickly, here’s the possibility that we have every week; why didn’t I think of it earlier? In any case, I have to have my passport first; that’s not as easy as you think, and almost impossible without Ottla:126

  I leave here with the express on a Saturday afternoon, arrive in Vienna at about 2:00 A.M. (tomorrow I’ll check the exact times). In the meantime you’ve already bought me the return ticket to Prague on the Sunday express, and wired me that you have it; without this telegram I couldn’t leave Prague. You meet me at the station, we have over 4 hours together, I leave again Sunday at 7:00 A.M.

  So that’s the possibility, admittedly a little sad—just 4 tired hours together. (And where? In a hotel at the Franz-Josefsbahnhof?) But even so, it is a possibility, which you, however, can improve considerably—but is this possible?—by meeting me halfway in Gmünd, where we would spend the night. Gmünd is Austrian, isn’t it? So you don’t need a passport. I’d probably arrive around 10:00 in the evening, maybe even earlier, and leave Sunday with the express (on Sunday it should be easy to get a seat) around 11:00 A.M.—perhaps even later if there’s a local train. But I have no idea how you would get there and back.

  So what do you say? It’s odd that I have to ask you now, when I have been talking to you all day long.

  Krasa’s address: Marienbad Hotel Stern

  [Prague, August 2, 1920]

  Monday

  It turns out that according to the schedule it’s much better even than I thought; I hope the schedule is correct. This is how it looks:

  I. The far worse possibility: I leave here at 4:12 Saturday afternoon, arrive in Vienna at 11:10 P.M., we have 7 hours together, since I leave Sunday morning at 7:00. Of course the 7 hours are on the condition I have slept a little the night before (no easy task) otherwise you’ll just have a poor sick animal on your hands.

  II. The possibility which is virtually magnificent thanks to the schedule: I likewise leave here at 4:12, but am already in Gmünd by 7:28 P.M. Even if I leave with the morning express on Sunday, it’s not until 10:46, so we have over 15 hours, some of which we could also sleep. But it gets even better. I don’t even have to take that train; there’s a local to Prague at 4:38 in the afternoon, so I would take that one. That would mean 21 hours together which we could (just think!) have every week, at least in theory.

  There’s only one catch, but I don’t believe it’s a serious one; in any case you’d have to check. Although the train station in Gmünd is Czech, the town is Austrian; does the passport nonsense extend so far that a Viennese needs a passport to enter the Czech station? In that case the people from Gmünd wanting to travel to Vienna would also have to have a passport with a Czech visa—but I can’t believe this would be the case, that would be directed specifically against us.127 It’s already so bad that I may have to wait an hour at customs control in Gmünd before being allowed to leave the station, and that would reduce our 21 hours.

  There’s nothing to be added to these great things. In any case, thank you for not leaving me letterless again today, but tomorrow? I will not telephone because, first, it is too upsetting and second, because it is impossible (I’ve already checked once) and third, because we are going to see each other soon. Unfortunately Ottla didn’t have any time today to go to police headquarters for my passport, she’ll take care of it tomorrow. Yes, you’re doing excellently with the stamps (unfortunately I misplaced the special-delivery stamps, the man almost started crying when I told him that). Of course you have made it easy for yourself, with the way you thank me for the stamps, but even that makes me happy, as a matter of fact so happy that I’ll send you some Legionnaire stamps, imagine. I don’t feel like telling any fairy tales today; my head is like a railroad station, with trains departing, arriving, customs control (the Chief Inspector is lying in wait, ready to pounce on my visa, but this time it’s in order; please, look right here: ‘All right, that’s fine, here’s the way out of the station.’ ‘Please, Herr Inspektor, would you be so kind as to hold the door for me, I can’t get it open. Is it possible I’m so weak because Milena is waiting outside?’ ‘Oh I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I didn’t know that.’ And the door flies open—

  [Prague, August 2–3, 1920]

  Monday evening

  It’s already late, following a day that was fairly gloomy in spite of everything. There probably won’t be any letter from you tomorrow. I have the one from Saturday; a letter written on Sunday wouldn’t arrive until the day after tomorrow, so tomorrow will be free from any immediate influence of a letter. It’s strange how your letters blind me, Milena. For a week now or even longer I’ve had the feeling that something has happened to you, something sudden or gradual, something fundamental or incidental, something clear or only half conscious; whatever it is, I know it’s there. I don’t detect it so much from details in the letters—although such details can be found—as from the fact that your letters are full of memories (very special memories) that, though you seem to answer everything as usual, you really don’t, that you’re sad without reason, that,128 that you want to get together so suddenly (after having immediately accepted my advice not to come here, after having declared Vienna inappropriate for meeting, after having said we shouldn’t meet before you leave—and now in two, three letters this hurry. It should make me very happy, but it doesn’t, because your letters contain some secret fear—whether for me or against me I don’t know—and there is fear in this suddenness and haste with which you want to meet. In any case I am very happy to have found a possibility and it is indeed a definite possibility. If you couldn’t spend the night outside Vienna, it can still be accomplished by sacrificing a few hours together. You take the Sunday express just before 7:00 A.M. to Gmünd—as I did that time—you arrive there at 10:00, I meet you, and since I don’t have to leave until 4:30 P.M. we still have 6 hours together. You then return to Vienna with the evening express, arriving at 11:15—a short Sunday outing).

  That’s why I’m so restless, or rather I’m not restless, so strong is the power you wield. Instead of being more restless because you’re hiding something in your letters, or because you have to hide it, or because you are hiding it unconsciously—anyway, instead of being more restless, I remain calm: so great is my trust in you despite the way you may appear. If you are hiding something, then you are right to do so, I think.

  But there is also another, really extraordinary reason why I am staying calm in the face of all this. You have a certain peculiarity—I believe it comes from deep inside your being, and someone else is at fault if it isn’t always effective—which I have never seen in anyone else and which I can’t even imagine, although I have found it in you. It is your inability to make other people suffer. Not out of pity, but just because you can’t. No, this is unbelievable, fantastic. I’ve been thinking about it almost all afternoon, but now I don’t dare write it down—the whole thing may simply be a more or less grand excuse for a hug.

  And now to bed. What could you be doing now, Monday, at almost 11:00 at night?

  Tuesday

  So little knowledge of human nature, Milena. I’ve been saying that all along. Fine, Else’s ill, that might be and it might mean one needs to go to Vienna, but old Aunt Klara in critical (condition)? All else aside, do you really think I could go talk to the director about Aunt Klara and still keep a straight face? (Of course—and this shows more knowledge of human nature—every Jew has an Aunt Klara, but mine departed this world long ago.)129 So this is absolutely impossible. Good thing we don’t need her anymore: let her go ahead and die, after all she’s not alone, Oskar is with her. On the other hand, who is Oskar? Aunt Klara is Aunt Klara, but who is Oskar? Whoever he is he’s with her. Hopefully he won’t fall ill himself, the old widow chaser.

  A letter after all, and what a letter! What I said in the beginning doesn’t apply to the evening letters, but nor can they cause this (as I said, calm) unease to disappear. It’s so good we’re
going to see each other. I may send you a telegram tomorrow or the day after (Ottla has already left today to take care of the passport) saying whether I’ll be able to go to Gmünd this Saturday (it’s already too late for Vienna this week, since by now you would have had to buy the ticket for the Sunday express). Then answer me by telegram whether you, too, can come. So keep going to the post office in the evening as well, in order to receive the telegram soon. Thus it will be like this: I’ll wire: ‘impossible’—that is to say I can’t come this week. In that case I won’t expect an answer by wire and we’ll discuss the rest by letter. (Whether we meet during the next 4 weeks of course depends on where you’ll be in the country, you’ll probably be even further away from me, in which case I guess we couldn’t see each other for a whole month.) Or else I will wire: ‘Can be in Gmünd Saturday.’ Then I’ll expect your reply to be either ‘Impossible’ or ‘Arrive Saturday in Gmünd’ or else ‘Arrive Sunday in Gmünd.’ In these last two cases we’re set, and no more telegrams are needed (no: so that you’re sure I’ve received your telegram, I will confirm), we both leave for Gmünd and will see one another this Saturday or Sunday. It all sounds very simple.

  Almost two hours lost, I had to put the letter aside: Otto Pick was here. I’m tired. When will we see each other? Why don’t I hear your name any more than 3 times in 1½ hours? Even if I make concessions, admit that I was in Vienna, although I didn’t speak with anybody—our being together wasn’t “speaking,” was it? Where are you? On the way to the village with the cottage? I’m also on my way there, it’s a long journey. But don’t agonize over that, please, whatever happens we’re on our way, there’s nothing left to do but leave.

  [Prague, August 4, 1920]

  Wednesday

  I prefer to overlook what you write about my trip (‘you’re waiting until you feel the need’),130 first because it’s outdated, second because it hurts. Of course it’s not without justification; why else would the letters of Saturday evening and Sunday morning have been so desperate? And third we’re probably going to see each other as early as Saturday. (On Monday morning you don’t seem to have had the first of the 3 telegrams; hopefully you’ll receive the third on time.)

  I understand your despair over your father’s letter only insofar as every new affirmation of this most agonizing relationship—which has been going on for so long—has got to cause you new despair.131 You can’t read anything new out of his letter. Not even I, who have never read a single one of his letters, can read anything new out of it. He is heartfelt and cordial and tyrannical, and believes he must be tyrannical to satisfy his heart. The signature doesn’t really signify much, just the sign of the tyrant, but above it are the words ‘sorry’ and ‘terribly sad’ which cancel everything.132

  IN THE MARGIN: The stamp collector is delighted, such honest joy.

  Of course you may be frightened by the disparity between your letter and his; naturally I don’t know your letter but, on the other hand, think of the disparity between his ‘obvious’ readiness and your ‘incomprehensible’ defiance.

  And you have doubts as to your reply? Or rather had doubts, since you write that you now think you know what to say. That’s strange. Had you already answered and then asked me, ‘What did I say?’ I would be able to tell you without hesitation what I thought your reply had been.

  Naturally for your father there’s no difference between your husband and myself; there’s no doubt about it, to the European we both have the same Negro face, but why does this belong in your letter, beyond the fact you can’t say anything certain about it right now? And why should it be necessary to lie?

  In my opinion, your only answer can be what another person—someone who has been watching your life with a pounding heart, tense, and with no eyes for anything else—would say to your father if he were to talk about you in a similar vein: ‘All “suggestions,” all “fixed and fast bonds” are useless, Milena is living her own life and cannot live any other. Admittedly Milena’s life is sad, nonetheless it is as “healthy and calm” as in a sanatorium. Milena is only asking you to finally realize this—she isn’t asking for anything else, especially not for “accommodation.” She’s only asking you to follow your heart and speak with her as one human to another, on equal terms, and not close yourself off to her in a fury. Once you have done that, you will have removed much “sadness” from Milena’s life and she won’t cause you any more “sorrow.”’

  What do you mean that the reply to your father will fall right on your birthday? I’m really beginning to fear your birthday. Whether we see each other Saturday or not, in any case please send me a telegram on the evening of the 10th of August.

  If you could only be in Gmünd Saturday or Sunday! It really is very necessary.

  In that case this would actually be the last letter you receive before we see each other face to face. And these eyes which haven’t had anything to do for a month (all right: reading letters, looking out the window) will see you.

  The essay is much better than in German,133 although it still has some holes—or rather entering it is like entering a swamp, it’s so difficult having to pull out your foot at every step. Recently a reader of Tribuna conjectured that I must have done a lot of research in the lunatic asylum. ‘Only in my own,’ I said, whereupon he still tried to make a compliment out of ‘my own lunatic asylum.’ (There are 2, 3 small misunderstandings in the translation.)

  I’m holding on to the translation for a little while.134

  [Prague, August 4–5, 1920]

  Wednesday evening

  Just now around 10:00 P.M. I was in the office, the telegram was there—so quickly I’m almost inclined to doubt that it’s the answer to the telegram I sent yesterday, but there it is: dispatched 4 Aug. 11:00 A.M. It was actually here by 7:00, so it only took 8 hours. One of the consolations inherent in the telegram is that we’re close enough at least in space: I can have your answer in almost 24 hours. And this answer doesn’t always have to be: Don’t come.

  There remains the smallest possibility you still haven’t received my letter in which I explained that you don’t have to spend a night away from Vienna and can nonetheless go to Gmünd. On the other hand, you must have found that out for yourself. Even so I’m still considering whether I should obtain the ticket and visa, which is only valid for 30 days (your vacation), on the strength of this tiny possibility.

  However, I probably won’t, the telegram is so definite; apparently you have insurmountable objections to the trip. Now look, Milena, it doesn’t matter. I myself would not have presumed to dream of seeing you ‘so soon’ again after 4 weeks (although only because I didn’t have any idea how easy it would be to meet). If we had met I would have owed it exclusively to you, and therefore you also have the right to cancel this possibility which you yourself created (this is disregarding the fact that if you don’t come it’s because it can’t be helped, I know). I wouldn’t have to mention this at all, it’s just that I was so happy to find this narrow tunnel leading out of the dark apartment to you. I had thrown myself into it with all my soul, into this passageway which could (my foolishness immediately says: Of course it does! of course! of course!) lead to you but which instead runs smack into the impenetrable stone of Please-don’t-come. So now I have to turn back, again with all my soul, slowly return through the passage I had dug so quickly, and fill it in. That hurts a little, you see, but it can’t be all that bad, since I’m able to write about it in such a tedious manner. In the end one always finds new tunnels to burrow, old mole that one is.

  IN THE MARGIN: I’m not at all against your vacation. How could I be and why do you think that?

  Much worse is the fact that the meeting would have been very important for reasons I believe I indicated yesterday. In this respect it cannot be replaced by anything and that’s really why the telegram makes me sad. But maybe your letter of the day after tomorrow will contain some comfort.

  I only have one request: Your letter of today contains two very harsh senten
ces. The first (‘but you’re not coming because you’re waiting until you feel the need to come’) has some justification,135 the second (‘Farewell Frank’—I’ll quote the rest just so you can hear how this sentence sounds: ‘in that case it doesn’t make sense for me to send you the fake telegram, I’m not sending it.’ So why did you send it?). This ‘Farewell Frank’ has no justification whatsoever. Those are the sentences. Could you, Milena, take them back somehow, formally retract them; the first only in part if you prefer, but the second one in its entirety?

  This morning I forgot to enclose your father’s letter, forgive me. By the way, I also overlooked the fact that it’s his first letter in 3 years, only now do I understand the impression it made on you. This makes your letter to him much more significant; it must have contained something new after all.

  By the way: I had always misunderstood you, thinking that your father had never spoken with your husband. Staša, however, mentioned that they talked to each other frequently. What might have been discussed?