Franz Kafka - Letters to Milena (5)

The Talkative Crow reading a letter to Milena.

Dear Frau Milena, today I'd like to write about
something else but can't. Not that this really
bothers me; if it did then I would write something
else, but now and then a deck chair really should
be ready for you somewhere in the garden, half in
the shade, with about 10 glasses of milk within
easy reach. It might even be in Vienna, even now
in the summer—but without hunger and in peace.
Is this impossible? And is there no one to make it
possible? And what does the doctor say?

When I pulled your translation out of the large
envelope, I was almost disappointed. I wanted to
hear from you and not the voice from the old grave,
the voice I know all too well. Why did it have to
come between us? Then I realized that this same
voice had also come between us, as a mediator.
But apart from that it is inconceivable to me that
you would take on such a troublesome task, and I
am moved by your faithfulness toward every little
sentence, a faithfulness I would not have thought
possible to achieve in Czech, let alone with the
beautiful natural authority you attain.
German and Czech so close to each other? But
however that may be, the story is in any case
abysmally bad, which I could prove to you, dear
Frau Milena, with unparalleled ease, except that
my disgust would outweigh the evidence. Naturally
the fact that you like the story gives it some value,
although it also makes my view of the world a
little dimmer. No more about that. Wolff will
send you the Country Doctor, I have written to
him.

Of course I understand Czech. I've meant to ask
you several times already why you never write in
Czech. Not to imply that your command of German
leaves anything to be desired. Most of the time it
is amazing and on those occasions when it does
falter, the German language becomes pliant just
for you, of its own accord, and then it is
particularly beautiful, something a German
doesn't even dare hope for; a German wouldn't dare
write so personally. But I wanted to read you in
Czech because, after all, you do belong to that
language, because only there can Milena be found
in her entirety (the translation confirms this),
whereas here there is only the Milena from Vienna
or the Milena preparing for Vienna. So Czech,
please. And also the feuilletons you mentioned.
Even if they are shabby, after all, you managed to
read through the shabbiness of my story—how far I
don't know. Maybe I can do the same; however, if I
can't make it through to the end at least I'll get
stuck in the best possible prejudice.

You ask about my engagement. I was engaged twice
(or actually three times, twice to the same girl), so
three times I have been separated from marriage
by only a few days. The first is completely over
(I hear there's already a new marriage and even a
small boy), the second is still alive although
without any prospect of marriage, so it really isn't
alive or rather it's living an independent life at
the cost of the people involved. On the whole I
have found here and elsewhere that men may suffer
more, or if you prefer, they have less resistance in
these matters; women, however, always suffer
without guilt and not just because they "can't do
anything about it" but in the strictest sense of
the word, which may nonetheless lead to the
"can't do anything about it." Incidentally, brooding
over these things is useless. It's like trying to smash
a single cauldron in hell; first, the enterprise
won't succeed, and second, if it does succeed, one
will be consumed by the glowing effluent, while
hell remains intact in all its glory. The problem
must be approached differently.

In any case the first thing is to lie down in a
garden and extract as much sweetness as possible
from the ailment, especially if it's not a genuine
disease. There's a lot of sweetness in that.

Franz K.