An official’s life could benefit me if I were married. It would in every way be a support to me against society, against my wife, against writing, without demanding too
many sacrifices, and without on the other hand degenerating into indolence and dependence, for as a married man I should not have to fear that. But I cannot live out
such a life as a bachelor.
But you could have married, couldn’t you?
I couldn’t marry then; everything in me revolted against it, much as I always loved F. It was chiefly concern over my literary work that prevented me, for I thought
marriage would jeopardize it. I may have been right, but in any case it is destroyed by my present bachelor’s life. I have written nothing for a year, nor shall I be able to
write anything in the future; in my head there is and remains the one single thought, and I am devoured by it. I wasn’t able to consider it all at the time. Moreover, as a
result of my dependence, which is at least encouraged by this way of life, I approach everything hesitantly and complete nothing at the first stroke. That was what
happened here too.
Why do you give up all hope eventually of having F.?
I have already tried every kind of self-humiliation. In the Tiergarten I once said: “Say ‘yes’; even if you consider your feeling for me insufficient to warrant marriage,
my love for you is great enough to make up the insufficiency, and strong enough in general to take everything on itself.” In the course of a long correspondence I had
alarmed F. by my peculiarities, and these now seemed to make her uneasy. I said: “I love you enough to rid myself of anything that might trouble you. I will become
another person.” Now, when everything must be cleared up, I can confess that even at the time when our relationship was at its most affectionate, I often had
forebodings and fears, founded on trifling occurrences, that F. did not love me very much, not with all the force of the love she was capable of. F. has now realized this
too, though not without my assistance. I am almost afraid that after my last two visits F. even feels a certain disgust for me, despite the fact that outwardly we are
friendly, call each other “Du,” walk arm in arm together. The last thing I remember of her is the quite hostile grimace she made in the entrance hall of her house when I
was not satisfied to kiss her glove but pulled it open and kissed her hand. Added to this there is the fact that, despite her promise to be punctual in the future in her
correspondence, she hasn’t answered two of my letters, merely telegraphed to promise letters but hasn’t kept her promise; indeed, she hasn’t even so much as answered
my mother. There can be no doubt of the hopelessness in all this.
One should really never say that. Didn’t your previous behavior likewise seem hopeless from F.’s point of view?
That was something else. I always freely confessed my love for her, even during what appeared to be our final farewell in the summer; I was never so cruelly silent; I
had reasons for my behavior which, if they could not be approved, could yet be discussed. F.’s only reason is the complete insufficiency of her love. Nevertheless, it is
true that I could wait. But I cannot wait in double hopelessness: I cannot see F. more and more slipping from my grasp, and myself more and more unable to escape. It
would be the greatest gamble I could take with myself, although—or because—it would best suit all the overpowering evil forces within me. “You never know what will
happen” is no argument against the intolerableness of an existing state of affairs.
Then what do you want to do?
Leave Prague. Counter the greatest personal injury that has ever befallen me with the strongest antidote at my disposal.
Leave your job?
In light of the above, my job is only a part of the general intolerableness. I should be losing only what is intolerable in any case. The security, the lifelong provision, the