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DEAREST FATHER,
You asked me recently why I maintain that I am afraid of you. As usual, I was unable to think of any answer to your question, partly for the very reason that I am afraid of you, and partly because an explanation of the grounds for this fear would mean going into far more details than I could even approximately keep in mind while talking. And if I now try to give you an answer in writing, it will still be very incomplete, because, even in writing, this fear and its consequences hamper me in relation to you and because the magnitude of the subject goes far beyond the scope of my memory and power of reasoning.
To you the matter always seemed very simple, at least in so far as
you talked about it in front of me, and indiscriminately in front of many
other people. It looked to you more or less as follows: you have worked
hard all your life, have sacrificed everything for your children, above
all for me, consequently I have lived high and handsome, have been completely
at liberty to learn whatever I wanted, and have had no cause for material
worries, which means worries of any kind at all. You have not expected
any gratitude for this, knowing what "children's gratitude" is like, but
have expected at least some sort of obligingness, some sign of sympathy.
Instead I have always hidden from you, in my room, among my books, with
crazy friends, or with crackpot ideas. I have never talked to you frankly;
I have never come to you when you were in the synagogue, never visited
you at Franzensbad, nor indeed ever shown any family feeling; I have never
taken any interest in the business or your other concerns; I saddled you
with the factory and walked off; I encouraged Ottla in her obstinacy, and
never lifted a finger for you (never even got you a theater ticket), while
I do everything for my friends. If you sum up your judgment of me, the
result you get is that, although you don't charge me with anything downright
improper or wicked (with the exception perhaps of my latest marriage plan),
you do charge me with coldness, estrangements and ingratitude. And, what
is more, you charge me with it in such a way as to make it seem my fault,
as though I might have been able, with something like a touch on the steering
wheel, to make everything quite different, while you aren't in the slightest
to blame, unless it be for having been too good to me.
This, your usual way of representing it, I regard as accurate only in
so far as I too believe you are entirely blameless in the matter of our
estrangement. But I am equally entirely blameless. If I could get you to
acknowledge this, then what would be possible is—not, I think, a new life,
we are both much too old for that—but still, a kind of peace; no cessation,
but still, a diminution of your unceasing reproaches.
Oddly enough you have some sort of notion of what I mean. For instance,
a short time ago you said to me: "I have always been fond of you, even
though outwardly I didn't act toward you as other fathers generally do,
and this precisely because I can't pretend as other people can." Now, Father,
on the whole I have never doubted your goodness toward me, but this remark
I consider wrong. You can't pretend, that is true, but merely for that
reason to maintain that other fathers pretend is either mere opinionatedness,
and as such beyond discussion, or on the other hand—and this in my view
is what it really is—a veiled expression of the fact that something is
wrong in our relationship and that you have played your part in causing
it to be so, but without its being your fault. If you really mean that,
then we are in agreement.
I'm not going to say, of course, that I have become what I am only as
a result of your influence. That would be very much exaggerated (and I
am indeed inclined to this exaggeration). It is indeed quite possible that
even if I had grown up entirely free from your influence I still could
not have become a person after your own heart. I should probably have still
become a weakly, timid, hesitant, restless person, neither Robert Kafka
nor Karl Hermann, but yet quite different from what I really am, and we
might have got on with each other excellently. I should have been happy
to have you as a friend, as a boss, an uncle, a grandfather, even (though
rather more hesitantly) as a father-in-law. Only as a father you have been
too strong for me, particularly since my brothers died when they were small
and my sisters came along only much later, so that I alone had to bear
the brunt of it—and for that I was much too weak.
Compare the two of us: I, to put it in a very much abbreviated form,
a Löwy with a certain Kafka component, which, however, is not set
in motion by the Kafka will to life, business, and conquest, but by a Löwyish
spur that impels more secretly, more diffidently, and in another direction,
and which often fails to work entirely. You, on the other hand, a true
Kafka in strength, health, appetite, loudness of voice, eloquence, self-satisfaction,
worldly dominance, endurance, presence of mind, knowledge of human nature,
a certain way of doing things on a grand scale, of course also with all
the defects and weaknesses that go with these advantages and into which
your temperament and sometimes your hot temper drive you. You are perhaps
not wholly a Kafka in your general outlook, in so far as I can compare
you with Uncle Philipp, Ludwig, and Heinrich. That is odd, and here I don't
see quite clear either. After all, they were all more cheerful, fresher,
more informal, more easygoing, less severe than you. (In this, by the way,
I have inherited a great deal from you and taken much too good care of
my inheritance, without, admittedly, having the necessary counterweights
in my own nature, as you have.) Yet you too, on the other hand, have in
this respect gone through various phases. You were perhaps more cheerful
before you were disappointed by your children, especially by me, and were
depressed at home (when other people came in, you were quite different);
perhaps you have become more cheerful again since then, now that your grandchildren
and your son-in-law again give you something of that warmth which your
children, except perhaps Valli, could not give you. In any case, we were
so different and in our difference so dangerous to each other that if anyone
had tried to calculate in advance how I, the slowly developing child, and
you, the full-grown man, would behave toward one another, he could have
assumed that you would simply trample me underfoot so that nothing was
left of me. Well, that did not happen. Nothing alive can be calculated.
But perhaps something worse happened. And in saying this I would all the
time beg of you not to forget that I never, and not even for a single moment
believe any guilt to be on your side. The effect you had on me was the
effect you could not help having. But you should stop considering it some
particular malice on my part that I succumbed to that effect.
I was a timid child. For all that, I am sure I was also obstinate, as
children are. I am sure that Mother spoiled me too, but I cannot believe
I was particularly difficult to manage; I cannot believe that a kindly
word, a quiet taking by the hand, a friendly look, could not have got me
to do anything that was wanted of me. Now you are, after all, basically
a charitable and kindhearted person (what follows will not be in contradiction
to this, I am speaking only of the impression you made on the child), but
not every child has the endurance and fearlessness to go on searching until
it comes to the kindliness that lies beneath the surface. You can treat
a child only in the way you yourself are constituted, with vigor, noise,
and hot temper, and in this case such behavior seemed to you to be also
most appropriate because you wanted to bring me up to be a strong, brave
boy.
Your educational methods in the very early years I can't, of course,
directly describe today, but I can more or less imagine them by drawing
conclusions from the later years and from your treatment of Felix. What
must be considered as heightening the effect is that you were then younger
and hence more energetic, wilder, more primitive, and still more reckless
than you are today and that you were, besides, completely tied to the business,
scarcely able to be with me even once a day, and therefore made all the
more profound impression on me, one that never really leveled out to the
flatness of habit.
There is only one episode in the early years of which I have a direct memory. You may remember it, too. One night I kept on whimpering for water, not, I am certain, because I was thirsty, but probably partly to be annoying, partly to amuse myself. After several vigorous threats had failed to have any effect, you took me out of bed, carried me out onto the pavlatche,* and left me there alone for a while in my nightshirt, outside the shut door. I am not going to say that this was wrong—perhaps there was really no other way of getting peace and quiet that night—but I mention it as typical of your methods of bringing up a child and their effect on me. I dare say I was quite obedient afterward at that period, but it did me inner harm. What was for me a matter of course, that senseless asking for water, and then the extraordinary terror of being carried outside were two things that I, my nature being what it was, could never properly connect with each other. Even years afterward I suffered from the tormenting fancy that the huge man, my father, the ultimate authority, would come almost for no reason at all and take me out of bed in the night and carry me out onto the pavlatche, and that consequently I meant absolutely nothing as far as he was concerned.
*Pavlatche is the Czech word for the long balcony in the inner courtyard
of old houses in Prague. (Ed.)
That was only a small beginning, but this feeling of being nothing that
often dominates me (a feeling that is in another respect, admittedly, also
a noble and fruitful one) comes largely from your influence. What I would
have needed was a little encouragement, a little friendliness, a little
keeping open of my road, instead of which you blocked it for me, though
of course with the good intention of making me take another road. But I
was not fit for that. You encouraged me, for instance, when I saluted and
marched smartly, but I was no future soldier, or you encouraged me when
I was able to eat heartily or even drink beer with my meals, or when I
was able to repeat songs, singing what I had not understood, or prattle
to you using your own favorite expressions, imitating you, but nothing
of this had anything to do with my future. And it is characteristic that
even today you really only encourage me in anything when you yourself are
involved in it, when what is at stake is your own sense of self-importance,
which I damage (for instance by my intended marriage) or which is damaged
in me (for instance when Pepa is abusive to me). Then I receive encouragement,
I am reminded of my worth, the matches I would be entitled to make are
pointed out to me, and Pepa is condemned utterly. But apart from the fact
that at my age I am already nearly unsusceptible to encouragement, what
help could it be to me anyway, if it only comes when it isn't primarily
a matter of myself at all?
At that time, and at that time in every way, I would have needed encouragement.
I was, after all, weighed down by your mere physical presence. I remember,
for instance, how we often undressed in the same bathing hut. There was
I, skinny, weakly, slight; you strong, tall, broad. Even inside the hut
I felt a miserable specimen, and what's more, not only in your eyes but
in the eyes of the whole world, for you were for me the measure of all
things. But then when we stepped out of the bathing hut before the people,
you holding me by my hand, a little skeleton, unsteady, barefoot on the
boards, frightened of the water, incapable of copying your swimming strokes,
which you, with the best of intentions, but actually to my profound humiliation,
kept on demonstrating, then I was frantic with desperation and at such
moments all my bad experiences in all areas, fitted magnificently together.
I felt best when you sometimes undressed first and I was able to stay behind
in the hut alone and put off the disgrace of showing myself in public until
at last you came to see what I was doing and drove me out of the hut. I
was grateful to you for not seeming to notice my anguish, and besides,
I was proud of my father's body. By the way, this difference between us
remains much the same to this very day.
In keeping, furthermore, was your intellectual domination. You had worked
your way so far up by your own energies alone, and as a result you had
unbounded confidence in your opinion. That was not yet so dazzling for
me, a child as later for the boy growing up. From your armchair you ruled
the world. Your opinion was correct, every other was mad, wild, meshugge,
not normal. Your self-confidence indeed was so great that you had no need
to be consistent at all and yet never ceased to be in the right. It did
sometimes happen that you had no opinions whatsoever about a matter and
as a result every conceivable opinion with respect to the matter was necessarily
wrong, without exception. You were capable, for instance, of running down
the Czechs, and then the Germans, and then the Jews, and what is more,
not only selectively but in every respect, and finally nobody was left
except yourself. For me you took on the enigmatic quality that all tyrants
have whose rights are based on their person and not on reason. At least
so it seemed to me.
Now, when I was the subject you were actually astonishingly often right;
which in conversation was not surprising, for there was hardly ever any
conversation between us, but also in reality. Yet this was nothing particularly
incomprehensible, either; in all my thinking I was, after all, under the
heavy pressure of your personality, even in that part of it—and particularly
in that—which was not in accord with yours. All these thoughts, seemingly
independent of you, were from the beginning burdened with your belittling
judgments; it was almost impossible to endure this and still work out a
thought with any measure of completeness and permanence. I am not here
speaking of any sublime thoughts, but of every little childhood enterprise.
It was only necessary to be happy about something or other, to be filled
with the thought of it, to come home and speak of it, and the answer was
an ironic sigh, a shaking of the head, a tapping on the table with a finger:
"Is that all you're so worked up about?" or "Such worries I'd like to have!"
or "The things some people have time to think about!" or "Where is that
going to get you?" or "What a song and dance about nothing!" Of course,
you couldn't be expected to be enthusiastic about every childish triviality
when you were in a state of vexation and worry. But that was not the point.
Rather, by virtue of your antagonistic nature, you could not help but always
and inevitably cause the child such disappointments; and further, this
antagonism, accumulating material, was constantly intensified; eventually
the pattern expressed itself even if, for once, you were of the same opinion
as I; finally, these disappointments of the child were not the ordinary
disappointments of life but, since they involved you, the all-important
personage, they struck to the very core. Courage, resolution, confidence,
delight in this and that, could not last when you were against it or even
if your opposition was merely to be assumed; and it was to be assumed in
almost everything I did.
This applied to people as well as to thoughts. It was enough that I
should take a little interest in a person—which in any case did not happen
often, as a result of my nature—for you, without any consideration for
my feelings or respect for my judgment, to move in with abuse, defamation,
and denigration. Innocent, childlike people, such as, for instance, the
Yiddish actor Löwy, had to pay for that. Without knowing him you compared
him, in some dreadful way that I have now forgotten, to vermin and, as
was so often the case with people I was fond of, you were automatically
ready with the proverb of the dog and its fleas. Here I particularly recall
the actor because at that time I made a note of your pronouncements about
him, with the comment: "This is how my father speaks of my friend (whom
he does not even know), simply because he is my friend. I shall always
be able to bring this up against him whenever he reproaches me with the
lack of a child's affection and gratitude." What was always incomprehensible
to me was your total lack of feeling for the suffering and shame you could
inflict on me with your words and judgments. It was as though you had no
notion of your power. I too, I am sure, often hurt you with what I said,
but then I always knew, and it pained me, but I could not control myself,
could not keep the words back, I was sorry even while I was saying them.
But you struck out with your words without much ado, you weren't sorry
for anyone, either during or afterward, one was utterly defenseless against
you.
But your whole method of upbringing was like that. You have, I think,
a gift for bringing up children; you could, I am sure, have been of help
to a human being of your own kind with your methods; such a person would
have seen the reasonableness of what you told him, would not have troubled
about anything else, and would quietly have done things the way he was
told. But for me as a child everything you called out to me was positively
a heavenly commandment, I never forgot it, it remained for me the most
important means of forming a judgment of the world, above all of forming
a judgment of you yourself, and there you failed entirely. Since as a child
I was with you chiefly during meals, your teaching was to a large extent
the teaching of proper behavior at table. What was brought to the table
had to be eaten, the quality of the food was not to be discussed—but you
yourself often found the food inedible, called it "this swill," said "that
cow" (the cook) had ruined it. Because in accordance with your strong appetite
and your particular predilection you ate everything fast, hot, and in big
mouthfuls, the child had to hurry; there was a somber silence at table,
interrupted by admonitions: "Eat first, talk afterward," or "faster, faster,
faster," or "There you are, you see, I finished ages ago." Bones mustn't
be cracked with the teeth, but you could. Vinegar must not be sipped noisily,
but you could. The main thing was that the bread should be cut straight.
But it didn't matter that you did it with a knife dripping with gravy.
Care had to be taken that no scraps fell on the floor. In the end it was
under your chair that there were the most scraps. At table one wasn't allowed
to do anything but eat, but you cleaned and cut your fingernails, sharpened
pencils, cleaned your ears with a toothpick. Please, Father, understand
me correctly: in themselves these would have been utterly insignificant
details, they only became depressing for me because you, so tremendously
the authoritative man, did not keep the commandments you imposed on me.
Hence the world was for me divided into three parts: one in which I, the
slave, lived under laws that had been invented only for me and which I
could, I did not know why, never completely comply with; then a second
world, which was infinitely remote from mine, in which you lived, concerned
with government, with the issuing of orders and with the annoyance about
their not being obeyed; and finally a third world where everybody else
lived happily and free from orders and from having to obey. I was continually
in disgrace; either I obeyed your orders, and that was a disgrace, for
they applied, after all, only to me; or I was defiant, and that was a disgrace
too, for how could I presume to defy you; or I could not obey because I
did not, for instance, have your strength, your appetite, your skill, although
you expected it of me as a matter of course; this was the greatest disgrace
of all. This was not the course of the child's reflections, but of his
feelings.
My situation at that time becomes clearer, perhaps, if I compare it
with that of Felix. You do, of course, treat him in a similar way, even
indeed employing a particularly terrible method against him in his upbringing:
whenever at meals he does anything that is in your opinion unclean, you
are not content to say to him, as you used to say to me: "You are a pig,"
but add: "a real Hermann" or "just like your father." Now this may perhaps—one
can't say more than "perhaps"—not really harm Felix in any essential way,
because you are only a grandfather to him, an especially important one,
of course, but still not everything as you were for me; and besides, Felix
is of a quiet, even at this stage to a certain extent manly character,
one who may perhaps be disconcerted by a great voice thundering at him,
but not permanently conditioned by it. But above all he is, of course,
only comparatively seldom with you, and besides, he is also under other
influences; you are for him a rather endearing curiosity from which he
can pick and choose whatever he likes. For me you were nothing in the least
like a curiosity, I couldn't pick and choose, I had to take everything.
And this without being able to produce any arguments against any of
it, for it is fundamentally impossible for you to talk calmly about a subject
you don't approve of or even one that was not suggested by you; your imperious
temperament does not permit it. In recent years you have been explaining
this as due to your nervous heart condition. I don't know that you were
ever essentially different. Rather, the nervous heart condition is a means
by which you exert your domination more strongly, since the thought of
it necessarily chokes off the least opposition from others. This is, of
course, not a reproach, only a statement of fact. As in Ottla's case, when
you say: "You simply can't talk to her at all, she flies straight in your
face," but in reality she does not begin by flying out at all. You mistake
the person for the thing. The thing under discussion is what flies in your
face and you immediately made up your mind about it without listening to
the person; whatever is brought forward afterward merely serves to irritate
you further, never to convince you. Then all one gets from you is: "Do
whatever you like. So far as I'm concerned you have a free hand. You're
of age, I've no advice to give you," and all this with that frightful,
hoarse undertone of anger and utter condemnation that makes me tremble
less today than in my childhood only because the child's exclusive sense
of guilt has been partly replaced by insight into our helplessness, yours
and mine.
The impossibility of getting on calmly together had one more result,
actually a very natural one: I lost the capacity to talk. I daresay I would
not have become a very eloquent person in any case, but I would, after
all, have acquired the usual fluency of human language. But at a very early
stage you forbade me to speak. Your threat, "Not a word of contradiction!"
and the raised hand that accompanied it have been with me ever since. What
I got from you—and you are, whenever it is a matter of your own affairs,
an excellent talker—was a hesitant, stammering mode of speech, and even
that was still too much for you, and finally I kept silent, at first perhaps
out of defiance, and then because I could neither think nor speak in your
presence. And because you were the person who really brought me up, this
has had its repercussions throughout my life. It is altogether a remarkable
mistake for you to believe I never complied with your wishes. "Always contrary"
was really not my basic principle where you were concerned, as you believe
and as you reproach me. On the contrary: if I had obeyed you less, I am
sure you would have been much better pleased with me. As it is, all your
educational measures hit the mark exactly. There was no hold I tried to
escape. As I now am, I am (apart, of course, from the fundamentals and
the influence of life itself) the result of your upbringing and of my obedience.
That this result is nevertheless distressing to you, indeed that you unconsciously
refuse to acknowledge it as the result of your methods of upbringing, is
due to the fact that your hand and the material I offered were so alien
to each other. You would say: "Not a word of contradiction!" thinking that
that was a way of silencing the oppositional forces in me that were disagreeable
to you, but the effect of it was too strong for me, I was too docile, I
became completely dumb, cringed away from you, hid from you, and only dared
to stir when I was so far away from you that your power could no longer
reach me—at least not directly. But you were faced with all that, and it
all seemed to you to be "contrary," whereas it was only the inevitable
consequence of your strength and my weakness.
Your extremely effective rhetorical methods in bringing me up, which
never failed to work with me, were: abuse, threats, irony, spiteful laughter,
and—oddly enough—self-pity. I cannot recall your ever having abused me
directly and in downright abusive terms. Nor was that necessary; you had
so many other methods, and besides, in talk at home and particularly at
the shop the words of abuse went flying around me in such swarms, as they
were flung at other people's heads, that as a little boy I was sometimes
almost stunned and had no reason not to apply them to myself too, for the
people you were abusing were certainly no worse than I was and you were
certainly not more displeased with them than with me. And here again was
your enigmatic innocence and inviolability; you cursed and swore without
the slightest scruple; yet you condemned cursing and swearing in other
people and would not have it.
You reinforced abusiveness with threats and this applied to me too.
How terrible for me was, for instance, that "I'll tear you apart like a
fish," although I knew, of course, that nothing worse was to follow (admittedly,
as a little child I didn't know that), but it was almost exactly in accord
with my notions of your power, and I saw you as being capable of doing
this too. It was also terrible when you ran around the table, shouting,
grabbing at one, obviously not really trying to grab, yet pretending to,
and Mother (finally) had to rescue one, as it seemed. Once again one had,
so it seemed to the child, remained alive through your mercy and bore one's
life henceforth as an undeserved gift from you. This is also the place
to mention the threats about the consequences of disobedience. When I began
to do something you did not like and you threatened me with the prospect
of failure, my veneration for your opinion was so great that the failure
became inevitable, even though perhaps it happened only at some later time.
I lost confidence in my own actions. I was wavering, doubtful. The older
I became, the more material there was for you to bring up against me as
evidence of my worthlessness; gradually you began really to be right in
a certain respect. Once again, I am careful not to assert that I became
like this solely through you; you only intensified what was already there,
but you intensified it greatly, simply because where I was concerned you
were very powerful and you employed all your power to that end.
You put special trust in bringing up children by means of irony, and
this was most in keeping with your superiority over me. An admonition from
you generally took this form: "Can't you do it in such-and-such a way?
That's too hard for you, I suppose. You haven't the time, of course?" and
so on. And each such question would be accompanied by malicious laughter
and a malicious face. One was, so to speak, already punished before one
even knew that one had done something bad. Maddening were also those rebukes
in which one was treated as a third person, in other words, considered
not worthy even to be spoken to angrily; that is to say, when you would
speak ostensibly to Mother but actually to me, who was sitting right there.
For instance: "Of course, that's too much to expect of our worthy son,"
and the like. (This produced a corollary in that, for instance, I did not
dare to ask you, and later from habit did not even really much think of
asking, anything directly when Mother was there. It was much less dangerous
for the child to put questions to Mother, sitting there beside you, and
to ask Mother: "How is Father?"—so guarding oneself against surprises.)
There were, of course, also cases when one was entirely in agreement with
even the worst irony, namely, when it referred to someone else, such as
Elli, with whom I was on bad terms for years. There was an orgy of malice
and spiteful delight for me when such things were said of her, as they
were at almost every meal: "She has to sit ten feet back from the table,
the big fat lump," and when you, morosely sitting on your chair without
the slightest trace of pleasantness or good humor, a bitter enemy, would
exaggeratedly imitate the way she sat, which you found utterly loathsome.
How often such things happened, over and over again, and how little you
really achieved as a result of them! I think the reason was that the expenditure
of anger and malice seemed to be in no proper relation to the subject itself,
one did not have the feeling that the anger was caused by this trifle of
sitting some way back from the table, but that the whole bulk of it had
already been present to begin with, then, only by chance, happened to settle
on this matter as a pretext for breaking out. Since one was convinced that
a pretext would be found anyway, one did not try very hard, and one's feelings
became dulled by these continued threats. One had gradually become pretty
sure of not getting a beating, anyway. One became a glum, inattentive,
disobedient child, always intent on escape, mainly within one's own self.
So you suffered, and so we suffered. From your own point of view you were
quite right when, clenching your teeth and with that gurgling laughter
that gave the child its first notions of hell, you used to say bitterly
(as you did only just recently in connection with a letter from Constantinople):
"A nice crowd that is!"
What seemed to be quite incompatible with this attitude toward your
children was, and it happened very often, that you openly lamented your
situation. I confess that as a child (though probably somewhat later) I
was completely callous about this and could not understand how you could
possibly expect to get any sympathy from anyone. You were such a giant
in every respect. What could you care for our pity or even our help? Our
help, indeed, you could not but despise, as you so often despised us ourselves.
Hence, I did not take these laments at their face value and looked for
some hidden motive behind them. Only later did I come to understand that
you really suffered a great deal because of your children; but at that
time, when these laments might under different circumstances still have
met with a childish, candid sympathy, unhesitatingly ready to offer any
help it could, to me they had to seem like overemphatic means of disciplining
me and humiliating me, as such not in themselves very intense, but with
the harmful side effect that the child became conditioned not to take very
seriously the very things it should have taken seriously.
Fortunately, there were exceptions to all this, mostly when you suffered
in silence, and affection and kindliness by their own strength overcame
all obstacles, and moved me immediately. Rare as this was, it was wonderful.
For instance, in earlier years, in hot summers, when you were tired after
lunch, I saw you having a nap at the office, your elbow on the desk; or
you joined us in the country, in the summer holidays, on Sundays, worn
out from work; or the time Mother was gravely ill and you stood holding
on to the bookcase, shaking with sobs; or when, during my last illness,
you came tiptoeing to Ottla's room to see me, stopping in the doorway,
craning your neck to see me, and out of consideration only waved to me
with your hand. At such times one would lie back and weep for happiness,
and one weeps again now, writing it down.
You have a particularly beautiful, very rare way of quietly, contentedly,
approvingly smiling, a way of smiling that can make the person for whom
it is meant entirely happy. I can't recall its ever having expressly been
my lot in my childhood, but I dare say it may have happened, for why should
you have refused it to me at a time when I still seemed blameless to you
and was your great hope? Yet in the long run even such friendly impressions
brought about nothing but an increased sense of guilt, making the world
still more incomprehensible to me.
I would rather keep to the practical and permanent. In order to assert
myself even a little in relation to you, and partly too from a kind of
vengefulness, I soon began to observe little ridiculous things about you,
to collect them and to exaggerate them. For instance, how easily you let
yourself be dazzled by people who were only seemingly above you, how you
would keep on talking about them, as of some Imperial Councilor or some
such (on the other hand, such things also pained me, to see you, my father,
believing you had any need of such trifling confirmations of your own value,
and boasting about them), or I would note your taste for indecent expressions,
which you would produce in the loudest possible voice, laughing about them
as though you had said something particularly good, while in point of fact
it was only a banal little obscenity (at the same time this again was for
me a humiliating manifestation of your vitality). There were, of course,
plenty of such observations. I was happy about them; they gave me occasion
for whispering and joking; you sometimes noticed it and were angry about
it, took it for malice and lack of respect, but believe me, it was for
me nothing other than a means—moreover, a useless one—of attempted self-preservation;
they were jokes of the kind that are made about gods and kings, jokes that
are not only compatible with the profoundest respect but are indeed part
and parcel of it.
Incidentally, you too, in keeping with your similar position where I
was concerned, tried a similar form of self-defense. You were in the habit
of pointing out how exaggeratedly well off I was and how well I had in
fact been treated. That is correct but I don't believe it was of any real
use to me under the prevailing circumstances. It is true that Mother was
endlessly good to me, but for me all that was in relation to you, that
is to say, in no good relation. Mother unconsciously played the part
of a beater during a hunt. Even if your method of upbringing might in some
unlikely case have set me on my own feet by means of producing defiance,
dislike, or even hate in me, Mother canceled that out again by kindness,
by talking sensibly (in the confusion of my childhood she was the very
prototype of good sense and reasonableness), by pleading for me; and I
was again driven back into your orbit, which I might perhaps otherwise
have broken out of, to your advantage and to my own. Or it happened that
no real reconciliation came about, that Mother merely shielded me from
you in secret, secretly gave me something, or allowed me to do something,
and then where you were concerned I was again the furtive creature, the
cheat, the guilty one, who in his worthlessness could only pursue sneaky
methods even to get the things he regarded as his right. Of course, I became
used to taking such a course also in quest of things to which, even in
my own view, I had no right. This again meant an increase in the sense
of guilt. It is also true that you hardly ever really gave me a beating.
But the shouting, the way your face got red, the hasty undoing of the suspenders
and laying them ready over the back of the chair, all that was almost worse
for me. It is as if someone is going to be hanged. If he really is hanged,
then he is dead and it is all over. But if he has to go through all the
preliminaries to being hanged and he learns of his reprieve only when the
noose is dangling before his face, he may suffer from it all his life.
Besides, from the many occasions on which I had, according to your clearly
expressed opinion, deserved a beating but was let off at the last moment
by your grace, I again accumulated only a huge sense of guilt. On every
side I was to blame, I was in your debt.
You have always reproached me (either alone or in front of others, since you have no feeling for the humiliation of the latter, and your children's affairs were always public) for living in peace and quiet, warmth and abundance, lacking nothing, thanks to your hard work. I think of remarks that must positively have worn grooves in my brain, such as: "When I was only seven I had to push a handcart from village to village." "We all had to sleep in one room." "We were glad when we got potatoes." "For years I had open sores on my legs because I did not have enough warm clothes." "I was only a little boy when I was sent to Pisek to work in a store." "I got nothing from home, not even when I was in the army, but still I managed to send money home." "But for all that, for all that—Father was always Father to me. Ah, nobody knows what that means these days! What do these children know? Nobody's been through that! Does any child understand such things today?" Under other conditions such stories might have been very educational, they might have been a way in encouraging one and strengthening one to endure torments and deprivations similar to those one's father had undergone. But that wasn't what you wanted at all; the situation had, after all, become quite different as a result of all your efforts, and there was no opportunity to distinguish oneself as you had done. Such an opportunity would first of all have had to be created by violence and revolutions, it would have meant breaking away from home (assuming one had had the resolution and strength to do so and that Mother wouldn't have worked against it, for her part, with other means) But that was not what you wanted at all, that you termed ingratitude, extravagance, disobedience, treachery, madness. And so, while on the one hand you tempted me to it by means of example, story, and humiliation, on the other hand you forbade it with the utmost severity. Otherwise, for instance you ought to have been delighted with Ottla's Zürau escapade*—apart from the accompanying circumstances. She wanted to get back to the country from which you had come, she wanted work and hardship such as you had had, she did not want to depend on the fruits of your labor, just as you yourself were independent of your father. Were those such dreadful intentions? Was that so remote from your example and your precept? Well, Ottla's intentions finally came to nothing in practice, were indeed perhaps carried out in a somewhat ridiculous way, with too much fuss, and she did not have enough consideration for her parents. But was that exclusively her fault and not also the fault of the circumstances and, above all, of the fact that you were so estranged from her? Was she any less estranged from you (as you later tried to convince yourself) in the business than afterward at Zürau? And would you not quite certainly have had the power (assuming you could have brought yourself to do so) to turn that escapade into something very good by means of encouragement, advice, and supervision, perhaps even merely by means of toleration?
*Refers to his sister Ottla's taking over the management of a farm
in the German-Bohemian town of Zürau. Kafka spent time with her there
during his illness in 1917-18. (Ed.)
In connection with such experiences you used to say, in bitter jest,
that we were too well off. But that joke is, in a sense, no joke at all.
What you had to fight for we received from your hand, but the fight for
external life, a fight that was instantly open to you and which we are,
of course, not spared either, we now have to fight for only late in life,
in our maturity but with only childish strength. I do not say that our
situation is therefore inevitably less favorable than yours was, on the
contrary, it is probably no better and no worse (although this is said
without reference to our different natures), only we have the disadvantage
of not being able to boast of our wretchedness and not being able to humiliate
anyone with it as you have done with your wretchedness. Nor do I deny that
it might have been possible for me to really enjoy the fruits of your great
and successful work; that I could have turned them to good account and,
to your joy, continued to work with them; but here again, our estrangement
stood in the way. I could enjoy what you gave, but only in humiliation,
weariness, weakness, and with a sense of guilt. That was why I could be
grateful to you for everything only as a beggar is, and could never show
it by doing the right things.
The next external result of this whole method of upbringing was that
I fled everything that even remotely reminded me of you. First, the business.
In itself, especially in my childhood, so long as it was still a simple
shop, I ought to have liked it very much, it was so full of life, lit up
in the evening, there was so much to see and hear; one was able to help
now and then, to distinguish oneself, and, above all, to admire you for
your magnificent commercial talents, for the way you sold things, managed
people, made jokes, were untiring, in case of doubt knew how to make the
right decision immediately, and so forth; even the way you wrapped a parcel
or opened a crate was a spectacle worth watching; all this was certainly
not the worst school for a child. But since you gradually began to terrify
me on all sides and the business and you became one thing for me, the business
too made me feel uneasy. Things that had at first been a matter of course
for me there now began to torment and shame me, particularly the way you
treated the staff. I don't know, perhaps it was the same in most businesses
(in the Assicurazioni Generali, for instance, in my time it was really
similar, and the explanation I gave the director for my resignation was,
though not strictly in accordance with the truth, still not entirely a
lie: my not being able to bear the cursing and swearing, which incidentally
had not actually been directed at me; it was something to which I had become
too painfully sensitive from home), but in my childhood other businesses
did not concern me. But you I heard and saw shouting, cursing, and raging
in the shop, in a way that in my opinion at that time had no equal anywhere
in the world. And not only cursing, but other sorts of tyrannizing. For
instance, the way you pushed goods you did not want to have mixed up with
others off the counter—only the thoughtlessness of your rage was some slight
excuse—and how the clerk had to pick them up. Or your constant comment
about a clerk who had TB: "The sooner that sick dog croaks the better."
You called the employees "paid enemies," and that was what they were, but
even before they became that, you seemed to me to be their "paying enemy."
There, too, I learned the great lesson that you could be unjust; in my
own case I would not have noticed it so soon, for there was too much accumulated
sense of guilt in me ready to admit that you were right; but in the shop,
in my childish view—which later, of course, became somewhat modified, although
not too much so—were strangers, who were after all, working for us and
for that reason had to live in constant dread of you. Of course I exaggerated,
because I simply assumed you had as terrible an effect on these people
as on me. If it had been so, they could not have lived at all; since, however
they were grown-up people, most of them with excellent nerves, they shook
off this abuse without any trouble and in the end it did you much more
harm than it did them. But it made the business insufferable to me, reminding
me far too much of my relations with you; quite apart from your proprietary
interest and apart from your mania for domination even as a businessman,
you were so greatly superior to all those who ever came to learn the business
from you that nothing they ever did could satisfy you, and you must, as
I assumed, in the same way be forever dissatisfied with me too. That was
why I could not help siding with the staff; I did it also, by the way,
because from sheer nervousness I could not understand how anyone could
be so abusive to a stranger, and therefore—from sheer nervousness and for
no other reason than my own security—I tried to reconcile the staff, which
must, I thought, be in a terrible state of indignation, with you and with
our family. To this end it was not enough for me to behave in an ordinary
decent way toward the staff, or even modestly; more than that, I had to
be humble, not only be first to say "good morning" or "good evening," but
if at all possible I had to forestall any return of the greeting. And even
if I, insignificant creature that I was, down below, had licked their feet
it would still have been no compensation for the way that you, the master,
were lashing out at them up above. This relationship that I came to have
toward my fellow man extended beyond the limits of the business and on
into the future (something similar, but not so dangerous and deep—going
as in my case, is for instance Ottla's taste for associating with poor
people, sitting together with the maids, which annoys you so much, and
the like). In the end I was almost afraid of the business and, in any case,
it had long ceased to be any concern of mine even before I went to the
Gymnasium and hence was taken even further away from it. Besides, it seemed
to be entirely beyond my resources and capacities since, as you said, it
exhausted even yours. You then tried (today this seems to me both touching
and shaming) to extract, nevertheless, some little sweetness for yourself
from my dislike of the business, of your world—a dislike that was after
all very distressing to you—by asserting that I had no business sense,
that I had loftier ideas in my head, and the like. Mother was, of course,
delighted with this explanation that you wrung from yourself, and I too,
in my vanity and wretchedness, let myself be influenced by it. But if it
had really been only or mainly "loftier ideas" that turned me against the
business (which I now, but only now, have come really and honestly to hate),
they would have had to express themselves differently, instead of letting
me float quickly and timidly through my schooling and my law studies until
I finally landed at a clerk's desk.
If I was to escape from you, I had to escape from the family as well,
even from Mother. True, one could always get protection from her, but only
in relation to you. She loved you too much and was too devoted and loyal
to you to have been for long an independent spiritual force in the child's
struggle. This was, incidentally, a correct instinct of the child, for
with the passing of the years Mother became ever more closely allied to
you; while, where she herself was concerned, she always kept her independence,
within the narrowest limits, delicately and beautifully, and without ever
essentially hurting you, still, with the passing of the years she more
and more completely, emotionally rather than intellectually, blindly adopted
your judgments and your condemnations with regard to the children, particularly
in the case—certainly a grave one—of Ottla. Of course, it must always be
borne in mind how tormenting and utterly wearing Mother's position in the
family was. She toiled in the business and in the house, and doubly suffered
all the family illnesses, but the culmination of all this was what she
suffered in her position between us and you. You were always affectionate
and considerate toward her, but in this respect, you spared her just as
little as we spared her. We all hammered ruthlessly away at her, you from
your side, we from ours. It was a diversion, nobody meant any harm, thinking
of the battle that you were waging with us and that we were waging with
you, and it was Mother who got the brunt of all our wild feelings. Nor
was it at all a good contribution to the children's upbringing the way
you—of course, without being in the slightest to blame for it yourself—tormented
her on our account. It even seemed to justify our otherwise unjustifiable
behavior toward her. How she suffered from us on your accounts and from
you on our account, even without counting those cases in which you were
in the right because she was spoiling us, even though this "spoiling" may
sometimes have been only a quiet, unconscious counterdemonstration against
your system. Of course, Mother could not have borne all this if she had
not drawn the strength to bear it from her love for us all and her happiness
in that love.
My sisters were only partly on my side. The one who was happiest in
her relation to you was Valli. Being closest to Mother, she fell in with
your wishes in a similar way, without much effort and without suffering
much harm. And because she reminded you of Mother, you did accept her in
a more friendly spirit, although there was little Kafka material in her.
But perhaps that was precisely what you wanted; where there was nothing
of the Kafka's, even you could not demand anything of the sort, nor did
you feel, as with the rest of us, that something was getting lost which
had to be saved by force. Besides, it may be that you were never particularly
fond of the Kafka element as it manifested itself in women. Valli's relationship
to you would perhaps have become even friendlier if the rest of us had
not disturbed it somewhat.
Elli is the only example of the almost complete success of a breaking
away from your orbit. When she was a child she was the last person I should
have expected it of. For she was such a clumsy, tired, timid, bad-tempered,
guilt-ridden, overmeek, malicious, lazy, greedy, miserly child, I could
hardly bring myself to look at her, certainly not to speak to her, so much
did she remind me of myself, in so very much the same way was she under
the same spell of our upbringing. Her miserliness was especially abhorrent
to me, since I had it to an, if possible, even greater extent. Miserliness
is, after all, one of the most reliable signs of profound unhappiness;
I was so unsure of everything that, in fact, I possessed only what I actually
had in my hands or in my mouth or what was at least on the way there, and
this was precisely what she, being in a similar situation, most enjoyed
taking away from me. But all this changed when, at an early age—this is
the most important thing—she left home, married, had children, and became
cheerful, carefree, brave, generous, unselfish, and hopeful. It is almost
incredible how you did not really notice this change at all, or at any
rate did not give it its due, blinded as you were by the grudge you have
always borne Elli and fundamentally still bear her to this day; only this
grudge matters much less now, since Elli no longer lives with us and, besides,
your love for Felix and your affection for Karl have made it less important.
Only Gerti sometimes has to suffer for it still.
I scarcely dare write of Ottla; I know that by doing so I jeopardize
the whole effect I hope for from this letter. In ordinary circumstances,
that is, so long as she is not in particular need or danger, all you feel
is only hatred for her; you yourself have confessed to me that in your
opinion she is always intentionally causing you suffering and annoyance
and that while you are suffering on her account she is satisfied and pleased.
In other words, a sort of fiend. What an immense estrangement, greater
still than that between you and me, must have come about between you and
her, for such an immense misunderstanding to be possible. She is so remote
from you that you scarcely see her any more, instead, you put a specter
in the place where you suppose her to be. I grant you that you have had
a particularly difficult time with her. I don't, of course, quite see to
the bottom of this very complicated case, but at any rate here was something
like a kind of Löwy, equipped with the best Kafka weapons. Between
us there was no real struggle; I was soon finished off; what remained was
flight, embitterment, melancholy, and inner struggle. But you two were
always in a fighting position, always fresh, always energetic. A sight
as magnificent as it was desperate. At the very beginning you were, I am
sure, very close to each other, because of the four of us Ottla is even
today perhaps the purest representation of the marriage between you and
Mother and of the forces it combined. I don't know what it was that deprived
you both of the happiness of the harmony between father and child, but
I can't help believing that the development in this case was similar to
that in mine. On your side there was the tyranny of your own nature, on
her side the Löwy defiance, touchiness, sense of justice, restlessness,
and all that backed by the consciousness of the Kafka vigor. Doubtless
I too influenced her, but scarcely of my own doing, simply through the
fact of my existence. Besides, as the last to arrive, she found herself
in a situation in which the balance of power was already established, and
was able to form her own judgment from the large amount of material at
her disposal. I can even imagine that she may, in her inmost being, have
wavered for some time as to whether she should fling herself into your
arms or into those of the adversaries; and it is obvious that at that time
there was something you failed to do and that you rebuffed her, but if
it had been possible, the two of you would have become a magnificently
harmonious pair. That way I should have lost an ally, but the sight of
you two would have richly compensated me; besides, the incredible happiness
of finding complete contentment at least in one child would have changed
you much to my advantage. All this, however, is today only a dream. Ottla
has no contact with her father and has to seek her way alone, like me,
and the degree of confidence, self-confidence, health, and ruthlessness
by which she surpasses me makes her in your eyes more wicked and treacherous
than I seem to you. I understand that. From your point of view she can't
be different. Indeed, she herself is capable of regarding herself with
your eyes, of feeling what you suffer and of being—not desperate (despair
is my business) but very sad. You do see us together often enough,
in apparent contradiction to this, whispering and laughing, and now and
then you hear us mentioning you. The impression you get is that of impudent
conspirators. Strange conspirators. You are, admittedly, a chief subject
of our conversations, as of our thoughts ever since we can remember, but
truly, not in order to plot against you do we sit together, but in order
to discuss—with all our might and main, jokingly and seriously, in affection,
defiance, anger, revulsion, submission, consciousness of guilt, with all
the resources of our heads and hearts—this terrible trial that is pending
between us and you, to examine it in all its details, from all sides, on
all occasions, from far and near—a trial in which you keep on claiming
to be the judge, whereas, at least in the main (here I leave a margin for
all the mistakes I may naturally make) you are a party too, just as weak
and deluded as we are. An example of the effect of your methods of upbringing,
one that is very instructive in the context of the whole situation, is
the case of Irma. On the one hand, she was, after all, a stranger, already
grown up when she entered your business, and had to deal with you mainly
as her employer, so that she was only partially exposed to your influence,
and this at an age when she had already developed powers of resistance;
yet, on the other hand, she was also a blood relation, venerating you as
her father's brother, and the power you had over her was far greater than
that of a mere employer. And despite all this she, who, with her frail
body, was so efficient, intelligent, hard-working, modest, trustworthy,
unselfish, and loyal, who loved you as her uncle and admired you as her
employer, she who proved herself in previous and in subsequent positions,
was not a very good clerk to you. Her relationship with you was, in fact,
nearly that of one of your children—pushed into that role, naturally, by
us, too—and the power of your personality to bend others was, even in her
case, so great that (admittedly only in relation to you and, it is to be
hoped, without the deeper suffering of a child) she developed forgetfulness,
carelessness, a sort of gallows humor, and perhaps even a shade of defiance,
in so far as she was capable of that at all. And I do not even take into
account that she was ailing, and not very happy in other respects either,
and that she was burdened by a bleak home life. What was so illuminating
to me in your relation to her, you yourself summed up in a remark that
became classical for us, one that was almost blasphemous, but at the same
time extraordinary evidence of the naïveté of your way of treating
people: "The late lamented has left me quite a mess."
I might go on to describe further orbits of your influence and of the
struggle against it, but there I would be entering uncertain ground and
would have to construct things and, apart from that, the farther you are
away from your business and your family, the pleasanter you have always
become, easier to get on with, better mannered, more considerate, and more
sympathetic (I mean outwardly, too), in exactly the same way as for instance
an autocrat, when he happens to be outside the frontiers of his own country,
has no reason to go on being tyrannical and is able to associate good-humoredly
even with the lowest of the low. In fact, in the group photographs taken
at Franzensbad, for instance, you always looked as big and jolly, among
those sulky little people, as a king on his travels. This was something,
I grant you, from which your children might have benefited too, if they
had been capable of recognizing this even as little children, which was
impossible; and if I, for one, had not had to live constantly within the
inmost, strictest, binding ring of your influence, as, in fact, I did.
Not only did I lose my family feeling, as you say; on the contrary,
I did indeed have a feeling about the family, mostly in a negative sense,
concerned with the breaking away from you (which, of course could never
be done completely). Relations with people outside the family, however,
suffered possibly still more under your influence. You are entirely mistaken
if you believe I do everything for other people out of affection and loyalty,
and for you and the family nothing, out of coldness and betrayal. I repeat
for the tenth time: Even in other circumstances I should probably have
become a shy and nervous person, but it is a long dark road from there
to where I have really come. (Up to now I have intentionally passed over
in silence relatively little in this letter, but now and later I shall
have to keep silent about some things that are still too hard for me to
confess—to you and to myself. I say this in order that if the picture as
a whole should be somewhat blurred here and there, you should not believe
that this is due to lack of evidence; on the contrary, there is evidence
that might well make the picture unbearably stark. It is not easy to find
a middle way.) Here, it is enough to remind you of early days. I had lost
my self-confidence where you were concerned, and in its place had developed
a boundless sense of guilt. (In recollection of this boundlessness I once
wrote of someone, accurately: "He is afraid the shame will outlive him.")
I could not suddenly change when I was with other people; rather, I came
to feel an even deeper sense of guilt with them, for, as I have already
said, I had to make up to them for the wrongs you had done them in your
business, wrongs in which I too had my share of responsibility. Besides,
you always had some objection to make, frankly or covertly, about everyone
I associated with, and for this too I had to atone. The mistrust that you
tried to instill into me toward most people, at business and at home (name
a single person who was of importance to me in my childhood whom you didn't
at least once tear to shreds with your criticism), was, oddly enough, of
no particular burden to you (you were strong enough to bear it; besides,
it was perhaps really only a token of the autocrat). This mistrust (which
was nowhere confirmed in the eyes of the little boy, since everywhere I
saw only people excellent beyond any hope of emulation) turned in me to
mistrust of myself and perpetual anxiety about everything else. There,
then, I was in general certain of not being able to escape from you. That
you were mistaken on this point was perhaps due to your actually never
learning anything about my association with other people; and mistrustfully
and jealously (I don't deny, do I, that you are fond of me?) you assumed
that I had to compensate elsewhere for the lack of a family life, since
it must be impossible that away from home I should live in the same way.
Incidentally, in this respect, it was precisely in my childhood that I
did find a certain comfort in my very mistrust of my own judgment. I would
say to myself: "Oh, you're exaggerating, you tend too much to feel trivialities
as great exceptions, the way young people always do." But this comfort
I later lost almost entirely, when I gained a clearer perspective of the
world.
I found just as little escape from you in Judaism. Here some measure
of escape would have been thinkable in principle, moreover, it would have
been thinkable that we might both have found each other in Judaism or that
we even might have begun from there in harmony. But what sort of Judaism
was it that I got from you? In the course of the years, I have taken roughly
three different attitudes to it. As a child I reproached myself,
in accord with you, for not going to the synagogue often enough, for not
fasting, and so on. I thought that in this way I was doing a wrong not
to myself but to you, and I was penetrated by a sense of guilt, which was,
of course, always near at hand.
Later, as a young man, I could not understand how, with the insignificant
scrap of Judaism you yourself possessed, you could reproach me for not
making an effort (for the sake of piety at least, as you put it) to cling
to a similar, insignificant scrap. It was indeed, so far as I could see,
a mere nothing, a joke—not even a joke. Four days a year you went to the
synagogue, where you were, to say the least, closer to the indifferent
than to those who took it seriously, patiently went through the prayers
as a formality, sometimes amazed me by being able to show me in the prayer
book the passage that was being said at the moment, and for the rest, so
long as I was present in the synagogue (and this was the main thing) I
was allowed to hang around wherever I liked. And so I yawned and dozed
through the many hours (I don't think I was ever again so bored, except
later at dancing lessons) and did my best to enjoy the few little bits
of variety there were, as for instance when the Ark of the Covenant was
opened, which always reminded me of the shooting galleries where a cupboard
door would open in the same way whenever one hit a bull's-eye; except that
there something interesting always came out and here it was always just
the same old dolls without heads. Incidentally, it was also very frightening
for me there, not only, as goes without saying, because of all the people
one came into close contact with, but also because you once mentioned in
passing that I too might be called to the Torah. That was something I dreaded
for years. But otherwise I was not fundamentally disturbed in my boredom,
unless it was by the bar mitzvah, but that demanded no more than some ridiculous
memorizing, in other words, it led to nothing but some ridiculous passing
of an examination; and, so far as you were concerned, by little, not very
significant incidents, as when you were called to the Torah and passed,
in what to my way of feeling was a purely social event, or when you stayed
on in the synagogue for the prayers for the dead, and I was sent away,
which for a long time—obviously because of the being sent away and the
lack of any deeper interest—aroused in me the more or less unconscious
feeling that something indecent was about to take place.—That's how it
was in the synagogue; at home it was, if possible, even poorer, being confined
to the first Seder, which more and more developed into a farce, with fits
of hysterical laughter, admittedly under the influence of the growing children.
(Why did you have to give way to that influence? Because you had brought
it about.) This was the religious material that was handed on to me, to
which may be added at most the outstretched hand pointing to "the sons
of the millionaire Fuchs," who attended the synagogue with their father
on the High Holy Days. How one could do anything better with that material
than get rid of it as fast as possible, I could not understand; precisely
the getting rid of it seemed to me to be the devoutest action.
Still later, I did see it again differently and realized why it was
possible for you to think that in this respect too I was malevolently betraying
you. You really had brought some traces of Judaism with you from the ghetto-like
village community; it was not much and it dwindled a little more in the
city and during your military service; but still, the impressions and memories
of your youth did just about suffice for some sort of Jewish life, especially
since you did not need much help of that kind, but came of robust stock
and could personally scarcely be shaken by religious scruples unless they
were strongly mixed with social scruples. Basically the faith that ruled
your life consisted in your believing in the unconditional rightness of
the opinions of a certain class of Jewish society, and hence actually,
since these opinions were part and parcel of your own nature, in believing
in yourself. Even in this there was still Judaism enough, but it was too
little to be handed on to the child; it all dribbled away while you were
passing it on. In part, it was youthful memories that could not be passed
on to others; in part, it was your dreaded personality. It was also impossible
to make a child, overacutely observant from sheer nervousness, understand
that the few flimsy gestures you performed in the name of Judaism, and
with an indifference in keeping with their flimsiness, could have any higher
meaning. For you they had meaning as little souvenirs of earlier times,
and that was why you wanted to pass them on to me, but since they no longer
had any intrinsic value even for you you could do this only through persuasion
or threat; on the one hand, this could not be successful, and on the other,
it had to make you very angry with me on account of my apparent obstinacy,
since you did not recognize the weakness of your position in this.
The whole thing is, of course, no isolated phenomenon. It was much the
same with a large section of this transitional generation of Jews, which
had migrated from the still comparatively devout countryside to the cities.
It happened automatically; only, it added to our relationship, which certainly
did not lack in acrimony, one more sufficiently painful source for it.
Although you ought to believe, as I do, in your guiltlessness in this matter
too, you ought to explain this guiltlessness by your nature and by the
conditions of the times, not merely by external circumstances; that is,
not by saying, for instance, that you had too much work and too many other
worries to be able to bother with such things as well. In this manner you
tend to twist your undoubted guiltlessness into an unjust reproach to others.
That can be very easily refuted everywhere and here too. It was not a matter
of any sort of instruction you ought to have given your children, but of
an exemplary life. Had your Judaism been stronger, your example would have
been more compelling too; this goes without saying and is, again, by no
means a reproach, but only a refutation of your reproaches. You have recently
been reading Franklin's memoirs of his youth. I really did purposely give
you this book to read, though not, as you ironically commented, because
of a little passage on vegetarianism, but because of the relationship between
the author and his father, as it is there described, and of the relationship
between the author and his son, as it is spontaneously revealed in these
memoirs written for that son. I do not wish to dwell here on matters of
detail.
I have received a certain retrospective confirmation of this view of
your Judaism from your attitude in recent years, when it seemed to you
that I was taking more interest in Jewish matters. As you have in advance
an aversion to every one of my activities and especially to the nature
of my interest, so you have had it here too. But in spite of this, one
could have expected that in this case you would make a little exception.
It was, after all, Judaism of your Judaism that was coming to life here,
and with it also the possibility of entering into a new relationship between
us. I do not deny that, had you shown interest in them, these things might,
for that very reason, have become suspect in my eyes. I do not even dream
of asserting that I am in this respect any better than you are. But it
never came to the test. Through my intervention Judaism became abhorrent
to you, Jewish writings unreadable; they "nauseated" you.—This may have
meant you insisted that only that Judaism which you had shown me in my
childhood was the right one, and beyond it there was nothing. Yet that
you should insist on it was really hardly thinkable. But then the "nausea"
(apart from the fact that it was directed primarily not against Judaism
but against me personally) could only mean that unconsciously you did acknowledge
the weakness of your Judaism and of my Jewish upbringing, did not wish
to be reminded of it in any way, and reacted to any reminder with frank
hatred. Incidentally, your negative high esteem of my new Judaism was much
exaggerated; first of all, it bore your curse within it, and secondly in
its development the fundamental relationship to one's fellow men was decisive,
in my case that is to say fatal.
You struck closer to home with your aversion to my writing and to everything
that, unknown to you, was connected with it. Here I had, in fact, got some
distance away from you by my own efforts, even if it was slightly reminiscent
of the worm that, when a foot treads on its tail end, breaks loose with
its front part and drags itself aside. To a certain extent I was in safety;
there was a chance to breathe freely. The aversion you naturally and immediately
took to my writing was, for once, welcome to me. My vanity, my ambition
did suffer under your soon proverbial way of hailing the arrival of my
books: "Put it on my bedside table!" (usually you were playing cards when
a book came), but I was really quite glad of it, not only out of rebellious
malice, not only out of delight at a new confirmation of my view of our
relationship, but quite spontaneously, because to me that formula sounded
something like: "Now you are free!" Of course it was a delusion; I was
not, or, to put it most optimistically, was not yet, free. My writing was
all about you; all I did there, after all, was to bemoan what I could not
bemoan upon your breast. It was an intentionally long and drawn-out leave-taking
from you, yet, although it was enforced by you, it did take its course
in the direction determined by me. But how little all this amounted to!
It is only worth talking about because it happened in my life, otherwise
it would not even be noted; and also because in my childhood it ruled my
life as a premonition, later as a hope, and still later often as despair,
and it dictated—yet again in your shape, it may be said—my few small decisions.
For instance, the choice of a career. True, here you gave me complete
freedom, in your magnanimous and, in this regard, even indulgent manner.
Although here again you were conforming to the general method of treating
sons in the Jewish middle class, which was the standard for you, or at
least to the values of that class. Finally, one of your misunderstandings
concerning my person played a part in this too. In fact, out of paternal
pride, ignorance of my real life, and conclusions drawn from my feebleness,
you have always regarded me as particularly diligent. As a child I was,
in your view, always studying, and later always writing. This does not
even remotely correspond to the facts. It would be more correct, and much
less exaggerated, to say that I studied little and learned nothing; that
something did stick in my mind after those many years is, after all, not
very remarkable, since I did have a moderately good memory and a not too
inferior capacity for learning; but the sum total of knowledge and especially
of a solid grounding of knowledge is extremely pitiable in comparison with
the expenditure of time and money in the course of an outwardly untroubled,
calm life, particularly also in comparison with almost all the people I
know. It is pitiable, but to me understandable. Ever since I could think,
I have had such profound anxieties about asserting my spiritual and intellectual
existence that I was indifferent to everything else. Jewish schoolboys
in our country often tend to be odd; among them one finds the most unlikely
things; but something like my cold indifference, scarcely disguised, indestructible,
childishly helpless, approaching the ridiculous, and brutishly complacent,
the indifference of a self-sufficient but coldly imaginative child, I have
never found anywhere else; to be sure, it was the sole defense against
destruction of the nerves by fear and by a sense of guilt. All that occupied
my mind was worry about myself, and this in various ways. There was, for
instance, the worry about my health; it began imperceptibly enough, with
now and then a little anxiety about digestion, hair falling out, a spinal
curvature, and so on; intensifying in innumerable gradations, it finally
ended with a real illness. But since there was nothing at all I was certain
of, since I needed to be provided at every instant with a new confirmation
of my existence, since nothing was in my very own, undoubted, sole possession,
determined unequivocally only by me—in sober truth a disinherited son—naturally
I became unsure even to the thing nearest to me, my own body. I shot up,
tall and lanky, without knowing what to do with my lankiness, the burden
was too heavy, the back became bent; I scarcely dared to move, certainly
not to exercise, I remained weakly; I was amazed by everything I could
still command as by a miracle, for instance, my good digestion; that sufficed
to lose it, and now the way was open to every sort of hypochondria; until
finally under the strain of the superhuman effort of wanting to marry (of
this I shall speak later), blood came from the lung, something in which
the apartment in the Schönbornpalais—which, however, I needed only
because I believed I needed it for my writing, so that even this belongs
here under the same heading—may have had a fair share. So all this did
not come from excessive work, as you always imagine. There were years in
which, in perfectly good health, I lazed away more time on the sofa than
you in all your life, including all your illnesses. When I rushed away
from you, frightfully busy, it was generally in order to lie down in my
room. My total achievement in work done, both at the office (where laziness
is, of course, not particularly striking, and besides, mine was kept in
bounds by my anxiety) and at home, is minute; if you had any real idea
of it, you would be aghast. Probably I am constitutionally not lazy at
all, but there was nothing for me to do. In the place where I lived I was
spurned, condemned, fought to a standstill; and to escape to some other
place was an enormous exertion, but that was not work, for it was something
impossible, something that was, with small exceptions, unattainable for
me.
This was the state in which I was given the freedom of choice of a career.
But was I still capable of making any use of such freedom? Had I still
any confidence in my own capacity to achieve a real career? My valuation
of myself was much more dependent on you than on anything else, such as
some external success. That was strengthening for a moment, nothing more,
but on the other side your weight always dragged me down much more strongly.
Never shall I pass the first grade in grammar school, I thought, but I
succeeded, I even got a prize; but I shall certainly not pass the entrance
exam for the Gymnasium, but I succeeded; but now I shall certainly fail
in the first year at the Gymnasium; no, I did not fail, and I went on and
on succeeding. This did not produce any confidence, however; on the contrary,
I was always convinced—and I had positive proof of it in your forbidding
expression—that the more I achieved, the worse the final outcome would
inevitably be. Often in my mind's eye I saw the terrible assembly of the
teachers (the Gymnasium is only the most obvious example, but it was the
same all around me), as they would meet, when I had passed the first class,
and then in the second class, when I had passed that, and then in the third,
and so on, meeting in order to examine this unique, outrageous case, to
discover how I, the most incapable, or at least the most ignorant of all,
had succeeded in creeping up so far as this class, which now, when everybody's
attention had at last been focused on me, would of course instantly spew
me out, to the jubilation of all the righteous liberated from this nightmare.
To live with such fantasies is not easy for a child. In these circumstances,
what could I care about my lessons? Who was able to strike a spark of real
interest in me? Lessons, and not only lessons but everything around me,
interested me as much, at that decisive age, as an embezzling bank clerk,
still holding his job and trembling at the thought of discovery, is interested
in the petty ongoing business of the bank, which he still has to deal with
as a clerk. That was how small and faraway everything was in comparison
to the main thing. So it went on up to the qualifying exams which I really
passed partly only through cheating, and then everything came to a standstill,
for now I was free. If I had been concerned only with myself up to now,
despite the discipline of the Gymnasium, how much more so now that I was
free. So there was actually no such thing for me as freedom to choose my
career, for I knew: compared to the main thing everything would be exactly
as much a matter of indifference to me as all the subjects taught at school,
and so it was a matter of finding a profession that would let me indulge
this indifference without injuring my vanity too much. Law was the obvious
choice. Little contrary attempts on the part of vanity, of senseless hope,
such as a fortnight's study of chemistry, or six months' German studies,
only reinforced that fundamental conviction. So I studied law. This meant
that in the few months before the exams, and in a way that told severely
on my nerves, I was positively living in an intellectual sense, on sawdust,
which had moreover already been chewed for me in thousands of other people's
mouths. But in a certain sense this was exactly to my taste, as in a certain
sense the Gymnasium had been earlier, and later my job as a clerk, for
it all suited my situation. At any rate, I did show astonishing foresight;
even as a small child I had had fairly clear premonitions about my studies
and my career. From this side I did not expect rescue; here I had given
up long ago.
But I showed no foresight at all concerning the significance and possibility
of a marriage for me; this up to now greatest terror of my life has come
upon me almost completely unexpectedly. The child had developed so slowly,
these things were outwardly all too remote; now and then the necessity
of thinking of them did arise; but the fact that here a permanent, decisive
and indeed the most grimly bitter ordeal loomed was impossible to recognize.
In reality, however, the marriage plans turned out to be the most grandiose
and hopeful attempts at escape, and, consequently their failure was correspondingly
grandiose.
I am afraid that because in this sphere everything I try is a failure,
I shall also fail to make these attempts to marry comprehensible to you.
And yet the success of this whole letter depends on it, for in these attempts
there was, on the one hand, concentrated everything I had at my disposal
in the way of positive forces, and, on the other hand, there also accumulated,
and with downright fury, all the negative forces that I have described
as being the result in part of your method of upbringing, that is to say,
the weakness, the lack of self-confidence, the sense of guilt, and they
positively drew a cordon between myself and marriage. The explanation will
be hard for me also because I have spent so many days and nights thinking
and burrowing through the whole thing over and over again that now even
I myself am bewildered by the mere sight of it. The only thing that makes
the explanation easier for me is your—in my opinion—complete misunderstanding
of the matter; to correct slightly so complete a misunderstanding does
not seem excessively difficult.
First of all you rank the failure of the marriages with the rest of
my failures; I should have nothing against this provided you accepted my
previous explanation of my failure as a whole. It does, in fact, form part
of the same series, only you underrate the importance of the matter, underrating
it to such an extent that whenever we talk of it we are actually talking
about quite different things. I venture to say that nothing has happened
to you in your whole life that had such importance for you as the attempts
at marriage have had for me. By this I do not mean that you have not experienced
anything in itself as important; on the contrary, your life was much richer
and more care-laden and more concentrated than mine, but for that very
reason nothing of this sort has happened to you. It is as if one person
had to climb five low steps and another person only one step, but one that
is, at least for him, as high as all the other five put together; the first
person will not only manage the five, but hundreds and thousands more as
well, he will have led a great and very strenuous life, but none of the
steps he has climbed will have been of such importance to him as for the
second person that one, firstly high step, that step which it is impossible
for him to climb even by exerting all his strength, that step which he
cannot get up on and which he naturally cannot get past either.
Marrying, founding a family, accepting all the children that come, supporting
them in this insecure world and perhaps even guiding them a little, is,
I am convinced, the utmost a human being can succeed in doing at all. That
so many seem to succeed in this is no evidence to the contrary; first of
all, there are not many who do succeed, and second, these not-many usually
don't "do" it, it merely "happens" to them; although this is not that utmost,
it is still very great and very honorable (particularly since "doing" and
"happening" cannot be kept clearly distinct). And finally, it is not a
matter of this utmost at all, anyway, but only of some distant but decent
approximation; it is, after all, not necessary to fly right into the middle
of the sun, but it is necessary to crawl to a clean little spot on Earth
where the sun sometimes shines and one can warm oneself a little.
How was I prepared for this? As badly as possible. This is apparent
from what has been said up to now. In so far as any direct preparation
of the individual and any direct creation of the general basic conditions
exist, you did not intervene much outwardly. And it could not be otherwise;
what is decisive here are the general sexual customs of class, nation,
and time. Yet you did intervene here too—not much, for such intervention
must presuppose great mutual trust, and both of us had been lacking in
this even long before the decisive time came—and not very happily, because
our needs were quite different; what grips me need hardly touch you at
all, and vice versa; what is innocence in you may be guilt in me, and vice
versa; what has no consequences for you may be the last nail in my coffin.
I remember going for a walk one evening with you and Mother; it was
on Josephsplatz near where the Landerbank is today; and I began talking
about these interesting things, in a stupidly boastful, superior, proud,
detached (that was spurious), cold (that was genuine), and stammering manner,
as indeed I usually talked to you, reproaching the two of you with having
left me uninstructed; with the fact that my schoolmates first had to take
me in hand, that I had been close to great dangers (here I was brazenly
lying, as was my way, in order to show myself brave, for as a consequence
of my timidity I had, except for the usual sexual misdemeanors of city
children, no very exact notion of these "great dangers"); but finally I
hinted that now, fortunately, I knew everything, no longer needed any advice,
and that everything was all right. I had begun talking about all this mainly
because it gave me pleasure at least to talk about it, and also out of
curiosity, and finally to avenge myself somehow on the two of you for something
or other. In keeping with your nature you took it quite simply, only saying
something to the effect that you could give me advice about how I could
go in for these things without danger. Perhaps I did want to lure just
such an answer out of you; it was in keeping with the prurience of a child
overfed with meat and all good things, physically inactive, everlastingly
occupied with himself; but still, my outward sense of shame was so hurt
by this—or I believed it ought to be so hurt—that against my will I could
not go on talking to you about it and, with arrogant impudence, cut the
conversation short.
It is not easy to judge the answer you gave me then; on the one hand,
it had something staggeringly frank, sort of primeval, about it; on the
other hand, as far as the lesson itself is concerned, it was uninhibited
in a very modern way. I don't know how old I was at the time, certainly
not much over sixteen. It was, nevertheless, a very remarkable answer for
such a boy, and the distance between the two of us is also shown in the
fact that it was actually the first direct instruction bearing on real
life I ever received from you. Its real meaning, however, which sank into
my mind even then, but which came partly to the surface of my consciousness
only much later, was this: what you advised me to do was in your opinion
and even more in my opinion at that time, the filthiest thing possible.
That you wanted to see to it that I should not bring any of the physical
filth home with me was unimportant, for you were only protecting yourself,
your house. The important thing was rather that you yourself remained outside
your own advice, a married man, a pure man, above such things; this was
probably intensified for me at the time by the fact that even marriage
seemed to me shameless; and hence it was impossible for me to apply to
my parents the general information I had picked up about marriage. Thus
you became still purer, rose still higher. The thought that you might have
given yourself similar advice before your marriage was to me utterly unthinkable.
So there was hardly any smudge of earthly filth on you at all. And it was
you who pushed me down into this filth—just as though I were predestined
to it with a few frank words. And so, if the world consisted only of me
and you (a notion I was much inclined to have), then this purity of the
world came to an end with you and, by virtue of your advice, thc filth
began with me. In itself it was, of course, incomprehensible that you should
thus condemn me; only old guilt, and profoundest contempt on your side,
could explain it to me. And so again I was seized in my innermost being—and
very hard indeed.
Here perhaps both our guiltlessness becomes most evident. A gives B
a piece of advice that is frank, in keeping with his attitude to life,
not very lovely but still, even today perfectly usual in the city, a piece
of advice that might prevent damage to health. This piece of advice is
for B morally not very invigorating—but why should he not be able to work
his way out of it, and repair the damage in the course of the years? Besides,
he does not even have to take the advice; and there is no reason why the
advice itself should cause B's whole future world to come tumbling down.
And yet something of this kind does happen, but only for the very reason
that A is you and B is myself. This guiltlessness on both sides I can judge
especially well because a similar clash between us occurred some twenty
years later, in quite different circumstances—horrible in itself but much
less damaging—for what was there in me, the thirty-six-year-old, that could
still be damaged? I am referring to a brief discussion on one of those
few tumultuous days that followed the announcement of my latest marriage
plans. You said to me something like this: "She probably put on a fancy
blouse, something these Prague Jewesses are good at, and right away, of
course, you decided to marry her. And that as fast as possible, in a week,
tomorrow, today. I can’t understand you: after all, you're a grown man,
you live in the city, and you don't know what to do but marry the first
girl who comes along. Isn't there anything else you can do? If you're frightened,
I'll go with you." You put it in more detail and more plainly, but I can
no longer recall the details, perhaps too things became a little vague
before my eyes, I paid almost more attention to Mother who, though in complete
agreement with you, took something from the table and left the room with
it.
You have hardly ever humiliated me more deeply with words and shown me your contempt more clearly. When you spoke to me in a similar way twenty years earlier, one might, looking at it through your eyes, have seen in it some respect for the precocious city boy, who in your opinion could already be initiated into life without more ado. Today this consideration could only intensify the contempt, for the boy who was about to make his first start got stuck halfway and today does not seem richer by any experience, only more pitiable by twenty years. My choice of a girl meant nothing at all to you. You had (unconsciously) always suppressed my power of decision and now believed (unconsciously) that you knew what it was worth. Of my attempts at escape in other directions you knew nothing, thus you could not know anything either of the thought processes that had led me to this attempt to marry, and had to try to guess at them, and in keeping with your general opinion of me, you interpreted them in the most abominable, crude, and ridiculous light. And you did not for a moment hesitate to tell me this in just such a manner. The shame you inflicted on me with this was nothing to you in comparison to the shame that I would, in your opinion, inflict on your name by this marriage.
Now, regarding my attempts at marriage there is much you can say in
reply, and you have indeed done so: you could not have much respect for
my decision since I had twice broken the engagement with F. and had twice
renewed it, since I had needlessly dragged you and Mother to Berlin to
celebrate the engagement, and the like. All this is true—but how did it
come about?
The fundamental thought behind both attempts at marriage was quite sound:
to set up house, to become independent.
An idea that does appeal to you, only in reality it always turns out
like the children's game in which one holds and even grips the other's
hand, calling out: "Oh, go away, go away, why don't you go away?" Which
in our case happens to be complicated by the fact that you have always
honestly meant this "go away!" and have always unknowingly held me, or
rather held me down, only by the strength of your personality.
Although both girls were chosen by chance, they were extraordinarily
well chosen. Again a sign of your complete misunderstanding, that you can
believe that I—timid, hesitant, suspicious—can decide to marry in a flash,
out of delight over a blouse. Both marriages would rather have been commonsense
marriages, in so far as that means that day and night—the first time for
years, the second time for months—all my power of thought was concentrated
on the plan. Neither of the girls disappointed me, only I disappointed
both of them. My opinion of them is today exactly the same as when I wanted
to marry them.
It is not true either that in my second marriage attempt I disregarded
the experience gained from the first attempt, that I was rash and careless.
The cases were quite different; precisely the earlier experience held out
a hope for the second case, which was altogether much more promising. I
do not want to go into details here.
Why then did I not marry? There were certainly obstacles, as there always
are, but then, life consists in confronting such obstacles. The essential
obstacle, however, which is, unfortunately, independent of the individual
case, is that obviously I am mentally incapable of marrying. This manifests
itself in the fact that from the moment I make up my mind to marry I can
no longer sleep, my head burns day and night, life can no longer be called
life, I stagger about in despair. It is not actually worries that bring
this about; true, in keeping with my sluggishness and pedantry countless
worries are involved in all this, but they are not decisive; they do, like
worms, complete the work on the corpse, but the decisive blow has come
from elsewhere. It is the general pressure of anxiety, of weakness, of
self-contempt.
I will try to explain it in more detail. Here, in the attempt to marry,
two seemingly antagonistic elements in my relations with you unite more
intensely than anywhere else. Marriage certainly is the pledge of the most
acute form of self-liberation and independence. I would have a family,
in my opinion the highest one can achieve, and so too the highest you have
achieved; I would be your equal; all old and even new shame and tyranny
would be mere history. It would be like a fairy tale, but precisely there
lies the questionable element. It is too much; so much cannot be achieved.
It is as if a person were a prisoner, and he had not only the intention
to escape, which would perhaps be attainable, but also, and indeed simultaneously,
the intention to rebuild the prison as a pleasure dome for himself. But
if he escapes, he cannot rebuild, and if he rebuilds, he cannot escape.
If I, in the particular unhappy relationship in which I stand to you, want
to become independent, I must do something that will have, if possible,
no connection with you at all; though marrying is the greatest thing of
all and provides the most honorable independence, it also stands at the
same time in the closest relation to you. To try to get out of this quandary
has therefore a touch of madness about it, and every attempt is punished
by being driven almost mad.
It is precisely this close relation that partly lures me toward marrying.
I picture the equality which would then arise between us—and which you
would be able to understand better than any other form of equality—as so
beautiful because then I could be a free, grateful, guiltless, upright
son, and you could be an untroubled untyrannical, sympathetic, contented
father. But to this end everything that ever happened would have to be
undone, that is, we ourselves should have to be canceled out.
But we being what we are, marrying is barred to me because it is your
very own domain. Sometimes I imagine the map of the world spread out and
you stretched diagonally across it. And I feel as if I could consider living
in only those regions that either are not covered by you or are not within
your reach. And, in keeping with the conception I have of your magnitude,
these are not many and not very comforting regions—and marriage is not
among them.
This very comparison proves that I certainly do not mean to say that
you drove me away from marriage by your example, as you had driven me away
from your business. Quite the contrary, despite the remote similarity.
In your marriage I had before me what was, in many ways, a model marriage,
a model in constancy, mutual help, number of children; and even when the
children grew up and increasingly disturbed the peace, the marriage as
such remained undisturbed. Perhaps I formed my high idea of marriage on
this model; the desire for marriage was powerless for other reasons. Those
lay in your relation to your children, which is, after all, what this whole
letter is about.
There is a view according to which fear of marriage sometimes has its
source in a fear that one's children would some day pay one back for the
sins one has committed against one's own parents. This, I believe, has
no very great significance in my case, for my sense of guilt actually originates
in you, and is filled with such conviction of its uniqueness—indeed, this
feeling of uniqueness is an essential part of its tormenting nature—that
any repetition is unthinkable. All the same, I must say that I would find
such a mute, glum, dry, doomed son unbearable; I daresay that, if there
were no other possibility, I would flee from him, emigrate, as you had
planned to do if I had married. And this may also have had some influence
on my incapacity to marry.
What is much more important in all this, however, is the anxiety about
myself. This has to be understood as follows: I have already indicated
that in my writing, and in everything connected with it, I have made some
attempts at independence, attempts at escape, with the very smallest of
success; they will scarcely lead any farther; much confirms this for me.
Nevertheless it is my duty or, rather, the essence of my life, to watch
over them, to let no danger that I can avert, indeed no possibility of
such a danger, approach them. Marriage bears the possibility of such a
danger, though also the possibility of the greatest help; for me, however,
it is enough that there is the possibility of a danger. What should I do
if it did turn out to be a danger! How could I continue living in matrimony
with the perhaps unprovable, but nevertheless irrefutable feeling that
this danger existed? Faced with this I may waver, but the final outcome
is certain: I must renounce. The simile of the bird in the hand and the
two in the bush has only a fiery remote application here. In my hand I
have nothing, in the bush is everything, and yet—so it is decided by the
conditions of battle and the exigency of life—I must choose the nothing.
I had to make a similar choice when I chose my profession.
The most important obstacle to marriage, however, is the no longer eradicable
conviction that what is essential to the support of a family and especially
to its guidance, is what I have recognized in you; and indeed everything
rolled into one, good and bad, as it is organically combined in you—strength,
and scorn of others, health, and a certain immoderation, eloquence and
inadequacy, self-confidence and dissatisfaction with everyone else, a worldly
wisdom and tyranny, knowledge of human nature and mistrust of most people;
then also good qualities without any drawback, such as industry, endurance,
presence of mind, and fearlessness. By comparison I had almost nothing
or very little of all this; and was it on this basis that I wanted to risk
marrying, when I could see for myself that even you had to fight hard in
marriage and, where the children were concerned, had even failed? Of course,
I did not put this question to myself in so many words and I did not answer
it in so many words; otherwise everyday thinking would have taken over
and shown me other men who are different from you (to name one, near at
hand, who is very different from you: Uncle Richard) and yet have married
and have at least not collapsed under the strain, which is in itself a
great deal and would have been quite enough for me. But I did not ask this
question, I lived it from childhood on. I tested myself not only when faced
with marriage, but in the face of every trifle; in the face of every trifle
you by your example and your method of upbringing convinced me, as I have
tried to describe, of my incapacity; and what turned out to be true of
every trifle and proved you right, had to be fearfully true of the greatest
thing of all: of marriage. Up to the time of my marriage attempts I grew
up more or less like a businessman who lives from day to day, with worries
and forebodings, but without keeping proper accounts. He makes a few small
profits—which he constantly pampers and exaggerates in his imagination
because of their rarity—but otherwise he has daily losses. Everything is
entered, but never balanced. Now comes the necessity of drawing a balance,
that is, the attempt at marriage. And with the large sums that have to
be taken into account here it is as though there had never been even the
smallest profit, everything one single great liability. And now marry without
going mad!
That is what my life with you has been like up to now, and these are
the prospects inherent in it for the future.
If you look at the reasons I offer for the fear I have of you, you might
answer: "You maintain I make things easy for myself by explaining my relation
to you simply as being your fault, but I believe that despite your outward
effort, you do not make things more difficult for yourself, but much more
profitable. At first you too repudiate all guilt and responsibility; in
this our methods are the same. But whereas I then attribute the sole guilt
to you as frankly as I mean it, you want to be 'overly clever' and 'overly
affectionate' at the same time and acquit me also of all guilt. Of course,
in the latter you only seem to succeed (and more you do not even want),
and what appears between the lines, in spite of all the 'turns of phrase'
about character and nature and antagonism and helplessness, is that actually
I have been the aggressor, while everything you were up to was self-defense.
By now you would have achieved enough by your very insincerity, for you
have proved three things: first, that you are not guilty; second, that
I am the guilty one; and third, that out of sheer magnanimity you are ready
not only to forgive me but (what is both more and less) also to prove and
be willing to believe yourself that—contrary to the truth—I also am not
guilty. That ought to be enough for you now, but it is still not enough.
You have put it into your head to live entirely off me. I admit that we
fight with each other, but there are two kinds of combat. The chivalrous
combat, in which independent opponents pit their strength against each
other, each on his own, each losing on his own, each winning on his own.
And there is the combat of vermin, which not only sting but, on top of
it, suck your blood in order to sustain their own life. That's what the
real professional soldier is, and that's what you are. You are unfit for
life; to make life comfortable for yourself, without worries and without
self-reproaches, you prove that I have taken your fitness for life away
from you and put it in my own pocket. Why should it bother you that you
are unfit for life, since I have the responsibility for it, while you calmly
stretch out and let yourself be hauled through life, physically and mentally,
by me. For example: when you recently wanted to marry, you wanted—and this
you do, after all, admit in this letter—at the same time not to marry,
but in order not to have to exert yourself you wanted me to help you with
this not-marrying, by forbidding this marriage because of the 'disgrace'
this union would bring upon my name. I did not dream of it. First, in this
as in everything else I never wanted to be 'an obstacle to your happiness,'
and second, I never want to have to hear such a reproach from my child.
But did the self-restraint with which I left the marriage up to you do
me any good? Not in the least. My aversion to your marriage would not have
prevented it; on the contrary, it would have been an added incentive for
you to marry the girl, for it would have made the 'attempt at escape,'
as you put it, complete. And my consent to your marriage did not prevent
your reproaches, for you prove that I am in any case to blame for your
not marrying. Basically, however, in this as in everything else you have
only proved to me that all my reproaches were justified, and that one especially
justified charge was still missing: namely, the charge of insincerity,
obsequiousness and parasitism. If I am not very much mistaken, you are
preying on me even with this letter itself."
My answer to this is that, after all, this whole rejoinder— which can
partly also be turned against you—does not come from you, but from me.
Not even your mistrust of others is as great as my self-mistrust, which
you have bred in me. I do not deny a certain justification for this rejoinder,
which in itself contributes new material to the characterization of our
relationship. Naturally things cannot in reality fit together the way the
evidence does in my letter; life is more than a Chinese puzzle. But with
the correction made by this rejoinder—a correction I neither can nor will
elaborate in detail—in my opinion something has been achieved which so
closely approximates the truth that it might reassure us both a little
and make our living and our dying easier.