January 2 (3), 1913 [2]

Letters to Felice, 1912-1917

Very late, my poor, persecuted dearest. After not too bad but far too brief a spell of work, I sat leaning back in my chair again for a long time, and now it has become very late.

I don’t know, I can’t take the nonarrival of my letters so very seriously, even though your telegram is here before me, which makes me long to race to Berlin and explain the matter quickly and by word of mouth. But the letters must surely have arrived during the course of the afternoon. How is it possible that two letters, no doubt correctly addressed, furnished moreover with the sender’s name and address, and in spite of being conveyed in different mailbags, could be lost on the same day? This is quite beyond me. If in fact it has happened, one can no longer be sure of anything, all letters will start getting lost again, including this one, and only a telegram will reach its destination. And then we will have but one way out: throw away our pens and hurry toward each other.

Dearest, whatever happens I implore you, with hands raised in supplication, not to be jealous of my novel. If the people in my novel get wind of your jealousy, they will run away from me; as it is, I am holding on to them only by the ends of their sleeves. And imagine, if they run away from me I shall have to run after them, even as far as the underworld, where of course they really are at home. The novel is me, my stories are me—where, I ask you, would there be the tiniest corner for jealousy? In any case, when everything else goes well, all my characters come running arm in arm toward you, ultimately to serve you alone. I would certainly not detach myself from my novel even in your presence; it wouldn’t do me any good if I could, for it is through writing that I keep a hold on life, keep a hold on that boat in which you, Felice, are standing. Sad enough that I don’t seem quite able to pull myself in. But bear in mind, dearest Felice, once I lose my writing, I am bound to lose you and everything else.

Don’t worry about my book [Meditation]; all that talk the other day was a sad evening’s sad mood. At the time I thought the best way of making my book agreeable to you was to level some silly reproaches against you. Do read it quietly some time. After all, how can it remain alien to you! Even if you were to shrink from it, it should draw you to itself, provided it is my able envoy.

Franz

[In the margins] I don’t really know which of the letters is supposed to be lost, the one about Napoleon and the children, or the one about Frankfurt?

Woe to you, dearest, should you ever get up at night to write, woe to you!

With which of your colleagues did you hurry home on the 30th?

A question of jealousy: What does your father have to say about Arnold Beer?¹

1. Max Brod’s novel.