My letters to you, Felice, are now expected to help me in all kinds of ways; writing this letter, for example, is supposed to dispel my annoyance at just having smashed my nice shaving-mirror.
I didn’t mean to punish you, Felice; after all, even in my wildest dreams I cannot imagine that my not writing could constitute any kind of punishment; so far I haven’t written you many gratifying letters, and to omit an ungratifying one can hardly be a punishment. My reason for not writing was rather that I realized that waiting in vain for a letter from you is partly so unbearable because writing and not getting an answer seems to create a breach—instead of a letter there comes through the air a cry of “Enough! Enough!”— whereas if I don’t write either, everything remains beautifully poised as before, with the one sad exception that I have no news of you. And because I am so very frail and womanish just now, and the tension about my head never ceases, as though the skull were too small, I pampered myself by not writing. It was not right, nor has it done much good.
Why on earth have you always so much to do at the office? Aren’t your clients in Leipzig and Frankfurt already satiated with Parlographs?
On my way home from the office today (with a colleague who is as nice as he is amusing; he wore his overcoat loose on his shoulders, and I dragged him by his empty sleeve all the way along the Graben at the double), I saw a girl completely engrossed in conversation; her open, friendly, lively face was smiling with a smile so like yours that I almost took it for a greeting from you. Actually there are many likenesses in the world, which is rather reassuring, though disquieting too, because one looks for them.
Now look, Felice, you’ve got our families mixed up! It’s yours that plays 66, here they play a different game: Franzefuss. But this is among the least of one’s worries; in the long run my parents put up with more from me than I from them, though undoubtedly they are well able to stand more.
Today for instance I feel particularly wretched; if I’m not in better form when I make my entry into Berlin, well—! You must admit that I know how to make myself attractive.
Franz