“Well, Peter’le, we have discussed Kafka’s adolescence,” observed Theophil and reverted to his Peppi image. “We now ought to cover his years of employment. Usually – as already pointed out – an individual’s life is divided into four distinct phases. But how about Kafka?”
“Kafka died when he was forty-one years old. It is, therefore, difficult to draw a clear line between his years of employment and his years of retirement. Throughout both periods, his main occupation was writing. His two masterpieces, The Metamorphosis and The Trial were written during his years of employment. So was In the Penal Colony. The Castle, his aphorisms and some other works were composed during his short-lived retirement, when he was a very sick man.
“I take your point. All the same, let us try to divide his remaining years into two compartments,” suggested my mentor.
“Would 1917 be a good cutting point? Up to then he worked regularly. Then, in this fatal year, he had his first haemorrhage and thereafter was diagnosed as having succumbed to tuberculosis. He remained in employment but had to take periods of sick leave, some on full payment and others on a no-payment basis.”
“I think this division is suitable,” agreed Peppi. “The suggested demarcation is not based on a chronological or biological basis; but it makes room for a division based on structure. So let us proceed on this basis.”
“Very well,” I proceeded. “Kafka completed his year of unpaid legal internship in August 1907. In September he was employed by an Italian insurance company – Assicurazioni Generali. His was perturbed by the long working hours. In July 1908, he resigned and joined the Arbeiter-Unfall-Versicherungs-Anstalt [Workers Accident Insurance Institute: ‘AUVA’]. His position, which was described as legal, involved the assessment of claims based on industrial accidents.”
“Wasn’t he entitled to practice law, for instance, as a courtroom advocate?”
“He was. His biographers suggest that he was concerned about his frail health, feared that practice would not leave him enough time for writing and, in general, preferred the stability of a salaried job to the hazard and uncertainty of launching a business of his own.”
“Do you accept this view, Peter’le?”
“I have my doubts, Maestro. Kafka was aware of his frailty. But it is not clear when he concluded that his main vocation was writing. It might have taken place later. I suspect that his main reason for settling on salaried jobs is simple: he lacked the temperament required for embarking on an enterprise of his own. I have no doubt that, if Hermann Kafka had been given the same opportunity as his son, he would have taken the risk and had become a legal practitioner. Franz Kafka lacked the drive.”
“Why did he leave the Italian insurance company and moved to AUVA?”
“The post at AUVA commanded a higher salary. Further, AUVA was a government body and working for it was prestigious. Racially, his being appointed was an achievement. Very few Jews were recruited. Yet another consideration was the shorter working hours. Kafka secured more time for the pursuit of outside activities.”
“We have to turn to a crucial issue,” opined Theophil and reverted once again to his Descartes image. “When did Kafka make a conscious decision to treat writing as his calling?”
“The point is debated, Maestro. Notably, Kafka published short pieces in a periodical called Hyperion. In 1908, eight saw light. Later, these were included in his first book entitled Meditations (published in 1913). In 1909, two pieces appeared in Hyperion (later included in his ‘Description of a Struggle’). They were entitled ‘Conversations with a Supplicant’ and ‘Conversation with a Drunkard’. I have read them: they are alright, but his reputation could have never rested on them. Hyperion was a short-lived avon garde periodical. Still, it published contributions by Gide, Rilke, Hofmannsthal, Heinrich Mann (brother of Thomas) and, of course by Max Brod. Kafka was, thus, in the company of modernist authors who were seeking to make a name for themselves.”
“Did Kafka send these pieces on his own initiative? What do we know?”
“One of the editors of the periodical, Blei, was a friend of Max Brod. Kafka, who had always been shy and unsure of himself, submitted his works in consequence of Brod’s prodding. Slightly later, still in 1909, he published, after a visit to a show in the company of Brod, a short article in a newspaper in Prague, entitled ‘The Aeroplanes at Brescia.’ Here, too, he was encouraged by his friend.”
“Was he by then fully committed?”
“Difficult to say. His breakthrough came later on, in the night of 22-23, September 1912, when he wrote the short story ‘The Judgment’ in a single setting. In a diary entry, he interprets this night as a ‘moment’ of pure creative authenticity. He ‘sensed’ that the story was not simply written but had been ‘delivered’ to him. He also experienced liberation, freeing him from his usual hesitations and critical self-doubts. Later, on 14 June 1913, in a letter to Felice Bauer, he said: ‘I am nothing but literature, and can and want nothing else.’ This was an affirmation of his stand.”
“A neat analysis,” agreed Descartes. “So, we can conclude that Kafka’s commitment to a life as an author took place no later than 1912, when he was already in full employment. This was an important point in his life. Any further support?”
“Yes, there is,” I replied. “At one stage, Kafka showed a vivid interest in painting. Still, in a letter to Felice Bauer, of 10-12 February 1913, he avers: ‘I was once a great draftsman … but then I started to take academic drawing lessons with a bad women painter and ruined my talent’. Although he embellished some letters and diary entries with sketches, his main occupation was writing.”
“Let us then conclude our discussion of Kafka’s early publications. What can you tell me about them?”
“Max Brod prompted Kafka to tidy his early creations and submit them to Kurt Wolff. The latter had the set printed in 1912 and published by the Rowohlt & Kurt Wolff Verlag as Meditations [Betrachtungen]. Due to Brod’s enthusiasm and advocacy, Wolff took the financial risk. The book did not leave an immediate impact.”
“Was any other work of Kafka published at about this time?”
“Yes. Kafka submitted ‘The Judgment’ to Arkadia, a periodical of the same publishers. Here again we see the influence of Max Brod.”
“All in all,” said Theophil, metamorphosing from his Descartes image to Peppi’s, “Kafka’s friendship with Max Brod encouraged him to publish some of his works. But then, Peter’le, do you think that Kafka started to publish solely under his friends’ influence?”
“I think so. Kafka was plagued by self-doubts and insecurity. Brod helped him to overcome these scruples. Indeed, in a diary entry Kafka said that Brod believed in him more than he himself. And in his Kafka biography (of 1926), Brod observed that Kafka was a man of genius but lacked interest in self-promotion. In Brod’s own words: Kafka ‘shunned every stage. I dragged him onto it.’ The conclusion is clear: but for Max Brod’s influence, Kafka may have remained silent to the end.”
“Point taken,” agreed Peppi. “But did Kafka have the urge to be read?”
“I think he did. There may be individuals who write tomes just to get matters off their chest. Kafka was not one of them. His letters to Kurt Wolff and his meticulous copy editing of works submitted for publication speak for themselves. So do the numerous sessions in which he read his works out to friends and to family. He wanted to share.”
“I agree,” conceded Peppi. “Further, he kept sending stories to periodicals in Vienna and Berlin. Obviously, he wanted people to hear his voice. Well, let us turn to his social life.”
“There is little to tell. We know that he continued to meet his circle. Also, he travelled, usually in the company of Max Brod. In 1909 he went, in his company, to Riva. Whilst there he was captivated by a Swiss girl. It is not clear whether this led to a romance. But we know that she, rather than him, initiated the short-lived friendship. This is but one example of Kafka’s pattern: a powerful attraction to women, but simultaneous paralysis when faced with the realities of emotional and physical intimacy.”
“Any others?”
“Well, in 1912 he visited, again with Max Brod, the Goethe House in Weimar. He was infatuated with the warden’s daughter but, again, it was a short-lived friendship. A diary entry shows attraction but nothing beyond looking and deep longing mixed with inhibitions.”
“So, this is the pattern,” concluded Peppi. “It manifested itself even in respect of his longest engagement, or engagements, to Felice Bauer. Let us turn to these.”
“Kafka met Felice Bauer in Max Brod’s home in August 1912. She held the post of a secretary in Berlin and came over to Prague for a visit. Kafka’s initial reaction was placid. He considered her plain. Later, he changed his mind and pursued her. During the next two years he wrote to her hundreds of letters. We have them, because she kept them. Most of her letters to him are lost.”
“You have read the letters meticulously, Peter’le. What would you say about them?”
“They puzzle me, Maestro. Undoubtedly, they show a commitment and, in some of them, Kafka says that he wants to marry her and settle down. In others, he talks about his own shortcomings and internal struggle and actually suggests that he is unfit for marriage. On an objective summing up, they are not love letters. My impression is that he wanted to back out even before they were formally engaged. Still, he kept his doubts to himself. His parents, in Prague, even located a suitable flat for the couple.”
“So, Felice seems to have tried to soothe and fortify him. Judging by some of his letters, she kept asking him to pull himself together and remained intent on proceeding. Did she confide in anybody?
“She did, rather,” I confirmed. “A friend of Felice, Grete Bloch, tried to act as intermediary, seeking to smooth out rough edges and restore harmony. Kafka kept writing her letters: a clandestine correspondence materialised. In her memoirs, Grete claimed they had an affair and that she bore him a son.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I am not certain. Perhaps it is best to regard the point as controversial. In any event, Kafka and Felice were formally engaged in a ceremony held in Berlin in April 1914. Kafka’s mother and his siter Ottla attended the function. It is believed that so did Hermann – the allegedly tyrannical father. Some six weeks later, Franz was confronted by Felice and Grete, who produced his letters to her. It was an acrimonious scene. In the event, Felice terminated the engagement.”
“What was Kafka’s reaction, Peter’le?”
“For a while he stopped writing to her. Then, in October 1914, he restarted the correspondence. By November it was resumed in full. It led to a second engagement early in 1917. Kafka terminated it after his being diagnosed to have succumbed to tuberculosis. In 1919, Felice married an investment banker. In a diary entry of 20 March 1919, Kafka observed that she had done the right thing and concluded that ‘now it is over’.”
“Let us not jump the gun, Peter’le. Please give me an outline of the major political developments of that period. We then have to consider their impact on Kafka.”
“Tensions in Europe were great during the period. The assassination of Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo triggered WWI. For millions, it marked the beginning of conscription and the horrid war in the trenches. Kafka was spared the draft because his employers, AUVA, considered his services essential. His two brothers in law were mobilised. When his married sisters returned to the family home, Kafka had to find premises of his own. But he continued to take meals at home. The war slogged on, with Austro-Hungary, Germany, the Ottoman Empire and Bulgaria forming one block; the United Kingdom and its Commonwealth, France and its colonial empire, Russia (prior to its Revolution of 1917) and Japan formed the other. The historical Battles of the Somme and of Verdun took place in 1916. In 1917, the Unites States finally entered the war against the German block. The armistice was signed in 1918 and the Treaty of Versailles in 1919. It imposed heavy reparations on Germany.”
“Please tell me about the outcome of this great war, Peter’le. And do mention its effect on the intellectual climate of the period.”
“The Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman empire collapsed, Maestro. Bohemia ceased to be governed from Vienna. The world saw the birth of Czechoslovakia. In Russia, the Revolution carried the day. In due course, the Bolsheviks came to power. During the 1920s, Joseph Stalin consolidated power and, effectively, became the undisputed leader. The Soviet Union was officially established in December 1922. One further effect of WWI was the rise of the United States. It became a world power. All in all, the early post war period was marked by condemnation of the past and hope for the future.”
“Who, in your opinion, represents this period? I know that we cannot exhaust the subject in the context of this enquiry. But do share with me the most important voices of this period.”
“Three voices seem loud and clear. First, Erich Maria Remarque tell us all about the horrors of the war in All Quiet on the Western Front. He bemoans the fate of the ‘lost generation’. Secondly, Sigmund Freud started to investigate the inner self. He is the father of psychoanalysis. Thirdly, Oswald Spengler published his famed The Decline of the West, telling us that empires rise and fall and that history is cyclical.”
“And how about Kafka?”
“He was too engrossed in his personal struggle to have a meaningful discussion of WWI. Further, his writings do not reflect the major developments of his time. For instance, in 1912 he met Albert Einstein and attended a lecture delivered by him. But the significance of that seer’s vision is not noted by Kafka.”
“Point taken. Well did Kafka show any sympathy to WWI victims?”
“There was a stream of Galician Jewish refugees, who escaped to Prague. Kafka supported them to the best of his ability and organised aid. At the same time, he did not feel any closeness. Like other assimilated Jews of urban Prague, he regarded them as exotic aliens.”
“You note the man’s limitations, Peter’le,” observed Peppi. Then, unexpectedly, metamorphosed into his Descartes image. “For the sake of completion, tell me whether Kafka embraced any ideology? It is known that he embraced vegetarianism.”
“He did: on the basis ideological and health grounds. He adopted a vegetarian diet around 1910, taking the view that ethical and philosophical arguments supported his stand. Basically, he disliked the suffering of animals and expressed sympathy for them. Reportedly, when he visited an aquarium in Berlin (probably in 1912), he said: “Now I can look at you [the fish] in peace, I don’t eat you anymore.”
“He did,” confirmed Descartes. “his view was in tandem with the ideology expounded by vegetarian societies, founded both in Britain and in the Unites States during the 19th century. How consistent was Kafka?”
“Not to a large extent. On the one hand, he observed such a diet and claimed that it was medically sound. On the other hand, he did consume meat from time to time in his parents’ home. He was neither avid nor consistent. Further, he did not join, or become associated, with any society or movement in point.”
“So, Kafka accepted a pontificated ideology but was not fully committed to it in practice. I fear, Peter’le, that a rather negative pattern begins to emerge. Kafka did not commit himself to any political or ideological cause,” observed Descartes. Then, once again, he mutated into Peppi. After a moment of silence, he went on: “Well, Peter’le, we have to turn to another episode: Kafka’s role in respect of the Asbestos Manufactory. The floor is yours!”
“Late in 1911, Kafka became a partner of the Prager Asbestoswerke Hermann & Co. The managing partner was Franz’s brother-in-law, Karl Hermann. The firm did well although, right from the beginning, Kafka’s heart was not in. In a diary entry of December 1911, he observes: ‘How much time I waste on my brother in law’s factory. I am not made for commerce … every visit fills me with repulsion.’ He continued to express his dislike in entries made in 1913 and 1914.”
“What happened to the firm when Karl Hermann was mobilised?”
“For a while, Kafka purported to carry on the business but without zeal. Unsurprisingly, it went down. Karl Hermann died of tuberculosis shortly after his discharge from the army. For a while the firm struggled but, in 1917, it was dissolved.”
“This time I’ll sum up,” said Peppi. “The asbestos business shows Kafka’s ambivalence toward bourgeois life. Although he lent his name and became a partner, he reoiled from the obligations. Notably, all this time he kept his position at AUVA and immersed himself in writing. Well, what would you, Peter’le, say?”
“I cannot help feeling that, if Kafka felt no commitment to the business, he should have never stepped into it. Karl Hermann’s industry and tenacity built it up and show that the business was not a fancy investment. Kafka was not drawn to it. But he lacked the temerity and the determination to give it a miss. Some of his biographers seek to justify his behaviour on the basis of his writing and frail health. I disagree.”
“What was his record like at AUVA, Peter’le. We know that this was his bread and butter.”
“Actually, a fine record. Within a few months of his initial appointment, he was constituted an ‘Assessor’. He was advanced gradually and, in 1922, attained the position of a ‘Senior (Chief) Secretary’. During his years of service, he prepared several reports advocating the introduction of safety measures in enterprises. In all these instances, his object was to improve the lot of industrial employees. It would be fair to conclude that he was caring and responsible.”
“Did he like his job, Peter’le?”
“Numerous diary entries suggest that he did not. In particular, he was irked by the extra load resulting from the mobilisation of some of his colleagues during WWI. And I must say that I am perplexed. As the job gave him a respectable position and a sound income, why did he grumble?”
“His admirers aver that he was devoted to his writings.”
“I know. But, in that case, why didn’t he resign and concentrate on his numerous unfinished texts?”
“Once again, Peter’le, you become emotive.”
“Perhaps. But, Maestro, I find Kafka’s attitude disturbing. Many of us give a miss to the moon and settle for sixpence. But once we make our decision, we endeavour to make the best we can.”
“Agreed, Peter’le. But many continue to hanker after the moon. You, my friend, continued to engage in Bible Critique and in creative writing, although you opted for a remunerative teaching career. So, cease being judgmental. Why not stick to your philosophy of live and let live?”
“Oh, very well,” I said after a short silence. “To continue our enquiry let us turn to a thorny issue: Kafka’s approach to the evolving Czech literature of his period. To start with we have to turn to Yaroslav Haŝek and his famous The Good Soldier Ŝvejk, which has become a cornerstone of 20th century European literature. It is a biting satire of the old regime and its overtone.”
“Very well,” he replied. “Let us proceed with this issue. Haŝek and Kafka were contemporaries. The Czech literary circle of Prague was however distinct from the circle in which Kafka moved. How did Kafka relate to it?”
“Haŝek was strongly connected with Czech klub maladŷch [Young Czech Club]. So was Max Brod, who induced Kafka to attend from time to time. Kafka’s diaries include no reference to it, but he may, of course, have visited it prior to the commencement of his extant diary. He might have attended the same meetings as Haŝek; but Max Brod did not introduce them. He must have surmised that a blazing extrovert like Haŝek and a shy introvert like Kafka would not see eye to eye.”
“Was Kafka oblivious of the emerging Czech culture?” asked Peppi.
“I don’t think so. He attended Czech theatre performances. Further, in a diary entry of 25 December 1911, he writes: ‘A small nation’s memory is not smaller than the memory of a large one and so can digest the existing material more thoroughly.’ He meant the emerging Czech nation. My conclusion is that he was sympathetic of the Czech cause but, of course, did not join any party, club or circle.”
“I agree and want to add a point. After the end of WWI, when Czech replaced German as the official language in Bohemia, AUVA made a point of retaining employees proficient in this tongue. Kafka was retained and promoted.”
For a short while both of us remained silent. Then, Theophil switched once again to his Dr. Freud image. Noting my surprise, he explained: “We have to consider Kafka’s health during this period.”
“I know,” I agreed. “But why the Dr. Freud image? Surely, we are not going to embark on a psychoanalytic analysis.”
“Of course not. But remember: before Dr. Freud founded the new discipline, he was, albeit for a short while, a general medical practitioner. So, his knowledge of medicine becomes relevant.”
“Kafka’s health was poor during his years of employment. He suffered from general weakness, had feats of headache and insomnia and often had mild fever. He lived on his nerves and did his best to camouflage his ever-increasing fragility. Then, as already mentioned, he had his first haemorrhage in 1917 and was diagnosed as tubercular.”
“Precisely,” said Dr. Freud. “Like all medical men of the period I was familiar with tuberculosis. The disease was rampant all over Europe both before and after WWI. X-ray was still underdeveloped and not in common use. Although Robert Koch isolated the tuberculosis bacteria in 1882, usually general practitioners had to rely for their diagnosis on their statoscope and the patient’s symptoms. The spitting of blood in mucus was a tell-tale indicator. Well, Kafka’s diaries do not refer to spitting blood. I suspect, he ignored this. The haemorrhage showed that the disease was already in an advanced stage.”
“When do you think Kafka succumbed to it?”
“The available records do not enable us to come down with a decisive date.”
“When diagnosed in 1917, was it incurable?” I asked.
“In that period, it was. Rest and a suitable regime might have enabled the patient to gain time. Thomas Mann tells all about it in The Magic Mountain and so does Remarque in Three Comrades. Kafka, however, was a disobedient patient. I suspect that his fate had been sealed by then.”
“When, do you think, he might have contracted the disease?”
“His frequent bouts of fever and fatigue suggest that 1916 or perhaps even 1915 might be in point.”
“There is a further aspect to consider,” I added. “The period 1912 to 1917 is one of Kafka’s most productive periods as writer. It will be recalled that his breakthrough came in 1912, when he wrote “The Judgment”. A few months later he began The Metamorphosis, completing it in 1913. At around this time, he started his intense correspondence with Felice. He also started writing Amerika and just after the outbreak of WWI commenced writing The Trial. In addition, he wrote shorter pieces, such as In the Penal Colony and The Country Doctor.”
“Why is this relevant as regards his health?” asked Theophil.
“During daytime, he carried out his duties as at AUVA. His literary works and many of his letters were written during nighttime, frequently after he returned home from meeting with friends or attending an evening lecture or theatre performance. In my opinion, he did not have enough rest. His health – which was poor even without these activities – suffered.”
“I agree,” summed up Theophil. “He was badly overworked. His period as a young man was marred by internal struggle and by lack of badly needed rest. His alienation and sense of loss peaked. No wonder the disease progressed. Let us turn to the period following the diagnosis.”