by Alfred Kubin
The house belonged to a certain Dr. Lampenbogen.
II
Now we were genuine Dreamlanders. Countless times each day, at least during the first months, I had to withdraw my unspoken suspicion that everything here would be just the same as at home. Later on I forgot the land I had come from completely. In the Dream Realm you became so accustomed to even the most unlikely scenes that nothing surprised you any more.
Although it was not at all my intention, I very quickly obtained regular employment. I was simply steamrollered into it. It happened in the following way. We had only been here three days when a small, extremely brisk gentleman came to see me. ‘Publisher and editor of the Dream Mirror‘, he introduced himself, ‘best-known illustrated paper here. With our own printing press’, he went on, the words just pouring out. ‘It’s good you’ve come, we’ve been waiting for someone like you for a long time. Unfortunately our leading artist, Castringius, has rather run out of steam and now we have to get our illustrations by buying up all the old woodblocks in Pearl and printing from them. Just look at the last number.’ He took out a newspaper. ‘Cochem on the Moselle–the Austro-Hungarian Minister-President Count Beust with his family–Indians in their war-paint! I ask you, is that artistic? Is that Dreamish? Is that even interesting?’ he demanded, waving the paper around under my nose. ‘No, my dear sir, it is not!’ He thought for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow. Suddenly he pulled out a contract, fully drawn up in a neat hand. All I had to do was sign: four hundred crowns a month, throughout the year, whatever I delivered, a lot of pictures or nothing at all. It was fantastic, I had never seen an agreement like it before and naturally I immediately appended my signature. In the Dream Realm we made up our minds just like that, no one spent a long time thinking things over. All business affairs were very uncertain, anyway. But now I had a permanent position. I was the illustrator for a highly respected journal, I could make a show. And that’s what counted in the Dream Realm, to make a show of being something, anything, even a rogue or a pickpocket or whatever.
With a jovial gesture my editor unscrewed his walking stick. It was hollow. The handle contained a glass and from the cane he poured me a good-sized schnapps. ‘More power to your elbow’, he said with a suggestive wink. ‘And make your pictures as lurid and gruesome as possible. I want to raise the tone of the paper, you see’, he said with an optimistic smile. He pocketed the contract with a sigh of satisfaction, said goodbye and sailed out in his black-and-white check suit.
III
When people first arrived in the Dream Realm they did not really notice the all-pervading fraudulence. To the casual glance, buying and bargaining went on here according to the same customs as everywhere. That, however, was mere pretence, a grotesque sham. The whole of the money economy was ‘symbolic’. You never knew how much you had. Money came and went, it was handed out and taken in; everyone practised a certain amount of sleight of hand and I myself very quickly picked up a few neat ploys. The trick was to sound plausible, to pull the wool over your adversary’s eyes.
Initially f was horrified at how susceptible the Dreamlanders were to suggestion, but I had to accept it, like it or not, and gradually I became more and more immersed in fantasies, my own and others’. The change from fortune to misfortune, from poverty to riches was was much swifter than in the rest of the world. One event was constantly being overtaken by the next. But in the midst of all this confusion, you still felt the presence of a strong hand. You could sense its power behind apparently incomprehensible situations. It was the reason, the hidden reason, why everything did not fall apart and come tumbling down. It was an immense force, which reached into the most secret recesses and dispensed justice, balancing out the effects of each and every event. If anyone was in despair and didn’t know where to turn, that was where they directed their prayers. This boundless power, full of a terrible curiosity, this eye that saw into the darkest corners, was everywhere present, nothing escaped it. It was the only thing that was taken seriously in the Dream Realm, everything else was ephemeral.
IV
I will give a couple of examples to illustrate the way business was conducted. On one of our first days in Pearl I wanted buy a street-map. I went to one of the largest stores selling bric-a-brac, Max Blumenstich’s next door to us, I think it was.
‘A street-map? The new ones haven’t arrived yet, a copy of the old edition will do just as well, I suppose?’ They looked high and low, rummaged around among mounted antlers, candelabra and old caskets, but nowhere was one to be found. Finally the assistant brought out a horrible ink-well cast in bronze.
‘Take this, I’m sure you have a use for it. You simply must have it, it’s an absolute necessity. Only seventy-two crowns!’ His voice took on melting tones as he summoned up all his powers of persuasion. I gave him one crown and he threw in a pair of nail-scissors as well.
New arrivals tried to exploit this to their advantage, but soon discovered they had been counting their chickens before they were hatched. The Dream fate was implacable: the wealth they had accumulated simply vanished into thin air. These smart Alecks found themselves paying exorbitant prices for the most basic necessities or they were inundated with parcels ‘to be paid for on delivery’. If they did not accept them, then much worse troubles came, for example illnesses and the doctors charged extortionate fees. Creditors who had never lent them anything would appear, demanding their money. And it was no use protesting, they brought their witnesses with them. Thus everything balanced out and in the end no one emerged with either gain or loss. There was no bargaining with the invisible bookkeeper who kept the accounts. As soon as I had grasped this strange state of affairs, everything was fine.
Only a fortnight after we had arrived a servant in livery turned up on our doorstep. His master–he mentioned some fine-sounding name–was waiting most impatiently for the drawings he had paid for, he said, and he had come to collect them. What could I do? I wrapped up five of my best pieces and wrote a polite letter of excuse into the bargain. What happened to the things I have no idea.
Every day I went to the coffee house diagonally opposite. When I came back one day my wife showed me a huge basket full of magnificent vegetables, asparagus, cauliflower, fine fruits; there were even two partridges in it.
‘All this came from the market. Guess what it cost’, she said jubilantly.
‘How much?’
‘Only twenty kreuzers for the lot.’
At that I confessed that I had had to pay five crowns for a box of matches in the café.
Sometimes you had hundreds in your pocket, at others nothing. And we managed perfectly well without money. You just had to pretend you were handing something over. Occasionally you could even risk taking something for nothing. It always amounted to the same in the end.
Here fantasies were simply reality. The incredible thing was the way the same illusion would appear in several minds at once. The people talked themselves into believing the things they imagined.
I will give a typical example. A man with a good position woke up one morning convinced he was destitute. His wife wept, his friends sympathised. In no time at all the bailiff came to impound their possessions, which were auctioned off, and a new owner was already moving in almost before the few items they had left had been taken to a wretched, bare hovel. A month later it was all forgotten; there were happy as well as unhappy turns of fortune.
The upper classes naturally lived in ostentatious luxury. The obverse of this was their misfortune, which was just as conspicuous, with the result that class envy was not a particular problem. People went about their business, they had their pleasures and their problems. As long as things were reasonable they were content. Dreamlanders everywhere loved their country and their city. I worked away happily as illustrator for the Dream Mirror and attempted, without success for the moment, to visit my old friend Patera.
It was always impossible, and always for a different reason. Once I was told the Master was so overburdened
with business that no one was being allowed to see him; another time he was away. It was as if some malign spirit were determined to frustrate me. Then I heard that tickets for audiences could be obtained at the Archive, so I went there. I felt a pang of guilt as I passed beneath the coats of arms on the gate, like a nuisance come to disturb the officials’ peace and quiet. The porter was asleep. I decided to find my way on my own and entered a spacious ante-room where there were some ten or twelve messengers.
For a good quarter of an hour it was as if I were invisible. Not one of them took any notice of me. At last one asked me in a surly manner what I was looking for without, however, waiting for my reply. He just went on with his conversation with his neighbour. Another of his colleagues was in more obliging mood and inquired what I wanted. When I told him, a severe look appeared on the yellowing, wrinkled skin of his face. He took a couple of puffs from his long pipe then pointed with it at the next room and said, ‘In there.’
There was a sign on the door, Do Not Knock, and ‘in there’ was a man asleep. Yes, no joking, I had to clear my throat three times before signs of life began to return to the completely inert pose of the Thinker. I was subjected to a brief scrutiny full of majestic contempt and a rasping voice asked, ‘What do you want? Have you been summoned? What papers have you got with you?’
He was by no means as curt as the messengers outside. On the contrary the information came gushing out. ‘To receive an invitation to an audience you need, apart from your certificates of birth, baptism and marriage, your father’s school-leaving certificate and your mother’s confirmation of vaccination. In room 16, down the corridor on the left, you must give details of your financial situation, education and any decorations you have been awarded. A character reference for your father-in-law is desirable but not absolutely essential.’
At that he gave me a condescending nod, bowed his head low over his desk and started to write–without dipping his pen in the ink, as I could see. I stood there, dumbfounded. I could thank my lucky stars I didn’t have to present all my receipts as well! In some embarrassment I stuttered, ‘I’m afraid it may well be impossible for me to provide the required documentation. All I have is my passport. I came here as a guest of Herr Patera, my name is so-and-so.’
When I had finished I had the shock of my life. The aloof figure suddenly leapt up from his seat. ‘But of course! Your name is already on the list. I will take you to His Excellency immediately.’
He was politeness itself. A dual personality? I couldn’t understand it.
We set off on an endless trek through dreary corridors, offices where clerks started at our arrival, as if caught in some nefarious act, bare reception rooms and closets filled to the ceiling with documents and files. Finally we came to a large waiting room where all sorts of people were sitting around. My guide and I were immediately admitted to a kind of inner sanctum. His Excellency was there alone, at his desk, waiting. Despite his elegant bows, the poor official had a few harsh words to hear before he disappeared.
His Excellency was a very superior being. You could tell that from his surroundings alone, but not only from them. There were striking things about his person as well. There was, for example, a lot of gold sewn on to his clothes and a long row of all kinds of ribbons pinned to his jacket. As well as that he wore a broad red sash across his chest. Whether there were further symbols of rank on his body I could not say for sure. Probably there were, but I never saw them.
We were alone. In contrast to all the others in the Archive, he was very friendly. After he had heard me out, he was the soul of courtesy. ‘But of course, my dear sir, of course’, he said. ‘The ticket will be sent off to you immediately.’ Then, as if someone had pressed a button, he stood up and started to address a non-existent audience:
‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen! In the interest of public welfare and our reputation the government fully accepts its responsibility. I will not hesitate to urge all your petitions at the highest level. In questions of welfare provision for the poor you can always be assured of a sympathetic hearing from me. Our immediate goal is to develop the theatre here to its full potential. I hope I can reply on your energetic support in this enterprise. Our experiences in introducing decontrol to certain institutions in the French Quarter, guarantee that … gentlemen … I am convinced I express your own most dearly held convictions when … when … when …’ The speaker lost his fluency and fixed me with a bewildered, glassy stare. I helped him out of the embarrassing situation by taking my leave with bows and expressions of thanks. It all left me with no very high opinion of the Archive. I never disturbed its peace and quiet again.
This experience was something that only happened to new arrivals. Following that route you would never get anywhere. Extremely urgent requests were sent back for the most trivial error in filling out the form. With absolute certainty you could count on that body thwarting your plans. Thus I did receive my ticket for an audience; the next day it was followed by a letter notifying me that it was invalid.
This administration was merely a facade. Take it away and things would have been no better and no worse in the Dream Realm. The bulging files, bought in from all over the world, had nothing at all to do with the Dream state. The truth was that its dry-as-dust atmosphere was needed to cultivate one particular species, homo officialis, which contributed to the diversity of the whole.
The real government was elsewhere. After these experiences I gave up the idea of visiting Patera for the time being. Anyway, I had other matters to occupy my attention.
V
In my mind’s eye I can still see the house where we lived, as clearly as if it were only a few weeks ago. On the ground floor was the barber’s shop. He was a blond, very well read young man, a bachelor, with a gold pince-nez and a passion for philosophy. He pursued it by giving his ideas free rein to romp around to their heart’s content. His knowledge was profuse and he didn’t hold back with it. ‘There are things I could tell you!’ he would say with a piercing look.
God knows what he thought I was, but at the beginning I enjoyed his confidence. ‘Kant, that’s the big mistake! Ha! You can’t sail round the thing-in-itself just like that. The world is above all an ethical problem and no one’s going to persuade me otherwise. Space courts time, you see; and the point of union, the present, is death, or something else you could just as well posit in its place–the deity, if you like. And right in the middle, the great miracle of the incarnation: the object. Which is nothing but the exterior of the subject. Those, my dear sir, are fundamental propositions. There you have my whole theory.’
‘Ali yes, but then, you’re a thinker’, I would generally say in acknowledgment.
He spent all day, every day, in these rarefied spheres and the barber’s shop would have suffered badly had it not been for Giovanni Battista. He was only a monkey, but what a monkey! He was an uncommonly gifted and ambitious beast. With an assistant like that you could quite happily devote yourself to the problems of ethics. Giovanni had started working in the shop on the lowest rung. His talent had been revealed one day when he had worked up a lather without having to be shown. The barber found him a willing learner and exploited his skill. His swift and sure hand with the razor was famous throughout the district. On Wednesdays and Saturdays he even made home visits to private clients. We often used to see him, bag in hand, going down Long Street in his earnest, businesslike shuffle. More honest and reliable than any man in the world, he was the soul of the hairdressing establishment. There was only one thing that pained his master: he had no interest in philosophy.
‘You’re a Stoic!’ the barber would shout after giving him a long lecture. He still secretly hoped to lead him to higher things.
I must admit that whenever I think back to my first year in the Dream Realm I am overcome with sadness. Mostly things went well, I had some of my best times during that year. With the stimulation of all the new experiences, my work simply flowed. At five in the afternoon I met with friends in the coffee house. From t
he window we could see everything that was going on outside. Not that there was very much, in Pearl people preferred to stay at home, it was striking how deserted the centre was. But despite the sparseness of the street life, what there was to see took on the aura, through its very familiarity, of a well-loved routine. Gradually I became more and more a part of it. I found things I could hold on to, things that gave me a firm foothold in all the confusion.
The buildings played an important role in this. I often felt as if the people were there for them, and not the other way round. It was the buildings that were the strong, the real individuals. There they stood, mute and yet eloquent. Each one had its own story to tell, you just had to be patient and wring it out of the old edifices bit by bit. These houses all had different moods. Some hated each other and spent their days in mutual vilification. There were crabby crosspatches among them, like the dairy next door, while others seemed saucy and had a loose tongue. My café was a good example of that. The house where we lived was a bitter old aunt: the windows squinted with malice, ready to pick up any scrap of gossip. Max Blumenstich’s store was bad, very bad, the smithy next to the dairy rough and jovial, the river warden’s shack built onto it carefree and easygoing. My particular favourite, however, was the corner house on the river, the mill. It had a jolly face, whitewashed with a mossy slate roof as its cap. High up on the street side it had a massive beam sticking out of the wall, like a good cigar. I have to say, though, that it did have a sly, crafty twinkle round its skylights. It belonged to two brothers. Or did they belong to it, like a mother with her two sons?
