by Alfred Kubin
There is much that I could tell, if only I could feel sure my readers would see these complex conditions in the way I would like. After a while I came to feel that the houses in a street had something of a family about them. They would quarrel among themselves but close ranks against the outside world. In the deserted streets of Pearl ideas blossomed in my mind in a way they never would have done in the noisy cities of the world outside. My integration into the local culture became much more intimate with the miraculous sharpening of my sense of smell. It happened after a mere six months. From then on it was my nose that determined sympathy and aversion. For hours on end I would prowl round all the old corners, sniffing and smelling at everything and anything. A new, unlimited field of study opened up. Every one of these used objects revealed a tiny secret to me. My wife would often smile. She found it funny to see me giving a knowing sniff at something, a book or a musical box, for example. I was almost like a dog. I couldn’t really explain it very precisely; it was a matter of sensations so subtle words were inadequate to express them.
In the first place there was a quite particular, though indefinable odour running through the whole of the Dream Realm, clinging to everything. Sometimes it was quite strong, sometimes you scarcely noticed it. In high concentration this bizarre smell could be described as something like a mixture of flour and dried cod. I never found out where it came from. Much more specific, however, were the smells of individual things. I subjected them to close analysis, often being seized, as I did so, with a strong revulsion. I was quick to take offence at people who, to my mind, smelt wrong. Yet despite their heterogeneity, having been brought together at the behest of an eccentric whim, all these living beings and apparently inanimate objects still managed to exude an indefinable aura of belonging together.
VI
Everything you came across in the Dream Realm was drab and dull. How far this went I noticed one day whilst being shaved. Giovanni was performing the task with his usual elegance, the only blemish was the state of his razor and the copper bowl: they looked tarnished.
‘What’s this?’ I said to the barber, who happened to be reading a rather difficult section from Leibnitz’s Monadology to me. ‘Can’t your assistant take better care of these things?’
‘I’m sorry?’ The great philosopher started with the look of a man who has just fallen off a cliff.
‘I mean the bowl here should be sparkling and the razor polished.’
‘Well yes, but how to do it? That’s the way things are and I’m not bringing in any innovations.’
To catch him out, I pointed to the mirrors and said, ‘What about those, then, they look clean and shining.’
His philosophy had no answer to that. I had forced him into a corner. ‘Oh, the mirrors’, he said. Pensively, hesitantly, as if he had to force the words out, he went on, ‘But mirrors are nothing!‘ He obviously found it embarrassing to talk about it.
‘It wasn’t meant as an insult’, I said with a friendly nod as I left the shop.
Be that as it may, it was a fine life surrounded by all those oxidised old objects, and I have no qualms about including the following letter at this point. It expresses very well my mood at the time. In addition, it contains the description of a strange custom which links in with the religion, of which I will speak later. The custom I am referring to is the Great Clock Spell. I found the letter in a notebook among the rags that were all I was left with after the collapse of the Dream Realm. The list of sacred objects that I give later on was also in the notebook, otherwise the pages were covered with illegible writing apart, that is, from the rough sketch of a street map of Pearl and the brief details of the various buildings which I drew up during our first days there to help me find my way around.
The letter was written during the third month of our stay. It was my first attempt at establishing contact with the outside world. Two years later it was returned to me, undelivered; the envelope was covered all over with stamps and remarks. The notebook and the letter are the only concrete proofs of the existence of the Dream Realm I can show to people.
Dear Fritz,
You won’t believe this, but I’m in the Dream Realm! All I can say is, as soon as you’ve read this letter, pack your bags and come too. Pearl is a real paradise for collectors, the city is one big museum. There’s a lot of rubbish, of course, but also some magnificent pieces. Today I saw a carved Gothic chest, a pair of silver sconces (16th century) and one of those enchanting renaissance bronzes (a boy on a bull by Cellini) you’ve always been so desperately searching for. Last week we were wallowing in china. I won’t say anything about the low prices for fear of what it might do to your health. Anyone who has a nose for that kind of thing will keep on turning up little gems everywhere he goes. There’s nothing but old things here. We live like our grandfathers in the good old days and don’t give a fig for progress. Yes, my old friend, we’re conservative to the core and our craftsmen are masters at patching and mending. Every fifth building has an antiques shop shop, we make our living from junk. You’ll find architectural extravaganzas too; the Palace is a hotch-potch of at least twenty styles. And the bizarre things you find! You wouldn’t believe them if you didn’t see them. You’ll understand my good mood when I tell you about the latest absurdity I came across. It’s the Great Clock Spell, at least that’s what they call it here. Just try to picture it: in our main square there’s a massive grey tower, a kind of squat campanile, housing an old clock. The face occupies the upper third and is lit up at night. We take our standard time from it, all the other clocks in the city and the rest of the country are set by it. There’s nothing special in that, it’s another, and very strange, characteristic of the clock which is of interest here. It exerts a mysterious attraction on all the inhabitants which is beyond belief. At certain times the old tower is surrounded by swarms of men and women. A stranger would stop and stare in astonishment at the odd behaviour of the assembly. The people stamp nervously and keep looking up at the long, rusty hands above. Ask them what’s going on and you’ll get bemused, evasive answers. If you take a closer look, you’ll see two small entrances at the foot of the tower. Everyone is pushing their way towards them. If the crowd is large they form lines, the women watching anxiously, the men angrily, to make sure no one pushes in. The tension increases as the hands of the clock move round. One after another the people disappear, each spending a minute or two inside. When they emerge they all have profoundly satisfied, almost happy expressions on their faces. It’s not surprising, then, that my curiosity was aroused. I took the opportunity of asking one of my new acquaintances in the café about the clock, but received a dusty answer. It was, he said, indecent to talk about something like that and showed great stupidity into the bargain. ‘If you must know’, he added, ‘it’s the Great Clock Spell. Make a note of it!’ His indignation only made me all the more curious. It certainly destroyed my own original explanation that it must be some kind of attraction like a camera obscura or a waxworks. I determined to risk it myself but was mightily disappointed. D’you know what was in there? Your expectations are going to be dashed, too. You go into a small, empty cell full of nooks and crannies, partly covered with mysterious drawings, presumably symbols. You can hear the huge pendulum swinging back and forth behind the wall. Tick … tock … tick … tock. There’s water streaming down the stone wall, streaming down unendingly. I did the same as the man who came in behind me, stared at the wall and said, loud and clear, ‘Here I stand before thee.’ Then we went out again. I must have looked pretty baffled. The women have their own side with their own entrance, indicated by the same sign as all over the world. But the most remarkable part of it is this. Once I had been through the experience, I found that I gradually began to feel the compulsion too. At first it was just a tug I felt whenever I went past the tower, but over the next few days my unease grew and grew until I was being literally dragged towards it. Eventually I gave in, there was no point fighting it, and now I’m fine. There are smaller clock towers o
n the same model scattered all over the town. In the country every farm is said to have a replica in one corner of the room, where our peasants would have a crucifix. I go to mine every day at the same time. You can mock, if you like, but, ‘Lord, here I stand before thee.’
There is not much doing here as far as painting is concerned. Art objects are valued above all for their practical use. There are a few old painters scattered around and what I have seen are dark, thinly painted canvases, an autumnal offshoot of the Dutch old masters. You do come across really good things now and then in the houses of the rich–Ruysdaels, Breughels, Altdorfers and pictures by some of the primitives. Our Croesus, Alfred Blumenstich, the director of the Dreamland Bank, has a gallery of valuable paintings, including a Rembrandt and a genuine Grunewald, the existence of which no one in your world even suspects. It’s called ‘The Seven Deadly Sins Eating the Lamb of God’.
There are no cheerful colours here, it’s more a place for line and tone. I have a nice little position on an illustrated paper, the Dreain Mirror. 400 crowns a month to do what I like when I like! There is another artist with the paper, a Nicholas Castringius whom I have not yet met. If you come I should be able to find you a place on the paper.
That’s all for the moment, I’m afraid. I hope we’ll see each other again soon.
Your old friend, artist and now Dreamlander,
P.S. Here you can live in a romantic house on the edge of the city, quite undisturbed, just like in the country.
As you can tell from the letter, I was still in a cheerful mood at that point. I will deal with the drawbacks, which were even then making themselves felt, at the end of this chapter, at least to the extent to which I was aware of them at that time. First, though, I would like to say a little about the religion, or what I thought of as a religion.
VII
This was an interesting and complex area. I never really got to the bottom of it, though I did feel I was close to solving many of its mysteries. If my investigation did not produce results, the fault is not mine. There was some hostile force frustrating my efforts here and the information I gleaned was minimal.
All the great religions of the old world had a number of representatives in the Dream Realm, some more, some fewer. But that was merely a facade, glossy window-dressing. The educated part of the population would readily admit this. They were shrewd freethinkers and not the kind of people who would readily submit to a rigid hierarchical system. Moreover there were some highly intelligent people among them. Nevertheless, there was something: a fatalistic belief in a providence which dispensed justice with an even, if legalistic hand. And beyond that there were all kinds of dark and unfathomable notions. It was definitely not the done thing to deride them, as I was to find out to my cost.
In the first months of our stay I got to know a pleasant young man in the coffee house, a Baron Hector von Brendel. He was a decent fellow, well-bred, man of the world, slightly neurasthenic and weary, but not in the least bit stupid. He had a touch of melancholy, always kept in check, which was what initially attracted me to him. Later on we saw each other daily.
‘You’ve been here three years now, Brendel’, I said to him one day when we happened to be the only two at the table where we regulars used to gather. ‘Look, I’m convinced there’s some kind of secret religious sect here in the Dream Realm, like a Freemason’s lodge. D’you know any details? Could you perhaps tell me all about it? The rites? Customs?’
He gave me a sideways look, cleared his throat and asked in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘What have you noticed?’
‘Oh, nothing specific, the concept of fate is pretty old. It’s just the general outlook, the dogged holding on to the same old-fashioned way of life, the lack of progressive ideas and one or two other things as well.’ I told him about the barber and his copper basin.
He listened to me with a serious expression, slowly rolled himself a cigarette and said with a sad smile, ‘To be quite honest with you, my friend, yes, there is something. But with the best will in the world I can’t tell you any more than you already know yourself.’
‘So I was right!’ I was disappointed. ‘But don’t you know anything at all about it? You can rely on me to keep a secret, if that’s the problem.’
Brendel thought for a few moments, then spoke in a low voice. ‘Certain things are venerated here. I don’t know if it will help if I tell you some of the sacred objects?’
‘Oh please do’, I begged, burning with curiosity.
‘Well, eggs, nuts, bread, cheese, honey, milk, wine and vinegar are especially hallowed.’
‘Aha!’ I exclaimed, delighted. ‘A hygienic cult based on the stomach.’ I could not resist some gentle mockery. ‘Why not tea, coffee and sugar as well?’
At that Brendel turned his back on me and paid. A gust of wind blew the door open, letting in the warm, damp, earthy air with its strong admixture of the disturbing Dream smell. Bidding me a curt farewell, Brendel left. Through the high, steamed-up windows I watched him walk away. Outside it was dark.
That was definitely not the way to go about it. I had wasted an opportunity. Another time I would be more careful.
Food and drink couldn’t be all there was to this religion. Not long after, I discovered that hair, horn, pine-cones, fungi and hay were also sacred. Even cow- and horse-dung had some special significance. Among the internal organs the liver and the heart were considered particularly important, among animals the fishes. Tanned pelts also had some mysterious quality. Iron, steel and various metal alloys were the antithesis of these values. They seemed to symbolise dangers. I learnt these details from peasants and huntsmen; long walks out in the country were necessary to obtain them. I noted down everything I managed to squeeze out of these taciturn individuals over the months and years, but for the sake of brevity I will not give a complete list here. One further fact is of interest, perhaps. There were lonely places in forests and beside marshes where no traveller would dare to go at twilight. They had the reputation of being eerie and Dreamers were glad when they had no business there.
Perhaps I would be clearer about all this, instead of groping around in the dark, if I had been able to see the temple by the lake with my own eyes. By all accounts this shrine must have been a magical, miraculous place. A good day’s journey from Pearl, it stood beside Dream Lake, surrounded by man-made cascades and a quiet park. The greatest treasures of the Dream Realm were said to be kept in the temple. It was made of the finest materials and so perfectly constructed visitors had the impression the whole edifice was hovering above the ground. The largest of the halls was done in Patera’s colours, brown, grey and green. Symbolic statues had been set up in the mysterious, underground vaults. Unfortunately it was only open to visitors once a year and good contacts were essential to receive an invitation. Initially I hoped my personal connection with Patera would secure entry for me, but my audience with him kept being put off, and then came the Events.
My tirelessness in my research into the true Dream religion was only matched by my lack of success in discovering anything. I seemed to be fated to cause offence.
Once I had been invited to Blumenstich’s, the banker’s. It was crowded and the atmosphere was very merry. Our host had just been awarded a decoration for the swimming pool he had established and this great honour was being suitably celebrated.
Dinner was over. Everyone was smoking and sitting round with coffee and liqueurs. ‘The finest minds in Pearl are gathered together here. If I don’t learn anything tonight, I’ll never learn anything’, I thought, screwed up my courage and launched myself into speech. I told them of my frustration at my fruitless attempts to find out about the true religion of the Dream people. I sounded very eloquent, very fluent, the words seemed to trip off my tongue as if propelled by some inner force. Eventually I thought I had said enough to convince all those present of the genuineness of my thirst for knowledge and asked them to enlighten me. I stopped. I could not have gone on, my throat had dried up. They were all speechles
s, confused, apprehensive. Two sagacious-looking, dignified elderly gentlemen in elegant old-fashioned dress were already slipping away into the adjoining room. I had set my main hopes on them. Finally our host spoke up, scratching his black mutton-chop whiskers as he did so.
‘Young man, have you been to the Outer Settlement across the river yet? I think you should have a look at the place.’ He spoke in a somewhat sharp and dismissive tone.
It was as if the company had been released from an oppressive burden. At least someone had spoken! The conversation returned to the usual trivial topics. No one paid any attention to me any more. Only the editor of the paper, who also happened to be present, said in soothing tones, ‘Oh dear, these artists!’
But that was no help to me either. I soon made my way home, wrapped in thought. ‘I’ll never get to the bottom of it!’ I shouted out into the darkness.
At the tower it struck me. Perhaps the Great Clock Spell had something to do with it? That was another thing one wasn’t supposed to talk about? That was indecent too. Why all this embarrassment? It looked as if I had been an enfant terrible once more. And what was all that about the Outer Settlement, the old hamlet across the bridge that no one bothered with? Excuses, excuses! I clenched my fist as I vowed to get to the bottom of all this humbug.
VIII
The time has come to show something of the drawbacks of our life there, otherwise you might think we spent all the time enjoying ourselves. The round of pleasure also had its disagreeable side. To begin with the building where we lived, an old spinster had taken the rooms below ours, a Princess X. She was as ugly as a sick rat and a cantankerous old battle-axe into the bargain. This creature caused a lot of trouble, especially to my wife. She was a skinflint. She had a great deal of money but lived such a retired life no one had any idea how much she had. I’m sure she got her satisfaction from constant quarrelling. If I walked round in our apartment after nine o’clock in the evening she would knock on the ceiling to tell us she wanted quiet.
