by Alfred Kubin
Our new home help quite often used to bring her two eldest girls up with her, which enabled me to confirm my wife’s discovery that children born in the Dream Realm lacked the top section of the left thumb. The little daughter of the editor of the Dream Mirror had the same defect, as did even the two sons of His Excellency, the President of the Council. Our good Frau Goldschläger’s brood was short of nine thumbnails, then.
As soon as I was back on my feet the first thing I did was to go and see the doctor. I didn’t like the way my wife’s pulse kept racing. I had several times thought of calling Lampenbogen. Since he owned the house, he was there quite often, but I have always been rather suspicious of doctors and in this uncertain land caution was even more vital. ‘A doctor’s a businessman like any other’, I told myself. ‘If you order a pair of shoes from a shoemaker and he asks to be paid without delivering them you’d laugh him out of court. But you have to pay the doctor even if he’s been no help, even if he’s made the patient worse.’ Lampenbogen was a rich man; he had a fine villa, a pretty wife, a carriage and pair. The apartment block brought in a fair sum, no wonder he grew sleek and lived off the fat of the land. Of course, his wife was said to be a flighty piece. And here was I, with nothing but a few bones to gnaw.
So the doctor came. In his thick fur coat he appeared in the doorway like a walking cube. Whilst he was examining my wife I was admiring the back of his neck. ‘What a succulent joint’, was the cannibalistic thought going through my mind. His advice was a change of air. We should go to the mountains for a few weeks, he said. He didn’t like the way I looked either. When I objected that I wanted to see Patera first, he said, ‘You would do better to forget about that‘, and left.
Our little expedition was packed and ready to go. Frau Goldschläger pushed my wife along in her wheelchair to the Square where the horse-drawn omnibus was waiting outside the Post Office. We were packed into the vehicle and the whip cracked. Looking back, the last thing I saw was Frau Goldschläger’s wobbling belly and the farewell smile on her decidedly plain face.
Immediately we had left Pearl we crossed the railway. Our destination was a village in the mountains where we had been told we would find good lodgings in a forester’s house. The rather poorly maintained road meandered its way through the infamous swamps. We also passed a ruined city, a monument from antiquity. The only living creatures we saw were a couple of pelicans. After this wilderness the countryside was more inhabited. There were extensive meadows, potato fields, even vineyards. We drove past large farmhouses with age-blackened thatched roofs. Everywhere the inhabitants watched us pass, many waved to us. These rough country folk in their leather dress sat on benches outside the houses, some of them carving wooden figures just as coarsely thickset as themselves. Despite the fact that many of them resembled crouching animals, I liked them better than the city-dwellers. They seemed less at odds with themselves, less beset with worries. It was here that the strange, mystical customs had arisen, here they were still adhered to, still followed to the letter.
The road forked. A thin tower rose up like a finger over a fresco-covered chapel by the crossroads. ‘The right-hand fork leads to the great Temple’, the coachman told us, pointing with his whip. Now we were driving along a narrow valley. Built against the precipitous rocks high above were what we could only dimly make out as grey huts. Ascetic hermits lived there, or so I had heard. Gradually it grew dark. The clouds came down and gathered into yellowish-brown masses, as if preparing for a storm. In its uniformity the landscape had a solemn grandeur. We were at the foot of the Ore Mountain, a dangerous region at certain times of the year because of the immense magnetic discharges. Today the tension was high, we could see ball lightning rolling round the metallic summit. ‘The mountain is almost completely of iron’, the coachman informed us. It was strange, there was no vegetation to be seen on it, not even parched shrubs or withered grass. It stood there, a dark rust colour, blocking the valley.
Suddenly my wife refused to go on. The air was even more oppressive up here than in the city, she gasped, she couldn’t see a stay in country like this improving her health. I felt the same, my hair was standing on end from the electric charge in the atmosphere. It was best to turn back immediately. My only regret was to have dragged my sick wife out this far. We alighted at a roadside inn to wait for the omnibus going back to the city. My wife was feverish. The landlord and landlady did what they could for her and gave us a helping hand getting onto the coach.
So we set off back. Night fell as we reached the marshes. They gave off an overpowering stench of decay. By the light of the coach-lamps I saw some Mohammedan graves, stones with turbans on top, half submerged in the bubbling marsh water. The dampness made breathing difficult. A rustling and scuttling started up, the demons of the swamp on the move. My wife had shivering fits and squeezed up close to me. It was two o’clock in the morning by the time we got back to the city. I knew now that I was bringing my wife home to die.
VII
The next day I went to see the doctor to tell him about the failure of our expedition. He wasn’t at his villa. On the way back I noticed two male figures. They were following a woman who turned into Long Street in front of me. Then I recognised them. It was my neighbour, the student, and de Nemi. Only now did they seem to realise that they were both pursuing the same quarry. The clash occurred before my very eyes, though I can’t say exactly what happened between them. I just saw the pair of them go into a dark entrance from which a moment later the student’s hat came flying out into the muddy street. So as not to be recognised, and not to get in the way, I crossed over to the other side as quickly as possible. The lady they had been following was there, standing looking at the window of a lending library. I must have seen her before! She was tall, very elegantly dressed and had a thick chignon of chestnut hair. Her face was turned away from me. She couldn’t have noticed anything of the pursuit, for she turned round abruptly and started back the way she had come, towards me. It was Frau Melitta Lampenbogen. I watched admiringly the way she walked, the way she seemed to float on air. Then her gaze hit me … I was staring into a blankness of white … like a blow to the brain. It was the eyes of the old beggar-woman!
That night was very disturbed. There was a constant clatter of people climbing up and down the stairs. No question of sleep. Another rumour was going the rounds. One of the two millers had disappeared, the younger one, the one who was always cheerful. The other was suspected of having murdered his brother. Nothing certain was known.
‘Two detectives have searched the mill’, Castringius had told me in a conspiratorial whisper. He wanted his job back on the Dream Mirror and was desperate for sensational material. A pen-and-wash drawing of his, The Student’s Wound, had been sent back by return of post.
I was in an awkward situation. Frau Goldschlager had not come today and I decided to go and see her in her rabbit warren. The room was foul, it was filled with a particularly loathsome smell. A midwife stopped me at the door. Last night Frau Goldschlager had had a stillbirth. I was happy, therefore, to accept Hector von Brendel’s generous offer of the services of his servant–an old, grey tub of lard–for errands. In the three days since I had recognised what a critical state my wife was in I had been in a daze. All my anger and agitation had disappeared. I was incapable of seeing things clearly and just dragged myself round on leaden feet. Listless, apathetic, like a whipped cur, consumed by inner restlessness, I couldn’t settle anywhere. In the house it was unbearable. I couldn’t sit and watch what was happening, it tore my heart to shreds. Get out into the fresh air then! I gave the coffee house a wide berth and turned towards the river-bank. This was usually one of my favourite spots, with the river silently gliding past. Involuntarily my eye was drawn to the mill. It was quivering, as if alive. In a milky light, like a gelatinous layer, it appeared fuzzy, smudged, and exuded some unknown aura which set my whole body vibrating, right down to the tips of my toes. Behind a grimy window stood the miller, looking down at me with a
dark expression, full of hatred. Now I left the built-up area, and was heading out past the knacker’s yard, the cattle pens, the brick-works. Before I knew it I had reached the graveyard. I stopped and lit a cigarette. Beyond the wrought-iron gate I caught sight of the gravestones. A shudder ran through me. Grinding my teeth, I raced along unknown streets. Melancholy was trying to force itself on me, but I thrust it out of my mind. I was filled with an icy contempt for everything and everyone, especially Patera.
‘Where are you hiding, torturer?’ I shouted at the empty gardens as I ran past. But the leafless bushes and bare trees gave no answer. I ran on, unconcerned at the puddles I was splashing through. Flushed with a slight feverish warmth, I was driven forward, across squares and down alleys where I cannot remember ever having set foot before. I was struck by the sight of a pathetic horse-drawn tram; it seemed to be there more for decoration than practical use. It was new to me that this means of transport existed in Pearl, but I was far too confused to spend much time thinking about this and before I knew where my feet were taking me, I found myself standing outside the Palace. The lamps were just being lit.
Let into one of the corner pillars was a marble plaque which immediately drew my gaze.
Shaking my head, I read it several times, repeating it to myself in a low voice. A silly thought flashed through my mind. ‘It’s just one big joke and we’re all too stupid to understand it.’ I was racked by a fit of laughter, I could have murdered Patera. Leaning against a column, I regained my composure, then I stepped through the open portal as if there were nothing to it. I went up broad staircases–I must have looked tiny beneath the vast expanse of the vaulted ceiling–up and up. Through the arched windows I could see the city far below me. There was a deathly hush all round, broken only by my echoing footsteps. I was so entirely taken up with my own thoughts that I was not conscious of my strange situation. I felt unusually carefree, I can still remember that today. I pushed open some huge white double doors and passed through a suite of large rooms. Each time I opened a door I was met by another rush of cold air. ‘I’m sure no one lives here’, I kept on whispering to myself, as if I were caught up in a dream. Each of the rooms contained some capacious carved wardrobes and upholstered chairs shrouded in dust-sheets. Once I saw a slim, upright figure coming towards me but it was an illusion, a mirror on one of the walls throwing back my own reflection. When I had finally reached the last of the endless suite of rooms and halls I came to an interminable gallery which appeared to be leading back where I had set out from. On the wall were time-darkened, life-size portraits in broad ebony frames, on my right ran a row of arched windows. At the very far end was a low door. I opened it cautiously. I was in a medium-sized, empty room hung with some heavy material of a leaden blue. The half-light meant that everything in the room was unclear. One thing however was certain: there was no other exit, this was the end. Only now did I pause to ask myself what I thought I was doing. There was nothing here, it was as silent as the grave.
I was about to turn back when from all sides there suddenly arose the peculiar odour I kept coming across in this country. It was quite strong and permeated the large room. Then I heard a sound somewhat like a soft, dry laugh. Yes! By the wall opposite I could see the face of someone asleep. As my eyes grew accustomed to the half-light I made out a grey-clad figure sitting on an elevated bed. I took a step towards it. An unusually large head–I recognised my friend Patera. There was no possibility of a mistake. How many times had I looked at his portrait? His face was framed by dark, flowing locks, his eyelids closed tight, only his mouth twitched and moved constantly, as if he were trying to speak. Deeply moved, I marvelled at the wonderfully regular beauty of his head. With his broad, low forehead and the massive bridge of his nose he was more like a Greek god than a living man. His features were overlaid with an expression of profound sorrow. And now I heard words, a soft, hurried whisper. ‘You complain you can never come to see me, but I was with you always. I often saw you curse me and despair of me. What can I do for you? Tell me, what is it you wish?’
He said no more. Silence reigned. My throat was dry and it was only with the greatest effort that I managed to bring out the words, ‘Help my wife!’ The head rose a little, Patera slowly opened his eyes. I was overcome with an alarming weakness. My eyes were compelled to remain steadfastly fixed on that terrible gaze. They weren’t eyes at all, they resembled two bright, shiny metal discs gleaming like two small moons. The whispering voice said,
‘I will help.’
He drew himself up to his full height. The head hung over me like a mask of the Medusa. Spellbound, I was incapable of movement, all I could think was, ‘This is the Lord, this is the Lord.’
Now I witnessed an indescribable display. The eyes closed and the face came to life, horrible, gruesome life. Its expression changed like a chameleon–unceasingly–a thousand, no, a hundred thousand times. In lightning succession it was the face of a youth–a woman–a child–an old man. It grew fat then thin, acquired growths like a turkeycock, shrank until it was tiny–to be puffed up with arrogance a moment later, swelling, stretching, full of scorn, kindness, malice, hatred–it became covered in wrinkles, then smooth as a stone again–it was like an inexplicable natural phenomenon–I could not turn away from it, it was as if some magic power were keeping me rooted to the spot. I felt shivers of terror. Now animal faces appeared. It was a lion, then it went sharp and sly like a jackal–it changed into a wild stallion with nostrils dilated–took on the appearance of a bird, then of a snake. It was horrible. I wanted to scream out, but couldn’t. I was compelled to look at loathsome faces, scoundrelly, cowardly faces, faces covered in blood. Finally calm slowly returned. An occasional flicker rippled across the surface as the distorted faces disappeared and I was once more looking on the sleeping form of Patera the man. The curved lips were in rapid, feverish motion. Again I heard the strange voice.
‘You see, I am the Lord! I too was in despair, but I built me a realm out of the ruins of my estate. I am the Master!’
I was devastated. I felt profound sympathy for him and, forming the words with difficulty, asked, ‘And are you happy?’
But then the ray struck me and I was paralysed. Right in front of me I could see those fearful eyes. Patera had stepped down and was holding my hands. It was as if I were covered in ice, inside and out. ‘Give me a star’, he cried, ‘give me a star.’
His voice took on a seductive tone, caressing, luring. I could see the gleam of his white teeth, his movements were sluggish and slow. I could hardly understand anything of what he said. The sounds became hoarse, squeezed out–his chest heaved–the veins in his pale neck seemed full to bursting. Suddenly his face turned as grey as the walls around, only his wide-open, bulging eyes still flickered and kept me bound by their inexplicable spell. He must have been racked by an immense pain beyond the experience of mere humans. Patera reached up, his hands clutching at empty space.
A curtain came down between me and the Lord. All I could hear was unarticulated groaning and a dull thud.
When I turned away I had to lean on the window-ledge to support myself as I felt paralysis take hold of me. Starting at my tongue, it gripped the whole of my body. In the Square down below people and animals went stiff as blocks of wood. But only for a moment, then everything was back to normal.
In control of my limbs again, I dashed out, fully convinced I was going mad.
VIII
I arrived back home with my nerves in shreds, completely unable to regain my composure. Lampenbogen was there but looked as if he was about to leave. He had brought one of the Sisters of Charity from the convent with him. When he saw me, he immediately drew me to the window and talked to me earnestly, insistently, but I was incapable of following everything he was saying. His ponderous calm did me good. ‘Don’t give up hope’–I did understand that–‘it’s a nervous fit, a serious one, perhaps the crisis. It’s quite possible your wife will survive this attack. One must never give up hope entirely. If
there are any unexpected developments during the night you will, of course, call me. Otherwise I will definitely come tomorrow.’
He left. As I said, I had absolutely no idea what had actually happened, nor why he was speaking to me in that way.
The nurse went silently about her business, bustling in and out with towels and basins. I felt I was only half there, I couldn’t summon up the energy to do anything useful. I just stood around feeling superfluous, with no idea what to do next. My wife couldn’t be that bad? At one point I tiptoed timidly up to her bed. She was lying there asleep; she looked better than she had for weeks, her cheeks were rosy red. Then I talked to the nurse. The patient had had a fit, a kind of cerebral spasm while I had been out. Her answers were monosyllabic, later on in the evening she prayed in a low voice. Slowly I began to realise just how terribly serious the situation was. Into my tangled thoughts, which were still revolving round the Lord of the Dream Realm, flashed images of the shivering fits she had had that night in the omnibus. But I just couldn’t believe the worst, I refused to believe it.
I curled up for the night on the sofa in the living-room, which also served as my study. No question of sleep. Once, towards dawn, I got up and looked at Patera’s portrait. My wife seemed to be having a restful night, only once did I hear a few words spoken. About nine I went across to her room. It had already been tidied up and aired. My wife gave me an astonished look, it was clear she had difficulty recognising me. Despite the fact that she looked much better, she was still very weak, I could scarcely understand what she said. The nun was pleased with the way the night had gone, the fever had subsided and the patient was rallying. She went out to do some errands and left us alone for a while. I sat down on the edge of the bed and took my wife’s hot hands in mine. Full of opti- misin, and to spare her the effort of speaking, I talked to her about all sorts of things I imagined would cheer her up. Knowing her passion for beautiful jewellery, I told her about the temple by the lake and its marvels, about the jewels and precious stones stored there. I described the glittering watercourses and the secluded park as if I had spent days wandering round it. She looked at me with a fixed, almost serene gaze and even stroked my head a few times. I was happy she liked my stories and gabbled on. As I talked about the gilded ships and snow-white swans on the lake, my images became more and more colourful, colour here in the pale, gloomy Dream country! Fired with enthusiasm I described the many flowers, orchids speckled with all the colours of the rainbow, dark-red roses, lilies on their gently curving stems. I was firmly convinced my words had magic power. I spoke of forests carpeted with blue forget-me-nots, of millions of glittering dew-drops and the morning sun rising over them, I spoke of birdsong and the joyful sound of silver trumpets. That’s where we would go, we would hurry away–flee, if necessary–to that realm of splendour and light. There she would get better. Whilst I was seeking out the most beguiling words and revelling in radiant visions of the future, my wife fell asleep.
