Excerpt from Kubin’s The Other Side
I recently stumbled across the work of the Austrian illustrator Alfred Kubin. His drawings are utterly bizarre, but also strangely captivating. I did some digging and was happy to discover that he penned a single novel, equally bizarre, titled Die andere Seite. [1] I read a bit of it in German and thought that I might try translating the first two chapters as a language exercise. I compared my translation with the current English translation, and I think that what I produced is worth sharing. [2] I hope you enjoy it.
I
Among my childhood friends was a strange boy whose story is well worth snatching from oblivion. I have done my best to describe at least a part of the strange events tied to the name of Claus Patera as truthfully as possible, since it is the responsibility of an eyewitness to do so.
In the process, however, something peculiar happened to me: while I was conscientiously writing down my experience of these events, I imperceptibly slipped into describing scenes that I could not have possibly witnessed and could not have learned from anyone. One will hear what strange phenomena Patera’s presence produced in the imagination of a whole community; to this influence I must attribute my mysterious clairvoyance. Whoever expects a better explanation would do well to refer to the works of our sagacious soul searchers. [3]
I met Patera sixty years ago in Salzburg, where we had both matriculated at high school. At the time, he was a rather small, though broad-shouldered, lad, whose beautifully curly hair sometimes fell like a man of antiquity’s. My God, we were wild, loutish boys at the time; what did we care about appearances? Nevertheless, I must mention that even today, as an old man, I remember well his somewhat protruding, oversized light-gray eyes. But at the time, who ever thought about what the future might hold?
After three years, I left high school for another, and contact with my former comrades grew sparse. Eventually, I left Salzburg for another city and for many years lost sight of everything I had known there.
Time passed by, and with it, my youth. I had had such rich experiences, but by now, I was already in my thirties, married, and eking out a living as a draftsman and illustrator.
II
One foggy November afternoon—it was in Munich, where we were living at the time—I was told that I had a visitor.
“Come in!”
The visitor was—as far as I could tell in the dim light—a man of average appearance, who hastily introduced himself.
“Franz Gautsch; please, may I speak with you for half an hour?”
I answered in the affirmative, offered the gentleman a seat, and had a lamp and some tea brought in for us.
“What can I help you with?”—and my initial indifference turned first into curiosity, then into astonishment, as the stranger related the following:
“I will make a few proposals to you. I speak not for myself, but on behalf of a man whom you may have forgotten, though he remembers you well. This man, by European standards, is in possession of untold wealth. I am speaking about Claus Patera, your former classmate. Please, do not interrupt me! By strange coincidence, Patera came into what is perhaps the largest fortune in the world. Your one-time friend is now set on realizing an idea, one that presupposes access to inexhaustible resources . . . to found a dream realm! The situation is complicated, but I will be brief.
“To begin, a suitable area of three-thousand square kilometers was acquired. One third of this land is mountainous, and the rest consists of plains and hills. Large forests, a lake, and a river divide and diversify the little realm. A city was established, then some villages and farms—all of which were needed, since the initial population amounted to twelve-thousand souls. Now the Dream Realm has eight-thousand inhabitants.”
The strange man paused for a moment and took a sip of tea.
I was silent; distressed, I broke in, “Go on!”
And I then learned the following:
“Patera harbors an extraordinarily deep aversion to everything progressive in general. I’ll say it again, against everything progressive, especially in the realm of science. Please take my words here by the letter, because in them lies the key point of the Dream Realm. The Realm is protected from the outside world by an enclosing wall and against all forms of assaults by strong fortifications. A single gate permits entry and exit and facilitates stringent control over its people and goods. In the Dream World—a sanctuary for all of those who are dissatisfied with modern culture—all of one’s bodily needs are met. Yet the lord of this land is far from wanting to create a utopia, a kind of model state for the future. Material shortages, as I said, are nonexistent there. But the main goal of this community is not so much directed at preserving any real values, either of the population or its individuals. No, not at all! . . . but I see you smiling in disbelief; indeed, it is almost impossible for me to describe what Patera is trying to achieve with the Dream Realm.
“First of all, it is to be noted that every person accepted by us is predestined to be, either by birth or by fate. As is well known, eminently sharp sense perception enables those who have it to grasp relations in the individual world that, save for isolated moments, are simply not present to the average person. And you see, precisely these, so to speak, ‘imperceptible phenomena’ form the essence of our endeavors. In the final and deepest sense, it is the unfathomable foundation of the world that the Dreamers—as they call themselves—never cease to attend to. Normal life and the dreamworld are perhaps opposites, and it is precisely their differences that make any understanding between them so difficult. To the question, ‘What actually happens in the Dream Realm? How does one live there?’ I have to remain silent. I can only describe the surface to you, but it belongs to the very essence of the Dreamers to aspire toward the depths. Everything is designed to make life as spiritual as possible; the sorrow and joy of their contemporaries are foreign to them. They remain foreign to them due to the Dreamer’s utterly different standards of evaluation. Most likely, or at least comparatively, the term ‘mood’ best describes the core of the matter. Our people only experience moods; better yet, they only live in moods; all external being, which the Dreamers form according to their wishes through the highest possible form of cooperation, only serves, so to speak, as ‘raw material.’ That such material never runs out is naturally of utmost concern. Yet the Dreamers believe in nothing but the dream—in their dream. Their dream is fostered and developed with us—to disturb it would be unthinkable, the highest form of treason. Hence people are strictly screened before participating in this community. But to be brief and come to an end”—here, Gautsch laid his cigarette aside and looked me calmly in the face:
“Claus Patera, absolute lord of the Dream Realm, has assigned me, as his agent, to present you with an invitation to move to his land.”
My visitor spoke these last words somewhat louder and very formally. Then he fell silent, and I as well, as each of my readers will readily understand. Almost compulsively, the thought forced itself upon me that I was sitting across from a madman. It was nearly impossible for me to hide my agitation. As if playfully, I moved the lamp from my visitor’s immediate grasp while at the same time deftly disposing of a drawing compass as well as a small eraser knife—pointed, dangerous objects.
The whole situation was decidedly awkward. At the start of this dream story, I had thought that maybe some acquaintance of mine was playing a joke on me. Unfortunately, this glimmer of a hope faded more and more, and for the past ten minutes, I had found myself frantically working out my chances. I knew the best thing to do with the mentally ill was always to go along with their idées fixes, [4] but nevertheless! I’m by no means a giant; in truth, I am a shy, weak person at heart! And there sat this massive Gautsch, with his prim and proper physiognomy, pince-nez, and blond goatee, in my room!
Such were my thoughts at the time. And now I had to respond: my interlocutor was waiting. In case of a fit of madness, I could at least blow the lamp out and slip away in the dark, since I knew the layout of the room so well.
“Certainly, certainly! I’m thrilled! I need only discuss it with my wife. Tomorrow, then, Mr. Gautsch, you will receive my answer,” I spoke thus in a gracious tone and rose.
My guest, however, remained calmly seated and said dryly, “You misunderstand our present situation, which I find understandable. At best, you probably do not believe me—if your agitation, which you have suppressed with utmost difficulty, does not point to a worse suspicion of me. I assure you that I am of sound mind, one as sound as anyone else’s. What I have told you is of utmost seriousness; that it sounds strange—fantastic, even—I readily grant, but perhaps seeing this will put your mind to rest.”
With that he pulled out a small package and laid it on the table before me. I read my exact address, broke the seal, and took in my hands a smooth leather case of gray-green color. Inside was a small portrait with a striking likeness to a young man. Brown curls encircled a face of strangely antique character; large eyes, abnormally bright, nearly lifting out of the portrait, peered up at me: it was Claus Patera, without a doubt! . . . In the twenty years that had passed since we had last seen each other, I had scarcely thought of this lost school friend of mine. At the sight of his likeness, the years simply seemed to vanish. Before me, the long, yellow-painted corridors of my old high school in Salzburg emerged; I saw once again the old janitor with his considerable goiter, laboriously concealed by a cunningly trained goatee; I saw myself again among the boys, and there too, Claus Patera, disgraced by a stiff felt hat and straight-jacket of a coat that his foster aunt of poor taste had sprung upon him.
“Where did you find this portrait!?” I blurted out, seized with curiosity and joy.
“But I already told you!” my interlocutor replied. “And your fears seem to have vanished,” he added with a good-natured, harmless laugh.
“But that was nonsense, a joke, a hoax!” I exclaimed with a laugh. Mr. Gautsch seemed to me at that moment to be a perfectly normal and respectable person. He stirred his tea thoughtfully. Surely there was a joke of some kind behind this; I’d clear the matter up later! My imagination had naturally played a little trick on me again. How could someone consider such a good-natured man crazy just because of such a story? Before, I would have parried such a story with equal humor. My God does one get older! I had by now cheered up completely.
“You believe the portrait is authentic, though, don’t you?” Gautsch asked. “Your friend, whom it portrays, has had the most varied of fates. He only finished a few classes at the Latin school in Salzburg; then, at the age of fourteen, he ran away from his foster aunt’s and drifted around in Hungary and the Balkans with a band of gypsies. Two years later, he ended up in Hamburg—at that point in time, he was an animal tamer—but changed his profession for that of a sailor and was hired as a cabin boy aboard a small merchant ship. Thus he came to China. The ship lay anchor with many others in Canton; they had brought millet and rice to forestall impending inflation. After the cargo had been unloaded, the ship had to remain in port a few more days, since the goods destined for Europe—human hair and a new type of fine porcelain clay—were not yet ready for shipment.
“Patera used such moments of respite for frequent excursions into the country. On one such occasion, he saved a distinguished Chinese woman, an elderly lady, from drowning to death. She had slipped in mud left behind by recent flooding and fell into a canal that ran into the Canton River, where she surely would have met her end. Nearby braid-heads—they can almost never swim—wrung their hands and screamed, but did not dare to enter the brown, murky floodwaters. [5] Your friend—an expert swimmer—happened to be passing by and dove resolutely into the water, and after fighting against the waves for some time, dragged the unconscious woman to shore. She was resuscitated. She was the wife of one of the richest men on earth. The latter, a frail old man, carried quickly to the scene in a palanquin, embraced the young hero without a word. Patera was brought to a large country estate. What negotiations were held there, we do not know. In short, Hi-Yöng, who was without a heir, adopted the poor cabin boy as his own and had him stay at the estate. After another three years, during which time we only know that a number of journeys to the unknown parts of inner Asia were made, we see Patera mourning the loss of his adoptive parents: Hi-Yöng and his wife had died on the same day. Their heir now found himself to be the sole possessor of immense, untold wealth.”
“And now, I suppose, comes the matter of the Dream Realm,” I chipped in, still amused. “It’s a novel idea; if you’ll allow me, I will pass it on to a writerly friend of mine, who I’m sure could make something wonderful out of it. —May I?” and I offered the stranger a cigarette. My guest thanked me, gave a little business-like sigh, and then remarked in a perfectly calm, clear tone:
“As I already said, it makes sense to me that you would take me for some kind of braggart or storyteller. But after all, I did not come to convince you that the Dream Realm is real but to invite you in the name of a higher order. I have fulfilled my mission for the time being. If you absolutely will not believe what I have told you, I cannot do anything about that today. In any case, I ask you to give me a receipt that you received the portrait. It is quite possible that in the near future I will have further visits to pay you.”
Gautsch rose with a slight bow. I must confess that with such austerity, he did not seem at all to me like a swindler. And the portrait case was in my hands. Upon opening it again, I discovered a previously overlooked leather flap, and under that the words written in ink on a cardboard sheet: “If you want to come, then come!”
And once again, quietly and dreamily, an image flashed before me from a long-vanished past. Disjointed, scattered and bumbling, too big: that was exactly how my old comrade’s handwriting had been—“desperate,” a teacher had once called it. Yes, these seven words had been written in firmer strokes, but they were obviously made by the same hand. A strange uneasiness gripped me now—the beautiful face in the portrait fixed me with an ice-cold stare. One could get ensnared in those eyes, there was something cat-like about them. —My previous amusement was gone; I felt strange, confused. Gautsch was still standing there and waiting; he must have noticed my agitation, because he was observing me closely.
But we remained silent.
- Alfred Kubin, Die andere Seite: Ein phantastischer Roman (München: Edition Spangenberg, 1975).
- Alfred Kubin, The Other Side, trans. by Mike Mitchell (Sawtry: Dedalus, 2015).
- “Wer eine Erklärung sucht, halte sich an die Werke unserer so geistvollen Seelenforscher” (Kubin, Die andere Seite, 7). The narrator is referring to psychologists in a tongue-in-cheek manner. Sigmund Freud founded psychology, to much controversy, in Vienna around the turn of the twentieth century—roughly the same time that Kubin, also an Austrian, was writing Die andere Seite.
- An idée fixe in psychology refers to a person’s unhealthy fixation on someone or something.
- “Anwesende Zopfträger—sie können fast nie schwimmen—rangen zwar die Hände und schrien, wagten sich aber doch in die braunen, trüben Fluten” (Kubin, Die andere Seite, 13). Mr. Gautsch seems to be making a racial slur here.
