Dark Mondays

SO THIS GUY WALKS INTO A LIGHTHOUSE

Jan 1—1796. This day—my first on the light-house—I make this entry in my Diary. As regularly as I can keep the journal, I will—but there is no telling what may happen to a man all alone as I am—I may get sick, or worse… The cutter had a narrow escape—but why dwell on that, since I am here, all safe?

My spirits are beginning to revive already, at the mere thought of being—for once in my life at least—thoroughly alone; for, of course, Neptune, large as he is, is not to be taken into consideration as “society”.

What most surprises me, is the difficulty De Grät had in getting me the appointment—and I a noble of the realm! It could not be that the Consistory had any doubt of my ability to manage the light. The duty is a mere nothing; and the printed instructions are as plain as possible.

It never would have done to let Orndoff accompany me, with his intolerable gossip—not to mention that everlasting meerschaum. Besides, I wish to be alone… Now for a scramble to the lantern and a good look around to “see what I can see”…

To see what I can see indeed!—not very much. The swell is subsiding a little, I think—but the cutter will have a rough passage home, nevertheless. She will hardly get within sight of the Norland before noon to-morrow—and yet it can hardly be more than 190 or 200 miles.

Jan 2. I have passed this day in a species of ecstasy that I find impossible to describe. My passion for solitude could scarcely have been more thoroughly gratified. I do not say satisfied; for I believe I should never be satiated with such delight as I have experienced to-day… Nothing to be seen but ocean and sky, with an occasional gull.

Jan 3. A dead calm all day. Occupied myself in exploring the light-house… It is not quite 160 feet, I should say, from the low-water mark to the top of the lantern. From the bottom inside the shaft, however, the distance to the summit is 180 feet at least—thus the floor is 20 feet below the surface of the sea, even at low-tide…

It seems to me that the hollow interior at the bottom should have been filled in with solid masonry. Undoubtedly the whole would have been thus rendered more safe—I have heard seamen say occasionally, with a wind at South-West, the sea has been known to run higher here than anywhere with the single exception of the Western opening of the Straits of Magellan.

No mere sea, though, could accomplish anything with this solid iron-riveted wall—which, at 50 feet from high-water mark, is 4 feet thick, if one inch…

Jan 4. Wind out of the South-West—I am uneasy in my mind. Swell very high, and though the sky is a bright and mild blue, there are prodigious streaks of foam on the wide surge. More—a moaning, at times a muffled howling in the long hollow throat of this tower. I have twice descended to the floor of the shaft, but can find no source for the sound, other than conduction of the walls themselves, reverberating with the blast. I will just go down once more to be certain…

Though the sunken floor is quite dry—some comfort at least—I was appalled to discover, on opening the door, that the tide has risen nearly to the threshold, and I now observe, as I did not in the excitement on my arrival, that the hand-rails are deeply eaten with rust. All the same—no rust on the inside, and the patent lock is well greased. So I am quite safe.

I shall master myself. Will I exist here perpetually under the fear of horrible danger? Let lesser races quail…

I will just move this table to the far wall…

Jan 5. Wind has not shifted—in 24 hours no falling off of the sea. The tower shrieks now like a damned creature.

The waves rise in absolute mountains, to break in a fury of shattered water well over the door now, as I discovered when I went up to the lantern-walk and peered down. The wind is a roaring physical force, no less than the sea—only by clutching my woolen cap with both hands was I able to prevent it from being torn away and whirled a sickening distance out on the vast face of the waters.

I will go down just this once more. All is secure, I know, and yet—that chalk foundation…

Jan 6. I still live—yet the tempest has truly come. I watched it advance like a host armored in copper, spreading implacably from the South-West, boiling and hissing over the sea. I have retreated with this journal to the topmost chamber—tried to write a while in the lantern room but soon regretted it—gigantic seas! Frenzied, heaving, headlong seas rushing with monstrous velocity! Such high, black, mountainous ridges of water—

The tower shakes with each blow. The ghastly crests break, higher with each successive wave—something is out there! That cannot be what it seems. 4 feet thick. 4 feet thick. 4 feet thick. 4 feet—

There is a boat—

Jan 7. Oh, intolerable!

My solitude has been violated. They have at least now withdrawn to the lowest chamber, with interminable protestations of thanks, with endless apologies—the voluble Italian servant particularly offends, with his grating and presumptive familiarity. The mute is hardly less irritating, with his absurd antic gestures…

I see that I will be obliged to endure their company, if the boat is ever to be dislodged from the lantern room. It cannot be left as it is, protruding out like a wave-thrown dart—a full 8 feet and 7 inches.

Some sort of hauling tackle must be improvised—and rope must be found to lower it to the rock below, before any effort can be made to get the damned thing seaworthy again—and my unwelcome guests sent on their way. The broken glass must be repaired as well—I trust they do not expect me to replace the panes. This has made the draught worse—and I am certain I caught a chill when my clothing was soaked. What shall I do if it develops into something more dangerous? At any other time I should have been glad of the presence of a doctor…

On the whole I do not place much faith in Herr Doctor Treibholz, or in his story. His rapid and insinuating flow of speech—his sly, sidelong glances—above all that villainous bottle-green tailcoat, and the disgraceful condition of his wig—all argue the mountebank rather than the respectable physician, much less holder of the Chair of Splanchology at the University of Bohemia, as he claims. His vile cheroot produces clouds of fume at least as offensive as Orndoff’s meerschaum—my eyes are red and watering yet. And his young assistant Luftschiff is altogether too smooth and urbane to be trusted—a thoroughgoing courtier in his manners. Exactly the sort I fled to this hermitage to escape!

That their ship unaccountably sank I find suspicious—I hardly think castaways would have found the time to pack such a vast quantity of trunks and barrels as my uninvited guests have brought with them—it is far more likely they were set adrift on purpose, whether for stealing from their fellow passengers or merely annoying them with disgusting chatter…

Yet I cannot imagine that the woman is party to whatever villainy they perpetrated.

“The woman”—how ungallant a phrase! These interlopers have provoked me to incivility. She is Frau Von Berg, a widow of a certain age yet still fair, Junoesque in her beauty, clearly of purest descent—I am reminded of my dear mother. She appears quite bewildered by her unlikely companions. I must find some way of conveying to her that she, and she alone, is free to come and go as she pleases here—I shall not mind her gentle company…

Jan 8. My suspicions are confirmed—Herr Doctor is the basest kind of charlatan!

I descended as far as the storeroom this morning for oil for the lantern, and encountered Frau Von Berg on the stair. I greeted her cordially, wishing to correct the perhaps unfavorable impression of me she may have formed on the evening of the wreck—asked her if there were anything I might do to make her enforced stay more pleasant—she replied there was—

It transpired that she had been sent to borrow a cup of sugar—she, a lady, meekly running errands for Doctor Treibholz! Concealed my outrage and invited her to the upper room for tea. She accepted my offer without reluctance, rather with that air of bemusement I had previously noted in her…

Prepared tea at the stove and used the opportunity to “draw her out” a little—spoke lightly of the curious fortune that brought a nobleman and a gentlewoman together under barbarous conditions—she asked, and was told my lineage—I warmed to her even more, seeing she was obviously impressed. Frau Von Berg related a little of her own history—widow of the younger brother of Baron Rittenhaus, her late husband a shrewd investor—very well provided for in his will—such a sum named that an involuntary tremor caused me to spill tea in my lap. Fortunately she did not notice…

She then volunteered the most fantastic story…

That Doctor Treibholz, having taken a sabbatical from his duties at the University, had traveled to certain regions in Africa. There, exploring an uncharted wilderness, he discovered a tribe of Pygmies worshipping an idol of ancient manufacture—clearly Greek, from the inscription, which I take to have read παρτηενογενεσισ—most likely the Goddess Athena—perhaps left by some pupil of Archimedes. The idol proving, upon examination, to be in fact a device—Doctor Treibholz saw with his own eyes its remarkable properties…

For the Pygmies (he claims) are generated not as other races, but are rather formed from “a coalescence of atomies”—which I gather are particles floating in the air—focused like light through a burning glass—the operative mechanism an ingenious system of lenses mounted in a bronze ring above the head of Pallas!

Utter nonsense! And yet—with what sweet solemnity did Frau Von Berg relate this tale—clearly she believes every word. She must have led a sheltered life—as is only fitting for a lady of her rank—I cannot think less of her, though I instantly despised him.

The conclusion—that, owing to some misunderstanding, Herr Doctor was obliged by the Pygmies to flee for his life without further study of the fantastic device. Nonetheless he had observed it closely enough to attempt a copy. Money was wanted—he persuaded dear, trusting Frau Von Berg to invest her fortune—the copy made and now in working order—he claims.

And he claims to have improved on the original machine! For the one in Africa produced, naturally enough, half-scale African Negroes; but Doctor Treibholz purports to be able to produce half-scale white Europeans with his device. Nor is this all—each diminutive specimen steps forth from the mechanism a fully grown adult, complete in reason and understanding!

And so—Frau Von Berg informs me—this preposterous liar coaxed her to arrange passage to the late American colonies, with the intention of presenting his fraudulent contraption to the President there. For, since the Americans are presently in the process of domesticating a savage and empty wilderness—what, after all, would be more useful there than an army of sturdy homunculi, fit to cut wood and draw water?

I was assured by the poor, innocent woman that these Improved Pygmies had many advantages over colonists of the usual kind—for example, being smaller, they were more economical to feed, and required less room—moreover, were engendered without the necessity of an immoral act, unlike the rest of society…

Could see it was no use remonstrating with her—her trusting nature is too pure. But it is plain to me the scoundrel must have employed a troupe of itinerant dwarves to masquerade as specimens—for, she assures me, the device worked perfectly well on board the ship in which they were bound for America—indeed, produced a number of Improved Pygmies who were quite useful—though regrettably they all perished in the shipwreck…

It would be laughable were it not the basest confidence trick. Felt such ire on Frau Von Berg’s behalf, I had palpitations for upwards of two hours afterward. Checked my pulse just now—still unsteady. Perhaps Treibholz has Mesmerized her! That must be the case…

For, she says, the mechanism itself was rescued, and will now be used to produce a crew of little workmen who will salvage and repair the boat, to enable Treibholz to return to the mainland and charter another ship—however, the necessary atomic particles are in short supply in this remote place—something about the air—but the device may be primed with sugar, which makes a tolerable substitute!

Absurd…

Jan 9. My head swims. I cling to this rational act of ordering my thoughts on paper—Perhaps I have become a raving lunatic—perhaps hallucinations have paraded before my eyes. Or—can it be—I too have been somehow Mesmerized?

I was sitting over my solitary breakfast in blessed silence when there came a peremptory knock at my chamber door. Before I could respond, the door was opened—the Italian servant, Beppo, put his head in. I leapt to my feet in indignation at his audacity, but he smiled broadly—assured me he was only there to take care of the boat.

Reluctantly I bid him enter, then—he flung wide the door and ushered in not only his mute and grinning companion, as I had expected, but a half-dozen dwarves!!!

They wore the blue uniform of some engineering corps and, stranger still, carried with them several fathom of rope—blocks and sheaves—all necessary tools. They were all so alike as to have been brothers. As I gazed in stupefaction, they mounted the stair to the lantern room without a word to me—busily set to work up there, clearing the broken glass from the frame, lashing pulleys in place, readying the boat for its removal.

I turned back as the last of them vanished through the door, only to see the mute lurking near my breakfast. I ordered him away at once—he scrambled aside, miming innocence, rolling his eyes to heaven. The Italian intervened, scolding him, and apologized—I demanded to know whence the little workmen had come.

He then related a story that agreed substantially with that of Frau Von Berg—though there were some sordid details, concerning the erstwhile African explorer’s adventures amongst the Pygmies, of which I am sure Frau Von Berg knew nothing. Yes, the dwarves had come out of the remarkable machine—had coalesced not only fully formed, but clothed and equipped, rope, blocks, tackle and all!

My expressions of disbelief were met with a smile and a wave of the hand—what I had just seen was nothing compared to what il Dottore could do. When they reached America, he said, everyone would want Improved Pygmies. Improved Pygmies, he said, loved to work—why, they were restless and unhappy if they couldn’t work—and il Dottore was going to be a wealthy man, I would see…

All the while he spoke, a constant din of thumps and creaks above our heads suggested that the dwarves were indeed working like demons—presently a dark shape dropped by the window, descending in steady jerks as the boat was winched to the rock below. As I observed this, there was a knock at the door—the mute opened with a flourish—and in came yet another dwarf, bearing a file of panes of glass bound to his back, for all the world like monstrous insect wings—as well as carrying a bucketful of putty and a glazier’s knife!

The little creature would have gone straight up without a word and set to work—I persuaded the Italian to stop him a moment, while I took his measurement—He was exactly 3 feet tall, and—with the exception of the panes of glass—all his tools, clothing and other gear seemed to be to scale as well. I was unable to get precise measurements on these, because he shook himself free with some irritation and proceeded with his task.

They have all departed now. When the door had at last closed behind them, I raced up to the lantern room—beheld it empty and serene, the boat gone, the twisted window leads repaired—Were it not that the new panes have a greenish cast compared to the other glass, I should have thought the whole fantastic episode a dream…

And yet—can I be certain it is not? Though I hear even now the brisk work of hammers on the boat, echoing up through this tower—the whole tale is too grotesque to be real. Even my fair visitor maybe a creature of the imagination. Perhaps my nerves—what if my stores of salt beef or flour have been contaminated? I may be slowly dying of some subtle poison that affects the mind…

And all my silverware seems to be missing…

Jan 10. How laughable my fears now seem! I have “seen through” Doctor Treibholz.

Last night as I paced this room, feverish and despondent, lit intermittently by the circling flash of the lantern above—for its brightness strikes down like lightning—I was transfixed by illumination no less blazing.

The barrels and trunks! Did I not remark on the vast amount of luggage my visitors had loaded into their boat?

Of course the dwarves were secreted in the luggage. They must have been. Some circus troupe, hired by Treibholz to impersonate his creations, nothing more.

To think I believed a word of that story!

I must make careful note of all particulars of Doctor Treibholz and his accomplices—height, age, complexion, moles or tattoos—and will forward a detailed report to the mainland authorities with the next supply cutter. Prison is the only fitting—

There is a tiny shepherdess on the stairs.

I heard a plaintive knock—a soft voice—I set down my pen and rose in haste, thinking it was Frau Von Berg. Opened the door and beheld what appeared to be a little girl in the costume of a shepherdess, complete with crook and three diminutive sheep—like nothing so much as a Dresden figurine come to life. She inquired, in a high, clear voice, whether I knew where the rest of her flock had got to.

I shut the door hastily and retreated to the far side of the room. She has been knocking and calling out for a quarter of an hour. Ashamed to say I have gone into the private drawer in my trunk for the medicine—Nerves are much steadier now, however.

After all it is not so unlikely the circus troupe have a sister or wife—I understand dwarfism runs in families—doubtless she was sent up here as a prank. I will just—

She has been joined by a little man…

He seems to be a gardener, from his costume—He bore a potted geranium in his arms and asked me, with some petulance, whether he ought to mow the lawn—I told him I haven’t got a lawn—he asked whether I had any fruit trees to be espaliered then—and responded with remarkable high-pitched profanity when I once again shut the door.

But it is silent out there now—perhaps they have gone away?

This is all a malicious trick. I am too visibly a sensitive man—and I was scarcely able to conceal my distaste for Doctor Treibholz—likewise the mute—and though the Italian, Beppo, professed amiability, he has doubtless all the cunning and vengefulness of his race—They are colluding to shatter my nerves…

Well, I have merely to ignore them, and wait. I can hear the intermittent hammering and sawing, far below—soon the boat shall be seaworthy once again and they will leave me in blessed silence. Why demean myself by responding…

Jan 11. Peace—of a sort—at last…

I have turned my back to them all—I can shut them out, here, with the wind screaming in my ears—how curious, that in the teeth of the gale I find tranquility.

Another wretched night of disturbed sleep—appalling dreams—Doctor Treibholz pursued me through them with his odd crablike gait—then dreamed I was at the hunting lodge, and shot a duck—it dropped at my feet—I bent to pick it up and it sprang upward again as though on a rope—leered at me with Treibholz’s eyes, rolling behind their spectacles. Dreamed I had entered the gates of Heaven, welcomed by my dearest mother—led by deferential angels to that section reserved for nobility—then—mother transformed somehow to Frau Von Berg—and the nearest angel, unaccountably playing some vulgar beer-hall song on his golden harp—lifted his face and I saw it was the mute!

Woke screaming—became conscious there was a tapping at my chamber door. Had fortunately thrown myself down fully clothed to sleep—therefore no impropriety when I hurried to open the door to Frau Von Berg. I scarcely heard her tremulous plea for sanctuary, so transfixed was I by the spectacle behind and below her on the stair.

On every step, crowding and fighting, were tiny men and women. They were dressed in the costumes of every conceivable profession—soldiers, shopkeepers, milkmaids, demimondaines, cooks, butchers, fishermen, nursemaids, coachmen, musicians, clerks! I saw a little king, in robes of ermine—I saw a ballet dancer in ribboned slippers. The full spectrum of humanity, the pulsing quarreling shrieking crowd from whom I had fled to this tower, swarmed here below me, the whole world at half scale.

My gaze was arrested, in its descent into the microcosm, by the glimpse of a taller figure struggling upward through the mass—practically swimming—the detested Doctor Treibholz! And further down the stair, young Luftschiff and the servants, scrambling over the squeaking, protesting army of minimi…

In haste, I pulled Frau Von Berg into my room, and shut the door.

“What has happened?” I cried.

She wept that it was too dreadful—that something had gone wrong with Treibholz’s device, and it had begun to generate Improved Pygmies continuously—could not be shut off—out they came, like sausage from a grinder, at a rate of about one every minute. It was now so crowded in the cellar-chamber there was no room to move—and the uproar from the Pygmies’ quarreling was fit to wake the dead—for they were all disoriented, and each demanding to commence his or her proper occupation…

Indeed their noise hummed and echoed in the tower. We might have been standing atop an immense beehive. I comforted the poor creature as best I could—assured her that she had found safe refuge with me. I would simply keep my door locked—the vile mass of homunculi must in time go away, spilling out through the tower door at sea-level—some must drown, but that was nothing to either of us—I had enough provisions on this floor to last easily 6 months.

She thanked me profusely—the radiance of gratitude in her eyes made my heart beat the faster—but asked what would become of “poor Doctor Treibholz and the men?”

I saw it was time for firmness. Taking her hands, I led her to a chair—seated her, knelt before her—explained to her how our very survival required stern measures. How the Doctor had clearly been foolish in copying a monstrous engine whose workings he did not understand—how it was regrettable he must suffer the consequences, but he had brought this on himself—how he could probably contrive to escape in the boat, in any case—how it was my sacred duty to protect a lady…

And somehow I found myself speaking my heart… though let me state here and now that I never once thought of dear Frau Von Berg’s fortune.

She was gazing down into my eyes with a lovely mixture of bewilderment and—perhaps dawning affection—and all would have gone so well…

The door opened. In strode Doctor Treibholz, puffing furiously at his cheroot, and fixed us with an ironical and knowing leer. I leapt to my feet in outrage.

“That door was locked, sir!” I said. He replied that it was fortunate he’d had a Pygmy burglar at hand—I turned and saw a dwarfish knave in a black domino, in the act of putting away a set of lockpicks! Thrust the little beggar out bodily and shut the door again—turned and demanded to know what Treibholz meant by this intrusion—he in turn demanded to know what I meant by making love to his intended—dear Frau Von Berg looked as shocked at this as I was—whereupon he flung himself down on his knees before her, and declared passionate adoration!

Stood there speechless with rage—oh, for my dueling saber, or a pistol! Then a knock upon the door behind me—I turned and flung it open—a rash mistake, for into the room tumbled a miniature bishop, a barrel-organ player and his tiny monkey, and a greengrocer with a basket of onions. Luftschiff stepped over them smoothly, pitched the intruders back out into the stairway, and informed Doctor Treibholz that all was not lost—the mechanism had slowed its rate of production down to one Improved Pygmy every 5 minutes—Not a word of apology to me for his intrusion!

So—I ignored him in turn—stepped forward to seize Treibholz by his collar and pull him to his feet—told him to desist with his unwanted attentions to Frau Von Berg—he writhed free, skipped back nimbly and asked Luftschiff to provide him with a glove. Luftschiff provided one, after feeling about in his pockets—a rather cheap item of lisle thread—whereupon Treibholz took it and had the effrontery to strike me in the face—

How my blood boiled! The more so as I would be unable, by any laws of decency agreed upon by gentlemen, to accept a challenge from a creature so far beneath me—informed him I would never so sully my blade—and that in any case we had no blades…

Whereupon he ordered Luftschiff to fetch him a pair of Heidelberg students—the youth obediently dove down the stair, admitting as he went a circus acrobat and a diminutive chancery advocate. I collared each and dragged them to the door to pitch them out again, but was struck and thrown backward as the door flew open once more—in came Beppo and the mute, each bearing an Improved Pygmy under either arm—others fell in after them—it was all I could do to fasten the door again, and the new intruders—a group of madrigal singers, apparently—ran and crouched under my writing-table, where they promptly began a chorus of shrill song.

Beppo meanwhile greeted his master with the news that he need not worry—at least we should not perish from hunger, for he and his companion had found an Improved Pygmy poultry farmer, as well as two agriculturalists and a pork butcher—set the little creatures down and displayed the one with a small pair of chickens clutched in his arms, while the others carried each a fruit tree in a pot and a basket of cold cuts respectively—they should provide us with all the hard boiled eggs we needed, and more…

Treibholz responded that he had no time to concern himself with such matters—he was attempting to fight a duel. Beppo, with every evidence of glee, asked whether his master wanted them to fight for him—Frau Von Berg, gentle soul, cried out in protest at this—but the grimacing mute thrust aside a welter of Improved Pygmies and stepped forward to face me, striking the attitude of a pugilist!

My wrath could no longer be contained, and this at least the laws of chivalry permitted me to do—rain blows upon an impertinent lackey! I raised my own fists and squared off with the mute, who feinted a blow with his right fist—but as he did so, danced sideways, and a kick came flashing up from the depths of his ragged coat—his left boot struck my posterior with painful force—the coward!

I howled with rage and struck at him with all my strength, but he evaded me and feinted—pulled the same trick again! And yet again! We circled in the steadily narrowing floor space, for the chancery advocate had begun to hold a trial and the acrobat was turning hand-stands—the mute swung again, but this time as he did so there was a metallic clatter, and a torrent of silverware fell from his sleeve. My missing silverware!

“You thief!” I roared. And such was my incandescent fury that I would have obliterated him—but that out of my eye’s corner I saw a shadowy figure raising a weapon—turned to catch the treacherous Beppo in the act of raising a dry salami, doubtless stolen from the pork butcher, like a club—Frau Von Berg shouted a warning—the mute wasted no opportunity to push me from behind, and I fell amid tiny chickens, mulberry trees and spoons.

But I sprang upright swift as a tiger, only to see the door open once again, admitting another tide of Improved Pygmies. Luftschiff came wading in foremost, clutching under either arm a pair of scowling duelists, bearing half-sized scars and sabers.

“Ha!” cried Doctor Treibholz, and seized their weapons. He tossed one to me—flexed the blade of his own—cried, “En garde!” and lunged—which was preposterous, for the blades were no more than 15 inches long…

Goaded beyond all endurance, I raised the little blade like a dagger and struck wildly—missed, and felt it stab harmlessly into the lining of his tailcoat under his arm. For a heartbeat’s space I beheld my own reflection in Treibholz’s spectacle lenses—my face red with exasperation—eyes starting from my head—the ludicrous mask of a fool!

Treibholz—the dog—dropped his own blade at once and clutched his side, groaning that he’d been mortally wounded. He collapsed backward, to be grudgingly caught by the Improved Pygmy agriculturalists. Then—oh, frailty! Frau Von Berg descended upon him with cries of dismay, lifting him to her bosom—begging him not to die…

I was half-mad with disgust and heartbreak—turned and fled up to the lantern room, seizing my book, my inkwell and a bottle as I passed. Have shut the door and write now with my back pressed against it, though it strains outward with the pressure of lesser creatures. Here at last I have been able to calm myself… My hand is steady—see how neatly I form the letters now!

They cannot force me to endure their society—I have spied a rope that was left by the workmen, fastened to the outer rail—will let myself down and take the boat—or, if the little people guard it, will swim for the mainland—bearing an odometer of my own design, with which to measure the precise distance to the Norland.

But will first tear out these pages and seal them within the bottle—if I am lost, ’twill serve as witness against Treibholz and his ruffians…

They beat against the door. I hear their cries. I must be going…