Monday
I AM settling in. The room is not much. It is small and grubby, containing a bed with a very lumpy mattress. There are two dusty windows facing a narrow alley, and the gables of the opposite houses make the room seem even darker and smaller than it is. It would be airless in high summer and bitterly cold in winter. Fortunately, the season is in between, and I may have moved on long before winter. The landlady, Frau Mauger, is ill-favored and has the aspect of a grasping woman, but she seems to regard me without malice and has not charged me very much for the room. Perhaps something bad has happened here. We shall see. I must ask the other tenants.
So far I have seen only one: a tall, pale girl in a dark dress with her hair scraped back in a severe-looking bun, which only emphasizes the plainness of her features. She glides about between stairs like a wraith, pausing to look about her with large, affrighted eyes. She has nothing to fear from me; I am not at all attracted to that type. When I was negotiating terms with the landlady, Frau Mauger explained that the girl worked as a seamstress in the back rooms of one of the larger ladies' dress establishments in the city; but that she had been ill recently and had to stay in her room. She could not afford the doctor's bill and was worried that she might lose her situation.
Well, that is life nowadays. Things are bad everywhere. Berlin seems no different from any other place, except that it is larger and noisier. I spent some time this afternoon unpacking my things. I have only a brown leather suitcase and a large paper parcel. Though shabby, the former was originally of good quality, and Frau Mauger must have taken this into account because she cast suspicious eyes on me when I first arrived. It is true that I am unprepossessing and would not attract attention in a crowd, but perhaps that is an advantage in my position, for what I might have to do. My overcoat is shabby and my shoes down at heel, but I may be able to borrow some polish from a fellow lodger. I have little in the way of funds and must eke them out as best I may.
I am keeping these notes as a record of my thoughts and actions, for it may be important later on. I am hesitating whether or not to write to the newspapers. That did attract some attention in Cologne, where I stayed three months. Fortunately, an acquaintance warned me that the police were taking an interest in my inflammatory views and I moved on just in time. I must be more careful here and be sure not to attract too much attention. At first, at any rate. My father always said that I had a cunning that was almost supernatural; that I seemed able to foresee things before they happened. Poor man; it was tragic the way he died. And no one was ever able to work out how.
There is a very grubby calendar tacked to the plaster wall near my bed. For some reason the first months have not been torn off. I have removed these leaves and will use the reverse as writing paper and for my random jottings. I am feeling much better now and have opened one of the far windows in order to let a gentle breeze blow through this stuffy atmosphere. That is an improvement. By standing on one of the stuffed horsehair chairs, of which the room seems to have an abundance, I can just see the cobbled alley below and note a few pedestrians passing.
Now I am back at the bedside and annotating the calendar and bringing it up to date. I have crossed off the previous days and circled Monday so that I know where I am. I wonder why it is that one is never able to capture time and cause it to stop; or rerun events as one can in one's head? I should imagine the scientists and learned men of our society would have glib and facile explanations. It seems so simple to me and yet the process continually eludes them.
I stopped writing just now. It is late afternoon and the smell of cabbage soup is slowly permeating the atmosphere. It makes me realize that I am very hungry. I have had nothing since breakfast, which consisted of two small bread rolls and a cup of coarse black coffee. I have my wallet out and my imitation leather purse. I have locked the door from the inside and go over my monetary resources. Marks enough for the present, but what of the future? Should I stay in this evening and sample the cooking of the house? Probably not. The aroma wafting up the stairs is not such as to tempt a gourmet like me. But I will have to be careful. A small cafe in a discreet neighborhood and simple fare for the time being, I think.
Perhaps I could take breakfast here; have a very sparse lunch and reserve the evening for something more substantial. We shall see. But I need to keep up my health. Katrine said that I looked too thin and undernourished even for a medical student. I wonder where she is now. A nice girl, if a little on the thin side herself. But she helped me at a crucial time and made my stay in Cologne more pleasant than it would otherwise have been.
My head still hurts a little. It is probably the effect of that very bad wine I had at the bahnhof last night. It was the cheapest available, it is true, but it is always false economy to skimp on such things as wine. Food does not matter quite so much, as the digestive system is extremely resilient in a younger person, but bad wine leaves one with a headache and very much out of sorts. When I have tidied the room to my satisfaction, I light the lamp and look around with a little more satisfaction. It certainly makes it reasonably civilized now that most of my few possessions are in place.
I shake the lamp when the wick is burning evenly; the oil chamber is almost empty; although there is still light outside, it is very dark in here and I shall need the lamp for my note taking and reading in due course. I must ask Frau Mauger either to refill it or let me have a small supply of oil in one of those metal cans I saw stacked in her scullery; they were all marked with numbers in white paint, so they obviously referred to the rooms. There were twelve in all. So if every one was occupied there would be twelve lodgers in toto. That might be important to know.
I now place my case on the bed, open it, and inspect the contents most thoroughly. Fortunately, it has very strong locks of a nonstandard pattern, so my possessions will be secure in case my room is entered in my absence. Frau Mauger has a passkey, of course, but naturally there will be a cleaning girl, so I must be very careful not to leave any of my writings about. Strong locks are the answer. They ensure privacy and hide things from prying eyes. Boardinghouses and pensions are notorious for the latter. I had a friend once—but I digress. The story is too long and would take up too much time and paper if I wrote it all now. Perhaps one day when I am famous, I may even commit it to print. It is certainly worth the telling and might even be considered too bizarre for fiction.
I have noticed a small curtain in the corner of the room. I approach it and draw it back. Something I had not expected. There is an alcove with a fly-specked mirror on the rear wall. Beneath it a stone sink with a drain. And above it a large brass top. I turn it and cold water gushes out. What a luxury for this place! I shall be able to perform my toilet in privacy. And when I need hot water for shaving, no doubt it can be procured from below. I must have hot water for that because my cutthroat has become blunted and I have not yet tried out one of the new types of safety razor. They say one's skin takes a while to get used to them.
I sit down on the bed again. So, my funds are sufficient for the next few weeks, if I go carefully. After that we shall see. I do know how to procure more but must be very circumspect this time. The affair in Cologne gave me a very bad scare, I can tell you. The memory of it makes me shiver yet. If it had not been for that old woman, no one would have known. Who would have thought that she would have such sharp eyes and hearing? But, as my father used to say, my "native cunning" once again saw me through. Luck will not always last, I must remember. One has to temper necessity with extreme caution.
I get up once more and study myself in the mirror, bringing the lamp closer. No, the image presented is not too bad. I am not handsome, certainly. But I look passably respectable, and after a quick wash, using the sliver of soap in the metal bowl and the grubby towel, I should pass unnoticed in a crowd. And Berlin is full of crowds, thank God.
That makes me pause, though the phrase echoed only inside my head. Why invoke my Maker when I do not believe in Him? Curious, really. But perhaps only force of habit; things dinned into one by one's parents from an early age. How like an iron rack the world is! The more one stretches and tries to escape its grip, the more one is stretched in turn and the burning, tearing torture goes on.
But I must be calm. When I am carried away by such thoughts I sometimes am given to vocalizing them, and that is dangerous in such an establishment as this, with its loose-fitting floorboards and thin walls. I cross to the basin, run the water, and soak my fevered face in the blessed coolness. Ah, that is better! The headache and the aftertaste of the wine fumes have almost completely disappeared. I prepare to quit my lodging, but first make a final inspection to see that all is well. I must search out a small eating house in a secluded byway, where I shall not attract attention.
But not too secluded, because that will defeat the purpose. It is a fine point and must be met when I find the right place. But I shall know it. I always do. My unerring eye, as my mother used to say. I bend to polish my shoes with a fold of the tablecloth. One last look around, then I open the door to the mean landing with its frayed drugget and faded religious prints upon the walls. I step back inside, turn out the lamp, relishing the acrid smell of paraffin and hot metal and then carefully lock the door. I smile as I think of Frau Mauger. She has not asked me what I do for a living. That was a question that might have made me uneasy, as well as her.
I pocket the key and go down the creaky stairs. I see no one, though there is a faint murmur of voices from some of the ground-floor rooms. I let myself out through a side door, walk briskly along the alley and am swallowed up by the eddying crowds of suburban Berlin.
I have found the ideal place, a small cafe jammed in among narrow-chested buildings in an alley hidden away just off one of the main thoroughfares. It seems perfect for my purposes. Large enough for me to be fairly anonymous among the other clientele but small enough to allow me to see if there are any suspicious characters at adjoining tables. It appears to be frequented mostly by families containing a number of children, and commercial travelers of the unsuccessful sort. I can always tell the type, mainly by their air of abject hopelessness and their worn sample cases, which they deposit with such ridiculous care beneath their chairs. No unattended females.
The travelers, with their knowledge of defeat and their sunken eyes, make me realize how fortunate I am to be free from such absurd bondage. Free to practice my art, free to travel—when I am in funds, that is—free to select my friends, particularly women. I could expand on that subject but I have determined to keep this diary as coldly professional as I can make it. From my seat in the window of this small establishment I am well placed to watch the passing show. A constant stream of people of all types: young and old, men and women, children, girls, tramps and itinerants, all sway and undulate in a turgidly moving tide past the lace curtains of the window, where I can observe them closely without being noticed myself.
There is one particular girl who catches my eye; she is tall and well proportioned with a long dress which shows her bust to perfection. She has long auburn hair beneath her hat, which is worn well back from her broad, smooth brow. She could not be more than twenty or twenty-two, I should say. Several times she drifts up and down with the tide of humanity passing in front of my window, unaware of my intent gaze behind the concealing curtain. Is she merely perambulating like most of the passing throng? Or has she some other purpose? Perhaps a rendezvous with a friend or a person of the opposite sex? She is certainly not a prostitute. I know the type too well, and she bears all the hallmarks of the respectable working class.
I am becoming interested by this time, but my observations are interrupted by the waiter, a sallow-faced youth with prominent grease spots on his white shirtfront. My irritation is increased when the girl fails to reappear in front of my window. But I conceal my emotions, putting on my bland facade. I order my favorite sausage dish, which comes in a mound of creamed potatoes. Daringly, I order with it a glass of red wine, whose provenance is assured from past experience. I set to enthusiastically, and as the edge of my hunger is dulled and the warmth of the wine permeates my being, I am again able to take in the scene before me. But somehow it has lost its sparkle. The absence of the girl on whom my attention was focused makes a difference.
Instead, as the meal progresses and the patrons of the restaurant come and go, I begin to observe people at adjoining tables. There are three coarse-faced men near me, whose loud-checked clothing and fat, well-fed faces, together with their leather sample cases, proclaim themselves to my practiced eye as commercial travelers of the more successful type. I watch them intently, noting the bulging notecase one produces. They are slightly tipsy and I note also that each has a carafe of red wine in front of him, the contents of which are replaced by the same sallow-faced waiter from time to time.
Their talk is of business mostly; I let the details pass but listen more intently when they lower their voices to whisper some coarse joke about this or that attractive woman who passes our window.
I have them in their correct pigeon holes by now and arrange my own meal in order to be able to leave the cafe at the same time as this dubious trio. Their flushed faces and loud voices are drawing attention from the other customers by now. The apfelstrudel is quite delicious and in a moment of recklessness I order another portion with my second cup of the thick, sweet coffee in which this establishment specializes.
At last the meal is over and I spend some time scrutinizing the bill, while waiting for the party at the next table to leave. I count out the correct amount from my purse and leave a small tip on the table for the waiter, who, after all, has looked after me well. I will come here again tomorrow. The three men are on their feet now and walking somewhat unsteadily, weaving their way among the tables to the cash desk, where a frosty-faced matron with white hair, and wearing a severe black dress with a lace collar, presides over her ledger, with the paid bills crucified on a dangerous-looking metal spike at her elbow.
My friend has his thick wallet out now, laughing loudly at some joke uttered by his companions as he waits in the queue in front of me. As he makes an expansive gesture I bump into him as though by accident, catching his elbow. It is well done and I pride myself on my professionalism in such matters. He gives a muttered exclamation as his wallet hits the floor, spilling a sheaf of notes. I give him a mumbled apology as I grope downward, gathering up the notecase. I hand it back to him with further polite comments as he accepts my contrition good-naturedly. There is a moment of anxiety as he sifts the contents of the wallet, but he is looking only for the correct denomination with which to pay his bill.
I pay my own and hurry out, avoiding the small group on the pavement as they loudly discuss their plans for the evening. I too join the drifting crowds, though, unlike them, I do not pass and re-pass along the alley until I see that my companions have dispersed in the opposite direction. Then I go with the tide, enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of being quite at ease in my mind, noting the crowds, especially the women, trying to guess their professions or occupations. Here are wan shop girls, their pale faces alight with pleasure at being temporarily released from their bondage; mustachioed fathers of families with their buxom wives and slim daughters; young boys trundling iron hoops among the crowds, to the consternation of passersby; and beggars, always beggars, of both sexes, lining blank walls where they intervene between the facades of shops; match sellers; wounded ex-soldiers, one with his mutilated stumps mercifully hidden by a blanket, resting on an improvised wooden cart pushed by an elderly woman, possibly his mother.
I drop a small coin into his cap and hurry on, avoiding his shamefaced thanks. I can afford to be a little more generous now. I finger the small bundle of crackling paper in my pocket, controlling my excitement until I return to my lodgings. Then I round a corner at the end of the alley. The girl is standing looking helplessly about her. I study her calmly, pretending to look in the window of a hardware shop. There is a mirror just behind a huge mound of zinc buckets, and I can see her clearly from where I am standing. She looks even more desirable than when I had first seen her through the cafe window.
She was standing uncertainly, clenching and unclenching her small fists in the white gloves all the while I observed her, which was for perhaps three to five minutes. Then she turned on her heel, as though she had made up her mind, and set off through the crowded street. I followed at a safe distance, keeping groups of people between us, stopping when she did and pretending to observe the contents of shop windows. But I do not really think my precautions were necessary. She was completely oblivious to my presence, as she was to all those about her.
We must have circled about for more than an hour, though time had ceased to have any existence. It was dusk and the lamplighters were lighting the street lamps when I realized we were once more back in the vicinity of the cafe where I had eaten. I was standing only a few yards from her, on the opposite side of the alley, but I might have been invisible for all the notice she took. Then there was a sudden scurrying of feet among the slowly thinning crowd which passed by at this dusky hour; a young man, hatless, his dark hair glistening beneath the lamps, rushed forward and swept the girl impetuously into his arms. People stared curiously as they passed, but the couple took no notice.
There were tears and broken sentences of apology; apparently the lover had been hours late for the assignation. Then they too passed away in the shuffling crowd, and I turned away with mingled feelings of rage and frustration in my heart. But I reined back my emotions and slowly came to myself again. A veil seemed to have come between me and the busy street. Later, I found myself on one of the main thoroughfares, and finally in the distance I could make out the great bulk of the Brandenburg Tor. I was then conscious that I had not eaten for some time, so I stopped at a cooked-meat shop and bought two large pork pies and two sweet buns for my supper.
These I carried back to Frau Mauger's. There was no one about as I let myself into the house by the side door; again, there was the murmur of voices from distant rooms and cracks of light showing beneath doors, but no one stirred. Gas jets burned palely in the scullery, and I took advantage of the moment to abstract one of the paraffin cans which bore the number of my room. Fortunately, it was half full and I carried it upstairs. Gaslight bleached the landing, so I had no difficulty in finding the small keyhole on my door. I left it ajar while I refilled and lit my lamp and then put the can away in a corner cupboard that smelt of damp and mold.
After I had relocked the door and drawn the curtains, I washed my hands at the basin in the alcove and sat down in one of the padded chairs to examine my haul. I caught sight of my excited face in the mirror as I counted out the notes. There were more than four thousand marks there! An incredible amount for perhaps five seconds' work. There would be enough there, together with what I already had, to keep me for weeks. I could concentrate on my great work with no need to worry about the cost of my accommodation or meals. There might even be time for some amatory adventures. I could not get the sweet face of the girl waiting in the alley out of my mind. I might see her again tomorrow or the day after.
I put the notes away in my leather body belt and sat down to my solitary supper, which I devoured with considerable satisfaction.
When I had finished, I relaxed on the edge of my bed for a long time, preoccupied with my churning thoughts. I was aroused by a clock chiming midnight from a distant steeple. I undressed quickly, carried the lamp to the bedside table, extinguished it, and got beneath the coverlet. In three minutes I sank into a dreamless sleep.
Tuesday
This morning I sampled breakfast at Frau Mauger's for the first time. It is not something I should care to repeat in a hurry. I have seldom seen a more decrepit and quarrelsome crowd of boarders. There was watery soup served from a vast tureen in the middle of the table, which was covered with worn oilcloth, and the greasy aroma of stale leftovers was enough to put one off food for life. Hard rolls and some sort of sugary confection which passed for marmalade. While I digested this ill-favored start to the day, I studied my companions intently. To my disappointment, there was not a suitable girl among them. Or at least not one to set the heart racing.
Insipid coffee was being poured at this point, and I was momentarily distracted from the study of my companions in misfortune. An old man with a gray beard and a dark, clerical sort of garb, whom I understood to be a minor official at one of me great city museums; two rather elderly clerks in some ministry or other; an ancient with a ramrod-straight back, who wore the ribbon of some military decoration or other in his lapel, and whom a number of people at the table addressed deferentially as Herr Hauptmann. He is a typical, stupid, opinionated old man, pontificating to the table at large on long-ago battles in which he supposedly covered himself with glory. I very much doubt this. Such people should be wiped off the face of the earth. Even in wartime they are useless, merely squandering the lives of private soldiers. His narrow features and stupid white mustache fill me with disgust.
Apart from those mentioned there are several girls, none of whom is worth more than a passing glance. I am distracted from this sort of musing by the image of the girl I saw near the cafe yesterday. Perhaps I will see her again today. Who knows? Several times this military bore tried to catch my eye, but I was not to be drawn. As a newcomer I was obviously an object of greater interest than these familiar boarders, but I could sense the danger in this. I will not take part in any of these abominable so-called meals in future, but eat out. I can afford to do so. The increasing pressure of my body belt attests to this continually.
So I engaged instead in a somewhat muted conversation with a rather sullen middle-aged man on my right, without giving away anything about myself. He turned out to be some minor official at a local gas company office in the vicinity. He was lame also and unmarried, but I could feel no sympathy for him on those accounts. The old military gentleman continued with his fatuous monologue at the far end of the table, casting regretful glances at me from time to time, but I continued to avoid his unwanted attention and presently he desisted.
I excused myself from this dreadful meal as soon as I could and quitted the premises for the fresher air and the watery sunshine that gilded the rooftops, as though restored to life. A glass of bock in a crowded beer garden, as soon as I had reached a main hub of the city, fully restored my spirits and dissolved the aftereffects of the wretched meal from my taste buds. I lingered awhile, watching the people about me as though with idle amusement, but in reality with a very-definite purpose. I had not forgotten Angela, and I was looking for a definite type. But the hour I spent in this area of lighthearted amusement and idle chatter was absolutely wasted.
Either the woman of the type I wanted was in a party or perhaps with a young man, or was entirely unsuitable. It was almost as bad a situation as Frau Mauger's, and I sometimes despair of what appears to be the utter futility of my search. And to tell the truth, I am unprepared. I have no tools of my trade, having been forced to dispose of my last down a deserted well outside Cologne where they will never be found. Düsseldorf was even worse and I could find nothing there that satisfied me. Berlin is the only place. This is the city where I shall find everything I want: the woman—or women, if I am lucky—and the necessary instruments for my purpose. Here I shall achieve my objective, surely, so that the whole world will ring with my name.
I then realize the waiter is hovering expectantly, and I order another bock. I make a few notes on a scrap of envelope while I await his return. As he places the glass upon the table I see, over his shoulder, the familiar figure of the girl passing the trellis work that frames the entrance to the garden. But as she turns in profile before me, I note that once again I have been mistaken. I rap the table angrily with my glass, causing an elderly lady nearby to glance in my direction. The girl I followed is becoming an obsession; I really must learn to curb my temper. I relax then and glance idly at the passing show.
Later. I have spent several hours at one of the great museums, where some distorted paintings by minor masters entrance me. How gorgeous it must have been to have lived in the Middle Ages, I feel. Then one could do as one liked, providing one was not a peasant! But to have the rights of the high, the middle, and the low… That must have been wonderful! Then I observe that one of the attendants is looking at me curiously and I hurry away. It would not do for anyone to become too interested in me. I am dressed quite respectably, of course, and am closely shaved with my hair brushed tidily. But I know from my own observations in the mirror in my room that my eyes glitter when I am roused. I must keep my lids half closed in order not to attract too much attention.
Wednesday
A great day! I have seen her again. Either she works at one of the premises in that narrow street where the cafe is situated, or perhaps lives or lodges there. And her name is Anna! A beautiful name, is it not? She was with a plain, dowdy sort of girl as I passed along the thoroughfare after lunch this afternoon, and I caught a fragment of their conversation as I followed close behind. But always keeping two or three people between myself and the two of them. That they are great friends goes without saying, because the girls have their arms entwined around each other's waists, as is often the way with bosom companions of the female sex.
Unfortunately, I lost sight of them in an open-air market and returned to the beer garden, where I consoled myself with wine on this occasion, and spent my time intensely scrutinizing all the people at the adjoining tables as well as the passersby. A fascinating occupation which never tires me. Unfortunately, the waiter has noticed my occasional habit of trimming my fingernails with my clasp knife. It is rather a large one and I keep it sharpened nicely, and he has an uneasy look in his eye that disquiets me in turn. I put it away casually, though my fingertips are trembling a little against the table surface.
He turns with some relief, and when he has gone into the restaurant on some errand or other, I drain the remaining inch of wine in my glass and move to a far corner of the vast forecourt, where there is an entirely new set of waiters, and I order another glass. I am concealed here by a potted palm and there is a low hedge in box trunking between me and the other section of the restaurant, and I see no sign of the waiter whose curiosity set my alarm bells ringing. But I must be more careful in future, though I am certain there is nothing in my dress or normal demeanor to single me out from the throng. I feel fine now and luxuriate in the warmth of the wine.
A military band is playing some old air in waltz time, and there is the scent of lime from the regularly spaced trees in the avenue. Presently the sound of the band grows nearer, and I sense the quickening of interest in the crowd about me. Ah! There they are at last! The regimental band of the hussars, splendid in their tightly buttoned red and blue uniforms, their accoutrements glistening in the pale sunshine, while the plumes of the officers dance in the breeze. What a splendid sight! It sets the blood racing and I start to my feet, as do many others present. Girls are smiling and waving their handkerchiefs as the band passes, led by a solitary horseman on a white charger, and I see tears glisten on the cheeks of several old men standing stiffly to attention near me.
But the air of excitement dies within me. Their retreating backs and the supinely admiring attitude of the ancient military men remind me vividly of the odious old soldier back at my lodgings, and the afternoon seems to cloud over, even though the sun is shining as before. I sit myself down again as the music fades and am aware of several large beetles scuttling beneath my metal chair. They disgust me too, but I refrain from crushing them, as to me all life is sacred, save that of the detested human beings. I catch a young girl looking at me somewhat anxiously and hastily compose my features. The day seems gray and dusty as I presently quit the garden.
As I reenter my lodgings this afternoon, as usual by the side door, and ascend the dimly lit staircase, I hear a board creak in the gloom. Then I see Frau Mauger standing near the door of my room. My suspicions about her are crystallizing. And they are reinforced when I see her hastily putting a large bunch of master keys behind her. I know what they are because I have already glimpsed them at her waist. She composes her features into what in a normal person would pass for a smile, when I come up.
"Ah, there you are," she says with an air of embarrassment. "I was hoping to find you. As you know, the rent is due by this evening."
I have not yet been here a week, but I bite back the retort that all too readily springs to my lips. I merely nod and take my wallet up to the far end of the corridor, under the farthest gas jet. I keep a few notes in there for everyday needs. I extract the smallest note and take it back to her. I tell her that will cover the next fortnight. Greed struggles with pleasure in her face.
She will give me a receipt if I call in at her sitting room on my way out to dinner, she says. There is sarcasm in the latter part of the sentence, because she has guessed, quite correctly, that I have no wish to sample the so-called delights of her table. But I give her a thin smile and wait until she has descended the stairs, with a harsh rustling of skirts. Then I unlock my room, light the lamp, because little light penetrates into this place. I smile to myself in the semi-darkness because the shade of the lamp is already warm. So she has been in the room.
I turn up the wick, relock the door, and examine my few possessions carefully. I see at once that my suitcase has been moved slightly from its original position. I examine the locks. All is well. I am convinced no one could open the case without either physically breaking the clasps or cutting out the leather. For the rest, there is nothing incriminating. I keep my written material, including my diary entries, with me at all times.
I wash and then relock my door carefully, leaving a stray hair from my collar across the crack of the jamb, after I have moistened each end with spittle. On my way out I pause at the door of Frau Mauger's sitting room. I can hear the faint clinking of coins. I enter at the same time as I rap on the panel. The woman almost leaps up from the table on which reposes a rusty tin box, a bundle of notes, and a heap of coins. There is fury in her eyes, but I explain in calm, clipped tones that I did knock before entering. She takes my lie with ill grace, knowing it for what it is. She mumbles something, pushes my change across the faded green baize cloth, together with a scribbled notation on a piece of grubby paper. I say nothing further as I leave the room without acknowledgment. The dusty air of the street tastes better than the stale odors of the lodging house.
I wander the streets idly, for an hour or two, enjoying the busy scene and the fresh breeze which ruffles my hair, while at the same time missing no attractive women who pass my field of vision. They are mostly drably dressed, being, I suppose, poor seamstresses or girls who work in offices or sweatshops, but now and again an attractive woman of the better class, elegantly dressed and with a sparkle to her eyes and a spring in her walk, attracts my rapt attention. But I conceal it well, glancing in shop windows while keeping an eye on the reflection of such a woman behind me. I am adept at this and have never yet been caught out, except on one occasion… But I decline to put this down on paper, as being of too intimate a nature.
I am looking for Anna, of course, but she does not seem to be abroad today. A pity, because I feel it is time I introduced myself. Under an assumed name, of course. It would never do to reveal my true identity. Far too—I was almost going to say incriminating, but that is the wrong word altogether. Revealing, perhaps? But that is not the right word either. I will leave a blank space here__________ There! If it comes to me, I can always insert it later.
Ha! Ha! I am in an unusually merry mood today and on the lookout for adventure.
I am fortunate in that I am not short of money, thanks to that fool of a commercial traveler in the cafe. If I go on as I am going, I should have enough for another two months or so. If there is a God, I thank him for the constant supply of idiots of both sexes who always fortuitously seem to come my way.
I enter the old restaurant, perhaps with some idea of seeing Anna pass, and one of the waiters greets me as though I were an old friend. I order a bock to start with and under cover of one of the newspapers with which the proprietor kindly obliges the clientele, I study my companions. There are only a half dozen people in at this early hour of the evening, which is why I have chosen it, and as they are all sitting several tables away I am able to scrutinize them at leisure. An old bachelor, wearing some sort of velvet skullcap, is deeply engrossed in some political article while awaiting his order.
Why a bachelor? Or a widower, rather, which comes to the same thing. Because he wears a faded black armband on the left arm of his dark green velvet jacket. I turn my attention from him to two handsome women in the far corner, deeply engrossed in an animated conversation. Obvious lesbians because the younger, a fine-looking blond girl, deeply feminine in her way, is wearing a low-cut gown and an imitation set of diamonds; I know they are paste, because I am experienced in these matters, but they are tasteful nevertheless and go well with her ensemble.
Her companion, certainly her "husband," is equally striking; in her late thirties, with masses of dark hair which has been cut in a mannish style, she wears a severe jacket of some dark material, also of a male cut, and with it a white silk shirt and a man's red tie. I notice also that both of them wear wedding rings and occasionally clasp hands across the table as they talk. I am fascinated with them and eye them for a long while until the waiter bringing their order distracts their attention and they observe my interest, whereupon I transfer my gaze to the other occupants of the large room.
These do not detain me long: two men of the working-class type with coarse clothing and loud laughs, and a sad-looking man in the corner with a professional air—he has silver hair and a long white beard and melancholy eyes. He has a book of poetry open in front of him and studies it with assumed interest while he furtively regards the lesbians over his soup from time to time. His dark hat and scarlet-lined cape hang from the mahogany stand behind his table, and his deep-socketed eyes seem to contain all the sorrows of the world.
Why do I know he is studying poetry? Because I have fantastic eyesight when I am absorbed in someone or something, and also, as he attempted to turn the page the book slipped and in retrieving it he revealed the flyleaf, which bore the title in large black lettering. It was Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mai, one of my favourite works, which I have studied in translation many times in the silence of my solitary rooms. A divine work which should be in every man's—and woman's—possession.
But my order now arrives and I put aside my notes. A rare dish—not to say an esoteric one—featuring various varieties of sausage, cooked in unusual ways, together with fried onions and delicately grilled potatoes. How these Germans love their sausages! I have heard that they have no less than eight hundred different varieties in this country. That may be exaggeration, of course, but I have certainly seen a great many different types in shops and restaurants in the course of my wanderings. I was suddenly aware of the invasion of the pangs of hunger and set to without further delay.
It was during this stage of the meal that a minor tragedy occurred. I was engaged in taking a deep draught of bock when I caught sight of a familiar face passing the window. By the time I had realized it was Anna, the apparition had gone. I could not be certain it was she, and I caused a minor sensation by rushing to the restaurant door. But by the time I had pushed through a startled group of people who were just coming in, she had disappeared. I returned chastened to my seat and assured the agitated waiter that my sudden exit had nothing to do with the quality of the food or the service.
I was so upset by the incident that it took all the pleasure from the meal, and it was in a sullen and rather vindictive mood that I finished the repast. But by the time I had consumed a final cognac with my coffee, I had quite regained my good humor and eventually joined the groups of idlers on the pavement and, like a piece of driftwood on a tidal sea, allowed myself to be swirled this way and that until I finally ended up in an adjacent park where the band concert, held beneath strings of colored lamps, was really excellent and was still in full flood when I finally left them to it about eleven.
By contrast, my room at Frau Mauger's seemed more squalid than ever, and that night I sat long at my notes beneath the shaded lamp; I again checked my funds and found I still had plenty of cash in hand. In fact, enough for months more if I proceed frugally. I chuckled to myself at this; I had spent most of my life in extremely frugal circumstances, and certainly over the past dozen years had known real poverty until I learned to live by my wits and take my just dues from society.
But for the moment I am of two minds as to how to proceed; I had set my sights on Anna, but it now seems as though she will be more elusive than I had imagined. No one else interests me at the moment. At this point I break off these bleak thoughts and open up my suitcase. I forgot to mention earlier that I had carefully examined my door, and the hair I had placed across the jamb had been undisturbed. So I did not need to check my case. I sat examining its contents for quite a while. It does seem to me that I need some new instruments for the tasks I have set myself. But I have money enough and leisure enough to attend to this in due course. It is the problem of Anna that absorbs me. I am still thinking of her when I seek my bed.
Thursday
I had terrible dreams last night. They haunt me still. They may have been engendered by my interrupted meal. I occasionally suffer from indigestion, but nothing before had ever prepared me for the horrible parade of images that invaded my consciousness on this occasion. It began with something like a filmy gauze curtain waving in front of me. This gave way to Anna's face, which bore a sad, haunted look. Then I was back at Frau Mauger's, wandering the dusty, neglected corridors. I went to use the new toilet there. It is one of only two in the building, the other being Frau Mauger's.
I have that on the assurance of one of the residents; he is an old man, but how he came by this information I do not know. These places actually have porcelain sanitary ware. I was about to use the most intimate when, in a twinkling, what appeared to be thousands of bloated black spiders came swarming out of the water. I tried to scream, but my tongue seemed frozen to the roof of my mouth. Then the things were springing through the air; they were all over me, on my arms and shoulders, in my hair and then in my mouth.
I went mad then. I found something in my hands; perhaps it was a broom or a mop, seized in my frenzy from somewhere. I struck out blindly, crushing and smashing the things beneath my feet and with the weapon in my hands. They made a disgusting noise as I crushed them, and the air was full of the most nauseating odor. I, who love all animals and insects, was destroying the very things I had devoted my life to preserving! Thus shame was mingled with the horror. Blind rage had superseded my humanitarian instincts. Mercifully for my sanity, I woke in the calmness of my midnight room, my sheets soaked with perspiration.
I felt I had screamed aloud, but perhaps it had been only a half-strangled cry in my somnambulistic state, because there were no running footsteps in the corridor, no anxious voices or alarm being raised. But so vivid had been the anguish of my dream that I found the palms of my hands oozing with blood where my nails had cut into them. There were some traces on the sheets I found when I lit the lamp. I spent a half hour sponging them with a wet towel before I had erased the traces, and then I bound two handkerchiefs around my palms to stop any further emissions—with some difficulty, I might add.
When I was myself the following morning, I could not but come to the conclusion, somewhat wryly, that a convinced atheist like myself had now assumed the personification of a religious fanatic— that is, I bore all the signs of the stigmata! The irony would have been lost on someone without my sensibilities. But something happened today that went a long way toward restoring my spirits. This time I really saw Anna. She did not see me, as she was engaged in conversation when she passed the window of the cafe in which I was having a mid-morning coffee and a brioche, a habit to which I could soon become accustomed.
She was with the same girl I had seen her with before, and as I had paid my bill I drained my cup and followed them. They went in through the employees' entrance of a women's dress establishment, and I noted the time the business closed from a brass plaque screwed to the wall at the side of the front door. No doubt the girls had been delivering and collecting material, for they carried large cardboard boxes on which were engraved the name of the establishment. This was a great stroke of luck on my part, and I resolved to be nearby when the business closed for the day.
But that left me nearly seven hours to dispose of. I decided to have a late lunch; that way the day might not seem so long. That resolved, my footsteps took me on to one of the fashionable avenues of the city.
In one of the small side streets I made a remarkable find, in an extraordinary secondhand bookshop. There, in a remote corner of this vast establishment I discovered an old, musty volume called The Pleasures of Pain, privately printed by an obscure German academic. I was fascinated and determined to copy out some of the more striking passages. I borrowed the volume, as the proprietor was surrounded by potential customers, and carried the tome out under my jacket to read at my leisure. I intend to use it as a model textbook, and it has unlocked avenues in my mind of which I had never dreamed.
One of my fellow lodgers at Frau Mauger's is a minor clerical official at one of the city's largest slaughterhouses, and as I still had some six hours before I would see Anna, I caught a convenient public vehicle which passed only two streets away. My acquaintance was a little surprised to see me but at once fell in with my wishes. As I have previously remarked, I abhor all cruelty to animals and I had no wish to see actual slaughter taking place in this establishment, but I was curious as to the methods used in cutting up and preparing the meat. My fellow lodger took me to an iron gallery which overlooked one of the main abattoir areas, where the carcasses of dead animals came in on chains and were expertly dissected by giant fellows in bloodstained aprons, who wielded axes and razor-sharp knives with amazing dexterity.
I marveled at their expertise, and stayed a half hour, noting all their skilled movements with fascinated interest. I resolved to buy my acquaintance a glass or two of wine one evening soon and courteously saluted him on my way out. Back in the city center, I soon found a toy shop, where I purchased a number of female dolls of a certain type. On regaining the street I felt hunger pains and hurried to the nearest restaurant for a leisurely lunch. On emerging from the cafe, I turned aside and found a small court devoted to specialist shops.
I stopped halfway down, riveted to the pavement! Here was the establishment I had been vainly seeking. Bright blades gleaming in the dusty sunlight that struggled through the trees! Bright blades gleaming! Did not the poet somewhere write, "How that glittering' taketh me"? A medical establishment featuring surgical instruments and all doctors' medical supplies. The windows were full of them. Why did I not think of it before? Had I not been a medical student before the tragedy I have already mentioned brought my studies to an end? And I was positive that I could still carry off the role.
I glanced at my reflection in the window glass. I looked reasonably respectable, surely. And I could still remember most of the papers I had taken; I had specialized in surgery, though of course I would have had to have taken a medical degree before proceeding to that branch of the craft. It was with some diffidence that I entered the shop, the air of which was impregnated with that unmistakable odor of all the drugs and chemicals peculiar to hospitals. But I need not have worried. The dark-haired young man who advanced from the shadows at the far end of the counter looked just as diffident as I felt, and this bolstered my courage.
I made my needs known and was directed to a sort of corridor to one side where velvet-lined drawers opened to reveal gleaming surgical instruments. Curetting knives, slender scalpels, and some larger instruments for more serious work. I made my selection of five swiftly and confidently, and smiled at the shop man's professional chatter as he skillfully packed them for me. When I had paid and received my receipt, I stepped back onto the pavement full of confidence and good humor. My way stood clear before me now. I had given a false name and address, of course, and the assistant had not asked me for any identification. So I was convinced that I could not be traced.
Back in my room, I first secure the door, then unlock my case and remove some of the contents. These I display on the table with my new acquisitions; they make a splendid sight, lying gleaming in stray beams of pale sunlight that straggle in through the tops of the windows. When I have finished admiring them, I carefully rinse my new instruments in water and dry them with equal care. I have found that even the finest pieces of surgical equipment cannot give of their best if foreign bodies such as dust, grit, or lint are left clinging to the teeth or blades. And sure enough, I find particles of some substance like sawdust or paper packing adhering to these beauties during my ministrations.
When I have things to my satisfaction I lay out the dolls on the table, first removing their flimsy clothing. Of course, they bear no relation to the carcasses in the slaughterhouse, or to human beings, for that matter, but they are an approximation, which is better than nothing. I dissect them in an absorbed silence; I have lost none of my old dexterity, and soon the table is covered with sawdust, glass eyes, and arms severed at the joints.
Naturally, a great deal of these maquettes is made of porcelain and I cannot risk the cutting edges of the instruments on them, so it is not a true simulation. But it will do. When I have cleared up and replaced all the loose material in the cardboard and paper packing the shop assistant provided, I am more or less ready.
Then I select those items necessary for my current tasks and lock the rest safely away. I have the chosen instruments in a sort of leather apron fastened to my belt, beneath my coat and outer garment as I leave my lodging. The last hours have passed in a dreamlike state, and I am hardly conscious of where my steps are leading me. I still have some half an hour before my rendezvous with Anna, and I take up my station in an empty doorway halfway down the street, in the direction in which I know she must come. At least that is the way she and her friend took whenever I glimpsed them from the cafe window. The only hindrance to my plan would be if her friend were with her. I must wait and see.
I meet Anna. That she is surprised to see me, there is no doubt. But I introduce myself and remind her of where we met before. We talk for a while. Then I leave her in a narrow alley and make my way back to my lodgings in a euphoric mood. But I have a terrible nightmare; I am in my room and it is raining blood. I am naked and drops are falling from the ceiling. I look in the mirror and see them streaming down my back. I scream then and find I am awake. But I am wet and sticky. The horror intensifies. Somehow, I struggle out of bed and light the lamp.
I am so appalled that at first I cannot open my eyes. I expect to see myself drenched in blood. But there is nothing! It is merely perspiration which streams down my face and body, drenching my night attire. The relief is so great that I sink to the floor. After a while I stagger to my feet. I am cold and my teeth are beginning to chatter, as much from emotion as from the chill of the night. I then creep to the door and listen. But there obtains a profound silence. So no one has heard the terrible noise I made and which must have woken me. Unless it was a silent scream such as must have occurred on the previous occasion I had a nightmare. A scream within a dream, as it were; a scream audible only to myself and not to the rest of the world. For that I must be thankful. I drag myself to bed and sleep fitfully until daylight.
Friday
Something is afoot this morning. There is crying in the street and some sort of commotion. I open my window and by standing on a chair am able to look down, which brings most of the alley below into view. There are crowds of people standing about as though something terrible has happened. Then a horse-drawn ambulance passes, going at a furious rate. The people in the street scatter to let it through. I leave the window open as I complete my toilet. When I again look, the people have dispersed and the thoroughfare has assumed its normal aspect.
About to leave for the day, I prepare to shut the door from the outside when I feel something sticky on the doorknob. My hand comes away scarlet. This gives me a great shock. Fortunately, there is no one in the corridor and it is not yet time for breakfast, so I rush back inside, wet my handkerchief at the tap, and wipe the handle clean. I find I am trembling as though with the ague. I go carefully along the passage but can see nothing further. I reenter my room and wash my handkerchief in cold water until it is clear of blood.
Then I drain the sink, wring out the handkerchief, and, wrapping it in a spare I take from my case, place the two in my trousers pocket, where the damp one will soon dry out. I keep a sharp lookout as I descend the stairs and out into the street but can find nothing incriminating. I make for the beer garden I have recently frequented and order coffee and rolls. It is far too early for wine, x and I must keep a clear head.
The waiter who serves me is garrulous and obviously anxious to impart some news to me, but my attitude puts him off. Later he comes to serve a couple at a table nearby, and I hear the gist of their conversation. A girl has been found dead in a nearby street. Apparently she has been murdered. For some reason I become agitated. So much so, in fact, that I am about to depart without paying my bill. But the waiter catches my eye and comes over with the reckoning. I sink back into my chair, inexpressibly nervous and somewhat incoherent in my speech. The waiter looks at me curiously. He asks if I am unwell. I know the fellow is only being kind, and I go against my nature by thanking him and assuring him that it is merely a temporary upset.
Mollified, he moves off with the note I have given him, and when he returns with my change, I find I am so much out of character that I give him the sort of tip I would never normally give. He stammers his thanks, and when he has gone to serve some other customer I rise to leave the garden. But my upset is more serious than I thought because my legs give way beneath me. But if I move to another seat, a second waiter would only arrive to take my fresh order, so I remain where I am while I gather my strength and my wits about me.
I almost stagger out of the garden, but fortunately there is a public park almost opposite. Somehow I find the strength to cross the strasse and find an unoccupied bench in the pale sunshine. I sit there for a long time, a cool breeze ruffling my hair, until I am somewhat more restored to myself. When I eventually consult my watch, it is almost lunchtime, and I am shocked to discover how many hours have passed. I feel better then and, straightening my tie and tidying my clothing, I make my way to a rather smart restaurant on one of the main thoroughfares and enjoy a long and leisurely meal.
By this time it is early afternoon, but I now find a great reluctance to return to Frau Mauger's. Instead, I spend a couple of hours in the Zoological Gardens, where the feeding of the great carnivores with huge gobbets of meat fascinates me and I quite forget my earlier agitation. Their roaring notes of contentment are still sounding basso and cutting through the shrill cries of tropical birds as I step into the whirling chaos of carriages and iron-shod wheels. It is a great relief to reach the relatively quiet enclave where my lodging is situated.
The shadows are long on the ground as I let myself in the side door. I am proceeding quietly toward the staircase when I notice that the door of Frau Mauger's tiny office is open and a thin bar of lamplight is shining through. She comes to the door at the sound of my step, a worried look on her face. A man has been around questioning all her tenants, she says. She hopes there is nothing wrong. He has interviewed everyone except myself and a young clerk. Concealing my alarm, I ask what the man wanted. Frau Mauger shrugs. He said it was just routine, she replies. I ask her to describe the man. She again shrugs. An ordinary-looking person: middle-aged, wearing a black leather coat and a green homburg hat. He said he would call back tomorrow to finish his inquiries, she adds.
My heart thumps. A police agent! I know the breed only too well. I hope my inner turmoil is not showing on my face. But Frau Mauger's own features are impassive in the lamplight from the door. I tell her that I will be available in my room tomorrow afternoon, and that seems to satisfy her. She gives a third shrug, goes in, and closes the door. I mount the stairs with something approaching panic in my heart. I had forgotten to ask my amiable landlady whether the man had searched any of the rooms. Too late now. To return with that question would only arouse suspicion. Fortunately, my chamber seems undisturbed. I know now what I must do. I check my wallet again and make my preparations.
My case comes out from beneath the bed. I add to its contents and complete the packing by clearing my few possessions scattered about the room. When I have finished my arrangements, I put out the lamp and sit with thudding heart in the semidarkness, like a hunted beast, until I hear the gong for supper and the slow, dragging footsteps of the hopeless inmates of this dismal lower-class prison as they make their way to the dingy dining room. Then I rise to my feet, give a last glance around, make sure I have everything, including my all-important diary notes.
I put on my coat, leave the key on the table, and go out, slowly and carefully closing the door behind me. I negotiate the stairs without attracting any attention and gain the side door. It is almost dark now and no one even glances at me as I join the thin stream of people passing. As soon as I have left the neighborhood, I quicken my pace. It would be fatal to delay. I will sleep in the bahnhof tonight. I know what I must do tomorrow. The way is now clear before me.
Later
I am in London. It seems a dirty and wretched place. Furthermore, despite the time of year it is damp and foggy, a condition which is exacerbated by the smoke from factory chimneys and from the wretched dwellings when the wind is in a certain direction. I am in a cheap lodging house in one of the small alleys off the street called the Strand. It is an almost exact replica of Frau Mauger's establishment, except that the food, if anything, is worse. I have scrutinized the Continental newspapers on sale at one of the great railway stations, but there has been nothing. That, at least, is a relief.
I have also changed my marks into English currency and was indignant at the exorbitant exchange rate. But I did not dare draw attention to myself and let the matter pass. I had a good crossing, fortunately. I saw nothing or no one suspicious in Calais or on the steamer. I was particularly careful when I arrived in Dover and took extraordinary precautions to avoid scrutiny, but neither then nor on the train to London did I see any sign that I was under observation. But it was with some relief that I found my present haven. And unlike Continental hotels and lodging houses, their English counterparts do not go in for the dangerous practice of police registration for their guests. That is something in which the British exhibit superiority at any rate.
My room here is very secure, with a strong lock and no less than two bolts on the door. Admirable for my purposes. The first night of my arrival I laid out my instruments and washed and polished them for my first major exploit. One that will elevate me to the front rank of famous men. Such bright blades gleaming! This room is sunny, or would be if the weather were clear, facing as it does the brown, muddy waters of the Thames, and the clatter of the busy traffic along the Embankment makes a soothing background to my thoughts.
I feel as though I am walking with destiny. Tonight I pack those instruments fitted for my purpose and lock the others away. I have taken every precaution. Rubber gloves from an ironmonger's shop, anonymous clothing. Though I do not think I shall be noticed, so abominable is the weather. For summer at least.
But this is England, a factor I keep forgetting. And it will be admirable for my purposes. I sit out the twilight at my window, waiting for dusk. It is very late coming in these latitudes. It is almost ten in the evening before I feel free to quit my lodgings, and gas lamps are glowing along the Embankment, insubstantial and ghostlike through the mist.
I purchased a smaller bag yesterday, which looks very much like one of those cases office clerks of the more impecunious sort favor. I am certain no one will notice me, particularly in this weather. I have spoken to one or two people at the lodging house and at the nearby railway station and gained certain important information. I take a last look around my room and prepare to set forth on my great adventure. I put a small tick against the soiled calendar that hangs on the wall above my table. It is August 6, 1888.
No one remarks me as I open the front door, which is left unlocked all night. I mingle with the passing crowds in the darkling street. The instruments make a faint clattering noise inside the case. Bright blades gleaming! Even in the darkness. But I must make sure in future that I muffle the sound by wrapping them firmly in cloth. I turn my steps eastward in the rapidly encroaching darkness. My acquaintances assure me that there is an abundance of whores where I am going. My informant has told me the exact spot where I can find a cab to take me to Whitechapel…