The Other Side by Alfred Kubin Page B

poured through my mind.
    ‘Now I really am going to complain, I won’t put it off any more, I will get justice or else. I can’t stand this confounded hole a moment longer!’ You can understand my situation. For weeks I had been prey to the most horrible experiences, I was worried about my sick wife, our money had gone, and all around me I found nothing but hostility and scorn. A violent hatred of the whole of the Dream Realm made me lose my head. Quivering with fury I tore down the stairs and rushed straight off to the Palace, just as I was. I was going to demand satisfaction for the humiliations I felt I was being subjected to the whole time. I would do it, even if I had to drag Patera from his bed. I raced up Long Street towards the Great Square. Thick fog had descended and the flames of the gas-lamps appeared as glowing patches of yellow. I did not see a single passer-by, only the wet, filthy flagstones. I was almost raving, my mind had no room for anything other than how I was going to describe all these infamies to Patera. I just poured out my accusations aloud, eloquent phrases came to me without effort and I found touching words for my misfortune. Then I began to feel the cold. When I looked down, I had to admit that I was hardly correctly dressed to visit a gentleman. My whole costume consisted of an old dressing-gown with a floral pattern, a nightshirt under it and one slipper–the other must have fallen off while I was running. In the Great Square the fog was a little thinner. There was the Palace, towering up to the heavens like a gigantic cube. The bright disc on the clock-tower looked like a moon. The damp and cold brought me back to my senses; I recognised the foolishness of my plan. No, it was not the right moment, nor the right dress, to lodge a complaint. What did I look like, bare-headed, in my dressing-gown and with a walking stick at one o’clock in the morning? It brought me back to earth, and I turned round to make my way home. I took a short cut down a narrow side street, the cold was becoming decidedly uncomfortable and my wife would worry until I returned. But tomorrow, tomorrrow would be the day of reckoning! To warm myself up, I fell into a gentle trot. A brightly lit window appeared and I ran towards it. Music, a tinkling piano, hoarse voices, singing! There was a strip of light across the street. My God! I mustn’t let people see me like this! But I had already been spotted.

    ‘Hey, you there! Step this way.’ Some suspicious figures approached. Now I knew that I had taken a wrong turning. I was in the French Quarter.
    Things were still pretty lively there, and I was soon the centre of attraction. I was annoyed and embarrassed; they were laughing at my strange get-up. With an oath, I hurried on, more and more people following me. They were making coarse jokes, and I could see how it was going to end. It was all very embarrassing; I would never find my way in these unsavoury alleys and culs-de-sac. Castringius would have had no problem. If only I had known where the police station was, but all I could see on either side were grubby dives and dens of vice; the gutters gave off reeking fumes. I strode out as fast as I could. A fellow with make-up on grabbed the tip of my dressing-gown and pulled it down. Smack! There was a slap across the face for his pains. But it would have been better if I hadn’t bothered, for now the hubbub really started. With shouts and screams the hunt for me was really up. A gigantic, bloated woman stepped into my path and tried to trip me up. I easily jumped over her and lost my walking stick as I did so. She rolled around in the mud, clutching my nightshirt as a trophy. That gave me a slight lead, but now I knew it was a matter of life and death. I lengthened my stride like a demented greyhound. Never before had I been so sure in my strength. But behind me the wild uproar was increasing, half the French Quarter was on my heels. Piercing whistles rang out, the