Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - I. The Hand of the Invisible
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therefore like a prisoner. My room is bare,
contains only the most necessary things, and has
nothing attractive about it. It lies near the
public sitting-room, where from morning to evening
they smoke and play cards. The bell rings
for breakfast. As I sit down at the table I find
myself in a frightful company of death’s-heads.
Here a nose is wanting, there an eye; there the
lips hang down, here the cheek is ulcered. Two
of them do not look sick, but show in their
faces gloom and despair. These are “kleptomaniacs”
of high social rank, who, because of
their powerful connections, have escaped prison
by being declared irresponsible.
An unpleasant smell of iodoform takes away
my appetite. Since my hands are muffled I must
ask the help of my neighbour for cutting bread
and pouring out wine. Round this banquet of
criminals and those condemned to death goes
the good Mother, the Superintendent, in her
severe black and white dress, and gives each of
us his poisonous medicine. With a glass holding
arsenic I drink to a death’s-head who pledges
me in digitalis. That is gruesome, and yet one
must be thankful! That makes me wild. To
have to be thankful for something so petty and
unpleasant!
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