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…