Excerpt from a letter found among the correspondence of the late Dr. Thackery T. Lambshead, from M. Camille Dussubieux (n˚20, rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin, Paris) to Lambshead, dated August 2, 1961:
. . . that it pains me. The offer seemed more than equitable, considering you paid a mere 200 francs for ———. And to accuse me of secretly acting as an agent for Valadon and Provoyeur! Such an allegation strikes at the core of all our years of friendship and trust, and yet you make it so lightly. Am I supposed to put that out of my mind now?
Likewise, to accuse me of lying, when you can have no foreknowledge of my dreams, excepting to the degree I may divulge them. I tell you, Thackery, with no guile in my heart, that I did stand there in l’Ossuaire, at Crypte de la lampe sépulcrale, and I saw the foul beast come trundling through an opening in the wall, which it clearly used the key to fashion. I did not in the least exaggerate the repellent nature of the dwarfish creature, nor did I exaggerate the fear and confusion in the eyes of the poor woman who followed it through that doorway. She never once looked directly at me, but kept her eyes on the obscene ritual being performed (except once, when she glanced over her shoulder). But enough. I’ve told you this already, and in exacting detail. You may choose to believe me or not. The offer stands. And I will endeavor to set aside your last letter, in hopes of preserving our friendship. I pray you will do . . .
Excerpt from a letter found among the correspondence of the late Dr. Thackery T. Lambshead, from Ms. Margaret H. Jacobs (7 Exegesis Street, Cincinnati, Ohio) to Lambshead; undated but postmarked June 7, 1981:
. . . I can’t imagine I’ll ever write you again. Not because the psychiatrist has advised me to stop, and because of that very rude letter from your lawyer (if that’s really who he is), but because I’m losing heart at your persistent refusal to respond. When we met, you seemed like such a good man, so forthright and generous. But now, I don’t know.
So, probably this is the last time I’ll bother you. I’m sure you’re relieved at that news. Maybe I don’t blame you for being relieved. If I were you, I might feel the same way. Only, I’m not you.
The dream has a new bit at the end. Toward the place I usually wake up, which I think of as the end. I’ve followed the wretched not-rat beast into the ossuary, and the two robed figures are waiting there. We’ve interrupted them again. I try not to dwell on what manner of witchcraft they might be up to. They don’t look at me. They don’t look at the wretched thing with the key. They turn and look at a man who has just entered (stage left).
He’s a painfully thin man, and he looks like someone only half-awake, or like a sleepwalker, maybe. A somnambulist. He’s barefoot. He’s come down a flight of earthen stares [sic] at [sic] stands at the bottom, gazing directly at me and the wretched thing. He says something, but it’s all French, and I’m not very good with French. I only catch a few words. I’m almost pretty sure he says, “Ne prenez pas cette route, Madame.” It’s happened twice now, and I wrote that down as soon as I woke the second time. He also says, in English, “Please, turn around, go back!” He’s very upset, and points at the hole the wretched thing made in the wall with the key. The robed figures are glaring at him now. The woman raises her dagger, taking a step towards him. The somnambulist turns and dashes back up the steps.
When he’s gone, the wretched not-rat beast scrambles up to the man with the open book, and they whisper to one another. Then the man looks directly at me, and his eyes flash red-gold in the gloom, the way a cat’s eyes will. He says, in English, “Heaven dost provide for all its children.” I’m so scared, I finally do turn around, meaning to run back to the cellar or sea cave, whichever, because anything’s better than this. But the hole in the granite wall is gone, and I’m trapped there. I slam my fists against the rock, over and over.
It shouldn’t surprise you that I hardly sleep. . . .
Excerpt from a postcard found among the effects of Ms. Margaret H. Jacobs (7 Exegesis Street, Cincinnati, Ohio) following her suicide, from Lambshead, dated July 10, 1981 (postmarked July 13):
. . . can assure you, Ms. Jacobs, the letter in question did not come from my solicitors. I’ve inquired regarding this matter, and they’ve sent no such letter to you. Which is not surprising, as they aren’t in the habit of taking such action unless I’ve requested that they do so. However, this said, I do think we might both be happier if these reports of yours ceased. I don’t know what to make of them, and while I am obviously sorry if your visit set these unpleasant dreams in motion, I am not trained in psychoanalysis, and you’d be better served . . .
Excerpt from the obituary of Margaret Harriet Jacobs, The Cincinnati Post, July 8, 1981:
. . . a respected teacher and scholar, she was a tenured professor of Political Science at the McMicken College of Arts and Sciences, University of Cincinnati. She is survived by her sister, Dorothy Frost (née Jacobs), and her brother, Harold Jacobs. In lieu of flowers the family prefers memorial donations in the deceased’s name to the Cincinnati chapter of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Condolences may be expressed at . . .
Taking the Rats to Riga
A Critical Examination of Stigmata’s Print
By Jay Lake
Perhaps the most quotidian detail of the print Taking the Rats to Riga (1969) is the eponymous rats themselves. This is somewhat uncharacteristic of the work of the artist Stigmata (b. Crispus Chang-Evans, Nanking, China, 1942; d. Khyber Pass, Pakistan, 1992). The artist was notorious for eschewing both representation and naturalism, noting in a 1967 interview with Andy Warhol, “The dial ain’t set on sketch, and I’ll never be a d**ned camera” (artINterCHANGE; vol. III, no. 4; 1968).
The unusual inclusion of such readily identifiable elements strongly hints that Rats is based on an actual event. The precise nature of this event is obscured by our distance in time from the origins of this print, as well as Stigmata’s notoriously poor record-keeping. Lambshead’s own acquisition notes on the print are strangely sparse as well. Art world rumor whispers that the print depicts a scene from Karneval der Naviscaputer, an occasional festival of deviant performance art held within East Berlin’s underground club culture during the mid-to-late 1960s.
The astute observer would do well to attempt deconstruction of some of the other elements in Rats. Art unexamined is, after all, art unexperienced. In this case, even a close examination is unlikely to reveal the mundane truths behind the print. The emotive truths are, however, most certainly available.
Consider the chain that the rats are climbing. Why do they ascend? From where have they come? A hook dangles or swings not far below the lower rat. It appears ornamented in both shape and detail. Bejeweled, this cannot be an artefact of the working man. Nor does it conform to the Continental notion of kunstbrukt, that design should be both beautiful and functional. This hook is curious and attractive, but hardly something to lift a bale of opium from the decks of a shabby Ceylonese trawler. One must also consider the possibility hinted at in the print’s title, that these are the plague rats Renfield carries into the world for his master Dracula, as depicted repeatedly in cinema.