FullReads

Translated by Alberto Manguel

No one ever knew the real name of the man we all called the Sick Gentleman. Since his sudden disappearance everything that was his has vanished as well, everything except the memory of his unforgettable smile, and a portrait of Sebastiano del Piombo which shows him half hidden in the soft shadow of a fur coat, one gloved hand drooping delicately like the hand of someone asleep. A few of those who loved him truly – and I count myself as one of the few – also remember his remarkable skin of a transparent and pale yellow hue, the almost feminine lightness of his step, and his constantly vacant look. He enjoyed talking for hours on end but no one ever grasped the full meaning of his words. I even know of some who did not wish to understand him because the things he said were too horrible. His presence lent a fantastic tint to the simplest things: when his hand touched an object, the object seemed to enter and become part of the world of dreams. His eyes reflected no things that were there but other unknown and faraway things not seen by those who were with him. No one ever asked him what his illness was, or why he did not seem to try to cure it. He spent his time walking, always, day and night, without stopping. No one knew where he lived; no one ever met his parents or his brothers or sisters. One day he just appeared in town and then another day, some years later, he vanished.

The day before his disappearance he came to my room to wake me, very early, when dawn was just beginning to break. I felt the soft touch of his glove on my forehead and saw him standing in front of me, wrapped in his furs, with the ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes more absent than ever. I realized, seeing his red eyelids, that he had been awake all night, and that he must have waited for dawn with great anxiety because his hands were trembling and his entire body seemed to shake with fever.

“What is the matter?” I asked.”Is your illness causing you more discomfort than usual?”

“My illness,” he answered.”My illness? Do you too believe, like the others, that I have an illness? Why not say that I myself and an illness? There is nothing that actually belongs to me! It is I, who belong to someone, and that someone is my master!”

Accustomed as I was to his strange talk, I didn’t answer. I continued to look at him and my look must have been gentle because he came even nearer to me bed and again touched my forehead with his soft glove.

“You do not seem to have a temperature,” he said.”You are perfectly healthy and calm. Your blood runs peacefully through your veins. I can therefore tell you something that perhaps will frighten you: I can tell you who I am. Listen carefully, please, because I may not be able to say the same things twice. But it is necessary that I say them at least once.”

With this, he let himself fall into a purple armchair beside my bed, and carried on in a stronger voice.

“I am not a real man. I am not a man like others, a man of flesh and blood, a man born of woman. I did not come into this world like your fellow men. No one rocked me in my cradle, or watched over my growing years. I have not known the restlessness of adolescence, or the comfort of family ties. I am – I am but a figure in a dream . In me, Shakespeare’s image has become literally and tragically exact. I am such stuff as dreams are made on! I exist because someone is dreaming me, someone who is now asleep and dreaming and sees me act and live and move, and in this very moment is dreaming that I am saying these very words. When this someone began to dream me, I began my existence. When he wakes I will cease to be. I am an imagination, a creation, a guest of his long nightly fantasies. This someone’s dream is lasting and intense to such a degree that I became visible even to those who are awake. But the world of watchfulness, the world of solid reality is not mine. I feel uncomfortable in the midst of your tangible and vulgar existence! My life flows slowly in the soul of my sleeping creator …