I

von Robert W. Chambers · 2026-03-31

“Let’s not mock the mad; their madness lasts longer than ours... That’s the only difference.”

By the end of 1920, the United States government had nearly wrapped up the agenda set during the final months of President Winthrop’s term. The nation seemed peaceful. Everyone knew how the tariff and labor issues had been resolved. The war with Germany, sparked by that country’s takeover of the Samoan Islands, had left no lasting scars on the republic. The temporary occupation of Norfolk by enemy forces had faded from memory, overshadowed by a series of naval victories and the comical predicament of General Von Gartenlaube’s troops in New Jersey.

Investments in Cuba and Hawaii had yielded a hundred percent return, and the territory of Samoa had proven its worth as a strategic coaling station. The country was in excellent shape for defense. Every coastal city was fortified, and the army, under the watchful eye of the General Staff and organized along Prussian lines, had grown to 300,000 soldiers, with a million in reserve. Six impressive squadrons of cruisers and battleships patrolled the navigable seas, while a robust steam reserve ensured control over domestic waters.

Finally, the representatives from the West had come to realize that a college for training diplomats was as essential as law schools for lawyers. As a result, the nation was no longer represented abroad by incompetent patriots. The country was thriving; Chicago, having briefly succumbed to paralysis after a second devastating fire, had risen from its ashes, more majestic and beautiful than the white city built for the World’s Fair in 1893.

Across the nation, good architecture was replacing the old, and even in New York, a newfound desire for decency had swept away much of the urban blight. Streets were widened, properly paved, and lit; trees were planted, parks were established, and the elevated structures that once marred the skyline were torn down in favor of underground transit systems. New government buildings and barracks showcased fine architecture, and the extensive stone quays encircling the island had been transformed into parks, a welcome relief for the residents.

The state theater and opera received subsidies that paid off handsomely. The United States National Academy of Design had become comparable to its European counterparts. No one envied the Secretary of Fine Arts, neither for his cabinet position nor his responsibilities. The Secretary of Forestry and Game Preservation had an easier time, thanks to the newly established National Mounted Police. The nation had benefited from recent treaties with France and England, including measures to exclude foreign-born Jews for self-preservation, the establishment of the independent black state of Suanee, stricter immigration controls, new naturalization laws, and a gradual centralization of power in the executive branch, all contributing to national stability and prosperity.

When the government finally addressed the Indian issue, replacing the outdated regiments with squads of Indian cavalry scouts in traditional attire, the nation breathed a sigh of relief. Following the monumental Congress of Religions, where bigotry and intolerance were buried and compassion began to unite warring factions, many believed the millennium had arrived, at least in this new world, which was, after all, a world unto itself.

Yet, self-preservation is the foremost law, and the United States could only watch in helpless sorrow as Germany, Italy, Spain, and Belgium struggled in the throes of anarchy, while Russia, lurking in the Caucasus, picked them off one by one.

In New York City, the summer of 1899 marked the dismantling of the Elevated Railroads. The summer of 1900 would be remembered by New Yorkers for generations; that was the year the Dodge Statue was taken down. The following winter sparked a movement to repeal the laws against suicide, culminating in April 1920 with the opening of the first Government Lethal Chamber in Washington Square.

I had just walked away from Dr. Archer’s office on Madison Avenue, where I had gone for what felt like a mere formality. Ever since that fall from my horse four years ago, I had occasionally dealt with nagging pains in my head and neck. But now, after months without any issues, the doctor had told me there was nothing left to treat. Honestly, it hardly seemed worth his fee to hear that; I already knew it myself. Still, I didn’t mind paying him. What bothered me was the initial mistake he made.

After I was knocked unconscious on the pavement, and someone had kindly put a bullet through my horse’s head, I was taken to Dr. Archer. He mistakenly diagnosed me as having a brain injury and admitted me to his private asylum, where I had to endure treatment for insanity. Eventually, he decided I was cured, and I, knowing my mind had always been as sound as his—if not more so—“paid my tuition,” as he jokingly put it, and left. I smiled and told him I’d get back at him for his mistake, and he laughed heartily, inviting me to visit from time to time. I did, hoping for a chance to settle the score, but he never gave me one, so I told him I’d wait.

Fortunately, the fall hadn’t left me with any lasting damage. In fact, it had transformed my character for the better. I went from being a lazy young man about town to someone active, energetic, temperate, and, above all—ambitious. There was just one thing that nagged at me. I laughed at my own unease, yet it still troubled me.

During my recovery, I picked up and read _The King in Yellow_ for the first time. I remember finishing the first act and thinking I should stop. I jumped up and tossed the book into the fireplace. It hit the barred grate and fell open on the hearth, illuminated by the firelight. If I hadn’t caught a glimpse of the opening words of the second act, I might have never finished it. But as I bent down to retrieve it, my eyes locked onto the open page. With a cry—whether of terror or perhaps joy so intense it sent shivers through me—I snatched the book from the coals and stumbled to my bedroom. There, I read and reread it, laughing, crying, and trembling with a horror that still haunts me.

This is what troubles me most: I can’t forget Carcosa, where black stars hang in the sky, where the shadows of men’s thoughts stretch long in the afternoon as the twin suns sink into the lake of Hali. My mind is forever marked by the memory of the Pallid Mask. I pray that God curses the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with this beautiful, terrifying creation—simple yet profound—a world that now trembles before the King in Yellow.

When the French government seized the translated copies that had just arrived in Paris, London, of course, became eager to read it. The book spread like a contagion, moving from city to city, continent to continent, banned here, confiscated there, denounced by the press and the pulpit, even criticized by the most radical literary anarchists. No clear principles were violated in those wicked pages; no doctrines were preached, no beliefs outraged. It couldn’t be judged by any known standard. Yet, while it was acknowledged that _The King in Yellow_ struck the supreme note of art, everyone felt that human nature couldn’t withstand the strain, nor thrive on words that concealed the essence of pure poison. The very banality and innocence of the first act only made the impact of the later acts more devastating.

I remember it well: April 13, 1920, marked the establishment of the first Government Lethal Chamber on the south side of Washington Square, nestled between Wooster Street and South Fifth Avenue. The block, once filled with shabby old buildings housing cafés and restaurants for foreigners, had been acquired by the government in the winter of 1898. The French and Italian establishments were demolished, and the entire block was enclosed by a gilded iron railing, transformed into a beautiful garden with lawns, flowers, and fountains.

In the center of the garden stood a small, white building, its architecture starkly classical, surrounded by lush flower thickets. Six Ionic columns supported the roof, and the single door was made of bronze. Before the door stood a magnificent marble sculpture of the “Fates,” crafted by a young American artist, Boris Yvain, who had tragically died in Paris at just twenty-three.

The inauguration ceremonies were in full swing as I crossed University Place and stepped into the square. I navigated through the crowd of spectators, but was halted at Fourth Street by a line of police officers. A regiment of U.S. lancers stood in a hollow square around the Lethal Chamber. On a raised platform facing Washington Park, the Governor of New York was speaking, flanked by the Mayors of New York and Brooklyn, the Inspector-General of Police, Colonel Livingston, military aide to the President, General Blount, who commanded at Governor’s Island, Major-General Hamilton, who oversaw the garrison of New York and Brooklyn, Admiral Buffby of the North River fleet, Surgeon-General Lanceford, the staff of the National Free Hospital, Senators Wyse and Franklin of New York, and the Commissioner of Public Works. The platform was surrounded by a squadron of hussars from the National Guard.

The Governor was wrapping up his response to the Surgeon-General’s brief speech. I caught his words: “The laws against suicide and the penalties for attempts at self-destruction have been repealed. The Government has chosen to recognize a person’s right to end a life that may have become unbearable due to physical pain or mental anguish. It is believed that society will benefit from the removal of such individuals from their midst. Since this law was enacted, the number of suicides in the United States has not risen. Now, as the Government plans to establish a Lethal Chamber in every city, town, and village across the country, we must see if those who suffer from despair will accept the relief it offers.” He paused and turned to the stark white Lethal Chamber. The street fell completely silent. “There, a painless death awaits anyone who can no longer endure the sorrows of this life. If death is welcomed, let them seek it there.” Then, quickly turning to the military aide, he declared, “I hereby open the Lethal Chamber,” and facing the vast crowd again, he proclaimed in a clear voice, “Citizens of New York and of the United States of America, through me, the Government declares the Lethal Chamber open.”

The heavy silence was shattered by a sharp command, and the squadron of hussars followed the Governor’s carriage. The lancers wheeled and formed along Fifth Avenue, waiting for the commandant of the garrison, with the mounted police trailing behind. I stepped away from the crowd, which continued to stare at the white marble Death Chamber, and crossed South Fifth Avenue. I walked along the west side of the street until I reached Bleecker Street, then turned right and stopped in front of a shabby shop with a sign that read:

HAWBERK, ARMOURER.

Peering through the doorway, I spotted Hawberk busy in his small workshop at the back. He looked up, and upon seeing me, called out in his deep, hearty voice, “Come in, Mr. Castaigne!” His daughter, Constance, rose to greet me as I entered, extending her pretty hand. I noticed the blush of disappointment on her cheeks, realizing she had expected my cousin Louis instead. I smiled at her confusion and complimented her on the banner she was embroidering from a colored plate.

Old Hawberk was busy riveting the worn greaves of an ancient suit of armor, and the rhythmic ting! ting! ting! of his hammer filled the quaint shop with a pleasant sound. After a moment, he set down his hammer and fussed with a tiny wrench. The soft clash of the mail sent a thrill of joy through me. I loved the music of steel brushing against steel, the mellow thud of the mallet on thigh pieces, and the jingle of chainmail. That was the only reason I visited Hawberk. He had never intrigued me personally, nor did Constance, except for her affection for Louis, which occupied my thoughts and sometimes kept me awake at night. But deep down, I believed everything would work out, and I would arrange their future just as I planned to do for my kind doctor, John Archer.

Still, I wouldn’t have bothered to visit them at that moment if it weren’t for the captivating sound of the tinkling hammer. I could sit for hours, listening, and when a stray sunbeam hit the inlaid steel, the sensation was almost too intense to bear. My eyes would fixate, widening with pleasure that stretched every nerve to its limit, until some movement from the old armorer blocked the sunlight. Then, still secretly thrilled, I leaned back and listened again to the sound of the polishing rag, swish! swish! as it rubbed rust from the rivets.

Constance sat with the embroidery draped over her knees, occasionally stopping to study the intricate pattern in the colorful plate from the Metropolitan Museum.

“Who is this for?” I asked.

Hawberk explained that, in addition to overseeing the collection of armor at the Metropolitan Museum, he also managed several private collections for wealthy enthusiasts. This particular piece was the missing greave from a renowned suit that one of his clients had tracked down to a small shop on the Quai d’Orsay in Paris. He had successfully negotiated for it, and now the suit was finally complete. He set down his hammer and recounted the history of the suit, tracing its ownership back to 1450, all the way to Thomas Stainbridge. When Stainbridge’s impressive collection was sold, Hawberk’s client purchased the suit, and since then, the search for the missing greave had been relentless, culminating in its recent discovery in Paris.

“Did you really continue the search without any certainty that the greave still existed?” I asked, surprised.

“Of course,” he replied, unfazed.

For the first time, I found myself genuinely intrigued by Hawberk.

“It must have meant something to you,” I said cautiously.

“No,” he chuckled, “the joy of finding it was my only reward.”

“Don’t you have any desire to be wealthy?” I asked, smiling.

“My only ambition is to be the best armor maker in the world,” he replied, his tone serious.

Constance then asked if I had seen the ceremonies at the Lethal Chamber. She had noticed cavalry parading up Broadway that morning and had wanted to attend the inauguration, but her father had asked her to stay and finish the banner.

“Did you see your cousin, Mr. Castaigne, there?” she inquired, a slight tremor in her soft eyelashes.

“No,” I answered casually. “Louis’ regiment is maneuvering out in Westchester County.” I stood up and grabbed my hat and cane.

“Are you going upstairs to see the lunatic again?” Hawberk joked. If he knew how much I detested that word, he wouldn’t use it around me. It stirred feelings within me that I preferred to keep hidden. Still, I replied calmly, “I think I’ll stop by and visit Mr. Wilde for a moment.”

“Poor fellow,” Constance said, shaking her head. “It must be difficult to live alone year after year, poor, crippled, and almost mad. It’s very kind of you, Mr. Castaigne, to visit him so often.”

“I think he’s misunderstood,” Hawberk remarked, picking up his hammer again. I listened to the soft clinking of metal as he worked, and when he finished, I responded.

“No, he’s not vicious, nor is he truly mad. His mind is a treasure trove, filled with insights that you and I would give years of our lives to possess.”

Hawberk laughed.

I pressed on, a bit impatiently. “He knows history in a way that no one else does. Nothing, no matter how trivial, escapes his attention, and his memory is so precise that if people in New York knew he existed, they would honor him immensely.”

“That’s nonsense,” Hawberk muttered, searching for a fallen rivet on the floor.

“Is it nonsense?” I asked, managing to keep my frustration in check. “Is it nonsense when he claims that the tassets and cuissards of the enamelled suit known as the ‘Prince’s Emblazoned’ can be found among a pile of rusty props, broken stoves, and ragpicker’s refuse in a garret on Pell Street?”

Hawberk’s hammer clattered to the ground, but he picked it up and asked, calm but curious, how I knew that the tassets and left cuissard were missing from the “Prince’s Emblazoned.”

“I didn’t know until Mr. Wilde mentioned it to me the other day. He said they were in the garret of 998 Pell Street.”

“That’s nonsense,” he insisted, though I noticed his hand tremble beneath his leather apron.

“Is this nonsense too?” I asked, keeping my tone light. “Is it nonsense when Mr. Wilde refers to you as the Marquis of Avonshire and Miss Constance—”

I didn’t finish my sentence, as Constance sprang to her feet, fear etched across her face. Hawberk looked at me, slowly smoothing his leather apron.

“That’s impossible,” he said. “Mr. Wilde may know many things—”

“About armor, for example, and the ‘Prince’s Emblazoned,’” I interjected with a smile.

“Yes,” he continued slowly, “about armor, perhaps—but he is mistaken regarding the Marquis of Avonshire, who, as you know, killed his wife’s accuser years ago and went to Australia, where he didn’t live long after that.”

“Mr. Wilde is wrong,” Constance murmured, her lips pale but her voice steady.

“Let’s agree, for now, that in this one instance, Mr. Wilde is mistaken,” I suggested.