'Tis a most curious thing, Professor Lloyd. I am writing you to report the most unusual of events, and to bid my farewell should the worst come to pass. Remember that mask we'd discussed, the one that appeared mysteriously amongst the Kethrellin Collection? If you'll recall, no mask was detailed on the manifest, nor did Kethrellin's estate admit any knowledge of it.
I am happy to report that I have found its source. Examine closely your copy of the painting, for I am sure it is there; Martin was scrupulous in drawing everything he saw. In the group of foreground figures on the right hand side of the painting is a reveler in a checkered yellow and silver outfit. It is that figure whose mask I now hold in my hand. Every two or three days, the mask somehow leaves its place in the painting and appears, life-sized, on the floor near the painting, as if asking to be worn. I regret to say that, despite your warnings, I have indeed put on the mask.
Imagine my surprise, Professor, when upon putting on the mask I was whisked away to a mysterious land. Well, not so curious, I suppose, for no sooner had I touched the mask to my face that I found myself within the painting! The scenery was the same: pink buildings under a multi-coloured sky, with bright, five-pointed yellow stars hanging in the sky, almost close enough to reach by standing on a stool.
And the revelry, dear Professor! Never have I borne witness to such capricious joy and carefree celebration. There was conversation all around me, but none clear enough for me to understand a word, assuming it was English they spoke at all. And soft, celebratory music, though if pressed I could not admit to remembering a single note played. And everywhere I looked, all were dancing and milling about. None addressed me or, indeed, paid me the least attention, as if I were not present at all. But there I was, wearing the same clothes I'd put on that morning.
Here is where the mystery continues, Professor, for though I was surprised at being thus transported, I remembered the lessons you taught me and wanted to explore this fantastical new place. I attempted to initiate contact with my fellow revelers at this Carnival of Ys, both linguistic and physical. Nothing worked, rather, I should say that nothing happened. Try as I might, whenever I intended to physically affect the painting's world in any way, there was no effect. If I wanted to touch someone or something, my arm would simply not move to do so. If I wished to speak to one of the revelers, I would open my mouth but no sound would emerge.
I could walk, after a fashion. After further investigation, I realized that I could walk from left to right, the directions conforming to the breadth of the painting if one was holding it and looking straight at it. I was limited, however, by the painting's dimensions, for I was locked within them. I had height and I could walk the width of the painting, but I had no depth to interact with. Certainly, I could look to the left and to the right. To look towards the interior of the painting, I could see many gaily decorated terraces, upon which more revelers danced and celebrated, stretching as far as the eye could see. Looking towards the viewer of the painting, as it were, I could see similar terraces, but these were empty. Similarly, these must have numbered into the hundreds stretching out to the opposite horizon.
When I removed the mask, I was instantly returned to the Society library from whence I began this admittedly foolhardy experiment. I was gone no more than a few minutes, the same few minutes I'd spent within the painting, so there was no temporal dilation. Nor did anything change the next several times I attempted this experiment. Yes, Professor, I returned on several consecutive nights. I have no excuse but that my curiosity was inflamed so by this mask and, now, this painting. When the mask is not physically here, it is being worn by the figure within the painting I mentioned earlier. When the mask is here, the figure's face is exposed.where it was once concealed.
There have been some new developments in the last week, Professor, which is why I haven't written you until now. I've told no one about this, for fear they would call me mad, and no one has espied my nightly sojourns to the Society library. I cannot recall how many times I've put on the mask, nor have I measured a pattern in when the mask appears on the floor of the library. Last week, the mask owner's checkered shirt appeared along with the mask, neatly folded beneath it. The fabric is like none I've seen or felt, Professor. Softer than the softest silk, yet resistant to tearing and cutting. It seems to resist all attempts to change its appearance or state in any way. Immersed completely in water, it comes out completely dry. Spill ink on it and the ink runs off it. No scuffs or stains mar its surface.
What could I have done, Professor, but to include this checkered shirt in my experiments. Nothing happens when I wear the shirt alone. I am only transported to the Carnival of Ys when I don the mask. When mask and shirt are worn together, however, the effect is remarkable! Now, within the painting, I can touch objects and people, though I still am unable to affect them in many ways. I am ashamed to admit that I took many liberties with my fellow revelers, but it was necessary to gauge the extent to which I could affect the rest of the painting. All the fabric was identical to the touch as the shirt I wore, skin felt like skin, the terrace felt like stone, and the decorations felt as one would expect. Still, none acknowledged my existence.
Three days ago, the figure's checkered trousers appeared underneath the pile of mask and shirt, again neatly folded. When these appeared, the figure within the painting was nude but for his shoes. His skin was unmarked by any feature, not even nipples or navel, and no muscle definition. He was like a line drawing filled in with colour, the only features being in his face. The trousers exhibited the same behaviour as the shirt, and, like the shirt, I would only be taken into the painting once I wore the mask.
This time, I could hear clearly the conversations happening all around me. It is not English being spoken by the revelers at the Carnival of Ys, Professor, but some floral, lilting language, possibly one of the lesser known Oriental dialects, assuming it is a human language at all. And they spoke directly to me, acknowledging my existence for the first time. I could not understand them, but they seemed to enjoy my company despite the language barrier. I believe I may have been inappropriately propositioned by some of the young costumed women of the painting, and one or two of the young men, but without the language, I cannot say for certain.
How the artist could have captured this event within a painting and give it life is a mystery I hope to soon solve, Professor. This evening, when I opened the storage room, the figure's shoes were included in the pile of clothing on the floor. Sure enough, the figure was now completely denuded.
It is now that I feel it important to say my farewells, Professor Lloyd. Having the figure's complete outfit might take this experiment to undreamt of places. I may finally understand what my fellow revelers are saying. Imagine what I could learn with such ability, Professor! Who are these people, and how and why are they there? Are they aware that they are the subject of a mere painting? Do they have names and identities? Will I be able to finally move in the third dimension and interact with those of other terraces? And why are the other terraces empty? Professor, I believe these answers and more will be revealed to me once I can complete the costume and become one of them.
I do this of my own free will, Professor, with a mind afire with questions. I have summoned Martin and he should be here within the hour. I am wearing the costume, all but the mask, as I write this letter. Should I be unable to return or communicate further, I have given Martin instructions to report to you in my absence. Thank you for everything, Professor Lloyd. This is too great an opportunity to pass up.
Yours,
Eckart Fleischer
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