Title: The Inferno
Author: Strindberg, August, 1849-1912
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Inferno" ***


THE INFERNO

BY

AUGUST STRINDBERG


AUTHOR OF "THE BONDWOMAN'S SON," "COUNTESS JULIA,"

"THE DANCE OF DEATH," ETC.


TRANSLATED BY

CLAUD FIELD


G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

The Knickerbocker Press

1913



CONTENTS



      INTRODUCTION

      I. THE HAND OF THE INVISIBLE
     II. ST. LOUIS LEADS ME TO ORFILA
    III. PARADISE REGAINED
     IV. THE FALL AND PARADISE LOST
      V. PURGATORY
     VI. HELL
    VII. BEATRICE
   VIII. SWEDENBORG
     IX. EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A DAMNED SOUL
      X. THE ETERNAL HAS SPOKEN
     XI. HELL LET LOOSE
    XII. PILGRIMAGE AND PENANCE
   XIII. THE DELIVERER
    XIV. TRIBULATIONS
     XV. WHITHER?
      EPILOGUE



THE INFERNO



INTRODUCTION[1]


An American critic says "Strindberg is the greatest subjectivist of
all time." Certainly neither Augustine, Rousseau, nor Tolstoy have
laid bare their souls to the finest fibre with more ruthless sincerity
than the great Swedish realist. He fulfilled to the letter the saying
of Robertson of Brighton, "Woman and God are two rocks on which a man
must either anchor or be wrecked." His four autobiographical works,
_The Son of a Servant, The Confessions of a Fool, Inferno_, and
_Legends_, are four segments of an immense curve tracing his progress
from the childish pietism of his early years, through a period of
atheism and rebellion, to the sombre faith in a "God that punishes" of
the sexagenarian. In his spiritual wanderings he grazed the edge of
madness, and madmen often see deeper into things than ordinary folk.
At the close of the _Inferno_ he thus sums up the lesson of his life's
pilgrimage: "Such then is my life: a sign, an example to serve for the
improvement of others; a proverb, to show the nothingness of fame and
popularity; a proverb, to show young men how they ought _not_ to live;
a proverb--because I who thought myself a prophet am now revealed as a
braggart."

It is strange that though the names of Ibsen and Nietzsche have long
been familiar in England, Strindberg, whom Ibsen is reported to have
called "One greater than I," as he pointed to his portrait, and
with whom Nietzsche corresponded, is only just beginning to attract
attention, though for a long time past most of his works have been
accessible in German. Even now not much more is known about him than
that he was a pessimist, a misogynist, and writer of Zolaesque novels.
To quote a Persian proverb, "They see the mountain, but not the mine
within it." No man admired a good wife and mother more than he did,
but he certainly hated the Corybantic, "emancipated" women of the
present time. No man had a keener appreciation of the gentle joys of
domesticity, and the intensity of his misogyny was in strict proportion
to the keenness of his disappointment. The _Inferno_ relates how
grateful and even reverential he was to the nurse who tended him in
hospital, and to his mother-in-law. He felt profoundly the charm of
innocent childhood, and paternal instincts were strong in him. All his
life long he had to struggle with four terrible inner foes--doubt,
suspicion, fear, sensuality. His doubts destroyed his early faith,
his ceaseless suspicions made it impossible for him to be happy in
friendship or love, his fear of the "invisible powers," as he calls
them, robbed him of all peace of mind, and his sensuality dragged
him repeatedly into the mire. A "strange mixture of a man" indeed,
whose soul was the scene of an internecine life-long warfare between
diametrically-opposed forces! Yet he never ceased to struggle blindly
upwards, and Goethe's words were verified in him:

    "Wer immer strebend sich bemüht
     Den Können wir erlösen."[2]

He never relapsed into the stagnant cynicism of the out-worn
debauchee, nor did he with Nietzsche try to explain away conscience
as an old wife's tale. Conscience persistently tormented him, and
finally drove him back to belief in God, not the collective Karma
of the Theosophists, which he expressly repudiated, nor to any new
god expounded in New Thought magazines, but to the transcendent God
who judges and requites, though not at the end of every week. It
seems almost as if there were lurking an old Hebrew vein in him, so
frequently in his later works does he express himself in the language
of psalmists and prophets. "The psalms of David express my feelings
best, and Jehovah is my God," he says in the _Inferno_.

At one time he seems to have been nearly entering the Roman Catholic
Church, but, even after he had recovered his belief, his inborn
independence of spirit would not let him attach himself to any
religious body. His fellow-countryman, Swedenborg, seems to have
influenced him more deeply than anyone else, and to him he attributes
his escape from madness.

His work _Inferno_ may certainly serve a useful purpose in calling
attention to the fact, that, whatever may be the case hereafter, there
are certainly hells on earth, hells into which the persistently selfish
inevitably come. Because our fathers dealt with exaggerated emphasis
on unextinguishable fires and insatiable worms, in some remote
future, some good folk seem to suppose that there is no such thing as
retribution, or that we may sow thorns and reap wheat. Strindberg knew
better. He had reaped the whirlwind, and we seem to feel it sometimes
blowing through his pages.

In the _Blue Books_, or collections of thoughts which he wrote towards
the end of his life, the storm has subsided. The sun shines and the
sea is calm, though strewn with wreckage. He uses some very strong
language towards his former comrades, the free-thinkers, whom he calls
"denizens of the dunghill." One bitterness remains. He cannot forgive
woman. She has injured him too deeply. All his life long she has been
"a cleaving mischief in his way to virtue." He married three times, and
each marriage was a failure. His first wife was a baroness separated
from her husband, whom he accuses of having repeatedly betrayed him.
His second wife was an Austrian. In the _Inferno_ he calls her "my
beautiful jaileress who kept incessant watch over my secret thoughts."
His third was an actress from whom he parted by mutual consent.
All his attempts to set up a home had failed, and he found himself
finally relegated to solitude. One of his later works bears the title
_Lonely_. His solitude was relieved by visits from his children, and
he was especially fond of his younger daughter, giving her free use of
his library. On May 14, 1912, he died in Stockholm, after a lingering
illness, of cancer, an added touch of tragedy being the fact that his
first wife died, not far away, shortly before him.

He was an enormous reader, and seems to have possessed a knowledge
almost as encyclopædic as Browning's. While assistant librarian in the
Royal Library at Stockholm he studied Chinese; he was a skilled chemist
and botanist, and wrote treatises on both these sciences. He was a
mystic, but had a certain dislike of occultism and theosophy. A German
critic, comparing him with Ibsen, says that, whereas Ibsen is a spent
force, Strindberg's writings contain germs which are still undeveloped.
He is a lurid and menacing planet in the literary sky, and some time
must elapse before his true position is fixed. To the present writer
his career seems best summed up in the words of Mrs. Browning:

"He testified this solemn truth, by frenzy desolated,
Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only God created";

or in those of Augustine: "Fecisti nos ad Te, Domine, et irrequietum
est cor nostrum donec requiescat in Te."

C.F.


[1] Reprinted by permission from _The Spectator_.

[2] "Who never ceases still to strive,
    'T is him we can deliver."


       *       *       *       *       *


     "Courbe la tête fier Segambre; adore ce qui tu as brûlé;
                   brûle ce qui tu as adoré!"



I

THE HAND OF THE INVISIBLE


With a feeling of wild joy I returned from the northern railway
station, where I had said good-bye to my wife. She was going to our
child, who was ill in a distant place. The sacrifice of my heart
was then fulfilled. Her last words, "When shall we meet again?" and
my answer, "Soon!" echoed in my ears, like falsehoods which one is
unwilling to confess. A foreboding said to me "Never!" And, as a matter
of fact, these parting words which we exchanged in November, 1894, were
our last, for to this present time, May, 1897, I have not seen my dear
wife again.

As I entered the Café de la Régence, I placed myself at the table where
I used to sit with my wife, my beautiful jail-keeper, who watched my
soul day and night, guessed my secret thoughts, marked the course of my
ideas, and was jealous of my investigations into the unknown.

My newly-won freedom gave me a feeling of expansion and elevation
above the petty cares of life in the great capital. In this arena of
intellectual warfare I had just gained a victory, which, although
worthless in itself, signified a great deal to me. It was the
fulfilment of a youthful dream which all my countrymen had dreamed,
but which had been realised by me alone, to have a play of one's
own performed in a Paris theatre. _Now_ the theatre repelled me, as
everything does when one has reached it, and science attracted me.
Obliged to choose between love and knowledge, I had decided to strive
for the highest knowledge; and as I myself sacrificed my love, I forgot
the other innocent sacrifice to my ambition or my mission.

As soon as I returned to my poor student's room in the Latin Quarter, I
rummaged in my chest and drew out of their hiding-place six saucepans
of fine porcelain. I had bought them a long time ago, although
they were too dear for my means. A pair of tongs and a packet of
pure sulphur completed the apparatus of my laboratory. I kindled a
smelting-furnace in the fireplace, closed the door, and drew down the
blinds, for only three months after the execution of Caserio it was
not prudent to make chemical experiments in Paris.

The night comes on, the sulphur burns luridly, and towards morning
I have ascertained the presence of carbon in what has been before
considered an elementary substance. With this I believe I have solved
the great problem, upset the ruling chemical theories, and won the
immortality grudged to mortals.

But the skin of my hands, nearly roasted by the strong fire, peels
off: in scales, and the pain they cause me when undressing shows me
what a price I have paid for my victory. But, as I lie alone in bed,
I feel happy, and I am sorry I have no one whom I can thank for my
deliverance from the marital fetters which have been broken without
much ado. For in the course of years I have become an atheist, since
the unknown powers have left the world to itself without giving a sign
of themselves.

Someone to thank! There is no one there, and my involuntary ingratitude
depresses me.

Feeling jealous about my discovery, I take no steps to make it known.
In my modesty I turn neither to authorities nor to universities. While
I continue my experiments, the cracked skin of my hands becomes worse,
the fissures gape and become full of coal-dust; blood oozes out, and
the pains become so intolerable that I can undertake nothing more. I am
inclined to attribute these pains which drive me wild to the unknown
powers which have persecuted me for years, and frustrate my endeavours.
I avoid people, neglect society, refuse invitations, and make myself
inaccessible to friends. I am surrounded by silence and loneliness. It
is the solemn and terrible silence of the desert in which I defiantly
challenge the unknown, in order to wrestle with him, body with body,
and soul with soul. I have proved that sulphur contains carbon; now I
intend to discover hydrogen and oxygen in it, for they must be also
present. But my apparatus is insufficient, I need money, my hands are
black and bleeding, black as misery, bleeding as my heart. For, during
this time, I continue to correspond with my wife. I tell her of my
successes in chemical experiments; she answers with news about the
illness of our child, and here and there drops hints that my science is
futile, and that it is foolish to waste money on it.

In a fit of righteous pride, in the passionate desire to do myself an
injury, I commit moral suicide by repudiating my wife and child in
an unworthy, unpardonable letter. I give her to understand that I am
involved in a new love-affair.

The blow goes home. My wife answers with a demand for separation.

Solitary, guilty of suicide and assassination, I forget my crime under
the weight of sorrow and care. No one visits me, and I can see no one,
since I have alienated all. I drift alone over the surface of the sea;
I have hoisted my anchor, but have no sail.

Necessity, however, in the shape of an unpaid bill, interrupts my
scientific tasks and metaphysical speculations, and calls me back to
earth.

Christmas approaches. I have abruptly refused the invitation of a
Scandinavian family, the atmosphere of which makes me uncomfortable
because of their moral irregularities. But, when evening comes and I am
alone, I repent, and go there all the same.

They sit down to table, and the evening meal begins with a great
deal of noise and outbursts of hilarity, for the young artists who
are present feel themselves at home here. A certain familiarity of
gestures and attitudes, a tone which is anything but domestic, repels
and depresses me indescribably. In the middle of the orgy my sadness
calls up to my inner vision a picture of the peaceful home of my wife:
the Christmas tree, the mistletoe, my little daughter, her deserted
mother. Pangs of conscience seize me; I stand up, plead ill-health as
an excuse, and depart.

I go down the dreadful Rue de la Gaieté in which the artificial mirth
of the crowd annoys me; then down the gloomy silent Rue Delambre, which
is more conducive to despair than any other street of the Quarter. I
turn into the Boulevard Montparnasse, and let myself fall on a seat on
the terrace of the Lilas brewery.

A glass of good absinthe comforts me for some minutes. Then there fall
on me a set of cocottes and students who strike me on the face with
switches. As though driven by furies, I leave my glass of absinthe
standing, and hasten to seek for another in the Café François Premier
on the Boulevard St. Michel. Out of the frying-pan into the fire! A
second troop shouts at me, "There is the hermit!" Driven forth again I
fly home, accompanied by the unnerving tones of the mirliton pipes.

The thought that it might be a chastisement, the result of a crime,
does not occur lo me. In my own mind I feel guiltless, and consider
myself the object of an unjust persecution. The unknown powers have
hindered me from continuing my great work. The hindrances must be
broken through before I obtain the victor's crown.

I have been wrong, and at the same time I am right, and will maintain
it.

That Christmas night I slept badly. A cold draught several times blew
on my face, and from time to time the sound of a jew's-harp awoke me.

       *       *       *       *       *

An increasing prostration comes over me. My black and bleeding hands
prevent my dressing myself and taking care of my outer appearance.
Anxiety about my unpaid hotel bill leaves me no peace, and I pace up
and down my room like a wild beast in a cage. I eat no longer, and the
hotel manager advises me to go to a hospital. But that is no help to
me, for it is too dear, and I must pay my bill here first.

The veins in my arm begin to swell visibly; it is a sign of
blood-poisoning. This is the finishing stroke. The news spreads among
my countrymen, and one evening there comes the kind-hearted woman,
whose Christmas dinner I had so abruptly left, who was antipathetic to
me, and whom I almost despised. She finds me out, asks how I am, and
tells me with tears that the hospital is my only hope.

One can understand how helpless and humiliated I feel, as my eloquent
silence shows her that I am penniless. She is seized with sympathy
at seeing me so prostrate. Poor herself, and oppressed with daily
anxieties, she resolves to make a collection among the Scandinavian
colony, and to go to the pastor of the community.

A sinful woman has pity on the man who has deserted his lawful wife!

Once more a beggar, asking for alms by means of a woman, I begin to
suspect that there is an invisible hand which guides the irresistible
logic of events. I bow before the storm, determined to rise again at
the first opportunity.

The carriage brings me to the hospital of St. Louis. On the way, in
the Rue de Rennes, I get out in order to buy two white shirts. The
winding-sheet for the last hour! I really expect a speedy death,
without being able to say why.

In the hospital I am forbidden to go out without leave; besides, my
hands are so wrapped up that all occupation is impossible to me; I
feel therefore like a prisoner. My room is bare, contains only the
most necessary things, and has nothing attractive about it. It lies
near the public sitting-room, where from morning to evening they smoke
and play cards. The bell rings for breakfast. As I sit down at the
table I find myself in a frightful company of death's-heads. Here a
nose is wanting, there an eye; there the lips hang down, here the cheek
is ulcered. Two of them do not look sick, but show in their faces
gloom and despair. These are "kleptomaniacs" of high social rank, who,
because of their powerful connections, have escaped prison by being
declared irresponsible.

An unpleasant smell of iodoform takes away my appetite. Since my hands
are muffled I must ask the help of my neighbour for cutting bread and
pouring out wine. Round this banquet of criminals and those condemned
to death goes the good Mother, the Superintendent, in her severe black
and white dress, and gives each of us his poisonous medicine. With
a glass holding arsenic I drink to a death's-head who pledges me in
digitalis. That is gruesome, and yet one must be thankful! That makes
me wild. To have to be thankful for something so petty and unpleasant!

They dress me, and undress me, and look after me like a child. The kind
sister takes a fancy to me, treats me like a baby, calls me "my child,"
while I call her "mother."

But it does me good to be able to say this word "mother," which has not
passed my lips for thirty years. The old lady, an Augustine nun, who
wears the garb of the dead, because she has never lived, is mild as
resignation itself, and teaches us to smile at our sufferings as though
they were joys, for she knows the beneficial effects of pain. She does
not utter a word of reproof nor admonition nor sermonising.

She knows the regulations of the ordinary hospitals so well that she
can allow small liberties to the patients, though not to herself.
She permits me to smoke in my room, and offers to make my cigarettes
herself; this, however, I decline. She procures for me permission to
go out beyond the regulated limits of time. When she discovers that
I am actively interested in chemistry, she takes me to the learned
apothecary of the hospital. He lends me books, and invites me, when I
acquaint him with my theory of the composite character of so-called
simple bodies, to work in his laboratory. This nun has had a great
influence on my life. I begin to reconcile myself again to my lot, and
value the happy mischance which has brought me under this kindly roof.

The first book which I take out of the apothecary's library opens of
itself, and my glance fastens like a falcon's on a line in the chapter
headed "Phosphorus." The author states briefly that the scientific
chemist, Lockyer, has demonstrated by spectral analysis that phosphorus
is not a simple body, and that his report of his experiments has been
submitted to the Parisian Academy of Science, which has not been able
to refute his proofs.

Encouraged by this unexpected support, I take my saucepans with the not
completely consumed remains of sulphur, and submit them to a bureau
for chemical analysis, which promises to give me their report the next
morning.

It is my birthday. When I return to the hospital I find a letter from
my wife. She laments my misfortune, and she wants to join me, to look
after me and love me.

The happiness of feeling myself loved in spite of everything awakes
in me the need of thankfulness. But to whom? To the Unknown, who has
remained hidden for so many years?

My heart smites me, I confess the unworthy falsehood of my supposed
infidelity, I ask for forgiveness, and before I am aware of it, I write
again a love-letter to my wife. But I postpone our meeting to a more
favourable time.

The next morning I hasten to my chemist on the Boulevard Magenta,
and bring his analysis of my powder in a closed cover back to the
hospital. When I come to the statue of St. Louis in the courtyard of
the institution, I think of the Quinze-Vingt,[1] the Sorbonne, and the
Sainte Chapelle, these three buildings founded by the Saint, which I
interpret to mean--"From suffering, through knowledge, to repentance."

Arrived at my room, I shut the doors carefully, and at last open the
paper which is to decide my destiny. The contents are as follows;
"The powder submitted to our analysis has three properties--_Colour_:
grey-blacky leaves marks on paper. _Density_: very great, greater
than the average density of graphite; it seems to be a harder kind
of graphite. The powder burns easily, releasing oxide of carbon and
carbonic acid. It therefore contains carbon."

Pure sulphur contains carbon!

I am saved. From henceforth I can prove to my friends and relations
that I am no fool. I can establish the theories which I propounded a
year ago in my _Antibarbarus_, a work which the reviews treated as that
of a charlatan or madman, making my family consequently thrust me out
as a good-for-nothing, or Cagliostro. My opponents are pulverised! My
heart beats in righteous pride; I will leave the hospital, shout in the
streets, bellow before the Institute, pull down the Sorbonne!... But my
hands remain wrapped up, and when I stand outside in the courtyard, the
high encircling walls counsel me--patience.

When I tell the apothecary the result of the analysis, he proposes to
me to summon a commission before whom I should demonstrate the solution
of the problem by experiment publicly. I, however, from dislike to
publicity, write instead an essay on the subject, and send it to the
_Temps_, where it appears after two days.

The password is given. I am answered from all sides; I find adherents,
am asked to contribute to a scientific paper, and am involved in a
correspondence which necessitates the continuance of my experiments.

       *       *       *       *       *

One Sunday, the last of my stay in the purgatory of St. Louis, I watch
the courtyard from the window. The two thieves walk up and down with
their wives and children, and embrace each other from time to time with
joyful faces, like men whom misfortune draws together in closer bonds.

My loneliness depresses me; I curse my lot and regard it as unjust,
without considering that my crime surpasses theirs in meanness. The
postman brings a letter from my wife, which is of an icy coldness. My
success has annoyed her, and she pretends that she will not believe it
till I have consulted a chemical specialist. Moreover, she warns me
against all illusions which may produce disturbance of the brain. And,
after all, she asks, What do I gain by all this? Can I feed a family
with my chemistry?

Here is the alternative again: Love or Science. Without hesitation I
write a final crushing letter, and bid her good-bye, as pleased with
myself as a murderer after his deed.

In the evening I roam about the gloomy Quarter, and cross the St.
Martin's canal. It is as dark as the grave, and seems exactly made
to drown oneself in. I remain standing at the corner of Rue Alibert.
Why Alibert? Who is he? Was not the graphite which the chemist found
in my sulphur called Alibert-graphite? Well, what of it? Strangely
enough, an impression of something not yet explained remains in my
mind. Then I enter Rue Dieu. Why "Dieu," when the Republic has washed
its hands of God? Then Rue Beaurepaire--a fine resort of criminals.
Rue de Vaudry--is the Devil conducting me? I take no more notice of
the names of the streets, wander on, turn round, find I have lost my
way, and recoil from a shed which exhales an odour of raw flesh and bad
vegetables, especially sauerkraut. Suspicious-looking figures brush
past me, muttering objurgations. I become nervous, turn to the right,
then to the left, and get into a dark blind alley, the haunt of filth
and crime. Street girls bar my way, street boys grin at me. The scene
of Christmas night is repeated, "Vœ soli."[2] Who is it that plays
me these treacherous tricks as soon as I seek for solitude? Someone has
brought me into this plight. Where is he? I wish to fight with him!

As soon as I begin to run there comes down rain mixed with dirty snow.
At the bottom of a little street a great, coal-black gate is outlined
against the sky. It seems a Cyclopean work, a gate without a palace,
which opens on a sea of light. I ask a gendarme where I am. He
answers, "At St. Martin's gate."

A couple of steps bring me to the great Boulevard, which I go down. The
theatre clock points to a quarter-past seven. Business hours are over,
and my friends are waiting for me as usual in the Café Neapel. I go on
hurriedly, forgetting the hospital, trouble, and poverty. As I pass
the Café du Cardinal, I brush by a table where someone is sitting. I
only know him by name, but he knows me, and at the same moment his eyes
interrogate me: "You here? You are not in hospital then? Then it was
all gossip?"

I feel that this man is one of my unknown benefactors, for he reminds
me that I am a beggar, and have nothing to do in the café. Beggar! that
is the right word, which echoes in my ears, and colours my cheek with a
burning blush of shame, humiliation, and rage. Six weeks ago I sat here
at this table. My theatre manager sat opposite me, and called me "Dear
Sir"; journalists pestered me with their interviews; photographers
asked for the honour of selling portraits of me--and, to-day--what am I
to-day? A beggar, a marked man, an outcast from society!

Lashed, tormented, driven, like a night-tramp, I hurry down the
Boulevard back to the plague-stricken hospital. There at last, and
only there, in my cell, I feel at home. When I reflect on my lot,
I recognise again that invisible Hand which scourges and chastises
without my knowing its object. Does it grant me fame and at the same
time deny me an honourable position in the world? Must I be humbled in
order to be lifted up, made low in order to be raised high? The thought
keeps on recurring: "Providence is planning something with thee, and
this is the beginning of thy education."

In February I leave the hospital, uncured, but healed from the
temptations of the world. At parting I wished to kiss the hand of the
faithful Mother, who, without speaking many words, has taught me the
way of the Cross, but a feeling of reverence, as if before something
holy, kept me back. May she now in spirit receive this expression of
thanks from a stranger, whose traces have been lost in distant lands.


[1] Hospital for the Blind.

[2] "Woe to the solitary."



II

ST. LOUIS LEADS ME TO ORFILA


Through the whole winter I continue my chemical experiments in a
modestly furnished room, remain all day at home, and go to my evening
meal in a restaurant where artists of different nationalities meet.
Afterwards I visit the family, whose society, through a momentary fit
of puritanism, I had abjured. The whole noisy set of artists are there,
and I am compelled to put up with what I would fain avoid--free and
easy manners, loose morals, deliberate and fashionable irreligion.
There is much talent and quickness of wit among these people, together
with a flow of wild spirits which has won them a sinister reputation.
At any rate, I am in a domestic circle; they are kind to me and I am
grateful to them, although I shut my eyes and ears to their little
affairs which, after all, have nothing to do with me. Had I avoided
these people out of unjustifiable pride, it would have been logical to
punish me for it, but as my avoidance of them sprang from a desire to
purify myself and to deepen my spiritual life in self-communion, I do
not understand the ways of Providence, for I am a man of such pliable
character, that out of pure sociability and fear of being ungrateful,
I accommodate myself to my surroundings whatever they are. But after I
had been banished so long from society, through my misfortune and the
shame of my poverty, I was glad to find a shelter for the long winter
evenings, although the lubricous conversation annoyed me.

Now that the existence of the invisible Hand, which guides me over
rough paths, has become a certainty to me, I no longer feel solitary,
and keep a careful watch over my words and actions, although, it must
be confessed, I am not always successful. But whenever I slip, I am
at once arrested and punished with such punctuality and exactness,
that I have no doubts left regarding the interposition of a judicial
power. The Unknown has become for me a personal acquaintance with whom
I speak, whom I thank, whom I consult. Very often I compare Him in
my mind with the "demon" of Socrates, and the consciousness that the
unknown powers are on my side lends me an energy and confidence which
impel me to unwonted efforts of which I was formerly incapable.

A bankrupt as regards society, I am born into another world where no
one can follow me. Things which before seemed insignificant attract my
attention, my nightly dreams assume the form of premonitions, I regard
myself as a departed spirit, and my life proceeds in a new sphere.

       *       *       *       *       *

After having demonstrated the presence of carbon in sulphur, I have to
demonstrate the presence of hydrogen and oxygen which, according to
analogy, ought to be found in it.

Two months pass in calculations and surmises till the apparatus
necessary for making the experiments is exhausted. A friend advises me
to go to the Sorbonne laboratory, where strangers are admitted. But my
timidity and shyness of crowds does not permit me to think of it; I
suspend my experiments and take a rest.

One fine spring morning I wake up in good spirits. I walk through the
Rue de la grande Chaumière to the Rue de Fleurs, which leads to the
Jardin du Luxembourg. The small, pretty street is quiet, the great
avenue of chestnut trees is cheerful and green, broad and straight as
a racecourse. Quite in the background the statue of David rises like a
boundary mark, and high over all the dome of the Pantheon, surmounted
by a golden cross, seems to touch the clouds. I remain standing,
delighted with the significant spectacle, when accidentally on my
right my eyes fall on a dyer's shield at the end of the Rue de Fleurs.
Painted on the window of the dyeing-house stand over a silver cloud the
initials of my name A.S., and over them is arched a rainbow.

_Omen accipio!_ and am reminded of the passage in Genesis, "I have set
my bow in the clouds to be a sign of the covenant between me and the
earth."

I seem no longer to touch the ground, but to float in air, and
with winged feet enter the garden, which is now quite empty. In
this early morning hour I am the exclusive possessor of this park,
with all its glory of roses, and I know all my flowers in their
beds--chrysanthemums, verbenas, and begonias.

Going down the racecourse I reach the boundary mark, pass through the
trellised gate to the Rue Soufflot, and turn to the Boulevard St.
Michel, where Blanchard's antiquarian book-shop attracts my attention.
Casually I take up an old chemical work by Orfila, open it at haphazard
and read, "Sulphur has been classified among the simple bodies. Davy
and Berthollet, however, have endeavoured to prove by their able
experiments that it contains hydrogen, oxygen, and a third basal
element which has not yet been distinguished."

One may imagine my almost religious ecstasy at this well-nigh
miraculous discovery. Davy and Berthollet had demonstrated the presence
of hydrogen and oxygen, and I of carbon. It rests, therefore, with me
to lay down the formula for sulphur.

Two days later my name was entered on the list of the scientific
faculty of the Sorbonne (founded by St. Louis!), and I received
permission to work in the laboratory. The first morning I went there
was for me a solemn occasion. I was under no illusions as regards the
professors, who had received me with the cold politeness due even to a
foreign intruder. I knew that I should never be able to convince them,
but I felt simultaneously a calm still joy, and the courage of a martyr
who faces a hostile crowd, because for me at my age youth was the
natural enemy.

As I crossed over the square before the little church of the Sorbonne,
I found the door of it open and entered it, without any definite
reason; the Virgin Mother and Child smiled at me in a friendly way; the
Cross left me, as always, cold and without comprehension of its meaning.

My new acquaintance, St. Louis, the friend of the poor and
plague-stricken, receives the homage of young theologians. Can it be,
after all, that he is my patron, my guardian angel, who drove me to the
hospital, so that I, purified by the fire of mental suffering, should
win again that glory which leads to dishonour and contempt? Was it
he who directed me to Blanchard's book-shop and hither also? See how
superstitious the atheist has become!

As I survey the memorial tablets which record successful experiments, I
vow, in the case of my success, to receive no worldly honour.

The hour has struck, and I run the gauntlet of the young students who
regard my undertaking with scorn and prejudice.

       *       *       *       *       *

About fourteen days have passed, and I have discovered incontrovertible
proofs that sulphur is a threefold combination of carbon, oxygen, and
hydrogen. I thank the Director of the laboratory, who, as it appears,
takes 110 interest in my affairs, and leave this new purgatory full of
deep, unspeakable joy.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the mornings when I do walk in the churchyard of Montparnasse, I
visit the park of the Palais Luxembourg. A few days after my departure
from the Sorbonne I discover, in the centre of the churchyard, a
monument of classical beauty. A white marble medallion shows the noble
features of an old man of science, whom the inscription on the pedestal
describes as "Orfila: Chemist and Physiologist." It was my friend and
protector who, in later years, has so often guided me through the
labyrinth of chemical experiments.

A week later, passing through the Rue d'Assas, I stop to admire a house
which looks like a convent. A large shield on the wall informs me that
it is "Hôtel Orfila."

Again and again Orfila!



III

PARADISE REGAINED


The summer and autumn of the year 1895 I count, on the whole, among the
happiest stages of my eventful life. All my attempts succeed; unknown
friends bring me food as the ravens did to Elijah. Money flows in; I
can buy books and scientific instruments; among them a microscope,
which reveals to me the secrets of life.

Dead to the world, as I have renounced the vain delights of Paris,
I remain in my quarter, where every morning I visit the dead in the
churchyard of Montparnasse, and thence descend to the Luxembourg Garden
to greet my flowers. Sometimes one of my fellow-countrymen on his way
through Paris visits me in order to invite me to breakfast on the
other side of the river, and to go to the theatre with him. I decline,
because the right bank is forbidden to me; it is the so-called "world,"
the world of the living and of vanity.

Although I cannot formulate it distinctly, a kind of religion has
been forming in me. It is rather a condition of the soul than a view
of things based on dogmatic instruction; a chaos of sensations which
condense themselves more or less into thoughts.

I have bought a Catholic prayer book, and read it with a collected
mind; the Old Testament comforts and chastens me in a somewhat obscure
fashion, while the New leaves me cold. This does not prevent a
Buddhistic book having a stronger influence on me than all other sacred
books, because it ranks positive suffering above mere abstinence.
Buddha shows the courage when in full possession of vital energy and
enjoyment of married happiness to renounce wife and child, while Christ
avoids every contact with the permitted joys of this world.

For the rest, I do not brood much over the sensations which spring up
in me; I keep myself indifferent and let them come and go, approving
for myself the same freedom which I owe to others.

The great event of the Paris season was Brunetière's war-cry, "The
bankruptcy of Science." Dedicated from my childhood to the natural
sciences, and later on a disciple of Darwin, I had discovered how
unsatisfactory the scientific method is, which accepts the mechanism
of the universe without presupposing a Mechanician. The weakness of
the system showed itself in the gradual degeneration of science; it
had marked off a boundary line over which one was not to step. "We,"
it said, "have solved all problems; the world has no more riddles."
This presumptuous lie had annoyed me already in 1880, and during the
following fifteen years I occupied myself with a revision of the
natural sciences. In 1884 I doubted the supposed composition of the
atmosphere. The nitrogen of the air is not identical with the nitrogen
obtained by analysis of a nitrogenous body. In 1891 I visited the
Scientific Institute in Lund in order to compare the spectrum analyses
of these two sorts of nitrogen whose difference I had discovered. Do I
need to describe the reception which the learned scientists gave me?
Now in this year, 1895, the discovery of argon has confirmed my former
hypotheses, and given a fresh impulse to my investigations which had
been interrupted by a foolish marriage. It is not Science which is
bankrupt, only the antiquated, degenerate science, and Brunetière was
right although he was wrong.

While all acknowledged the identity of matter and called themselves
Monists, without being so really, I went further and drew the extreme
logical inferences of the theory by obliterating the boundaries
between matter and so-called spirit. Thus, in 1894, in my treatise
_Antibarbarus_, I had dealt with the psychology of sulphur by
explaining it through "ontogeny," that is, the embryonic development of
sulphur.

Anyone who is interested in the subject may be referred to the work
_Sylva Sylvarum_, which I composed in the summer and autumn of 1895,
with a feeling of pride in my perspicuity at having divined the secrets
of creation, especially in the vegetable and animal kingdoms. He may
further consult my _Churchyard Studies_, which show how in loneliness
and sorrow I was brought back to a wavering apprehension of God and
immortality.



IV

THE FALL AND PARADISE LOST


Guided into this new world in which no one can follow me, I conceived
an aversion to social intercourse, and have an unconquerable desire to
free myself from my surroundings. I therefore informed my friends that
I wished to go to Meudon to write a book which required solitude and
quiet.

At the same time insignificant disagreements led to a breach with the
circle which met at the Restaurant, so that one day I found myself
entirely isolated. The first result was an extraordinary expansion
of my inner sense; a spiritual power which longed to realise itself.
I believed myself in the possession of unlimited strength, and pride
inspired me with the wild idea of seeing whether I could perform a
miracle.

At an earlier period, in the great crisis of my life, I had observed
that I could exercise a telepathic influence on absent friends. In
popular legends writers have occupied themselves with the subjects of
telepathy and witchcraft. I wish neither to do myself an injustice,
nor altogether to acquit myself of wrong-doing, but I believe that
my evil will was not so evil as the counterstroke which I received.
A devouring curiosity, an outbreak of perverted love, caused by my
frightful loneliness, inspired me with an intense longing to be
re-united with my wife and child, both of whom I still loved. But how
was this to be brought about, as divorce proceedings were already on
foot? Some extraordinary event, a common misfortune, a thunderbolt, a
conflagration ... in brief, some catastrophe which unites two hearts,
just as in novels two persons are reconciled at the sick-bed of a
third. Stop! there I have it! A sick-bed! Children are always more or
less ill; a mother's fear exaggerates the danger; a telegram follows,
and all is said.

I had no idea of practising magic, but an unwholesome instinct
suggested I must set to work with the picture of my dear little
daughter, who later on was to be my only comfort in a cursed existence.

Further on in this work I will relate the results of my manoeuvre,
in which my evil purpose seemed to work with the help of symbolical
operations. Meantime the results had to be waited for, and I continued
my work with a feeling of undefined uneasiness and a foreboding of
fresh misfortune.

       *       *       *       *       *

One evening, as I sat alone before my microscope, an occurrence
happened which made all the deeper impression on me because I did
not understand it. For four days I had let a nut germinate, and now
detached the germ. This had the shape of a heart, not much larger than
the core of a pear. Standing between two cotyledons it looked like
a diminutive human brain. One may imagine my surprise when I saw on
the glass-slide of the microscope two tiny hands, white as alabaster,
folded as if in prayer. Was it a vision, an hallucination? Oh, no! It
was a crushing reality which made me shudder. The little hands were
stretched out towards me, immovable, as if adjuring me. I could count
the five fingers, the thumb shorter than the others--real woman's or
child's hands.

I made a friend, who surprised me watching this astonishing sight,
witness it also. He required to be no clairvoyant in order to see two
clasped hands which besought the sympathy of the beholder.

What was it? Nothing but the two first rudimentary leaves of a
walnut tree, the _Juglans regia_--nothing else. Yet the fact was
undeniable that ten human fingers were clasped in a beseeching gesture
as if expressing, "De profundis clamavi ad te." But as a still too
incredulous empiric, I passed by the occurrence callously.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fall has happened. I feel the mercilessness of the unknown powers
weigh heavily upon me. The hand of the invisible is lifted and the
blows fall thickly upon my head.

In the first place, my anonymous friend who has supported me hitherto,
feels insulted and deserts me, because I had written him a presumptuous
letter. So I am left without means.

Moreover, when I receive the proofs of my work _Sylva Sylvarum_, I
find the text in complete confusion. Not only are the pages mixed and
wrongly numbered, but the different parts are confused, so that in an
ironical way they represent the great disorder which rules in nature.
After endless hesitations and delays, the pamphlet is at last printed,
but when the printer sends me the bill, I find that it amounts to
more than double the sum originally agreed upon. I am obliged, to
my regret, to pawn my microscope, my black suit, and some remaining
ornaments, but, at any rate, my work is printed, and I have for the
first time in my life the conviction that I have said something
original, great, and beautiful. In a mood of exultation, easy to
understand, I carry the packet to the post, and making a contemptuous
gesture towards the hostile heavens, I throw it in the letter-box with
the thought, "Listen, Sphinx, I have solved thy riddle, and defy thee!"

On my return to the house the hotel bill is handed to me. Irritated by
this unexpected stroke, for I have already lived a year here, I begin
to notice trifles which I had formerly overlooked. For instance, in
three adjoining rooms pianos are being played. I am convinced it is a
plot of some Scandinavian ladies whose company I have avoided.

Three pianos! and I cannot leave the hotel, for I have no money.
Cursing heaven, these ladies, and my fate, I go to sleep. The next
morning I am awoken by an unexpected noise. They are hammering nails in
the room which is near my bed; then more hammering begins on the other
side. A silly trick quite in keeping with the character of these female
pianists, nothing more! But when after supper I lie down to sleep as
usual, there ensues such a din overhead that some of the plaster falls
from the ceiling on my head.

I go to the landlady and complain about the other lodgers. She declares
that she has heard nothing, but, for the rest, is very polite, and
promises to turn out anyone who dares to disturb me, for she is anxious
to keep me in her hotel, which is not prospering very well.

Without attaching much credit to the word of a woman, I still believe
she means to treat me well in her own interests. None the less the
noises continue, and I come to the conclusion that these ladies--stupid
people!--want to make me believe that there are "rapping spirits" in
the house. At the same time my companions in the restaurant alter their
behaviour towards me, and a concealed hostility shows itself in their
envious looks and innuendoes. Weary of the struggle, I bid farewell
to the hotel and restaurant, and depart, plundered to my last shirt,
leaving behind my books and other things. On February 21, 1896, I
entered the Hôtel Orfila.



V

PURGATORY


Hôtel Orfila has a monastic appearance, and is a boarding establishment
for Catholic students. It is superintended by a quiet, amiable Abbé,
and peace, order, and morality prevail here. What especially comforts
me after so many annoyances is, that women are not admitted here. The
house is old, the rooms are low, the passages dark, and the wooden
staircases wind and twist hither and thither as if in a labyrinth.
There is an air of mysteriousness about the whole building, which for
a long time has attracted me. My room looks out on a _cul-de-sac_, so
that standing in the middle of it, one sees nothing but a moss-grown
wall with two small round windows in it. But when I sit at my table
close to the window, I have an uncommonly pleasant look-out. Under me
there is a circular wall overgrown with ivy surrounding a courtyard,
where young girls walk under plane trees and acacias. In the centre
there stands a charming Gothic chapel. Somewhat farther on one sees
high walls with numerous little barred windows, which remind one of a
convent. Still farther away are old, half-hidden houses crowned by a
forest of chimneys, and in the extreme distance one sees the tower of
Notre-Dame des Champs surmounted by a cross and weathercock. In my room
there hangs a faded likeness of St. Vincent de Paul, and a picture of
St. Peter looks down on my bed. St. Peter, the opener of the gates of
heaven. What an ironical situation for me, who some years ago threw
ridicule on the Apostle in a fantastic drama!

Quite contented with my room, I sleep well the first night. I edify
myself by reading the book of Job, and arrive at an ever clearer
conviction that the Eternal has handed me over to Satan to be tried.
This thought comforts me again, and suffering seems to me a mark of
confidence on the part of the Almighty.

Now things begin to happen which cannot be explained without the
co-operation of the unknown powers. From this point I use the entries
in my journal, which have gradually become very numerous, giving them
in a condensed form.

       *       *       *       *       *

For a long while my chemical studies have lain in abeyance. In order to
revive my interest, and to make a decisive stroke, I resume the study
of the problem of making gold. The starting-point of the investigation
consists in the question: Why does sulphate of iron in a solution of
choloro-aurate of sodium precipitate gold? The answer is, because iron
and sulphur are essential constituents of gold. The proof is that all
natural compounds of sulphur and iron contain more or less gold. So I
begin to experiment with solutions of sulphate of iron.

One morning I awoke with the idea of making a trip into the country,
though it is quite against my tastes and my habits. When I, more by
accident than design, reach the station of Montparnasse, I take the
train for Meudon. I go into the village itself, which I visit for the
first time, traverse the main street, and turn to the right into a
narrow alley confined by walls on both sides. Twenty steps before me I
see half-buried in the ground the figure of a Roman knight in grey iron
armour. It looks very well modelled, but, as I approach, I see that it
is only rough metal-smelting.

But I hold my illusion fast, since it pleases me. The knight looks
towards the wall, and following the direction of his gaze I notice
something written on the mortar with a piece of coal. It looks like the
letters F and S interlaced, which are the initials of my wife's name.
She loves me still! The next moment I see, as by a flash, that it is
the chemical symbol for ferrum (iron) and sulphur, and the secret of
gold lies revealed before my gaze. I search the ground and find two
leaden seals fastened together by a string. One displays the initials
V.P., the other, a king's crown. Without committing myself to a further
interpretation of this adventure, I return to Paris with the lively
impression of having experienced something bordering on the marvellous.

       *       *       *       *       *

In my fireplace I burn coals which, because of their round and regular
shape, are called "monks' heads." One day when the fire is nearly
extinguished I take out a mass of coal of fantastic shape. It resembles
a cock's head with a splendid comb joined to what looks like a human
trunk with twisted limbs. It might have been a demon from some mediæval
witches' sabbath.

The second day I take out again a fine group of two gnomes or drunken
dwarfs, who embrace each other while their clothes flutter in the
wind. It is a masterpiece of primitive culture.

The third day it is a Madonna and Child in the Byzantine style, of
incomparable beauty of outline. After I have drawn copies of all three
in black chalk, I place them on my table. A friendly painter visits me;
he regards the three statuettes with growing curiosity, and asks who
has "made" them. In order to try him, I mention the name of a Norwegian
sculptor. "No," he says, "I should rather be inclined to ascribe them
to Kittelsen, the famous illustrator of the Swedish legends."

I do not believe in demons, and yet I wish to see the impression which
my little figures make on the sparrows who generally take their crumbs
from my window-sill. So I place them there. The sparrows are frightened
and remain aloof. There is then some likeness in the figures which they
can distinguish, and some reality in this conjunction of dead material
and fire.

The sun, as it warms my little figures, makes the demon with the cock's
head collapse. This reminds me of the country-people's saying that if
the dwarfs wait too long till sunrise, they die.

       *       *       *       *       *

Things happen in the hotel which disquiet me. The morning after my
arrival I find on the board where the keys of the rooms are hung up, on
the ground-floor, a letter addressed to a Mr. X., a student, who has
the same name as my wife. The postmark is "Dornach," the name of the
Austrian village where my wife and child live. But since I am certain
that there is no post-office at Dornach, the matter remains mysterious.
This letter, placed in such a conspicuous position as to challenge the
eye, is followed by others. The second bears the postmark "Vienna," and
is addressed to a Dr. Bitter; the third displays the Polish pseudonym,
"Schmulachowsky."

The Devil certainly has a share in this game, for this name is a
false one, and I understand well for whom the letter is intended--for
a deadly enemy of mine who lives in Berlin. At last there arrives a
letter with the postmark "Vienna," which, according to the printed
envelope, comes from the chemical bureau of Dr. Eder. So they are
trying to spy out my gold-making experiments! Without doubt a plot is
on foot here, but the Devil has mixed these sharpers' cards. These
duffers do not consider that I keep my eyes open towards all quarters
of the compass.

I have made inquiries of the waiter regarding Mr. X., but he gives me
in all simplicity to understand that he is an Alsatian--nothing more.
One fine morning I return from my work and see in the letter-rack quite
close to my keys a post card. For a moment I feel tempted to solve the
riddle by looking at the post card, but my good angel paralysed my
hand, just as the young man came out of his hiding-place behind the
door. I look him in the face and am startled; he is exactly like my
wife. We greet each other silently, and each goes his way.

I have never been able to unravel this conspiracy, since I did not know
the actors in this drama. Moreover, my wife has neither brothers nor
cousins. This undefined threatening spectre of a continuous vengeance
tortured me for half a year. I bore it like everything else as a
punishment for known and unknown sins.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the New Year a stranger turned up in our restaurant. He was an
American artist, and came exactly at the right time to put new life
into our depressed society. But though he was an active and bold spirit
with cosmopolitan ideas and good company too, he inspired me with
an undefined mistrust. In spite of his confident air his demeanour
revealed to me his real position. The crash came quicker than one
expected.

One evening the unfortunate man came into my room and asked for
permission to remain there a short time. He looked like a lost man, and
such in fact he was. His landlord had driven him out of his studio, his
grisette had left him, he was head over ears in debt, and his creditors
were dunning him; he was insulted in the streets by the supporters of
his unpaid models. But what depressed him most of all was that the
cruel landlord had retained his picture intended for the Champ de Mars
Exhibition. The originality of its subject had given him good grounds
to hope for its success. It displayed an "emancipated woman" crucified
and cursed by the mob.

Since he was also heavily in debt to the restaurant, he had to go
about the streets, hungry. Among other things he confessed that he had
taken morphia enough to kill two people, but death apparently did not
yet want him. After an earnest discussion, we agreed to go to another
quarter, and there eat our meals in some obscure cook-shop. I said I
would not desert him, and that he should pluck up new courage and
begin a new picture for the exhibition of independent artists.

       *       *       *       *       *

This man becomes now my sole companion, and his misfortunes cause me a
double share of suffering, so closely do I identify myself with him.
I do so in a spirit of defiance, but presently gain an interesting
experience thereby.

He reveals to me his whole past. He is a German by birth, but partly
because of family disagreements, partly because of a lampoon for
which he had been brought into court, he has spent seven years in
America. I discover in him intelligence above the average, a melancholy
temperament, and unbridled sensuality. But behind this mask of a
cosmopolitan I begin to divine another character which disquiets me,
and the full discovery of which I postpone to a favourable opportunity.

Thus pass two months, while I live in union with this stranger and
with him go through all the troubles of an unfortunate artist over
again, without remembering that I am a made man, yes, and rank among
the dramatic celebrities of Paris, though, as a chemical discoverer,
I think little of it now. Moreover, my companion loves me only when I
conceal my successes. If I am obliged to refer to them in passing,
he is annoyed, and assumes the rôle of an unfortunate nonentity, so
that at last, out of sympathy, I put on the air of an old decayed
wreck. This imperceptibly depresses me, while he, who has his future
still before him, elevates himself again at my expense. I am like a
corpse buried at the root of a tree which sucks nutriment out of the
decomposing life, and grows upwards.

At this time I study Buddhist books, and wonder at the self-denial with
which I mortify myself for another. But good works deserve a reward,
and mine did not remain wanting.

One day the _Revue des Revues_ comes with a likeness of the American
prophet and empiric doctor, Francis Schlatter, who in the year 1895
cured five thousand sick persons and then disappeared without ever
being seen again. Now this man's features resembled in a remarkable
way those of my new companion. To confirm my supposition, I show the
_Revue_ to a Swedish sculptor with whom I have an appointment in the
Café de Versailles. He notices the resemblance at once, and reminds me
of a remarkable coincidence of circumstances. Both the doctor and my
friend were Germans by birth, and worked in America. Still further, the
disappearance of Schlatter coincided with the appearance of our friend
in Paris. Since I am initiated a little into the use of occultist
expressions, I start the hypothesis that Francis Schlatter is the
"double" who leads an independent life, without being aware of it.

When I mentioned the word "double" my sculptor was startled, and
drew my attention to the fact that our friend always occupied two
houses, one on the right and the other on the left bank of the river.
Moreover, I learn that my mysterious friend lives a double life in
this sense, that, after he has spent the evening in half-philosophic,
half-religious discussions with me, he is always seen late at night in
Bullier's dancing-saloon.

There is a sure means of proving the identity of these two "doubles,"
as the _Revue des Revues_ contains a facsimile letter of Francis
Schlatter. "Come to dinner to-night," I suggested. "I will dictate to
him Schlatter's letter; if the two handwritings, and especially the
signatures, resemble each other, it will be a proof."

At dinner the same evening everything is confirmed, the handwriting and
signatures are identical. A little surprised, the artist submits to our
examination; at last he asks: "What is your object in this?"

"Do you know Francis Schlatter?"

"I have never heard the name."

"Don't you remember that doctor in America last year."

"Oh, yes! that quack!"

He remembers, and I show him the portrait and facsimile.

He laughs sceptically, and remains quite calm and indifferent. That is
all.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some days later I am sitting with my mysterious friend, with our
glasses of absinthe, on the terrace of the Café de Versailles, when a
fellow in workman's clothes, with a malicious aspect, suddenly stops
before the café, then rushes through the customers, and bawls at my
friend in his loudest voice: "At last I have you, you sharper, who
fleeced me! What is the meaning of it? First of all, you order a cross
for thirty francs, and then you disappear. Son of a dog! Do you think a
cross like that makes itself?"

He continued to rage. The café waiters vainly attempted to remove him;
he threatened to fetch the police, while the unfortunate accused,
motionless, dumb, and prostrate, like a condemned man, remained
exposed to the gaze of a circle of artists who all knew him more or
less. When the commotion was over, I asked him with a bewildered mind,
as if I had witnessed a witches' sabbath: "What cross worth thirty
francs? I don't understand a word of the business?"

"It was a model of Joan of Arc's cross which I was going to use for my
picture of the crucified woman."

"He certainly was a devil, that workman."

After a pause, I continue: "It is odd, but one does not play unpunished
either with the Cross or with Joan of Arc."

"You believe in them?"

"I don't know!--But the thirty pieces of silver!"

"Enough! Enough!" he exclaims in a tone of vexation.

From this evening a certain coldness ensues between us. Our
acquaintance had now lasted four terrible months. My companion had
studied in quite a new school, and had time to strike out new paths in
his art, so that he could finally throw aside "the crucified woman"
as an old toy. He had learned to regard suffering as the only real
joy in life, and so had attained to resignation. He was a hero in his
poverty. I admired him when twice in the same day he measured on foot
the distance between Montrouge and the Market Halls with boots worn
down at the heel, and without food. In the evening, when he had visited
the offices of seventeen illustrated papers, and sold three drawings,
without however being paid for them at once, he quickly swallowed two
sous' worth of bread and hurried to the Bal Bullier.

At last, in silent agreement, we dissolved the partnership we had
entered on for mutual help. We both felt that it was enough, and that
our destinies must go on to separate fulfilments. When we exchanged our
last farewells, I knew that they were our last. I have never seen the
man again, nor heard what has become of him.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the course of the spring, while I was feeling depressed by my own
and my friend's untoward destiny, I received a letter from the children
of my first marriage, informing me that they had been very ill in
hospital. When I compared the time of their illness with my mischievous
attempt at magic, I was alarmed. I had frivolously played with hidden
forces, and now my evil purpose, guided by an unseen Hand, had reached
its goal, and struck my heart. I do not excuse myself, and only ask
the reader to remember this fact, in case he should ever feel inclined
to practise magic, especially those forms of it called wizardry, or
more properly witchcraft, and whose reality has been placed beyond all
doubt by De Rochas.[1]

One Sunday before Easter I went very early through the Jar din de
Luxembourg, crossed the street, and passed under the arcades of the
Odeon; I stood still before an edition of Balzac in a blue binding,
and by chance picked out his novel _Séraphita_. Why just that one?
Perhaps it is an unconscious recollection of reading a criticism of my
book, _Sylva Sylvarum_, in the periodical _Initiation_, in which I was
called "a countryman of Swedenborg." When I got home I opened the book,
which was almost entirely unknown to me, for so many years had passed
between my first acquaintance with it and this second reading. It was
like a new work to me, and now my mind was prepared for it, I swallowed
down the contents of this extraordinary book wholesale. I had never
read anything of Swedenborg, for in his own native land and mine he
passed for a charlatan, dreamer, and quack. But now I was seized with
enthusiastic admiration, as I heard this heavenly giant of the last
century speak by the mouth of such a genial French interpreter.

I read now with religious attention, and found on page 16 the 20th of
March given as the day on which Swedenborg died. I stopped, considered,
and consulted the almanac; it was exactly the 20th of March, and also
Palm Sunday. It was then that Swedenborg entered into my life, in
which he was to play such a great part as judge and master, and on the
anniversary of his death he brought me the palm, whether of the victor
or the martyr--who could say?

_Séraphita_ became my gospel, and caused me to enter into such a close
connection with the other world, that I felt sick of life, and an
irresistible homesickness for heaven seized me. Doubtless, I was being
prepared for a higher existence. I despised the earth, the impure
earth, its inhabitants and their doings. I felt like a perfectly
righteous man, whom the Eternal was testing, and whom the purgatory of
this world would soon make fit for deliverance. The courage produced
by the consciousness of my confidential relation to the powers was
always increased, when I saw my scientific experiments crowned with
success. According to my computations and the observations of the
metallurgists, I had succeeded in making gold, and I believed I could
prove it. I sent my proofs to Rouen to a friendly chemist. He opposed
me with counter-arguments, and for eight days I could find no flaw in
them. Then turning over by chance the _Chemistry_ of my Master Orfila,
I learned the secret of my mistake.

This old, forgotten, and despised chemical treatise of 1830 helped me
at the critical moment, and became my oracle. My friends Orfila and
Swedenborg protected, encouraged, and chastised me. They did not appear
to me in dreams or waking visions, but in small daily occurrences
showed me that they did not leave me alone in the vicissitudes of my
life. The spirits had become naturalistic like the times, which were no
longer content with visions.

The following, for instance, cannot be explained by the word,
"coincidence."

I had succeeded in producing spots of gold on paper, and I wished now
to do the same on a large scale in the furnace. A couple of hundred
experiments failed, and I laid the blow-pipe aside in despair. One
morning, I walked to the Observatory Avenue, where I often used to
admire the group of the four quarters of the world, for the secret
reason that the most graceful of the female figures resembled my wife.
It stood under the armillary sphere and the sign Pisces, and a pair
of sparrows had built their nest behind her back. At the foot of the
monument I found two pieces of cardboard cut in an oval shape, one
stamped with the number 207, the other with the number 28. These are
the signs for the atomic weight of lead, and of silicium. I made a note
of the discovery, and when I got home began a series of experiments
with lead, leaving silicium for another time. As I was aware, from
my knowledge of metallurgy, that lead refined in a furnace, fed with
bone-ashes, always produces a recognisable amount of silver, and this
silver, a little gold, I drew the conclusion that phosphate of lime,
being the chief constituent of bone-ashes, must be an important element
in the gold produced from lead.

And, as a matter of fact, molten lead poured upon a deposit of chalk
containing phosphate of lime, also assumed on its under-side a
golden colour. The powers, being unpropitious, did not allow me to
finish my experiments. A year later, in Lund, a sculptor, who made
experiments in his own potteries, gave me some glaze composed of lead
and silicium, by means of which I for the first time produced in the
furnace mineralised gold of great beauty. Out of gratitude, I showed
him the two pieces of cardboard numbered 207 and 28. Is one to call it
"accident" or "coincidence," this sign of an irrefragable logic?

       *       *       *       *       *

I repeat that I have never been plagued by visions, but actual objects
sometimes seem to me to assume a human shape in a grandiose style.
Thus, one day the cushion which my head has been pressing during a
mid-day siesta, looks like a marble head carved in the style of Michael
Angelo. One evening when I return home in the company of the "double"
of the American empiric doctor, I discover, in the half-shadow of the
alcove where my bed is, what looks like a gigantic Zeus reposing on it.
Before this unexpected sight my friend remains seized with an almost
religious fear. His artistic eye comprehends at once the beauty of the
outline. "There is a great forgotten art," he says, "born again! That
is where we ought to learn drawing!"

The more one looks at it, the more lifelike and terrible it appears.
Obviously, the spirits have become realists like the rest of us
mortals. It is no mere accident, for on certain days the cushion takes
the shape of terrible monsters, such as Gothic dragons and serpents;
and one night after I have spent a hilarious evening, I am greeted
on my return by a mediæval demon, a devil with horned head and other
appurtenances. I was not at all frightened; it looked so natural,
but it also made on my mind the impression of something abnormal and
unearthly.

When I invited my friend the sculptor to look at it, he was not at
all astonished, and called me into his studio, where a pencil sketch
hanging on the wall surprised me by its grace of outline.

"Where have you got that from?" I asked. "A Madonna, is n't it?

"Yes, a Madonna of Versailles, copied from the floating plants in a
Swiss lake!"

A new-discovered art of nature! Naturalistic clairvoyance! Why blame
naturalism when it introduces a new art full of capacities of growth
and development. The old gods return, and the watchword of the poets
and artists, "Back to Pan!" has roused such a strong echo that nature
has awoken from her long sleep of centuries. Nothing can exist on earth
without the concurrence of the powers. Now naturalism did once exist,
therefore it ought to be, and what ought it obviously to be--a new-born
harmony of matter and spirit.

The sculptor is a seer. He tells me that he has seen Orpheus and Christ
side by side in a block of stone, and adds that he intends to return
there and use them as models for a group for the Salon.

As I went down the Rue de Rennes one evening with the same seer, he
drew my attention to a book-shop window where coloured lithographs were
exhibited. They represented fantastic scenes with human bodies whose
heads were replaced by pansies. In spite of my botanical observations,
I had never before seen the likeness between the pansy and the human
face. My friend seemed greatly surprised at it.

"Only think!" he said. "When I came home last evening the pansies in
my window-box looked at me like so many human faces. I thought it was
a hallucination of my overexcited nerves. And here are these pictures
drawn a long time ago. It is then a fact and no illusion, for this
unknown artist has made the same discovery before me."

We make progress in the art of vision, and this time it is I who
discover a Napoleon with his marshals on the cupola of the dome of the
Hôtel des Invalides. When one comes from Montparnasse to the Boulevard
des Invalides, one sees above the Rue Oudinot the cupola, the corbels,
and cornices of the substructure of the cupola displayed in the full
light of the setting sun, and apparently assuming human forms which
appear more or less distant according to the point of observation from
which they are viewed. There are Napoleon, Bernadotte, Berthier, and my
friend copies them, "after nature."

"How would you explain this phenomenon?" he asks.

"Explain? Has one ever explained anything by replacing one heap of
words with another heap of words?"

"You don't think, then, that the architect has worked according to a
hidden plan?"

"Listen, my friend. Jules Mansard, who built the dome in 1706, could
not well have foreseen the silhouette of Napoleon who was born in 1769.
That is a sufficient answer!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Often I have dreams at night, and these dreams prognosticate my future,
warn me against dangers, and reveal to me secrets. For instance, a
long-deceased friend appears to me in a dream, and shows me a piece of
money of uncommon size. On my asking where this remarkable piece came
from, he answers, "From America," and disappears.

The next day I receive a letter from America from a friend whom I
had heard nothing of for twenty years, informing me that an order in
connection with the Chicago Exhibition had been following me in vain
all over Europe. It carried with it an honorarium of 12,000 francs, an
enormous sum for me in my desperate circumstances, which I could very
easily find use for. This 12,000 francs would have secured my future,
and no one besides myself would have guessed that the loss of this
money was a punishment for an evil deed which I had committed out of
anger at the treachery of a literary colleague.

In another dream of wider significance I saw Jonas Lie,[2] with a gilt
bronze clock curiously ornamented. Some days later, when I went to walk
on the Boulevard St. Michel, a watch-maker's shop-window attracted my
attention. "Jonas Lie's clock!" I exclaimed aloud.

It was indeed the same. It was crowned by a celestial globe on which
two female figures leaned; the works were supported by four pillars,
and on the globe a date-indicator pointed to the 13th of August. In a
future chapter I will explain what the fateful 13th of August brought
with it. This and other occurrences took place during my stay in the
Hôtel Orfila between 6th February and 19th July, 1896. Concurrently
with them a larger adventure pursued its often interrupted course till,
with my exit from the hotel, a new section of my life began.

Spring has returned; the valley of tears and sighs under my window
is green and blossoming. Foliage hides the bare ground and its
unsightliness. The Gehenna has turned into a Vale of Sharon full of
lilies, lilacs, and acacias. I feel very melancholy, but the merry
laughter of the girls who play unseen beneath the trees, reaches me and
rouses me again to life. Life hurries by and old age approaches: Wife,
children, home, dispersed and wrecked; without is spring, within is
autumn.

The Book of Job and the Lamentations of Jeremiah comfort me, for, at
any rate, there is a certain resemblance between Job's lot and mine. Am
I not smitten with incurable boils? Am I not visited with poverty and
forsaken by my friends? "I go blackened, but not by the sun; I am a
brother to dragons and a companion to ostriches; my skin is black and
falleth from me, and my bones are burned with heat. My harp is turned
to mourning, and my pipe unto the voice of them that weep."

Thus Job. And Jeremiah with two words fathoms the depth of my sadness:
"I forgat prosperity."

In this mood I sit one oppressive afternoon bent over my work, when,
all of a sudden, behind the foliage of the garden in front of me, I
hear the playing of a piano. Like a war-horse at the sound of the
trumpet, I prick up my ears, straighten myself, and in a great state
of excitement struggle for breath. Someone is playing Schumann's
_Aufschwung_; and what is more, _he_ is playing--he, my Russian friend,
my pupil who called me "Father," because he owed all his culture to me,
my assistant who called me "Master" and kissed my hands, whose life
began where mine ended. He has come from Vienna to Paris to ruin me,
as he ruined me in Vienna--and why? Because Fate has arranged that his
present wife, before he knew her, was my sweetheart. Was it my fault
that matters so fell out? Surely not, and yet he hated me with a
deadly hatred, hindered my plays from being accepted, wove intrigues,
and deprived me of the barest means of subsistence. Then, in a fit of
rage, I reversed the spear and struck him, indeed, in such a brutal and
cowardly way, that it made me feel like a murderer. The fact that he
has come to kill me comforts me, for death alone can deliver me from my
pangs of conscience.

It was he, then, who lurked behind those letters with false addresses
which I always saw near the porter's lodge. Well, let him strike! I
will not defend myself. For he is right, and my life is nothing to me.
He continues to play the _Aufschwung_, which no one can play so well.
He plays invisible behind the green wall, and his magic harmonies rise
above its blossoming creepers like butterflies flying towards the sun.

But why is he playing? Is it to inform me of his coming to frighten
me and drive me to flight? Perhaps I shall find out in the restaurant
where the other Russians have long been talking about the arrival of
their countryman.

I go for my evening meal there, and already at the doorway encounter
hostile glances. The whole company, informed of my conflict with the
Russian, has turned against me. In order to disarm them, I open fire
myself.

"Popoffsky is in Paris?" I ask.

"No, not yet," one of them answers.

"Yes," says another, "he has been seen in the office of the _Mercure de
France_."

They disagree with each other, and at the end I am as wise as before,
but I pretend to believe all I am told. But the obvious enmity with
which I am regarded in the restaurant makes me swear not to go there
again. I am sorry, for some of them were really congenial to me. Thus,
once more, this cursed enemy drives me into loneliness and exile. My
hatred against him is again aroused, and torments and poisons me. I
don't look forward to death now! Shall the hand of an inferior man
crush me? The humiliation for me and the honour for him would be too
great. I will accept the challenge and defend myself. In order to
obtain clear information I go to find a Danish painter, a friend of
Popoffsky, in the Rue de la Santé behind the Val de Grâce. Six weeks
before he had come to Paris, and, although formerly a friend of mine,
had at our first meeting greeted me in almost a hostile way. The next
day, however, he visited me, invited me to his studio, and said so
many kind things to me that I could not help doubting the genuineness
of his friendship. When I asked him about Popoffsky, he answered
evasively, but confirmed the rumour of his being about to come shortly
to Paris.

"In order to murder me," I added.

"Yes; take care!"

On the morning on which I wished to return the Dane's visit, by a
curious chance I found my way barred by an enormous Danish dog, which
reposed in all its hideousness on the ground of the courtyard. For a
moment I hesitated, then I turned back, and on arriving at home thanked
the powers for their warning, for I had certainly escaped some unknown
danger.

Some days afterwards, when I wished to repeat my visit, on the
threshold of the open door there sat a child with a playing-card in its
hand. I glanced at the card superstitiously; it was the ten of spades.
"They are playing an evil game in this house," I said to myself, and
turned back again.

In the evening, after the scene in the restaurant, I was almost
determined to carry out my plan, in spite of dog and card, but fate
willed it otherwise. In the restaurant of the Lilas brewery I met my
man. He was delighted to see me, and we sat down on the terrace. We
recalled our common experiences in Vienna; he seemed to be the same
good friend that he was before, narrated his stories with enthusiasm,
forgot our former small disagreements, and confessed the truth of
some things which he had before publicly denied. Suddenly he appeared
to remember his duty or some promises which he had given; he became
taciturn, cold, hostile, and obviously vexed that he had been betrayed
into disclosing secrets. He answered my direct question whether
Popoffsky was in Paris with a brief "No," which was plainly false, and
we parted.

Here I must remark that the Dane had been Frau Popoffsky's lover before
me, and that from the time she had given him up on my account, he
cherished a grudge against me. Now he played the rôle of family friend
with Popoffsky, who knew nothing of his former relation with his wife.

       *       *       *       *       *

Schumann's _Aufschwung_ sounds over the deep-leaved trees, but the
musician remains invisible and leaves me doubtful as before as to the
exact house in which he lives. For a whole month the music continues
from four to five in the afternoon.

One morning, as I go down the Rue de Fleurs, in order to comfort myself
by looking at my rainbow in the dyer's window, and enter the Jardin de
Luxembourg, which, with all its trees in blossom, is as beautiful as a
fairy-tale, I find on the ground two dry twigs which have been broken
off by the wind. They formed the two Greek letters "p" and "y," the
first and last letters of Popoffsky. He _was_, then, persecuting me,
and the powers wished to guard me against the danger. I felt uneasy in
spite of these signs of grace from the unseen. I invoked the protection
of Providence, I read the imprecatory psalms, I hated my enemy with an
Old Testament hatred, while I lacked the courage to use the black magic
which I had recently studied. "Make haste O God, to deliver me; make
haste to help me, O Lord. Let them be ashamed and confounded that seek
after my soul. Let them be turned back and put to confusion that desire
my hurt. Let them be turned back as a reward of their shame that say,
'Aha! Aha!'"

This prayer seemed to me at that time right, and the mercy inculcated
in the New Testament like cowardice. To what unknown power my
iniquitous prayer found its way I do not know. The sequel of this
narrative will, at any rate, show that it was heard.



EXTRACTS FROM MY JOURNAL

1896

_May_ 13_th_.--A letter from my wife. She has learned from the papers
that a Mr. S. is about to journey to the North Pole in an air-balloon.
She feels in despair about it, confesses to me her unalterable love,
and adjures me to give up this idea, which is tantamount to suicide.
I enlighten her regarding her mistake. It is a cousin of mine who is
risking his life in order to make a great scientific discovery.

_May_ 14_th_.--Last night I had a dream. A head which had been cut off
was set on the trunk of a man who looked like an actor come down in the
world through drink. The head began to speak. I was frightened, and
knocked my bed-screen down while I, as I thought, pushed a policeman
before me to protect me from the madman's attack.

_May_ 17_th and the following days_.--The glass of absinthe at six
o'clock, and the terrace of the Brewery of Lilas behind the statue
of Marshal Ney, are my only remaining sin and delight. There,
after finishing the day's work, when soul and body are exhausted, I
refresh myself with the green drink, a cigarette, the _Temps_, and
the _Débuts_. How sweet is life after all, when the mist of a mild
intoxication casts its veil over the miseries of existence. Probably
the powers envy me this hour of a visionary happiness, for from this
evening onwards it is disturbed by a series of annoyances which cannot
be attributed to chance. On May 17th, I find my place, which has been
reserved for me daily for nearly two years, occupied; all the other
chairs are also taken. Deeply annoyed, I have to go to another café.

_May_ 18_th_.--My old corner in Lilas is again vacant, and I am again
under my chestnut behind the Marshal, feeling contented, even happy. My
well-concocted absinthe is there, my cigarette lighted, and the _Temps_
spread out. Then a drunken man passes; a hateful-looking fellow, whose
mischievous, contemptuous air annoys me. His face is red, his nose
blue, his eyes malicious. I taste my absinthe, and feel happy not to be
like this sot.... There! I don't know how, but my glass is upset and
empty. Without sufficient money to order another, I pay for this and
leave the café. Certainly it was again the Evil One who played me this
trick.

_May_ 19_th_.--I don't venture to go to the café.

_May_ 20_th_.--I have slunk round the terrace of the Lilas, and at last
found my corner unoccupied. One must fight the evil spirits and begin
the war oneself. The absinthe is made, the cigarette glows, and the
Temps has important news. Then (I speak the truth, reader), a chimney
of the café over my head takes fire! There is a universal panic. I
remain sitting, but a stronger will than mine directs a cloud of soot
with such a good aim on me, that two large flakes settle on my glass.
Disconcerted, but as unbelieving and sceptical as ever, I depart.

_June_ 1_st_.--After long abstinence, the longing for my chestnut again
awakes. My table is occupied, and I sit down at a vacant one standing
somewhat apart. Then there comes a middle-class family, and sits near
me. There seems to be no end of them. Women push against my chair,
children do their little businesses before my eyes, young men take away
my matches without asking leave. Thus I sit in the midst of a noisy,
shameless throng, but do not waver nor yield. Then occurs something
which, without any doubt, shows the skilful hand of the unseen, for
there is no room for suspecting these people to whom I am entirely
unknown.

A young man lays with an unmistakable gesture a sou on my table. A
stranger, and alone among a crowd of people, I let it happen, but,
blind with anger, I seek for an explanation.

He gives me a sou, as if to a beggar! Beggar! that is the dagger which
I drive into my breast. Beggar! for thou deservest nothing, and----

The waiter offers me a more comfortable place, and I leave the money
lying. What a disgrace! He brings it after me, and informs me politely
that the young man had found it under my table, and thought it was
mine. I feel ashamed, and in order to calm my anger, order another
absinthe.

The absinthe comes, and I feel quite comfortable, when a pestilential
smell of ammonia almost stifles me. Again a miracle or some evil
purpose! An escape-pipe flows out at the edge of the pavement, exactly
where my seat is. I begin to understand that the good spirits wish
to heal me of a sin, which at last leads to the madhouse. Blessed be
Providence which has saved me!

_May_ 25_th_.--In spite of the regulations of the house which exclude
women, a family has taken up its quarters next my room. For a day and a
night crying babies afford me much pleasure, and remind me of the good
old times when I was between thirty and forty and life was pleasantest.

_May_ 26_th_.--The family quarrel together and the children howl. How
similar it is, and yet how pleasant it is for me--_now_!

_May_ 29th.--A letter from the children of my first marriage informs
that a telegram had come for them bidding them to be present in
Stockholm at the farewell feast which was to celebrate my departure for
the North Pole. They understand nothing about it, and I just as little.
What a fatal error!

_June_ 2_nd_.--In the Avenue de l'Observatoire I find two pebbles
shaped exactly like hearts. In the evening, in the garden of a Russian
painter, I found a third heart of the same size, exactly like the two
others. The playing of Schumann's _Aufschwung_ has ceased, and I am
again calm.

_June_ 9_th_.--I visit the Danish painter in the Rue de la Santé.
The great dog has disappeared; the entrance is free. We go to dine
on a terrace in the Boulevard Port-Royal. My friend is cold and
uncomfortable, and as he has forgotten his overcoat I lay mine over
his shoulders. At first this quiets him; he feels himself dominated by
me, and does not struggle against it. We are agreed on all points;
he does not venture any more to oppose me. He admits that Popoffsky
is a scoundrel, and that all my misfortunes are due to him. Suddenly
a strange fit of nervousness takes hold of him; he trembles like a
medium under the influence of the hypnotiser, gets excited, shakes
off the overcoat, stops eating, lays his fork on one side, stands up
and goes off. What is the meaning of it? Does he feel my coat to be a
Nessus robe? Has my nervous fluid become stored up in it, and through
its opposite polarity subjugated him? Does Ezekiel, chap. xiii., ver.
18, refer to something similar? "Woe to you that sew pillows upon all
armholes, and make kerchiefs for the heads of persons of every stature,
to catch souls.... I will tear your kerchiefs, and I will deliver my
people out of your hand, and they shall no more be in your hand to be
hunted; and ye shall know that I am the Lord."

Have I become a wizard without knowing it?

_June_ 7_th_.--I visited my Danish friend in order to look at his
pictures. When I arrived he seemed well and cheerful, but after half
an hour he had a nervous attack, which increased so much that he had
to undress and go to bed. What was the matter with him? Had he a bad
conscience?

_June_ 14_th, Sunday_.--In the Jardin du Luxembourg I found a fourth
heart-shaped pebble, like the three former ones. The stone has a piece
of gold tinsel adhering to it; altogether it remains a puzzle, but
seems to foreshadow something. I compare the four stones together
before the open window, as the bells of St. Sulpice begin to ring; then
the great bell of Notre-Dame commences, and through these usual sounds,
there comes a heavy solemn peal, as though it issued from the bowels of
the earth. I ask the waiter who brings my letters what it is. He says,
"The great bell of the Church Sacré Cœur of Montmartre."

It is then the festival of the Sacred Heart? And I contemplate these
four hard stone hearts, curiously moved by this striking coincidence.

In the direction of Notre-Dame des Champs I hear a cuckoo, and yet it
is impossible; or have my ears become so extra-sensitive that they can
hear as far as the wood of Meudon?

June 15_th_.--I go to the city to change a cheque into bank-notes
and gold. To my astonishment, the Quai Voltaire sways under my feet;
certainly the Carrousel Bridge trembles under the weight of the carts.
But to-day, this movement continues past the Tuileries to the Avenue
de l'Opéra. There is always vibration in a town, but in order to notice
it one must have very sensitive nerves.

The other side of the river is, for us dwellers in Montparnasse, a
foreign world. It is nearly a year since I visited the Lyons Bank,
or the Café de la Régence. On the Boulevard des Italiens, I felt
homesick, and I hurried back to the river, where the sight of the Rue
des Saints Pères revived me. Near the Church St. Ger-main des Prés I
met a funeral, and after that, two colossal Madonnas, which were being
carried on a cart. One of them, with folded hands and eyes directed
heavenwards, made a deep impression on me.

_June_ 16_th_.--On the Boulevard St. Michel I bought a paper-weight
adorned with a glass globe containing the Madonna of Lourdes in her
famous grotto; before her kneels a veiled woman. When I place the
figure in the sun, it casts strange shadows. On the back of the grotto
the plaster has accidentally formed a head of Christ, though evidently
unintended by the artist.

_June_ 18_th_.--My Danish friend rushes in, in a state of excitement
and trembling all over, into my room. Popoffsky has been arrested
in Vienna on the charge of having murdered his paramour and two
illegitimate children. After I recover from the first surprise, and my
first feeling of sincere sympathy for a man who at any rate had once
been my intimate friend, a deep peace settles on my spirit, which had
been tortured for months with long-continued threats. Unable to conceal
my real selfishness, I give free vent to my feelings. It is dreadful,
and yet I am relieved when I think of the danger from which I have
escaped.

What was his motive for the crime? We conjecture as a reason the
jealousy which his lawful wife felt against the illegitimate family,
and the expense which they involved. Perhaps also....

"What?"

"Perhaps his bloodthirsty instincts have recently been able to find no
outlet in Paris, and have sought for satisfaction in some other way, no
matter upon whom." To myself I say: "Was it possible that my earnest
prayers had averted the dagger, and turned it against the murderer
himself?" Then, giving up guessing, I conclude magnanimously like a
victor: "Let us at any rate save our friend's literary reputation. I
will write an essay on his merits as an author; you draw a flattering
portrait, and we will send both to the _Revue Blanche_."

In the Dane's studio (the dog guards it no more) we stand and
contemplate a picture of Popoffsky painted two years ago. It represents
only his head, with a cloud below it. Underneath are a pair of
cross-bones like one sees on tombstones. The decapitated head makes us
shudder, and the dream of May 14th steals into my memory like a ghost.
"How did you come to think," I asked, "of representing him with a head
only?"

"That is hard to say; but there seemed to be a fate brooding over
this fine mind, with marks of genius, which dreamed of fame without
being willing to pay the price for it. Life lets us choose one of two
things--the laurel or luxury."

"You have at last discovered that!"

_June_ 23_rd_,--During these last days since the news of the Russian's
arrest, a fresh disquiet seizes me. It appears to me as though someone
somewhere were meddling with my destiny, and I tell the Danish painter
my suspicion that the hate of the imprisoned Russian makes me suffer
like the electric fluid from a dynamo.

There are moments in which I foresee that my stay in Paris will soon
be at an end, and that a revolution in my circumstances is at hand.

The weathercock on the cross of Notre-Dame des Champs seems to me to
flap its wings as though it wished to fly northwards. Anticipating
my speedy departure, I hastily conclude my studies in the Jardin des
Plantes. A zinc bath in which I make experiments in alchemy shows on
its inner sides a landscape formed by the evaporation of iron salts. I
understand it is a presage, but I cannot guess where this landscape is.
Hills covered with forests of firs; lying between them, plains covered
with fruit trees and cornfields; everything indicates the neighbourhood
of a river. One of the hills with precipices of stratified formation is
crowned with the ruins of a stately castle. I cannot make out more, but
I shall not remain long in uncertainty.

June 20th.--We receive an invitation from the head of the scientific
occultists, the editor of the _Initiation_. As the doctor and I arrived
at Marolles en Brie we received three pieces of bad news: A weasel had
killed the ducks; a servant girl was ill; the third I forget.

On the evening of our return to Paris, I read in a paper the famous
history of the haunted house in Valence en Brie. Brie? I begin to
fear that the occupants of my hotel will become suspicious, hear of
my excursion to Brie, and in consequence of my experiments in alchemy
suppose that I have set on foot that humbug or witchcraft.

I have bought myself a rosary. Why? It is pretty, and the evil spirits
fear the Cross; besides, I don't worry any more about the motives
of my actions. I act, as the humour takes mo, and life is much more
interesting. There is a sudden change as regards the Popoffsky case.
His friend the Dane begins to doubt his having committed the crime,
and says the accusation against him was refuted at the inquest. The
publishing of my article is put off, and I feel as cold towards him as
before. At the same time the monstrous dog reappears--a hint for me to
be on my guard.

As I am writing in the afternoon at the table near my window, a
thunderstorm bursts. The first drops of rain fall on my manuscript
and blot it in such a way that from the obliterated letters the word
"Alp"[3] is formed, and also a blot in the shape of an enormous face. I
preserve this; it resembles the Japanese god of thunder as portrayed
in the _Atmosphère_ of Camille Flammarion.

June 28_th_.--I have seen my wife in a dream; her front teeth were
missing. She gave me a guitar, which looked like a Danube boat. This
dream threatened me with imprisonment.

In the afternoon I rub together on a piece of paper quicksilver, tin,
sulphur, and chlorate of ammonia. When I took off the mixture, the
paper retained the impression of a face, which had an extraordinary
resemblance to that of my wife in the dream of the past night.

July 1_st_.--I expect an eruption, an earthquake, a thunderbolt
somewhere or other. Nervous as a horse when wolves are near, I scent
danger, and pack my box ready for Hight without being able to decide on
it. The Russian has been liberated from prison for want of proofs; his
friend the Dane has become my enemy. The customers in the restaurant
persecute me. We had our last meal in the courtyard on account of
the heat. The table was placed between the dustbin and the lavatory.
Over the dustbin hung the picture of the crucified woman by my former
American friend. They had revenged themselves so severely upon him
that he had disappeared without paying his debts. Near the table the
Russians have placed a statuette, a warrior with the conventional
scythe, possibly to frighten me! A young fellow belonging to the house
goes behind my back to the lavatory with the thinly concealed purpose
of annoying me. The court is as narrow as a mineshaft, and admits no
sunlight over the high walls. The women who live in the different
storeys make obscene remarks over our heads. Domestic servants come
with their baskets full of rubbish in order to empty them into the
dustbin. It is hell itself! Moreover, my two neighbours, notoriously
immoral characters, try, with their disgusting talk, to entangle me in
a quarrel.

Why am I here? Because loneliness compels me to seek human society and
to hear human voices. Just as my mental suffering reaches its highest
pitch, I discover some pansies blooming in the tiny flower-bed. They
shake their heads as though they wished to warn me of a danger, and one
of them with a child's face and large eyes signals to me, "Go away!" I
rise and pay; as I go out the young fellow mentioned above greets me
with concealed contempt, which irritates me. But I remain quiet.

I feel pity for myself and shame for the others. I forgive the
offenders as though they were demons, who must now fulfil their duty.
Meanwhile, the disfavour of the powers is all too obvious, and I begin
in my room to total up the debit and credit side. Hitherto, and that
was my comfort, I have never been able to bow myself before others,
but now, crushed by the hand of the invisible, I am anxious to own
myself wrong, and fear lays hold upon me when I carefully think over
my behaviour during the last weeks. My conscience exacts my confession
ruthlessly and pitilessly. I had sinned through conceit, through
ὕβρις, the one sin which the gods do not forgive. Encouraged
by the friendship of Dr. Popus, who had praised my experiments, I
imagined that I had solved the riddle of the Sphinx. An imitator of
Orpheus, I assumed it as my rôle to reanimate nature, which had been
done to death by the scientists. Confident of the favour of the powers,
I flattered myself that I was invincible as regards my foes, and forgot
the most ordinary rules of modesty.

This is the right point at which to insert the history of my secret
friend who has played a decisive rôle in my life as mentor, counsellor,
comforter, judge, and, not least, as a reliable helper in various
times of need. As early as 1890 he wrote to me about a book which I
then published. He had found points of contact between my ideas and
those of the theosophists, and wished to hear my opinion of the Occult
Doctrine and the priestess of Isis, Madame Blavatsky. The aggressive
tone of his letter annoyed me, and I did not conceal this annoyance in
my answer. Four years later I published my _Antibarbarus_, and received
at the most critical juncture of my life a second letter from this
unknown friend, in which, in an elevated and almost prophetic style,
he foretold for me a future fraught with suffering and glory. At the
same time he explained to me that he had resumed this correspondence,
because he guessed that I was just now in the throes of a spiritual
crisis in which a word of comfort might be opportune. Finally, he
offered me material aid, which I, jealous of my miserable independence,
declined.

In the autumn of 1895 I resumed the correspondence by offering him my
natural history studies for publication. From that time we kept up the
most intimate and friendly correspondence, with the exception of a
small disagreement which occurred, when he once took upon himself to
instruct me in an insulting way about matters which I knew very well,
and preached to me proudly about my want of modesty. After we had made
it up again, I imparted to him all my observations, and gave him more
of my confidence than was perhaps wise. I confessed to this man, whom
I had never seen, everything, and let him admonish me seriously, for I
regarded him more as an idea than a person; he was for me a messenger
of Providence, my good angel.

Then there occurred between us a strong difference of opinion which
led to very lively discussions, without, however, leading to any
bitterness. As a theosophist, he preached "Karma," _i.e._, an abstract
total of human destinies which balance each other so as to result in
a kind of Nemesis. He was accordingly a champion of the mechanical
view of the universe, a representative of the so-called materialistic
school. To me, on the other hand, the powers had revealed themselves
as concrete, living, individual personalities, who guide the course of
the world and the destinies of men, as self-conscious entities or, as
the theologians say, as "hypostases." The second difference of opinion
was regarding the denying and putting to death of one's own self, which
always seemed to me perfectly foolish, and seems so still.

Everything, _i.e._, the little which I know, goes hack to the Ego as
its central point. Not the cult us, indeed, but the culture of this Ego
seems, therefore, the highest and ultimate aim of existence. My final
and constant answer to his objections, therefore, was: "The killing of
the Ego is self-murder."

Moreover, before whom should I bow myself? Before the theosophists?
Never! But before the Eternal, the Powers, Providence, I seek to subdue
my evil propensities daily as much as possible. To combat for the
preservation of my ego, against all influence which a sect or party,
from love of ruling, may bring to bear upon me, _that_ is my duty
enjoined on me by conscience; the guide which the grace of my divine
protector has given me.

Nevertheless, because of the qualities of this unseen friend, whom I
felt drawn to love and admire, I put up with his admonitions when he
often addressed me in a presumptuous way as his inferior. I always
answered him, but did not conceal from him my dislike for theosophy.

Finally, however--it was during the Popoffsky episode,--he assumed
such a domineering tone, and became so intolerable in his tyranny,
that I feared he took me for a fool. He called me "Simon Magus, the
necromancer," and recommended me to take Madame Blavatsky as my
teacher. I wrote back to him that I had no need of the lady, and that
no one had anything to teach me. Thereupon what did he threaten me
with? That he would bring me back to the right path with the aid of
stronger powers than mine. Then I asked him not to meddle with my
destiny, which the hand of Providence had always so well protected and
guided. And in order to further impress upon him my conviction by means
of an example, I related to him the following incident out of my life,
which has been so rich in providential occurrences, premising at the
same time that by relating this very incident I feared lest I should be
challenging Nemesis.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was ten years before this time, during the most stormy period of my
literary life, when I was raging against the feminist movement, which,
with the exception of myself, everyone in Scandinavia supported. The
heat of the conflict hurried me on, so that I so far overstepped the
bounds of propriety that my countrymen considered me mad.

I was just then staying with my wife and the children of my first
marriage in Bavaria, when I received a letter from a friend of my
youth inviting me and my children to stop with him for a year, he
made no mention of my wife. This letter, with its affected style, its
corrections and omissions, seemed to betray some hesitation on the part
of the writer in the choice of the reasons which he alleged for his
invitation. As I suspected some trap, I declined the offer in a few
non-committal polite phrases.

Two years later, after my first divorce, I went to him of my own accord
and found him living on a little island off the coast of the Baltic Sea
as an inspector of customs. His reception of me was friendly, but his
whole manner embarrassed and equivocal, and our conversation was more
like a police examination. After giving a wakeful night's consideration
to the matter, I understood it. This man, whose self-love I had wounded
in one of my novels, in spite of his display of sympathy, was not
really my well-wisher. An absolute tyrant, he wanted to interfere with
my destiny, to tame and subdue me, in order to show me his superiority.

Quite unscrupulous in his choice of means, he tormented me for a week
long, poisoned my mind with slanders and stories invented to suit every
occasion, but did it so clumsily that I was more and more convinced
that he wished to have me incarcerated as a person of unsound mind.

I offered no special resistance, and left it to my good fortune to
liberate me at the right time.

My apparent submission won my executioner's favour, and there alone,
in the midst of the sea, hated by his neighbours and subordinates, he
yielded to his need to confide in someone. He told me, with incredible
frankness for a man of fifty, that his sister during the past winter
had gone out of her mind, and in a fit of frenzy had destroyed all her
savings. The next morning he told me, further, that his brother was in
a lunatic asylum on the mainland.

I asked myself, "Is that why he wants to see me confined in one, in
order to avenge himself on fate?" After he had thus related to me his
misfortunes, I won his complete confidence, so that I was able to leave
the island, and hire a house on a neighbouring one, where my children
joined me. Four weeks later a letter summoned me to my "friend," whom
I found quite broken down because his brother in a fit of mania had
shattered his skull. I comforted my executioner, and his wife whispered
to me with tears that she had long feared lest the same fate should
overtake her husband. A year later the newspapers announced that my
friend's eldest brother had taken his life under circumstances which
seemed to indicate that he was out of his mind. Thus three distinct
blows descended on the head of this man who had wished to play with
lightning.

"What a strange chance!" people will say. And stranger, and more
ominous still, every time that I relate this history, I am punished for
doing so.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fierce July heat broods over the city; life is intolerable, and
everything is malodorous. I expect a catastrophe. In the street I find
a scrap of paper with the word "marten" written on it; in another
street a similar scrap with the word "vulture" written by the same
hand. Popoffsky certainly has a resemblance to a marten as his wife has
to a vulture. Have they come to Paris to kill me? He, the murderer, is
capable of everything after he has murdered wife and children.

The perusal of the delightful book _La joie de mourir_ arouses in me
the wish to quit the world. In order to learn to know the boundary
between life and death, I lie on the bed, uncork the flask containing
cyanide of potassium, and let its poisonous perfume stream out. The man
with the scythe approaches softly and voluptuously, but at the last
moment someone enters or something else happens; either an attendant
enters under some pretext, or a wasp flies in through the window.

The powers deny me the only joy left, and I bow to their will.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the beginning of July the house is empty; the students have gone
for their holidays. All the more is my curiosity aroused by a stranger
who has taken the room on that side of mine where my writing-table is
placed. The Unknown never speaks; he appears to be occupied in writing
on the other side of the wall which divides us. Curiously enough,
whenever I move my chair, he moves his also, and, in general, imitates
all my movements as though he wished to annoy me. Thus it goes on for
three days. On the fourth day I make the following observations: If I
prepare to go to sleep, he also prepares to go to sleep in the next
room; when I lie down in bed, I hear him lie down on the bed by my
wall. I hear him stretch himself out parallel with me; he turns over
the pages of a book, then puts out the lamp, breathes loud, turns
himself on his side, and goes to sleep. He apparently occupies the
rooms on both sides of me, and it is unpleasant to be beset on two
sides at once. Absolutely alone, I take my mid-day meal in my room, and
I eat so little that the waiter pities me. For eight days I have not
heard the sound of my own voice, which begins to grow feeble for want
of exercise. I have n't a sou left, and my tobacco and postage stamps
run out. Then I rally my will power for a last attempt: I _will_ make
gold, by the dry process. I manage to borrow some money and procure the
necessary apparatus: an oven, smelting-saucepans, wood-coals, bellows,
and tongs. The heat is terrific and, like a workman in a smithy, I
sweat before the open fire, stripped to the waist. But sparrows have
built their nests in the chimney, and smoke pours out of it into the
room. I feel like going mad over this first attempt, my head-aches,
and the frustration of my efforts; for everything goes wrong. I have
smelted the mass of metal in the fire and look inside the saucepan.
The borax has formed within it a death's-head with two glowing eyes
which seem to pierce my soul with uncanny irony. Not a grain of gold is
there, and I give up all further effort. I resume my seat, and read the
Bible just where I happen to open it: "None calleth to mind, neither
is there knowledge nor understanding to say, I have burned part of it
in the fire; yea, also, I have baked bread upon the coals thereof, I
have roasted flesh and eaten it; and shall I make the residue thereof
an abomination? Shall I fall down to the stock of a tree? He feedeth on
ashes; a deceived heart hath turned him aside, that he cannot deliver
his soul nor say, Is there not a lie in my right hand. Tims saith the
Lord, thy Redeemer, and he that formed thee from the womb, I am the
Lord that maketh all things, that stretcheth forth the heavens alone,
that spreadeth forth the earth; who is with me? that frustrateth the
tokens of the liars and maketh diviners mad; that turneth wise men
backward, and maketh their knowledge foolish."

For the first time I despair of my scientific experiments. If they are
all folly, then I have sacrificed my happiness and that of my wife and
children to a phantom. Alas for my delusion! There is a gaping abyss
between my parting from my family and this moment. A year and a half
has elapsed, and so many painful days and nights have been spent for
nothing. But no! it cannot be, it is not so.

Have I lost myself in a dark wood? The good spirit has guided me on
the right way to the island of the blessed, but Satan tempts me. I
am punished again. I sink relaxed on my scat, an unwonted depression
weighs upon my spirits. A magnetic fluid streams from the wall, and
sleep nearly overcomes me. I pull myself together, and stand up, in
order to go out. As I pass through the passage, I hear two voices
whispering in the room adjoining mine. Why are they whispering? In
order that I may not overhear them. I go through the Rue d'Assas to the
Jardin du Luxembourg. I drag myself wearily along, feeling lame from my
loins to my feet, and sink on a seat behind the group of Adam and his
family.

I am poisoned! That is my first thought. And Popoffsky, who has
murdered his wife and children with poisonous gases, is here. He has
copied the famous experiment of Pettenkofer, and discharged a stream of
gas through the wall. What shall I do? Go to the police? No! for if I
can adduce no proofs they will shut me up as a lunatic.

Vœ soli! Woe to the solitary, the sparrow upon the housetop! Never
was my misery greater, and I weep like a forsaken child that fears the
dark.

In the evening I dare not remain sitting at my table for fear of a new
attack, and lie on the bed without venturing to go to sleep. The night
comes and my lamp is lit. Then I see outside, on the wall opposite to
my window, the shadow of a human shape, whether a man or a woman, I
cannot say, but it seems to be a woman. When I stand up, to ascertain
which it is, the blind is noisily pulled down; then I hear the Unknown
enter the room, which is near my bed, and all is silent. For three
hours I lie awake with open eyes to which sleep refuses to come; then
a feeling of uneasiness takes possession of me; I am exposed to an
electric current which passes to and fro between the two adjoining
rooms. The nervous tension increases, and, in spite of my resistance, I
cannot remain in bed, so strong is my conviction: "They are murdering
me; I will not let myself be murdered." I go out in order to seek the
attendant in his box at the end of the corridor, but alas! he is not
there. They have got him to go away; he is a silent accomplice, and I
am betrayed!

I go down the stairs, and hasten through the corridors in order to
rouse the director of the _pension_. With a presence of mind, of which
I would not have thought myself capable, I tell him that I have a
sudden attack of indisposition, caused by the evaporations from my
chemicals, and ask for another room for the night. Thanks to a wrathful
Providence, the only vacant room is directly under that of my enemy. I
open the window and inhale full draughts of the fresh air of a starry
night. Above the roofs of the Rue d'Assas, and the Rue de Madame, the
Great Bear and Pole-star are visible. To the North, then! I take the
omen!

As I draw back the curtain of the alcove where my bed is, I hear my
enemy overhead get out of bed and place some heavy object in a box
which he locks. He is concealing something then! Perhaps the electric
machine.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning, which is a Sunday, I pack up and give out that I am
going to the seacoast. I tell the coachman to drive to the St. Lazare
Station, but when we get opposite the Odeon, I alter the route and bid
him drive to the Rue de la Clef, near the Jardin des Plantes. I wish
to remain here incognito, in order to complete my studies before my
departure for Sweden.


[1] _L'extériorisation de la sensibilité_.

[2] Famous Norwegian novelist.

[3] Nightmare.



VI

HELL


At length a pause ensues in my sufferings. For hours at a time I sit
in the open space before the summer-house, watch the flowers, and
think over the recent events. The peace of mind, which I find after my
flight, convinces me that I have not been suffering from the delusions
of disease, but have been persecuted by real enemies. I work during
the day and sleep quietly at night. Delivered from the squalor of my
former residence, I feel myself rejuvenated among the roses of this
garden--the favourite flower of my youth. The Jardin des Plantes, this
wonder of Paris unknown to the Parisians themselves, has become my
park. This epitome of creation confined within a narrow circuit, this
Noah's Ark, this Paradise Regained in which I wander without danger
among wild beasts--it is too much happiness. Beginning with stones, I
proceed to the vegetable and animal kingdoms, till I come to man, and
behind man I discover the Creator--the great Artist who develops as
he creates, sets on fool designs which He rejects later on, resumes
plans which have failed, and completes and multiplies primitive forms
endlessly. All is the work of His hand. Often in the discovery of
methods He makes enormous leaps, and then Science conies and ascertains
the extent of the gaps and the missing links, and imagines that it has
found the intermediary forms which have disappeared.

       *       *       *       *       *

As I now consider myself safe from my persecutors, I send my address to
the Pension Orfila in order to resume my correspondence with the outer
world, lint no sooner have I lifted the mask of my incognito than my
peace is interrupted. All kinds of things disquiet me, and my former
discomfort returns.

To begin with, articles whose use I cannot understand are being
stored away in the room which adjoins mine on the ground-floor, and
which hitherto was vacant of furniture. An old gentleman, with grey,
malicious eyes, carries empty boxes, strips of metal, and other
mysterious objects into it. At the same time the noises over my head
recommence. They file and hammer as though they were constructing some
infernal machine.

Moreover, the landlady, who at first appeared pleased at my taking
up my abode here, alters her demeanour; she tries to ferret out my
affairs, and vexes me by her manner of greeting me. Besides this, the
lodger who occupies the first floor above me, leaves the house. Me was
a quiet old gentleman, whose heavy footfall was familiar to me. In his
place comes a reserved-looking tenant who has lived in the house for
years. He has not changed his lodgings but only his room. Why?

The servant-maid who looks after my room, and brings my meals, has a
serious air and casts sympathetic glances at me.

All at once a wheel begins to turn over my head, and continues to
do so the whole day long. I am condemned to death! That is my firm
conviction. By whom? By the Russians, the Pietists, Catholics, Jesuits,
Theosophists? As what?--A wizard or practiser of black arts? Or perhaps
it is by the police as an anarchist? That is a very plausible pretext
for removing personal enemies.

At the moment that I write this, I do not know what was the real nature
of the events of that July night when death threatened me, but I will
not forget that lesson as long as I live.

If the initiated believe that I was then exposed to a plot woven by
human hands, let me tell them that I feel anger against no one, for
I know now that another stronger Hand, unknown to them, guided those
hands against their will.

On the other hand, if there was no plot, I must suppose that my own
imagination conjured up these chastising spirits for my own punishment.
We shall see in the sequel how far this supposition is probable.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the morning of my last day (as I suppose) I rise in a resigned frame
of mind, which might be called religious; I have no more ties binding
me to life. I have put my papers in order, written necessary letters,
and burnt what had to be burnt. Then I go to bid farewell to the world
in the Jardin des Plantes.

The Swedish block of lodestone before the mineralogical museum gives
me a greeting from my native land. I greet the acacias, the cedars
of Lebanon, and the monuments of great epochs when botany was still
a living science. I buy bread and cherries for my old friends. The
old bear knows me well, for I am the only one who brings him cherries
morning and evening. I give bread to the young elephant, who spits in
my face after he has eaten it--the young, faithless in grate!

Farewell, ye vultures who had to exchange the sky for a dirty cage!
Farewell, bison and behemoth, thou chained demon! Farewell, ye loving
pair of sea-birds whom wedded love consoles for the loss of ocean
and its wide horizon! Farewell, stones, plants, flowers, trees,
butterflies, birds, snakes, all creatures of a good God! And you great
men, Bernadin de Saint-Pierre, Linnæus, Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, Haüy,
whose names shine in gold on the front of the temple--farewell! but we
meet again. So I part from this earthly Paradise, and Séraphita's noble
words come to my mind, "Adieu, pauvre terre! adieu!"

When I re-enter the hotel garden, I become aware of the presence of
a man, who must have come in my absence. I do not see him, but feel
him. What increases my confusion is the visible alteration which the
adjoining room has undergone. A cloth hung over a rope obviously
conceals something. On the mantelpiece are metal projections isolated
by wooden panels, and on each there lies a photograph album or some
other book, in order to give these diabolical machines, which I am
inclined to think are accumulators, an innocuous appearance. Moreover,
on a roof in the Rue Censier, exactly opposite my summer-house, I see
two workmen. I cannot make out what they are doing, but they seem to
have an eye on my glass-door and are busy with objects which I cannot
distinguish.

Why do I not escape? Because I am too proud, and must bear the
inevitable. I therefore prepare myself for the night. I take a bath,
and am especially careful to wash my feet, for my mother has told me
when a child, that there is something disgraceful in dirty feet. I
shave and perfume myself, and put on the underclothes which I bought
three years ago in Vienna for my wedding--the toilet of a man condemned
to die. I read the psalms in the Bible in which David invokes the wrath
of the Eternal upon his enemies. I do not read the penitential psalms.
I have no right to remorse, for it is not I who have guided my destiny.
I have never requited evil with evil, except when I had to defend
myself. To be remorseful is to criticise Providence, which imposes sin
on us as a suffering, in order to purify us through the disgust with
which each evil deed inspires us.

The summing up of my reckoning with life is as follows: If I have
sinned, on my word of honour, I have been sufficiently punished. That
is certain. As to the fear of hell, I have wandered through a thousand
hells, without trembling, and have experienced enough of them to feel
an intense desire to depart from the vanities and false joys of this
world, which I always despised. Born with a heavenly homesickness,
I wept as a child over the filthiness of life, and felt strange and
homeless among relations and friends. From childhood onwards I have
sought for God and found the Devil. I have borne the cross of Christ in
my youth, and have denied a God who delights to reign over slaves who
love their tormentor.

       *       *       *       *       *

As I let down the curtains of my glass-door, I see a number of ladies
and gentlemen sitting at their champagne in the private drawing-room.
They seem to be strangers just arrived this evening. But they are not a
merry company; their faces are all serious, they discuss, seem to form
plans, and speak in an undertone with each other, as though it were a
conspiracy. To intensify my mental torture, they turn round on their
chairs, and point with their fingers in the direction of my room. About
ten o'clock I extinguish my lamp, and go to sleep quietly, resigned as
a dying man.

I wake up. A clock strikes two; a door is fastened, and--I am out of
bed, as though someone had applied an air-pump to my heart and drawn
me out _so_. At the same time an electric stream strikes my neck, and
presses me to the ground. I rise again, seize my clothes and rush, my
heart beating violently, into the garden. When I have dressed myself,
my first clear thought is to go to the police and have the house
searched. But the front door is shut, and so is the porter's box. I
grope my way on, open a door on the right, and step into the kitchen,
in which a lamp is burning. I upset it, and stand in pitch darkness.

Fear restores me to my senses, and I return to my room with the
thought: "If I make a mistake, I am lost." I drag a chair out into
the garden, and, sitting under the starry sky, I reflect on what is
happening. Am I ill? Impossible: for until I disclosed my incognito, I
was quite well. Is it an attack? Yes, because I saw the preparations
for it going on. For the rest, I feel better here outside in the
garden beyond the power of my enemies, and my heart beats quite
regularly. While reflecting thus, I hear someone cough in the room
adjoining mine. It is at once answered by a low cough from the room on
the other side. Doubtless it is a signal, just like the one I heard my
last night in the Pension Orfila. I try to open forcibly the glass-door
of the ground-floor room, but the bolt holds.

Wearied by the useless fight against invisible powers, I sink on
a garden seat. Sleep has pity on me, so that under the stars of a
beautiful summer night I fall asleep among the roses whispering in the
warm airs of July.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sun awakes me, and I thank Providence which has saved me from
death. I pack my things, and mean to go to Dieppe to find shelter with
some friends, whom I have neglected as I have all others, but who are
considerate and generous towards the fallen and shipwrecked. When I ask
to speak to the directress of the house, she is not visible, and sends
a message to say she is unwell. I might have expected that she would be
involved in the plot against me. I leave the house with a curse on the
head of my knavish enemies, and call on heaven to send down fire on
this den of robbers--whether rightly or wrongly, who knows? My Dieppe
friends were alarmed, when they saw me mounting the hill of their town
with my bag heavy with manuscripts.

"Where have you come from, poor fellow?"

"I come from death."

"I doubt it, for you look as if you had not been dug out yet."

The kind, good-hearted lady of the house takes me by the hand and leads
me before a looking-glass, that I may see myself. I certainly look a
pitiable object; my face blackened by smoke from the engine, my cheeks
fallen in, my hair grown grey, my eyes staring wildly, and my linen
dirty.

But when I was left alone in the dressing-room by my kind hostess,
who treated me like a sick, deserted child, I examined my face more
closely. There was an expression in my features which alarmed me.
It was not fear of death or wickedness, but something else, and had
I at that time known Swedenborg, he would have explained to me the
impression made by the evil spirit on my soul, and the occurrences
of the last weeks. Now I felt ashamed and angry with myself, and my
conscience pained me on account of my ingratitude towards this family,
which had proved a harbour of refuge for me, as for so many other
shipwrecked voyagers. As a punishment, I shall be driven hence also
by the furies. Here is a beautiful artistic home, ordered domestic
economy, married happiness, with charming children, cleanness and
comfort, boundless hospitality, charitable judgment, an atmosphere of
beauty and goodness which dazzles me--a paradise, in short, and I in
the midst of it, all like a lost soul. I see spread out before my eyes
all the happiness which life can offer, and all that I have lost.

       *       *       *       *       *

I occupy an attic room looking out on a hill where there is an asylum
for old people. In the evening I observe two men looking over the wall
of the institution towards our villa, and pointing at my window. The
idea that I am being persecuted by means of electricity again takes
possession of me.

The night between the 25th and 26th of July, 1896, comes on. We have
searched together all the attic rooms near mine, and the loft itself,
so as to satisfy me that no one with evil intentions could be lurking
there. Only in a lumber-room an object of no significance in itself has
a depressing effect upon me. It is only the skin of a polar bear used
as a rug; but the gaping jaws, the threatening teeth, I lie sparkling
eyes irritate me. Why should this creature lie just now, just there?
Without taking off my clothes, I lie down on the bed, determined to
wait for the fateful hour--two o'clock.

While I am reading, midnight approaches. One o'clock strikes, and
the whole house is wrapped in slumber. At last two o'clock strikes!
Nothing happens. Then in a dare-devil spirit, or perhaps only with the
intention of making a physical experiment, I rise, open both windows,
and light two candles. Then I sit at the table behind them, expose
myself with bared breast as a mark, and challenge the unknown: "Attack,
if you dare!"

Then I feel, at first only faintly, something like an inrush of
electric fluid. I look at my compass, but it shows no sign of wavering.
It is not electricity then. But the tension increases; my heart beats
violently; I offer resistance, but as if by a flash of lightning my
body is charged with a fluid which chokes me and depletes my blood. I
rush down the stairs to the room on the ground-floor, where they have
made up for me a provisional bed in case of necessity. There I lie for
five minutes and collect my thoughts. Is it radiating electricity?
No; for the compass has not been affected. Is it a diseased state of
mind induced by fear of the fatal hour of two o'clock? No; for I have
still the courage to defy attacks, lint why must I light the candles
and attract the mysterious fluid? In this labyrinth of questioning I
find no answer, and try at last to go to sleep, but a new discharge
of electricity strikes me like a cyclone, forces me to rise from bed,
and the chase begins afresh. I hide myself behind the walls, lie down
close to the doors, or in front of the stove. Everywhere, everywhere
the furies find me. Overmastered by terror, I fly in panic from
everything and nothing, from room to room, and finish by crouching
down on the balcony. The grey-yellow light of dawn begins to break,
the sepia-coloured clouds assume fantastic and monstrous shapes, which
increase my despair. I repair to my friend's studio, lie down on the
carpet, and close my eyes. After barely five minutes' quiet, a rustle
awakes me. A mouse looks at me and seems to wish to come nearer. I
drive it away; it comes back with another one. Good Heavens! Have I
got delirium tremens, though I have been quite temperate the last
three years? (In the daytime I find that there are really mice in the
studio. It was a coincidence, then, but who caused it, and what is his
object?) I change my place, and lie down on the hall carpet. Merciful
sleep descends upon my tortured spirit, and for about half an hour I
lose consciousness of my sufferings. Then a distinct cry "Alp!" makes
me suddenly start up. "Alp!" That is the German for nightmare. "Alp"
is the word which the rainstorm caused to be formed on my paper in
the Hôtel Orfila. Who uttered that cry? No one, for the whole house
is asleep. Is it a devil's game? That is a poetical expression which
perhaps contains the whole truth.

I mount the steps to my attic. The candles have burnt to their sockets;
deep silence reigns. The Angelus rings out. It is the day of the Lord.
I open my breviary and read "De Profundis clamavi ad Te, Domine!" That
comforts me, and I sink down on the bed like a corpse.

_July_ 26_th, Sunday_.--A cyclone devastates the Jardin des Plantes.
The papers contain items which I find especially interesting. To-day,
Andrée's balloon is to ascend for its voyage to the North Pole, but
the occasion is not propitious. The storm has hurled down several
balloons, which have ascended at various points, and killed many
aeronauts.

The next morning I leave Dieppe, uttering a benediction on the house,
over whose well-deserved happiness my sadness had cast a shadow.

Since I do not wish to believe in the interference of supernatural
powers, I imagine that I am the victim of a nervous illness.
Accordingly, I make up my mind to go to Sweden and see a physician who
is a friend of mine.

As a memorial of Dieppe, I take a piece of iron-ore which has a
trefoil shape like a Gothic window, and is marked with the sign of
a Maltese cross. A child has found it on the shore, and tells me
that these stones fall from the sky and are cast by the waves on the
land. I believe him willingly, and keep the gift as a talisman, the
significance of which is hidden from me. (On the coast of Brittany
the coast-dwellers are accustomed after storms to collect stones
shaped like crosses, with a gold-like shimmer. These stones are called
"staurolites.")

       *       *       *       *       *

The little town to which I now betook myself lies in the extreme south
of Sweden, on the seacoast. It is an old pirates' and smugglers'
haunt, in which exotic traces of all parts of the world have been
left by various voyagers. My doctor's house looks like a Buddhist
cloister. The four wings of the one-storeyed house form a quadrangle,
in the centre of which the dome-shaped wood-shed resembles the tomb of
Tamerlane at Samarcand. The style of which the roof is built and faced
with Chinese bricks recalls the Farther East. An apathetic tortoise
crawls over the pavement and disappears in a Nirvana of innumerable
weeds. In the garden is a pagoda-shaped summer-house completely
overgrown by clematis.

In the whole of this cloister, with its countless rooms, there lives
only one person, the director of the district hospital. He is a
widower, solitary and independent, and from the hard discipline of life
has derived that strong and noble contempt of men which leads to a deep
knowledge of the vanity of all things, oneself included.

The entrance of this man into my life occurred in such an unexpected
manner, that I am inclined to assign it to the dramatic skill of a
_Deus ex machina_.

At our first greeting, on my arrival from Dieppe, he looks at me
inquiringly, and suddenly asks, "You have a nervous illness! Good! But
that is not all. You look so strange that I do not recognise you. What
have you been after? Dissipation, crime, lost illusions, religion? Tell
me, old fellow!"

But I tell him nothing special, for my first thought is one of
suspicion. He is prejudiced against me, has made inquiries about me
in some quarter, and wants to have me confined. I tell him about my
sleeplessness, nervousness, and bad dreams, and then we talk of other
things.

In my room ray attention is arrested by the American bed, with its four
legs topped by four brass balls, which look like the conductors of an
electric machine. Add to this an elastic mattress with copper springs,
resembling Ruhmkorff induction coils, and one can easily imagine my
rage at this diabolical coincidence. Besides, it is impossible to ask
for another bed, as I might be suspected of being mad. In order to
assure myself that nothing is concealed above me, I mount into the loft
overhead. There is only one object there, but it drives me almost to
desperation. An enormous wire-net rolled together stands immediately
over my bed. One could not wish for a better accumulator. If there is a
thunderstorm, such as is frequent here, the wire network will attract
the lightning, and I shall be lying on the conductor. But I do not
venture to say a word.

The first thing that disturbs me is the noise of a machine. Since I
have quitted the Hôtel Orfila I have a roaring in my ears like the
sound of a water-wheel. Doubting the objective existence of this noise,
I ask the cause of it, and learn that it is the printing-press close
by. The explanation is plausible, and, though little satisfied, I do
not wish to excite myself.

The dreaded night comes on. The sky is covered with clouds; the air is
close; we expect a thunderstorm. I do not venture to lie down to sleep,
and write letters for two hours. At last, overcome with weariness, I
undress myself and creep into bed. The lamp is extinguished; a terrible
stillness reigns in the house. I feel that someone is watching me in
the darkness, touches me and feels for my heart in order to suck my
blood. Without waiting any longer, I spring out of bed, fling open
the window and jump into the courtyard--but I have forgotten the
rose-bushes, whose sharp thorns pierce me through my night-shirt.
Scratched and streaming with blood, I grope about the courtyard.
Gravel-stones, thistles, and nettles lacerate my feet; unknown objects
trip me up. At last I reach the kitchen, which adjoins the doctor's
sitting-room. I knock. No answer. Suddenly I discover that it is
raining all the time. O misery of miseries! What have I done to deserve
these tortures? It is hell. Miserere! Miserere!

I knock repeatedly. It is strange that no one is at hand when I am
attacked. Always this solitude! Does it not point to a plot against me
in which all are implicated?

At last I hear the doctor's voice, "Who is there?"

"It is I: I am ill. Open, or I die!"

He opens the door. "What is the matter?"

I begin my report by giving an account of the attack in the Rue de
la Clef, which I ascribe to enemies, who persecute me by means of
electricity.

"Stop, unhappy man! Your mind is affected!"

"The devil it is! Test my intelligence; read what I write daily and
what is printed----"

"Stop! not a word to anyone! These stories of electricity are frequent
in asylum reports."

"All the better! I care so little for your asylum reports that in order
to clear the matter up, I am willing to be examined to-morrow in the
asylum at Lund."

"Then you are lost! Not a word more now! Lie down and sleep."

I refuse to do so, and insist on his hearing me; he refuses to listen.

When I am alone, I ask myself, "Is it possible that my friend, an
honourable man, who has always kept aloof from dirty transactions, at
the close of a blameless career should succumb to temptation? But who
has tempted him?" I have no answer to this question, but many surmises.
"Every man has his price," says the proverb, but a large sum must
have been necessary to bribe this strong character. But one does not
pay very highly for an ordinary piece of revenge. Therefore he must
have a strong interest in the matter himself. Stop! I have it! I have
made gold; the doctor has half-accomplished it also, although, when
asked, he denies having repeated the experiments regarding which I had
corresponded with him. He denies it, and yet as I stepped across the
pavement of the courtyard last evening I found proofs that he had been
experimenting. Therefore he is lying. Moreover, in conversation the
same evening, he enlarged on the sad consequences which the possible
manufacture of gold would entail upon mankind. Universal bankruptcy,
universal confusion, anarchy, ruin. "One would have to kill the
discoverer of the process," he concluded.

Moreover, I know the fairly modest private means of my friend. I am
astonished to hear him speak of his intended purchase of the ground on
which his dwelling stands. He is in debt, must even economise, and yet
means to be a landowner. Everything combines to render me suspicious of
my good friend.

Grant that I am suffering from persecution-mania, but what smith forges
the links of these hellish syllogisms?

"The discoverer would have to be killed." This is the thought with
which my mental torment subsides into sleep about the time of sunrise.

       *       *       *       *       *

We have commenced a cold-water cure. I have changed my room, and have
fairly quiet nights now, although not without relapses.

One evening the doctor sees the breviary lying on my table, and becomes
angry and excited. "Always this religion! That is also a symptom, don't
you know?"

"Or a necessity like other necessities!"

"Enough! I am no atheist, but I think the Almighty does not wish to be
addressed in such intimate terms as formerly. These flatteries of the
Deity belong to the past, and personally I agree with the Mohammedans,
who only ask for the gift of resignation in order to support the burden
Destiny imposes upon them with dignity."

Significant words, from which I extract some grains of gold for myself.
He carries away my breviary and Bible, and says: "Read indifferent
matters of secondary interest, world histories, or mythologies, and
leave idle dreaming. Above all things, beware of occultism, that
caricature of science. It is forbidden to us to spy out the Creator's
secrets, and woe to them who seek to do so!"

On my objecting that the occultists in Paris form a whole body by
themselves, he only says, "All the worse for them." In the evening he
brings me, without any ulterior purpose, I am sure, Victor Rydberg's
_German Mythology_.

"Here is something to send you to sleep, standing. It is better than
sulphonal."

If my good friend had known what a spark he was throwing into a keg of
powder, he would rather----

The _Mythology_ which he put into my hands is in two volumes, has
altogether a thousand pages, and opens, so to speak, of itself. My eyes
are arrested by the following lines which are imprinted in letters of
fire on my memory:--"As the legend relates, Bhrign, having out-grown
his father's teaching, became so conceited, that he believed he could
surpass his teacher. The latter sent him into the underworld where, in
order to humble him, he had to witness countless terrible things, of
which he had never had a conception."

That means: "My conceit, my pride, my ὕβρις, has been
punished by my father and teacher. And I am in hell, driven thither by
the powers. And who is my teacher? Swedenborg."

I turn over more leaves of this wonderful book: "One may compare with
this the German myth of the fields of thorns which tear the feet of the
unrighteous."

Enough! Enough! Thorns, too! That is too much! No doubt of it--I am in
hell! And in fact, real occurrences support this idea so powerfully,
that I must at last believe it.

The doctor seems to me to be struggling with conflicting emotions. At
one time he seems prejudiced against me, looks at me contemptiously,
and treats me with humiliating rudeness; at another he seems himself
unhappy, and soothes and comforts me as though I were a sick child. But
then, again, it seems to give him pleasure to be able to trample under
his feet a man of worth for whom he has formerly had a high regard.
Then he lectures me like a pitiless tormentor. I am to work, but not
to give way to exaggerated ambition; I am to fulfil my duties to my
fatherland and family: "Leave chemical speculations alone," he says;
"they are a chimera. There are so many specialists, authorities, and
professional scientists well versed in their own branches."

One day he proposes to me to write for the newest Stockholm society
paper. A fine idea, indeed! I answer him that I do not require to
write for the newest Stockholm paper, since the leading paper of Paris
and of the whole world has accepted my manuscripts. Then he plays the
incredulous, and treats me as a braggart, although he has read my
articles in the _Figaro_, and has himself translated my first one in
_Gil Blas_.

I am not angry with him; he only plays the rôle assigned to him by
Providence. I forcibly suppress the growing hatred which I feel
towards this unexpected tormentor, and curse the fate which changes
what might have been thankfulness towards a generous friend into
unnatural ingratitude.

       *       *       *       *       *

Trifling occurrences ceaselessly arouse my suspicions regarding the
doctor's evil intentions. To-day he has deposited in the garden
verandah an entirely new set of axes, saws, and hammers. What does
he want with them? In his sleeping-room are two guns and a revolver,
and in a corridor a collection of axes which are much too heavy for
merely domestic purposes. What a Satanic coincidence that I should have
these implements of execution and torture before my eyes! For I cannot
explain to myself what they mean, and why they are there. My nights now
pass fairly quietly, while the doctor has taken to roaming about at
night. Once at midnight I am startled by the sudden report of a gun.
Out of politeness I pretend not to have heard it. The next morning he
explains that a covey of woodpeckers had flown into the garden and
disturbed his sleep. Another time, at two o'clock at night, I hear the
hoarse voice of the house-keeper, and on another occasion I hear the
doctor sigh and groan and invoke "the Lord." Is this house haunted?
Who has brought me here?

I cannot suppress a smile when I see how the nightmare with which I
have been oppressed now takes possession of my gaoler. But my malicious
joy is promptly punished. I have a terrible nervous attack. My heart
seems to stop beating, and I hear two words, which I have noted in my
diary. An unknown voice calls out, "Luthardt: Druggist." Druggist! Are
they slowly poisoning me with alkaloids such as hyoscyamin, hashish,
digitalis, and stramonin, which cause delirium?

I don't know, but from that time my suspicion is doubled. They do not
dare to murder me, but they are trying to drive me mad by artificial
means, in order to make me disappear in an asylum. Appearances are
stronger and stronger against the doctor. I find out that he has
discovered my process of making gold, and that perhaps he knew it
before I did. Everything which he says contradicts itself the next
moment, and when confronted by a liar my imagination takes the bit
between its teeth and rushes beyond all reasonable bounds.

On the morning of the 8th of August I go for a walk before the town. On
the high road a telegraph post is humming: I step up to it, lay my ear
on it, and listen as if bewitched. At the foot of the post there lies
by chance a horse-shoe. I pick it up and carry it away as an omen of
good luck.

_August_ 10_th_.--The behaviour of the doctor during the last few
days has disquieted me more than ever. By his strange aspect I see
that he has struggled with himself; his face is pale; his eyes seem
dead. During the whole day he sings or whistles; a letter which he has
received has excited him much.

In the afternoon he comes home with bloody hands from an operation, and
brings a two months' old fœtus with him. He looks like a butcher,
and talks in a hateful way: "Let them kill the weak, and protect the
strong! Down with pity, for it degrades men." I hear him with alarm,
and secretly watch him, after we have wished each other good-night on
the threshold which divides our rooms. First of all, he goes in the
garden, but I cannot hear what he does. Then he steps into the verandah
adjoining my sleeping-room and stops there. He busies himself with some
fairly heavy object, and winds up a piece of clock-work which, however,
belongs to no clock. Half-undressed, I await, standing motionless, the
result of these mysterious preparations.

Then once more the well-known electric fluid streams through the
wall on my bed, seeks my breast, and under it, my heart. The tension
increases: I seize my clothes, slip through the window, and do not
dress till I am outside the house. There I am again in the street, on
the pavement, my last refuge and only friend behind me! I wander onward
without a definite aim; but when I come to myself I go direct to the
chief physician of the town. I have to ring and wait, and prepare what
to say so as not to injure my friend.

At last the doctor appears. I excuse myself for paying such an
untimely visit on the plea of sleeplessness, palpitations, and want of
confidence in my own doctor, who, I said, treated me as a hypochondriac
and would not listen to me. The doctor invites me inside, as though he
had been expecting me, asks me to take a seat, and offers me a cigar
and a glass of wine. I breathe freely at finding myself once more
treated as a respectable man, and not a wretched idiot. We chat for two
hours, and the doctor turns out to be a theosophist to whom I can tell
everything, without compromising myself. At last about midnight I rise
in order to find an hotel; the doctor, however, advises me to return
home.

"Never! he is capable of murdering me!"

"But if I accompany you?"

"Then, indeed, we should meet the enemy's fire together. But he would
never forgive me!"

"All the same, let us venture."

So I return to the house. The door is shut, and I knock. When my friend
enters after a minute, it is I who am seized with compassion, he, the
surgeon, who is accustomed to witness suffering without emotion, he,
the advocate of deliberate murder, is an object of pity indeed. He
is pale as death, trembles, stammers, and at the sight of the doctor
standing behind me seems on the point of collapse, so that I feel more
panic-struck than ever. Is it conceivable that this man intended a
murder and now feared detection? No, it is not; I reject the thought;
it is wicked. After insignificant and on my part really ridiculous
remarks, we go to our bedrooms.

       *       *       *       *       *

There occur in life such terrible incidents that the mind refuses to
retain the memory of them for a moment, but the impression remains and
becomes irresistibly alive again. Thus there comes to my mind something
which took place in the doctor's waiting-room during my night visit.
He went to fetch wine; left alone I contemplated a cupboard with carved
panels of walnut or alderwood, I forget which. As usual, the veins in
the wood formed figures in my imagination. Among them I saw in lively
presentment a head with a goat's beard, and immediately turned my back
upon it. It was Pan in person, as depicted by the ancients and as
metamorphosed later into the Devil of the Middle Ages. I content myself
by noting the fact; the owner of the cupboard, the doctor, would be
doing occult sciences a great service if he would allow the panel to be
photographed. In the _Initiation_ for November, 1896, Dr. Marc Haven
has treated of this phenomenon, which is common in all the kingdoms of
nature, and I recommend the reader to regard attentively the face on
the shell of the tortoise.

       *       *       *       *       *

After this adventure, open hostility breaks out between my friend and
me. He gives me to understand that I am an idler, and that my presence
is superfluous. To this I rejoin that I must wait for the arrival of
important letters, but that I am ready at any time to go to an hotel.
He now plays the rôle of the injured party. As a matter of fact, I
cannot leave for want of money. For the rest, I anticipate that a
turning-point in my destiny is at hand. My health is now restored
again; I sleep quietly and work diligently. The wrath of Providence
seems to have spent itself, for my exertions are crowned with success
in all quarters. If I take a book at haphazard out of the doctor's
library, it always gives the explanation I was looking for. Thus I find
in an old chemical treatise the secret of my process for making gold,
and I can now prove by metallurgic calculations and analogies that I
have made gold, and that gold has always been obtained when one has
gone to work in the same way. An essay on matter which I have written
and sent to a French review is immediately published. I show the
article to the doctor, who betrays his annoyance, since he cannot deny
the fact. Then I say to myself, "How can that man be my friend, who is
vexed at my _success_?"

_August_ 12_th_.--I buy an album at the book-shop. It is a kind
of note-book with a gilt leather cover. The design on it attracts
my attention, and constitutes, strange as it may sound, a kind of
prophecy, the interpretation of which will appear in the sequel. It
is as follows: On the left is the waxing moon in the first quarter,
surrounded by a branch in blossom; three horses' heads (trijugum)
project from the moon; above is a branch of laurel; beneath three
pillars; on the right hand, a bell out of which flowers appear; a wheel
like a sun, etc.

_August_ 13_th_.--The day announced by the clock on the Boulevard St.
Michel has arrived. I wait for something to happen, but in vain; none
the less. I am certain that somewhere something is happening, the
result of which I shall hear in a short time.

_August_ 14_th_.--On the street I pick up a leaf out of an old office
calendar; in large type there is printed on it "August 13th" (the same
date which was on the clock). Underneath in smaller type is a sentence,
"Do nothing secretly which thou canst not do also openly."

_August_ 15_th_.--A letter from my wife. She bewails my lot; she still
loves me, and with our child is waiting for a change in the melancholy
situation. Her parents, who formerly hated me, are full of sympathy
for my sufferings, and what is more, they invite me to visit my little
angel of a daughter, who lives with her grandparents in the country.
That calls me back to life. My child, my daughter is more than my wife.
Only to think of embracing the harmless, innocent creature, whom I
wished to injure,[1] to ask her forgiveness, to brighten her life by
little paternal attentions, after having longed for years to show the
love which has been repressed! I live again, wake up as if out of a
long bad dream, and revere the stern will of the Lord, whose hard but
wise hand has smitten me. "Blessed is he whom God chastens." Blessed,
for he does not trouble about others.

While it is still uncertain whether I shall meet my wife on the Danube,
a matter to which, because of an undefined grudge against her, I am
quite indifferent, I prepare for my pilgrimage, perfectly aware that it
is a penance, and that new mortifications await me.

After thirty days of misery, at last the doors of my torture-chamber
open. I part from my friend--my executioner--without bitterness. He has
only been the scourge in the hand of Providence. Behold, blessed is the
man whom the Lord chasteneth.

[1] See above, page 38.



VII

BEATRICE


In Berlin, I drive from the Stettin to the Anhalt Station. The
half-hour's drive becomes a real way of thorns for me, so many are
the memories which painfully revive in me. At first we pass through
the street in which my friend Popoffsky, as an unknown, but yet
misunderstood, man fought his first battles with poverty and passion.
Now his wife and child are both dead; they died in this house on the
left; and our friendship has turned into bitter hatred.

Here, on the right, are the restaurants frequented by artists and
authors, the scenes of so many intellectual and erotic orgies. Here is
the Cantina Italiana, where I used to meet with my fiancée three years
ago, and where the first honorarium I received from Italy was spent in
Chianti. There is the Schiffbauerdamm with the Pension Fulda, which we
lived in when a young married pair. Here is my theatre, my book-seller,
my tailor, my chemist.

What unhappy instinct leads the cabman to drive me through this _via
dolorosa_ full of buried memories, which at this late hour of the night
rise again like ghosts? Why does he choose just the street in which
is the restaurant, the "Black Pig," well known as a favourite resort
of Heine and E.T.A. Hoffmann? The restaurant keeper himself stands
on the steps under the grotesque sign-board. He looks at me without
recognition. For a second the candelabrum within darts coloured rays
through the numerous bottles in the window, and makes me live again a
year of my life which abounded in grief and joy, friendship and love.
At the same time, I feel keenly that it is all over, and must be buried
to make place for something new.

I spent the night in Berlin. The next morning a deep rose-red flush in
the East greeted me over the roofs. I remember having seen this rosy
colour in Malmö on the evening of my departure. I leave Berlin, my
second home, where I have spent my "second spring," that is, my last.
At the Anhalt Station, full of these memories, I give up all hope of
the renewal of a spring and a love which can never return.

After a night in Tabor, whither the rosy glow followed me, I travel
through the Bohemian mountains to the Danube. There the railway ends,
and I traverse the Danube plain, which extends to Grein, in a carriage.
We pass between orchards of apple and pear trees, cornfields and green
meadows. At last, on a hill on the other side of the river, I discover
the little church in which I never was, but which I know well as the
central point of the landscape which extends before the house where my
child was born. It is now two years since that unforgettable month of
May. I pass through villages and convents; along the road there rise
innumerable penitential chapels, hills crowned with crucifixes, votive
pictures, monuments, reminding one of accidents and sudden deaths
by lightning, and in other ways. At the end of my pilgrimage there
certainly await me the twelve stations of the Cross. Every hundred
paces the Crucified meets me with His crown of thorns, and instils into
me courage to bear scourging and crucifixion. I painfully convince
myself beforehand, that she, as I might have known, will not be there.
Now, since my wife can no more divert the domestic storm, I must
expect tit-for-tat from the old parents, whom I left under unpleasant
circumstances, though against my will. I come accordingly for the sake
of peace to be punished, and when I have passed the last village and
the last crucifix, my feelings are something like those of a condemned
man awaiting execution.

       *       *       *       *       *

I had left an infant six weeks old, and I found a little girl of two
and a half. She turned on me a searching look, but not one of dislike,
as though she wished to find out whether I had come for her own or her
mother's sake. After she had assured herself of the former, she let
herself be embraced, and put her little arms round my neck. I am in a
mood like Faust's when he exclaims, "the earth has me again," but more
tender and purer. I am delighted in taking the little one on my arm,
and feeling her heart beat against mine. Love for a child turns a man
into a woman; it is sexless and heavenly, as Swedenborg says. This
is the beginning of my education for heaven. But I have not yet done
penance enough.

Briefly put, the situation is as follows: My wife is staying with her
married sister, for her grandmother, who is in possession of the family
property, has vowed that our marriage shall be dissolved, so intensely
does she hate me, on account of my ingratitude and other matters.
So I with my child remain as a welcome guest of my mother-in-law,
and contentedly accept the hospitality offered me, under present
circumstances, for an indefinite time. My mother-in-law, with the
placable and submissive mind of a deeply religious woman, has forgiven
me all.

_September_ 1_st_.--I occupy the room in which my wife has spent her
two years of separation. Here she has suffered, while I suffered in
Paris. Poor, poor woman! Are we so severely punished, because we have
trifled with love?

During the evening meal the following incident happens. In order to
help my little daughter, who cannot yet help herself, I touch her hand
quite gently and kindly. The child utters a cry, draws her hand back,
and casts at me a glance full of alarm. When her grandmother asks what
is the matter, she answers, "He hurts me." In my confusion I am unable
to utter a word. How many persons have I deliberately hurt, and hurt
still, though without intending it. At night I dream of an eagle which
tears at my hand for some unknown crime.

In the morning my daughter visits me; her manner is gentle and coaxing.
She drinks coffee with me, and remains standing by my writing-table
while I show her pictures. We are already good friends, and my
mother-in-law is glad that she has someone to help her in educating the
little one. In the evening I accompany her going to bed, and hear her
prayers. She is a Catholic, and when she bids me pray and make the sign
of the cross, I remain silent, for I am a Protestant.

_September_ 2_nd_.--Everything is in confusion. My mother-in-law's
mother, who lives not far from here on the bank of the stream, intends
to have an expulsion order made out against me. She wants me to go
at once, and threatens if I disobey to disinherit her daughter. My
mother-in-law's sister, a good woman, who is separated from her
husband, invites me to stay with her in the neighbouring village till
the storm has blown over. She comes herself to fetch me. From the top
of a hill about a mile off, one looks into a circular valley, like the
crater of a volcano, out of which rise many smaller hills covered with
pines. In the middle of this crater lies the village with its church,
and above, on a precipitous height, a castle built in the mediæval
style; between, lie fields and meadows watered by a stream which rushes
into a ravine below the castle.

This peculiar and unique landscape makes a strange impression on me,
and the thought arises: "I must have seen it somewhere before, but
where, where?"

In the zinc bath in the Hôtel Orfila, traced out in oxide of iron!
Without question, it is the same landscape!

My aunt goes down with me into the village, where she owns a
three-storeyed house. The capacious edifice also contains a baker's and
butcher's shop, and a restaurant. It has a lightning-conductor, because
the store was a year ago struck by lightning. When my good aunt, who is
as rigidly religious as her sister, conducts me to the room assigned
for my use, I remain fixed on the threshold as if arrested by a vision.
The walls are painted a rose-colour, which reminds me of the flush of
the dawns which accompanied me on my journey. The curtains are also
rose-coloured, and the windows so full of flowers that the daylight is
subdued by them. Everything is spotlessly clean, and the bed with its
canopy supported by four pillars is like that of a maiden. The whole
room with its appurtenances is a poem, and speaks of a soul which only
half lives upon earth. The Crucified is not there, but the Blessed
Virgin is, and a vessel of holy water guards the entrance against evil
spirits.

A feeling of shame seizes me, and I fear to sully the ideal of a pure
heart which has erected this temple to the Virgin over the grave of her
only love, who has been dead ten years, and in confusion I attempt to
decline the kindly offer. But the good lady insists: "It will do you
good, if you sacrifice your earthly love to the love of God, and of
your child. Believe me, this thornless love will preserve your peace of
mind and cheerfulness of spirit, and under the protection of the Virgin
you will sleep quietly."

I kiss her hand as a sign of gratitude for her sacrifice, and consent
with a feeling of humility of which I had not thought myself capable.
The powers seem to be gracious to me, and to have arranged the
sufferings they have ordained for my improvement. Still, for some
reason or other, I wish to sleep another night in Saxen, and put off
my change of residence till the next day. So I return with my aunt to
my child. Looking at the house from the street, I discover that the
lightning-conductor is fastened exactly above my bed.

What an infernal coincidence! It makes me think again that I am the
subject of a personal persecution. I also notice that my window
commands a pleasant prospect, looking out as it does on a poorhouse
occupied by released criminals and sick people, among whom several are
dying. A sorry spectacle truly, to have continually before one's eyes!

In Saxen I pack my things and prepare for departure. I part with sorrow
from my child, who has become so dear to me. The cruelty of the old
woman, who has succeeded in separating me from wife and child, enrages
me. Angrily I shake my fist against a painting of her which hangs
over my bed, and utter an imprecation against her. Two hours later a
terrible storm breaks over the village. One lightning flash succeeds
another, the rain pours in torrents, the sky is pitch dark.

The next day I am in Klam, where the rose-coloured room awaits me. Over
my aunt's house there hangs a cloud in the shape of a dragon. They tell
me that a house quite close by has been struck by lightning, and that
the torrents of rain have injured haystacks and carried away bridges.

On the 10th of September a cyclone has devastated Paris, and that under
most extraordinary circumstances. Without any warning, it suddenly
rises behind St. Sulpice in the Jardin de Luxembourg, grazes the
Théâtre du Châlet and the police station, and disappears behind the
St. Louis hospital, after it has torn up iron gratings for fifty yards
round. Regarding this cyclone and the one in the Jardin des Plantes, my
theosophical friend asks me, "What is a cyclone? Is it an ebullition of
hatred, the eruption of some passion, the effluence of some spirit?"

It must be a coincidence, or rather, more than a coincidence, that in
a letter which crosses his, I have asked him as one initiated in the
occult doctrines of the Hindus, "Can the philosophers of Hindustan
cause cyclones?"

I began to suspect the adepts in magic of persecuting me on account of
my gold-making or my obstinacy, and of wishing to bring me in complete
subjection to their society. In the _German Mythology_ of Rydberg and
in _Wärend och Widarne_ of Hilten-Cavallius, I had read that witches
were in the habit of appearing in a storm or in short and violent gusts
of wind. I mention this to show my mental condition before I fell in
with Swedenborg's teaching.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sanctuary shines in white and rose, and the saint will soon join
his disciple, who summons him from their common fatherland in order
to revive the memory of the man who was more highly equipped with
spiritual gifts than any born of woman in these modern times. France
sent Anskar[1] in the early middle ages to baptise Sweden; a thousand
years later Sweden sent Swedenborg to re-baptise France by means of
his disciple Saint-Martin. The Martinist orders, who know the rôle
they have to play in the founding of a new France, will not undervalue
the purport of these words, and still less the significance of the
above-mentioned millennium.


[1] French missionary (801-865 A.D.).



VIII

SWEDENBORG


My mother-in-law and my aunt completely resemble each other in
character, tastes, and inclinations, and each sees in the other her
counterpart. On the first evening of my stay I narrate to them my
mysterious adventures, doubts, and sufferings. They both exclaim,
with a certain look of satisfaction in their faces, "You are where
we have already been." Both starting from a neutral point of view
as regards religion had begun to study occultism. From that moment
onwards they suffered from sleepless nights, mysterious accidents
accompanied by terrible fears, and at last, attacks of madness. The
invisible furies pursue their prey up to the very gates of the city
of refuge--religion. But before they have got so far the protecting
angel reveals himself--and that is Swedenborg. The good ladies wrongly
suppose that I have a thorough acquaintance with the writings of my
fellow-countrymen. Astonished at my ignorance, they give me, with a
certain air of reserve, however, an old volume in German, saying, "Take
it, read, and don't be afraid."

"Afraid? Why should I be?" I answer.

Returning to the rose-coloured room, I open the book at haphazard and
read. The reader may conceive my astonishment when my eyes fall on the
description of one of Swedenborg's hells which exactly reproduces the
landscape of Klam, as I saw it in the zinc bath. The crater-shaped
valley, the pine-crowned hill, the ravine with the stream, the heaps of
dung, the pig-sty--they are all there.

Hell? But I have been brought up in the profoundest contempt of the
doctrine of hell, as one consigned to the rubbish-heap of out-worn
ideas. And yet I cannot deny the fact--and that is the novelty in
this exposition of the doctrine of so-called eternal punishment? we
are already in hell. Earth, earth is hell? the dungeon appointed by
a superior power, in which I cannot move a step without injuring the
happiness of others, and in which others cannot remain happy without
hurting me. Thus Swedenborg depicts hell, and perhaps without knowing
it, earthly life, at the same time.

The fire of hell is the wish to rise in the world; the powers awaken
this wish and allow the damned souls to get all they want. But as
soon as the goal is reached, and the wish is fulfilled, everything is
seen to be worthless and the victory is null and void. Oh, vanity of
vanities! Then, after the first disappointment, the powers rekindle
the flame of ambition and desire; and satisfied greed and satiety are
still a worse torment than unquenched appetite. Thus the Devil suffers
everlasting punishment, for he gets all he wants at once, so that he
cannot enjoy it.

When I compare the Swedenborgian hells with the punishments described
in the _German Mythology_, I find an obvious likeness, but for me the
bare fact that both these books have fallen into my hand exactly at
the right moment is the essential point. I am in hell, and damnation
weighs upon me like a heavy burden. When I go over my past, my
childhood already appears to me like a prison house or torture chamber.
In order to explain the sufferings inflicted upon innocent children,
one has only to suppose an earlier existence, out of which we have
been cast down in order to bear the consequences of forgotten sins.
With a docile mind, which is my chief weakness, I receive a deep and
sombre impression from my reading of Swedenborg. And the powers let
me rest no more. Walking along the little brook in the neighbourhood
of the village, I reach the so-called ravine path between the two
mountains. The entrance between fallen and precipitous rocks has a
wonderful attraction for me. The almost perpendicular hill, crowned by
the deserted castle, forms the gate of the ravine, in which the stream
drives a water-mill. A freak of nature has given the rock the form of
a Turk's head, a fact well known in the neighbourhood. Underneath, the
miller's shed leans against the wall of rock. Upon the latch of the
door hangs a goat's horn smeared over with fat, and by it stands a
broom. This is certainly quite natural and ordinary, yet I cannot help
asking myself what devil has put these two symbols of witchcraft, the
goat's horn and the broom, just this morning in my way? I press farther
on up the damp, dark, and uneven path, and come to a wooden building,
the strange aspect of which makes me stop. It is a long, low erection,
with six openings like oven doors. Oven doors! Ye gods, where am I then?

The image of Dante's hell, the red-glowing tombs of the heresiarchs,
rises before me--and the six oven doors! Is it a bad dream? No,
commonplace fact, for a frightful stench, a stream of dirt, and a
chorus of grunting reveals to me immediately that I have a pig-sty in
front of me.

Between the miller's house and the hill, just under the Turk's head,
the path contracts to a narrow passage. As I go farther along it,
I find myself confronted by a large, wolf-coloured Danish dog, a
counterpart of the monster which guarded the studio in the Rue de la
Santé in Paris. I retreat two steps, but immediately remember Jacques
Cœur's motto, "To a brave heart nothing is impossible," and press
onward into the ravine. Cerberus appears not to notice me, and so I
pursue the path which now winds between low and gloomy houses. On one
side, a black, tailless fowl with a red comb is running about, on the
other a woman wearing a red crescent-shaped ornament on her forehead
comes out of a house. She looks beautiful at first, but as she comes
nearer, I see that she is toothless and ugly.

The waterfall and the mill combined make a noise like that roaring in
the ears which I had during my first period of disquiet in Paris. The
white-powdered miller's men, who control the machinery, look like
angels or executioners, and the never-ceasing stream of water rushes
from under the great never-resting wheel. Then I reach the smithy
with its bare-armed, blackened workmen armed with tongs, choppers,
screw-vices, and hammers; amid the flames and sparks of the furnace
there lie red-glowing iron and molten lead. There is a frightful din,
which makes my brain vibrate and my heart leap. Farther on groans the
great saw of the saw-mill, and tortures with gnashing teeth the giant
tree-trunks which lie on the block, while the sawdust trickles down on
the damp ground.

The ravine-path, terribly devastated by cyclones and storms, continues
along the stream; the subsiding overflow has left a greyish-green layer
of mud behind, covering the sharp pebbles on which my feet continually
slip. I wish to cross the water, but since the little bridge has been
swept away, I halt under a precipice whose overhanging rock threatens
to fall on an image of the Virgin, who seems to support the sinking
hill on her tender shoulders.

Meditating on this combination of coincidences, which, taken together,
without being supernatural, form a remarkable whole, I return home.

       *       *       *       *       *

Eight days and eight quiet nights I spend in the rose-coloured room. My
peace of mind returns with the daily visits of my little daughter, who
loves me, and whom I love. By my relations I am treated like a sick,
spoilt child. The reading of Swedenborg occupies me during the day and
depresses me by the realism of its descriptions. All my observations,
feelings, and thoughts are so vividly reflected there, that his visions
seem to me like experiences and real "human documents." It is no
question of blind faith; it is enough for me to read his experiences
and to compare with them my own. The book I have is only an extract;
the chief riddle of the spiritual life will be solved for me later on
when his _Arcana Cœlestia_ falls into my hands. In the midst of my
reflections, which lead to the newly-won conviction that there is a God
who punishes, some lines of Swedenborg comfort me, and immediately I
begin to excuse myself and yield to my old pride. In the evening I take
my mother-in-law into my confidence, and ask her, "Do you think I am a
damned soul?"

"No; although I have never seen any human destiny like yours; but you
have not yet found the right way to lead you to the Lord."

"Do you remember Swedenborg and his _Principia Cœli_, how he
describes the stages of spiritual progress? First, an elevated
ambition. Now, my ambition has never led me to strive after honour, nor
to try to impress people with a sense of my ability. Secondly, love of
happiness and money, in order to profit people. You know that I seek
no gain and despise money. As regards my gold-making, I have sworn in
the presence of the powers that any profits I made should be used for
humanitarian, scientific, and religious objects. Finally, wedded love.
Need I say that from my youth I have concentrated my love of woman
on the idea of marriage, of the family, and the wife. What in actual
experience befell me that I should marry the widow of a man who was
still alive, is an irony of fate which I cannot explain, but which
cannot be regarded as a serious misdemeanour when contrasted with the
irregularities of ordinary bachelor life."

After some moments of reflection, my mother-in-law replied: "I cannot
dispute your assertion; for I have found in your writings a spirit
of aspiration and endeavour, whose efforts have been involuntarily
frustrated. Certainly, you must be doing penance, for sins which you
committed before your birth. You must in your former existence have
been a blood-stained conqueror, and therefore you suffer repeatedly the
terrors of death without being able to die. Now be religious inwardly
and outwardly."

"You mean that I should become a Catholic?"

"Yes."

"Swedenborg says it is forbidden to quit the religion of one's fathers,
for everyone belongs to the spiritual territory on which he is born."

"The Catholic religion receives graciously everyone who seeks it."

"I will be content with a lower position. In case of need I can find a
place among the Jews and Mohammedans, who are also admitted to heaven.
I am modest."

"Grace is offered you, but you prefer the mess of pottage to the right
of the first-born."

"The right of the first-born for the _Son of a Servant_[1] Too much!
Too much!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Restored to self-respect by Swedenborg, I regard myself once more as
Job, the righteous and sinless man, whom the Eternal tries in order
to show the wicked the example of a righteous man enduring unjust
sufferings.

My pious vanity is tickled by the idea. I am proud of the distinction
of being persecuted by misfortune, and am never weary of repeating,
"See! how I have suffered." Before my relatives I accuse myself of
living in too much luxury, and my rose-coloured room seems to me to
be a satire upon me. They notice my sincere repentance, and overwhelm
me with kindnesses and little indulgences. In brief, I am one of the
elect; Swedenborg has said it, and confident of the protection of the
Eternal, I challenge the demons to combat.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the eighth day which I spend in my rose-coloured room the news
arrives that my mother-in-law's mother, who lives on the bank of the
Danube, is ill. She has a pain in the liver accompanied with vomiting,
sleeplessness, and attacks of palpitation at night. My aunt whose
hospitality I enjoy is summoned thither, and I am to return to my
mother-in-law in Saxen. To my objection that the old lady has forbidden
it, they reply that she has withdrawn her order of expulsion, so that
I am free to arrange my residence where I like. This sudden change of
mind astonishes me, and I hardly dare to attribute it to her illness.
The next day she gets worse. My mother-in-law gives me in the name
of her mother a bouquet as a sign of reconciliation, and tells me in
confidence that, besides other wild fancies, the old lady thinks she
has a snake in her body. The next news is that she has been robbed of
1000 gulden, and suspects her landlady of stealing them. The latter
is enraged at the unjust suspicion and wishes to bring an action for
libel. The old lady, who had retired hither to die quietly, finds her
domestic peace completely destroyed. She is continually sending us
something--flowers, fruit, game, pheasants, poultry, fish.

Is the old lady's conscience troubled at the prospect of judgment? Does
she remember that she once had me put out on the street, and so obliged
me to go to hospital? Or is she superstitious? Does she think she is
bewitched by me? Perhaps the presents she sends are meant as offerings
to the wizard, to still his thirst for vengeance.

Unfortunately, just at this juncture, there comes a work on magic
from Paris containing information regarding so-called witchcraft. The
author tells the reader that he must not regard himself as innocent,
if he merely avoids using magic arts; one must rather keep watch over
one's own evil will, which by itself alone is capable of exercising an
influence over others in their absence.

The results of this teaching on my mind are twofold. In the first
place, it arouses my scruples at the present juncture, for I had
raised my fist in anger against the old lady's picture and cursed her.
Secondly, it reawakens my old suspicions that I myself am the victim
of mal-practices on the part of occultists or theosophists. Pangs of
conscience on one side, fear on the other! And the two millstones begin
to grind me to powder.

       *       *       *       *       *

Swedenborg describes Hell as follows: The damned soul inhabits a
splendid palace, leads a luxurious life there, and regards himself as
one of the elect. Gradually the splendours disappear, and the wretched
soul finds that it is confined in a wretched hovel and surrounded by
filth. This is parallelled in my own experience.

The rose-coloured room has disappeared, and as I remove into a large
chamber near that of my mother-in-law, I feel that my stay here will
not be of long duration. As a matter of fact, all possible trifles
combine to poison my life and to deprive me of the necessary quiet
for work. The planks of the floor sway under my feet, the table
wobbles, the chair is unsteady, the articles on the washing-stand clash
together, the bed creaks, and the rest of the furniture moves whenever
I cross the floor. The lamp smokes, the ink-pot is too narrow so that
the pen-holder gets inky. The farmhouse smells of dung and manure,
ammonia, sulphuretted hydrogen, and sulphuric acid. The whole day there
is a noise of cows, swine, calves, cocks, turkeys, and doves. Flies
and wasps worry me by day, and gnats by night. At the village shop
there is nothing to be had. Because there is no other sort, I must use
rose-coloured ink. Strange, too! In a packet of cigarette papers which
I buy there is a single rose-coloured one among a hundred white. It is
a miniature hell, and I, who am accustomed to bear great sufferings,
suffer inexpressibly from these needle-pricks, all the more that my
mother-in-law believes that I am not satisfied by her kind attentions.

       *       *       *       *       *

_September_ 17_th_.--I awake at night and hear the church clock of the
village strike thirteen. Immediately I feel the electric band encircle
me, and think I hear a noise in the attic above me.

_September_ 19_th_.--I search the attic and discover a dozen distaffs,
the wheels of which remind me of electric machines. I open a large
box; it is empty; only five staves painted black, the use of which is
unknown to me, lie in the form of a pentagram at the bottom of the box.
Who has played me this trick, and what does it mean? I do not venture
to ask anything about it, and the riddle remains unsolved.

Between midnight and two o'clock a terrible storm breaks out. As a rule
a storm exhausts itself and soon subsides; this one, however, remains
raging for two hours over the village. Every lightning flash is a
personal attack on me, but none of them strike me.

In the evening my mother-in-law relates to me the history of the
district. What a monstrous collection of domestic and other tragedies,
consisting of adulteries, divorces, lawsuits between relatives,
murders, thefts, violations, incests, slanders. The castles, the
villas, the huts are occupied by unhappy people of all kinds, and I
cannot take my walks without thinking of Swedenborg's hells. Beggars,
imbeciles of both sexes, sick persons and cripples line the high roads
or kneel at the foot of a crucifix, a Madonna, or a martyr. At night
the wretched creatures try to escape their sleeplessness and their
bad dreams by wandering about in the meadows and woods in order to
fatigue themselves, and to be able to sleep. Members of good society,
well-educated ladies, even a pastor, are among them.

Not far from us is a convent which serves as a penitentiary and rescue
home. It is a real prison, in which the strictest rules prevail. In
the winter when the thermometer registers twenty degrees of frost,
the penitents must sleep on the cold stone pavement of their cells,
and their hands and feet, which they cannot warm, are covered with
chilblains.

Among the others is a woman who has sinned with a priest, which is
a deadly sin. Tortured by pangs of conscience, she flies in her
despair to her confessor, who, however, refuses her absolution and
the sacrament. A deadly sin entails damnation. Then the wretched
creature loses her reason, imagines that she is dead, wanders from
village to village and implores the priests to be merciful and to bury
her in consecrated ground. Shunned and driven away everywhere, she
wanders about, howling like a wild beast, and those who see her cross
themselves and exclaim, "She is damned!" No one doubts but that her
soul is already in hell, while her shadow, a wandering corpse, wanders
about as a terrible warning.

They tell me of a man who, possessed by the Devil, has so altered his
personality that the Evil One can make him utter blasphemies against
his will. After long search they discover a suitable exorcist in a
young Franciscan monk of acknowledged purity of life. He prepares
himself by fast and penance; the great day comes, and the possessed man
makes his confession in church before the people. Thereupon the young
monk sets to work and succeeds, after prayers and conjurations which
last an entire day, in driving out the Devil. The alarmed spectators
have not ventured to relate the details of the affair. A year later
the young monk dies. These and still more tragic narratives confirm
me in my conviction that this district has been marked out as a place
for penance, and there must be some mysterious connection between this
neighbourhood and Swedenborg's hell. Has he perhaps visited this part
of upper Austria, and, just as Dante describes the region south of
Naples, drawn from nature in his account of hell?

       *       *       *       *       *

After a couple of weeks have passed in work and study I am again
unsettled, as with the setting in of autumn my aunt and mother-in-law
wish to live together in Klam. We therefore break up our camp. In order
to preserve my independence, I hire a cottage consisting of two rooms,
so as to be quite close to my little daughter.

The first evening after settling in my new quarters I am overcome
by a terrible depression, as though the air were poisoned. I go to
my mother-in-law: "If I sleep up there you will find me dead in bed
to-morrow. Shelter a pilgrim for this night, my good mother!"

The rose-coloured room is at once placed at my disposal, but, good
heavens! how it has altered since my aunt's departure! There is black
furniture in it; the empty pigeon-holes of a bookcase gape like so many
jaws; a tall iron oven, ornamented with ugly devices of salamanders
and dragons, confronts me like a spectre. In a word, there reigns such
a disharmony in the room as makes me feel poorly. Moreover, every
irregularity upsets my nerves, for I am a man of ordered habits who
does everything at stated hours. In spite of my efforts to conceal my
dissatisfaction, my mother-in-law reads my thoughts.

"Always dissatisfied, my child?"

She does her best to allay my discontent, but when the spirit of
dissension is once aroused, everything is in vain. She tries to
remember my favourite dishes, but everything goes wrong. There is
nothing I dislike more than calf's head with brown butter.

"Here is something nice," she says to me, "expressly for you," and
sets calf's head with brown butter before me. I understand that
it is an unconscious mistake on her part, but can only eat with
scarcely-concealed repugnance and simulated appetite.

"You are not eating anything!"

It is too much! Formerly I attributed these annoyances to feminine
malice; now I acquit everyone and say, "It is the Devil!"

       *       *       *       *       *

From my early days I am accustomed to plan out the day's work during
my morning walk. No one, not even my wife, has ever been allowed to
accompany me on it. And, as a matter of fact, in the morning my mind
rejoices in a feeling of harmony and happy elevation which borders on
ecstasy. My corporeal part seems to have disappeared, my griefs to have
fled; I am all soul. The early morning is my time of self-collection,
my hour of prayer, my matins.

Now I must sacrifice it all, and give up my most innocent pleasure. The
powers compel me to renounce this last and purest enjoyment. My little
daughter wishes to accompany me. I embrace her tenderly, and tell her
why I wish to be alone, but she does not understand it. She cries, and
I have not the heart to sadden her to-day, but make a firm resolve not
to allow her again to misuse her rights. She is certainly thoroughly
fascinating as a child, with her originality, her cheerfulness, her
gratitude for trifles, that is, when one has leisure to be occupied
with her. But when one is absent-minded and distracted, it is intensely
annoying to be plagued with endless questions and changes of mood about
mere nothings.

My little one is as jealous as a lover about my thoughts; she seems to
watch for the exact opportunity to destroy a carefully-woven web of
thought with her prattle--but no, it is not she who does it; she is
only an instrument, but I seem to be the object of deliberate attacks
by a poor little innocent. I go on with slow steps; I don't seek to
escape any more, but my soul is a prisoner, and my brain exhausted
by the effort of continually having to descend to a child's level.
What, however, pains me intensely is the deep, reproachful look she
casts at me when she thinks I find her a nuisance, and imagines that I
love her no longer. Then her open joyous little face falls, her looks
are averted, her heart is closed to me, and I feel myself bereft of
the light which this child had brought into my dark soul. I kiss her,
take her on my arm, look for flowers and pretty pebbles for her, cut
a switch for her, and pretend to be a cow which she is driving to the
meadow. She is contented and happy, and life smiles at me again.

I have sacrificed my morning hour. So do I atone for the evil which in
a moment of madness I had wished to conjure down on this angel's head.
What a penance--to be loved! Truly the powers are not so cruel as we
are!


[1] The title of Strindberg's first autobiography.



IX

EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A DAMNED SOUL

_October, November_, 1896


The Brahmin has fulfilled his duty as regards life when he has begotten
a child. Then he goes into the desert, to dedicate himself to solitude
and asceticism.

       *       *       *       *       *

_My mother-in-law_.--"What have you done in your former human existence
that Fate deals so hardly with you?"

_I_.--"Think! Remember a man who was first married to another man's
wife, like myself, and who separated from her in order to marry an
Austrian, like myself! Then his little Austrian is torn from him, as
mine has been from me, and their only child is kept in the Bohemian
mountains as mine is. Do you remember the hero of my romance, _On the
Open Sea_, who commits suicide on an island----"

_M_.--"Enough! Enough!"

_I_.--"You don't know that my father's mother was called Neipperg----"

_M_.--"Stop! Unhappy man!"

_I_.--"And that my little Christina resembles the greatest murderer
of the century to a hair. Only look at her, the little tyrant, the
man-tamer at two and a half!"

_M_.--"You are mad."

_I_.--"Yes! And what sins have you women formerly committed, since your
lot is still harder than ours? See how justly I have called woman our
evil angel. Each has his or her deserts."

_M_.-"To be a woman is a twofold hell."

_I_.--"And so woman is a twofold devil. As regards reincarnation,
that is a Christian doctrine which has been maintained by some of the
clergy. Christ said that John the Baptist was Elijah reborn on earth.
Is that an authority or not?"

_M_.--"Yes, but the Roman Church forbids inquiry into secrets."

_I_.--"And science permits it, as soon as science itself is tolerated."

       *       *       *       *       *

The spirits of discord are abroad, and despite of the fact that we are
quite aware of their game and our freedom from blame in the matter,
our repeated misunderstandings leave a bitter wish for revenge behind
them. Moreover, both sisters suspect that my evil wishes caused their
mother's mysterious illness, and remembering that it is to my interest
to have my separation from my wife terminated, they cannot suppress the
fairly reasonable thought that the death of the old lady would cause me
joy. The mere existence of this wish makes me hateful in their eyes,
and I do not venture any more to ask how their mother is because I fear
to be regarded as a hypocrite.

The situation is strained, and my two former friends exhaust themselves
in endless discussions regarding my person, my character, my feelings,
and the sincerity of my love for the little one. At one time they
regard me as a saint, and the scars in my hands as wound-prints. And
certainly the marks on my palms resemble large nail-holes. But in
order to put an end to all ideas of saintship, I designate myself the
penitent thief, who has come down from the cross and started on his
pilgrimage to Paradise.

Another time, they try to solve the riddle by regarding me as Robert
the Devil. At that time many incidents occurred, sufficient to give
ground for fearing that I might be stoned by the inhabitants of the
place. Here is a simple fact. My little Christina has an extraordinary
dread of chimney sweeps. One evening, at supper, she suddenly begins to
scream, points at someone invisible behind my chair, and cries, "The
chimney sweep!"

My mother-in-law, who believes in the clairvoyance of children and
animals, turns pale; and I become alarmed all the more as I see my
mother-in-law make the sign of a cross over the child's head. A dead
silence ensues, which puts a stop to all cheerfulness.

       *       *       *       *       *

The autumn with its storms, heavy rains, and dark nights has come.
In the village and the poorhouse the number of the sick, dying, and
dead increases. In the night one hears the choir-boy ring the bell
before the Host. All through the day the church bell is tolling, and
one funeral follows another. Death and life have grown into a single
horror. My night attacks recommence. Prayers are said for me, beads
are told, and the holy water vessel in my room is filled by the priest
himself. "The hand of the Lord rests heavily on thee!" with these
words my mother-in-law crushes me. But slowly I recover myself. My
mental elasticity and an inborn scepticism free me again from these
black thoughts, and after the perusal of certain occult writings, I
believe myself to be persecuted by spirits of the elements, incubi and
Lamias[1] who wish to hinder me in the completion of my great work
on Alchemy. Instructed by the initiated in such matters, I procure a
Dalmatian dagger, and consider myself well-armed against evil spirits.

In the village a shoemaker dies, who was an atheist and blasphemer.
He had a jackdaw, who now left to himself lives on the roof of a
neighbouring house. While watch is being kept by the dead, they
suddenly discover the jackdaw in the room without anyone being able
to explain how it got there. On the day of the burial, the black
bird accompanies the funeral procession, and perches on the coffin
in the churchyard before the ceremony. Every morning this creature
follows me in my walk, a fact which really disquiets me because of
the superstitious nature of the people. One day, which is des-tined
to prove its last, the jackdaw accompanies me with horrible screams
and words of abuse, which the blasphemer had taught him, through the
streets of the village. Then there come two little birds, a robin
and a yellow wagtail, and follow the jackdaw from roof to roof. The
jackdaw flies outside the village and perches on the roof of a cottage.
At the same moment a black rabbit springs up before the cottage, and
disappears in the grass. Some days afterwards we hear of the jackdaw's
death. It had been killed by the street boys because of its propensity
for stealing.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the day I work in my little house. But for some time past it
seems that the powers are no longer well intentioned towards me. When
I enter the house I find the air thick, as if it had been poisoned,
and have to open doors and windows. Wrapped in a thick cloak, with
a fur cap on my head, I sit at the table and write, and resist the
so-called electric attacks which compress my chest and seize me in the
back. Often I feel as though someone were standing behind my chair.
Then I stab with the dagger behind me, and imagine I am fighting an
enemy. So it goes on till five o'clock in the afternoon. If I remain
sitting longer, the conflict becomes terrific, until, feeling wholly
exhausted, I light my lantern and go to my mother-in-law and my
child. On one occasion, as early as two or three o'clock, I find my
room full of the thick and choking atmosphere I have spoken of. But I
continue the struggle till six o'clock in order to finish an article on
chemistry. On a bunch of flowers sits a lady-bird marked with yellow
and black--the Austrian colours. It clambers about, gropes, and seeks
for a flying-off place. At last it falls on my paper, spreads out its
wings exactly like the weathercock on the church of Notre-Dame des
Champs in Paris, then crawls along the manuscript and up my right hand.
It looks at me, and then flies towards the window; the compass on the
table points towards the north.

"Very well!" I say to myself, "to the north then; but not before I
choose; till I am summoned again, I remain where I am."

Six o'clock strikes, and it is impossible to remain in this haunted
house. Unknown forces lift me from my chair and I must leave the place.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is All Souls' Day, about three o'clock in the afternoon; the sun
shines and the air is clear. The villagers are going in a procession
led by the clergy, with banners and music, to the church-yard, to
greet the dead. The bells begin to ring. Then, without a warning,
without even one cloud appearing as precursor in the pale blue sky, a
storm breaks loose. The banners flap violently against the poles, the
festal robes of the men and women are a prey of the winds. Dust-clouds
rise and whirl; trees bend. It is a real wonder.

I feel afraid of the next night, and my mother-in-law knows it. She has
given me a charm to wear round my neck. It is a Madonna and a cross
made out of consecrated wood--the timber of a church which is more
than a thousand years old. I accepted it as a valuable present offered
in good will, but a lingering respect for the religion of my fathers
prevents my wearing it round my neck.

It is about eight o'clock, and we are having our evening meal; the
lamp burns and a weird stillness reigns in our little circle. Outside
it is dark; there is no wind in the trees; all is quiet. All at once
a single gust of wind blows through the crevices of the window with
a curious humming noise like that of a Jew's-harp. Then it is past.
My mother-in-law throws a look of alarm at me and folds the child
in her arms. In a second I interpret what her look means: "Leave
us, O damned soul, and do not bring avenging demons on our innocent
heads." Everything goes to pieces; my last remaining happiness, the
companionship of my little daughter, is taken from me, and in the
gloomy silence I mentally bid the world adieu.

After the evening meal I withdraw to the once rose-coloured--now
black--room and prepare, since I feel myself threatened, for a
night-battle. With whom? I know not, but challenge the Invisible,
be it diabolic or divine, and will wrestle with It, like Jacob with
the angel. There is a knock at the door. It is my mother-in-law, who
forebodes a bad night for me, and invites me to sleep on the sofa in
her sitting-room. "The presence of the child will safeguard you," she
says. I thank her and assure her there is no danger, and that nothing
can frighten me so long as my conscience is untroubled. With a smile
she wishes me good-night.

I put on my martial cloak, boots and cap again, determined to lie down
dressed and ready to die like a brave warrior who despises life and
challenges death. About eleven o'clock the air in the room begins to
grow dense, and a deadly fear masters my courageous heart. I open the
window. The draught threatens to blow out the lamp. I close it again.
The lamp begins to make a sound between a sigh and a moan; then all is
still again.

A dog in the village howls. According to popular superstition, this
is a sign of death. I look out of the window; only the Great Bear is
visible. Down there in the poorhouse a light is burning; an old woman
is sitting bent over her work, as though she were waiting for her
release; perhaps she fears sleep and its dreams. Weary, I lie down
again on the bed, and try to sleep. At once the old game recommences.
An electric stream seeks my heart; my lungs cease to work; I must rise
or die. I sit down on a chair, but am too exhausted to be able to read,
and spend half an hour thus in listless vacancy. Then I resolve to go
for a walk till daybreak. I leave the house. The night is dark and the
village asleep, but the dogs are not. One attacks me, and then the
whole band surrounds me; their wide-open jaws and fiery eyes compel me
to retreat.

When I open the door of my room and enter, it seems to me as though it
were full of hostile living creatures through whom I must force my way
in order to reach my bed. Resigned, and resolved to die, I throw myself
upon it. But at the last moment, when the invisible vulture is about
to stifle me under its wings, someone lifts me up, and the pursuit of
the furies is at an end. Conquered, hurled to the earth, beaten down, I
quit the scene of an unequal battle and yield to the invisible. I knock
at the door on the other side of the passage. My mother-in-law, who
is still at prayer, opens the door. The expression of her face as she
looks at me makes me feel afraid of myself.

"What do you wish, my child?"

"I wish to die, and then to be burnt, or rather, burn me alive!"

She does not answer. She has understood me, and sympathy and pity
conquer her fear, so that she prepares the sofa for me with her own
hand. Then she retires to her own room where she sleeps with the
child. Through a chance--always this Satanic chance!--the sofa stands
opposite the window, and the same chance has willed that it has no
curtains, so that the black window opening gapes at me. Moreover, it is
the very same window through which the wind gust came when we were at
supper. With all my powers exhausted, I sink on the sofa. I curse this
ever-present, unavoidable "chance" which persecutes me with the obvious
purpose of making me fall a victim to persecution-mania. For five
minutes I have rest, while my eyes are fastened on the black square
of the window; then an invisible something glides over my body, and I
stand up. I remain standing in the middle of the room like a statue for
hours, half-conscious, turned to stone, I know not whether awake or
asleep.

Who gives me the strength to suffer? Who denies me the power, and
delivers me over to torments? Is it He, the Lord of life and death,
Whose wrath I have provoked, when, influenced by the pamphlet _The
Joy of Dying_, I tried to die, and considered myself already ripe for
eternal life? Am I Phlegyas doomed to the pains of Tartarus for his
pride, or Prometheus, who, because he revealed the secret of the powers
to mortals, was torn by the vulture?

(While I am writing this, I think of the scene in the sufferings of
Christ when the soldiers spit in His face, some buffet Him and others
strike Him with rods and say to Him, "Tell us, who is he that smote
thee?"

Perhaps my old companions in Stockholm remember that orgy when the
author of this book played the rôle of the soldier?)

Who has struck thee? A question without an answer. Doubt, uncertainty,
mystery--there is my hell! Oh that my enemy would reveal himself, that
I might do battle with him, and defy him! But that is just what he
avoids doing, in order to afflict me with madness and make me feel the
scourge of conscience, which causes me to suspect enemies everywhere,
enemies, i.e., those injured by my evil will. Indeed, my conscience
smites me every time that I come on the track of a new foe.

       *       *       *       *       *

Awoken the next morning after a few hours' sleep by the prattle of my
little Christina, I seem to forget all, and go to my usual work, which
is not unsuccessful. Everything that I write is immediately accepted
and printed--a proof that my senses and understanding are unimpaired.

Meanwhile the papers spread the report that an American scientific man
has discovered a method of converting silver into gold. This saves
me from being suspected of being an adept in the black art, a fool,
or a swindler. My theosophical friend, who has hitherto furnished me
with the means of livelihood, tries to enrol me in his sect. He sends
me one of Madame Blavatsky's occult treatises and ill conceals his
anxiety that I should pronounce a favourable verdict upon it. I also am
embarrassed, for I see that the continuance of our friendly relations
will depend upon my answer.

Madame Blavatsky's _Secret Doctrine_ is plagiarised from all the
so-called occult theories; it is a hash-up of all ancient and
modern scientific heresies. Her book is worthless as regards her
own presumptuous claims, interesting through its quotations from
little-known authors, repellent through its conscious or unconscious
fabrications regarding the Mahatmas. It is the work of a mannish woman,
who, in order to put man to shame, undertook to overthrow science,
religion, and philosophy, and to set a priestess of Isis on the altar
of the Crucified.

With all the reserve and moderation which is due to a friend, I let
my friend know that the collective god, Karma, does not please me,
and that it is impossible for me to belong to a sect which denies
a personal God, Who alone can satisfy my religious needs. It is a
confession of faith which is demanded from me, and although I know that
my answer entails a breach in our friendship, and the cessation of my
means of support, I speak it out freely.

Then my faithful friend turns into a demon of vengeance. He hurls
an excommunication against me, threatens me with occult powers,
tries to intimidate me by vulgar accusations, and storms at me like
a heathenish sacrificial priest. Finally, he summons me before an
occultist tribunal, and swears to me that I shall never forget the
13th of November. My situation is painful; I have lost a friend and
am nearly destitute. By a diabolical chance during our paper war, the
following incident takes place: _L'Initiation_ publishes an article by
me which criticises the current astronomical system. A few days after
its appearance Tisserand, the head of the Paris observatory, dies. In
an access of mischievous humour I trace a connection between these two
things, and mention also that Pasteur died the day after I published
_Sylva Sylvarum_.[2] My friend, the theosophist, does not know how to
take a joke, and being superstitious above the average, and perhaps,
more deeply initiated in black magic than I, gives me clearly to
understand that he regards me as a wizard.

One may imagine my consternation when, after the last letter of our
correspondence, the most famous of the Swedish astronomers dies of
a fit of apoplexy. I am alarmed, and with reason. To be accused of
witchcraft is a very serious matter, and "even after death one will not
escape punishment."

Further calamities follow. In the course of a month about five
well-known astronomers die, one after another. I fear my fanatical
friend, whom I credit with the cruelty of a Druid and with the power of
the Hindu yogis who can kill at a distance.

Here is a new hell of anxieties. From this day onwards I forget the
demons, and direct all my attention to the unwholesome ranks of the
theosophists and their magicians, the Hindu sages, supposed to be
gifted with incredible powers. I now feel myself condemned to death,
and keep sealed my papers, in which, in case of my sudden death, I have
specified the murderers. Then I wait.

A few miles eastward on the bank of the Danube, lies the little chief
town of the district Grein. There, I am told, a stranger from Zanzibar
has arrived at the end of November in midwinter. That is enough to
rouse doubts and dark thoughts in a morbid mind. I try to obtain
information regarding the stranger, whether he is really an African,
whence he has come, and what is his object?

I can learn nothing; a mysterious veil envelops the unknown, who, like
a spectre, stands day and night before my anxious mind. I always find
my best comfort in the Old Testament, and I invoke the protection of
the Eternal and His vengeance against my enemies. The psalms of David
best express my soul's deepest needs, and Jehovah is my God. The 86th
Psalm has made a special impression on my mind, and I gladly repeat it.

"O God, the proud have set themselves against me, and tyrants seek
after my soul, and have not thee before their eyes. Show me a token for
good; that all they which hate me may see it, and be ashamed; because
thou, Lord, hast holpen me, and comforted me."

That is the "token" I ask for, and notice well, reader, how my prayer
will be heard.


[1] A kind of female vampire.

[2] A botanical treatise.



X

THE ETERNAL HAS SPOKEN


Winter, with its grey-yellow skies is here; no ray of sunlight has lit
up the sky for weeks. The muddy roads hinder us from taking walks; the
leaves fall from the trees and rot; all nature is dissolving in decay.

The usual autumn butchery of dumb animals has begun. All day long the
cries of the victims rise against the dark vault of heaven; one steps
in blood and among corpses. It is terribly depressing, and I feel sad
for the two, good, kind-hearted sisters who tend me like a sick child.
Besides this, my poverty, which I must conceal from them, depresses me,
together with the futility of my attempts to avert approaching beggary.
For my own good they wish for my departure, since such a lonely life
is not good for a man; moreover, they believe that I need a doctor. In
vain I wait for the necessary money to be sent from Sweden, and prepare
to depart, even though I have to tramp the high roads. "I have become
like a pelican of the wilderness, and like an owl in the desert." My
presence is a trial to my relatives, and but for my love to the child,
they would have hurried me away. Now that mud or snow makes walking
difficult, I carry the little one along the paths on my arms, climb
hills, and clamber up rocks, so that both the old ladies say, "You will
make yourself ill, you will get giddy, you will kill yourself."

"And a beautiful death that would be!" I reply.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the 20th of November, a grey, gloomy, dreary day, we sit at the
mid-day meal. Altogether worn-out after a sleepless night and new
conflicts with the Invisible, I curse life, and lament that no sun
shines.

My mother-in-law has prophesied that I will not be well till Candlemas
(February 2nd), when the sun returns again. "That is my only ray of
sunlight," I answer, pointing to my little Christina who sits opposite
to me. At this moment the clouds, which have been massed together for
weeks, part, and through the cleft a ray of light shines into the room
and illuminates my face, the table-cover, the glasses.

"See, papa! see! there is the sun!" exclaims the child, and clasps her
hands together. I rise in confusion, a prey to the most conflicting
feelings. "A chance? No!" I say to myself. Is it the wonder, the sign
I prayed for? But that would be too much to grant to one fallen into
disfavour like me. The Eternal does not interfere in the little affairs
of earth-worms. And yet this ray of light abides in my heart like a
happy smile on a discontented face. During the couple of minutes which
I take in walking to my little house, the clouds have formed themselves
into strange-shaped groups, and in the east, where the veil has lifted,
the sky is as green as an emerald, or a meadow in mid-summer. I stand
in my room and wait in a state between reverie and mild compunction,
which has no fear in it, for something which I cannot exactly define.

Then suddenly there is a single thunder-clap over my head. No flash has
preceded it. At first I feel alarmed, and wait for the usual rain and
storm to follow. But nothing happens; all is perfectly quiet, and it
is over. "Why," I ask myself, "have I not sunk down in humility before
the voice of the Eternal?" Because, when the Almighty with majestic
condescension allowed an insect to hear His voice, this insect felt
elevated and puffed up by such an honour, considering itself in its
pride to be possessed of some special desert. To speak freely, I felt
myself almost on a level with the Lord, as an integral part of His
personality, an emanation of His being, an organ of His organism. He
needed me in order to reveal Himself; otherwise he would have sent a
thunderbolt and struck me dead upon the spot. But whence springs this
monstrous arrogance in a mortal? Must I trace my origin to the primeval
Titans who revolted against a despot who delighted in ruling over
slaves? Is this why my earthly pilgrimage has become a mere running the
gauntlet, while the dregs of humanity delight to strike, spit on, and
defile me? There is no imaginable humiliation which I have not endured,
yet the more I am crushed the more my pride asserts itself. I am like
Jacob wrestling with the angel, and though a little lamed, maintaining
the conflict manfully; or Job, chastised, and yet steadily justifying
himself in the face of undeserved punishments.

Attacked by so many conflicting thoughts, I relapse from my
megalomania, and feel so insignificant, that the incident dwindles down
to a mere nothing--a thunder-clap in November.

But the echo of the thunder reverberates, and once more in a sort of
religious ecstasy I open the Bible at haphazard, and pray the Lord to
speak more plainly that I may understand Him. My eyes immediately fall
upon this verse in Job: "Wilt thou disannul my judgment? Wilt thou
condemn me that thou mayest be justified? Hast thou an arm like God?
_Or canst thou thunder with a voice like Him?_"

I doubt no more. The Eternal has spoken! O Eternal! What demandest Thou
of me? Speak, for thy servant heareth!

No answer!

Good! I will humble myself before the Eternal Who has humbled Himself
to speak to His servant. But bow my knee before the mob and the mighty?
Never!

       *       *       *       *       *

In the evening my good mother-in-law receives me with a manner that is
enigmatic. She casts a searching look at me sideways, as though she
wished to ascertain what sort of impression the stupendous occurrence
had made on me. "You have heard it?" she asks.

"Yes, it is strange--a clap of thunder in November." She at any rate no
longer considers me damned.



XI

HELL LET LOOSE


Meanwhile, in order to entirely bewilder me regarding the real nature
of my illness, a current number of _L'Événement_ contains the following
notice:

"The unhappy Strindberg, who brought his misogyny to Paris, was quickly
compelled to take himself off. Since then his partisans are dumb and
confounded before the feminist flag. They do not wish to undergo the
fate of Orpheus, whose head was torn off by the Thracian Bacchanals."

So they actually did lay a plot against me in the Rue de la Clef,
and the morbid symptoms from which I still suffer are the result of
that murderous attempt. Oh, these women! Certainly my articles on the
feminist pictures of my Danish friend were not calculated to please
them. But, at any rate, here is a fact, a tangible occurrence which
dissipates my terrible doubts regarding my mental soundness.

I hasten with the good news to my mother-in-law. "You see that I am not
out of my mind!"

"No, you are not, but only ill, and the doctor will recommend physical
exercise for you--wood-chopping, for instance."

"Is that of any use against women, or not?"

My too hasty retort makes a breach between us. I had forgotten that a
female saint is still a woman, _i.e._, man's enemy.

       *       *       *       *       *

All is forgotten, the Russians, the Rothschilds, the dabblers in black
magic, the theosophists, and the Eternal Himself. I am the innocent
sacrifice, blameless Job, Orpheus whom the women want to kill, the
author of _Sylva Sylvarum_, the reviver of dead science. Lost in
a labyrinth of doubt, I abandon the new-born idea of providential
interposition with a spiritual purpose, and absorbed in the bare fact
that a plot has been laid against me, I forget to think of the original
Plotter. Thirsting for vengeance, I prepare to send notices to the
police-offices and papers in Paris, when a timely change of affairs
puts an end to the sorry drama, which would have degenerated into a
farce.

One grey-yellow winter day, about an hour after the mid-day meal, my
little Christina insists on following me to my house, where I generally
have my afternoon siesta. I cannot resist her, and give way to her
request, When we get to my room Christina asks for pen and paper; then
she demands picture-books, and I must remain, show, and explain.

"You must not go to sleep, papa!"

Although feeling weary and exhausted, I obey my child, I don't know why
myself, but there is a tone in her voice which I cannot resist.

Outside, before the door, an organ-grinder is playing a waltz tune. I
propose to the little one to dance with the nurse who has accompanied
her. Attracted by the music, the neighbours' children come, the
organ-grinder is invited into the kitchen, and we improvise a dance.
This goes on for an hour, and my sadness is dispelled. In order to
distract myself and to keep off sleep, I take the Bible, my oracle, and
open it at haphazard. "But the spirit of the Lord departed from Saul,
and an evil spirit from the Lord troubled him. And Saul's servants said
unto him, 'Behold now, an evil spirit from God troubleth thee. Let our
lord now command thy servants, which are before thee, to seek out a
man, who is a cunning player on the harp, and it shall come to pass
when the evil spirit from God is upon thee, that he shall play with his
hand, and thou shalt be well.'"

An evil spirit! That is what I am always suspecting! While the children
are dancing, my mother-in-law comes in in order to fetch the little
one, and when she sees them, she stands still, astonished. Then she
tells me that just now, down in the village, a lady of good family has
been seized with an attack of frenzy.

"What is the matter with her?"

"She dances without stopping, has dressed herself as a bride and
fancies she is Burger's Lenore."

"She dances, and then?"

"She weeps in terror of death, who she believes will come and take her."

What lends a darker shade to this tragedy is that the lady has occupied
the same house I live in now, and that her husband died in the same
room where the children are noisily dancing.

Explain me that, O doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists, or
acknowledge the bankruptcy of science!

My little daughter has exorcised the evil spirit who, driven out by
her innocence, has entered into an old lady who used to boast of being
a free thinker.

The death-dance lasts the whole night. The lady is guarded by friends,
who she says, are to ward off the attack of death. She calls it "death"
because she does not believe in the existence of evil spirits. And yet
she often asserted that her deceased husband tormented her.

       *       *       *       *       *

My departure is postponed, but, in order to recruit my strength after
so many sleepless nights, I remove to my aunt's house on the other side
of the street, and leave the "rose-red" room. It is a curious fact that
in the good old times the torture chamber in Sweden was called the
"Chamber of Roses."

At last I spend a night again in a quiet room. The walls are painted
white and covered with pictures of saints. Over my bed hangs a
crucifix. But when night conies the spirits begin their tricks again.

I light the candles in order to kill the time with reading. There is
a weird stillness in which I can hear my heart beating. Then a slight
noise startles me, like an electric spark.

What is that?

A large piece of wax has dropped from the candle on the ground. Nothing
more, but the people here believe it is a sign of death! It may be, as
far as I am concerned. After reading for half an hour, I want to take
my handkerchief from under my pillow. It is not there, and when I look
for it, I find it on the ground. I stoop to pick it up. Something falls
on my head, and when I extricate it from my hair, I find it is another
piece of wax. Instead of being alarmed, I cannot help smiling; the
whole thing seems a piece of practical joking.

Smiling at death! How could that be possible, were not life essentially
comic. Such a fuss about nothing! Perhaps in the depth of our souls
there lurks a shadowy consciousness that everything down here is all
humbug, a masquerade, a mere pretence, and that all our sufferings
afford mirth to the gods.

       *       *       *       *       *

High over the hill on which the castle is built there towers another,
from which a more commanding view over the Inferno-like landscape can
be gained than from any other. The way thither lies through the remains
of an ancient oak forest, which, according to tradition, was a scene
of Druidic worship, and where mistletoe grows luxuriantly on the apple
and lime trees. Above this wood the path mounts steeply through pines.

Several times I have tried to reach the summit, but something
unforeseen has always hindered me. One time it was a deer which broke
the silence with an unexpected leap, another time a hare, which
resembled no hare which I had ever seen, and yet another time a magpie
with its deafening chatter. But on the last morning, the day before
my departure, I pressed in spite of all hindrances through the dark
melancholy pine wood up to the summit, whence I obtained a splendid
view of the valley of the Danube and the Styrian Alps. I breathe
freely for the first time now that I have at last emerged from the
gloomy, funnel-shaped valley below. The sun illuminates the landscape
to the farthest horizon, and the white crests of the Alps melt into
the clouds. The whole scene is one of heavenly beauty. Does the earth
comprise at the same time heaven and hell, and is there no other place
of punishment and reward? Perhaps. Certainly, the most beautiful
moments of my life seem to me heavenly, and the worst, hellish. Has
the future still in reserve for me hours or minutes of that happiness
which can be won only by tribulation and a tolerably clean conscience?

I feel little inclination to descend into the valley of sorrows again,
and walk about on the mountain plateau, wondering at the beauty of
the earth. On the summit is a rock shaped by nature like an Egyptian
Sphinx. On its gigantic head is a heap of stones in which stands a
stick bearing a white piece of linen attached, like a flag. Without
troubling myself about its significance, an uncontrollable desire to
seize the flag takes possession of me. Despising death, I clamber up
the steep rock, and lay hold of it. At the same moment the sound of a
bridal march sung by triumphant voices arises from the Danube below. It
is a marriage party; I cannot see it, but the musket shots customarily
fired on such occasions place it beyond a doubt. Childish enough and
unhappy enough to give a poetical colouring to the most ordinary
occurrences, I take this as a good omen.

Reluctantly and slowly I descend again into the valley of sorrows, of
death, of sleeplessness, and of demons, where my little Beatrice awaits
me and the promised piece of mistletoe, the green branch in the midst
of the snow, which really ought to be cut with a golden sickle.

       *       *       *       *       *

For a long time past the grandmother had expressed a wish to see me,
whether it were to bring about a reconciliation or for occultist
reasons, because she is a clairvoyante and visionary. I had postponed
the visit under various pretexts, but now that my departure was
resolved on, my mother-in-law obliged me to visit the old lady and bid
her farewell, probably for the last time on this side of the grave.
On November 26th, a cold, clear day, my mother-in-law, the child, and
I made the pilgrimage to the bank of the Danube, where the family
residence is. We alighted at the inn, and while my mother-in-law went
to announce my visit to her mother, I wandered through the meadows and
woods, which I had not seen for two years. Recollections overpowered
me, and in all of them was interwoven the figure of my wife. And now
everything is blighted by autumnal frosts; there is now not a single
flower, nor a green blade of grass where we both plucked all the
flowers of spring, summer, and autumn!

After the mid-day meal I am taken to the old lady who occupies the
annex to the villa, the little house in which my child was born. Our
meeting is, considering the circumstances, a cold one; they seem to
expect that I should appear as the prodigal son, but I have no wish
to act that rôle. I confine myself to indulging in reminiscences of
our lost paradise. She and I had painted the door-and window-panels
in honour of the little Christina's arrival in the world. The roses
and clematis which adorn the front of the house were planted by my own
hands. I had cut out the path through the garden. But the walnut tree
which I planted the morning after Christina's birth has disappeared.
The "life-tree," as we called it, is dead. Two years, two eternities,
have elapsed since the farewell between her on the shore and me on the
ship, in which I went to Linz in order to proceed thence to Paris.

Who has caused the breach between us? I, for I have murdered my own
love and hers. Farewell, my white house, where grew thorns and roses.
Farewell, Danube! I say to comfort myself, "You were a dream, short as
summer, too sweet to be real, and I do not regret it."

The night comes. My mother-in-law and my child have, at my request,
taken up their quarters in the inn, in order to protect me against the
deadly attacks, which I forebode by means of a sixth sense which has
been developed in me during the six months of persecution which I have
suffered.

About ten o'clock in the evening a gust of wind begins to shake the
door of my room, which is on the ground-floor. I make it fast with
wooden wedges; it is no use; the door shakes still more. The windows
rattle; there is a dog-like howling in the stove; the whole house reels
like a ship. I cannot sleep; at one time my mother-in-law groans, at
another the child cries. The next morning my mother-in-law, exhausted
by sleeplessness and something else, which she conceals from me, says:
"Depart, my child; I have enough of this hellish stench!" And I travel
northwards, a restless pilgrim, into the fire of a new purgatory.



XII

PILGRIMAGE AND PENANCE


There are ninety towns in Sweden, and the powers have condemned me to
go to the one which I most dislike. First of all, I visit the doctors.
The first speaks of neurasthenia, the second of angina pectoris, the
third of paranoia, a mental disease, the fourth of emphysema. This is
enough to ensure me against being put into a lunatic asylum. Meanwhile,
in order to procure the means of livelihood, I am forced to write
articles for a newspaper. But whenever I sit at the table to write,
hell is let loose. A new discovery comes to make me wild. Whenever I
take up my quarters in an hotel there breaks out a fiendish noise,
just as there did in the Rue de la Grande Chaumière in Paris; I hear
shuffling footsteps and the moving of furniture. I change my room, I
go into another hotel, and still there is the noise over my head. I
visit the restaurants, but as soon as I sit down to a meal the noise
begins there also. And it should be observed that whenever I ask those
present whether they hear the same noise too, they say "yes," and their
description of it tallies with mine.

It is then no acoustic hallucination from which I suffer; everywhere
there are plots, I say to myself. But one day, as I go by chance into a
shoemaker's shop, the noise instantaneously breaks out, It is no plot,
then! It is the Devil himself! Hunted from hotel to hotel, pursued
everywhere by electric wires even to my bed, attacked everywhere
by electric currents which lift me from my chair, or out of bed, I
deliberately set about planning my suicide. The weather is terrible,
and in my depression I seek distraction in drinking bouts with friends.

One dreary day, after such a bout, I have just finished my early
breakfast in my room. I turn round towards the table on which the
breakfast things are standing. A slight noise attracts my attention,
and I see that a knife has fallen on the ground. I lift it up and place
it so that it cannot do so again. The knife moves and falls.

So it is electricity!

The same morning I write a letter to my mother-in-law, and complain
of the bad weather and life in general. As I write the sentence,
"The earth is dirty, the sea is dirty, and dirt rains from the sky,"
imagine my astonishment, as I see a clear drop of water fall upon the
paper. No electricity! A miracle! In the evening as I am still working
at the table, a noise from the washing-stand startles me. I look in
that direction, and see that a wax-cloth, which I use in my morning
ablutions, has fallen down. In order to get at the rights of the
matter, I hang it up, so that it cannot fall down again.

It falls again!

What is that? My thoughts now revert to the occultists and their secret
powers. I leave the town with my written indictment of them in my
pocket, and betake myself to Lund, where there are old friends of mine:
doctors, specialists in mental disease, and even theosophists on whose
aid I reckon.

How have I come to settle down in this little university town, this
place of rustication and penance for the students of Upsala, when they
have lived too freely at the cost of their purses and their health?
Is this my Canossa, where I must retract my false doctrines before
the same set of youths who between 1880 and 1890 regarded me as their
standard-bearer? I understand my position exactly, and know well that
I am under the ban of most of the professors as a seducer of youth, and
that the fathers and mothers fear me like the Evil One himself.

Moreover, I have made personal enemies here, and have contracted debts
under circumstances which set my character in a dubious light. Here
Popoffsky's sister-in-law and her husband live, and both of these, who
have an influential position in society, are able to stir up powerful
enemies against me. I have also here relations who ignore me, and
friends who have left me to become my enemies. In a word, it is the
worst place I could have chosen for a quiet residence; it is hell, but
a hell contrived with masterly logic and divine ingenuity. Here I must
drain the cup of humiliation, and reconcile the youth of Lund with the
alienated powers. By a picturesque accident, I buy myself a mantle with
cape and cowl, of a flea-brown colour, like a Franciscan's. Thus, after
a six years' banishment, I return to Sweden in a penitent's costume.

About the year 1885 there was formed in Lund a Students' Association
called "The Old Boys," whose literary, scientific, and social programme
was best expressed by the word "Radicalism." It was coloured by
modern ideas; it was first socialistic, then nihilistic, and tended
finally to a general dissolution of society. It had besides a fin de
siècle flavouring of Satanism and decadence. The head of that party,
the most conspicuous of their champions, a friend of mine, whom I
have not seen for three years, pays me a visit. Dressed like myself
in a monkish-looking mantle of a grey colour, grown old, lean, with
melancholy aspect, he shows his history in his face.

"You also?" I ask him.

"Yes! It is all up with us."

On my inviting him to take a glass of wine, he declares himself a
teetotaller.

"How are the 'Old Boys'?" I ask.

"Dead, come croppers, turned into Philistines and steady members of
society."

"It is a case of Canossa, then!"

"Canossa all along the line."

"Then it is Providence Itself which has brought me here."

"Providence! That is the right word."

"Do they know the 'powers' in Lund?"

"The 'powers' are preparing to return."

"Do people sleep well here?"

"No; they complain of nightmares, constrictions of the breast and
heart."

"My arrival is appropriate, then; for that is precisely my case."

We talk for some hours over the strange times we are living in, and my
friend relates to me some extraordinary occurrences which have recently
happened. Finally, he gives a brief account of the minds of the present
young generation, who are looking out for something new.

People want a religion; a reconciliation with the "powers" (that is the
phrase), a new approach to the invisible. The fruitful and important
epoch of naturalism is past. One cannot say anything against it, nor
regret it, for the powers willed that we should pass through it. It was
an experimental epoch, the negative results of which have disproved
certain theories when they were put to the test. A God, unknown at
present, seems to be developing, growing, and revealing Himself from
time to time. In the intervals, so it seems, He leaves the world to
itself, like the farmer, who lets the tares and wheat grow together
till the harvest. Each epoch of revelation shows Him animated with
new ideas, and practically improving His methods. Thus Religion will
return, but under new aspects, for a compromise with the old religions
seems impossible. We do not await an epoch of reaction, nor a return
to out-worn ideals, but an advance towards something new. But of what
sort? Let us wait!

At the end of our conversation a question escapes my lips like an arrow
which flies sky-wards, "Do you know Swedenborg?"

"No; but my mother has his works, and has found wonderful things in
them."

From atheism to Swedenborg is only a step!

I beg him to lend me Swedenborg's works, and my friend, that Saul among
the young prophets, brings me the _Arcana Cœlestia_. Moreover, he
introduces a young man to me who has been highly gifted by the powers.
The latter relates to me events in his life which only too closely
resemble my own. When we compare our trials, we find a new light thrown
upon them, and we gain deliverance by the help of Swedenborg. I thank
Providence which has sent me into this small despised town to expiate
my sin and to be delivered.



XIII

THE DELIVERER


When Balzac introduced me to my noble countryman, "The Buddha of the
North," by means of his book _Séraphita_, he showed me the evangelistic
side of the Prophet. Now it is the Law which encounters, crushes, and
releases.

A single word suffices to illuminate my soul, and to scatter my doubts
and vain fancies regarding supposed enemies, electricians, black magic,
etc., and this single word is "Devastation."[1] All my sufferings I
find described by Swedenborg--the feelings of suffocation (angina
pectoris), constrictions of the chest, palpitations, the sensation
which I called the "electric girdle"--all exactly correspond, and
these phenomena, taken together, constitute the spiritual catharsis
(purification) which was already known to St. Paul, "Whom," he says
speaking of someone, "I have determined to hand over to Satan for the
destruction of the flesh, that the spirit might be saved in the day of
the Lord Jesus," and "Among whom are Hymenæus and Alexander, whom I
have delivered over to Satan, that they may be taught not to blaspheme."

When I read the visions of Swedenborg belonging to the year 1744, the
year preceding his establishment of relations with the spiritual world,
I discover that the Prophet has endured the same nightly tortures as I
have, and what astonishes me still more is the complete identity of the
symptoms, which leave me no longer room for doubting the real nature of
my illness. In the _Arcana Cœlestia_, the mysterious occurrences of
the last two years are explained with such convincing exactness, that
I, a child of the renowned nineteenth century, am firmly convinced that
there is a hell--a hell, however, on earth, and that I have just come
out of it.

Swedenborg explains to me the reason of my detention in the Hospital
St. Louis thus:

"Alchemists are attacked by leprosy and scratch the scurf off like
fish-scales. It is an incurable skin disease." The apparition of the
chimney sweep which my daughter saw in Austria is also explained:
"Among the spirits, there is a kind called 'chimney sweeps,' because
they actually have faces blackened by smoke, and seem to wear
soot-coloured clothes.... One of these 'chimney sweep' spirits came
to me, and begged me earnestly to pray for his admission into heaven.
'I don't think,' he said, 'I have done anything on account of which I
should be excluded. I have often rebuked the inhabitants of earth, but
after rebuke and punishment, I have always given them instruction.'

"The chastising, reforming, or instructing spirits approach a man from
the left side, lean on his back, consult his book of memory, and read
his deeds and even his thoughts in it. For when a spirit enters a man,
he first of all takes possession of his memory. If they behold an evil
deed or the intention to commit one, they punish him with a pain in the
foot or in the hand, or the neighbourhood of the stomach, and they do
this with unexampled dexterity. A shudder announces their approach.

"Besides inflicting pains in the limbs, they employ a painful pressure
against the navel, which gives the sensation of being surrounded with
a prickly girdle; moreover, they sometimes cause constrictions of
the chest, which they intensify to a terrible degree; finally, they
inspire a disgust of all food except bread, which continues for days.

"Other spirits try to convince their victims of the opposite to that
which the instructing spirits have said. These spirits of contradiction
were, during their earthly existence, men who had been expelled from
society on account of some crime. Their approach is heralded by a
flickering flame, which seems to hover about one's face; their place is
above the back, whence they make themselves felt to the extremities."
(These flickering flames or sparks have appeared to me twice, and both
times on occasions when I resisted my better self, and rejected all
apparitions as idle dreams.)

"These spirits of contradiction tell men not to believe what the
instructing spirits have been commissioned by the angels to say,
and not to rule their lives accordingly, but to live in all licence
and wantonness as they choose. Usually the former come as soon as
the latter have gone. Men know what to expect from them, and do not
trouble much about them, but they learn through their assaults to
distinguish between good and evil. For the knowledge of good is first
gained through that of its opposite, just as every perception or idea
of a matter is obtained by carefully observing what distinguishes it
from its contrary." The reader may remember the faces like antique
sculptures which I saw formed by the white cover of my pillow in the
Hôtel Orfila. Swedenborg speaks regarding them as follows:

"Two signs show that they (the spirits) dwell with a man; one is an old
man with a white face. This sign will signify to him that he is always
to speak the truth, and to act justly.... I myself have seen such an
antique human face. There are faces of pure whiteness and great beauty,
from which uprightness and modesty beam."

(In order not to alarm the reader, I have purposely concealed the fact,
that all the above relates to the inhabitants of the planet Jupiter.
My surprise may be imagined when one spring morning they bring me a
French review containing a picture of Swedenborg's house in the planet
Jupiter, drawn by Victorien Sardou. Why on Jupiter? What a remarkable
coincidence! And has the master and doyen of the Théâtre Français
observed that the left façade of the building seen from a sufficient
distance forms an antique human face? This face is the same as that
which was formed by my cushion-cover.

But in Sardou's drawing there are more of such silhouettes formed by
the lines of the building. Has the master's hand been guided by another
hand, so that he produced more than he knew?)

Where has Swedenborg seen his heaven and hell? Are they visions,
intuitions, inspirations? I hardly know, but the correspondence of his
hell to that of Dante, and of the Greek, Roman, and German mythologies,
leads to the idea that the powers have generally used similar means to
realise their purposes. And what are these purposes? The completion
of the human type; the production of the higher Man--the Superman, as
Nietzsche, that rod of chastisement prematurely used and cast into the
fire, has announced him. So the problem of good and evil is again set
up for us to solve, and Taine's moral indifference seems insipid before
these new demands.

The belief in spirits follows as a natural consequence. What are
spirits? As soon as we admit the immortality of the soul, we see that
the dead are still alive and continue their relationships with the
living. "Evil spirits," then, are not evil, for their object is good,
and it would be better to call them, with Swedenborg, "corrective
spirits," than to abandon oneself to fear and to despair. Accordingly,
there exists no Satan, as an autonomous personality opposed to God,
and the undeniable apparitions of the Evil One in his traditional form
must be regarded as a scarecrow conjured up by Providence--Providence
the Supreme and Good, which carries on its government by means of an
enormous comprehensive staff, consisting of departed souls.

Be comforted, and be proud of the grace bestowed upon you, all ye who
suffer from sleeplessness, nightmares, apparitions, palpitations, and
fears of death! Numen adest! God is seeking for you!


[1] According to Swedenborg the name of a stage in the religious life.



XIV

TRIBULATIONS


Interned in this little university town, without hope of getting out
of it, I engage in the terrible fight against my worst enemy--myself.
Every morning, when I go for a walk on the wall under the plane trees,
the large red lunatic asylum reminds me of the danger I have escaped,
and of that which still awaits me, if I relapse. Swedenborg, by
explaining to me the true character of my terrors during the last year,
has delivered me from the fear of electricians, "black" magicians,
wizards, the ambition of the gold-maker, and from madness. He has
pointed out the only way to salvation: to seek out the demons in their
dens within myself, and there to slay them by--repentance. Balzac,
the Prophet's assistant, has taught me in _Séraphita_ that "Pain of
conscience is a weakness which does not put an end to sin; repentance
is the only power which makes a decisive end of all." Very well,
let us repent! But is not that equivalent to criticising Providence,
which has chosen me for its scourge? and to saying to the powers: "You
have guided my destiny ill; you have made me and commissioned me to
chastise, to overthrow idols, to stir up revolt, and then you withdraw
your protection from me and disown me in an absurd way, telling me to
creep to the cross and repent!"

Strange "circulus vitiosus," which I already foresaw in my twentieth
year, when I wrote my drama _Meister Olaf_, and which has constituted
the tragedy of my life. Why be tormented during thirty years in order
to be taught by experience what one had already foreboded? When young
I was sincerely pious, and you have made me a freethinker. Out of
the freethinker you have made an atheist, and out of the atheist a
religious man. Inspired by humanitarian ideas, I have been a herald
of socialism. Five years later, you have shown me the absurdity of
socialism; you have made all my prophecies futile. And supposing I
become again religious, I am sure that, in another ten years, you will
reduce religion to an absurdity.

Ah! what a game the gods play with us poor mortals! And therefore,
in the most tormented moments of life, we too can laugh with
self-conscious raillery.

How is it that you wish us to take earnestly what is nothing but a huge
bad joke?

For whom was Christ the Saviour? Consider the most Christian of all
Christians, our pious Scandinavians, these amæmic, wretched, timid
creatures, who look as though they were possessed. They seem to carry
an evil spirit in their hearts, and observe how most of their leaders
have ended in prison as criminals. Why has their master delivered them
over to the enemy? Is religion a punishment, and Christ an Avenger?

       *       *       *       *       *

The sun shines, everyday life proceeds on its usual course, the
cheerful bustle of business raises the spirits. Then one feels
rebellious, and challenges heaven with doubts. But when night, silence,
and loneliness reign, the heart beats, and the breast suffers from
constriction. Then one jumps out of window into a hedge of thorns,
and humbly begs a physician for help, and seeks someone to share the
sleeping chamber.

Go again into your room, and you will find someone is there; he is
invisible, but you feel his presence. Then go to the asylum, and ask
the doctor; he will talk to you about neurasthenia, paranoia, angina
pectoris, and stories of that kind, but will never heal you. Whither,
then, will you go, all ye who, sleepless, wander through street after
street, waiting for the dawn? "The mills of the universe," "The mills
of God," are two expressions in common use. Have you had that roaring
in your ears which is like the noise of a water-wheel? Have you in
the solitude of night or in broad daylight observed how memories of
the past stir and arise, singly or in groups? Memories of all your
faults, crimes, and follies which make your ears tingle, your brows
perspire, your spine shudder? You re-live your life from your birth
to the present day, you suffer over again all the sorrows you have
endured; you empty again all the cups which you have drunk to the dregs
so often; you crucify your skeleton when there is no more flesh left to
crucify; you consume your soul when your heart is reduced to ashes!

You know all that?

Those are the "mills of God" which grind slowly but exceeding small.
You are ground to powder, and think it is over. But no! You are brought
again to the mill. Be thankful! That is hell upon earth, as Luther knew
it, and reckoned it a special grace to be pulverised on this side of
the grave.

Think yourself happy and be thankful!

What is one to do then? Humble oneself?

If you humble yourself before men, you will arouse their pride, for all
will think themselves, No matter how guilty they may be, better than
you.

Well, then, is one to humble oneself before God? But is it not
disgraceful to degrade the Highest by conceiving of Him as the overseer
of a slave plantation?

Shall we pray? What! Presume to try to alter the will and decision
of the Eternal by flattery and crawling? I look for God and find the
Devil! That is my destiny! I have repented and reformed myself.

       *       *       *       *       *

I renounce alcohol, and come about nine o'clock soberly home to drink
milk. The room is filled with all kinds of demons, who drag me out of
bed and try to stifle me under the blankets. But if I come home at
midnight intoxicated, I sleep like an angel and wake up strong as a
young god, and ready to work like a galley-slave.

I live a chaste life, and am troubled by unwholesome dreams. I accustom
myself to think only good of my friends, entrust my secrets and my
money to them, and am betrayed. If I show offence at such treachery, it
is always I who am punished.

I try to love mankind in the mass; I shut my eyes to their faults,
and with inexhaustible patience endure their meanesses and slanders,
and one fine day I find myself a sharer of their crimes. Whenever
I withdraw from society which I consider injurious, the demons of
solitude attack me, and when I look for better friends, I come on the
track of the worst. Yes, after I have conquered my evil inclinations
and through loneliness have attained to a certain degree of inward
peace, I am caught in the snare of self-satisfaction and despising
my neighbour. And self-conceit is the deadliest of sins, which is
instantly punished.

How is one to explain the fact that every step of progress in virtue
gives rise to a fresh sin?

Swedenborg solves the puzzle by declaring that sins are punishments
inflicted on men in requital for sins of the more heinous class.
Thus those who are greedy of power are condemned to the hell of the
Sodomites. Supposing this theory to be true, we must endure the
burden of our wickedness and rejoice at the pangs of conscience
which accompany it, as at the payment of fees at a toll-gate. To seek
virtue, accordingly, resembles an attempt to escape from prison and its
punishments. That is what Luther asserts in article xxix. against the
Romish bull, when he declares that "souls in purgatory sin continually,
because they seek for peace, and try to avoid torments." Similarly,
in article xxxiv., he says, "To fight with the Turks is equivalent to
rebellion against God, whose instrument the Turks are, in order to
punish our sins." It is therefore obvious "that all our good works are
deadly sins," and that "the world must become guilty before God, and
learn that no one is justified except through grace."

Let us therefore suffer without hoping for any real joy in life, for,
my brothers, we are in hell. And do not let us accuse the Lord, when we
see our little innocent children suffer. No one knows why, but divine
justice gives us a ground for surmising that it is on account of sins
committed by them before their birth. Let us rejoice in our torments,
as though they were the paying off of so many debts, and let us count
it a mercy that we do not know the real reason why we are punished.



XV

WHITHER?


Six months have passed, and I still go daily walking on the city wall
and survey the lunatic asylum, and catch glimpses of the blue sea in
the distance. Thence will the new epoch, the new religion, come of
which the world is dreaming.

Gloomy winter is buried, the meadows are green, the trees are in
blossom, the nightingale sings in the garden of the observatory, but
a wintry sadness still weighs upon our spirits, for so many weird and
inexplicable things have happened, that even the most incredulous
waver. The general sleeplessness increases, nervous breakdowns are
common, apparitions are matters of every day, and real miracles happen.
People are expecting something.

       *       *       *       *       *

A young man pays me a visit, and asks, "What must one do in order to
sleep quietly at night?"

"Why?"

"Upon my word, I cannot say, but my bed-room has become a terror to me,
and I give it up to-morrow."

"Young man, atheist, naturalist, why?"

"The Devil must be in it! When I open the door of my room at night and
enter, someone seizes me by the arms and shakes me."

"Then there is someone in your room?"

"No, when I light a candle there is no one to be seen."

"Young man, there is someone who cannot be seen by candle-light!"

"Who is that?"

"The invisible, young man! Have you taken sulphonal, bromkali,
morphium, chloral?"

"I have tried all."

"And the invisible does not quit the field. Very well! You want to
sleep at night, and wish me to tell you how. Listen, young man, I
am neither a physician nor a prophet, I am an old sinner, who does
penance. Demand therefore neither preaching nor prophecy from an old
gallows-bird, who wants all his leisure time to preach to himself. I
have also suffered from sleeplessness and paralysis of the arms; I have
wrestled eye to eye with the invisible, and finally recovered sleep and
health. Do you know how? Guess!"

The young man guesses my meaning, and casts his eyes down. "You guess
it! Go in peace, and sleep well!"

Yes! I must be silent and let my meaning be guessed, for if I began to
play the preaching monk, they would turn their backs on me at once.

       *       *       *       *       *

A friend asks me, "Whither are we going?"

"I cannot say, but as regards myself personally, it seems that the way
of the Cross leads me back to the faith of my fathers."

"To Catholicism?"

It appears so. Occultism has played its part, by giving a scientific
explanation of miracles and demonology. Theosophy, the forerunner
of religion, has fulfilled its function, when it has revived belief
in a world-order which punishes and rewards, Karma will be replaced
by God, and the Mahatmas will be revealed as the new-born powers,
the chastising and instructing spirits. Buddhism in Young France has
preached renunciation of the world and the worship of sorrow, which
leads direct to Golgotha.

As regards the homesick longing I feel for the bosom of the Mother
Church, that is a long story, which I may summarise as follows:

When Swedenborg taught me that it is unlawful to quit the religion of
one's ancestors, he said that with reference to Protestantism, which is
treason against the Mother Church. Or, to put it better, Protestantism
is a punishment inflicted on the barbarians of the North. Protestantism
is the Exile, the Babylonish Captivity, but the Return seems near, the
Return to the promised land. The immense progress which Catholicism
makes in America, England, and Scandinavia seems to point towards a
great reconciliation, in which the Greek Church, which has already
stretched out her hand towards the West, is not to be forgotten.

That is the dream of the socialists regarding the restoration of the
United States of the West, but taken in a spiritual sense. But I beg
you not to think that it is a political theory which takes me back
to the Roman Church. I have not sought Catholicism; it has found a
place in me, after following me for years. My child, who became a
Catholic against my will, has shown me the beauty of a cult which has
maintained itself unaltered from the first, and I have always preferred
the original to the copy. The considerable time I spent in my child's
native country gave me opportunity to observe and admire the sincerity
of the religious life there. I have been also influenced by my stay
in the St. Louis Hospital, and finally by the occurrences of the last
few weeks. After contemplating my life, which has whirled me round
like some of the damned in Dante's hell, and after discovering that my
existence in general had no other object but to humble and to defile
me, I determined to anticipate my executioner, and take in hand my
own torture. I determined to live in the midst of sufferings, dirt,
and death-agonies, and with this object I prepared to seek a post as
attendant on the sick in the Hôpital des Frères St. Jean de Dieu in
Paris. This idea occurred to me on the morning of April 29th, after
I had met an old woman with a head resembling a skull. When I return
home, I find _Séraphita_ lying open on my table, and on the right page
a splinter of wood, which points to the following sentence: "Do for God
what you would do for your own ambitious plans, what you do when you
devote yourself to your art, what you have done when you love someone
more than Him, or when you have investigated a secret of science! Is
God not Science Itself?..."

In the afternoon the newspaper _L'Éclair_ arrived, and, strange to say,
the Hôpital des Frères St. Jean de Dieu is twice mentioned in it.

On May 1st I read for the first time in my life Sar Peladan's _Comment
on devient un Mage_.

Sar Peladan, hitherto unknown to me, overcomes me like a storm, a
revelation of the higher man, Nietzsche's Superman, and with him
Catholicism makes its solemn and victorious entry into my life.

Has "He who should come" come already in the person of Sar Peladan. The
Poet-Thinker-Prophet--is it _he_, or do we wait for another?

I know not, but after I have passed through these antechambers of a new
life, I begin on May 3rd to write this book.

_May_ 5_th_.--A Catholic priest, a convert, visited me.

_May_ 9_th_.--I saw the figure of Gustavus Adolphus in the ashes of the
stove.

On May 14th I read in Sar Peladan: "About the year 1000 A.D. it was
possible to believe in witchcraft; to-day, as the year 2000 A.D.
approaches, it is an established fact that such and such an individual
has the fatal peculiarity of bringing trouble to those who come into
collision with him. You deny him a request, and your dearest friend
deceives you; you strike him, and illness makes you keep your bed;
all the harm you do to him recoils on you in twofold measure. Hut, say
people, that signifies nothing; 'chance' ran explain these inexplicable
coincidences. Modern determinism sums itself up in the expression
'chance.'"

On May 17th I read what the Dane, Jorgensen, a convert to Catholicism,
says about the Beuron convent.

On May 18th a friend whom I have not seen for six years comes to Lund,
and takes a room in the house where I am staying. Who can picture
my emotion when I learn that he also has just been converted to
Catholicism? He lends me his breviary (I had lost mine a year ago), and
as I read again the Latin hymns and chants, I feel myself once more at
home.

_May_ 21_th_.--After a series of conversations regarding the Mother
Church, my friend has written a letter to the Belgian convent, where he
was baptised, requesting them to find a place of refuge for the author
of this book.

_May_ 28_th_.--There is a vague rumour in circulation that Mrs. Annie
Besant has become a Catholic.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am waiting the answer from the Belgian convent. By the time this
book is printed, the answer will have arrived. And then? After that? A
new joke for the gods, who laugh heartily when we shed bitter tears.

Lund, _May_ 3_rd_-_June_ 25_th_, 1897.

[_Translator's Note_.--Strindberg never actually entered the Roman
Church.]



EPILOGUE


I had finished this book with the exclamation, "What humbug! What
wretched humbug life is!" But after some reflection I found the
sentiment unworthy, and struck it out. My mind swayed irresolute, and
at last I took refuge in the Bible, to find the explanation I needed.
And thus the Holy Book, more inspired with prophetic qualities than any
other, answered me: "And I will set my face against that man, and will
make him a sign and a proverb, and I will cut him off from the midst of
my people, and ye shall know that I am the Lord. And if that prophet
be deceived, I the Lord have deceived that prophet, and I will stretch
out my hand upon him, and will destroy him from the midst of my people
Israel."--Ezek. xiv., 8, 9.

Such then is my life; a sign, an example to serve for the betterment
of others; a proverb to set forth the nothingness of fame and of
celebrity; a proverb to show the younger generation how they should not
live; yes'. I am a proverb, I who regarded myself as a prophet, and am
revealed as a braggart. Now the Eternal has led this false prophet to
speak empty words, and the false prophet feels irresponsible since he
has only played the rôle assigned to him.

Here you have, my brothers, the picture of a human destiny, one among
so many, and now confess that a man's life may seem--a bad joke!

       *       *       *       *       *

Who is the Prince of this world, who condemns mortals to their
wickedness, and rewards virtue with the cross, the stake,
sleeplessness, and dreadful dreams? The Punisher of our unknown sins
committed somewhere else or forgotten? And who are Swedenborg's
reforming spirits, the guardian angels who protect us from the evil
ones?

What a Babel-like confusion!

St. Augustine pronounced it effrontery to doubt the existence of
demons. St. Thomas Aquinas declared that demons produce storms and
thunderbolts, and can delegate their power to human hands. Pope John
XXII. complained of the unlawful devices of his enemies, who pierced
portraits of him with needles. Luther believed that all accidents,
such as breaking bones, falls, conflagrations, and most illnesses were
traceable to the machinations of devils. He also asserted that some
individuals have already had their hell upon earth.

Have I not, then, rightly named my book _Inferno_? If any reader holds
it for mere invention, he is invited to inspect my journal, which I
have kept daily since 1895, of which this book is only an elaborated
and expanded extract.


THE END





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Inferno" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.