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 the 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 to 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, "Væ 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 no 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.