"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. Germain 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 me, 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.