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 back to the Ego as
its central point. Not the cultus, 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. Thus 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.
Væ 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 comes 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, but 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. He 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 ingrate!
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.