peace of mind returns with the daily visits of my little daughter, who
loves me, and whom I love. By my relations I am treated like a sick,
spoilt child. The reading of Swedenborg occupies me during the day and
depresses me by the realism of its descriptions. All my observations,
feelings, and thoughts are so vividly reflected there, that his visions
seem to me like experiences and real "human documents." It is no
question of blind faith; it is enough for me to read his experiences
and to compare with them my own. The book I have is only an extract;
the chief riddle of the spiritual life will be solved for me later on
when his _Arcana Cœlestia_ falls into my hands. In the midst of my
reflections, which lead to the newly-won conviction that there is a God
who punishes, some lines of Swedenborg comfort me, and immediately I
begin to excuse myself and yield to my old pride. In the evening I take
my mother-in-law into my confidence, and ask her, "Do you think I am a
damned soul?"
"No; although I have never seen any human destiny like yours; but you
have not yet found the right way to lead you to the Lord."
"Do you remember Swedenborg and his _Principia Cœli_, how he
describes the stages of spiritual progress? First, an elevated
ambition. Now, my ambition has never led me to strive after honour, nor
to try to impress people with a sense of my ability. Secondly, love of
happiness and money, in order to profit people. You know that I seek
no gain and despise money. As regards my gold-making, I have sworn in
the presence of the powers that any profits I made should be used for
humanitarian, scientific, and religious objects. Finally, wedded love.
Need I say that from my youth I have concentrated my love of woman
on the idea of marriage, of the family, and the wife. What in actual
experience befell me that I should marry the widow of a man who was
still alive, is an irony of fate which I cannot explain, but which
cannot be regarded as a serious misdemeanour when contrasted with the
irregularities of ordinary bachelor life."
After some moments of reflection, my mother-in-law replied: "I cannot
dispute your assertion; for I have found in your writings a spirit
of aspiration and endeavour, whose efforts have been involuntarily
frustrated. Certainly, you must be doing penance, for sins which you
committed before your birth. You must in your former existence have
been a blood-stained conqueror, and therefore you suffer repeatedly the
terrors of death without being able to die. Now be religious inwardly
and outwardly."
"You mean that I should become a Catholic?"
"Yes."
"Swedenborg says it is forbidden to quit the religion of one's fathers,
for everyone belongs to the spiritual territory on which he is born."
"The Catholic religion receives graciously everyone who seeks it."
"I will be content with a lower position. In case of need I can find a
place among the Jews and Mohammedans, who are also admitted to heaven.
I am modest."
"Grace is offered you, but you prefer the mess of pottage to the right
of the first-born."
"The right of the first-born for the _Son of a Servant_![1] Too much!
Too much!"
* * * * *
Restored to self-respect by Swedenborg, I regard myself once more as
Job, the righteous and sinless man, whom the Eternal tries in order
to show the wicked the example of a righteous man enduring unjust
sufferings.
My pious vanity is tickled by the idea. I am proud of the distinction
of being persecuted by misfortune, and am never weary of repeating,
"See! how I have suffered." Before my relatives I accuse myself of
living in too much luxury, and my rose-coloured room seems to me to
be a satire upon me. They notice my sincere repentance, and overwhelm
me with kindnesses and little indulgences. In brief, I am one of the
elect; Swedenborg has said it, and confident of the protection of the
Eternal, I challenge the demons to combat.
* * * * *
On the eighth day which I spend in my rose-coloured room the news
arrives that my mother-in-law's mother, who lives on the bank of the
Danube, is ill. She has a pain in the liver accompanied with vomiting,
sleeplessness, and attacks of palpitation at night. My aunt whose
hospitality I enjoy is summoned thither, and I am to return to my
mother-in-law in Saxen. To my objection that the old lady has forbidden
it, they reply that she has withdrawn her order of expulsion, so that
I am free to arrange my residence where I like. This sudden change of
mind astonishes me, and I hardly dare to attribute it to her illness.
The next day she gets worse. My mother-in-law gives me in the name
of her mother a bouquet as a sign of reconciliation, and tells me in
confidence that, besides other wild fancies, the old lady thinks she
has a snake in her body. The next news is that she has been robbed of
1000 gulden, and suspects her landlady of stealing them. The latter
is enraged at the unjust suspicion and wishes to bring an action for
libel. The old lady, who had retired hither to die quietly, finds her
domestic peace completely destroyed. She is continually sending us
something--flowers, fruit, game, pheasants, poultry, fish.
Is the old lady's conscience troubled at the prospect of judgment? Does
she remember that she once had me put out on the street, and so obliged
me to go to hospital? Or is she superstitious? Does she think she is
bewitched by me? Perhaps the presents she sends are meant as offerings
to the wizard, to still his thirst for vengeance.
Unfortunately, just at this juncture, there comes a work on magic
from Paris containing information regarding so-called witchcraft. The
author tells the reader that he must not regard himself as innocent,
if he merely avoids using magic arts; one must rather keep watch over
one's own evil will, which by itself alone is capable of exercising an
influence over others in their absence.
The results of this teaching on my mind are twofold. In the first
place, it arouses my scruples at the present juncture, for I had
raised my fist in anger against the old lady's picture and cursed her.
Secondly, it reawakens my old suspicions that I myself am the victim
of mal-practices on the part of occultists or theosophists. Pangs of
conscience on one side, fear on the other! And the two millstones begin
to grind me to powder.
* * * * *
Swedenborg describes Hell as follows: The damned soul inhabits a
splendid palace, leads a luxurious life there, and regards himself as
one of the elect. Gradually the splendours disappear, and the wretched
soul finds that it is confined in a wretched hovel and surrounded by
filth. This is parallelled in my own experience.
The rose-coloured room has disappeared, and as I remove into a large
chamber near that of my mother-in-law, I feel that my stay here will
not be of long duration. As a matter of fact, all possible trifles
combine to poison my life and to deprive me of the necessary quiet
for work. The planks of the floor sway under my feet, the table
wobbles, the chair is unsteady, the articles on the washing-stand clash
together, the bed creaks, and the rest of the furniture moves whenever
I cross the floor. The lamp smokes, the ink-pot is too narrow so that
the pen-holder gets inky. The farmhouse smells of dung and manure,
ammonia, sulphuretted hydrogen, and sulphuric acid. The whole day there
is a noise of cows, swine, calves, cocks, turkeys, and doves. Flies
and wasps worry me by day, and gnats by night. At the village shop
there is nothing to be had. Because there is no other sort, I must use
rose-coloured ink. Strange, too! In a packet of cigarette papers which
I buy there is a single rose-coloured one among a hundred white. It is
a miniature hell, and I, who am accustomed to bear great sufferings,
suffer inexpressibly from these needle-pricks, all the more that my
mother-in-law believes that I am not satisfied by her kind attentions.
* * * * *
_September_ 17_th_.--I awake at night and hear the church clock of the
village strike thirteen. Immediately I feel the electric band encircle
me, and think I hear a noise in the attic above me.
_September_ 19_th_.--I search the attic and discover a dozen distaffs,
the wheels of which remind me of electric machines. I open a large
box; it is empty; only five staves painted black, the use of which is
unknown to me, lie in the form of a pentagram at the bottom of the box.
Who has played me this trick, and what does it mean? I do not venture
to ask anything about it, and the riddle remains unsolved.
Between midnight and two o'clock a terrible storm breaks out. As a rule
a storm exhausts itself and soon subsides; this one, however, remains
raging for two hours over the village. Every lightning flash is a
personal attack on me, but none of them strike me.
In the evening my mother-in-law relates to me the history of the
district. What a monstrous collection of domestic and other tragedies,
consisting of adulteries, divorces, lawsuits between relatives,
murders, thefts, violations, incests, slanders. The castles, the
villas, the huts are occupied by unhappy people of all kinds, and I
cannot take my walks without thinking of Swedenborg's hells. Beggars,
imbeciles of both sexes, sick persons and cripples line the high roads
or kneel at the foot of a crucifix, a Madonna, or a martyr. At night
the wretched creatures try to escape their sleeplessness and their
bad dreams by wandering about in the meadows and woods in order to
fatigue themselves, and to be able to sleep. Members of good society,
well-educated ladies, even a pastor, are among them.
Not far from us is a convent which serves as a penitentiary and rescue
home. It is a real prison, in which the strictest rules prevail. In
the winter when the thermometer registers twenty degrees of frost,
the penitents must sleep on the cold stone pavement of their cells,
and their hands and feet, which they cannot warm, are covered with
chilblains.
Among the others is a woman who has sinned with a priest, which is
a deadly sin. Tortured by pangs of conscience, she flies in her
despair to her confessor, who, however, refuses her absolution and
the sacrament. A deadly sin entails damnation. Then the wretched
creature loses her reason, imagines that she is dead, wanders from
village to village and implores the priests to be merciful and to bury
her in consecrated ground. Shunned and driven away everywhere, she
wanders about, howling like a wild beast, and those who see her cross
themselves and exclaim, "She is damned!" No one doubts but that her
soul is already in hell, while her shadow, a wandering corpse, wanders
about as a terrible warning.
They tell me of a man who, possessed by the Devil, has so altered his
personality that the Evil One can make him utter blasphemies against
his will. After long search they discover a suitable exorcist in a
young Franciscan monk of acknowledged purity of life. He prepares
himself by fast and penance; the great day comes, and the possessed man
makes his confession in church before the people. Thereupon the young
monk sets to work and succeeds, after prayers and conjurations which
last an entire day, in driving out the Devil. The alarmed spectators
have not ventured to relate the details of the affair. A year later
the young monk dies. These and still more tragic narratives confirm
me in my conviction that this district has been marked out as a place
for penance, and there must be some mysterious connection between this
neighbourhood and Swedenborg's hell. Has he perhaps visited this part
of upper Austria, and, just as Dante describes the region south of
Naples, drawn from nature in his account of hell?
* * * * *
After a couple of weeks have passed in work and study I am again
unsettled, as with the setting in of autumn my aunt and mother-in-law
wish to live together in Klam. We therefore break up our camp. In order
to preserve my independence, I hire a cottage consisting of two rooms,
so as to be quite close to my little daughter.
The first evening after settling in my new quarters I am overcome
by a terrible depression, as though the air were poisoned. I go to
my mother-in-law: "If I sleep up there you will find me dead in bed
to-morrow. Shelter a pilgrim for this night, my good mother!"
The rose-coloured room is at once placed at my disposal, but, good
heavens! how it has altered since my aunt's departure! There is black
furniture in it; the empty pigeon-holes of a bookcase gape like so many
jaws; a tall iron oven, ornamented with ugly devices of salamanders
and dragons, confronts me like a spectre. In a word, there reigns such
a disharmony in the room as makes me feel poorly. Moreover, every
irregularity upsets my nerves, for I am a man of ordered habits who
does everything at stated hours. In spite of my efforts to conceal my
dissatisfaction, my mother-in-law reads my thoughts.
"Always dissatisfied, my child?"
She does her best to allay my discontent, but when the spirit of
dissension is once aroused, everything is in vain. She tries to
remember my favourite dishes, but everything goes wrong. There is
nothing I dislike more than calf's head with brown butter.
"Here is something nice," she says to me, "expressly for you," and
sets calf's head with brown butter before me. I understand that
it is an unconscious mistake on her part, but can only eat with
scarcely-concealed repugnance and simulated appetite.
"You are not eating anything!"
It is too much! Formerly I attributed these annoyances to feminine
malice; now I acquit everyone and say, "It is the Devil!"
* * * * *
From my early days I am accustomed to plan out the day's work during
my morning walk. No one, not even my wife, has ever been allowed to
accompany me on it. And, as a matter of fact, in the morning my mind
rejoices in a feeling of harmony and happy elevation which borders on
ecstasy. My corporeal part seems to have disappeared, my griefs to have
fled; I am all soul. The early morning is my time of self-collection,
my hour of prayer, my matins.
Now I must sacrifice it all, and give up my most innocent pleasure. The
powers compel me to renounce this last and purest enjoyment. My little
daughter wishes to accompany me. I embrace her tenderly, and tell her
why I wish to be alone, but she does not understand it. She cries, and
I have not the heart to sadden her to-day, but make a firm resolve not
to allow her again to misuse her rights. She is certainly thoroughly
fascinating as a child, with her originality, her cheerfulness, her
gratitude for trifles, that is, when one has leisure to be occupied
with her. But when one is absent-minded and distracted, it is intensely
annoying to be plagued with endless questions and changes of mood about
mere nothings.
My little one is as jealous as a lover about my thoughts; she seems to
watch for the exact opportunity to destroy a carefully-woven web of
thought with her prattle--but no, it is not she who does it; she is
only an instrument, but I seem to be the object of deliberate attacks
by a poor little innocent. I go on with slow steps; I don't seek to
escape any more, but my soul is a prisoner, and my brain exhausted
by the effort of continually having to descend to a child's level.
What, however, pains me intensely is the deep, reproachful look she
casts at me when she thinks I find her a nuisance, and imagines that I
love her no longer. Then her open joyous little face falls, her looks
are averted, her heart is closed to me, and I feel myself bereft of
the light which this child had brought into my dark soul. I kiss her,
take her on my arm, look for flowers and pretty pebbles for her, cut
a switch for her, and pretend to be a cow which she is driving to the
meadow. She is contented and happy, and life smiles at me again.
I have sacrificed my morning hour. So do I atone for the evil which in
a moment of madness I had wished to conjure down on this angel's head.
What a penance--to be loved! Truly the powers are not so cruel as we
are!
[1] The title of Strindberg's first autobiography.
IX
EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A DAMNED SOUL
_October, November_, 1896
The Brahmin has fulfilled his duty as regards life when he has begotten
a child. Then he goes into the desert, to dedicate himself to solitude
and asceticism.
* * * * *
_My mother-in-law_.--"What have you done in your former human existence
that Fate deals so hardly with you?"
_I_.--"Think! Remember a man who was first married to another man's
wife, like myself, and who separated from her in order to marry an
Austrian, like myself! Then his little Austrian is torn from him, as
mine has been from me, and their only child is kept in the Bohemian
mountains as mine is. Do you remember the hero of my romance, _On the
Open Sea_, who commits suicide on an island----"
_M_.--"Enough! Enough!"
_I_.--"You don't know that my father's mother was called Neipperg----"
_M_.--"Stop! Unhappy man!"
_I_.--"And that my little Christina resembles the greatest murderer
of the century to a hair. Only look at her, the little tyrant, the
man-tamer at two and a half!"
_M_.--"You are mad."
_I_.--"Yes! And what sins have you women formerly committed, since your
lot is still harder than ours? See how justly I have called woman our
evil angel. Each has his or her deserts."
_M_.-"To be a woman is a twofold hell."
_I_.--"And so woman is a twofold devil. As regards reincarnation,
that is a Christian doctrine which has been maintained by some of the
clergy. Christ said that John the Baptist was Elijah reborn on earth.
Is that an authority or not?"
_M_.--"Yes, but the Roman Church forbids inquiry into secrets."
_I_.--"And science permits it, as soon as science itself is tolerated."
* * * * *
The spirits of discord are abroad, and despite of the fact that we are
quite aware of their game and our freedom from blame in the matter,
our repeated misunderstandings leave a bitter wish for revenge behind
them. Moreover, both sisters suspect that my evil wishes caused their
mother's mysterious illness, and remembering that it is to my interest
to have my separation from my wife terminated, they cannot suppress the
fairly reasonable thought that the death of the old lady would cause me
joy. The mere existence of this wish makes me hateful in their eyes,
and I do not venture any more to ask how their mother is because I fear
to be regarded as a hypocrite.
The situation is strained, and my two former friends exhaust themselves
in endless discussions regarding my person, my character, my feelings,
and the sincerity of my love for the little one. At one time they
regard me as a saint, and the scars in my hands as wound-prints. And
certainly the marks on my palms resemble large nail-holes. But in
order to put an end to all ideas of saintship, I designate myself the
penitent thief, who has come down from the cross and started on his
pilgrimage to Paradise.
Another time, they try to solve the riddle by regarding me as Robert
the Devil. At that time many incidents occurred, sufficient to give
ground for fearing that I might be stoned by the inhabitants of the
place. Here is a simple fact. My little Christina has an extraordinary
dread of chimney sweeps. One evening, at supper, she suddenly begins to
scream, points at someone invisible behind my chair, and cries, "The
chimney sweep!"
My mother-in-law, who believes in the clairvoyance of children and
animals, turns pale; and I become alarmed all the more as I see my
mother-in-law make the sign of a cross over the child's head. A dead
silence ensues, which puts a stop to all cheerfulness.
* * * * *
The autumn with its storms, heavy rains, and dark nights has come.
In the village and the poorhouse the number of the sick, dying, and
dead increases. In the night one hears the choir-boy ring the bell
before the Host. All through the day the church bell is tolling, and
one funeral follows another. Death and life have grown into a single
horror. My night attacks recommence. Prayers are said for me, beads
are told, and the holy water vessel in my room is filled by the priest
himself. "The hand of the Lord rests heavily on thee!" with these
words my mother-in-law crushes me. But slowly I recover myself. My
mental elasticity and an inborn scepticism free me again from these
black thoughts, and after the perusal of certain occult writings, I
believe myself to be persecuted by spirits of the elements, incubi and
Lamias[1] who wish to hinder me in the completion of my great work
on Alchemy. Instructed by the initiated in such matters, I procure a
Dalmatian dagger, and consider myself well-armed against evil spirits.
In the village a shoemaker dies, who was an atheist and blasphemer.
He had a jackdaw, who now left to himself lives on the roof of a
neighbouring house. While watch is being kept by the dead, they
suddenly discover the jackdaw in the room without anyone being able
to explain how it got there. On the day of the burial, the black
bird accompanies the funeral procession, and perches on the coffin
in the churchyard before the ceremony. Every morning this creature
follows me in my walk, a fact which really disquiets me because of
the superstitious nature of the people. One day, which is destined
to prove its last, the jackdaw accompanies me with horrible screams
and words of abuse, which the blasphemer had taught him, through the
streets of the village. Then there come two little birds, a robin
and a yellow wagtail, and follow the jackdaw from roof to roof. The
jackdaw flies outside the village and perches on the roof of a cottage.
At the same moment a black rabbit springs up before the cottage, and
disappears in the grass. Some days afterwards we hear of the jackdaw's
death. It had been killed by the street boys because of its propensity
for stealing.
* * * * *
During the day I work in my little house. But for some time past it
seems that the powers are no longer well intentioned towards me. When
I enter the house I find the air thick, as if it had been poisoned,
and have to open doors and windows. Wrapped in a thick cloak, with
a fur cap on my head, I sit at the table and write, and resist the
so-called electric attacks which compress my chest and seize me in the
back. Often I feel as though someone were standing behind my chair.
Then I stab with the dagger behind me, and imagine I am fighting an
enemy. So it goes on till five o'clock in the afternoon. If I remain
sitting longer, the conflict becomes terrific, until, feeling wholly
exhausted, I light my lantern and go to my mother-in-law and my
child. On one occasion, as early as two or three o'clock, I find my
room full of the thick and choking atmosphere I have spoken of. But I
continue the struggle till six o'clock in order to finish an article on
chemistry. On a bunch of flowers sits a lady-bird marked with yellow
and black--the Austrian colours. It clambers about, gropes, and seeks
for a flying-off place. At last it falls on my paper, spreads out its
wings exactly like the weathercock on the church of Notre-Dame des
Champs in Paris, then crawls along the manuscript and up my right hand.
It looks at me, and then flies towards the window; the compass on the
table points towards the north.
"Very well!" I say to myself, "to the north then; but not before I
choose; till I am summoned again, I remain where I am."
Six o'clock strikes, and it is impossible to remain in this haunted
house. Unknown forces lift me from my chair and I must leave the place.
* * * * *
It is All Souls' Day, about three o'clock in the afternoon; the sun
shines and the air is clear. The villagers are going in a procession
led by the clergy, with banners and music, to the church-yard, to
greet the dead. The bells begin to ring. Then, without a warning,
without even one cloud appearing as precursor in the pale blue sky, a
storm breaks loose. The banners flap violently against the poles, the
festal robes of the men and women are a prey of the winds. Dust-clouds
rise and whirl; trees bend. It is a real wonder.
I feel afraid of the next night, and my mother-in-law knows it. She has
given me a charm to wear round my neck. It is a Madonna and a cross
made out of consecrated wood--the timber of a church which is more
than a thousand years old. I accepted it as a valuable present offered
in good will, but a lingering respect for the religion of my fathers
prevents my wearing it round my neck.
It is about eight o'clock, and we are having our evening meal; the
lamp burns and a weird stillness reigns in our little circle. Outside
it is dark; there is no wind in the trees; all is quiet. All at once
a single gust of wind blows through the crevices of the window with
a curious humming noise like that of a Jew's-harp. Then it is past.
My mother-in-law throws a look of alarm at me and folds the child
in her arms. In a second I interpret what her look means: "Leave
us, O damned soul, and do not bring avenging demons on our innocent
heads." Everything goes to pieces; my last remaining happiness, the
companionship of my little daughter, is taken from me, and in the
gloomy silence I mentally bid the world adieu.