black--room and prepare, since I feel myself threatened, for a
night-battle. With whom? I know not, but challenge the Invisible,
be it diabolic or divine, and will wrestle with It, like Jacob with
the angel. There is a knock at the door. It is my mother-in-law, who
forebodes a bad night for me, and invites me to sleep on the sofa in
her sitting-room. "The presence of the child will safeguard you," she
says. I thank her and assure her there is no danger, and that nothing
can frighten me so long as my conscience is untroubled. With a smile
she wishes me good-night.
I put on my martial cloak, boots and cap again, determined to lie down
dressed and ready to die like a brave warrior who despises life and
challenges death. About eleven o'clock the air in the room begins to
grow dense, and a deadly fear masters my courageous heart. I open the
window. The draught threatens to blow out the lamp. I close it again.
The lamp begins to make a sound between a sigh and a moan; then all is
still again.
A dog in the village howls. According to popular superstition, this
is a sign of death. I look out of the window; only the Great Bear is
visible. Down there in the poorhouse a light is burning; an old woman
is sitting bent over her work, as though she were waiting for her
release; perhaps she fears sleep and its dreams. Weary, I lie down
again on the bed, and try to sleep. At once the old game recommences.
An electric stream seeks my heart; my lungs cease to work; I must rise
or die. I sit down on a chair, but am too exhausted to be able to read,
and spend half an hour thus in listless vacancy. Then I resolve to go
for a walk till daybreak. I leave the house. The night is dark and the
village asleep, but the dogs are not. One attacks me, and then the
whole band surrounds me; their wide-open jaws and fiery eyes compel me
to retreat.
When I open the door of my room and enter, it seems to me as though it
were full of hostile living creatures through whom I must force my way
in order to reach my bed. Resigned, and resolved to die, I throw myself
upon it. But at the last moment, when the invisible vulture is about
to stifle me under its wings, someone lifts me up, and the pursuit of
the furies is at an end. Conquered, hurled to the earth, beaten down, I
quit the scene of an unequal battle and yield to the invisible. I knock
at the door on the other side of the passage. My mother-in-law, who
is still at prayer, opens the door. The expression of her face as she
looks at me makes me feel afraid of myself.
"What do you wish, my child?"
"I wish to die, and then to be burnt, or rather, burn me alive!"
She does not answer. She has understood me, and sympathy and pity
conquer her fear, so that she prepares the sofa for me with her own
hand. Then she retires to her own room where she sleeps with the
child. Through a chance--always this Satanic chance!--the sofa stands
opposite the window, and the same chance has willed that it has no
curtains, so that the black window opening gapes at me. Moreover, it is
the very same window through which the wind gust came when we were at
supper. With all my powers exhausted, I sink on the sofa. I curse this
ever-present, unavoidable "chance" which persecutes me with the obvious
purpose of making me fall a victim to persecution-mania. For five
minutes I have rest, while my eyes are fastened on the black square
of the window; then an invisible something glides over my body, and I
stand up. I remain standing in the middle of the room like a statue for
hours, half-conscious, turned to stone, I know not whether awake or
asleep.
Who gives me the strength to suffer? Who denies me the power, and
delivers me over to torments? Is it He, the Lord of life and death,
Whose wrath I have provoked, when, influenced by the pamphlet _The
Joy of Dying_, I tried to die, and considered myself already ripe for
eternal life? Am I Phlegyas doomed to the pains of Tartarus for his
pride, or Prometheus, who, because he revealed the secret of the powers
to mortals, was torn by the vulture?
(While I am writing this, I think of the scene in the sufferings of
Christ when the soldiers spit in His face, some buffet Him and others
strike Him with rods and say to Him, "Tell us, who is he that smote
thee?"
Perhaps my old companions in Stockholm remember that orgy when the
author of this book played the rôle of the soldier?)
Who has struck thee? A question without an answer. Doubt, uncertainty,
mystery--there is my hell! Oh that my enemy would reveal himself, that
I might do battle with him, and defy him! But that is just what he
avoids doing, in order to afflict me with madness and make me feel the
scourge of conscience, which causes me to suspect enemies everywhere,
enemies, i.e., those injured by my evil will. Indeed, my conscience
smites me every time that I come on the track of a new foe.
* * * * *
Awoken the next morning after a few hours' sleep by the prattle of my
little Christina, I seem to forget all, and go to my usual work, which
is not unsuccessful. Everything that I write is immediately accepted
and printed--a proof that my senses and understanding are unimpaired.
Meanwhile the papers spread the report that an American scientific man
has discovered a method of converting silver into gold. This saves
me from being suspected of being an adept in the black art, a fool,
or a swindler. My theosophical friend, who has hitherto furnished me
with the means of livelihood, tries to enrol me in his sect. He sends
me one of Madame Blavatsky's occult treatises and ill conceals his
anxiety that I should pronounce a favourable verdict upon it. I also am
embarrassed, for I see that the continuance of our friendly relations
will depend upon my answer.
Madame Blavatsky's _Secret Doctrine_ is plagiarised from all the
so-called occult theories; it is a hash-up of all ancient and
modern scientific heresies. Her book is worthless as regards her
own presumptuous claims, interesting through its quotations from
little-known authors, repellent through its conscious or unconscious
fabrications regarding the Mahatmas. It is the work of a mannish woman,
who, in order to put man to shame, undertook to overthrow science,
religion, and philosophy, and to set a priestess of Isis on the altar
of the Crucified.
With all the reserve and moderation which is due to a friend, I let
my friend know that the collective god, Karma, does not please me,
and that it is impossible for me to belong to a sect which denies
a personal God, Who alone can satisfy my religious needs. It is a
confession of faith which is demanded from me, and although I know that
my answer entails a breach in our friendship, and the cessation of my
means of support, I speak it out freely.
Then my faithful friend turns into a demon of vengeance. He hurls
an excommunication against me, threatens me with occult powers,
tries to intimidate me by vulgar accusations, and storms at me like
a heathenish sacrificial priest. Finally, he summons me before an
occultist tribunal, and swears to me that I shall never forget the
13th of November. My situation is painful; I have lost a friend and
am nearly destitute. By a diabolical chance during our paper war, the
following incident takes place: _L'Initiation_ publishes an article by
me which criticises the current astronomical system. A few days after
its appearance Tisserand, the head of the Paris observatory, dies. In
an access of mischievous humour I trace a connection between these two
things, and mention also that Pasteur died the day after I published
_Sylva Sylvarum_.[2] My friend, the theosophist, does not know how to
take a joke, and being superstitious above the average, and perhaps,
more deeply initiated in black magic than I, gives me clearly to
understand that he regards me as a wizard.
One may imagine my consternation when, after the last letter of our
correspondence, the most famous of the Swedish astronomers dies of
a fit of apoplexy. I am alarmed, and with reason. To be accused of
witchcraft is a very serious matter, and "even after death one will not
escape punishment."
Further calamities follow. In the course of a month about five
well-known astronomers die, one after another. I fear my fanatical
friend, whom I credit with the cruelty of a Druid and with the power of
the Hindu yogis who can kill at a distance.
Here is a new hell of anxieties. From this day onwards I forget the
demons, and direct all my attention to the unwholesome ranks of the
theosophists and their magicians, the Hindu sages, supposed to be
gifted with incredible powers. I now feel myself condemned to death,
and keep sealed my papers, in which, in case of my sudden death, I have
specified the murderers. Then I wait.
A few miles eastward on the bank of the Danube, lies the little chief
town of the district Grein. There, I am told, a stranger from Zanzibar
has arrived at the end of November in midwinter. That is enough to
rouse doubts and dark thoughts in a morbid mind. I try to obtain
information regarding the stranger, whether he is really an African,
whence he has come, and what is his object?
I can learn nothing; a mysterious veil envelops the unknown, who, like
a spectre, stands day and night before my anxious mind. I always find
my best comfort in the Old Testament, and I invoke the protection of
the Eternal and His vengeance against my enemies. The psalms of David
best express my soul's deepest needs, and Jehovah is my God. The 86th
Psalm has made a special impression on my mind, and I gladly repeat it.
"O God, the proud have set themselves against me, and tyrants seek
after my soul, and have not thee before their eyes. Show me a token for
good; that all they which hate me may see it, and be ashamed; because
thou, Lord, hast holpen me, and comforted me."
That is the "token" I ask for, and notice well, reader, how my prayer
will be heard.
[1] A kind of female vampire.
[2] A botanical treatise.
X
THE ETERNAL HAS SPOKEN
Winter, with its grey-yellow skies is here; no ray of sunlight has lit
up the sky for weeks. The muddy roads hinder us from taking walks; the
leaves fall from the trees and rot; all nature is dissolving in decay.
The usual autumn butchery of dumb animals has begun. All day long the
cries of the victims rise against the dark vault of heaven; one steps
in blood and among corpses. It is terribly depressing, and I feel sad
for the two, good, kind-hearted sisters who tend me like a sick child.
Besides this, my poverty, which I must conceal from them, depresses me,
together with the futility of my attempts to avert approaching beggary.
For my own good they wish for my departure, since such a lonely life
is not good for a man; moreover, they believe that I need a doctor. In
vain I wait for the necessary money to be sent from Sweden, and prepare
to depart, even though I have to tramp the high roads. "I have become
like a pelican of the wilderness, and like an owl in the desert." My
presence is a trial to my relatives, and but for my love to the child,
they would have hurried me away. Now that mud or snow makes walking
difficult, I carry the little one along the paths on my arms, climb
hills, and clamber up rocks, so that both the old ladies say, "You will
make yourself ill, you will get giddy, you will kill yourself."
"And a beautiful death that would be!" I reply.
* * * * *
On the 20th of November, a grey, gloomy, dreary day, we sit at the
mid-day meal. Altogether worn-out after a sleepless night and new
conflicts with the Invisible, I curse life, and lament that no sun
shines.
My mother-in-law has prophesied that I will not be well till Candlemas
(February 2nd), when the sun returns again. "That is my only ray of
sunlight," I answer, pointing to my little Christina who sits opposite
to me. At this moment the clouds, which have been massed together for
weeks, part, and through the cleft a ray of light shines into the room
and illuminates my face, the table-cover, the glasses.
"See, papa! see! there is the sun!" exclaims the child, and clasps her
hands together. I rise in confusion, a prey to the most conflicting
feelings. "A chance? No!" I say to myself. Is it the wonder, the sign
I prayed for? But that would be too much to grant to one fallen into
disfavour like me. The Eternal does not interfere in the little affairs
of earth-worms. And yet this ray of light abides in my heart like a
happy smile on a discontented face. During the couple of minutes which
I take in walking to my little house, the clouds have formed themselves
into strange-shaped groups, and in the east, where the veil has lifted,
the sky is as green as an emerald, or a meadow in mid-summer. I stand
in my room and wait in a state between reverie and mild compunction,
which has no fear in it, for something which I cannot exactly define.
Then suddenly there is a single thunder-clap over my head. No flash has
preceded it. At first I feel alarmed, and wait for the usual rain and
storm to follow. But nothing happens; all is perfectly quiet, and it
is over. "Why," I ask myself, "have I not sunk down in humility before
the voice of the Eternal?" Because, when the Almighty with majestic
condescension allowed an insect to hear His voice, this insect felt
elevated and puffed up by such an honour, considering itself in its
pride to be possessed of some special desert. To speak freely, I felt
myself almost on a level with the Lord, as an integral part of His
personality, an emanation of His being, an organ of His organism. He
needed me in order to reveal Himself; otherwise he would have sent a
thunderbolt and struck me dead upon the spot. But whence springs this
monstrous arrogance in a mortal? Must I trace my origin to the primeval
Titans who revolted against a despot who delighted in ruling over
slaves? Is this why my earthly pilgrimage has become a mere running the
gauntlet, while the dregs of humanity delight to strike, spit on, and
defile me? There is no imaginable humiliation which I have not endured,
yet the more I am crushed the more my pride asserts itself. I am like
Jacob wrestling with the angel, and though a little lamed, maintaining
the conflict manfully; or Job, chastised, and yet steadily justifying
himself in the face of undeserved punishments.
Attacked by so many conflicting thoughts, I relapse from my
megalomania, and feel so insignificant, that the incident dwindles down
to a mere nothing--a thunder-clap in November.
But the echo of the thunder reverberates, and once more in a sort of
religious ecstasy I open the Bible at haphazard, and pray the Lord to
speak more plainly that I may understand Him. My eyes immediately fall
upon this verse in Job: "Wilt thou disannul my judgment? Wilt thou
condemn me that thou mayest be justified? Hast thou an arm like God?
_Or canst thou thunder with a voice like Him?_"
I doubt no more. The Eternal has spoken! O Eternal! What demandest Thou
of me? Speak, for thy servant heareth!
No answer!
Good! I will humble myself before the Eternal Who has humbled Himself
to speak to His servant. But bow my knee before the mob and the mighty?
Never!
* * * * *
In the evening my good mother-in-law receives me with a manner that is
enigmatic. She casts a searching look at me sideways, as though she
wished to ascertain what sort of impression the stupendous occurrence
had made on me. "You have heard it?" she asks.
"Yes, it is strange--a clap of thunder in November." She at any rate no
longer considers me damned.
XI
HELL LET LOOSE
Meanwhile, in order to entirely bewilder me regarding the real nature
of my illness, a current number of _L'Événement_ contains the following
notice:
"The unhappy Strindberg, who brought his misogyny to Paris, was quickly
compelled to take himself off. Since then his partisans are dumb and
confounded before the feminist flag. They do not wish to undergo the
fate of Orpheus, whose head was torn off by the Thracian Bacchanals."
So they actually did lay a plot against me in the Rue de la Clef,
and the morbid symptoms from which I still suffer are the result of
that murderous attempt. Oh, these women! Certainly my articles on the
feminist pictures of my Danish friend were not calculated to please
them. But, at any rate, here is a fact, a tangible occurrence which
dissipates my terrible doubts regarding my mental soundness.
I hasten with the good news to my mother-in-law. "You see that I am not
out of my mind!"
"No, you are not, but only ill, and the doctor will recommend physical
exercise for you--wood-chopping, for instance."
"Is that of any use against women, or not?"
My too hasty retort makes a breach between us. I had forgotten that a
female saint is still a woman, _i.e._, man's enemy.
* * * * *
All is forgotten, the Russians, the Rothschilds, the dabblers in black
magic, the theosophists, and the Eternal Himself. I am the innocent
sacrifice, blameless Job, Orpheus whom the women want to kill, the
author of _Sylva Sylvarum_, the reviver of dead science. Lost in
a labyrinth of doubt, I abandon the new-born idea of providential
interposition with a spiritual purpose, and absorbed in the bare fact
that a plot has been laid against me, I forget to think of the original
Plotter. Thirsting for vengeance, I prepare to send notices to the
police-offices and papers in Paris, when a timely change of affairs
puts an end to the sorry drama, which would have degenerated into a
farce.
One grey-yellow winter day, about an hour after the mid-day meal, my
little Christina insists on following me to my house, where I generally
have my afternoon siesta. I cannot resist her, and give way to her
request, When we get to my room Christina asks for pen and paper; then
she demands picture-books, and I must remain, show, and explain.
"You must not go to sleep, papa!"
Although feeling weary and exhausted, I obey my child, I don't know why
myself, but there is a tone in her voice which I cannot resist.
Outside, before the door, an organ-grinder is playing a waltz tune. I
propose to the little one to dance with the nurse who has accompanied
her. Attracted by the music, the neighbours' children come, the
organ-grinder is invited into the kitchen, and we improvise a dance.
This goes on for an hour, and my sadness is dispelled. In order to
distract myself and to keep off sleep, I take the Bible, my oracle, and
open it at haphazard. "But the spirit of the Lord departed from Saul,
and an evil spirit from the Lord troubled him. And Saul's servants said
unto him, 'Behold now, an evil spirit from God troubleth thee. Let our
lord now command thy servants, which are before thee, to seek out a
man, who is a cunning player on the harp, and it shall come to pass
when the evil spirit from God is upon thee, that he shall play with his
hand, and thou shalt be well.'"
An evil spirit! That is what I am always suspecting! While the children
are dancing, my mother-in-law comes in in order to fetch the little
one, and when she sees them, she stands still, astonished. Then she
tells me that just now, down in the village, a lady of good family has
been seized with an attack of frenzy.
"What is the matter with her?"
"She dances without stopping, has dressed herself as a bride and
fancies she is Burger's Lenore."
"She dances, and then?"
"She weeps in terror of death, who she believes will come and take her."
What lends a darker shade to this tragedy is that the lady has occupied
the same house I live in now, and that her husband died in the same
room where the children are noisily dancing.
Explain me that, O doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists, or
acknowledge the bankruptcy of science!
My little daughter has exorcised the evil spirit who, driven out by
her innocence, has entered into an old lady who used to boast of being
a free thinker.
The death-dance lasts the whole night. The lady is guarded by friends,
who she says, are to ward off the attack of death. She calls it "death"
because she does not believe in the existence of evil spirits. And yet
she often asserted that her deceased husband tormented her.
* * * * *
My departure is postponed, but, in order to recruit my strength after
so many sleepless nights, I remove to my aunt's house on the other side
of the street, and leave the "rose-red" room. It is a curious fact that
in the good old times the torture chamber in Sweden was called the
"Chamber of Roses."
At last I spend a night again in a quiet room. The walls are painted
white and covered with pictures of saints. Over my bed hangs a
crucifix. But when night comes the spirits begin their tricks again.
I light the candles in order to kill the time with reading. There is
a weird stillness in which I can hear my heart beating. Then a slight
noise startles me, like an electric spark.
What is that?
A large piece of wax has dropped from the candle on the ground. Nothing
more, but the people here believe it is a sign of death! It may be, as
far as I am concerned. After reading for half an hour, I want to take
my handkerchief from under my pillow. It is not there, and when I look
for it, I find it on the ground. I stoop to pick it up. Something falls
on my head, and when I extricate it from my hair, I find it is another
piece of wax. Instead of being alarmed, I cannot help smiling; the
whole thing seems a piece of practical joking.
Smiling at death! How could that be possible, were not life essentially
comic. Such a fuss about nothing! Perhaps in the depth of our souls
there lurks a shadowy consciousness that everything down here is all
humbug, a masquerade, a mere pretence, and that all our sufferings
afford mirth to the gods.
* * * * *
High over the hill on which the castle is built there towers another,
from which a more commanding view over the Inferno-like landscape can
be gained than from any other. The way thither lies through the remains
of an ancient oak forest, which, according to tradition, was a scene
of Druidic worship, and where mistletoe grows luxuriantly on the apple
and lime trees. Above this wood the path mounts steeply through pines.
Several times I have tried to reach the summit, but something
unforeseen has always hindered me. One time it was a deer which broke
the silence with an unexpected leap, another time a hare, which
resembled no hare which I had ever seen, and yet another time a magpie
with its deafening chatter. But on the last morning, the day before
my departure, I pressed in spite of all hindrances through the dark
melancholy pine wood up to the summit, whence I obtained a splendid
view of the valley of the Danube and the Styrian Alps. I breathe
freely for the first time now that I have at last emerged from the
gloomy, funnel-shaped valley below. The sun illuminates the landscape
to the farthest horizon, and the white crests of the Alps melt into
the clouds. The whole scene is one of heavenly beauty. Does the earth
comprise at the same time heaven and hell, and is there no other place
of punishment and reward? Perhaps. Certainly, the most beautiful
moments of my life seem to me heavenly, and the worst, hellish. Has
the future still in reserve for me hours or minutes of that happiness
which can be won only by tribulation and a tolerably clean conscience?
I feel little inclination to descend into the valley of sorrows again,
and walk about on the mountain plateau, wondering at the beauty of
the earth. On the summit is a rock shaped by nature like an Egyptian
Sphinx. On its gigantic head is a heap of stones in which stands a
stick bearing a white piece of linen attached, like a flag. Without
troubling myself about its significance, an uncontrollable desire to
seize the flag takes possession of me. Despising death, I clamber up
the steep rock, and lay hold of it. At the same moment the sound of a
bridal march sung by triumphant voices arises from the Danube below. It
is a marriage party; I cannot see it, but the musket shots customarily
fired on such occasions place it beyond a doubt. Childish enough and
unhappy enough to give a poetical colouring to the most ordinary
occurrences, I take this as a good omen.
Reluctantly and slowly I descend again into the valley of sorrows, of
death, of sleeplessness, and of demons, where my little Beatrice awaits
me and the promised piece of mistletoe, the green branch in the midst
of the snow, which really ought to be cut with a golden sickle.
* * * * *