Swedenborg, my guide in the darkness, has finally revealed himself
as an avenger. His Arcana Coelestia speaks only of hell and of
punishments which are executed by evil spirits, _i.e._ devils. Not
a word of comfort or grace. And yet, while I was still young, the
Devil had been got rid of; everyone laughed at him, and now, by the
irony of accident, they are just preparing to keep the jubilee of
the philosopher Bostrom, who did away with hell and annihilated the
Devil. In my youth this thinker was regarded as a reformer, and now the
Devil is preparing a renaissance for himself. He has crept into the
productions of the so-called Satanic literature, into the fine arts by
the side of Christ, and even into trade. Last Christmas I noticed that
the Christmas presents were adorned with little devils and goblins,
both the children's toys and comic objects which elder people buy for
each other, such as spice cakes and almanacks. Is there really a devil,
or is he only a half-real bugbear projected from the unseen in order to
make a strong impression on us, and to drive us to the Cross? I had not
yet succeeded in finding an answer to this question, when, one cold,
wet evening my friends took me to a sculptor, who is a freethinker
and atheist, as are the other members of the theosophical society to
which he belongs. He has a private collection of clay ornaments on
view intended for the Stockholm Exhibition. In these, with repulsive
realism and cynicism, the Devil is represented in different attitudes,
and always with a priest who is terrified at him. People laugh at them,
but I cannot laugh, and think to myself "Wait, and we shall see!" After
an interval of four months I meet the sculptor in the street. He looks
troubled, as though some misfortune had happened to him. "Can you
imagine," he says, "such a piece of infernal bad luck? They have just
broken three of my best figures in unpacking them at the Exhibition." I
feel immensely interested, and simultaneously with my condolence over
his misfortune I ask with almost shameless curiosity, "And which of
your statuettes were they?"
"Three of the Devil, I believe."
I do not laugh, but answer with a smile, "There, you see! Lucifer does
not like to be caricatured."
Some weeks later the sculptor receives another letter, and learns
that the other figures have fallen from their pedestals and been
broken, without the managers being able to say how it has happened.
Consequently the unfortunate artist has lost a year, not counting the
costs of production, and he finds himself struck out of the list of
exhibitors. In his despondency he comforts himself by attributing it to
accident, which means nothing, and yet which saves a man's pride, while
bowing to blind Chance. One stoops one's head before a stone flung at
one, but what of the flinger whom one is not conscious of having seen?
* * * * *
Meanwhile I obtain Swedenborg's works, one after another, and always
at some favourable moment. In his "Dreams" I find all the symptoms of
my illness, the nightly attacks and the difficulty in breathing. The
facts which he records in these notes belong to the time before he had
his revelations. That was for Swedenborg the period of "desolation,"
when he was delivered over to Satan for the destruction of the flesh.
This helps me to understand the beneficent purposes of the invisible
powers, without, however, bringing me comfort. Not till I read
_Heaven and Hell_ do I begin to get help. There is, then, an object
in these mysterious sufferings--the improvement and development of my
personality to something greater, something like Nietzsche's imaginary
ideal, but differently conceived.
The Devil is not an independent being, equal to God, and His opponent.
The invisible power which plagues us is the Spirit of discipline. A
great step is taken when we see that evil does not exist for evil's
sake, and we conceive a new hope of finding peace through penitence
and conscientious watchfulness over our thoughts and actions. As I
watch the events of daily life, a new method of education begins to
operate upon me, and I learn to recognise, the system of signs which
the invisible powers use. But my difficulties are great because of my
age and the inveteracy of evil habits, and in consequence of a certain
yieldingness of disposition I am all too prone to suit myself to my
surroundings. It is so hard to be the first to quit a merry carouse;
if I try to insist on my own way, my intimate friends call me "a bad
boon-companion." But one has to learn to do everything in this world.
For instance, at dinner, which I take at two o'clock, I had been
accustomed to remain behind for coffee. One day at the beginning of
February I am sitting there with my back against the outer wall, when
my friends begin to discuss whether they shall order a bowl of punch.
Instantly there comes a direct answer in the form of a terrible noise
behind my back, so that the cups of coffee on the tray jump. It can be
imagined what kind of a face I make. The cause of the noise is quite
simple,--a workman is repairing the decoration of the wall outside.
We adjourn to a special room. Immediately there breaks out a noise on
the ceiling over my head. I rise and fly from the battlefield, and from
that hour I never remain for coffee after dinner except on holidays. In
the evening, on the other hand, I can drink a glass with my friends,
since the object is not so much drink as the interchange of thought
with learned people, who represent all branches of science. But often
it happens that mere love of drink gets the upper hand, accompanied by
unbridled hilarity and cynical suggestions. One's lower nature breaks
through and the brutal instincts find free scope. It is so pleasant to
be an animal for a while, one thinks to oneself, and besides life is
not always so cheerful, and so on, to the same effect. One day, after I
have for some time taken part in riotous drinking bouts, I am on the
way to my restaurant. I pass by an undertaker's shop where a coffin is
exposed to view. The street is strewn with fir branches, and the great
bell of the cathedral is tolling a knell. Arrived at the restaurant, I
find my table companion in trouble, as he has come straight from the
hospital, where he has taken leave of a dying friend. As I return home
after dinner by back streets, where I have not been before, I meet two
funeral processions. How everything reeks of death to-day, and the
tolling of the knell recommences!
In the evening, as I am about to enter the tavern, I see an old man
leaning against the wall, obviously drunk and ill. In order not to
meet him, I make a detour and enter the dining-hall. My headache from
yesterday's debauch, combined with the funereal impressions I have
received in the course of the day, inspire me with a secret fear of
alcohol, so that I order milk for my supper.
In the midst of the meal there is a noise in the house mingled with
cries of grief, and after a little while they carry in the old man I
had seen near the entrance, his son leading the procession. His father
was dead. A warning for drinkers!
In the night following I had a terrible attack of nightmare. Some
one hung fast on to my back and shook me by the shoulders. This was
sufficient cause for me to be careful how I prolonged my drinking to a
late hour. But I did not entirely renounce it. At the end of January I
take rooms in a private house, and confront my fate steadfastly without
seeking to find distraction in the presence of a friend. It is a duel,
and there is no possibility of escape. As soon as I come home in the
evening I ascertain at once how it stands with my conscience. A choking
atmosphere, even when the windows are open, gives warning of a bad
night. The terrible fear I feel brings on fever accompanied with a cold
sweat, and when I search my conscience I at once find where the shoe
pinches. But I fly no more, for it is useless.
* * * * *
Among the lessons which the avenging powers have given me is one which
I dare not forget, that is, the command not to search into hidden
things, because they are to remain hidden.
For instance, in my excursions in Schonen, I had noticed a kind of
stones found in scattered places of peculiar and very characteristic
shapes. They represented either types of living creatures, such as
birds, or hats and helmets. There were also others with furrows which
resembled the tracings on meteoric stones. Without being clear as to
their origin, I received the impression that they were not a mere freak
of nature. Their form showed that they were works of art, produced and
elaborated by human hands. For two years I continued to look for them,
and after I had interested a friend of mine who lived at a distance in
the matter, I told him where some could be found, that he might send
me a photograph of them. But the expedition failed, and a year later
I discovered that I had given him a wrong address. Ever since then,
when I have obstinately set about such investigations, hindrances have
arisen in such an extraordinary way that I could not attribute them to
chance.
Thus, for instance, I had resolved one morning to make an expedition
with an antiquarian in order to solve the question once for all. In
the street before my door a nail came loose in my boot and stuck in
my foot. At first I took no notice of it, but as I approached my
friend's door the pain became so great that I had to stand still. It
was impossible to proceed, or to turn back. In great annoyance I drew
off my boot and flattened the nail with my knife. A vague remembrance
of a passage I had read in Swedenborg came to me simultaneously--
"When the avenging spirits see an evil act, or the intention to commit
a wrong, they punish by inflicting pain in the foot, the hand, or
the neighbourhood of the diaphragm." But I was so spurred on by the
thirst for knowledge, which I regarded as lawful and praiseworthy, that
I resumed my interrupted attempt, and soon joined my companion. We
intended first to investigate a grotto in the park. But the entrance
was blocked up with heaps of abominable filth piled up in such a
challenging or rather ironical way as to make me smile. The other
place, well known to me, where these stones are to be found, is in a
garden, where great blocks of them are grouped round a tree, and they
are easily got at. But this morning the gardener has fenced off the
tree and the antiquities with a row of flower-pots, so that I cannot
get there to show my learned companion anything. A pretty fiasco!
Irritated by all these hindrances, I take my friend, who begins to look
sceptical, right through the town to a courtyard where a whole museum
of these curiosities has been collected. There the matter will be
settled once for all, and I expect to see him startled. On our arrival
we are greeted by the barking of a vile cur; as we endeavour to drive
him off, the occupants of the house come into the courtyard, and we
have to shout what we want in order to drown the noise of the barking
dog. The objects of our search are surrounded by a closed fence, and
the key cannot be found.
"Are there any other places?" asks the antiquarian, who begins to
despise me.
"Yes, there are, but outside the town."
I will not weary the reader with trifles. Suffice it to say, that after
more or less vexatious wanderings, we did at last reach a pile of such
stones. But there was witchcraft at work; I could show the antiquarian
nothing, because he saw nothing, and I myself, as though dazzled, could
not now distinguish in the shapes of the stones anything resembling
living creatures. But on the next day, when I went to the place alone,
I found a whole menagerie.
The account of this adventure may close with a note regarding the
character of these remains of pre-Adamite sculpture. The occultists
attribute their origin to men of the Tertiary period, and place them
in the same category as the colossal stone image found in the Easter
Islands and in the desert of Gobi. Olaus Magnus mentions them also,
and has found them in great numbers on the coast of Braviken in East
Gothland. Swedenborg attributes to them a symbolical significance, and
regards them as artistic products of the silver age.
* * * * *
To judge by what takes place in the narrow circle in which I live,
the Powers do not allow me to chose my acquaintances, and still less
to despise any one, whoever it may be. Like everyone else, I have
sympathies and partialities for certain kinds of people. At present I
seek for those seriously disposed, to whom I can impart my thoughts
without being exposed to unpleasant and insulting jests. Providence has
sent me a friend whom I prize highly on account of the pure atmosphere
which surrounds him. Like a spoilt child I begin to despise the other
uncultivated and uninspired souls, who occasionally find pleasure in
coarseness.
But just as I return, I found my friend has gone away. I cannot meet
the others anywhere, and in my isolation I am compelled to humble
myself to the utmost by begging for the society of insignificant
persons, who, as a rule, have nothing to do with the society in which
I move. After a number of experiences in this direction I make my old
discovery again, that the difference between man and man is not so
great as one supposes. As a matter of fact I have found real gentlemen
among the lower classes, and how many saints and heroes may I not have
unconsciously classed with those I despised! On the other hand, people
lay stress on the proverb, "Evil companionship corrupts good manners";
but which is evil society, and which is the good? It might be supposed,
as I have done, that a mission to preach was laid upon me, if I settled
down in a strange town, without knowing why, but what is my business
here? To preach morality? My conscience answers me "Yes; by thy
example." But now no one takes me for an example, and what would be the
use if I tried to preach to young men who have not sinned as much as I
have?
Besides, the period of the prophets seems to have come to an end. The
Powers want to have nothing more to do with priests, but have taken the
direct government of souls upon themselves, and one need not go far to
find examples of this.
One of our poets has recently been summoned before a court because
of a collection of poems, some of which were considered injurious to
morality. He has been acquitted by the jury, but can find no rest.
In one of his poems he has challenged the Eternal to a wrestle, even
though (he said) it should have to be decided in hell. It seems
as though the challenge had been accepted, and the young man were
compelled, like a broken reed, to sue for mercy. One evening, while he
sits in a merry circle of friends, some power, unknown to the exact
sciences, snatches the cigar from his mouth so that it falls to the
ground. A little surprised, he picks up the cigar again, as though
nothing had happened. But the same thing happens three times. Then the
sceptic becomes as pale as death, and quits the place in silence, while
his friends sit mute with astonishment.
But when he reached home the rash man found a new surprise awaiting
him. Without any visible cause, both his hands like those of a
masseur began to chafe or rather to knead his whole body, which too
much drinking had made unnecessarily obese. This involuntary massage
continued without interruption for fourteen days, yet at the end of
this time the wrestler feels himself sufficiently strengthened to
enter the arena again. He hires an hotel and invites his friends to a
Belshazzar's feast, which is to last three days. He means to show the
world how Nietzsche's superman can control the evil spirits of wine.
They drink through the whole of the first day till night falls, and
with it falls the champion. But before he gives up the battle for lost
the demons of wine take possession of the soul of this superman and
fill him with such uncontrollable madness that he flings his guests out
of the doors and windows, and so the feast ends. Whereupon the host is
taken to an asylum.
Thus the adventure was related to me, and I am sorry to have repeated
it without the tears which one owes to misfortune. But the accused has
gained a defender for his case, a young doctor, who offers to assist
him in his conflict with the Eternal. Is it rash to connect these
two facts? The doctor pleads the blasphemer's cause, and the doctor
breaks his leg. Was it a mere chance that frightened his horse so that
he shied and upset the carriage? I only ask the question. And how did
it happen that the doctor, after he had been confined to his bed for
several months, got up with a "sprung thigh sinew," that his formerly
clear and firm look had a strange and wild expression, like that of a
man who is no longer master of himself?
Is it necessary for me to answer? In case one should say "Yes,"
I continue the narrative to the end. This doctor, a good fellow,
intelligent and honest, came to me one day towards the end of summer,
and confided to me that he was plagued with sleeplessness, and that
a strange irritation woke him at night, and allowed him no rest till
he got up. If he obstinately remained lying in bed he began to have
palpitations.
"Well?" he concluded, awaiting my answer with manifest impatience.
"It was just the same with me," I replied.
"And how did you get cured?"
Was it cowardice, or did I obey an inner voice when I answered, "I took
sulphonal."
His face assumed an expression of disappointment, but I could do
nothing for him.