"You have not had a persecution mania, but have been persecuted, though
not by men."
Stimulated by my related experiences, he began to search in his memory,
and imparted to me some inexplicable incidents of his life during the
last few years. For instance, there was a certain spot on the Pont
Saint-Michel where a rheumatic pain in his leg always obliged him
to stand. This occurred regularly, and he had caused his friends to
witness it He had also noticed many other strange incidents, and had
learnt to say "punished."
"If I smoke, I am punished; and if I drink absinthe, I am punished."
One evening when we had met, but it was not yet midnight, we entered
the Café de la Fregata in the Rue du Bac. Talking energetically,
we took the first place that offered, and asked for absinthe. The
conversation continued, but all of a sudden my companion stopped and,
looking round him, broke out, "Have you ever seen such a collection of
bandits? They are all criminal types."
When I looked round I was startled, for there were not the usual
occupants of the café, but a collection of ruffians, most of whom
seemed disguised and made grimaces. My companion had leant himself
against an iron pillar which looked as though it grew out of his back:
"And you are in the pillory!" I exclaimed.
It seemed to us that they were all watching us; we became morose,
depressed, and stood up, without finishing our drink.
That was the last time that I drank absinthe with my friend. I made
another attempt to drink it alone, but I did not repeat it. Waiting
for some friends to come to dinner I took a seat on the Boulevard
Saint-Germain, exactly opposite Cluny, and ordered a glass of
absinthe. Immediately three figures came forward, I know not from
where, and stood before me. Two fellows with torn clothes, spattered
with dirt, as if they had been dragged out of sewers; beside them a
woman, bareheaded, with unkempt hair and traces of beauty, drunken,
dirty; they all looked at me scornfully and boldly, with a cynical
air as though they knew me and expected to be invited to my table.
I have never seen such types in Paris or Berlin, though I may have
done so near London Bridge, where the people really have a weird
appearance. I try to tire them out by lighting cigarettes, but in vain.
Then the thought strikes me, "These are not real people at all, but
half-visions." I stand up, and since then I have not ventured to touch
absinthe.
* * * * *
Amid all my vacillations one thing seems certain to me, and that is
that an invisible hand has undertaken my education, for it is not
the logic of circumstances which is operating here. It is not, for
instance, a natural result that a chimney should take fire, or that
figures previously non-existent should appear when I drink absinthe.
Nor is it natural that I should be taken out of bed at night if I have
spoken evil about any one in the day. But in all these dealings there
is revealed a conscious, planning, all-knowing intelligence with a good
purpose. It is, however, difficult for me to obey it, for my experience
of so-called kindness and disinterestedness have been unfortunate.
Meanwhile it has fashioned a regular system of signalling, which I
begin to understand, and whose correctness I have proved.
Thus, for six weeks I had made no chemical experiments, and there had
been to smoke in the room. One morning I took out my apparatus for
producing gold and prepared the chemical baths. Immediately the room
filled with smoke; it rose from the ground, from behind the mantelpiece
mirror, everywhere. When I summoned the landlord, he declared it was
incomprehensible, because it was coal smoke, and coals were not used
in the house at all! This meant that I was not to make experiments in
alchemy.
The wooden concertina, mentioned above, betokens peace, for I have
noticed when it is absent there is always trouble. A whimpering child's
voice, which is often heard in the chimney and cannot be accounted
for on material grounds, signifies "You must be industrious," and,
in addition, "You must write this book and not occupy yourself with
another."
If I am rebellious in thoughts, words, or writing, or approach improper
subjects, I hear a deep base note as though it came from an organ or
the trunk of an elephant when he trumpets and is angry.
I mention two proofs which show that these are not mere subjective
impressions on my part. The American, the French poet, and I, were
dining at the "Place de la Bastille." The conversation for a couple of
hours had turned upon art and literature, when, during dessert, the
American proceeded to tell some stories of bachelor life. Immediately
there was heard in the wall the trumpeting of an elephant. I made as
though I heard nothing, but my companions noticed it, and changed
the topic of their talk with a certain vexation. Another time I was
breakfasting with a Swede in quite another café. Towards the end of the
dessert he talked about Huysmans' La Bas and was proceeding to describe
the Black Mass. Immediately there was the sound of a trumpet, but this
time in the middle of the hall, which was empty.
"What was that?" he asked, breaking of.
I did not answer, and he continued the terrible description. Again
there was the sound of a trumpet, so powerful this time that the
narrator stopped short, first poured out a wineglass, upset the whole
of the creamjug over his clothes, and quitted the topic which annoyed
me.
[1] An earlier work by Strindberg.
[2] Wagner.
[3] Strindberg had been prosecuted for assailing the doctrine of the
Holy Communion; he was acquitted, and the medal in question seems to
have been struck on the occasion.
[4] One of Strindberg's autobiographical works is called _Inferno_.