boarded out in the country in mean surroundings. I lived in a kind of
shanty, ate from an earthenware plate, sat on a wooden stool. But there
was a castle in the neighbourhood, a real castle, with portraits of
kings in the entrance-hall, the ancestors of the young count who lived
there. One Sunday we were allowed to go, first into the castle, then
into the garden. That was paradise! We could bathe, and were allowed to
pick the cherries, blood-black, gold-yellow, fire-red. The count looked
on, but ate nothing; he had had enough. Then we left, and the gate of
paradise was shut behind us.
"Fifty years later I saw the portrait of the young count, and heard
his history. He looked unhappy and despairing, as though he were weary
of everything. He had passed through the bitterest experiences of
life, including poverty for a time. His affairs came into liquidation,
and he had to spend ten years abroad in an hotel, his expenses being
defrayed by his creditors. He also had his wife with him, who, as she
thought, had married into paradise, in order to be immediately driven
out of it again. The man had been nothing and had done nothing; all
he could do was to wait for his meals. He had possessed horses and a
yacht; he had gambled and borrowed money; he had eaten truffles and
drunk wine; but when he was forty had to give it up, for his nose grew
red and he had gout in his great toe. I will not speak of his domestic
miseries.
"Now he sits in his castle, rich as Crœsus, but lonely, and educates
his housekeeper's children, which are his, but which cannot bear
his name. His evening meal consists of gruel, and he goes to bed at
half-past nine. He dares not use his wine-cellar, for then his great
toe aches. His solitary comparative pleasure is to be able to walk, in
order to eat his gruel and be able to sleep. Envy nobody!"
=The Galley-slaves of Ambition.=--The teacher said: "Balzac speaks
in one place of the galley-slaves of ambition, and describes their
condition very much as Swedenborg describes certain of his hells, or as
Homer depicts Tantalus, Ixion, and the Danaides. They are ceaselessly
haunted by their passion to be superior to others; to be seen and heard
before all others. The malice and love of power which this involves
are necessarily punished. When the ambitious man cannot be the first
and only one he becomes ill. Voltaire had to go to bed when a prince
travelled past his house without visiting him. If one of such people's
letters remains unanswered they think it is a sign that their credit
has sunk, and they worry about the reason of it till they grow how
hypochondriacal. If they read in the paper such and such important
people were present when the king landed, and their names are omitted,
the world is darkened for them. That is to say, it is not enough for
them that they should be praised and called the greatest; they suffer
pains like death when others are eulogised. They feel perpetual fear
lest they should be set aside and their juniors get ahead of them.
In that they resemble a great criminal who expects to be detected.
The portrait of an ambitious man has a great resemblance to that of
a galley-slave. Imperiousness, hatred, fear--especially fear--are
depicted in his face.
"Balzac, on the other hand, was impelled by the noble ambition to make
discoveries, and to do good work in which he took pleasure. But his
own life was hidden. Unknown and misunderstood in his own Paris, which
he had discovered, he saw petty chroniclers obtain the first prizes
without being made ill by it. And when, at the age of fifty-one, he
had succeeded in making a home for himself, into which he was about to
bring his first and only wife, he died on the day of the publication of
the banns. A fine death after a life of renunciation!"
=Hard to Disentangle.=--The teacher said: "With age, as is
well known, one arrives at a different view of life than one had
formerly. Then, on account of its wealth and variety, life is almost
immeasurable, and above all, very difficult to disentangle.
"At the age of forty I came home after an absence of many years. On my
arrival I received a dunning letter from an antiquarian bookseller.
Curiously enough, without my being able to explain why, this debt
caused me no further uneasiness of conscience. But then a friend came
and advised me to settle the matter, as the bookseller was spreading
an evil report about me. I went and paid the trifling account, but the
bookseller looked so uneasy and strange, was so polite and grateful,
that I began to reflect about him. When I came home I remembered this:
twenty years previously I had entrusted him with an antique work of
art to sell. After I had visited the man several times in his shop
and the article had not been sold, I felt ashamed to go any more,
began to think of something else, and forgot the matter. His present
thankfulness showed that he had not forgotten it; we were then quits,
if he did not still owe me something.
"Now I felt ashamed on his account, and determined not to mention the
matter. But then it occurred to me that I owed his predecessor a sum of
money for books. I went again, found him showing the same uneasy manner
as before, and asked for his predecessor's address. He was in America.
I asked whether he had relatives here in the town. He had none. I went
home and thought to myself, 'Then we must drop that matter also.' In
this way, in old age, one must alternate pay and let go; now as a
debtor, now as creditor. But who strikes the balance of accounts? The
goddess of justice, and she is neither deaf nor blind."
=The Art of Settling Accounts.=--The teacher continued: "It really
looks as though we could not go hence till everything is settled,
great and small alike. Recently there died an early friend of mine,
who, at an important juncture, had helped me with a hundred kronas.[1]
I had at first regarded it as a loan. But he never dunned me, and
during the forty years which have since elapsed he was gradually
transformed in my memory into a benefactor, and all was well. When at
last he died a millionaire, I did not wish to trouble his executors
with the trifle, but sent a wreath to the funeral with a sigh of
gratitude and many kindly thoughts. Was that the end? No! Shortly
afterwards I felt a kind of inward admonition to resume relations
with a bookbinder whom I had ceased to employ on account of his
carelessness. He came and was glad to get work again; he was greatly
pleased, and declared that I had appeared just in time to deliver him.
When I understood his difficulties, for he had a family, I was willing
to give him fifty kronas in advance, but as I had no change I gave him
a hundred, though reluctantly. I saw how his back straightened itself,
and his confidence in life reawoke. He went--and never returned. I was
angry at first, because he had treated me like a fool, and I dunned
him with letters. But then the memory of my departed friend recurred;
various thoughts wove themselves together in my mind--the pleasure
of calling him a scamp, the fifty-krona note which had turned into a
hundred-krona note, the scamp's need, and the part I had played as
deliverer. In my own mind I gave him a discharge, and became quite
quiet."
[Footnote 1: A krona = 1s. 3d.]
=Growing Old Gracefully.=--The teacher continued: "When one
becomes old, one wonders at first how men have, as it were, permission
to do one an injustice. If one complains, one finds no sympathy. Even
our friends take the part of those who injure us. But when we have
discovered the secret of it, we take it all quietly. One is cheated
in ordinary business, and says to oneself, 'This is in requital for
that.' Our children prove ungrateful and difficult to manage, exactly
like we were. Young people are insolent and pert towards us, and we
see our former selves reflected in them. Servants do their work badly,
and perpetrate petty thefts; we must put up with it, when we think of
our own work scamped on various occasions. Friends are faithless, just
as we have been ourselves. By practice one comes at last so far, that
one asks for no more, demands no more, and is no longer angry. I then
always think of David when Shimei cast stones at him and cursed him,
and Abishai wanted to strike off the calumniator's head. David declined
to take vengeance, saying, 'Let him curse, for the Lord hath bidden
him.' When the same king, because of his sins, had to choose between
famine, pestilence, or raids of the enemy, he prayed 'to fall into the
hands of God, and not into the hands of man.'
"He understood how to grow old gracefully, and to make up his accounts.
So he departed praising God, 'Who proveth the heart and loveth
uprightness.'"
=The Eight Wild Beasts.=--The teacher said: "You know yourself
that when one awakes from somnambulism, one finds the world quite
mad. Then one loses all hope and all confidence, and believes we are
delivered into the power of the Devil. Once during such a moment of
awakening, I read the works of the Adventists, and the idea struck me
that they were right. They ground their belief on the Revelation of
St. John, and say as follows: 'We live in the last era during which
the eight wild beasts rule the earth. Of Christianity no trace is to
be found: power, wealth, industry, art, science, literature, are
in the hands of the pagans. The state-craft of the wild beasts is
lying and force, alternating with the most insidious hypocrisy. They
preach peace, distribute peace-prizes, build peace-palaces, but are
always seeking war in order to be able to rob and tyrannise. If their
subordinates believe them, and preach peace themselves, they are thrown
into prison. But, says St. John, nations will come from the East and
destroy the godless who have rejected Christ. The last battle is to
be at Megiddo in Syria. But since all this takes place under God's
control, the wild beasts are protected in order to carry out their
work of execution. The number of the last wild beast, 666, is not yet
interpreted, for it is not yet come. The eight wild beasts you can find
in a book, which is called _A de G_;[1] of the people of the East you
read every morning in your paper. It looks almost as though it were
true. The pietists believe it, and keep their lamps burning.'"
=Deaf and Blind.=--The teacher continued: "Under the rule of
the wild beast men have become demoralised. They reject every idea
of a retributive justice. If anyone points to an instance of it,
he is suppressed. If a blasphemer loses his tongue, they call it
'Actinomyces,' nothing more. And the obstinacy of the unrepentant
revolts against heaven itself: 'It is so far to heaven; what do we know
about it? We are ants; no God troubles himself about us.' If something
good happens to a man, he attributes it to his own power; if something
evil, he calls it 'bad-luck.' Science explains earthquakes by algebra,
and if it wants to be very learned, by seismology. The quantity of
crime and wickedness which _must_ exist is fixed by statistics. And
yet heaven is so near. God's invisible servants are around us, in
the streets and in our rooms. We do not see them, but those who have
eyes, and only they, behold their operations. The world is like a vast
institute for the deaf and blind, in which the unfortunates are told
by their teachers that they are the only ones who can see and hear.
The theosophists say that we are already living two lives--a conscious
one on the earth, and an unconscious one above. But most men seem to
have broken off communication with the higher plane, and therefore they
cannot comprehend what is from above, but have discovered that there is
no higher and no lower in the universe."
[Footnote 1: Not explained in original footnote.]
=Recollections.=--The pupil said: "Often has my experience
confirmed this saying of the theosophists, that, as well as here, we
live also on a higher plane from whence we receive our inspirations,
ideas, and intuitions. After such visitations (do they take place by
night?) I do not flourish down here, but find everything perverse,
defective, absurd. I once conceived the strange idea that I have my
true home somewhere else, and that a vague recollection has made me
give my present home an arrangement similar to that of my real one.
"In my present abode there was a room which, after certain storms that
lasted for two years, was so devastated that it looked as if devils
had haunted it. Then a sum of money came into my hands unexpectedly.
The next morning I awoke with the distinct determination to repair
and furnish the room. I went at once to the upholsterer, and knew so
exactly what furniture and curtains I wanted, that when I saw the
material it looked to me familiar and welcome. A workman came, proved
honest, worked quietly like a spirit, and in a few days the room
was ready. When I entered it, I was seized with a sort of ecstatic
shiver as though I had already seen this room once before under happy
circumstances. And now when I enter the room alone, I see it resembles
something which I do not remember, but which waits for me. I seem to
know that _there_ I am waited for by my only true wife, by my children,
friends and relations, and that this incompleteness I see is only a
poor copy drawn from a dim recollection. Think, if it only were so!"
=Children Are Wonder-Children.=--The teacher answered: "What you
say accords with Plato's theory of recollection. He believes that all
which a child learns is recovered from some previous knowledge. During
my long experience it has often happened to me to meet people who,
the first time I saw them, seemed like old acquaintances. It seems,
too, that the woman we love appears congenial to us, made for us, sent
in our way. But most of all is this the case with our children. All
children are, in spite of idle talk, wonder-children--till they have
learnt to talk. Little children often say things which astound one.
They understand all that we say even when we hide it from them. They
seem to be thought-readers, divine our most secret purposes, and rebuke
us beforehand. 'Don't do that,' said my two-year-old child before my
plan was half formed. 'What?' I asked. The child did not answer, but
smiled roguishly and half embarrassed, as though it wished to say, 'You
know yourself already.' When the child had learnt to be silent, it
pushed with its foot against the chair when the parents' talk bordered
on impropriety. Often it spoke like an elder person who understands
things better than others. At three years old it pronounced this
opinion on the nurse, 'Hannah is very nice, but she does not understand
how to treat children.' When her mother was sad, it said, 'Sit down
here and don't be sad; I will tell you a story.' I will only add--there
was no mimicry about it, as the ape-king would be inclined to believe.
What was it then?"
=Men-resembling Men.=--The teacher said: "It seems as though
some errors were necessary and unavoidable. They appear as a kind of
infectious virus. A generation is inoculated with it, carries the germ
till it has sprouted, and then there is an end of it. Views of the
world and man come up, are disseminated, evaporated, and disappear.
But those who have been inoculated with them believe they are their
own views, because they have assimilated them with their personality.
Often the error ends in a compromise with a new view. Thus Darwinism
made it seem probable that men derived their origin from animals. Then
came the theosophists with the opinion that our souls are in process
of transmigration from one human body to another. Thence comes this
excessive feeling of discomfort, this longing for deliverance, this
sensation of constraint, the pain of existence, the sighing of the
creature. Those who do not feel this uneasiness, but flourish here,
are probably at home here. Their inexplicable sympathy for animals and
their disbelief in the immortality of the soul points to a connection
with the lower forms of existence of which they are conscious, and
which we cannot deny. The doctrine that we are created after God's
image involves no contradiction, for the spirit is from God; but there
is no word which frightens these anthropomorphists so much as the word
'spirit.' Yes, there is one, and that is the word 'spirits,' which
makes the fleshy part of them shudder."
=Christ Is Risen.=--The teacher said: "After we have had
Christianity as a civilising agency for nineteen hundred years, people
begin to discuss it. Is this the opportune time to ask whether Christ
has existed and whether the documents of Christianity are genuine?
It reminds one of the author who wrote a book to prove that Napoleon
never existed. It is as if we were now to discover that Cæsar's
_Commentaries_ are false, and that he never conquered Gaul, or as if
we discussed whether the discovery of America had been useful. Ibsen's
partisans have denied that Columbus discovered America; they say it was
Leif Erikssen (perhaps we shall soon hear it was his wife).
"However, Christ returned again at the end of the last century, and was
received by all. The pagans depicted him as the poor school-teacher;
the anarchists celebrated him as the type of suffering humanity; the
symbolists did homage to him as Christus Consolator; the socialists
preached his gospel to the obscure, the weary, and heavy-laden. He was
to be seen every-where--in the quarters of the French general staff and
in the espionage office; in Lourdes and in Rome; on Mont Martre and in
Moscow. His churches and convents were purified; his miracles explained
by occultists, spiritists, hypnotists; science progressed and confirmed
the prophecies. Finally we saw at the congress of religions in Chicago
in 1897 that all peoples and religions of the world bent their knees
when Christ's especial prayer, the Lord's Prayer, was recited. Then
the believers gave each other the brotherly kiss and greeting, 'Christ
is risen!'"
=Revolution-Sheep.=--The teacher continued: "In the year 1889
we celebrated the French Revolution, but there was little life or
order in the celebration. Everything which was uprooted in 1789 still
existed--Church and State, kings and courts, priests and officials. The
French republic was the worst of all, with its Panama Canal jobbers at
the head: Wilson, Herz, Clemenceau, Arton. The constitution was kept
alive by bribes, bills of exchange more or less false, and pensions.
Offices were created in order to find places for voters, husbands of
mistresses, and the discontented. At that time the French republic was
governed by criminals, and the Church by pagans. Military and civil
orders were sold, works of art bought, votes canvassed for. One could
not become a deputy for less than two hundred thousand francs. Then
executioners and revolutions were necessary, for the principles of the
Great Revolution, if one can talk of principles in connection with
a volcano in eruption, were forgotten. Now in the perspective of a
hundred years the 'Great' Revolution appeared only like an execution,
a decimation on a large scale; an experiment with negative results,
but as such certainly very interesting. One of the recollections of
my youth is that when we 'who were born with the ideas of the French
Revolution' (ideas revived in 1848) began to talk of the 'Great'
Revolution, we were called 'Revolution-sheep.' I did not understand
this at the time, for I did not yet think for myself but merely
drivelled. But now I understand it. Now we know that the constitution
of a country is almost a matter of indifference for the common weal;
thus one constitution is not much better or worse than another."
="Life Woven of the Same Stuff as our Dreams"=--The teacher said:
"Life itself can often appear like a bad dream. One morning I went for
a walk in the country, and was absorbed in my thoughts, when a great
Danish dog rushed towards me. A young rascal stood near, laughing. I
drew my revolver, and exclaimed, 'Call off the dog, or I shoot it.' The
young fellow only laughed, the dog retreated, and I went on. On my way
back, a man armed with a musket met me, and asked how I dared threaten
to shoot his son. I answered, that the threat had only referred to the
dog. On the evening of the same day I was told that the dog had been
found dead, and that I was suspected of having poisoned it. Although I
was innocent, I was regarded as an assassin. That was a nice business!
"Again: one evening I went to see my four-year-old daughter, who waited
for me below in the park. From the distance I saw her in the company
of two unpleasant-looking children, but she did not see me. As I
quickened my steps, I saw that she went off farther with the children.
I called her, but she did not hear. I ran and saw her at the entrance
of a cellar, into which the children wanted to pull her down. She
resisted them, but they took hold of her clothes. Now she screamed,
and consequently did not hear my call. I wished to hasten to her, but
between us there was a grass lawn, with an iron railing round it, on
which I did not venture to tread for fear of the police. So I stood
there and called. At last my child pulled herself free, but did not see
me. So weirdly things may happen sometimes!"
=The Gospel of the Pagans.=--The teacher continued: "The gospel
of the pagans is immunity from punishment; if one mentions a case
where it has gone ill with a scoundrel, the pagans snort and say
one is too severe. But it is life which is severe. The gospel of the
pagans consists in showing that virtue is simplicity and is seduced;
that religion is a disease; that scoundrelism is a form of strength,
and ought to conquer by the right of the stronger. Sometimes, by way
of a change, they demand that a weak rascal should be pardoned; that
everything should be forgiven and tolerated. By 'toleration' they mean
that one should let oneself be suppressed and persecuted by them. If
one resists, they cry, 'He revenges himself. He is a bad man.' But
revenge presupposes some offence as the cause, and when the cause
disappears the effect disappears. Certainly there are some men who
avenge their own stupidity on the innocent. I have an enemy, who still
revenges himself on me because he could not steal my money. The gospel
for him would be the law reversed, 'You may steal, but others may not.'"
=Punished by the Imagination.=--The teacher continued: "Swedenborg
speaks of being punished by the imagination. That is what doctors
generally call 'hallucination.' He who suffers from persecution-mania
is persecuted. The Philistines think he is only persecuted by his
imaginations, but if the wise man asks why he is persecuted by his
imaginations, conscience answers by ceaselessly endeavouring to
discover the persecutor. The patient goes through the whole list of
the persons whom he has offended. If they are many in number, and
their hatred is justified, one may well suppose that the sick man is
persecuted by their hatred, for which his awakened conscience is now
receptive.
"In my inner life punishment by hallucinations has played the chief
part; but after I had discovered the rationale of it, I regarded the
hallucination itself as a punishment. The severest form of punishment
is suspicion, when I am obliged to suspect the innocent. That is
irresistible. My thoughts sway between trust and mistrust. I struggle
and conquer myself gradually, either by acknowledging myself wrong,
or by accepting the breach of faith resignedly. But if I give vent to
suspicion I must ask for pardon; then I take this humiliation as a
discharge. Most of my misfortunes have been imaginary; but they have
had the same effect as real ones, because I came to the consciousness
of my own wrong-doing. The incurable man is the obstinate one who
believes himself wrongfully persecuted by other men.