Part 10

Meanwhile I go home with a good conscience after a well-spent night, sleep till ten o'clock, awake well rested, and spend the day in work and meditation. But the following night I have an attack of the terrible kind which Swedenborg describes in his _Dreams_. So that was the punishment! What for? I really don't understand. I thought that this was a new lesson in the art of life,--that I should learn that all men alike are good cabbage-eaters, and had actually for a moment imagined that the part I had played in the night-café was rather that of a philanthropist than of a sinner, or at any rate morally indifferent. During the following days I was much depressed, and one evening I looked forward to passing a night of terror. At nine o'clock I had Cicero's _Natura Deorum_ before me, and was so pleased with Aristotle's doctrine that the gods quite ignored our world, and would pollute themselves if they had anything to do with this filth, that I determined to copy it out. At the same time I noticed that blood had broken out on the back of my right hand without any apparent cause. When I wiped it off, I found no mark of a scratch. But I forgot it, and went to bed. About half-past twelve I awoke with the fully developed symptoms of what I have called "the electric girdle." Notwithstanding that I know its nature and inner significance, I am compelled to seek the cause of it outside myself. I made an effort and lighted the lamp. As the Bible lay close by I determined to consult it, and it gave the answer: "I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way that thou shalt go; I will guide thee with Mine eye: be not like to horse and mule, whose mouths must be drawn with bit and bridle, else they will not come near thee."

That was an answer, and I went to sleep again, satisfied that it was not anything evil, but a benignant power that spoke to me, though somewhat ambiguously.

After I had quieted myself with some days' solitude, I went out again one evening with the American and a young Frenchman who corrects my manuscripts. It was somewhat tedious, and I returned home shortly before midnight with a bad conscience, because, being drawn into a heated conversation, I had been compelled to speak evil of some one absent. What I said was in self-defence against a liar, and absolutely true. About two o'clock I awoke and heard some one stamping in the room above me, and then come down the stairs and go into the room by the side of mine. Am I then watched? I had already had the same experience here in the hotel in September, when I lived on the third storey. So it cannot be an accident If now, as is probable, my unseen mentor wishes to punish me, how cunning it is to keep me uncertain whether they are human beings who persecute me or not! Though I have convinced myself that no one persecutes me, I am again drawn into the old circle of the self-torturing belief that some one does. When once the question is raised, there begins a dance of conjectures kept up by my conscience, which accuses me even when I have acted in pure self-defence in rebutting unjust accusations. I feel as though I were tied backwards to a stake, and that all the passers-by have the right to spit on me unpunished, but if I spit back, I am scourged, choked, hunted by furies. The whole world, even the meanest beggar, has rights against mu. If I only knew why! All the tactics are so feminine that I cannot get rid of my suspicion. For when a woman for years has done injury and wrong to a man, and he, out of innate nobility, has not lifted his hand in return, but at last strikes round him as when one drives away a fly, the woman raises an outcry, calls the police, and exclaims, "He defends himself!" Or, when in school an unreasonable teacher falls on a pupil, who is groundlessly accused, and the latter, from an injured sense of justice, seeks to defend himself, what does the teacher do? He proceeds to corporal punishment, exclaiming, "So you answer back, do you?" I have answered back. And therefore I am punished. The punishment continues eight days and nights successively. The consequence is that I become depressed and unfit for social intercourse. My friend the American, weary of me, quietly withdraws, and as he has set up a domestic establishment, I find myself again alone. But it is not entirely a mutual aversion which has a second time separated us, for we have both noticed that during our last meeting strange things have happened, which could be only ascribed to the intervention of conscious powers who intended to arouse aversion between us. This man, who knows hardly anything of my past life, seems during our last interview to have had the purpose of wounding me on all my sore points, and it seemed as though he guessed my most secret thoughts and intentions, which are yet only known to myself. As I remarked something of this sort to him, a light seemed to break upon him, "Is that not the Devil?" he broke out. "I thought there was something wrong, for the whole evening you could not open your mouth without wounding me to the quick, but I saw by your quiet face and friendly expression that you had nothing evil in your mind." We tried to defy the malefic influence. But for three days in succession my friend traversed the long road to me in vain. I was not there, nor did he find me where I usually dine.

Thus loneliness closes round me again like a thick darkness. It is nearly Christmas-time, and the being without home and family oppresses me. The whole of life becomes distasteful, and I begin again, in consequence, to look after what is from above. I buy the _Imitation of Christ_ and read it.

It is not the first time that this wonderful book has fallen into my hands, but this time it finds the ground prepared. Its purport is to die, while yet alive, to the world,--the contemptible, wearisome, filthy world. The unknown author has the remarkable faculty of not preaching or reproaching, but he speaks in a friendly way, convincingly, logically, and invitingly. He regards our sorrows not as punishments but tests, and thereby arouses in us the ambition to endure. Now I have Jesus again, not Christ this time, and He steals softly in to me, as though He came in velvet sandals. And the Christmas-displays in the Rue Bonaparte help towards the belief: there is the Christ-child in the manger, the Jesus-child with royal mantle and crown, the Child-redeemer on the Virgin's arm, the Child playing, lying, and on the cross. Yes, the Child! Him I can understand. The God who has so long heard the lamentations of men over the misery of mortal life that He finally resolved to descend, to let Himself be born and to live, in order to prove how hard it is to drag oneself about with a human life. _Him_ I comprehend.

One Sunday morning I passed by the Church Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois. This building has always exercised a strong influence on me, because it looks so familiar; the vestibules with their paintings have an inviting air, and the congregations are so small that one is not crushed or lost. As I pass in at the door, there are twilight and organ music, coloured pictures and wax candles. Whenever I enter a Catholic church I remain standing at the door and feel embarrassed, restless, and outside the pale. When the gigantic Swiss guard approaches with his halberd, my conscience feels uneasy, and I expect him to drive me out as a heretic. Here in Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois I feel a certain anxiety, for I remember that it was in this tower that the bell for some unknown reason began to sound at two o'clock in the night of St. Bartholomew. To-day ray position as a Huguenot makes me more uncomfortable than usual, for two mornings ago I read in the _Osservatore Romano_ congratulations sent by the Catholic priests to the persecutors of the Jews in Russia and Hungary, followed by a highly coloured comparison with the great days of the St. Bartholomew massacre, the return of which the writer evidently wished for.

The organ, which was out of sight, plays tunes which I have never heard before, but which seem to me like memories--memories of the times of my ancestors, or still further back. When I hear fine music, I always ask myself, "Where did the composer find it?" Not in nature and in life, for in music there are no models, as in the other arts. The only remaining conjecture is, to consider music as the recollection of a condition, which every man in his best moments longs for. And that very longing shows a vague consciousness of having lost something which one has formerly possessed.

There are six lighted candles on the altar. The priest, arrayed in white, red, and gold, says nothing, but his hand hovers with the graceful movements of a butterfly over a book. Behind him come two little children dressed in white, and bend their knees. The priest washes his hands, and proceeds to do something which I do not understand. Something rare, beautiful, and wonderful is taking place there in the distance amid the gold ornaments, incense-smoke, and light I understand nothing, but feel an easily explicable fear and reverence, and am convinced that I have gone through the same experience before.

This is succeeded by the feeling of shame of the outcast, the heathen, who has nothing to do here. And then the whole truth is apparent: a Protestant has no religion,--for Protestantism is free-thinking, revolt, separation, dogmatism, theology, heresy. And the Protestant is under the ban of excommunication. This is the curse which rests over us and makes us dissatisfied, melancholy, restless. At this hour I feel the curse, and I understand why the victor at Lützen was cut off, and why his own daughter contradicted him; why Protestant Germany was devastated, while Austria remained untouched. And what was won for us? The freedom to be cast out, the freedom to separate ourselves and to split off, in order to end finally without a creed.

The surging congregation moves out through the doors, and I remain alone, enduring, as it seems to me, their looks of disapproval. It is dark at the door where I stand, but I see all those who pass out touch the holy water in the stoup and cross themselves, and as I stand directly in front of it, it seems as though they were crossing themselves in defence against me. I know what that means, as in Austria I was exposed to the danger of those who met me on the roads crossing themselves against the "Protestant."

At last, as I am left alone, I approach the consecrated font out of curiosity or some other motive. It is made out of yellow marble in the form of a conch-shell, and over it hangs a winged cherub's head. The face of the child has a lively and radiant expression such as one only sees in good, beautiful, and well-cared-for children. The mouth is open, and the corners of it show a suppressed smile. The large fine eyes arc cast down, and one sees how the little rogue contemplates his image in the water, but under the protection of his eyelids, as though he were conscious of doing something wrong, but yet he is not afraid of his chastiser, whom he knows he can disarm with a single look. That is the child, which still keeps the impress of our distant origin, a gleam of the supernatural, which belongs to heaven. So then it is possible to smile in heaven, and not only to bear the cross! How often in my self-reproachful hours, when everlasting punishments have seemed to me objective realities, have I not put to myself the question which many would consider irreverent, "Can God smile?"--smile at the folly and over-daring of human ants? If He can, then He can also forgive.

The cherub's face smiles at me and looks at me under its eyelids, and open mouth says banteringly, "Try it; the water is not dangerous." I touch the holy water with two fingers,--a ripple passes over the surface, as though it were the pool of Bethesda, and then 1 make a motion with my finger from my forehead to my heart and across from left to right, as I have seen my daughter do. But in the next moment I am outside the Church, for the cherub laughed, and I--I will not say I was ashamed, but I had rather no one had seen it.

Outside, on the church door, there is a notice about something, which informs me that it is Advent. In front of the church an old woman sits in the terrible cold and sleeps. I lay gently a silver coin in her lap without her noticing it, and although I would have gladly seen her awaking, I go my way. What a noble and real joy to be able to act as the agent of Providence in hearing a request and to give for once, after having so long received.

* * * * *

Now I read the _Imitation_ and Chateaubriand's _La Genie du Christianisme_. I have taken the sign of the cross and carry a medal which I have received at the Church of the Sacred Heart in Montmartre. But the cross is for me the symbol of sufferings patiently borne, and not the token that Christ has suffered in my stead, for I must do that for myself. I have, in fact, framed a theory, as follows: When we unbelievers did not want to hear any more about Christ, He left us to ourselves, His vicarious satisfaction for sin ceased, and we must drag ourselves along with our own misery and consciousness of guilt. Swedenborg says expressly that Christ's suffering on the cross was not His work of atonement, but a test which God laid upon Himself rather of shame than of suffering.

At the same time as the _Imitatio Christi_, I get Swedenborg's _Vera Religio Christiana_ in two thick volumes. With an attractive power that defies all resistance he drags me into his gigantic mill and begins to grind me. At first I lay the book aside and say, "This is not for me." But I take it up again, for there is so much in it that chimes in with my observations and experiences, and so much worldly wisdom that interests me. Again I cast it aside, but have no peace till I take it up again; and the terrible thing about the matter is that when I read, I have the distinct impression "This is the truth, but I cannot reach it." Never! for I will not Then I begin to revolt, and say to myself, "He has deceived himself, and this is the spirit of falsehood." But then comes the fear that I have made a mistake.

What is it after all in the book, which is to be a word of life to me? I find the whole arrangement of grace and eternal hell; childish recollections of the hell of childhood with its everlasting miseries. But now I have got my head in the noose, and am held fast. The whole day and half the night my thoughts revolve round this one theme,--I am damned, for I cannot speak the word "Jesus" without adding "Christ," and according to Swedenborg, this is the shibboleth of evil spirits.

Now a whole abyss opens within me, and the gentle Christ of the _Imitation_ has become the Tormentor. I am keenly conscious that if this process continues I shall become a "Reader," but that I will not.

Three days have passed since I have put Swedenborg away again, but one evening, as I am studying the physiology of plants, I remember to have seen something especially interesting regarding the position of plants in the _Vera Religio Christiana_. Cautiously I begin to look for the well-known passage, but cannot find it; on the other hand, I find everything else, "the call, the enlightenment, sanctification, conversion," and, as I turn the page and try to hurry on, my eye is arrested by the most terrible passages which stab and burn. I hunt through both volumes twice, but what I seek has disappeared. It is an enchanted book, and I should like to burn it, but dare not, for night is approaching and two o'clock will come.

I feel myself becoming a hypocrite, and I have resolved to-morrow, if I can only sleep this night in peace, to commence a battle against this soul-destroyer.

I will survey his weaknesses with a microscope. I will pluck his stings out of my heart, even though it should be torn in the process, and I will forget that be has saved me from one madhouse in order to conduct me into another.

* * * * *

After I had slept in the night, although I had expected to be tormented, I set to work the following morning, not without scruples, for to take up weapons against a friend is the saddest of all enterprises. But it must be; it concerns my immortal soul, whether it is to be destroyed or not.

So long as Swedenborg in the _Arcana_ and the _Apocalypse_ treats of revelations, prophecies, interpretations, he has a religious effect upon me, but when in the _Vera Religio_ he begins to reason about dogmas, he becomes a freethinker and Protestant. When he draws the sword of reason, he has himself chosen the weapons, and they are likely to prove bad ones for himself. I wish to have religion as a quiet accompaniment to the monotonous music of life, but here it is a matter of professional religion and pulpit-discussion--in brief, a struggle for power.

Already, while I read the _Apocalypse_, I came across a passage which repelled me, by betraying a human vanity, which I do not like to see in a man of God. But out of respect I passed it by, not, however, without erasing it. The passage is as follows: In heaven Swedenborg meets an English king, to whom he complains that English newspapers have not thought it worth while to notice certain of his writings. He also expresses his vexation against certain bishops and lords, who had received his writings but given them no attention. The king (George II.) is astonished, and turns to the unworthy recipients, saying, "Go your ways! Woe betide him who can remain so indifferent when he hears of heaven and eternal life."

I may remark in passing that I do not like the way in which both Dante and Swedenborg send their enemies and friends to hell, while they themselves scale the heights; and I praise myself a little like Paul, were it the proper time to remember the fact that I, in contrast to the great masters, have placed myself alone in the furnaces of hell,[4] and have at any rate set the rest above me in Purgatory.

In the _Vera Religio_ the matter is still more uncomfortable, for there one finds Calvin in a brothel, because he has taught that faith is everything and works nothing, as in the case of the crucified thief. Luther and Melanchthon, in spite of their Protestantism, are exposed to coarse scorn and mockery. But no! it disturbs me to seek out these flaws in the picture of a noble mind. And I hope it has fared with Swedenborg in his spiritual experience as he says it fared with Luther: "When he entered the spirit world he made strenuous efforts to propagate his dogmas, but as these were not rooted in the innermost depth of his mind, but only imbibed from his infancy, he soon obtained greater illumination, so that he finally shared the new heavenly faith."

Is my Teacher angry that I have written this? I cannot believe it: perhaps he shares my opinions now, and has come to find that there are no theological disputes over there. His description of life in the spiritual world, with pulpits and hearers, objectors and answerers, has prompted in me the irreverent question, "Is God a theologian?"

I had now locked away Swedenborg and taken leave of him with gratitude, as of one who, although with alarming pictures, had frightened me like a child back to God. And now the White Christ, the Child who can smile and play, approaches with the Advent season. At the same time I can view life with more happiness and confidence, that is, as long as I keep watch over my acts, words, and even thoughts, which it seems cannot be kept secret from the Guardian and Avenging Angel who follows me everywhere.

Enigmatic occurrences continue to happen, but not in such a threatening way as before. I have abandoned Swedenborg's Christianity because it was ugly, revengeful, petty, slavish, but I keep to the Imitation with certain reservations, and a quiet religion of compromise has sprung out of that ominous condition which accompanies the search for Jesus.

One evening I sit at dinner with a young French poet, who has just read my _Inferno_, and from the occultist point of view wishes to find an explanation for the assaults to which I have been exposed and have endured.

"Have you no talisman against them?" he asked. "You must have a talisman."

"Yes, I have the _Imitation_" I answered. He looked at me, and I, somewhat embarrassed because I had just deserted from the ranks of the freethinkers, took out my watch, in order to have something to occupy myself with. At the same moment the medal of the Sacred Heart with the picture of Christ fell from my watchchain. I felt still more embarrassed, but said nothing.

We soon got up, and went to a café to drink a glass of beer. The hall was large, and when we entered we took our places at a table exactly opposite the door. There we sat for a time, and the conversation turned on Christ and what He signifies.

"He has certainly not suffered for us," I said; "for, if He had, our sufferings would have been diminished. They have not been lessened, however, but are as severe as ever."

Just then a waiter made an exclamation, and with a broom and sawdust began to sweep the ground between us and the door, though no one had come in since we had entered. On the white inlaid floor there was a circle of red drops, and as the waiter turned away he looked at us askance as if we were guilty. I asked my companion what it was.

"It is something red."

"Then we have done it, for no one has stepped there after us, and when we entered the floor was clean."

"No," answered my friend, "we have not done it, for the mark is not that of a foot, but as if some one had bled; and we are not bleeding."

This was weird and also uncomfortable, because we were attracting the attention of the other occupants of the café in an embarrassing way.

The poet read my thoughts, though he had not seen what had happened with the medal. Therefore, in order to relieve my mind, I said finally, "Christ persecutes me." He made no answer, although he would have gladly found a natural explanation of the occurrence, but could not.

* * * * *

Before I leave my friend the American, whom I have provisionally identified with the doctor, Francis Schlatter, I must relate some incidents which increase the suspicion that this man had a "double."

When we recently renewed our acquaintanceship, I told him exactly all my opinions on the subject, and showed him the number of the _Revue Spirite_ in which was the article "My friend H." He appeared undecided, but inclined to be sceptical.

After some days, when he came to dinner, he was quite disturbed, and related, with a good deal of emotion, that his mistress had disappeared without leaving any information, and without bidding him farewell. She remained some days absent and then returned. On being questioned, she acknowledged that she was afraid of her master, for whom she acted as housekeeper. Further questioning elicited the fact that once when she awoke in the night, and he was asleep, his face appeared as white as chalk and irrecognisable, and this frightened her indescribably.

Moreover, he said, he did not dare to go to sleep before midnight, for if he did he was tortured as though he were stuck on a roasting skewer which turned him slowly round, so that he had to leave his bed.

When he had read my book, _Inferno_, he said--

"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."