Part 2

In the evening I roam about the gloomy Quarter, and cross the St. Martin's canal. It is as dark as the grave, and seems exactly made to drown oneself in. I remain standing at the corner of Rue Alibert. Why Alibert? Who is he? Was not the graphite which the chemist found in my sulphur called Alibert-graphite? Well, what of it? Strangely enough, an impression of something not yet explained remains in my mind. Then I enter Rue Dieu. Why "Dieu," when the Republic has washed its hands of God? Then Rue Beaurepaire--a fine resort of criminals. Rue de Vaudry--is the Devil conducting me? I take no more notice of the names of the streets, wander on, turn round, find I have lost my way, and recoil from a shed which exhales an odour of raw flesh and bad vegetables, especially sauerkraut. Suspicious-looking figures brush past me, muttering objurgations. I become nervous, turn to the right, then to the left, and get into a dark blind alley, the haunt of filth and crime. Street girls bar my way, street boys grin at me. The scene of Christmas night is repeated, "Væ soli."[2] Who is it that plays me these treacherous tricks as soon as I seek for solitude? Someone has brought me into this plight. Where is he? I wish to fight with him!

As soon as I begin to run there comes down rain mixed with dirty snow. At the bottom of a little street a great, coal-black gate is outlined against the sky. It seems a Cyclopean work, a gate without a palace, which opens on a sea of light. I ask a gendarme where I am. He answers, "At St. Martin's gate."

A couple of steps bring me to the great Boulevard, which I go down. The theatre clock points to a quarter-past seven. Business hours are over, and my friends are waiting for me as usual in the Café Neapel. I go on hurriedly, forgetting the hospital, trouble, and poverty. As I pass the Café du Cardinal, I brush by a table where someone is sitting. I only know him by name, but he knows me, and at the same moment his eyes interrogate me: "You here? You are not in hospital then? Then it was all gossip?"

I feel that this man is one of my unknown benefactors, for he reminds me that I am a beggar, and have nothing to do in the café. Beggar! that is the right word, which echoes in my ears, and colours my cheek with a burning blush of shame, humiliation, and rage. Six weeks ago I sat here at this table. My theatre manager sat opposite me, and called me "Dear Sir"; journalists pestered me with their interviews; photographers asked for the honour of selling portraits of me--and, to-day--what am I to-day? A beggar, a marked man, an outcast from society!

Lashed, tormented, driven, like a night-tramp, I hurry down the Boulevard back to the plague-stricken hospital. There at last, and only there, in my cell, I feel at home. When I reflect on my lot, I recognise again that invisible Hand which scourges and chastises without my knowing its object. Does it grant me fame and at the same time deny me an honourable position in the world? Must I be humbled in order to be lifted up, made low in order to be raised high? The thought keeps on recurring: "Providence is planning something with thee, and this is the beginning of thy education."

In February I leave the hospital, uncured, but healed from the temptations of the world. At parting I wished to kiss the hand of the faithful Mother, who, without speaking many words, has taught me the way of the Cross, but a feeling of reverence, as if before something holy, kept me back. May she now in spirit receive this expression of thanks from a stranger, whose traces have been lost in distant lands.

[1] Hospital for the Blind.

[2] "Woe to the solitary."

II

ST. LOUIS LEADS ME TO ORFILA

Through the whole winter I continue my chemical experiments in a modestly furnished room, remain all day at home, and go to my evening meal in a restaurant where artists of different nationalities meet. Afterwards I visit the family, whose society, through a momentary fit of puritanism, I had abjured. The whole noisy set of artists are there, and I am compelled to put up with what I would fain avoid--free and easy manners, loose morals, deliberate and fashionable irreligion. There is much talent and quickness of wit among these people, together with a flow of wild spirits which has won them a sinister reputation. At any rate, I am in a domestic circle; they are kind to me and I am grateful to them, although I shut my eyes and ears to their little affairs which, after all, have nothing to do with me. Had I avoided these people out of unjustifiable pride, it would have been logical to punish me for it, but as my avoidance of them sprang from a desire to purify myself and to deepen my spiritual life in self-communion, I do not understand the ways of Providence, for I am a man of such pliable character, that out of pure sociability and fear of being ungrateful, I accommodate myself to my surroundings whatever they are. But after I had been banished so long from society, through my misfortune and the shame of my poverty, I was glad to find a shelter for the long winter evenings, although the lubricous conversation annoyed me.

Now that the existence of the invisible Hand, which guides me over rough paths, has become a certainty to me, I no longer feel solitary, and keep a careful watch over my words and actions, although, it must be confessed, I am not always successful. But whenever I slip, I am at once arrested and punished with such punctuality and exactness, that I have no doubts left regarding the interposition of a judicial power. The Unknown has become for me a personal acquaintance with whom I speak, whom I thank, whom I consult. Very often I compare Him in my mind with the "demon" of Socrates, and the consciousness that the unknown powers are on my side lends me an energy and confidence which impel me to unwonted efforts of which I was formerly incapable.

A bankrupt as regards society, I am born into another world where no one can follow me. Things which before seemed insignificant attract my attention, my nightly dreams assume the form of premonitions, I regard myself as a departed spirit, and my life proceeds in a new sphere.

* * * * *

After having demonstrated the presence of carbon in sulphur, I have to demonstrate the presence of hydrogen and oxygen which, according to analogy, ought to be found in it.

Two months pass in calculations and surmises till the apparatus necessary for making the experiments is exhausted. A friend advises me to go to the Sorbonne laboratory, where strangers are admitted. But my timidity and shyness of crowds does not permit me to think of it; I suspend my experiments and take a rest.

One fine spring morning I wake up in good spirits. I walk through the Rue de la grande Chaumière to the Rue de Fleurs, which leads to the Jardin du Luxembourg. The small, pretty street is quiet, the great avenue of chestnut trees is cheerful and green, broad and straight as a racecourse. Quite in the background the statue of David rises like a boundary mark, and high over all the dome of the Pantheon, surmounted by a golden cross, seems to touch the clouds. I remain standing, delighted with the significant spectacle, when accidentally on my right my eyes fall on a dyer's shield at the end of the Rue de Fleurs. Painted on the window of the dyeing-house stand over a silver cloud the initials of my name A.S., and over them is arched a rainbow.

_Omen accipio!_ and am reminded of the passage in Genesis, "I have set my bow in the clouds to be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth."

I seem no longer to touch the ground, but to float in air, and with winged feet enter the garden, which is now quite empty. In this early morning hour I am the exclusive possessor of this park, with all its glory of roses, and I know all my flowers in their beds--chrysanthemums, verbenas, and begonias.

Going down the racecourse I reach the boundary mark, pass through the trellised gate to the Rue Soufflot, and turn to the Boulevard St. Michel, where Blanchard's antiquarian book-shop attracts my attention. Casually I take up an old chemical work by Orfila, open it at haphazard and read, "Sulphur has been classified among the simple bodies. Davy and Berthollet, however, have endeavoured to prove by their able experiments that it contains hydrogen, oxygen, and a third basal element which has not yet been distinguished."

One may imagine my almost religious ecstasy at this well-nigh miraculous discovery. Davy and Berthollet had demonstrated the presence of hydrogen and oxygen, and I of carbon. It rests, therefore, with me to lay down the formula for sulphur.

Two days later my name was entered on the list of the scientific faculty of the Sorbonne (founded by St. Louis!), and I received permission to work in the laboratory. The first morning I went there was for me a solemn occasion. I was under no illusions as regards the professors, who had received me with the cold politeness due even to a foreign intruder. I knew that I should never be able to convince them, but I felt simultaneously a calm still joy, and the courage of a martyr who faces a hostile crowd, because for me at my age youth was the natural enemy.

As I crossed over the square before the little church of the Sorbonne, I found the door of it open and entered it, without any definite reason; the Virgin Mother and Child smiled at me in a friendly way; the Cross left me, as always, cold and without comprehension of its meaning.

My new acquaintance, St. Louis, the friend of the poor and plague-stricken, receives the homage of young theologians. Can it be, after all, that he is my patron, my guardian angel, who drove me to the hospital, so that I, purified by the fire of mental suffering, should win again that glory which leads to dishonour and contempt? Was it he who directed me to Blanchard's book-shop and hither also? See how superstitious the atheist has become!

As I survey the memorial tablets which record successful experiments, I vow, in the case of my success, to receive no worldly honour.

The hour has struck, and I run the gauntlet of the young students who regard my undertaking with scorn and prejudice.

* * * * *

About fourteen days have passed, and I have discovered incontrovertible proofs that sulphur is a threefold combination of carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen. I thank the Director of the laboratory, who, as it appears, takes no interest in my affairs, and leave this new purgatory full of deep, unspeakable joy.

* * * * *

In the mornings when I do walk in the churchyard of Montparnasse, I visit the park of the Palais Luxembourg. A few days after my departure from the Sorbonne I discover, in the centre of the churchyard, a monument of classical beauty. A white marble medallion shows the noble features of an old man of science, whom the inscription on the pedestal describes as "Orfila: Chemist and Physiologist." It was my friend and protector who, in later years, has so often guided me through the labyrinth of chemical experiments.

A week later, passing through the Rue d'Assas, I stop to admire a house which looks like a convent. A large shield on the wall informs me that it is "Hôtel Orfila."

Again and again Orfila!

III

PARADISE REGAINED

The summer and autumn of the year 1895 I count, on the whole, among the happiest stages of my eventful life. All my attempts succeed; unknown friends bring me food as the ravens did to Elijah. Money flows in; I can buy books and scientific instruments; among them a microscope, which reveals to me the secrets of life.

Dead to the world, as I have renounced the vain delights of Paris, I remain in my quarter, where every morning I visit the dead in the churchyard of Montparnasse, and thence descend to the Luxembourg Garden to greet my flowers. Sometimes one of my fellow-countrymen on his way through Paris visits me in order to invite me to breakfast on the other side of the river, and to go to the theatre with him. I decline, because the right bank is forbidden to me; it is the so-called "world," the world of the living and of vanity.

Although I cannot formulate it distinctly, a kind of religion has been forming in me. It is rather a condition of the soul than a view of things based on dogmatic instruction; a chaos of sensations which condense themselves more or less into thoughts.

I have bought a Catholic prayer book, and read it with a collected mind; the Old Testament comforts and chastens me in a somewhat obscure fashion, while the New leaves me cold. This does not prevent a Buddhistic book having a stronger influence on me than all other sacred books, because it ranks positive suffering above mere abstinence. Buddha shows the courage when in full possession of vital energy and enjoyment of married happiness to renounce wife and child, while Christ avoids every contact with the permitted joys of this world.

For the rest, I do not brood much over the sensations which spring up in me; I keep myself indifferent and let them come and go, approving for myself the same freedom which I owe to others.

The great event of the Paris season was Brunetière's war-cry, "The bankruptcy of Science." Dedicated from my childhood to the natural sciences, and later on a disciple of Darwin, I had discovered how unsatisfactory the scientific method is, which accepts the mechanism of the universe without presupposing a Mechanician. The weakness of the system showed itself in the gradual degeneration of science; it had marked off a boundary line over which one was not to step. "We," it said, "have solved all problems; the world has no more riddles." This presumptuous lie had annoyed me already in 1880, and during the following fifteen years I occupied myself with a revision of the natural sciences. In 1884 I doubted the supposed composition of the atmosphere. The nitrogen of the air is not identical with the nitrogen obtained by analysis of a nitrogenous body. In 1891 I visited the Scientific Institute in Lund in order to compare the spectrum analyses of these two sorts of nitrogen whose difference I had discovered. Do I need to describe the reception which the learned scientists gave me? Now in this year, 1895, the discovery of argon has confirmed my former hypotheses, and given a fresh impulse to my investigations which had been interrupted by a foolish marriage. It is not Science which is bankrupt, only the antiquated, degenerate science, and Brunetière was right although he was wrong.

While all acknowledged the identity of matter and called themselves Monists, without being so really, I went further and drew the extreme logical inferences of the theory by obliterating the boundaries between matter and so-called spirit. Thus, in 1894, in my treatise _Antibarbarus_, I had dealt with the psychology of sulphur by explaining it through "ontogeny," that is, the embryonic development of sulphur.

Anyone who is interested in the subject may be referred to the work _Sylva Sylvarum_, which I composed in the summer and autumn of 1895, with a feeling of pride in my perspicuity at having divined the secrets of creation, especially in the vegetable and animal kingdoms. He may further consult my _Churchyard Studies_, which show how in loneliness and sorrow I was brought back to a wavering apprehension of God and immortality.

IV

THE FALL AND PARADISE LOST

Guided into this new world in which no one can follow me, I conceived an aversion to social intercourse, and have an unconquerable desire to free myself from my surroundings. I therefore informed my friends that I wished to go to Meudon to write a book which required solitude and quiet.

At the same time insignificant disagreements led to a breach with the circle which met at the Restaurant, so that one day I found myself entirely isolated. The first result was an extraordinary expansion of my inner sense; a spiritual power which longed to realise itself. I believed myself in the possession of unlimited strength, and pride inspired me with the wild idea of seeing whether I could perform a miracle.

At an earlier period, in the great crisis of my life, I had observed that I could exercise a telepathic influence on absent friends. In popular legends writers have occupied themselves with the subjects of telepathy and witchcraft. I wish neither to do myself an injustice, nor altogether to acquit myself of wrong-doing, but I believe that my evil will was not so evil as the counterstroke which I received. A devouring curiosity, an outbreak of perverted love, caused by my frightful loneliness, inspired me with an intense longing to be re-united with my wife and child, both of whom I still loved. But how was this to be brought about, as divorce proceedings were already on foot? Some extraordinary event, a common misfortune, a thunderbolt, a conflagration ... in brief, some catastrophe which unites two hearts, just as in novels two persons are reconciled at the sick-bed of a third. Stop! there I have it! A sick-bed! Children are always more or less ill; a mother's fear exaggerates the danger; a telegram follows, and all is said.

I had no idea of practising magic, but an unwholesome instinct suggested I must set to work with the picture of my dear little daughter, who later on was to be my only comfort in a cursed existence.

Further on in this work I will relate the results of my manoeuvre, in which my evil purpose seemed to work with the help of symbolical operations. Meantime the results had to be waited for, and I continued my work with a feeling of undefined uneasiness and a foreboding of fresh misfortune.

* * * * *

One evening, as I sat alone before my microscope, an occurrence happened which made all the deeper impression on me because I did not understand it. For four days I had let a nut germinate, and now detached the germ. This had the shape of a heart, not much larger than the core of a pear. Standing between two cotyledons it looked like a diminutive human brain. One may imagine my surprise when I saw on the glass-slide of the microscope two tiny hands, white as alabaster, folded as if in prayer. Was it a vision, an hallucination? Oh, no! It was a crushing reality which made me shudder. The little hands were stretched out towards me, immovable, as if adjuring me. I could count the five fingers, the thumb shorter than the others--real woman's or child's hands.

I made a friend, who surprised me watching this astonishing sight, witness it also. He required to be no clairvoyant in order to see two clasped hands which besought the sympathy of the beholder.

What was it? Nothing but the two first rudimentary leaves of a walnut tree, the _Juglans regia_--nothing else. Yet the fact was undeniable that ten human fingers were clasped in a beseeching gesture as if expressing, "De profundis clamavi ad te." But as a still too incredulous empiric, I passed by the occurrence callously.

* * * * *

The fall has happened. I feel the mercilessness of the unknown powers weigh heavily upon me. The hand of the invisible is lifted and the blows fall thickly upon my head.

In the first place, my anonymous friend who has supported me hitherto, feels insulted and deserts me, because I had written him a presumptuous letter. So I am left without means.

Moreover, when I receive the proofs of my work _Sylva Sylvarum_, I find the text in complete confusion. Not only are the pages mixed and wrongly numbered, but the different parts are confused, so that in an ironical way they represent the great disorder which rules in nature. After endless hesitations and delays, the pamphlet is at last printed, but when the printer sends me the bill, I find that it amounts to more than double the sum originally agreed upon. I am obliged, to my regret, to pawn my microscope, my black suit, and some remaining ornaments, but, at any rate, my work is printed, and I have for the first time in my life the conviction that I have said something original, great, and beautiful. In a mood of exultation, easy to understand, I carry the packet to the post, and making a contemptuous gesture towards the hostile heavens, I throw it in the letter-box with the thought, "Listen, Sphinx, I have solved thy riddle, and defy thee!"

On my return to the house the hotel bill is handed to me. Irritated by this unexpected stroke, for I have already lived a year here, I begin to notice trifles which I had formerly overlooked. For instance, in three adjoining rooms pianos are being played. I am convinced it is a plot of some Scandinavian ladies whose company I have avoided.

Three pianos! and I cannot leave the hotel, for I have no money. Cursing heaven, these ladies, and my fate, I go to sleep. The next morning I am awoken by an unexpected noise. They are hammering nails in the room which is near my bed; then more hammering begins on the other side. A silly trick quite in keeping with the character of these female pianists, nothing more! But when after supper I lie down to sleep as usual, there ensues such a din overhead that some of the plaster falls from the ceiling on my head.

I go to the landlady and complain about the other lodgers. She declares that she has heard nothing, but, for the rest, is very polite, and promises to turn out anyone who dares to disturb me, for she is anxious to keep me in her hotel, which is not prospering very well.

Without attaching much credit to the word of a woman, I still believe she means to treat me well in her own interests. None the less the noises continue, and I come to the conclusion that these ladies--stupid people!--want to make me believe that there are "rapping spirits" in the house. At the same time my companions in the restaurant alter their behaviour towards me, and a concealed hostility shows itself in their envious looks and innuendoes. Weary of the struggle, I bid farewell to the hotel and restaurant, and depart, plundered to my last shirt, leaving behind my books and other things. On February 21, 1896, I entered the Hôtel Orfila.

V

PURGATORY

Hôtel Orfila has a monastic appearance, and is a boarding establishment for Catholic students. It is superintended by a quiet, amiable Abbé, and peace, order, and morality prevail here. What especially comforts me after so many annoyances is, that women are not admitted here. The house is old, the rooms are low, the passages dark, and the wooden staircases wind and twist hither and thither as if in a labyrinth. There is an air of mysteriousness about the whole building, which for a long time has attracted me. My room looks out on a _cul-de-sac_, so that standing in the middle of it, one sees nothing but a moss-grown wall with two small round windows in it. But when I sit at my table close to the window, I have an uncommonly pleasant look-out. Under me there is a circular wall overgrown with ivy surrounding a courtyard, where young girls walk under plane trees and acacias. In the centre there stands a charming Gothic chapel. Somewhat farther on one sees high walls with numerous little barred windows, which remind one of a convent. Still farther away are old, half-hidden houses crowned by a forest of chimneys, and in the extreme distance one sees the tower of Notre-Dame des Champs surmounted by a cross and weathercock. In my room there hangs a faded likeness of St. Vincent de Paul, and a picture of St. Peter looks down on my bed. St. Peter, the opener of the gates of heaven. What an ironical situation for me, who some years ago threw ridicule on the Apostle in a fantastic drama!

Quite contented with my room, I sleep well the first night. I edify myself by reading the book of Job, and arrive at an ever clearer conviction that the Eternal has handed me over to Satan to be tried. This thought comforts me again, and suffering seems to me a mark of confidence on the part of the Almighty.