Part 9

Another time, they try to solve the riddle by regarding me as Robert the Devil. At that time many incidents occurred, sufficient to give ground for fearing that I might be stoned by the inhabitants of the place. Here is a simple fact. My little Christina has an extraordinary dread of chimney sweeps. One evening, at supper, she suddenly begins to scream, points at someone invisible behind my chair, and cries, "The chimney sweep!"

My mother-in-law, who believes in the clairvoyance of children and animals, turns pale; and I become alarmed all the more as I see my mother-in-law make the sign of a cross over the child's head. A dead silence ensues, which puts a stop to all cheerfulness.

* * * * *

The autumn with its storms, heavy rains, and dark nights has come. In the village and the poorhouse the number of the sick, dying, and dead increases. In the night one hears the choir-boy ring the bell before the Host. All through the day the church bell is tolling, and one funeral follows another. Death and life have grown into a single horror. My night attacks recommence. Prayers are said for me, beads are told, and the holy water vessel in my room is filled by the priest himself. "The hand of the Lord rests heavily on thee!" with these words my mother-in-law crushes me. But slowly I recover myself. My mental elasticity and an inborn scepticism free me again from these black thoughts, and after the perusal of certain occult writings, I believe myself to be persecuted by spirits of the elements, incubi and Lamias[1] who wish to hinder me in the completion of my great work on Alchemy. Instructed by the initiated in such matters, I procure a Dalmatian dagger, and consider myself well-armed against evil spirits.

In the village a shoemaker dies, who was an atheist and blasphemer. He had a jackdaw, who now left to himself lives on the roof of a neighbouring house. While watch is being kept by the dead, they suddenly discover the jackdaw in the room without anyone being able to explain how it got there. On the day of the burial, the black bird accompanies the funeral procession, and perches on the coffin in the churchyard before the ceremony. Every morning this creature follows me in my walk, a fact which really disquiets me because of the superstitious nature of the people. One day, which is destined to prove its last, the jackdaw accompanies me with horrible screams and words of abuse, which the blasphemer had taught him, through the streets of the village. Then there come two little birds, a robin and a yellow wagtail, and follow the jackdaw from roof to roof. The jackdaw flies outside the village and perches on the roof of a cottage. At the same moment a black rabbit springs up before the cottage, and disappears in the grass. Some days afterwards we hear of the jackdaw's death. It had been killed by the street boys because of its propensity for stealing.

* * * * *

During the day I work in my little house. But for some time past it seems that the powers are no longer well intentioned towards me. When I enter the house I find the air thick, as if it had been poisoned, and have to open doors and windows. Wrapped in a thick cloak, with a fur cap on my head, I sit at the table and write, and resist the so-called electric attacks which compress my chest and seize me in the back. Often I feel as though someone were standing behind my chair. Then I stab with the dagger behind me, and imagine I am fighting an enemy. So it goes on till five o'clock in the afternoon. If I remain sitting longer, the conflict becomes terrific, until, feeling wholly exhausted, I light my lantern and go to my mother-in-law and my child. On one occasion, as early as two or three o'clock, I find my room full of the thick and choking atmosphere I have spoken of. But I continue the struggle till six o'clock in order to finish an article on chemistry. On a bunch of flowers sits a lady-bird marked with yellow and black--the Austrian colours. It clambers about, gropes, and seeks for a flying-off place. At last it falls on my paper, spreads out its wings exactly like the weathercock on the church of Notre-Dame des Champs in Paris, then crawls along the manuscript and up my right hand. It looks at me, and then flies towards the window; the compass on the table points towards the north.

"Very well!" I say to myself, "to the north then; but not before I choose; till I am summoned again, I remain where I am."

Six o'clock strikes, and it is impossible to remain in this haunted house. Unknown forces lift me from my chair and I must leave the place.

* * * * *

It is All Souls' Day, about three o'clock in the afternoon; the sun shines and the air is clear. The villagers are going in a procession led by the clergy, with banners and music, to the church-yard, to greet the dead. The bells begin to ring. Then, without a warning, without even one cloud appearing as precursor in the pale blue sky, a storm breaks loose. The banners flap violently against the poles, the festal robes of the men and women are a prey of the winds. Dust-clouds rise and whirl; trees bend. It is a real wonder.

I feel afraid of the next night, and my mother-in-law knows it. She has given me a charm to wear round my neck. It is a Madonna and a cross made out of consecrated wood--the timber of a church which is more than a thousand years old. I accepted it as a valuable present offered in good will, but a lingering respect for the religion of my fathers prevents my wearing it round my neck.

It is about eight o'clock, and we are having our evening meal; the lamp burns and a weird stillness reigns in our little circle. Outside it is dark; there is no wind in the trees; all is quiet. All at once a single gust of wind blows through the crevices of the window with a curious humming noise like that of a Jew's-harp. Then it is past. My mother-in-law throws a look of alarm at me and folds the child in her arms. In a second I interpret what her look means: "Leave us, O damned soul, and do not bring avenging demons on our innocent heads." Everything goes to pieces; my last remaining happiness, the companionship of my little daughter, is taken from me, and in the gloomy silence I mentally bid the world adieu.

After the evening meal I withdraw to the once rose-coloured--now black--room and prepare, since I feel myself threatened, for a night-battle. With whom? I know not, but challenge the Invisible, be it diabolic or divine, and will wrestle with It, like Jacob with the angel. There is a knock at the door. It is my mother-in-law, who forebodes a bad night for me, and invites me to sleep on the sofa in her sitting-room. "The presence of the child will safeguard you," she says. I thank her and assure her there is no danger, and that nothing can frighten me so long as my conscience is untroubled. With a smile she wishes me good-night.

I put on my martial cloak, boots and cap again, determined to lie down dressed and ready to die like a brave warrior who despises life and challenges death. About eleven o'clock the air in the room begins to grow dense, and a deadly fear masters my courageous heart. I open the window. The draught threatens to blow out the lamp. I close it again. The lamp begins to make a sound between a sigh and a moan; then all is still again.

A dog in the village howls. According to popular superstition, this is a sign of death. I look out of the window; only the Great Bear is visible. Down there in the poorhouse a light is burning; an old woman is sitting bent over her work, as though she were waiting for her release; perhaps she fears sleep and its dreams. Weary, I lie down again on the bed, and try to sleep. At once the old game recommences. An electric stream seeks my heart; my lungs cease to work; I must rise or die. I sit down on a chair, but am too exhausted to be able to read, and spend half an hour thus in listless vacancy. Then I resolve to go for a walk till daybreak. I leave the house. The night is dark and the village asleep, but the dogs are not. One attacks me, and then the whole band surrounds me; their wide-open jaws and fiery eyes compel me to retreat.

When I open the door of my room and enter, it seems to me as though it were full of hostile living creatures through whom I must force my way in order to reach my bed. Resigned, and resolved to die, I throw myself upon it. But at the last moment, when the invisible vulture is about to stifle me under its wings, someone lifts me up, and the pursuit of the furies is at an end. Conquered, hurled to the earth, beaten down, I quit the scene of an unequal battle and yield to the invisible. I knock at the door on the other side of the passage. My mother-in-law, who is still at prayer, opens the door. The expression of her face as she looks at me makes me feel afraid of myself.

"What do you wish, my child?"

"I wish to die, and then to be burnt, or rather, burn me alive!"

She does not answer. She has understood me, and sympathy and pity conquer her fear, so that she prepares the sofa for me with her own hand. Then she retires to her own room where she sleeps with the child. Through a chance--always this Satanic chance!--the sofa stands opposite the window, and the same chance has willed that it has no curtains, so that the black window opening gapes at me. Moreover, it is the very same window through which the wind gust came when we were at supper. With all my powers exhausted, I sink on the sofa. I curse this ever-present, unavoidable "chance" which persecutes me with the obvious purpose of making me fall a victim to persecution-mania. For five minutes I have rest, while my eyes are fastened on the black square of the window; then an invisible something glides over my body, and I stand up. I remain standing in the middle of the room like a statue for hours, half-conscious, turned to stone, I know not whether awake or asleep.

Who gives me the strength to suffer? Who denies me the power, and delivers me over to torments? Is it He, the Lord of life and death, Whose wrath I have provoked, when, influenced by the pamphlet _The Joy of Dying_, I tried to die, and considered myself already ripe for eternal life? Am I Phlegyas doomed to the pains of Tartarus for his pride, or Prometheus, who, because he revealed the secret of the powers to mortals, was torn by the vulture?

(While I am writing this, I think of the scene in the sufferings of Christ when the soldiers spit in His face, some buffet Him and others strike Him with rods and say to Him, "Tell us, who is he that smote thee?"

Perhaps my old companions in Stockholm remember that orgy when the author of this book played the rôle of the soldier?)

Who has struck thee? A question without an answer. Doubt, uncertainty, mystery--there is my hell! Oh that my enemy would reveal himself, that I might do battle with him, and defy him! But that is just what he avoids doing, in order to afflict me with madness and make me feel the scourge of conscience, which causes me to suspect enemies everywhere, enemies, i.e., those injured by my evil will. Indeed, my conscience smites me every time that I come on the track of a new foe.

* * * * *

Awoken the next morning after a few hours' sleep by the prattle of my little Christina, I seem to forget all, and go to my usual work, which is not unsuccessful. Everything that I write is immediately accepted and printed--a proof that my senses and understanding are unimpaired.

Meanwhile the papers spread the report that an American scientific man has discovered a method of converting silver into gold. This saves me from being suspected of being an adept in the black art, a fool, or a swindler. My theosophical friend, who has hitherto furnished me with the means of livelihood, tries to enrol me in his sect. He sends me one of Madame Blavatsky's occult treatises and ill conceals his anxiety that I should pronounce a favourable verdict upon it. I also am embarrassed, for I see that the continuance of our friendly relations will depend upon my answer.

Madame Blavatsky's _Secret Doctrine_ is plagiarised from all the so-called occult theories; it is a hash-up of all ancient and modern scientific heresies. Her book is worthless as regards her own presumptuous claims, interesting through its quotations from little-known authors, repellent through its conscious or unconscious fabrications regarding the Mahatmas. It is the work of a mannish woman, who, in order to put man to shame, undertook to overthrow science, religion, and philosophy, and to set a priestess of Isis on the altar of the Crucified.

With all the reserve and moderation which is due to a friend, I let my friend know that the collective god, Karma, does not please me, and that it is impossible for me to belong to a sect which denies a personal God, Who alone can satisfy my religious needs. It is a confession of faith which is demanded from me, and although I know that my answer entails a breach in our friendship, and the cessation of my means of support, I speak it out freely.

Then my faithful friend turns into a demon of vengeance. He hurls an excommunication against me, threatens me with occult powers, tries to intimidate me by vulgar accusations, and storms at me like a heathenish sacrificial priest. Finally, he summons me before an occultist tribunal, and swears to me that I shall never forget the 13th of November. My situation is painful; I have lost a friend and am nearly destitute. By a diabolical chance during our paper war, the following incident takes place: _L'Initiation_ publishes an article by me which criticises the current astronomical system. A few days after its appearance Tisserand, the head of the Paris observatory, dies. In an access of mischievous humour I trace a connection between these two things, and mention also that Pasteur died the day after I published _Sylva Sylvarum_.[2] My friend, the theosophist, does not know how to take a joke, and being superstitious above the average, and perhaps, more deeply initiated in black magic than I, gives me clearly to understand that he regards me as a wizard.

One may imagine my consternation when, after the last letter of our correspondence, the most famous of the Swedish astronomers dies of a fit of apoplexy. I am alarmed, and with reason. To be accused of witchcraft is a very serious matter, and "even after death one will not escape punishment."

Further calamities follow. In the course of a month about five well-known astronomers die, one after another. I fear my fanatical friend, whom I credit with the cruelty of a Druid and with the power of the Hindu yogis who can kill at a distance.

Here is a new hell of anxieties. From this day onwards I forget the demons, and direct all my attention to the unwholesome ranks of the theosophists and their magicians, the Hindu sages, supposed to be gifted with incredible powers. I now feel myself condemned to death, and keep sealed my papers, in which, in case of my sudden death, I have specified the murderers. Then I wait.

A few miles eastward on the bank of the Danube, lies the little chief town of the district Grein. There, I am told, a stranger from Zanzibar has arrived at the end of November in midwinter. That is enough to rouse doubts and dark thoughts in a morbid mind. I try to obtain information regarding the stranger, whether he is really an African, whence he has come, and what is his object?

I can learn nothing; a mysterious veil envelops the unknown, who, like a spectre, stands day and night before my anxious mind. I always find my best comfort in the Old Testament, and I invoke the protection of the Eternal and His vengeance against my enemies. The psalms of David best express my soul's deepest needs, and Jehovah is my God. The 86th Psalm has made a special impression on my mind, and I gladly repeat it.

"O God, the proud have set themselves against me, and tyrants seek after my soul, and have not thee before their eyes. Show me a token for good; that all they which hate me may see it, and be ashamed; because thou, Lord, hast holpen me, and comforted me."

That is the "token" I ask for, and notice well, reader, how my prayer will be heard.

[1] A kind of female vampire.

[2] A botanical treatise.

X

THE ETERNAL HAS SPOKEN

Winter, with its grey-yellow skies is here; no ray of sunlight has lit up the sky for weeks. The muddy roads hinder us from taking walks; the leaves fall from the trees and rot; all nature is dissolving in decay.

The usual autumn butchery of dumb animals has begun. All day long the cries of the victims rise against the dark vault of heaven; one steps in blood and among corpses. It is terribly depressing, and I feel sad for the two, good, kind-hearted sisters who tend me like a sick child. Besides this, my poverty, which I must conceal from them, depresses me, together with the futility of my attempts to avert approaching beggary. For my own good they wish for my departure, since such a lonely life is not good for a man; moreover, they believe that I need a doctor. In vain I wait for the necessary money to be sent from Sweden, and prepare to depart, even though I have to tramp the high roads. "I have become like a pelican of the wilderness, and like an owl in the desert." My presence is a trial to my relatives, and but for my love to the child, they would have hurried me away. Now that mud or snow makes walking difficult, I carry the little one along the paths on my arms, climb hills, and clamber up rocks, so that both the old ladies say, "You will make yourself ill, you will get giddy, you will kill yourself."

"And a beautiful death that would be!" I reply.

* * * * *

On the 20th of November, a grey, gloomy, dreary day, we sit at the mid-day meal. Altogether worn-out after a sleepless night and new conflicts with the Invisible, I curse life, and lament that no sun shines.

My mother-in-law has prophesied that I will not be well till Candlemas (February 2nd), when the sun returns again. "That is my only ray of sunlight," I answer, pointing to my little Christina who sits opposite to me. At this moment the clouds, which have been massed together for weeks, part, and through the cleft a ray of light shines into the room and illuminates my face, the table-cover, the glasses.

"See, papa! see! there is the sun!" exclaims the child, and clasps her hands together. I rise in confusion, a prey to the most conflicting feelings. "A chance? No!" I say to myself. Is it the wonder, the sign I prayed for? But that would be too much to grant to one fallen into disfavour like me. The Eternal does not interfere in the little affairs of earth-worms. And yet this ray of light abides in my heart like a happy smile on a discontented face. During the couple of minutes which I take in walking to my little house, the clouds have formed themselves into strange-shaped groups, and in the east, where the veil has lifted, the sky is as green as an emerald, or a meadow in mid-summer. I stand in my room and wait in a state between reverie and mild compunction, which has no fear in it, for something which I cannot exactly define.

Then suddenly there is a single thunder-clap over my head. No flash has preceded it. At first I feel alarmed, and wait for the usual rain and storm to follow. But nothing happens; all is perfectly quiet, and it is over. "Why," I ask myself, "have I not sunk down in humility before the voice of the Eternal?" Because, when the Almighty with majestic condescension allowed an insect to hear His voice, this insect felt elevated and puffed up by such an honour, considering itself in its pride to be possessed of some special desert. To speak freely, I felt myself almost on a level with the Lord, as an integral part of His personality, an emanation of His being, an organ of His organism. He needed me in order to reveal Himself; otherwise he would have sent a thunderbolt and struck me dead upon the spot. But whence springs this monstrous arrogance in a mortal? Must I trace my origin to the primeval Titans who revolted against a despot who delighted in ruling over slaves? Is this why my earthly pilgrimage has become a mere running the gauntlet, while the dregs of humanity delight to strike, spit on, and defile me? There is no imaginable humiliation which I have not endured, yet the more I am crushed the more my pride asserts itself. I am like Jacob wrestling with the angel, and though a little lamed, maintaining the conflict manfully; or Job, chastised, and yet steadily justifying himself in the face of undeserved punishments.

Attacked by so many conflicting thoughts, I relapse from my megalomania, and feel so insignificant, that the incident dwindles down to a mere nothing--a thunder-clap in November.

But the echo of the thunder reverberates, and once more in a sort of religious ecstasy I open the Bible at haphazard, and pray the Lord to speak more plainly that I may understand Him. My eyes immediately fall upon this verse in Job: "Wilt thou disannul my judgment? Wilt thou condemn me that thou mayest be justified? Hast thou an arm like God? _Or canst thou thunder with a voice like Him?_"

I doubt no more. The Eternal has spoken! O Eternal! What demandest Thou of me? Speak, for thy servant heareth!

No answer!

Good! I will humble myself before the Eternal Who has humbled Himself to speak to His servant. But bow my knee before the mob and the mighty? Never!

* * * * *

In the evening my good mother-in-law receives me with a manner that is enigmatic. She casts a searching look at me sideways, as though she wished to ascertain what sort of impression the stupendous occurrence had made on me. "You have heard it?" she asks.

"Yes, it is strange--a clap of thunder in November." She at any rate no longer considers me damned.

XI

HELL LET LOOSE

Meanwhile, in order to entirely bewilder me regarding the real nature of my illness, a current number of _L'Événement_ contains the following notice:

"The unhappy Strindberg, who brought his misogyny to Paris, was quickly compelled to take himself off. Since then his partisans are dumb and confounded before the feminist flag. They do not wish to undergo the fate of Orpheus, whose head was torn off by the Thracian Bacchanals."

So they actually did lay a plot against me in the Rue de la Clef, and the morbid symptoms from which I still suffer are the result of that murderous attempt. Oh, these women! Certainly my articles on the feminist pictures of my Danish friend were not calculated to please them. But, at any rate, here is a fact, a tangible occurrence which dissipates my terrible doubts regarding my mental soundness.

I hasten with the good news to my mother-in-law. "You see that I am not out of my mind!"

"No, you are not, but only ill, and the doctor will recommend physical exercise for you--wood-chopping, for instance."

"Is that of any use against women, or not?"

My too hasty retort makes a breach between us. I had forgotten that a female saint is still a woman, _i.e._, man's enemy.

* * * * *

All is forgotten, the Russians, the Rothschilds, the dabblers in black magic, the theosophists, and the Eternal Himself. I am the innocent sacrifice, blameless Job, Orpheus whom the women want to kill, the author of _Sylva Sylvarum_, the reviver of dead science. Lost in a labyrinth of doubt, I abandon the new-born idea of providential interposition with a spiritual purpose, and absorbed in the bare fact that a plot has been laid against me, I forget to think of the original Plotter. Thirsting for vengeance, I prepare to send notices to the police-offices and papers in Paris, when a timely change of affairs puts an end to the sorry drama, which would have degenerated into a farce.