The Inferno, August Strindberg [classic english novels TXT] 📗

The Mythology which he put into my hands is in two volumes, has altogether a thousand pages, and opens, so to speak, of itself. My eyes are arrested by the following lines which are imprinted in letters of fire on my memory:⁠—“As the legend relates, Bhrign, having outgrown his father’s teaching, became so conceited, that he believed he could surpass his teacher. The latter sent him into the underworld where, in order to humble him, he had to witness countless terrible things, of which he had never had a conception.”

That means: “My conceit, my pride, my ὕβρις, has been punished by my father and teacher. And I am in hell, driven thither by the powers. And who is my teacher? Swedenborg.”

I turn over more leaves of this wonderful book: “One may compare with this the German myth of the fields of thorns which tear the feet of the unrighteous.”

Enough! Enough! Thorns, too! That is too much! No doubt of it⁠—I am in hell! And in fact, real occurrences support this idea so powerfully, that I must at last believe it.

The doctor seems to me to be struggling with conflicting emotions. At one time he seems prejudiced against me, looks at me contemptiously, and treats me with humiliating rudeness; at another he seems himself unhappy, and soothes and comforts me as though I were a sick child. But then, again, it seems to give him pleasure to be able to trample under his feet a man of worth for whom he has formerly had a high regard. Then he lectures me like a pitiless tormentor. I am to work, but not to give way to exaggerated ambition; I am to fulfil my duties to my fatherland and family: “Leave chemical speculations alone,” he says; “they are a chimera. There are so many specialists, authorities, and professional scientists well versed in their own branches.”

One day he proposes to me to write for the newest Stockholm society paper. A fine idea, indeed! I answer him that I do not require to write for the newest Stockholm paper, since the leading paper of Paris and of the whole world has accepted my manuscripts. Then he plays the incredulous, and treats me as a braggart, although he has read my articles in the Figaro, and has himself translated my first one in Gil Blas.

I am not angry with him; he only plays the role assigned to him by Providence. I forcibly suppress the growing hatred which I feel towards this unexpected tormentor, and curse the fate which changes what might have been thankfulness towards a generous friend into unnatural ingratitude.

Trifling occurrences ceaselessly arouse my suspicions regarding the doctor’s evil intentions. Today he has deposited in the garden verandah an entirely new set of axes, saws, and hammers. What does he want with them? In his sleeping-room are two guns and a revolver, and in a corridor a collection of axes which are much too heavy for merely domestic purposes. What a Satanic coincidence that I should have these implements of execution and torture before my eyes! For I cannot explain to myself what they mean, and why they are there. My nights now pass fairly quietly, while the doctor has taken to roaming about at night. Once at midnight I am startled by the sudden report of a gun. Out of politeness I pretend not to have heard it. The next morning he explains that a covey of woodpeckers had flown into the garden and disturbed his sleep. Another time, at two o’clock at night, I hear the hoarse voice of the housekeeper, and on another occasion I hear the doctor sigh and groan and invoke “the Lord.” Is this house haunted? Who has brought me here?

I cannot suppress a smile when I see how the nightmare with which I have been oppressed now takes possession of my gaoler. But my malicious joy is promptly punished. I have a terrible nervous attack. My heart seems to stop beating, and I hear two words, which I have noted in my diary. An unknown voice calls out, “Luthardt: Druggist.” Druggist! Are they slowly poisoning me with alkaloids such as hyoscyamin, hashish, digitalis, and stramonin, which cause delirium?

I don’t know, but from that time my suspicion is doubled. They do not dare to murder me, but they are trying to drive me mad by artificial means, in order to make me disappear in an asylum. Appearances are stronger and stronger against the doctor. I find out that he has discovered my process of making gold, and that perhaps he knew it before I did. Everything which he says contradicts itself the next moment, and when confronted by a liar my imagination takes the bit between its teeth and rushes beyond all reasonable bounds.

On the morning of the 8th of August I go for a walk before the town. On the high road a telegraph post is humming: I step up to it, lay my ear on it, and listen as if bewitched. At the foot of the post there lies by chance a horseshoe. I pick it up and carry it away as an omen of good luck.

August 10th.⁠—The behaviour of the doctor during the last few days has disquieted me more than ever. By his strange aspect I see that he has struggled with himself; his face is pale; his eyes seem dead. During the whole day he sings or whistles; a letter which he has received has excited him much.

In the afternoon he comes home with bloody hands from an operation, and brings a two months’ old foetus with him. He looks like a butcher, and talks in a hateful way: “Let them kill the weak, and protect the strong! Down with pity, for it degrades men.” I hear him with alarm, and secretly watch him, after we have wished each other good night on the threshold which divides our rooms. First of