The Inferno by August Strindberg (love novels in english .txt) 📕

But my hands remain wrapped up, and when I stand outside in the courtyard, the high encircling walls counsel me⁠—patience.

When I tell the apothecary the result of the analysis, he proposes to me to summon a commission before whom I should demonstrate the solution of the problem by experiment publicly. I, however, from dislike to publicity, write instead an essay on the subject, and send it to the Temps, where it appears after two days.

The password is given. I am answered from all sides; I find adherents, am asked to contribute to a scientific paper, and am involved in a correspondence which necessitates the continuance of my experiments.

One Sunday, the last of my stay in the purgatory of St. Louis, I watch the courtyard from the window. The two thieves walk up and down with their wives and children, and embrace each other from time to time with joyful faces, like men whom misfortune draws together in closer bonds.

My loneliness depresses me; I curse my lot and regard it as unjust, without considering that my crime surpasses theirs in meanness. The postman brings a letter from my wife, which is of an icy coldness. My success has annoyed her, and she pretends that she will not believe it till I have consulted a chemical specialist. Moreover, she warns me against all illusions which may produce disturbance of the brain. And, after all, she asks, What do I gain by all this? Can I feed a family with my chemistry?

Here is the alternative again: Love or Science. Without hesitation I write a final crushing letter, and bid her goodbye, as pleased with myself as a murderer after his deed.

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.4 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, today⁠—what am I today? 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.

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