YALE
UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

STRINDBERG THE MAN

STRINDBERG THE MAN
BY
GUSTAF UDDGREN
Translated from the Swedish
BY
AXEL JOHAN UPPVALL, Ph. D.
Of the Department of Romanic Languages
and Literatures, University of Pennsylvania

Boston
The Four Seas Company
1920

Copyright, 1920, by
The Four Seas Company

The Four Seas Press
Boston, Mass., U. S. A.

INTRODUCTION
There are two distinct ways in which to deal with
genius and the works of genius : The old and the new.
The old method may be characterized as the descrip
tive. It is, generally speaking, negative. It occupies
itself mainly with the conscious motives and the external
phases of the artist and his life and gives a more or less
literal interpretation of his creation. From an historical
point of view the descriptive method has its own peculiar
value; from the psycho-analytic viewpoint it is less
meritorious, since it. adds but little, if anything, to the
deeper understanding of the creative mind.
The new or interpretative method is based on psychol
ogy. It is positive. It deals exclusively with man's
unconscious motivation as the source and main-spring of
works of art of whatever kind and independent of time
and locality. Thus while the descriptive method accepts
at its face value the work of genius, the new or psycho
analytic method penetrates into the lower strata of the
Unconscious in order to find the key to the cryptic mes
sage which is indelibly though always illegibly written
in large letters on every work of art.
Gustaf Uddgren's Strindberg The Man (En ny bok
om Strindberg) is not a psycho-analytic interpretation of
Strindberg in the true sense of the term. It is rather
descriptive with a strong analytic tendency. As a matter
of fact, it contains a number of elements of such general
5

6 STRINDBERG THE MAN
interest as to justify the translator's ambition of render
ing the work accessible to the English speaking public.
It constitutes the unpretentious message in the form of
biography and reminiscence of one of those relatively
few and highly favored individuals who can lay claim to
a certain amount of intimate personal contact with the
great Swedish author. Furthermore, Gustaf Uddgren
possesses such a clear insight into and so profound an
appreciation of the complex problems with which Strind
berg wrestled unceasingly all his life, as to be entitled to
a hearing abroad as well as at home.
The book affords an excellent general survey of the
many-sided, turbulent life and activities of Sweden's
foremost author. Here we meet the juvenile poet and
indomitable revolter such as he appeared to the people
of the seventies; the so-called misogynist who in the
eighties caused a world-wide sensation with his Married,
his novels, autobiography and naturalistic plays; the
wandering scientist, acid psycho-analyst, mystic and
paranoiac of the nineties who rises out of his Dantesque
Inferno, like the bird Phoenix from his ashes, to produce
over a score of dramas — historical, transcendental, social
— of such unprecedented excellence as to compare favor
ably with the greatest dramatic monuments of all times —
the Shakespearian. We follow him to his native land
after long years of exile on the 'Continent only to find
him rejected, hated and harassed by his own. And
finally we retire with him to the Blue Tower where he
spends his declining years like a hermit until death claims
him on the 14th of May, 1912.

INTRODUCTION 7
The chapters containing Uddgren's straightforward,
unadorned account of his several interviews with
Strindberg in Germany, France and Sweden are not only
highly interesting from an historical point of view, but
shed a great deal of new light upon the complex psychic
life and personality of the poet and reformer.
Uddgren's broad, sympathetic views and simplicity of
presentation cannot help producing a tonic effect upon
the reader when juxtaposited with the intolerance and
the depression wrought by the distortion of facts, mali
cious attacks, meaningless bombast and glittering
generalities of some of the self-appointed high priests
of Strindberg criticism on both sides of the Atlantic.
With the exception of Lind af Hageby, Hermann Ess-
wein, Emil Schering and Drs. Schleich and Landquist,
the translator knows of no other writer who seems so
well qualified to discuss Strindberg's extraordinary life
and immortal achievements as the author of this little
volume. It is to be hoped, therefore, that the book will
be welcomed by all students of Strindberg, and that it
may fall into the hands of many of those whose knowl
edge of a great and good man is limited to the glaring mis
representations, wilful or otherwise, of that stubbornly
narrow-minded and vociferous clique of reactionaries
who have justly been branded with the fitting epithet of
eagle-eating monkeys.
A. J. U.
Philadelphia, Pa.
May 1920.

CONTENTS Page
Introduction  5
Strindberg — The Juvenile Poet and Revolter . 13
Strindberg — The Misunderstood Knight of the
Weaker Sex  25
My First Meeting with Strindberg .... 36
The Wandering Scientific Investigator ... 49
Inferno  62
The Resurrection of the Dramatist .... 80
The Poet and the Wolves  92
The Eccentric Hermit  104
Little Christmas Eve with Strindberg . . .118
In the Blue Tower  135
Bibliography  161

STRINDBERG THE MAN

CHAPTER I.
Strindberg — The Juvenile Poet and Revolter
i
I KNEW Strindberg long before I met him. All of
that generation which was young during the-1atter
part of the seventies and the beginning of the
eighties, was carried away by the poet who wrote Master
Olof and who had raged in The Red Room.
To us he was the reawakening of the Swedish spirit
of literature and art. We r^Jieea^temfied at the
greatness to which the twafTNTorwegian giants Ibsfl? and
Bjornson had attained and weTete^lmbst ashamed that
Sweden at this time could not show a single great man.
Then Strjgelberg came. He had been among us for a
long time, although we had not known of his . presence.
When he came, all the young blood that had any vitality,
joined him. Already, at the age of twenty-three, he had
produced such a great work as Master Olof, the first
great masterpiece of Swedish dramatic art — rich in
youthful fire and turbulent ideas — and besides, so Swed
ish through and through that we were justified in
commencing to believe in old Sweden once more. For in
spite of the fact that we were young, we had already had
an opportunity to see through the empty bombast with
which the older writers tried to entice us and thus
condemn us to the same inactivity into which they them
selves had fallen. 13

14 STRINDBERG THE MAN
We knew something about that school of suffering
which Strindberg had passed through in his youth. This
fact made him twice as dear to us. We sent our glowing
hatred up to Stockholm, to its old fogies of the press
who had received his youthful but manly words with the
scoffs and sneers of impotence and had refused him that
recognition which every promising young poet needs in
order to grow big and strong and withstand the storms
which are sure to rage about him upon the mountain top.
^And we placed ourselves wholly on his side when, after
i years of insidious persecution — during which he had been
j the cheerful, generous giver — he took up his position of
( defense and finally was forced to attack in person those
Vwho refused to recognize him.
What ecstasy did he not create in our young hearts
when alone he attacked the generally unsatisfactory
conditions round about us ! This was something for a
young generation to behold. To cut down the enemy
that grew like weeds in the midst of our acres and to
fight great battles with them, seemed to us of greater
consequence than all the warring expeditions of the
Gustavians on the plains of Germany or the pursuit of
chimeras in the deserts of Russia.
The teacher who believes that the young accept without
discrimination all the manipulated historical expositions
with which they are to be educated so as to incline
towards one side or the other, is thoroughly mistaken.
The young on' the contrary have a great intuitive ability
to see through what is purposely falsified, and when their
suspicion has once been awakened, they tear to shreds

THE JUVENILE POET AND REVOLTER 15
the whole fabric of lies with a violence which can be
modified only in the course of years and which later on
develops — on the part of the Philistine head of the
family — into a complete satisfaction with everything that
exists. This Strindberg, the poet, who was forced to give up
his journey to Parnassus in order to identify himself with
a pioneer movement, we loved. Continually we saw him
before us in the symbolic picture which Carl Larsson1
had furnished as a title-page vignette to Strindberg's
collected juvenile works: In the Spring-Time. In it
there is a young Titan with sorrowful eyes, painfully
drawn mouth, a lion's mane above the mighty brow, and
a large thorn pointing towards the aching head.
The poet of the sharp thorn — pointing as it were from
a crown of thorns directly towards his creative brain —
that was the juvenile image of Strindberg which etched
itself more indelibly than all others on the minds of those
who were young at that time. All the contemporaries to
whom I have spoken of this, once had the same visual
sensation of him who aroused us out of our slumber.
Yes, he had brought life to us. For we had all gone
astray in the desert where we had got sand into our
throats instead of water and were on the point of dying
with thirst. About fifteen years earlier, Strindberg had
passed through the throes of adolescence in which we
now were, and his strong intuition had guided him out
of the desert, and when we saw him for the first time,
he was standing at the boundary of the ever verdant
1 A famous Swedish artist, (1853-1919).

16 STRINDBERG THE MAN
land with a gesture full of promise and new happiness,
pointing out the way for us.
We had passed through the same horrible awakening
as Strindberg. With all the ecstasy of youth, we had
approached what we considered the highest ideal. We
had been told from childhood that nobody can be a good
individual without religion, and since youth is naive
enough to believe itself goodness personified, we had all
done our level best to penetrate deeper and deeper into
that treasury of religion which is hidden from view by
innumerable veils.
We had had the same experiences as Strindberg, but
when we believed we had reached our goal, when it
seemed as though the last veil would be drawn aside, then
everything burst like the iridescent soap-bubble, and there
we stood viewing it all from the wrong side.
His despair was ours, and every word he spoke was
received by us like fresh spring water which brought us
to life again.
r~What did we care that the so-called literary critique
[m the capital annihilated everything he wrote? We had
entered through the lofty portal of poetic creation; we
had followed his progress line for line in the characters
of Master Olof and Gerdt the Printer. And we had
learned how to love this Master Olof who made the walls
of the old, crumbling temple fall in order to make room
for a greater, freer, and more worthy structure. We
loved our new Swedish master just as highly as we loved
the gentle Master of Galilee.
Already the introduction to Master Olof had for us the

THE JUVENILE POET AND REVOLTER 17
beauty of revelation and recalled to us the sagas which
we had read in our youth. Master Olof's play with the
two disciples whose parts in a religious drama he is
rehearsing, was to us the harbinger of that new spring
of which the author gave us the presentiment. We had
been seized with a hatred of the religion in which we had
been deceived, but we still retained that strong religious
sentiment which quest and search had produced, and
Strindberg's words fell into a soil that was predisposed
to receive them.
Not until many years afterwards when I saw Master
Olof on the stage did I notice that my love of the play
had been so great as to prevent me from fully grasping
the significance of the closing scenes of the drama. My
belief in the Swedish reformer1 had been so unlimited
as to force me to overlook those traits of weakness which
the poet had permitted to remain in him in order that he
might be completely human.
The next work of Strindberg that came to us down
there in the country was The Red Room. It was preceded
by a rumor of excessive "redness," the consequence of
which was that we, the young, shrank for a time from
reading it, in spite of the fact that we considered our
selves as red as it was possible to be.
And so when we read The Red Room, we felt as if a
new warmth streamed into our veins. Our pulses
throbbed more vigorously, and the whole descriptipn
became enshrouded in a sort of red mist. And that was
1 Olaus Petri (Master Olof), Swedish divine and reformer,
(1493-1552).

18 STRINDBERG THE MAN
not on account of it being politically so red, since we in
the country never had had any respect for bureaucratic
Stockholm against which Strindberg directed his biting
-satire, but rather on account of the violent indignation
which these initial clashes with life had aroused in the
breast of the young poet.
In Master Olof he had as yet been on the great main
road which seems to lead directly up to the heights.
With The Red Room he had turned in on a by-path which
meandered among the underbrush. He had thrown
himself into the opposition and revolted against this
provincialistic community which tried to keep him down
and force him to turn away from the lofty genre of
composition whose rhythm echoed in Master Olof.
The poet who revolted against his entire surroundings,
whose indignation gave him a courage so great that not
even the highest fortress-tower of tradition frightened
him, the poet with the thorn pointing towards his head —
we could not but love and admire, we who were young
at that time.
Is it to be wondered at that we stuck to him through
thick and thin? That we ourselves became revolters,
each in his own little circle?
Besides this there were in The Red Room glorious
descriptions of Bohemian life which for all time to come
opened our eyes to the beauty of a life led in such proud
simplicity as that of those young artists among their
garden plots in the vicinity of Lill-Jans'.1 These Strind
berg stories prevented many of us from making
i The beautiful Lill-Jans' woods to the north of the capital.

THE JUVENILE POET AND REVOLTER 19
life a grinding Marathon, and instead sent us on
our way in search of an ideal that we considered worthy
and noble.
I once heard a prominent Swede declare that the,whole|
trouble with Strindberg was that he had never enjoyed
a good, secure family life. No, fortunately he did not;
fate never permitted him to enjoy a calm for any length
of time, and still less allowed his, spirit, to, be stifled, in
that vicious atmQSDhejx.andiaJiiatJnsincere _unioja^if
two individuals— who preferably should have shunned
one another — which is known as "the good family." On
the contrary he did continue to be the same free Bohemi-^
an, whether he had a wife in the house or not, and he
never enjoyed what we call "society." He always had
his knapsack packed and was ready to continue his
wanderings. The beginning of the eighties continually brought us
surprises from the hands of Strindberg. We read with
admiration The Secret of the Guild, Sir Bengfs Wife,
and In the Spring-Time, but we rejoiced even more at
the works in which he continued the intellectual revolu
tion that was the great achievement of his youth.
He revolutionized completely our conception of Swed
ish history by his work The Swedish People, in which he
showed us that it was not alone the great names of kings
that carried out the great deeds in which our history
abounds, but that behind them there stood a people
worthy of a much greater admiration.

20 STRINDBERG THE MAN
Strindberg's outline of a cultural history is a patriotic
achievement of extraordinary importance. No other
book that has come into my hands has awakened such a
love for our people as that one book. And it is a love
that embraces not only the nobility with the brilliant
family names, but also the great nameless masses who in
silence have fought all the battles of every day life with
a heroism just as great as that which our countrymen
developed on the world-famous fields of battle.
Originally Strindberg's The Swedish People at Home,
was projected on a much larger scale, but the publishers
forced him to hurry in order to issue the work, which
was published in installments, as soon as possible.
Strindberg, therefore, found it necessary to condense it
more and more, and in the end he was obliged to style the
book An Outline. Swedish literature thus lost one of its
most monumental works. The foundation is laid, how
ever, and it is to be hoped that the near future may bring
forth some historian of cultural progress who in a worthy
manner will continue the work which Strindberg began.
The next epoch-making book by Strindberg was his
great social satire The New Kingdom. It caused great
rejoicing among the young, but wrung a cry of horror
from all the old-timers.
The Swedish realm, our entire system of government,
the all-constitutive bureaucracy, we had been accustomed
from childhood on to regard as a kind of divine institu
tion so flawlessly perfect that we had to admire it as a

THE JUVENILE POET AND REVOLTER 21
model for the entire world. The leading men in the
province of religion and literature were scarcely less than
gods, and it never would have occurred to anyone to
approach this Olympus with criticising glances.
And then there came an underrated dramaturgist who
not only laid bare a great many flaws in them, but looked
at the whole matter from such an elevation that the lofti
ness disappeared and the proud height of Olympus caved
in, until it became as flat as a newly tilled field, and the
resplendent temples seemed to be situated in mud-puddles
instead of upon the brow of the famous mountain.
The New Kingdom could, not have aroused a discussion
more animated had it been a new, half intelligible play
by Ibsen. We, the young blood, we revelled in the social
emancipation to which we had now attained, just as we
did in the case of The Red Room, which had prepared
the way for the younger artists and art theories in the
province of literature and painting. The older genera
tion was thoroughly frightened and endeavored to deny
the facts with which Strindberg tormented his times.
They regarded us as irretrievably lost and heading
towards a sad future, where, perhaps, some fine day we
would be swallowed up by the earth.
In one^ respect they were right. It was a hard blow^
to a young mind to be obliged to tear to shreds, piece by j
piece, all that had been regarded as the loftiest and the
most noble. It is like going through a series of operatJ
tions and having the old members replaced by new ones.

22 ' STRINDBERG THE MAN
You are able thus to save a life, but the result is a piece
of patch-work with seams a tort et a, trovers.
That Strindberg and his contemporary adolescent
generation had to submit to this, was not our fault. We
would have preferred to continue in our belief in the old
household-gods, but when we noticed that, the state of
impotent of the preceding generations had given a
vigorous start to cancerous diseases in our breasts, what
else could we do but put the knife to the abscesses and
remove them while it was yet time?
Because Strindberg marched at the head of us as the
incorruptibly honest and fearless champion of truth, we
had the power to endure the torture of the operations.
We had suffered from those afflictions for years, but they
were necessary in order that coming generations might
be saved. In our case the mental diseases were only in a
primary stage at which an operation was still possible ; in
the next generation, they would perhaps become incurable.
f Cutting down everything that he found decaying or
' withered, Strindberg continued to advance upon the path
-which ran like a spiral around the mountain up to its
summit. When he arrived, he compared the temple
structure situated there to Valhalla, and he found that he
himself, once a beaming Balder, had been changed into a
reviling Loke.1 It is in his Poems in Verse and Prose
that we meet him in this guise.
The spirit of the age in general he symbolizes in the
i In English: Loki. See Norse, Mythology.

THE JUVENILE POET AND REVOLTER 23
conception The Gods of Time. He raises them up to
the Valhalla of real decadence, a lofty dwelling which
reminds one not a little of a certain literary Areopagus
with sweetened water in the glasses before them. And af
ter having placed those gods in a proper milieu a la Offen
bach, he himself stepped into the midst of them like the
young giant Loke, horsewhipped them until the strokes of
the whip tore open their bodies, and only watched
for the right moment to overthrow the whole assembly.
All- the gentleness and goodness of the author of
Master Olof had disappeared. Before us stood a young,
spiteful blasphemer whose love of truth and justice
forced him to speak as he did.
It was the revolter pure and simple we beheld, the
revolter who had raised the banner of rebellion within
the sphere of spirit and intellect. And when he raised
the banner against hypocrisy and counterfeit gods, how
could we but follow him? All the young people of the
early eighties who had anything good in them uncondi
tionally went into battle under the colors of this chief.
Those who remained at home were the insidious and
narrow-minded, who were more intent upon watching the
meat-pots (and of stealing some of the meat from those
who had hastened to the firing line) than to make
sacrifices for a great cause.
We ourselves could not at that time realize the magni
tude of the fight nor the significance of the victory which
Loke and his youthful forces actually won. But now,

24 STRINDBERG THE MAN
almost a quarter of a century later, anyone that is so
inclined can see that it was this bloodless revolution
within the intellectual sphere which, after it had caused
the collapse of the crumbling temples, prepared a new
foundation for the new Sweden, which ever since that
time has been erecting new structures for a people whose
self-respect is on the point of being aroused.
Without the Strindberg revolution, our nation would
still be that invertebrate, lethargic weakling who
considered that he was doing enough for the age
by dreaming about the boom of the leather-cannon of
the seventeenth century and who admired himself while
lying on his back declaiming Tegner's Charles XII.

CHAPTER II.
Strindberg — The Misunderstood Knight of the
Weaker Sex
IN spite of the fact that so many wise and good words
have already been said by others — e.g. by Hermann
Esswein and John Landquist — about the pretended
woman-hater Strindberg, I, too, am obliged to touch on
the subject, not in order to produce more evidence to
show that Strindberg's hatred of women is a misunder
standing, but because I need this factor also in order to
make the characterization of the poet and the man, which
I am endeavoring to present by means of these lines,
as complete as possible.
Besides questions pertaining to art, religion, and
sociology, in which Strindberg had been the spokesman
for the young, there was a field in which we all stood
face to face with a chaotic confusion i.e. things erotic.
At first, like Strindberg himself, we had had to fight
clear of the maelstrom of misunderstanding upon which
the traditional so-called moral conception is based.
After we had succeeded by degrees in arriving at our
own conclusion in this matter, always with reference to
individual characteristics, we suddenly collided with two
great icebergs which checked us and became the cause of6
new confusion.
These were the contributions to the question by the
two great Norwegians Ibsen and Bjornson. Ibsen was
25

26 STRINDBERG THE MAN
the more significant and the more dangerous, for his
Nora-morals had laid a very serious hold on all and were,
at the time when Strindberg sat down and wrote his
Married, in a fair way to be accepted as a sort of official
individual moral code. Bjornson's glove-morals on the
other hand fell down almost immediately on account of
being absolutely unreasonable.
But the Nora-morals or the "Doll's House cult"
thrived, and as it was in a fair way of turning our heads
perhaps for a long time to come, the lion woke up in
Strindberg, and he considered the time had come when it
was his duty to appear in the arena and strike a great
blow. He began his attack by indicating that if the feministic
movement of that time was bent on liberating woman
in such a way that she would grow more and more like
a man, then the movement had strayed from the right
pathj^/There must be a difference between man and
woman, for if all humanity should become masculine,
such a state of affairs could have but one consequence:
the downfall of the human race. If woman did not
wish to submit to motherhood, the human race naturally
could not continue.
" Strindberg has a totally different ideal from that of the
emancipated mannish woman: the love of the good,
cheerful housewife, the object of the husband's and the
childrens' love — a woman raised almost to the level of a
madonna, but who, because of the treasure she possesses
in the home, bows before the mate and supporter of the
family.

KNIGHT OF THE WEAKER SEX 27
Strindberg once made the following statement to me:
/'In Switzerland, where I stayed during the period when
Married was a burning question, I never felt fully at
home. The wives there, as in France, were perfectly freen'
just like the men, and could choose their lovers according!
to their own wishes. The wife-cocotte is an irrational]
combination which I never could tolerate. I felt thatj
I was in an entirely different atmosphere when I came
to Bavaria, where the men are the determining element
in wedlock and the women are obedient and true. Just
the return to these old fashioned patriarchal conditions
was enough to arouse in me my poetic inspiration which
during the latter part of my stay in Switzerland had been
nearly dormant.'' j>
The fact is that Strindberg had strayed away from
himself during the latter part of his sojourn in Switzer
land. He published a large number of novels and essays
in Swiss. and particularly in Austrian dailies and maga
zines, but they were altogether impersonal and without a
sign of the Swedish trait which is so characteristic of
everything else he has written. The Strindberg who wrote
those -novels and articles was a cosmopolitan in whom the
Swedish heart had broken down efitirely. Neither in
contents nor in phraseology is there anything that recalls
the poet Strindberg. But as soon as he had settled ifr
Bavaria and found himself in a setting corresponding to
the old fashioned Swedish conditions, he rediscovered
himself, became just as Swedish as ever before and his
productiveness rose so as to form one of the greatest and

28 STRINDBERG THE MAN
"richest of periods, the one which begins with The Father
and ends with The Dance of Death.
¦' What lies behind Strindberg's fight against all the
outgrowths of the feministic movement is exactly this:
he continually clung to the ideal of woman as wife
^nd mother which he had formed in his youth. And
""what he attacked during the period in which he wrote
and defended his work Married was just such conditions
as are likely to destroy the altogether too unpopular ideal.
f What he attacked was partly Ibsen's false exposition in
A Doll's House of man and woman in wedlock and which
started a silly discussion about unhappy marriages in
general and especially of woman as the one contrahent
in wedlock who has been oppressed for centuries ; partly
he directed his weapons against matrimony under present
conditions, as he himself writes in an interview-preface
"to the first part of Married :
"I have shown that perfect bliss is impossible, I have
shown that woman , under present conditions has often
— not always — become a toad on account of her educa
tion, I have thus — write it down, Sir — attacked the
education of the female, church marriage and the liberty
on the part of the men to play the paramour; conse-
~quently I have not attacked woman, but rather — write
_it down, Sir, in large letters — Present Conditions. ^
"Woman does not need my defense. She is the fashion
and therefore she is the mistress of the world. And the
freedom she now demands is the same freedom demanded
by all men. This we. must acquire as friends, not as
enemies, for as such we will get nothing."

KNIGHT OF THE WEAKER SEX 29
How the author of Married in spite of these lucid
statements of his could be turned into the apostle of
absolute hatred of women, seems to me to be a sleight-of-
hand trick of the kind that is rather difficult of
explanation. Of course, it is quite clear from what
quarter the trick proceeds; but to explain and to prove
anything about it conclusively is more difficult,
Strindberg's endeavor to appear al* the defender of
idealistic womanhood displeased all the emancipationists
in skirts or pantaloons who had started the "Doll's House
cult" and had set up as their high aim : The emancipation
of woman. And, strange to say, it seems to have been
the educated element of the nation that had been carried
away by this cult, this worship of the family cocotte,
How many of those who fought bravely against the Ibsen
play did not go down on their marrow-bones in face of
the perverted cult caused by the very same play?
They did not try to refute Strindberg's logic with
counter-proofs and clear arguments. They probably
felt that it was rather difficult to argue him off his feet.
But they felled the altogether too bold champion by a
blow from behind. They declared him an outlaw by!
christening him The Woman Hater. J
Everywhere in Sweden during the years next following
the lawsuit occasioned by his Married, around thousands
of coffee pots and with the aid of thousands of foul,
tattling tongues, they fixed to the name of Strindberg ,
this uncalled-for epithet; and it became so enduringly
fixed that even at the present time, nay, on the very
day of Strindberg's death, a thoughtless journalistic

30 STRINDBERG THE MAN
literary light could sit down and use in the obituary
of the greatest poet that Sweden has produced,
this derogatory term which he ought to have felt to be
improper on purely technical grounds in connection with
the name of the departed.
Strindberg had, as we have said, a certain purpose in
view when he wrote his A Book about Women. That
purpose he attained only in part. He was able to
undermine the Nora-cult so that it collapsed, but to get
the feministic movement to progress along lines where it
could keep company with reason was an impossibility
even for him.
Moreover, a comical incident thwarted the whole
purpose of Married. A prominent lady took exception
to it and ordered an action to be brought against it. This
ought to have been directed, of course, against its
"immoral tendencies," against the lack of respect with
which the author speaks of Her Majesty the Mistress of
the world, i.e. against those features which ten thousand
emancipated housewives had found most objectionable
in the book. If that had been done Strindberg would
without a doubt have performed a much greater service
with his book than he did.
But instead of this, the accusers twisted the whole
matter by bringing action against Married for defamation
of religion. Such a course Strindberg never could have
imagined, and it is to this disappointment he refers when
he gives vent to his despair in the historical words : "The
shot went off, but my gun did not stand it. The pot is
bursted."

KNIGHT OF THE WEAKER SEX 31
Strindberg writes in the fourth part of The Char
woman's Son (The Author) which was completed in
1886 but not published until 1910, that the celebrated
lawsuit was a farce staged by a woman and naturally
intended to bring a man (himself) into the lime-light.
The action was a comedy badly written by women, and
the part which they assigned to Strindberg did not fit him.
It proved the wrong one right through. He refused it,
but they forced it upon him, as well ¦ as a couple of
other roles which he liked even less. He was to be
a popular tribune, a religious reformer, a party leader,
everything except what he was — an author.
And when the prosecution was all ¦ over, it had
succeeded in its principal aim. Strindberg was clawed
to pieces, unable to work and, from an economic point
of view, he was ruined.
But it also had other consequences for the author ofv
Married. He had attacked religion, holy matrimony, 1
and emancipated woman. F01* this he was now to be
punished. All that he had written was declared to be
immoral, he was no longer the fashionable author, and 1
during the years 1884- 1889, while he continued to reside^
abroad, his enemies succeeded in spreading such a terror
about his name that upon his arrival home he felt himself„
to be an unknown man.
The great popularity which he had once enjoyed was
gone. If he had been convicted in the lawsuit over
Married, there would have been a revolution in his favor.
Now he was discharged, dismissed even by young
Sweden, the literary party who had arrayed themselves

32 STRINDBERG THE MAN
about him and chosen him as their chief despite the fact
that he never had asked them for that honor.
This was their gratitude for his clear and candid state
ment pertaining to one of the burning questions of the day
and for his having chosen his words so that the statement
will be valid for long years to come, — probably as long
as men and women shall foolishly get into their heads to
give one another — before clergyman or magistrate — the
rash promise of partnership for life.
In the obscure circle of a provincial town where I
sojourned the year when Married appeared, I had a
splendid opportunity to study the remarkable manner in
which Swedish society received the work.
A long time before the book appeared and before its
contents became known, it had been condemned unani
mously. The New Kingdom had not been read in vain.
They knew, therefore, how boldly free this social critic
was, how little reverence he showed for certain of our
time-honored grievances, and they were convinced
beforehand that Strindberg would put his foot in it most
decidedly, if he actually undertook to discuss such a
delicate question as that of woman and marriage.
T~ They knew, therefore, several weeks in advance that
\JMarried pleaded for nothing less than "free love," the
more accidental the better. All ties were to be severed,
for the parents must not know to whom their children
belonged, and on that account all were to be educated
by the state in a national institution for foundlings.
(Thus parental love was to be blotted out of the world.
j\And the women — well, what their fate might be one

KNIGHT OF THE WEAKER SEX 33
could imagine, when they no longer enjoyed the protec-1
tion of conjugal ties but instead had to look upon love as
their bread and butter. The female sex was destined to;
form a proletarian class of most despicable creatures,
and the last vestige of family life was to be wiped out
once for all.
We can imagine what consternation this created in
innumerable little homes. Around the family lamp the
folks are sitting in an atmosphere which one might
almost be justified in calling religious. And then Strind
berg's big black hand appears and attempts to snatch the
lamp from the table, to disturb that admirable family
concord, and drive the different members of the circle
into the street.
Strindberg's Married was doomed even before it
appeared. People wondered how the publisher, Albert
Bonnier, could be bare-faced enough to publish it. And
it was expected that the book would be confiscated before
it had time to leave the press.
I had heard so much about it myself that, a week ahead
of time, I called on the only bookseller in town asking
him to send me a copy, well wrapped up, as soon as he
had received the first consignment of Married.
One day I returned from my walk and was on the point
of settling down among my books to continue my studies.
Suddenly my aunt came rushing in, pale and out of
breath, just as if she had been present at some bloodji
massacre in the immediate neighborhood. She was in
such a state of agitation that she spoke with difficulty.
"What have you done, Gustaf ? How can you do any-

34 STRINDBERG THE MAN
thing like that? I— I thought that you were a decent
young man. It is terrible to defile our honorable home
in that way."
— What way? I don't see what you are driving at.
And then she told me how my uncle had come home
and by chance found a parcel containing Married which
was lying on my desk. His horror had been so great
that he had dropped the book and refused to pick it up
except with a pair of fire-tongs. He had taken it back to
the bookseller and read the riot-act to him for daring to
send the book to me.
When I hastened down to the bookseller to get the
book again, he refused to sell it to me. I had a sharp en
counter with him, but to no purpose. Through the back
door, however, he sold the book to those special customers
of his who belonged to the literary clique of the commun
ity, and it had a great run, so much so that when its sale
was suppressed, there were but a few copies left.
Those who had read it did not speak of it, but those
who had not read it complained that Strindberg had made
prostitutes out of all women and reviled all that is sacred.
I myself was treated as a criminal by my relatives, and
they did not wish to be seen publicly together with me.
They even warned their acquaintances against the Strind-
berg-friend as against some anarchistic monster.
Such commotion the poor little work, which was
misunderstood in advance of its publication, caused all
over the country! If there had been a single honest,
fearless, influential person who had dared to stand up
and to declare that Married was a highly conservative

KNIGHT OF THE WEAKER SEX 35
book, the aim of which was to defend the only remaining
ideal of the author: — woman as wife and mother — there
would have been no occasion for this second great national.
injustice which was brought home to the author with such
crushing effect.
For in spite of the fact that the journey home caused
by the act of injunction, was a great triumph for him,
afterwards all deserted him, even those whose vocation
it was to represent free speech and who had inscribed
"Liberalism" on their colors.

CHAPTER III.
My First Meeting With Strindberg
WHEN Strindberg left Sweden on the 18th of
November, 1884, after the legal proceedings
with reference to Married were brought to a
close, his name became wrapped up "almost immediately
in a strange silence.
We young people could not but believe that the victory
which Strindberg had won when he was acquitted of the
charge of blasphemy, would turn all minds towards him
and that he would finally be given justice as poet and
reformer. But instead of that he practically disappeared from our
.view. His literary activity was dormant during the next
few years ; or if he wrote anything, it did not reach us.
When we again met Strindberg as the unique poet, he
was an entirely different man. He had become a skillful
dramatist who had written a couple of short hypermodern
dramas, The Father and Lady lulia, which no publisher
in all Sweden had cared to print but of which a publisher
in Halsingborg1 was the financial backer. Despite the
fact that Zola had written the preface to The Father and
partly approved of the play, the public at home rejected
it. Strindberg's former friends and protectors, Georg
1 The second largest city in the province of Scania.
36

FIRST MEETING WITH STRINDBERG 37
Brandes and Bjornstjerne Bjornson, pronounced their
anathema over him and scattered broadcast over the
entire North the opinion that the author of The Father
-was- — a madman. The story passed from ear to ear -that
one of StrmaB'erg's psycho-pathological stories, written
during his sojourn on a Danish island, was founded on
personal experience and that he was ripe for the lunatic
asylum. In the midst of all this literary gossip about him, his"*
The Inhabitants of Hems'o made its appearance. In it
there was no sign of insanity. With a hand so light that
we could hardly believe it to be that of Strindberg, he
had painted this Japanese idyl of the skerries. It was a
hymn of praise to the summers on Kymmendo,1 those
summers which had seen the birth of Master Olof and
probably also that of The New Kingdom, — a hymn
to the out-of-door life among the skerries to which he
loved to return from the oppressive heat of France and
Switzerland. We can easily understand why Strindberg regarded
his The Inhabitants of Hems'o as a literary trans
gression. His artistic love of truth accused him of
having painted the picture in too light colors — like the
well-known oil painting "Ruskprick"2 by his own hand
in which is seen nothing but a mist-white ocean and a
1 In the Stockholm Archipelago.
z A sea-mark consisting of a slender pole to the top of which
is fixed a small juniper bush or the like. Such navigation
marks, rising several yards above the surface of the water,
are very common in Swedish lakes and rivers.

38 STRINDBERG THE MAN «
still whiter sky, with a big, red "Ruskprick" penetrating
through both.
In his introduction to Life Among the Skerries Strind
berg endeavors in his amiable, naive manner to exculpate
himself from his own charges in this matter. He
declares that it is the bright, smiling element in the life
of a man who dwells among the skerries — when it
actually takes that form — which he desired to depict in
The Inhabitants of Hemsb. In Life Among the Skerries
he had endeavored to give the penumbra, and in order to
be able fully to excuse himself, he finally half promised
to give "possibly later on and under better auspices, the
umbra which must exist in order to present the picture
in its completeness."
But he never gave us this complete picture with the
bluish-black umbra. Things never became so cheerful
about him as to permit him to write that work. I believe,
besides, that he was too much concerned in the matter
himself and that he loved the smiling idyl of the skerries
too intensely to deepen it into tragic greatness.
For the inhabitants of central Sweden, The Inhabitants
of Hems'o came as a harbinger of joy, but for us, the
dwellers on the west coast who have learned how to love
the strikingly wild which our, coast has to offer, much
more than the inland lake idyls of the Baltic coast, to us
Strindberg's idyl of the skerries was altogether too tame,
and shared too much of the nature of Japanese water-
colors. This is the reason why at my first meeting with
Strindberg, which is now to be related, I made an attempt
_to convert him, i.e. to get him to relinquish his hold on

FIRST MEETING WITH STRINDBERG 39
the entirely idyllic and devote himself and his pen to the ,
titanic, the grandeur of our west coast, which I consid-/
ered to be more fitting for the author of The Father.
After six years of exile Strindberg could stand it no
longer. He had to return to his belovecj. Sweden once
more, and it had become so dear to him on account of the
visions caused by his long absence, that he could not be
satisfied with anything less than actually embracing and
beholding his entire native land. He must see it and
describe it.
The provincial critic had always emphasized his rural
descriptions as the best in his prose works. The prac
tical up-to-date publisher could afford, therefore, to be
interested in such a plan as to let Strindberg, the then
dethroned chief, undertake a king's circuit through the
land. I had not been able to find out what parts of the
country he had covered. But he must have had
a particular interest in Bohuslan, for one of the first
provinces that he explored rather thoroughly was that
province. One day in September, 1890, the local press announced
that August Strindberg had arrived in Gothenburg and
taken up his abode at Gota Kallare.1 He intended to
study the natural sceneries of Bohuslan and go on a sail
along the coast.
One of the first to call on him was Gustaf af Geijer-
stam2, who was at the time employed by August Lindberg
1 One of the principal hotels.
2 Swedish author (1858-1909).

40 STRINDBERG THE MAN
as a sort of literary-aesthetic critic or counsellor,
translator and dramatist. Strindberg and Geijerstam
were still the best of friends and Geijerstam did every
thing in his power during Strindberg's stay in Gothen
burg to make the latter enjoy all possible privileges
during his Bohuslan journey. He provided a large
suitable sailing-yacht for Strindberg's use. The intel
lectual element of the city of Gothenburg gave a recep
tion in his honor.
And one day Geijerstam made arrangements for me
to meet Strindberg. My card of introduction was that
I was an enthusiastic disciple of his and that I had been
all over the coast which he now proposed to explore, so
that I might perhaps be permitted to put my services at
his disposal.
About seven o'clock I called at the hotel. The hours
between seven and ten in the evening, eleven at the latest,
were always Strindberg's conversation hours. Then he
enjoyed sitting down to a cup with some good friend or
casual acquaintance.
When Strindberg came down stairs to meet me that
evening, I saw him personally for the first time. I saw
his mighty head with the disarranged gigantic mane
illumined by the gas-light just behind him in the stairs.
But within this halo of a saint, I saw a face the traits of
which were harder and colder than those of the youthful
poet with the thorn pressed against the forehead. He
had endured many sufferings since that time and they
had left an intensified paleness on his face. They had

FIRST MEETING WITH STRINDBERG 41
plowed furrows in his cheeks and dug dark hollows under
his eyes.
His eyes ! In these there was nothing of the dreamer, 7
of that Master Olof whom I had loved as a good brotherT
They were light grey and cold, the flash of the eye was ,
sharp and repellent, and the continual forcing of the]
focus had, as it were, pressed the eyes farther back under
the vault of the forehead. Immediately I recognized in
him the persecuted man, and I saw that unceasing hound
ing had changed him so strangely that he had something
wolfish in his nature. There was a tension in his expres
sion as though he were ready immediately to snap back in
case anyone yelped at him.
There was, besides, a different air about him from the
one he had displayed in the pictures of his youth. In
some of these there is something unrefined about him.
In one of them he reminds you of a young fellow who
has been sitting on the tailor's table1 all his life and
thereby acquired an expression of fatuity.2 In another
there pops up a sort of school teacher who pretends to be
a superior spirit in spite of the fact that detachable cuffs
reach down on his knuckles. Of the youthful face of
1870, which in my opinion is ideally beautiful, there was
not a trace, nor did he resemble in the least the pictures
of his later youth.
The Strindberg of forty met me as a cosmopolitan.
1 Allusion to the fact that the tailor sits on the table while
working. 2 Possibly a reference to a picture taken in 1884 which is
very unattractive.

42 STRINDBERG THE MAN
He looked very much like a sculptor who had travelled
for a long time. His dress was faultless and modest.
He also impressed me as being tired, to a certain extent,
of all that he had seen and experienced. I did not know
at .that time that the romance of his first marriage was
then drawing to a close, that a third person had come be
tween him and his wife and that one of the reasons for
Strindberg's journeys at that time was the need of being
away from the two women, who made his life at home
unbearable. Geijerstam introduced me to -him, we seated ourselves
at a window in the cafe, and when Geijerstam left for
the theatre the conversation was soon under way.
In the beginning Strindberg was rather reticent.
Without pretending to do so, he sat there and spied on
me secretly. As I wished to gain his confidence at once
and make it plain to him that I had no evil designs, I
began making a sort of literary proposal.
He sat there quietly and listened to the tale of how we,
the young at the old petrified Latin School, had been
carried away by his first poems. I told him how his
youthful power of action had proved contagious in our
case, how we had joined him in the insurrection and how
we had had to suffer with him.
Strindberg sat there in silence and heard me as I
poured over him all the enthusiasm of youth which we
had received from him. What he thought of it all, I do
not know, but it was not until afterwards that I noticed
what a confirmed skeptic he was. He could take my
words for what they were worth, I felt that it was my

FIRST MEETING WITH STRINDBERG 43
duty to pour out my heart before him. He gave no sign
of displeasure, and that being so, I thought I had some
reason to be satisfied.
Afterwards we chanced upon other subjects. He
began to ask me questions about Bohuslan, and when I
suggested that he ought to study the northern part
of it in particular, because of the fact that the land
scape was of unusual beauty and grandeur, he
immediately agreed to my proposition.
— And do you know why? he asked. Well, because the
primary rock in the northern part consists of red granite
while that of the southern part is grey.
And immediately he entered into a geological exposi^ \
tion of the structure of the entire country, presented so t
plainly and clearly that later on it impressed me like a
painting. I was amazed not only at his 'knowledge, but
also at his ability to complete this geological ensemble in
a few rapid strokes. When he had ceased talking, I
wished to put forth a feeler as to whether it was only a
scientific interest that attracted him to Bohuslan, or
whether he was particularly fond of our Bohuslan
scenery. His answer shocked me most terribly.
—Bohuslan! No, it is as insanely ugly as a landscape
on the moon.
I tried to defend what I considered beautiful beyond
all comparison and, therefore, I began an attack
on the skerry-environs of Stockholm. I declared ,
that one must feel depressed among those islands
covered with dark-green spruce and pine, that the dark-
green and the bluish gray tone of the water do not go

44 STRINDBERG THE MAN
well together, that at my first visit to the Stockholm
skerries, I was unable to breathe until I had reached
Sandhamn.1 Strindberg defended himself by describing his Kym-
mendo — yet without mentioning it by name, for he always
tried to make a secret out of that spot which he loved
most dearly of all that I heard him speak of — and he
described its loveliness in such colors that I could feel
that he had enjoyed daily being in the midst of this ideal
landscape. My beloved Bohuslan, on the other hand, I could not
induce him to love. I described a sail along its coast.
I recalled to him how we wake up in the morning in a
setting that has not changed since the time of the
Vikings. It forms the background of primaeval man.
And the red tinge of the cliffs against the light green,
isn't that the most beautiful combination of colors that
can be seen in nature?
But Strindberg was not to be moved. This Prome
theus, who indeed, if anyone, was in every respect created
for a background like that of a Bohuslan landscape, this
Viking of violent passion, had fallen desperately in love
with the idyllic surroundings of his native city !
And this really seemed to me altogether unreasonable,
that he who himself had proclaimed that "he found the
joy of existence in the hard, cruel struggle of life,"
should be capable of loving natural sceneries which are
the very opposite of all that.
i An island in the outer fringe of the Stockholm Archi
pelago.

FIRST MEETING WITH STRINDBERG 45
However, we glided away from this topic on which we
entertained such absolutely incompatible views. Already
at my first meeting with Strindberg, I noticed how greatly
it displeased him to be contradicted. He did not suffer
the least little hobby, to which he himself clung, to be
rudely manipulated.
This right he reserved for himself. It seemed as
though the destruction of a truth which for a long time
he had been imparting to all whom he met, the grinding
of it to the finest powder between the heavy stones of his
mental mill, and the scattering of it to the winds, gave
to this indefatigable self-tormenter above all other things
the most exquisite enjoyment. Hence his wrath against
anyone who tried to anticipate him.
He was in his favorite mood when he could play the
part of story teller. In his autobiography he repeatedly
asserts' that in this genre he has outrun others not a little,
or to make a clean boast of it — an entire ell.
So we next spoke of movements down there in conti
nental Europe. This topic warmed him up. The
woman question he considered that he had exhausted and
placed in its proper milieu as a speciality for unmarried
society women alone. The labor question he had for a
time lost interest in, because of the endeavors on the part
of the industrial socialists to bring about a complete state
of bankruptcy in contemporary society. But the agri
cultural question appealed to him, and he had tried to
study it during a lengthy sojourn among the French
peasantry. This class naturally makes up the main bulk

46 STRINDBERG THE MAN
of the nation, and it is therefore among them that the new
commonwealth must be founded.
Besides, he was skeptical about all these social theories,
and those which he himself had only lately enunciated,
he had already torn to pieces. In one question, however,
he showed a lively interest, and that was the dreadful
possibility hinted at by Henry George, viz., that modern
civilization was face to face with a decline, and that once
more we had to expect the mediaeval Fimbul-winter.1
While Strindberg told of all this, the latest and the
very latest, — that which in the very course of speaking
he added as a conclusion to the preceding — he truly lived
over again, as it were, a thousand lives. He became
Master Olof once more, but a Master Olof who had
abandoned the church where there was no longer any
work to do, and who had devoted himself to a more
general betterment of the world, a utilitarian, as he then
styled himself.
All the time while talking he smoked cigarettes. He
inhaled the smoke with the same passionate delight that
he hurled forth a few paradoxes with which he hoped
to catch me. But when I cleared the reefs on which he
hoped to test me it did not seem to disappoint him but
rather to cause him satisfaction.
At times when he had launched some crushing argu
ment or just caught the idea of one, he would suddenly
stop and perform a cigarette smoker's tour d'adresse
i The hard winter, which precedes the twilight of the gods,
lasts for three years and foretells the destruction of the gods
( Asar) and the world.

FIRST MEETING WITH STRINDBERG 47
which made the same pleasing impression on me as some
clownery in the circus. It was at the same time amusing
and cleverly executed. He would inhale a big puff of
smoke which he managed in such a manner that it made
two consecutive circuits through his nose and throat.
This smpker's tour d'adresse seemed to me to be some
thing more than a mere trick. It bared one side of
Strindberg even more than any of the words he had
pronounced on this occasion : it testified to how great and
flaming a passion he had always been in this cold world.
The spirit kept rising gradually the longer we contin
ued. We were drinking Swedish nectar,1 and little by
little we had got into the student atmosphere which
Strindberg had a special ability to produce. This ability
he retained even to old age. Despite the fact that he
had already made a great name in Europe and had been
overwhelmed with international marks of esteem, he had
not acquired any overbearing manners. He was plain
and natural and did not pound the humble opponent to
death with peremptory language.
But he was also at this time an entirely different man
from the pale Loke whom I had seen descending the hotel
stairs. His cheeks had taken on color, his eyes had
grown darker and seemed to be dark-blue, they were
beaming and open and had lost every sign of suspicion.
The Strindberg who extended his hand to me with a
good-night was a man full of grace and good will, and I
grasped his hand as firmly and as cordially as though I
1 Swedish punch, the national beverage, made from sugar,
arrac, water and some other ingredients.

48 STRINDBERG THE MAN
had been saying good-bye for a long time to my own
father. When he returned from his trip through Bohuslan, I
did not have a chance to see him. I only heard from
Geijerstam that Strindberg had had some disagreeable
experiences. The foul gossip in connection with his
Married had penetrated even to the unliterary inhabitants
of the wilds of the country, so that the people openly
showed him their hatred for being the father of Married.
But this after all was no wonder, for the local press had
done its best during the years just preceding to keep
him continually on the rack.

CHAPTER IV.
The Wandering Scientific Investigator
IN his endeavor to obtain more knowledge and new~
forms of artistic expression, Strindberg always
followed the highest precedents.
The name which he most often pronounced when
people spoke to him about art and learning, was that of
Goethe. To judge by what he said about the German
Olympian, it seems that secretly he had chosen him as
his special ideal and that he always endeavored to test
himself and to judge himself through a comparison with
Goethe. Whenever there was a period in Strindberg's life when
for one reason or another he could not busy his restless
brain with writing, impetuously and with great energy
he delved into studies of various kinds. As a young
library clerk he studied Swedish history and the Chinese
language. During his sojourn in Switzerland he was
occupied principally with modern sociology. At the
beginning of his second long exile, when he stayed with
Ola Hansson1 in Friedrichshagen and later on in Berlin,
the exact sciences and modern natural sciences claimed
his attention. '
When I found Strindberg in a dark, half-furnished
studio in Ola Hansson's little cottage in Friedrichshagen
i Swedish author.
49

SO STRINDBERG THE MAN
near Berlin about two years after I had met him in
"Gothenburg, it was not the poet Strindberg that received
me, but rather the man of scientific research.
He had spent a couple of very unpleasant years in the
vicinity of Stockholm. His large book about Sweden's
Natural Sceneries he had not finished. He hadjiad to
go through the long painful proceedings of divorce from
his first wife. He hacT passed most of his time in the
skerries, had written some of his short, masterly one-act
plays, he had painted a large number of pictures — so
many that he might have arranged a separate exhibition
— and he had described his first conjugal inferno in A
Fool's Confession.
— These two years of suffering and poverty played an
important part in Strindberg's life. Doubtless they laid the
foundation for that state of excessive irritability which
paved the way for the great Inferno-period a few years
later. If these years had not been so hard, Strindberg's
career after_i8g2 might have become entirely different
from what it was.
When Strindberg went into exile this time, he thought
'it was for the last time. During the voyage from
Stockholm to Stettin, the steamer was followed by a huge
dark-blue tidal wave, which he later on reproduced in
colors, and this indefatigable pursuer he regarded as an
omen that he must keep away from his ungrateful
countrymen. When I first met him in Friedrichshagen, he had the
appearance of a man who finally could breathe again
after a long confinement in a hospital.

THE SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATOR St
He asserted that with A Fool's Confession he had said
his last word as a story-writer — how many last words
has he not said since? He had arrived at that meridian
in life when a man has a very good reason to sit down in
the easy chair and rest while thinking over what life has
been and what the future may have in store.
His quill of belles lettres he had thrown away ; but one
thing still retained his interest in life : late years had seen
the birth of a movement of great scientific activity
accompanied by a great many new results. Into these
he wished to penetrate in order to ascertain whether he
could find what he sought. With a proud gesture he
pointed at two large piles of unbound scientific works
which he had piled up against the wall. He had bought
them with the first money he had received on German
soil. But he had made up his mind that he could not
afford a bookshelf.
Consequently his studio in Friedrichshagen was not
very inviting. Besides the scientific books there was an
old easel which looked like a dirt-brown skeleton. Over
by the window to be sure there was a table, but it looked
as though it was not in use. There lay upon it a couple
of uncut books, also pen and ink, but no paper piled up
in stacks of manuscripts, nor notes with which Strindberg
usually busied himself so persistently.
In the back-ground of the room he had arranged
his little "salon" with a drawing-room table, a few
antique arm-chairs and a lounge. In one of the arm
chairs Ola Hansson sat in silence the whole evening while
Strindberg and I engaged in conversation.

52 STRINDBERG THE MAN
The long seclusion in the skerries had made Strindberg
more taciturn than he usually was. It was difficult to
get under way a conversation that might carry him along.
He did not wish to discuss the subject of belles lettres;
he thought the subject was below his dignity. I tried to
tell about Herman Gorter's new literary achievements
and about Walt Whitman, the great American author, —
the two new planets about which my life revolved during
these two years.
- But Strindberg cared for neither of them. It inter
ested him far more to hear about the red Indians with
whom I had come in contact the year before out there in
the wild west. An individual with much of the primitive
man in him as he was, he seems always to have sympath
ized with these tactiturn, mystic people of the wilds, and
This in spite of the fact that it was not until towards the
end of his life that he thought he had made the interesting
discovery that the Indians probably were descendants of
the Phoenicians and that Indian word- roots are of a
purely Hebrew and Greek origin.
What at this time was of particular interest to him as
regards the Indians was whether their reticence in the
council was a sign of concentrated mental activity or its
very opposite. He suddenly asked me if I had not
ascertained this while I was among them.
Of course I had not made any direct inquiries of the
kind since I was not aware of the fact that this was
an unexplored field. But to judge by what I had seen
of Indians, I had been able to come to the conclusion
that they have the power of thinking so secretly

THE SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATOR 53
that one cannot by any signs whatsoever divine their
thoughts. Furthermore, I had found that when they
talk, they express themselves with such concentration
and by means of images of. such poetic coloring that they
give you the impression of refined thinkers. On these
two grounds I thought it safe to assure Strindberg that
the great, mystic silence of the Indians could not be due
to inactivity of the brain. This seemed to please him,
although I am not certain that he was fully convinced.
I told him also of a success he had had out there in
unliterary U. S. A. Popular among the Swedes he was
not, of course, since they are all church-people as a rule,
church-goers of the most narrow-minded kind — and as
such void of all understanding of every kind of critique
of the existing order of things. After having read
Strindberg's The Red Room, the majority of those
whom I met had received the impression' that Strindberg
was a dangerous anarchist, and they had made up their
minds not to read another line from his pen. Even_the
Swedish-American Singing Societies, which toureopj
Sweden a year or two before Strindberg's death.' j
disowned him and refused to give a red cent to the
national fund which was started at that time in orde|-
that the officially disowned poet might be given a Nobel^J
Prize by the Swedish people.
All the more wonderful it is, therefore, that one of
Strindberg's works that was least popular at home, The
Swedish People at Home, had scored a great success that
very year among the exiles in America. It was the
founder and former editor of the weekly paper called

54 STRINDBERG THE MAN
The Viking, who had settled down in Chicago, to whom
we are indebted for this.
Out there he went by the name of Mr. Strand, and he
had undertaken to print the entire work and to reproduce
the illustrations. The enterprise was such a success that
The Swedish People at Home next to the Bible was the
most popular book in the Swedish language in the United
States of America. The publisher had made a net gain
of $20,000 on Strindberg, and when I told him that the
author was somewhere in Jhe skerries outside of Stock
holm in a most destitute condition, Mr. Strand declared
that he wanted to send Strindberg a royalty of $2000, if
he only could get his address.
After our meeting in Friedrichshagen we wrote, both
Strindberg and myself, to Strand with reference to the
royalty, which would have come in very handy for
Strindberg at that time. But we never received an
answer, and according to what I learned later on, Strand
lost every cent he had made on Strindberg, when he tried
to publish a second work of the author.
As usual we discussed that evening everything between
heaven and earth. The strongest impression that I
received of Strindberg at that time, was his joy at having
broken off all relations with belles lettres. It seemed as
if this sort of authorship had fagged him out entirely —
he had, shortly before, performed such a volitional tour
de force as A Fool's Confession — as though he had been
quite tired out with this groping in space to which poetic
activity is so conducive.
Now, having entered the province of science, he felt

THE SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATOR 55
that he was on firm ground. He rejoiced with the
enthusiasm of a child because the subjects with which\
he was to occupy himself were so evident that there could
be no further reasons for doubt. He no longer wished
to be the everlasting skeptip, the never-ceasing wrecker
of the status quo. Now the work of clearing had been
performed and he considered the time of reconstruction
to be at hand.
His miscalculations were of a most serious nature."
He delved into the exact sciences, but everywhere he1
came across great blanks, which he could not call exact.
This caused a break with the natural sciences in general, i
and from having been a simple-hearted, naive believer, he j
became in this province also the revolutionary Loke.
Three years afterwards he bursts out in his Sylva
Sylvarum: "A generation that has had the courage to
dethrone God the Father, to tear down the state, the
church, the commonwealth, and morals, still bows before
the sciences. But in the sciences where liberty ought to
rule, the pass-word is : Believe in the authorities or die !
A pillar of the Bastille had not yet been raised in Paris
on the spot where the former Sorbonne was situated, and
the cross still dominated the Pantheon and the cupola of
the Institute. '
"There was, therefore, nothing more to do in the world,
and feeling that I was superfluous, I determined to
disappear." Thus Strindberg's endeavor to find something exact

56 STRINDBERG THE MAN
and stable to cling to resulted in a fit of despair which
almost led to suicide.
His arrival in Germany this time took place at a most
inopportune moment and under the most unfavorable
conditions. If the author — so speaks the German enthu
siastic Strindberg scholar, Hermann Esswein — like young
Schillar had found a Weimar among us, that element in
him which alone could have brought poise and calm into
his life and thus cleansed his spirit of all inclinations to
extremes, would undoubtedly have increased in strength
and perhaps even conquered in the end.
"But Strindberg found no Weimar, only modern
Berlin. He found no aesthetic-philosophic spiritual cul
ture that could inspire confidence, but a roaring, seething
chaos of efforts and onsets in every direction and all
that childishly wild, shallow spirituality, void of perspec
tive, which always foams up as soon as new fields are
opened for materialistic culture or exploitation."
Instead of finding the new syntheses which modern
science had been able to produce during the latter
decades, Strindberg at that time came across the funda
mental preparatory works, a lot of details that had not as
yet been systematically arranged. He only found the
foundations, but no temples upon them, and it was this
that so deeply embittered him, who came with all his
strong religiosity prepared to embrace the new rationalism.
It was a new Red Room period which he passed
through during this stay in Berlin. But it was entirely
different from that period of his youth in which he fought

THE SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATOR 57
bureaucracy with Berns Salonger1 as rendez-vous. Al
ready the name At the Sign of the Black Pig symbolizes
this Berlin sojourn. In the little wine room in The Sign
of the Black Pig at the corner of Unter den Linden and
Potsdamerstrasse, where Strindberg passed the evenings
that winter, the questions of the day were discussed, and
everything that seemed in the least antiquated became
the object of sharp attacks.
Among the friends with whom Strindberg associated
there and who seem to have had some influence on him,
the most important was the Polish author Stanislaw
Przybyszewski whom Strindberg in Inferno (pp. 66" — 67)
calls "my friend, my disciple who called me 'father',
because he had learned of me, my Famulus, who gave me
the name of master and kissed my hands because his life
began where mine ended."
Of none of his literary friends have I heard Strindberg
speak with such enthusiasm as of this Stachu (an
abbreviation of Stanislaw). In the beginning of their
acquaintance, Strindberg spoke of him as a universal
genius and called him "the great Pole". But Stachu
belonged to those all-embracing minds who try to encom
pass so much that no systems suffice, and whose sphere
of thought — except within well-arranged special fields —
is a never-ceasing, billowing chaos.
Besides this, Stachu was one of those who have a need
of deadening the increasing Weltschmerz with continual
1 Fashionable restaurant and cafe on the south side of
Berzelii Park,

58 STRINDBERG THE MAN
Dionysian orgies. In his despair over the negative re
sults to which he had come, we can easily imagine how
natural it would be for Strindberg to enter into the spirit
of those wine-nights in the little cafe with the unattrac
tive name.
In order to have something wherewith to counteract
the romantic Pole, Strindberg engaged a couple of
scientific assistants at this time who served him in the
capacity of controllers — when they were allowed to do so,
which was not always the case — with reference to those
discoveries of "scientific mistakes" or "exact lies" which
Strindberg made from time to time.
Despite the fact that Strindberg now had renounced
his artistic activities, he showed himself in all his artistic
.glory in these scientific investigations. He did not study
' the sciences in the same manner as the sponge-brains at
\ our universities who absorb mechanically; on the con
trary, he reacted against everything, added up his
j suspicions until he had quite a batch, and when he had
several such blocks ready, he began to make his syntheses
sometimes based oh a real blunder and thus leading
nowhere, but on other occasions bringing results which
were reached intuitively and proved to be of real value.
It must be granted that what Strindberg accomplished
was not scientific achievement in the strict sense of the
word. But time! and time again, he raised questions of
such surprising ingenuity that the ordinary servants of
the Temple of the Sciences probably would not have hit
upon them for a long time, had they not had this original
forerunner.

THE SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATOR 59
When the professional men of science referred to
Strindberg's extraordinary imaginative faculty, just as
though that faculty was responsible for his going astray,
he met them with the words of the great English scientist,
Tyndall: "Without the imaginative faculty we cannot
proceed a single step beyond the purely animal world,
perhaps not even reach the boundaries of the animal
world." This power of imagination which is just as indispens
able to the searching scientist — the great mark of
differentiation between him and the scientific collector —
as it is to the poet and the painter, this power Strindberg
could not shut out in spite of every resolution. He
remained a poet not only in his scientific works, but in
this way he even came to compose scientific novels and
sagas and thus created the most hypermodern genre
which has been produced by any of the contemporary
poets. As an example of this kind of literary production, I
will cite only some of the more sensational, such as his :
The Deadhead Butterfly, in which the scientist sings a
hymn to immortality, The Alpine Violet, in which he
demonstrates how nature herself breaks up all systems,
The Bridal Night of the Crickets, in which he makes
chemistry itself arrange a tragi-comedy in a tumbler full
of water.
Strindberg, however, had entirely different inner needs
which could not be appeased by the soulless materialism
that was the fashion at the time. These needs drove him

60 STRINDBERG THE MAN
step by step over the great rubbish-heap of the occult
sciences, and finally brought about that catastrophe which
precipitated him into his life's deepest Inferno.
But before Strindberg got there, he had committed
another great folly. Tired of the bachelor's life he had
been leading he became desirous of once more casting in
his lot with that of a young woman. This time it was a
girl whom he met by chance in the literary coterie of
which he was an associate.
It was love at first sight that attracted them to one
another. But Strindberg scarcely seemed to be ac-
jjuainted with this little Frida Uhl who before long —
1 when insanity threatened him — became his "pretty
jailer". Neither in what he said nor in what he wrote
about her, can we form an estimate of the young woman.
- She got him away from the wild bacchanalian nights,
however. As she was a woman of the world, she did not
wish to see her betrothed in the somewhat rustic ward
robes that Strindberg had brought with him from the
skerries. She compelled him to buy modern clothes in
Berlin. One day artloving Berlin saw the serious man of
research, August Strindberg, and the charming Fraulein
Frida Uhl coming up to the National Gallery of Art on a
sort of exhibition trip. Strindberg had jammed himself
into the traditional apparel of an extreme Berlin dandy:
Suit of a large-checkered material with large cuffs on the
pantaloons, a short yellowish-gray top-coat, a loud
necktie, a cane of exaggerated size and a well-polished

THE SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATOR 61
silk hat which hardly could be induced to remain on
Strindberg's fluffy lion's mane!
Shortly afterwards both disappeared from Berlin.
They had started on their honeymoon to Heligoland
and Gravesend.

CHAPTER V.
Inferno
IT does not seem improbable that Strindberg began
what he calls his Inferno-wandering — the "patho
logical crisis" of his physicians — during his honey
moon at Gravesend.
Several times during our conversation he reverted to
one of the experiences of that period. It is also
discussed in some of his autobiographical works,
probably in some of the Blue Books.
One Sunday morning he left Gravesend for London.
On one of the morning trains he had arrived at the station
just south of London Bridge. From this point he con
tinued on foot, crossing at this early morning hour the
long, deserted bridge.
But suddenly the bridge is no longer deserted.
Towards him there comes like a wave an endless proces
sion of mystic penitents, all with hoods over their
heads, so that only the gray beards or the chins are
visible, advancing slowly and with silent steps.
Strindberg would always revert to these phantoms of
London Bridge. If they were real, then, through the
deep impression they made upon him, they aided in
bringing about the crisis which was being fanned to life
within him. If, on the other hand, they were not real
but mere visions, then they formed the introduction to the
"pathological crisis". 62

INFERNO 63
Fully corporeal visions Strindberg never pretends to
have had. Of their nature we can judge by his diarian
notes in Inferno. When they became numerous, he felt
a desire to keep track of them, and from 1895
to 1909, he thus continued his diary of which
the pages in Inferno are an abstract. As a rule he seems
to have had auditory hallucinations, conversations with
invisible persons, with Swedenborg and others.
He had to cut short his honey-moon in order to fight
out his second literary lawsuit, because A Fool's Confes-\
sion had been seized. Thereupon he accompanied his
wife for the first time to her relatives in the little Catholid
village on the Danube. After that he did not come inl
touch with his friends until March, 1894, when he re- 1
turned to Friedrichshagen, where he put up at a hotel in
order to read the proofs of his Antibarbarus I.
During the time he wrote this book, Strindberg had
got into peculiar ways, and when his attention was called
to the fact that here and there his argument was based
on erroneous premises, he would not join issue on the
subject. He became embittered and ceased to associate
with his friends. He shut himself up within his own self
and became impervious to reason.
yfAiter having returned to Austria for the summer,
Strindberg left for Paris in August.,/ There he no longer
studied the sciences in the proper sense of the word ; he
had cast them all overboard because of the fact that he
had met with a few incongruities in what, of course,
should have been entirely -flawless, and instead, with the
wild desire of the passionate seeker after truth, he had

64 STRINDBERG THE MAN
*
entered the apocryphal borderland of science, alchemy
and hyperchemistry instead of scientific chemistry,
astrology instead of astronomy, etc. He had also severed
relations with literary art and his interest had gone over
to mediaeval necromancy./'
Strindberg hastened to Paris in order there to devote
himself to these quasi-sciences. He believed himself to
be in possession of certain ideas which, if he could prove
them, would immediately make him famous within the
province of scientific research, perhaps bring him
enormous riches. As he had not written any literary
works which brought him an income, he was practically
destitute of everything.
I wish by the way to point out in this connection that
Strindberg during his Inferno-period in Paris doubtless
would have starved to death unless a stout-hearted Swede
had intervened and sent him 300 crowns1 a month (the
same amount that Bonnier paid him for The Inhabitants
of Hems'o). This man was Vult von Steyern, editor and
publisher of The Daily News, who ever since the
legal proceedings against Strindberg caused by Married,
had faithfully stood by him when want from time to time
peeped in at his door.
Strindberg's little Austrian wife had accompanied him
to Paris. As she was not only a hindrance to him in
his scientific research and proposed experiments but also
could not but notice that a pathological crisis was
imminent, Strindberg took the first opportunity to send
1 The Swedish crown is normally worth about 27 cents.

INFERNO 65
her home. The pretence was that their little daughter
Kerstin had taken ill.
Strindberg tells of the "wild joy" he experienced when
he was rid of his wife : "My pretty jailor who spied on
my soul night and day, guessed my secret thoughts,
watched the trend of my ideas, jealously observed my
soul's striving towards the unknown."
It was the latter in particular which worried and
tortured Strindberg. The serious psychic disturbance
through which he passed during the following few years
already began to show itself in certain peculiarities which
obliged the little Austrian woman to play the part of an
attendant. In spite of his constant, keen self-analysis,
Strindberg could not observe the abnormalities which
his sickness caused. Not even years after his recupera
tion would he recognize them as manifestations of a
disease of the mind. And this is consistent with the
nature of the disease.
As Strindberg himself feared the worst, he decided to
rid himself entirely of his wife. Seized with a mad desire
to do himself harm, he says, he committed what he has
termed "suicide" by sending her an outrageous, unpard
onable letter and saying farewell to wife and child,
hinting that a new relation had laid hold on his thoughts.
This new relation which had taken hold of his thoughts,
was his metaphysical brooding, not at all another woman.
After this letter to his wife, he calls himself "Self-
murderer and assassin", and becomes misanthropic to
such a degree that he repels everybody. And yet he
wonders that nobody comes to call on him.

66 STRINDBERG THE MAN
The same night his wife left him, he began his exper
iments. With drawn curtains, fearing to be taken for
an anarchist, he worked with a smelting furnace fire in
a Dutch stove and six crucibles of fine china bought for
money "stolen from himself" in order to demonstrate
that there is carbonaceous matter in sulphur and that
sulphur, therefore, is not an element. Towards morning
he thought he had found carbon in the residue of the
sulphur and that thus he had "upset standard chemistry"
and attained to that "immortality which mortals grant."
He was jealously anxious about his great discovery and
did not dare to let it be known among the authorities.
He wished to prove also that sulphur contains hydrogen
and oxygen, but he did not possess enough apparatus.
His monthly allowances he had spent in experiments, he
ceased to take regular meals, and besides, during the first
"sulphur-night," he had burned his hand so severely that
the skin peeled off and he could not touch anything with
out feeling pain.
"My hands were black as want, bleeding as my heart,"
he complains in Inferno.
But at the same time, he begins to speak of Unknown
Powers which had persecuted him for years and put
obstacles in his way. He is surrounded by a frightfully
solemn, empty silence, and this induces him to challenge
the Invisible One to wrestle with him body to body and
soul against soul.
Thus the "atheistic" free-thinker, the convert to the
occult sciences, has no sooner stepped over the threshold
of the temple of the magians than he conjures up "an

INFERNO 67
invisible one" to wrestle with. He has become an atheist,
he says, because he has noticed how the unknown powers
leave the world to its fate without showing the least signs
of life.
But at the same moment in which he, as a follower of
the occult sciences, takes this purely atheistic stand, he
conjures up the Great Invisible One. His entire meta
physical endeavor thus had this aim: the seeking after
a God and a harmonious conception of God.
His Inferno-wandering shows many phenomena like
those by which the psychic sufferer is beset; he suffers
continually from the mania that he is pursued, a Russian
by the name of Popoffsky (the Pole Przybyszewski) has
come to Paris in company with his wife in order to
murder Strindberg, and he announces this round about
Strindberg's hotel by playing Schumann's Aufschwung
etc. But in spite of all this, Strindberg, in the midst of the
chaos of these storms, retains that wonderful self-control,
that sovereignty over himself which he owes to his
artistic qualities and which finally brings him deliverance.
When his occult friend, the practitioner of black arts,
who calls himself Simeon Magus in their anonymous
correspondence, wishes to influence Strindberg, he wards
him off with real heroism. Magus preaches the denial
and the destruction of the ego, but Strindberg answers
that this is madness.
"What little I may possibly know," says Strindberg,
"emanates from my ego as "the centre ; the destruction of
the ego is suicide."

68 STRINDBERG THE MAN
Despite the fact that Strindberg loves and admires this
invisible magician, with whom he is connected only
through correspondence, in every letter he presents him
with proofs of his antipathy for theosophy, and when
Magus begins to make use of elevated language and tries
to tyrannize him, as if Strindberg were a lunatic, and
orders the poet to read Mme. Blavatsky1, the self-
conscious artist within Strindberg assumes such propor
tions that he becomes a head taller than the magician,
and Strindberg declares proudly that he does not need
any Blavatsky and that nobody has anything to teach him.
When the magian still threatens, he is warned not to
meddle with Strindberg's fate which "is in the keeping of
the hand of Providence which always has guided me."
At the same time that he so powerfully beat back the
attack of the magian against his spiritual liberty, he
secretly suffered mental torments of the worst kind,
believing himself to be in continual danger of his life,
pursued by his former friend the Pole.
At this time Strindberg had taken up his abode in the
old Catholic Hotel Orfila in rue d'Assas, and I, not
knowing of his presence, had settled down in Hotel des
Americains in rue de l'Abbe de l'Epee, on the other side
of the southernmost part of the Jardin du Luxembourg,
where Strindberg had resided earlier.
From mutual friends I learned that Strindberg dwelled
in the Quartier de Montparnasse, but that he had begged
to be excused from social intercourse on account of his
i Reference is here made to the work entitled "Secret
Doctrine."

INFERNO 69
chemical experiments. It was hinted that he was not in
his right mind and that on this account it was advisable
to respect his refusal to receive callers. Where he kept
himself nobody knew, since the day when he had had an
attack of nerves because dinner had been served for him
in the yard of Mme. Charlotte's Cremerie in rue de la
grande Chaumiere, the little restaurant of the artists
where he surely was surrounded by sincere friends.
One day the Norwegian painter Edvard Munch came
and related that he had run across Strindberg who had
commenced to feel rather lonesome and shown himself
desirous of his company. In order to facilitate his
approach, Munch had proposed to paint Strindberg's
picture, and Strindberg had been posing for him a couple
of hours now and then.
But Strindberg had a fixed idea. Ever since he had
heard Schumann's Aufschwung played one afternoon in
the neighborhood of Hotel Orfila, he had been fully
convinced that Przybyszewski had arrived in Paris by
way of Vienna-Berlin in order to murder him. The rea
son for the Pole's mania for murder was that his wife had
been intimate with Strindberg only a very short time
before she had met the Pole.
Without being initiated into the details, anyone will
readily see that on such grounds Stachu scarcely had a
reason for conjuring up a hatred of Strindberg so
glowing as to inspire him with the idea of murder.
Munch and myself knew very well that there was another
man on whom Stachu had lavished all his hatred and
whom he had dealt a severe blow by describing him

70 STRINDBERG THE MAN
unsympathetically in a novel where he ended
his life as a suicide. Thus he had already exacted
the vengeance, the taking of which he seems to have
imposed upon himself on account of the liberties which
his wife had permitted herself before her marriage, and
had no special occasion to fly into fits of anger.
The endeavors on the part of Munch to assure Strind
berg that he had nothing to fear from the Przybyszew-
skis, were in vain. Once Strindberg got this false notion
into his head, no counter-evidence could get it out of him.
Not even the fact that Stachu was in Copenhagen in the
greatest misery and, try all he might, could not possibly
come to Paris to continue his studies of trials of witches
and mediaeval Satanism!
Finally, however, Strindberg got a piece of counter-
evidence before which he had to bow. From Berlin
came the news that Przybyszewski's first wife, a young
Polish woman, had committed suicide after having
murdered their two children because of worries over lack
of support, and that Stachu, who immediately had gone
there, had been arrested and stood indicted for having
urged her to commit this deed of despair.
When, on the 18th of June — Strindberg mentions
this in his Inferno — Munch came in, annihilated and
trembling from head to foot and broke the news to
Strindberg, the latter had to give up his false notion.
And — characteristic of Strindberg — he was so completely
delivered of it, that as soon as the first surprise had
abated, he felt sincere sympathy for his friend who
formerly had shown such a tenacious attachment to him,

INFERNO 71
and peace came into his soul after he had been pur
sued for months by monsters of his own imagination.
But threatened he was; this idea he still clung to.
Secretly he believed that it was his ardent prayers which
had perhaps turned away the dagger and that he had
parried the thrust in such a way that it caught the
assassin right in the heart.
Just as fearful as he had formerly been of Przybys-
zewski's dagger, equally eager he now became to save and
to reestablish his friend with the murderous intentions.
He agreed with Munch that they must save the Pole's
literary reputation by an article to be written by Strind
berg for the Revue Blanche concerninghis literary merits
and illustrated with his picture (the Pole's) drawn by
Munch. But this plan was never executed. An article
in a Paris review could hardly have resulted in Przybys-
zewski's liberation. Other measures had to be taken.
Munch was ordered to call me.
After having resided six months in Strindberg's neigh
borhood without having seen him a single time, I was
thus brought together with him as by chance. I know
that it was Przybyszewski's indefatigable devotion ,to
Strindberg which had aroused the suspicion of the latter
and that Strindberg, of course, was glad to receive
support when he was in need of it, but felt an aversion
to being gratefully indebted for what he could not repay.
One afternoon about five o'clock, I walked over to
Hotel Orfila in order to call for Strindberg. In the
porter's lodge, I had to keep company with an old
Catholic priest and a couple of young candidates for the

72 STRINDBERG THE MAN
priesthood while the attendant went up stairs to inform
Strindberg of the call. His room was tabooed ground,
for there he watched in a continual state of anxiety over
his great secrets, his new methods for the production of
iodine and gold. He was at the time occupied with his
gold syntheses.
Hotel Orfila looked like a monastery. The room in
which I sat was cold and damp. The old fellows, who
came and went, impressed me as "slippery eels" and I
felt very depressed at the thought that the Master Olof
of my youth had been confined in such a place. A more
unfit asylum for one who suffered from typical melan
choly could hardly be found.
Finally Strindberg came. With a silent greeting, he
beckoned me to follow. Not until we had advanced
a good distance in the street did he begin to speak.
I saw in his pale, ashen face what torments he had
passed through. Since he now really occupied himself
with black arts, I believe that there would be in his
traits something of that proud boldness characteristic of
the necromancer. For I had met some of the leading
followers of occult sciences in Paris and I had had an
opportunity of studying them at close quarters. In
Strindberg there was not a sign of this presumptuousness
by which, as he tells us, he had been beset, this hybris1
which is the only sin the gods cannot pardon.
On the contrary, Strindberg had already something of
the penitent about him. I saw in his eyes that he had
i A Greek term meaning: wantonness, wanton insolence,
etc.

INFERNO 73
regretted his injustice towards Przybyszewski. The
sensitive giant was nervous as a young girl and
seemed almost to be accusing himself for the misfortunes
of Stachu. I told him that it was the Pole's own brother
who had accused him, but that made Strindberg even
more conscious of guilt. He still thought that it was his
— Strindberg's — hatred which had crystallized in the
brother and caused him to play the part of accuser.
But now, when Przybyszewski was in jail and accused
of having caused his Polish wife to commit murder and
suicide, Strindberg's sympathy for the unfortunate man
had been aroused.
We seated ourselves among the trees in front of the
Brasserie des Lilas, and ordered some absinthe. Ever
since Strindberg had ceased to frequent Mme. Charlotte's,
this place had been his regular resort. But he never took
his meals here, he only dropped in to provide for a little
brighter dreams with diluted wormwood poison and for
that fatigue which was necessary for him in order to sleep.
He was now so terribly upset about the fate of Stachu
that he was ready to' commit follies to save him. I was
to assist him in starting diplomatic action from Paris in
order to get Stachu out of jail. Strindberg was to make
the declaration that Stachu was altogether too talented an
artist and altogether too sensitive a being to endure a
term in jail. It would mean insanity and the authorities
would be guilty of spiritual murder.
Strindberg got tangled up in such difficulties that in
the end we did not know how to execute his much too
elaborate plan. He seemed to be convinced that Stachu

74 STRINDBERG THE MAN
was guilty and just on that account had to be saved in
some supernatural way.
As I for my part was convinced that Stachu would
clear himself, and with his superior powers of psycho
logical analysis would be able to brush aside his brother's
accusation, I considered it far more important to try to
calm Strindberg than to plunge into great political
adventures which in the end would lead to no results.
But Strindberg did not consent to be calmed. It
struck me that he was bound to be occupied with some
subject of care. On purely physical grounds he had been
forced to give up the fixed idea that Stachu's dagger was
over him continually, and as he was now out of that
perpetual danger, he had to have another. He seemed to
be desirous of pushing his diplomatic action so in absur-
dum that people finally might receive the impression that
it was he himself who was to blame for the murder in
Berlin and not the man who had been arrested.
Our long argument ended with my consenting to write
to certain influential persons in Berlin. We also agreed
that the large Polish colony in Paris should be stirred up,
but that not until this had been accomplished would we
resort to diplomatic ways and means. Strindberg in any
case had had a chance to give vent to his fears and to air
his plans. And he went home considerably appeased and
not without a certain amount of self-satisfaction at the
thought that the possibility of a little martyrdom still
loomed up in the distance.
People had been speaking of Strindberg's insanity,
which it was thought would soon break out. Of all that

INFERNO 75
he said that night, I found nothing that indicated those
soft spots in the brain which I have noticed in certain
friends of mine who have become a prey to the disease.
In the same hotel where I had put up lived another
author who for a long period of years was rated as one of
the most prominent in his native land, and this man had
for more than ten years been the subject of such well-
developed insanity that it seemed incredible to me that he
could control it. Once he had lost control and for six
months he had been flogged by the attendants of an
asylum simultaneously with his drawing up of the outline
of the foremost literary monument that he left to pos
terity. And that man was so insane beyond all bounds
that he had a decided inclination to impart some of it to
those with whom he associated in order,, as it were, to
dilute the poison within himself.
Nothing of the kind existed in Strindberg's case. He
had strange manias such as he always had had. But now
he had one, more dangerous than the others : that of ac
cusing himself of all kinds of transgressions. Besides this,
in his researches he had got into a cul-de-sac where it was
plain to him that he had to retrace his steps, a process
which mortified him and which inspired him with such
fear that instead of retreating to the first tenable point,
he immediately began a rout so wild that he could not
check himself until he had galloped back the entire length
of the path of his life, even to the faith of his childhood.
In the depth of his soul he had after all an anchorage
which did not fail him, and that was his artistic ego. He
knew that anyone who had worked as conscientiously as

76 STRINDBERG THE MAN
he had done during a life of trials and tribulations,
nobody had a right to stone, even if he had made mis
takes. But he had a vital need of letting loose the stream
within him — this panta-rei-stream of Heraclitus — and it
proved a delight to him at this stage to let his skiff
passively glide away with the current. He was in need
of rest after all his tribulations and disappointments, and
he could not get it in any other way — a rest which was
at the same time a movement away towards an unknown
goal. The goal which he reached would no doubt have been
a different one, more worthy of his former and present
self, had he not, during periods of weakness when he
ought to have been prevented from anything of the sort,
returned to the stuffy little homes down there by the
Danube. Those old, religiously stunted crones did
doubtless exert a destructive influence upon him just
when the state of weakness rendered him most suscept
ible. Especially did they injure him by fanning to life
his self-accusations and by getting him into a greater
state of perplexity than was necessary. •>
During the most serious stage of his Inferno-period,
Strindberg kept away from his friends entirely. After
he had found out that Przybyszewski had been released
from prison, Strindberg's inclination to self-torture re
ceived a new impetus. Through a couple of pieces of
paper found in the street, he believed himself to have re
ceived a message to the effect that Stachu and his wife
again had arrived in Paris and that they planned anew
to murder him.

INFERNO 77
Immediately he also suspected Edvard Munch of plot
ting with them and after one of the sittings for his
portrait, Strindberg sent him a mystical post card which
obliged Munch to discontinue his calls. It read as
follows :
"The last time you called on me, you looked like a
murderer or the tool of a murderer. — I only wish to
inform you that the Pettenkofer gas-oven in the adjacent
room is incapable of being used and is, therefore, unfit
for the purpose. Sg."
Shortly after that Strindberg had disappeared from
Hotel Orfila. He had tried a couple of times to commit
suicide by inhaling hydrocyanate of potash. But on the
first occasion a hornet had entered the room buzzing
furiously. The second time the bell-boy, who came in and
disturbed him in his preparations, saved his life. But
one night when he believed himself to be about to be
murdered by means of poisonous gases and an electric
machine, manipulated by his Polish friend in the adjacent
room, he fled from the hotel, away from the death for
which he longed so eagerly, but which nobody else than
himself was permitted to administer.
No one of us knew where he had gone that scorching
hot July day in 1896 when he disappeared. We thought
that he had done what he once did in his youth, that he
had voluntarily turned himself over to some private
asylum for those suffering from mental derangement.
Not until one year later when he made his confession
in his book Inferno, were we permitted to know that he
had remained for a while in Paris in a small hotel near

78 STRINDBERG THE MAN
the Jardin des Plantes, where he passed through another
imaginary death-crisis. This in turn forced him to
renew his flight. When he arrived in the circle of
acquaintances in Dieppe, they believed him to be com
pletely mad. He himself seemed to fear being locked up
and accordingly continued his journey to a friend of his,
the hospital physician Dr. A. Eliasson at Ystad,1 who
finally took charge of him in earnest.
According to the celebrated German psychiatrist, Dr.
S. Rhamner2, Strindberg's disease was so developed at
this time that he ought to have been taken into some
asylum. But it is possible that if this had been done
contrary to his desire, the disease might have been further
aggravated. His most irreconcilable enemies in Sweden
have announced as a serious accusation against him, that
if he had been shut up in an asylum, he would have gone
completely mad. Surely, but many of us who are now
regarded as fully sane, would probably have done the
same. Yet it is interesting to know that Dr. Rhamner on
scientific grounds considers it safe to affirm that Strind
berg's disease cannot be classified as paranoia, but rather
as melancholy. It was a typical Melancholia Moralis
with a desire for seclusion, indefinite fear, thoughts of
death, suicidal ideas and false notions of guilt. Later on
in the further development of the complex of symptoms,
there was added praecordial anguish with attacks of
i A town in the extreme southern part of Sweden.
2 See Grenzfragen der Literatur und Medizin, Heft 6.
Munchen, 1907.

INFERNO 79
Raptus Melancholicus accompanied by chimerical imag
eries and optical illusions. It was, therefore, a typical
case of ordinary melancholy which at the height of its
development showed itself as Melancholia Dcemomaniaca.
Furthermore, Dr. Rhamner points out that it would be
a mistake to regard Strindberg's leaning towards mysti
cism and the occult sciences, found in all his writings, as
a pathological sign. Strindberg's mysticism is finally
focused in his endeavors to bring about a synthesis
between science and religion.
It is different with his pessimism. He has himself
tried to explain it as having been caused by his disconso
late childhood' and all his sufferings. But these only
played the part of sustaining moments, while his nervous
constitution and psychic depression constituted the head
spring of his ever conspicuous pessimism. Strindberg
was born a neuropath.

CHAPTER VI.
The Resurrection of the Dramatist
FROM the sickbed Strindberg rose tried and puri
fied. He employed his convalescence by record
ing his experiences of the preceding period in the
two autobiographical works Inferno and Legends, and to
his religious broodings he said farewell in that magnifi
cent piece of symbolism: lacob Wrestles.
At the same time that he recovered his strength, he
matured. He is no longer the fanatic chastiser swing
ing the knout-whip over himself and his time. He has
himself learned from life, and he once more mounts that
literary Olympus which had stood vacant during his
absence, and becomes the calm, serious-minded teacher
who, from the phenomena of antagonizing conflict, points
out to mortals those laws of life which have forcibly
shaped the course of events.
To be sure he began his new dramatic period with a
mystery play, Advent; but in his very next work, he is
in the midst of the lofty style, in the golden period of
his old age. It is in and through his historical dramas
that he became the great poet once more.
At this epoch, I again met Strindberg. He had hidden
himself down in Lund1 so securely that not even his
i Swedish university town in the southernmost province of
Sweden. 80

RESURRECTION OF THE DRAMATIST 81
address was known. All his correspondence had to pass
through the hands of his friend, Waldemar Biilow. A
few days before Strindberg was to celebrate his fiftieth
birthday, I arrived in Lund in company with a young
artist, Arthur Hogstedt, who was to illustrate my article
concerning the hero of the day.
We had to go to Billow's editorial office in order to
ascertain Strindberg's whereabouts. When we got there,
Strindberg himself had already called a couple of times
looking for us. As he was busy, he had left word for us
to call on him later in his apartment. It was a winter
day glorious with sunshine. In Stockholm it had
stormed and blown a biting gale the day before, but in
the Scanian university city it was as temperate as far
down in central Europe. The snow was melting in the
streets and in the air there was a feeling of spring.
After a tour through this idyllic country town, we went
to Strindberg's place of residence, which was number 14
Tomegapsgatan. Through an archway we came into a
yard closed in by buildings on three sides, but on the
fourth continuing as a garden plot hemmed in by a fence.
In the small two-storied wing on the right Strindberg
had his abode. We mounted a queer little stair and
knocked at the door of the celebrity.
A few seconds elapsed before anyone came. Then the
door opened slowly, and before us stood Strindberg in
such a flood of sunlight that we scarcely could distinguish
him. He stood there so ethereally transparent that he
might have been taken for a spectre of his own self.
How old he had grown during these years ! When I

82 STRINDBERG THE MAN
met him in Paris, he was as yet in his prime, somewhat
the worse for all his hardships, but not so as to show
age. Now a cheerful, gray-haired old man appeared
before us. All that confusion of gray hair pointed
straight out in every direction, there was something
sunken about his face, and his bearing was not upright
and proud as in former years. That he gave me the im
pression of being so shrivelled up, was no doubt partly due
to the fact that he wore a large checkered dressing-
gown that fitted him rather loosely. And he came trot
ting towards us in soft felt-slippers which made him
appear somewhat shorter than he was.
In a cheerful and cordial manner he received us and
conducted us into his studio, where country-like sim
plicity ruled supreme. The room was furnished in the
old style, old solid furniture with coverings characteristic
of a parsonage or the sanctuary of some old maid.
Nothing reminded us of Strindberg himself with his
exclusive taste, not even the writing table standing
diagonally over by the window, with the exception, pos
sibly, of a large pile of manuscript on one end of it, on the
wrapper of which Strindberg had written in his own
hand: "Drama."
The rays of the sun fell obliquely through the window
and lighted up the entire corner in front of the table in
such a manner that the room, despite its plainness, put
on a cheerful, homelike air.
Strindberg sat down in his large arm-chair by the
writing table and his face quivered lightly, as if he were
fearful of the questions that we might put to him.

RESURRECTION OF THE DRAMATIST 83
It seemed as though we had not met for a whole genera
tion. At first we were so strange to each other that we
were able to talk only about commonplaces. But when
he noticed that the feared cross-examination did not
materialize, he thawed out and commenced to speak about
himself. In reply to my question why he had not
returned to his beloved Stockholm, he replied that Lund
was his first station in Sweden, where he must enjoy a
thorough rest until he had regained his strength. He
longed to go to Stockholm, particularly in the summer
time, but he dared not go there. He also seemed to have
a feeling that the new literary coterie-constellation in the
capital did not recognize him. The terms religious
and penitent, of course, do not harmonize with those
who preach the gospel of the pleasures and joys of life.
— But I feel at home here in Lund, continued Strindberg.
Besides, I can be contented anywhere where there is a
good library.
Furthermore, in Lund he felt that he was surrounded
by such friends as he had need of just now during his
period of reconvalescence. He had Biilow, who had
taken complete charge of him, when he arrived destitute
of everything, and he had a circle of young medical
students to associate with and with whom he could
discuss those subjects which interested him.
Gradually, however, he had limbered up to such a
degree that I considered it safe to try to direct our con
versation towards his literary works. As a rule Strind
berg never wished to speak of what he was occupied in
committing to paper.

84 STRINDBERG THE MAN
— If you speak of it, it slackens your own tension.
And you commit yourself by making statements, he used
to excuse himself.
But this time, strange to say, he discussed his dramas
quite openly. He told of his mystery play, Advent, and
even gave us a whole mass of details about its contents.
It was the beginning of a religious drama, just like those
mystery plays which ushered in the golden era of the
English drama. Strindberg hoped that the time was not
too far distant when a "religious theatre" could be insti
tuted. The large manuscript pile on the corner of the table,
consisting of great square sheets of Lessebo paper, writ
ten full in Strindberg's even, careful vertical hand, was
the manuscript of Gustavus Vasa, the first in a proposed
series of historical dramas.
— But when may we expect to see them on the stage?
Full of indignation he declared that they would not play
his dramas at home. As Sweden's sole dramatist, he
ought to have had the privilege of being, played. His
manuscripts mouldered away in the manuscript cup
boards of the theatres. But idiotic, tedious French
boulevard-dramas were given.
— And besides, it is impossible for an author continually
to write dramas that never are played. Just think how
much I could have learned by seeing my own plays on the
stage! Just consider to what extent this has arrested
my development as a dramatist !
He felt that there was no other solution than for
him to start a Strindberg Theatre in Stockholm. But

RESURRECTION OF THE DRAMATIST 85
where could he find a backer for such an enterprise?
Yet such a theatre could be arranged for quite reasonably.
All that was needed was a small auditorium for only a
hundred people, young actors who desired to learn how
to act naturally, and decorations of the simplest kind.
Of all the injuries that he had suffered, that seemed to
him to be the greatest. Not to be played, he felt as a
depreciation of his dramatic talent. And despite the fact
that, as we know, eight years later he really got his
Strindberg Theatre, the old Intima Theatre at Norra
Bantorget, nevertheless, even to the end of his days, he
was mortified at seeing some of his most beautiful crea
tions rejected. These were his Gustavus Adolphus, his
Nathan der Weise, as he has called it, his The Nightingale
in Wittenberg, in which he becomes reconciled with
Protestantism as a liberation from heathen Rome and
with the local Northgermanic renaissance, and finally his
Gustavus HI., with which he had hoped that the new
Intima Theatre might open its gates to the public in the
fall of 191 1, although this hope, too, failed him. His
little one-act plays which he himself styles descriptions
from "cynic life", he did not care so much about. But
his resentment at not being permitted to see the three
above mentioned dramas acted, he had to take with him
to his grave.
After our first meeting with Strindberg in his own
apartment, we met him later in the day in Ake Hansson's
little restaurant where he had reserved a private room.
He was an entirely different man when we met him
there. The appearance of an old man he had laid off

86 STRINDBERG THE MAN
together with the dressing-gown. His hair, to be sure,
was just as gray, but in spite of that fact, there was
something youthfully dashing about him. Again he got
into that attitude and atmosphere of the student, and we
sat down at the dinner table like three youngsters who
had taken a holiday and were in for a good time.
He had put his religious broodings to flight. Yet,
mysticism was his most beloved topic. Soon we were in
the midst of it, so deeply, indeed, that for the whole
evening we could not get out of it. He told of his exper
iences, and he was most interested in being informed
about ours.
All the little things that occurred round about him he
continued to look upon as direct messages from unknown
powers with whom he had been in constant communica
tion ever since the sulphur and gold period in Paris.
Nowadays, however, he had a feeling of security, for
he believed himself to be surrounded mostly by good
spirits. He had hardened himself so as to be able to
withstand the evil ones. When they revealed themselves,
he immediately struck them down.
He read old mediaeval prayer-books in order to enjoy
rest and quiet during the evenings. The Bible and
Swedenborg he only used as books of reference when he
was in doubt and in need of counsel. He would open
these books at random, but he always received an answer
to what he asked.
In one respect, he was entirely unlike himself. All his
bitterness and suspicion had been wiped out of his soul.
As the hours passed, he kept drawing closer and closer

RESURRECTION OF THE DRAMATIST 87
to us. He forgot himself in order to become absorbed
in our own little sorrows. And when I related Hogstedt's
sad life and his fruitless endeavors to develop to its full
eclat that artistic genius which was his, Strindberg
vibrated with that warmth of heart of which he was
capable but which he mostly kept under control in order
to strengthen himself.
He sat there, great, wise and good, and spoke his
common sense to us. He became absorbed in two Swed
ish archetypes whom he loved most of all: those two
pairs of characters, Odin (Wadan) and Gustavus Vasa,
Odin and Birger Jarl (Birger the Earl). The evening
in question, it was the former binary constellation in
which he became absorbed. And later, when I read his
drama Gustavus Vasa, I was able to understand how much
of himself he had put into the character of the old king.
He felt like a Gustavus Vasa of his own time. He had
united the indifferent masses about their own great
interests, he had made them oust the devilkins from the
Principality of Cunning, and built up a new spiritual-
intellectual kingdom for both Swedish gentry and
peasantry. He ruled somewhat too autocratically, but he
considered himself forced to do this, lest they (the
people) should relapse into that dangerous state of
decrepitude into which they had been lulled by the
Union1. All good minds in the nation were to unite with him and
back his own good mind and will, and those who were
1 The so-called Kalmar Union effected by Queen Margaret
and embracing Sweden, Norway and Denmark.

88 STRINDBERG THE MAN
indisposed to do so would reap the same reward as the
Dalecarlians, when they opposed Gustavus. But it was
not only a pile of blood-stained Dalecariian coats2 that
were being carried into the presence of the angry king,
whose heart was strong enough to see the blood of his
former friends and supporters being spilled, it was just
as much Strindberg's former friends up there in the
Swedish capital, those who rebelled against him and tried
to dethrone him, at whom he flung a word of warning
with the blood-stained white sheepskin coats.
How strong the poet had grown by becoming absorbed
in this Gustavus Vasa-character, surrounded by the myth
ological glimmer of Northern antiquity! He reviewed
life with that trustfulness which restores the vigor of the
doubting soul, and he looked far, far into the future,
where he saw a Sweden — which, if it followed his judi
cious counsel — would have strength enough to emerge
victoriously out of the world-conflagration which he
knew would come.
Strindberg felt that in him and through him the
Swedish spirit had once more united into a new powerful
character counting its lineage directly from those
Swedes of old who after death were raised to the rank
of divinities.
But just that character of divinity was as repugnant
2 Allusion to a scene in Gustavus Vasa. The leaders of the
stubborn, rebellious Dalecarlians are awaiting an audience
with the king. Presently they are called out one after the
other. But they do not return. After a while a messenger
brings in some blood-stained sheep-skin coats which he throws
down before those whose turn has, not yet come to appear
before the king.

RESURRECTION OF THE DRAMATIST 89
to him as the fool's cap and bells, or again, an object of
as much indifference as the ermine robe; it was
the humanly personal in Father Odin — the only one who
had drunk wisdom out of the well of Mimer,1 and in
Gustavus Vasa — the Founder of the kingdom — he ad
mired and loved.
Without in the least suspecting it, he assumed greater
proportions in my eyes that evening than ever before. I
felt that such a man had the right to demand that the
world should not pass him over in silence, as they had
endeavored to do in Stockholm ; that the entire following
generation was a young forest which never would grow
up even to the lower branches of his gigantic crown and
thus constituted an obstruction, inasmuch as it masked
the giant from the human procession which advanced on
the hollow road through the forest.
If the people at that time had been permitted to see
him freely, they ought to have awakened much earlier to
that consciousness which is the beginning of the develop
ment of character, and have felt that mighty, intellectual
uplift, which the contemplation of the life's work of a
man like Strindberg can inspire.
That night we remained together until after twelve
o'clock. Strindberg had become more and more cheery.
That dull despair — the feeling of being ostracized, a
Pariah — which at first I thought lay like a sediment at
the bottom of everything he said, was gone. He thawed
1 Mimer, a giant, was the creator of the ocean and the
primaeval source of wisdom. To get a drink out of Mimer's
well, Wodan pledged one of his eyes. (Mythol).

90 STRINDBERG THE MAN
out because of the fact that there were human beings
who believed in him and who expected nothing short of
miracles of him. This had given him courage to let go
of himself in such a manner as, presumably, he did not
wish to do among the indifferent high priests of the
exact sciences.
He continued to brighten up until he looked like one of
those fair-haired, curly-headed, good-natured children
who are a proof, it seems to me, that humanity has at,
least one goal for which to strive. But in the midst of
this clear, congenial atmosphere, another sorrow caused
poisonous flowers to unfold in his soul. It was again
the regret that some of his dramas had not been played.
He was suddenly seized with, palpitation of the heart,
and we had to leave immediately.
— My heart warns me when I stay out too long. Now
I must walk half an hour in the open, quite slowly, in
order to get my balance so that I may be able to sleep
during the night. Are you coming along?
We started out into the night, a cold winter night with
a dark-blue sky and glittering stars. The little city slept
quietly under a covering of black and white. We wan
dered towards the outskirts where the houses were
small, low huts among which Strindberg strode like a
giant. The broad brim of the felt hat cast a shadow over his
face. Then suddenly there was a shooting-star. He
tossed his head back and looked skyward as though he
were trying to penetrate into a secret.

RESURRECTION OF THE DRAMATIST 91
He stopped. And when I turned around, I saw the
spying, far-piercing look characteristic of one who has a
vision, or lets his thoughts advance far into the future.
But it was only with one eye he looked far, far into space.
Was it the Monoptic One who stood by my side?1
1 In the Norse mythology, Odin (Wodan) was the father of
all things created. He was one-eyed.

CHAPTER VII.
The Poet and the Wolves
NO one here in our cramped city can walk his way
straight ahead in proud loneliness, as Strindberg
has done, without arousing ill-will and anger
among those whose fate it has been to dwell in the kind
of spiritual atmosphere, where everything personal,
everything that makes you a living being, has been blotted
out. During his long wanderings, Strindberg has, therefore,
ever had a flock of those hungry wolves on his heels.
In his early adolescence it was the literary "wise" old
fogeys whose anger he aroused and who scorned and
furiously lashed this overbearing youngster who, in The
Outlaw did not shrink from confessing that his aspira
tion was to become a poet. This was the very worst
offense, for none of the literary old fogeys had succeeded
in spite of the fact that they had all written verse in their
youth. In the beginning Strindberg allowed the brutal fangs
of all these attackers to tear away at his bleeding breast.
How could one but be deeply stirred when reading in
Strindberg's autobiography how one evening in Uppsala,
92

THE POET AND THE WOLVES 93
his own Runa-friends1 obliged him to read an article full
of gibes and sneers in the hateful Evening lournal — an
organ which persecuted him all his life — in which his
first drama appearing in print was the object of "flagel
lation and mockery." He says that involuntarily he had
to confess that the paper spoke the truth, but also that it
"worked him up terribly."
He felt that he was exposed, outwitted, lured into the
open. But what he could not as yet see and claim indem
nity for, was that the exposer, who hid behind the words,
was a brutal little dwarf, who wielded the scourge in
retaliation for torments that he himself had formerly
suffered, the shadow of a human being who hated to see
new vigorous shoots grow on the old tree. No good,
noble-minded man can take the executioner's axe in his
hand; that is the office of those who are predestined to
criminal existence, but whom some lucky chance has
rescued from the dangerous road.
To expose in that manner a young promising poet in
all his nakedness, to show -him fraught with the defects
of which even the most perfect human being is possessed,
bears witness to such moral baseness that one is taken
aback at finding it in the so-called high places of culture,
among those of the highest university education, among
the foremost and most trusted men of the state.
Only nine years later, in 1879, when Strindberg had
1 Runa (Rune), the name of a literary society founded by
Strindberg and two of his student friends at the University
of Uppsala. It dates from the 28th of Feb., 1870. Member
ship was limited to nine. (Uddgren. Boken om Strindberg,
p. 68).

94 STRINDBERG THE MAN
published his social novel The Red Room, which to a
certain extent had been inspired by Charles Dickens'
David Copperfield, he learned how to see through "the
relative invalidity of criticism" and bravely decided never
again to read the critique of his own works.
f He then declared that he had realized that individuals
' on the same cultural level have identical opinions in iden
tical things, that their opinions, judgment and critique
in general are caused automatically by involuntary activi
ties of their brains.
This resolve not to read what was written about
himself and his works, Strindberg lived up to for the
rest of his life. And because of his great sense of equity,
he did not wish to' read even good criticism, inasmuch as
he did not pay any attention to unfavorable criticism of
himself and his works. Through this course of conduct
he doubtless escaped many a bitter hour and unnecessary
sufferings, for it is a fact that no Swedish poet has been
waited on by his countrymen with so much uncalled for
scorn, so much rabidness, so many false accusations, as
Strindberg. ******
When Strindberg, after having passed his fiftieth mile
stone, felt that he had enough power of resistance to go
into the snake-pit, and came up to Stockholm with three
such dramas as Gustavus Vasa, The Folkungar1 and
Eric XIV., you might have expected that the new literary
generation, which during his long sojourn in foreign
lands had grown up at home, would have greeted his
i The Dynasty of Swedish rulers (1250-1363).

THE POET AND THE WOLVES 95
return with joy. He came in the quality of conqueror,
not in a triumphal chariot to be sure, but rather on foot ;
yet he came with that glory about himself which reminds
you of the crusader who was part of the forces which
endeavored to recapture the Holy Sepulchre.
Strindberg was received in ice-cold silence. He had
been regarded as dead, as a great departed one, to whom
sometimes you offer a flower of remembrance, but with
whom you are no more anxious to dine than with a
skeleton. New constellations had originated since his star had set
in the south, after he had settled down to a hermit-life
in the sign of the Southern Cross and Sirius. Venus
and Mars, nay, the whole Milky Way grew pale in terror
and envy when this brilliant, gigantic comet rose over
the horizon and blazed a wide, glittering white way across
the firmament from south to north, eclipsing both fixed
stars and planets.1
The situation of the little twinkling stars was very
unpleasant ; this cannot be denied. They had been about
to grow large and mighty. The people had become
accustomed to finding their way at night by their some
what faint glow, but now all this was of the past, because
of this wonder of the heavens who turned night into
broad daylight.
Furthermore, the whole nation had grown tired of the
great conflicts of life, of the great campaigning in newly
1 Uddgren here refers to certain prominent contemporary
Swedish writers and C. D. af Wirsen who fought Realism and
Naturalism of which Strindberg had once been the chief repre
sentative in Sweden.

96 STRINDBERG THE MAN
acquired territories which Strindberg continually had
made us pass through. A feeling of joy had seized the
people at being at their own firesides once more, and it
had been ascertained through certain comparisons that
what we lacked most of all at home was — happiness.
We lacked it, and yet we had already been favored
with it. Strindberg had created it in his new, great
dramatic art, but it was a joy or happiness for the phys
ically strong, not for weaklings. And since the people as
yet were weak after all the nursery diseases, they could
not stand the genuine joy of mighty emotions. They
wanted a fitting amount of joy-in-life, and this it was that
the poets of the nineties tried to give them.
Those who were moderately desirous of happiness got
exactly what they wanted. They were permitted /to
rejoice in the fact that Mars, Venus, Sirius and the rest
of them celebrated nuptials in the classic style, in wh^ch,
however, the masquerade costumes were the only things
that imitated antiquity.
But what about spiritual sustenance? That they did
not dare to share with anybody else. If they had any of
their own, they kept it for themselves. For there was
no spiritual joy in Sirius' announcement that love is
beautiful only when it is old and decrepit. In what way
did Mars think that he could increase our happiness by
describing how the steadfast Carolinians,1 to no avail,
were permitted to freeze to death in foreign lands? Of
what remarkable kind of happiness did Venus intend to
be the protegee when she proclaimed that the women
i The soldiers of Charles XII., (1697-1718).

THE POET AND THE WOLVES 97
should be shut up in the temple while the men were to
stand outside in the rain?
The intensely sad aspect of the yelping of the poets of
the nineties against Strindberg is, that they did not
realize that Strindberg like themselves was fighting for
the new syntheses that were destined to be built up on the
sites where Strindberg some time in the eighties had torn
down all the hovels which a perverted real estate policy
had wished to keep in order to create artificially inflated
rents, precisely as it had happened in practical life at that
time within the precincts of our own Stockholm.
The young "happiness-enthusiasts" wanted to oust the
"grudge", a something which did not exist in Strindberg,
but indeed in those sour, drawling parasites who had
claimed to be followers of Strindberg. They worshipped
beauty and hated word-squabbles, but they forgot that the
beauty of battle is the highest beauty, and that joy in life
cannot be obtained without sacrifice.
What posterity will judge them hardest for is, that they
did not see that Strindberg's progress of penance and
self-redemption offered much more beauty — whether
considered from an aesthetic" or purely human point of
view — than their own tourist trips to Rome and Babylon.
They had lost all genuine religious sentiment, all desire to
attain to great ideals, and therefore they could not under
stand Strindberg's violent longings to satisfy his religious
needs, to find new syntheses which were to fuse the
knowledge of the times with an emancipated religion.
If they had felt and understood this, it ought to have been
possible for them to have forbearance with Strindberg's

98 STRINDBERG THE MAN
excess in word and deed and instead of committing acts of
injustice to look into his soul, where the indestructible
skeptic still had his abode and continually brought new
fuel to the flame of doubt.
The reason why Strindberg aimed at building loftier
and wider arches than they, is to be sought in the
extraordinary mental faculties of the man. If it pleased
the giant to play with historic puppets and to place them
in a row so that it might seem as though there was some
relation between them, this ought not to have caused such
outbursts of anger among those who, after all, were
indebted to him for so many other favors.
The sore point in their attack on Strindberg was,
furthermore, that they felt much displeased at Strind
berg's strong religious longing. ' This had a painful effect
upon them, seemed to them like a poison which they
thought they had eliminated, but which reappeared. In
this they reveal their own coarse conception of life,
confess that they are void of every higher spiritual need,
that the religious sentiment is repulsive to them, nay, that
they have no perception of a world-will in general.
In their longing for classic beauty, they ought to have
turned to Epicurus who was so unjustly blackened by
dogmatic Christianity. What great wisdom might they
not have received from him ! He, the great unrecognized
individualist of antiquity, would have possessed the
power to show them the wrong in their yelping against
Strindberg. Yes, even he !
Finally, if they had not become dazzled and blinded so
suddenly by seeing everything in red, when they looked

THE POET AND THE WOLVES 99
at Strindberg, they might have realized that the aged poet
had placed himself at the head of the only dangerous
by-path, that he covered it so completely that, indirectly
on this account, he had become the most reliable guide
for those who wished to find a way to the new Land of
Promise. To hate him for this is equal to not under
standing one's own welfare.
After the great success with Gustavus Vasa and
Eric XIV. in the Swedish Theatre,1 the great defeat of
The Folkungar followed. In this latter play the literary
critics had finally got hold of a work of Strindberg, out
of which a capital slaughter could properly be instituted.
This took place according to all rules and regulations of
the craft, so that when the execution was over there was
not a shred left of the whole play. Strindberg had
occupied the pedestal after Gustavus Vasa; already in
his lifetime he had seen that spiritual statue of honor
which Parliament later refused him in so far as its
material form is concerned; but after the slaughter of
The Folkungar, his statue of honor as well as "his loftiest
work" — as one unbiased critic expressed himself — lay
crumbling in the dust.
That the poet after this cruel injustice — quite compar
able to the act of high-treason which the Dramatic The
atre committed against him in his youth through the
rejection of Master Olof — withdrew into his shell and
decided to lead the life of a hermit, should not prove a
surprise to anybody. And if his soul gradually stored up
1 The name of one of the theatres in Stockholm. Cf. Thea
tre Francaisei

too STRINDBERG THE MAN
a great deal of hatred against the ruling literary coterie
at home, this fact cannot be characterized in any other
way than as humanly justifiable. It would have been
more than inhuman, if he had remained silent and not
allowed his great indignation to explode.
During the years following the annihilation of The
Folkungar, the whole literary clique of the capital — any
provincial critique, unfortunately, we never have had —
tried as effectively as possible to kill Strindberg by
unbroken silence. That was the manner in which the
long series of historical dramas were killed. Only
Gustavus Adolphus they held on to, since with regard to
this play the yelping could still be continued. They
howled like wolves at Skansen,1 because under Strind
berg's treatment, Gustavus Adolphus had lost his saintly
halo; instead he had become a great and good human
being whom Strindberg himself compares with Nathan
the Wise. Not even from a scenic point of view did
Gustavus Adolphus amount to anything. In fact, the
petty critique dares to assert this even to this day, in spite
of the fact that some of Europe's foremost critics have
proved the opposite.
His dream-play dramas Strindberg was not able to
publish for several years, and much less was he able to
have them performed, except Easter which was played in
the Dramatic Theatre.
Strindberg's exceedingly charming picture of himself
in old age, Alone, in which he shows himself as com-
1 The famous Zoo at Djurgarden (The Deer-garden) to the
east of the city proper.

THE POET AND THE WOLVES roi
pletely recovered from his sickness, the critics could not
appreciate. His The Gothic Rooms, they ridiculed,
declaring that it never could equal The Red Room. This
irritated Strindberg more than any other one thing and
only the year before his death, he read The Gothic Rooms
and declared time and time again to his friends that he
himself placed it at the head of all his novels.
New Swedish Destinies experienced a similar treat
ment. The beautiful descriptions of the skerries, Beauty
Cove and Shame Sound1 only caused disgust among the
delicate literary gourmands. And finally when Strind
berg published his large collection of poems containing
some of the most remarkable lyric creations in the
Swedish language, the critics kept perfect silence as
though the poet had committed some unseemly act.
He who has followed the brutal course of injustice
against the poet during all these years, he who has seen
the coterie-critique hammer him down inch by inch until
that statue of gold, which once was his, became
telescoped into itself to such an extent as to present
nothing but the flatness of a penny — he who has seen
all that and understood the purpose, must confess, if he
has any sense of justice, that Strindberg's "reckoning
with the, Decadence poets" in Black Flags was not only
fully justifiable, but indeed a demand which the epoch
had made upon him,
Strindberg had to defend himself against the parasites
i Happily rendered Fairhaven and Foulstrand by L. Lind af
Hageby in: Strindberg, The Spirit of Revolt, etc., Appleton
& Co., New York, 1913.

102 STRINDBERG THE MAN
round about him. The ruling coterie-spirit had wrought
a stupor in the literary self-consciousness, so that there
was no one who could see the difference any longer
between a vagabond and a nobleman. One of the clean
est and most honorable of artists in our country once
declared to me, that he considered it a godsend that
Strindberg set the axe to the root of the tree, thus
exposing the degenerate progeny who tried to tell the
people that they were following in Strindberg's foot-steps.
Apart from this, Strindberg created with his Black
Flags a satirical work of art which is destined to live
through centuries. The much discussed literary char
acter is a masterly drawn type, who in company with Sir
John Falstaff and Pickwick Esqr., is bound to enter
eternity. The rancorous severity with which the char
acter in question is drawn, is based on a personal hatred,
which seems exaggerated, but without just that amount
of sharpness in the tone, the type never would have
become so striking as it is. At the present time, we
ought to be able to forget that Strindberg used a model
to a certain extent. As a rule, the characters of the book
are compounded of the specific qualities of two or three
models. Hence they differ considerably from their pro
totypes and cannot be designated by this or that name.
The same is true as regards the majority of the characters
of the Red Room, and Strindberg did not want the artists
of the Red Room to be called by their right names, in
spite of the fact that they were sympathetically drawn
throughout. When Black Flags was about to be published, Strind-

THE POET AND THE WOLVES 103
berg had to suffer humiliation at the hands of the
publishers who had entered into a conspiracy to prevent
the publication of the work. They formed a testudinal
bulwark about the attacked one who ought to have been
allowed to look after his own business. When did you,
noble souls, form a bulwark about Strindberg when he
fought for a just cause and when the assassin time and
time again left him for dead in the arena? To fail the
Lord of the Land when he was in danger of his life,
used to be called by an odious name, and was punished by
breaking on the wheel, but in our days, it seems to have
become a sort of meritorious deed which may even be the
cause of reward.
Strindberg was able at last to have his Black Flags
published thanks to the fact that there was one man
among the publishers who had not entered into the con
spiracy and who dared to challenge the hydra.

CHAPTER VIII.
The Eccentric Hermit
AFTER the mental and physical illnesses and suf
ferings with which the old century closed for him,
the ever hypersensitive Strindberg had become
even more sensitive and delicate. Although the mental
disorder had been overcome, he had the mania of his
Inferno-period, in that he insisted upon seeing direct
evidence of the supernatural powers in every incident,
nay the least trifle, that graced his eyes.
His constant planning to shut himself up in a Catholic
monastery was thus caused by a desire to get away from
the painful external world, not by any newly aroused
religious inclination inducing him to throw himself into
the arms of the Roman church.
Since for many reasons he considered himself unfit for
the monastery, he hit upon the idea of establishing him
self as a "private hermit" right in the midst of the
Swedish capital. This isolation of his he put into effect
shortly after he had moved up there in 1899. Previously
he had lived for a short time at Furusund.1
At first he had hunted up his old friends and comrades,
but he soon found that associating with them had no
charm for him. He rediscovered himself only when he
returned home to his seclusion and quiet and became
1 A watering place in the Stockholm Archipelago.
104

THE ECCENTRIC HERMIT 105
"wrapped up in his own spiritual atmosphere, in which
he felt at home as in a well-made suit of clothes."
Thus on the border-line of old age Strindberg's hermit
life, extending nearly Over thirteen years, began by "his
exercising himself in the art of being alone." In the
beginning it was difficult, and he himself confessed that
the vacuum which held him, insisted upon being filled up.
, In his wonderfully charming autobiography Alone,
Strindberg expresses a few thoughts which I cannot but
cite: "By cutting off the contact with other people, I
seemed at first to lose in power, but simultaneously my
ego began to crystallize as it were, to condense around a
kernel wherein everything that I had lived through,
united, fused and became absorbed as nourishment of my
soul. Besides this, I accustomed myself to turn over in
my mind everything I saw and heard, in the house, in the
street, in nature, and by bringing everything that came to
my notice into the work in hand, I felt my capital grow,
and the observations that I made in my loneliness were
found to be more valuable than those which I had made
in society."
These words seem to me to be the motto of all that
Strindberg wrote during the first decade of the new
century. It was, thanks to his complete isolation, during
these years that Strindberg gathered all the material
which makes his latest literary output so intimate and
which enables us to come closer to him, personally, than
ever before.
What beautiful descriptions of the peacefulness of a
home where everything lives and breathes, suffers and

106 STRINDBERG THE MAN
rejoices together with him who dwells within, these years
have given us! His novels as well as his dramas and
poetry from this period are full of the music of every
day life which the hermit Strindberg grasped as no other.
In this peaceful retirement he thrived as never before
in his own city. His literary activity as well as he him
self here passed their fourth spring. Sorrows and
worries he changed into white summer clouds which
glided away on the first breeze.
Yet a cloud, dark-blue and threatening, continually
hung over his head. After the annihilation of The
Folkungar, the theatres were afraid of his dramas.
Against the new dramatic style, somewhat after the pat
tern of Maeterlinck which he had commenced in Easter
and continued in Swanwhite, The Crown Bride and The
Dream Play, the directors of the theatres assumed a
skeptical attitude, considering the plays to be too artistic,
too exclusive for the appreciative powers of the general
public. In the month of December, 1900, Strindberg wrote me
to the effect that I must see him in an important business
matter. Unfortunately I was sick and could not put in
an appearance in his bachelor quarters, 31 Banergatan,
until one week later.
It was the question of starting a Strindberg Theatre.
It hurt him terribly to write drama after drama and not
see a single one on the stage. This underrating of his
capacity as dramatist must not go on ad infinitum. In
order to put a stop to it, he wanted me to help him start
a Strindberg Theatre.

THE ECCENTRIC HERMIT 107
To my question as to what plays we were to put on,
he answered that there was a whole series of short mystic
plays which he had written. It was to be a theatre in
the Maeterlinck style, not in the style of the past. We
needed only a barn or the like at Djurgarden (The Deer-
garden). No money would have to be spent on decora
tions, we could play as in the Shakespeare theatre of yore,
in a room with bare walls. The contents of the plays
would thus come to the fore much better.
Without in the least suspecting that I might hurt his
feelings, I happened, during the course of our conversa
tion, to ask him whether I might not read the plays we
were to produce. — No, you will not! he replied in an
irritated tone of voice. — But if I am to stage them, I
certainly will have to read them, in order to ascertain
that they are not beyond my powers. — I never permit
anybody to read what I write.
After this categorical imperative of the author, all the
plans proposed came to a sudden stop for the time being.
It was not my intention to hurt Strindberg by suggesting
fears that his plays might not be fit for the stage ; it was
only doubt as to my own limited ability, in case that I
was to make my debut as stage-director that gave rise
to my question.
No explanations on my part were of any avail. My
request to be permitted to read his new dramas had
wounded Strindberg so deeply that he dropped all his
plans. He was hard and cold as only Strindberg could
be, and when I left him, I felt that we would not see each
other for a long time.

108 STRINDBERG THE MAN
I cite this incident, not as a criticism of Strindberg, but
only in order to show how utterly sensitive he was, to
show how this hypersensibility was coupled with an
hysteric suspicion which, out of most innocent words,
would construe, very unreasonably, non-existent secret
intentions of which he surely could not discover a trace in
the deepest recesses of the subconscious will of the
individual. He himself spoke of this "pathological" suspicion of
his of which he showed the symptoms even in his child
hood. It has followed him all through life and has
become, it seems to me, the main spring of that equally
incurable scepticism of his. And yet, it was thanks to
this constant ability to be doubtful of all those ideas
which he had taken up to analyze, that he had escaped
the fate of becoming wedded to any one of them. Opin
ions exist only in order to illumine life spontaneously
from a certain side. Unless they are broken up imme
diately and unless you permit their being replaced by
others, you will soon see everything upside down again.
The same peculiar suspicion which Strindberg showed
me on this occasion, he probably showed everybody. It
was not difficult for him to become isolated under such
circumstances. Just at the time when Strindberg had that calm about
himself which he needed, he chanced to fall in love in
earnest. He married the young actress Harriet Bosse
whose acquaintance he made while she was taking the
part of "the girl" in his play Easter. During their three
years of married life (1901 — 1904), I never saw Strind-

THE ECCENTRIC HERMIT 109
berg. But I know that during these years were written
some of his greatest works, his double drama The Dance
of Death and his new poems Word-Play and Petty Art}
His greatest lyric poem, Chrysaetos, owes its existence to
this marriage.
Divorced for the third time, he now dwelt alone in the
small, plain home he had built up in the large Red House,
40 Karlavagen. Four flights up on the right was Strind
berg's apartment. When entering the hall, there hung
directly in front of you a small oil-painting by himself.
Through a framework of foliage, you looked into a sunny
Eden. It was as if this little picture would warn the
caller that he was approaching tabooed ground. The
door on the left led to his studio. This was a compar
atively small room, obloing in shape and with a single
window facing the north. The whole wall on the left
was covered with book-shelves reaching from floor to
ceiling. On the right there stood a couple of manuscript
cupboards and on the highest one of these, an eagle
spread his wings.
Diagonally by the window there was the writing table
full of note-books, manuscripts, etc., and a few trinkets,
all arranged in the minute order which Strindberg wanted
about himself when he worked. At the table there stood
that high-backed arm-chair which he occupies in the
photographs of that period taken by Anton Blomberg.
Close by the book-shelves there was a smoking-table and
a couple of rattan chairs for callers.
Double-doors led to the ' dining-room. This room
1 Word Play and Handicraft. Lind and Hageby, op. cit.

no STRINDBERG THE MAN
also was quite plain, with a dining-table in the
centre, a serving table and an arm-chair in the corner on
the right by the window. As a rule there was a wealth
of flowers on both these tables, flowers that were sent by
unknown admirers, or bought by himself during his
morning walks.
These flowers he always arranged personally in such a
way that they harmonized with the state of mind in which
he happened to be. When he was in a solemn frame of
mind, he also spread out on chairs and tables some beau
tiful, embroidered East Indian draperies. On a pillar
between the windows, he had placed a small statue of
Buddah. The adjoining room was his drawing-room. It looked
as though it was not in use. The slender-legged furni
ture had on light coverings both winter and summer.
There were no pictures on the walls, only small and large
photographs of his children.
His bedroom, finally, was situated in the rear of the
house. It was so plain that it impressed the caller as a
monastic cell. A narrow iron bedstead, a large photo
graph of his youngest daughter, little Anne-Marie, a
small table with an old Bible, a couple of old Catholic
prayer-books — that was all.
This is the home which he himself describes in the
latter part of Alone. Here he passed his time during the
years 1902 — 1908, and here he wrote most of what he
published during those years.
The windows faced north-east, so that he had no sun in
his rooms except early in the morning, and not at all

THE ECCENTRIC HERMIT hi
in the winter time. He had an extensive view of
"Gardet"1 and The Royal Citadel ever towards Lilla
Vartan and Lidingon.2 And then he had all of the
northern sky which he loved to contemplate during the
long winter evenings, while he was moving about alone,
waiting for the hours of rest to come and liberate him
from the worries of the day.
He scarcely left this home of his except during his
walks between the hours of seven and nine in the
morning. He made his morning coffee himself and ate
a couple of pieces of bread before he started out. When
he returned from his long walk to "Djurgarden" all wet
with perspiration, he changed his clothes and seated
himself at his desk.
As on the previous day he had made some annotations
as to what he was to begin with on the following day,
and since, furthermore, he had gathered additional mate
rial during his walk, he always came to his desk so well
charged that as soon as he had put his pen to the paper,
the work began under high pressure.
Printing the words in the beautiful, steady hand, which
is characteristic of the manuscripts of his younger years,
he thus labored for two or three hours.
— I dare not write any more at a time, he explained,
although I usually feel like going on. But if I write for
four or five hours, I become exhausted and feel such a
strong disgust that I wish I could commit suicide.
i Literally "The Field." Extensive drillgrounds to the N. E.
of the city.
2 A large island separated from the mainland by the fjord
of Vftrtan.

112 STRINDBERG THE MAN
The rest of the day he had to be occupied with other
things. Under the seemingly quiet exterior, he felt a
constant, burning restlessness which forced him to be
occupied with studies and research of all kinds, if for no
other reason than to make the time pass. Here in the
Red House it was the preliminary studies to the Blue
Books he was concerned with, mainly speculations in
chemistry and astronomy. But he was also concerned
with some quasi-scientific research works in the history
of religion, for which he harbored a glowing hatred
because it seemed to him that their aim was to show that
the Bible could be traced to Babel and that, by means of
scientific evidence, they tried to detract from the worth
of revealed truth. There were quite a number of things
that he hated in his old age. He was continually the
same brilliant reasoner as when in his younger days he
used to be called "the Eagle" by his friends in Berns.1
The only difference was that at that time he was wrecking
and tearing down the then passing state of things, now he
was raging against the new and permanent status quo
which was incompatible with the faith of his childhood to
which he had returned. In the nineties, modern science
had declared that the universe no longer had any secrets
for it. It had found the key to all riddles, solved all
problems. It was the boastful language of these quasi-scientific
high-brows that continually embittered Strindberg and
caused him to treat the exact sciences with so much con
tempt. But these were statements which no real prom-
i Berns Salonger, see p. 8, chapt. IV.

THE ECCENTRIC HERMIT 113
inent scientists had made, for they no doubt continue to
hold, that, as regards the great secrets, we know prac
tically nothing more than plus, minus, zero.
But on account of a few scientific snobs, Strindberg
condemned them all. Besides, in matters pertaining to
this kind of knowledge, he wanted to play the part of
the clairvoyant. With an eagerness, which bordered on
light hysteria, he seized upon a misunderstood statement
now and then, turned and twisted in the vise of his
own imagination, until he had put an entirely different
interpretation upon it than it originally had, and finally
in that way he was able to produce a "fictitious fact"
which he would be delighted to use later on as a crushing
argument. There was nothing to which he clung so tenaciously
as to these facts of his own making. It was as if he
believed, that in this ever flowing stream, there would be
a few firm points that could give him a feeling of quiet,
and therefore he moored his skiff to a couple of floating
buoys, without ascertaining whether they were fastened
to the bottom or not. When conversing with him, it was
imperative to refrain from touching upon these buoys.
This put a damper on his spirits, nay, he would even lose
his temper and show his guests the door, if they contra
dicted him too vigorously. In particular he clung to his
mystic discovery concerning the birds, e. g. the landrail
which can make itself invisible, the swallows which hiber
nate, and regarding the whereabouts in general of the
migratory birds during the 'winter. He hinted vaguely
premonitions which he did not wish to express. These

114 STRINDBERG THE MAN
were mystic secrets which it might be dangerous to
betray. These oddities often suggested to me that he wanted
them as a kind of safety-valve against the state of infirm
ity through which he had had to fight his way. He
referred to them as it were to test his self-control, the
signal superiority of his own brain over illusions.
And his new religious inclinations? After he had
settled down in the Red House, he had once more passed
through a rather serious crisis which closed with perfect
harmony between him and the supernatural powers.
This was the final act in his great and marvelous self-
redemption. He had now granted himself complete
absolution and balanced the books in such a way that
they could be passed upon favorably by the Tribunal
above as well as by himself. ,
Such a closing of the books ought not to have been
difficult to bring about, not even for a man with his own
strong sense of justice. The very fact that he had again
awakened among us the old- Swedish spirit, the very same
spirit which moved in the loftiest of the old Icelandic
poetry, the most inspiring, the most stimulating of all
"this desperate defiance of the impelling -power and mean-
inglessness of life" — Vilhelm Ekelund1 puts it — this
fact alone ought to have sufficed to allow "the sins",
which he possibly had committed, to be carried away by
the wind like withered leaves to the pit where they were
destined to decompose of their own accord.
During the last few years I met Strindberg, his relig-
i Swedish poet.

THE ECCENTRIC HERMIT 115
ious life impressed me as an attractive, gentle pose which
he desired to assume in order to have the external peace
of which he was in need. His battles with himself had
been so consuming that, when he rose to his feet again,
he was not able to follow up the syntheses of which he
had already found the indications, but rather felt the need
of embracing almost any doctrine in order to get out of
the chaos of religious brooding.
Already his statement, that a man had to swallow the
entire Christian dogma, just as we swallow a quantity of
castor oil in a mouthful of coffee, demonstrates what an
aversion he had for this dogmatic conception of religion.
At the final settlement, after his religious self-examina
tion in Legends, he directs in several instances the very
sharpest criticism against Christianity, and particularly
against its weakest point: the dumping of the moral
responsibility upon the Saviour. His own self-redemp
tion — as Esswein points out — was not the weary crawling
to the cross of a symbolist, nothing that might be called
a conversion, but rather a regeneration into which there
entered to be sure a mighty displeasure at the base
qualities of some of the modern free-thinking.
Esswein make* the following plain statement: "Even
Strindberg, the religious, the man with the melancholy
catholicizing trifles, recorded in Legends, is a skeptic to
the end. A puzzler over problems through and through,
a believer with whom every church would be glad to have
nothing to do, and yet, deeply religious."
It was, in so far as I am able to ascertain, in order
again to liberate the artist within him that he slipped on

116 STRINDBERG THE MAN
the cloak of Christian dogma, which fits loosely or snugly
at the same time. He felt himself to be a descendant of
Vasa who had not fallen at Liitzen, but returned home
after bloody battles, to create order in the confusion
which was the result of his long absence on expeditions
in foreign lands.
He believed no longer in absolute evolution. Several
times he declared :
— I do not believe that life ever will be anything else
than it is. This is the worst of all hells. I cannot con
ceive of any worse. Even if you change the form of
government and religion ever so many times, humanity
will always remain the same.
He felt that he had to comfort not only himself but also
his times. Every night he read his old Roman Catholic
prayer-books in order to become inbued with their peace,
not to acquire a Roman Catholic edification, and in the
same way he wanted to comfort others. The fire which
burned within him was so strong that he needed quieting
remedies in order to rest at night.
If we turn to his literary records we find that not even
through these can he be marshalled into the ranks of the
church Christians. No convert bids such a farewell to
his own brethren as did Strindberg in his Black Flags.
On the contrary, the ego-centric which dwells within him,
remains, there even to the end. When in The Great
Highway he definitely lays down the pen, he rises up like
the wrestling Jacob against God and endeavors to over
whelm him :
I'll not let go thy hand, Eternal One,

THE ECCENTRIC HERMIT 117
Thy mighty hand, until I'm blessed by Thee.
And then he bursts out in these accents which testify to
an unbroken self-esteem :
Bless me, thine own humanity,
Which suffers, suffers from thy gift of life!
Me first who suffered most !
These words: "Me, thy humanity," and "Me first, who
suffered most," do not proceed from the lips of a man
who has languished under the burden of life and laid his
cross on the shoulders of another, but rather from a
blond giant of the Viking- type who personally has carried
the cross to his own Calvary, and who claims a reward
for it. That he had not been able to be what he had
wished to be — the closing word in the drama — does not
detract from the proud self-assertion in the consciousness
of the greatness of his life's work.
If we wish to hear Strindberg speak from his heart in
an even stronger tone, we need only read his words to the
Japanese on the latter's question as to "how he sees life" :
The Hunter: This found I bitterer than death, indeed,
To take this monstrous mockery in earnest —
To hold as sacred that which was so beastly.

CHAPTER IX.
Little Christmas Eve1 With Strindberg
STRINDBERG had finally set up his own theatre,
but under such great difficulties that it seemed as
though all the powers of the world had conspired
against him lest in the end he should bring his unplayed
dramas on the stage.
When the theatre, the old Intima Theatre at Norra
Bantorget, was to be opened, it took months before the
sanction of the authorities could be obtained and before
all the necessary changes were completed. As Strind
berg was strongly opposed to director Falck's and his
company's going on a tour through the country, he was
obliged to pay their salaries for more than two months.
And when on the 26th of November 1907 the theatre
finally opened its gates and that forceful masterpiece The
Pelican, a play expressly written for the occasion, was
given as a premiere, there rose in unison a lupine howl
against both the play and the author, loudest against him
self, perhaps, but not so much against the dramatist as
against the author of — Black Flags.
They did not consider that it was Sweden's first and
only great dramatist who now himself sought to make
good the wrongs done him, that it was the author himself
who had to pay the piper. The Intima Theatre was to be
1 The Swedes so designate the 23rd of December.
118

CHRISTMAS EVE WITH STRINDBERG 119
clubbed to death at any price. Subsequent premieres
were given with altogether too few rehearsals and they
were failures too. At once, after the first rout, Strind
berg wanted to give up and close the theatre. He, the
bravest among the brave, had now in old age become
timorous. With laudable energy, partly the result of
circumstances, director Falck stuck to the enterprise.
Towards Christmas, however, the difficulties became
altogether too great, and unless there had been a contri
bution to the funds, the enterprise would in all human
probability have failed. Little Christmas Eve, the 23rd
of December, in the morning, the reef was cleared.
Greatly rejoicing on this account, Strindberg invited his
director and myself to celebrate the event with a spree in
his home.
Those who came to Strindberg for an evening call, had
to be there precisely at seven. To put in an appearance
earlier meant an interruption in his preparations ; if one
arrived a little after the appointed hour his nerves suf
fered, because of his having to wait, and he considered
the evening wasted.
Accordingly we two, who had been invited that
evening, met in the hall of his residence where we waited
until the clock struck seven.
When we heard the first stroke in the Oscar church-
tower, we rang the bell. His house-keeper as usual
peeped out of the kitchen in order to ascertain whether
it was some persona grata that had pressed the button. '
If that was the case, she only nodded contentedly and
closed the door, and then there followed a rather lengthy

120 STRINDBERG THE MAN
artistic pause. Without our having heard her steps, she
now opened quite unexpectedly the hall door, and so
silently that you had the feeling you had come to some
spiritualistic seance in the house of the magian Magus.
While we took off our coats and peeped into The
Promised Land, a little Strindberg painting on the op
posite wall, the door to Strindberg's library was opened
and on the threshold stood Strindberg himself. He stood
there in a flood of light, for his apartment was fully
illumined by electricity as he always had it during the
winter evening, even when he was alone.
— Well, you are on the dot! he said with a smile, an
expression which was equal to the very highest praise.
Then in due order he offered us his hand, his good
powerful hand which cordially pressed ours as a greeting
of welcome. As a rule Strindberg avoided shaking
hands with people, for on the inside of his right hand he
had a spot of eczema which one could not help feeling
and of which Strindberg was very loath to speak. At
times the spot was inflamed and then Strindberg contin
ually wore a black cotton glove on the right hand. How
he supposed that he got this skin-disease, he relates in
his autobiography.
After we had entered his little library, he closed the
door carefully behind us, and with a great gesture pulled
a drapery in front of it in order that nobody should be
able to peep through the key-hole or to hear what was
said within the Holy of Holies.
Thereupon he turned to us in a gay, student-like man
ner which meant, though no word was spoken, that now

CHRISTMAS EVE WITH STRINDBERG 121
we might cut loose and have a right pleasant evening,
for all worries had been shaken off.
— Here, gentlemen, the toddy table is ready !
This was accompanied by an animated gesture in the
direction of a table with liquors placed in the left corner
near the bookshelves. Then he suddenly stopped, just
as though he had realized that he had no longer a couple
of young students from the seventies before him, who,
according to the customs of those days, refreshed them
selves with warm toddy :
— . . . Although you, you are going to have grog, of
course. There were plenty of refreshments. We had the
choice of whisky, cognac or punch; there was hot water
for toddy and cold soda water for grog. In order at least
to begin alike, the three of us determined to take whisky
grog and accordingly seated ourselves on the three nar
row, high-backed dining-room chairs which Strindberg
had placed around the table and on which we were forced
to sit up straight as in an examination under some super
cilious professor.
This does not imply that Strindberg acted the part of
a professor. On the other hand, he was the youngest
among us, and as soon as we had drunk each other's
health, his tongue started to wag.
I had happened to express my surprise that the Intima
Theatre did not have the support of a certain great Mae
cenas to the extent indicated by the rumor.
— Well, just imagine — Strindberg interrupted, delight
ed to be able to relate something truly interesting — while

122 STRINDBERG THE MAN
Falck and I sat here one evening last fall discussing the
question of capital wherewith to run the theatre, I
happened to think of him first of all, of him, the patron
of art, since I could not but think that he who has done
so much for pictorial art might also lend a hand to the
much abused dramatic art. But, you would hardly
believe it, as soon as I pronounced his name — "bang", a
miracle took place.
— A miracle?
— Yes, it is a fact, declared Falck.
— We heard a rumbling noise in the chimney-flue and
a moment later a brick came down into the fire
place, blew open the brass-doors, which ought almost to
have been an impossibility, and landed on the floor here
in the midst of us. Then I knew the reply that we could
expect from that man.
— The Maecenas answered in the negative, then ?
— Yes, he could neither lend us nor borrow 3000
crowns for us. But just think that a brick can give
answer to the mere thinking of something.
We found this advance message of the Powers as well
as the refusal of the Maecenas equally wonderful. But
we did not know just then that the patron in question
was himself in great financial embarrassment at that time.
But it had been possible to start the entire enterprise,
thanks to the money that kept pouring in upon Strind
berg from all points of the compass. He found it quite
as inexplicable as the brick, that. as soon as the daily pa
pers announced that his dramas were to be played some-

CHRISTMAS EVE WITH STRINDBERG 123
where, publishers again began to show a willingness to
print his works. He published his Black Flags at Bjork
& Borjeson's and The Blue Books, for which he thought
he would never get a publisher, had been put out by the
same firm. Also abroad, especially in Germany and
Austria, the interest in him had begun to reawaken and
theatres had started to buy his plays.
In the year of 1906 his income had dwindled down to a
scanty 4000 crowns, and he had been so hard up that he
had wondered whether he could afford to remain in his
800 crowns apartment the following year. But this year,
when the theatre was to be started, his income rose just
in the nick of time.1 But this was not altogether too
marvellous; when you cut off all communcations with
the world, as Strindberg had done in late years, you are
soon forgotten, no matter how great your renown has
been. Shakespeare, as we know, complains in The Tem
pest that he was unknown to his countrymen a couple of
years after he had left his theatre. Rembrandt, who in
his time was the most celebrated man in Holland, was so
completely forgotten from the time he was forced to sell
his palace and his great collections that he was considered
as dead. During the last few years of his life, when his
art asserted itself more than ever before, that martyr sat
in a closet behind his son's little art store and painted,
while nobody knew that he was alive.
That a like fate did not befall Strindberg, is due to a
certain extent to the theatre.
1 It appeared later on that Strindberg this year had re
ceived about 32,000 crowns, of which sum nearly 19,500 went
to the support of the theatre.

124 STRINDBERG THE MAN
From things theatrical we came to other topics, but all
of them dealt with mysticism. Strindberg's predilection
for the mystical had continued to assert itself with equal
tenacity ever since the Inferno-period. This was a
mania of his, but it ought not — as has happened in certain
instances — to be taken as an indication of a continued
state of weakness of this mind which was potent and
active in all things pertaining to humanity.
That evening he related a long series of similar exper
iences, all of which I cannot now remember, but of which
the larger number may be classified under the heading:
clairvoyance. To show how closely associated he was
with his dramatic work he told us, for instance, that as a
rule he felt it in his bones when some of his plays were
presented for the first time somewhere in Europe. He
could smell smoke and spiritous vapors which meant,
according to him, that people were discussing him in
tensely in the lobby of some theatre. After he had gone
to bed about ten o'clock and fallen asleep, he would
suddenly be aroused by rounds of applause and, fright
ened, he would sit up in bed, wondering whether he was
in the theatre. He did not like to go to his own
premieres, and applause was as distasteful to him as the
literary yelping which had pursued him all his life. But
after having experienced such applause, he insisted that
he always received intelligence of some dramatic success.
When Strindberg had the opportunity to relate similar
incidents and when he had an audience capable of follow
ing the creative fancy which cooperated in the telling of
the story, he was in his element. He was himself so

CHRISTMAS EVE WITH STRINDBERG 125
intensely absorbed that time and time again his head
became too warm. He had to cool off his hot forehead
by bathing it for a few seconds with cold water. What
he drank, he diluted more and more with water and lemon
juice. After the day's topics of mysticism were exhausted, he
threw himself into politics. Then it was the "eagle"
within him that rose on proud wings; again he became
the critical art-revolutionist of the Red Room period, who
tore down all idols. He arranged the discussion so that
it resembled a great criminal prosecution, where the
unjustly accused was his own point of view. The
malicious prosecutor pleaded the cause of the plaintiff.
Then he himself took the part of counsel for the defense;
and after the prosecutor had formulated his charges more
or less successfully, the defence began.
And then there was a hot tussle among the shields.
After an expository preamble, came proofs of the de
fence. They came like rattling volleys of machine-gun
fire, and for each volley that had mowed down a hostile
force, Strindberg cried out: Bang!
He had hit the bull's eye. The chain of proofs had
been welded together so firmly that there was nothing
more to do in the matter. Bang! Bang!
The entire militant forces of the prosecutor were
riddled. Not a single platoon could hold the ground any
longer. The accused was completely acquitted of all
charges. Bang!
The judge could do nothing else than dismiss him;

126 STRINDBERG THE MAN
and that too in a manner that afforded even more than
redress and gave almost the halo of a saint to the man
who had been unjustly accused.
Bang!
The whole matter was closed once for all.
A couple of hours elapsed in this manner. They had
passed incredibly fast, and yet it seemed as though we
had lived through a series of dramas and novels.
Hundreds of human shapes had filed past the inner
vision. Hosts of burning questions of the day the mys
terious magician had hung up before our eyes like waving
banners, but at the same time in which he had looked
at them, they had become torn to shreds by a storm-wind
and changed into worthless rags fit for the dump.
Shortly before nine o'clock, some one peeped through
the dining-room door. Strindberg raised his glass and
invited us to drain the cups.
— Now we are going to have something to eat. I hope
the grog has given you an appetite.
With these words he opened the doors to the dining-
room. It was beaming with light from the electric
chandelier and the candelabra with stearine candles.
Before the figure of Buddah there burned a tiny, myste
rious lamp.
The table was spread for a feast. The cold table,
according to the old-Swedish custom which Strindberg
loved, was there, but not the traditional one with sugared
herring and the like, only delikatessen. Besides,
there was a wealth of flowers in small vases placed like

CHRISTMAS EVE WITH STRINDBERG 127
a guard of honor at the end of the table where nobody
was to be seated.
It was with real delight that Strindberg sat down as
host at this table. He had the ability to get even the
least object to shine and to become significant. Without
the slightest hint on his part, we understood that he had
gone the full length that evening, and that he offered us
the best that he had been able to select, in order that
we might understand that it was his purpose to prepare
a royal feast for us.
Strindberg expressed his joy at being at home again
and at being able to enjoy the Swedish table. During the
many years abroad, he always suffered because he could
not become accustomed to the food. Also in this respect,
a man has his roots in his native land. What we become
accustomed to while growing up, we must stick to. He
had never felt at home in any other place than his beloved
Stockholm. During certain periods of his life, he had been troubled
with a bad stomach. He told of such a period that he
had passed through in April of that year.1
At the time when his drama The Dream Play was being
rehearsed, a peculiar change had taken place in his
every day life. He had had to pass through a period
of fasting and brooding which extended over forty days.
Six times during that period, he had to change ser
vants, the one proving worse than the other. It went so
far that he had to help himself, had to set the table and
look after the fires.
1 See The Blue Book and Supplement pp. 427, 430 and 431.

128 STRINDBERG THE MAN
— At that time I had to eat black hog-wash out of a
dish-carrier. He regarded this fasting of forty days as a punishment
for The Dream Play which was presumptious and blas
phemous in that it tried to give advice to Providence.
When he was about to tell his brother Axel that he had
received food so unpalatable that he could not thank the
Lord for it, he had, however, been prevented from doing
so by a blue streak of lightning and a clap of thunder
which was repeated three times. Because he had been able
to suppress the accusation against the Most High, he had
received his reward the following day. It was on the
24th of April of that year that his present first-class
housekeeper had commenced to work for him, and from
that day there had been order in the house, and daily he
had received the best of food that he could wish for.
Everything with which Strindberg treated us that
evening was indeed of first-class quality. After the cold
table, the housekeeper brought in a splendid lobster ; then
followed a well-broiled fowl, fruit and cheese.
Nor did we neglect Bacchus. We had Norwegian
aqvavit, the only dram that Strindberg would take.
Then we continued with Burgundy wine. Strindberg had
been told by some wine-connoisseur that the consumer
should select for himself a brand for which he had devel
oped a taste and then stick to it. He himself had chosen
Beaune and therefore always received an excellent
quality. Furthermore, he was of the opinion that clarets should
not be enjoyed at the temperature of the room. They

CHRISTMAS EVE WITH STRINDBERG 129
should be taken directly out of the cellar when about
to be used. For, to anyone blessed with an acute sense
of taste, they contained sufficient flavor, and besides that,
cold clarets affected the organism more powerfully than
when they were warmed.
Strindberg was pure sunshine and joy. It was not
only, a gay and inspiring banquet at which we were
present. In spite of the fact that the table talk moved
about material things, trivialities on the whole, but of
great significance to a sensitive person like Strindberg,
there was a festal atmosphere over us, just as if we had
been celebrating a Christmas Eve in memory of some
other great man than the one whom we are accustomed
to celebrate on the 24th of December, — another, who also
had suffered incredible torments for the humanity whose
great conscience he had become.
Strindberg's good humor was even more intensified
when the banquet was drawing to a close. He then had
the chance to relate his little story about the mysticism
which enters into the process of coffee-making, one of
the themes he loved most of all. — To make coffee is one
of the most delicate operations in the world, — that's
approximately the way he put it. Servants rarely know
how to make what may be called good coffee. You have
to do it yourself. I have always made it myself, and so
did Balzac while he was working nights.
You see, coffee is a sensitive beverage. It seems it
can receive impressions from the state of mind of the *
person who makes it. If it is a dyspeptic person, the
coffee is usually acid. And yet the whole science of

ijo STRINDBERG THE MAN
making good coffee consists in careful watching while it
is in the process of ebullition. The coffee itself speaks
up when it is ready.
After this little lecture, Strindberg got up, fetched
matches, and lighted the small spirit lamp under the
percolator which stood on the serving table behind him.
After that he turned the double utensil upside down with
a graceful movement and a skill which indicated that this
was a daily performance. Without looking at the appa
ratus, he again seated himself at the table and entered
into the conversation with vivacity. And he feigned he
did not notice the boiling which was going on behind him,
despite the fact that a certain mental tension rather
suggested to us that it was the muttering coffee he
listened to and not to his own voice. He spoke under
a strain, just as if the contents of what he uttered did
not interest him, or as though it had been something
committed to memory. And yet it was his own thoughts
that he let flow, but thoughts, you might know, which he
had repeated to every new guest until they had become
something extraneous, mere trifles that he had given
away long ago.
Precisely at the right moment he rose again, exting
uished the flame, and put the coffee on the table to settle.
The coffee which he had made was, indeed, delicious,
and he seemed as proud of it as Anders Zorn1 of his
famous cocktail.
After the supper, we again settled down in Strindberg's
library. There we found a newly spread table with
i A famous Swedish painter.

CHRISTMAS EVE WITH STRINDBERG 131
tonics, etc., and again we sat down on the uncomfortable
rattan chairs which obliged us to sit very straight.
It was as though we had left the solemn birthday
celebration and moved up to the little student room in
Uppsala. Strindberg again entered into the spirit of the
young student, related mysterious experiences and offered
convincing deductions of evidence, and for every link in
the chain that was being forged together, there came
that rousing: Bang! Bang!
By degrees he began to drop the thread. He allowed
Falck and myself to spin on. He seemed to enter into
his own silent thoughts, the contents of which, apparently,
he did not wish to impart to anybody. Again he grew hot
and had to bathe his temples with cold water.
At times he walked over to the window, opened it a
little and became absorbed in the contemplation of the
starry heavens. Then he disappeared into the dining-room
to which he opened the doors. There we heard him stalk
about. Then he returned and sat down beside us.
Among other things, he happened to tell about his
morning hours at the desk.
— When I have finished my work for the day, I always
make a few notes on a piece of paper as to what I am
going to commence with the following day. All the long
afternoon and evening, I walk about gathering material
for the next day's work. During my morning walk, my
thoughts are being further condensed, and when I return
from my walk, I am fully charged like an eleetric
machine. After having put on dry clothes, for I always get into

132 STRINDBERG THE MAN
a state of perspiration, I sit down here at my writing
table. As soon as I have paper ready, it breaks loose.
The words literally swamp me, and the pen works under
high pressure in order to get it all on the paper. When
I have written for a while, I have a feeling as though I
soared in space. Then it seems as if a higher will than
my own caused the pen to glide over the paper and made
it (the will) record words which appear to me as pure
inspiration. After two or three hours of such ecstatic activity, he
had to discontinue in order not to exhaust himself.
Inactivity he abhorred, and therefore occupied himself
during the rest of the day in every conceivable way.
Lately he had provided himself with the Encyclopaedia
Britannica, and he studied that work industriously. He
also studied languages and mathematics and in the
evening the star-studded firmament; not only astronom
ically, but also as an astrologer. Besides this he wrote
letters and recorded the events of the day in his diary.
In order to stretch after having been seated for such a
long time, I had risen to my feet and was taking a few
steps forward in the room. In so doing, I happened to
glance into the sitting-room and what I saw there made
me pause in silent admiration.
During the few minutes that Strindberg had been stalk
ing about there the room had been changed. The
dining-room table he had transformed into a flower-
garden by means of tulips and other flowers. They were
all contained in vases of various sizes and were a floral
homage to Christmas and the peacefulness of the holiday

CHRISTMAS EVE WITH STRINDBERG 133
season which now began. The white, pink and bronze-
yellow tulips formed a gentle accord like the ethereal
melody of some of Beethoven's earlier sonatas. And it
was noticeable that the loving hand, which had arranged
all these flowers in symbolic harmony, had placed them in
such a way that they effected a feeling of balance and
that the flower-group as a whole gave the impression of
an altar.
On another table opposite this altar of yellow and
white, was the Buddah statuette with a red light
before it, absorbed in such a potent religious hypnosis as
though he had been looking back to origin itself.
In order to remove the notion that it was an ordinary
room, Strindberg had brought to light his Indian^knitted
table cloths of white and pale green silk and spread them
over the backs of the chairs. It was not the dwelling
of a human being that I was looking into, it was the
private sanctuary of one whose devotion lay not only on
his lips, but also in the deepest recesses of his soul.
Strindberg smiled in his inimitable, cordial manner at
the astonishment that must have been reflected in my
features. He walked into the room ahead of me and
made a sign for me to follow.
— I am in the habit of coming in here to pray with my
flowers, he said.
And with a glance that glided over them all, he gath
ered in all these bright bells into his soul, just as though #
he wished that they all might chime in concord with
himself. — You need no words to pray.

134 STRINDBERG THE MAN
He remained for a few moments while this almost
audible hymn to the Good and the Beautiful died away
within him. He seemed so good, like a child that could
see the bright side of life only, this weather-beaten
champion with the gray lion's mane, he, who could forget
himself so completely and become absorbed in a life as
immediate and sublime as that of the flowers.
This image of the aged poet before his altar of flowers
absorbed in silent ecstacy, seems to me to prove that
Strindberg, in spite of all the hideous and disgusting that
life continually poured upon him, had nevertheless been
able to guard in his inmost being the sacred flowers of
beauty just as uncontaminated as when they grow in a
paradise wrought out of the wakeful dreams of a child's
soul. When we said good-night, he stood leaning against the
door-post, tired but at the same time happy over an
evening in which he had rejoiced, and smiling at us, even
in the moment of parting, just as though he had to give
a free outlet to the sunshine which glowed within his
own soul.

CHAPTER X.
In the Blue Tower
ONE day in the summer of 1908, Strindberg disap
peared from the Red House. He moved to a
boarding-house, but his address had to be kept
secret. Later on when I met him, I found that he had left his
cozy little home at 40 Karlavagen for the most fanciful
reasons. The Intima Theatre had got into debt, and as
Strindberg's name was on its notes and loans and since,
moreover, he had gone surety for the rent, he had become
so thoroughly convinced of financial collapse that he
daily feared the moment when the servants of the law
should seize his home. The thought of the possibility of
a warrant of distress being served upon him so disgusted
Strindberg, that rather than expose himself to anything
of the sort, he left the apartment where he had been so
happy during these years.
But the whole danger of seizure was imaginary. None
of the creditors of the Intima Theatre had ever thought
of this, and its business had been attended to with great
energy by director Falck, so that there were no notes due,
or anything of the sort on account of which legal
measures might have been demanded.
Howere, he had found a temporary asylum in the
Blue Tower, as he afterwards called the new quarters.
Here he rented three small rooms, and as he looked upon
135

136 STRINDBERG THE MAN
himself as a bankrupt, he did not dare to bring any of
his books or furniture from his former home.
Strindberg was delighted with his new home. He
rejoiced because here no bold tool of the office of the
Governor-general could force an entrance. He received
good, well-prepared food from the Falkner Pension one
flight up in the same house. And then, besides, he had
got away from the things which aroused unpleasant mem
ories of the conjugal life he had led yonder in the Red
House. For a while he rested from his literary activities. But
after he had become accustomed to the new surroundings
into which he had removed, he began to write again.
Within a fortnight he produced a new historical drama
The Last Knight, and a little later on The National Di
rector, which together with Master Olof and Gustavus
Vasa formed a cycle about Gustavus I, his favorite his
torical character.
The four years which Strindberg passed in the Blue
Tower were, generally speaking, among the happiest of
his life. His misanthropy had become less pronounced.
He felt that he was made much of by those who were
nearest to him, he got on comfortably in every respect,
and he had the feeling that here he had finally found that
Tusculanum where he was to be permitted to pass his
old age in peace.
He continued to take his long walks at a time of day
when he did not have to meet any of his acquaintances.
Nowadays he had chosen other routes than those which
he walked when he resided on Karlavagen. To his

IN THE BLUE TOWER 137
beloved Djurgarden he came seldom. As a rule he
directed his steps via Drottning and Barnhusgatorna to
the Intima Theatre at Norra Bantorget.
He had provided himself with his own keys to the
theatre, and thus began his day by inspecting it. He had
to look over the repertory list, see what plays were to be
given during the week, and which one was being
rehearsed. He inspected the work in progress on new
decorations, especially of those belonging to his great
Damascus-cycle which, however, never was acted in its
entirety. And then, when, after completed inspection, he left the
theatre, he always stopped in the square to give it a last
look of farewell. If the sun was shining on the upper
part of the facade, he interpreted this as a good omen.
He continued his walk down Vasagatan. At Tegel-
backen he turned to the right and followed the railway
bridge, for the huge, wide Vasabron1 had created a
dislike in him, a feeling which was probably founded on
some remainder of that fear of the market2 from which
he suffered in the beginning of his Inferno-period.
The unattractive business structure on the little island
of Stromsborg is itself capable of creating this feeling of
aversion, especially when seen from Vasabron.
On the other hand, one could hardly see anything
handsomer than the House of the Peerage,3 seen from
1 A bridge connecting the so-called Norrmalm with the city
proper. 2 Strindberg's agoraphobia continued also after the Inferno
period. See his Legends.
a Riddarhuset.

138 STRINDBERG THE MAN
the railway bridge, and as Strindberg always rejoiced in
what afforded impressions of beauty, we can understand
his predilection for the route which he had chosen^
Then he wandered farther away across Munkbron or
by way of the narrow streets of the city proper towards
Slussen (The Sluice Bridges), followed Skeppsbron
(The Quay) to Norrbro and Gustaf Adolf s Torg (Gus
tavus Adolphus Square). He was often seen to pass
through Kungstragarden (King's Garden)1 about 8.30
in the morning.
During the last few years he continued from this point
up to Valhallavagen, for at the farthest end of this street
lived his youngest little daughter, of whom he was
especially fond because she was like him and because he
considered her a visionary (endowed with the power of
second sight) even as a child. She used to tell her papa
that when she was alone at home and had nobody to play
with, little Robin Goodfellow came to keep her company.
Finally Strindberg returned by way of Odengatan and
Norrtullsgatan. The latter, of course, he had been
walking as a schoolboy, although he did not like the street,
but rather chose — if time permitted — some side street
that led down to the Clara School'.
During the years just preceding his death, Strindberg
often took such long morning walks that he became
completely exhausted. When he was in that state, he
often suffered a slight stroke. His entire side would then
become so paralyzed that he moved with difficulty. Then
1 Extensive public gardens in the vicinity of Gustavus
Adolphus Square.

IN THE BLUE TOWER 139
he took a taxicab to his home. The paralysis soon left
him. During the summer of the great strike (1909), he was
not able to find any vehicles, and then he had to walk into
some store where he made a small purchase and asked to
be permitted to rest on a chair for a few minutes until
the spell was over and he could continue his way.
The great strike was of the deepest interest to him.
One of the few literary plans that he had in mind during
1910 — 191 1 was to depict this great struggle in a fantastic
style a la Victor Hugo, to describe its paralyzing effects
upon the individual and society.
When I asked him why he did not go to work on this
as soon as possible, he answered:
— I do not write anything which does not absolutely
call for expression.
Another literary plan which he considered during these
years was to dramatize Black Flags. The first act was
to represent the well-known ghost-dinner at Professor
StenkahTs. But instead of permitting the author,
Falkenstrom, to be in, it from the beginning, the dialogue
was to be recast so as to treat of him exclusively, and the
denouement of the final act was to consist in Falkenberg's
reappearance after a long absence among those who had
just slandered him. Neither of these plans, presumably,
was carried out.
Otherwise Strindberg rarely discussed his plans or the
work with which he was occupied. The reason for this
was that on the one hand he did not wish to weaken his
interest in the subject and break up the mood into which

140 STRINDBERG THE MAN
he had lived himself; on the other hand, to a certain
extent, in order not to be robbed of his ideas.
He used to tell of a like case. He had disclosed to a
person, whose name I need not mention, the whole outline
of a drama which, however, he never had had time to
commit to paper. One year later when he visited Stock
holm, the friend urged him to come to a premiere. It
was Strindberg's play act for act that was being per
formed. The author got an ovation at the close of the
performance, but Strindberg sat there dismal and silent.
— Don't you like the play? asked the acclaimed author.
— Why, it's my play you have written! replied Strind
berg. The friend only laughed as he would have done at
a good joke.
The following seasons, generally speaking, were favor
able for the Strindberg Theatre. When it became plain
that the enterprise was a fair success and one after the
other of Strindberg's plays were acted, his own interest
in the enterprise became keener. He was present at
dress-rehearsals and ever gave good advice as regards
the execution of the parts. In spite of the fact that his
advice was not always accepted, he could not but leave
a certain impress on the theatre, and the acting was more
pronouncedly Strindbergian, generally speaking, than
was usually the case in other theatres.
For a time Strindberg interested himself so much in
the theatre and the little troupe of young actors, who
devoted themselves to his cause, that he invited them to
his home to little sprees and from time to time sent them
personal letters in which he expressed his opinion in

IN THE BLUE TOWER 141
regard to their work, sometimes in the most enthusiastic
terms. As the criticism of daily newspaperdom was
generally annihilating, he wanted to strengthen their
courage with amiable letters.
Thus at times there was a good deal of gaiety in the
home of the old fellow in the Blue Tower. On some
rare occasions, he would even break loose and accompany
the young people to bowl at the Lidingo Inn. This would
be enjoyed until the small hours in the morning, and then
they went out for a joy-ride by automobile for the rest of
the night. After a nap of a couple of hours, he took his
oyster breakfast at the Phoenix.
In spite of his sixty years, Strindberg was thus still a
man of vigor. In every day life, he was extremely
moderate and careful. At this epoch we could not out
believe that he yet had a couple of decades to live and to
work among us.
Gradually, however, there were signs of a coming
rupture with the Intima Theatre. Strindberg was anx
ious that certain dramas should be played which Falck,
on the other hand, did not dare to put on, on account of
possible pecuniary losses. The theatre struggled along
thanks to the tours through the provinces with such plays
as had scored a success in the capital.
The Link with Miss Flygare as the baroness
and Swan white with Miss Falkner in the leading
part were a success throughout the land. The great
success of the last mentioned tour may be attributed in
part to a rumor to the effect that the young lady of the
leading part was the wife-to-be of the aged poet.

142 STRINDBERG THE MAN
One day of his own accord, Strindberg stated the facts
of the case. During the earlier part of his stay in the
Blue Tower, he had, in fact, been engaged to Miss
Falkner for a few days. But then both of them had
found it ridiculous to sport engagement rings, and there
fore they had re-exchanged them. But a Platonic
friendship continued between the two during the years
next following.
After Miss Falkner left the Intima Theatre, the tension
between Strindberg and the theatre became more pro
nounced. It was further intensified when director Falck
announced that he intended to take up a different reper
tory, since in his opinion none of the remaining unplayed
Strindberg creations were adapted to his small stage.
The well-known conflict which ensued, ended, as we
know, by Strindberg's attacking Falck in such a manner
that the latter had to resign and the theatre was forced
to shut its doors.
One of the reasons contributing to this bitterness
against the theatre in which he had taken so much inter
est, I believe I have found to be this, that Strindberg was
sick and tired of the idea that he should have a theatre
of his own, just as he continually grew tired of and
trampled under foot all other ideas that he had embraced
for a while, and of which he found later on that he had
had enough.
A few months before he died, he again became recon
ciled with Falck and sent him thanks for having so ably
and deservedly staged and played so many of his
unplayed dramatic works.

IN THE BLUE TOWER 143
In the summer of 1910 Strindberg passed through a
peculiar crisis. After a few years of success, he had
chanced into a back-current which held him prisoner.
After having been raised aloft the year before by that
tempestuous enthusiasm on the part of the Swedish
people, which marked his passing of the sixtieth mile:
stone, he was down in the slough again. He was
forgotten, his books did not sell, and nobody wanted to
play his dramas. His income gradually dwindled away
and he himself began to consider in earnest whether he
really would have to leave Stockholm.
A change of locality would, no doubt, have proved
beneficial to him. But it was difficult for him to decide
where he was going. One day it was a sure thing
that he would go to see a friend of his who
possessed a country estate in the vicinity of Boras.1
There he was to have a separate cottage at his disposal
and there also he would be able to live an out-of-door
life. There was a library and people to associate with,
and yet he could be entirely by himself, and would not
have to be shut up in the house the whole day as in
Stockholm but could take a walk in the woods whenever
he wanted to do so.
The next day the whole plan was rejected. Then he
found a seclusion somewhere near the lake Malaren
where he could spend the rest of his days, be occupied
with gardening, live in perfect seclusion and yet be in the
vicinity of Stockholm.
1 A town but a few miles to the east of the city of Gothen
burg.

144 STRINDBERG THE MAN
His finances became worse day by day. On several
occasions he was without a cent and had to resort to all
kinds of measures to get a little money. We tried to
sell his dramas, but in Stockholm none of them could be
sold on account of the Intima Theatre, and among the
more prominent provincial directors of theatres, there
was not a single one who wanted them, because Strind
berg had permitted a few inferior companies to travel
about and give free representations, so that the provincial
public would not go to a theatre where Strindberg's name
was on the posters.
The only play that he was able to place on the Swedish
stage this summer was a dramatization of The Inhabitants
of Hems'o. It was sold to The Peoples' Theatre in
Stockholm and Gothenburg, but in both places the prem
iere was a failure because of adverse criticism. It was
contended that the play did not compare favorably with
the novel and by means of this feint, the critics succeeded
in scaring away the public, first in Stockholm and later
on, through the amiable imitation of the Stockholm
critics, also in Gothenburg.
Nor did Strindberg want to write any more. The year
before, in The Great Highway he had presented his "self-
declaration" and said good-bye to life and his literary
activity. He would rather not write anything after this
lyric wander-drama.
Yet it would seem that among the great number of
literary works of his pen, there might have been some
single one fit to be printed once more. But this was a
more difficult matter than one would think. A Fool's

IN- THE BLUE TOWER 145
Confession which he himself had never published in
Sweden — a paper by the name of Budkaflen1 had
stolen it and published it as a serial — he could have found
a publisher for, but out of consideration for his wife,
from whom he was divorced, and the children of his first
marriage, he did not wish to see the book in print.
Of all of Strindberg's novels, there was no one left but
Black Flags. After he had reacquired the rights from
the publishers Bjorck & Borjeson, who had printed the
first edition, he succeeded in placing this book with the
Gothenburg firm Ahlen & Akerlund who published a
popular two-crown edition of the work.
Concerning this Strindberg wrote me on the 13th of
May. He related that Borjeson would release him from
the agreement with regard to Black Flags and asked me
quietly to get him a publisher in Gothenburg. "In Goth
enburg," he writes, "because the Stockholm-Flags will
then have less of a chance to interfere." And he contin
ues : "Since the book is to be had in Danish and German,
I do not see why it should not be obtainable in Swedish.
But on the quiet!"
It is characteristic of the fate of Strindberg that in
fear and trembling he should be obliged to publish
secretly the only available work through which he might
acquire the more indispensable necessities of life. If
Ahlen & Akerlund had not dared to take a stand in his,
favor at this time, the old poet would have had to face
dire need — or as he did once before — he would have been
forced to sell his property. 1 The Fiery Cross.

146 STRINDBERG THE MAN
In spite of all these economic difficulties, Strindberg
was, however, anything but downcast. Though he often
lacked the necessities of life, he wrote day after day
gratuitously for Aftontidningen1 and The Social Demo
crat.2 He was in a fighting mood, and his articles,
particularly in the first mentioned paper, caused a great
sensation. On the 25th of June, Strindberg sent me a letter
which made me believe that the bomb was about to
explode. I must see him immediately, for he "is on the
point of emigrating". But he adds: "from Stockholm
at least!" At the same time he informs me that his
friend from the time of his stay at "The Sign of the Black
Pig", Professor Dr. Schleich, is in the city.
But nothing came out of his threatened emigration this
time either. Just when Strindberg had decided to pay
a visit to Dr. Brand, whose home was in the vicinity of
Boras, Dr. Schleich induced him to change his plans and
come along to Berlin instead. But as this was too far
and moving there called for too much capital, which by
the way could not be provided for, the whole plan came
to nought once more.
The result was, however, a few joyful days together
with the German professor. He took possession of
Strindberg in the old student-like way and before they
had been together many hours, they were in such a mood
that they sang ballads and played the piano.
1 One of the leading Stockholm dailies.
2 The organ of the Social Democrats.

IN THE BLUE TOWER 147
Schleich tried the very first day to take Strindberg out
to dinner. Strindberg fought against the idea, but finally
he had to give in. He was to go to Grand Hotel Royal,
where the professor stayed, and they were to take dinner
in the large dining-room.
When Strindberg was approaching the hotel, he had
unpleasant presentiments. He happened to recall that
he had given a farewell dinner in this very place to his
third wife, and he had an idea that the professor had
chosen the identical table for his dinner at which Strind
berg had been seated on that occasion.
Pale as a ghost and deeply moved Strindberg entered
the dining-room. Exactly! Scheich was seated at that
very table and was waiting for Strindberg. He thought
Strindberg had just escaped some serious accident to
judge by his facial expression. But neither of them said
anything and they ate their dinner in gloom, and Strind
berg was not himself again until he got his friend to take
an automobile ride with him and when they were by
themselves in Strindberg's apartments once more.
The following day I met them both at Strindberg's.
The latter insisted that he was going with Schleich to
Berlin. He was in the very best frame of mind, felt as
he did of yore "Zum Schwarzen Ferkel" and talked about
everything between heaven and earth.
He informed me that Schleich had outlined a new
philosophy based on their conversation of the times, when
they met at "The Sign of the Black Pig." Schleich had
found even at that time that Strindberg was the great
resistance which broke all electric currents, that only

148 STRINDBERG THE MAN
through resistance which breaks the curreht can the latter
be of practical use and that, consequently, resistance was
the principle to which all the functions of life could be
referred. The professor had written a great work in
several parts on this subject: Die Philosophie des
Wilder standes (The Philosophy of Resistance).
All this delighted Strindberg. We got into all kinds
of scientific discussions, and the professor reported on the
latest scientific results in several different fields.
Among other things Strindberg exhibited a keen cur
iosity as to the real nature of cancer, the very disease to
which he was destined to succumb in less than two years.
Schleich declared that the disease in question originated
— theoretically speaking — in the following manner: a
couple of cells grow tired of the body to which they
belong. They try to form a new union, and to this end,
the endoplasts force themselves towards the walls of the
cells and there enter into an abortive copulation, forming
a coalescence of cells which, however, has not the inher
ent abilities requisite for the formation of a new
individual (cell) which is the aim and object of the
copulation in question. The reason why the operations
on cancerous tumors is a failure in nearly every case and
that the disease soon reveals itself again, is this, that
from the cell in coalescence a like inclination to copula
tion is transmitted to adjacent cells. Operations,
therefore, never can give permanent relief, the only
effective way being to burn away the affected parts with
a red hot iron.
— Ignis pur gat— declared Strindberg, and told in this

IN THE BLUE TOWER 149
connection about the peculiar stomach trouble he had been
subject to for a couple of years, and which later was
supposed to have been the ulcer of the stomach which in
turn is supposed to have caused the cancer that ended
Strindberg's life.
But he did not care to enter into details about his
sickness. He did not want Dr. Schleich, who is a cele
brated surgeon, to have reason to interfere or even
attempt to diagnose the case.
A peculiar fact in connection with this matter is, that
the disease showed its head shortly after Strindberg had
passed through one of his Storm and Stress periods
which he closed with a great general resolve — a final
balancing up of accounts. After that he was in such a
state of mind that he could do nothing else than wait for
death, nay, he would even express the desire that it might
not be too far off.
That afternoon he explained to Schleich and myself
that he suffered terrible torments during these hours of
seclusion. Schleich insinuated that he was a self-
tormentor without an equal, and to this he agreed.
— Those pains and sufferings which he owed to society
were as nothing to those which he owed to himself.
In order to get him away from all this, Schleich wanted
to take him along to the mountains immediately and later
on to Berlin. But now Strindberg had lost every desire
to emigrate. Now he was more attached than ever to the
Blue Tower.
The two years preceding the death of Strindberg seem
to me altogether too familiar for any discussion on my part.

150 STRINDBERG THE MAN
He had really hoped to receive the Nobel Prize in
literature one of these years, but he realized the slight
probability of this, since, without counting his own enemy
who filled the office of secretary, he had decided oppon
ents in the two poets Karlfelt and Hallstrom, who
constituted the literary and anti- Strindberg element in the
Swedish Academy.1
When the question came up as to the raising of a
national fund for Strindberg, he wrote to me about this
as early as the 3rd of August 1910 :
You must not speak about a "collection" for me who
am taxed for such and such an income, but rather about
the "founding of an anti-Nobel Prize." That's a different
matter. But I'd rather not have any, for half of it, I
suppose, will be stolen on the way, and in the end the
whole affair will be a fiasco.
This idea of his of an anti- Nobel Prize was not carried
out, however, despite the fact that there ought to have
been a good reason for it. An anti-Nobel Prize as a
protest against the shameless manner in which The Acad
emy distributes prizes would, undoubtedly, have a mission
to fulfil in our moral life.
It is quite out of the question that the Swedish Acad
emy ever will be able to reform to such a degree as to be
come a representative body of Swedish poets. No self-
respecting poet can enter this parody on a literary
Areopagus, least of all after the treatment Strindberg
received from that quarter as well during his life as after
1 The enemy referred to was Dr. C. D. af "Wirsen, (1842-
1912), permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy.

IN THE BLUE TOWER 151
his death. Those who do enter prove thereby openly that
they have betrayed the high purpose of letters, that
humanity's battle for the symbol of the following trinity :
Goodness, Justice and Beauty is of indifference to them
and that their souls have died the most ignominious
death possible — that of self-inflicted sterility.
When Strindberg received his anti-Nobel Prize, he
scattered it to the winds, remembering in particular those
who are the least favored among us : The Humble. But
this does not prevent a new Nobel Prize being founded in
his honor in order that unborn generations may remember
that the Swedish Academy got an ineffaceable stain on
its garment by refusing Sweden's greatest poet the real
Nobel Prize.
Strindberg distributed his money among the humble
and the working people. An aristocrat by education
and refinement, in his old age as well as in his
youth he felt a mighty leaning towards the people. The
charwoman's son had long stood untouched by the
endeavor on the part of the working classes to rise above
the abasement of industrial slavery and to attain to an
existence more worthy of human beings. Not that he
begrudged them this, but because of the fact that it had
nothing to do with him personally, for it was his opinion
that the poet and the artist stood outside of party-politics.
But when the great contest of strength between labor
and capital was over, when the rather too pronounced
courage of labor was broken, and when he saw how*
ruthlessly the conquered masses were treated by those
who retained the power, his sympathies turned entirely

152 STRINDBERG THE MAN
to the people and he considered it his duty to act as their
spokesman.1 This explains the bitter fights he now initiated against
those that had been raised highest aloft by the billows of
time. He regarded them as idols which had to be de
stroyed and thought that he did not need to be over
scrupulous as regards the means he employed while
fighting in such a just cause. The blows he dealt in the
wrong direction, we ought to be able to forgive him,
knowing as we do that he thought himself to be accomp
lishing deeds that were pleasing to God.
I met Strindberg for the last time on this last birthday
of his when he was publicly honored by the nation.
I found him seated by his desk answering all the
congratulations which he had received that morning. He
was so scrupulous that he would answer the least, kind
word. Among the congratulations that gladdened him
most on his sixtieth birthday was a few lines from the
landlady's son in Lund, a little fellow who had gone
errands for the author.
Our conversation began by a spirited exchange of
words concerning a misunderstanding. But when
Strindberg realized that his suspicions were unfounded,
he again became kind and cheerful, and we had a chat
for half an hour — the farewell chat for life.
He dwelled most on his sickness, the pneumonia which
he had contracted just on Christmas Eve when he was on
his way to his son-in-law, Dr. von Philp and his daugh-
1 The author here refers to the great strike of 1909, which
affected every branch of labor throughout Sweden.

IN THE BLUE TOWER 153
ter Greta — way up on Hornsgatan. He had not been
able to find a taxicab at that time in the morning. He
had had to walk all the long way, dressed in his fur coat,
and had arrived at the house soaking wet with perspira
tion and completely exhausted.
He described this trip as a real walk to death. While
he was advancing slowly across Vasabron, he noticed that
it was entirely empty and he was seized with a feeling
that something terrible was in the making. This feeling
was so intense that he was hardly able to get to the other
end of the bridge.
With a certain pride he declared that on the whole he
took care of himself while confined to his bed with
pneumonia. He had consulted a medical work, and there
he had read concerning the disease: Treatment . . .
None. He had cured himself by means of a simple diet, con
sisting principally of fruit-porridge and milk and an
occasional cold rub-down a. la Kneipp1 when there was
fever. In spite of having refused restoratives prescribed
by Dr. von Philp, he had recuperated in a comparatively
short time.
I could not but wonder at the way in which he had
regained his former self. On this his red letter day, he
seemed to be just as vigorous and sound as when he lived
in the Red House. But his statements disclosed a pecul
iarly set opinion, as regards the methods for the treatment
of the disease; it seemed as though it displeased him to
regain his health. If he had been permitted to die of pneu-
1 A physician, founder of the so-called Kneipp cure.

154 STRINDBERG THE MAN
monia, which is a rather painless death, he would have
been spared many horrible sufferings. But it was his
Karma that his suffering, not only mentally but also
physically, should exceed that of most other human
beings. I'll not let go thy hand, Eternal One,
Thy mighty hand, until I'm blessed by Thee !
Bless me,— who suffers, suffers from thy gift of life !
Me first, who suffered most —
This was Strindberg's own farewell to his literary
career and to life, his closing words in The Great High
way. Our conversation was suddenly interrupted by an im
pudent beggar, who posed as an old acquaintance of
Strindberg's, forcing an entrance into the house regard
less of the fact that old Mind1 tried to check him. I had
to go out and put this professional beggar to flight. He
declared that while his old friend Strindberg celebrated
his birthday, he ought to consider that the poor fellows
also were entitled to a little pleasure that day.
When I came in again, the housekeeper had served
Strindberg's breakfast. I could, therefore, do nothing
but say good-by, for I knew that he was afraid of inviting
me to partake of his table. Once during the summer of
1908 he had invited me to dinner, but that day it hap
pened that we got such poor food that we could hardly
eat it and had to wash it down with aqvavit and absinth.
We shook hands for the last time in life. He was
cheerful in the consciousness of the fact that he had a day
1 Strindberg's housekeeper.

IN THE BLUE TOWER 155
of good will before him. His daughter Greta told me
afterwards that she never had seen her father so beaming
as on that day. His own sun, which he bore within him,
shone for a moment before the great darkness was to
come. For a couple of years Strindberg had suffered from
some internal disorder which at first was supposed to be
an ulcer of the stomach, but which later showed clear
symptoms of cancer. Weakened as he was even now
after the attack of pneumonia in January, he had little
power of resistance when the cancer broke out in the
middle of March with serious formations of tumors and
water in the stomach.
It was plain at once that the disease would prove fatal
and that there was no hope. All that could be done was
to alleviate his sufferings until the end should come.
This man whose entire life had been one long series of
sufferings over and above all human measure of affliction,
was not, strange to say, permitted to close his life other
wise than in the most excruciating pain. During the two
months preceding his death, he suffered the most inhu
man torments, in spite of the use of anaesthetics. He
was unwilling to be relieved of them by radium treatment,
for he "did not believe in radium." Besides, he thought
that the sufferings belonged to the disease and that,
preferably, they were to be endured without the hypo
dermic injection of morphine.
Towards the end he received word from Helsingfors
to the effect that his first wife, nee Siri von Essen, had
died. The last time he could leave his bed and dress was

156 STRINDBERG THE MAN
on the occasion of her burial here in Stockholm. He
dressed in black on that day, and it was the last time that
he was on his feet.
Terribly emaciated he lay there on his death-bed,
enduring his sufferings with true heroism and abiding
that deliverance for which he had longed continually
during the last four years. When he felt that the vital
powers began to fail him and that his strong, clear brain
would, before long, be enveloped in the mist of eternal
sleep, he said good-by to life with these words :
My life's accounts are closed. Everything personal is
now obliterated.
Thereupon he took into his hands the old Bible which
lay continually on the table by the bed-side.
This alone is right. Now I say nothing more.
And yet, he still had several days of suffering during
which he did not speak with his children, who kept watch
by the death-bed. When he regained consciousness from
time to time and when his sufferings ceased for a mo
ment, he only pronounced their names.
On the 13th of May, all of them had formed a circle
about him from early in the morning, expecting that
death would come. The pulse ceased to beat, but his
heart kept him alive, and in spite of the intensified suffer
ings, he endured another twenty-four hours. On the
14th of May about 4.30 in the afternoon, at a time when
all had left him, his life's flame flickered and went out.
For those who loved him and who always admired
his lofty genius, which, in spite of all its revolutionary
tendencies, was his ; for us who bow before him as the

IN THE BLUE TOWER 157
Self-redeemer and Self-deliverer, there is one farewell-
word which, beaming more brightly than anything else,
consoles us in our grief :
Now everything personal is obliterated.
Thus at the moment when he was passing beyond, it
was clear to him that the personal element, for which he
had fought all his life, did not exist beyond the gates
whence no one ever returns. He had the courage to con
fess this, in spite of the fact that Death, The Reaper, had
already taken his position at the pillow. The personal
element, which through him had won such glorious vic
tories, was only to be found in the works which he had
left behind.
It was as if he had wished to blot out his physical
existence with these words in order that his eternal ego
might live among us with a much higher and clearer
flame. No dogma-lisping bonze1 can come hereafter and claim
Strindberg as "the obedient son of the only true church".
He himself was too close to the Eternal Source to be
classified among those who endeavor to make people
believe that there is something wherewith to quench one's
thirst in wells whose springs have long ago run dry.
Through burning hot deserts he led us to the boun
daries of the New Land of Promise. Anyone who
wishes may enter it.
On the 19th day of May (Sunday) early in the morris-
ing, all the Stockholm bourgeoisie gathered outside of
1 The name of Chinese and Japanese priests of the religion
of Foh or Buddha.

158 STRINDBERG THE MAN
the Blue Tower in order to accompany Sweden's greatest
prophet and poet to the place where he was destined to
return to earth again. It was the artists and the deeper
strata who had put in an appearance, those whom he had
always loved just as ardently as he had hated the human
automatons in whom the truly human is blotted out or
obscured. It was those who had known his large, warm,
incorruptible heart vibrating with love — those it was who
came to follow him on his last morning journey.
He was lowered into the earth without any other words
than those which he himself had drawn out of the great
Source of consolation to which, in his despair, he had
been obliged to take refuge.
He was honored with flowers by the various strata of
society, from the King and the Privy Council to the
poorest and most forgotten. He was honored with
standards which, in deep silence, were lowered into the
grave. And — in order that everything should be in keep
ing with the inexorable fate which had pursued him
continually — Sunday picnickers were not prevented
from plundering his grave and from tearing to pieces the
symbols of popular homage which adorned his last
resting-place. But the homage that posterity will lavish upon him, no
profane hands will be able to destroy.
the end

BIBLIOGRAPHY

BIBLIOGRAPHY
Vol. I. Juvenile Dramas. The Freethinker.
Hermione. In Rome. The Out
law. In the Year Forty-eight. 338
p. 1917.
II. Master Olof. Drama in five Acts.
358 p. 1917.
" III. In the Spring-Time. From Fjard-
ingen and Svartbacken. From the
Sea. Here and There. 216 p.
1916.
" IV. Studies in the History of Culture.
273 p. 1917.
" V. The Red Room. Stories from the
Life of Artists and Authors. 399
p. 1916.
" VI. Old Stockholm. Notes from printed
and unprinted sources, etc. 246 p.
191S.
" VII. The Swedish People, etc. Part
I. 510 p. 1917.
" VIII. The Swedish People, etc. Part II.
483 p. 1917.
" IX. Dramas of the Early Eighties.
The Secret of the Guild. Sir
Bengt's Wife. The Journey of
Lucky Peter. 414 p. 1917.
" X. The New Kingdom. 171 p. 1917.
161

1 62

ST

Vol.

XL

it

XII.

tt

XIII.

a

XIV.

it

XV.

XVI.
XVII.
XVIII. XIX. XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.

STRINDBERG THE MAN

Swedish Destinies and Adven
tures. Part I. 358 p. 1917.
Swedish Destinies and Adven
tures. Part II. 507 p. 1917.
Poems in Verse and Prose, and
Somnambulistic Nights after
Wakeful Days. 329 p. 1917.
Married. 450 p. 1917.
Real Utopias. Four Stories. 255
p. 1917.
Miscellaneous (Likt och Olikt).
Critical Essays and Articles from
the Eighties on Social and Cultural
Questions. Part I. 368 p. 1917.
Miscellaneous, etc. Part II. 333
p. 1917.
The Charwoman's Son. Part I.
The Charwoman's Son. The Time
of Fermentation. 505 p. 1913.
The Charwoman's Son. Part II. In
the Red Room. The Author. 331
P- 1913-
Among French Peasants. Subjec
tive Sketches of Travel. 279 p.
1914.
The Inhabitants of Hemso. Life
among the Skerries (Skarkarlslif).
451 p. 1914.
Articles, Essays and Short Stories
from the Eighties. 329 p. 1917.
Naturalistic Dramas. The Father.
Lady Julia. Creditors. Comrades.
Pariah. Samum. 516 p. 1914.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

163

Vol. XXIV. XXV.

XXVI.
XXVII.

XXVIII. XXIX. XXX.

XXXI.
XXXII.
XXXIII. XXXIV. XXXV.
XXXVI.
XXXVII.

At the Edge of the Sea. 288 p.
1914-
Comedies and One-Act Plays.
The Inhabitants of Hemso. The
Keys of Heaven. The Stronger.
Debit and Credit. Mother-Love.
The Link. Facing Death. The
First Warning. Playing with Fire.
493 P- I9M-
A Fool's Confession. 386 p. 1917.
Articles and Essays, Scientific
and Historical, from the
Nineties. 736 p. 1917.
Inferno and Legends. 426 p. 191 5.
To Damascus. 384 p. 191 5.
In the Higher Court. Two Dramas.
Advent. There are Crimes and
Crimes. 249 p. 191 5.
The Folkunga Saga. Gustavus
Vasa. Eric XIV. 465 p. 191 5.
Gustavus Adolphus. Drama in five
Acts. 316 p. 1915.
Caspar's Shrove-Tuesday. Easter.
Midsummer. 321 p. 1916.
The Dance of Death. A Drama.
217 p. 1916.
Engelbrecht. Charles XII. 236 p.
1916.
The Crown Bride. Swanwhite. The^
Dream Play. 367 p. 1916.
Fairhaven and Foulstrand. Word
play and Handicraft. 384 p. 1916.

1 64

STRINDBERG THE MAN

Vol.

XXXVIII.

tt

XXXIX

tt

XL.

"

XLI.

i*

XLII.

it

XLIII.

ft

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.
XLVII.
XLVIII. XLIX.

Sagas and Alone. 239 p. 1916.
The Nightingale in Wittenberg.
Christina. Gustavus III. 437 p.
1916.
The Gothic Rooms. 336 p. 1917.
Black Flags. 1918.
Historical Miniatures. 329 p.
1917.
Historical Miniatures (Swedish).
(Hofdingaminnen). 393 p. 1917.
The Koofing-Feast (Taklagsol).
The Scapegoat. Two Stories. 215
p. 1917.
Note. — In the Albert Bonnier cata
logue, No. 6, 1913-1917, published
1918, the following note occurs at
this point :
Those parts of August Strindberg's
Complete Works not yet (1918)
ready, will probably comprise :
Five Chamber Plays. (These plays
are: Storm. The Burned Lot. The
Spook Sonata. The Pelican. The
Black Glove.)
Blue Books.
Blue Books.
Blue Books.
The Last Knight. The National
Director. The Earl of Bjalbo.
The Great Highway. The Slippers
of Abu Casern.

BIBLIOGRAPHY 165
Vol. LI. Scientific Essays and Articles
LII. written after 1900. These
volumes will contain Dramaturgy:
Hamlet. Julius Caesar. Memo
randum to the Members of the In
tima Theatre. Macbeth and other
plays by Shakespeare. An open
letter to the Intima Theatre.
Philology, etc. The Origins of our
Mother Tongue. Biblical Proper
Names. Roots of World Lan
guages. Speeches to the Swedish
Nation. The State of the People.
Religious Renaissance. China and
Japan.
" LIII. Last Works.
NOTE. — In this bibliography, no attempt has been
made to specify the contents of each volume. Readers
who may desire such information are referred to Albert
Bonnier's catalogue No. 6, which may be obtained from
the Albert Bonnier Publishing House, 561 Third Avenue,
New York, N. Y.
No complete general Strindberg biblography or source
book has as yet been compiled. The best work now ob
tainable is: Bibliografiska Anteckningar om Strindberg
by Rune Zetterlund. Albert Bonnier, Stockholm, 1913.
353 P- The edition is limited to 500 copies.