Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VI. Hell
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feet; unknown objects trip me up. At last I
reach the kitchen, which adjoins the doctor’s
sitting-room. I knock. No answer. Suddenly
I discover that it is raining all the time. O
misery of miseries! What have I done to
deserve these tortures? It is hell. Miserere!
Miserere!
I knock repeatedly. It is strange that no one
is at hand when I am attacked. Always this
solitude! Does it not point to a plot against
me in which all are implicated?
At last I hear the doctor’s voice, “Who is
there?”
“It is I: I am ill. Open, or I die!”
He opens the door. “What is the matter?”
I begin my report by giving an account of the
attack in the Rue de la Clef, which I ascribe
to enemies, who persecute me by means of
electricity.
“Stop, unhappy man ! Your mind is affected!”
“The devil it is! Test my intelligence; read
what I write daily and what is printed ——”
“Stop! not a word to anyone! These stories
of electricity are frequent in asylum reports.”
All the better! I care so little for your asylum
reports that in order to clear the matter
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