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Eight days and eight quiet nights I spend in
the rose-coloured room. My peace of mind returns
with the daily visits of my little daughter,
who loves me, and whom I love. By my relations
I am treated like a sick, spoilt child. The
reading of Swedenborg occupies me during the
day and depresses me by the realism of its
descriptions. All my observations, feelings, and
thoughts are so vividly reflected there, that his
visions seem to me like experiences and real
“human documents.” It is no question of blind
faith; it is enough for me to read his experiences
and to compare with them my own. The book
I have is only an extract; the chief riddle of the
spiritual life will be solved for me later on when
his Arcana Cœlestia falls into my hands. In the
midst of my reflections, which lead to the newly-won
conviction that there is a God who punishes,
some lines of Swedenborg comfort me, and
immediately I begin to excuse myself and yield to
my old pride. In the evening I take my mother-in-law
into my confidence, and ask her, “Do
you think I am a damned soul?”
“No; although I have never seen any human
destiny like yours; but you have not yet found
the right way to lead you to the Lord.”
“Do you remember Swedenborg and his
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