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(1913) [MARC] Author: August Strindberg Translator: Claud Field
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I hasten with the good news to my mother-in-law.
“You see that I am not out of my mind!”

“No, you are not, but only ill, and the doctor
will recommend physical exercise for you—wood-chopping,
for instance.”

“Is that of any use against women, or not?”

My too hasty retort makes a breach between
us. I had forgotten that a female saint is still
a woman, i. e., man’s enemy.


All is forgotten, the Russians, the Rothschilds,
the dabblers in black magic, the theosophists,
and the Eternal Himself. I am the innocent
sacrifice, blameless Job, Orpheus whom the
women want to kill, the author of Sylva Sylvarum,
the reviver of dead science. Lost in a
labyrinth of doubt, I abandon the new-born idea
of providential interposition with a spiritual
purpose, and absorbed in the bare fact that a plot
has been laid against me, I forget to think of the
original Plotter. Thirsting for vengeance, I
prepare to send notices to the police-offices and
papers in Paris, when a timely change of affairs
puts an end to the sorry drama, which would
have degenerated into a farce.

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