Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - V. Purgatory
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One morning, as I go down the Rue de Fleurs,
in order to comfort myself by looking at my
rainbow in the dyer’s window, and enter the
Jardin de Luxembourg, which, with all its trees
in blossom, is as beautiful as a fairy-tale, I find
on the ground two dry twigs which have been
broken off by the wind. They formed the two
Greek letters “p” and “y,” the first and last
letters of Popoffsky. He was, then, persecuting
me, and the powers wished to guard me against
the danger. I felt uneasy in spite of these signs
of grace from the unseen. I invoked the protection
of Providence, I read the imprecatory
psalms, I hated my enemy with an Old Testament
hatred, while I lacked the courage to use
the black magic which I had recently studied.
“Make haste O God, to deliver me; make haste
to help me, O Lord. Let them be ashamed and
confounded that seek after my soul. Let them
be turned back and put to confusion that
desire my hurt. Let them be turned back as
a reward of their shame that say, ‘Aha!
Aha!’”
This prayer seemed to me at that time right,
and the mercy inculcated in the New Testament
like cowardice. To what unknown power my
iniquitous prayer found its way I do not know.
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