Fair Haven and Foul Strand

by August Strindberg

He often thought of going on foot and seeking some fellow-countrymen with whose help he might proceed farther. But every time he made the attempt he turned back, as though he had been enchanted and spellbound, to the little stream where the cottage stood. He had spent some happy days there, and the memory of these held him fast. Moreover, he was thankful for the past and felt love to the child, though he dared not show it, for then the little one would have become a lime-twig to fetter his wings.

One day he had taken a longer walk than usual among the picturesque flooded meadows where the deer sported; the pheasants shot out of the bushes like rockets, their feathers shining with a metallic gleam; the storks fished in the marsh and the loriots piped in the poplars. Here he felt well, for it was a lonely landscape where no one ventured to build a house for fear of the great floods.

For three-quarters of a year he had come here alone every morning. He did not even let his wife accompany him, for he wished to have this landscape for himself, to see it exclusively with his eyes, and to hear no one else's voice there. If he ever saw this horizon again, he did not wish to be reminded of anyone else.

Here, accordingly, he was accustomed to find himself again himself and no one else. Here he obtained his great thoughts and here he held his devotions. The incomprehensible events of the last weeks and his deep suffering had caused him to change the word "destiny" for "Providence," meaning thereby that a conscious personal Being guided his course. In order to have a name, he now called himself a Providentialist—in other words he believed in God without being able to define more distinctly what he meant by that belief.

To-day he felt a pang of melancholy shoot through him as though he were saying farewell to these meadows and thickets. Something was impending which he foreboded and feared.

On coming home, he found the house empty; his wife and child were gone. When he at last discovered the maidservant and asked where his wife was, she answered impertinently: "She has gone away."

"Where?"

"To Odense."

He did not know whether he believed it or not. But he found a great charm in the silence and emptiness. He breathed unpoisoned air, enjoyed the solitude, and went to his work with the imperturbable calm of a Buddha. His travelling-bag was already packed, and the journey money might come any day.

The afternoon passed. As he looked out of the window, he noticed an unusual stillness round the great house; none of the family were to be seen. But a maidservant was going to and fro between the cottage and the house as though she were giving information. Once she asked if he wished for anything. "I wish for nothing," he answered. And that was the truth, for his last wish to get out of all this misery had been fulfilled without his having taken a step towards it. He ate his supper alone and enjoyed it; then remained sitting at the table and smoked. His mind accepted this fortunate equipoise of the scales, ready to sink on whichever side it pleased. He guarded himself from forming any wish, fearing lest his wish might be crossed.