On the Seaboard: A Novel of the Baltic Islands

by August Strindberg

When he had drunk his coffee, he sat down in the library, after having given orders that he would not receive visitors before three o'clock in the afternoon.

Now he took up an old plan of exploring Europe's present ethnography, in a way that would save all useless travel. On printed circulars, issued in a fictitious name, he now filled in the addresses, and professional titles and put them into stamped envelopes. To get the most complete record of the measurements of the craniums and the dimensions of the body he had decided that circulars sent to hat makers, makers of coffins, shirt and hosiery manufacturers in Europe's principal cities asking for information as to the sizes mostly called for in the respective countries, would procure for him the desired results. The circulars pretended to be Issued with the view of exportation of said stuffs at wholesale with high profits. In addition to this another circular was sent to the great as well as the smaller book dealers in the capitals of Europe and other cities, with a request for photographs of all kinds. These were to be paid for in advance at the highest price by postal order. He also placed himself in communication with a technicist, who bought photographs to utilize the silver in them. With this and the thousand of portraits, which he had cut out of foreign illustrated papers, he intended to commence his explorations.

When he had finished this work, it was dinner time. He went out of doors to eat it, and he observed that a letter was in the mail box on the door. The writing was familiar to him, and when he had assured himself it was from Miss Mary, he did not open it, he let it lay beside him on the table; meantime he ate his simple dinner in great haste. That the letter did not contain anything agreeable, that he understood as he had broken his promise to come back the next day to say good-by, and now because he would save himself all disagreeable impressions he laid the letter aside in the table drawer without opening it.

But when he had slept an hour after his dinner and the heat from labor and food had disappeared, he observed, that his thoughts did not turn to books, they turned towards that table drawer. And now he began to wander up and down the floor, the prey of vehement and fatiguing battle.

It was as though he had a part of her soul locked up in this drawer; she existed in the room, and the spirit of her power of attraction lay under the white envelope, on which a red seal lightened as a kiss. He saw her sitting there on the same sofa, heard her whisperings, felt her eyes glowing in the dusk, and his flesh began to burn again. How stupid, he thought, to let life's highest bliss go out of one's hands. When love was a mutual deceit, why not deceive then! Nothing for nothing I And when a perfect happiness did not exist, why then not be content with the imperfect?

Now he felt that he would have crawled to her, lied that he was her slave and acknowledged himself vanquished. He could have frightened away the rival; and with her alone in perfect union it would have been easy to have bound her with the band of habit and interest, and finally she would not take the enjoyment from someone else.

But so came the fear, that this letter would disperse his last hope, which still was better than nothing, and he would not read it. He had placed himself at his laboratory table, and almost without thinking of what he did, he opened an iron retort, put in the letter and lit the blast lamp under it. After a moment the smoke puffed out through the neck of the retort, and when it ceased he lighted the gas with a match. A little blue-yellow flame burned for a few minutes with a whistling sound like a bat's cry.

The spirit of the letter, as an alchemist would have said! A mass of paper which was consumed and gave the same products of combustion, carbon and hydrogen, as a burning soul in a living body. Carbon and hydrogen! It was all, and the same!

The flame fluttered, decreased, disappeared in the neck, and it was dark again in the room!

It had again grown cloudy out over the sea, and the waves were going before the east wind, beating towards the strand, sighing, hissing, and the wind split at the corners like the waves against the stem of a boat; but through all these sounds of lamentation was heard the whistling buoy's crying out on the sea, rhythmetic as a tragic comedian, when he recites, and with pauses, just as though to recover his breath or let the last word die out; before he lets a new one stream forth. It was a solo for Titan with the storm for an accompaniment, a giant organ, where the east wind tread the bellows.