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Page 5
'I am a beggar who has no right to go to caf�s. Beggar! That is the
right word; it rings in my ears and brings a burning blush to my
cheeks, the blush of shame, humiliation, and rage!
'To think that six weeks ago I sat at this table! My theatre
manager addressed me as Dear Master; journalists strove to
interview me, the photographer begged to be allowed to sell my
portrait. And now: a beggar, a branded man, an outcast from
society!'
After this we can understand why Strindberg in _The Road to
Damascus_ apparently in such surprising manner is seized by the
suspicion that he is himself the beggar.
We have thus seen that Part I of _The Road to Damascus_ is at the
same time a free creation of fantasy and a drama of portrayal. The
elements of realism are starkly manifest, but they are moulded and
hammered into a work of art by a force of combinative imagination
rising far above the task of mere descriptive realism. The scenes
unroll themselves in calculated sequence up to the central asylum
picture, from there to return in reverse order through the second
half of the drama, thus symbolising life's continuous repetition of
itself, Kierkegaard's _Gentagelse_. The first part of _The Road to
Damascus_ is the one most frequently produced on the stage. This is
understandable, having regard to its firm structure and the
consistency of its faith in a Providence directing the fortunes and
misfortunes of man, whether the individual rages in revolt or
submits in quiet resignation.
The second part of _The Road to Damascus_ is dominated by the
scenes of the great alchemist banquet which, in all its fantastic
oddity, is one of the most suggestive ever created on the ancient
theme of the fickleness of fortune. It was suggested above that
there were two factors beyond all others binding Strindberg to the
world and making him hesitate before the monastery; one was woman,
from whom he sets himself free in Part II, after the birth of a
child--precisely as in his marriage to Frida Uhl--the other was
scientific honour, in its highest phase equivalent, to Strindberg,
to the power to produce gold. Countless were the experiments for
this purpose made by Strindberg in his primitive laboratories, and
countless his failures. To the world-famous author, literary honour
meant little as opposed to the slightest prospect of being
acknowledged as a prominent scientist. Harriet Bosse has told me
that Strindberg seldom said anything about his literary work, never
was interested in what other people thought of them, or troubled to
read the reviews; but on the other hand he would often, with
sparkling eyes and childish pride, show her strips of paper,
stained at one end with some golden-brown substance. 'Look,' he
said, 'this is pure gold, and I have made it!' In face of the
stubborn scepticism of scientific experts Strindberg was, however,
driven to despair as to his ability, and felt his dreams of fortune
shattered, as did THE STRANGER at the macabre banquet given in his
honour--a banquet which was, as a matter of fact, planned by his
Paris friends, not, as Strindberg would have liked to believe, in
honour of the great scientist, but to the great author.
In Part I of _The Road to Damascus_, THE STRANGER replies with a
hesitating 'Perhaps' when THE LADY wants to lead him to the
protecting Church; and at the end of Part II he exclaims: 'Come,
priest, before I change my mind'; but in Part III his decision is
final, he enters the monastery. The reason is that not even THE
LADY in her third incarnation had shown herself capable of
reconciling him to life. The wedding day scenes just before,
between Harriet Bosse and the ageing author, form, however, the
climax of Part III and are among the most poetically moving that
Strindberg has ever written.
Besides having his belief in the rapture of love shattered, THE
STRANGER also suffers disappointment at seeing his child fall short
of expectations. The meeting between the daughter Sylvia and THE
STRANGER probably refers to an episode from the summer of 1899,
when Strindberg, after long years of suffering in foreign
countries, saw his beloved Swedish skerries again, and also his
favourite daughter Greta, who had come over from Finland to meet
him. Contrary to the version given in the drama, the reunion of
father and daughter seems to have been very happy and cordial.
However, it is typical of the fate-oppressed Strindberg that in his
work even the happiest summer memories become tinged with black.
Once and for all the dark colours on his palette were the most
intense.
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