The Road to Damascus | Page 6

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.
The final entry into the monastery was more a symbol for the
struggling author's dream of peace and atonement than a real thing in
his life. It is true he visited the Benedictine monastery, Maredsous, in
Belgium in 1898, and its well stocked library came to play a certain

part In the drama, but already he realised, after one night's