Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VI. Hell
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down fire on this den of robbers—whether rightly
or wrongly, who knows? My Dieppe friends
were alarmed, when they saw me mounting the
hill of their town with my bag heavy with
manuscripts.
“Where have you come from, poor fellow?”
“I come from death.”
“I doubt it, for you look as if you had not
been dug out yet.”
The kind, good-hearted lady of the house takes
me by the hand and leads me before a looking-glass,
that I may see myself. I certainly look a
pitiable object; my face blackened by smoke from
the engine, my cheeks fallen in, my hair grown
grey, my eyes staring wildly, and my linen dirty.
But when I was left alone in the dressing-room
by my kind hostess, who treated me like a sick,
deserted child, I examined my face more closely.
There was an expression in my features which
alarmed me. It was not fear of death or wickedness,
but something else, and had I at that time
known Swedenborg, he would have explained to
me the impression made by the evil spirit on my
soul, and the occurrences of the last weeks. Now
I felt ashamed and angry with myself, and my
conscience pained me on account of my ingratitude
towards this family, which had proved a
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