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 			<p>I hasten with the good news to my mother-in-law. “You see that I am not out of my mind!”</p>
 			<p>“No, you are not, but only ill, and the doctor will recommend physical exercise for you⁠—wood-chopping, for instance.”</p>
 			<p>“Is that of any use against women, or not?”</p>
-			<p>My too hasty retort makes a breach between us. I had forgotten that a female saint is still a woman, <abbr class="initialism">i.e.</abbr>, man’s enemy.</p>
+			<p>My too hasty retort makes a breach between us. I had forgotten that a female saint is still a woman, <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, man’s enemy.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>All is forgotten, the Russians, the Rothschilds, the dabblers in black magic, the theosophists, and the Eternal Himself. I am the innocent sacrifice, blameless Job, Orpheus whom the women want to kill, the author of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book" xml:lang="la">Sylva Sylvarum</i>, the reviver of dead science. Lost in a labyrinth of doubt, I abandon the newborn idea of providential interposition with a spiritual purpose, and absorbed in the bare fact that a plot has been laid against me, I forget to think of the original Plotter. Thirsting for vengeance, I prepare to send notices to the police-offices and papers in Paris, when a timely change of affairs puts an end to the sorry drama, which would have degenerated into a farce.</p>
 			<p>One grey-yellow winter day, about an hour after the midday meal, my little Christina insists on following me to my house, where I generally have my afternoon siesta. I cannot resist her, and give way to her request, When we get to my room Christina asks for pen and paper; then she demands picture-books, and I must remain, show, and explain.</p>

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 					<p>I feel pity for myself and shame for the others. I forgive the offenders as though they were demons, who must now fulfil their duty. Meanwhile, the disfavour of the powers is all too obvious, and I begin in my room to total up the debit and credit side. Hitherto, and that was my comfort, I have never been able to bow myself before others, but now, crushed by the hand of the invisible, I am anxious to own myself wrong, and fear lays hold upon me when I carefully think over my behaviour during the last weeks. My conscience exacts my confession ruthlessly and pitilessly. I had sinned through conceit, through <i xml:lang="el">ὕβρις</i>, the one sin which the gods do not forgive. Encouraged by the friendship of <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Popus, who had praised my experiments, I imagined that I had solved the riddle of the Sphinx. An imitator of Orpheus, I assumed it as my role to reanimate nature, which had been done to death by the scientists. Confident of the favour of the powers, I flattered myself that I was invincible as regards my foes, and forgot the most ordinary rules of modesty.</p>
 					<p>This is the right point at which to insert the history of my secret friend who has played a decisive role in my life as mentor, counsellor, comforter, judge, and, not least, as a reliable helper in various times of need. As early as 1890 he wrote to me about a book which I then published. He had found points of contact between my ideas and those of the theosophists, and wished to hear my opinion of the Occult Doctrine and the priestess of Isis, Madame Blavatsky. The aggressive tone of his letter annoyed me, and I did not conceal this annoyance in my answer. Four years later I published my <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Antibarbarus</i>, and received at the most critical juncture of my life a second letter from this unknown friend, in which, in an elevated and almost prophetic style, he foretold for me a future fraught with suffering and glory. At the same time he explained to me that he had resumed this correspondence, because he guessed that I was just now in the throes of a spiritual crisis in which a word of comfort might be opportune. Finally, he offered me material aid, which I, jealous of my miserable independence, declined.</p>
 					<p>In the autumn of 1895 I resumed the correspondence by offering him my natural history studies for publication. From that time we kept up the most intimate and friendly correspondence, with the exception of a small disagreement which occurred, when he once took upon himself to instruct me in an insulting way about matters which I knew very well, and preached to me proudly about my want of modesty. After we had made it up again, I imparted to him all my observations, and gave him more of my confidence than was perhaps wise. I confessed to this man, whom I had never seen, everything, and let him admonish me seriously, for I regarded him more as an idea than a person; he was for me a messenger of Providence, my good angel.</p>
-					<p>Then there occurred between us a strong difference of opinion which led to very lively discussions, without, however, leading to any bitterness. As a theosophist, he preached “Karma,” <abbr class="initialism">i.e.</abbr>, an abstract total of human destinies which balance each other so as to result in a kind of Nemesis. He was accordingly a champion of the mechanical view of the universe, a representative of the so-called materialistic school. To me, on the other hand, the powers had revealed themselves as concrete, living, individual personalities, who guide the course of the world and the destinies of men, as self-conscious entities or, as the theologians say, as “hypostases.” The second difference of opinion was regarding the denying and putting to death of one’s own self, which always seemed to me perfectly foolish, and seems so still.</p>
-					<p>Everything, <abbr class="initialism">i.e.</abbr>, the little which I know, goes back to the Ego as its central point. Not the cultus, indeed, but the culture of this Ego seems, therefore, the highest and ultimate aim of existence. My final and constant answer to his objections, therefore, was: “The killing of the Ego is self-murder.”</p>
+					<p>Then there occurred between us a strong difference of opinion which led to very lively discussions, without, however, leading to any bitterness. As a theosophist, he preached “Karma,” <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, an abstract total of human destinies which balance each other so as to result in a kind of Nemesis. He was accordingly a champion of the mechanical view of the universe, a representative of the so-called materialistic school. To me, on the other hand, the powers had revealed themselves as concrete, living, individual personalities, who guide the course of the world and the destinies of men, as self-conscious entities or, as the theologians say, as “hypostases.” The second difference of opinion was regarding the denying and putting to death of one’s own self, which always seemed to me perfectly foolish, and seems so still.</p>
+					<p>Everything, <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, the little which I know, goes back to the Ego as its central point. Not the cultus, indeed, but the culture of this Ego seems, therefore, the highest and ultimate aim of existence. My final and constant answer to his objections, therefore, was: “The killing of the Ego is self-murder.”</p>
 					<p>Moreover, before whom should I bow myself? Before the theosophists? Never! But before the Eternal, the Powers, Providence, I seek to subdue my evil propensities daily as much as possible. To combat for the preservation of my ego, against all influence which a sect or party, from love of ruling, may bring to bear upon me, <em>that</em> is my duty enjoined on me by conscience; the guide which the grace of my divine protector has given me.</p>
 					<p>Nevertheless, because of the qualities of this unseen friend, whom I felt drawn to love and admire, I put up with his admonitions when he often addressed me in a presumptuous way as his inferior. I always answered him, but did not conceal from him my dislike for theosophy.</p>
 					<p>Finally, however⁠—it was during the Popoffsky episode⁠—he assumed such a domineering tone, and became so intolerable in his tyranny, that I feared he took me for a fool. He called me “Simon Magus, the necromancer,” and recommended me to take Madame Blavatsky as my teacher. I wrote back to him that I had no need of the lady, and that no one had anything to teach me. Thereupon what did he threaten me with? That he would bring me back to the right path with the aid of stronger powers than mine. Then I asked him not to meddle with my destiny, which the hand of Providence had always so well protected and guided. And in order to further impress upon him my conviction by means of an example, I related to him the following incident out of my life, which has been so rich in providential occurrences, premising at the same time that by relating this very incident I feared lest I should be challenging Nemesis.</p>

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 			<p>Who gives me the strength to suffer? Who denies me the power, and delivers me over to torments? Is it He, the Lord of life and death, Whose wrath I have provoked, when, influenced by the pamphlet <i epub:type="se:name.publication.pamphlet">The Joy of Dying</i>, I tried to die, and considered myself already ripe for eternal life? Am I Phlegyas doomed to the pains of Tartarus for his pride, or Prometheus, who, because he revealed the secret of the powers to mortals, was torn by the vulture?</p>
 			<p>(While I am writing this, I think of the scene in the sufferings of Christ when the soldiers spit in His face, some buffet Him and others strike Him with rods and say to Him, “Tell us, who is he that smote thee?”</p>
 			<p>Perhaps my old companions in Stockholm remember that orgy when the author of this book played the role of the soldier?)</p>
-			<p>Who has struck thee? A question without an answer. Doubt, uncertainty, mystery⁠—there is my hell! Oh that my enemy would reveal himself, that I might do battle with him, and defy him! But that is just what he avoids doing, in order to afflict me with madness and make me feel the scourge of conscience, which causes me to suspect enemies everywhere, enemies, <abbr class="initialism">i.e.</abbr>, those injured by my evil will. Indeed, my conscience smites me every time that I come on the track of a new foe.</p>
+			<p>Who has struck thee? A question without an answer. Doubt, uncertainty, mystery⁠—there is my hell! Oh that my enemy would reveal himself, that I might do battle with him, and defy him! But that is just what he avoids doing, in order to afflict me with madness and make me feel the scourge of conscience, which causes me to suspect enemies everywhere, enemies, <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, those injured by my evil will. Indeed, my conscience smites me every time that I come on the track of a new foe.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>Awoken the next morning after a few hours’ sleep by the prattle of my little Christina, I seem to forget all, and go to my usual work, which is not unsuccessful. Everything that I write is immediately accepted and printed⁠—a proof that my senses and understanding are unimpaired.</p>
 			<p>Meanwhile the papers spread the report that an American scientific man has discovered a method of converting silver into gold. This saves me from being suspected of being an adept in the black art, a fool, or a swindler. My theosophical friend, who has hitherto furnished me with the means of livelihood, tries to enrol me in his sect. He sends me one of Madame Blavatsky’s occult treatises and ill conceals his anxiety that I should pronounce a favourable verdict upon it. I also am embarrassed, for I see that the continuance of our friendly relations will depend upon my answer.</p>