Satan Came to Eden

With the tragic and obscure passing of the Baroness all that was weird in the island had returned. The awareness of supernatural forces inimical to us, which had been so strong in me before she came, had been banished almost entirely by the element of concrete enmity and strife which she had brought with her. The days that followed our visit to the Hacienda, where we found such indubitable proof that she and Philippson had been done away with, were the most haunted and uncanny I had known.

Added to this was the quite practical fear that Frederick and I might be implicated, should even an investigation into these disappearances be made. We could only tell the story as we knew it, but who would believe us?

We said to each other that a man who could go to such lengths to regain his freedom would not be scrupulous about securing it at the expense of anybody whom he felt might be a danger to him; therefore the slightest slip on our part, that might lead him to suspect that we had made all too accurate deductions, would inevitably expose us to the same fate as had overtaken the two others.

Our certainty about the murders sometimes seemed strange to me. Not the least doubt ever entered our minds but that the Baroness and Phillipson had been removed by violence. We never found their bodies, and perhaps no one ever will. We did not believe that they had been thrown into the sea, for the sea is often not a very safe hiding-place. It is extremely probable that they were burned, for a furnace of acacia wood burns with such intensity that even bones consigned to it are consumed to fine ash. We ourselves had proved this with cattle bones, which we often disposed of in this way. During such a drought even the hard acacia wood would burn like timber.

There was another possibility, and this was the one which made the island beyond Friedo unholy ground to me from this time on. The ghost of Watkins had never disturbed us before. Now, passing the many caves and crevices one had to pass even on so short a tour as to the orange grove, and remembering what hundreds of such caches the island contained, it was most sinister and horrible to feel that any one of these might harbor the murdered bodies of the Baroness and Philippson. If they are there, they surely will come to light one day, but undiscovered or discovered, the people of the islands and of the Ecuadorean coast number them already, and with certainty no less than mine, among the ghosts of Floreana.

Lorenz was in a fever to leave the island, but it seemed as though all weather and all incident had conspired against him.

Lorenz was in a fever to leave the island, but it seemed as though all weather and all accident had conspired against him.

Not weeks but months went by, and not a ship touched Floreana. It was as though an unseen barrier had been cast around us which no ship could penetrate, and rendering—who knew—the whole island invisible.

I have it in my diary that on April 21st the first rain fell. The terrible drought was broken, and a few days later Lorenz and Wittmer appeared at Friedo, bringing us mail and gifts from Commander Macdonald [sic], an airgun and some seeds. It would have seemed a ship had come, but we had not seen it.

I have it in my diary that on April 21st the first rain fell. The terrible drought was broken, and a few days later Lorenz and Wittmer appeared at Friedo, bringing us mail and gifts from Commander McDonald, an airgun and some seeds. Evidently a ship had come, but we had not seen it.

My impulse was to ask Lorenz how he still came to be there and why he had not gone away, since the chance had come at last, but I refrained from putting him this question. I need not have done so, however, for he anticipated it, asking if we had any use for a few more of the Baroness' things—his money was not yet sufficient to enable him to get away. I knew that this was not the reason but said nothing, for I could discern but not explain the hidden lie.

Though I could hardly bear the thought of making any more purchases from the Hacienda, I thought it might be wiser not to refuse, and so I said that I would think it over.

Then suddently I understood—no ship had called at all. Letters and gifts were among the many things of ours which the Baroness had intercepted, and for some reason or other Lorenz and Wittmer had decided that it would be more politic to restore these things to us. That this instinctive supposition was true was proved on opening the letters afterwards. They bore old dates.

It was not until the middle of July that at a boat at last appeared upon the empty sea, and then it was no more considerable a craft than Nuggerud's small sailing boat. He had brought another journalist to Floreana, this time a Swede, and through this man the story of the Baroness' disappearance went out into the world. Needless to say the version was the Lorenz-Wittmers'. Frederick and I commented little upon the story as the Swede repeated it to us. Perhaps we hinted what we thought, but we were careful, and, besides, we knew that no one would believe the tale we could tell.

Lorenz, the journalist and Nuggerud had lunch with us at Friedo before sailing. I could not help but being reminded of that other lunch, where he had been so noticeably absent.

I thought of the long time we had known this young man, for time in places and circumstances like ours is measureable not by days but by experience.

I thought of the long time we had known this young man, for time in a place and in circumstances like ours is measureable not by days but by experience.

I sat comparing him with the Lorenz who had come to Floreana, debonair, healthy, youthful, with hope intact. And looking at him now, ravaged by ill-health, bitterness and disappointment, I could not help but feel that of all the people who had come to the island he was by far the most pitiable. How he had longed to go away! But now the time had come, and he was sunk in gloom and black depression.

Suddenly all the recoil which I had felt against him as a man with blood upon his hands subsided, leaving me filled with sympathy for this wrecked life which might have been so different.

I tried to cheer him up and said: “Come, Lorenz, don't be sad. Be happy that you can go away at last. You've plenty of years before you to make good all that you've lost, and one day you'll look back on all this and think you only dreamed it.”

But Lorenz answered sombrely, and in a low tone so that the others would not hear: “I'm afraid—I don't know why—but I'm afraid of this trip somehow.”

“Why?” I asked, but Lorenz did not answer.”

It was a brilliant day, but all at once I seemed to sense a darkness in the air, as though a shadow which loomed up behind Lorenz had for a moment dimmed the sunshine. I knew that death was near for him.

During the next few weeks no other ship arrived. The atmosphere of Floreana had become so sinister that for the first time Frederick and I talked about whether we, too, shold go away or not. The peace of Friedo had been profoundly shattered by all the attacks from the outside which had so long besieged us. We did not know whether it had not been forever ruined.

It was a further irony that the woman who had been responsible for the destruction of our paradise kept us entrapped there after she was dead. For it was the thought of the murder that, more than anything else, made us decide to stay. It would have looked like guilt had we abandoned the island at that time. Looking back later upon this decision I realized that it, too, had been dictated to us by the unseen authors of the tragedy of Floreana. We stayed.

August 20th was a day of one of the rare Pacific storms. The usually quiet surf rose up in furious breakers, rolling in from very far and making the whole coast quite inaccessible.

The 20th of August was a day of one of the rare Pacific storms. The usually quiet surf rose up in furious breakers, rolling in from very far and making the whole coast quite inaccessible.

Like a bird of ill-omen the Cobos had appeared. We watched her trying to put in at Black Beach in the storm, but finding this impossible the skipper veered and made for Post Office Bay. Frederick went down to be on the spot when the skipper landed.

We had been a very long time without letters or news from anywhere. The Cobos had brought mail for us and for the Wittmers, and a large number of letters and newspapers for the deserted Hacienda. The first words that greeted Frederick was the question we were soon to hear incessantly repeated.

“What happened to the Baroness? Who was it murdered her and Philippson?”

The Lorenz-Wittmer version of the story seemed not to have received blind credence, and the Swedish journalist had drawn conclusions of his own—we knew how true.

Lorenz was missing. The journalist had had himself landed at Santa Cruz, from where Lorenz had engaged Nuggerud to take him in all haste to Chatham, in order that he might not miss the Cobos which was due to sail for Guayaquil.

Nuggerud had shown the greatest reluctance to put out for the other island, lest they be becalmed, which was a dangerous thing on account of the fatal current which swept the Archipelago. But to every objection Lorenz had answered by offering the fisherman a higher price until at last Nuggerud had yielded. He had, however, made no secret of his grave misgivings to all his friends in the harbour of Santa Cruz, from whom the skipper of the Cobos had the story. With the exception of a little negro boy, Nuggerud carried no crew. The sailing boat had not been seen or heard of since.

Summer came and went, with occasional visitors and the now stereotyped catechism as to the Baroness' end. We found that many theories had been evolved, some assuming suicide, others accepting the hypothesis of murder, still others naively crediting the story of the mysterious yacht. The fact that monts had passed without bringing a single clue as to the whereabouts of the Baroness and Philippson, alive or dead, did not disturb the faith of those who thought that they were still alive.

A strange mood had come over Frederick. He suddenly withdrew into the seclusion of his philosophic work, and laboured at it unceasingly from early morning to late at night. A fury of productivity seemed to possess him, rendering him oblivious of every outside thing. The garden and the animals, the daily duties of the house and the plantation were left entirely to me, whilst Frederick wrote and pondered as though in desperate haste, lest something come to hinder the achievement of his work. His philosophic work was finished, and now he had begun to make an English translation of it in order, he said, that it might not be misinterpreted to the world.

Another change had come as well. We had found perfect harmony and peace together. All differences had been smoothed out, and we had reached that infinite understanding of each other which no words can tell. Frederick had become considerate and tender. All storms had ceased. And amidst the debris of its outward peacefulness, the inner life of Friedo's founders had acheived perfection.

A stillness and a happiness that we had never known before united us in that last month in more than human oneness.

The tamarinds and aguacates which we had planted came into bloom for the first time. But it was not the herald of re-birth for Friedo. It was like the last spring of a world that would never know another summer.

On November 6th a handsome American radio broadcaster, Philip [sic] Lord, visited us at Friedo, having made the whole long voyage in a schooner, the Seth Parker. Frederick talked with him for a long time about his philosophy, and when he said that I had been the only woman who had ever understood his work I felt that he had set the seal of achievement upon my life with him.

On November 6th a handsome American radio broadcaster, Phillips Lord, visited us at Friedo, having made the whole long voyage in a schooner, the Seth Parker. Frederick talked with him for a long time about his philosophy. When he said that I had been the only woman who had ever understood his work, I felt that he had set the seal of achievement upon my life with him.

In Phillips Lord's party there was a man who all at once reached across the table, took my hand and began to read my palm. I did not take this very seriously, though by the expressions of his companions I could see they did. When he had done he turned to Frederick and said, “Let me see yours, Dr. Ritter.”

Frederick laughingly complied, saying to me, “Now you'll hear how long you're going to have me on your hands.” Then, with a smile towards the palmist, he said, “Tell her the truth.”

The stranger took Frederick's hand and glanced at it; suddenly the whole proceeding seemed to become earnest, and I scanned his face to catch its first expression. It did not escape me, and I knew that in the second's pause between the reading and the announcement something had been told me without words.

It was, however, with an air of cloudless candor that the American looked into Frederick's eyes and answered, “Oh sure I'll tell her the truth—she'll have you for another fifty years.”

Frederick laughed too and said, “By that time we'll be about ready to go together—but we'd do that in any case, wouldn't we Dore?”

I smiled back at him. Was he to die before me or was our flowering Friedo soon to be our common grave? The question did not weigh upon me. It did not seem to be important.

When these new friends had gone we sat up for a long time talking about the strange and dark events which had occurred upon the island in our time, and almost interruptedly since we had come.

“We do not know what causes underlie the fate of men like Watkins,” Frederick said. “Nor can we really put ourselves so far into the minds of people who are alien to us—the Baroness, for instance—as to be able to interpret their destiny. But if misfortune and even tragedy should come to us two here, I shall know what it was we were punished for.”

I waited in silence for him to go on.

“The proper tasks of life lie within the frame of the community,” he said. “Therefore the individual who fails to see this, or seeing it tries to escape and seeks his tasks elsewhere, will inherit the consequence of all wrong-doing.”

I could not think that we had greatly sinned in coming to Friedo, and I knew that Frederick would not find his way back to a world which had never understood him, and to which he had always felt himself bound by superficial ties. I thought back over our life on Floreana, and felt that if chastisement were to come, we would not feel that we had bought our years there at too high a price, no matter what it was.

The long drought had ruined out season's crops, and the absence of ships had made it impossible for us to replenish our stores. We were once more in a serious predicament concerning food, for we would on no account seek help from the Wittmers.

One day, with great reluctance, we decided that we must overcome our aversion and have one of our fowls for dinner. That there was a certain degree of danger in this we very well knew, for our chickens had been decimated lately by a curious sickness which we could only attribute to my having given them preserved pork to eat, all other food having long since run out.

Since we had no more eggs, we had to supplement the vital materials contained in these by whatever means we could, for previous experience would have taught us, even without Frederick's medical knowledge, that sickness follows upon the absence of certain elements in diet. Frederick and I took every possible precaution in preparing the poultry, and when he thought that all the latent poison in it had been neutralized we put it in a dish and took it to the table. We ate one spoonful of it each for the sake of the necessary nourishment it should contain and made the rest of the meal of our vegetarian fare.

And on November 21st, 1934, Dr. Frederick Ritter died.

During the following days waves and waves of profound grief swept over me; but gradually deep surrounding silence—nothing moved and even the animals were quiet—eased my soul and I became conscious of our essential oneness: our two souls became a unity—for only the world of illusion divided us into “I and Thou.” I felt the reunion of our souls had taken place and that Frederick's spirit would guide me still. I have only to be submissive and to overcome by own waywardness.

Reflecting over the last month I could see that a fundamental modification of our life had taken place. We had both tried to pierce the future to learn what lay before us.

When, two years ago, new settlers intruded upon our solitude the doctor could not rid himself of the feeling that we should be forced away from the island. He, whose aim was to overcome the world of appearances and illusion and to merge his intellect and spirit in the rhythmical movement of the impersonal all, was dragged down in the whirlpool of ghastly mundane events. He had to submit for a time to the dominance and material cares from which his spirit had long freed itself.

He suffered intensely from the publicity which attended our experiment and from the visits of shallow and unworthy sightseers.

The doctor did not admit that one could see in his manual labour alone, fruitful though it was, the essence of his life-task. True, with pride we showed our visitors Friedo—our garden won from the Galapagos wilderness, but few saw the counterpart to this manual labour. Few could comprehend the measured and balanced oscillation between the material sphere and the intellectual.

The last months had been—without our knowing it—a preparation for death. Never before had Frederick been conscious of only one aim. However, the last months of his life he spent from morning till night translating his philosophy into English. I am glad that I could help him a little. A silent joy flows through me when I recollect the happy hours by his side. Sometimes my hand touched his arm tenderly, and he would interrupt his eager writing and press my hand softly. When he found just the right word he would look lovingly at me, nodding his head. I admired him for the endurance and devotion with which he pursued his aim right up to the fateful day.

One morning he awoke feeling ill. He had had a stroke, and was paralyzed on the right side. As he lay there immobile he told me again what he often told me: “In reality I have fulfilled my tasks on earth. In the material world I have built Friedo; in the psychical world I have obtained control of my affections and emotions; in the mental world I have thought out and written my philosophy; but the task in the religious world, the ultimate reality, the mingling of the ego with the all—that only can be solved by death.”

Before our usual bed-time, Frederick lay down, complaining of feeling rather ill. He had a headache. Instantly alarmed, I asked him if he thought it could be the meat. But I had eaten some as well, and felt no ill-effects.

“It may be something else,” said Frederick, “but don't worry. I shall be all right.”

I took a chair and sat down by his side, watching him anxiously. There was nothing frightening in his appearance; he was neither flushed nor pale. But after a while he said in a queer voice, “My tongue feels heavy.”

I gave him charcoal mixed with calcium carbonate, and quickly made strong coffee as an antidote. Nausea set in and agonizing pains. The whole of that awful night was spent in trying to relieve the attacks, and stem the tide of poison which was overwhelming Frederick's tortured body.

At last an icy sweat broke out—it was the sweat of death. He knew that he was lost and I could only look on, ignorant and helpless.

I sat by his bed and began to read. And because Friedrich Nietzsche's Zarathustra was always close at hand I read some favourite extracts.

He asked me to read Zarathustra to him, indicating the page, and when I came to one of his favourite passages, he said in a faint voice and with a wonderful expression in his eyes, “Mark these lines, Dore, and remember them always … in memory of me.”

In the pauses between the attacks, despair surged over me. Frederick was dying—what should I do at Friedo alone?

I went over to the table and took another mouthful of the meat, meaning to eat it all and die with Frederick. But suddenly I checked myself with horror. What if he did not die but remained ill and helpless, or even paralyzed for life? If I were dead, then I should have failed him in his hour of greatest need. I could not bear the thought, and prayed that if I had now poisoned myself, God might not punish me by killing me while Frederick still needed my help.

Frederick awoke out of a kind of coma. I told him I would go to the Wittmers' and get help. He tried to answer me, but could not speak. I brought him paper and pencil, so that he could write down what he wished to say. He made me understand that I should not attempt to go up to the caves alone. With my lame leg he feared that I would never manage it. But I felt that I must go, for I was afraid that not to ask the Wittmers' help might be to deprive Frederick of his last faint chance of life.

Even now I cannot bear to talk or think about that journey. The panic haste that I was in had numbed me, so that my lame leg all but refused to move. Every few yards I had to stop, and then I seemed to hear Frederick's voice calling out to me, in the failing consciousness of the last moment, not able to understand why I had left him all alone.

It took me three hours to get to the Wittmers'. I shouted to them long before I reached the gate, and my call brought Wittmer's son. Wittmer himself was out. He had gone down to the Bay. But Harry took me back to Friedo on their donkey, while Frau Wittmer, leaving the baby alone, hurried down to the Bay to fetch her husband. When I got back Frederick was tossing feverishly and catching his breath in long and painful gasps.

“Where's Wittmer?” he wrote, and I told him, fearing that he might not live the hour that it must take before the man could come.

He followed the progress of his illness with close attention. Towards the last he begged for the revolver. But I did not realize how ill he was and I refused. The Wittmers also, who had immediately responded to my appeal for help, believed as I did in his recovery.

When the Wittmers arrived, the power of speech had left him entirely, though he could understand all that was said and was still able to write. He took the pencil and scribbled, “This is choking me … give me my gun.”

In the little cupboard beside the bed his revolver had lain, always ready to his hand since violence had come to Floreana. While Wittmer sat dismayed and terrified, trying to soothe him with encouraging words, I slipped round and removed the gun, though this was not necessary, for paralysis had set in on that side and Frederick could no longer move.

At the thwarting of his wish, his face became distorted with maniacal rage, terrible to behold. I saw that the Wittmers could do nothing, and that the sickness must take its deadly course.

By evening he was quiet, and I went out into my garden and lay down upon the ground, leaving the Wittmers to watch beside the bed. There, where we both had laboured side by side planting our Eden in the wilderness, I prayed that Frederick might get well again. The Wittmers went outside when I came back, and I lay down for a moment on my bed, hardly daring to breathe for fear of disturbing Frederick, who seemed to lie quite peacefully, though I could not tell whether he was asleep or not, and dared not talk to him for dread of waking him.

When I reached his bed he was violently twitching. He was seized with convulsions—it was the death agony—but I did not know it.

Suddenly he began to twitch from head to foot, and drum with his feet against the foot of the bed. I leaped up, terrified. This was surely the end. I watched, appalled.

Suddenly he opened his great blus eyes and stretched his arms toward me. His glance was joyously tranquil, and he seemed actually to say to me: “I go; but promise you will not forget what we have lived for.” I called his name in astonishment. It seemed to me as if he would draw me with him. Then he sank back, and I began to caress his forehead tenderly. He became quite still, and that was death.

Frederick sat up. He stretched out both his arms toward me. All trace of pain and torment had vanished from his face, which was transfigured with a look so lucid, so triumphant, so calm, so tender, so illuminated with the knowledge that surpasses understanding, that I could only gaze and gaze upon him like one who sees a miracle. Then he fell back, before I was able to utter a sound.

[The skeptical reader may wonder how the paralyzed patient could sit up and stretch out his arms.—JW.]

Suddenly I felt I should have kissed this life from his lips perhaps, and failing to understand, I had had to wait three days before I could feel clearly the reunion with his spirit.

The linen I had brought from home made Frederick's shroud. We buried him in the corner of the garden which he liked most, and which had cost him his hardest toil.

Flowers from the Wittmers' garden decked his grave.

The Cobos was not due for several weeks. I longed for her return, for now I had but one wish—to leave the island. I did not know what I should do back in the world again. I had no plans. But go I must.

I began to pack the few possessions that I treasured, carefully gathering all Frederick's writings which I hoped one day to give to the world, according to his dearest wish. The Wittmers were kind, and would gladly have had me stay with them if I had cared to, but I preferred to be alone at Friedo. After the first despair and anguish caused by the sudden shock of Fredericks death a great calm filled by soul. Although I missed his visible presence, I never had the feeling I was alone. He was beside me everywhere and at all times, in the night when I lay listening to the wild animals coming to the spring, and in the mornings when I rose to face the day alone.

But as the days wore on, unrest returned. One day when this mood was very strong upon me I caught sight of a fishing boat. It seemed to be making for Post Office Bay. I knew the men could not see me if I waved, but it had suddenly come into my mind that I must send word home, and to our friend, Captain Hancock, telling them what had happened.

The boat was far away. All at once the sensation of being trapped, that feeling which we both had had since the murder, swept over me again, and I turned, as I had always done, for help to Frederick.

“Oh Frederick, let me get the message to them somehow!”

I think I even said the words aloud, for they were still in my ears when I heard my name called. It was Wittmer, on his way down to the beach. I knew now that my messages were safe and hastened into the house to write them out.

“Frederick is dead,” I wrote to Captain Hancock, “please help me.”

Quite calm again, I picked up a piece of embroidery which Frederick had designed for me, and went on working at it till the sun went down. The next day Herr Wittmer called again and said: “I'm sorry, but your telegrams didn't go. The fishing boat went past without calling at the Bay.”

But I was undismayed. I knew that Frederick would never fail me.

[Possible editing error here. Given the omission of this paragraph in the 1935 edition, the following paragraph makes no sense.—JW.]

Hardly had Wittmer sat down when visitors entered Friedo's garden. The Esperanza had called at the island and found the telegrams, which they would immediately send out. They had come up to tell me so. I begged them to take me back with them, but they said that this was quite impossible for there was no accommodation, nor could they wait while I made even the shortest preparations.

When they had left, I felt disconsolate and weary; and cried myself to sleep that night. I had yet to learn that Frederick would never fail me.

After a black and almost sleepless night I got up sadly in the early morning. I went down to the clearing where, looking out across the sea, I now sent my morning greeting to Frederick. It was the 6th of December. The sun danced upon the smooth waters, the air was fresh and sweet.

[Same comment as above.—JW]

The sunlight, flashing on a mirror, drew my eyes toward the Beach. Some one was signaling to Friedo.

The Velero had come—the Velero! I could not believe my eyes. The telegram I sent could not yet have reached land, yet here was Captain Hancock come in answer to my call.

When I saw him coming up the path at Friedo, gratitude to him and Frederick overwhelmed me and I burst into a flood of tears.

Captain Hancock had, of course, received no word from me. But he had had a presentiment that all was not well with us, and felt that he must come, though it was close to Christmas time, when every American prefers to be at home.

Through the newspapers he had learned all about the Baroness' disappearance. I told him our interpretation of the story and when I had done he said: “I can give you some news.”

The Velero had touched the island of Marchena, having put in there because Captain Hancock had heard that Lorenz and Nuggerud were there—but dead.

The currents Nuggerud had feared had swept them to their doom, and landed them on the most arid island of the archipelago, where neither water nor edible plants existed.

For Lorenz, all the long struggle and the final crime had been for nothing, and Nuggerud, the experienced seaman who had sold his wisdom for a piece of gold, had made a tragic bargain. They had perished of hunger and thirst. The fierce sun had dried their corpses out like mummies and they lay as they had fallen in the last exhaustion, their skeleton fingers clawing the white sand in agony.

Captain Hancock, at my request, sent up to the caves to tell the Wittmers I was leaving and ask them to come to Friedo. Soon they arrived and I put Friedo in their charge as long as they might stay upon the island. They said that they would look after it for me well and truly.

We and the Wittmers never had been friends, but we had been something more than merely neighbors. I wished them well on Floreana. I took them to the gate of Friedo and watched them take the path back to the caves—the last guests. With them went Fleck. He turned his little head to look at me again and again until the ciruela thicket hid me from his sight.

I said good-bye to Frederick's grave, but did not feel as if I was leaving him there, cold in the hostile Floreana earth. In some strange way that I cannot find words for I did not feel that he was dead, but simply bodyless.

I said good-by to Frederick's grave, but did not feel as if I was leaving him there, cold in the hostile Floreana earth. In some strange way that I cannot find words for I did not feel that he was dead, but that he had just began to live.

And as the thought came to me like a great illumination I knew that the great task which I had found in him had only just begun. The look with which he died had told me that our experiment had not failed.

As the thought came to me like a great illumination I knew that the great task which I had found in him had only just begun. The look with which he died had told me that our experiment had not failed.

That Floreana was only one stage in my life's work I can never doubt again. The gods of Floreana slew Frederick but can have no power over him! He must live on through me.

Floreana was only one stage in my life's work which I can never doubt again. The gods of Floreana could have no power over Frederick, whom they slew; he must live on through me.