[1]VidetheSon of a Servant.
[1]VidetheSon of a Servant.
Among those who frequented the doctor's house was a young man who studied sculpture. He had come from the lower strata of society, had been a smith's apprentice, and had now entered the Academy, where he was a probationary student. He was happy and always cheerful, believed himself called by providence to his new career, and narrated how he had been aroused and impelled by the spirit to work in the service of the Beautiful. John liked him because he was not introspective or self-critical and quite free from self-consciousness. Moreover he was a fellow culprit, who was making the same daring attempt as John to work his way out of the lower class, but entirely lacked the consciousness of guilt which persecuted the latter.
One day this friend, whose name was Albert, came to him and said that he was going to Copenhagen to visit Thorwaldsen's Museum. An enterprising speculator had arranged a trip there through the canal and back by sea for a very small fare. "You come too," he said, and it was soon settled that John should accompany him with one of the boys. The occasion of the expedition was the crown princess's entry into Copenhagen, but that was a secondary object in the eyes of the pilgrims to Thorwaldsen's tomb.
On an August evening John sat on the poop of the steamer with the sculptor, one of the boys and a school friend of his. In the twilight which had already fallen one saw ladies and gentlemen coming on board. The society seemed to be first-class. Stout fathers of families with field-glasses and tourist knapsacks, ladies in summer dresses and hats of the latest fashion. There was a bustle and stir, as each sought a sleeping-place which was guaranteed to all. John and his companions sat quietly waiting. They had their provisions and rugs and feared nothing. When the steamer had started and the confusion had ceased, John said, "Now we will have some bread and butter before we lie down."
They looked for their knapsacks and the provision basket, but they were not to be found. They discovered that they had not come with them. This was a hard blow, for they had only a little cash and they had counted on the excellent provisions which the doctor's wife had put up for them. Accordingly they had to eat from the sculptor's box, which only contained poor dry victuals.
Then they wanted to lie down. On all sides people were asking for sleeping-places, but could not find any. The passengers were in an uproar and there was a storm of curses. They had therefore to sit on deck; there were inquiries for the organiser of the expedition, but he was not on board. John lay down on the bare deck and the boys drew a tarpaulin over themselves, for the dew was falling and it was bitterly cold. They awoke at Södertelje, freezing, for the sailors had taken away the tarpaulin.
On the canal bank there now appeared the organiser of the excursion, who was an upholsterer. The passengers rushed at him, drew him on board, and loaded him with reproaches. He defended himself and tried to land again, but in vain. A court martial was held; they resolved to continue their journey, but detained the upholsterer as a hostage. The steamer went on through the canal, but as it was passing through a lock, the man-swung himself up on the dam and disappeared amid a hail of curses.
The journey was continued and by midday they were in the Gotha canal. Dinner was laid on the poop. John and his companions ensconced themselves in the lifeboat which hung there and ate a simple meal out of the sculptor's box. The sculptor, who had slept on a bale do mu in the luggage-hold, was in a good humour and knew all the passengers' characters and names.
The dinner-table was now crowded. It was presided over by a master chimney-sweep with his family. Then there came pawnbrokers, public-house keepers, cabmen, butchers, waiters, with their families, a number of young shop boys and some girls. John suffered when he saw stewed perch and strawberries together with claret and sherry, for he had been so spoilt by luxury that simple food made him poorly. This was the "upper class" among the passengers. The master chimney-sweep played the grand gentleman, he made a grimace at the claret and scolded the waitress who said that the restaurant-keeper was responsible. The porter from the Record Office affected the learned man, and as an official seemed to look down on the "Philistines."
While the sherry circulated, speeches were made. The lower class from the fore-deck hung on the gunwales and hand-rails and listened. The pariahs in the lifeboat were ignored. People knew that they were there, but did not see them. They may very likely have wished the "white cap" away, for there were two eyes under its peak, which saw that they were no better than himself. John felt that. He had just emerged from this class to which he belonged by birth, but he had no food and was nothing. He felt his inferiority and his superiority; and their superiority. They had worked; therefore they ate. Yes, but he had worked as much as they, though not in the same way. He had derived honour from his work, while they took the good eating and dispensed with the honour. One could not have both.
The people sat there satisfied and happy, drank their coffee and liqueurs, and occupied the whole poop. They now became bold and made remarks over those in the lifeboat, who could only suffer in silence, because the others were in the majority and the upper class, for they were consumers.
John felt himself in an element which was not his. There was an atmosphere of hostility about him, and he felt depressed. There were no police on board to help him, no arbitration to appeal to, and if there were a quarrel, all would condemn him. There only needed a sharp retort on his part, and he would be struck. "The deuce!" he thought, "it would be better to obey officers and officials; they would never be such tyrants as these democrats." Later on, at Albert's advice, he sought to approach them, but they were inaccessible.
Further on during the voyage between Venersborg and Göteborg the explosion came. John and his companions' hunger increased so much that one day they determined to go down to the dining-saloon and eat some bread and butter. It was so full of people eating and drinking that they could hardly find room. John's pupil, according to the custom of his class, kept his hat on. The master chimney-sweep noticed this. "Hullo!" he said, "is the ceiling too high for you?"
The boy seemed not to understand him.
"Take your hat off, boy!" he shouted again.
The hat remained as it was. A shop assistant knocked it off. The boy picked up the hat, and put it again on his head. Then the storm burst. They all rushed on him like one man and knocked the hat off. Then they went for John, "And such a young devil has a tutor who cannot teach boys to know their proper place! We know well enough whoyouare." Then they rained abuse on his parents. John tried to inform them that in the social circles to which the boy belonged, it was the custom to keep one's hat on in public places, and that he had not intended any expression of contempt by it. But his explanation was ill-received. What did he mean by "those circles"? What nonsense he talked! Did he want to teach them manners? And so on.
Yes, he could; for it was precisely from these circles that they had learnt five-and-twenty years ago to take their hats off, which was no longer the custom, and he could have told them that in twenty-five years more they would keep their hats on as soon as they got wind thatthatwas the fashion. But they had not discovered it yet.
John and his friends went again on deck. "One cannot argue with these people," he said.
His nerves were shaken by the scene just witnessed. He had seen an outbreak of class-hatred and the flashing eyes of people whom he had not injured; he had felt the foot of the upper class of the future upon his breast. They had become his enemies; the bridge between him and them was broken down; but the tie of blood remained and he cherished the same hatred towards aristocratic society, and its unjust ascendency as they did; he felt the same grudge against the conventions before which they all had to bow; yes, he had Karl Moor's replies in his mind, but those who had just defeated him were all Spiegelbergers.[1]If they got the upper hand they would trample on all,—great and small; if he got the upper hand, he would only trample on the great. That was the difference between them. It was, however, education which had made him more democratic than they; he would therefore side with the educated. They would work for those below, but from a distance, and from above. One could not handle this raw uncouth mass.
The stay on board was now intolerable. An outbreak might take place at any moment. And it came.
They were now in the Kattegat, and John was sitting on the upper deck when he heard a loud noise beneath him of voices and cries. He thought he recognised his pupil's voice, and rushed down. On the middle deck stood the accused surrounded by a crowd. A pawnbroker waved his arms about and shouted. John asked what the matter was.
"He has stolen my cap," shouted the pawnbroker.
"I don't believe it possible," said John.
"Yes, I saw it; he has put it in this clothes bag."
It was John's bag. "That is mine," said John. "You can look into it yourself." He opened the bag and there lay the pawnbroker's cap! There was general excitement. John stood convicted and a storm was on the point of breaking out against the two thieves. A student who stole! That was a bonne bouche. How had it happened? Now John remembered. He had a grey cap similar to the pawnbroker's which he used to sleep in at night. He had told the boy to put it in his bag; the boy had taken the wrong one. John turned to the foredeck passengers: "Gentlemen," he began, "do you think it likely that a rich man's son would go and take a greasy cap when he has a perfectly new one? Do you not see that there has been a mistake?"
"Yes," said the plebeians, "there has."
Only the pawnbroker was obstinate and stuck to his statement.
"Then it only remains for me to beg this gentleman's pardon for the mistake, and I ask my pupil to do the same."
The latter did so, though unwillingly. There was general satisfaction and a murmured opinion that he had "spoken like a gentleman." The matter was fortunately settled.
"You see," said John to the boy, "the people are open to reason after all!"
"Bah! That was only because they felt flattered at being called gentlemen,—the cursed rabble!"
"Perhaps," answered John, who felt that he had been sufficiently humiliated for such a trifle.
At last they reached Copenhagen. Hungry, freezing, and in the worst of humours they sat in the rain outside the Thorwaldsen Museum, which was closed on account of the festivities. But Albert swore he would get in. After they had waited for an hour with the master chimney-sweep, the public-house keeper, and all the other passengers there came an old man who looked learned and wished to enter. Albert rushed after him, mentioned the name of Molins, the Swedish sculptor, and they got in, leaving the other passengers outside. Albert was delighted, and could not help making a face at the master chimney-sweep who remained outside. But the one who enjoyed it most was the young sinner, who hated the mob.
"Now we are gentlemen," he said.
John was not in the mood to enjoy Thorwaldsen's works. He regarded him as an average artist talented enough to win fame. Albert found the antiques too elaborate, but did not dare to criticise them. They did not witness the royal entry, but sat on the tower of the Fruekirke and looked at the view. At nightfall, when they felt tired and exhausted, they wanted to go down to the steamer to sleep, but it had gone to Malmö. They stood in the street in the rain. They could not go to an hotel, for they had no money. Albert resolved to go to a public-house and ask for a night's lodging. They found a sailors' inn near the public-house. The landlord said it was only for seamen, but they answered that they must have shelter. They were taken into a back room where there were two camp-beds, but a basin was not to be seen. The walls were unpapered and looked shabby. In one of the beds lay a sailor. Who was to be his bed-fellow? Albert undertook that, and slept with the stranger, who was a Dutchman. So they all went to sleep, John cursing the whole adventure, for the bed-clothes were malodorous.
The return voyage home by sea was one long penance. Without provisions and hardly any money they had to sustain life on raw eggs which they bought in the small towns they touched at. These along with stale bread and brandy, composed their diet for three days. Albert alone was cheerful and enjoyed himself. He slept on the poop with the passengers and amused them with stories; he was akin to them, and knew their language. He drank with them and got hot food; he even went into the kitchen sometimes and begged himself a plate of soup. "How easily he takes life!" thought John. "He does not miss luxuries, for he has never known them; he will never be expelled as an intruder when he approaches people; he feasts while others starve, and sees only friends everywhere. But his day will come when he will no longer be one of the lower class, when luxury and refined habits will make him as helpless and unfortunate as me."
When he got home he was furious. So it was everywhere. Those who were above trampled on those below, and those who were below tried to pull one back when one tried to mount. What was the meaning of all this talk about aristocrats and democrats? The lower class spoke of their democratic way of thinking, as though it were a virtue. What virtue is there in hating those who are above? What is the meaning of "aristocrat"? Αριστος means the best, and κρατέω "I rule." Therefore an aristocrat is one who wishes that the best should rule and a democrat one who wishes that the worst should do so. But then comes the question: Who are really the best? Are a low social position, poverty and ignorance things that make men better? No, for then one would not try to do away with poverty and ignorance. Into whose hands then should men commit political power, with the knowledge that it would be in the hands of the least mischievous? Into the hands of those who knew most? Then one would have professorial government, and Upsala would be—no, not the professors! To whom then should power be given? He could not answer, but certainly not to the chimney-sweep and cab-owner who were on the steamer.
On this occasion he did not go deeper into the matter, for the question had not yet been raised whether the same culture could not be imparted to every one, or whether there need be any governing body at all.
He had come across the worst aristocracy of all, the upper stratum of the lower class, or, to name them by their usual ugly title, "the Philistines." They were a bad copy of the aristocracy; they sided with the powerful, aped the habits of their superiors, grew rich by others' labours, quoted authorities and hated opposition with the exception of their silent opposition to those above them. The master chimney-sweep made money through the toil of the abjectly poor, the cab-owner through the wretched cabbies and hacks, the pawnbroker wrung unrighteous gain from the need of the poverty-stricken, and so on, everywhere. A teacher, on the other hand, a doctor, an artist, could not depute slaves to his work; he must do it himself, and was therefore not such a shark as those below. If, then, culture brought men happiness and made them better, then the aristocracy were justified and beneficent, and could regard themselves as better than those below. Yes, but one could buy culture for money, could beg or borrow the means for it, as so many students did, and there was no virtue in that at any rate. Yet one could not help feeling superior to others when one knew more and observed the laws of social life so as to injure no one. All that remained for the real democracy was to reduce everything to a dead level, so that no one need feel themselves below, and no one could think they were above.
[1]VideSchiller's "Robbers."
[1]VideSchiller's "Robbers."
The Swedish theatre was at this time exposed to many attacks, and when is a theatre not in that condition? The theatre is a miniature society within society, with a monarch, ministers, officials, and a whole number of classes, ranged above one another in ranks. Is it any wonder that this society is always exposed to the attacks of the malcontents? But at this period the attacks had a more practical object. A former provincial actor had written a pamphlet against the Theatre Royal, of little real importance, but with the result that the author was invited to a seat on the board of directors. This aroused imitators, and many published treatises in order to attain the same result.
As a matter of fact, the Theatre Royal was neither better nor worse than it had been before. "But," it was asked, "if the theatre is an institution supported by subscriptions for forwarding culture, why set an uncultivated person at the head of it?" To this it was answered, "We have just had one of the most learned men in the country as director, and how did that answer? Although he had the advantage of plebeian birth he was worried to death by the democratic press, which incessantly carped at him." At last, in our time, the utopia of self-government has been realised, the theatre has a man from the lower classes at its head, and there is general satisfaction.
On the day fixed, John went to the theatre in order to announce his intention of making his début. After some delay, he was sent for and asked his business.
"I want to make my début."
"Oh! have you studied any special character?"
"Karl Moor in 'The Robbers,'" he answered more defiantly than was necessary.
They looked at each other and smiled. "But one must have three rôles; have you got no other to suggest?"
"Lucidor!"
There was a consultation, and John was informed that these dramas were not now in the repertory of the theatre. He objected that this was not a sufficient reason for his not undertaking those rôles, but received the perfectly fair answer, that the theatre could not stage such important dramas and disarrange its programme for untried débutants. Then the director proposed to John that he should take the rôle of the "Warrior of Ravenna." But after the great success which had attended the last actor of that part, he dared not. They finally suggested that he should have a talk with the literary manager. Then began a battle which was probably not the first or the last which had taken place in that room.
"Be reasonable, sir; one must study this profession like all others. No one becomes an adept all of a sudden. Creep before you walk. Undertake at first a minor rôle."
"No, the rôle must be great enough to sustain me. In a minor rôle one must be a great artist in order to attract attention."
"Yes, but listen to me, sir; I have experience."
"Yes, but others have made their début in leading parts, without having been on the stage before."
"But you will break your neck."
"Very well, then! I will!"
"Yes, but the board of directors will not give the best stage in the country to the first chance aspirant to make experiments on."
That seemed reasonable. He therefore consented to undertake a minor rôle. He was given the part of Härved Boson in Hedberg'sMarriage of Ulfosa.
John read over the part at home, and was astonished. It was quite insignificant. He only had a few quarrels with his brother-in-law and then embraced his wife. But he had to undertake the part, as he had agreed to do.
The rehearsals began. To have to shout out empty words without meaning was repugnant to him.
After some trials the teacher declared that he had no more time and recommended John to take lessons in the Dramatic Academy.
"But I won't be a pupil," he said.
"No, of course."
They talked of the Dramatic Academy, as of an elementary or Sunday School; all kinds of pupils were accepted whether they had any education or not. John did not intend to become a pupil, but went just to listen. He went there reluctantly. Accustomed to be a teacher himself, he was received as a sort of honorary guest, and sat down, but attracted an uncomfortable amount of attention. The hour was passed in reciting "Vintergatan," which he knew by heart, and some other pieces of verse.
"But one can't learn anything for the stage here," he ventured to say to the teacher.
"Well! come on the stage, and try before the footlights."
"How can I do that?"
"As a supernumerary actor."
"Supernumerary! H'm! That is like going downhill before beginning," thought John. But he determined to go through with it. One morning he received an invitation to try a part in Björnson'sMaria Stuart. The theatre messenger gave him a little blue note-book on which was written, "A nobleman," and inside, on a white sheet of paper, "The Lords have sent an intermediary with a challenge to Count Both well." That was the whole part! Such was to be his début!
At the appointed time he went up the little back stairs, passed the door-keeper and came on the stage. It was the first time that he was behind the scenes, and saw the reverse of the medal. The stage looked like a great warehouse with black walls; a cracked and dirty floor like that of a hay loft, and grey linen screens mounted on rough wood.
It was here that he had seen represented majestic scenes from the world's history; here Masaniello had shouted "Death to Tyrants" while John stood trembling at the end of the fourth row among the audience; here Hamlet had given vent to his scorn and suffered his sorrows, and from here Karl Moor had defied society and the whole world. John felt alarmed. How could one preserve the illusion hero in sight of the unpainted wood and the grey canvas? Everything looked dusty and dirty; the workmen were poor melancholy devils, and the actors and actresses looked insignificant in their ordinary clothes.
He was led into the lobby where they were going to dance for half-an-hour the gavotte, which introduced the play. It was broad daylight. The old music teacher sat on a chair and played the viol. The ballet-master shouted, struck his hands together and arranged them in their places. "I didn't bargain for this," thought John, but it was too late. So he found himself in the midst of a complicated dance which he did not know, and was pushed about and scolded. "No, I am not going to do this," he thought, but he could not get out of it.
A feeling of shame came over him. Dancing in the day-time was not a seemly occupation. And then to descend from teacher to pupil, and be the last here; he had never before gone back so far.
The bell rang for the rehearsal, and they were driven on the stage. Then they were arranged for the gavotte. By the footlights stood the chief actors who had the important rôles; and behind them the rest in two lines occupied the background.
The orchestra struck up and the dance began in slow solemn rhythm. From the footlights were heard the deep voices of the two Puritans lamenting the depravity of the court.
Lindsay. "Look! the dancing lines wind like snakes in the sun. Listen! the music plays with the flames of hell! The devil's roar of laughter is in it."
Andrew Kerr. "Hush, hush; the penalty will overwhelm them as the sea overwhelmed Pharaoh's army."
Lindsay. "Look, how they whisper! The infecting breath of sin! See their voluptuous smiles; see the ladies' frivolous gowns."
Citizen. "All that Knox preaches is wasted on this court."
Lindsay. "He is as the prophet in Israel, he does not speak in vain; for the Lord Himself shall perform His word upon the ungodly race."
The piece had an arresting effect, and John felt it. The men actors had their hats, overcoats and sticks, and the women their cloaks and muffs, but still the drama was impressive in its simple greatness. He stood in the wings and listened to the whole of it; Mary Stuart did not please him; she was cruel and coquettish; Bothwell was too rough and strong; his favourite was Darnley, the weak, Hamlet-like man whose love to this woman continued to burn in spite of unfaithfulness, scorn, malice and everything. Knox was as hard as stone with his Puritanism and gloomy Christianity.
It was after all something to step forward and enact a piece of history in the garb of such persons. There was something solemn about it as he had felt before in the church. After he had gone on the stage and made his speech he went away firmly resolved to bear all on behalf of sacred art.
He had thus taken the decisive step. To his father he had written a high-flown letter, and declared that he would either become something great in the career which he had now entered or would retire from it altogether; he had resolved not to go home till he had succeeded. The doctor was sorry but made no fuss, for he saw it was impossible to stop him. But he had other secret plans for saving him which he now began to set in motion. In the first place he induced John to translate one or two medical pamphlets for which he had found a publisher. Now he came with a proposal that they should together write articles for theAftonbladet (Evening New's). John for his part had translated Schiller's essay,The Theatre Regarded as a Moral Institution, and as the subject of the theatre had now conic up in the Reichstag the doctor wrote an introduction to it in which he seriously expostulated with the Agrarian party on their indifference to culture. The whole article was inserted. Another day the doctor came with a member of the medical journal, theLancet, which treated of the question whether women were fit for a medical career. Without hesitation and instinctively John decided against it. He had an indescribable reverence for women as woman, mother and wife, but as a matter of fact, society was founded upon the man regarded as provider for the family, and upon the woman as wife and mother; thus man had a full right to his work-market and all the duties involved in it. Every occupation taken from the man would mean a marriage less or one more overworked family-provider, for the impulse to marry was so strong in men that they would not cease to marry, however great the difficulties in which they might become involved. Moreover women had abundant opportunities of work; they could become servants, house-keepers, governesses, teachers, midwives, seamstresses, actresses, artists, authoresses, queens, empresses, besides wives and mothers. Many of these vocations were also open to the unmarried. Anything more than this was an encroachment on the man's territory. If the woman did that, the man should be free from the cares of providing for the family, and inquiries after paternity should not be made. But society would not consent to that. On the contrary it began to persecute the prostitutes by way of forcing men to marry. Once caught in the snares of the married women's property law, they would sink to the level of domestic slaves.
John instinctively took sides in this complicated problem, which was destined to take many years to solve, and wrote against the women's movement, which he saw would involve, if victorious, man's overthrow. The movement for the emancipation of women had during the fifties, assumed the wildest forms, and the war-cry, "No lords! No lords!" had shown the true nature of the movement, which had also been ridiculed by Rudolf Wall in his comedy,Miss Garibaldi. But while years went on, the women had worked in silence.
Great therefore was the surprise of the doctor and John when they found their article in theAftonbladetso altered that it seemed in favour of the movement. "The editor is under the thumbs of women," said the doctor, and thereby the matter was explained.
Meanwhile John's theatrical career approached a crisis. He had been sent into a green room where brandy was drunk and everything was dirty, to put on his clothes with the supernumeraries. "They want to humiliate me," he thought, "but patience!"
Now he was simply appointed as supernumerary in one opera after the other. He declared that he feared neither the footlights nor the public after having preached in church, but it was no good. The worst was, having to lounge about at the rehearsals for hours together with nothing to do. If he read a book, he was told he had no interest in the play, and if he went away, an outcry was raised.
In the Theatrical Academy roles were merely learnt by heart. Children who had only gone through an elementary school, began to read Goethe'sFaust, naturally without understanding anything of it. But curiously enough, their very boldness saved them; they got on so well that one was inclined to think there was no need for an actor to understand anything, if only he could say his piece fluently. After a few months John was sick of it all. It was all mechanical. The greatest actors were blasé and indifferent, never spoke of art, but only of engagements and honorariums. There was no trace of the gay life behind the scenes, of which so much had been written. They sat silent waiting for their turns to come; the dancers and actresses in their costumes, sewing and stitching. In the lobby the actors went about on tip-toe, looked at the clock and put on their false beards, without speaking a word.
One evening, whenMaria Stuartwas being acted, John sat alone in the lobby reading a paper. The actor Dahlqvist, who was taking the part of John Knox, came in. John, who cherished a deep admiration for the great actor, stood up and bowed. If he could only speak with such a man. He trembled at the very thought. Knox, with his venerable long white hair, his black dress, and his great eyes half-sunk in his powerful deeply-lined face, sat down at the table. He yawned. "What is the time?" he asked in a sepulchral tone. John answered that it was half-past ten, unbuttoning his Burgundian velvet jacket to look for the watch which was not there.
"The time is going devilish slow this evening," said Knox and yawned again. Then he began to retail bits of gossip. He was only a ruin of his former greatness when his acting of Karl Moor had cast all his rivals into the shade. He too had seen through everything and was weary of it all. And yet he had once thought so highly of his art.
Since John had now the right of free entrance into the theatre he tried to study acting from the auditorium. But behold! the illusion was gone! There was Mr. So-and-so and Mrs. So-and-so, there was the background forQuentin Durward, there sat Högfelt, and there behind the scenes, stood Boberg. There was no further possibility of illusion.
He was sick of the wretched rôle which he had to repeat continually. But he also felt remorse and feared that he could not retire from the game honourably. At last he plucked up courage and demanded a leading part. The piece in which it occurred had already been performed fifty times, and the chief actors were tired of it, but they had to come. The rehearsal took place without costumes or scenery. John was accustomed to the declamatory manner usual then, and shouted like a preacher. It was a failure. After the rehearsal the head of the theatrical academy pronounced his verdict and advised John to enter it for a course of training, but he would not. He wept for rage, went home and took an opium pill which he had long kept by him, but without effect; then a friend took him out and he got intoxicated.
The next morning he felt in a state of complete collapse. His nerves still trembled and his body felt the fever of shame and intoxication. What should he do? He must save his honour. He must still hold out for two or three months and try again. That day he remained at home and readThe Stories of a Barber-Surgeon. As he read it seemed to him that they recorded his own experience; they were about the reconciliation of a step-son to his step-mother. The breach in his domestic life had always weighed upon him like a sin, and he longed for reconciliation and peace. That day this longing took an unusually melancholy form, and as he lay on the sofa, his brain began to evolve various plans for smoothing away the domestic discord. A woman-worshipper as he then was, and under the influence of the book he had been reading, he thought that only a woman could reconcile him with his father. This noble rôle he assigned to his step-mother.
While thus tying on the sofa he felt an unusual degree of fever, during which his brain seemed to work at arranging memories of the past, cutting out some scenes, and adding others. New minor characters entered; he saw them mixing in the action, and heard them speaking, just as he had done on the stage. After one or two hours had passed, he had a comedy in two acts ready in his head. This was both a painful and pleasurable form of work if it could be called a work; for it went forward of itself, without his will or co-operation.
But now he had to write it. In four days the piece was ready. He kept on going from the writing-table to the sofa and back; and in the intervals of his work, he collapsed like a rag. When the work was finished, he drew a deep sigh of relief, as though years of pain were over, as though a tumour had been cut out. He was so glad, that he felt as though some one was singing within him. Now he would offer his piece to the theatre;—that was the way of salvation. The same evening he sat down to write a note of congratulation to a relative who had found a situation. When he had written the first line, it seemed to him to read like a verse. Then he added the second line which rhymed with the first. Was it no harder than that? Then with a single effort he wrote a four-page letter in rhyme and discovered that he could write verse. Was it no harder than that? Only a few months before he had asked a friend to help him with some verses for a special occasion. He had, however, received a negative but complimentary answer, in being told not to drive in a hired carriage, when he had one of his own.
One was not then born to write verses, he said to himself, nor did one learn it, though all kinds of verse-measures were taught in school, but it came,—or did not come. It seemed to him like the working of the Holy Spirit. Had the psychical convulsion, which he had felt at his defeat as an actor, been so strong that it had turned upside down all the strata of his memories and impressions, and had the violent impulse set his imagination to work? There had doubtless been a long preparation going on. Was it not his imagination, which had conjured up pictures, when as a child he had been afraid of the dark? Had he not written essays in school and letters for years? Had he not formed his style through reading, translating and writing for the papers? Yes, he had, but it was not till now that he noticed in himself the so-called creative power of the artist.
The art of the actor was therefore not the one suited to his powers; his having thought so was a mistake which could easily be rectified. Meanwhile he must keep his authorship fairly secret and remain at the theatre till the end of the season, so that his failure as an actor might not be known, or at any rate till his piece was accepted, as it naturally would be, for he thought it good.
But he wished to make sure of it, and for that purpose invited two of his learned friends outside the theatrical circle. In the evening before they came, he arranged the lumber-room which he had hired in the doctor's house. He tidied it up, lighted two candles instead of the study lamp, covered the table with a clean cloth and set on it a punch-bowl with glass, ash-trays and matches. This was the first time he had entertained guests, and the experience was novel and strange.
The work of an author has often been compared to childbirth, and the comparison has something to justify it. He felt a kind of peace like that which follows parturition; something or some one seemed to be there which, or who, was not there before; there had been suffering and crying and now there was silence and peace. He felt in a festival mood as he used to do in the old times at home; the children were in their Sunday best, and their father in his black frock coat cast a last look round on the arrangements before the guests came.
His friends arrived and he read the piece through in silence till the end. They gave their verdict, and John was greeted by his elders as an author.
When they had gone, he fell on his knees on the floor, and thanked God for having delivered him from difficulty and bestowed on him the gift of poetry. His communion with God had been very irregular; it was a curious fact, that in cases of great necessity he rallied his powers within himself and did not cry to the Lord at all; but on joyful occasions, on the other hand, he involuntarily felt the need of at once thanking the Giver of all good. It was just the contrary to what it had been in his childhood, and that was natural since his idea of God had developed into that of the Author and Giver of all good things, whereas the God of his childhood had been a God of terror whose hand was full of misfortunes.
At last he had found his calling, his true rôle in life and his wavering character began to develop a backbone. He had a pretty good idea now of what he wanted, and this gave him at least a rudder to steer by. Now he pushed off from land to go for a long voyage, but always ready to tack when he encountered too strong a head wind,—not, however, to fall to leeward, but the next moment to luff his ship up to the wind with bellying sails.
By writing this comedy, he had now relieved himself of his domestic troubles. He next described the religious conflicts he remembered so vividly in a three-act play. This lightened the ship considerably.
His creative energy during this period was immense. He had the writing fever daily; within two months he composed two comedies and a rhymed tragedy, besides occasional verses. The tragedy was his first real "work of art," as the phrase is, for it did not deal with any of his subjective experiences. "Sinking Hellas" was the not inconsiderable theme. The composition was finished and clear, but the situations were somewhat threadbare, and there was a good deal of declamation. The only original elements in it were an austere moral tone and contempt for uncultured demagogues. Thus, for instance, he introduced an old man inveighing against the immorality and want of patriotism of the youth of the time. He made Demosthenes speak disparagingly of a demagogue, and express something of what he had felt towards the master chimney-sweep and pawnbroker on the journey to Copenhagen. The head of the Theatrical Academy also got a rap over the knuckles because he had often lamented over John's "lack of culture." The piece was aristocratic in tone, and the freedom celebrated in it was that which was the object of aspiration in the sixties,—national freedom.
Meanwhile he had sent his domestic comedy anonymously to the board of management of the Theatre Royal. While it was under consideration, he went on cheerfully with his work as supernumerary actor. "Just you wait!" he said to himself, "then my turn will come and I shall have a word to say in the matter." He was now quite cool on the stage, and felt, even when dressed as a peasant youth inWilhelm Tell, like a prince in disguise. "I am certainly no swineherd, though you may think so," he hummed to himself.
He had to wait long for an answer about his piece. At last he lost patience and revealed himself as the author to the head of the Theatrical Academy. The latter had read the piece and found talent in it, but said it could not be played. This was not a great blow for him, for he still had the tragedy in reserve. That was better received, but he was told it needed remodelling here and there.
One evening when the Academy closed, the head instructor expressed a wish to speak with John. "Now we see what you are good for," he said. "You have a fine career in front of you; why should you choose an inferior one? You can become an actor probably if you work for some years, but why toil at this thankless task? Go back to Upsala and take your degree if you can. Then become an author, for one must first have experiences in order to write well."
To become an author,—that John agreed with, and also with the suggestion that he should give up the theatre; but as for returning to Upsala,—no! He hated the university, and did not see how the useless things one learnt there could help him as an author; he rather needed to study life at first hand. But then he began to reflect, and when he considered that, at present, he could get no piece of his accepted so as to serve as a plank to save himself by, he grasped at the other straw,—Upsala. There was no disgrace in becoming a student again, and at the theatre they knew that he was not only an unsuccessful débutant, but also an author.
At the same time he learnt that there was a legacy due to him from his mother of a few hundred kronas. With them he could support himself for a half-year at the university. He went to his father, not as a prodigal son, but as a promising author, and as a creditor. There was a vehement dispute between them which ended in John receiving his legacy. He had now conceived the plan of a tragedy with the startling title "Jesus of Nazareth." It dealt in dramatic form with the life of Christ, and was intended, with one blow and once for all, to shatter the divine image and eradicate Christianity. But when he had completed some scenes, he saw that the subject-matter was too great and would demand prolonged and tedious study.
The theatrical season now approached its end. The Theatrical Academy gave their customary stage performance. John had received no rôle in it, but undertook the task of prompter. And his career as an actor closed in the prompter's box. To this was reduced his ambition of acting Karl Moor on the stage of the Great Theatre! Did he deserve this fate? Was he worse equipped for acting than the rest? That was probably not so, but the question was never decided.
In the evening after the performance, a dinner was given to the Academy pupils. John was invited and made a speech in verse in order to make his exit seem as little like a fiasco as possible. He became intoxicated, as usual, behaved foolishly and disappeared from the scene.
The Upsala of the sixties showed signs of the end and dissolution of a period which might be called the Boströmic.[1]In what relation does the philosophic system which prevails in a given period stand to the period itself? The system seems like a collection of the thoughts of the period at a particular point of time. The philosopher does not make the period, but the period makes the philosopher. He collects all the thoughts of his period and thereby exercises an influence on it, and with the close of the period his influence ends. The Boströmic philosophy had three defects; it wished to be definitely Swedish; it came too late; and it wished to outlive its period. To attempt to construct a purely Swedish philosophy was absurd, for that meant trying to break loose from the connection with the great mother-stem which grows on the Continent and only sends out seeds towards the Northern peninsula. The attempt came too late, for time is necessary to construct a system, and before the system was constructed, the period had passed. Boström, as a philosopher, was not, as it were, shot out of a cannon. All knowledge is collecting-work, and is coloured by the personality of the collector. Boström was a branch grown out of Kant and Hegel, watered by Biberg and Grubbe, and finally producing some offshoots of his own. That was all. He seems to have derived his fundamental principle from Krause's Pantheism, which itself was an attempt to unite the philosophy of Kant and Fichte with that of Schelling and Hegel. This eclecticism had been already attempted by Grubbe. Boström first studied theology, and this seemed to have a hampering effect on his mind when he wrote about speculative theology. His moral philosophy he derived from Kant. To call him an original philosopher is provincial patriotism. His influence did not reach beyond the frontiers of Sweden, nor did it outlast the sixties. His political system was already antiquated in 1865, when the students out of reverence for the philosopher, had still to declare, conformably to his textbook, that the representation of the four estates was the only reasonable one—a doctrine which was subsequently contradicted in the college lectures.
How did Boström come by such an idea? Can one draw an inference from the accidental circumstance that he, a poor man's son from Norrland, came into too close touch with King John and his court, in his capacity of tutor to the princes? Could the philosopher escape the common lot of generalising incertainrespects, from his own predilections and current time-sanctioned ideas? Probably not. Boström as an idealist was subjective—so subjective that he denied reality an independent existence, declaring that, "to be is to be perceived (by men)." The world of phenomena therefore, according to him, exists only in and through our perceptions. The error of the deduction was overlooked, and it was a double one. The system rested on an unproved assumption, and had to be corrected; it is true that the phenomenal world only exists for its through our perception, but that does not prevent its existing for itself without our perception. In fact science has demonstrated that the earth already existed with a very high degree of organic life, before any one was there to perceive it.
Boström broke with ecclesiastical Christianity, but, like Kant and the later evolutionist philosophers, retained Christian morality. Kant had been arrested in the bold progress of his thought by a want of psychological knowledge, and had simply laid down as axioms the categorical imperative and the practical postulate. The moral law, which depends on the epoch and changes with it, received in his system quite a Christian colouring as God's command. Boström was still "under the law"; he judged the moral worth or baseness of an action simply by its motives; according to him the only satisfactory motive is that regard for the spiritual nature of duty which is revealed in conscience. But there are as many consciences as there are religions and races; therefore his moral system was quite sterile.
Boström's importance for theological development only consisted in his coming forward against Bishop Beckman in the discussion regarding the doctrine of hell (1864), although that doctrine had recently been rejected by the cultivated with the assistance of the rationalists. On the other hand Boström was obstructive in his pamphletsThe Irresponsibility and Divine Right of the KingandAre the Estates of the Realm Justified in Resolving on and Carrying Out the Change in the So-called (!) Representation of the People? (1865).
In his capacity as an idealist, Boström is, for the present generation, not only without significance, but positively reactionary. He is nothing but a necessary link in the worthless reactionary philosophy which followed with such fatal obscurantism the "illuminative" philosophy of the eighteenth century. He has lived and is dead. Peace to his ashes!
Literature ought to be another barometer for testing the atmosphere of any given period. And in order to be that, it must be free to deal with the questions of that period; but this, the then prevailing æsthetic theories forbade.
Poetry ought to be and was (according to Boström) a recreation like the other fine arts. Under such a theory and influenced by the prevalent idolatry of the "ego," poetry became merely lyrical, expressing the poet's small personal feelings and inclination, and reflecting therefore only some of the features of the period, and those perhaps, not the most important. Only two names in the poetry of the sixties were of importance—Snoilsky and Björck. Snoilsky was "awake," to use a pietistic expression, Björck was dead. Both were born poets, as the saying is; that is to say, their talents showed themselves earlier than usual. Both attained distinction while still at school, early won honour and renown, and by birth and position were enabled to view life from its sunny heights. Snoilsky, without knowing it, was under the power of the spirit of the new age. Freed from the fear of hell and monkish morality, experiencing the retrenchment of his privileges as a nobleman, he gave free play both to mind and body. In his first poems he was a revolutionary and praised the cap of liberty; he preached the emancipation of the flesh and had a certain dislike to over-culture as a conventional restraint. But as a poet, he did not escape the poet's tragic destiny—not to be taken seriously. Poetry in the eyes of the public, was simply poetry, and Snoilsky was a poet. Björck had a mind which was not capable of receiving strong impressions. At peace with himself, languid, complete from the beginning, he lived his life sunk in his own reflections or noticed only the trifling events of the outer world and described them neatly and correctly. In the opinion of the great majority who live the peaceful life of automata his poetry shows a remarkable degree of philanthropy. But why does not this philanthropy extend itself further to large circles of men, and to humanity at large? In the writer's opinion Björck's philanthropy does not extend beyond the limits of the personal quiet which the individual attains when he ignores the duties of social life. He is satisfied with the world because the world has been kind to him; he avoids strife because it disturbs his own serenity. Björck is an example of the fortunate man whose life is not in conflict with his upbringing, but who rather builds up stone by stone, on the foundation already laid; everything proceeds in a workmanlike way by level and rule; the house is finished, as it was designed, without the plan undergoing any alteration. Stunted by domestic tyranny, tasting early the sweets of homage and reverence, he ceased to grow. He accepted Boström's compromise with Christianity without examining it, and in doing so, he had finished his life-work. His poetry is especially praised for its purity and spiritual character. What is this "purity" which in our days is so sharply contrasted with the sensual? The secret is, that he did not get her; just as Dante's heavenly love for Beatrice was due to the same involuntary cause. Björck therefore sang of the unattainable with the quiet melancholy of unsatisfied love. But that, however, is no virtue, and purity should be a virtue.
In short, Björck and Snoilsky sang of water and drank wine, and in this were just the opposite to the poets of our time, who are said to sing of wine and drink water. A poet's life always seems to be at variance with his teachings. Why? Is it that, in composing, he wishes to escape from his own personality, and find another? Is it a wish to disguise himself? Or is it modesty, the fear of giving himself away, and of self-exposure? This is a weighty problem for future psychologists to unravel.
Björck composed poems both for the reformation of the constitution in 1865, and for the restoration to power of the King. He saw harmony everywhere, and when he celebrated the restored union between Sweden and Norway in 1864, he was extremely melodious. He also praised Abraham Lincoln; negro-emancipation and white slavery—that is the ideal of freedom of the Holy Alliance! Revolution certainly, but legal revolution by the will of God! Well, he knew no better, and few did at that time. Therefore we do not judge the man but only his work, the motives inspiring which are a matter of indifference to posterity.
Young men read these poets, many of them with great edification. They proclaimed no new era, but prophesied after the event that now the millennium was come, the ideal realised, and lines of demarcation obliterated once for all. They looked with satisfaction on their creations, rubbed their hands, and found them all good. An atmosphere of peace had spread itself over the whole of Upsala and its neighbourhood; now one might sleep till Doomsday was the belief of old and young. But then discordant sounds began to be heard, and in the days of universal peace fire-beacons began to be seen on the neighbouring mountain-tops. From Norway open water was signalled and the revolving lights were kindled. Rome captured Greece, but Greece re-captured Rome. Sweden had captured Norway, but now Norway re-captured Sweden. Lorenz Dietrichson was appointed as professor at the university of Upsala in 1861, and he was the forerunner of Norwegian influence. He made Sweden acquainted with Danish and Norwegian literature, then almost unknown, and founded the literary society which produced poets like Snoilsky and Björck.
After Norway had broken loose from the Danish monarchy and had ceased to be a branch of the head office in Copenhagen, it was not grafted into Sweden but retreated into itself. At the same time it opened direct communication with the continent. Its awakening to independence was coincident with a strong stream of foreign influence. It was Björnson who first roused Norway to self-consciousness; but when this degenerated into a narrow patriotism, Ibsen came with the pruning shears.
As the strife became fiercer and Christiania would not lend itself to be a field of battle, the conflict was transferred to hospitable Sweden. The Norwegian wine was well adapted for exportation; pamphlets grew in size as they travelled and in Sweden became literature. Thoughts came to the top and personalities settled at the bottom of the vessel. Ibsen and Björnson broke into Sweden; Tidemand and Gude took prizes in the art exhibition of 1866; Kierulf and Nordraak were authorities in singing and music. Then came Ibsen'sBrand. This had appeared in 1866, but John did not see it till 1869. It made a deep impression on the primitive Christian side of him, but it was gloomy and severe. The final utterance in it regarding "Deus caritatis" was not satisfying, and the poet seemed to have had too much sympathy with his hero to have described his overthrow with cold irony.
Brandgave John a good deal of trouble. He (Brand) had dropped Christianity but kept its stern ascetic morality; he demanded obedience for his old doctrines though they were no more practicable; he despised the tendency of the time towards humanity and compromise, but ended by recommending the God of compromise. Brand was a fanatic, a pietist, who dared to believe himself right against the whole world, and John felt himself related to this terrible egoist who was wrong besides. No half-measures! go straight on; break down everything that stands in the way, for you only are right! John's tender conscience, which suffered at every step he took lest it should vex his father or friends, was stupefied by Brand. All ties of consideration and of love should be torn asunder for the sake of "the cause." That John was no longer a pietist was a piece of good fortune, otherwise he too would have been overwhelmed by the avalanche.[2]But Brand gave him a belief in a conscience which was purer than that which education had given him, and a law which was higher than conventional law. And he needed this iron backbone in his weak back, for he had long periods during which by fits and starts and out of mildness he thought himself wrong, and the first who came, right; therefore, he was also very easily misled. Brand was the last Christian who followed an old ideal, therefore he could be 110 pattern for one who felt a vague inclination to revolt against all old ideals.
Brandafter all was a fine plant, but without any roots in its own period; and, therefore, it belonged to the herbarium. Then camePeer Gynt. This was rather obscure than deep and had its value as an antidote against the national self-love. The fact that Ibsen was neither banished nor persecuted after having said such bitter things against the proud Norwegians, shows that in Norway they were more honourable fighters than the Swedes afterwards showed themselves to be.
Ibsen was at that time regarded as a misanthrope and as an enemy and envier of Björnson. People were divided into two camps, and the dispute as to which of the two was the greater was endless, for it concerned an artistic problem—"contents or form."
The influence of Norwegian on Swedish poetry has been great and partly beneficent, but there was a peculiarly Norwegian element in it, which was not adaptable to Sweden, a land with quite another development. In the sequestered valleys of Norway there lived a people who, under the pressure of need and poverty, found ready to their hand in the Christian doctrine of renunciation an ascetic philosophy which promised heaven as a compensation for earth's hardships. Nature in her most gloomy and parsimonious aspect, a damp climate, long winters, great distances between the villages,—all co-operated to preserve an austere mediæval type of Christianity. There is something which may be said to resemble insanity in the Norwegian character, of the same kind as the English "spleen;" and possibly the intimate relations of Norway with the hypochondriacal islanders may have impressed traces on its civilisation. In Jonas Lie'sClair-voyantthis melancholy is depleted, and in it one finds the same weird atmosphere as in the Icelandic sagas, and the theme also is similar,—the struggle of the spirit against physical darkness and cold. There we have depicted the tragic lot of the Norseman banished from sunny lands to gloomy wildernesses, and seeking relief by emigration, the ethnographical significance of which has been overlooked in view of its economical aspect. The Norwegian character is the result of many hundred years of tyranny, of injustice, of hard struggling for a livelihood, of want of gladness.
Swedish literature should have avoided absorbing these national peculiarities, but they have made it half-Norwegian. Brand still haunts Swedish literature with his ideal demands, with which the romanticised and cheerful Swede cannot sincerely sympathise. Therefore this foreign garb suits him so badly; therefore modern Swedish music sounds so unharmonious, like an echo of the violins of Hardanger, tuned over again by Grieg; therefore the talk of greater moral purity sounds discordant in the mouth of the vivacious Swede. He has not suffered from long oppression and does not need to seek himself in the past; melancholy has not so beset him in his open flat land of lakes and rivers, and therefore a sour mien becomes him ill.
When the Swedes received great and novel ideas by way of Norway or direct from the Continent through Ibsen and Björnson, they should have kept the kernel and thrown away the Norwegian husk. Even theDoll's Houseis Norwegian. Nora is related to the Icelandic women who wished to set up a matriarchate; she belongs to the weird imperious women inHärmännenwho again are pure Norse. In them the emotions have become frozen or distorted by centuries of cognate marriages.
The whole Swedish literature of feminism is ultra-Norwegian; it contains the same immodest demands on the man and petting of the spoilt woman. Several young authors have introduced the Norwegian style into Swedish; one authoress has placed the scene of her book in Norway, and made her hero talk Norwegian! Further one could not go!
Let us welcome foreign influence which is cosmopolitan; but not Norwegian, for that is provincial, and we have plenty of the same kind ourselves.
So John found himself again in Upsala,—the same Upsala from which he had fled nine months before, and to which he most unwillingly returned. To be compelled to a course which he did not wish always made him feel as though he were encountering a personal foe, who cajoled him out of his wishes and antipathies, and forced him to bend. Since he still believed himself under God's personal providence, he accepted that as though it were for his best. Later on he had a feeling that there was a malignant power; this developed into the belief that there were two ruling powers, one good, one evil, which divided the empery, or ruled alternately.
He asked himself again, "What have you to do here?" To take his degree, but especially to cover his retreat from the theatre. Privately he wished to write a play, and, under the screen of its success, wriggle out of the examination.
At first he was not at all comfortable in his lonely attic. He had become accustomed to luxury, a large room, a good table, attendance and society. After having been habituated to be treated as a man and to have intercourse with older and cultivated people, he found himself again in a state of pupilage as a student. But he cast himself into the crowd and soon found himself on social terms with three distinct circles. The first consisted of friends whom he met by day, who were students of medicine and natural history and atheists. From them he heard for the first time the name of Darwin; but it passed by him like a doctrine for which he was not yet ripe. His evening society consisted of a priest and a lawyer with whom he played cards till deep in the night. He considered himself now in Upsala merely to grow and get older, and that it was a matter of indifference what he did, as long as he killed the time. He drew up the scheme of a new tragedy, Eric XIV, but found it poor, and burnt it, for his faculty of self-criticism had awakened and was severer in its demands.
Later on in the term he entered a third society, which formed his special circle during the whole of his time at Upsala and for a long while afterwards. One evening he chanced to meet a young companion with whom he had been a pupil at the private school. They discussed literature, and over a glass of toddy made the plan of forming some young poets into a club for literary work. The plan was carried out. Besides John and the other founder of the club, four young students were elected to it. They were fine young fellows of an idealist turn of mind, as the saying is, with high purposes and enthusiastic for vague ideals. They had not yet come into contact with the hard realities of life; they had all well-to-do parents, no cares, and knew nothing at all of the struggle for a subsistence. John, on the other hand, had just left the most unpleasant surroundings; he had seen people who were always ready to quarrel, conceited, empty-headed pupils of the Theatrical Academy. Here he found himself transplanted into an entirely new world. There were these happy youths going to their well-supplied tables, smoking fine cigars, taking walks, and poetising beautifully over the beauty of life which they knew nothing of.
Rules were drawn up for the club, which received the name "Runa,"i.e. "song." The choice of this title was probably due to the Northern renaissance which came in with the Scandinavian movement. Its chief ornaments were Karl XV in poetry, Winge and Malmström in painting, and Molin in sculpture. Recently it had been quickened by Björnson's and Ibsen's dramas on subjects from the old Norse life. The study of Icelandic, which had been newly introduced into the university, also lent strength to this movement.
The number of members of the club was not to exceed nine; each of them was known by a Runic sign. John was called "Frö" and the other founder of the club, "Ur." Every variety of opinion was represented. Ur was a great patriot and venerated Sweden with its memories. In his opinion it had the most brilliant history in Europe, and had always been free. For the rest he was a practically minded man with a special faculty for statistics, politics, and biography; he was a severe and clever critic, and also managed the affairs of the club. He was a reliable friend, good company, helpful and hearty. Secondly, there was a full-blooded romanticist who read Heine and drank absinthe—a sensitive youth enthusiastic for all old ideals, but especially for Heine. There was also a seraph who sang of the indescribably little, especially the happiness of childhood; fourthly, a silent worshipper of nature, and, lastly, an eclectic philosopher and improvisator, who had an extraordinary faculty for improvising in any style whatever, when requested. Two minutes after he had been asked, he would stand up and speak or sing on the spur of the moment in the character of Anacreon, Horace, the Edda, or any one else, and even in foreign languages.
The first meeting of the club was at Thurs', who was lodged the most comfortably in two rooms and had the best pipes. As one of the founders of the club John first of all read his prologue, which, according to the rules of the society, had to be in verse. It began by asking after the ancient bard Brage and his harp which was now silent. Brage represented the new Norse element, the resuscitation of which was believed necessary. The whole programme of the idealists was called "a trivial striving." All the great efforts of their contemporaries after reality and for the improvement of the conditions of life was "trivial." The spirit was taken prisoner in matter, and therefore all that was material was to be regarded as the enemy. Such was the teaching of the romanticists, and of John's prologue. Then the poet went out into nature, listened to the bells of the cathedral, the wind, the pines, and the singing of the birds in order to ask the very natural question: "Nature sings; why should I then be silent?" He resolved to be no longer silent but to sing,—about the joyous youthful spring-time of life, its autumn, and about love to one's native soil. Then (he said) came the wise man with the frozen heart, took his song, dissected it and found that it was all nonsense. Thus the song was killed by "overwiseness."
It is not easy to say exactly now what John meant by "overwiseness" in 1870. He probably had simply forebodings of future critics, and the "wise man" was no other than the reviewer. Then he inveighed against the wretched mercenary souls who worship the golden calf but do not love songs. This had no connection with contemporary matters, for the sixties were remarkable for bad harvests and consequently for want of gold. The swindles by company-promoters began with the seventies. But it was the custom of the contemporary poets to attack money and the golden calf, and therefore John did so in his prologue. Now began a life of poetic idleness. Every evening they met either in a restaurant, or in each other's rooms. But the time was not wasted in view of his future authorship. John could borrow books from the well-stocked libraries of his friends, and the interchange of opinions accustomed him to look at literature from different points of view. But for them real life, public interests, contemporary politics did not exist; they lived in dreams. Sometimes his lower-class consciousness awoke, and he asked himself what he had to do among these rich youths. But he soon stilled these scruples by drink and talk, and encouraged himself to go forward and demand something of life, for he had in his companions' opinion a good chance.
His room was a wretched one; the rain came through the roof, and he had no proper bed, but only a plank-bed, which in the day-time served as a sofa. When time hung heavily on his hands and he grew weary of poetical discussions he looked up his old school-fellow, the natural history student. There he looked through the microscope, and heard of Darwin and the new scientific views. His friend gave him well-meant practical advice and recommended him to get out of his difficulties by writing a one-act play in verse for the Theatre Royal.
John objected that his dramatic talent had not scope enough in one act, and said that he would rather write a tragedy in five.
"Yes, but it is harder to get that accepted," replied his friend. Finally he let himself be persuaded and determined to carry out a small idea he had of a short play based on Thorwaldson's first visit to Rome. His friend lent him books on Italy and John set to work. In fourteen days the piece was ready.
"That will be acted," said his friend. "It has dramatic points, you see."
Since it was still a long time to the next meeting of the club, John hastened in the evening to Thurs and Rejd and read the piece to them. They were both of the same opinion as the natural history student, that the piece would be performed. They had a champagne supper, and kept drinking till the morning, and then went to sleep on the floor of Rejd's room with the punch-glasses by them. In a couple of hours they awoke, finished their half-empty glasses at sunrise and went out to continue the celebration of the occasion.
The sympathy of John's friends was hearty, unselfish and warm, without a trace of envy. He always remembered with pleasure this first success as one of the brightest recollections of his youth. The enthusiastic, devoted Rejd increased Hohn's debt of gratitude by copying out the piece in his graceful hand-writing. Then it was sent to the board of management of the Theatre Royal. Spring arrived and they spent the month of May in a continual carouse. The club had a small room in the restaurant Lilia Förderfvet for their evening suppers. There they talked, made speeches, and drank enormously. At last the term ended and they had to part, but they arranged to meet once more at Stockholm, and celebrate the festival day of the club by an excursion into the country.
At six o'clock one June morning the four members of the club met at Skeppsholm, where they had hired a rowing-boat. The chest of the club, a card-board box containing documents, was stowed away with baskets of provisions and bottles of wine. After Os and Rejd had taken the oars, they steered the boat to the canal leading through the Zoological Gardens, in order to reach the place they had appointed, a promontory of Liding Island. Thurs played airs on the flute to Bellmann's songs, and Frö (John) accompanied him on a guitar which he had learnt to play at Upsala.
As soon as they landed, breakfast was laid in a meadow by the shore. The club-chest adorned with leaves and flowers was set in the middle of the table-cloth, and on it were set the brandy-bottles and glasses. John, who had studied antiquities for his play,Sinking Hellas, arranged the meal in the Greek style, so that they wore garlands, and ate reclining. A fire was lit between some stones and coffee was made. At nine o'clock in the morning they drank brandy and punch.
John read his drama,The Free-thinker, which was duly criticised. Then they gave full course to their eloquence. Thurs was the best speaker; he could express emotions and thoughts rhythmically. Poems were read and received with applause. John sang folk-songs to the accompaniment of his guitar, some on sentimental subjects, and some on improper ones. At noon they were still in high spirits but inclined to be sleepy.
In the afternoon when the sun was over Lilia Värtan they had a short sleep, and then the carouse passed into a new phase. Thurs, the Israelite, had recited a poem on the greatness of the North, and called on the old gods of Scandinavia. Ur, the patriot, denied him the right to appropriate other people's gods. The Jewish question came up; they took fire and nearly quarrelled, but ended by embracing.
Then began the sentimental stage. They had to weep, for alcohol has this effect on the membranes of the stomach and the lachrymal duets. Ur first felt this and unconsciously sought for a melancholy subject. He burst into tears. When asked why, he did not know, but said at last that he had been treated as a buffoon, which he always was. He declared that he had a very serious nature and that he also had great troubles which no one knew about, but now he unburdened his heart and told us a domestic story. After he had done so, he became cheerful again.
But the evening was long and they began to wish to go home. Their brains were empty; they were tired of each other, and weary of play and drinking. They began to reflect and examine the philosophy of intoxication. From whence do men derive this desire to make themselves senseless? What lies behind it? Is it the southern exile's longing for a lost sunny existence in northern lands? There must be some felt necessity underlying intoxication, for a vice like this would not have laid hold of all mankind without reason. Is it that the member of society in a state of intoxication throws away all the lies of society? For the laws of social intercourse involuntarily forbid one to speak out all one's thoughts. Otherwise whence comes the saying,In vino veritas? Why did the Greeks honour Bacchus as one who improved men and manners? Why did Dionysus love peace, and why was he said to increase riches? Has wine, which is chiefly drunk by men, some influence on the development of man's intelligence and activity, so that he becomes superior to woman? And why do the Muhammadans who drink no wine stand on what is regarded as a lower level of civilisation? As salt is used as a daily nutrient to replace the salts which their hunting forefathers found in the blood of beasts of the chase, does not wine compensate for some lost nutritive matter belonging to earlier stages, and, if so, which? Some idea or necessity must underlie so singular a custom.