Perhaps the need of losing consciousness justifies the axiom of the pessimists that consciousness is the beginning of suffering. Wine makes one naive and unconscious as a child; or even as an animal. Is it the lost paradise which one wishes to recover? But the remorse which follows it? Remorse and acidity of the stomach have the same symptoms. Is there then a confusion, and are sensations called "remorse" which are only heart-burn? Or does the drinker returned to consciousness regret that he has exposed himself by daylight and betrayed his secrets? There is something to feel remorse for in that! He is ashamed that he has been taken by surprise, he feels afraid because he has exposed himself and given away his weapons. Remorse and fear are close neighbours.
Yet once more the members of the club drowned their consciousness in drink and then got into the boat to proceed home. John and Thurs began a dispute about Bellmann[3]which lasted till they reached Skeppsholm, and closed with sharp remarks on both sides.
John had an old grudge against this poet. Once as a child, he had been ill for a whole summer, and had by chance taken Bellmann'sFredman's Epistlesout of his father's book-case. The book seemed to him silly, but he was too young to form a well-grounded opinion on it. Later on, it sometimes happened that his father sat at the piano, and hummed Bellmann's songs. The boy found it incomprehensible that his father and uncle admired them so much. Subsequently one Christmas he saw a violent controversy break out between his mother and his uncle on the subject of Bellmann. The latter set the poet above everything—Bible, sermons and all. There were depths, he said, in Bellmann. Depths indeed! Probably Atterbom's romanticist one-sided criticism had filtered through the daily papers to the middle classes. As a school-boy and student, John had sung "Up, Amaryllis" and other idylls of Bellmann's, naturally without understanding them or thinking of the meaning of the words. He sang in a quartette, or choir, for it sounded well. Finally, in 1867, he read Ljunggren's lectures and a light broke upon him, but not one of Ljunggren's kindling. He thought the latter mad. Bellmann was a ballad-singer, that was true, but a great poet, the greatest poet of the North?—impossible!
Bellmann had sung his songs composed on the French model for the Court and his own friends, but not for the common people, who would not have understood "Amaryllis," "Eol," "The Tritons," "Fröja" and all the rococo stock-in-trade. He died and was forgotten. Why had he been disinterred by Atterbom? Because the pugnacious romantic school required an embodiment of irregularity to set up against the classicists, as they had nothing of their own to boast of. Thus the romantic school gained the day; and when one considers how cowardly most people are in the face of public opinion, and the tendency of the middle-class to ape its superiors and reverence authority, one ceases to be surprised at the elevation of Bellmann. Ljunggren and Eichhorn outstripped Atterbom in finding beauty and genius in his writings they were reinforced by the clerical element, and thus the idol was set up for worship. Bystrom, the sculptor, had already magnified the little lottery-secretary and court-poet into a Dionysus and lent him the features of an antique bust of Bacchus.
Bellmann's idylls are careless, extemporised compositions with forced rhymes, and as disconnected as the thoughts in the brain of a drunkard. One does not know whether it is day or night, the thunder rolls in the sunshine, and the weaves beat while the boat is floating calmly on the waters. They simply provide a text for music, and for that purpose one might use a book of addresses. The meaning of the words does not matter, as long as they sound well.
According to his custom Thurs took the matter personally. It was an attack on his good taste and on his honour, for John said that his admiration of Bellmann was mere humbug; that he had read himself into it, and that it was not genuine. Thurs on the other hand declared John to be presumptuous, because he wished to criticise the greatest Swedish poet.
"Prove that he is the greatest," said John.
"Tegner and Atterbom say so."
"That is no proof."
"Simply because you have a spirit of contradiction."
"Doubt is the beginning of certainty, and absurd assertions must arouse opposition in a healthy brain."
And so on.
Although there is no such thing as a judgment which holds good universally, since every judgment is individualistic, there are, on the other hand, judgments of a majority and of a party. By means of these John was suppressed and kept silence on the subject of Bellmann for many years. Only when later on the old historian Fryxell proved that Bellmann was not the apostle of sobriety which Eichhorn and Ljunggren had made him out to be, and also no god, but a mediocre ballad-singer, did John see a gleam of hope that his individual opinion might become some day the opinion of the majority. But he already saw the question from another point of view; Sweden would have been neither unhappier nor worse, if Bellmann had never lived. He would like to have said to the patriots and democrats, "Bellmann was a poet of Stockholm and of the Court, who jested very cruelly with poor people." He would like to have said to the Good Templars who sang Bellmann's songs, "You are singing drinking songs which were written during fits of intoxication and celebrate drink." For his own part, John held that Bellmann's songs were pleasant to sing because of the light French melodies which accompanied them, and as for their French morality it did not vex him at all—quite the contrary. But earlier, at the age of twenty-one, he was vexed by it, for he was an idealist and desired purity in poetry, just as the surviving idealists and admirers of Bellmann do at the present time.
These have used the word "humour" to save themselves and their morality. But what do they mean by "humour"? Is it jest or earnest? What is jest? The reluctance of the cowardly to speak out his mind? Humour reflects the double nature of man,—the indifference of the natural man to conventional morality, and the Christian's sigh over immorality which is after all so enticing and seductive. Humour speaks with two tongues,—one of the satyr, the other of the monk. The humorist lets the mænad loose, but for old unsound reasons thinks that he ought to flog her with rods. This is a transitional form of humour which is passing away, and already at the last gasp. The greatest modern writers have thrown away the rod, and play the hypocrite no longer, but speak their minds plainly out. The old tippler's sentimentality can no longer count for "a good heart," for it has been discovered to be merely bad nerves.
After arguing till they were weary, the members of the club landed in Stockholm harbour.
[1]Boström: Swedish Philosopher (1797-1866).
[1]Boström: Swedish Philosopher (1797-1866).
[2]Videthe end ofBrand.
[2]Videthe end ofBrand.
[3]Famous Swedish poet.
[3]Famous Swedish poet.
The history of the development of a soul can be sometimes written by giving a simple bibliography; for a man who lives in a narrow circle and never meets great men personally, seeks to make their acquaintance through books. The fact that the same books do not make the same impression, nor have the same effect upon all, shows their relative powerlessness to convert anybody. For example, we call the criticism with which we agree good; the criticism which contradicts our views is bad. Thus we seem to be educated with preconceived views, and the book which strengthens, expresses and develops these makes an impression on us. The danger of a one-sided education through books is that most books, especially those composed at the end of an era, and at the university, are antiquated. The youth who has received old ideals from his parents and teachers is accordingly necessarily out of date before his education is completed. When he enters manhood, he is generally obliged to fling away his whole stock of old ideas, and be born again, as it were. Time has gone by him, while he was reading the old books, and he finds himself a stranger among his contemporaries.
John had spent his youth in accumulating antiquarian lore. He knew all about Marathon and Cannae, the war of the Spanish succession and the Thirty Years' War, the Middle Ages and antiquity; but when the war between France and Germany broke out, he did not know the cause of it. He read about it as he would have read a play, and was interested to see what the result of it would be.
In Kristineberg, where he spent the summer with his parents, he lay out on the grass in the park and read Oehlenschläger. For his degree examination, he had, besides his chief subject—æsthetics,—to choose a special one, and, enticed by Dietrichson's lectures, he had chosen Danish literature. In Oehlenschläger he had found the summit of Northern poetry. That was for him the quintessence of poetry,—the directness which he admired perhaps for the very reason that he had not got it. The Danish language perhaps also contributed to this result; it seemed to him an idealised Swedish, and sounded like his mother-speech from the lips of a woman worshipped from afar. When he read Oehlenschläger'sHelge, Tegner'sFrithiof's Sagaseemed to him petty; he found it unwieldy, prosaic, clerical, unpoetic.
Oehlenschläger's dramas were a book which had an influence on John by way of a supplementary contrast. Perhaps the romantic element in them found an echo in the youth's mind, which had now awoken* to poetic activity, and looked upon poetry and romance as identical. Other contributory circumstances were his liking for Norse antiquities which Oehlenschläger had just discovered, and the unrequited love he had just then for a blond maiden who was engaged to a lieutenant. But the impression made by Oehlenschläger was only fleeting, and hardly lasted a year; it was a light spring breeze which passed by.
It fared worse with John's study of æsthetics as expounded by Ljunggren in two closely printed volumes, containing the views of all philosophers on the Beautiful, but giving no satisfactory definition of it.
John had studied the antique in the National Museum, and asked himself how the pot-house scenes of the Dutch genre painters which, when they occurred in reality, were called ugly, could be reckoned among beautiful pictures, although they were in no way idealised. To this the æsthetic philosophers gave no answer. They shirked the question and set up one theory after another, but the only excuse they could find for the admission of ugliness was that it acted as a foil, and provided a comic element. But a strong suspicion had been aroused in John that the "Beautiful" was not always beautiful.
Furthermore, he was troubled by doubts whether it was possible to have independent standards of taste. In the newly-founded paper, theSchwedische Zeitschrift, he had read discussions about works of art, and seen how disputants on both sides defended their position with equally strong arguments. One sought beauty in form, another in subject, and a third in the harmony between the two. Accordingly a well-painted subject from still life can rank higher than the Niobe, for this group of statuary is not beautiful in its outlines, the arrangement of the drapery of the principal figure being especially tasteless although the judgment of the majority regards the work as sublime. Therefore the sublime does not necessarily consist in beauty of form.
Victor Hugo's romances had found a fertile soil in John's mind. The revolt against society; the reverence paid to Nature by the poet living on a lonely island; the scorn for the ever-prevalent stupidity; the indignation against formal religion and the enthusiasm for God as the Creator of all,—all that was germinating in the young man's mind began to grow, but was stifled by the autumn leaf-drifts of old books.
John's life in the domestic circle was now a quiet one. The storms had subsided; his brothers and sisters were grown up. His father, who still always sat over his account-ledgers, calculating the ways and means of providing for his flock of children, had become older, and now perceived that John was also older. They often discussed together topics of common interest. As regards the Franco-German War they were both fairly neutral. As Latinised Teutons they did not love the German. They hated and feared him as a sort of uncle with a right of seniority against the Swedes, and they did not forget that victorious Prussia had once been a Swedish province. The Swede had become more French than he was aware, and now he felt conscious of his relationship tola grande nation. In the evenings when they sat in the garden and the noise of traffic had ceased, they heard the singing of the Marseillaise from Blanch's café, and the hurrahs which were soon to be silent.
In August, when the theatres re-opened, John received the long-desired news that his play had been accepted for the stage. That was the first intoxicating success which he had experienced. To have a play accepted at the Theatre Royal when he was only twenty-one was sufficient compensation for all his misfortunes. His words would reach the public from the first stage in the land; his failure as an actor would be forgotten; his father would see that his son amid all his notorious fluctuations had chosen right, and all would be well. In autumn, before the university term began, the piece was performed. It was naive, pious and full of reverence for art, but had one dramatic scene which saved it in spite of its slightness—Thorwaldsen about to shatter the statue of Jason with his hammer. But on the other hand the piece contained a presumptuous outburst against contemporary rhymers. What was the author's intention in that? How could a beginner who had so many forced rhymes himself, cast a stone at another? It was a piece of temerity which found its own punishment. John stole to the bottom of the third row of seats to view the performance of his piece from a standing position. Rejd was already there before him and the curtain was up. John felt as though he stood under an electric machine. Every nerve quivered, his legs shook, and his tears ran the whole time from pure nervousness. Rejd had to hold his hand in order to quiet him. Now and then there was applause, but John knew that it was mostly from his relatives and friends, and did not let himself be deceived. Every stupidity which had inadvertently escaped him now jarred on his ear, and made him quiver; he saw nothing but crudeness in the piece; he felt so ashamed that his ears burned; before the curtain fell he rushed away out into the dark market-place.
He felt as though annihilated. The attack on the priests was stupid and unjust; the glorification of poverty and pride seemed to him false, his description of the relationship between father and son was cynical. How could he have shown off in this absurd way? It seemed to him as though he had exposed his nakedness, and shame overpowered every other feeling.
On the other hand he found the actors good; themise en scènewas more appropriate than he had expected. Everything was good except the piece itself. He wandered down to the Norrstrom, and felt inclined to drown himself. What most annoyed him was that he had so openly exhibited his feelings. Whence came that? And why should one in general be ashamed of such exhibitions? Why are the feelings so sacred? Perhaps because the feelings in general are false, as they only express a physical sensation, in which personality of the individual does not fully participate. If it is really so, then John was ashamed as an ordinary man, to have been untruthful in his writing and to have worn disguise.
To be moved at the sight of human suffering is regarded as a mark of fine feeling and meritorious, but it is said to be only a natural reflex-movement. One involuntarily transfers the sufferings of the other to oneself and suffers for one's own sake. Another's tears could bring one to weep just as another's yawning could make one yawn. That was all. John felt ashamed that he had lied and caught himself in the act, though the public had not caught him.
No one is such a merciless critic as a dramatist who sees his own play acted. He lets no single word pass through his sieve. He does not lay the blame on the actors, but generally admires them for rendering his stupidities with such taste. John found his play stupid. It had lain by for half a year, and perhaps he had outgrown it. Another piece was performed after it which lasted for two hours. During the whole time he wandered about the streets in the darkness, feeling ashamed of himself. He had made an appointment to drink a glass with some friends and relatives after the performance in the Hôtel du Nord, but remained away. He saw they were looking for him but did not wish to meet them. So they went in again to see the second play. At last it was over. The spectators streamed out and dispersed through the streets. He hastened away in order not to hear their comments.
At last he saw a single group standing under the portico of the dramatic theatre. They were looking out in all directions and called him. Finally he came forward as pale and melancholy as a corpse.
They congratulated him on his success. The play had been applauded and was very good. They repeated to him the verdicts of other spectators and quieted him. Then they dragged him to a restaurant and compelled him to eat and drink. "That will do you good, you old death's-head!" said a shop-assistant. John was soon pulled down from his imaginative flight. "What have you got to be melancholy for," he was asked, "when you have had a play acted by the Theatre Royal?" He could not tell them. His boldest ambition was fulfilled; but it was probably not what he wanted. The thought that in any case it was an honour did not comfort him.
The next morning he went into a shop, and bought the morning paper and read a criticism to the effect that the piece was written in choice language, and (since it was anonymous) probably by a well-known art-critic who had moved among artistic circles at Rome. That was pleasant and cheered his spirits.
At noon he started for Upsala. His father had engaged a room for him in a boarding-house, kept by the widow of a clergyman, that he might complete his studies under proper supervision.
John's entrance into the boarding-house secured for him intercourse with a large and varied circle,—perhaps too varied. There were students of all ages, of all subjects, and from all districts, from clergymen who were reading for their last examination to young medical and law students. There were also ladies in the house, and John was for the eighth time in love. Again the object of his affections was unattainable, being engaged to another. The variety of this social intercourse overloaded his brain with impressions from all circles; his personality became relaxed and distracted through the self-adaptation and compromises with other people's views which are necessary in society. Besides this a great deal of drinking went on nearly every evening. On one of the first days after his arrival appeared a criticism of his play in one of the evening papers. It was very sharp but just, and therefore hit John hard. He felt stripped and seen through. The critic said that the author had concealed his insignificant personality behind a great name—Thorwaldsen—but that the disguise did not avail him and so on. John felt altogether bankrupt. In such cases one tries to defend oneself, and he compared his own with other bad plays, which the same severe critic had praised. He felt treated unjustly, and indeed when compared with others it was so, but not when he was regarded by himself alone. The fact that the critic was worse did not make his piece better.
John became shy and averse to company. This was increased by the students' club starting a paper in which they made merry over him and his play. He fancied he saw grimaces and contempt everywhere, and went preferably by back streets on his walks.
Then there came a yet severer blow. A friend had, on his own account, published one of John's first plays,—theFree-thinker. While he was spending an evening with Rejd an acquaintance brought in the hated evening paper. It contained a scathing article on the play, which was mocked at and cut to pieces. John was obliged to read the article in the presence of his friends. He had, against his will, to admit that the critic was not unjust, but it upset him terribly.
Why is it so hard to hear the truth from others, while at the same time one can be so severe against oneself? Probably because the social masquerade in which we all take part makes every one fear being unmasked, probably also because responsibility and unpleasantness are involved in it. One feels oneself overreached and cheated. The critic who sits at ease and unmasks others would feel himself equally scourged and exposed if his secrets were betrayed. Social life is honeycombed with falsity, but who likes to be discovered? That is why at times of solitude, when the past rises up unescapably, we do not feel remorse for our faults, but for our follies and necessary cruelties. Mistakes were necessary and had some use, but follies were merely injurious and should have been avoided. It is for this reason that men pay greater honour to intelligence than to morality, for the former is a reality, the latter an idea.
Meanwhile John felt the same pains which he imagined a criminal must feel. He felt impelled to obliterate as soon as possible the impression made by his stupidity. But he felt also that a kind of injustice had been done him since he had been criticised simply and solely as a writer, although his production was a year old, and he himself, therefore, maturer than it, by a year. But it was not the fault of the critic that there was an incongruity between the criticism and thecorpus delicti.
He began to compose another tragedy,The Assistant at the Sacrifice. This was intended to deal with Christendom in artistic form, and to handle the same problem and the same questions as his former play. By "artistic form" at that period was meant the laying of the scene of the play in a past epoch. John wrote the piece under the influence of Oehlenschläger and the Icelandic sagas which he had lately read in the original.
He had, however, a severe struggle with his conscience, for his father had exacted a promise from him not to write for the stage till he had passed his examination. It was, therefore, an act of deceit to take help from his father and not to fulfil the conditions on which it was granted. But he silenced his scruples by saying to himself, "Father will be pleased enough if I have a speedy and great success." In that he was not far wrong.
But another element now entered into his life, and had a decided influence both on his views of things and his work. This was his acquaintance with two men,—an author and a remarkable personality. Unfortunately they were both abnormal and therefore had only a disturbing effect upon his development.
The author was Kierkegaard,[1]whose book,Either—Or, John had borrowed from a member of the Song Club, and read with fear and trembling. His friends had also read it as a work of genius, had admired the style, but not been specialty influenced by it,—a proof that books have little effect, when they do not find readers in sympathy with the author. But upon John the book made the impression intended by the author. He read the first part containing "The Confessions of an Æsthete." He felt sometimes carried away by it, but always had an uncomfortable feeling as though present at a sick-bed. The perusal of the first part left a feeling of emptiness and despair behind it. The book agitated him. "The Diary of a Seducer" he regarded as the fancies of an unclean imagination. Things were not like that in real life. Moreover John was no sybarite, but on the contrary inclined to asceticism and self-torment. Such egotistic sensuality as that of the hero of Kierkegaard's work was absurd because the suffering he caused by the satisfaction of his desires necessarily involved him in suffering and, therefore, defeated his object.
The second part of the work containing the philosopher's "Discourse on Life as a Duty," made a deeper impression on John. It showed him that he himself was an "æsthete" who had conceived of authorship as a form of enjoyment. Kierkegaard said that it should be regarded as a calling. Why? The proof was wanting, and John, who did not know that Kierkegaard was a Christian, but thought the contrary, not having seen hisEdifying Discourses, imbibed unaware the Christian system of ethics with its doctrine of self-sacrifice and duty Along with these the idea of sin returned. Enjoyment was a sin, and one had to do one's duty. Why? Was it for the sake of society to which one was under obligations? No! merely because it was duty. That was simply Kant's categorical imperative. When he reached the end of the workEither—Orand found the moral philosopher also in despair, and that all this teaching about duty had only produced a Philistine, he felt broken in two. "Then," he thought, "better be an æsthete." But one cannot be an æsthete if one has been a Christian for five-sixths of one's life, and one cannot be moral without Christ. Thus he was tossed to and fro like a ball between the two, and ended in sheer despair.
Had he now read Kierkegaard's discourses, he might possibly have come a step nearer to Christianity—possibly—for it is difficult to decide that now, but to receive Christianity again seemed to him like replacing a tooth which had been torn out, and joyfully thrown into the fire, along with the accompanying toothache. It was also possible that if he had known that the bookEither—Orwas intended to scourge one to the Cross he might have thrown it away as a jesuitical writing and been saved from his embarrassment. All that he felt now, however, was a terrible discord. He had to choose and make the jump between ethics and æsthetics, but choose how? and jump whither? He could not jump out in space to embrace a paradox or Christ,—that would have been self-destruction or madness. But Kierkegaard preached madness? Was it the despair of the over-self-conscious at finding himself always self-conscious? Was it the longing of one who sees too deeply for the unconsciousness of intoxication?
John knew well what the battle between his own will and the will of others meant. He had given his father trouble enough when he crossed his plans; but the trouble was mutual; the whole of life consisted of a web of wills crossing one another. The death of one was life-breath to another; no one could gain an advantage without hurting the one he passed by. Life was a perpetual interchange and struggle between pleasure and pain. His sensuality or desire for enjoyment had not injured others nor caused them trouble. He had never seduced the innocent, and had never enjoyed himself without paying the price. He was moral from habit; from instinct, from fear of the consequences, from good taste or from education, but the very fact that he did not feel himself immoral, was a defect and a sin. After readingEither—Orhe felt sinful. The categorical imperative stole on him under a Latin name and without a cross on its back, and he let himself be beguiled by it. He did not see that it was a two-thousand-years-old Christianity in disguise.
Kierkegaard would not have made so deep an impression on him, if a number of concurrent circumstances had not contributed to that result. In the letters of the æsthete, Kierkegaard expounded suffering as enjoyment. John suffered from public contumely; he suffered from his hard work; he suffered from unrequited affection; he suffered from unsatisfied desires; he suffered from drink, for he was intoxicated nearly every evening; he suffered as an artist from mental struggles and doubts; he suffered from the ugly scenery of Upsala; he suffered from the discomfort of his rooms; he suffered from examination-books; he suffered from a bad conscience because he did not study but wrote plays. But something else lay at the bottom of all this. He had been brought up to fulfil hard tasks and duties. Now he lived well amid ease and enjoyment. Study was an enjoyment; authorship, in spite of all its pains, was a wonderful enjoyment; the life with his comrades was sheer festivity and jollity. But his plebeian consciousness awoke and told him that it was not right to enjoy while others worked;hiswork was an enjoyment, for it brought him a good deal of honour, and perhaps money. This accounted for his persistently uneasy conscience which persecuted him without a cause. Was it that he felt already the signs of this awakening consciousness of tremendous guilt as regards the lower classes, the slaves who toiled, while he enjoyed? Did he already have a foreboding of that sense of justice, which in our days has laid so strong a hold on many of the upper classes that they have restored capital which was not quite honestly earned, have expended time and toil for the liberation of the lower classes, and have worked from impulse and instinct against their own interests, in order to do right? Possibly.
But Kierkegaard was not the man to resolve the discord. It was reserved for the evolutionary philosophers to make peace between passion and reason, between enjoyment and duty. They cancelled the deceptiveEither—Or, and substitutedBoth—And,giving both flesh and spirit their due. The real significance of Kierkegaard became clear to John many years later. Then he saw in him the simple pietist, the ultra-Christian who wished to realise in modern society oriental ideals of two thousand years ago. But Kierkegaard was right in one point: if we were to have Christianity, we ought to have it thoroughly; but hisEither—Orwas only valid for the priests of the church who called themselves Christians.
Kierkegaard saw no further, and from him who wrote his book in 1843, and had a clerical education, one could not expect that he should say: "Either a Christianity like this, or none!" In that case people would probably have chosen none. Instead of that Kierkegaard said: "Whether you are æsthetical or ethical you must cast yourself into the arms of Christ." His mistake was to oppose ethics and æsthetics to each other, for they can go very well together. But John did not succeed in harmonising them till, after endless struggles, at the age of thirty-seven, he attempted a compromise when he discovered that work and duty are forms of enjoyment, and that enjoyment itself, well-used, is a duty.
But at that time, the book weighed on him like a nightmare. He was angry when his friends wished to regard it as mere literature. He was not pacified by their regarding it superior in richness, depth and style to Goethe'sFaust, which it certainly did surpass by far. John could not at that time understand that the pillar-saint Kierkegaard had himself known what enjoyment was when he wrote the first part, and that the seducer and Don Juan were the author himself, who satisfied his desires in imagination. No, he thought it was poetry.
John had been already predisposed to receive Kierkegaard's influence, and now came the other acquaintance, which would not have played a great rôle in his life if circumstances had not prepared him for that also. His companions merely regarded the person in question as ludicrous.
It came about in the following way. Thurs the Jew came one day and told John that he had made the acquaintance of a genius who wished to join their Song Club.
"Ah, a genius!"
None of the members of the club believed that they were geniuses, not even John, and it is doubtful whether any poet has really believed or felt that he was one. One can, when one makes comparisons, find that one has produced better work than others, and a clever man will naturally feel that he understands better than others, but genius,—that is something else. This title is not generally bestowed on any one till after death and is now dropping out of common use, since the secret of the evolution of genius has been discovered.
The novelty aroused attention, and the stranger was elected to the club under the name of Is. He was not a poet, they were told, but very learned and a powerful critic.
One evening when the club-meeting was at Thurs' rooms he came—a little thin person, without an overcoat, dressed like a labourer on his holiday. His clothes looked as though they were borrowed, for their elbows and knees were not in the right places. John, who used to succeed to his elder brother's clothes, noticed this at once. In his hand he held a dirty beer-soup-coloured hat, such as is only worn by organ-grinders. His face looked like that of a southern rat-trap seller. His black hair hung on his shoulders and a black beard fell on his breast.
"Is it possible?" they asked themselves. "Can he be a student?" He looked forty, but was only thirty. He stood with his hat in his hand at the door like a beggar, and hardly ventured to come forward. After Thurs had drawn him into the room and introduced him, the meeting was declared open. Is began to speak and they listened. His voice was like a woman's and sank sometimes, without apology, to a whisper, as though the speaker demanded perfect silence or spoke for his own satisfaction. It would be difficult to repeat what he spoke of, for his speech ranged over everything that he had read, and since he had read for ten years more than the youths of twenty, they found his learning wonderful.
After that, another member of the club read a poem. Is had to deliver an opinion on it. He began with Kant, quoted Schopenhauer and Thackeray, and finished with a lecture on George Sand. No one noticed that he said nothing about the poem.
Then they went into a restaurant to eat. Is talked philosophy, æsthetics and history. He spoke sometimes with a melancholy expression in his dark unfathomable eyes, which never rested on those present, as though he sought an unseen audience far in the distance, in unknown space. The club listened reverently with absorbed attention.
John was to hear this man's opinion on his work. He, as well as one of the most poetical members of the club, began to have serious doubts as to their vocation. Often, when they had drunk a good deal, they asked whether they still believed—meaning whether each thought the Other called to be a poet. It was just the same sort of doubt which John had felt when he had wondered whether he was a child of God. Is was to read John's drama,The Assistant at the Sacrifice, and to give his opinion.
One morning John went up to his room to hear his verdict. Is spoke till noon. About what? About everything. But he had now taken hold of John's soul. Through conversations with Thurs, he know which strings to pull, and did so, as he chose. He burrowed in John's mind, not out of sympathy, but from a spider-like curiosity. He did not speak directly of John's play but suggested the plan of a new one after his own ideas. He had the effect of a mesmeriser, and John was magnetised. But he felt in a state of despair when he left him, as though his friend had taken his soul, picked it to pieces and thrown them away after he had satisfied his curiosity.
But John came again, sat on the wise man's sofa, listened to his words as though they were an oracle, and felt himself completely under his power. Sometimes he thought it was a ghost who walked on the carpet when his body disappeared in clouds of tobacco-smoke. The man exercised what is called a "demonic" influence,i.e. inexplicable at first sight. He had no blood in his veins, no feelings, no will, no desires. He was a talking head. His standpoint was nothing and all at the same time. He was a decoction of books, and the type of a book-worm who had never lived.
Often when the other members of the club were alone, they talked about Is. Thurs was already tired of him and wondered whether he had committed some crime, for he seemed driven about by a constant restlessness. Then it was reported that he was a poet, but never would show his poems, for he had such a high idea of the poetic art. They also wondered why no one ever saw a book in the learned man's rooms. It was also strange that he should seek the company of these youths, to whom he was so superior, and whose poetry he must despise. They who were themselves in the full bloom of romanticism did not detect the anæmic romantic who had lost his footing on firm ground. They did not see in his long hair and shabby hat the copy of Murger's Bohemian; they did not know that this dilapidated condition was a Parisian fashion; that this hollow wisdom was a web woven out of German metaphysics; that this experimental psychology was derived from a peep into Kierkegaard; and that that interesting air of hinting at uncommitted crimes and secret griefs was Byronic in origin. All this they did not understand. Therefore Is could play with John's soul and catch him in his snare. Yes, John was so thoroughly taken by him that in a speech he called himself Gamaliel, who sat at Paul's Is's feet to learn wisdom.
The upshot of it all was that Julm, one fine evening, burnt his new play. It was the work of three months which went up in flames. As he collected the ashes, he wept. Is, without saying so directly, had shown him that he was no poet. So everything was a mistake, this also! Then he felt in despair, because he had deceived his father and could take no work home to justify his neglect of his wishes. In a fit of remorse, and in order to be able to point to some definite result, he entered his name for the written examination in Latin, without, however, having written any of the requisite preliminary exercises or essays. The Latin professor saw his name in the list and did not know it. One Sunday evening, when John had returned to his rooms in good spirits after a supper, the university bedell appeared to summon him. John went boldly to the professor and asked what he wanted.
"You wish to take the written examination in Latin?"
"Yes."
"But I do not see your name on my list."
"I entered myself before for the medical examination."
"That has nothing to do with this. You must go by the rules."
"I know no rules about the three essays."
"I think you are impertinent, sir."
"It may seem so——"
"Out with you, sir!—or——"
The door was opened, and John was ejected. He swore to himself he would still go up for the written examination, but the next morning he overslept himself.
So even that last straw failed.
Shortly afterwards one morning a friend came and woke him.
"Do you know that W. is dead?" (W. sat at the same table in the boarding-house.)
"No!"
"Yes! he has cut his throat."
John started up, dressed himself, and hurried with his friend to the Jernbrogatan where W. lived. They rushed up the stairs and came to a dark attic.
"Is it here?"
"No, here!"
John felt for a door; the door gave way and fell upon him. At the same moment he saw a pool of blood on the ground. He turned round, let go of the door, and was at the bottom of the stairs before the door fell on the ground. This scene shook him terribly and woke his memory. Some days previously John had gone into the Carolina Park to work at his play in solitude. W. came up, greeted him, and asked whether he might bear him company or whether he disturbed him. John answered sincerely that he did disturb him, and W. went away with a melancholy air. Was it a case of a lonely drowning man who sought a companion and was repulsed? John felt almost guilty of his death. But he was not intended for a comforter. Now the dead man seemed to haunt him; he dared not go to his room, but slept with his friend. One night he slept with Rejd. The latter had to keep a light burning and was woken several times in the night by John, who could not sleep.
One day Rejd found John with a bottle of prussic acid. He apparently approved the idea of suicide, but first asked him to take a farewell drink with him. They went to the restaurant and ordered eight glasses of whisky, which were brought in on a tray. Each of them drank four glasses in four pulls, with the desired result that John became dead drunk. He was carried home, but since the house door was locked, he was carried over an empty piece of ground and thrown over a fence. There he remained lying in a snow-drift, till he recovered his senses, and crept up into his room.
The last night which he spent in Upsala some days later he slept on a sofa in Thurs' rooms; his friends kept watch over him, and the room was lighted up. They watched good-naturedly till morning, then they accompanied him to the station, and put him in the coupé. When the train had passed Bergsbrunna, John breathed again. He felt as though he had left something dreadful and weird, like a northern winter night with thirty degrees of cold, behind him, and registered a vow never again to settle in this town, where men's souls, banished from life and society, grew rotten from over-production of thought, were corroded by stagnant waters which had no outlet, and took fire like millstones which revolved without having anything to grind.
[1]Danish theologian.
[1]Danish theologian.
When John again reached his parents' house, he felt himself in shelter like one who has reached land after a stormy sea-passage by night. Again he had quiet nights in his old tent-bed in the brothers' room. Here were quiet patient men, who came and went, worked and slept at stated times without being disturbed by dreams or ambitious designs. His sisters had grown up into young women and managed the house. All were at work with the exception of himself. When he compared his irregular, dissipated life, which knew no rest or peace, with theirs, he considered them happier and better than himself. They took life seriously, went about their work and fulfilled their duties without noise or boasting.
John now looked up his old acquaintances among the tradespeople, clerks, and sea-captains, and found intercourse with them novel and refreshing. They led his thoughts back to reality and he felt firm ground once more under his feet. At the same time he began to despise false ideality, and saw that it was vulgar of the students to look down on the "Philistines."
He now confessed quite simply and openly to his father, but without remorse, the wretched life he had led at Upsala, and begged him to let him stay at home and prepare for his examination there,—otherwise he would be lost. His father granted permission, and now John prepared his plan of campaign for the spring term. In the first place he meant to take lessons in Latin composition with a good teacher in Stockholm, and then go up in spring, and pass the examination. Furthermore he would write his disquisition for a certificate in æsthetics and prepare for the examination in that subject. With these resolutions he began a quiet and industrious manner of life with the new year.
But the failure of his play theFree-thinkerstill weighed upon his mind, and the questions of his friends as to whether they should soon see something new from him, stirred him up to re-write, in the form of a one-act play, the drama he had burnt. He finished it, and then continued his studies.
Shortly before April he wrote a test-composition for his teacher, who declared that he would pass. His father did not disapprove of his plan when he heard that John felt quite confident, but he suggested that it would be more practical if he conformed to custom and wrote exercises for the Upsala professor. "No," said John, "it was now a question of principle and a matter of honour." So he went to Upsala.
He called on the professor on his at-home day and waited till his turn for an interview. When the latter saw him, he grew red in the face and asked:
"Are you here again?"
"Yes."
"What do you want?"
"I want to go in for the Latin Composition examination."
"Without having written a test-composition?"
"I have done that in Stockholm—and I only want to ask whether the statutes allow me to go up for the examination."
"The statutes? Ask the dean about that; I only know what I require."
John went straight to the dean, who was a young, lively and sympathetic man. John made known his purpose and described what had passed.
"Yes," said the dean, "the statutes say nothing about the matter, but old P. can pluck you without their help."
"Well, we shall see. Will you allow me, Mr. Dean, to go up for the written examination, that is the question?"
"Yes, I can't refuse that. You mean then to have your own way?"
"Yes, I do."
"Arc you so sure about the matter?"
"Yes."
"Very well! Good luck to you!" said the Dean, and clapped him on the shoulder.
So John went up for the examination and after a week received a telegram to say that he had passed. Some ascribed this result to the professor's generosity and disapproved of John's rebellious procedure; but John considered his success due to his own diligence and knowledge, although he could not deny that the professor had acted honourably in not plucking him when he had the power to do so.
The examination in æsthetics was fixed for May. Contrary to all usage John sent his disquisition by post to Upsala with the written request that he might stand for the examination.
His essay was entitled "Hakon Jarl," and treated of Idealism and Realism. Its object was firstly to convince the professor that the writer was well-read in æsthetics and particularly in Danish literature, and secondly, to clear up to the writer himself his own point of view. The essay, in imitation of Kierkegaard, was in the form of a correspondence between A and B, criticising Oehlenschläger'sHakon Jarland Kierkegaard'sEither—Or.
At the appointed time John appeared before the professor, who had the reputation of being liberal-minded, but felt at once that he had no sympathy with him. With an almost contemptuous air the professor handed him back his essay and declared that it was best suited for the female readers of theIllustrated News. He further stated that Danish literature was not a subject of sufficient importance to be taken up as a special branch of study.
John felt annoyed, and asserted that Danish literature had greater interest for Sweden than Boileau and Malesherbes, for example, on whom students wrote essays.
His examination then began and took the form of a violent argument. It was continued in the afternoon and ended by the professor giving him a certificate which was not so good as he had hoped, and telling him that university studies could only be properly carried on at the university. John replied that æsthetic studies could be best carried on at Stockholm where one had the National Museum, Library, Theatre, Academy of Music and Artists.
"No," said the professor, "that is nonsense; one ought to study here."
John let fall some remarks on college lectures, and they parted, not as particularly good friends.
During the whole of this time, John had been on pleasant terms with his father, and the old man had shown himself to a certain extent willing to be educated, but his tactless pride sometimes broke out and annoyed John. The latter, who was now continually at home, spent many evening hours with the old man in conversations on all sorts of subjects, and finally on religion. One day John spoke for half-an-hour about Theodore Parker, so that his father at last expressed a wish to read some of him. He kept the book for several days, but said nothing, and John found it again in his room. His father was too proud to acknowledge that he liked the book, but John learned through one of his brothers that he was especially delighted with the famous sermon "On Old Age."
In the matter of John's opposition to the professor, his father vacillated. His opinion was that right was always right, but he did not like the disrespectful way in which John spoke of the professor. Meanwhile John saw that he had won the game and that his father had a lively interest in his success.
But one day in spring John went into the country, telling the servant that he would be absent for the day. When he returned the next morning he had an unpleasant reception.
"You go away without telling me?"
"I told the servant."
"I require you to ask permission of me as long as you eat my bread."
"Ask permission! What nonsense!"
John departed, borrowed three hundred kronas from a friendly tradesman, and then with three of his club associates went to one of the islands near Stockholm, where they hired rooms in a fisher's house at a rent of thirty kronas per month. No one tried to stop him, and probably this crisis was occasioned by the fact that John was exercising a perceptible influence on his father, brothers and sisters in matters concerning domestic arrangements. The mistress of the house feared that the power would be taken out of her hands.
He spent the summer in strenuously working for his examination, for he had now no hope of receiving further supplies from home. It was a healthy and ascetic life with innocent amusements. He went about in dressing-gown, drawers and sea-boots, and the toilette of his companions was still more scanty. They bathed, sailed, fenced, and John gave himself over increasingly to a process of decivilisation. There were almost always spirituous liquors on the table, and John feared them, for they made him mad. But to this asceticism and industry succeeded a desire to make converts of others, and a great amount of self-satisfaction. The latter is always the case, whether the ascetic feels that in this respect he is better than others, or whether he makes the sacrifice in order to feel himself better. Therefore he preached to one brother who drank, and moralised over the others who did not work, but went to Dalarö to dance or to feast. Kierkegaard's influence was strong upon him; he wished to be moral, and thundered against æstheticism.
He now studied philology, and went through Dante, Shakespeare and Goethe. The last he hated because he was an æsthete. Behind all, like a dark background, was the breach with his father. After their life together during the last winter, he saw him as it were transfigured, justified him with respect to all that had happened in the past, and had forgotten all the petty troubles of his childhood. He missed most of all his brothers and sisters, especially his sisters whom he had really learnt to know. Toiling with a lexicon and investigating roots of words had become painful to him, but he enjoyed this pain, and disciplined his imagination by hard work, looking upon it as his professional duty.
Towards the end of the summer he was wild and shy. The clothes, winch he rummaged out again, were too tight, his collar, which he had not worn for months, tormented him as though it had been of iron, and his shoes pinched him. Everything seemed to him constrained, conventional and unnatural. Once he had been enticed to an evening party at Dalarö but had immediately returned. He was shy and could not bear frivolity and laughter. This time it was not the consciousness of belonging to the lower classes, for he had ceased to regard himself as one of them. Meanwhile the ascetic life he had been leading increased his will-power and his activity. When the next term at Upsala commenced, he took his travelling-bag and journeyed thither, without having more than a krona to call his own, and without knowing where he would find a room and something to eat. On his arrival he took up his quarters with Rejd, and set about working. The first evening, feeling half famished, he looked up Is, who had remained the whole summer alone in Upsala and seemed more melancholy than usual. His appearance was that of a shadow, and solitude had made him still more morbid. He went out with John and invited him to supper at a restaurant. He spoke in his usual style and mangled his prey, who, on the other hand, defended himself, struck back, and attacked the æsthete. Is contemplated his hungry companion while he ate, and intoxicated himself with the brandy-bottle. He adopted a maternal air and offered to lend John money. The latter was touched, thanked him, and borrowed about ten kronas, for, since he believed he had a future before him, he borrowed without fear. Finally Is became drunk and raved. He changed his attitude, called John an egoist, and reproached him for having taken the ten kronas.
To be suspected of egotism was the worst thing John knew, for Christ had taught him that the "ego" must be crucified. His individuality had grown since it had been freed from pressure and attained publicity. Conspicuous persons obtain a greater individuality through the attention they receive, or they attract attention for the simple reason that they have a greater individuality. John felt that he was working in the right way for his future; he pressed forward with energy and will and the help of many friends, but not as a charlatan or schemer. But Is's accusation struck him in the face, as it must all men who have an "ego." He wished to return the money, but Is drew himself up proudly, played the "gentleman" and continued to romance. It struck John that this idealist was a mean fellow who behaved in this fantastic way in order to conceal his vexation at the temporary loss of the ten kronas.
Now the students returned for the term, and all of them with money. John wandered about with his travelling-bag and his books, and discovered how soon a welcome is worn out when one lies upon somebody else's sofa. He borrowed money to hire a room with. It was a real rats' nest with a camp-bed without sheets or cushions. No candlestick, nothing. But he lay in bed in his under-clothes and read by the light of a candle stuck in a bottle. His friends here and there provided him with meals. But then came the winter. He used to go out after dark and buy a quantity of wood, which he carried home in his bag. A scientific friend taught him how to make a charcoal fire. Moreover, the shaft of a chimney passed through his room and was warm every washing-day. He stood beside it with his hands behind him and read out of a book which he had placed on the chest of drawers, dragging the latter close to him. In the meantime his drama had been played and coldly received. The subject-matter was religious. It dealt with heathendom and Christendom, the former being defended as an epoch-making movement, not as a creed. Christ was placed on one side and the only true God exalted. The drama also contained a domestic struggle, and, after the fashion of the time, women were extolled at the expense of the men. In one passage the author expressed his opinion as to the position of a poet in life. "Are you a man, Orm?" asks the duke. "I am only a poet," answers Orm. "Therefore you will never become anything," is the rejoinder.
In fact, John believed now that the poet's life was a shadow existence, that he had no individuality, but only lived in that of others. But is it then so certain that the poet possesses no individuality because he has more than one? Perhaps he is richer because he possesses more than the others. And why is it better to have only one "ego," since in any case a single "ego" is not more one's own than many "egos," seeing that even one "ego" is a compound product derived from parents, educators, social intercourse and books? Perhaps it is for this reason that society, like a machine, demands that the single "egos" shall act each like a wheel, screw, or separate piece of the machine in a limited automatic way. But the poet is more than a piece of a machine, since he is a whole machine in himself.
In the drama John had incorporated himself in five persons;—in the Jarl, who is at war with his contemporaries; in the Poet, who looks over things and looks through them; in the Mother, who is angry and revengeful but whose thirst for vengeance is counteracted by her sympathy; in the Daughter, who for the sake of her faith breaks with her father; in the Lover, whose love is ill-starred. John understood the motives of all the dramatis personae; and spoke from their varying points of view. But a drama written for the average man who has ready-made views on all subjects, must at least take sides with one of its characters in order to win the excitable and partisan public. John could not do this, because he believed in no absolute right or wrong, for the simple reason that all these ideas are relative. One may be right as regards the future, and wrong as regards the present; one may be wrong in one year and right in the next; a father may justify his son while the mother condemns him; a daughter is right in loving the man she loves, but in her father's view she is wrong in loving a heathen. There comes in doubt: Why do men hate and despise the doubter? Because doubt is the seed of development and progress, and the average man hates development because it disturbs his quiet. Only the stupid man is certain; only the ignorant one thinks he has found the truth. Doubt undermines energy, they say. But it is better to act without considering the consequences. The animal and the savage act blindly, obeying desire and impulse; in that they resemble our "men of action"!
When John returned to Upsala, he was again followed by disparaging criticisms. To some extent they were true,e.g. the assertion that the form of the piece was borrowed from theKongsemnerne,but only to some extent, for John had taken the frigid tone and the rough phraseology direct from the Icelandic sagas, and the views of life he expressed were original. Scorn followed him, and he was regarded as a man who was ambitious of being a poet, the worst suspicion under which any one can fall.
But in the midst of his toil and needy circumstances, a week after his overthrow, there came a letter from the chamberlain of the Theatre Royal at Stockholm, requesting him to go there immediately as the king wished to see him. Morbidly suspicious he believed that it was a practical joke, and took the letter to his wise friend—the student of Natural History. The latter telegraphed in the evening to a well-known actor of the Theatre Royal requesting him to ask the chamberlain whether he had written to John. The latter spent a restless night, tossed to and fro between hope and fear. The next morning the answer came that it was indeed so and that John should come at once. He set off forthwith.
Why did he, a born rebel, accept the royal favour without hesitation? For the simple reason that he did not belong to the democratic party; he had never promised his father or mother not to receive a favour from the king. Furthermore he believed in the aristocracy or the right of the best to govern, and he considered the upper classes the best, as he had shown in his tragedy,Sinking Hellas, in which he expressed contempt for the demagogues. He hated tyrants, but this king was no tyrant. Therefore there was no reason for hesitation within him or without him. Accordingly he travelled to Stockholm and was received in audience by the king. The latter was just now very ill, and looked so emaciated as to make a painful impression. He stood with a benevolent aspect, smoking his long tobacco-pipe, and smiled at the young beardless author, walking awkwardly between the rows of aide-de-camps and chamberlains. He thanked him for the pleasure which he had derived from his drama, adding that he himself when young had competed for an academical prize with a poem on the Vikings, and was fond of the old Norse legends. He said that he wished to help the young student to take his doctor's degree, and closed the interview by referring him to the treasurer, who had been ordered to make him a first payment. Later on he would receive more, and the king said he supposed there were still two or three years to elapse before he took his degree.
John's immediate future was now secure. He felt gratefully moved by this kindness on the part of a king who had so many things to think about. On his return to Upsala, he saw for two months how the court sunshine had turned him into a star. The official who had paid him, had asked him whether he thought later on of obtaining a post in some public department or in the Royal Library. His ambition had never soared so high and did not yet do so.
The chief object of human existence seems to be, and must indeed be, to spend one's life till death in the least unpleasant manner possible. This aim does not exclude solicitude for the good of others, for happiness includes the consciousness of not having infringed others' rights unnecessarily. Therefore ill-gotten wealth cannot secure a pleasant life, nor can any path which leads over the prostrate bodies of others. Accordingly Utilitarianism, or the philosophy which aims at the greatest happiness of the greatest number, is not immoral.
In spite of all his asceticism John could not help feeling happy. His happiness consisted in the half-consciousness that he could live his life without the great anxiety which the insecurity of means of existence causes. He had been threatened by penury and was now secure; life had been restored to him, and it is a happy thing to be able to live before one has done growing. His chest, which had been narrowed by hunger and over-exertion, broadened itself; his back grew straighter; life no longer seemed so melancholy. He was contented with his lot; things took on a more cheerful aspect, and he would have been ungrateful had he still remained among the malcontents.
But this did not last long. When he saw his old comrades round him in a position in whichhishappiness had effected no change, he found that there was a want of harmony between them. They had been accustomed to help him as one in need and now he needed their help no longer. They had liked him, because they protected him and were accustomed to see him below them. But when he came upwards, near them and above them, they found him necessarily altered by altered circumstances. The necessitous man is not so bold in his opinions nor so stiff in the back as the prosperous one. He was altered for them, but was he therefore worse? Self-esteem under other circumstances is generally well thought of. Enough! He annoyed others by the fact that he was fortunate, and still more because he wished to help others to be so.
The present he had received entailed obligations, and John gave himself diligently to study. He passed his examinations in Philology, Astronomy, and Political Science, but received in none of these subjects such a good testimonial as he had expected. He had studied too much in one way and too little in another.
In examination time he generally had an attack of aphasia. Physiologists usually ascribe this weakness to an injury in the left temple. And as a matter of fact John had two scars above his left eye. One was caused by the blow of an axe, the other by a rock against which he had struck himself in jumping down the Observatory hill. He was inclined to trace to this the great difficulty he had in delivering public addresses and speaking foreign languages.
Accordingly, during examinations, he would sit there, unable to give an answer although he knew more than was asked. Then there came over him a spirit of defiance, of self-torment, of ill-humour, and he felt tempted to throw up the whole thing. He criticised the text-books and felt dishonest in learning what he despised. The rôle assigned to him began to oppress him; he longed to get away from it all to something else, wherever it might be. It was not that he regarded the king's present as a benefaction. It was a stipend, a reward for merit, such as artists at all periods have received for the purpose of carrying on their self-cultivation. His royal patron was not merely the king but his personal friend and admirer. Therefore the gift exercised no kind of restraint upon his rebellious thoughts; he only let himself be temporarily deceived, and believed that all was right with the world, because he prospered. His radicalism had been considerably mitigated; he no longer thought that all which was wrong in the state was the fault of the monarchy, nor did he believe with the pagans that better harvests would follow if the king was sacrificed on an idol-altar. His mother would have wept for joy at his distinction, had she lived, so strong were her aristocratic leanings.
All of us, including crown princes, are democrats, inasmuch as we wish those above us to come down to our level; but when we ascend, we do not wish to be pulled down. The question is only whether that winch is "above" us is so in a spiritual sense, and whether it ought to be there. That was what John began to be doubtful of.
At the beginning of the spring term, John took up his quarters with an elder comrade in order to continue his studies. But when he had again the old books before him which he had already studied so long, he felt a distaste for them. His brain was full of impressions, of collected literary material, and refused to take in any more; his imagination and thought were busily at work and would not let memory be alone active; he had fits of doubt and apathy and often remained the whole day lying on the sofa. Then the desire would sometimes awake to be altogether free and to plunge into the life of activity. But the royal stipend held him fast in fetters and imposed on him obligations. Having received it, he was bound to go on studying for his doctor's degree, the course of reading for which he had half completed. So he applied himself to philosophy, but when he read the history of it, he found all systems equally valid or invalid, and his mind resisted all new ideas.
In the literary club there was disunion and lethargy. All their youthful poems had been read and no one produced any more, so that they only met together to drink punch. Is had exposed himself, and after a scene with another member, he had been thrown out. He drew his knife and got well thrashed. He saved himself from worse by affecting to treat the affair as a joke, and was now a mere laughing-stock, since it had been discovered that his wisdom consisted in quotations from the students' periodicals which the others had not had the wit to utilise. At the beginning of term an Æsthetic Society had been founded by the professor of Æsthetics, and this made their own literary society, the "Runa," superfluous.
At one of the meetings of the former, John's discontent with classical authorities broke out. He had been drinking that evening and was half-intoxicated. In conversation with the professor dangerous ground was touched upon and John was enticed so far out of his reserve as to declare Dante without significance for humanity and overestimated. John had plenty of reasons to allege for his opinion, but could not express them to advantage when the professor set upon him, and the whole company gathered round the disputants, who were squeezed into a corner by the stove. He wanted in the first place to say that the construction of theDivine Comedywas not original, but a very ordinary form which had already been employed shortly before in theVision of Albericus. Furthermore his opinion was that in this poem Dante did not reflect the culture and thoughts of his period, because he was so uncultured that he did not even know Greek. He was not a philosopher, for he hampered thought by the fetters of revelation, and therefore he was no precursor of the Renaissance or the Reformation. He was no patriot, for he venerated the German empire as established by God. He was at most a local patriot of Florence. Nor was he a democrat, for he always dreamt of a union of the empire and the papacy. He did not attack the papacy, but only individual popes who lived immoral lives, as he himself had done in his youth. He was a monk, a truly idiotic child of his age, for he sent unbaptised children to hell. He was a narrow-minded royalist who put Brutus next to Satan in the deepest hell. He was entirely wanting in the power of selfcriticism;—while he reckons ingratitude to friends and betrayal of one's fatherland among the worst of crimes, he places his own friend and teacher, Brunetto Latini, in hell, and supports the German Emperor, Henry VII, against his native city Florence. He had bad literary taste, for he reckoned as the six greatest poets of the world Homer, Horace, Lucan, Ovid, Virgil and himself. How could modern critics who were so severe on all scandalous literature praise Dante, who in his poem cast dishonour on so many contemporary persons and families? He even scolds his own dear native city, exclaiming when he finds five nobly-born Florentines in Hell: "Rejoice! O Florence! for thy name is not only great over land and sea, but also in hell. Five of thy citizens are in thieves' company; my cheeks blush at the sight of them. But one thing I know; punishment will light upon thee, Florence, and may it happen soon!"
As is usual in such debates, the attacked and the attacker often changed their ground. John wished to prove to the professor that from his point of view theCommediawas a political pamphlet, but then the professor veered round, adopted the enemy's point of view and said thatheshould value it as such. Whereupon John answered that it was exactly as such that he designated it, but not as a magnificent poem of everlasting value, which the professor had declared it to be in his lectures. Again the professor changed his ground, and said that the poem should be judged by the standard of the period at which it was composed.
"Exactly so," answered John, "but you have judged it by the standard of our time and all succeeding times, and therefore you are wrong. But even with regard to its own time the work is not an epoch-making one; it is not in advance of its period, but belongs strictly to it, or rather lags behind it. It is a linguistic monument for Italy, nothing more, and should never be read in a Swedish university, because the language is antiquated, and finally because it is too insignificant to be regarded as a link in the development of culture."
The result of the controversy was that John was regarded as shameless and half-cracked.
After this explosion he was exhausted and incapable of work. The whole of the life in a town where he did not feel at home was distasteful to him. His companions advised him to take a thorough rest, for he had worked too hard, and so, as a matter of fact, he had. Various schemes again presented themselves to his mind, but without result. The grey dirty town vexed him, the scenery around depressed him; he lay on a sofa and looked at the illustrations in a German newspaper. Views of foreign scenery had the same effect as music on his mind and he felt a longing to see green trees and blue seas; he wished to go into the country but it was still only February, the sky was as grey as sack-cloth, the streets and roads were muddy. When he felt most depressed, he went to his friend the natural science student. It refreshed him to see his herbarium and microscope, his aquarium and physiological preparations. Most of all he found a pleasure in the society of the quiet, peaceable atheist, who let the world go its way, for he knew that he worked better for the future, in his small measure, than the poet with his excitable outbreaks. He had a little of the artist left in him and painted in oils. To think that he could call up as if by enchantment a green landscape amid the mists of this wintry spring and hang it on his wall!
"Is painting difficult?" he asked his friend.
"No, indeed! It is easier than drawing. Try it!"
John, who had already, with the greatest calm, composed a song with a guitar-accompaniment, thought it not impossible for him to paint, and he borrowed an easel, colours, and a paint-brush. Then he went home and shut himself up in his room. From an illustrated paper he copied a picture of a ruined castle. When he saw the clear blue of the sky he felt sentimental, and when he had conjured up green bushes and grass he felt unspeakably happy as though he had eaten haschish. His first effort was successful. But now he wished to copy a painting. That was harder. Everything was green and brown. He could not make his colours harmonise with the original and felt in despair.