CHAPTER XII

A KING'S PROTÉGÉ

(1871)

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 the _Kongsemnerne,_ 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 which _his_ happiness 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.