CHAPTER VI

BEHIND THE CURTAIN

(1869)

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's _Marriage 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's _Maria 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 the _Aftonbladet (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, the _Lancet_, 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 the _Aftonbladet_ so 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's _Faust_, 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, when _Maria Stuart_ was 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 for _Quentin 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.