GROWTH OF A SOUL
BY
AUGUST STRINDBERG
AUTHOR OF "THE INFERNO," "THE SON OF A SERVANT," ETC.
TRANSLATED BY CLAUD FIELD
NEW YORK
McBRIDE, NAST & COMPANY
1914
CONTENTS
I IN THE FORECOURT
II BELOW AND ABOVE
III THE DOCTOR
IV IN FRONT OF THE CURTAIN
V JOHN BECOMES AN ARISTOCRAT
VI BEHIND THE CURTAIN
VII JOHN BECOMES AN AUTHOR
VIII THE "RUNA" CLUB
IX BOOKS AND THE STAGE
X TORN TO PIECES
XI IDEALISM AND REALISM
XII A KING'S PROTÉGÉ
XIII THE WINDING UP
XIV AMONG THE MALCONTENTS
XV THE RED ROOM
THE GROWTH OF A SOUL
CHAPTER I
IN THE FORECOURT
(1867)
The steamer had passed Flottsund and Domstyrken and the university
buildings of Upsala began to appear. "Now begins the real
stone-throwing!" exclaimed one of his companions,--an expression
borrowed from the street-riots of 1864. The hilarity induced by punch
and breakfast abated; one felt that things were now serious and that
the battle of life was beginning. No vows of perpetual friendship were
made, no promises of helping each other. The young men had awakened
from their romantic dreams; they knew that they would part at the
gang-way, new interests would scatter the company which the school-room
had united; competition would break the bonds which had united them and
all else would be forgotten. The "real stone-throwing" was about to
begin.
John and his friend Fritz hired a room in the Klostergränden. It
contained two beds, two tables, two chairs and a cupboard. The rent was
30 kronas[1] a term,--15 kronas each. Their midday meal was brought
by the servant for 12 kronas a month,--6 kronas each. For breakfast
and supper they had a glass of milk and some bread and butter. That
was all. They bought wood in the market,--a small bundle for 4 kronas.
John had also received a bottle of petroleum from home as a present,
and he could send his washing to Stockholm. He had 80 kronas in his
table-drawer with which to meet all the expenses of the term.
It was a new and peculiar society into which he now entered, quite
unlike any other. It had privileges like the old house of peers and a
jurisdiction of its own; but it was a "little Pedlington" and reeked
of rusticity. All the professors were country-born; not a single one
hailed from Stockholm. The houses and streets were like those of
Nyköping. And it was here that the head-quarters of culture had been
placed, owing to an inconsistency of the government which certainly
regarded Stockholm as answering to that description.
The students were regarded as the upper class in the town and the
citizens were stigmatised by the contemptuous epithet of "Philistines."
The students were outside and above the civic law. To smash windows,
break down fences, tussle with the police, disturb the peace of the
streets,--all was allowed to them and went unpunished; at most they
received a reprimand, for the old lock-up in the castle was no more
used. For their militia-service they had a special uniform of their
own which carried privileges with it. Thus they were systematically
educated as aristocrats, a new order of nobility after the fall of the
house of peers.
What would have been a crime in a citizen was a "practical joke" in a
student. Just at this time the students' spirits were at a high pitch,
as a band of student-singers had gone to Paris, had been successful
there, and were acclaimed as conquerors on their return.
John now wished to work for his degree but did not possess a single
book. "During the first term one must take one's bearings" was the
saying. John went to the student's club. The constitution of the club
was antiquated,--so much so that the annexed provinces Skåne, Halland
and Blekinge were not represented in it. It was well arranged and
divided into classes, not according to merit, but according to age
and certain dubious qualities. In the list the title "nobilis" still
stood after the names of those of high birth. There were several ways
of gaining influence in the club, through an aristocratic name, family
influence, money, talent, pluck and adaptability, but the last quality
by itself was not enough among these intelligent and sceptical youths.
On the first evening in the club John made his observations. There were
several of his old companions from the Clara School present, but he
avoided them as much as possible and they him. He had deserted them and
gone by a short cut through the private school, while they had tramped
along the regular course through the state school. They all seemed
to him somewhat conventional and stunted. Fritz plunged among the
aristocrats and obtained introductions, made acquaintances easily and
got on well.
As they went home in the evening John asked him who was the "snob" in
the velvet jacket with stirrups painted on his collar. Fritz answered
that he was not a snob, and that it was as stupid to judge people by
fine clothes as by poor ones. John with his democratic ideas did not
understand this and stuck to his opinion. Fritz asserted that the youth
referred to was a very fine fellow and the senior in the club, and
in order to rouse John further, added that he had expressed himself
satisfied with the newcomers' appearance and manners; he was reported
to have said "they had an air about them; formerly the fellows from
Stockholm when they came there, looked like workmen."
John was ruffled at this information and felt that something had come
in between him and his friend. Fritz's father had been a miller's
servant, but his mother had been of noble birth. He had inherited from
his mother what John had from his.
The days passed on. Fritz put on his frock coat every morning and went
to pay his respects to the professors. He intended to be a jurist;
that was a proper career, for lawyers were the only ones who obtained
real knowledge which was of use in public life, who tried to obtain
deeper insight into social organisation and to keep in touch with the
practical business of everyday life. They were realists.
John had no frock coat, no books, no acquaintances.
"Borrow my coat," said Fritz.
"No, I will not go and pay court to the professors," said John.
"You are stupid," answered Fritz, and in that he was right, for the
professors gave real though somewhat hazy information regarding the
courses of study. It was a piece of pride in John that he did not
wish to owe his progress to anything but his own work, and what was
worse, he thought it ignominious to be regarded as a flunkey. Would
not an old professor at once perceive that he was flattering him for
his own purposes? To submit himself to his superiors was, in his mind,
synonymous with grovelling.
Moreover everything was too indefinite. The university which he had
imagined to be an institution for free investigation, was only one for
tasks and examinations. The professors gave lectures for the sake of
appearances or to maintain their income, but it was useless to go up
for an examination without taking private lessons. John resolved to
attend those lectures for which no fee was necessary. He went to the
Gustavianum to hear a lecture on the history of philosophy. For the
three-quarters of an hour during which the lecture lasted the professor
went through the introduction to Aristotle's Ethics. John calculated
that with three lectures a week he would require forty years to go
through the history of philosophy. "Forty years," he thought, "that is
too long for me." And did not go again. It was the same everywhere.
An assistant-professor expounded Shakespeare's _Henry VIII_ with the
commentary, in English, to an audience of five. John went there a few
times, but reckoned that it would be ten years before _Henry VIII_ was
finished.
It began to dawn upon him what the requirements of the degree
examination were. The first was to write a Latin essay; therefore he
must learn more Latin, which he did not like. He had chosen æsthetics
and modern languages as his chief subject. Æsthetics comprised the
study of Architecture, Sculpture, Painting, Literary History and the
various systems of æsthetics. That was work enough for a lifetime. The
modern languages were French, German, English, Italian and Spanish,
with comparative grammar. How was he to obtain the requisite books? And
he had not the means of paying for private lessons.
Meanwhile he set to work at Æsthetics. He found that one could borrow
books from the club and so he took out the volumes of Atterbom's
_Prophets and Poets_ which happened to be there. These unfortunately
only dealt with Swedenborg and contained Thorild's epistles. Swedenborg
seemed to him crazy, and Thorild's epistles did not interest him.
Swedenborg and Thorild were two arrogant Swedes who had lived in
retirement and fallen a prey to megalomania, the special disease
of solitary people. It is remarkable how often outbreaks of this
hallucination occur in Sweden, owing probably to the isolated position
of the country and to the fact that a sparse population is scattered
over enormous distances. Megalomania is apparent in the imperial
projects of Gustavus Adolphus, in Charles X's ambition of becoming
a great European power, in Charles XII's Attila-like schemes, in
Rudbeck's Atlantic-mania, and in Swedenborg's and Thorild's dreams of
storming heaven and of world-conflagrations. John thought them mad and
threw them aside. Was that the sort of stuff he was expected to read?
He began to reflect over his situation. What did he expect to do in
Upsala? To support himself for six years on 80 kronas till he took
his degree. And then? his thoughts did not stretch further; he had no
higher plan or ambition than to take his degree--the laurel crown, the
graduate's coat, and then to teach the catechism in the Jakob school
till his death. No, he did not wish to do that.
Time went on, and Christmas approached. The little stock of money in
his table-drawer diminished slowly but surely. And then? It was not so
easy for students to obtain employment as private teachers since the
railways had made communication easier between remote country places
and the towns where schools were. He felt that he had embarked upon a
foolish undertaking. When he found he could get no more books, he began
to make visits among his fellow-students and discovered companions in
misfortune. Among them were two who had spent the whole term playing
chess and possessed nothing between them but a hymn-book which the
mother of one had placed in his box. They were also asking themselves
the question "What have we to do here?" The way to the degree
examination was not easy; one was compelled to seek out secret ways,
bribe door-keepers, creep through holes, run into debt for books, be
seen at lectures and much more besides.
In order to fill up the time, he learnt to play the B-cornet in the
band of the students' club by the advice of Fritz who played the
trombone. But the practices were very irregular and began to cause
disputes. John also played backgammon, which Fritz hated, and so he
wandered about to acquaintances with his backgammon board and played
with them. He found it as dull as reading Swedenborg.
"Why do you not study?" Fritz often asked him.
"I have no books," answered John. That was a good reason. He could
not visit the restaurants, for he had no money, and lived very
quietly. At the midday meal he drank only water, and when on Sundays
he and Fritz drank half a bottle of beer, they remained sitting at
table half-fuddled and telling each other, perhaps for the hundredth
time, old school adventures. The term crept along intolerably slow,
uneventful and torpid. John perceived that, as one of the lower class,
he could plod on thus far but no further. The economic question brought
his plans to a standstill. Or was it that he was tired of living a
one-sided mental life without muscular exercise? Trifling experiences
for which he ought to have been prepared contributed to embitter him.
One day Fritz entered their room with a young count. He introduced
John to him, and the count tried to remember whether they had not been
comrades at the Clara School. John seemed to remember something of
the kind. The old friends and intimate companions addressed each other
as "count" and "sir." Then John remembered how he and the young count
had once played as boys in a tobacco store on the Sabbatsberg, and how
something had made him prophesy, "In a few years, old fellow, we shall
not know each other any more." The young count had protested strongly
against this and felt hurt. Why did John remember this just then
particularly, since it is quite natural that comrades should become
strangers to each other when intercourse has been so long broken off?
Because at the sight of the noble, he felt the slave blood seethe in
his veins. This kind of feeling has been ascribed to the difference of
races. But that is not so, for then the stronger plebeian race would
feel superior to the weaker aristocratic. It is simply class-hatred.
The count in question was a pale, tall, slender youth of no striking
appearance. He was very poor and looked half-starved. He was
intelligent, industrious, and not at all proud. Later on in life
John came across him again and found him to be a sociable, pleasant
man, leading an inconspicuous life as an official, amid difficulties
resembling John's own. Why should he hate him? And then they both
laughed at their youthful stupidity. That was possible then, for John
seemed to have "got ahead" as the saying is; otherwise he would not
have laughed at all. "Stand up that I may sit down," this was the
more malicious than luminous way of expressing the aspiration of the
lower orders in those days. But it was a misunderstanding. Formerly
one strove to elbow one's way up to the other; now one would rather
pull the other down to save oneself the trouble of clambering up where
nothing is to be found. "Move a little so that we can both sit" would
now be the proper formula.
It has been said that those who are "above" are there by a law of
necessity and would be there under all circumstances; competition
is free and each can ascend if he likes, and if the conditions were
changed, the same race would begin again. "Good!" say the lower
classes, "let us race again, but come down here and stand where I
do. You have got a start with privileges and capital, but now let us
be weighed with carriage harness and racing saddle after the modern
fashion. You have got ahead by cheating. The race is therefore declared
null and void and we will run it again, unless we come to an agreement
to do away with all racing, as an antiquated sport of ancient times."
Fritz saw things from another point of view. He did not wish to pull
those above down, but to become an aristocrat himself, climb up to
them and be like them. He began to lisp and made elegant gestures with
his hands, greeted people as though he were a cabinet minister, and
threw his head back as though he had a private income. But he respected
himself too much to become ridiculous and satirised himself and his
ambition. The fact was that the aristocrats whom he wished to resemble
had simple, easy, unaffected manners,--some of them indeed quite like
the middle class, while Fritz was fashioning himself after an ancient
theatrical pattern which no longer existed. He did not therefore
become what he expected in life though he had dozed away many a summer
in the castles of his friends, and ended in a very modest official
post. He was received as a student in their guest-rooms but came no
further; as a district judge he was not introduced in the salons which
as a student he had entered without introduction.
The effects of the different circles in which John and Fritz moved
began now to be apparent, first in mutual coldness, then in hostility.
One evening it broke out at the card-table.
Fritz one day towards the end of the term said to John, "You should not
go about with such bounders as you do."
"What is the matter with them?"
"Nothing, but it would be better if you went with me to my friends."
"They don't suit me."
"Well, they suit me, but they think you are proud."
"I?"
"Yes; and to show you are not, come with me this evening and drink
punch."
John went though unwillingly. They were a solid-looking set of
law-students who played cards. They discussed the stakes for which they
should play, and John succeeded in reducing them to a minimum, though
they made sour faces. Then a game of "knack" was proposed. John said
that he never played it.
"On principle?" he was asked.
"Yes," he answered.
"How long ago did you make that resolve," asked Fritz sarcastically.
"Just this minute."
"Just now, here?"
"Yes, just now, here!" answered John.
They exchanged hostile looks and that was the end. They went home
silent; went to bed silent; and got up silent. For five weeks they ate
their dinner at the same table and never spoke to each other. A gulf
had opened between them and their friendship was ended; they had no
more intercourse with each other and there was nothing to bring them
together again. How had that come about?
These two characters so opposed to each other had held together for
five years through habit, through comradeship in the class-room,
and common interests; they had felt drawn to each other by common
recollections, defeats and victories. It was a compromise between fire
and water which must cease sooner or later and might cease at any
moment. Now they flew asunder as if by an explosion; the masks fell;
they did not become enemies, but simply discovered that they _were_
born enemies, _i.e._ two oppositely-disposed natures which must go,
each its own way. They did not close accounts with a quarrel or useless
accusations, but simply made an end without more ado. An unnatural
silence prevailed at their midday meal; sometimes in lifting dishes
their hands crossed but their looks avoided each other; now and then
Fritz's lips moved, as though he wished to say something, but his
larynx remained closed. What should he say after all. There was nothing
to say but what the silence expressed: "We have nothing more in common."
And yet there was something left after all. Sometimes Fritz came home
in the evening, cheerful, and obviously prepared to say, "Come! cheer
up old fellow!" But then he stood still in the middle of the room,
petrified by John's icy manner, and went out again. Sometimes also
it occurred to John, who suffered under the breach of friendship to
say to his friend, "How stupid we are!" But then he felt frozen again
by Fritz's indifferent manner. They had worn out their friendship by
living together. They knew each other by heart, all one another's
secrets and weaknesses, and precisely what answer either would give.
That was the end. Nothing more remained.
A miserable torpid time followed. Tom away from the common life of
school where he had worked like part of a machine in unison with
others, and abandoned to himself, he ceased to live in the proper sense
of the word. Without books, papers or social intercourse, he remained
empty; for the brain produces of itself very little, perhaps nothing;
in order to make combinations it must be supplied with material from
without. Now nothing came; the channels were stopped, the ways blocked,
and his soul pined away. Sometimes he took Fritz's books and looked
into them; among them he came across Geijer's History for the first
time. Geijer was a great name and known through his "Kolargossen,"
"Sista Kampen," "Vikingen" and other poems. John now read his history
of Gustav Vasa. He was astonished to find no illuminating point of
view nor any fresh information. The style, which he had heard praised,
was pedestrian. It was like a mere memorial sketch, this history of a
long-lived king's reign, and cursory also like a text-book. Printed in
small type, and without notes, the history of this important king would
not have been longer than a small pamphlet. One day John asked some of
his friends what they thought of Geijer.
"He is devilish dull," they answered.
That was the common opinion before jubilee-commemorations and the
erection of statues prevented people saying plainly what they thought.
John then looked for a little into law-books, but was alarmed at the
idea of having to study that sort of thing. His home life and religious
education had given him a distaste for everything that concerned the
common interests of people. Through the ceaseless repetition of the
maxim that young men should not interfere with politics, that is to
say, with the common weal, and through Christian individualism and
introspection, John had become a consistent egoist.
"Let every one mind his own business" was the first command of this
egotistic morality. Therefore he read no papers and troubled little how
things were going on about him, what was happening in the world, how
the destinies of men were being shaped, or what were the thoughts of
the leading minds of the time. Therefore it never occurred to him to
go to the meetings of the club where questions of common interest were
dealt with. "There were enough to look after those things," he thought.
He was not alone in that opinion, so that the meetings of the club were
managed by a few energetic fellows, who were regarded perhaps wrongly,
as egoists and managed public business in their own interests. John who
let the affairs of the little society go as they liked, was perhaps a
greater egoist, occupied as he was with the affairs of his own soul.
But in his own defence and on behalf of many of his countrymen it must
be said that he and they were shy. This shyness, however, should have
been got rid of at school by practice in public speaking. In this
shyness there was also a degree of cowardice, the fear of opposition
or ridicule, and especially the fear of being thought presumptuous or
wishing to push oneself forward. Every youth who did so, was at once
suppressed, for here the aristocracy of seniority prevailed in a very
high degree.
When he found the room too stuffy, he went out of the town. But the
depressing landscape with its endless expanse of clay made him sad. He
was no plain-dweller, but had his roots in the undulating scenery of
Stockholm, diversified by water channels. The flat country depressed
him and he suffered from homesickness to such a degree that when he
returned to Stockholm at Christmas and saw again the smiling contours
of the coast of Brunsvik, he was moved to the point of sentimentality.
When he saw once more the gentle curves of the woods of Haga Park he
felt his soul, as it were, attuned again, after having been so long
out of tune. To such a degree were his nerves affected by his natural
surroundings.
Under other circumstances, the society of a smaller town like Upsala
would have been more congenial to him than that of the great town
which he hated. Had the small town been but a developed form of the
village, preserving the simple rustic appliances for health and
comfort, with fragments of landscape between the houses, it would have
been far preferable to the great town. But now the small town was
merely a shabby pretentious copy of the great town with its mistakes,
and therefore the more offensive. It also reeked with provinciality.
Every one mentioned their birthplace, "My name is Pettersson, from
Ostgothland," "Mine is Andersson, from Småland." There was a keen
rivalry between the members of different provinces. Those from
Stockholm regarded themselves as the first and were therefore envied
and despised by the "peasants." There was much dispute as to whom the
first place really belonged. The Wormlanders boasted of having produced
Geijer whose portrait hung in their hall, while the Smålanders had
Tegner, Berzelius and Linnæus. The Stockholm students who had only
Bergfalk and Bellmann were called "gutter-snipes." This was not a very
brilliant piece of wit especially as it emanated from a Kalmar student
who was thereupon asked "whether there were no gutters in Kalmar?"
There was something pettifogging also in the way in which the
professors fought for advancement by means of pamphlets and newspaper
articles. The election to any particular professorial chair rested in
the last resource with the Chancellor of the University who lived at
Stockholm.
In 1867 the University had no especially distinguished teachers. Some
of them were merely old decayed tipplers. Others were young immature
dilettantes who had obtained advancement through their wives and the
modicum of talent which they possessed. The only one who enjoyed a
certain reputation was Swedelius. This, however, was rather due to
his bonhomie and the anecdotes which gathered round him, then to his
own talent. His learned activity was confined to the composition in
an austere style of textbooks and memorial addresses. These were not
strictly scientific, but showed traces of original research.
On the whole all the subjects of study were introduced from abroad,
for the most part from Germany. The textbooks in most departments
were in German or French. Very few were in English which was little
known. Even the Professor of Literary History could not pronounce
English and began his lectures with an apology for not being able
to do so. There was no doubt that he knew the language for he had
published translations of Swedish poems. "But why did he not learn
the pronunciation?" the students asked. Most of the dissertations for
degrees were mere compilations from the German; occasionally they were
direct translations which caused a scandal.
The fact was that the period had no special feature to characterise
it. There is no such thing as Swedish culture any more than there is
Belgian, Swiss, or Hungarian. Sweden had indeed produced a Linnæus and
a Berzelius, but they had had no successors.
John had no spirit of enterprise. At school his work had been settled
for him; at the university it was all left to him. He was overcome by
lethargy and listlessness and worried by not knowing what to do at the
end of the term. He saw that he must seek for a position in which he
could support himself. A friend had told him that one might become an
elementary teacher in the country without passing any more examinations
and could very well support oneself in such a post. Now it was John's
dream to live in the country. He had a natural dislike to towns though
he had been born in the metropolis. He could not accustom himself
to live without light and air, nor flourish in these streets and
market-places, where the outward signs of a higher or lower position in
the absurd social scale counted for so much, _e.g._ such subordinate
things as dress and manner. He had hostility to culture in his blood
and could never conceive of himself as anything else than a natural
product, which did not wish to be severed from its organic connection
with the earth. He was like a plant vainly feeling with its roots
between the pavement-stones for some soil; like an animal pining for
the forest.
There is a fish which climbs up trees, and an eel can go on land to
look for a pease-field, but both of them return to the water. Fowls
have been domesticated so long that their ancestral characteristics
have died out, but they preserve the habit of sleeping on a perch which
represents the branch on which the black-cock and the wood-grouse
roost. Geese become restless in autumn, for an instinct in their blood
tells them that it is migrating time. So in spite of accommodation to
new circumstances there is always a tendency to go back.
Thus is it also with men. The dweller in the north, so long as he
preserves civilised habits, has not been able to acclimatise himself
thoroughly, and is still liable to consumption. His stomach, nerves,
heart and skin were able to accommodate themselves, but not his lungs.
The Eskimo on the other hand, originally a southerner, succeeded in
acclimatising himself but had to give up civilised habits.
And what is the meaning of the northerner's longing for the south
unless it be the wish to return to his first home, the land of the
sun, the bank of the Ganges where he was cradled? And the dislike
of children to meat, their longing for fruit and love of climbing,
what is it all but "reversion to type?" Therefore civilisation means
a continual strain and struggle to combat this backward tendency.
Education winds up the clock, but when the mainspring is not strong
enough it snaps and the works run down, till quiet ensues. As
civilisation advances the strain is ever greater and the statistics
of insanity show a perpetual increase. One cannot swim against the
stream of civilisation, but one may escape to land. Modern Socialism
which wishes to bring down the upper classes with their worthless
and dangerous motto "Higher!" is a backward movement in a healthy
direction. The strain will decrease as the pressure from above
decreases, and thereby a great deal of superfluous luxury will be got
rid of. In certain parts of German Switzerland there is already a
certain relative quiet. There we find no restless hunting after honours
and distinctions because there are none to be had. A millionaire
lives in a large cottage and laughs at the bedizened townsfolk,--a
good-natured laugh without any envy in it, for he knows that he could
buy up their finery for ready cash, if he chose. But he will not, for
luxury has no value in his neighbours' eyes.
Men could therefore be happier if competition were not so keen and
they will yet be so, for the chief constituent of happiness is peace
along with less toil and less luxury. It is not the railways which are
to be blamed, but the superabundance of them. In Arcadian Switzerland
railways have ruined whole districts where no freightage is required
and people usually go on foot. To this day distances are reckoned by
pedestrian measures.
"It is eight hours to Zurich," says some one.
"Eight! is it possible?"
"Yes, certainly."
"By the railway?"
"Oh! by the railway,--that is only an hour and a half."
In Sweden there is a railway which carries regularly three passengers
in its three classes, a factory-owner, a bailiff and a clerk. We may
live to see them shut up the railway stations for want of coal when
the coal strikes have sent up the price, for want of guards when wages
rise, and for want of freight when wood and oats can no longer be
procured; iron is already too dear to be used for railways, and the old
water-ways ought to be tried.
It is no use to preach against civilisation,--that one knows well, but
if we observe the currents of the time we shall see that a return to
nature is in process of going on. Turgenieff has already described this
by the word "simplification." That is the mistake of the evolutionists
that in everything which is in motion or course of development they
see a progress towards human happiness, forgetting that a sickness may
develop to death or recovery.
After all, what a superficial appendage civilisation is! Make a
nobleman drunk and he can become like a savage; let a child loose in
a wood without any one to look after it (provided that it can feed
itself) and it will not learn to speak of itself. Out of a peasant's
son who is generally considered so low in the social scale, one
can make in a single generation a man of science, a minister, an
arch-bishop, or an artist. Here there can be no talk of heredity, for
the peasant-father who stood apparently at such a low level, could not
have inherited anything from cultivated brains. On the other hand, the
children of a genius inherit usually nothing but used-up brains, except
occasionally a skill in their father's line of work, which they have
acquired by daily intercourse with their father.
The town is the fire-place whither the living fuel from the country is
brought and devoured; it is to keep the present social machinery at
work, it is true, but in the long run the fuel will prove too dear, and
the machine come to a standstill. The society of the future will not
need this machine in order to work or they will be more sparing of the
fuel. But it is a mistake to conjecture the needs of a future state of
society from the present one.
Our present society is perhaps a natural product, but inorganic; the
future society will be an organic product and a higher one, for it
will not deprive men of the first conditions for an organic existence.
There will be the same difference between these two forms of society as
between paved streets and grass meadows.
The youth's dream often left artificial society to wander at large
in nature. Society had been formed by men doing violence to natural
laws, just as one may bleach a plant under a flower-pot and produce an
edible salad, but the plant's capacity to live healthily and propagate
itself as a plant is destroyed. Such a plant is the civilised man
made by artificial bleaching useful for an anæmic society, but, as
an individual, wretched and unhealthy. Must the process of bleaching
continue in order to insure the existence of this decayed society?
Must the individual remain wretched in order to maintain an unhealthy
society? For how can society be healthy when its individual members
are ailing? A single individual cannot demand that society should be
sacrificed for his sake, but a majority of individuals have a right to
bring about such changes in the society, which they themselves compose,
as may be beneficial to themselves.
Under the simpler conditions of country life John believed he could
be happy in an obscure post, without feeling that he had sunk in the
social scale. But he could not be so in the town where he would be
continually reminded of the height from which he had fallen. To come
down voluntarily is not painful if the onlookers can be persuaded that
it _is_ voluntarily, but to fall is bitter, especially as a fall always
arouses satisfaction in those standing below. To mount, strive upwards
and better one's position has become a social instinct, and the youth
felt the force of it, though in his view the "upper" was not always
higher.
John wished now to realise some result,--an active life which should
bring him an income. He looked through many advertisements for teachers
in elementary schools. Positions were advertised to which were attached
salaries of 300 or 600 kronas, a house, a meadow and a garden. He tried
for one of these places after another but obtained no answer.
When the term was over and his 80 kronas spent, he returned home, not
knowing whither to turn, what he should become, or how he should live.
He had glanced in the forecourt and seen that there was no room in it
for him.
[1] A krona = 1s. _2d_.