BELOW AND ABOVE
"Are you a complete scholar now?" With this and similar questions John
was greeted ironically on his return home. His father took the matter
seriously and strove to frame plans without coming to any result. John
was a student; that was a fact; but what was to follow?
It was winter, and so the white student cap could not bestow on him
a mild halo of glory or bring any honour to the family. Some one has
asserted that war would cease if uniforms were done away with; and it
is certain there would not be so many students if they had no outward
sign to parade. In Paris where they have none, they disappear in the
crowd, and no one makes a fuss about them; in Berlin on the other hand,
they have a privileged place by the side of officers. Therefore also
Germany is a land of professors and France of the bourgeois.
John's father now saw that he had educated a good-for-nothing for
society who could not dig, but perhaps was not ashamed to beg. The
world stood open for the youth to starve or to perish in. His father
did not like his idea of becoming an elementary school-teacher. Was
that to be the only result of so much work? His ambitious dreams
received a shock from the idea of such a come-down. An elementary
school-teacher was on a level with a sergeant, oil a plane from which
there was no hope of mounting. Climb one must as long as others did;
one must climb till one broke one's neck, so long as society was
divided into ranks and classes. John had not passed the student's
examination for the sake of knowledge, but of belonging to the upper
class, and now he seemed to be meditating a descent to the lower.
It became painful for him at home for he felt as though he were eating
the bread of charity when Christmas was over, and he could no longer be
regarded as a Christmas guest.
One day he accidentally met in the street a school-teacher whom he
knew, and whom he had not seen for a long time. They talked about the
future and John's friend suggested to him a post in the Stockholm
elementary school as suitable for him while reading for his degree. He
would get a thousand kronas salary and have an hour to himself daily.
John objected "Anywhere except in Stockholm." His friend replied that
several students had been teachers in the elementary school, "Really!
then he would have companions in misfortune." Yes, and one had come
from the New Elementary School where he was a teacher. John went, made
an application, and was appointed with a salary of 900 kronas. His
father approved his decision when he heard that it would help him to
read for his degree, and John undertook to live as a boarder at home.
One winter morning at half-past eight, John went down the Nordtullsgata
to the Clara School, exactly as he had done when he was eight years
old. There were the same streets and the same Clara bells, and he was
to teach the lowest class! It was like being put back to learn a lesson
of eleven years ago. Just as afraid as then,--yes, more afraid of
coming too late he entered the large class-room, where together with
two female teachers he was to have the oversight of a hundred children.
There they sat,--children like those in the Jakob School, but younger.
Ugly, stunted, pale, swollen, sickly, with cast-down looks, in coarse
clothes and heavy shoes. Suffering, most probably, suffering from the
consciousness that others were more fortunate, and would always be
so, as one then believed, had impressed on their faces the stamp of
pain, which neither religious resignation nor the hope of heaven could
obliterate. The upper classes avoided them with a bad conscience, built
themselves houses outside the town, and left it to the professional
over-seers of the poor to come in contact with these outcasts.
A hymn was sung, the Lord's Prayer was read; everything was as before;
no progress had been made except that the forms had been exchanged for
seats and desks, and the room was light and airy. John had to fold his
hands and join in the hymn, thus already being obliged to do violence
to his conscience. Prayers over, the head-master entered. He spoke to
John in a fatherly way and as his superintendent gave him instruction
and advice. This class, he said, was the worst, and the teacher must
be strict.
So John took his class into a special room to begin the lesson. The
room was exactly like that in the Clara School, and there stood the
dreadful desk with steps, which resembled a scaffold and was painted
red as though stained with blood. A stick was put into his hand with
which he might rap or strike as he chose. He mounted the scaffold. He
felt shy before the thirsty faces of girls and boys opposite who looked
curiously at him, to see if he were going to worry them.
"What is your lesson?" he asked.
"The first commandment," the whole class exclaimed.
"Only one must answer at a time. You, top boy what is your name?"
"Hallberg," cried the whole class.
"No, only one at a time,--the one I ask."
The children giggled. "He is not dangerous," they thought.
"Well, then, what is the first commandment?" John asked the top boy.
"Thou shalt have no other gods but Me." He knew that then.
"What is that?" John asked again, trying to lay as little emphasis
as possible on the "that." Then he asked fifteen children the same
question and a quarter of an hour had passed. John thought this
idiotic. What should he do now? Say what he knew about God? But the
common point of view then was, that nothing was known about Him. John
was a theist, and still believed in a personal God, but could say
nothing more. He would have liked to have attacked the divinity of
Christ, but would have been dismissed had he done so.
A pause followed. There was an unnatural stillness while he reflected
on his false position and the foolish method of teaching. If he had
now said that nothing was known of God, the whole catechism and Bible
instruction would have been superfluous. They knew that they must not
steal or lie. Why then make such a fuss? He felt a mad wish to make
friends and fellow-sinners of the children.
"What shall we do now?" he said.
The whole class looked at each other and giggled.
"This is a jolly sort of teacher," they thought.
"What must the teacher do when he has heard the lesson?" he asked the
top boy.
"Hm! he generally explains it," he and one or two others answered.
John could certainly explain the origin and growth of the conception of
God, but that would not do.
"You need not do any more," he said, "but don't make a noise."
The children looked at him, and he at them mutually smiling.
"Don't you think this is absurd," he felt inclined to say, but checked
himself and only smiled. But he collected himself when he saw that they
were laughing at him. "This method would not do," he thought. So he
commanded attention and went through the first commandment again till
each child had had a question. After extraordinary exertions on his
part, the clock at last struck nine, and the lesson was over.
Then the three divisions of the class were assembled in the great
hall to prepare for going into the play-ground to get fresh air.
"Prepare" is the right word for such a simple affair as going into the
play-ground demanded a long preparation. An exact description would
fill a whole printed page, and perhaps be regarded as a caricature; we
will be content with giving a hint.
In the first place, all the hundred children had to sit motionless,
absolutely motionless, and silent, absolutely silent, in their seats as
though they were to be photographed. From the master's desk the whole
assembly looked like a grey carpet with bright patterns, but the next
moment one of them moved the head; the offender had to rise from his
seat and stand by the wall. The total effect was now disturbed, and
there had to be a good many raps with the cane before two hundred arms
lay parallel on the desks and a hundred heads were at right angles
with their collar-bones. When quiet was in some degree restored a new
rapping began which demanded absolute quiet. But at the very moment
when the absolute was all but attained, some muscle grew tired, some
nerve slackened, some sinew relaxed. Again there was confusion, cries,
blows, and a new attempt to reach the absolute. It generally ended by
the female teacher (the males did not drive it so far) closing one eye
and pretending that the absolute had been reached.
Then came the important moment, when, at a given signal the whole
hundred must spring from their seats and stand in order, but nothing
more. It was a ticklish moment when slates fell down and rulers
clattered. Then they had to sit down and begin all over again by
keeping perfectly still.
When they had really got on their legs, they were marched off in
divisions but on tip-toe without exception. Otherwise they had to turn
round and sit down again, get up again and so on. They had to go on
tip-toe in wooden sabots and water-boots. It was a great mistake; it
accustomed the children to stealthiness and gave their whole appearance
something cat-like and deceitful. In the play-ground a teacher had
to arrange those who wanted to drink in a straight line before the
water-tap by the entrance; at the same time the lavatories at the
other end of the play-ground had to be inspected, and games had to be
organised and watched over. Then the children were again drawn up and
marched into school. If it was not done quietly, they had to go out
again.
Then another lesson began. The children read out of a patriotic
reading-book the principal object of which seemed to be to instil
respect for the upper classes and to represent Sweden as the best
country in Europe, although as regards climate and social economy,
it is one of the worst, its culture is borrowed from abroad, and all
its kings were of foreign origin. They did not venture to give such
teaching to the children of the upper classes in the Clara School and
the Lyceum, but in the Jakob School they had sufficient courage to
make poor children sing a patriotic song about the Duke of Ostgothland.
In this occurred a verse addressed to the crew of the fleet, saying
victory was sure in the battle they wished for "because Prince Oscar
leads us on," or something of the sort.
Meanwhile the reading-lesson began. But just at that moment the
head-master came in. John wished to stop but the head-master beckoned
to him to go on. The children who had lost their respect for him after
the catechism-lesson were inattentive. John scolded them, but without
result. Then the head-master came forward with a cane; took the book
from John and made a little speech, to the effect that this division
was the worst, but now their teacher should see how to deal with them.
The exercise which followed seemed to have as its object the attainment
of perfect attention. The absolute again seemed to be the standard by
which these children were to be trained in this incomplete world of
relativity.
The boy who was reading was interrupted, and another name called at
random out of the class. To follow attentively was assumed to be the
easiest thing in the world by this old man who certainly must have
experienced how thoughts wander their own way while the eyes pass
over the printed page. The inattentive one was dragged by his hair or
clothes and caned till he fell howling on the ground.
Then the head-master departed after recommending John to use the cane
diligently. There remained nothing but to follow this method or to go;
the latter did not suit John's plans, therefore he remained. He made a
speech to the children and referred to the head-master. "Now," he said,
"you know how you must behave if you want to escape a thrashing. He who
gets one, has himself to thank. Don't blame me. Here is the stick, and
there is your lesson. Learn your lesson or you will get the stick,--and
it isn't my fault."
That was cunningly put, but it was unmerciful, for one ought to have
first ascertained how far the children could do their work. They could
not, for they were the most lively and therefore the most inattentive.
So the cane was kept going all day, accompanied by cries of pain, and
fear on the faces of the innocent. It was terrible! To pay attention
is not in the power of the will, and therefore all this punishment was
mere torture. John felt the absurdity of the part he had to play, but
he had to do his duty. Sometimes he was tired and let things go as they
liked, but then his colleagues, male and female, came and made friendly
representations. Sometimes he found the whole thing so ridiculous
that he could not help smiling with the children while he caned them.
Both sides saw that they were working at something impossible and
unnecessary.
Ibsen, who does not believe in the aristocracy of birth or of wealth,
has lately (1886) expressed his belief that the industrial class
are the true nobility. But why should they necessarily be so? If to
do no manual labour tends to degeneration, perhaps degeneration is
brought about even more quickly by excessive labour and want. All
these children born of manual labourers looked more sickly, weak and
stupid than the upper-class children which he had seen. One or the
other muscle might be more strongly developed,--a shoulder-blade, a
hand, or a foot,--but they looked anæmic under their pale skins.
Many had extraordinarily large heads which seemed to be swollen with
water, their ears and noses ran, their hands were frost-bitten. The
various professional diseases of town-labourers seemed to have been
inherited; one saw in miniature the gas-worker's lungs and blood spoilt
by sulphur-fumes, the smith's shoulders and feet bent out-wards, the
painter's brain atrophied by varnishes and poisonous colours, the
scrofulous eruption of the chimney sweeper, the contracted chest of
the book-binder; here one heard the cough of the workers in metal
and asphalt, smelt the poisons of the paper-stainer, observed the
watch-maker's short-sightedness, in second editions, so to speak. In
truth this was no race to which the future belonged, or on which the
future could build; nor was it a race which could permanently increase,
for the ranks of the workers are continually recruited from the country.
It was not till about two o'clock that the great school-room was
emptied, for it took them about an hour with blows and raps to get out
of it into the street. The most unpractical part of it was that the
children had to march into the hall in troops to get their overcoats
and cloaks, and then march into the school-room again, instead of
going straight home. When John got into the street, he asked himself
"Is that the celebrated education which they have given to the lower
classes with so much sacrifice?" He could ask, and he was answered,
"Can it be done in any other way?" "No," he was obliged to answer. "If
it is your intention to educate a slavish lower class, always ready to
obey, train them with the stick,--if you mean to bring up a proletariat
to demand nothing of life, tell them lies about heaven. Tell them that
your method of teaching is ridiculous, let them begin to criticise
or get their way in one point and you have taken a step towards the
dissolution of society. But society is built up upon an obedient
conscientious lower class; therefore keep them down from the first;
deprive them of will and reason, and teach them to hope for nothing but
to be content." There was method in this madness.
As regards the instruction in the elementary school, there was both
a good and bad side to it; the good was that they had introduced
object-teaching after the example of Pestalozzi, Rousseau's disciple;
the bad, that the students who taught in the elementary schools had
introduced "scientific" teaching. The simple learning by heart of the
multiplication table was not enough; it, together with fractions,
had to be understood. Understood? And yet an engineer who has been
through the technical high school cannot explain "why" a fraction
can be diminished by three if the sum of the figures is divisible by
three. On this principle seamen would not be allowed to use logarithm
tables, because they cannot calculate logarithms. To be always
relaying the foundation instead of building on what is already laid is
an educational luxury and leads to the over-multiplication of lessons
in schools.
Some one may object that John should first have reformed himself
as teacher, before he set about reforming the system of education;
but he could not; he was a passive instrument in the hands of the
superintendent and the school authorities. The best teachers, that is
to say, those who forced the worst (in this case the best) results out
of the pupils were the uneducated ones who came from the Seminary. They
were not sceptical about the methods in use and had no squeamishness
about caning, but the children respected them the most. A great coarse
fellow who had formerly been a carriage-maker had the bigger boys
completely under his thumb. The lower class seem to have really more
fear and respect for those of their own rank than the upper class.
Bailiffs and foremen are more awe-imposing than superintendents and
teachers. Do the lower classes see that the superior who has come out
of their ranks understands their affairs better, and therefore pay him
more respect? The female teachers also enjoyed more respect than the
male. They were pedantic, demanded absolute perfection, and were not at
all soft-hearted, but rather cruel. They were fond of practising the
refined cruelty of blows on the palm of the hand and showed in so doing
a want of intelligence which the most superficial study of physiology
would have remedied. When a child by involuntary reflex action, drew
his fingers back, he was punished all the more for not keeping his
fingers still. As if one could prevent blinking, when something blew
into one's eye! The female teachers had the advantage of knowing very
little about teaching and were plagued with no doubts. It was not true
that they had less pay than the men teachers. They had relatively more;
and if after passing a paltry teacher's examination they had received
more than the students, that would have been unjust. They were treated
with partiality, regarded as miracles, when they were competent, and
received allowances for travelling abroad.
As comrades, they were friendly and helpful if one was polite and
submissive and let them hold the reins. There was not the slightest
trace of flirtation; the men saw them in anything but becoming
situations, and under an aspect which women do not usually show to
the other sex, viz. that of jailers. They made notes of everything,
prepared themselves for their lessons, were narrow-minded and content,
and saw through nothing. It was a very suitable occupation for them
under existing circumstances.
When John was thoroughly sick of caning, or could not manage a boy, or
was in despair generally, he sent the black sheep to a female teacher,
who willingly undertook the unpleasant rôle of executioner.
What it is that makes the competent teacher is not clear. Some produced
an effect by their quiet manner, others by their nervousness; some
seemed to magnetise the children, others beat them; some imposed on
them by their age or their manly appearance, etc. The women worked as
women, _i.e._ through a half-forgotten tradition of a past matriarchate.
John was not competent. He looked too young and was only just nineteen;
he was sceptical about the methods employed and everything else; with
all his seriousness he was playful and boyish. The whole matter to him
was only an employment by the way, for he was ambitious and wished to
advance, but did not know in which direction.
Moreover he was an aristocrat like his contemporaries. Through
education his habits and senses had been refined, or spoilt, as one may
choose to call it; he found it hard to tolerate unpleasant smells, ugly
objects, distorted bodies, coarse expressions, torn clothes. Life had
given him much, and these daily reminders of poverty plagued him like
an evil conscience. He himself might have been one of the lower class
if his mother had married one of her own position.
"He was proud" a shop-boy would have said, who had mounted to the
position of editor of a paper and boasted that he was content with his
lot, forgetting that he might well be content since he had risen from
a low position. "He was proud" a master shoemaker would have said, who
would have rather thrown himself into the sea than become an apprentice
again. John _was_ proud, of that there was no doubt, as proud as the
master shoemaker, but not in such a high degree, as he had descended
from the level of the student to the elementary school-teacher. That,
however, was no virtue, but a necessity, and he did not therefore boast
of his step downward, nor give himself the air of being a friend of
the people. One cannot command sympathies and antipathies, and for the
lower class to demand love and self-sacrifice from the upper class is
mere idealism. The lower class is sacrificed for the upper class, but
they have offered themselves willingly. They have the right to take
back their rights, but they should do it themselves. No one gives up
his position willingly, therefore the lower class should not wait for
kings and the upper class to go. "Pull us down! but all together."
If an intelligent man of the upper class help in such an operation,
those below should be thankful to him especially since such an act is
liable to the imputation of being inspired by impure motives. Therefore
the lower class should not too narrowly inspect the motives of those
who help them; the result is in all eases the same. The aristocrats
seem to have seen this and therefore regard one of themselves who sides
with the proletariat as a traitor. He is a traitor to his class, that
is true; and the lower class should put it to his credit.
John was not an aristocrat in the sense that he used the word "mob" or
despised the poor. Through his mother he was closely allied to them,
but circumstances had estranged him from them. That was the fault of
class-education. This fault might be done away with for the future, if
elementary schools were reformed by the inclusion of the knowledge of
civil duties in their programme, and by their being made obligatory for
all, without exception, as the militia-schools are. Then it would be no
longer a disgrace to become an elementary school-teacher as it now is,
and made a matter of reproach to a man that he has been one.
John, in order to keep himself above, applied himself to his future
work. To this end he studied Italian grammar in his spare time at the
school. He could now buy books and did so. He was honest enough not to
construe these efforts at climbing up as an ideal thirst for knowledge
or a striving for the good of humanity. He simply read for his degree.
But the meagre diet he had lived on in Upsala, his midday meals at 6
kronas, the milk and the bread had undermined his strength, and he
was now in the pleasure-seeking period of youth. It was tedious at
home, and in the afternoons he went to the café or the restaurant,
where he met friends. Strong drinks invigorated him and he slept well
after them. The desire for alcohol seems to appear regularly in each
adolescent. All northerners are born of generations of drinkers from
the early heathen times, when beer and mead was drunk, and it is quite
natural that this desire should be felt as a necessity. With John it
was an imperious need the suppression of which resulted in a diminution
of strength. It may be questioned whether abstinence for us may not
involve the same risk, as the giving up of poison for an arsenic-eater.
Probably the otherwise praiseworthy temperance movement will merely
end in demanding moderation; that is a virtue and not a mere exhibition
of will power which results in boasting and self-righteousness.
John who had hitherto only worn east-off suits, began to wear fine
clothes. His salary seemed to him extraordinarily great and in the
magnifying-glass of his fancy assumed huge proportions, with the result
that he soon ran into debt. Debt which grew and grew and could never be
paid, became the vulture gnawing at his life, the object of his dreams,
the wormwood which poisoned his content. What foolish hopefulness, what
colossal self-deceit it was to incur debts! What did he expect? To gain
an academic dignity. And then? To become a teacher with a salary of 750
kronas! Less than he had now! Not the least trying part of his work was
to accommodate his brain to the capacity of the children. That meant
to come down to the level of the younger and less intelligent, and to
screw down the hammer so that it might hit the anvil,--an operation
which injured the machine.
On the other hand he derived real profit from his observations in
the families of the children, whom his duty required him to visit on
Sundays. There was one boy in his class who was the most difficult of
all. He was dirty and ill-dressed, grinned continually, smelt badly,
never knew his lessons and was always being caned. He had a very large
head and staring eyes which rolled and turned about continually. John
had to visit his parents in order to find out the reason of his
irregular attendance at school and bad behaviour. He therefore went
to the Apelbergsgata where they kept a public-house. He found that
the father had gone to work, but the mother was at the counter. The
public-house was dark and evil-smelling, filled with men who looked
threateningly at John as he entered probably taking him for a plain
clothes policeman. He gave his message to the mother and was asked
into a room behind the counter. One glance at it sufficed to explain
everything. The mother blamed her son and excused him alternately and
she had some reason for the latter. The boy was accustomed to "lick the
glasses,"--that was the explanation and that was enough. What could be
done in such a case? A change of dwelling, better food, a nurse to look
after him and so on. All these were questions of money!
Afterwards he came to the Clara poor-house, which was empty of its
usual occupants and provisionally opened to families because of the
want of houses. In a great hall lay and stood quite a dozen families,
who had divided the floor with strokes of chalk. There stood a
carpenter with his planing-bench, here sat a shoemaker with his board;
round about on both sides of the chalk-line women sat and children
crawled. What could John do there? Send in a report on a matter which
was perfectly well known, distribute wood-tickets and orders for meat
and clothing.
In Kungsholmsbergen he came across specimens of proud poverty. There he
was shown the door, "God be thanked, we have no need of charity. We
are all right."
"Indeed! Then you should not let your boy go in torn boots in winter."
"That is not your business, sir," and the door was slammed.
Sometimes he saw sad scenes,--a child sick, the room full of sulphur
fumes of coke, and all coughing from the grandmother down to the
youngest. What could he do except feel dispirited and make his escape?
At that period there was no other means of help except charity; writers
who described the state of things, contented themselves with lamenting
it; no one saw any hope. Therefore there was nothing to do except to be
sorry, help temporarily, and fly in order not to despair.
All this lay like a heavy cloud upon him, and he lost pleasure in
study. He felt there was something wrong here, but nothing could be
done said all the newspapers and books and people. It must be so but
every one is free to climb. You climb too!
Time went on and spring approached. John's closest acquaintance
was a teacher from the Slöjd School. He was a poet, well-versed
in literature, and also musical. They generally walked to the
Stallmastergarden restaurant, discussed literature, and ate their
supper there. While John was paying his attentions to the waitress,
his friend played the piano. Sometimes the latter amused himself by
writing comic verses to girls. John was seized with a craze for writing
verse but could not. The gift must be born with one, he thought, and
inspiration descend all of a sudden, as in the case of conversion.
He was evidently not one of the elect, and felt himself neglected by
nature and maimed.
One evening when John was sitting and chatting with the girl, she said
quite suddenly to him, "Friday is my birthday; you must write some
verses for me."
"Yes," answered John, "I will."
Later on when he met his friend, he told him of his hasty promise.
"I will write them for you," he said. The next day he brought a poem,
copied out in a fine hand-writing and composed in John's name. It was
piquant and amusing. John dispatched it on the morning of the birthday.
In the evening of the same day both the friends came to eat their
supper and to congratulate the girl. She did not appear for an hour for
she had to serve guests. The teachers' meal was brought and they began
to eat.
Then the girl appeared in the doorway and beckoned John. She looked
almost severe. John went to her and they ascended a flight of stairs.
"Have you written the verses?" she asked.
"No," said John.
"Ah, I thought so. The lady behind the buffet said she had read them
two years ago when the teacher sent them to Majke who was an ugly girl.
For shame, John!"
He took his cap and wanted to rush out, but the girl caught hold of him
and tried to keep him back for she saw that he looked deathly pale
and beside himself. But he wrenched himself free and hastened into
the Bellevue Park. He ran into the wood leaving the beaten tracks.
The branches of the bushes flew into his face, stones rolled over his
feet, and frightened birds rose up. He was quite wild with shame, and
instinctively sought the wood in order to hide himself. It is a curious
phenomenon that at the utmost pitch of despair a man runs into the
wood before he plunges into the water. The wood is the penultimate and
the water the ultimate resource. It is related of a famous author, who
had enjoyed a twenty years' popularity quietly and proudly, that he
was suddenly cast down from his position. He was as though struck by a
thunderbolt, went half-mad and sought the shelter of the woods where
he recovered himself. The wood is the original home of the savage and
the enemy of the plough and therefore of culture. When a civilised man
suddenly strips off the garb of civilisation, the artistically woven
fabric of his repute, he becomes in a moment a savage or a wild beast.
When a man becomes mad, he begins to throw off his clothes. What is
madness? A relapse? Yes, many think animals mad.
It was evening when John entered the wood. In the midst of some
bushes he laid down on a great block of stone. He was ashamed of
himself,--that was the chief impression on his mind. An emotional man
is more severe with himself than others think. He scourged himself
unmercifully. He had wished to shine in borrowed plumage, and so lied;
and in the second place he had insulted an innocent girl. The first
part of the accusation affected him in a very sensitive point,--his
want of poetic capacity. He wished to do more than he could. He was
discontent with the position which nature and society had assigned
him. Yes, but (and now his self-defence began after the evening air
had cooled his blood), in the school one had been always exhorted to
strive upwards; those who did so were praised, and discontent with
the position one might happen to be in, was justified. Yes but (here
the scourge descended!) he had tried to deceive. To deceive! That was
unpardonable. He was ashamed, stripped and unmasked without any means
of retreat. Deception, falsity, cheating! So it was!
As a quondam Christian, John was most afraid of having a fault, and
as a member of society he feared lest it should be visible. Everybody
knew that one had faults, but to acknowledge them was regarded as a
piece of cynicism, for society always wishes to appear better than it
is. Sometimes, however, society demanded that one should confess one's
fault if one wished for forgiveness, but that was a trick. Society
wished for confession in order to enjoy the punishment, and was very
deceitful. John had confessed his fault, been punished, and still his
conscience was uneasy.
The second point regarding the girl was also difficult. She had loved
him purely and he had insulted her. How coarse and vulgar! Why should
he think that a waitress could not love innocently? His own mother had
been in the same position as that girl. He had insulted her. Shame
upon him!
Now he heard shouts in the park, and his name being called. The girl's
voice and his friend's echoed among the trees, but he did not answer
them. For a moment the scourge fell out of his hands; he became sobered
and thought, "I will go back, we will have supper, call Riken and drink
a glass with her, and it will be all over." But no! He was too high up
and one cannot descend all at once.
The voices became silent. He lay back in a state of semi-stupefaction
and ground his double crime between the mill-stones of rumination. He
had lied and hurt her feelings.
It began to grow dark. There was a rustling in the bushes; he started
and a sweat broke out upon him. Then he went out and sat upon a seat
till the dew fell. He shivered and felt poorly. Then he got up and went
home.
Now his head was clear and he could think. What a stupid business it
all was! He did not really mean that she should take him for a poet,
and had been quite ready to explain the whole trick. It was all a joke.
His friend had made a fool of him, but it did not matter.
When he got home he found his friend sleeping in his bed. He wanted
to rise but John would not let him. He wished to scourge himself once
more. He lay on the floor, put a cigar-box under his head and drew a
volunteer's cloak over him. In the morning when he awoke, John asked in
trembling tones, "How did she take it?"
"Ah, she laughed; then we drank a glass, and it was over. She liked the
verses."
"She laughed! Was she not angry?"
"Not at all."
"Then she only humbugged me."
John wished to hear no more. This trifle had kept him on the rack for a
whole dreadful night. He felt ashamed of having asked whether she was
disquieted about him. But since she had laughed and drunk punch she
could not have been. Not even anxious about his life!
He dressed himself and went down to the school.
The habit of self-criticism derived from his religious training had
accustomed him to occupy himself with his ego, to fondle and cherish
it, as though it were a separate and beloved personality. So cherished
the ego expanded and kept continually looking within instead of
without upon the world. It was an interesting personal acquaintance, a
friend who must be flattered, but who must also hear the truth and be
corrected.
It was the mental malady of the time reduced to a system by Fichte,
who taught that everything took place in the ego and through the ego,
without which there was no reality. It was the formula for romanticism
and for subjective idealism.
"I stood on the shore under the king's castle," "I dwell in the cave
of the mountain," "I, small boy, watch the door," "I think of the
beautiful times,"--all these phrases struck the same note. Was this "I"
really so proud. Was not the poet's "I" more modest than the editor's
royal "we"?
This absorption in self, or the new malady of culture, of which much
is written nowadays, has been common with all men who have not worked
with their bodies. The brain is only an organ for imparting movement
to the muscles. Now when in a civilised man the brain cannot act upon
the muscles, nor bring its power into play, there results a disturbance
of equilibrium. The brain begins to dream; too full of juices which
cannot be absorbed by muscular activity, it converts them involuntarily
into systems, into thought-combinations, into the hallucinations which
haunt painters, sculptors and poets. If no outlet can be found, there
follows stagnation, violent outbreaks, depression, and at last madness.
Schools which are often vestibules for asylums, have recourse to
gymnastics, but with what result? There is no connection between the
pupil's cerebral activity and the muscular activity called into play by
gymnastics; the latter is only directed by another's will through the
word of command.
All studious youths are aware of this tendency to congestion of the
brain. It is a good thing that they often go out to improve or to
beautify society, but it would be better if the equilibrium were
restored, and a sound mind dwelt in a sound body. It has been sought to
introduce physical work into schools as a remedy. It would be better
to let elementary knowledge be acquired at home, to make the school
a day-school, and to let every one look after himself. For the rest
the emancipation of the lower classes will compel the higher classes
to undertake some of the physical labour now carried on by domestics
and so the equilibrium will be restored. That such labour does not
blunt the intelligence can be easily seen by observing that some of
the strongest minds of the time have had such daily contact with
reality, _e.g._ Mill the civil service official, Spencer, the civil
engineer, Edison the telegraphist. The student period of life, the most
unwholesome because not under discipline, is also the most dangerous.
The brain continually takes in, without producing anything, not even
anything intellectual, while the whole muscular system is unoccupied.
John at this time was suffering from an over-production of thought and
imagination. The mechanical school-work continually revolving in the
same circle with the same questions and answers afforded no relief.
It increased on the other hand his stock of observations of children
and teachers. There lay and fermented in his mind a quantity of
experiences, perceptions, criticisms and thoughts without any order. He
therefore sought for society in order to speak his mind out. But it was
not sufficient, and as he did not find any one who was willing to act
as a sounding-board, he took to declaiming poetry.
In the early sixties declamation was much the fashion. In families they
used to read aloud "The Kings of Salamis." In the numerous volunteer
concerts the same pieces were declaimed over and over again. These
declamations were what the quartette singing had been, an outlet for
all the hope and enthusiasm called forth by the awakening of 1865.
Since Swedes are neither born nor trained orators, they became singers
and reciters, perhaps because their want of originality sought a
ready-made means of expression. They could execute but not create. The
same want of originality showed itself in the bachelor's gatherings
where reciters of anecdotes were much in request. This feeble and
tedious form of amusement was superseded when the new questions of the
day provided food for conversation and discussion.
One day John came to his friend the elementary school-teacher whom he
found together with another young colleague. When the conversation
began to slacken, his friend produced a volume of Schiller, whose poems
had just then appeared in a cheap edition and were bought mostly for
that reason. They opened "The Robbers" and read round in turn, John
taking the part of Karl Moor. The first scene of the first act took
place between old Moor and Franz. Then came the second scene: John
read, "I am sick of this quill-driving age when I read of great men
in Plutarch." He did not know the play and had never seen bandits.
At first he read absent-mindedly, but his interest was soon aroused.
The play struck a new note. He found his obscure dreams expressed
in words; his rebellious criticisms printed. Here then was another,
a great and famous author who felt the same disgust at the whole
course of education in school and university as he did, who would
rather be Robinson Crusoe or a bandit than be enrolled in this army
which is called society. He read on; his voice shook, his cheeks
glowed, his breast heaved: "They bar out healthy nature with tasteless
conventionalities."... There it stood all in black and white. "And that
is Schiller!" he exclaimed, "the same Schiller who wrote the tedious
history of the Thirty Years' War, and the tame drama "Wallenstein"
which is read in schools!" Yes, it was the same man. Here (in "The
Robbers") he preached revolt, revolt against law, society, morals
and religion. That was in the revolt of 1781 eight years before the
great revolution. That was the anarchists' programme a hundred years
before its time, and Karl Moor was a nihilist. The drama came out with
a lion on the title-page and with the inscription "In Tyrannos." The
author then (1781) aged two-and-twenty had to fly. There was no doubt
therefore about the intention of the piece. There was also another
motto from Hippocrates which showed this intention as plainly; "What is
not cured by medicine must be cured by iron; what is not cured by iron
must be cured by fire."
That was clear enough! But in the preface the author apologised and
recanted. He disclaimed all sympathy with Franz Moor's sophisms and
said that he wished to exhibit the punishment of wickedness in Karl
Moor. Regarding religion he said, "Just now it is the fashion to make
religion a subject for one's wit to play upon as Voltaire and Frederick
the Great did, and a man is scarcely reckoned a genius unless he can
make the holiest truths the object of his godless satire...." I hope
I have exacted no ordinary revenge for religion and sound morality in
handing over these obstinate despisers of Scripture in the person of
this scoundrelly bandit, to public contumely. Was then Schiller true
when he wrote the drama, and false when he wrote the preface? True in
both cases, for man is a complex creature, and sometimes appears in his
natural sometimes in his artificial character. At his writing-table
in loneliness, when the silent letters were being written down on
paper, Schiller seems like other young authors to have worked under the
influence of a blind natural impulse without regard to mens' opinion,
without thinking of the public, or laws, or constitutions. The veil
was lifted for a moment and the falsity of society seen through in its
whole extent. The silence of the night when literary work--especially
in youth,--is carried on, causes one to forget the noisy artificial
life outside, and darkness hides the heaps of stones over which animals
which are ill-adapted to their environment stumble. Then comes the
morning, the light of day, the street noises, men, friends, police,
clocks striking, and the seer is afraid of his own thoughts. Public
opinion raises its cry, newspapers sound the alarm, friends drop off,
it becomes lonely round one, and an irresistible terror seizes the
attacker of society. "If you will not be with us," society says, "then
go into the woods. If you are an animal ill-adapted to its environment,
or a savage, we will deport you to a lower state of society which
you will suit." And from its own point of view society is right and
always will be right. But the society of the future will celebrate the
revolter, the individual, who has brought about social improvement, and
the revolter is justified long after his death.
In every intelligent youth's life there comes a moment when he is in
the transition stage between family life and that of society, when
he feels disgusted at artificial civilisation and breaks out. If he
remains in society, he is soon suppressed by the united wet-blankets
of sentiment and anxiety about living; he becomes tired, dazzled,
drops off and leaves other young men to continue the fight. This
unsophisticated glance into things, this outbreak of a healthy nature
which must of necessity take place in an unspoilt youth, has been
stigmatised by a name which is intended to depreciate the idealistic
impulses of youth. It is called "spring fever" by which is meant that
it is only a temporary illness of childhood, a rising of the vernal
sap, which produces stoppage of the circulation and giddiness. But who
knows whether the youth did not see right before society put out his
eyes? And why do they despise him afterwards?
Schiller had to creep into a public post for the sake of a living and
even eat the bread of charity from a duke's hand. Therefore his writing
degenerated, though perhaps not from an æsthetic or subordinate point
of view. But his hatred of tyrants is everywhere manifest. It declares
itself against Philip II of Spain, Dorea of Genoa, Gessler of Austria,
but therefore ceases to be effective. Schiller's rebellion which was in
the first instance directed against society, was afterwards directed
against the monarchy alone. He closes his career with the following
advice to a world reformer (not, however, till he had seen the reaction
which followed the French Revolution). "For rain and dew and for the
welfare of mankind, let heaven care to-day, my friend, as it has always
done." Heaven, the unfortunate old heaven will care for it, just as
well as it has done before.
Just as a man once does his militia duty at the age of twenty-one, so
Schiller did his. How many have shirked it!
John did not take the preface to "The Robbers" very seriously or rather
ignored it; but he took Karl Moor literally for he was congenial. He
did not imitate him, for he was so like him that he had no need to do
so. He was just as mutinous, just as wavering, and just as ready at an
alarm to go and deliver himself into the hands of justice.
His disgust at everything continually increased and he began to make
plans for flight from organised society. Once it occurred to him to
journey to Algiers and enlist in the Foreign Legion. That would be
fine he thought to live in the desert in a tent, to shoot at half-wild
men or perhaps be shot by them. But circumstances occurred at the
right moment, to reconcile him again with his environment. Through the
recommendation of a friend he was offered the post of tutor to two
girls in a rich and cultured family. The children were to be educated
in a new and liberal-minded method and neither to go to a girls' school
nor have a governess. That was an important task to which he was
called and John did not feel himself adequate to it; besides which he
objected that he was only an elementary school-teacher. He was answered
that his future employers knew that, but were liberal-minded. How
liberal-minded people were at that time!
Now there commenced a new double life for him. From the penal
institution of the elementary school with its compulsory catechism and
Bible, its poverty, wretchedness, and cruelty, he went to dinner at
one o'clock, which he swallowed in a quarter of an hour, and then by
two o'clock was at his post as private tutor. The house was one of the
finest at that time in Stockholm with a porter, Pompeian stair-cases
and painted windows in the hall. In a handsome, large, well-lighted
corner room with flowers, bird-cages and an aquarium he was to give
lessons to two well-dressed, washed and combed little girls, who
looked cheerful and satisfied after their dinner. Here he could give
expression to his own thoughts. The catechism was banished, and only
select Bible stories were to be read together with broad-minded
explanations of the life and teachings of the Ideal Man, for the
children were not to be confirmed, but brought up after a new model.
They read Schiller and were enthusiastic for William Tell and the
fortunate little land of freedom. John taught them all that he knew and
spent more time in talking than in asking questions; he roused in them
the hopes of a better future which he shared himself.
Here he obtained an insight into a social circle hitherto unknown to
him, that of the rich and cultured. Here he found liberal-mindedness,
courage and the desire for truth. Down below in the elementary school
they were cowardly, conservative and untruthful. Would the parents of
the children be willing to have religious teaching done away with,
even if the school authorities recommended it? Probably not. Must
then illumination come from the upper classes? Certainly, though not
from the highest class of all, but from the republic of truth-seeking
scientists. John saw that one must get an upper place in order to be
heard; therefore he must strive upwards or pull culture down and cast
the sparks of it among all. One needed to be economically independent
in order to be liberally minded; a position was necessary in order to
give one's words weight; thus aristocracy ruled in this sphere also.
There was at that time a group of young doctors, men of science and
letters, and members of parliament who formed a liberal league without
constituting themselves a formal society. They gave popular lectures,
engaged not to receive any honorary decorations, cherished liberal
views on the subject of the State Church and wrote in the papers. Among
them were Axel Key, Nordenskiöld, Christian Loven, Harald Wieselgren,
Hedlund, Victor Rydberg, Meijerberg, Jolin, and many less-known names.
These, with one or two exceptions, worked quietly without creating
excitement. After the reaction of 1872 they fell off and became tired;
they could not join any political party which was rather an advantage
than otherwise for the country party had already begun to be corrupted
by yearly visiting Stockholm and attendance at the court. They now all
belong to the moderate or respectable liberal party, except those of
them who have joined the indifferents, a fact not to be wondered at,
after they had for so many years fought uselessly for nothing.
Through the family of his pupils John came into external touch with
this group, obtained a closer view of them, and heard their speeches at
dinners and suppers. To John they sometimes seemed the very men whom
the time needed, who would first spread enlightenment and then work
for reform. Here he met the superintendent of the elementary school
and was surprised at finding him among the liberals. But he had the
school authorities over him and was as good as powerless. At a cheerful
dinner, when John had plucked up heart, he wished to have an intimate
talk with him and to come to an understanding. "Here," he thought,
"we can play the part of augurs and laugh with each other over our
champagne." But the superintendent did not want to laugh and asked him
to postpone the conversation till they met in the school. No, John did
not want to do that, for in the school both would have other views, and
speak of something else.
John's debts increased and so did his work. He was in the school from
eight till one; then he ate his dinner and went to give his private
lessons within half-an-hour, arriving out of breath, with food half
digested, and sleepy; then he taught till four o'clock going out
afterwards to give more lessons in the Nordtullsgata; he returned to
his girl pupils in the evening, and then read far into the night for
his examination after ten hours' teaching. That was over-work. The
pupil thinks his work hard, but he is only the carriage while the
teacher is the horse. Teaching is decidedly harder than standing by a
screw or the crane of a machine, and equally monotonous.
His brain, dulled by work and disturbed digestion, needed to be roused,
and his strength needed replenishing. He chose the shortest and best
method by going into a café, drinking a glass of wine, and sitting for
a while. It was good that there were such places of recreation, where
young men could meet and fathers of families recruit themselves over a
newspaper and talk of something else than business.
The following summer he went out to a summer settlement outside the
city. There he read daily for a couple of hours with his girl pupils
and a whole number of children besides them. The summer settlement
afforded rich and varied opportunities of social intercourse. It was
divided into three camps,--the learned, the æsthetic and the civic.
John belonged to all three. It has been asserted that loneliness
injures the development of character (into an automaton), and if
has been also asserted that much social intercourse is bad for the
development of character. Everything can be said and can be true; it
all depends upon the point of view. But no doubt for the development
of the soul into a rich and free life much social intercourse is
necessary. The more men one sees and talks with, the more points
of view and experiences one gains. Every one conceals a grain of
originality in himself, every individual has his own history. John got
on equally well with all; he spoke on learned matters with the learned,
discussed art and literature with the æsthetes, sang quartettes and
danced with the young people, taught the children and botanised,
sailed, rode and swam with them. But after he had spent some time in
the rush, he withdrew into solitude for a day or two to digest his
impressions. Those who were really happy were the townsmen. They came
from their work in the town, shook off their cares and played in the
evening. Old wholesale merchants played in the ring and sang and danced
like children. The learned and the æsthetic on the other hand sat
on chairs, spoke of their work, were worried by their thoughts as by
nightmares and never seemed to be really happy. They could not free
themselves from the tyranny of thought. The tradesmen, however, had
preserved a little green spot in their hearts which neither the thirst
for gain nor speculation nor competition had been able to parch up.
There was something emotional and hearty about them which John was
inclined to call "nature." They could laugh like lunatics, scream like
savages, and be swayed by the emotions of the moment. They wept over
a friend's misfortune or death, embraced each other when delighted
and could be carried out of themselves by a beautiful sunset. The
professors sat in chairs and could not see the landscape because of
their eye-glasses, their looks were directed inwards, and they never
showed their feelings. They talked in syllogisms and formulas; their
laughter was bitter, and all their learning seemed like a puppet play.
Is that then the highest point of view? It is not a defect to have let
a whole region of the soul's life lie fallow?
It was the third camp with which John was on the most intimate
terms. This was a little clique consisting of a doctor's family and
their friends. There sang the renowned tenor W. while Professor M.
accompanied him; there played and sang the composer J.; there the
old Professor P. talked about his journeys to Rome in the company
of painters of high birth. Here the emotions had full play, but
were under the control of good taste. They enjoyed the sunsets, but
analysed the lights and shades and talked of lines and "values." The
more noisy enjoyments of the tradesmen were regarded as disturbing
and unæsthetic. They were enthusiasts for art. John spent some hours
pleasantly with these amiable people, but when he heard the sound of
quartette singing and dance-music from the villa close by, he longed to
be there. That was certainly more lively.
In hours of solitude he read, and now for the first time, became really
acquainted with Byron. "Don Juan," which he already knew, he had found
merely frivolous. It really dealt with nothing and the descriptions
of scenery were intolerably long. The work seemed merely a string of
adventures and anecdotes. In "Manfred" he renewed acquaintance with
Karl Moor in another dress. Manfred was no hater of men; he hated
himself more, and went to the Alps in order to fly himself, but always
found his guilty self beside him, for John guessed at once that he had
been guilty of incest. Nowadays it is generally believed that Byron
hinted at this crime, which was purely imaginary, in order to make
himself appear interesting. To become interesting as a romanticist at
whatever price would at the present time be called "differentiating
oneself, going beyond and above the others." Crime was regarded as
a sign of strength, therefore it was considered desirable to have a
crime to boast about, but not such a one as could be punished. They did
not want to have anything to do with the police and penal servitude.
There was certainly a spirit of opposition to law and morality in this
boasting of crime.
Manfred's discontent with heaven and the government of Providence
pleased John. Manfred's denunciations of men were really levelled at
society, though society as we now understand it, had not then been
discovered. Rousseau, Byron and the rest were by no means discontented
misogynists. It was only primitive Christianity which demanded that men
should love men. To say that one was interested in them would be more
modest and truthful. One who has been overreached and thrust aside in
the battle of life may well fear men, but one cannot hate them when
one realises one's solidarity with humanity and that human intercourse
is the greatest pleasure in life. Byron was a spirit who awoke before
the others and might have been expected to hate his contemporaries, but
none the less strove and suffered for the good of all.
When John saw that the poem was written in blank verse he tried to
translate it, but had not got far, before he discovered that he could
not write verse. He was not "called." Sometimes melancholy, sometimes
frisky, John felt at times an uncontrollable desire to quench the
burning fire of thought in intoxication and bring the working of his
brain to a standstill. Though he was shy, he felt occasionally impelled
to step forward, to make himself impressive, to collect hearers and
appear on a stage. When he had drunk a good deal, he wanted to declaim
poetry in the grand style. But in the middle of the piece, when his
ecstasy was at its highest, he heard his own voice, became nervous and
embarrassed, found himself ridiculous, suddenly dropped into a prosaic
and comic tone and ended with a grimace; he could be pathetic, but
only for a while; then came self-criticism and he laughed at his own
overwrought feelings. The romantic was in his blood, but the realistic
side of him was about to wake up.
He was also liable to attacks of caprice and self-punishment. Thus he
remained away from a dinner to which he had been invited and lay in his
room hungry till the evening. He excused himself by saying that he had
overslept.
The summer approached its end and he looked forward to the beginning of
the autumn term in the elementary school with dread. He had now been
in circles where poverty never showed its emaciated face; he had tasted
the enticing wine of culture and did not wish to become sober again.
His depression increased; he retired into himself and withdrew from the
circle of his friends. But one evening, there was a knock at his door;
the old doctor who had been his most intimate friend and lived in the
same villa, stepped in.
"How are the moods?" he asked, and sat down with the air of an old
fatherly friend.
John did not wish to confess. How was he to say that he was
discontented with his position, and acknowledge that he was ambitious
and wished to advance in life? But the doctor had seen and understood
all. "You must be a doctor," he said. "That is a practical vocation
which will suit you, and bring you into touch with real life. You have
a lively imagination which you must hold in check, or it will do harm.
Now are you inclined to this? Have I guessed right?"
He had. Through his intercourse from afar with these new prophets who
succeeded the priests and confessors, John had come to see in their
practical knowledge of men's lives, the highest pitch of human wisdom.
To become a wise man who could solve the riddles of life,--that was for
a while his dream. For a while, for he did not really wish to enter any
career in which he could be enrolled as a regular member of society.
It was not from dislike of work, for he worked strenuously and was
unhappy when unoccupied, but he had a strong objection to be enrolled.
He did not wish to be a cypher, a cog-wheel, or a screw in the social
machine. He wished to stand outside and contemplate, learn and preach.
A doctor was in a certain sense free; he was not an official, had no
superiors, set in no public office, was not tied by the clock. That was
a fairly enticing prospect, and John was enticed. But how was he to
take a medical degree, which required eight years' study? His friend,
however, had seen a way out of this difficulty. "Live with us and teach
my boys," he said.
This was certainly a business-like offer which carried with it no sense
of accepting a humiliating favour. But what about his place in the
school? Should he give it up?
"That is not your place!" the doctor cut him short. "Every one should
work where his talents can have free scope, and yours cannot in the
elementary school, where you have to teach, as prescribed by the school
authorities."
John found this reasonable, but he had been so imbued with ascetic
teaching that he felt a pang of conscience. He wanted to leave the
school, but a strange feeling of duty and obligation held him back. He
felt quite ashamed of being suspected of such a natural weakness as
ambition. And his place, as the son of a servant, had been assigned to
him below. But his father had literally pulled him up, why should he
sink and strike his roots down there again?
He fought a short bloody conflict, then accepted the offer thankfully,
and sent in his resignation as a school-teacher.