JOHN BECOMES AN ARISTOCRAT
(1869)
Among those who frequented the doctor's house was a young man who
studied sculpture. He had come from the lower strata of society, had
been a smith's apprentice, and had now entered the Academy, where he
was a probationary student. He was happy and always cheerful, believed
himself called by providence to his new career, and narrated how he
had been aroused and impelled by the spirit to work in the service
of the Beautiful. John liked him because he was not introspective or
self-critical and quite free from self-consciousness. Moreover he was a
fellow culprit, who was making the same daring attempt as John to work
his way out of the lower class, but entirely lacked the consciousness
of guilt which persecuted the latter.
One day this friend, whose name was Albert, came to him and said
that he was going to Copenhagen to visit Thorwaldsen's Museum. An
enterprising speculator had arranged a trip there through the canal
and back by sea for a very small fare. "You come too," he said, and it
was soon settled that John should accompany him with one of the boys.
The occasion of the expedition was the crown princess's entry into
Copenhagen, but that was a secondary object in the eyes of the pilgrims
to Thorwaldsen's tomb.
On an August evening John sat on the poop of the steamer with the
sculptor, one of the boys and a school friend of his. In the twilight
which had already fallen one saw ladies and gentlemen coming on board.
The society seemed to be first-class. Stout fathers of families with
field-glasses and tourist knapsacks, ladies in summer dresses and hats
of the latest fashion. There was a bustle and stir, as each sought a
sleeping-place which was guaranteed to all. John and his companions sat
quietly waiting. They had their provisions and rugs and feared nothing.
When the steamer had started and the confusion had ceased, John said,
"Now we will have some bread and butter before we lie down."
They looked for their knapsacks and the provision basket, but they were
not to be found. They discovered that they had not come with them. This
was a hard blow, for they had only a little cash and they had counted
on the excellent provisions which the doctor's wife had put up for
them. Accordingly they had to eat from the sculptor's box, which only
contained poor dry victuals.
Then they wanted to lie down. On all sides people were asking for
sleeping-places, but could not find any. The passengers were in an
uproar and there was a storm of curses. They had therefore to sit on
deck; there were inquiries for the organiser of the expedition, but he
was not on board. John lay down on the bare deck and the boys drew a
tarpaulin over themselves, for the dew was falling and it was bitterly
cold. They awoke at Södertelje, freezing, for the sailors had taken
away the tarpaulin.
On the canal bank there now appeared the organiser of the excursion,
who was an upholsterer. The passengers rushed at him, drew him on
board, and loaded him with reproaches. He defended himself and tried
to land again, but in vain. A court martial was held; they resolved
to continue their journey, but detained the upholsterer as a hostage.
The steamer went on through the canal, but as it was passing through a
lock, the man-swung himself up on the dam and disappeared amid a hail
of curses.
The journey was continued and by midday they were in the Gotha canal.
Dinner was laid on the poop. John and his companions ensconced
themselves in the lifeboat which hung there and ate a simple meal out
of the sculptor's box. The sculptor, who had slept on a bale do mu in
the luggage-hold, was in a good humour and knew all the passengers'
characters and names.
The dinner-table was now crowded. It was presided over by a master
chimney-sweep with his family. Then there came pawnbrokers,
public-house keepers, cabmen, butchers, waiters, with their families,
a number of young shop boys and some girls. John suffered when he saw
stewed perch and strawberries together with claret and sherry, for he
had been so spoilt by luxury that simple food made him poorly. This
was the "upper class" among the passengers. The master chimney-sweep
played the grand gentleman, he made a grimace at the claret and scolded
the waitress who said that the restaurant-keeper was responsible. The
porter from the Record Office affected the learned man, and as an
official seemed to look down on the "Philistines."
While the sherry circulated, speeches were made. The lower class
from the fore-deck hung on the gunwales and hand-rails and listened.
The pariahs in the lifeboat were ignored. People knew that they were
there, but did not see them. They may very likely have wished the
"white cap" away, for there were two eyes under its peak, which saw
that they were no better than himself. John felt that. He had just
emerged from this class to which he belonged by birth, but he had no
food and was nothing. He felt his inferiority and his superiority; and
their superiority. They had worked; therefore they ate. Yes, but he
had worked as much as they, though not in the same way. He had derived
honour from his work, while they took the good eating and dispensed
with the honour. One could not have both.
The people sat there satisfied and happy, drank their coffee and
liqueurs, and occupied the whole poop. They now became bold and made
remarks over those in the lifeboat, who could only suffer in silence,
because the others were in the majority and the upper class, for they
were consumers.
John felt himself in an element which was not his. There was an
atmosphere of hostility about him, and he felt depressed. There were
no police on board to help him, no arbitration to appeal to, and if
there were a quarrel, all would condemn him. There only needed a sharp
retort on his part, and he would be struck. "The deuce!" he thought,
"it would be better to obey officers and officials; they would never
be such tyrants as these democrats." Later on, at Albert's advice, he
sought to approach them, but they were inaccessible.
Further on during the voyage between Venersborg and Göteborg the
explosion came. John and his companions' hunger increased so much that
one day they determined to go down to the dining-saloon and eat some
bread and butter. It was so full of people eating and drinking that
they could hardly find room. John's pupil, according to the custom of
his class, kept his hat on. The master chimney-sweep noticed this.
"Hullo!" he said, "is the ceiling too high for you?"
The boy seemed not to understand him.
"Take your hat off, boy!" he shouted again.
The hat remained as it was. A shop assistant knocked it off. The boy
picked up the hat, and put it again on his head. Then the storm burst.
They all rushed on him like one man and knocked the hat off. Then they
went for John, "And such a young devil has a tutor who cannot teach
boys to know their proper place! We know well enough who _you_ are."
Then they rained abuse on his parents. John tried to inform them that
in the social circles to which the boy belonged, it was the custom to
keep one's hat on in public places, and that he had not intended any
expression of contempt by it. But his explanation was ill-received.
What did he mean by "those circles"? What nonsense he talked! Did he
want to teach them manners? And so on.
Yes, he could; for it was precisely from these circles that they had
learnt five-and-twenty years ago to take their hats off, which was no
longer the custom, and he could have told them that in twenty-five
years more they would keep their hats on as soon as they got wind that
_that_ was the fashion. But they had not discovered it yet.
John and his friends went again on deck. "One cannot argue with these
people," he said.
His nerves were shaken by the scene just witnessed. He had seen an
outbreak of class-hatred and the flashing eyes of people whom he had
not injured; he had felt the foot of the upper class of the future upon
his breast. They had become his enemies; the bridge between him and
them was broken down; but the tie of blood remained and he cherished
the same hatred towards aristocratic society, and its unjust ascendency
as they did; he felt the same grudge against the conventions before
which they all had to bow; yes, he had Karl Moor's replies in his mind,
but those who had just defeated him were all Spiegelbergers.[1] If they
got the upper hand they would trample on all,--great and small; if he
got the upper hand, he would only trample on the great. That was the
difference between them. It was, however, education which had made him
more democratic than they; he would therefore side with the educated.
They would work for those below, but from a distance, and from above.
One could not handle this raw uncouth mass.
The stay on board was now intolerable. An outbreak might take place at
any moment. And it came.
They were now in the Kattegat, and John was sitting on the upper deck
when he heard a loud noise beneath him of voices and cries. He thought
he recognised his pupil's voice, and rushed down. On the middle deck
stood the accused surrounded by a crowd. A pawnbroker waved his arms
about and shouted. John asked what the matter was.
"He has stolen my cap," shouted the pawnbroker.
"I don't believe it possible," said John.
"Yes, I saw it; he has put it in this clothes bag."
It was John's bag. "That is mine," said John. "You can look into it
yourself." He opened the bag and there lay the pawnbroker's cap! There
was general excitement. John stood convicted and a storm was on the
point of breaking out against the two thieves. A student who stole!
That was a bonne bouche. How had it happened? Now John remembered. He
had a grey cap similar to the pawnbroker's which he used to sleep in
at night. He had told the boy to put it in his bag; the boy had taken
the wrong one. John turned to the foredeck passengers: "Gentlemen," he
began, "do you think it likely that a rich man's son would go and take
a greasy cap when he has a perfectly new one? Do you not see that there
has been a mistake?"
"Yes," said the plebeians, "there has."
Only the pawnbroker was obstinate and stuck to his statement.
"Then it only remains for me to beg this gentleman's pardon for the
mistake, and I ask my pupil to do the same."
The latter did so, though unwillingly. There was general satisfaction
and a murmured opinion that he had "spoken like a gentleman." The
matter was fortunately settled.
"You see," said John to the boy, "the people are open to reason after
all!"
"Bah! That was only because they felt flattered at being called
gentlemen,--the cursed rabble!"
"Perhaps," answered John, who felt that he had been sufficiently
humiliated for such a trifle.
At last they reached Copenhagen. Hungry, freezing, and in the worst of
humours they sat in the rain outside the Thorwaldsen Museum, which was
closed on account of the festivities. But Albert swore he would get
in. After they had waited for an hour with the master chimney-sweep,
the public-house keeper, and all the other passengers there came an
old man who looked learned and wished to enter. Albert rushed after
him, mentioned the name of Molins, the Swedish sculptor, and they got
in, leaving the other passengers outside. Albert was delighted, and
could not help making a face at the master chimney-sweep who remained
outside. But the one who enjoyed it most was the young sinner, who
hated the mob.
"Now we are gentlemen," he said.
John was not in the mood to enjoy Thorwaldsen's works. He regarded
him as an average artist talented enough to win fame. Albert found
the antiques too elaborate, but did not dare to criticise them.
They did not witness the royal entry, but sat on the tower of the
Fruekirke and looked at the view. At nightfall, when they felt tired
and exhausted, they wanted to go down to the steamer to sleep, but it
had gone to Malmö. They stood in the street in the rain. They could
not go to an hotel, for they had no money. Albert resolved to go to a
public-house and ask for a night's lodging. They found a sailors' inn
near the public-house. The landlord said it was only for seamen, but
they answered that they must have shelter. They were taken into a back
room where there were two camp-beds, but a basin was not to be seen.
The walls were unpapered and looked shabby. In one of the beds lay a
sailor. Who was to be his bed-fellow? Albert undertook that, and slept
with the stranger, who was a Dutchman. So they all went to sleep, John
cursing the whole adventure, for the bed-clothes were malodorous.
The return voyage home by sea was one long penance. Without provisions
and hardly any money they had to sustain life on raw eggs which they
bought in the small towns they touched at. These along with stale
bread and brandy, composed their diet for three days. Albert alone
was cheerful and enjoyed himself. He slept on the poop with the
passengers and amused them with stories; he was akin to them, and knew
their language. He drank with them and got hot food; he even went into
the kitchen sometimes and begged himself a plate of soup. "How easily
he takes life!" thought John. "He does not miss luxuries, for he has
never known them; he will never be expelled as an intruder when he
approaches people; he feasts while others starve, and sees only friends
everywhere. But his day will come when he will no longer be one of the
lower class, when luxury and refined habits will make him as helpless
and unfortunate as me."
When he got home he was furious. So it was everywhere. Those who were
above trampled on those below, and those who were below tried to
pull one back when one tried to mount. What was the meaning of all
this talk about aristocrats and democrats? The lower class spoke of
their democratic way of thinking, as though it were a virtue. What
virtue is there in hating those who are above? What is the meaning of
"aristocrat"? Αριστος means the best, and κρατέω "I rule." Therefore
an aristocrat is one who wishes that the best should rule and a
democrat one who wishes that the worst should do so. But then comes the
question: Who are really the best? Are a low social position, poverty
and ignorance things that make men better? No, for then one would not
try to do away with poverty and ignorance. Into whose hands then should
men commit political power, with the knowledge that it would be in the
hands of the least mischievous? Into the hands of those who knew most?
Then one would have professorial government, and Upsala would be--no,
not the professors! To whom then should power be given? He could not
answer, but certainly not to the chimney-sweep and cab-owner who were
on the steamer.
On this occasion he did not go deeper into the matter, for the question
had not yet been raised whether the same culture could not be imparted
to every one, or whether there need be any governing body at all.
He had come across the worst aristocracy of all, the upper stratum
of the lower class, or, to name them by their usual ugly title, "the
Philistines." They were a bad copy of the aristocracy; they sided with
the powerful, aped the habits of their superiors, grew rich by others'
labours, quoted authorities and hated opposition with the exception of
their silent opposition to those above them. The master chimney-sweep
made money through the toil of the abjectly poor, the cab-owner through
the wretched cabbies and hacks, the pawnbroker wrung unrighteous
gain from the need of the poverty-stricken, and so on, everywhere.
A teacher, on the other hand, a doctor, an artist, could not depute
slaves to his work; he must do it himself, and was therefore not such
a shark as those below. If, then, culture brought men happiness and
made them better, then the aristocracy were justified and beneficent,
and could regard themselves as better than those below. Yes, but one
could buy culture for money, could beg or borrow the means for it,
as so many students did, and there was no virtue in that at any rate.
Yet one could not help feeling superior to others when one knew more
and observed the laws of social life so as to injure no one. All that
remained for the real democracy was to reduce everything to a dead
level, so that no one need feel themselves below, and no one could
think they were above.
[1] _Vide_ Schiller's "Robbers."