JOHN BECOMES AN AUTHOR
(1869)
The next morning he felt in a state of complete collapse. His nerves
still trembled and his body felt the fever of shame and intoxication.
What should he do? He must save his honour. He must still hold out
for two or three months and try again. That day he remained at home
and read _The Stories of a Barber-Surgeon_. As he read it seemed
to him that they recorded his own experience; they were about the
reconciliation of a step-son to his step-mother. The breach in
his domestic life had always weighed upon him like a sin, and he
longed for reconciliation and peace. That day this longing took an
unusually melancholy form, and as he lay on the sofa, his brain began
to evolve various plans for smoothing away the domestic discord. A
woman-worshipper as he then was, and under the influence of the book he
had been reading, he thought that only a woman could reconcile him with
his father. This noble rôle he assigned to his step-mother.
While thus tying on the sofa he felt an unusual degree of fever,
during which his brain seemed to work at arranging memories of the
past, cutting out some scenes, and adding others. New minor characters
entered; he saw them mixing in the action, and heard them speaking,
just as he had done on the stage. After one or two hours had passed,
he had a comedy in two acts ready in his head. This was both a painful
and pleasurable form of work if it could be called a work; for it went
forward of itself, without his will or co-operation.
But now he had to write it. In four days the piece was ready. He kept
on going from the writing-table to the sofa and back; and in the
intervals of his work, he collapsed like a rag. When the work was
finished, he drew a deep sigh of relief, as though years of pain were
over, as though a tumour had been cut out. He was so glad, that he felt
as though some one was singing within him. Now he would offer his piece
to the theatre;--that was the way of salvation. The same evening he
sat down to write a note of congratulation to a relative who had found
a situation. When he had written the first line, it seemed to him to
read like a verse. Then he added the second line which rhymed with the
first. Was it no harder than that? Then with a single effort he wrote a
four-page letter in rhyme and discovered that he could write verse. Was
it no harder than that? Only a few months before he had asked a friend
to help him with some verses for a special occasion. He had, however,
received a negative but complimentary answer, in being told not to
drive in a hired carriage, when he had one of his own.
One was not then born to write verses, he said to himself, nor did one
learn it, though all kinds of verse-measures were taught in school,
but it came,--or did not come. It seemed to him like the working of
the Holy Spirit. Had the psychical convulsion, which he had felt at
his defeat as an actor, been so strong that it had turned upside down
all the strata of his memories and impressions, and had the violent
impulse set his imagination to work? There had doubtless been a long
preparation going on. Was it not his imagination, which had conjured up
pictures, when as a child he had been afraid of the dark? Had he not
written essays in school and letters for years? Had he not formed his
style through reading, translating and writing for the papers? Yes, he
had, but it was not till now that he noticed in himself the so-called
creative power of the artist.
The art of the actor was therefore not the one suited to his powers;
his having thought so was a mistake which could easily be rectified.
Meanwhile he must keep his authorship fairly secret and remain at the
theatre till the end of the season, so that his failure as an actor
might not be known, or at any rate till his piece was accepted, as it
naturally would be, for he thought it good.
But he wished to make sure of it, and for that purpose invited two
of his learned friends outside the theatrical circle. In the evening
before they came, he arranged the lumber-room which he had hired in
the doctor's house. He tidied it up, lighted two candles instead of
the study lamp, covered the table with a clean cloth and set on it a
punch-bowl with glass, ash-trays and matches. This was the first time
he had entertained guests, and the experience was novel and strange.
The work of an author has often been compared to childbirth, and the
comparison has something to justify it. He felt a kind of peace like
that which follows parturition; something or some one seemed to be
there which, or who, was not there before; there had been suffering and
crying and now there was silence and peace. He felt in a festival mood
as he used to do in the old times at home; the children were in their
Sunday best, and their father in his black frock coat cast a last look
round on the arrangements before the guests came.
His friends arrived and he read the piece through in silence till the
end. They gave their verdict, and John was greeted by his elders as an
author.
When they had gone, he fell on his knees on the floor, and thanked
God for having delivered him from difficulty and bestowed on him the
gift of poetry. His communion with God had been very irregular; it
was a curious fact, that in cases of great necessity he rallied his
powers within himself and did not cry to the Lord at all; but on joyful
occasions, on the other hand, he involuntarily felt the need of at once
thanking the Giver of all good. It was just the contrary to what it had
been in his childhood, and that was natural since his idea of God had
developed into that of the Author and Giver of all good things, whereas
the God of his childhood had been a God of terror whose hand was full
of misfortunes.
At last he had found his calling, his true rôle in life and his
wavering character began to develop a backbone. He had a pretty good
idea now of what he wanted, and this gave him at least a rudder to
steer by. Now he pushed off from land to go for a long voyage, but
always ready to tack when he encountered too strong a head wind,--not,
however, to fall to leeward, but the next moment to luff his ship up to
the wind with bellying sails.
By writing this comedy, he had now relieved himself of his domestic
troubles. He next described the religious conflicts he remembered so
vividly in a three-act play. This lightened the ship considerably.
His creative energy during this period was immense. He had the writing
fever daily; within two months he composed two comedies and a rhymed
tragedy, besides occasional verses. The tragedy was his first real
"work of art," as the phrase is, for it did not deal with any of his
subjective experiences. "Sinking Hellas" was the not inconsiderable
theme. The composition was finished and clear, but the situations were
somewhat threadbare, and there was a good deal of declamation. The
only original elements in it were an austere moral tone and contempt
for uncultured demagogues. Thus, for instance, he introduced an old
man inveighing against the immorality and want of patriotism of the
youth of the time. He made Demosthenes speak disparagingly of a
demagogue, and express something of what he had felt towards the master
chimney-sweep and pawnbroker on the journey to Copenhagen. The head
of the Theatrical Academy also got a rap over the knuckles because
he had often lamented over John's "lack of culture." The piece was
aristocratic in tone, and the freedom celebrated in it was that which
was the object of aspiration in the sixties,--national freedom.
Meanwhile he had sent his domestic comedy anonymously to the board of
management of the Theatre Royal. While it was under consideration, he
went on cheerfully with his work as supernumerary actor. "Just you
wait!" he said to himself, "then my turn will come and I shall have a
word to say in the matter." He was now quite cool on the stage, and
felt, even when dressed as a peasant youth in _Wilhelm Tell_, like a
prince in disguise. "I am certainly no swineherd, though you may think
so," he hummed to himself.
He had to wait long for an answer about his piece. At last he lost
patience and revealed himself as the author to the head of the
Theatrical Academy. The latter had read the piece and found talent in
it, but said it could not be played. This was not a great blow for him,
for he still had the tragedy in reserve. That was better received, but
he was told it needed remodelling here and there.
One evening when the Academy closed, the head instructor expressed a
wish to speak with John. "Now we see what you are good for," he said.
"You have a fine career in front of you; why should you choose an
inferior one? You can become an actor probably if you work for some
years, but why toil at this thankless task? Go back to Upsala and take
your degree if you can. Then become an author, for one must first have
experiences in order to write well."
To become an author,--that John agreed with, and also with the
suggestion that he should give up the theatre; but as for returning to
Upsala,--no! He hated the university, and did not see how the useless
things one learnt there could help him as an author; he rather needed
to study life at first hand. But then he began to reflect, and when
he considered that, at present, he could get no piece of his accepted
so as to serve as a plank to save himself by, he grasped at the other
straw,--Upsala. There was no disgrace in becoming a student again, and
at the theatre they knew that he was not only an unsuccessful débutant,
but also an author.
At the same time he learnt that there was a legacy due to him from his
mother of a few hundred kronas. With them he could support himself for
a half-year at the university. He went to his father, not as a prodigal
son, but as a promising author, and as a creditor. There was a vehement
dispute between them which ended in John receiving his legacy. He had
now conceived the plan of a tragedy with the startling title "Jesus of
Nazareth." It dealt in dramatic form with the life of Christ, and was
intended, with one blow and once for all, to shatter the divine image
and eradicate Christianity. But when he had completed some scenes, he
saw that the subject-matter was too great and would demand prolonged
and tedious study.
The theatrical season now approached its end. The Theatrical Academy
gave their customary stage performance. John had received no rôle in
it, but undertook the task of prompter. And his career as an actor
closed in the prompter's box. To this was reduced his ambition of
acting Karl Moor on the stage of the Great Theatre! Did he deserve this
fate? Was he worse equipped for acting than the rest? That was probably
not so, but the question was never decided.
In the evening after the performance, a dinner was given to the
Academy pupils. John was invited and made a speech in verse in order
to make his exit seem as little like a fiasco as possible. He became
intoxicated, as usual, behaved foolishly and disappeared from the
scene.