BOOKS AND THE STAGE
The history of the development of a soul can be sometimes written by
giving a simple bibliography; for a man who lives in a narrow circle
and never meets great men personally, seeks to make their acquaintance
through books. The fact that the same books do not make the same
impression, nor have the same effect upon all, shows their relative
powerlessness to convert anybody. For example, we call the criticism
with which we agree good; the criticism which contradicts our views is
bad. Thus we seem to be educated with preconceived views, and the book
which strengthens, expresses and develops these makes an impression
on us. The danger of a one-sided education through books is that most
books, especially those composed at the end of an era, and at the
university, are antiquated. The youth who has received old ideals from
his parents and teachers is accordingly necessarily out of date before
his education is completed. When he enters manhood, he is generally
obliged to fling away his whole stock of old ideas, and be born again,
as it were. Time has gone by him, while he was reading the old books,
and he finds himself a stranger among his contemporaries.
John had spent his youth in accumulating antiquarian lore. He knew all
about Marathon and Cannae, the war of the Spanish succession and the
Thirty Years' War, the Middle Ages and antiquity; but when the war
between France and Germany broke out, he did not know the cause of it.
He read about it as he would have read a play, and was interested to
see what the result of it would be.
In Kristineberg, where he spent the summer with his parents, he lay
out on the grass in the park and read Oehlenschläger. For his degree
examination, he had, besides his chief subject--æsthetics,--to
choose a special one, and, enticed by Dietrichson's lectures, he had
chosen Danish literature. In Oehlenschläger he had found the summit
of Northern poetry. That was for him the quintessence of poetry,--the
directness which he admired perhaps for the very reason that he had
not got it. The Danish language perhaps also contributed to this
result; it seemed to him an idealised Swedish, and sounded like his
mother-speech from the lips of a woman worshipped from afar. When he
read Oehlenschläger's _Helge_, Tegner's _Frithiof's Saga_ seemed to him
petty; he found it unwieldy, prosaic, clerical, unpoetic.
Oehlenschläger's dramas were a book which had an influence on John by
way of a supplementary contrast. Perhaps the romantic element in them
found an echo in the youth's mind, which had now awoken* to poetic
activity, and looked upon poetry and romance as identical. Other
contributory circumstances were his liking for Norse antiquities which
Oehlenschläger had just discovered, and the unrequited love he had
just then for a blond maiden who was engaged to a lieutenant. But the
impression made by Oehlenschläger was only fleeting, and hardly lasted
a year; it was a light spring breeze which passed by.
It fared worse with John's study of æsthetics as expounded by
Ljunggren in two closely printed volumes, containing the views of all
philosophers on the Beautiful, but giving no satisfactory definition of
it.
John had studied the antique in the National Museum, and asked himself
how the pot-house scenes of the Dutch genre painters which, when
they occurred in reality, were called ugly, could be reckoned among
beautiful pictures, although they were in no way idealised. To this the
æsthetic philosophers gave no answer. They shirked the question and
set up one theory after another, but the only excuse they could find
for the admission of ugliness was that it acted as a foil, and provided
a comic element. But a strong suspicion had been aroused in John that
the "Beautiful" was not always beautiful.
Furthermore, he was troubled by doubts whether it was possible to
have independent standards of taste. In the newly-founded paper, the
_Schwedische Zeitschrift_, he had read discussions about works of
art, and seen how disputants on both sides defended their position
with equally strong arguments. One sought beauty in form, another in
subject, and a third in the harmony between the two. Accordingly a
well-painted subject from still life can rank higher than the Niobe,
for this group of statuary is not beautiful in its outlines, the
arrangement of the drapery of the principal figure being especially
tasteless although the judgment of the majority regards the work as
sublime. Therefore the sublime does not necessarily consist in beauty
of form.
Victor Hugo's romances had found a fertile soil in John's mind. The
revolt against society; the reverence paid to Nature by the poet living
on a lonely island; the scorn for the ever-prevalent stupidity; the
indignation against formal religion and the enthusiasm for God as the
Creator of all,--all that was germinating in the young man's mind began
to grow, but was stifled by the autumn leaf-drifts of old books.
John's life in the domestic circle was now a quiet one. The storms
had subsided; his brothers and sisters were grown up. His father, who
still always sat over his account-ledgers, calculating the ways and
means of providing for his flock of children, had become older, and
now perceived that John was also older. They often discussed together
topics of common interest. As regards the Franco-German War they were
both fairly neutral. As Latinised Teutons they did not love the German.
They hated and feared him as a sort of uncle with a right of seniority
against the Swedes, and they did not forget that victorious Prussia had
once been a Swedish province. The Swede had become more French than he
was aware, and now he felt conscious of his relationship to _la grande
nation_. In the evenings when they sat in the garden and the noise of
traffic had ceased, they heard the singing of the Marseillaise from
Blanch's café, and the hurrahs which were soon to be silent.
In August, when the theatres re-opened, John received the long-desired
news that his play had been accepted for the stage. That was the first
intoxicating success which he had experienced. To have a play accepted
at the Theatre Royal when he was only twenty-one was sufficient
compensation for all his misfortunes. His words would reach the public
from the first stage in the land; his failure as an actor would be
forgotten; his father would see that his son amid all his notorious
fluctuations had chosen right, and all would be well. In autumn, before
the university term began, the piece was performed. It was naive,
pious and full of reverence for art, but had one dramatic scene which
saved it in spite of its slightness--Thorwaldsen about to shatter
the statue of Jason with his hammer. But on the other hand the piece
contained a presumptuous outburst against contemporary rhymers. What
was the author's intention in that? How could a beginner who had so
many forced rhymes himself, cast a stone at another? It was a piece
of temerity which found its own punishment. John stole to the bottom
of the third row of seats to view the performance of his piece from a
standing position. Rejd was already there before him and the curtain
was up. John felt as though he stood under an electric machine. Every
nerve quivered, his legs shook, and his tears ran the whole time from
pure nervousness. Rejd had to hold his hand in order to quiet him.
Now and then there was applause, but John knew that it was mostly from
his relatives and friends, and did not let himself be deceived. Every
stupidity which had inadvertently escaped him now jarred on his ear,
and made him quiver; he saw nothing but crudeness in the piece; he felt
so ashamed that his ears burned; before the curtain fell he rushed away
out into the dark market-place.
He felt as though annihilated. The attack on the priests was stupid and
unjust; the glorification of poverty and pride seemed to him false, his
description of the relationship between father and son was cynical. How
could he have shown off in this absurd way? It seemed to him as though
he had exposed his nakedness, and shame overpowered every other feeling.
On the other hand he found the actors good; the _mise en scène_ was
more appropriate than he had expected. Everything was good except the
piece itself. He wandered down to the Norrstrom, and felt inclined
to drown himself. What most annoyed him was that he had so openly
exhibited his feelings. Whence came that? And why should one in general
be ashamed of such exhibitions? Why are the feelings so sacred? Perhaps
because the feelings in general are false, as they only express a
physical sensation, in which personality of the individual does not
fully participate. If it is really so, then John was ashamed as an
ordinary man, to have been untruthful in his writing and to have worn
disguise.
To be moved at the sight of human suffering is regarded as a mark of
fine feeling and meritorious, but it is said to be only a natural
reflex-movement. One involuntarily transfers the sufferings of the
other to oneself and suffers for one's own sake. Another's tears could
bring one to weep just as another's yawning could make one yawn. That
was all. John felt ashamed that he had lied and caught himself in the
act, though the public had not caught him.
No one is such a merciless critic as a dramatist who sees his own play
acted. He lets no single word pass through his sieve. He does not lay
the blame on the actors, but generally admires them for rendering his
stupidities with such taste. John found his play stupid. It had lain
by for half a year, and perhaps he had outgrown it. Another piece was
performed after it which lasted for two hours. During the whole time
he wandered about the streets in the darkness, feeling ashamed of
himself. He had made an appointment to drink a glass with some friends
and relatives after the performance in the Hôtel du Nord, but remained
away. He saw they were looking for him but did not wish to meet them.
So they went in again to see the second play. At last it was over. The
spectators streamed out and dispersed through the streets. He hastened
away in order not to hear their comments.
At last he saw a single group standing under the portico of the
dramatic theatre. They were looking out in all directions and called
him. Finally he came forward as pale and melancholy as a corpse.
They congratulated him on his success. The play had been applauded and
was very good. They repeated to him the verdicts of other spectators
and quieted him. Then they dragged him to a restaurant and compelled
him to eat and drink. "That will do you good, you old death's-head!"
said a shop-assistant. John was soon pulled down from his imaginative
flight. "What have you got to be melancholy for," he was asked, "when
you have had a play acted by the Theatre Royal?" He could not tell
them. His boldest ambition was fulfilled; but it was probably not
what he wanted. The thought that in any case it was an honour did not
comfort him.
The next morning he went into a shop, and bought the morning paper
and read a criticism to the effect that the piece was written in
choice language, and (since it was anonymous) probably by a well-known
art-critic who had moved among artistic circles at Rome. That was
pleasant and cheered his spirits.
At noon he started for Upsala. His father had engaged a room for him
in a boarding-house, kept by the widow of a clergyman, that he might
complete his studies under proper supervision.