Carl Michael Bellman was born in Stockholm on the 4th of February, 1740.
His father, son of a professor at Upsala University, held a government
office; of his mother he wrote that she was "fair as day, unspeakably
good, dressed prettily, was kind to everybody, of a refined nature, and
had an excellent voice." From her he undoubtedly inherited the warm,
genial heart which beats in every one of his songs. His father's house
was the rendezvous of many of the noted men of the day, among them the
poet Dalin, who was then at the zenith of his popularity. The boy's
unusual gifts were early recognized, and everything was done to give him
the best instruction, especially after an attack of fever, during which
he not only spoke in rhyme, but sang his first improvised songs in a
clear, true voice. The tutor who was then chosen taught him, "besides
the art of making verse," English, French, German, and Italian; and he
progressed far enough in these studies to translate several German hymns
and religious and philosophic essays, no doubt influenced in this choice
of subjects by the religious atmosphere of his home. Moreover, he taught
himself to play the zither, and very soon began to pick out his own
melodies as an accompaniment to his songs. The instrument he used had
been brought home from Italy by his grandfather, became his closest
companion throughout life, and is now kept at the Royal Academy of Arts
at Stockholm.
At eighteen he entered the University of Upsala, and while there wrote a
satirical poem, "The Moon," which he submitted to the criticism of
Dalin, who however made but a single correction. It was written in the
manner of Dalin, and he continued to be influenced by the latter until
his twenty-fifth year. At this time, and within the same year, his
father and mother died, and seeking among his friends the social
stimulus which his nature craved, he became a frequent guest at the inns
in the company of Hallman and Krexel, who were making their mark by
their poetic and dramatic writings. It was then that his peculiar talent
came to its own; he threw away all foreign influence and began to sing
his songs, born of the impression of the moment and full of the charm of
spontaneity. Some of them he jotted down quickly, most of them he sang
to the sound of his zither, often fashioning them to suit well-known
melodies, and again creating the melody with the words, for the greater
part set in a form of verse not previously used. And so inseparably
linked are words and melody, that it has not occurred to any one to set
any other music to Bellman's songs than what he originally chose. He
took all his characters out of the life he saw around him; and with the
appreciation of the man to whom the present is everything, he seized the
charm of the fleeting moment and expressed it with such simplicity and
truth, and deep feeling withal, that it stands forth immortally fresh
and young. A number of these songs have probably been lost; he had no
thirst for fame, and took no pains to circulate them, but they found
their way to the public in written copies and cheap prints, and his name
was soon known throughout the country.
This way of living and singing like the birds of the air was, however,
not very conducive to the satisfaction of material wants. He had made
two attempts to go into business, but the more he was seen at the inns,
the less he was seen at his business.
Fortunately for him, Gustavus III., who was himself a poet, became at
this time king of Sweden. He was an adherent of the French school of
poetry, and Bellman's muse could hardly be said to belong to this: but
with considerable talent as a dramatic writer, Gustavus appreciated the
dramatic quality in Bellman's songs; and when Bellman sent him a rhymed
petition, still kept, in which he wrote that "if his Majesty would not
most graciously give him an office, he would most obediently be obliged
to starve to death before Christmas," the king made him secretary of the
lottery, with the title of court secretary, and a yearly income of three
thousand dollars. Bellman promptly gave half of this to an assistant,
who did the work, and continued his troubadour life on the other half
with a superb disdain of future needs. His affairs so well in order, he
could afford to get married; and chose for his wife Lovisa Grönlund, a
girl of a bright intellect and strong character, of which she ultimately
had great need, the responsibilities of their married life being left
altogether to her.
Bellman was now at his best; about this time he wrote most of 'Fredman's
Songs' and 'Actions concerning the Chapter of Bacchus order.' both rich
in lyric gems; he was the favorite companion of the King, to whom his
devotion was boundless, and he was happy in his chosen friends whose
company inspired him. Nevertheless he was now, as ever, in need of
money. Atterbom tells that "One day the King met him on the street, so
poorly dressed that he instinctively exclaimed, 'My dear Bellman, how
poorly you are clad!' The poet answered with a bow, 'I can nevertheless
most obediently assure your Majesty that I am wearing my entire
wardrobe.'" His ready wit never left him. "How goes the world with you?"
asked the King once when they met; "you don't look to me as if you could
turn a single rhyme to-day." The poet bowed and replied on the spur of
the moment:--
"No scrip my purse doth hold;
My lyre's unstrung, alas!
But yet upon my glass
Stands Gustaf's name in gold."
Another time the King sent his men for him, with the order to bring him
in whatever condition they found him. "He was found not entirely free
from drink, and not very presentable, but was nevertheless carried off,
zither and all, to Haga Castle, where he drank some champagne, sang some
songs, drank a little more, and finally fell asleep. The King left him
so to go to his supper; and when he returned and found his guest still
sleeping, he remarked, 'I wonder what Bellman would say if I awoke him
now and asked him to give me a song.' The poet sat up, blinked with his
eyes, and said, 'Then Bellman would say,--listen;' whereupon he sang to
the tune of 'Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre':--
"'Oh, so heavily, heavily trailing,
The clouds over Haga are sailing,
And the stars their bright glances are veiling,
While woods in the gloom disappear.
Go, King, thy rest is dear,
Go, King, thy respite taking,
Rest softly, rest softly, then waking,
When dawn through the darkness is breaking,
Thy people with mild rule thou cheer!'
Then he fell into his former position again, and was carried home asleep
with a little gift in his hand."
The task of collecting, preserving, and publishing his works fell
entirely upon his friends; if it had depended on him, they would
probably never have been collected, much less published.
During the last fifteen years of his life, from 1780 to 1795, his health
grew very poor. In 1791 he was invited to be present at the distribution
of degrees at Upsala, and at the dinner he returned a toast with a song
born of the moment; but his voice had grown so weak from lung trouble
that only those nearest to him could hear him. To add to his sufferings,
he had to meet the great sorrow of his King's death at the hand of a
murderer, and his poem on the 'Death and Memory of the King' was not of
a nature to make friends for him at the new court. Thus it happened
that, poor and broken in health, he was put into the debtor's prison in
the very castle where he had been so happy a guest. Hallman and Krexel
and others of his best friends, as devoted to him as ever, were unable
to obtain his release; but he was at last bailed out by some one, who as
recompense asked him to sing one of his jolly songs, and in his poor
broken voice he sang. 'Drink out thy glass, see, Death awaits thee.'
Atterbom remarks about the man in question, "And maybe he did not find
that song so jolly after all."
While in prison he sent in a petition to the King,--somewhat different
from his first petition to Gustavus III.,--in which he asked permission
to live in the castle until his death. The following is one of
the verses:--
"Spring commands; the birds are singing,
Bees are swarming, fishes play;
Now and then the zephyrs stray,
Breath of life the poet bringing.
Lift my load of sorrow clinging,
Spare me one small nook, I pray."