people after his bankruptcy, the unfriendly verdict of public opinion
regarding his originally illegal union with his wife, had induced him
to retire to the Norrtullsgata. Here he had rented a house with a large
garden, wide-stretching fields, with a pasture, stables, farmyard, and
conservatory. He had always liked the occupations of a country life
and agriculture. Before this he had possessed a piece of land outside
the town, but could not look after it. Now he rented a garden for his
own sake and the children's, whose education a little resembled that
described in Rousseau's _Emile_. The house was separated from its
neighbours by a long fence. The Norrtullsgata was an avenue lined with
trees which as yet had no pavement, and had been but little built upon.
The principal traffic consisted of peasants and milk-carts on their way
to the hay market. Besides these there were also funerals moving slowly
along to the "New Churchyard," sledging parties to Brunnsvik, and
young people on their way to Norrbucka or Stallmastergarden.
The garden which surrounded the little one-storied house was very
spacious. Long alleys with at least a hundred apple-trees and
berry-bearing bushes crossed each other. Here and there were thick
bowers of lilac and jasmine, and a huge aged oak still stood in a
corner. There was plenty of shade and space, and enough decay to make
the place romantic. East of the garden rose a gravel-hill covered with
maples, beeches, and ash-trees; on the summit of it stood a temple
belonging to the last century. The back of the hill had been dug away
in parts in an unsuccessful attempt to take away gravel, but it had
picturesque little dells filled with osier and thorn bushes. From
this side neither the street nor the house was visible. From here one
obtained a view over Bellevue, Cedardalsberg, and Lilljanskog. One saw
only single scattered houses in the far distance, but on the other hand
numberless gardens and drying-houses for tobacco.
Thus all the year round they enjoyed a country life, to which they had
no objection. Now the boy could study at first-hand the beauty and
secrets of plant life, and his first spring there was a period of
wonderful surprises. When the freshly turned earth lay black under the
apple-tree's white and pink canopy, when the tulips blazed in oriental
pomp of colour, it seemed to him as he went about in the garden as
if he were assisting at a solemnity more even than at the school
examination, or in church, the Christmas festival itself not excepted.
But he had also plenty of hard bodily exercise. The boys were sent
with ships' scrapers to clear the moss from the trees; they weeded the
ground, swept the paths, watered and hoed. In the stable there was
a cow with calves; the hay-loft became a swimming school where they
sprang from the beams, and they rode the horses to water.
They had lively games on the hill, rolled down blocks of stone, climbed
to the tops of the trees, and made expeditions. They explored the woods
and bushes in the Haga Park, climbed up young trees in the ruins,
caught bats, discovered edible wood-sorrel and ferns, and plundered
birds' nests. Soon they laid their bows and arrows aside, discovered
gunpowder, and shot little birds on the hills. They came to be somewhat
uncivilised. They found school more distasteful and the streets more
hateful than ever. Boys' books also helped in this process. _Robinson
Crusoe_ formed an epoch in his life; the _Discovery of America_,
the _Scalp-Hunter_, and others aroused in him a sincere dislike of
school-books.
During the long summer holidays their wildness increased so much that
their mother could no longer control the unruly boys. As an experiment
they were sent at first to the swimming school in Riddarholm, but it
was so far that they wasted half the day on the road thither. Finally,
their father resolved to send the three eldest to a boarding-school in
the country, to spend the rest of the summer there.
III
AWAY FROM HOME
Now he stands on the deck of a steamer far out at sea. He has had so
much to look at on the journey that he has not felt any tedium. But
now it is afternoon, which is always melancholy, like the beginning
of old age. The shadows of the sun fall and alter everything without
hiding everything, like the night. He begins to miss something. He
has a feeling of emptiness, of being deserted, broken off. He wants
to go home, but the consciousness that he cannot do so at once fills
him with terror and despair and he weeps. When his brothers ask him
why, he says he wants to go home to his mother. They laugh at him, but
her image recurs to his mind, serious, mild, and smiling. He hears
her last words at parting: "Be obedient and respectful to all, take
care of your clothes, and don't forget your evening prayer." He thinks
how disobedient he has been to her, and wonders whether she may be
ill. Her image seems glorified, and draws him with unbreakable cords
of longing. This feeling of loneliness and longing after his mother
followed him all through his life. Had he come perhaps too early and
incomplete into the world? What held him so closely bound to his mother?
To this question he found no answer either in books or in life. But
the fact remained: he never became himself, was never liberated, never
a complete individuality. He remained, as it were, a mistletoe, which
could not grow except upon a tree; he was a climbing plant which must
seek a support. He was naturally weak and timid, but he took part in
all physical exercises; he was a good gymnast, could mount a horse when
on the run, was skilled in the use of all sorts of weapons, was a bold
shot, swimmer, and sailor, but only in order not to appear inferior
to others. If no one watched him when bathing, he merely slipped
into the water; but if anyone _was_ watching, he plunged into it,
head-over-heels, from the roof of the bathing-shed. He was conscious
of his timidity, and wished to conceal it. He never attacked his
school-fellows, but if anyone attacked him, he would strike back even a
stronger boy than himself. He seemed to have been born frightened, and
lived in continual fear of life and of men.
The ship steams out of the bay and there opens before them a blue
stretch of sea without a shore. The novelty of the spectacle, the
fresh wind, the liveliness of his brothers, cheer him up. It has just
occurred to him that they have come eighteen miles by sea when the
steamboat turns into the Nykopingså river.
When the gangway has been run out, there appears a middle-aged man with
blond whiskers, who, after a short conversation with the captain, takes
over charge of the boys. He looks friendly, and is cheerful. It is the
parish clerk of Vidala. On the shore there stands a waggon with a black
mare, and soon they are above in the town and stop at a shopkeeper's
house which is also an inn for the country people. It smells of
herrings and small beer, and they get weary of waiting. The boy cries
again. At last Herr Linden comes in a country cart with their baggage,
and after many handshakes and a few glasses of beer they leave the
town. Fallow fields and hedges stretch in a long desolate perspective,
and over some red roofs there rises the edge of a wood in the distance.
The sun sets, and they have to drive for three miles through the dark
wood. Herr Linden talks briskly in order to keep up their spirits. He
tells them about their future school-fellows, the bathing-places, and
strawberry-picking. John sleeps till they have reached an inn where
there are drunken peasants. The horses are taken out and watered. Then
they continue their journey through dark woods. In one place they have
to get down and climb up a hill. The horses steam with perspiration
and snort, the peasants on the baggage-cart joke and drink, the parish
clerk chats with them and tells funny stories. Still they go on
sleeping and waking, getting down and resting alternately. Still there
are more woods, which used to be haunted by robbers, black pine woods
under the starry sky, cottages and hedges. The boy is quite alarmed,
and approaches the unknown with trembling.
At last they are on a level road; the day dawns, and the waggon stops
before a red house. Opposite it is a tall dark building--a church--once
more a church. An old woman, as she appears to him, tall and thin,
comes out, receives the boys, and conducts them into a large room on
the ground-floor, where there is a cover-table. She has a sharp voice
which does not sound friendly, and John is afraid. They eat in the
gloom, but do not relish the unusual food, and one of them has to choke
down tears. Then they are led in the dark into an attic. No lamp is
lit. The room is narrow; pallets and beds are laid across chairs and
on the floor, and there is a terrible odor. There is a stirring in the
beds, and one head rises, and then another. There are whispers and
murmurs, but the new-comers can see no faces. The eldest brother gets
a bed to himself, but John and the second brother lie foot to foot. It
is a new thing for them, but they creep into bed and draw the blankets
over them. His elder brother stretches himself out at his ease, but
John protests against this encroachment. They push each other with
their feet, and John is struck. He weeps at once. The eldest brother is
already asleep. Then there comes a voice from a corner on the ground:
"Lie still, you young devils, and don't fight!"
"What do you say?" answers his brother, who is inclined to be impudent.
The bass voice answers, "What do I say? I say--Leave the youngster
alone."
"What have you to do with that?"
"A good deal. Come here, and I'll thrash you."
"_You_ thrash _me_!"
His brother stands up in his night-shirt. The owner of the bass voice
comes towards him. All that one can see is a short sturdy figure with
broad shoulders. A number of spectators sit upright in their beds.
They fight, and the elder brother gets the worst of it.
"No! don't hit him! don't hit him!"
The small brother throws himself between the combatants. He could not
see anyone of his own flesh and blood being beaten or suffering without
feeling it in all his nerves. It was another instance of his want of
independence and consciousness of the closeness of the blood-tie.
Then there is silence and dreamless sleep, which Death is said to
resemble, and therefore entices so many to premature rest.
Now there begins a new little section of life--an education without his
parents, for the boy is out in the world among strangers. He is timid,
and carefully avoids every occasion of being blamed. He attacks no
one, but defends himself against bullies. There are, however, too many
of them for the equilibrium to be maintained. Justice is administered
by the broad-shouldered boy mentioned above, who is humpbacked, and
always takes the weaker one's part when unrighteously attacked.
In the morning they do their lessons, bathe before dinner, and do
manual labour in the afternoon. They weed the garden, fetch water from
the spring, and keep the stable clean. It is their father's wish that
the boys should do physical work, although they pay the usual fees.
But John's obedience and conscientiousness do not suffice to render
his life tolerable. His brothers incur all kinds of reprimands, and
under them he also suffers much. He is keenly conscious of their
solidarity, and is in this summer only as it were the third part of a
person. There are no other punishments except detention, but even the
reprimands disquiet him. Manual labour makes him physically strong, but
his nerves are just as sensitive as before. Sometimes he pines for his
mother, sometimes he is in extremely high spirits and indulges in risky
amusements, such as piling up stones in a limestone quarry and lighting
a fire at the bottom of it, or sliding down steep hills on a board. He
is alternately timid and daring, overflowing with spirits or brooding,
but without proper balance.
The church stands on the opposite side of the way, and with its black
roof and white walls throws a shadow across the summer-like picture.
Daily from his window he sees monumental crosses which rise above the
churchyard wall. The church clock does not strike day and night as
that in the Clara Church did, but in the evenings at six o'clock one
of the boys is allowed to pull the bell-rope which hangs in the tower.
It was a solemn moment when, for the first time, his turn came. He
felt like a church official, and when he counted three times the three
bell-strokes, he thought that God, the pastor, and the congregation
would suffer harm if he rang one too many. On Sundays the bigger boys
were allowed to ring the bells. Then John stood on the dark wooden
staircase and wondered.
In the course of the summer there arrived a black-bordered proclamation
which caused great commotion when read aloud in church. King Oscar was
dead. Many good things were reported of him, even if no one mourned
him. And now the bells rang daily between twelve and one o'clock. In
fact, church-bells seemed to follow him.
The boys played in the churchyard among the graves and soon grew
familiar with the church. On Sundays they were all assembled in the
organ-loft. When the parish clerk struck up the psalm, they took their
places by the organ-stops, and when he gave them a sign, all the stops
were drawn out and they marched into the choir. That always made a
great impression on the congregation.
But the fact of his having to come in such proximity to holy things,
and of his handling the requisites of worship, etc., made him familiar
with them, and his respect for them diminished. For instance, he did
not find the Lord's Supper edifying when on Saturday evening he had
eaten some of the holy bread in the parish clerk's kitchen, where it
was baked and stamped with the impression of a crucifix. The boys ate
these pieces of bread, and called them wafers. Once after the Holy
Communion he and the churchwarden were offered the rest of the wine in
the vestry.
Nevertheless, after he had been parted from his mother, and felt
himself surrounded by unknown threatening powers, he felt a profound
need of having recourse to some refuge and of keeping watch. He prayed
his evening prayer with a fair amount of devotion; in the morning, when
the sun shone, and he was well rested, he did not feel the need of it.
One day when the church was being aired the boys were playing in
it. In an access of high spirits they stormed the altar. But John,
who was egged on to something more daring, ran up into the pulpit,
reversed the hour-glass, and began to preach out of the Bible. This
made a great sensation. Then he descended, and ran along the tops of
the pews through the whole church. When he had reached the pew next
to the altar, which belonged to a count's family, he stepped too
heavily on the reading-desk, which fell with a crash to the ground.
There was a panic, and all the boys rushed out of church. He stood
alone and desolate. In other circumstances he would have run to his
mother, acknowledged his fault, and implored her help. But she was
not there. Then he thought of God; he fell on his knees before the
altar, and prayed through the Paternoster. Then, as though inspired
with a thought from above, he arose calmed and strengthened, examined
the desk, and found that its joints were not broken. He took a clamp,
dovetailed the joints together, and, using his boot as a hammer, with
a few well-directed blows repaired the desk. He tried it, and found it
firm. Then he went greatly relieved out of the church. "How simple!"
he thought to himself, and felt ashamed of having prayed the Lord's
Prayer. Why? Perhaps he felt dimly that in this obscure complex which
we call the soul there lives a power which, summoned to self-defence at
the hour of need, possesses a considerable power of extricating itself.
He did not fall on his knees and thank God, and this showed that he did
not believe it was He who had helped him. That obscure feeling of shame
probably arose from the fact of his perceiving that he had crossed a
river to fetch water, _i.e._, that his prayer had been superfluous.
But this was only a passing moment of self-consciousness. He continued
to be variable and capricious. Moodiness, caprice, or _diables noirs,_
as the French call it, is a not completely explained phenomenon. The
victim of them is like one possessed; he wants something, but does
the opposite; he suffers from the desire to do himself an injury, and
finds almost a pleasure in self-torment. It is a sickness of the soul
and of the will, and former psychologists tried to explain it by the
hypothesis of a duality in the brain, the two hemispheres of which,
they thought, under certain conditions could operate independently
each for itself and against the other. But this explanation has been
rejected. Many have observed the phenomenon of duplex personality, and
Goethe has handled this theme in _Faust_. In capricious children who
"do not know what they want," as the saying is, the nerve-tension ends
in tears. They "beg for a whipping," and it is strange that on such
occasions a slight chastisement restores the nervous equilibrium and
is almost welcomed by the child, who is at once pacified, appeased,
and not at all embittered by the punishment, which in its view must
have been unjust. It really had asked for a beating as a medicine. But
there is also another way of expelling the "black dog." One takes the
child in one's arms so that it feels the magnetism of friendship and is
quieted. That is the best way of all.
John suffered from similar attacks of caprice. When some treat was
proposed to him, a strawberry-picking expedition for example, he asked
to be allowed to remain at home, though he knew he would be bored to
death there. He would have gladly gone, but he insisted on remaining at
home. Another will stronger than his own commanded him to do so. The
more they tried to persuade him, the stronger was his resistance. But
then if someone came along jovially and with a jest seized him by the
collar, and threw him into the haycart, he obeyed and was relieved to
be thus liberated from the mysterious will that mastered him. Generally
speaking, he obeyed gladly and never wished to put himself forward
or be prominent. So much of the slave was in his nature. His mother
had served and obeyed in her youth, and as a waitress had been polite
towards everyone.
One Sunday they were in the parsonage, where there were young girls.
He liked them, but he feared them. All the children went out to pluck
strawberries. Someone suggested that they should collect the berries
without eating them, in order to eat them at home with sugar. John
plucked diligently and kept the agreement; he did not eat one, but
honestly delivered up his share, though he saw others cheating. On
their return home the berries were divided by the pastor's daughter,
and the children pressed round her in order that each might get a full
spoonful. John kept as far away as possible; he was forgotten and
berryless.
He had been passed over! Full of the bitter consciousness of this,
he went into the garden and concealed himself in an arbour. He felt
himself to be the last and meanest. He did not weep, however, but was
conscious of something hard and cold rising within, like a skeleton of
steel. After he had passed the whole company under critical review, he
found that he was the most honest, because he had not eaten a single
strawberry outside; and then came the false inference--he had been
passed over because he was better than the rest. The result was that he
really regarded himself as such, and felt a deep satisfaction at having
been overlooked.
He had also a special skill in making himself invisible, or keeping
concealed so as to be passed over. One evening his father brought
home a peach. Each child received a slice of the rare fruit, with the
exception of John, and his otherwise just father did not notice it. He
felt so proud at this new reminder of his gloomy destiny that later in
the evening he boasted of it to his brothers. They did not believe him,
regarding his story as improbable. The more improbable the better, he
thought. He was also plagued by antipathies. One Sunday in the country
a cart full of boys came to the parish clerk's. A brown-complexioned
boy with a mischievous and impudent face alighted from it. John
ran away at the first sight of him, and hid himself in the attic.
They found him out: the parish clerk cajoled him, but he remained
sitting in his corner and listened to the children playing till the
brown-complexioned boy had gone away.
Neither cold baths, wild games, nor hard physical labour could harden
his sensitive nerves, which at certain moments became strung up to the
highest possible pitch. He had a good memory, and learned his lessons
well, especially practical subjects such as geography and natural
science. He liked arithmetic, but hated geometry; a science which
seemed to deal with unrealities disquieted him. It was not till later,
when a book of land mensuration came into his hands and he had obtained
an insight into the practical value of geometry, that the subject
interested him. He then measured trees and houses, the garden and its
avenues, and constructed cardboard models.
He was now entering his tenth year. He was broad-shouldered, with
a sunburnt complexion; his hair was fair, and hung over a sickly
looking high and prominent forehead, which often formed a subject of
conversation and caused his relatives to give him the nickname of "the
professor." He was no more an automaton, but began to make his own
observations and to draw inferences. He was approaching the time when
he would be severed from his surroundings and go alone. Solitude had
to take for him the place of desert-wandering, for he had not a strong
enough individuality to go his own way. His sympathies for men were
doomed not to be reciprocated, because their thoughts did not keep pace
with his. He was destined to go about and offer his heart to the first
comer; but no one would take it, because it was strange to them, and so
he would retire into himself, wounded, humbled, overlooked, and passed
by.
* * * * *
The summer came to an end, and when the school-term began he returned
to Stockholm. The gloomy house by the Clara churchyard seemed doubly
depressing to him now, and when he saw the long row of class-rooms
through which he must work his way in a fixed number of years in order
to do laboriously the same through another row of class-rooms in the
High School, life did not seem to him particularly inviting. At the
same time his self-opinionatedness began to revolt against the lessons,
and consequently he got bad reports. A term later, when he had been
placed lower in his class, his father took him from the Clara School
and placed him in the Jacob School. At the same time they left the
Norrtullsgata and took a suburban house in the Stora Grabergsgata near
the Sabbatsberg.
IV
INTERCOURSE WITH THE LOWER CLASSES
Christinenberg, so we will call the house, had a still more lonely
situation than that in the Norrtullsgata.[1] The Grabergsgata had no
pavement. Often for hours at a time one never saw more than a single
pedestrian in it, and the noise of a passing cart was an event which
brought people to their windows. The house stood in a courtyard with
many trees, and resembled a country parsonage. It was surrounded by
gardens and tobacco plantations; extensive fields with ponds stretched
away to Sabbatsberg. But their father rented no land here, so that
the boys spent their time in loafing about. Their playfellows now
consisted of the children of poorer people, such as the miller's and
the milkman's. Their chief playground was the hill on which the mill
stood, and the wings of the windmill were their playthings.