not be large, because of the defective form of his father's marriage.
But companions in misfortune draw together, and so intercourse was
kept up with an old friend of their father's who also had contracted
a _mésalliance_, and had therefore been repudiated by his family. He
was a legal official. With him they met another family in the same
circumstances owing to an irregular marriage. The children naturally
knew nothing of the tragedy below the surface. There were children
in both the other families, but John did not feel attracted to them.
After the sufferings he had undergone at home and school, his shyness
and unsociability had increased, and his residence on the outside of
the town and in the country had given him a distaste for domestic
life. He did not wish to learn dancing, and thought the boys silly who
showed off before the girls. When his mother on one occasion told him
to be polite to the latter, he asked, "Why?" He had become critical,
and asked this question about everything. During a country excursion
he tried to rouse to rebellion the boys who carried the girls' shawls
and parasols. "Why should we be these girls' servants?" he said; but
they did not listen to him. Finally, he took such a dislike to going
out that he pretended to be ill, or dirtied his clothes in order to be
obliged to stay at home as a punishment. He was no longer a child, and
therefore did not feel comfortable among the other children, but his
elders still saw in him only a child. He remained solitary.
When he was twelve years old, he was sent in the summer to another
school kept by a parish clerk at Mariefred. Here there were many
boarders, all of so-called illegitimate birth. Since the parish clerk
himself did not know much, he was not able to hear John his lessons. At
the first examination in geometry, he found that John was sufficiently
advanced to study best by himself. Now he felt himself a grandee, and
did his lessons alone. The parish clerk's garden adjoined the park of
the lord of the manor, and here he took his walks free from imposed
tasks and free from oversight. His wings grew, and he began to feel
himself a man.
In the course of the summer he fell in love with the twenty-year-old
daughter of the inspector who often came to the parish clerk's. He
never spoke to her, but used to spy out her walks, and often went
near her house. The whole affair was only a silent worship of her
beauty from a distance, without desire, and without hope. His feeling
resembled a kind of secret trouble, and might as well have been
directed towards anyone else, if girls had been numerous there. It was
a Madonna-worship which demanded nothing except to bring the object of
his worship some great sacrifice, such as drowning himself in the water
under her eyes. It was an obscure consciousness of his own inadequacy
as a half man, who did not wish to live without being completed by his
"better half."
He continued to attend church-services, but they made no impression on
him; he found them merely tedious.
This summer formed an important stage in his development, for it broke
the links with his home. None of his brothers were with him. He had
accordingly no intermediary bond of flesh and blood with his mother.
This made him more complete in himself, and hardened his nerves; but
not all at once, for sometimes he had severe attacks of homesickness.
His mother's image rose up in his mind in its usual ideal shape of
protectiveness and mildness, as the source of warmth and the preserver.
In summer, at the beginning of August, his eldest brother Gustav was
going to a school in Paris, in order to complete his business studies
and to learn the language. But previous to that, he was to spend a
month in the country and say good-bye to his brother. The thought of
the approaching parting, the reflected glory of the great town to which
his brother was going, the memory of his brother's many heroic feats,
the longing for home and the joy to see again someone of his own flesh
and blood,--all combined to set John's emotion and imagination at work.
During the week in which he expected his brother, he described him to a
friend as a sort of superman to whom he looked up. And Gustav certainly
was, as a man, superior to him. He was a plucky, lively youth, two
years older than John, with strong, dark features; he did not brood,
and had an active temperament; he was sagacious, could keep silence
when necessary, and strike when occasion demanded it. He understood
economy, and was sparing of his money. "He was very wise," thought the
dreaming John. He learned his lessons imperfectly, for he despised
them, but he understood the art of life.
John needed a hero to worship, and wished to form an ideal out of some
other material than his own weak clay, round which his own aspirations
might gather, and now he exercised his art for eight days. He prepared
for his brother's arrival by painting him in glowing colours before his
friends, praised him to the teacher, sought out playing-places with
little surprises, contrived a spring-board at the bathing-place, and so
on.
On the day before his brother's arrival he went into the wood and
plucked cloud-berries and blue-berries for him. He covered a table
with white paper, on which he spread out the berries, yellow and blue
alternately, and in the centre he arranged them in the shape of a large
G, and surrounded the whole with flowers.
His brother arrived, cast a hasty look at the design and ate the
berries, but either did not notice the dexterously-contrived initial,
or thought it a piece of childishness. As a matter of fact, in their
family every ebullition of feeling was regarded as childish.
Then they went to bathe. The minute after Gustav had taken off his
shirt, he was in the water, and swam immediately out to the buoy. John
admired him and would have gladly followed him, but this time it gave
him more pleasure to think that his brother obtained the reputation
of being a good swimmer, and that he was only second-best. At dinner
Gustav left a fat piece of bacon on his plate--a thing which no one
before had ever dared to do. But he dared everything. In the evening,
when the time came to ring the bells for church, John gave up his
turn of ringing to Gustav, who rang violently. John was frightened,
as though the parish had been exposed to danger thereby, and half in
alarm and half laughing, begged him to stop.
"What the deuce does it matter?" said Gustav.
Then he introduced him to his friend the big son of the carpenter, who
was about fifteen. An intimacy at once sprang up between the two of
equal age, and John's friend abandoned him as being too small. But John
felt no bitterness, although the two elder ones jested at him, and went
out alone together with their guns in their hands. He only wished to
give, and he would have given his betrothed away, had he possessed one.
He did actually inform his brother about the inspector's daughter, and
the latter was pleased with her. But, instead of sighing behind the
trees like John, Gustav went straight up to her and spoke to her in an
innocent boyish way. This was the most daring thing which John had ever
seen done in his life, and he felt as if it had added a foot to his own
stature. He became visibly greater, his weak soul caught a contagion of
strength from his brother's strong nerves, and he identified himself
with him. He felt as happy as if he had spoken with the girl himself.
He made suggestions for excursions and boating expeditions and his
brother carried them out. He discovered birds' nests and his brother
climbed the trees and plundered them.
But this lasted only for a week. On the last day before they were to
leave, John said to Gustav: "Let us buy a fine bouquet for mother."
"Very well," replied his brother.
They went to the nursery-man, and Gustav gave the order that the
bouquet should be a fine one. While it was being made up, he went into
the garden and plucked fruit quite openly. John did not venture to
touch anything.
"Eat," said his brother. No, he could not. When the bouquet was ready,
John paid twenty-four shillings for it. Not a sign came from Gustav.
Then they parted.
When John came home, he gave his mother the bouquet as from Gustav,
and she was touched. At supper-time the flowers attracted his father's
attention. "Gustav sent me those," said his mother. "He is always a
kind boy," and John received a sad look because he was so cold-hearted.
His father's eyes gleamed behind his glasses.
John felt no bitterness. His youthful, enthusiastic love of sacrifice
had found vent, the struggle against injustice had made him a
self-tormentor, and he kept silent. He also said nothing when his
father sent Gustav a present of money, and with unusual warmth of
expression said how deeply he had been touched by this graceful
expression of affection.
In fact, he kept silence regarding this incident during his whole
life, even when he had occasion to feel bitterness. Not till he had
been over-powered and fallen in the dirty sand of life's arena, with a
brutal foot placed upon his chest and not a hand raised to plead in his
behalf, did he say anything about it. Even then, it was not mentioned
from a feeling of revenge, but as the self-defence of a dying man.
[1] Gata = street.
V.
CONTACT WITH THE UPPER CLASSES
The private schools had been started in opposition to the terrorising
sway of the public schools. Since their existence depended on the
goodwill of the pupils, the latter enjoyed great freedom, and were
treated humanely. Corporal punishment was forbidden, and the pupils
were accustomed to express their thoughts, to ask questions, to defend
themselves against charges, and, in a word, were treated as reasonable
beings. Here for the first time John felt that he had rights. If
a teacher made a mistake in a matter of fact, the pupils were not
obliged to echo him, and swear by his authority; he was corrected
and spiritually lynched by the class who convinced him of his error.
Rational methods of teaching were also employed. Few lessons were set
to be done at home. Cursory explanations in the languages themselves
gave the pupils an idea of the object aimed at, _i.e._, to be able
to translate. Moreover, foreign teachers were appointed for modern
languages, so that the ear became accustomed to the correct accent, and
the pupils acquired some notion of the right pronunciation.
A number of boys had come from the state schools into this one, and
John also met here many of his old comrades from the Clara School. He
also found some of the teachers from both the Clara and Jacob Schools.
These cut quite a different figure here, and played quite another part.
He understood now that they had been in the same hole as their victims,
for they had had the headmaster and the School Board over them. At last
the pressure from above was relaxed, his will and his thoughts obtained
a measure of freedom, and he had a feeling of happiness and well-being.
At home he praised the school, thanked his parents for his liberation,
and said that he preferred it to any former one. He forgot former acts
of injustice, and became more gentle and unreserved in his behaviour.
His mother began to admire his erudition. He learned five languages
besides his own. His eldest brother was already in a place of business,
and the second in Paris. John received a kind of promotion at home
and became a companion to his mother. He gave her information from
books on history and natural history, and she, having had no education,
listened with docility. But after she had listened awhile, whether it
was that she wished to raise herself to his level, or that she really
feared worldly knowledge, she would speak of the only knowledge which,
she said, could make man happy. She spoke of Christ; John knew all
this very well, but she understood how to make a personal application.
He was to beware of intellectual pride, and always to remain simple.
The boy did not understand what she meant by "simple," and what she
said about Christ did not agree with the Bible. There was something
morbid in her point of view, and he thought he detected the dislike
of the uncultured to culture. "Why all this long school course," he
asked himself, "if it was to be regarded as nothing in comparison with
the mysterious doctrine of Christ's Atonement?" He knew also that
his mother had caught up this talk from conversations with nurses,
seamstresses, and old women, who went to the dissenting chapels.
"Strange," he thought, "that people like that should grasp the highest
wisdom of which neither the priest in the church nor the teacher in
the school had the least notion!" He began to think that these humble
pietists had a good deal of spiritual pride, and that their way to
wisdom was an imaginary short-cut. Moreover, among his school-fellows
there were sons of barons and counts, and, when in his stories out of
school he mentioned noble titles, he was warned against pride.
Was he proud? Very likely; but in school he did not seek the company
of aristocrats, though he preferred looking at them rather than at the
others, because their fine clothes, their handsome faces, and their
polished finger-nails appealed to his æsthetic sense. He felt that
they were of a different race and held a position which he would never
reach, nor try to reach, for he did not venture to demand anything of
life. But when, one day, a baron's son asked for his help in a lesson,
he felt himself in this matter, at any rate, his equal or even his
superior. He had thereby discovered that there was something which
could set him by the side of the highest in society, and which he could
obtain for himself, _i.e._, knowledge.
In this school, because of the liberal spirit which was present, there
prevailed a democratic tone, of which there had been no trace in the
Clara School. The sons of counts and barons, who were for the most part
idle, had no advantage above the rest. The headmaster, who himself was
a peasant's son from Smaland, had no fear of the nobility, nor, on the
other hand, had he any prejudice against them or wish to humiliate
them. He addressed them all, small and big ones, familiarily, studied
them individually, called them by their Christian names, and took a
personal interest in them. The daily intercourse of the townspeople's
sons with those of the nobility led to their being on familiar terms
with one another. There were no flatterers, except in the upper
division, where the adolescent aristocrats came into class with their
riding-whips and spurs, while a soldier held their horses outside. The
precociously prudent boys, who had already an insight into the art of
life, courted these youths, but their intercourse was for the most part
superficial. In the autumn term some of the young grandees returned
from their expeditions as supernumerary naval cadets. They then
appeared in class with uniform and dirk. Their fellows admired them,
many envied them, but John, with the slave blood in his veins, was
never presumptuous enough to think of rivalling them; he recognised
their privileges, never dreamed of sharing them, guessed that he would
meet with humiliations among them, and therefore never intruded into
their circle. But he _did_ dream of reaching equal heights with theirs
through merit and hard work. And when in the spring those who were
leaving came into the classes to bid farewell to their teachers, when
he saw their white students' caps, their free and easy manners and
ways, then he noticed that they were also an object of admiration to
the naval cadets.
* * * * *
In his family life there was now a certain degree of prosperity. They
had gone back to the Norrtullsgata, where it was more homely than the
Sabbatsberg, and the landlord's sons were his school-fellows. His
father no longer rented a garden, and John busied himself for the most
part with his books. He led the life of a well-to-do-youth. Things
were more cheerful at home; grown-up cousins and the clerks from his
father's office came on Sundays for visits, and John, in spite of his
youth, made one of the company. He now wore a coat, took care of his
personal appearance, and, as a promising scholar, was thought more
highly of than one of his years would otherwise have been. He went
for walks in the garden, but the berries and the apple-trees no longer
tempted him.
From time to time there came letters from his brother in Paris. They
were read aloud, and listened to with great attention. They were also
read to friends and acquaintances, and that was a triumph for the
family. At Christmas his brother sent a photograph of himself in a
French school uniform. That was the climax. John had now a brother who
wore a uniform and spoke French! He exhibited the photograph in the
school, and rose in the social scale thereby. The naval cadets were
envious, and said it was not a proper uniform, for he had no dirk. But
he had a "kepi," and shining buttons, and some gold lace on his collar.
At home they had also stereoscopic pictures from Paris to show, and
they now seemed to live in Paris. They were as familiar with the
Tuileries and the Arc de Triomphe as with the castle and statue of
Gustavus Adolphus. The proverb that a father "lives in his children"
really seemed to be justified. Life now lay open before the youth; the
pressure he had formerly been subjected to had diminished, and perhaps
he would have traversed a smooth and easy path through life if a
change of circumstances had not thrown him back.
His mother had passed through twelve confinements, and consequently
had become weak. Now she was obliged to keep her bed, and only
rose occasionally. She was more given to moods than before, and
contradictions would set her cheek aflame. The previous Christmas she
had fallen into a violent altercation with her brother regarding the
pietist preachers. While sitting at the dinner-table, the latter had
expressed his preference for Fredman's _Epistles_ as exhibiting deeper
powers of thought than the sermons of the pietists. John's mother took
fire at this, and had an attack of hysteria. That was only a symptom.
Now, during the intervals when she got up, she began to mend the
children's linen and clothes, and to clear out all the drawers. She
often talked to John about religion and other high matters. One day she
showed him some gold rings. "You boys will get these, when Mamma is
dead," she said. "Which is mine?" asked John, without stopping to think
about death. She showed him a plaited girl's ring with a heart. It made
a deep impression on the boy, who had never possessed anything of gold,
and he often thought of the ring.
About that time a nurse was hired for the children. She was young and
good-looking, taciturn, and smiled in a critical sort of way. She had
served in a count's mansion in the Tradgardsgatan, and probably thought
that she had come into a poverty-stricken house. She was supposed
to look after the children and the servant-maids, but was on almost
intimate terms with the latter. There were now three servants--a
housekeeper, a man-servant, and a girl from Dalecarlia. The girls had
their lovers, and a cheerful life went on in the great kitchen, where
polished copper and tin vessels shone brightly. There was eating and
drinking, and the boys were invited in. They were called "sir," and
their health was drunk. Only the man-servant was not there; he thought
it was "vulgar" to live like that, while the mistress of the house was
ill. The home seemed to be undergoing a process of dissolution, and
John's father had had many difficulties with the servants since his
mother had been obliged to keep her bed. But she remained the servants'
friend till death, and took their side by instinct, but they abused her
partiality. It was strictly forbidden to excite the patient, but the
servants intrigued against each other, and against their master. One
day John had melted lead in a silver spoon. The cook blabbed of it to
his mother, who was excited and told his father. But his father was
only-annoyed with the tell-tale. He went to John and said in a friendly
way, as though he were compelled to make a complaint: "You should not
melt lead in silver spoons. I don't care about the spoon; that can be
repaired; but this devil of a cook has excited mother. Don't tell the
girls when you have done something stupid, but tell me, and we will put
it right."
He and his father were now friends for the first time, and he loved him
for his condescension.
One night his father's voice awoke him from sleep. He started up,
and found it dark in the room. Through the darkness he heard a deep
trembling voice, "Come to mother's death-bed!" It went through him like
a flash of lightning. He froze and shivered while he dressed, the skin
of his head felt ice-cold, his eyes were wide-open and streaming with
tears, so that the flame of the lamp looked like a red bladder.
Then they stood round the sick-bed and wept for one, two, three hours.
The night crept slowly onward. His mother was unconscious and knew no
one. The death-struggle, with rattling in the throat, and cries for
help, had commenced. The little ones were not aroused. John thought
of all the sins which he had committed, and found no good deeds to
counterbalance them. After three hours his tears ceased, and his
thoughts began to take various directions. The process of dying was
over. "How will it be," he asked himself, "when mother is no longer
there?" Nothing but emptiness and desolation, without comfort or
compensation--a deep gloom of wretchedness in which he searched for
some point of light. His eye fell on his mother's chest of drawers, on
which stood a plaster statuette of Linnæus with a flower in his hand.
There was the only advantage which this boundless misfortune brought
with it--he would get the ring. He saw it in imagination on his hand.
"That is in memory of my mother," he would be able to say, and he
would weep at the recollection of her, but he could not suppress the
thought, "A gold ring looks fine after all." Shame! Who could entertain
such thoughts at his mother's death-bed? A brain that was drunk with
sleep? A child which had wept itself out? Oh, no, an heir. Was he more
avaricious than others? Had he a natural tendency to greed? No, for
then he would never have related the matter, but he bore it in memory
his whole life long; it kept on turning up, and when he thought of it
in sleepless nights, and hours of weariness, he felt the flush mount
into his cheeks. Then he instituted an examination of himself and his
conduct, and blamed himself as the meanest of all men. It was not till
he was older and had come to know a great number of men, and studied
the processes of thought, that he came to the conclusion that the
brain is a strange thing which goes its own way, and there is a great
similarity among men in the double life which they lead, the outward
and the inward, the life of speech and that of thought.
John was a compound of romanticism, pietism, realism, and naturalism.
Therefore he was never anything but a patchwork. He certainly did not
exclusively think about the wretched ornament. The whole matter was
only a momentary distraction of two minutes' duration after months
of sorrow, and when at last there was stillness in the room, and
his father said, "Mother is dead," he was not to be comforted. He
shrieked like one drowning. How can death bring such profound despair
to those who hope to meet again? It must needs press hard on faith
when the annihilation of personality takes place with such inflexible
consistency before our eyes. John's father, who generally had the
outward imperturbability of the Icelander, was now softened. He took
his sons by the hands and said: "God has visited us; we will now hold
together like friends. Men go about in their self-sufficiency, and
believe they are enough for themselves; then comes a blow, and we see
how _we_ all need one another. We will be sincere and considerate with
each other."
The boy's sorrow was for a moment relieved. He had found a friend, a
strong, wise, manly friend whom he admired.