into a lunatic asylum in order to increase the adherents of the
Protestant Jesuits. Such a dangerous work should have been prosecuted,
confiscated, and burnt, or, at any rate, counteracted by more
intelligent ones. One of the latter sort fell into John's hands later,
and he did his best to circulate it, as it was excellent. The title
was Uncle Palle's _Advice to Young Sinners,_ and its authorship was
attributed to the medical councillor, Dr. Westrand. It was a cheerfully
written book, which took the matter lightly, and declared that the
dangers of the evil habit had been exaggerated; it also gave practical
advice and hygienic directions. But even to the present time Kapff's
absurd pamphlet is in vogue, and doctors are frequently visited by
sinners, who with beating hearts make their confessions.[2]
For half a year John could find no word of comfort in his great
trouble. He was, he thought, condemned to death; the only thing left
was to lead a virtuous and religious life, till the fatal hour should
strike. He hunted up his mother's pietistic books and read them. He
considered himself merely as a criminal and humbled himself. When on
the next day he passed through the street, he stepped off the pavement
in order to make room for everyone he met. He wished to mortify
himself, to suffer for the allotted period, and then to enter into the
joy of his Lord.
One night he awoke and saw his brothers sitting by the lamplight. They
were discussing the subject. He crept under the counterpane and put his
fingers in his ears in order not to hear. But he heard all the same. He
wished to spring up to confess, to beg for mercy and help, but dared
not, to hear the confirmation of his death sentence. Had he spoken,
perhaps he would have obtained help and comfort, but he kept silence.
He lay still, with perspiration breaking out, and prayed. Wherever
he went he saw the terrible word written in old black letters on a
yellow ground, on the walls of the houses, on the carpets of the room.
The chest of drawers in which the book lay contained the guillotine.
Every time his brother approached the drawer he trembled and ran away.
For hours at a time he stood before the looking-glass in order to see
if his eyes had sunk in, his hair had fallen out, and his skull was
projecting. But he looked ruddy and healthy.
He shut himself up in himself, was quiet and avoided all society.
His father imagined that by this behaviour he wished to express his
disapproval of the marriage; that he was proud, and wanted to humble
him. But he was humbled already, and as he silently yielded to the
pressure his father congratulated himself on the success of his
strategy.
This irritated the boy, and sometimes he revolted. Now and then there
arose a faint hope in him that his body might be saved. He went to the
gymnasium, took cold baths, and ate little in the evening.
Through home-life, intercourse with school-fellows, and learning, he
had developed a fairly complicated ego, and when he compared himself
with the simpler egos of others, he felt superior. But now religion
came and wanted to kill this ego. That was not so easy and the battle
was fierce. He saw also that no one else denied himself. Why, then, in
heaven's name, should he do so?
When his father's wedding-day came, he revolted. He did not go to kiss
the bride like his brothers and sisters, but withdrew from the dancing
to the toddy-drinkers, and got a little intoxicated. But a punishment
was soon to follow on this, and his ego was to be broken.
He became a collegian, but this gave him no joy. It came too late,
like a debt that had been long due. He had had the pleasure of it
beforehand. No one congratulated him, and he got no collegian's cap.
Why? Did they want to humble him or did his father not wish to sec an
outward sign of his learning? At last it was suggested that one of his
aunts should embroider the college wreath on velvet, which could then
be sewn on to an ordinary black cap. She embroidered an oak and laurel
branch, but so badly that his fellow-students laughed at him. He was
the only collegian for a long time who had not worn the proper cap. The
only one--pointed at, and passed over!
Then his breakfast-money, which hitherto had been five öre, was reduced
to four. This was an unnecessary cruelty, for they were not poor at
home, and a boy ought to have more food. The consequence was that John
had no breakfast at all, for he spent his weekly money in tobacco. He
had a keen appetite and was always hungry. When there was salt cod-fish
for dinner, he ate till his jaws were weary, but left the table hungry.
Did he then really get too little to eat? No; there are millions
of working-men who have much less, but the stomachs of the upper
classes must have become accustomed to stronger and more concentrated
nourishment. His whole youth seemed to him in recollection a long
fasting period.
Moreover, under the step-mother's rule the scale of diet was reduced,
the food was inferior, and he could change his linen only once instead
of twice a week. This was a sign that one of the lower classes was
guiding the household. The youth was not proud in the sense that he
despised the housekeeper's low birth, but the fact that she who had
formerly been beneath him tried to oppress him, made him revolt--but
now Christianity came in and bade him turn the other cheek.
He kept growing, and had to go about in clothes which he had outgrown.
His comrades jeered at his short trousers. His school-books were old
editions out of date, and this caused him much annoyance in the school.
"So it is in my book," he would say to the teacher.
"Show me your book."
Then the teacher was scandalised, and told him to get the newest
edition, which he never did.
His shirt-sleeves reached only half-way down his arm and could not be
buttoned. In the gymnasium, therefore, he always kept his jacket on.
One day in his capacity as leader of the troop he was having a special
lesson from the teacher of gymnastics.
"Take off your jackets, boys, we want to put our backs into it," said
the instructor.
All besides John did so.
"Well, are you ready?"
"No, I am freezing," answered John.
"You will soon be warm," said the instructor; "off with your jacket."
He refused. The instructor came up to him in a friendly way and pulled
at his sleeves. He resisted. The instructor looked at him. "What is
this?" he said. "I ask you kindly and you won't oblige me. Then go!"
John wished to say something in his defence; he looked at the friendly
man, with whom he had always been on good terms, with troubled
eyes--but he kept silence and went. What depressed him was poverty
imposed as a cruelty, not as a necessity. He complained to his
brothers, but they said he should not be proud. Difference of education
had opened a gulf between him and them. They belonged to a different
class of society, and ranged themselves with the father who was of
their class and the one in power.
Another time he was given a jacket which had been altered from a blue
frock-coat with bright buttons. His school-fellows laughed at him as
though he were pretending to be a cadet, but this was the last idea in
his mind, for he always plumed himself on being rather than seeming.
This jacket cost him untold suffering.
After this a systematic plan of humbling him was pursued. John
was waked up early in the mornings to do domestic tasks before he
went to school. He pleaded his school-work as an excuse, but it
did not help him at all. "You learn so easily," he was told. This
was quite unnecessary, as there was a man-servant, besides several
other servants, in the house. He saw that it was merely meant as a
chastisement. He hated his oppressors and they hated him.
Then there began a second course of discipline. He had to get up in
the morning and drive his father to the town before he went to school,
then return with the horse and trap, take out the horse, feed it, and
sweep the stable. The same manoeuvre was repeated at noon. So, besides
his school-work, he had domestic work and must drive twice daily to
and from Riddarholm. In later years he asked himself whether this had
been done with forethought; whether his wise father saw that too
much activity of brain was bad for him, and that physical work was
necessary. Or perhaps it was an economical regulation in order to save
some of the man-servant's work time. Physical exertion is certainly
useful for boys, and should be commended to the consideration of all
parents, but John could not perceive any beneficent intention in the
matter, even though it may have existed. The whole affair seemed
so dictated by malice and an intention to cause pain, that it was
impossible for him to discover any good purpose in it, though it may
have existed along with the bad one.
In the summer holidays the driving out degenerated into stable-work.
The horse had to be fed at stated hours, and John was obliged to stay
at home in order not to miss them. His freedom was at an end. He felt
the great change which had taken place in his circumstances, and
attributed them to his stepmother. Instead of being a free person who
could dispose of his own time and thoughts, he had become a slave, to
do service in return for his food. When he saw that his brothers were
spared all such work, he became convinced that it was imposed on him
out of malice. Straw-cutting, room-sweeping, water-carrying, etc.,
are excellent exercises, but the motive spoiled everything. If his
father had told him it was good for his health, he would have done
it gladly, but now he hated it. He feared the dark, for he had been
brought up like all children by the maid-servants, and he had to do
violence to himself when he went up to the hay-loft every evening. He
cursed it every time, but the horse was a good-natured beast with whom
he sometimes talked. He was, moreover, fond of animals, and possessed
canaries of which he took great care.
He hated his domestic tasks because they were imposed upon him by the
former housekeeper, who wished to revenge herself on him and to show
him her superiority. He hated her, for the tasks were exacted from
him as payment for his studies. He had seen through the reason why he
was being prepared for a learned career. They boasted of him and his
learning; he was not then being educated out of kindness.
Then he became obstinate, and on one occasion damaged the springs of
the trap in driving. When they alighted at Riddarhustorg, his father
examined it. He observed that a spring was broken.
"Go to the smith's," he said.
John was silent.
"Did you hear?"
"Yes, I heard."
He had to go to the Malargata, where the smith lived. The latter said
it would take three hours to repair the damage. What was to be done?
He must take the horse out, lead it home and return. But to lead a
horse in harness, while wearing his collegian's cap, through the
Drottningsgata, perhaps to meet the boys by the observatory who envied
him for his cap, or still worse, the pretty girls on the Norrtullsgata
who smiled at him--No! he would do anything rather than that. He then
thought of leading the horse through the Rorstrandsgata, but then he
would have to pass Karlberg, and here he knew the cadets. He remained
in the courtyard, sitting on a log in the sunshine and cursed his lot.
He thought of the summer holidays which he had spent in the country,
of his friends who were now there, and measured his misfortune by that
standard. But had he thought of his brothers who were now shut up for
ten hours a day in the hot and gloomy office without hope of a single
holiday, his meditations on his lot would have taken a different turn;
but he did not do that. Just now he would have willingly changed
places with them. They, at any rate, earned their bread, and did not
have to stay at home. They had a definite position, but he had not. Why
did his parents let him smell at the apple and then drag him away? He
longed to get away--no matter where. He was in a false position, and
he wished to get out of it, to be either above or below and not to be
crushed between the wheels.
Accordingly, one day he asked his father for permission to leave the
school. His father was astonished, and asked in a friendly way his
reason. He replied that everything was spoiled for him, he was learning
nothing, and wished to go out into life in order to work and earn his
own living.
"What do you want to be?" asked his father.
He said he did not know, and then he wept.
A few days later his father asked him whether he would like to be
a cadet. A cadet! His eyes lighted up, but he did not know what to
answer. To be a fine gentleman with a sword! His boldest dreams had
never reached so far.
"Think over it," said his father. He thought about it the whole
evening. If he accepted, he would now go in uniform to Karlberg, where
he had once bathed and been driven away by the cadets. To become an
officer--that meant to get power; the girls would smile on him and
no one would oppress him. He felt life grow brighter, the sense of
oppression vanished from his breast and hope awoke. But it was too much
for him. It neither suited him nor his surroundings. He did not wish to
mount and to command; he wished only to escape the compulsion to blind
obedience, the being watched and oppressed. The stoicism which asks
nothing of life awoke in him. He declined the offer, saying it was too
much for him.
The mere thought that he could have been what perhaps all boys long
to be, was enough for him. He renounced it, descended, and took up
his chain again. When, later on, he became an egotistic pietist, he
imagined that he had renounced the honour for Christ's sake. That was
not true, but, as a matter of fact, there was some asceticism in his
sacrifice. He had, moreover, gained clearer insight into his parents'
game; they wished to get honour through him. Probably the cadet idea
had been suggested by his stepmother.
But there arose more serious occasions of contention. John thought that
his younger brothers and sisters were worse dressed than before, and
he had heard cries from the nursery.
"Ah!" he said to himself, "she beats them."
Now he kept a sharp look-out. One day he noticed that the servant
teased his younger brother as he lay in bed. The little boy was angry
and spat in her face. His step-mother wanted to interfere, but John
intervened. He had now tasted blood. The matter was postponed till his
father's return. After dinner the battle was to begin. John was ready.
He felt that he represented his dead mother. Then it began! After a
formal report, his father took hold of Pelle, and was about to beat
him. "You must not beat him!" cried John in a threatening tone, and
rushed towards his father as though he would have seized him by the
collar.
"What in heaven's name are you saying?"
"You should not touch him. He is innocent."
"Come in here and let me talk to you; you are certainly mad," said his
father.
"Yes, I will come," said the generally timid John, as though he were
possessed.
His father hesitated somewhat on hearing his confident tone, and his
sound intelligence must have told him that there was something queer
about the matter.
"Well, what have you to say to me?" asked his father, more quietly but
still distrustfully.
"I say that it is Karin's fault; she did wrong, and if mother had
lived----"
That struck home. "What are you talking nonsense about your mother for?
You have now a new mother. Prove what you say. What has Karin done?"
That was just the trouble; he could not say it, for he feared by
doing so to touch a sore point. He was silent. A thousand thoughts
coursed through his mind. How should he express them? He struggled for
utterance, and finally came out with a stupid saying which he had read
somewhere in a school-book.
"Prove!" he said. "There are clear matters of fact which can neither be
proved nor need to be proved." (How stupid! he thought to himself, but
it was too late.)
"Now you are simply stupid," said his father.
John was beaten, but he still wished to continue the conflict. A new
repartee learned at school occurred to him.
"If I am stupid, that is a natural fault, which no one has the right to
reproach me with."
"Shame on you for talking such rubbish! Go out and don't let me see you
any more!" And he was put out.
After this scene all punishments took place in John's absence. It was
believed he would spring at their throats if he heard any cries, and
that was probable enough.
There was yet another method of humbling him--a hateful method which
is often employed in families. It consisted of arresting his mental and
moral growth by confining him to the society of his younger brothers
and sisters. Children are often obliged to play with their brothers and
sisters whether they are congenial to them or not. That is tyranny. But
to compel an elder child to go about with the younger ones is a crime
against nature; it is the mutilation of a young growing tree. John had
a younger brother, a delightful child of seven, who trusted everyone
and worried no one. John loved him and took good care that he was not
ill-treated. But to have intimate intercourse with such a young child,
who did not understand the talk and conversation of its elders, was
impossible.
But now he was obliged to do so. On the first of May, when John had
hoped to go out with his friends, his father said, as a matter of
course, "Take Pelle and go with him to the Zoölogical Gardens, but take
good care of him." There was no possibility of remonstrance. They went
into the open plain, where they met some of his comrades, and John felt
the presence of his little brother like a clog on his leg. He took
care that no one hurt him, but he wished the little boy was at home.
Pelle talked at the top of his voice and pointed with his finger at
passers-by; John corrected him, and as he felt his solidarity with him,
felt ashamed on his account. Why must he be ashamed because of a fault
in etiquette which he had not himself committed? He became stiff, cold,
and hard. The little boy wanted to see some sight but John would not
go, and refused all his little brother's requests. Then he felt ashamed
of his hardness; he cursed his selfishness, he hated and despised
himself, but could not get rid of his bad feelings. Pelle understood
nothing; he only looked troubled, resigned, patient, and gentle. "You
are proud," said John to himself; "you are robbing the child of a
pleasure." He felt remorseful, but soon afterwards hard again.
At last the child asked him to buy some gingerbread nuts. John felt
himself insulted by the request. Suppose one of his fellow-collegians
who sat in the restaurant and drank punch saw him buying gingerbread
nuts! But he bought some, and stuffed them in his brother's pocket.
Then they went on. Two cadets, John's acquaintances, came towards him.
At this moment a little hand reached him a gingerbread nut--"Here's one
for you, John!" He pushed the little hand away, and simultaneously saw
two blue faithful eyes looking up to him plaintively and questioningly.
He felt as if he could weep, take the hurt child in his arms, and ask
his forgiveness in order to melt the ice which had crystallised round
his heart. He despised himself for having pushed his brother's hand
away. They went home.
He wished to shake the recollection of his misdeed from him, but could
not. But he laid the blame of it partly at the door of those who had
caused this sorry situation. He was too old to stand on the same level
with the child, and too young to be able to condescend to it.
His father, who had been rejuvenated by his marriage with a young wife,
ventured to oppose John's learned authorities, and wished to humble
him in this department also. After supper one evening, they were
sitting at table, his father with his three papers, the _Aftonbladet,
Allehanda_, and _Post-tidningen_, and John with a school-book.
Presently his father stopped reading.
"What are you reading?" he asked.
"Philosophy."
A long pause. The boys always used to call logic "philosophy."
"What is philosophy, really?"
"The science of thought."
"Hm! Must one learn how to think? Let me see the book." He put his
pince-nez on and read. Then he said, "Do you think the peasant members
of the Riks-Dag"[3] (he hated the peasants, but now used them for the
purpose of his argument) "have learned philosophy? I don't, and yet
they manage to corner the professors delightfully. You learn such a lot
of useless stuff!" Thus he dismissed philosophy.
His father's parsimoniousness also sometimes placed John in very
embarrassing situations. Two of his friends offered during the holidays
to give him lessons in mathematics. John asked his father's permission.
"All right," he said, "as far as I am concerned."
When the time came for them to receive an honorarium, his father was of
the opinion that they were so rich that one could not give them money.
"But one might make them a present," said John.
"I won't give anything," was the answer.
John felt ashamed for a whole year and realised for the first time the
unpleasantness of a debt. His two friends gave at first gentle and then
broad hints. He did not avoid them, but crawled after them in order to
show his gratitude. He felt that they possessed a part of his soul and
body; that he was their slave and could not be free. Sometimes he made
them promises, because he imagined he could fulfil them, but they could
not be fulfilled, and the burden of the debt was increased by their
being broken. It was a time of infinite torment, probably more bitter
at the time than it seemed afterwards.
Another step in arresting his progress was the postponement of his
Confirmation. He learned theology at school, and could read the Gospels
in Greek, but was not considered mature enough for Confirmation.
He felt the grinding-down process at home all the more because his
position in the school was that of a free man. As a collegian he had
acquired certain rights. He was not made to stand up in class, and
went out when he wished without asking permission; he remained sitting
when the teachers asked questions, and disputed with them. He was the
youngest in the class but sat among the oldest and tallest. The teacher
now played the part of a lecturer rather than of a mere hearer of
lessons. The former ogre from the Clara School had become an elderly
man who expounded Cicero's _De Senectute_ and _De Amicitia_ without
troubling himself much about the commentaries. In reading Virgil, he
dwelt on the meeting of Æneas and Dido, enlarged on the topic of love,
lost the thread of his discourse, and became melancholy. (The boys
found out that about this time he had been wooing an old spinster.) He
no longer assumed a lofty tone, and was magnanimous enough to admit
a mistake he had made (he was weak in Latin) and to acknowledge that
he was not an authority in that subject. From this he drew the moral
that no one should come to school without preparation, however clever
he might be. This produced a great effect upon the boys. He won more
credit as a man than he lost as a teacher.
John, being well up in the natural sciences, was the only one out
of his class elected to be a member of the "Society of Friends of
Science." He was now thrown with school-fellows in the highest class,
who the next year would become students. He had to give a lecture, and
talked about it at home. He wrote an essay on the air, and read it to
the members. After the lecture, the members went into a restaurant in
the Haymarket and drank punch. John was modest before the big fellows,
but felt quite at his ease. It was the first time he had been lifted
out of the companionship of those of his own age. Others related
improper anecdotes; he shyly related a harmless one. Later on, some
of the members visited him and took away some of his best plants and
chemical apparatus.
By an accident John found a new friend in the school. When he was top
of the first class the Principal came in one day with a tall fellow in
a frock-coat, with a beard, and wearing a pince-nez.
"Here, John!" he said, "take charge of this youth; he is freshly come
from the country, and show him round." The wearer of the pince-nez
looked down disdainfully at the boy in the jacket. They sat next each
other; John took the book and whispered to him; the other, however,
knew nothing, but talked about cards and cafés.