like a flight into liberty. There one might be ill-dressed, poor, and
still a student, _i.e._, a member of the higher classes; one could sing
and drink, come home intoxicated, and fight with the police without
losing one's reputation. That is an ideal land! How had he found that
out? From the students' songs which he sang with his brother. But he
did not know that these songs reflected the views of the aristocracy;
that they were listened to, piece by piece, by princes and future
kings; that the heroes of them were men of family. He did not consider
that borrowing was not so dangerous, when there was a rich aunt in the
background; that the examination was not so hard if one had a bishop
for an uncle; and that the breaking of a window had not got to be too
dearly paid for if one moved in good society. But, at any rate, his
thoughts were busy with the future; his hopes revived, and the fatal
twenty-fifth year did not loom so ominously before him.
About this time the volunteer movement was at its height. It was a
happy idea which gave Sweden a larger army than she had hitherto
had--40,000 men instead of 37,000. John went in for it energetically,
wore a uniform, drilled, and learned to shoot. He came thereby into
contact with young men of other classes of society. In his company
there were apprentices, shop attendants, office clerks, and young
artists who had not yet achieved fame. He liked them, but they
remained distant. He sought to approach them, but they did not receive
him. They had their own language, which he did not understand. Now he
noticed how his education had separated him from the companions of his
childhood. They took for granted that he was proud. But, as a matter of
fact, he looked up to them in some things. They were frank, fearless,
independent, and pecuniarily better circumstanced than himself, for
they always had money.
Accompanying the troops on long marches had a soothing effect on him.
He was not born to command, and obeyed gladly, if the person who
commanded did not betray pride or imperiousness. He had no ambition
to become a corporal, for then he would have had to think, and what
was still worse, decide for others. He remained a slave by nature and
inclination, but he was sensitive to the injustice of tyrants, and
observed them narrowly.
At one important manoeuvre he could not help expostulating with regard
to certain blunders committed, _e.g._, that the infantry of the guard
should be ranged up at a landing-place against the cannon of the fleet
which covered the barges on which they were standing. The cannon
played about their ears from a short distance, but they remained
unmoved. He expostulated and swore, but obeyed, for he had determined
beforehand to do so.
On one occasion, while they were halting at Tyreso, he wrestled in
sport with a comrade. The captain of the company stepped forward and
forbade such rough play. John answered sharply that they were off duty,
and that they were playing.
"Yes, but play may become earnest," said the captain.
"That depends on us," answered John, and obeyed. But he thought him
fussy for interfering in such trifles, and believed that he noticed a
certain dislike in his superior towards himself. The former was called
"magister," because he wrote for the papers, but he was not even a
student. "There it is," he thought, "he wants to humiliate me." And
from that time he watched him closely. Their mutual antipathy lasted
through their lives.
The volunteer movement was in the first place the result of the
Danish-German War, and, though transitory, was in some degree
advantageous. It kept the young men occupied, and did away, to a
certain extent, with the military prestige of the army, as the lower
classes discovered that soldiering was not such a difficult matter
after all. The insight thus gained caused a widespread resistance to
the introduction of the Prussian system of compulsory service which was
much mooted at the time, since Oscar II., when visiting Berlin, had
expressed to the Emperor William his hope that Swedish and Prussian
troops would once more be brothers-in-arms.
[1] See _Encyclopedia Britannica_, art. "Sweden."
[2] In 1910 Strindberg wrote: "I keep my Bible Christianity for
private use, to tame my somewhat barbarised nature--barbarised by the
veterinary philosophy of Darwinism, in which, as a student. I was
educated."--_Tal till Svenska nationen_.
IX
WITH STRANGERS
One of his bold dreams had been fulfilled: he had found a situation for
the summer. Why had he not found one sooner? He had not dared to hope
for it, and, therefore, had never sought it, from fear of meeting with
a refusal. A disappointed hope was the worst thing he could imagine.
But now, all at once, Fortune shook her cornucopia over him; the post
he had obtained was in the finest situation that he knew--the Stockholm
archipelago--on the most beautiful of all the islands, Sotaskär. He
now liked aristocrats. His step-mother's ill-treatment of him, his
relations' perpetual watching to discover arrogance in him, where there
was only superiority of intelligence, generosity, and self-sacrifice,
the attempts of his volunteer comrades to oppress him, had driven him
out of the class to which he naturally belonged. He did not think or
feel any more as they did; he had another religion, and another view
of life. The well-regulated behaviour and confident bearing of his
aristocratic friends satisfied his æsthetic sense; his education had
brought him nearer to them, and alienated him from the lower classes.
The aristocrats seemed to him less proud than the middle class. They
did not oppress, but prized culture and talent; they were democratic in
their behaviour towards him, for they treated him as an equal, whereas
his own relatives regarded him as a subordinate and inferior. Fritz,
for example, who was the son of a miller in the country, visited at the
house of a lord-in-waiting, and played in a comedy with his sons before
the director of the Theatre Royal, who offered him an engagement.
No one asked whose son he was. But when Fritz came to a dance at
John's house, he was carefully inspected behind and before, and great
satisfaction was caused when some relative imparted the information
that his father had once been a miller's servant.
John had become aristocratic in his views, without, however, ceasing to
sympathise with the lower classes, and since about the year 1865 the
nobility were fairly liberal in politics, condescending and popular
for the time, he let himself be duped.
Fritz began to give him instructions how he should behave. One should
not be cringing, he said, but be yielding; should not say all that one
thought, for no one wished to know that; it was good if one could say
polite things, without indulging in too gross flattery; one should
converse, but not argue, above all things not dispute, for one never
got the best of it. Fritz was certainly a wise youth. John thought the
advice terribly hard, but stored it up in his mind. What he wanted to
get was a salary, and perhaps the chance of a tour abroad to Rome or
Paris with his pupils; that was the most he hoped for from his noble
friends, and what he intended to aim at.
One Sunday he visited the wife of the baron, his future employer, as
she was in the town. She seemed like the portrait of a mediæval lady;
she had an aquiline nose, great brown eyes, and curled hair, which hung
over her temples. She was somewhat sentimental, talked in a drawling
manner, and with a nasal twang. John did not think her aristocratic,
and the house was a poorer one than his own home, but they had,
besides, an estate and a castle. However, she pleased him, for she had
a certain resemblance to his mother. She examined him, talked with him,
and let her ball of wool fall. John sprang up and gave it to her, with
a self-satisfied air which seemed to say, "I can do that, for I have
often picked up ladies' handkerchiefs." Her opinion of him after the
examination was a favourable one, and he was engaged. On the morning of
the day on which they were to leave the city he called again. The royal
secretary, for so the gentleman of the house was called, was standing
in his shirt-sleeves before the mirror and tying his cravat. He looked
proud and melancholy, and his greeting was curt and cold. John took
a seat uninvited, and tried to commence a conversation, but was not
particularly successful in keeping it up, especially as the secretary
turned his back to him, and gave only short answers.
"He is not an aristocrat," thought John; "he is a boor."
The two were antipathetic to each other, as two members of the lower
class, who looked askance at each other in their clamber laboriously
upwards.
The carriage was before the door; the coachman was in livery, and
stood with his hat in his hand. The secretary asked John whether he
would sit in the carriage or on the box, but in such a tone that John
determined to be polite and to accept the invitation to sit on the
box. So he sat next the coachman. As the whip cracked, and the horses
started, he had only one thought, "Away from home! Out into the world!"
At the first halting-place John got down from the box and went to
the carriage window. He asked in an easy, polite, perhaps somewhat
confidential tone, how his employers were. The baron answered curtly,
in a tone in a way which cut off all attempts at a nearer approach.
What did that mean?
They took their seats again. John lighted a cigar, and offered the
coachman one. The latter, however, whispered in reply that he dared
not smoke on the box. He then pumped the coachman, but cautiously,
regarding the baron's friends, and so on. Towards evening they reached
the estate. The house stood on a wooded hill, and was a white stone
building with outside blinds. The roof was flat, and its rounded
comers gave the building a somewhat Italian aspect, but the blinds,
with their white and red borders, were elegance itself. John, with his
three pupils, was installed in one wing, which consisted of an isolated
building with two rooms; the other of which was occupied by the
coachman.
After eight days John discovered that he was a servant, and in a very
unpleasant position. His father's man-servant had a better room all to
himself; and for several hours of the day was master of his own person
and thoughts. But John was not. Night and day he had to be with the
boys, teach them, and play and bathe with them. If he allowed himself
a moment's liberty, and was seen about, he was at once asked, "Where
are the children?" He lived in perpetual anxiety lest some accident
should happen to them. He was responsible for the behaviour of four
persons--his own and that of his three pupils. Every criticism of them
struck him. He had no companion of his own age with whom he could
converse. The steward was almost the whole day at work, and hardly ever
visible.
But there were two compensations: the scenery and the sense of being
free from the bondage in his parent's house. The baroness treated
him confidentially, almost in a motherly way; she liked discussing
literature with him. At such times he felt on the same level with
her, and superior to her in point of erudition, but as soon as the
secretary came home he sank to the position of children's nurse again.
The scenery of the islands had for him a greater charm than the banks
of the Mälar, and his magic recollections of Drottningholm faded. In
the past year he had climbed up a hill in Tyreso with the volunteer
sharpshooters. It was covered with a thick fir-wood. They crawled
through bilberry and juniper bushes till they reached a steep, rocky
plateau. From this they viewed a panorama which thrilled him with
delight: water and islands, water and islands stretched away into
infinite distance. Although born in Stockholm he had never seen the
islands, and did not know where he was. The view made a deep impression
on him, as if he had rediscovered a land which had appeared to him in
his fairest dreams or in a former existence--in which he believed, but
about which he knew nothing. The troop of sharpshooters drew off into
the wood, but John remained upon the height and worshipped--that is
the right word. The attacking troop approached and fired; the bullets
whistled about his ears; he hid himself, but he could not go away. That
was his land-scape and proper environment--barren, rugged gray rocks
surrounding wide stormy bays, and the endless sea in the distance as
a background. He remained faithful to this love, which could not be
explained by the fact that it was his first love. Neither the Alps of
Switzerland, nor the olive groves of the Mediterranean, nor the steep
coast of Normandy, could dethrone this rival from his heart.
Now he was in Paradise, though rather too deep in it; the shore of
Sotaskär consisted of green pasturage overshadowed by oaks, and the
bay opened out to the fjord in the far distance. The water was pure
and salt; that was something new. In one of his excursions with his
rifle, the dogs, and the boys, he came one fine sunny day down to the
water's edge. On the other side of the bay stood a castle, a large,
old-fashioned stone edifice. He had discovered that his employer only
rented the estate.
"Who lives in the castle?" he asked the boys.
"Uncle Wilhelm," they answered.
"What is his title?"
"Baron X."
"Do you never go there?"
"Oh, yes; sometimes."
So there was a castle here with a baron! John's walks now regularly
took the direction of the shore, from which he could see the castle.
It was surrounded by a park and garden. At home they had no garden.
One fine day the baroness told him that he must accompany the boys on
the morrow to the baron's, and remain there for the day. She and her
husband would stay at home; "he would therefore represent the house,"
she added jestingly.
Then he asked what he was to wear. He could go in his summer suit, she
said, take his black coat on his arm, and change for dinner in the
little tapestry-room on the ground floor. He asked whether he should
wear gloves. She laughed, "No, he needed no gloves." He dreamt the
whole night about the baron, the castle, and the tapestry-room. In the
morning a hay-waggon came to the house to fetch them. He did not like
this; it reminded him of the parish clerk's school.
And so they went off. They came to a long avenue of lime trees,
drove into the courtyard, and stopped before the castle. It was a
real castle, and looked as if it had been built in the Middle Ages.
From an arbour there came the well-known click of a draught-board. A
middle-aged gentleman in an ill-fitting, holland suit came out. His
face was not aristocratic, but rather of the middle-class type, with
a seaman's beard of a gray-yellow colour. He also wore earrings. John
held his hat in his hand and introduced himself. The baron greeted
him in a friendly way, and bade him enter the arbour. Here stood a
table with a draught-board, by which sat a little old man who was very
amiable in his manner. He was introduced as the pastor of a small town.
John was given a glass of brandy, and asked about the Stockholm news.
Since he was familiar with theatrical gossip and similar things, he was
listened to with greater attention. "There it is," he thought, "the
real aristocrats are much more democratic than the sham ones."
"Oh!" said the Baron. "Pardon me, Mr.----, I did not catch the name.
Yes, that is it. Are you related to Oscar Strindberg?"
"He is my father."
"Good heavens! is it possible? He is an old friend of mine from my
youthful days, when I was pilot on the Strengnas."
John did not believe his ears. The baron had been pilot on a steamer!
Yes, indeed, he had. But he wished to hear about his friend Oscar.
John looked around him, and asked himself if this really was the baron.
The baroness now appeared; she was as simple and friendly as the baron.
The bell rang for dinner. "Now we will get something to drink," said
the baron. "Come along."
John at first made a vain attempt to put on his frock-coat behind a
door in the hall, but finally succeeded, as the baroness had said that
he ought to wear it. Then they entered the dining-hall. Yes, that was a
real castle; the floor was paved with stone, the ceiling was of carved
wood; the window-niches were so deep that they seemed to form little
rooms; the fire place could hold a barrow-load of wood; there was a
three-footed piano, and the walls were covered with dark paintings.
John felt quite at home during dinner. In the afternoon he played with
the baron, and drank toddy. All the courteous usages he had expected
were in evidence, and he was well pleased with the day when it was
over. As he went down the long avenue, he turned round and contemplated
the castle. It looked now less stately and almost poverty stricken. It
pleased him all the better, though it had been more romantic to look
at it as a fairy-tale castle from the other shore. Now he had nothing
more to which he could look up. But he himself, on the other hand, was
no more below. Perhaps, after all, it is better to have something to
which one _can_ look up.
When he came home, he was examined by the baroness. "How did he like
the baron?" John answered that he was pleasant and condescending.
He was also prudent enough to say nothing of the baron's friendship
with his father. "They will learn it anyhow," he thought. Meanwhile
he already felt more at home, and was no more so timid. One day he
borrowed a horse, but he rode it so roughly that he was not allowed to
borrow one again. Then he hired one from a peasant. It looked so fine
to sit high on a horse and gallop; he felt his strength grow at the
same time.
His illusions were dispelled, but to feel on the same level with those
about him, without wishing to pull anyone down, that had something
soothing about it. He wrote a boasting letter to his brother at home,
but received an answer calculated to set him down. Since he was quite
alone, and had no one with whom he could talk, he wrote letters in
diary-form to his friend Fritz. The latter had obtained a post with
a merchant by the Mälar Lake, where there were young girls, music,
and good eating. John sometimes wished to be in his place. In his
diary-letter he tried to idealise the realities around him, and
succeeded in arousing his friend's envy.
The story of the baron's acquaintance with John's father spread, and
the baroness felt herself bound to speak ill of her brother. John had,
nevertheless, intelligence enough to perceive that here there was
something to do with the tragedy of an estate in tail. Since he had
nothing to do with the matter, he took no trouble to inquire into it.
During a visit which John paid to the pastor's house, the assistant
pastor happened to hear of his idea of being a pastor himself. Since
the senior pastor, on account of old age and weakness, no longer
preached, his assistant was John's only acquaintance. The assistant
found the work heavy, so he was very glad to come across young students
who wished to make their debuts as preachers. He asked John whether he
would preach. Upon John's objecting that he was not a student yet, he
answered, "No matter." John said he would consider.
The assistant did not let him consider long. He said that many
students and collegians had preached here before, and that the church
had a certain fame since the actor Knut Almlöf had preached here in his
youth. John had seen him act as Menelaus in _The Beautiful Helen_, and
admired him. He consented to his friend's request, began to search for
a text, borrowed some homilies, and promised to have his trial sermon
ready by Friday. So, then, only a year after his Confirmation, he
would preach in the pulpit, and the baron and the ladies and gentlemen
would sit as devout hearers! So soon at the goal, without a clerical
examination--yes, even without his final college examination! They
would lend him a gown and bands; he would pray the Lord's Prayer and
read the Commandments! His head began to swell, and he walked home
feeling a foot taller, with the full consciousness that he was no
longer a boy.
But as he came home he began to think seriously. He was a free-thinker.
Is it honourable to play the hypocrite? No, no. But must he then give
up the sermon? That would be too great a sacrifice. He felt ambitious,
and perhaps he would be able to sow some seeds of free-thought, which
would spring up later. Yes, but it was dishonest. With his old
egotistic morality he always regarded the motive of the actor, not the
beneficial or injurious effect of the action. It was profitable for him
to preach; it would not hurt others to hear something new and true. But
it was not honest. He could not get away from that objection. He took
the baroness into his confidence.
"Do you believe that preachers believe all they say?" she asked.
That was the preachers' affair, but John could not act a double part.
Finally, he walked to the assistant pastor's house, and consulted him.
It vexed the assistant to have to hear about it.
"Well," he said, "but you believe in God, I suppose?"
"Yes, certainly I do."
"Very well! don't speak of Christ. Bishop Wallin never mentioned the
name of Christ in his sermons. But don't bother any more. I don't want
to hear about it."
"I will do my best," said John, glad to have saved his honesty and his
prospect of distinction at the same time. They had a glass of wine, and
the matter was settled.
There was something intoxicating for him in sitting over his books and
homilies, and in hearing the baron ask for him, and the servant answer:
"The tutor is writing his sermon."
He had to expound the text: "Jesus said, Now is the son of man
glorified, and God is glorified in him. If God be glorified in him, God
shall glorify him in himself, and shall straightway glorify him."
That was all. He turned the sentence this way and that, but could find
no meaning in it. "It is obscure," he thought. But it touched the
most delicate point--the Deity of Christ. If he had the courage to
explain away that, he would certainly have done something important.
The prospect enticed him, and with Theodore Parker's help he composed
a prose poem on Christ as the Son of God, and then put forward very
cautiously the assertion that we are all God's sons, but that Christ is
His chosen and beloved Son, whose teaching we must obey. But that was
only the introduction, and the gospel is read after the introduction.
About what, then, should he preach? He had already pacified his
conscience by plainly stating his views regarding the Deity of Christ.
He glowed with excitement, his courage grew, and he felt that he had a
mission to fulfil. He would draw his sword against dogmas, against the
doctrine of election and pietism.
When he came to the place where, after reading the text, he ought to
have said, "The text we have read gives us occasion for a short time
to consider the following subject," he wrote: "Since the text of the
day gives no further occasion for remark, we will, for a short time,
consider what is of greater importance." And so he dealt with God's
work in conversion. He made two attacks: one on the custom of preaching
from the text, and the second against the Church's teaching on the
subject of grace.
First he spoke of conversion as a serious matter, which required a
sacrifice, and depended on the free-will of man (he was not quite
clear about that). He ignored the doctrine of election, and finally
flung open for all the doors of the kingdom of heaven: "Come unto me
all ye that are weary and heavy laden." "To-day shalt thou be with me
in Paradise." That is the gospel of Christ for all, and no one is to
believe that the key of heaven is committed to him (that was a hit at
the pietists), but that the doors of grace are open for all without
exception.
He was very much in earnest, and felt like a missionary. On Friday he
betook himself to the church, and read certain passages of his sermon
from the pulpit. He chose the most harmless ones. Then he repeated the
prayers, while the assistant pastor stood under the choir gallery and
called to him, "Louder! Slower!" He was approved, and they had a glass
of wine together.