in the vestry. For a moment he felt it comical, but then was seized
with anxiety. He prayed to the only true God for help, now that he was
to draw the sword against age-long error, and when the last notes of
the organ were silent, he entered the pulpit with confidence.
Everything went well. But when he came to the place, "Since the text
of the day gives no occasion for remark," and saw a movement among the
faces of the congregation, which looked like so many white blurs, he
trembled. But only for a moment. Then he plucked up courage and read
his sermon in a fairly strong and confident voice. When he neared the
end, he was so moved by the beautiful truths which he proclaimed, that
he could scarcely see the writing on the paper for tears. He took a
long breath, and read through all the prayers, till the organ began
and he left the pulpit. The pastor thanked him, but said one should
not wander from the text; it would be a bad look-out if the Church
Consistory heard of it. But he hoped no one had noticed it. He had no
fault to find with the contents of the sermon. They had dinner at the
pastor's house, played and danced with the girls, and John was the hero
of the day. The girls said, "It was a very fine sermon, for it was so
short." He had read much too fast, and had left out a prayer.
In the autumn John returned with the boys to the town, in order to live
with them and look after their school-work. They went to the Clara
School, so that, like a crab, he felt he was going backwards. The same
school, the same headmaster, the same malicious Latin teacher. John
worked conscientiously with his pupils, heard their lessons, and could
swear that they had been properly learned. None the less, in the report
books which they took home, and which their father read, it was stated
that such and such lessons had not been learned.
"That is a lie," said John.
"Well, but it is written here," answered the boys' father.
It was hard work, and he was preparing at the same time for his own
examination. In the autumn holidays they went back to the country.
They sat by the stove and cracked nuts, a whole sackful, and read the
_Frithiof Saga, Axel_, and _Children of the Lord's Supper_.[1] The
evenings were intolerably long. But John discovered a new steward, who
was treated almost like a servant. This provoked John to make friends
with him, and in his room they brewed punch and played cards. The
baroness ventured to remark that the steward was not a suitable friend
for John.
"Why not?" asked the latter.
"He has no education."
"That is not so dangerous."
She also said that she preferred that the tutor should spend his time
with the family in the evening, or, at any rate, stay in the boys'
room. He chose the latter, for it was very stuffy in the drawing-room,
and he was tired of the reading aloud and the conversation. He now
stayed in his own and the boys' room. The steward came there, and
they played their game of cards. The boys asked to be allowed to take
a hand. Why should they not? John had played whist at home with his
father and brothers, and the innocent recreation had been regarded
as a means of education for teaching self-discipline, carefulness,
attention, and fairness; he had never played for money; each dishonest
trick was immediately exposed, untimely exultation at a victory
silenced, sulkiness at a defeat ridiculed.
At that time the boys' parents made no objections, for they were glad
that the youngsters were occupied. But they did not like their being
on intimate terms with the steward. John had, in the summer, formed
a little military troop from his pupils and the workmen's children,
and drilled them in the open air. But the baroness forbade this close
intercourse with the latter. "Each class should keep to itself," she
said.
But John could not understand why that should be, since in the year
1865 class distinctions had been done away with.
In the meantime a storm was brewing, and a mere trifle was the occasion
of its outbreak.
One morning the baron was storming about a pair of his driving-gloves
which had disappeared. He suspected his eldest boy. The latter denied
having taken them, and accused the steward, specifying the time when
he said he had taken them. The steward was called.
"You have taken my driving-gloves, sir! What is the meaning of this?"
said the baron.
"No, sir, I have not."
"What! Hugo says you did."
John, who happened to be present, stepped forward unsolicited, and
said, "Then Hugo lies. He himself has had the gloves."
"What do you say?" said the baron, motioning to the steward to go.
"I say the truth."
"What do you mean, sir, by accusing my son in the presence of a
servant?"
"Mr. X. is not a servant, and, besides, he is innocent."
"Yes, very innocent--playing cards together and drinking with the boys!
That's a nice business, eh?"
"Why did you not mention it before? Then you would have found out that
I do not drink with the boys."
"'You,' you d--d hobbledehoy! What do you mean by calling me 'you.'"
"Mr. Secretary can look for another 'hobbledehoy' to teach his boys,
since Mr. Secretary is too covetous to engage a grown person." So
saying, John departed.
On the next day they were to return to the town, for the Christmas
holidays were at an end. So he would have to go home again--back into
hell, to be despised and oppressed, and it would be a thousand times
worse after he had boasted of his new situation, and compared it with
his parents' house to the disadvantage of the latter. He wept for
anger, but after such an insult there was no retreat.
He was summoned to the baroness, but said she must wait awhile. Then
a messenger came again for him. In a sullen mood he went up to her.
She was quite mild, and asked him to stay some days with them till
they had found another tutor. He promised, since she had asked him so
pressingly. She said she would drive with the boys into the town.
The sleigh came to the door, and the baron stood by, and said, "You can
sit on the box."
"I know my place," said John. At the first halting-place the baroness
asked him to get into the sleigh, but he would not.
They stayed in the town eight days. In the meanwhile John had written a
somewhat arrogant letter, in an independent tone, home, which did not
please his father, although he had flattered him in it. "I think you
should have first asked if you could come home," he said. In that he
was right. But John had never thought otherwise of his parents' house
than of an hotel, where he could get board and lodging without paying.
So he was home again. Through an incomprehensible simplicity he had
let himself be persuaded to continue to go through his former pupils'
school-work with them, though he received nothing for it. One evening
Fitz wanted to take him to a café.
"No," said John, "I must give some lessons."
"Where?"
"To the Secretary's boys."
"What! haven't you done with them yet?"
"No, I have promised to help them till they get a new teacher."
"What do you get for it?"
"What do I get? I have had board and lodging."
"Yes, but what do you get now, when you don't board and lodge with
them?"
"Hm! I didn't think of that."
"You are a lunatic--teaching rich peoples' children gratis. Well, you
come along with me, and don't cross their threshold again."
John had a struggle with himself on the pavement. "But I promised them."
"You should not promise. Come now and write a letter withdrawing your
offer."
"I must go and take leave of them."
"It is not necessary. They promised you a present at Christmas, but you
got nothing; and now you let yourself be treated like a servant. Come
now and write."
He was dragged to the café. The waitress brought paper and ink, and,
at his friend's dictation, he wrote a letter to the effect that, in
consequence of his approaching examination, he would have no more
leisure for teaching.
He was free! "But I feel ashamed," he said.
"Why?"
"Because I have been impolite."
"Rubbish! Waitress, bring half a punch."
[1] Three poems by Tegner--the last translated by Longfellow.
X
CHARACTER AND DESTINY
About this time the free-thought movement was at its height. After
preaching his sermon, John believed it was his mission and duty to
spread and champion the new doctrines. He therefore began to stay away
from prayers, and stayed behind when the rest of the class went to the
prayer-room. The headmaster came in and wished to drive him, and those
who had remained with him, out. John answered that his religion forbade
him to take part in an alien form of worship. The headmaster said
one must observe law and order. John answered that Jews were excused
attendance at prayers. The headmaster then asked him for the sake of
example and their former friendship to be present. John yielded. But he
and those who shared his views did not take part in the singing of the
psalms. Then the headmaster was infuriated, and gave them a scolding;
he especially singled out John, and upbraided him. John's answer was
to organise a strike. He and those who shared his views came regularly
so late to school that prayers were over when they entered. If they
happened to come too early, they remained in the corridor and waited,
sitting on the wooden boxes and chatting with the teachers. In order
to humble the rebels, the headmaster hit upon the idea, at the close
of prayers, when the whole school was assembled, to open the doors and
call them in. These then defiled past with an impudent air and under
a hail of reproaches through the prayer-room without remaining there.
Finally, they became quite used to enter of their own accord, and
take their scolding as they walked through the room. The headmaster
conceived a spite against John, and seemed to have the intention of
making him fail in his examination. John, on the other hand, worked day
and night in order to be sure of succeeding.
His theological lessons degenerated into arguments with his teacher.
The latter was a pastor and theist, and tolerant of objections, but
he soon got tired of them, and told John to answer according to the
text-book.
"How many Persons are in the Godhead?" he asked.
"One," answered John.
"What does Norbeck say?"
"Norbeck says three!"
"Well, then, you say three, too!"
At home things went on quietly. John was left alone. They saw that he
was lost, and that it was too late for any effectual interference. One
Sunday his father made an attempt in the old style, but John was not at
a loss for an answer.
"Why don't you go to church any more?" his father asked.
"What should I do there?"
"A good sermon can always do one some good."
"I can make sermons myself."
And there was an end of it.
The pietists had a special prayer offered for John in the Bethlehem
Church after they had seen him one Sunday morning in volunteer uniform.
In May, 1867, he passed his final examination. Strange things came to
light on that occasion. Great fellows with beards and pince-nez called
the Malay Peninsula Siberia, and believed that India was Arabia. Some
candidates obtained a testimonial in French who pronounced "en" like
"y," and could not conjugate the auxiliary verbs. It was incredible.
John believed he had been stronger in Latin three years before this. In
history everyone of them would have failed, if they had not known the
questions beforehand. They had read too much and learned too little.
The examination closed with a prayer which a free-thinker was obliged
to offer. He repeated the Lord's Prayer stammeringly, and this was
wrongly attributed to his supposed state of excitement. In the evening
John was taken by his companions to Storkyrkobrinken, where they bought
him a student's white cap, for he had no money. Then he went to his
father's office to give him the good news. He met him in the hall.
"Well! Have you passed?" said his father.
"Yes."
"And already bought the cap."
"I got it on credit."
"Go to the cashier, and have it paid for."
So they parted. No congratulation! No pressure of the hand! That
was his father's Icelandic nature which could not give vent to any
expressions of tenderness.
John came home as they were all sitting at supper. He was in a merry
mood, and had drunk punch. But his spirits were soon damped. All
were silent. His brothers and sisters did not congratulate him. Then
he became out of humour and silent also. He left the table and went
to rejoin his comrades in the town. There there was joy, childish,
exaggerated joy, and all too great hopes.
During the summer he remained at home and gave lessons. With the money
earned he hoped to go in the autumn to the University at Upsala.
Theology attracted him no more. He had done with it, and, moreover, it
went against his conscience to take the ordination vow.
In the autumn he went to Upsala. Old Margaret packed his box, and
put in cooking utensils, and a knife and fork. Then she obliged him
to borrow fifteen kronas[1] from her. From his father he got a case
of cigars, and an exhortation to help himself. He himself had eighty
kronas, which he had earned by giving lessons, and with which he must
manage to get through his first term at the university.
The world stood open for him; he had the ticket of admission in his
hand. He had nothing to do but to enter. Only that!
* * * * *
"A man's character is his destiny." That was then a common and
favourite proverb. Now that John had to go into the world, he employed
much time in attempting to cast his horoscope from his own character,
which he thought was already fully formed. People generally bestow the
name of "a character" on a man who has sought and found a position,
taken up a rôle, excogitated certain principles of behaviour, and acts
accordingly in an automatic way.
A man with a so-called character is often a simple piece of mechanism;
he has often only one point of view for the extremely complicated
relationships of life; he has determined to cherish perpetually
certain fixed opinions of certain matters; and in order not to be
accused of "lack of character," he never changes his opinion, however
foolish or absurd it may be. Consequently, a man with a character is
generally a very ordinary individual, and what may be called a little
stupid. "Character" and automaton seem often synonymous. Dickens's
famous characters are puppets, and the characters on the stage must be
automata. A well-drawn character is synonymous with a caricature. John
had formed the habit of "proving himself" in the Christian fashion,
and asked himself whether he had such a character as befitted a man who
wished to make his way in the world.
In the first place, he was revengeful. A boy had once openly said, by
the Clara Churchyard, that John's father had stood in the pillory.
That was an insult to the whole family. Since John was weaker than his
opponent, he caused his elder brother to execute vengeance with him on
the culprit, by bombarding him with snowballs. They carried out their
revenge so thoroughly, that they thrashed the culprit's younger brother
who was innocent.
So he must be revengeful. That was a serious charge. He began to
consider the matter more closely. Had he revenged himself on his father
or his step-mother for the injustice they had done him? No; he forgot
all, and kept out of the way.
Had he revenged himself on his school teachers by sending them boxes
full of stones at Christmas? No. Was he really so severe towards
others, and so hair-splitting in his judgment of their conduct towards
him? Not at all; he was easy to get on with, was credulous, and could
be led by the nose in every kind of way, provided he did not detect any
tyrannous wish to oppress in the other party. By various promises of
exchange his school-fellows had cajoled away from him his herbarium,
his collection of beetles, his chemical apparatus, his adventure books.
Had he abused or dunned them for payment? No; he felt ashamed on their
account, but let them be. At the end of one vacation the father of a
boy whom John had been teaching forgot to pay him. He felt ashamed to
remind him, and it was not till half a year had elapsed, that, at the
instigation of his own father, he demanded payment.
It was a peculiar trait of John's character, that he identified himself
with others, suffered for them, and felt ashamed on their behalf.
If he had lived in the Middle Ages, he would have been marked with
the stigmata. If one of his brothers did something vulgar or stupid,
John felt ashamed for him. In church he once heard a boys' choir sing
terribly out of tune. He hid himself in the pew with a feeling of
vicarious shame.
Once he fought with a school-fellow, and gave him a violent blow on
the chest, but when he saw the boy's face distorted with pain, he
burst into tears and reached him his hand. If anyone asked him to do
something which he was very unwilling to do, he suffered on behalf of
the one with whose request he could not comply.
He was cowardly, and could let no one go away unheard for fear of
causing discontent. He was still afraid of the dark, of dogs, horses,
and strangers. But he could also be courageous if necessary, as he
had shown by rebelling in school, when the matter concerned his final
examination, and by opposing his father.
"A man without religion is an animal," say the old copybooks. Now
that it has been discovered that animals are the most religious of
creatures, and that he who has knowledge does not need religion, the
practical efficacy of the latter has been much reduced. By placing the
source of his strength outside himself, he had lost strength and faith
in himself. Religion had devoured his ego. He prayed always, and at
all hours, when he was in need. He prayed at school when he was asked
questions; at the card-table when the cards were dealt out. Religion
had spoilt him, for it had educated him for heaven instead of earth;
family life had ruined him by educating him for the family instead of
for society; and school had educated him for the university instead of
for life.
He was irresolute and weak. When he bought tobacco, he asked his friend
what sort he should buy. Thus he fell into his friends' power. The
consciousness of being popular drove away his fear of the unknown, and
friendship strengthened him.
He was a prey to capricious moods. One day, when he was a tutor in the
country, he came into the town in order to visit Fritz. When he got
there he did not proceed any further, but remained at home, debating
with himself whether he should go to Fritz or not. He knew that his
friend expected him, and he himself much wished to see him. But he did
not go. The next day he returned to the country, and wrote a melancholy
letter to his friend, in which he tried to explain himself. But Fritz
was angry, and did not understand caprices.
In all his weakness he sometimes was aware of enormous resources of
strength, which made himself believe himself capable of anything. When
he was twelve his brother brought home a French boys' book from Paris.
John said, "We will translate that, and bring it out at Christmas."
They did translate it, but as they did not know what further steps to
take, the matter dropped.
An Italian grammar fell into his hands, and he learned Italian.
When he was a tutor in the country, as there was no tailor there, he
undertook to alter a pair of trousers. He opened the seams, altered and
stitched the trousers, and ironed them with the great stable key. He
also mended his boots. When he heard his sisters and brothers play in a
quartette, he was never satisfied with the performance. He would have
liked to jump up, to snatch the instruments from them, and to show them
how they ought to play.
John had learned to speak the truth. Like all children, he lied in his
defence or in answer to impertinent questions, but he found a brutal
enjoyment, during a conversation, when people were trying to conceal
the truth, to say exactly what all thought. At a ball, where he was
very taciturn, a lady asked him if he liked dancing.
"No, not at all," he answered.
"Well, then, why do you dance?"
"Because I am obliged to."
He had stolen apples, like all boys, and that did not trouble him; he
made no secret of it. It was a prescriptive right. In the school he had
never done any real mischief. Once, on the last day before the close
of the term, he and some other boys had broken off some clothes-pegs
and torn up some old exercise-books. He was the only one seized on the
occasion. It was a mere outbreak of animal spirits, and was not taken
seriously.
Now, when he was passing his own character under review, he collected
other people's judgments on himself, and was astonished at the
diversity of opinion displayed. His father considered him hard; his
step-mother, malicious; his brothers, eccentric. Every servant-maid in
the house had a different opinion of him; one of them liked him, and
thought that his parents treated him ill; his lady friend thought him
emotional; the engineer regarded him as an amiable child, and Fritz
considered him melancholy and self-willed. His aunts believed he had a
good heart; his grandmother that he had character; the girl he loved
idolised him; his teachers did not know what to make of him. Towards
those who treated him roughly, he was rough; towards his friends,
friendly.
John asked himself whether it was he that was so many-sided, or the
opinions about him. Was he false? Did he behave to some differently
from what he did to others? "Yes," said his step-mother. When she heard
anything good about him, she always declared that he was acting a part.
Yes, but all acted parts! His step-mother was friendly towards her
husband, hard towards her step-children, soft towards her own child,
humble towards the landlord, imperious towards the servants, polite to
the powerful, rough to the weak.
That was the "law of accommodation," of which John was as yet unaware.
It was a trait in human nature, a tendency to adapt oneself--to be a
lion towards enemies, and a lamb towards friends,--which rested on
calculation.
But when is one true, and when is one false? And where is to be found
the central "ego,"--the core of character? The "ego" was a complex of
impulses and desires, some of which were to be restrained, and others
unfettered. John's individuality was a fairly rich but chaotic complex;
he was a cross of two entirely different strains of blood, with a good
deal of book-learning, and a variety of experience. He had not yet
found what rôle he was to play, nor his position in life, and therefore
continued to be characterless. He had not yet determined which of
his impulses must be restrained, and how much of his "ego" must be
sacrificed for the society into which he was preparing to enter.
If he had really been able to view himself objectively, he would have
found that most of the words he spoke were borrowed from books or from
school-fellows, his gestures from teachers and friends, his behaviour
from relatives, his temperament from his mother and wet-nurse, his
tastes from his father, perhaps from his grandfather. His face had no
resemblance to that of his father or mother. Since he had not seen his
grand-parents, he could not judge whether there was any resemblance
to them. What, then, had he of his own? Nothing. But he had two
fundamental characteristics, which largely determined his life and his
destiny.
The first was Doubt. He did not receive ideas without criticism, but
developed and combined them. Therefore he could not be an automaton,
nor find a place in ordered society.
The second was--Sensitiveness to pressure. He always tried to lessen
this last, in the first place, by raising his own level; in the second,
by criticising what was above him, in order to observe that it was not
so high after all, nor so much worth striving after.
So he stepped out into life--in order to develop himself, and still
ever to remain as he was!
[1] A krona is worth about twenty-seven cents.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Son of a Servant, by August Strindberg