Yes, it was really a monkey that had nearly procured me 'Laudabilis'
[Footnote: A second-class pass.] in my final law examination. As it
was, I only got 'Haud'; [Footnote: A third-class pass.] but, after
all, this was pretty creditable.
But my friend the advocate, who had daily, with mingled feelings, to
read the drafts of my work, found my process-paper so good that he hoped
it might raise me into the 'Laud' list. And he did not wish me to suffer
the injury and annoyance of being plucked in the _vivâ voce_
examination, for he knew me and was my friend.
But the monkey was really a coffee-stain on the margin of page 496 of
Schweigaard's Process, which I had borrowed from my friend Cucumis.
Going up to a law examination in slush and semi-darkness in mid-winter
is one of the saddest experiences that a man can have. It may, indeed,
be even worse in summer; but this I have not tried.
One rushes through these eleven papers (or is it thirteen?--it is
certainly the most infamous number that the college authorities have
been able to devise)--like an unhappy _débutant_ in a circus. He stands
on the back of a galloping horse, with his life in his hands and a silly
circus smile on his lips; and so he must leap eleven (or is it
thirteen?) times through one of these confounded paper-covered hoops.
The unhappy mortal who passes--or tries to pass--his law examination,
finds himself in precisely the same situation, only he does not gallop
round a ring, under brilliant gaslight, to the music of a full band. He
sits upon a hard chair in semi-darkness with his face to the wall, and
the only sound he hears is the creaking of the inspectors' boots. For in
all the wide, wide world there are no such creaky boots as those of law
examination inspectors.
And so comes the dreadful moment when the black-robed tormentor from the
Collegium Juridicum brings in the examination-paper. He plants himself
in the doorway, and reads. Coldly, impassively, with a cruel mockery of
the horror of the situation, he raises aloft this fateful document--this
wretched paper-covered hoop, through which we must all spring, or
dismount and wend our way back--on foot!
The candidates settle themselves in the saddle. Some seem quite unable
to get firmly seated; they rock uneasily hither and thither, and one
rider dismounts. He is followed to the door by all eyes, and a sigh runs
through the assembled students. 'You to-day; I to-morrow.'
Meanwhile one begins to hear a light trotting over the paper; they are
leaping.
Some few individuals sit firmly and gracefully through it all, and come
out on the other side 'standing for Laud.' Others think that leaping
straight is too easy; therefore, they turn in the air and alight with
backs first. These also get through, but backwards; and it is said that
their agility does not win from the judges its deserved meed of
appreciation.
Again, others leap, but miss the hoop. They spring underneath, to one
side--some even high over the top, alighting safe and sound on the other
side. These latter generally find the paper extremely simple, and
continue the wild ride quite unconcernedly.
But if one is not fond of riding, and has had no practice in leaping, he
is much to be pitied--unless, indeed, he has a monkey on page 496.
I do not know how many hoops I had passed when I found myself face to
face with the process-paper.
It was an unhealthy life that we then led: leaping by day and reading by
night. I sat at midnight half-way through Schweigaard's Process,
alternately putting my head out of the window and into the washhand
basin, and, between whiles, rushing like a whirlwind through the
withered leaves of the musty volume.
However, even the most violent wind must eventually fall; and, indeed,
this was my heartfelt wish. But the juridical momentum was strong
within me. I sat stiffly, peering and reading for the eleventh time:
'One might thus certainly assume'--'One--might--thus--certainly,'--
combine the useful with the agreeable--and lean back--a little in the
chair. I can read just as well; the lamp doesn't bother me in the least.
'One--might--thus--'
But all manner of non-juridical images rose up from the book, entwined
themselves about the lamp, and threatened to completely overshadow my
clear legal brain. I could yet dimly see the white paper. 'One--might--
thus--'. The rest disappeared in a myriad of small dark characters that
flowed down the closely-printed pages; in dull despair my eyes followed
the stream, and then I saw, towards the bottom of the right-hand page, a
face.
It was a monkey that was drawn on the margin. It was excellently drawn,
I thought, the brown colouring of the face being especially remarkable.
I am ashamed to say that my interest in this work of art proved stronger
than Schweigaard himself. I roused myself a little, and leant forward
in order to see better.
By turning the leaf, I discovered that the remarkable brown colouring of
the face was due to the fact that the whole monkey, after all, was only
a coffee-stain. The artist had merely added a pair of eyes and a little
hair; the genial expression of the picture was really to be credited to
the individual who had spilt the coffee.
'Cucumis couldn't draw,' thought I; that I knew. 'But, by Jove! he
_could_ do his process!'
And now I came to think of Cucumis, of his handsome degree, of his
triumphant home-coming, and of how much he must have read in order to
become so learned. And, while I thought of all this, my consciousness
awoke little by little, until my own ignorance suddenly stood clearly
before me in all its horrible nakedness.
I pictured to myself the shame of having to 'dismount,' or, still worse,
of being that one unfortunate of whom it is invariably said with
sinister anonymity, 'One of the candidates received _non contemnendus_'.
And as it sometimes happens that people lose their reason through much
learning, so I grew half crazy with terror at my ignorance.
Up I jumped, and dipped my head in the wash-basin. Scarcely taking time
to dry myself, I began to read with an energy that fixed every word in
my memory.
Down the left page I hurried, with unabated vigour down the right; I
reached the monkey, rushed past him, turned the leaf, and read bravely
on.
I was not conscious of the fact that my strength was now completely
exhausted. Although I caught a glimpse of a new section (usually so
strong an incentive to increased effort), I could not help getting
entangled in one of those artful propositions that one reads over and
over again in illusory profundity.
I groped about for a way of escape, but there was none. Incoherent
thoughts began to whirl through my brain. 'Where is the monkey?--a spot
of coffee--one cannot be genial on both sides--everything in life has a
right and a wrong side--for example, the university clock--but if I
cannot swim, let me come out--I am going to the circus--I know very well
that you are standing there grinning at me, Cucumis--but I can leap
through the hoop, I can--and if that professor who is standing smoking
at my paraffin lamp had only conscientiously referred to _corpus juris_,
I should not now be lying here--in my night-shirt in the middle of Karl
Johan's Gade [Footnote: A principal street of Christiania.]--but--' Then
I sank into that deep, dreamless slumber which only falls to the lot of
an evil conscience when one is very young.