But he wished to make sure of it, and for that purpose invited two of his learned friends outside the theatrical circle. In the evening before they came, he arranged the lumber-room which he had hired in the doctor's house. He tidied it up, lighted two candles instead of the study lamp, covered the table with a clean cloth and set on it a punch-bowl with glass, ash-trays and matches. This was the first time he had entertained guests, and the experience was novel and strange.
The work of an author has often been compared to childbirth, and the comparison has something to justify it. He felt a kind of peace like that which follows parturition; something or some one seemed to be there which, or who, was not there before; there had been suffering and crying and now there was silence and peace. He felt in a festival mood as he used to do in the old times at home; the children were in their Sunday best, and their father in his black frock coat cast a last look round on the arrangements before the guests came.
His friends arrived and he read the piece through in silence till the end. They gave their verdict, and John was greeted by his elders as an author.
When they had gone, he fell on his knees on the floor, and thanked God for having delivered him from difficulty and bestowed on him the gift of poetry. His communion with God had been very irregular; it was a curious fact, that in cases of great necessity he rallied his powers within himself and did not cry to the Lord at all; but on joyful occasions, on the other hand, he involuntarily felt the need of at once thanking the Giver of all good. It was just the contrary to what it had been in his childhood, and that was natural since his idea of God had developed into that of the Author and Giver of all good things, whereas the God of his childhood had been a God of terror whose hand was full of misfortunes.
At last he had found his calling, his true rôle in life and his wavering character began to develop a backbone. He had a pretty good idea now of what he wanted, and this gave him at least a rudder to steer by. Now he pushed off from land to go for a long voyage, but always ready to tack when he encountered too strong a head wind,—not, however, to fall to leeward, but the next moment to luff his ship up to the wind with bellying sails.
By writing this comedy, he had now relieved himself of his domestic troubles. He next described the religious conflicts he remembered so vividly in a three-act play. This lightened the ship considerably.
His creative energy during this period was immense. He had the writing fever daily; within two months he composed two comedies and a rhymed tragedy, besides occasional verses. The tragedy was his first real "work of art," as the phrase is, for it did not deal with any of his subjective experiences. "Sinking Hellas" was the not inconsiderable theme. The composition was finished and clear, but the situations were somewhat threadbare, and there was a good deal of declamation. The only original elements in it were an austere moral tone and contempt for uncultured demagogues. Thus, for instance, he introduced an old man inveighing against the immorality and want of patriotism of the youth of the time. He made Demosthenes speak disparagingly of a demagogue, and express something of what he had felt towards the master chimney-sweep and pawnbroker on the journey to Copenhagen. The head of the Theatrical Academy also got a rap over the knuckles because he had often lamented over John's "lack of culture." The piece was aristocratic in tone, and the freedom celebrated in it was that which was the object of aspiration in the sixties,—national freedom.
Meanwhile he had sent his domestic comedy anonymously to the board of management of the Theatre Royal. While it was under consideration, he went on cheerfully with his work as supernumerary actor. "Just you wait!" he said to himself, "then my turn will come and I shall have a word to say in the matter." He was now quite cool on the stage, and felt, even when dressed as a peasant youth in Wilhelm Tell, like a prince in disguise. "I am certainly no swineherd, though you may think so," he hummed to himself.
He had to wait long for an answer about his piece. At last he lost patience and revealed himself as the author to the head of the Theatrical Academy. The latter had read the piece and found talent in it, but said it could not be played. This was not a great blow for him, for he still had the tragedy in reserve. That was better received, but he was told it needed remodelling here and there.
One evening when the Academy closed, the head instructor expressed a wish to speak with John. "Now we see what you are good for," he said. "You have a fine career in front of you; why should you choose an inferior one? You can become an actor probably if you work for some years, but why toil at this thankless task? Go back to Upsala and take your degree if you can. Then become an author, for one must first have experiences in order to write well."