So John found himself again in Upsala,—the same Upsala from which he had fled nine months before, and to which he most unwillingly returned. To be compelled to a course which he did not wish always made him feel as though he were encountering a personal foe, who cajoled him out of his wishes and antipathies, and forced him to bend. Since he still believed himself under God's personal providence, he accepted that as though it were for his best. Later on he had a feeling that there was a malignant power; this developed into the belief that there were two ruling powers, one good, one evil, which divided the empery, or ruled alternately.
He asked himself again, "What have you to do here?" To take his degree, but especially to cover his retreat from the theatre. Privately he wished to write a play, and, under the screen of its success, wriggle out of the examination.
At first he was not at all comfortable in his lonely attic. He had become accustomed to luxury, a large room, a good table, attendance and society. After having been habituated to be treated as a man and to have intercourse with older and cultivated people, he found himself again in a state of pupilage as a student. But he cast himself into the crowd and soon found himself on social terms with three distinct circles. The first consisted of friends whom he met by day, who were students of medicine and natural history and atheists. From them he heard for the first time the name of Darwin; but it passed by him like a doctrine for which he was not yet ripe. His evening society consisted of a priest and a lawyer with whom he played cards till deep in the night. He considered himself now in Upsala merely to grow and get older, and that it was a matter of indifference what he did, as long as he killed the time. He drew up the scheme of a new tragedy, Eric XIV, but found it poor, and burnt it, for his faculty of self-criticism had awakened and was severer in its demands.
Later on in the term he entered a third society, which formed his special circle during the whole of his time at Upsala and for a long while afterwards. One evening he chanced to meet a young companion with whom he had been a pupil at the private school. They discussed literature, and over a glass of toddy made the plan of forming some young poets into a club for literary work. The plan was carried out. Besides John and the other founder of the club, four young students were elected to it. They were fine young fellows of an idealist turn of mind, as the saying is, with high purposes and enthusiastic for vague ideals. They had not yet come into contact with the hard realities of life; they had all well-to-do parents, no cares, and knew nothing at all of the struggle for a subsistence. John, on the other hand, had just left the most unpleasant surroundings; he had seen people who were always ready to quarrel, conceited, empty-headed pupils of the Theatrical Academy. Here he found himself transplanted into an entirely new world. There were these happy youths going to their well-supplied tables, smoking fine cigars, taking walks, and poetising beautifully over the beauty of life which they knew nothing of.
Rules were drawn up for the club, which received the name "Runa," i.e. "song." The choice of this title was probably due to the Northern renaissance which came in with the Scandinavian movement. Its chief ornaments were Karl XV in poetry, Winge and Malmström in painting, and Molin in sculpture. Recently it had been quickened by Björnson's and Ibsen's dramas on subjects from the old Norse life. The study of Icelandic, which had been newly introduced into the university, also lent strength to this movement.
The number of members of the club was not to exceed nine; each of them was known by a Runic sign. John was called "Frö" and the other founder of the club, "Ur." Every variety of opinion was represented. Ur was a great patriot and venerated Sweden with its memories. In his opinion it had the most brilliant history in Europe, and had always been free. For the rest he was a practically minded man with a special faculty for statistics, politics, and biography; he was a severe and clever critic, and also managed the affairs of the club. He was a reliable friend, good company, helpful and hearty. Secondly, there was a full-blooded romanticist who read Heine and drank absinthe—a sensitive youth enthusiastic for all old ideals, but especially for Heine. There was also a seraph who sang of the indescribably little, especially the happiness of childhood; fourthly, a silent worshipper of nature, and, lastly, an eclectic philosopher and improvisator, who had an extraordinary faculty for improvising in any style whatever, when requested. Two minutes after he had been asked, he would stand up and speak or sing on the spur of the moment in the character of Anacreon, Horace, the Edda, or any one else, and even in foreign languages.
The first meeting of the club was at Thurs', who was lodged the most comfortably in two rooms and had the best pipes. As one of the founders of the club John first of all read his prologue, which, according to the rules of the society, had to be in verse. It began by asking after the ancient bard Brage and his harp which was now silent. Brage represented the new Norse element, the resuscitation of which was believed necessary. The whole programme of the idealists was called "a trivial striving." All the great efforts of their contemporaries after reality and for the improvement of the conditions of life was "trivial." The spirit was taken prisoner in matter, and therefore all that was material was to be regarded as the enemy. Such was the teaching of the romanticists, and of John's prologue. Then the poet went out into nature, listened to the bells of the cathedral, the wind, the pines, and the singing of the birds in order to ask the very natural question: "Nature sings; why should I then be silent?" He resolved to be no longer silent but to sing,—about the joyous youthful spring-time of life, its autumn, and about love to one's native soil. Then (he said) came the wise man with the frozen heart, took his song, dissected it and found that it was all nonsense. Thus the song was killed by "overwiseness."
It is not easy to say exactly now what John meant by "overwiseness" in 1870. He probably had simply forebodings of future critics, and the "wise man" was no other than the reviewer. Then he inveighed against the wretched mercenary souls who worship the golden calf but do not love songs. This had no connection with contemporary matters, for the sixties were remarkable for bad harvests and consequently for want of gold. The swindles by company-promoters began with the seventies. But it was the custom of the contemporary poets to attack money and the golden calf, and therefore John did so in his prologue. Now began a life of poetic idleness. Every evening they met either in a restaurant, or in each other's rooms. But the time was not wasted in view of his future authorship. John could borrow books from the well-stocked libraries of his friends, and the interchange of opinions accustomed him to look at literature from different points of view. But for them real life, public interests, contemporary politics did not exist; they lived in dreams. Sometimes his lower-class consciousness awoke, and he asked himself what he had to do among these rich youths. But he soon stilled these scruples by drink and talk, and encouraged himself to go forward and demand something of life, for he had in his companions' opinion a good chance.
His room was a wretched one; the rain came through the roof, and he had no proper bed, but only a plank-bed, which in the day-time served as a sofa. When time hung heavily on his hands and he grew weary of poetical discussions he looked up his old school-fellow, the natural history student. There he looked through the microscope, and heard of Darwin and the new scientific views. His friend gave him well-meant practical advice and recommended him to get out of his difficulties by writing a one-act play in verse for the Theatre Royal.
John objected that his dramatic talent had not scope enough in one act, and said that he would rather write a tragedy in five.