John's life in the domestic circle was now a quiet one. The storms had subsided; his brothers and sisters were grown up. His father, who still always sat over his account-ledgers, calculating the ways and means of providing for his flock of children, had become older, and now perceived that John was also older. They often discussed together topics of common interest. As regards the Franco-German War they were both fairly neutral. As Latinised Teutons they did not love the German. They hated and feared him as a sort of uncle with a right of seniority against the Swedes, and they did not forget that victorious Prussia had once been a Swedish province. The Swede had become more French than he was aware, and now he felt conscious of his relationship to la grande nation. In the evenings when they sat in the garden and the noise of traffic had ceased, they heard the singing of the Marseillaise from Blanch's café, and the hurrahs which were soon to be silent.
In August, when the theatres re-opened, John received the long-desired news that his play had been accepted for the stage. That was the first intoxicating success which he had experienced. To have a play accepted at the Theatre Royal when he was only twenty-one was sufficient compensation for all his misfortunes. His words would reach the public from the first stage in the land; his failure as an actor would be forgotten; his father would see that his son amid all his notorious fluctuations had chosen right, and all would be well. In autumn, before the university term began, the piece was performed. It was naive, pious and full of reverence for art, but had one dramatic scene which saved it in spite of its slightness—Thorwaldsen about to shatter the statue of Jason with his hammer. But on the other hand the piece contained a presumptuous outburst against contemporary rhymers. What was the author's intention in that? How could a beginner who had so many forced rhymes himself, cast a stone at another? It was a piece of temerity which found its own punishment. John stole to the bottom of the third row of seats to view the performance of his piece from a standing position. Rejd was already there before him and the curtain was up. John felt as though he stood under an electric machine. Every nerve quivered, his legs shook, and his tears ran the whole time from pure nervousness. Rejd had to hold his hand in order to quiet him. Now and then there was applause, but John knew that it was mostly from his relatives and friends, and did not let himself be deceived. Every stupidity which had inadvertently escaped him now jarred on his ear, and made him quiver; he saw nothing but crudeness in the piece; he felt so ashamed that his ears burned; before the curtain fell he rushed away out into the dark market-place.
He felt as though annihilated. The attack on the priests was stupid and unjust; the glorification of poverty and pride seemed to him false, his description of the relationship between father and son was cynical. How could he have shown off in this absurd way? It seemed to him as though he had exposed his nakedness, and shame overpowered every other feeling.
On the other hand he found the actors good; the mise en scène was more appropriate than he had expected. Everything was good except the piece itself. He wandered down to the Norrstrom, and felt inclined to drown himself. What most annoyed him was that he had so openly exhibited his feelings. Whence came that? And why should one in general be ashamed of such exhibitions? Why are the feelings so sacred? Perhaps because the feelings in general are false, as they only express a physical sensation, in which personality of the individual does not fully participate. If it is really so, then John was ashamed as an ordinary man, to have been untruthful in his writing and to have worn disguise.
To be moved at the sight of human suffering is regarded as a mark of fine feeling and meritorious, but it is said to be only a natural reflex-movement. One involuntarily transfers the sufferings of the other to oneself and suffers for one's own sake. Another's tears could bring one to weep just as another's yawning could make one yawn. That was all. John felt ashamed that he had lied and caught himself in the act, though the public had not caught him.
No one is such a merciless critic as a dramatist who sees his own play acted. He lets no single word pass through his sieve. He does not lay the blame on the actors, but generally admires them for rendering his stupidities with such taste. John found his play stupid. It had lain by for half a year, and perhaps he had outgrown it. Another piece was performed after it which lasted for two hours. During the whole time he wandered about the streets in the darkness, feeling ashamed of himself. He had made an appointment to drink a glass with some friends and relatives after the performance in the Hôtel du Nord, but remained away. He saw they were looking for him but did not wish to meet them. So they went in again to see the second play. At last it was over. The spectators streamed out and dispersed through the streets. He hastened away in order not to hear their comments.
At last he saw a single group standing under the portico of the dramatic theatre. They were looking out in all directions and called him. Finally he came forward as pale and melancholy as a corpse.
They congratulated him on his success. The play had been applauded and was very good. They repeated to him the verdicts of other spectators and quieted him. Then they dragged him to a restaurant and compelled him to eat and drink. "That will do you good, you old death's-head!" said a shop-assistant. John was soon pulled down from his imaginative flight. "What have you got to be melancholy for," he was asked, "when you have had a play acted by the Theatre Royal?" He could not tell them. His boldest ambition was fulfilled; but it was probably not what he wanted. The thought that in any case it was an honour did not comfort him.
The next morning he went into a shop, and bought the morning paper and read a criticism to the effect that the piece was written in choice language, and (since it was anonymous) probably by a well-known art-critic who had moved among artistic circles at Rome. That was pleasant and cheered his spirits.
At noon he started for Upsala. His father had engaged a room for him in a boarding-house, kept by the widow of a clergyman, that he might complete his studies under proper supervision.