John had been already predisposed to receive Kierkegaard's influence, and now came the other acquaintance, which would not have played a great rôle in his life if circumstances had not prepared him for that also. His companions merely regarded the person in question as ludicrous.
It came about in the following way. Thurs the Jew came one day and told John that he had made the acquaintance of a genius who wished to join their Song Club.
"Ah, a genius!"
None of the members of the club believed that they were geniuses, not even John, and it is doubtful whether any poet has really believed or felt that he was one. One can, when one makes comparisons, find that one has produced better work than others, and a clever man will naturally feel that he understands better than others, but genius,—that is something else. This title is not generally bestowed on any one till after death and is now dropping out of common use, since the secret of the evolution of genius has been discovered.
The novelty aroused attention, and the stranger was elected to the club under the name of Is. He was not a poet, they were told, but very learned and a powerful critic.
One evening when the club-meeting was at Thurs' rooms he came—a little thin person, without an overcoat, dressed like a labourer on his holiday. His clothes looked as though they were borrowed, for their elbows and knees were not in the right places. John, who used to succeed to his elder brother's clothes, noticed this at once. In his hand he held a dirty beer-soup-coloured hat, such as is only worn by organ-grinders. His face looked like that of a southern rat-trap seller. His black hair hung on his shoulders and a black beard fell on his breast.
"Is it possible?" they asked themselves. "Can he be a student?" He looked forty, but was only thirty. He stood with his hat in his hand at the door like a beggar, and hardly ventured to come forward. After Thurs had drawn him into the room and introduced him, the meeting was declared open. Is began to speak and they listened. His voice was like a woman's and sank sometimes, without apology, to a whisper, as though the speaker demanded perfect silence or spoke for his own satisfaction. It would be difficult to repeat what he spoke of, for his speech ranged over everything that he had read, and since he had read for ten years more than the youths of twenty, they found his learning wonderful.
After that, another member of the club read a poem. Is had to deliver an opinion on it. He began with Kant, quoted Schopenhauer and Thackeray, and finished with a lecture on George Sand. No one noticed that he said nothing about the poem.
Then they went into a restaurant to eat. Is talked philosophy, æsthetics and history. He spoke sometimes with a melancholy expression in his dark unfathomable eyes, which never rested on those present, as though he sought an unseen audience far in the distance, in unknown space. The club listened reverently with absorbed attention.
John was to hear this man's opinion on his work. He, as well as one of the most poetical members of the club, began to have serious doubts as to their vocation. Often, when they had drunk a good deal, they asked whether they still believed—meaning whether each thought the Other called to be a poet. It was just the same sort of doubt which John had felt when he had wondered whether he was a child of God. Is was to read John's drama, The Assistant at the Sacrifice, and to give his opinion.