Discontent with the existing state of things will always assert itself among those who are in process of development, and discontent has pushed the world forwards, while content has pushed it back. Content is a virtue born of necessity, hopelessness or superfluity; it can be cancelled with impunity.
Catarrh of the stomach may cause ill temper, but it has never produced a great politician, i.e. a great malcontent. But sickliness may impart to a malcontent's energy a stronger colour and greater rapidity, and therefore cannot be denied a certain influence. On the other hand, a conscious insight into grievances can produce such a degree of mental annoyance as can result in sickness. The loss of dear friends through death, may in this way cause consumption, and the loss of a social position or of property, madness.
If every modern individual shows a geological stratification of the stages of development through which his ancestors passed, so in every European mind are found traces of the primitive Aryan,—class-feeling, fixed family ideas, religious motives, etc. From the early Christians we have the idea of equality, love to our neighbour, contempt for mere earthly life; from the mediæval monks, self-castigation and hopes of heaven. Besides these, we inherit traits from the sensuous cultured pagans of the Renaissance, the religious and political fanatics of the sixteenth century, the sceptics of the "illumination" period, and the anarchists of the Revolution. Education should therefore consist in the obliteration of old stains which continually reappear however often we polish them away.
John proceeded to obliterate the monk, the fanatic and the self-tormentor in himself as well as he could, and took as the leading principle of his provisional life (for it was only provisional till he struck out a course for himself) the well-understood one of personal advantage, which is actually, though unconsciously, employed by all, to whatever creed they belong.
He did not transgress the ordinary laws, because he did not wish to appear in a court of justice; he encroached on no one's rights because he wished his own not to be encroached upon. He met men sympathetically, for he did not hate them, nor did he study them critically till they had broken their promises and shown a want of sympathy to him. He justified them all so long as he could, and when he could not, well,—he could not, but he tried by working to place himself in a position to be able to do so. He regarded his talent as a capital sum, which, although at present it yielded no interest, gave him the right and imposed on him the duty to live at any price. He was not the kind of man to force his way into society in order to exploit it for his own purposes, he was simply a man of capacity conscious of his own powers, who placed himself at the disposal of society modestly, and in the first place to be used as a dramatist. The theatre, as a matter of fact, needed him to contribute to its Swedish repertory.
After a solitary day's work, it was his habit to go to a café to meet his acquaintances there. To seek "more elevated" recreations in family circles such as meaningless gossip, card playing and such like had no attraction for him. Whenever he entered a family circle he felt himself surrounded by a musty atmosphere like that exhaled from stagnant water. Married couples who had been badgering each other, were glad to welcome him as a sort of lightning conductor, but he had no pleasure in playing that part. Family life appeared to him as a prison in which two captives spied on each other, as a place in which children were tormented, and servant-girls quarrelled. It was something nasty from which he ran away to the restaurants. In them there was a public room where no one was guest and no one was host: one enjoyed plenty of space and light, heard music, saw people and met friends. John and his friends were accustomed to meet in a back room of Bern's great restaurant which, because of the colour of the furniture, was called the "red room." The little club consisted originally of John and a few artistic and philosophical friends. But their circle was soon enlarged by old friends whom they met again. They were first of all recruited by the presentable former scholars of the Clara School,—a postal clerk who was at the same time a bass singer, pianist and composer; a secretary of the Court treasurer; and the trump card of the society,—a lieutenant of artillery. To these were added later, the composer's indispensable friend, a lithographer, who published his music, and a notary who sang his compositions. The club was not homogeneous, but they soon managed to shake down together.
But since the laymen had no wish to hear discussions on art, literature and philosophy, their conversations were only on general subjects. John, who did not wish to discuss any more problems, adopted a sceptical tone, and baffled all attempts at discussion by a play upon words, a quibble or a question. His ultimate "why?" behind every penultimate assertion threw a light on the too-sure conclusions of stupidity, and let his hearer surmise that behind the usually accepted commonplaces there were possibilities of truths stretching out in endless perspective. These views of his must have germinated like seeds in most of their brains, for in a short time they were all sceptics, and began to use a special language of their own. This healthy scepticism in the infallibility of each other's judgments had, as a natural consequence, a brutal sincerity of speech and thought. It was of no use to speak of one's feelings as though they were praise worthy, for one was cut short with "Are you sentimental, poor devil? Take bi-carbonate."
If any one complained of toothache, all he received by way of answer was, "That does not rouse my sympathy at all, for I have never had toothache, and it has no effect upon my resolve to give a supper."
They were disciples of Helvetius in believing that one must regard egotism as the mainspring of all human actions, and therefore it was no use pretending to finer emotions. To borrow money or to get goods on credit without being certain of being able to pay, was rightly regarded as cheating, and so designated. For instance, if a member of the club appeared in a new overcoat which seemed to have been obtained on credit, he was asked in a friendly way, "Whom have you cheated about that coat?" Or on another occasion another would say, "To-day I have done Samuel out of a new suit."
Nevertheless, as a matter of fact, both overcoat and suit were generally paid for, but as the purchaser at the time he took them was not sure whether he would be able to pay, he regarded himself as a potential swindler. This was severe morality and stern self-criticism.