Читать книгу The Growth of a Soul - August Strindberg - Страница 4

"Are you a complete scholar now?" With this and similar questions John was greeted ironically on his return home. His father took the matter seriously and strove to frame plans without coming to any result. John was a student; that was a fact; but what was to follow?

It was winter, and so the white student cap could not bestow on him a mild halo of glory or bring any honour to the family. Some one has asserted that war would cease if uniforms were done away with; and it is certain there would not be so many students if they had no outward sign to parade. In Paris where they have none, they disappear in the crowd, and no one makes a fuss about them; in Berlin on the other hand, they have a privileged place by the side of officers. Therefore also Germany is a land of professors and France of the bourgeois.

John's father now saw that he had educated a good-for-nothing for society who could not dig, but perhaps was not ashamed to beg. The world stood open for the youth to starve or to perish in. His father did not like his idea of becoming an elementary school-teacher. Was that to be the only result of so much work? His ambitious dreams received a shock from the idea of such a come-down. An elementary school-teacher was on a level with a sergeant, oil a plane from which there was no hope of mounting. Climb one must as long as others did; one must climb till one broke one's neck, so long as society was divided into ranks and classes. John had not passed the student's examination for the sake of knowledge, but of belonging to the upper class, and now he seemed to be meditating a descent to the lower.

It became painful for him at home for he felt as though he were eating the bread of charity when Christmas was over, and he could no longer be regarded as a Christmas guest.

One day he accidentally met in the street a school-teacher whom he knew, and whom he had not seen for a long time. They talked about the future and John's friend suggested to him a post in the Stockholm elementary school as suitable for him while reading for his degree. He would get a thousand kronas salary and have an hour to himself daily. John objected "Anywhere except in Stockholm." His friend replied that several students had been teachers in the elementary school, "Really! then he would have companions in misfortune." Yes, and one had come from the New Elementary School where he was a teacher. John went, made an application, and was appointed with a salary of 900 kronas. His father approved his decision when he heard that it would help him to read for his degree, and John undertook to live as a boarder at home. One winter morning at half-past eight, John went down the Nordtullsgata to the Clara School, exactly as he had done when he was eight years old. There were the same streets and the same Clara bells, and he was to teach the lowest class! It was like being put back to learn a lesson of eleven years ago. Just as afraid as then,—yes, more afraid of coming too late he entered the large class-room, where together with two female teachers he was to have the oversight of a hundred children. There they sat,—children like those in the Jakob School, but younger. Ugly, stunted, pale, swollen, sickly, with cast-down looks, in coarse clothes and heavy shoes. Suffering, most probably, suffering from the consciousness that others were more fortunate, and would always be so, as one then believed, had impressed on their faces the stamp of pain, which neither religious resignation nor the hope of heaven could obliterate. The upper classes avoided them with a bad conscience, built themselves houses outside the town, and left it to the professional over-seers of the poor to come in contact with these outcasts.

A hymn was sung, the Lord's Prayer was read; everything was as before; no progress had been made except that the forms had been exchanged for seats and desks, and the room was light and airy. John had to fold his hands and join in the hymn, thus already being obliged to do violence to his conscience. Prayers over, the head-master entered. He spoke to John in a fatherly way and as his superintendent gave him instruction and advice. This class, he said, was the worst, and the teacher must be strict.

So John took his class into a special room to begin the lesson. The room was exactly like that in the Clara School, and there stood the dreadful desk with steps, which resembled a scaffold and was painted red as though stained with blood. A stick was put into his hand with which he might rap or strike as he chose. He mounted the scaffold. He felt shy before the thirsty faces of girls and boys opposite who looked curiously at him, to see if he were going to worry them.

"What is your lesson?" he asked.

"The first commandment," the whole class exclaimed.

"Only one must answer at a time. You, top boy what is your name?"

"Hallberg," cried the whole class.

"No, only one at a time,—the one I ask."

The children giggled. "He is not dangerous," they thought.

"Well, then, what is the first commandment?" John asked the top boy.

"Thou shalt have no other gods but Me." He knew that then.

"What is that?" John asked again, trying to lay as little emphasis as possible on the "that." Then he asked fifteen children the same question and a quarter of an hour had passed. John thought this idiotic. What should he do now? Say what he knew about God? But the common point of view then was, that nothing was known about Him. John was a theist, and still believed in a personal God, but could say nothing more. He would have liked to have attacked the divinity of Christ, but would have been dismissed had he done so.

A pause followed. There was an unnatural stillness while he reflected on his false position and the foolish method of teaching. If he had now said that nothing was known of God, the whole catechism and Bible instruction would have been superfluous. They knew that they must not steal or lie. Why then make such a fuss? He felt a mad wish to make friends and fellow-sinners of the children.

"What shall we do now?" he said.

The whole class looked at each other and giggled.

"This is a jolly sort of teacher," they thought.

"What must the teacher do when he has heard the lesson?" he asked the top boy.

"Hm! he generally explains it," he and one or two others answered.

John could certainly explain the origin and growth of the conception of God, but that would not do.

"You need not do any more," he said, "but don't make a noise."

The children looked at him, and he at them mutually smiling.

"Don't you think this is absurd," he felt inclined to say, but checked himself and only smiled. But he collected himself when he saw that they were laughing at him. "This method would not do," he thought. So he commanded attention and went through the first commandment again till each child had had a question. After extraordinary exertions on his part, the clock at last struck nine, and the lesson was over.

Then the three divisions of the class were assembled in the great hall to prepare for going into the play-ground to get fresh air. "Prepare" is the right word for such a simple affair as going into the play-ground demanded a long preparation. An exact description would fill a whole printed page, and perhaps be regarded as a caricature; we will be content with giving a hint.

In the first place, all the hundred children had to sit motionless, absolutely motionless, and silent, absolutely silent, in their seats as though they were to be photographed. From the master's desk the whole assembly looked like a grey carpet with bright patterns, but the next moment one of them moved the head; the offender had to rise from his seat and stand by the wall. The total effect was now disturbed, and there had to be a good many raps with the cane before two hundred arms lay parallel on the desks and a hundred heads were at right angles with their collar-bones. When quiet was in some degree restored a new rapping began which demanded absolute quiet. But at the very moment when the absolute was all but attained, some muscle grew tired, some nerve slackened, some sinew relaxed. Again there was confusion, cries, blows, and a new attempt to reach the absolute. It generally ended by the female teacher (the males did not drive it so far) closing one eye and pretending that the absolute had been reached.

Then came the important moment, when, at a given signal the whole hundred must spring from their seats and stand in order, but nothing more. It was a ticklish moment when slates fell down and rulers clattered. Then they had to sit down and begin all over again by keeping perfectly still.

When they had really got on their legs, they were marched off in divisions but on tip-toe without exception. Otherwise they had to turn round and sit down again, get up again and so on. They had to go on tip-toe in wooden sabots and water-boots. It was a great mistake; it accustomed the children to stealthiness and gave their whole appearance something cat-like and deceitful. In the play-ground a teacher had to arrange those who wanted to drink in a straight line before the water-tap by the entrance; at the same time the lavatories at the other end of the play-ground had to be inspected, and games had to be organised and watched over. Then the children were again drawn up and marched into school. If it was not done quietly, they had to go out again.

Then another lesson began. The children read out of a patriotic reading-book the principal object of which seemed to be to instil respect for the upper classes and to represent Sweden as the best country in Europe, although as regards climate and social economy, it is one of the worst, its culture is borrowed from abroad, and all its kings were of foreign origin. They did not venture to give such teaching to the children of the upper classes in the Clara School and the Lyceum, but in the Jakob School they had sufficient courage to make poor children sing a patriotic song about the Duke of Ostgothland. In this occurred a verse addressed to the crew of the fleet, saying victory was sure in the battle they wished for "because Prince Oscar leads us on," or something of the sort.

Meanwhile the reading-lesson began. But just at that moment the head-master came in. John wished to stop but the head-master beckoned to him to go on. The children who had lost their respect for him after the catechism-lesson were inattentive. John scolded them, but without result. Then the head-master came forward with a cane; took the book from John and made a little speech, to the effect that this division was the worst, but now their teacher should see how to deal with them. The exercise which followed seemed to have as its object the attainment of perfect attention. The absolute again seemed to be the standard by which these children were to be trained in this incomplete world of relativity.

The boy who was reading was interrupted, and another name called at random out of the class. To follow attentively was assumed to be the easiest thing in the world by this old man who certainly must have experienced how thoughts wander their own way while the eyes pass over the printed page. The inattentive one was dragged by his hair or clothes and caned till he fell howling on the ground.

Then the head-master departed after recommending John to use the cane diligently. There remained nothing but to follow this method or to go; the latter did not suit John's plans, therefore he remained. He made a speech to the children and referred to the head-master. "Now," he said, "you know how you must behave if you want to escape a thrashing. He who gets one, has himself to thank. Don't blame me. Here is the stick, and there is your lesson. Learn your lesson or you will get the stick,—and it isn't my fault."

That was cunningly put, but it was unmerciful, for one ought to have first ascertained how far the children could do their work. They could not, for they were the most lively and therefore the most inattentive. So the cane was kept going all day, accompanied by cries of pain, and fear on the faces of the innocent. It was terrible! To pay attention is not in the power of the will, and therefore all this punishment was mere torture. John felt the absurdity of the part he had to play, but he had to do his duty. Sometimes he was tired and let things go as they liked, but then his colleagues, male and female, came and made friendly representations. Sometimes he found the whole thing so ridiculous that he could not help smiling with the children while he caned them. Both sides saw that they were working at something impossible and unnecessary.

Ibsen, who does not believe in the aristocracy of birth or of wealth, has lately (1886) expressed his belief that the industrial class are the true nobility. But why should they necessarily be so? If to do no manual labour tends to degeneration, perhaps degeneration is brought about even more quickly by excessive labour and want. All these children born of manual labourers looked more sickly, weak and stupid than the upper-class children which he had seen. One or the other muscle might be more strongly developed,—a shoulder-blade, a hand, or a foot,—but they looked anæmic under their pale skins. Many had extraordinarily large heads which seemed to be swollen with water, their ears and noses ran, their hands were frost-bitten. The various professional diseases of town-labourers seemed to have been inherited; one saw in miniature the gas-worker's lungs and blood spoilt by sulphur-fumes, the smith's shoulders and feet bent out-wards, the painter's brain atrophied by varnishes and poisonous colours, the scrofulous eruption of the chimney sweeper, the contracted chest of the book-binder; here one heard the cough of the workers in metal and asphalt, smelt the poisons of the paper-stainer, observed the watch-maker's short-sightedness, in second editions, so to speak. In truth this was no race to which the future belonged, or on which the future could build; nor was it a race which could permanently increase, for the ranks of the workers are continually recruited from the country.

It was not till about two o'clock that the great school-room was emptied, for it took them about an hour with blows and raps to get out of it into the street. The most unpractical part of it was that the children had to march into the hall in troops to get their overcoats and cloaks, and then march into the school-room again, instead of going straight home. When John got into the street, he asked himself "Is that the celebrated education which they have given to the lower classes with so much sacrifice?" He could ask, and he was answered, "Can it be done in any other way?" "No," he was obliged to answer. "If it is your intention to educate a slavish lower class, always ready to obey, train them with the stick,—if you mean to bring up a proletariat to demand nothing of life, tell them lies about heaven. Tell them that your method of teaching is ridiculous, let them begin to criticise or get their way in one point and you have taken a step towards the dissolution of society. But society is built up upon an obedient conscientious lower class; therefore keep them down from the first; deprive them of will and reason, and teach them to hope for nothing but to be content." There was method in this madness.

As regards the instruction in the elementary school, there was both a good and bad side to it; the good was that they had introduced object-teaching after the example of Pestalozzi, Rousseau's disciple; the bad, that the students who taught in the elementary schools had introduced "scientific" teaching. The simple learning by heart of the multiplication table was not enough; it, together with fractions, had to be understood. Understood? And yet an engineer who has been through the technical high school cannot explain "why" a fraction can be diminished by three if the sum of the figures is divisible by three. On this principle seamen would not be allowed to use logarithm tables, because they cannot calculate logarithms. To be always relaying the foundation instead of building on what is already laid is an educational luxury and leads to the over-multiplication of lessons in schools.

Some one may object that John should first have reformed himself as teacher, before he set about reforming the system of education; but he could not; he was a passive instrument in the hands of the superintendent and the school authorities. The best teachers, that is to say, those who forced the worst (in this case the best) results out of the pupils were the uneducated ones who came from the Seminary. They were not sceptical about the methods in use and had no squeamishness about caning, but the children respected them the most. A great coarse fellow who had formerly been a carriage-maker had the bigger boys completely under his thumb. The lower class seem to have really more fear and respect for those of their own rank than the upper class. Bailiffs and foremen are more awe-imposing than superintendents and teachers. Do the lower classes see that the superior who has come out of their ranks understands their affairs better, and therefore pay him more respect? The female teachers also enjoyed more respect than the male. They were pedantic, demanded absolute perfection, and were not at all soft-hearted, but rather cruel. They were fond of practising the refined cruelty of blows on the palm of the hand and showed in so doing a want of intelligence which the most superficial study of physiology would have remedied. When a child by involuntary reflex action, drew his fingers back, he was punished all the more for not keeping his fingers still. As if one could prevent blinking, when something blew into one's eye! The female teachers had the advantage of knowing very little about teaching and were plagued with no doubts. It was not true that they had less pay than the men teachers. They had relatively more; and if after passing a paltry teacher's examination they had received more than the students, that would have been unjust. They were treated with partiality, regarded as miracles, when they were competent, and received allowances for travelling abroad.

As comrades, they were friendly and helpful if one was polite and submissive and let them hold the reins. There was not the slightest trace of flirtation; the men saw them in anything but becoming situations, and under an aspect which women do not usually show to the other sex, viz. that of jailers. They made notes of everything, prepared themselves for their lessons, were narrow-minded and content, and saw through nothing. It was a very suitable occupation for them under existing circumstances.

When John was thoroughly sick of caning, or could not manage a boy, or was in despair generally, he sent the black sheep to a female teacher, who willingly undertook the unpleasant rôle of executioner.

What it is that makes the competent teacher is not clear. Some produced an effect by their quiet manner, others by their nervousness; some seemed to magnetise the children, others beat them; some imposed on them by their age or their manly appearance, etc. The women worked as women, i.e. through a half-forgotten tradition of a past matriarchate.

John was not competent. He looked too young and was only just nineteen; he was sceptical about the methods employed and everything else; with all his seriousness he was playful and boyish. The whole matter to him was only an employment by the way, for he was ambitious and wished to advance, but did not know in which direction.

Moreover he was an aristocrat like his contemporaries. Through education his habits and senses had been refined, or spoilt, as one may choose to call it; he found it hard to tolerate unpleasant smells, ugly objects, distorted bodies, coarse expressions, torn clothes. Life had given him much, and these daily reminders of poverty plagued him like an evil conscience. He himself might have been one of the lower class if his mother had married one of her own position.

"He was proud" a shop-boy would have said, who had mounted to the position of editor of a paper and boasted that he was content with his lot, forgetting that he might well be content since he had risen from a low position. "He was proud" a master shoemaker would have said, who would have rather thrown himself into the sea than become an apprentice again. John was proud, of that there was no doubt, as proud as the master shoemaker, but not in such a high degree, as he had descended from the level of the student to the elementary school-teacher. That, however, was no virtue, but a necessity, and he did not therefore boast of his step downward, nor give himself the air of being a friend of the people. One cannot command sympathies and antipathies, and for the lower class to demand love and self-sacrifice from the upper class is mere idealism. The lower class is sacrificed for the upper class, but they have offered themselves willingly. They have the right to take back their rights, but they should do it themselves. No one gives up his position willingly, therefore the lower class should not wait for kings and the upper class to go. "Pull us down! but all together."

If an intelligent man of the upper class help in such an operation, those below should be thankful to him especially since such an act is liable to the imputation of being inspired by impure motives. Therefore the lower class should not too narrowly inspect the motives of those who help them; the result is in all eases the same. The aristocrats seem to have seen this and therefore regard one of themselves who sides with the proletariat as a traitor. He is a traitor to his class, that is true; and the lower class should put it to his credit.

John was not an aristocrat in the sense that he used the word "mob" or despised the poor. Through his mother he was closely allied to them, but circumstances had estranged him from them. That was the fault of class-education. This fault might be done away with for the future, if elementary schools were reformed by the inclusion of the knowledge of civil duties in their programme, and by their being made obligatory for all, without exception, as the militia-schools are. Then it would be no longer a disgrace to become an elementary school-teacher as it now is, and made a matter of reproach to a man that he has been one.

John, in order to keep himself above, applied himself to his future work. To this end he studied Italian grammar in his spare time at the school. He could now buy books and did so. He was honest enough not to construe these efforts at climbing up as an ideal thirst for knowledge or a striving for the good of humanity. He simply read for his degree.

But the meagre diet he had lived on in Upsala, his midday meals at 6 kronas, the milk and the bread had undermined his strength, and he was now in the pleasure-seeking period of youth. It was tedious at home, and in the afternoons he went to the café or the restaurant, where he met friends. Strong drinks invigorated him and he slept well after them. The desire for alcohol seems to appear regularly in each adolescent. All northerners are born of generations of drinkers from the early heathen times, when beer and mead was drunk, and it is quite natural that this desire should be felt as a necessity. With John it was an imperious need the suppression of which resulted in a diminution of strength. It may be questioned whether abstinence for us may not involve the same risk, as the giving up of poison for an arsenic-eater. Probably the otherwise praiseworthy temperance movement will merely end in demanding moderation; that is a virtue and not a mere exhibition of will power which results in boasting and self-righteousness.

John who had hitherto only worn east-off suits, began to wear fine clothes. His salary seemed to him extraordinarily great and in the magnifying-glass of his fancy assumed huge proportions, with the result that he soon ran into debt. Debt which grew and grew and could never be paid, became the vulture gnawing at his life, the object of his dreams, the wormwood which poisoned his content. What foolish hopefulness, what colossal self-deceit it was to incur debts! What did he expect? To gain an academic dignity. And then? To become a teacher with a salary of 750 kronas! Less than he had now! Not the least trying part of his work was to accommodate his brain to the capacity of the children. That meant to come down to the level of the younger and less intelligent, and to screw down the hammer so that it might hit the anvil,—an operation which injured the machine.

On the other hand he derived real profit from his observations in the families of the children, whom his duty required him to visit on Sundays. There was one boy in his class who was the most difficult of all. He was dirty and ill-dressed, grinned continually, smelt badly, never knew his lessons and was always being caned. He had a very large head and staring eyes which rolled and turned about continually. John had to visit his parents in order to find out the reason of his irregular attendance at school and bad behaviour. He therefore went to the Apelbergsgata where they kept a public-house. He found that the father had gone to work, but the mother was at the counter. The public-house was dark and evil-smelling, filled with men who looked threateningly at John as he entered probably taking him for a plain clothes policeman. He gave his message to the mother and was asked into a room behind the counter. One glance at it sufficed to explain everything. The mother blamed her son and excused him alternately and she had some reason for the latter. The boy was accustomed to "lick the glasses,"—that was the explanation and that was enough. What could be done in such a case? A change of dwelling, better food, a nurse to look after him and so on. All these were questions of money!

Afterwards he came to the Clara poor-house, which was empty of its usual occupants and provisionally opened to families because of the want of houses. In a great hall lay and stood quite a dozen families, who had divided the floor with strokes of chalk. There stood a carpenter with his planing-bench, here sat a shoemaker with his board; round about on both sides of the chalk-line women sat and children crawled. What could John do there? Send in a report on a matter which was perfectly well known, distribute wood-tickets and orders for meat and clothing.

In Kungsholmsbergen he came across specimens of proud poverty. There he was shown the door, "God be thanked, we have no need of charity. We are all right."

"Indeed! Then you should not let your boy go in torn boots in winter."

"That is not your business, sir," and the door was slammed.

Sometimes he saw sad scenes,—a child sick, the room full of sulphur fumes of coke, and all coughing from the grandmother down to the youngest. What could he do except feel dispirited and make his escape? At that period there was no other means of help except charity; writers who described the state of things, contented themselves with lamenting it; no one saw any hope. Therefore there was nothing to do except to be sorry, help temporarily, and fly in order not to despair.

All this lay like a heavy cloud upon him, and he lost pleasure in study. He felt there was something wrong here, but nothing could be done said all the newspapers and books and people. It must be so but every one is free to climb. You climb too!

Time went on and spring approached. John's closest acquaintance was a teacher from the Slöjd School. He was a poet, well-versed in literature, and also musical. They generally walked to the Stallmastergarden restaurant, discussed literature, and ate their supper there. While John was paying his attentions to the waitress, his friend played the piano. Sometimes the latter amused himself by writing comic verses to girls. John was seized with a craze for writing verse but could not. The gift must be born with one, he thought, and inspiration descend all of a sudden, as in the case of conversion. He was evidently not one of the elect, and felt himself neglected by nature and maimed.

One evening when John was sitting and chatting with the girl, she said quite suddenly to him, "Friday is my birthday; you must write some verses for me."

"Yes," answered John, "I will."

Later on when he met his friend, he told him of his hasty promise.

"I will write them for you," he said. The next day he brought a poem, copied out in a fine hand-writing and composed in John's name. It was piquant and amusing. John dispatched it on the morning of the birthday.

In the evening of the same day both the friends came to eat their supper and to congratulate the girl. She did not appear for an hour for she had to serve guests. The teachers' meal was brought and they began to eat.

Then the girl appeared in the doorway and beckoned John. She looked almost severe. John went to her and they ascended a flight of stairs. "Have you written the verses?" she asked.

"No," said John.

"Ah, I thought so. The lady behind the buffet said she had read them two years ago when the teacher sent them to Majke who was an ugly girl. For shame, John!"

He took his cap and wanted to rush out, but the girl caught hold of him and tried to keep him back for she saw that he looked deathly pale and beside himself. But he wrenched himself free and hastened into the Bellevue Park. He ran into the wood leaving the beaten tracks. The branches of the bushes flew into his face, stones rolled over his feet, and frightened birds rose up. He was quite wild with shame, and instinctively sought the wood in order to hide himself. It is a curious phenomenon that at the utmost pitch of despair a man runs into the wood before he plunges into the water. The wood is the penultimate and the water the ultimate resource. It is related of a famous author, who had enjoyed a twenty years' popularity quietly and proudly, that he was suddenly cast down from his position. He was as though struck by a thunderbolt, went half-mad and sought the shelter of the woods where he recovered himself. The wood is the original home of the savage and the enemy of the plough and therefore of culture. When a civilised man suddenly strips off the garb of civilisation, the artistically woven fabric of his repute, he becomes in a moment a savage or a wild beast. When a man becomes mad, he begins to throw off his clothes. What is madness? A relapse? Yes, many think animals mad.

It was evening when John entered the wood. In the midst of some bushes he laid down on a great block of stone. He was ashamed of himself,—that was the chief impression on his mind. An emotional man is more severe with himself than others think. He scourged himself unmercifully. He had wished to shine in borrowed plumage, and so lied; and in the second place he had insulted an innocent girl. The first part of the accusation affected him in a very sensitive point,—his want of poetic capacity. He wished to do more than he could. He was discontent with the position which nature and society had assigned him. Yes, but (and now his self-defence began after the evening air had cooled his blood), in the school one had been always exhorted to strive upwards; those who did so were praised, and discontent with the position one might happen to be in, was justified. Yes but (here the scourge descended!) he had tried to deceive. To deceive! That was unpardonable. He was ashamed, stripped and unmasked without any means of retreat. Deception, falsity, cheating! So it was!

As a quondam Christian, John was most afraid of having a fault, and as a member of society he feared lest it should be visible. Everybody knew that one had faults, but to acknowledge them was regarded as a piece of cynicism, for society always wishes to appear better than it is. Sometimes, however, society demanded that one should confess one's fault if one wished for forgiveness, but that was a trick. Society wished for confession in order to enjoy the punishment, and was very deceitful. John had confessed his fault, been punished, and still his conscience was uneasy.

The second point regarding the girl was also difficult. She had loved him purely and he had insulted her. How coarse and vulgar! Why should he think that a waitress could not love innocently? His own mother had been in the same position as that girl. He had insulted her. Shame upon him!

Now he heard shouts in the park, and his name being called. The girl's voice and his friend's echoed among the trees, but he did not answer them. For a moment the scourge fell out of his hands; he became sobered and thought, "I will go back, we will have supper, call Riken and drink a glass with her, and it will be all over." But no! He was too high up and one cannot descend all at once.

The voices became silent. He lay back in a state of semi-stupefaction and ground his double crime between the mill-stones of rumination. He had lied and hurt her feelings.

It began to grow dark. There was a rustling in the bushes; he started and a sweat broke out upon him. Then he went out and sat upon a seat till the dew fell. He shivered and felt poorly. Then he got up and went home.

Now his head was clear and he could think. What a stupid business it all was! He did not really mean that she should take him for a poet, and had been quite ready to explain the whole trick. It was all a joke. His friend had made a fool of him, but it did not matter.

When he got home he found his friend sleeping in his bed. He wanted to rise but John would not let him. He wished to scourge himself once more. He lay on the floor, put a cigar-box under his head and drew a volunteer's cloak over him. In the morning when he awoke, John asked in trembling tones, "How did she take it?"