Of all this life of artistic desire and seeking, of external
impressions, welcomed with all the freshness and impulsiveness of a
boy's mind, but most of self-study and self-discovery, the elder of the
two comrades was a most attentive spectator, more than a spectator. He
made use of expressions and said things which rose to my head and made
me conceited. Sebastian would make such a remark as: "It is not for
your abilities that I appreciate you, it is for your enthusiasm. All
other people I know are machines without souls, at their best full of
affected, set phrases, such as one who has peeped behind the scenes
laughs at; but in you there is a fulness of ideality too great for you
ever to be happy." "Fulness of ideality" was the expression of the time
for the supremest quality of intellectual equipment. No wonder, then,
that I felt flattered.
And my older comrade united a perception of my mental condition, which
unerringly perceived its immaturity, with a steadfast faith in a future
for me which in spite of my arrogance, I thirsted to find in the one of
all others who knew me best and was most plainly my superior in
knowledge. One day, when I had informed him that I felt "more mature
and clearer about myself," he replied, without a trace of indecision,
that this was undoubtedly a very good thing, if it were true, but that
he suspected I was laboring under a delusion. "I am none the less
convinced," he added, "that you will soon reach a crisis, will overcome
all obstacles and attain the nowadays almost giant's goal that you have
set before you." This goal, for that matter, was very indefinite, and
was to the general effect that I intended to make myself strongly felt,
and bring about great changes in the intellectual world; of what kind,
was uncertain.
Meanwhile, as the time drew near for us to enter the University, and I
approached the years of manhood which the other, in spite of his modest
position as schoolboy, had already long attained, Sebastian grew
utterly miserable. He had, as he expressed it, made up his mind to be
my _Melanchthon_. But through an inward collapse which I could not
understand he now felt that the time in which he could be anything to
me had gone by; it seemed to him that he had neglected to acquire the
knowledge and the education necessary, and he reproached himself
bitterly. "I have not been in the least what I might have been to you,"
he exclaimed one day, and without betraying it he endured torments of
jealousy, and thought with vexation and anxiety of the time when a
larger circle would be opened to me in the University, and he himself
would become superfluous.
His fear was thus far unfounded, that, naïve in my selfishness, as in
my reliance on him, I still continued to tell him everything, and in
return constantly sought his help when philological or mathematical
difficulties which I could not solve alone presented themselves to me.
But I had scarcely returned to Copenhagen, after my first journey
abroad (a very enjoyable four weeks' visit to Göteborg), I had scarcely
been a month a freshman, attending philosophical lectures and taking
part in student life than the dreaded separation between us two so
differently constituted friends came to pass. The provocation was
trifling, in fact paltry. One day I was standing in the lecture-room
with a few fellow-students before a lecture began, when a freshman
hurried up to us and asked: "Is it true, what Sebastian says, that he
is the person you think most of in the world?" My reply was: "Did he
say that himself?" "Yes." And, disgusted that the other should have
made such a remark in order to impress perfect strangers, though it
might certainly very easily have escaped him in confidence, I said
hastily: "Oh! he's mad!" which outburst, bearing in mind young people's
use of the word "mad," was decidedly not to be taken literally, but
was, it is quite true, ill-naturedly meant.
The same evening I received a short note from Sebastian in which,
though in polite terms, he repudiated his allegiance and fidelity; the
letter, in which the polite form _you_ was used instead of the
accustomed _thou_, was signed: "Your 'mad' and 'foolish,' but
respectful Sebastian."
The impression this produced upon me was exceedingly painful, but an
early developed mental habit of always accepting a decision, and a
vehement repugnance to renew any connection deliberately severed by
another party, resulted in my never even for a moment thinking of
shaking his resolution, and in my leaving the note unanswered. However,
the matter was not done with, and the next few months brought me many
insufferable moments, indeed hours, for Sebastian, whose existence had
for so long centred round mine that he was evidently incapable of doing
without me altogether, continually crossed my path, planted himself
near me on every possible occasion, and one evening, at a students'
gathering, even got a chair outside the row round the table, sat
himself down just opposite to me, and spent a great part of the evening
in staring fixedly into my face. As may be supposed, I felt exceedingly
irritated.
Three months passed, when one day I received a letter from Sebastian,
and at intervals of weeks or months several others followed. They were
impressive letters, splendidly written, with a sort of grim humour
about them, expressing his passionate affection and venting his
despair. This was the first time that I had come in contact with
passion, but it was a passion that without having any unnatural or
sensual element in it, nevertheless, from a person of the same sex,
excited a feeling of displeasure, and even disgust, in me.
Sebastian wrote: "I felt that it was cheating you to take so much
without being able to give you anything in return; I thought it mean to
associate with you; consequently, I believe that I did perfectly right
to break with you. Still, it is true that I hardly needed to do it.
Time and circumstances would have effected the breach." And feeling
that our ways were now divided, he continued:
Hie locus est, partes ubi se via findit in ambas.
Dextera, quae Ditis magni sub moenia tendit
Hac iter Elysium nobis; at laeva malorum
Exercet poenas et ad impia Tartara mittit.
"I cannot kill myself at present, but as soon as I feel able I shall do
so."
Or he wrote: "Towards the end of the time when we were friends, I was
not quite myself when talking to you; I was unbalanced; for I was
convinced that you wasted your valuable time talking to me, and at the
same time was oppressed with grief at the thought that we must part.
Then I tried to make you angry by pretending to question your
abilities, by affecting indifference and scorn; but it was the dog
baying at the moon. I had to bring about the severance that I did. That
I should be so childish as to be vexed about a slight from you, you
cannot yourself believe. I cannot really regret it, for I could no
longer be of use to you; you doubtless think the same yourself; but I
cannot do without you; my affection for you is the only vital thing in
me; your life throbbed in mine."
Sometimes the letters ended with an outburst of a sort of despairing
humour, such as: "Vale! (Fanfare! somersaults by Pagliaccio.)" But
whether Sebastian assumed a serious or a desperate tone, the renewal of
our old companionship was equally impossible to me. I could not ignore
what had happened, and I could not have a friend who was jealous if I
talked to others. Since my intellectual entity had awakened, all
jealousy had been an abomination to me, but jealousy in one man of
another man positively revolted me. I recognised Sebastian's great
merits, respected his character, admired his wide range of knowledge,
but I could not associate with him again, could not even so much as
walk down the street by his side. All his affectionate and beautiful
letters glanced off ineffectual from this repugnance. Something in me
had suddenly turned stony, like a plant plunged in petrifying water.
Six years passed before we saw each other again. We met then with
simple and sincere affection. Sebastian's old passion had evaporated
without leaving a trace; he himself could no longer understand it. And,
though far apart, and with nothing to connect us closely, we continued
to think kindly of one another and to exchange reflections, until,
after a few years, Death carried him away, ere he had reached the years
of real manhood, or fulfilled any of the promises of his gifted and
industrious youth.