In November, 1859, at exactly the same time as Kappers' "literary and
scientific" society was started, a fellow-student named Grönbeck, from
Falster, who knew the family of Caspar Paludan-Müller, the historian,
proposed my joining another little society of young students, of whom
Grönbeck thought very highly on account of their altogether unusual
knowledge of books and men.
In the old Students' Union in Boldhusgade, the only meeting-place at
that time for students, which was always regarded in a poetic light, I
had not found what I wanted. There was no life in it, and at the
convivial meetings on Saturday night the punch was bad, the speeches
were generally bad, and the songs were good only once in a way.
I had just joined one new society, but I never rejected any prospect of
acquaintances from whom I could learn anything, and nothing was too
much for me. So I willingly agreed, and one evening late in November I
was introduced to the society so extolled by Grönbeck, which called
itself neither "literary" nor "scientific," had no other object than
sociability, and met at Ehlers' College, in the rooms of a young
philological student, Frederik Nutzhorn.
Expecting as I did something out of the ordinary, I was very much
disappointed. The society proved to be quite vague and indefinite.
Those present, the host, a certain Jens Paludan-Müller, son of the
historian, a certain Julius Lange, son of the Professor of Pedagogy,
and a few others, received me as though they had been waiting for me to
put the society on its legs; they talked as if I were going to do
everything to entertain them, and as if they themselves cared to do
nothing; they seemed to be indolent, almost sluggish. First we read
aloud in turns from Björnson's _Arne_, which was then new; a lagging
conversation followed. Nutzhorn talked nonsense, Paludan-Müller
snuffled, Julius Lange alone occasionally let fall a humorous remark.
The contrast between Nutzhorn's band, who took sociability calmly and
quietly, and Kappers' circle, which met to work and discuss things to
its utmost capacity, was striking. The band seemed exceedingly
phlegmatic in comparison.
This first impression was modified at subsequent meetings. As I talked
to these young men I discovered, first and foremost, how ignorant I was
of political history and the history of art; in the next place, I
seemed, in comparison with them, to be old in my opinions and my
habits. They called themselves Republicans, for instance, whereas
Republicanism in Denmark had in my eyes hitherto been mere youthful
folly. Then again, they were very unconventional in their habits. After
a party near Christmas time, which was distinguished by a pretty song
by Julius Lange, they proposed--at twelve o'clock at night!--that we
should go to Frederiksborg. And extravagances of this kind were not
infrequent.
Still it was only towards midsummer 1860 that I became properly merged
into the new circle and felt myself at home in it. It had been
increased by two or three first-rate fellows, Harald Paulsen, at the
present time Lord Chief Justice, a courageous young fellow, who was not
afraid of tackling any ruffian who interfered with him in a defile;
Troels Lund, then studying theology, later on the esteemed historian,
who was always refined, self-controlled, thoughtful, and on occasion
caustic, great at feints in the fencing class; and Emil Petersen, then
studying law (died in 1890, as Departmental Head of Railways), gentle,
dreamy, exceedingly conscientious, with a marked lyric tendency.
One evening, shortly before Midsummer's eve, when we had gone out to
Vedbaek, fetched Emil Petersen from Tryggeröd and thoroughly enjoyed
the beautiful scenery, we had a wrestling match out in the water off
Skodsborg and a supper party afterwards at which, under the influence
of the company, the gaiety rose to a wild pitch and eventually passed
all bounds. We made speeches, sang, shouted our witticisms at each
other all at once, seized each other round the waist and danced, till
we had to stop for sheer tiredness. Then we all drank pledges of
eternal friendship, and trooped into the town together, and hammered at
the doors of the coffee-houses after midnight to try to get in
somewhere where we could have coffee. We had learnt all at once to know
and appreciate each other to the full; we were united by a feeling of
brotherhood and remained friends for life. The life allotted to several
of the little band was, it is true, but short; Jens Paludan-Müller fell
at Sankelmark three and a half years later; Nutzhorn had only five
years and a half to live. Of the others, Emil Petersen and Julius Lange
are dead. But, whether our lives were long or short, our meetings
frequent or rare, we continued to be cordially attached to one another,
and no misunderstanding or ill-feeling ever cropped up between us.