Among my many good comrades, there was one, Julius Lange, with whom
comradeship had developed into friendship, and this friendship again
assumed a passionate character. We were the two, who, of them all, were
most exactly suited to one another, completed one another.
Fundamentally different though we were, we could always teach each
other something. We grew indispensable to one another; for years there
seldom a day went by that we did not meet. The association with his
junior cannot possibly have given Julius Lange a delight corresponding
to that which his society gave me. Intellectually equal, we were of
temperaments diametrically opposed. Having the same love of Art and the
same enthusiasm for Art,--save that the one cared more for its
pictorial and the other for its literary expression,--we were of mutual
assistance to one another in the interchange of thoughts and
information. Entirely at variance in our attitude towards religious
tradition, in our frequent collisions we were both perpetually being
challenged to a critical inspection of our intellectual furniture. But
I was the one who did the worshipping.
When Julius Lange, on December 17, 1861, after having twice been to see
me and found me out, the third time met with me and informed me: "I
have received an invitation to go to Italy on Saturday and be away five
months," was, though surprised, exceedingly glad for my friend's sake,
but at the same time I felt as if I had received a blow in the face.
What would become of me, not only during the interval, but afterwards?
Who could say whether Lange would ever come back, or whether he would
not come back changed? How should I be able to endure my life! I should
have to work tremendously hard, to be able to bear the loss of him. I
could hardly understand how I should be able to exist when I could no
longer, evening after evening, slip up to my friend's little room to
sit there in calm, quiet contentment, seeing pictures and exchanging
thoughts! It was as though a nerve had been cut. I only then realised
that I had never loved any man so much. I had had four eyes; now I had
only two again; I had had two brains; now I had only one; in my heart I
had felt the happiness of two human beings; now only the melancholy of
one was left behind.
There was not a painting, a drawing, a statue or a bas-relief in the
galleries and museums of Copenhagen that we had not studied together
and compared our impressions of. We had been to Thorwaldsen's Museum
together, we went together to Bissen's studio, where in November, 1861,
I met for the first time my subsequent friends, Vilhelm Bissen and
Walter Runeberg. The memory of Julius Lange was associated in my mind
with every picture of Hobbema, Dubbels or Ruysdael, Rembrandt or
Rubens, every reproduction of Italian Renaissance art, every photograph
of church or castle. And I myself loved pictures even more ardently
than poetry. I was fond of comparing my relations with literature to
affection for a being of the same sex; my passion for pictures to the
stormy passion of a youth for a woman. It is true that I knew much less
about Art than about Poetry, but that made no difference. I worshipped
my favourite artists with a more impetuous enthusiasm than any of my
favourite authors. And this affection for pictures and statuary was a
link between my friend and myself. When we were sitting in my room
together, and another visitor happened to be there, I positively
suffered over the sacrifice of an hour's enjoyment and when Lange got
up to go, I felt as though a window had been slammed to, and the fresh
air shut out.