A month after the Students' Meeting, at the invitation of my friend
Jens Paludan-Müller, I spent a few weeks at his home at Nykjöbing, in
the island of Falster, where his father, Caspar Paludan-Müller, the
historian, was at the time head master of the Grammar-school. Those
were rich and beautiful weeks, which I always remembered later with
gratitude.
The stern old father with his leonine head and huge eyebrows impressed
one by his earnestness and perspicacity, somewhat shut off from the
world as he was by hereditary deafness. The dignified mistress of the
house likewise belonged to a family that had made its name known in
Danish literature. She was a Rosenstand-Göiske. Jens was a cordial and
attentive host, the daughters were all of them women out of the
ordinary, and bore the impress of belonging to a family of the highest
culture in the country; the eldest was womanly and refined, the second,
with her Roman type of beauty and bronze-coloured head, lovely in a
manner peculiarly her own; the youngest, as yet, was merely an amiable
young girl. The girls would have liked to get away from the monotony of
provincial life, and their release came when their father was appointed
to a professorship at Copenhagen University. There was an ease of
manner and a tone of mental distinction pervading the whole family. Two
young, handsome Counts Reventlow were being brought up in the house,
still only half-grown boys at that time, but who were destined later to
win honourable renown. One of them, the editor of his ancestress's
papers, kept up his acquaintance with the guest he had met in the
Paludan-Müller home for over forty years.
There often came to the house a young Dane from Caracas in Venezuela,
of unusual, almost feminine beauty, with eyes to haunt one's dreams. He
played uncommonly well, was irresistibly gentle and emotional. After a
stay of a few years in Denmark he returned to his native place. The
previously mentioned Grönbeck, with his pretty sister, and other young
people from the town, were frequent guests during the holidays, and the
days passed in games, music, wanderings about the garden, and
delightful excursions to the woods.
On every side I encountered beauty of some description. I said to Jens
one day: "One kind of beauty is the glow which the sun of Youth casts
over the figure, and it vanishes as soon as the sun sets. Another is
stamped into shape from within; it is Mind's expression, and will
remain as long as the mind remains vigorous. But the supremest beauty
of all is in the unison of the two harmonies, which are contending for
existence. In the bridal night of this supremest beauty, Mind and
Nature melt into one."
A few years later the old historian was called upon to publish the
little book on Gulland, with its short biography prefixed, as a
memorial to his only son, fallen at Sankelmark, and again, a few years
later, to edit Frederik Nutzhorn's translation of Apuleius in memory of
his son's friend, his elder daughter's fiancé. During the preparation
of these two little books, our relations became more intimate, and our
friendship continued unbroken until in the month of February, 1872, a
remark in one of my defensive articles caused him to take up his pen
against me. My remark was to the effect that there were men of the same
opinions as myself even among the priests of the established church.
Caspar Paludan-Müller declared it my public duty to mention of whom I
was thinking at the time, since such a traitor was not to be tolerated
in the lap of the Church. As I very naturally did not wish to play the
part of informer, I incurred, by my silence, the suspicion of having
spoken without foundation. The Danish man whom I had in my thoughts,
and who had confided his opinions to me, was still alive at the time.
This was the late Dean Ussing, at one time priest at Mariager, a man of
an extraordinarily refined and amiable disposition, secretly a
convinced adherent of Ernest Renan. A Norwegian priest, who holds the
same opinions, is still living.