Two other celebrated personages whom I met for the first time a little
later were Björnstjerne Björnson and Magdalene Thoresen.
I became acquainted with Björnstjerne Björnson at the Nutzhorns, their
son, Ditlev, being a passionate admirer of his. His _King Sverre_ of
1861 had been a disappointment, but _Sigurd Slembe_ of the following
year was new and great poetry, and fascinated young people's minds.
Björnson, socially, as in literature, was a strong figure,
self-confident, loud-voiced, outspoken, unique in all that he said, and
in the weight which he knew how to impart to all his utterances. His
manner jarred a little on the more subdued Copenhagen style; the
impression he produced was that of a great, broad-shouldered, and very
much spoilt child. In the press, all that he wrote and did was blazoned
abroad by the leading critics of the day, who had a peculiar,
challenging way of praising Björnson, although his ability was not
seriously disputed by anyone. The National Liberal Leaders, Alfred
Hage, Carl Ploug, etc., had opened their hearts and houses to him. It
is said that at one time Heiberg had held back; the well-bred old man,
a little shocked by the somewhat noisy ways of the young genius, is
said to have expressed to his friend Krieger some scruples at inviting
him to his house. To Krieger's jesting remark: "What does it matter! He
is a young man; let him rub off his corners!" Heiberg is credited with
having replied: "Very true! Let him! but not in my drawing-room! That
is not a place where people may rub anything off." Heiberg's wife, on
the other hand, admired him exceedingly, and was undoubtedly very much
fascinated by him.
In a circle of younger people, Björnson was a better talker than
conversationalist. Sometimes he came out with decidedly rash
expressions of opinion, conclusively dismissing a question, for
instance, with severe verdicts over Danish music, Heyse's excepted,
judgments which were not supported by sufficient knowledge of the
subject at issue. But much of what he said revealed the intellectual
ruler, whose self-confidence might now and again irritate, but at
bottom was justified. He narrated exceptionally well, with picturesque
adjectives, long remembered in correct Copenhagen, spoke of the
_yellow_ howl of wolves, and the like. Take it all in all, his attitude
was that of a conqueror.
He upheld poetry that was actual and palpable, consequently had little
appreciation for poetry, that, like Paludan-Müller's, was the
perfection of thought and form, and boldly disapproved of my admiration
for it.