There was only one distinguished person outside my circle of
acquaintance to whom I wished to bring my first descriptive book, as a
mark of homage, Johanne Louise Heiberg, the actress. I had admired her
on the stage, even if not to the same extent as Michael Wiehe; but to
me she was the representative of the great time that would soon sink
into the grave. In addition, I ventured to hope that she, being a
friend of Frederik Paludan-Müller, Magdalene Thoresen and others who
wished me well, would be at any rate somewhat friendly inclined towards
me. A few years before, it had been rumoured in Copenhagen after the
publication of my little polemical pamphlet against Nielsen, that at a
dinner at the Heiberg's there had been a good deal of talk about me;
even Bishop Martensen had expressed himself favourably, and it also
attracted attention that a short time afterwards, in a note to his book
_On Knowledge and Faith_, he mentioned me not unapprovingly, and
contented himself with a reminder to me not to feel myself too soon
beyond being surprised. When the Bishop of Zealand, one of the
actress's most faithful adherents, had publicly spoken thus mildly of
the youthful heretic, there was some hope that the lady herself would
be free from prejudice. My friends also eagerly encouraged me to
venture upon a visit to her home.
I was admitted and asked to wait in a room through the glass doors of
which I was attentively observed for some time by the lady's adopted
children. Then she came in, in indoor dress, with a stocking in her
hand, at which she uninterruptedly continued to knit during the
following conversation: She said: "Well! So you have collected your
articles." I was simple enough to reply--as if that made any difference
to the lady--that the greater part of the book had not been printed
before. She turned the conversation upon Björnson's _Fisher Girl_,
which had just been published, and which had been reviewed by _The
Fatherland_ the evening before, declaring that she disagreed altogether
with the reviewer, who had admired in the _Fisher Girl_ a psychological
study of a scenic genius. "It is altogether a mistake," said Mrs.
Heiberg, absorbed in counting her stitches, "altogether a mistake that
genius is marked by restlessness, refractoriness, an irregular life, or
the like. That is all antiquated superstition. True genius has no
connection whatever with excesses and caprices, in fact, is impossible
without the strict fulfilment of one's duty. (Knitting furiously.)
Genius is simple, straightforward, domesticated, industrious."
When we began to speak of mutual acquaintances, amongst others,
Magdalene Thoresen, feeling very uncomfortable in the presence of the
lady, I blurted out most tactlessly that I was sure that lady was much
interested in me. It was a mere nothing, but at the moment sounded like
conceit and boasting. I realised it the moment the words were out of my
mouth, and instinctively felt that I had definitely displeased her. But
the conversational material was used up and I withdrew. I never saw
Johanne Louise Heiberg again; henceforth she thought anything but well
of me.