During the winter 1865-66, I met Dannevig frequently at clubs, student
festivals, and social gatherings, and his melodious voice, his
epigrammatic talk, and his beauty never failed to extort from me a
certain amount of reluctant admiration. I could not help noticing,
however, that his charming qualities were all very much on the
surface, and as for his beauty, it was of a purely physical kind. As a
mere animal he could not have been finer. His eyes were as pure and
blue and irresponsible as a pair of spring violets, and his face was
as clean-cut and perfect as an ideal Greek mask, and as devoid of
spiritual meaning. His animation was charmingly heedless and genuine,
but nevertheless was mere surface glitter and never seemed to be the
expression of any really strong and heartfelt emotion. I could well
imagine him pouting like Achilles over the loss of a lovely Briseis
and bursting into vituperative language at the sight of the robber;
but the very moment Briseis was restored his wrath would as suddenly
have given way to the absolute bliss of possession.
The evening before my final departure from Copenhagen he gave a little
party for me at his apartments, at which a dozen or more of our
friends were invited.
Pages:
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142