One evening, shortly before Midsummer's eve, when we had gone out to
Vedbaek, fetched Emil Petersen from Tryggeroed and thoroughly enjoyed the
beautiful scenery, we had a wrestling match out in the water off
Skodsborg and a supper party afterwards at which, under the influence of
the company, the gaiety rose to a wild pitch and eventually passed all
bounds. We made speeches, sang, shouted our witticisms at each other all
at once, seized each other round the waist and danced, till we had to
stop for sheer tiredness. Then we all drank pledges of eternal
friendship, and trooped into the town together, and hammered at the
doors of the coffee-houses after midnight to try to get in somewhere
where we could have coffee. We had learnt all at once to know and
appreciate each other to the full; we were united by a feeling of
brotherhood and remained friends for life. The life allotted to several
of the little band was, it is true, but short; Jens Paludan-Mueller fell
at Sankelmark three and a half years later; Nutzhorn had only five years
and a half to live. Of the others, Emil Petersen and Julius Lange are
dead. But, whether our lives were long or short, our meetings frequent
or rare, we continued to be cordially attached to one another, and no
misunderstanding or ill-feeling ever cropped up between us.
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