Intellectually equal, we were of temperaments
diametrically opposed. Having the same love of Art and the same
enthusiasm for Art,--save that the one cared more for its pictorial and
the other for its literary expression,--we were of mutual assistance to
one another in the interchange of thoughts and information. Entirely at
variance in our attitude towards religious tradition, in our frequent
collisions we were both perpetually being challenged to a critical
inspection of our intellectual furniture. But I was the one who did the
worshipping.
When Julius Lange, on December 17, 1861, after having twice been to see
me and found me out, the third time met with me and informed me: "I have
received an invitation to go to Italy on Saturday and be away five
months," was, though surprised, exceedingly glad for my friend's sake,
but at the same time I felt as if I had received a blow in the face.
What would become of me, not only during the interval, but afterwards?
Who could say whether Lange would ever come back, or whether he would
not come back changed? How should I be able to endure my life! I should
have to work tremendously hard, to be able to bear the loss of him. I
could hardly understand how I should be able to exist when I could no
longer, evening after evening, slip up to my friend's little room to sit
there in calm, quiet contentment, seeing pictures and exchanging
thoughts! It was as though a nerve had been cut.
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