When I entered
for the first time Ploug's tiny little office high up at the top of a
house behind Hoejbro Place, the gruff man was not unfriendly. Surprised
at the youthful appearance of the person who walked in, he merely burst
out: "How old are you?" And to the reply: "Twenty-three and a half," he
said smilingly, "Don't forget the half."
The first article was not printed for months; the next ones appeared
without such long delay. But Ploug was somewhat uneasy about the
contents of them, and cautiously remarked that there was "not to be any
fun made of Religion," which it could not truthfully be said I had done.
But I had touched upon dogmatic Belief and that was enough.
Later on, Ploug had a notion that, as he once wrote, he had excluded me
from the paper as soon as he perceived my mischievous tendency. This was
a failure of memory on his part; the reason I left the paper was a
different one, and I left of my own accord.
Bold and surly, virile and reliable as Ploug seemed, in things
journalistic you could place slight dependence on his word. His dearest
friend admitted as much; he gave his consent, and then forgot it, or
withdrew it. Nothing is more general, but it made an overweening
impression on a beginner like myself, inexperienced in the ways of life.
When Ibsen's _Brand_ came out, creating an unusual sensation, I
asked Ploug if I might review the book and received a definite "Yes"
from him.
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