Still, I kept up my spirits finely. Among the Scandinavians who showed
me kindness at this time I gratefully remember the Danish painters
Rosenstand and Mackeprang, who visited me regularly and patiently, and
my friend Walter Runeberg, the Finnish sculptor, whose cheerfulness did
me good.
Other Scandinavians with whom I was less well acquainted came to see me
now and again, but they had one very annoying habit. It was customary at
that time for all letters to be addressed, for greater security, to the
Danish consulate, which served the purpose of a general Scandinavian
consulate. Anyone who thought of coming to see me would fetch what
letters had arrived for me that day and put them in his pocket to bring
me. The letters I ought to have had at ten o'clock in the morning I
generally received at seven in the evening. But these gentlemen often
forgot to pay their visit at all, or did not get time, and then it would
happen that after having gone about with the letters in their pockets
for a few days, they took them back to the consulate, whence they were
sent to me, once, three days late. As my whole life on my sick-bed was
one constant, painful longing for letters from home, the more so as my
mother, all the time I was in bed, was lying dangerously ill, I felt
vexed at the thoughtless behaviour of my compatriots.
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