Chapter 8

In the spring of 1844 I had finished a dramatic tale, "The Flower of
Fortune." The idea of this was, that it is not the immortal name of the
artist, nor the splendor of a crown which can make man happy; but that
happiness is to be found where people, satisfied with little, love and
are loved again. The scene was perfectly Danish, an idyllian, sunbright
life, in whose clear heaven two dark pictures are reflected as in a
dream; the unfortunate Danish poet Ewald and Prince Buris, who is
tragically sung of in our heroic ballads. I wished to show, in honor of
our times, the middle ages to have been dark and miserable, as they
were, but which many poets only represent to us in a beautiful light.

Professor Heiberg, who was appointed censor, declared himself against
the reception of my piece. During the last years I had met with nothing
but hostility from this party; I regarded it as personal ill-will, and
this was to me still more painful than the rejection of the pieces. It
was painful for me to be placed in a constrained position with regard
to a poet whom I respected, and towards whom, according to my own
conviction, I had done everything in order to obtain a friendly
relationship. A further attempt, however, must be made. I wrote to
Heiberg, expressed myself candidly, and, as I thought, cordially, and
entreated him to give me explicitly the reasons for his rejection of
the piece and for his ill-will towards me. He immediately paid me a
visit, which I, not being at home when he called, returned on the
following day, and I was received in the most friendly manner. The
visit and the conversation belong certainly to the extraordinary, but
they occasioned an explanation, and I hope led to a better
understanding for the future.

He clearly set before me his views in the rejection of my piece. Seen
from his point of sight they were unquestionably correct; but they were
not mine, and thus we could not agree. He declared decidedly that he
cherished no spite against me, and that he acknowledged my talent. I
mentioned his various attacks upon me, for example, in the
Intelligence, and that he had denied to me original invention: I
imagined, however, that I had shown this in my novels; "But of these,"
said I, "you have read none; you, yourself have told me so."

"Yes, that is the truth," replied he; "I have not yet read them, but I
will do so."

"Since then," continued I, "you have turned me and my Bazaar to
ridicule in your poem called Denmark, and spoken about my fanaticism
for the beautiful Dardanelles; and yet I have, precisely in that book,
described the Dardanelles as not beautiful; it is the Bosphorus which I
thought beautiful; you seem