About three miles from Viborg lies the celebrated Hald. The palace upon
the high hill, the lake slumbering beneath the ruins of the old
baronial castle upon the island, the fresh luxuriant forest, make in
combination a charming and romantic picture, which, placed as it were
in a frame of dark-brown heath-clad hills, forms a strong contrast to
the monotonous, melancholy-looking plain, in the centre of which it
appears like a beautiful flower in the dreary desert, suddenly and
unexpectedly seen, and therefore the more highly appreciated.
One afternoon, in the spring of the year 1705, three persons were
riding through the wood not far from Viborg. One was a young lady, by
her side rode a gentleman who did not look much older than herself, and
at some distance behind them a servant in a rich livery, embroidered
according to the fashion of the time.
The young lady was very beautiful; the mild, calm, expression of her
countenance, the sweet, trusting glances from her large dark-blue eyes,
disclosed one of those soft, feminine natures for which life should be
all quiet and sunshine, because they bend and break beneath its storms.
The gentleman who rode by her side, as near as the horses could
approach each other, wore the uniform of an officer. His features were
expressive of courage and talent, and all that freedom from care which
is the happiest endowment of youth and inexperience.
The young lady was Jeanne Ryse, a daughter of the Baroness Rysensteen,
in the district of Rive. The gentleman was her cousin, Captain Kruse.
They were both returning from a visit to Major-General Gregers Daa, who
two years before had purchased Hald, and built the handsome house upon
the hill.
There was evidently a deeper feeling between Jeanne and the captain
than merely cousinly regard; this was betrayed both by their very
confidential conversation, by Jeanne's smile, and by the endearing
glances that seemed to meet and answer each other. They loved each
other; and they were laying plans for the future, as that afternoon
they rode together through the wood. It was not of the present moment
they were thinking--no, none but children and old people, the two at
the extreme points of life--take pleasure in the present moment. Around
them everything reposed in a deep and serene tranquillity; the clear,
transparent air, the sun's rays gleaming through the foliage of the
trees, the perfume of the flowers, the blackbird's flute-like song, all
tended to increase the sense of happiness which pervaded both their
hearts, that fresh young love that causes all the blossoms of the soul
to expand.
'This evening,' said Jeanne, 'I will tell all to my mother; it appears
to me that it would be wrong to conceal our wishes longer.'
'Oh, let us wait,' said he. 'The confession will not augment our
happiness.'
'But it will indeed!' replied Jeanne. 'My mother has hitherto always
been my confidante in everything; it will distress her when she finds
that I am concealing our attachment from her. Do not be afraid,
dearest. She is so good, she has never thought of anything but my
happiness, and she will undoubtedly give her consent to our engagement.
I know perfectly well that my mother will refuse me nothing,' she added
with a gay smile.
Kruse made no reply; they rode on for some time in silence side by
side, while the same subject engrossed the minds of both, but there was
a difference in the way they thought of it. He was thinking, as it is
natural for men to do, only of his own happiness; Jeanne, on the
contrary, of that which she hoped to be able to bestow upon him.
'What if your mother should disapprove of our marriage?' exclaimed
Kruse, at length, after they had left the wood, and were riding towards
Viborg, which was to be seen at a little distance.
'But she will not disapprove,' replied Jeanne, decisively. 'I know her
too well. Still, happen what may, my friend,' she said, as she
stretched out to him a small, well-shaped hand, 'we love each other,
and we will never cease to do so. Is not this knowledge enough to
induce you to overcome every obstacle?'
Kruse's answer was the same as has been given in similar cases from
the time of the Deluge. Both forgot at that moment how long it is
to--never!
On the same evening, about two hours later, Jeanne sat alone with the
Baroness in her private apartment, and confided to her the whole story
of the attachment--indeed, the engagement between herself and Kruse.
The elder lady listened patiently and attentively to the tale; her face
wore its usual bland smile, her voice had its accustomed sweet and
affectionate tone.
'I have long suspected these feelings on your cousin's side, my dear
child,' she said quietly, 'but I did not suppose that you would admit
having returned them without first making some communication to me.'
'Oh, my own dearest mother!' cried Jeanne, in the most caressing
manner, and in a beseeching tone, 'you must forgive me!'
'There is nothing to forgive,' replied the Baroness. 'What has happened
has happened, and it appears to me there is nothing more to be said on
the subject. I have known Kruse since he was a child; he is of a very
amiable disposition and noble character, most gentlemanly and chivalric
in all his actions. I also truly believe that he loves you, my darling
Jeanne; who could do otherwise?'
And the mother leaned over the kneeling daughter, who had placed her
hands upon her lap, and kissed her fair brow.
'But Kruse, notwithstanding all these excellent qualities, can never be
your husband.'
Jeanne uttered a faint shriek.
'Oh, mother, mother! What do you say?' she cried, in the greatest
consternation.
'Listen to what I have got to say,' continued the Baroness, 'and listen
calmly. Kruse is poor; he has nothing except his pay as an officer,
which is scarcely enough to meet the daily expenses of a gentleman.
You, my dear child, are not rich either, as after my death your
brother will inherit the property. It is only, therefore, by marriage
that your future comfort can be secured. You have, naturally, never
thought of all these circumstances. At your age the heart is swayed by
happier interests; it is not until later that the prosaic part of life
forces itself upon us, and awakens us from our dreams. But I--your
mother--have well considered all this. While you have engaged yourself
to your cousin, I have fixed upon another for you--another who, with
the same chivalric character, unites better prospects for your future
life. Yes, weep on, my darling girl! I understand your tears, for I
have felt as you do, for I have loved as you do. When I was about your
age I was much attached to a young nobleman, who was as poor as Kruse.
My parents chose another for me, and I acknowledge now how fortunate it
was that they were not influenced by my wishes. I judge by this--that
the woman whom he afterwards married has led a very unhappy life.'
Jeanne's face expressed the deepest grief while her mother was
speaking; she wept, she wrung her hands, and at length she exclaimed:
'Oh, my dear mother! If you have considered what is best for me, have
you not remembered that the fate for which you destine me will render
me utterly miserable? It will be my death!'
'No, it will not, Jeanne! That is merely an idea peculiar to your age;
people don't die so easily. Time is an excellent doctor for such
wounds.'
'Who, then, have you chosen for me?'
'Major-General Gregers Daa, of Hald. He was with me to-day when you
were out riding with your cousin; he asked for your hand, and obtained
my consent to your marrying him.'
Major-General Gregers Daa was a tall, thin man, with a pallid face and
very grave expression of countenance. His hair was beginning to turn
grey, the numerous wrinkles on his expansive brow-were perhaps as much
the consequence of deep thought as of advanced age, for both of these
despots impose their marks in the same mode.
Gregers had held an important post, and had won many laurels in the
last war. At the cessation of hostilities which followed the peace of
Travendal, he returned to Jutland, purchased Hald, and had the palace
rebuilt. When these two events were completed, he had nothing before
him but a quiet, monotonous life, without interest to himself, and
without affording happiness to any one. The landed proprietors who were
his neighbours found no pleasure in his society, for he was cold and
reserved in manners. The poor lauded his charity and his munificent
donations; but these, in accordance with the nature of the donor, were
dictated more by a sense of duty than by any positive satisfaction he
had in relieving distress. No one sought his friendship; indeed, it was
rather avoided. In the lonely situation in which he was placed, he was
poor--for even fortune becomes a burden in utter solitude. The present
time offered nothing, the future seemed to promise nothing, and the
past was the repository of no cherished recollections for him.
When Gregers returned from the war, and had ceased to fight foreign
foes, he found at home a still more obstinate foe to battle with, and
that was _ennui_. A sister, much younger than himself, who had resided
with him, and taken charge of his house, had died a few years before
the date of the commencement of this story. He regretted her loss very
much, and day by day he missed more and more the comforts a lady's
taste and society had spread around him. It was about this time that he
first met Jeanne Ryse, and the sight of her awakened emotions in his
mind which he had never before known. He wished to have her in his lost
sister's place; he wished to be her confidential friend, her
counsellor, her companion, and, yielding to these growing wishes, he
determined on asking from the Baroness the hand of her daughter. He
had, however, not the most remote idea of the wretchedness with which
his proposals were to blast Jeanne's hitherto tranquil and happy
existence.
He was wealthy; he was the last--the only survivor of his race. Both of
these considerations had also some weight in Gregers's resolution, and
had not less influence on that of the Baroness Ryse. But expediency and
good intentions sometimes merge into wrong, especially when they forget
to take into account the passions and the heart. This fault was
committed both by Gregers and the Baroness.
Eight days after her conversation with Jeanne, the Baroness Ryse's
carriage was seen going towards the Hald, with running footmen before
the horses, a coachman, and another servant, with powdered perukes; in
short, with all that show and affectation of state which might lead the
beholder to forget the Dutch plebeian Henrik Ryse, to whom the family
owed their patent of nobility. The Baroness herself was elegantly
dressed; she was one of those old beauties on whose exterior the hand
of taste must replace what time has stolen away.
Gregers Daa received the lady at the foot of the outside stairs in a
garb which plainly showed he had not expected her visit at that moment.
He led her with a bewildered air into his study, where, before her
arrival, he had been occupied. Everything in this room bore witness to
an old bachelor's uncomfortable home. An ancient-looking hound was
stretched on the sofa, and gazed in evident astonishment at the
intruder without vacating his place. The dust lay thick on the sills of
the window, on the chairs, tables, and bookcases; the air was redolent
of tobacco-smoke; books, plants, and weapons were lying in dire
confusion about the room.
The Baroness's ironical smile, and the somewhat sneering manner in
which she glanced round at the various articles in the study, seemed to
open Gregers's eyes to its untidy condition. He stammered an apology,
and opened a door leading to a large room close by, but the lady
declined entering it.
'Let us stay here,' she exclaimed. 'The one room is as good as the
other for what we have to talk about.'
She removed a bundle of papers from a high-backed easy-chair, placed
herself in it, and motioned to Gregers to sit down also.
The sun was shining brightly through the window, the soft breeze was
swaying the branches of a large elm-tree, with their fresh light-green
leaves, backwards and forwards outside, the sparrows were chirping
under the roof; farther off was heard the song of the larks as they
soared over old Bugge's Hald,[2] the ruins of which were to be seen
from the window, and were glittering in the sun.
Presently the lady spoke.
'I come to you, general, on the same errand, relative to which you
lately called on me, and I bring you my entire acceptance of the
proposal you did me the honour to make respecting a marriage between
you and my daughter.
Gregers Daa's tall figure drew itself up in military style; he bowed,
and said:
'You have, then, communicated my wishes to your daughter, dear madam?'
'I did so on the very same day that you called on us.'
'And she has no objection to pass her future life with an old man such
as I am?'
'On the contrary,' replied the Baroness, quietly, and without the
slightest hesitation, 'she has many objections to it.'
Gregers looked thunderstruck; he fancied he had not heard aright.
'My dear general!' said the Baroness, with an insinuating smile,
'the principal duty you and I owe to each other is sincerity, and I
shall, therefore, venture to speak candidly to you. My daughter likes
another--stay, do not interrupt me--I mean that she feels a great
kindness for, and much interest in, a poor relation, who, so to speak,
has grown up with her, and who has been the only one, until now, who
could realize the visions every young girl's fancy is prone to create.
But, good Heavens! what does that signify? At her age one loves the
whole world, or rather, we really love only our own selves in every
object which pleases our inclination. I have impressed on my daughter
the necessity of giving up her foolish dreams, and of forsaking the
world in which she has hitherto lived, to enter into another by your
side.
'And was she willing to obey you?' asked Gregers, anxiously.
The Baroness's cheerful smile partially chased away his fears:
'Willing!' she exclaimed. 'Do you really think, my dear general, that I
would wish to see you united to a lady who could not prove, by her
obedience to her parent, that she would be able to obey her husband?'
'But as she already loves another, a younger man than I am, who,
doubtless, is more able than I to comprehend and to share her
sympathies, how can I expect her to love me?'
'Love you!' exclaimed the Baroness, in evident surprise. 'No--at least
not at the present moment; she cannot be expected to do so, since she
has, as yet, hardly the honour of knowing you. In regard to the future,
it will altogether rest with yourself to call forth this love. Your
superior character, and the mildness of manners I have remarked in you,
will indubitably lead the dear child to the goal you desire. I say
lead, not mould, because I know that a husband may easily lead his
wife, but not easily gain his wishes by coercion. From my experience of
the feelings of my own sex, I can affirm that, in most cases, gentlemen
may obtain as much affection as they can desire; but they understand
less how to awaken this affection than to retain it when once bestowed.
It is an acknowledged fact, that though the man begins by showing the
woman the first attention, it generally ends in her showing him the
last.'
Thus commenced a conversation, during the course of which the Baroness
succeeded in removing all the general's scruples. They afterwards
proceeded to discuss the matter in question under another point of
view--a view which appeared to the lady of very much more consequence
than anything wherein feelings were concerned. The marriage settlements
were skilfully introduced by the Baroness, who evinced as much
practical sense in this second portion of the conversation as in the
first; while Gregers Daa, on his side, showed a degree of high-minded
liberality which quite surpassed her most exaggerated expectation.
And thus was this marriage determined on, this bargain concluded, in
which was bartered away a young girl's future happiness, to secure for
her some insignificant worldly advantages. The sacrifice was
accomplished with festive pomp, with flowers, smiles, and songs on one
side, with smothered sighs and suppressed tears on the other. The same
wedding-bells that rang to announce Gregers Daa's happiness rang
Jeanne's freedom of soul and happiness into the grave.
The first few weeks after the wedding were spent in society, visiting,
and all the round of amusements which it was more the fashion to offer
to newly-married people at that period than in our days. Gregers
objected to this dissipation in vain, the Baroness insisted on it, and
the complaisant son-in-law allowed her to take her own way. The
Baroness Ryse hoped, by these means, to procure her daughter some
diversion, which might lead her to _forget_: she had herself never felt
any other than these small sorrows that vanish amidst wax-lights and
noise in a ball-room; she could not, therefore, conceive that Jeanne
might, indeed, be stupified by all the entertainments provided for her,
but that solitude is the only comfort in deep sorrow, and the great
physician for suffering.
Betwixt the mother and daughter, these such opposite characters, the
principal difference was simply this--that the Baroness thought only of
marriage, and Jeanne of love.
As to the general, he found, to his great surprise, that all those
feelings, so new to him, which had begun to be so softening and so
pleasant, had suddenly changed their nature. That love, which had wiled
his heart out of its accustomed torpor, which had come like a sunbeam
on a late day in autumn, unexpectedly, and all of a sudden, had been as
hastily enjoyed as if its loss were feared. He tried in vain to acquire
the affection he coveted; but how could he think that an old man's
measured and bashful love could be able to chase away the clouds of
lassitude and grief which rested on Jeanne's beautiful but pale brow,
or dislodge the remembrance of what she had lost by what she had won?
When at last, after long and fruitless struggles, he perceived the
impossibility of attaining the desired object, which seemed always to
draw back from him like the obscure and misty images on a wide heath,
he shut himself up in his own study--but not with his former peace of
mind; and he bore the marks of his internal battles in his hollow
sunken cheeks and whitened hair. From this time forward Gregers endured
his sorrows in silence, as Jeanne did hers: the only difference between
them was--the cause of the unhappiness of each.
Thus passed some years: Gregers Daa felt that no blessing had attended
his marriage. He was childless. There lay a little embalmed corpse in
his family vault in the cathedral of Viborg, with an inscription full
of grief on the lid of the coffin--that was his only child; it had died
soon after its birth.
The only person who never appeared to remark the cold and comfortless
terms on which Gregers and Jeanne lived was the Baroness. She resided
for some months every summer in her son-in-law's house at Hald, drove
about in his carriage, received visits from all her acquaintances; in
short, she seemed to be the real mistress of the mansion, exactly as on
every alteration and improvement at Rysensteen she showed herself to
have unlimited command over the general's money.
War at length broke out again, after the short and enforced peace
Denmark had been obliged to put up with. King Frederick IV. had
secretly entered into an alliance with Poland and Saxony against
Sweden. Reventlow was fighting in Scania; shortly after was heard, for
the first time, that one of the most ancient and most honoured names
among the Danish nobility was coupled with a lost battle--a name from
which heroism and victory, until then, had appeared to be inseparable.
Joergen Ranzau was defeated by Steenbock on the outside of the gates of
Helsingborg, and the scene of war after that was removed into Germany.
Gregers Daa was ordered to join the army. One evening in the month of
November this intelligence reached Hald.