Victor Julien St. Denis Dannevig is a very aristocratic
conglomeration of sound, as every one will admit, although the St. had
a touch of irony in it unless placed before the Julien, where in the
present case its suggestion was not wholly unappropriate. As he was
when I first met him, his nature seemed to be made up of exquisite
half-tints, in which the most antagonistic tastes might find something
to admire. It presented no sharp angles to wound your self-esteem or
your prejudices. Morally, intellectually, and physically, he was as
smooth as velvet, and as agreeable to the touch. He never disagreed
with you, whatever heterodox sentiments you might give vent to, and
still no one could ever catch him in any positive inconsistency or
self-contradiction. The extreme liberal who was on terms of intimacy
with the nineteenth century, and passionately hostile to all temporal
and spiritual rulers, put him down as a rising man, who might be
confidently counted on when he should have shed his down and assume I
his permanent colors; and the prosperous conservative who had access
to the private ear of the government lauded his good sense and his
moderate opinions, and resolved to press his name at the first vacancy
that might occur in the diplomatic service. In fact, every one parted
from him with the conviction that at heart he shared his sentiments;
even though for prudential reasons he did not choose to express
himself with emphasis.
The inference, I am afraid, from all this, is that Dannevig was a
hypocrite; but if I have conveyed that impression to any one, I
certainly have done my friend injustice. I am not aware that he ever
consciously suspended his convictions for the sake of pleasing; but
convictions require a comparative depth of soil in order to thrive,
and Dannevig's mind was remarkable for territorial expanse rather than
for depth. Of course, he did with astonishing ease assume the color of
the person he was talking with; but this involved, with him, no
conscious mental process, no deliberate insincerity. It was rather
owing to a kind of constitutional adaptability, an unconquerable
distaste for quarrelling, and the absence of any decided opinions of
his own.
It was in the year 186--, just as peace had been concluded between
Prussia and Denmark, that I made Dannevig's acquaintance. He was then
the hero of the day; all Copenhagen, as it seemed, had gone mad over
him. He had just returned from the war, in which he had performed some
extraordinary feat of fool-hardiness and saved seven companies by the
sacrifice of his mustache. The story was then circulating in a dozen
different versions, but, as nearly as I could learn, he had, in the
disguise of a peasant, visited the Prussian camp on the evening
preceding a battle and had acted the fool with such a perfection of
art as to convince the enemy of his harmlessness. Before morning,
however, he had furnished the Danish commander with important
intelligence, thereby preventing the success of a surprise movement
which the Prussians were about to execute. In return for this service
he had been knighted on the battle-field, the order of Dannebrog
having been bestowed upon him.
One circumstance that probably intensified the charm which Dannevig
exerted upon the social circles of the Danish capital was the mystery
which shrouded his origin. There were vague whisperings of lofty
parentage, and even royal names were hinted at, always, of course, in
the strictest privacy. The fact that he hailed from France (though no
one could say it for a certainty) and still had a Danish name and
spoke Danish like a native, was in itself looked upon as an
interesting anomaly. Then again, his easy, aristocratic bearing and
his finely carved face suggested all manner of romantic
possibilities; his long, delicate hands, the unobtrusive perfection of
his toilet and the very texture of his handkerchiefs told plainly
enough that he had been familiar with high life from the cradle. His
way of living, too, was the subject of much curious comment. Without
being really extravagant, he still spent money in a free-and-easy
fashion, and always gave one the impression of having unbounded
resources, though no one could tell exactly what they were. The only
solution of the riddle was that he might have access to the treasury
of some mighty man who, for reasons which perhaps would not bear
publicity, felt called upon to support him.
I had heard his name abundantly discussed in academical and social
circles and was thoroughly familiar with the hypothetical part of his
history before chance led me to make his personal acquaintance. He had
then already lost some of his first lustre of novelty, and the
professional yawners at club windows were inclining to the opinion
that "he was a good enough fellow, but not made of stuff that was apt
to last." But in the afternoon tea-parties, where ladies of fashion
met and gently murdered each other's reputations, an allusion to him
was still the signal for universal commotion; his very name would be
greeted with clouds of ecstatic adjectives, and wild interjections and
enthusiatic superlatives would fly buzzing about your ears until
language would seem to be at its last gasp, and for a week to come the
positive and comparative degrees would be applicable only to your
enemies.
It was an open secret that the Countess von Brehm, one of the richest
heiresses in the kingdom, was madly in love with him and would
probably bestow her hand upon him in defiance of the wishes and
traditions of her family. And what man, outside of the royal house,
would be fool enough to refuse the hand of a Countess von Brehm?