Some three years later I was sitting behind my editorial desk in a
newspaper office in Chicago, and the impressions from my happy winter
in Copenhagen had well nigh faded from memory. The morning mail was
brought in, and among my letters I found one from a Danish friend with
whom I had kept up a desultory correspondence. In the letter I found
the following paragraph:
"Since you left us, Dannevig has been going steadily down hill,
until at last his order of Dannebrog just managed to keep him
respectable. About a month ago he suddenly vanished from the social
horizon, and the rumor says that he has fled from his numerous
creditors, and probably now is on his way to America. His
resources, whatever they were, gradually failed him, while his
habits remained as extravagant as ever. If the popular belief is to
be credited, he lived during the two last years on his prospect of
marrying the Countess von Brehm, which prospect in Copenhagen was
always convertible into cash. The countess, by the way, was
unflinching in her devotion to him, and he would probably long ago
have led her to the altar, if her family had not so bitterly
opposed him. The old count, it is said, swore that he would
disinherit her if she ever mentioned his name to him again; and
those who know him feel confident that he would have kept his word.
The countess, however, was quite willing to make that sacrifice,
for Dannevig's sake; but here, unfortunately, that cowardly
prudence of his made a fool of him. He hesitated and hesitated long
enough to wear out the patience of a dozen women less elevated and
heroic than she is. Now the story goes that the old count, wishing
at all hazards to get him out of the way, made him a definite
proposition to pay all his debts, and give him a handsome surplus
for travelling expenses, if he would consent to vanish from the
kingdom for a stated term of years. And according to all
appearances Dannevig has been fool enough to accept the offer. I
should not be surprised if you would hear from him before long, in
which case I trust you will keep me informed of his movements. A
Knight of Dannebrog, you know, is too conspicuous a figure to be
entirely lost beneath the waves of your all-levelling democracy.
Depend upon it, if Dannevig were stranded upon a desert isle, he
would in some way contrive to make the universe aware of his
existence. He has, as you know, no talent for obscurity; there is a
spark of a Caesar in him, and I tremble for the fate of your
constitution if he stays long enough among you."
Four months elapsed after the receipt of this letter, and I had almost
given up the expectation (I will not say hope) of seeing Dannevig,
when one morning the door to my office was opened, and a tall,
blonde-haired man entered. With a certain reckless grace, which ought
to have given me the clue to his identity, he sauntered up to my desk
and extended his hand to me.
"Hallo, old boy!" he said, with a weak, weary smile. "How are you
prospering? You don't seem to know me."
"Heavens!" I cried, "Dannevig! No, I didn't know you. How you have
altered!"
He took off his hat, and flung himself into a chair opposite me. His
large, irresponsible eyes fixed themselves upon mine, with a
half-daring, half-apologetic look, as if he were resolved to put the
best face on a desperate situation. His once so ambitious mustache
drooped despondingly, and his unshaven face had an indescribably
withered and dissipated look. All the gloss seemed to have been taken
off it, and with it half its beauty and all its dignity had departed.
"Dannevig," I said, with all the sympathy I had at my command, "what
_has_ happened to you? Am I to take your word for it, that you have
quarrelled with all the world, and that this is your last refuge?"
"Well," he answered, evasively, "I should hardly say that. It is
rather your detestable democratic cookery which has undone me. I
haven't had a decent meal since I set my foot on this accursed
continent. There is an all-pervading plebeian odor of republicanism
about everything one eats here, which is enough to ruin the healthiest
appetite, and a certain barbaric uniformity in the bill of fare which
would throw even a Diogenes into despair. May the devil take your
leathery beef-steaks, as tough as the prose of Tacitus, your
tasteless, nondescript buckwheats, and your heavy, melancholy wines,
and I swear it would be the last you would hear of him!"
"There! that will do, Dannevig!" I cried, laughing. "You have said
more than enough to convince me of your identity. I do admit I was
sceptical as to whether this could really be you, but you have
dispelled my last doubts. It was my intention to invite you to dine
with me to-day but you have quite discouraged me. I live quite _en
garçon_, you know, and have no Chateau Yquem nor pheasant _a la Sainte
Alliance_, and whatever else your halcyon days at the Cafe Anglais may
have accustomed you to."
"Never mind that. Your company will in part reconcile me to the
republicanism of your table. And, to put the thing bluntly, can you
lend me thirty dollars? I have pawned my only respectable suit of
clothes for that amount, and in my present costume I feel
inexpressibly plebeian,--very much as if I were my own butler,
and--what is worse--I treat myself accordingly. I never knew until now
how much of the inherent dignity of a man can be divested with his
clothing. Then another thing: I am absolutely forced to do something,
and, judging by your looks, I should say that journalism was a
profitable business. Now, could you not get me some appointment or
other in connection with your paper? If, for instance, you want a
Paris correspondent, then I am just your man. I know Paris by heart,
and I have hobnobbed with every distinguished man in France."
"But we could hardly afford to pay you enough to justify you in taking
the journey on our account."
"_O sancta simplicitas_! No, my boy, I have no such intention. I can
make up the whole thing with perfect plausibility, here under your
own roof; and by little study of the foreign telegrams, I would
undertake to convince Thiers and Jules Favre themselves that I watched
the play of their features from my private box at the French opera,
night before last, that I had my eye at the key-hole while they
performed their morning ablutions, and was present as eavesdropper at
their most secret councils. Whatever I may be, I hope you don't take
me to be a chicken."
"No," I answered, beguiled into a lighter mood by his own levity. "It
might be well for you if you were more of one. But as Paris
correspondent, we could never engage you, at least not on the terms
you propose. But even if I should succeed in getting a place for you,
do you know English enough to write with ease?"
"I see you are disposed to give vent to your native scepticism toward
me. But I never knew the thing yet that I could not do. At first,
perhaps, I should have to depend somewhat upon your proof-reading, but
before many months, I venture to say, I could stand on my own legs."
After some further parley it was agreed that I should exert myself in
his behalf, and after a visit to the pawnbroker's, where Dannevig had
deposited his dignity, we parted with the promise to meet again at
dinner.