CHAPTER V.
A STRONG HAND IS POWERLESS.
The Frau Professorin was sitting at the window of the warm and comfortable sitting-room. Carpets and cushions within, and moss without, shut out every draught. The sewing-machine at which she sat moved so easily, that scarce a sound was heard from it. From the river came the noise of the grating and crashing of the great masses of ice, as they struck against one another, changed their shapes, and floated on again.
She often looked out across the river and into the country, and saw the smoke rising from the houses in the different hamlets; she was familiar with the life there now.
Accompanied sometimes by Fräulein Milch, sometimes by the huntsman, but generally by Sevenpiper, whose cheerfulness she took great delight in, she had made her way everywhere, ordering and helping with word and deed. There was a constant passing of visitors back and forth, some coming with thanks, and some with new petitions. She thought herself highly favored in being allowed an activity so abundant, and so immediately fruitful in results.
But the Frau Professorin was not without higher pursuits, for she read over again her husband's favorite books, and studied his comments written on almost every page, drawing thence a strength which enabled her to live in silent communion with the departed. Her husband's words she generally read aloud; it did her good to move her lips, and hear a voice speaking his opinions. Often also she had to read aloud, in order to drive away the thoughts which crowded upon her at all times, thoughts about Sonnenkamp, his life and character, and what he had been in the past, but especially about Manna, and the feelings that were working in her. She thought she understood now the meaning of Manna's words to Roland when she was leaving her parents' home: "I too am an Iphigenia." She repeated to herself, as she sat at work, the song of the Fates, in Goethe's drama, and her heart was burdened by this mystery of the children's having to suffer for the sins of the parents.
In the midst of these sonorous and powerful lines, she heard the sound of wheels stopping before the house. Perhaps it was the Doctor coming to sit an hour with her, as he often did; she knew he liked to have her stay quietly in her place. But it was another step that approached, another knock at the door, and Herr Sonnenkamp entered.
"Are you quite alone?"
"Quite alone."
The Frau Professorin was greatly embarrassed; this was the first time she had seen Sonnenkamp since hearing that about him which she could never tell him; it required all her self-control to enable her to offer him her hand. He drew off his fur glove and grasped her hand in his. For the first time she felt the steel ring on his thumb like a cold snake. With terror she saw her hand in his. This hand of Sonnenkamp's, so thick and hard, with the fingers bent back and the flesh growing over the nails, was the hand of the Pharisee in Titian's picture of the tribute money. So between the thumb and forefinger does the Pharisee hold the piece of money, and there is an evil, violent, and hypocritical look, if we may so express ourselves, about the hand. She remembered standing one day, during her wedding journey, in the picture gallery at Dresden, when her husband covered for a moment the face of Christ and that of the Pharisee, and drew her attention to the wonderful drawing of the two hands, which in themselves revealed the opposite characters of the men. With the speed of lightning did those thoughts and images pass through the lady's mind.
Sonnenkamp observed this emotion, so unlike her usual calm self-possession, but naturally attributing it to surprise, said with ready tact:—
"I have often noticed that intellectual persons who live much in themselves, and especially noble women of superior cultivation, are not fond of surprises; I must therefore beg your forgiveness for this one."
The Frau Professorin looked at him in amazement. How was it possible that a man, whose life in the past had been what this man's had, could understand such subtle emotions and express them so delicately? She confessed that he had rightly interpreted her emotion, and asked whether his visit was to herself, or one of inspection to his establishment. The question was an awkward one, she knew, but she could think of no other at the moment.
"My visit concerns no one but yourself," said Sonnenkamp; "and I almost regret my purpose of disturbing this beautiful repose. I come from a life of such confusion as makes it hard to believe that repose like yours can exist upon the same planet. We live in a perpetual whirl; the only comfort is that we have still the power of sleeping."
"I am familiar with this excitement of carnival time," said the lady smiling. "How we long for quiet, and yet are ever pursued by the music and laughter of the evening before."
Sonnenkamp now openly declared the object of his visit; and with great humility begged the Frau Professorin to confer upon his house the grace and dignity which she only could give it.
The lady regretted she must decline; she was no longer fitted for gaiety.
"I should not have thought your views of life would be gloomy, but rather free and cheerful."
"I believe they are. I do not consider our life as a dismal charitable institution, from which all cheerfulness is banished. It is right that youth should dance, and not think of the people who are shivering with the cold, and of the grief and misery everywhere, at the very moment they are moving so gaily. I love cheerfulness; we have no strength without it."
"Give us your help then; all the more will we devote ourselves afterward to our poor brothers and sisters of the great human family."
The Professorin had to struggle against a feeling of indignation, that would rise within her, at the idea of the man trifling thus with words like these. She looked at his hands as if there was blood upon them, and these blood-stained hands were offering her festive wine.
She could say no more, she only shook her head, repeating,—
"I cannot; believe me, I cannot."
"Then," began Sonnenkamp, "I shall proceed at once to tell you the secret of my life."
The Professorin had to put both hands on her table to steady herself. What was the man going to say! She silently inclined her head, and Sonnenkamp told how it was his unwavering desire, and a matter of necessity for his wife, Roland and Manna, that he should be raised to the ranks of the nobility.
The Professorin shuddered. What? Did this man dare to propose such a thing? The von Burgholz spirit was roused within her. How could a man with such a past as his have such presumption?
Sonnenkamp watched her eagerly. Something was going on in the mind of this woman which he could not fathom. She kept silence, making no response to the confidence he had honored her with.
"Why do you not answer?" he asked at last.
The lady controlled herself and said, as she inclined her head somewhat backwards:
"Shall you not find it hard to bear another name?"
Sonnenkamp looked keenly at her.
"I found it hard as a wife," she continued, "to bear another name."
"Excuse me, my dear lady," replied Sonnenkamp courteously; "you had to take a citizen's name; it is much easier to assume a noble one."
He exhorted her, urged his request upon her more earnestly, enforcing it by the warmly expressed wish of the countess Bella.
The Professorin insisted that no one, even though admitted to the closest friendship, could decide upon the life she should lead; she was resolved never to return to society.
Sonnenkamp was driven to extremity. He believed that the Professorin's only objection was to appearing as a dependant, and that she would no longer refuse, if a free and independent position were assured her. In a manner, therefore, at once unassuming and emphatic, he told her that he should here, and now, put into her hands a sum of money sufficient to maintain her in an establishment of her own for the rest of her life. He put his hand in his breast-pocket as he spoke, and drew out his pocketbook.
"No, sir, I beg of you," answered the Professorin, coloring deeply and fixing her eyes upon his fingers,—just so did the Pharisee hold the piece of money. "It's not that, I assure you. I am ashamed of no position, since I have the true honor within myself; neither do I fear, as you possibly imagine, being too deeply moved by contact with any of the relations of society. I have voluntarily resigned all connection with it. I have made no outward vow, but I beg you to respect my decision as the vow of a nun, as you would if it were the decision of your daughter. I regret that I must beg you to urge me no further, as no inducements could have any influence upon me."
It was hard for Sonnenkamp to control his anger, and restore the pocket-book to its place.
He rose and went to the window.
For some time he gazed fixedly out, then turning round with a smile, he said,—
"There in the river are floating the blocks of ice; a soft breath bursts the icy covering; why might not also, my honored friend—you will allow me so to call you—every one has in his life a something—I know not how to call it, an action, a purpose—you understand what I mean—that ought not to fetter all our future."
"Allow me to say," returned the Professorin, "that in my case this would be a breach of faith. I have nothing left in the world but fidelity to myself."
"You fill me with admiration," said Sonnenkamp, hoping to gain his point by expressions of admiring respect.
He was obliged to assume a gracious and smiling exterior while inwardly chafing, for the Professorin was immovable. There was an imploring manner about him; as if he would say: I know no way of help but through you; yet he found himself unable to put it into words.
The Professorin felt that she must do something kind to the poor rich man, must give him something to restore his cheerfulness and courage, and with hearty sincerity she said,—
"Let me express to you the thanks of the hundreds whom you have fed and comforted. You have made me very happy by employing me as the medium of your benefactions, and I desire that you should feel yourself the source of happiness to others."
With great animation she described the excellent order into which the neighborhood had been brought, and how her help had not waited for sickness, either physical or moral, but had helped forward those who were sound. She told so many beautiful and touching incidents, that Sonnenkamp could only stammer out as he gazed at her:
"It is all well—very well—I thank you."
He once more gave her his hand and left the room. At the front door he encountered Fräulein Milch, but hurried by almost without looking at her.
Fräulein Milch found the Professorin washing her hands with all her might, as if she feared she should never wash them clean from the man's touch.
"Did he tell you he was to be raised to the ranks of the nobility?" asked the Fräulein.
The Professorin looked at her in amazement. How came this simple housekeeper in her seclusion to know everything?
The butcher from the capital, Fräulein Milch said, who had been buying a pair of fat oxen from her neighbor, had spread the report.
Secrets creep out through strange channels.