CHAPTER XI.
THE ICE BREAKS UP.
In the morning, when Eric and Roland were saying good-by at the green cottage, a message came from Fräulein Milch to offer herself and the Major that day, as visitors to the Professorin.
The Professorin praised to aunt Claudine the tact of the housekeeper, who evidently felt that they would be lonely on that day.
It was snowing steadily, and from her closed window the Mother made a sign of farewell to her son and to Roland, who drove by in the first carriage, and afterwards to Herr Sonnenkamp and Fräulein Perini, who bowed from their carriage: Frau Ceres lay in the corner, closely wrapped up, and did not move.
The Major and Fräulein Milch soon arrived. The Major kept himself under strict military discipline, and allowed no slight indisposition to change his stiff bearing; he was rather hoarse, and could say even less than usual, but he offered the congratulations of the New Year to the ladies with as much cordiality as formality.
"This year," he said, "will complete the fifty years that we have lived together."
He pointed to Fräulein Milch, and his hand said, Not a better creature walks the earth. But his looks said still more, which was not so easily understood.
They had a very cheerful dinner, and Fräulein Milch told them how many pleasant things she had already heard about the valuable presents, in the various houses.
The Major forced himself to master his indisposition, to be fit company for the three ladies; he praised the Professorin for knowing how to make such excellent soup, though she was such a learned lady.
"Yes, yes," he laughed, "I've really had to force Herr Sonnenkamp to have soup at his table. You see, if I had to go a day without soup, I should feel as if I were wearing my boots without stockings; the lower story of the stomach is cold."
They laughed at this comparison, and the Major thus encouraged, continued:—
"Yes, Frau Professorin, you know everything; can you tell me how it is that though this day is just like yesterday, we feel that there's something peculiar about it because it's New Year's Day? I feel as if I'd put on clean clothes for the whole year."
Again there was a general laugh, and the Major chuckled, well pleased; he had done his part, now he could leave the others to themselves.
After dinner, the Professorin insisted that the Major must take his nap; she had had the library warmed on purpose, and the Major was not a little proud that he was to sleep in the arm-chair there.
"Ah," he said, "I can sleep as well as the best Professor; but so many books, so many books! it's frightful to think that a man can read them all! I don't understand how it's possible."
The Major slept the sleep of the righteous; but he would have had no rest if he could have guessed what was passing between the ladies.
Fräulein Milch sat at the window by the Professorin, who listened in astonishment as the simple housekeeper said how strange it was that Eric should have consented to read the harrowing drama of Othello; the Major had been driven almost crazy by it, and, besides, there were so many points in it which could not be touched upon in the family.
"Do you know the play?" asked Frau Dournay.
"Indeed I do," replied Fräulein Milch, her whole face flushing to her very cap-border. Then, to the Professorin's surprise, she went on to remark upon the poet's wonderful stroke of art in placing the young married pair on the island of Cyprus, where strong wine is produced and drunk, not always in moderation; for in that solitude, and under that hot sun, wild, burning passions were fostered, too. The greater the happiness of a fondly loving pair on such an island, the more miserable would they be if any discord rose between them.
The Professorin listened as if a new person were speaking, whom she had never known before; but she said nothing of her thoughts, only asking:—
"Do you think then that the play was unsuitable to have been read there because Herr Sonnenkamp has been a slave-holder?"
"I would rather not say more about it," said Fräulein Milch evasively. "I do not like to talk about the man; it rejoices me,—no, that isn't the right word,—it makes me easier that he scarcely notices me, and seems to think me too insignificant to be looked at. I am not angry with him for it, but rather grateful, because it is not necessary for me to look at him; and friendliness towards him would be hypocrisy."
"But you must not turn me off in that way. Can't you tell me why you thought it unsuitable for being read?"
"I cannot."
Aunt Claudine, thinking she saw that Fräulein Milch had something to tell which was not for her to hear, quietly left the room.
"Now we are quite alone," said the Professorin, "you can tell me every thing. Shall I assure you that I can keep a secret?"
"Oh, I am only sorry that I have gone so far," stammered Fräulein Milch, drawing her cap-strings through her fingers. "It is the first time for fifty years that I have paid a visit, or eaten at a stranger's table; I ought not to have done it; I have not yet gained self-control enough."
Her face quivered, and her brown eyes glowed.
"I thought that you looked on me as a friend," said the Professorin, holding out her hand.
"Yes, so I do," cried Fräulein Milch, seizing the hand with both her own, and pressing it with fervor. "You cannot tell how I thank God for having granted me this before my death; since I devoted myself to him, I have renounced all the world; you are the first—oh, I think you must know all, you need be told nothing."
"I do not know all. What do you know of Herr Sonnenkamp?"
Fräulein Milch hung her head sadly, then put both hands before her face, crying,—
"Why must I tell you?" Then she rose, put her mouth to the Professorin's ear, and whispered something. Frau Dournay threw her head back, and grasped the sewing-machine, which stood before her, with both hands. Not a word was spoken. Outside, all was still, except for the cawing of a flock of crows which were hovering over the Rhine.
"I do not think you would tell me such a thing on a mere rumor," said the Professorin at last. "Go on, and tell me plainly how you learned it."
Fräulein Milch looked round timidly, and answered:—
"I have it from the most trustworthy of men, whose nephew has sent a child here to be educated; he knows the name which Herr Sonnenkamp formerly bore, and all about his past life. But, dear, noble lady, why should not a man be able to take up a different life, a new existence, whatever he may have done?"
"Of that another time," interrupted Frau Dournay; "tell me the name of the man who has told you this."
"So be it then. It was Herr Weidmann."
The Professorin covered her face with her hands. "What are you saying of Herr Weidmann?" asked the Major, entering suddenly. "I can tell you, Frau Professorin, that any one who doesn't know that man, doesn't know one of the best and truest men in the world. He's one of God's masterpieces, and God himself must have satisfaction in him; every day, when He looks down from heaven, he must say: The world isn't yet so bad, for down yonder I have my Weidmann; he is a man—a genuine man. Everything is included in that, there's nothing more to be said."
Both women felt a sense of relief in the entrance of the Major, who now prepared to go home with Fräulein Milch. After they had gone a few steps, the Professorin called Fräulein Milch back, and asked in a whisper,—
"Does the Major know, too?"
"Oh no, he could not bear it. Forgive me for having laid such a burden on you. Believe me that it is not made lighter to me, but heavier."
The guests departed; and soon after, the postman brought a letter from the University-town. Professor Einsiedel, who for twenty years had brought his New Year's greeting to Frau Dournay, did not choose to fail in it to-day; they were cordial and significant words which he wrote, but they seemed to come from a different world. Twice she read the postscript, for there was a greeting for Eric, with the message, that the Professor would soon send him a book on slavery which was announced as just published; and he added the exhortation that Eric should finish his work within the new year.
The Professorin looked thoughtfully at the words. What did it mean? Eric had never spoken to her of any such work. She passed her hand through the air before her brow, as if she would drive away every strange thought. A recollection rose within her. This very morning she had been expressing her sorrow to Aunt Claudine that she could no longer dispense any charity of her own, though it was the duty of every one to give from his own store. What she did seemed nothing; only the gifts seemed of importance. Almost involuntarily, she opened the box in which lay the money that Sonnenkamp had intrusted to her. How could she say in future to those who received it: You must not thank me, but Herr Sonnenkamp.
She collected herself, and went to the library, where she stood gazing out of the window. It seemed as if something were actually gnawing at her heart. In spite of inward reluctance, she had allowed herself to be brought into these relations, and her power of clear and intelligent perception seemed clouded.
Down the river there was a heavy roar, with a sharp cracking sound, as if a new world were opening; the ice had broken up. Great blocks were floating down the stream. They were hurled, against each other, turned over, crushed into fragments, brought together again, and floated on. Every block, large and small, was crowned with a wreath of snow, formed by the icy splinters that were ground to powder and thrown on top by the breaking up; the fragments floated down the river so swiftly that one realized, for the first time, how rapid and strong the current always is.
The sun set in a glowing sky across the Rhine; half aloud, the Professorin said to herself:—
"This first day of the year, which is now declining, has brought me a terrible experience; it must be borne, and turned to some good end."