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?"