Too Much Happiness

Prize.

V
    She left Berlin in the early afternoon, shortly after having said that last sad but relieved good-bye to Weierstrass. The train was old and slow, but clean and well heated, as you would expect any German train to be.
    About halfway in the journey the man across from her opened up his newspaper, offering her any section she might like to read.
    She thanked him, and refused.
    He nodded towards the window, at the fine driving snow.
    “Ah well,” he said. “What can one expect?”
    “What indeed,” said Sophia.
    “You are going beyond Rostock?”
    He might have noted an accent that was not German. She did not mind his speaking to her or coming to such a conclusion about her. He was a good deal younger than she, decently dressed, slightly deferential. She had a feeling that he was someone she had met or seen before. But this did happen when you were travelling.
    “To Copenhagen,” she said. “And then to Stockholm. For me the snow will only get thicker.”
    “I will be leaving you at Rostock,” he said, perhaps to reassure her that she was not letting herself in for a long conversation. “Are you satisfied with Stockholm?”
    “I detest Stockholm at this time of year. I hate it.”
    She was surprised at herself. But he smiled delightedly and began to speak in Russian.
    “Excuse me,” he said. “I was right. Now it is I who speak like a foreigner to you. But I studied in Russia at one time. In Petersburg.”
    “You recognized my accent as Russian?”
    “Not surely. Until you said what you did about Stockholm.”
    “Do all Russians hate Stockholm?”
    “No. No. But they say they hate. They hate. They love.”
    “I should not have said it. The Swedes have been very good to me. They teach you things-”
    At this point he shook his head, laughing.
    “Really,” she said. “They have taught me to skate-”
    “Assuredly. You did not learn to skate in Russia?”
    “They are not so-so insistent about teaching you things as the Swedes are.”
    “Nor on Bornholm,” he said. “I live now on Bornholm. The Danes are not so-insistent, that is the word. But of course on Bornholm we are not even Danes. We say we are not.”
    He was a doctor, on the island of Bornholm. She wondered if it would be entirely out of line to ask him to look at her throat, which was now very sore. She decided that it would be.
    He said that he had a long and probably a rough ferry ride ahead of him, after they had crossed the Danish border.
    People on Bornholm did not think of themselves as Danes, he said, because they thought of themselves as Vikings taken over by the Hanseatic League in the sixteenth century. They had a fierce history, they took captives. Had she ever heard of the wicked Earl of Bothwell? Some people say he died on Bornholm, though the people of Zealand say he died there.
    “He murdered the husband of the queen of Scotland and married her himself. But he died in chains. He died insane.”
    “Mary Queen of Scots,” she said. “So I have heard.” And indeed she had, for the Scottish queen had been one of Aniuta’s early heroines.
    “Oh, forgive me. I am chattering.”
    “Forgive you?” said Sophia. “What have I to forgive you for?”
    He flushed. He said, “I know who you are.”
    He had not known in the beginning, he said. But when she spoke in Russian, he was sure.
    “You are the female professor. I have read about you in a journal. There was a photograph as well, but you looked much older in it than you do. I am sorry to intrude on you but I could not help myself.”
    “I looked quite stern in the photograph because I think people will not trust me if I smile,” said Sophia. “Is it not something the same for physicians?”
    “It may be. I am not accustomed to being photographed.”
    Now there was a slight constraint between them; it was up to her to put him at ease. It had been better before he told her. She returned to the subject of Bornholm. It was bold and rugged, he said, not gentle and rolling like Denmark. People came there for the scenery and the clear air. If she should ever wish to come he would be honored to show her around.
    “There is the most rare blue rock there,” he said. “It is called blue marble. It is broken up and polished for ladies to wear around the neck. If you would ever like to have one-”
    He was talking foolishly because there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t. She could see that.
    They were approaching Rostock. He was becoming more and more