Bergman stood before Mrs. Burgess, gazing at her gravely and intently. The more at ease of the two, she sat down on a sofa and, with a gesture of the hand, invited him to take the arm-chair in front of it.
"Frau von Jagerfeld has talked of you a great deal, and very enthusiastically," she said, in a musical, somewhat deep, resonant voice, which thrilled his every nerve like the sound of bells, and as he bowed, she added, smiling mischievously: "And of me to you; I watched you at the table."
"Yes," he answered, "and enthusiastically, also."
"She is a kind friend, I know." A brief pause followed, which she abruptly interrupted. "You are a physician, and in spite of your youth, a famous one—modesty is unnecessary. It is strange—I like physicians, and yet I fear them."
"Why?"
"Yes, why? I like them because they are usually earnest, talented men, who have experienced much, know much, and from whom new and remarkable things can always be learned. I fear them because they have no illusions."
"Perhaps that is not always correct."
"Oh, pardon me; how is a physician to preserve any illusions, when he knows human beings thoroughly, sees that an emotion depends upon the nerve of a tooth, a mood upon the degree of moisture contained in the air, and a character upon the healthy or diseased stomach. You leave your illusions upon your dissecting tables."
"What you say might be true if illusions and experiences came from the same source. But they do not."
"I don’t fully understand. Explain yourself."
"What you call illusions are ideal images and aspirations, which originate in the sphere of our impulses and feelings, not in our sensible reasoning. But the impulses and feelings are more elementary and more deeply rooted, thought comes later and remains more on the surface. We inherit our illusions from the countless generations that have preceded us, our experiences we draw from our individual lives. An individual experience cannot outweigh the illusions of a thousand ancestors, who form a part of our organism. But, pardon me, I have caught myself in the midst of a tutor’s lecture—you see that impulse is stronger than prudence."
"Do you ask pardon for that? What you say is so interesting. I suppose you have a very bad opinion of women, since you do not think them capable of understanding you?"
"I do not generalize. Whatever opinion I might have of women, I should not apply it to you."
"You understand how to pay compliments admirably. You are not commonplace."
He made no reply, but gazed at her with so earnest a look, expressive of such unconscious admiration and worship that she flushed, and with a nervous flutter of her fan rose. Bergmann rose also, bowed, and made a movement to retire. Ada opened her eyes in surprise, and involuntarily a word escaped her lips: "Why----"
"I thought I was wearying you."
She held out her finger-tips, which he pressed so warmly that she hastily withdrew her hand. Going to one of the three large windows in the drawing-room, she opened it and stepped out upon the broad, projecting balcony, which on the second story extended along the whole front of the castle. Leaning against the balustrade, both silently watched for a moment the scene before them. The July night was warm, and the air was stirless. Not a cloud appeared in the blackish-blue sky, the stars were sparkling brightly, and among them, almost at the zenith, sailed the full moon. At their feet lay the park, from which rose faint odours of unknown wild flowers and the more pungent fragrance of dewy grass and leafage. Directly in front of the building extended a lawn, with beds of flowers, on which the moonlight poured a sort of filmy glimmering mist, which gave the green grass and the bright hues of the flower-beds a light, silvery veil. Beyond the lawn, on all sides, towered the trees of the park, intersected by broad paths, through which the moonbeams flowed like a gleaming white stream between steep black banks. At the end of the central avenue appeared the Main, flowing in a broad, calm stream, with here and there a noisy, troubled spot in the midst of its peacefully-gliding waves, where a rock or a sand-bar interrupted the mirror-like expanse, and caused a rushing, foam-sprinkled whirlpool. Beyond the river, amid the light, floating night-mists, were dimly seen the houses of a little village, on whose window-panes a moonbeam often flashed, and at the left of the park rose the indistinct mass of the city of Marktbreit, whose steep, narrow streets were filled with shadows, while above the steeples and higher roofs the moon-rays rippled, bringing them out in bright relief against the dark picture.
PART II.
The spell of this moonlight night mounted to the heads of the two silent watchers on the balcony like an intoxicating draught, and sent cold chills down their spines. Almost without being aware what he was doing, Bergmann offered Ada his arm, which she accepted, leaning against him with a gentle, clinging movement of her whole figure. There they stood, letting their dreamy eyes wander over the woods, the river, and the city. They would have forgotten the castle and the entertainment had not the subdued notes of the dance music reached them from the ball-room, whose windows opened upon the balcony on the opposite side of the facade, filling the night with low harmonies which were continued in the vibrations of their own nerves.
At this moment the clock in the Marktbreit steeple struck twelve, directly after the sound of a night watchman’s horn was heard, and a wailing voice, rising in the sleeping streets of the city, called a few unintelligible words.
"What was that?" Ada whispered.
"The night watchman, according to the custom of the country, called the hour with a verse," replied Bergmann. A few minutes later the call was repeated, this time nearer, and so distinctly that it could be understood. The night watchman, with mournful emphasis, sung:
"Life in your Germany is like a fairy tale," said Ada, after repeating the verse to herself; "everything is so dreamy; so pervaded with poetry."
"Then stay in our Germany, stay with us," he pleaded, softly, his voice expressing far more than his words.
She shook her little head sorrowfully. "I came five years too late."
"Do not say that," replied Bergmann, pressing the bare arm which rested on his closely to his side. "How old are you now?"
It did not occur to her to smile at the question or to answer it, according to the ordinary custom of women, with an affected reply. She said, instead, as simply as a child:
"Twenty-three."
"And at twenty-three would it be too late to seek and strive for happiness in life? When sorrow has been experienced so young, it can surely be regarded as a childish disease and there is nothing to be done except to forget it as quickly as possible."
Ada gazed fixedly into vacancy, saying, as if lost in thought:
"No, no. That is not so. There are injuries which are incurable. The mother of two children is old at twenty-three. Since she can no longer offer a man the full happiness of love, she has no right to expect it from him."