V
The old couple looked at one another and both smiled.
“What a strange person!” said the professor.
“Yes, very strange,” agreed his wife. “He expects far too much from these simple peasants. They can only do what is in their power and give what they are able to give.”
“No, they can’t give more,” said the professor.
They were silent and looked once more at the dancers. At length Professor Roggenfeldt said:
“It’s true they play without any vivacity. And the young people dance very languidly to their music. If you remember, Agnes, we used not to dance like that. The poet is right indeed when he says that the world is growing wiser, but colder.”
Agnes smiled but did not reply. Her delicate youthful-looking face was again suffused with a slight blush.
Presently there came an interval between two dances. The lame conductor talked to the dancers, and a ringing voice was heard:
“A mazurka, a mazurka, please.”
Agnes turned to her husband, and in a strangely agitated way began to speak.
“Edward,” said she, “I used to think, or rather I used to feel, in the same way as this strange gentleman. Yes, in just the same way, and I even more than he. The measured beat of life bored me and I did what he advocates. I made a daring, but a false, note.”
The old professor shook his fine grey head and smiled as he said gently:
“No, Agnes, you have played your part well. Your partner has never been put out of tune through your mistakes.”
But the old lady showed still greater agitation. She nearly wept as she said:
“No, no, Edward, you don’t know. I have been silent for a long time, but today I have resolved to tell you all. And that’s the reason why Doctor Horn hasn’t come.”
And still trembling, and with difficulty keeping back her tears, the old lady began hurriedly to tell the story of what had happened to her so many years before, on one clear and perfumed night of May, when she had deceived her husband and allowed his friend Bernard Horn to make love to her.