s whether they had
been drawn to each other from very oppositeness of disposition and
character. That they were very great friends I could not doubt; that the
leadership was on Courvoisier's side was no less evident. Eugen's
affection for Helfen seemed to have something fatherly in it, while I
could see that both joined in an absorbing worship of the boy, who was a
very Croesus in love if in nothing else. Sigmund had, too, an adorer
in a third musician, a violoncellist, one of their comrades, who
apparently spent much of his spare substance in purchasing presents of
toys and books and other offerings, which he laid at the shrine of St.
Sigmund, with what success I could not tell. Beyond this young fellow,
Karl Linders, they had not many visitors. Young men used occasionally to
appear with violin-cases in their hands, coming for lessons, probably.

All these things I saw without absolutely watching for them; they made
that impression upon me which the most trifling facts connected with a
person around whom cling all one's deepest pleasures and deepest pains
ever do and must make. I was glad to know them, but at the same time
they impressed the loneliness and aloofness of my own life more
decidedly upon me.

I remember one small incident which at the time it happened struck home
to me. My windows were open; it was an October afternoon, mild and
sunny. The yellow light shone with a peaceful warmth upon the afternoon
quietness of the street. Suddenly that quietness was broken. The sound
of music, the peculiar blatant noise of trumpets smote the air. It came
nearer, and with it the measured tramp of feet. I rose and went to look
out. A Hussar regiment was passing; before them was borne a soldier's
coffin; they carried a comrade to his grave. The music they played was
the "Funeral March for the Death of a Hero," from the "Sinfonia Eroica."
Muffled, slow, grand and mournful, it went wailing and throbbing by. The
procession passed slowly on in the October sunshine, along the
Schadowstrasse, turning off by the Hofgarten, and so on to the cemetery.
I leaned out of the window and looked after it--forgetting all outside,
till just as the last of the procession passed by my eyes fell upon
Courvoisier going into his house, and who presently entered the room. He
was unperceived by Friedhelm and Sigmund, who were looking after the
procession. The child's face was earnest, almost solemn--he had not seen
his father come up. I saw Helfen