came the
parents. The man moved his lips incessantly, as if in devout prayer, yet
looked constantly about him in both directions. The woman was eagerly
reading in her prayer-book, but the two children caused her some
trouble. At one time she pushed them ahead, at another she held them
back; in fact the general order of the funeral procession seemed to
worry her considerably. But she always returned to her prayer-book. In
this way the procession arrived at the cemetery. The grave was open. The
children threw down the first handful of earth, being followed by their
father, who remained standing while their mother knelt, holding her book
close to her eyes. The grave-diggers completed their business, and the
procession, half disbanded, returned. At the door there was a slight
altercation, as the wife evidently considered some charge of the
undertaker too high. The mourners scattered in all directions. The old
musician was buried.

A few days later--it was a Sunday--I was impelled by psychological
curiosity and went to the house of the butcher, under the pretext that I
wished to secure the violin of the old man as a keepsake. I found the
family together, showing no token of recent distress. But the violin was
hanging beside the mirror and a crucifix on the opposite wall, the
objects being arranged symmetrically. When I explained the object of my
visit and offered a comparatively high price for the instrument, the man
didn't seem averse to concluding a profitable bargain. The woman,
however, jumped up from her chair and said, "Well, I should say not. The
violin belongs to James, and a few gulden more or less make no
difference to us." With that she took the instrument from the wall,
looked at it from all sides, blew off the dust, and laid it in the
drawer, which she thereupon closed violently, looking as though she
feared some one would steal it. Her face was turned away from me, so
that I couldn't see what emotions were passing over it. At this moment
the maid brought in the soup, and as the butcher, who didn't allow my
visit to disturb him, began in a loud voice to say grace, in which the
children joined with their shrill voices, I wished them a good appetite
and left the room. My last glance fell upon the wife. She had turned
around and the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

* * * * *

MY JOURNEY TO WEIMAR[64]

TRANSLATED BY ALFRED REMY, A.M.

Professor of Modern Languages. Br