Then the great bell in the church began to toll with a dull and heavy sound, in keeping with the November day.
"What the devil is that cursed ringing for?" said the cooper, who felt too comfortable in life to enjoy being reminded of death.
"Another funeral," answered the innkeeper. "There is never anything else."
"Why the deuce do people want to have such a fuss made about them after they are dead," said the barber. "Trump that, Master Cooper!"
"So I did," said the cooper, and pocketed the trick in his leather apron.
Down the sloping road which led to the Nicholai Gate, a funeral procession wended its way. There was a simple, roughly planed coffin, thinly coated with black paint so that the knots in the wood showed through. A single wreath of whortleberries lay on the coffin lid. The undertaker's men who carried the bier looked indifferent and almost humiliated because they were carrying a bier without a cover and fringes.
Behind the coffin walked three women—the dead man's mother and her two daughters; they looked crushed with grief. When the funeral reached the gate of the churchyard, the priest met it and shook hands with the mourners; then the service began in the presence of some old women and apprentices who had joined the procession.
"I see now—it is the clerk, Hans Schönschreiber," said the innkeeper, who had gone to the window, from which he could overlook the churchyard.
"And none of his fellow-clerks follow him to the grave," said the cooper. "A bad lot, these clerks!"
"I know the poor fellow," said the barber. "He lived like a church mouse and died of hunger."