Otto stared at the black coffin in which his grandfather lay. The carriage drove away with it. Otto followed after with the preacher, heard him throw earth upon it, heard words which he did not comprehend, saw the last corner of the coffin, and it was then removed from his sight. All was as a dream to him.
They returned back to the preacher’s abode; a pale figure approached him: it was Rosalie—old Rosalie.
“We have here no abiding-place, we all hasten toward futurity!” said the old preacher. “Strengthen yourself now with meat and drink! The body cannot suffer like the soul. We have accompanied him to His sleeping chamber; his bed was well prepared! I have prayed the evening prayer; he sleeps in God, and will awaken to behold His glory. Amen!”
“Otto! thou dear Otto!” said Rosalie. “The bitterest day brings me this joy! How have I thought of thee! Amongst strangers shouldst thou receive the tidings of his death! with no one who could feel for thy sorrow! where thou shouldst see no eye weep for what thou hast lost! Now thou art here! now, when I believed thee so far distant—it is a miracle! Thou couldst only have received the letter to-day which carried the intelligence of thy grandfather’s death to thee!”
“I wished to surprise you,” said Otto. “A melancholy surprise awaited me!”
“Sit down, my child!” said the preacher, and drew him toward the covered table. “When the tree falls which gave us shade and fruit, from which we, in our own little garden, have planted shoots and sown seeds, we may well look on with sadness and feel our loss: but we must not forget our own garden, must not forget to cherish that which we have won from the fallen tree: we must not cease to live for the living! I miss, like you, the proud tree, which rejoiced my soul and my heart, but I know that it is planted in a better garden, where Christ is the gardener.”
The preacher’s invitation to remain with him, during his stay, in his house, Otto declined. Already this first night he wished to establish himself in his own little chamber in the house of mourning. Rosalie also would return.
“We have a deal to say to each other,” said the old preacher, and laid his hand upon Otto’s shoulder. “Next summer you will hardly press my hand, it will be pressed by the turf.”
“To-morrow I will come to you,” said Otto, and drove back with the old Rosalie to the house.
The domestics kissed the hand and coat of the young master—he wished to prevent this; the old woman wept. Otto stepped into the room; here had stood the corpse, on account of which the furniture had been removed, and the void was all the more affecting. The long white mourning curtains fluttered in tire wind before the open window. Rosalie led him by the hand into the little sleeping-room where the grandfather had died. Here everything yet stood as formerly—the large book case, with the glass doors, behind which the intellectual treasure was preserved: Wieland and Fielding, Millot’s “History of the World,” and Von der Hagen’s “Narrenbuch,” occupied the principal place: these books had been those most read by the old gentleman. Here was also Otto’s earliest intellectual food, Albertus Julius, the English “Spectator,” and Evald’s writings. Upon the wall hung pikes and pistols, and a large old sabre, which the grandfather had once worn. Upon the table beneath the mirror stood an hour-glass; the sand had run out. Rosalie pointed toward the bed. “There he died,” said she, “between six and seven o’clock in the evening. He was only ill three days; the two last he passed in delirium: he raised himself in bed, and shook the bed posts; I was obliged to let two strong men watch beside him. ‘To horse! to horse!’ said he; ‘the cannons forward!’ His brain dreamed of war and battles. He also spoke of your blessed father severely and bitterly! Every word was like the stab of a knife; he was as severe toward him as ever!”