He had grown accustomed to think like this himself, and often in his enthusiasm he spoke eloquently and well. The young students were enthusiastic in their applause. He, pleased with himself, nodded his bald head and smiled at them kindly. His little nose shone, and everything went on smoothly.
Dining at a restaurant disagreed with him—like all pessimists he suffered from indigestion—so he got married and ate his dinners at home for twenty-nine years. In between his work—he had not noticed how—he brought up four children. Then he died.
Behind his coffin solemnly walked his three grief-stricken daughters with their young husbands, and his son, a poet, who was in love with all the beautiful women in the world. The students sang: "Eternal Memory." They sang loudly and with animation, but badly. Over his grave his colleagues, the professors, made flowery speeches, referring to the well-ordered metaphysics of the departed; everything was done in correct style; it was solemn, and at times even touching.
"Well, the old man is dead," said a student to his comrades as they were leaving the cemetery.
"He was a pessimist," chimed in another.
A third one asked:
"Is that so?"
"Yes, a pessimist and a conservative." "What, the bald-headed one was? I had not noticed it."
The fourth student was a poor man, and he inquired expectantly:
"Shall we be invited to the obituary feast?"