received its burden and was screwed down; after which the bearers
placed it upon a bier, and set out. I accompanied the cortege
only to the end of the street. Here the driver broke into a trot,
and the old man started to run behind the hearse--sobbing loudly,
but with the motion of his running ever and anon causing the sobs
to quaver and become broken off. Next he lost his hat, the poor
old fellow, yet would not stop to pick it up, even though the
rain was beating upon his head, and a wind was rising and the
sleet kept stinging and lashing his face. It seemed as though he
were impervious to the cruel elements as he ran from one side of
the hearse to the other--the skirts of his old greatcoat flapping
about him like a pair of wings. From every pocket of the garment
protruded books, while in his hand he carried a specially large
volume, which he hugged closely to his breast. The passers-by
uncovered their heads and crossed themselves as the cortege
passed, and some of them, having done so, remained staring in
amazement at the poor old man. Every now and then a book would
slip from one of his pockets and fall into the mud; whereupon
somebody, stopping him, would direct his attention to his loss,
and he would stop, pick up the book, and again set off in pursuit
of the hearse. At the corner of the street he was joined by a
ragged old woman; until at length the hearse turned a corner, and
became hidden from my eyes. Then I went home, and threw myself,
in a transport of grief, upon my mother's breast--clasping her in
my arms, kissing her amid a storm of sobs and tears, and clinging
to her form as though in my embraces I were holding my last
friend on earth, that I might preserve her from death. Yet
already death was standing over her....

June 11th