SONNENSTICH--[_Throws a shovelful of mud into the grave._] Self-murder as the most serious conceivable offense against the moral order of the world is the most perfect conceivable demonstration =of= the moral order of the world, in that the suicide relieves the moral order of the world from passing judgment upon him, and establishes its existence. [_He passes the shovel to_ PROFESSOR KNOCHENBRUCH.] PROF. KNOCHENBRUCH--[_Throws a shovelful of mud into the grave._] Defective--depraved--delinquent--decayed--and detrited! [_He walks around the grave and hands the shovel to_ UNCLE PROBST.] UNCLE PROBST--[_Throws a shovelful of mud into the grave._] Not from my very mother would I have believed a child could act so basely toward his parents! [_Hands the shovel to_ ZIEGENMELKER.] ZIEGENMELKER--[_Throws a shovelful of mud into the grave._] Toward a father who for twenty years now has had no thought, early or late, but for his child’s welfare! [_Puts the shovel back against the wall._] PASTOR KAHLBAUCH--[_Pressing_ MR. STIEFEL’S _hand_.] We know that for them that love God all things work together for good. 1 Corinth. 12, 15.--Think of the sorrowing mother, and strive by redoubled love to make up to her for her loss. [_He squeezes out past the Professors and boys._] SONNENSTICH--[_Pressing_ MR. STIEFEL’S _hand_.] We would probably not have been able to promote him, anyway. [STIEFEL _passes him_.] KNOCHENBRUCH--[_Pressing_ MR. STIEFEL’S _hand_.] And if we had promoted him, next spring he would most assuredly have failed to pass. UNCLE PROBST--[_Coming round in front and pressing_ STIEFEL’S _hand_.] Now your first duty is to think of yourself. You’re the father of a family!... ZIEGENMELKER--[_Doing likewise._] Rely on me. I’ll steer you!--Beastly weather! enough to make one’s guts crawl. Whoever doesn’t get after that right away with a stiff drink ’ll be taken off with heart-failure! [_Leads him toward_ PASTOR KAHLBAUCH.] MR. STIEFEL--[_Blowing his nose._] The boy was none of mine.... The boy was none of mine.... [KAHLBAUCH _takes his other arm. All the men pass off.--The rain lets up._ HANSY RILOW _slips in behind the grave_.] HANSY RILOW--[_Throwing in a shovelful of mud._] Rest in peace, old fellow!--Greet my immortal brides from me, immolated memories; and commend me most humbly to the dear Lord’s mercy--poor dumbbell you!--They’ll put up a scarecrow on your grave here yet, in memory of your angel simpleness.... GEORGE--Has the pistol been found? ROBERT--No one need hunt for a pistol! ERNEST--Did you see him, Robert? ROBERT--A God-damned swindle, I call it.--Who did see him?--Who! OTTO--Yeah, that’s the sore point!--They’d thrown a cloth over him. GEORGE--Was his tongue hanging out? ROBERT--His eyes!--That’s why they’d thrown the cloth over. OTTO--[_Shuddering._] Grrr! HANSY--Do you know for sure that he hanged himself? ERNEST--I’ve heard that his whole head was gone. OTTO--Nonsense! Rot!