Agathe had come to quickly remind her brother of duties that she had neglected to take care of, as she had overslept: she held their father’s will in her hands and drew Ulrich’s attention to some clauses that needed immediate attention. In particular, there was a somewhat fuzzy stipulation regarding the old man’s medals, which Franz, the servant, also knew about. Agathe had zealously, if somewhat irreverently, marked this point in the testament with a red pencil. The deceased had wanted to be buried with his medals, of which he possessed quite a few, but since it was not out of vanity that he wanted this done, he had added a long philosophical explanation, of which his daughter had read only the beginning, leaving it to her brother to explain the rest.

“How can I explain it?” Ulrich said, after reading the passage through. “Papa wants to be buried with his medals because he considers the individualist theory of the state to be wrong. He recommends the universalist idea, because it is only through the creative community of the State that man receives a purpose that goes beyond the personal, and with it goodness and justice. By himself the individual is nothing, and that is why the monarch is a spiritual symbol. That, in short, is the reason why a man at the time of his death should wrap himself up in his medals, so to speak, the way a dead sailor is wrapped in the flag before his body is consigned to the sea!”

“But I’ve read that the medals have to be given back,” Agathe said.

“The heirs must return the medals to the Imperial Chamberlain’s Office. That’s why Papa had duplicates made. But evidently he doesn’t feel that the ones he bought at the jeweler’s were authentic enough, so he wants us to leave the originals pinned to his breast and not to replace them with the duplicates until the moment before the coffin is closed: that’s the trouble! Who knows, maybe it’s a silent protest against the regulation that he didn’t want to express in any other way.”

“But by that time a hundred people will be here, there’ll be too much distraction and we could forget!” Agathe said.

“We might as well do it now.”

“There’s no time now; you’d better read the next part, what he writes about Professor Schwung. Professor Schwung may show up at any moment. I was already expecting him yesterday.”

“So we’ll do it after Schwung leaves.”

“It bothers me not to carry out his wish,” Agathe objected.

“He’ll never know it.”

She looked at him doubtfully. “Are you sure about that?”

“Oh?” Ulrich exclaimed, laughing. “Do you doubt it?”

“I’m not sure about anything,” Agathe answered.

“Even if it were not certain—we could never do anything right for him anyway!”

“That’s true,” Agathe said. “So let’s do it later. But tell me one thing now,” she added: “Do you never worry about what’s expected of you?”

Ulrich hesitated. “She has a good dressmaker,” he thought. “I needn’t have worried that she might be provincial.” But because her words were somehow related to the previous evening, he wanted to give an answer that would hold true and be useful to her, but couldn’t think of a way to begin that would prevent any possible misunderstanding, and finally came out with an undesirably juvenile remark: “Not only is our father dead, the ceremonies around him are dead too. His will is dead. The people who show up here are dead. I’m not trying to be mean; God knows how grateful one probably ought to be to those who contribute to the solidity of the earth: but all that is as limestone is to the ocean!” He caught a puzzled glance from his sister and realized how obscurely he was talking. “Society’s virtues are vices to the saint!” he concluded with a laugh.