Then Lotte’s parents came — Gurdweill recognised her mother — with a few other men and women carrying wreaths of white flowers. They stood not far from the three friends, keeping their eyes on the ground as if they were ashamed to look at each other. No one spoke. Her mother kept wiping her eyes, and from time to time her body was convulsed with silent sobs, while a middle-aged man with a grey moustache speechlessly stroked her arm, which was linked in his. ‘That’s her father!’ said Gurdweill matter-of-factly to himself. ‘There’s a certain resemblance in the features …’ But only a small part of him was occupied with these trivialities, while the rest of him was not there at all. ‘It’s going on for a long time’ — he went on with his reflections — ‘they should hurry it up a little.’ When the coffin was brought in, the poor mother fell on it with a strangled cry of ‘Lotte! Lotte!’ which sounded more like a plea than a lament. Dr Astel and Ulrich, too, approached the coffin. Only Gurdweill did not move. ‘There must be a special room here where they preserve them’ — someone inside him reflected — ‘the question is whether it’s really necessary to preserve them at all … that’s the question! … In my opinion there’s no need to preserve them at all …’ Suddenly he turned to face the wall, leaned his head against it. He went on standing there, and from time to time a shudder ran down his back, as if he were feeling cold. The cantor raised his voice in song again and the choir responded. The singing reached his ears from a vast distance. He did not turn his head. This singing had some kind of connection to Gurdweill, but he could not say what it was. Some time ago a cantor had been singing too — but where? Oh, yes! It was in Seitenstettengasse, when he got married and his collar was as stiff as armour. And now, why was he singing now? Lotte’s mother was crying — how strange. Women always liked crying when the cantor sang … He himself didn’t find it sad in the least. And why didn’t Lotte introduce him to her father? He wasn’t wearing that funny shirt now, and there was no reason to be ashamed of him … It was only thoughtlessness on her part, not nastiness; Lotte wasn’t nasty … But the cantor had suddenly stopped singing — what was wrong with him now?