And here Frank falling upon his knees continually embraced his father’s feet, and sobbing piteously, exclaimed “Papa! Papa!”
“Why dost thou clog my feet like a moist clod of earth, when I wish to dance a measure,” said Loyka to Frank, whom he did not recognise. “It is a disgusting habit, and looks as though thou had’st come to me for alms.”
“Papa! Papa!” cried Frank.
“Ah! I know thee now. I recognise thee now. Thou art the ghost of my son Frank, and walkest here in the cemetery. But thou art not Frank. He tramps it with the musicians, whom they chivied from my house—and that pleases me.”
“Papa, it is I,” cried Frank.
“Thou art not he, because thou hast no harp with thee. Look you there is no harp here, so you will not persuade me. But if thou wert a worthy ghost thou would’st lead me to my Frank, I would gladly see him and those musicians with whom he tramps the world, and I would tramp it too.”
“I will lead you home, Papa,” cried Frank.
“Thou shalt not lead me thither; for me, I want no home. But I want to leave home far behind, like my son Frank. I want to tramp it with the musicians, that they may compose a song about it, and may point to me on the market places and say that I am he, I am that old Loyka who dares no more have music in his house, because his son has
