never winked, his lips appeared as though they could not open. One would have thought that the music of his old friends would have stimulated him to mirth or tumultuous grief. But it was not so. Excitement seemed to hold the spiritual part of him in equipoise—and he was completely tranquil through it all.
Frank stood the whole time by the side of his father, who was seated. Old Loyka held him round the waist with one hand, and with the other stroked his face and head. And this he did the whole time without speaking or making any other movement. Only Bartos had straitly charged the musicians in no way to recall his thoughts to his home.
When it seemed to Loyka that they had played long enough, he rose and said to the musicians very gravely “I thank you, comrades, and as far as in me lies, I will requite you. But go not to our son’s farmstead, there I will never dwell again. I have determined to make a home just as the whim seizes me. Here I can invite you to me at any time. Here the people are good and honest, and no one says “No! act differently.” I have been too long at home, you know,—on the farm, ’tis seldom I have quitted it, and so this has come to me that I must quit it, I must look about me and go a little into the world to learn how the world wags elsewhere.”
And more he said to the same effect. On this he departed from the village with Frank, the musicians
