This grandfather had raised the family from poverty to
forehanded circumstances; true, a part of his citizen-honor had
been lost, but forward he had pushed, nevertheless. His faults
were those of his time; they were to be found on the uncertain
borders of the moral conceptions of that period, and are of no
consideration now. Honor to him in his grave, for he suffered and
worked; peace to his ashes. It is good to rest at last. But he
could get no rest because of his grandson's great ambition. He was
thrown up with stone and gravel. Pshaw! very likely he would only
smile that his grandson's work passed above his head.
With such thoughts he had undressed and gone to bed. Again his
grandfather's image glided forth. What did he wish. Surely he
ought to be satisfied now, with the family's honor sounding forth
above his grave; who else had such a monument? But yet, what mean
these two great eyes of fire? This hissing, roaring, is no longer
the locomotive, for see! it comes from the churchyard directly
toward the house: an immense procession! The eyes of fire are his
grandfather's, and the train behind are all the dead. It advances
continually toward the house, roaring, crackling, flashing. The
windows burn in the reflection of dead men's eyes ... he made a
mighty effort to collect himself, "For it was a dream, of course,
only a dream; but let me waken! ... See: now I am awake; come,
ghosts!"
And behold: they really come from the churchyard, overthrowing
road, rails, locomotive and train with such violence that they
sink in the ground; and then all is still there, covered with sod
and crosses as before.
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