SYMPOSIUM.
Paul had hardly returned from his wedding trip to Paris when he
surprised his friends by a series of quite unexpected business
engagements. He gave up his post as lecturer, in spite of the fact that
the appointment as professor for the next six months depended on it; he
left his young wife for three weeks, during which nothing was heard of
him, except an occasional letter bearing the postmarks of Hamburg,
Altona, or Harburg, then he appeared again, and told Malvine that they
were to remove from Berlin, to spend in future a portion of the year in
Hamburg, but to live chiefly on some property near Harburg. He had
decided to leave his academic profession and become a practical
landowner, and accordingly had taken a large leasehold estate. He gave
Wilhelm and Schrotter further particulars of his plans. The place he
had bought was hardly to be called an estate, but a wild desert bit of
moorland called "Friesenmoor," growing only a kind of marsh grass. This
piece of land, from which nothing but peat could be obtained, was
worthless, and he had bought it for a few thalers. After many years of
study on the subject, and without saying a word to any living soul,
Paul had come to the conclusion that this arid moor could be made into
rich arable land by proper cultivation, and seeing money was to be made
out of this possession, he decided without loss of time to put his
theories into practice. There was always the risk that he might lose
his money, but he had great confidence in his science, and "nothing
venture, nothing have." He considered it quite unnecessary to explain
everything about his speculation to Malvine and the old lady. He knew,
too, that merely the word "speculation" would frighten them to death.
The separation from Malvine dissolved her grandmother and mother into
sighs and tears, but during the short time that they had known Paul,
his quiet, determined character had made such an impression on the two
women that they submitted without a word to whatever he arranged. Frau
Brohl packed up several boxes for her granddaughter, filled with the
work of her hands, gave her various recipes for preserving fruits and
for fish sauces, and let her go. She withstood bravely the temptation
to fill up the empty room with the overflow furniture from the
drawing-room, and spoke on the contrary of leaving the room free, so
that the young couple might make it their headquarters when they came
to Berlin. Paul hypocritically invited Frau Brohl and Frau Marker to
come and live on his estate--he did not even fear two mothers-in-law.
Grandmother and mother, though pleased with his attachment for them,
declined with thanks. The cunning dog had reckoned on that refusal. He
would have been in a terrible dilemma had they accepted. He would then
have had to reveal the whole truth, and tell them that his so-called
"property" was a mere swamp, where there was no place for one's feet to
tread unless clad in waterproof boots; hardly a fit place for
townspeople, accustomed to comfort. Before the changes on the
Friesenmoor could be brought about one fell into pools, one's feet got
fast in boggy earth, and the only inhabitants at present were
waterfowl, frogs and toads. He did not even take Malvine to his
property but lived in Hamburg, going to Harburg every morning and
returning in the evening.
In a short time the neighborhood between the Seeve and the Suderelbe
wore a different appearance. Hundreds of laborers were to be seen on
the moor, which hitherto had reflected only the sky in its silent
pools. Dams were thrown up, trenches dug, a dwelling house was raised
on piles, numbers of business offices, and quite a village for workmen,
all mounted and secure on piles of wood, stakes, and stone foundations.
Flatboats floated on the pools, the houses were roofed in, windmills
flapped their sails, and Paul, who had ordered and built everything,
came every day to see how the workmen were getting on. In the autumn he
took Malvine for the first time to Harburg, and leaving the carriage at
the office brought her by boat to the border of the Friesenmoor, to
show her the picture all at once. The men stood on each side of the new
house with their shovels and pickaxes, and greeted the young wife with
such a hearty cheer that her eyes filled with tears. The broad flat
surface of the marsh was now arranged in regular lines where the water
was being drawn off, all so well superintended and orderly, that
Malvine could not help thinking of a chessboard. The windmill moved its
long restless arms, as if to welcome her as mistress here; the
one-storied dwelling house, raised on stone steps, lay there hospitably
built on a raised terrace, with its number of large well-lighted rooms
opening a vista of peace and happiness to Malvine, and she thought it
all so delightful that she would have liked to send for her furniture
from Hamburg and stay there. Paul, however, reflected what danger there
might be to her in her condition to stay through the winter in a house
not yet dry, and so she gave in to his wishes.
At the end of March a telegram from Hamburg announced the birth of a
fine boy, to whom Wilhelm was to stand godfather. He was to be named
Paul Wilhelm, and to be known by the latter name. When the warm weather
came, Paul and his family were to go to the moor, and during the
removal Malvine went with her mother and grandmother, who had both
nursed her tenderly, to Berlin for a visit. Paul went through a great
deal of worry and anxiety this summer. He had everything at stake in
waiting for the results of his undertaking. All his money was in the
buildings, the earth-works, and waterworks; if the barren swamp did not
yield twice the sum intrusted to it he was a ruined man. But as July
drew near, and Paul looked at the thick standing ears of barley and
wheat, he felt the weight of his anxiety lifted, and in August he
proclaimed in letters to his friends that the battle was won, the
harvest more abundant than he had dared to hope for, and the remaining
half-year would complete the transformation of the worthless moorland
into a veritable Australian gold mine. He regarded his property now
with a parental tenderness, as if it were some living being whom he had
trained and educated. The first harvest had given him experience, and
opportunity for new work, and he stayed through the autumn and winter
in his house in the midst of his workmen, whom he felt inclined to
canonize. The men now formed a little colony with their wives and
children, and Paul was as happy as possible within the limited boundary
of his horizon, between the Suderelbe and the Seeve.
These two years had been outwardly uneventful for Wilhelm. In the
mornings he worked in the Physical Institute, in the afternoons he
worked at home, in the evenings he gossiped with Schrotter--a journey
to Hamburg and a fortnight's visit to the house on the Friesenmoor had
given him change. Paul came pretty often to Berlin, and found in the
society of his old friends the enjoyment of his early years renewed,
and Wilhelm with his girlish face, his enthusiastic eyes, and his
unworldly manner did not seem a year older. The professor of physics,
who had frequently been invited to go abroad to direct the teaching in
other European and foreign schools, asked Wilhelm to go with him to
Turkey, Japan, and Chili--as professor. He had the highest opinion of
Wilhelm, and deeply regretted that his misadventure with Herr von
Pechlar made an appointment in Germany impossible. Wilhelm, however,
declined, on the ground that he did not feel an aptitude for teaching,
only for learning.
He had scarcely any intercourse now with Barinskoi, whose immoral views
at last became unbearable; he rarely saw him except when he came to
borrow money. Of late a new acquaintance had come into his limited
social circle. This was a man of about thirty-five, called Dorfling, an
overgrown thin creature, with long, straight gray hair, and deep
intellectual eyes in his thin face. He came from the Rhine, and was the
son of a rich merchant, into whose business he should have gone.
However, when he was twenty-six he boldly told his father that the
world outside was of deeper and wider interest to him than account
books. The father died, and Dorfling hastened to put the business into
liquidation, and devote himself to philosophical studies. For a year he
drifted from one school to another, sitting at the feet of the most
celebrated teachers and plunging himself into their systems. In the
autumn of 1872 he appeared suddenly in Berlin, and renewed his old
acquaintance with Wilhelm. Since then he had become a frequent guest at
Dr. Schrotter's dinner table, and a companion to Wilhelm, in his
afternoon walks.
Dorfling was the most wonderful listener that any one could wish to
have, though he himself was rather silent. If the talk turned on great
questions of knowledge, morality, the object of life, Dorfling's share
in the conversation consisted in the following half-audible remark:
"Yes, it is a powerful and interesting subject. I have just been
working at it, and you will find my opinions in my book." If he were
asked to give his opinions now, or at least to indicate them, he shook
his head and gently said, "I am not good at extempore speaking. My
thoughts only come out clearly when I have a pen in my hand." Not a day
passed by without an allusion to "the book," to which he devoted his
nights, and of which he always spoke, with emotion in his voice, as the
work of his life.
It was impossible to get more information out of him, either about its
title, scope, or contents. It was a philosophic work, no doubt, as he
always said on speaking of such subjects, "I have mentioned that in my
book." But that was all that could be got out of him. Schrotter and
Wilhelm were too good to tease him much about it, though the former,
with a suspicion of a smile, would say that he hoped this and that
would have a place in the book, so that one might at least know his
opinion on it. Paul, who always saw him when he came to Berlin, used to
ask whether the book was not yet ready. Dorfling gave no answer, but
his pale face grew paler, and an expression of pain came to his eyes.
Barinskoi, who now sponged on Dorfling just as he had previously done
on Wilhelm, giving them in fact turn and turn about, had the bad taste
to make jokes continually about the book, at one time calling it the
Holy Grail, another time comparing it to the diamond country of
Sindbad's tale, and in a hundred ways making vulgar and sceptical
jokes. On one of his outbreaks of dissipation he had disappeared far
longer than usual, and on his return he looked more miserable than
ever. Dorfling made some kindly inquiries, and learned that he was
recovering from an attack of inflammation of the lungs, and Barinskoi,
by way of showing gratitude, remarked, "The doctors gave me up, but I
held out, as I do not mean to die until I have read your book."
Dorfling, with a contemptuous look, turned his back on him.
One day, soon after the Easter of 1874, Dorfling brought his friends a
great piece of news. The book was ready, it was even in the press, and
would be published in a few days by a large firm, but he wanted to
present them with copies before the book appeared at the shops. He
therefore invited them to a little festival to celebrate the occasion.
He had been thinking over the book for seventeen years, had been eight
years in writing it, and as it had taken such an important place in his
life, he must be pardoned a little vanity about it now. Paul had a
written invitation sent him, and he thought the occasion was
sufficiently important to come to Berlin on purpose.
On the appointed evening they all met at eight o'clock at Borchardt's
in the Franzbsischen Strasse. A dignified waiter, who in appearance and
manner looked more like an ambassador, received the guests, and took
them into a private room on the left side of the large room above the
ground floor. This little room was all lined with red like a jewel
case, thick red portieres were over the doors, and the amount of gas
with which it was lighted made it rather warmer than was comfortable. A
large table with divans on three sides of it nearly filled the room; it
was beautifully decorated and covered with flowers. Numerous
wineglasses were placed before each guest, and champagne was cooling in
an ice-bucket near the door.
Dorfling was there, and received his guests as the waiter lifted the
heavy portiere. He was in evening dress, and his slightly flushed face
beamed with pleasure. His friends regretted keenly that they had come
in ordinary morning clothes, and expressed their apologies. He
interrupted them, saying they must overlook one of his little whims and
not say anything more about it.
Then they sat down to table, impressed by his charming manner. Dorfling
put Schrotter on his right hand, and Wilhelm and Paul on his left; near
Schrotter was Barinskoi and a friend of Dorfling's, named Mayboorn.
This man was, like Dorfling, a Rhinelander, he combined a successful
career as a writer of comic verses with a confirmed pessimism. When he
had written one of his merriest couplets, he would stop his work and
sigh with Dorfling over the tragedy of life. The papers treated his
farces as rubbish, but the public adored them. The earnest critic would
hardly touch his name with a pair of tongs, but the theatre managers
fought for possession of his work. He had a beautiful wife who
worshiped him, two wonderful children, and the appearance and bearing
of Timon of Athens.
At Dorfling's summons two waiters came in; one of them put a large dish
of oysters on the table, while the other placed a thick octavo volume
before each guest.
"The last of the season," cried Barinskoi gayly, and helped himself to
oysters.
"The book! Bravo!" said Paul, and held out his hand to Dorfling.
There was a short silence, while they all, even the cynical Barinskoi,
contemplated the book before them, On the pearl-gray cover they read;
"The Philosophy of Deliverance, by X. Rheinthaler."
"What an expressive title," said Wilhelm, breaking the silence first.
"Admirably adapted for a comic song," remarked Mayboom, with a
melancholy air. Barinskoi laughed loudly, while Dorfling looked blandly
at him. The comic poet sighed deeply and began to eat.
"But why Rheinthaler?" asked Paul.
"I at first wanted the book to appear anonymously; but the public is
accustomed now to see a proper name on the title page. If it does not
find one, its curiosity is excited, and what I particularly wished to
avoid comes to pass, namely, the diversion of attention from the
essential to the unessential."
"That does not explain why you have not put your own name to it," said
Paul.
"My own name? What for? What is a name? What is an individuality, which
a name symbolizes? The thoughts which I have put down in this book are
not from me, the transient accident called Dorfling, but from the
absolute everlasting thing which thinks in my brain. I am merely the
carrier of the truth, appointed by it. What would you say if a postman
put his name on all the letters he delivers?"
"I should not be capable of such self-effacement," said Paul. "If I had
devoted the best years of my life to any work I should be unable to
renounce the recognition I had earned."
"Recognition, Herr Haber. What sort of word is that? One does what one
does, not because one wills, but because one must; not on account of an
operation aimed at, but because of a compelling cause. He who reckons
on any kind of reward for his works is on the same footing as a silly
woman who claims men's approbation because she is pretty or an
unreasoning child, who wants to be praised and petted because he has
eaten his dinner. A mature perception arrives at this idea of the duty
which one must fulfill, and in no hope of the gratification of
individual vanity or self-seeking. Recognition! Does the wind hope for
recognition from the ships it helps to sail? Is it blamed if it dashes
the ship to pieces? It blows, as it must, and is perfectly indifferent
about what men say, and as to its effect on trees, and chimney-pots,
and ships. My brain is now thinking just as the wind blows. There is no
difference between my organism and what goes on in the atmosphere. Both
obey the laws of nature, and I merely fulfill these when I write a
book."
"I quite agree with you," said Wilhelm.
The oysters had been eaten, and some wonderful Markobrunner drunk. The
waiter now brought some Printaniere soup. The conversation halted, as
everyone had involuntarily opened his copy of the book, some of them
perhaps really curious to read, the others out of sympathy for the
writer.
"Please don't read it now," said Dorfling, "the book will be just the
same to-morrow, but the soup will be cold."
"That is the remark of a philosopher," said Barinskoi, and poked his
pointed red nose in the savory steam from his soup.
"It is difficult to tear oneself away," said Schrotter; "it would be
very friendly of you to give an idea of the thoughts at the foundation
of your thesis."
"How could I explain a whole system intelligibly in a few words?" said
Dorfling.
"You could leave out all the proofs and the development, we can read
those presently in your book. You need only just give us the main ideas
of your 'Philosophy of Deliverance.'"
All the guests joined in Schrotter's request, Paul the most eagerly,
for the idea of having to read through that thick, dry book had
frightened him, and now he saw the possibility of knowing its contents
in an agreeable and comfortable way.
Dorfling objected at first, but as his friends insisted he began.
"The phenomenal world, in my opinion, is the foundation of a single
spiritual principle which you can call what you like--strength, final
cause, will, consciousness, God. This eternal principle separates part
of itself from its own being--and this is the soul of mankind. Every
soul perceives clearly that it is a part of an eternal whole; it feels
itself unhappy and uneasy in its fragmentary existence, and yearns to
go back again to the whole from whence it came. Individual life means
removal from that all-embracing whole; individual death is the complete
union of finite parts with the infinite whole. Thus, although life is a
necessity, it is a continual pain, and ceaseless yearning; death is the
freedom from pain and the fulfillment of that yearning. The only aim of
life is death at the end of it, and death is the goal toward which
every activity of the living organism eagerly strives."
Paul looked at Wilhelm and Schrotter, but as they were silent he said
nothing. Schrotter after consideration, said:
"Why do you separate a part of the eternal principle from itself?"
"To make its unity manifold through divisibility, to arrive at the
consciousness of the 'ego,' through the creation of an absolute
negation."
"Your eternal principle then," said Schrotter, "appears to you like
some lord or master, who is lonely because he is by himself in the
world, and wishes to have the society of others."
"Over this, however, is placed the creation of the negation arriving at
the consciousness of its own 'ego,' in addition to the knowledge of the
object it has in view; thus consciousness precedes the rest," said
Wilhelm.
Dorfling shook his head.
"These objections are close reasoning. You will find them answered in
the book."
"You are right," said Schrotter, "it is unfair to criticize before we
have read the book. I only want to make one remark, not in the sense of
criticism, but rather to confirm a fact. Your "Philosophy of
Deliverance" is no other than a form of Christianity which looks upon
the earth as a vale of tears, on life as a banishment, and on death as
going home to the Father's house. The theology of the Vatican would not
find a hitch in your system."
"Forgive me, doctor," answered Dorfling. "I see a great difference
between my system and Christianity. Both of them hold that life is a
misery, and death is the deliverance. But Christianity does not explain
why God creates men, and sends them to the misery of earth, instead of
leaving them in peace in heaven. I, on the contrary, claim that I
explain the creation of living and conscious beings."
"Your assertion then means that the eternal principle of phenomena
creates organisms, with the object of arriving at the consciousness of
itself?"
"Exactly."
"Now, we have already answered you as to that," said Schrotter, "and I
will not keep back my objection any longer. Let me get away for a
moment from your system, and say that between metaphysics and theology
I do not see the least difference. A metaphysical system and a
religious dogma are both attempts to explain the incomprehensible
secret to human reason. The negro solves the riddle of the musical-box,
believing that a spirit is inside it, which gives forth musical sounds
at the white man's command; and that is precisely what priests and
philosophers do when they explain the great workings of the universe by
a God, or a principle, or whatever they call their fetich. Human nature
always wants to know the why and wherefore of things. When we are not
sure of our ground, we help ourselves by conjectures, or even by
imagination. These conjectures are senseless or reasonable, according
to whether our knowledge is insufficient or comprehensive. Men are
satisfied in their childhood with stories as explanations of the
world's mysteries, in their maturity they advance to plausible
hypotheses: the stories yield to theology, hypotheses to philosophy.
Religion presents a fictitious solution to the riddle in a concrete
form, and metaphysics in an abstract form; the one relates and asserts,
the other argues and avoids the improbable. It is only a difference of
degree, not of character."
"That is just so," cried Wilhelm. "Metaphysics are as incapable as
religion of disclosing what lies behind the phenomenal world, and I
cannot conceive (forgive me, Dorfling, if I say straight out what I
mean), I cannot conceive how a philosopher can really take his own
system in earnest. He must know that his explanation is only a
conjecture, a possibility at the best, and he actually has the temerity
to preach it as a fixed truth. No, my friend, I do not expect anything
from metaphysics. It only interests me as a means for studying
psychology. The history of philosophical systems is a history of the
development of the mind of humanity. The systems are only valuable as
testimonials to the endless extent and possibility of human thought.
All the systems put together do not contain a spark of objective truth."
"That is upon the whole the difference between natural science and
metaphysics," said Schrotter. "Science regulates the boundary between
what is known and what is not known, and declares when the limit is
reached. Our knowledge has attained to a certain point, and beyond that
we know and understand nothing, absolutely nothing. Metaphysics will
not stop at that limit. It confuses knowledge and dreams together, and
manufactures out of the two something quite worthless. It explains
things which it does not understand, and which cannot be understood,
and offers us detailed descriptions of countries into which it has
never traveled, and where mankind probably never will travel."
"May I say a word in defence of your metaphysics?" said Dorfling, with
a slight smile.
"Yes, go on," cried Barinskoi. He had drunk more than all the rest put
together, and the serious conversation seemed to afford him great
amusement.
"Look here, Eynhardt. I cannot possibly uphold your statement that
metaphysics do not contain a spark of objective truth. To be certain of
that, one must also be certain what objective truth is. But you are not
certain, as you very well know, and so logically you must admit the
possibility that metaphysics can hold a spark of objective truth. I am
of an entirely different opinion on this point. I believe that the
science of the actual content of things, the foundation of all
appearances, the laws of the universe, in short, everything which you
call objective truth, is the property peculiar to the atoms, of which
the world formerly existed. Absolute science, I say, is inherent
matter, like motion and gravitation. Matter does not learn of them, it
possesses them. A cell has not studied chemistry, but with unfailing
accuracy it executes its wonderful chemical operations. Water knows
nothing of physics and mathematics, but it flows from the spring, just
as high as the laws of hydraulic pressure command."
"Bravo," interrupted Mayboom, "that explains at last something I never
understood; and that is, why a flower pot should fall off a window
straight on the heads of people in the street, with unfailing accuracy."
"Please, Mayboom, no bad jokes to-day," said Dorfling gently.
The comic song writer sighed and again sank into deep thought, and the
philosopher went on:
"The science of truth, to which every atom adheres, dwells in men. We
must not forget that man is a collection of countless millions of
atoms; the collected consciousness of mankind can know just as much of
what each atom knows, as a whole people can understand of Greek or
Sanscrit because one or other of its members can read those languages.
Only through intercommunication can the knowledge of the few become the
knowledge of the many. The development of the living being I regard in
this way, that the atoms at first only hang loosely, gradually becoming
more closely knit together, until they make a substantial organism. The
single atoms in the course of this process of development step over the
boundary toward consciousness. At first it is a trembling, insecure
foreboding, like the sensation of light to one nearly blind, then the
outlines of truth become clearer, and all at once grow sharp and
clearly defined. The different attempts at explanation of the secrets
of the world are the expression of these forebodings of truth. So every
one of the religious and philosophical systems is to my mind a grain of
the truth, and the whole of it will be found in the great unity which
we shall reach in a higher development."
"As charming as a pretty story," said Schrotter, "but--it is only a
story after all. You conjecture that the thing is so situated, but you
are not in a condition to prove it; and if I deny it, you have no means
of compelling me to believe, as I can compell you to believe that twice
two makes four. No, no; nothing can come of these metaphysical
speculations. The whole philosophy is not worth psychological
treatment. We are no further to-day than the old Greeks, whose
knowledge led to the formula, 'Know thyself.' We can hope to know
ourselves some day, to know what goes on in our brains. I hardly
believe, however, that science will ever arrive at it."
"The study of natural science has brought me to the same conclusion,"
said Wilhelm. "We know nothing to-day of the nature of phenomena--we
knew nothing yesterday, and we shall know nothing to-morrow. The great
advance in thought has only brought us to the point of no more
self-deception, and exactly knowing what we do know, whereas yesterday
men deceived themselves, and imagined that the fables of religion and
metaphysics were positive knowledge. The history of physical science is
in this respect very interesting. It teaches that every step forward
does not consist of a new explanation, but rather goes to prove, that
the earlier explanations were untrustworthy. The sphere of the exact
sciences does not grow wider, but narrower. It would be very
instructive to study the history of natural science at the point it has
reached."
"Why do you not write such a history?" asked Schrotter.
"Why? It would be foolish to add another book to the millions of books
already written. All that one can say about it is soon said. Anything
really new is written once in a thousand years, all the rest is
repetition, dilution, compilation. If everyone who writes on a subject
were to read first everything which has been written on that subject,
he would very soon throw his pen out of the window."
"I must again differ from you," said Dorfling. "I think it is best,
that we so seldom know all that has been thought and written on a
subject. It is best that we write new books without wearying to read
the millions of others. I grant that most books are only repetitions of
earlier ones. But it is unconscious repetition, and it is exactly that
which gives it a wonderfully new meaning. It proves unity of mind,
identity of science. Thousands of men daily discover gunpowder. Many of
them laugh, because gunpowder was first discovered two hundred years
ago. I do not laugh. I see in it the manifestation of the eternal unity
of phenomenal principle. So many men could not arrive at the same
thought if they were not fragments of a whole; now you know why I have
written a book, and also, why I have not put my individual name on the
title-page."
From the next room they heard a woman laugh in a wild, excited way,
glasses chinked together, and a man's voice was just distinguished in
conversation. Barinskoi pricked up his ears and winked at Paul; the
others paid no attention.
"Do not misunderstand me," said Wilhelm, answering Dorfling's last
remark. "I do not mean to say that your book is superfluous. You had
every right to it, having made it the object of your life."
"Not the object of my life," interrupted Dorfling. "The only object I
have in life is death, which I call deliverance."
"Very good; I will say then, when you conceived it your duty to write
it."
"'Duty' yes, I will allow that word to pass. Let us rather say impulse,
or instinct. If one has a perception one also feels an impulse, which
one calls a feeling of duty to share it with others."
Wilhelm smiled.
"You believe even in perception. That proves above all what you mean by
your duty. I know, to my regret, that I have no perceptions to share
with others, and the duty of my life is only toward my own moral
education and greatest possible perfection."
"That is not enough," Paul broke in, "this self-culture in one's own
study does no one any good. For that reason I do not mind if I appear
unphilosophical. One has duties toward one's fellowmen. One must be
useful to the State, as a good citizen. One must make money, to add to
the national wealth."
"Bravo, Herr Haber," said Mayboom gravely. "You speak like a
town-crier," and after a short pause he added, "That is a great
compliment from me."
"We express the same meaning in different forms," answered Wilhelm.
"How can you add to the national wealth? By making yourself a rich man.
And I try to be useful to the community by educating myself in the
greatest possible morality, and the highest ideal of a citizen. No one
can work outside of himself when every individual strives to be good
and true, then the whole people will be good and noble."
"Now you are disputing as to your life's duty," cried Baninskoi, whose
eyes glowed, and whole face was red with the alcohol he had imbibed.
"Prove first that it is a duty. I deny without exception every duty to
others. Why should I trouble myself about the world? What are my
fellow-creatures to me? Dinner is trumps, and long live wine!" and he
drank a glassful.
"It is an instinct born with us," said Wilhelm, without any vexation,
"to care for one's fellow-creatures, and to feel a duty in sympathy for
others."
"But suppose I have not got this instinct?" answered Barinskoi.
"Then you are an unhealthy exception."
"Prove it."
"The best proof is the continuance of mankind. If the instinct of
sympathy with others were to fail among men, humanity would long ago
have ceased to exist."
Barinskoi laughed.
"That is a convenient arrangement. Instinct then is the only foundation
for your duty, and the continuance of humanity is the only sanction of
your instinct. I will leave you to listen to your instinct, and
sympathize as much as you like, but for my part I joyfully renounce
this duty; the only punishment I should be afraid of is the destruction
of mankind, and that is not likely to happen in my lifetime."
"There is another punishment," said Mayboom solemnly, "that I take this
bottle of champagne away from you on account of--your bad behavior."
While he spoke he took away the bottle, and Barinskoi tried to get it
back again; a little struggle ensued. Dorfling put an end to it by an
emphatic "Please don't do that." Turning to Wilhelm he went on:
"I do not believe in your idea of duty; you place instinct at the
foundation. I use another word. I call your instinct the foreboding
that each has of its being, and its outflow toward the eternal
phenomenon of principle. At all events, that seems to suffice for a
foundation. But I conceive duty to be quite a different thing. You
limit your view to self-culture, and have love for your
fellow-creatures, but no desire to instruct them. Now, I think that
culture should begin with oneself, but end with others. That is my idea
of love for humanity. One need hardly go out of oneself to do this. One
can influence things remote without disturbing oneself. Just think of
the magnet; it is an immense source of influence, called example. It
sets an astonishing example without moving out of itself--an example
which cannot be overlooked, and powerfully affects the imagination."
"One illustration for another," said Schrotter, who had shown his
interest in the conversation by nodding his head now and then. "You
wish man to play the part of a magnet; that is not enough, I want him
to play the part of a cogwheel. He must catch hold of his surroundings
while he moves, he must also move all those round him. Everyone cannot
be a magnet; we are not all made of the same stuff. But one can make a
cogged wheel out of whatever one will--and beside, a magnet only
influences certain substances. It will draw iron, but cannot attract
copper, wood, or stone; but the cogwheel takes hold of anything near
it, of whatever material it is made. I will not work the illustration
to death. You can see by this what I mean. I think a far-reaching
activity is the first business of mankind. Our nerves are not so much
those of sensation as of movement; we do not only take in impressions
from the outside, we are provided with organs which give out
impressions received from within. Every sensation of movement which
nature sends through us is a summons to be answered by an action, not
only self-culture, not example, not passive good-will toward others,
but by the intention an object of activity toward the world and
humanity. The Middle Ages summoned up the business of life in the
words, 'Ora et Labora.' They are beautiful words, and after this lapse
of time we take the meaning out for ourselves, in other words, 'Think
and Act.'"
The woman's laughter from the next room became louder, and then they
heard chairs pushed back, and the noise of departure. The rustling of a
silk dress, with the clinking of spurs and sword, passed the door,
became fainter, and then ceased. It was near midnight, and Schrotter
rose to go. He was thinking of Bhani, who was sitting up for him at
home. The dinner must have been paid for beforehand, for the guests
were spared the sight of a money transaction to chill the end of their
pleasant evening. The cool night air felt refreshing after the heat of
the small room. Dorfling declined the offers his friends made to
accompany him home. They all wished him "Farewell."
"Die well, would be a better wish," replied Dorfling, and with these
strange words in their ears they left him.
Schrotter and Wilhelm went a part of the way with Paul, who had the
furthest to go. For a little while he was silent, then he broke out:
"I declare this is beyond my comprehension. The whole time I was there
I felt as if I were in a vault with a lot of ghosts. You, Herr Doctor,
were the only living being among them; I breathed again when I heard
you talking. If I had not head the sounds from next door, and had not
had the realities of our dinner before me, I should have thought I was
dreaming."
"What has put you out so, my dear Paul?" said Wilhelm.
"What! Are you men of flesh and blood? Are you really alive? There we
sat for four mortal hours, and the talk was wearisome to a degree,
never one sensible word."
"Now! now!" protested Schrotter.
"Herr Doctor, forgive me, but I must repeat it, never one sensible
word. Do you call Dorfling's 'Philosophy of Deliverance' sensible? or,
Wilhelm, your philosophy of self-culture, which, with all deference to
you, I call philosophical onanism? Only six men, two of them under
thirty-five, and the whole blessed evening not one word about either
pleasure or love."
They had come to the place where Friedrichstrasse and Leipzigerstrasse
cross each other; and Schrotter signed to them to look toward the left
corner. There under a gas lamp they saw Barinskoi in earnest
conversation with a woman.
"Yes, look at him! That brute is still the most reasonable among all
your philosophics. He has his method of sponging, and enjoys himself
according to the category of Aristotle. But your metaphysics--"
"What do you really want, Paul?"
"Well, I want you all to have to do for once with practical life, with
two hundred workmen to pay and ten thousand acres of land to see after;
and artificial manures and the price of corn to worry you; then perhaps
you would take a little less interest as to whether the soul was a
phenomenon or an india-rubber ball, or whether men were magnets or
cogwheels."
Wilhelm only smiled. He had long ago given up trying to bring his
practical friend to ideal views. At the corner of the Kochstrasse they
separated, and Paul continued his way to the Lutzowstrasse, while
Wilhelm and Schrotter turned back.
Twenty minutes later, as Wilhelm entered his bedroom, his eyes fell on
a letter for him in Dorfling's handwriting. He opened it, greatly
surprised, and read as follows:
"DEAR FRIEND: When you read this I shall be free from all trouble and
all doubt. I have accomplished what I set myself to do, and I am going
back to eternity from this limited sphere. May you be as happy as I
shall be in a few hours! Keep a friendly thought for me as long as you
stay in this world of misery, and believe that he who writes this had
the warmest friendship for you."
"L. DORFLING."
Wilhelm stood as if thunderstruck. Was it by any chance a dreadful
joke? No; Dorfling was incapable of that. It must be a grim reality. He
ran quickly out of the house to seek Schrotter. The old Indian servant
opened the door, and in his broken English informed him that Schrotter
Sahib had found a letter when he reached home and had immediately gone
out again.
Wilhelm could now doubt no longer, and running swiftly, he reached the
street where Dorfling lived, waited in agonizing suspense for the door
to be opened, flew up the stairs, and through the open door to his
friend's bedroom. There he found Schrotter; Mayboom was also there
sobbing, and a tearful old servant. In an arm chair near the bed was
Dorfling, still in his dress coat and tie, his head sunk on his breast,
his face hardly whiter than in life, his arms hanging down, and in the
middle of the white shirt-front a great red stain. On the floor lay a
revolver.
Wilhelm, horrified, took his friend's hand. It was still quite warm.
His agonizing look sought Schrotter's, who answered in a hushed voice,
"He is dead."
Then his tears broke out, and his trembling fingers had hardly strength
to close the lids over his friend's eyes, those eyes which looked so
strangely quiet and peaceful as if they now knew the answer to the
Great Secret.