The Malady of the Century by Max Nordau (page 4)

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.

CHAPTER VIII.

DARK DAYS.

Dorfling’s suicide made a profound impression on Wilhelm, and for months he was haunted by the vision of that motionless form with its white face and blood-stained breast. It had a weird fascination for him, causing him to revert constantly to that tragical May night that had begun with a cheerful dinner, and ended in a fatal pistol shot. Paul’s comment on the occurrence was short and concise. “The poor chap was mad,” he said, and there the matter ended as far as he was concerned. Mayboom revered his friend’s memory as he would a saint, and erected a kind of chapel to him in his house, in which Dorfling’s portrait, his book, and various objects belonging to him, thrown up in relief against draperies and surrounded by a variety of symbolical accessories, were set forth for the pious delectation of the master of the house and his visitors. Schrotter held aloof from this cult. He appreciated Dorfling’s character, his consistency, his strength of will and highmindedness as they deserved, but he was never tired of preaching and demonstrating to Wilhelm that all these admirable qualities had been turned out of their proper course by a disturbing morbid influence. It was monstrous, he contended, that a system of philosophy should arm you for suicide. What if the premises should prove false? Then your voluntary death would be a frightful mistake which nothing could retrieve. One has no right to risk making such a mistake. He believed in development, in the progress of the organic world from a lower to a higher stage. Progress and development, however, were conditional upon life, and he who has recourse to self-destruction sets an example of unseemly revolt against one of the most beautiful and comforting of all the laws of nature. Moreover, suicide was a waste of force on which it was simply heartrending to have to look. There were so many great deeds to be done which called for the laying down of life. In a thousand different ways one might benefit mankind by Winkelried-like actions. If one was determined to die, one should at least render thereby to those left behind one of those sublime services which demand the sacrifice of a life.

In their frequent conversations upon this subject, he was so earnest, so eloquent, so markedly intentional, that Wilhelm finally gave him the smiling assurance that he was preaching to a convert. It was true, he had the highest respect for a man who did not hesitate to cast life from him when his whole mind and thought led him to the conviction that death was preferable to life; and unprincipled as suicide might be from an objective point of view, subjectively considered, there surely was an ideal fitness in making one’s actions agree to the uttermost point with one’s opinions? Nevertheless, he himself did not approve of Dorfling’s deed, and would certainly never imitate it, for one could never know what intentions the unknown powers might not have with regard to the individual; by committing suicide he maybe threw up some possible mission, or by his premature departure disturbed the action of the great machine in which he–as some small screw or wheel–doubtless had his modest place and function.

As if to prove to Schrotter that he was no disciple of the “Philosophy of Deliverance,” he turned his attention, more than he had ever done before, to the realities of life. Dorfling left a remarkable will. He bequeathed his fortune–most advantageously invested in a house in Dusseldorf and in public funds–yielding a yearly income of about thirty-five thousand marks, to his two friends, Dr Schrotter and Dr Eynhardt, with the sole charge that out of it they should provide a sufficient competency for his old servant, dating from his father’s time, who had attended him literally from the cradle to the grave. The fortune was to be theirs conjointly and indivisibly, and should one of them die, to devolve to the survivor, who in his turn was to make such arrangements as he thought best to insure its being applied, after his death, in accordance with the testator’s views. He expressed the hope that his two heirs would use the income derived from the property in alleviating the misery inseparable from human existence, of which throughout life they must be witnesses. Dorfling’s only near relative was herself very wealthy and generous-minded, and did not dispute the will, it was accordingly proved.

Wilhelm declared from the first that he understood nothing of the management of a fortune, of business papers, and so forth, and wanted to hand over the administration of the whole to Schrotter. Schrotter, however, would not hear of it, and after vying with one another in generous self-disparagement and mutual confidence, they finally agreed that Schrotter, being a practical man, and conversant with the ways of business and the world, should take the management of the fortune upon himself, but that Wilhelm should receive a monthly sum of fifteen hundred marks out of the income to apply as he thought best to the relief of the needy. The other half of the income was at Schrotter’s disposal, who put it, of course, to the same use. In his capacity as member of the deputation for the poor, and also as parish doctor, he came in contact with much poverty and misery, and was able to direct Wilhelm’s charity into the right channels. It became Wilhelm’s regular afternoon employment to visit the homes of those mentioned to him as in need of relief, that he might the better judge for himself of the true state of the case, make personal inquiries about the people, and step in where help was necessary and deserved.

Only now did he learn what life really was, and what he saw neither increased his pleasure in being alive nor made him proud to be a man among men. Needless to say, it was not long before the news reached the circles of the professional beggars that there was a gentleman in the Dorotheenstrasse who had a considerable yearly sum of money to give away. The result was that his modest apartment was so besieged by petitioners that his old landlady, Frau Muller, the widow of a post-office official, with whom he had boarded and lodged for seven years, was goaded to desperation, and declared that if the disgraceful rabble was encouraged she would be obliged to part from Wilhelm, though it would be her death, she being so fond of him and so used to his ways. Wilhelm was wise enough to admit the justice of her complaint, and empowered Frau Muller to turn away ruthlessly all such visitors whose names were unknown to her, or who came without recommendation, which orders she carried out with such virulence and relentlessness, that the worshipful company of professional beggars rapidly came to the conclusion that it was useless trying to gain admittance to Dr. Eynhardt as long as he was guarded by the tall, bony old lady who opened the door but would not leave hold of it. So the unceasing tramp of dirty boots on the echoing stair was hushed, and Wilhelm saw no more of the crape-clad widows of eminent officials who required a sewing machine or a piano to save them from starvation; the gentlemen who would be forced to put a bullet through their brains if they did not procure the money to pay a debt of honor; or the unemployed clerks who had eaten nothing for days, and who all had a sick wife and from six to twelve children (all small) at home crying for bread; or the foreigners who could find no work in Berlin, and would return to their native countries if he would give them a few thalers to pay their fourth-class railway fare; and similar interesting persons, the endless diversity of whose life-histories had kept him in a chronic state of surprise for months. In place of the visitors he now received letters, as many as if he had been a cabinet minister. It was the same old story, only less affecting, because generally deficient in style, and faulty as to spelling, and no longer illustrated by tearful, vigorously mopped eyes, abysmal sighs, and hands wrung till they cracked. For a time Wilhelm went to every address given in these letters, in order to see and hear for himself, but after awhile his powers of discrimination were sharpened, and he learned to distinguish between the impositions of swindlers and professional beggars, and the real distress which has a claim to sympathy.

By degrees, it is true, he became convinced, even in the chill dwellings of real poverty, that this was hardly ever entirely unmerited. Where it had not been brought about by laziness, frivolity, or drink, its source was to be found in ignorance or incapacity, in other words, in an inefficient equipment for the battle of life. He judged all these circumstances, however, to be the outward and visible signs of obscure natural laws, and that to interfere with rash and ignorant hands in their workings was as useless as it was unreasonable. He therefore pondered seriously whether, by denying to a portion of mankind the qualities indispensable to success in the struggle for existence, Nature herself did not predestine them to misery and destruction; whether the irredeemable poor–those who after each help upward invariably fell back in the former state–were not the offscourings of humanity, the preservation of whom was a fruitless task, and altogether against the design of Nature?

Fortunately, he did not allow his deeds of brotherly love to be darkened by the shadow of these and kindred thoughts. He brought forward reasons which always ended by triumphing over his cold doubts. Misery was possibly the outcome of inexorable natural laws, but then was not compassion the same? The poor were poor under the pressure of some irresistible force, but did not the charitable act under the same pressure? Moreover, was Wilhelm so sure that he himself was better equipped for the race of life than those unfortunates who went under because they chose a trade for which they were neither mentally nor physically competent, or because, from laziness or obstinacy, they insisted on remaining in Berlin, where nobody wanted them, when a few miles off they might have found all the conditions conducive to their prosperity? How could he know whether he would have been capable of earning his living if his father had not left him a plentifully-spread table? In the rooms that contained so little furniture and so many emaciated human beings, into which his charitable zeal led him every day, he pictured himself, pale and thin, without food, without books; and although he had the harmless vanity to believe that privation and penury would affect him less deeply than the poor devils he visited, the idea that he saw his own face before him, as it might have been had he not had the good luck to be his father’s heir opened his hand still wider, and added to the money words of sympathy and comfort, which afforded the recipients–unless they were utterly hardened–as much pleasure as the donation itself.

Beside his almsgiving, he now had another occupation which took up all his surplus time. Schrotter had not let the suggestion drop which he made at Dorfling’s dinner-party, and had persuaded Wilhelm so long that he finally rouse himself to attempt an account of the ways and means by which the human mind has freed itself of its grossest errors. It was to be entitled “A History of Human Ignorance,” and promised to be a most original work. He would endeavor to show what idea people had had of the universe at various periods, how they explained the phenomena of nature, their connection, their causes and effects. He would begin with the childish superstitions of the savages, and continuing through the so-called learned systems of the ancients and of the Middle Ages, would bring his history up to the theories of contemporary scientists. He would demonstrate the psychological causes of the fact that man, at a certain stage of intellectual development, must necessarily fall into certain errors, and by the aid of what experiments, experiences, and conclusions he had come gradually to recognize them as such. How the fresh interpretation of a single phenomenon would overturn, at one blow, a number of other phenomena hitherto considered entirely satisfactory, how prevailing scientific theories, instead of assisting the fearless observer or discoverer, invariably hindered him and turned him from the right path, in proof of which assertion he brought forward such striking examples as Aristotle’s convulsive endeavors to make each of the senses correspond to one of the four elements in which they believed in his day, and Kepler with his fantastic efforts to prove the supremacy of the Pythagorean seven in the solar system. The object of the book was to show that the history of human knowledge is a history of false inferences and the erroneous interpretations of correctly observed phenomena, that the increase of knowledge always means the destruction of existing opinions, that of all the scientific systems up to the present day, only those retained their position which proved the futility of earlier theories–never those which built up new structures on the foundations of the old house of cards that had been blown down. In a word, that progress means not the acquisition of fresh knowledge, but an ever-extended consciousness of the futility of the knowledge we thought to possess.

Wilhem spared himself no pains with this work. He brought all the thoroughness and industry of his honest nature to bear upon it, would accept no statement at second-hand, but went for every information to the fountain head. It would cost an immense amount of time, but after all he had that at his disposal. There was no need for him to hurry, seeing that he did not write from ambition or for any material advantage, but simply for his own gratification. He began by rubbing up his school Greek sufficiently to enable him to read the ancient philosophers with ease, which he achieved in a few months, and then set to work to learn Arabic, that being the chief language of science in the Middle Ages. Schrotter was seriously alarmed at these extensive preparations, and hastened to procure, through his pandit friends, some English extracts from the scientific literature of India, lest Wilhelm might think fit to study Sanscrit, and decades would pass before he came to write the first word of his book.

Thus four years went by, years full of work, though they left no visible traces. Meanwhile the aspect of things in the new Empire had become very different. Men breathed the oppressive air with laboring breasts; the bright dawn which promised so glorious a day had, been followed by sullen mists, and the blue sky had disappeared behind heavy, leaden-gray clouds, through which no comforting ray of sunshine pierced. Where was all the glowing enthusiasm, the rapture of hope and joy that, in the first years after the great war, had flushed every German cheek and lit up every eye? Throughout the length and breath of the land the opposing factions confronted one another like armed antagonists preparing for a duel to the death. Town and village rang with execration and satire, with howls of rage or satisfied revenge vented by German against German. The Roman Catholic shook his clinched fist at the Protestant, the liberal at the conservative, the protectionist at the free-trader, the partisan of absolute government at the defender of the people’s rights. Everywhere hatred and malice, everywhere a mad desire to gag, to maltreat, to tear limb from limb; this unfettering of the basest human passions giving meanwhile such an impetus to bribery, corruption, and unprincipled advancement for party purposes as to resemble the loathsome luxuriant growth of mildew in the damp corners of some neglected storeroom.

The high tide of the foreign millions had ebbed away, showing itself to have been no fructifying Nile but a destructive lava stream, leaving the country charred and desolate after its passage. The gold that only yesterday had poured through greedy fingers, had turned to-day to ashes and withered leaves like the goblin gold of a fairy tales. Diminished inclination for work, an insanely increased demand for the luxuries of life, the accepted ideas of morality shaken to their foundations by scandalous examples of triumphant vice and villainy–these were the blessings that remained after the so-called impetus following on the “Downfall.” Work was scarcer, wages lower, but the flood of country people seeking work continued to roll toward the capital, overcoming with irresistible force the backward wave of unfortunates who could find no employment in the building yards, the factories or the workshops, trampling blindly over the bodies of the fallen, like a herd of buffaloes which marches ever straight ahead, which nothing can turn out of its course, and when it arrives at a precipice over which the leaders fall, presses onward till the last one is swallowed up in the depths. The misery and privation became heartrending to witness. Each morning you might see in the working quarters of the town and suburbs hundreds of strong men, their hands–perforce idle–buried in their torn and empty pockets, going from factory to factory asking for work, while the overseers would wave them off from afar to avoid a useless interchange of words. If, in the years of the French milliards, the workingman had turned socialist out of sheer envy and wantonness, be became so now under the sting of adversity, and in all the length and breadth of Berlin there was hardly one of the proletariat who was not a fanatical disciple of the new doctrine, with its slashing denunciations against all that was, and its intoxicating promises of all that was to be. Wilhelm had many opportunities of intercourse with the unemployed. He gave help as far as his fifty marks a day would reach, and kept the wolf from many a door. But the miraculous loaves and fishes of the gospel would have been necessary to successfully alleviate even the distress which he saw with his own eyes, and although much of the preaching of the social democrats still seemed to him mere phrase-making and altogether mistaken, he yet came gradually to the conclusion that somewhere–he did not precisely know where–in the construction of the social machine there must be a flaw, seeing that there were so many people who could and would work, and yet were doomed to despair and ruin for lack of employment. The spring of 1878 came round, and brought with it two attempts on the life of the emperor within three weeks. Scarcely had the people recovered from the horror caused by Hodel’s crime when it was shaken to its depths by Nobiling’s murderous shot.

On that terrible Sunday, June the 2d, Wilhelm had dined with Schrotter, and about three o’clock they started for a walk. In the few steps that separate the Mittelstrasse from the Linden they saw what was going on in the town. In Unter den Linden, however, they were received by the yells of the newspaper men calling out the first special editions, and found themselves in the stream of people pouring toward the Palace or to No. 18, where they pointed out the window on the second floor from which the too-well-aimed shot had fallen.

From the special editions, from the confused remarks and exclamations of the crowd in which the two friends found themselves, and the information they obtained from the grim-looking policemen, rougher and less communicative than ever, they learned all that was necessary of the bloody deed which had taken place an hour ago. Wilhelm could scarcely control his horror, and even Schrotter, though calmer, was deeply moved and downcast. All pleasure in their walk was gone, and they decided to return to Schrotter’s house.

“It is simply hideous,” said Wilhelm, as they turned into the Friedrichstrasse, “that we have such brutes living among us! We know, of course, that there is a great deal of distress, but a man who can revenge his own trouble on the person of the emperor must be lower than the beasts of the field. And men who at this time of day have such ideas on State organization are electors!”

“Good heavens!” cried Schrotter, with unconscious vehemence, “you are surely not going to make the popular mistake of drawing sweeping conclusions from these outrages? Such occurrences have no outside importance. They are the acts of madmen. Their following so closely upon one another is the very surest proof of that. There are in Germany thousands–perhaps tens of thousands–of unhappy creatures whose minds are more or less unhinged, though their inexperienced surroundings do not know it. Some exceptional event will suddenly put the entire population in a state of ferment, the imagination of the already morbidly inclined will be particularly strongly affected thereby; they picture the occurrence to themselves till it takes hold of them, and drives out every other thought from their minds, becomes a nightmare, a possession, and finally an irresistible impulse to do the same. After every event of the kind, you hear that a whole number of people have gone mad, and that their insanity is somehow connected with it. No such thing. They were mad before, and the insanity which had lain dormant in them only waited for a chance shock to give it definite form and character.”

They had reached Schrotter’s door by this time, and were on the point of entering, when a policeman stepped up to them, and touching Wilhelm’s arm, said:

“Gentlemen, you will have to come with me.”

“Why, what do you mean?” they exclaimed, very much taken aback.

“Better make no fuss, but come quietly with me,” answered the policeman, “This gentleman accuses you of making insulting remarks against his majesty.”

Only now did they become aware of a man standing behind the policeman and glaring at them in fury.

“Are you mad?” Schrotter burst out angrily. “That is for the magistrate to decide,” exclaimed the man, in a voice trembling with rage; “and you, policeman, do your duty.”

Passers-by began to gather round the group, so, to bring a disagreeable scene to a close, Schrotter said to Wilhelm:

“We had better go with the policeman; I suppose we shall be enlightened presently.”

A short walk brought them to the police office in the Neue Wilhelms Strasse, where they were taken before the lieutenant of police. The policeman deposed in a few words that he had been standing at the corner of the Friedrich and Mittelstrasse, the two gentlemen passed him in loud conversation; the third gentleman, who was following them, then came up to him, and told him to arrest them because they had spoken insultingly of his majesty, and here they were. He had neither seen nor heard anything further.

The lieutenant of police began by asking their names. When they told him–“Dr. Schrotter, M. D. one of the members for Berlin and Professor Emeritus,” and “Dr. Eynhardt, Doctor of Philosophy, householder,” he offered them chairs. The informer introduced himself as “non-commissioned officer Patke, retired, member of a military association, and candidate for the private constabulary.”

“What have you to bring forward against the gentlemen?”

“I walked behind the two gentlemen from the Linden to the Mittelstrasse. They were conversing loudly about the attempted assassination, and I naturally listened.”

“It does not appear to me so very natural,” commented the lieutenant dryly.

The informer was a trifle disconcerted, but he soon recovered himself, and proceeded in a declamatory manner:

“The younger gentleman–the dark one–expressed himself in very unbecoming terms with regard to his majesty the emperor, and said among other things, that the outrage was of no real importance. I am a patriot, I have served his august majesty; if his majesty–“

“That will do,” the lieutenant broke in, ruthlessly interrupting the retired non-commissioned officer’s flow of language, which he accompanied with a dramatic waving of the right arm. “Can you repeat the ‘unbecoming terms’ of which, according to your account, this gentleman made use?”

“I cannot remember the exact words. I was too excited. So much, however, I remember distinctly–he declared the attempt upon his majesty’s life to be an occurrence of no importance.”

Wilhelm now broke in.

“Not a word of that is true,” he said quietly. “Neither of us said one word which could justify this inconceivable charge.”

“The remark which this informer seems to have taken hold of,” Schrotter observed, “was not made by my friend, Dr. Eynhardt, but by me. I did not say either that the occurrence was unimportant, but that it had no general significance–that it was not a proof of the prevailing feeling at large.”

“It comes to the same thing whether you say it has no importance or no significance,” interrupted the informer. “That gentleman may have made the remark, but I certainly heard it, and as a loyal servant of his majesty–“

“That is quite enough,” said the lieutenant of police authoritatively. Then turning to the two friends–“I am very sorry, but as things stand at present, I must let the law take its course. Do you persist in your charge?” he asked the informer.

“Yes, Herr Lieutenant; my duty to my sovereign–“

“Silence. Gentlemen, I shall be obliged to notify the matter to the proper authorities. I expect you will be called upon to clear yourselves before the magistrate, which I have no doubt you will be able to do successfully. I need not detain you any longer.”

Wilhelm and Schrotter bowed courteously and withdrew, without vouchsafing a glance at the informer. The latter lingered, as if he would have liked to continue the conversation with the lieutenant of police, but an emphatic “You may go!” sent him rapidly over the threshold of the office.

Five days afterward, on a Friday, Schrotter and Wilhelm were summoned to appear in the Stadtvogtei [Footnote: A certain prison in Berlin.] before the magistrate, a disagreeable person with a bilious complexion, venomous eyes behind his spectacles, and the unpleasing habit of continually scooping out his ear with the little finger of his left hand. The two friends, the informer, and the policeman were present. The magistrate could not have received them differently if they had been accused of robbing and murdering their parents. To be sure, he behaved no better to the informer. His expression of unmitigated disgust was perhaps a freak of nature, and no indication of the true state of his feelings.

He had a bundle of papers before him, in which he searched for some time before opening his mouth.

“You are accused of having made use of offensive expressions regarding his majesty,” he said to Schrotter.

“On a preposterously unfounded charge,” he retorted.

“And you too,” he turned to Wilhelm.

“I can only repeat Dr. Schrotter’s answer.”

“Give your evidence,” he ordered the policeman.

The man did so.

“Could you understand what the gentleman said?”

“No.”

“How far was Patke behind them?”

“A few steps.”

“You must be more exact.”

“I can’t say more exactly than that, for I paid no attention to the gentlemen till I was told to arrest them.”

“Is it your opinion that Herr Patke could have heard distinctly what the gentlemen were saying to one another?”

“I dare say he might have understood if they spoke very loud, but I can’t say for certain.”

“Herr Patke, what have you to say?”

The former non-commissioned officer, who had donned his 1870 medal for the occasion, hereupon assumed a strictly military bearing, fixed his eye firmly on the magistrate, and began in a sing-song voice:

“I happened to be in the street last Sunday when the infamous wretch lifted his murderous hand against the sacred person of our august monarch. My heart bled; I was beside myself; I could have torn everybody and everything to pieces. As I walked along I noticed these two gentlemen, who looked to me suspicious from the first–“

“Why?” asked the magistrate.

“Well–the one with his black hair, and the other with his hooked nose–I said to myself, ‘Those are Jews!'”

The magistrate suddenly bent over his papers, and gave a kind of grunt. Even the policeman, in spite of his wooden official air, could not repress a smile. Patke continued:

“Then I heard the younger gentleman say, ‘It serves his majesty the emperor quite right.'”

“Did he actually say, his majesty the emperor?” interrupted the magistrate.

“No,” answered Patke eagerly, “I say that.”

“You are only to repeat the gentleman’s actual words.”

“He actually did say that it served the emperor right.”

“This is beyond a joke,” Schrotter burst out. “Why, man, I wonder the lie does not stick in your throat and choke you!”

“I must beg you not to address the witness,” said the magistrate brusquely. Then to Patke severely–“That is not what you said in your first charge.”

“I was confused then; I did not recollect distinctly. But later on it came back to me.”

“That is very improbable. What have you to answer, Dr. Eynhardt?”

“Simply, that the man’s statement is absolutely untrue. I never uttered or thought words bearing the remotest resemblance to those he quotes.”

“What my friend does not say is,” broke in Schrotter, “that, on the contrary, he expressed the deepest and most painful emotion at the crime.”

The magistrate shot a venomous glance from under his spectacles at Schrotter, but quailed before those flaming half-closed blue eyes fixed so sternly upon him.

“Well, and what have you to bring forward against the other gentleman?”

“That gentleman said the outrage was of no great importance.”

“In your first account you said the outrage had no real significance, and that Dr. Eynhardt made the remark.”

“Whether he said ‘no importance’ or ‘no significance,’ it is all the same thing, and one cannot so easily distinguish the speaker when one is walking behind. I may have been mistaken on that point.”

“You do not repudiate the remark?” asked the magistrate of Schrotter in his most biting tones.

“Your expression is not very happily chosen. By repudiating I understand the declaring of a fact to be false when we know it to be true. I am not in the habit of doing that, nor should I suppose it of you, Herr Staatsanwalt.”

“I need no instruction from you,” the other returned angrily.

“It would seem so, however” Schrotter calmly rejoined.

The magistrate grunted several times and then asked, after a pause, during which he was particularly busy with his ear:

“You admit the statement, then?”

“Not altogether. It is true that I said the attempt on the emperor’s life had no general significance, but I meant by that and the rest of what I said, that if the political parties should make this isolated crime (committed by an undoubtedly insane person) the excuse for adopting measures inimical to the liberty of the public in general, they would be doing something both unjustifiable and reprehensible.”

“Can he have said that?” asked the magistrate, turning to Patke.

“I don’t know. I only know what I said just now.”

Renewed grunting, renewed digging in the ear and turning over of papers. “Hm–hm,” he muttered to himself testily, “that is not enough. It is too indefinite, in spite of strong grounds for suspicion.” Then he looked up, and in a tone which was meant to convey as much scorn as possible, he asked Schrotter–“You played a part in the political events of 1848?”

“Yes, and the recollection of it is the pride of my life.”

“I did not ask you about that. And you are at present the chairman of a district society of progressive opinions?”

“I have that honor.”

“There is nothing further against you. And you, Dr. Eynhardt, you refused the Iron Cross in the late campaign?”

“Yes.”

“You were discharged from the army without comment?”

“Yes.”

“For declining a duel,” observed Schrotter.

“Dr. Eynhardt is of age, and can answer for himself. You have attended Socialist meetings?”

“Only once.”

“And made speeches?”

“One speech?”

“And that was directed against Socialism,” said Schrotter again.

The magistrate grew lobster-red in the face.

“It is really scandalous,” he cried, quivering with rage, “that I am repeatedly obliged to remind a man of your position that he is only to answer when spoken to. Why didn’t you say yourself, Dr. Eynhardt, that you had spoken against the Socialists?”

“Because you did not ask me,” answered Wilhelm, with a gentle smile.

After a slight pause the magistrate resumed–“You are on friendly terms with a Russian named Dr. Barinskoi?”

“You can hardly call it that. I did know him, though not exactly in a friendly way, but for two years I have quite lost sight of him.”

“Did you know that Dr. Barinskoi was a Nihilist?”

“Yes.”

“And you did not let that make any difference to you?”

“I was not afraid of infection,” said Wilhelm, and smiled again.

“Perhaps not, but of being compromised,” growled the magistrate.

“That idea has not troubled me as yet.”

“You inherited from a friend who committed suicide a large fortune, which you use chiefly for the benefit of Socialist workmen?”

“I use it for the benefit of the poor, and those I certainly find more frequently among the Socialist workmen than among factory owners and householders.”

“I’ll thank you to remember that this is not the place for making bad jokes!” roared the magistrate.

“You are quite right,” Wilhelm answered serenely. “I know nothing more unpleasant than bad jokes.”

Schrotter looked as if he were going to embrace his friend. He had never seen him from this side.

“Did it never occur to you to put yourself in communication with the clergymen of your district, these gentlemen having far greater facilities for finding out deserving objects of charity than a private person?”

“I will answer that question when you have had the goodness to explain to me what connection it has with this man’s denunciation.”

The magistrate glared at him in a manner calculated to wither him on the spot, but only met a quiet, smiling face which he was incapable of intimidating.

“May I request you now,” said Schrotter in his turn, “to ask the witness Patke if for the last few weeks he has not been a candidate for a post as detective on the political police staff?” Schrotter too had made a variety of inquiries since last Sunday, and had learned this fact.

“That is so,” stammered Patke, turning very red. “In these terrible times, when the Socialists and the enemies of the country–“

“Silence, Herr Patke,” interrupted the magistrate angrily; “that has nothing to do with the business on hand.” He reflected for awhile, and then said with the most deeply grudging manner–“The statement of the one witness–seeing too that it is indefinite in some important points–is not sufficient to warrant me in passing a sentence, in spite of many good grounds for suspicion afforded by your past history and known opinions. I will therefore dismiss the charge, if only to avoid the public scandal of a Member being accused of lese majeste.”

Schrotter was boiling with rage, and had the greatest difficulty in restraining his naturally passionate temper. “Many thanks for your kindness,” he said in a choking voice, “and for this scoundrel you have no reprimand?”

“Sir,” screamed the magistrate, springing out of his chair with fury, “leave this room instantly; and you, Herr Patke, if you wish to bring an action for libel against the gentleman you may call upon me as a witness.”

Patke was too modest to avail himself of this friendly offer. Wilhelm dragged Schrotter out of the office as fast as he could, and even outside they still heard the magistrate’s grunts of wrath.

Dark days followed, in which Schrotter seemed to live over again the worst horns of the “wild year.” A moral pestilence–the craze for denunciation–spread itself over the whole of Germany, sparing neither the palace nor the hut. No one was safe, either in the bosom of the family, at the club table, in the lecture room, or in the street, from the low spy who, from fanaticism or stupidity, from personal spite or desire to make himself conspicuous, took hold of some hasty or imprudent word, turned it round, mangled it, and brought it redhot to the magistrates, who seldom had the courage to kick the informer downstairs. Such unspeakable depths of human baseness came to light, so full of corruption and pestilence, that the eye turned in horror from the incredible spectacle. The newspapers brought daily reports of denunciations for “lese majeste,” and when Schrotter read them he clasped his hands in horrified dismay and exclaimed, “Are we in Germany? are these my fellow-countrymen?” He became at last so disgusted that he gave up reading the German papers, and derived his knowledge of what was going on in the world from the two London papers which, from the habit of a quarter of a century, he still took in. He wished to hear no more about denunciations by which, with the aid of police and magistrates, every kind of cowardice and vileness, social envy and religious hatred, rivalry, spite, and inborn malevolence, sought a riskless gratification, and usually found it in full measure. But it took away all pleasure in social intercourse. One learned to be cautious and suspicious. One grew accustomed to see an enemy in every stranger, and to be upon one’s guard before a neighbor as before some lurking traitor. Hypocrisy became an instinct of self- preservation; every one carefully avoided speaking of those things of which the heart was full, and Berlin afforded an insight into the mental condition of the people of Spain during the most flourishing period of the Inquisition, or of Venice in the days when anonymous denunciations poured into the yawning jaws of the Lions of St. Mark’s square.

The Reichstag was dissolved, the people of Germany must choose new representatives, and the chief, if not the sole question to be decided by the election was, Are the Socialists to be dealt with under a special act, or to come under the common law? Schrotter now felt it justifiable, nay, that it was his duty, to throw off the reserve he had maintained since his return to the Fatherland, and come forward as a candidate for the Reichstag, though for a suburban district, as the city district to whose poor he had been an untiring benefactor as physician and friend, with help, counsel, and money, was not available.

At a meeting of his constituents he laid down his confession of faith. A special act, he explained, was in no way justified, would indeed be ineffectual, and lead away from the object they had in view. The government would be guilty of libel if it made the Socialists answerable for a crime committed by two half or wholly insane persons; it was the duty of the government to prove that these attacks were the work of the Socialists: that proof, however, it had been unable to discover. Moreover, no special act in the world could hinder people of unsound mind from committing insane deeds–the crimes of a Hodel or a Nobiling could not be predicted, but neither could they be prevented by any kind of precautionary measure. The sole result of a special act would be to make the Socialists practically outlaws in their own country. That would constitute not only a terrible severity against a large class of their fellow-citizens, but a frightful danger to the State. In hundreds and thousands of hearts it would destroy the sense of fellowship with the community in which they lived; they would look upon themselves as outcasts, and become the enemies of their pursuers. It would be exactly as if some thousands of Frenchmen were set down in the midst of the German population–in the army, in the cities, the factories, the arsenals and railways, where they would only wait for a favorable opportunity to revenge themselves on their conquerors. That would be the inevitable result if the Socialists were deprived of the security of the common law. He considered the Socialist doctrines false and mischievous, and their aims senseless and–fortunately–unattainable, and for that very reason he did not fear them. But deprive the Socialists of the possibility of expressing themselves freely in word and print, and their grievances, which now found vent in harmless speechifying, would assume the form of practical violence.

His speech made an impression, but that of a rival candidate a still greater, for he succeeded in rousing the deepest and most powerful emotions of his hearers, by the plain statement that whoever refused the government the right of adopting such measures as it thought necessary for the safety of the public, simply delivered the life of their aged and beloved sovereign into the hands of assassins. At the election, Schrotter had on his side only a small number of independent-minded voters, who were able to remain unmoved by sentimental arguments. The workingmen would not vote for him, knowing him to be an opponent of Socialism. The rival candidate was returned by a large majority.

The Reichstag assembled, the Socialist Act was passed, Berlin declared to be in a state of semi-siege, and a great number of workmen dismissed from the city. It was November, and winter had set in with unusual severity. On a dark and bitterly cold afternoon, old Stubbe, who had been agent in the Eynhardts’ house for twenty years, entered Wilhelm’s room.

“What is the news, Father Stubbe?” cried Wilhelm, as he came in.

“No good news, Herr Doctor. Wander the locksmith–you know the man who rents the second floor of the house in our court–has been turned out by the police. It seems he’s a very dangerous customer; I must say I have never noticed it. He was always very decent; the children were a bother, certainly–always running about the court and getting between your feet. Well, we all have our faults; and then, too, he didn’t pay his rent in October.”

Wilhelm, who was well acquainted with Father Stubbe’s flow of language, and did not greatly admire it, interrupted him at this point.

“Well, and what is the matter?”

“What’s the matter, Herr Doctor? Why, the wife is there now with the five children, and there’s no earning anything, and yesterday she took away a cupboard to turn it into money somewhere–not that she can have got much for it, it was all tumbling to pieces. The rest of the furniture will take legs to itself soon, I dare say, for six mouths must be fed, and where is food to come from? There will be no removal expenses anyhow, for there will soon be nothing but the bare walls. There’s no question of paying the rent, and never will be, as far as I can see; so I thought I had better ask what was to be done with the poor things.”

“What can we do?”

“We could seize the bits of sticks they still have, though that would not cover the rent that is owing. The best thing, perhaps, would be to tell Frau Wander just to take her things and clear out; then at least we could relet the rooms.”

“Frau Wander does not work?”

“How can she?–five children, and the youngest still at the breast.”

“I will see to it myself, and let you know what is to be done.”

“Very good, Herr Doctor,” said Stubbe, much relieved. He had a kind heart and it was only his strict sense of duty that led him to mention the case of the Wanders, and particularly the unpermissible selling of the furniture, to the owner of the house.

Stubbe had barely reached home before Wilhelm appeared in the Kochstrasse. His house lay between the Charlotten and Markgrafenstrasse, and was an old and unpretentious structure, looking, among the stately houses of a later period which surrounded it on all sides, like a poor relation at a rich and distinguished family gathering. During the “milliard years,” building speculators had offered him considerable sums for the ground, but he was not to be prevailed upon to sell the house left him by his father. It was only seven windows wide, and had consisted originally of one story only, but a low second story had been added, recognizable instantly as a piece of patchwork. A great key hanging over the entrance announced the fact that there was a locksmith’s workshop inside. The courtyard was very low and narrow, and roughly paved with cobblestones, between which the grass sprouted luxuriantly. At the further end of this court stood the “Hinterhaus,” likewise two- storied, on the ground floor of which the locksmith carried on his resounding trade.

Accompanied by Stubbe, Wilhelm mounted the worn wooden staircase leading to the second floor. The flat consisted of a kitchen and a room with one window. Even when the sun was most lavish of his rays, it was none too light there; now, in the early-falling dusk of a dull late autumn day, Wilhelm found himself in a dim half-light as he opened the door. There was no fire in the stove, no lamp upon the table. In the cold and darkness he could just distinguish among the sparse furniture a slim, wretched-looking woman sitting on a chair by the table, nursing a baby wrapped in an old blanket; a tall, large-boned man in workman’s clothes, with a bushy beard and gloomy eyes, leaning against the wall beside the window, and some fair- haired children, unnaturally silent and motionless for their age, crouching side by side on the bed, only swinging their legs a little from time to time.

At Wilhelm’s entrance with a friendly “Good-evening,” the woman rose from her seat and gazed at the intruder with hostile eyes, the children ceased swinging their legs, and the workman shrank away from the window into the deeper shadow of the corner.

“The landlord,” Stubbe announced solemnly.

Frau Wander threw up her head. “Now then, what do you want now?” she said hurriedly, her bitter tone beginning on the ordinary pitch, but rising rapidly to a shrewish scream. “It’s the rent, I suppose; and I suppose we’re to have notice to quit? It’s all one to me. I’ve got no money and so I tell you; but what’s here you can keep, and you can have the skin off my back too, and I’ll throw in the children beside. They can drag a milk-cart as well as dogs. Why don’t you cut my throat at once and have done with it?”

“But, my good woman,” cried Stubbe, horror-stricken, “what are you thinking of? The Herr Doctor only means well by you.”

Wilhelm had come quite close to the poor thing, who had worked herself up into such a state of excitement that she was trembling from head to foot, and said in that gentle voice of his that always found its way to the heart:

“You are worrying yourself unnecessarily, Frau Wander. I have not come about the rent, and nobody is going to turn you out of your home. Herr Stubbe here has been telling me about your troubles, and I came to see if we could not give you a little assistance.”

She stared at him speechless, with wide-open eyes. The children on the bed began to whisper to one another. Wilhelm took advantage of the pause to say a few words in Father Stubbe’s ear, whereupon the old man vanished.

“Why don’t you offer the gentleman a chair?” said the workman, coming out of his dark corner.

The woman slowly drew forward a chair, round the torn seat of which the straw stood up raggedly on all sides. Wilhelm thanked her with a wave of the hand.

“Do not be afraid of me, dear Frau Wander,” he went on. “Tell me something of your circumstances.”

“What was there to tell?” answered the woman, still somewhat ruffled. He could see for himself how things stood with her. Her husband had been turned out of Berlin; but much the police cared if she and her five children starved or froze to death. It would have come to that already if some of her husband’s fellow-workmen had not given them a little help in their distress, like her present visitor, the iron-worker, Groll. But what could they do? They had not anything themselves, and the police were always after them like the devil after a poor soul. What did they want of them after all? Her husband had held with the Socialists certainly, but he had done nobody any harm by that. Ever since Wander had gone over to the Socialists he had left off drinking–not a drop–only coffee, and sometimes a little beer; and he was always good to his wife and children, and he had no debts as long as he had been able to earn anything. The locksmith downstairs had discharged him after the second attack on the emperor, although he was a clever workman; but the master was afraid of the police, and none of the others would risk taking him on. That was bad enough, but it was not so hard to bear in the summer, and the Socialists held faithfully together, and now and then there was a penny to be earned. But now–now that he had to go away, and winter was at the door–

She could keep up no longer, and burst into tears.

Wilhelm seated himself cautiously on the broken chair, and asked, “Where is your husband now? and what does he think of doing?”

“He is trying to get through to the Rhine, and get work at Dortmund, or somewhere in that neighborhood,” she answered, while the tight sobs caught her breath, and she wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. “If he can’t get any work he will go to France, or Belgium, or even America, if he must. But that takes a lot of money, and where is one to get it without stealing? We are to come to him when he has found work, and can send us the money for the journey. Till then–“

With the free arm that was not holding the child she made a hopeless gesture.

At that moment the door opened and Father Stubbe came in, carrying in one hand a lighted candle, and in the other a great, fresh- smelling loaf of bread. He placed both upon the bare table, and then discreetly withdrew.

“Bread! bread!” cried the children, awakened to sudden life, and jumping off the bed they gathered round the table with greedy eyes, clapping their hands. There were four of them–the youngest a mite of two or three, who only babbled with the others; the eldest, a pale little girl of seven or eight years.

“Children! Just let me catch you!” scolded the mother; but her voice shook with nervous excitement.

“Please, Frau Wander, won’t you cut the children some bread first? We can talk afterward.”

In a twinkling the eldest girl had fetched a knife from the kitchen, the children continuing to clap their hands delightedly, and Frau Wander cut them large slices, and while she was so engaged, “We have never had anything given us, Herr Doctor,” she said; “we have always earned our living with honest work. It is hard to have to come to this; but what can you do when the police put a rope round your neck?”

“You must not worry any longer, dear Frau Wander,” said Wilhelm, “but you must not speak like that of the police. You do yourself no good by it, and perhaps a great deal of harm. We will do what we can for you. Never mind about the rent. You will stay on quietly here, and allow me to assist you with this trifle.” He pressed two twenty- mark pieces into the half-reluctant hand so unused to accepting alms. “And Herr Stubbe will give you the same sum every month till you are able to join your husband.”

He held out his hand, which she grasped in silence, incapable of finding suitable words to thank him, and he hurried to the door. The mechanic hastily snatched up the candle from the table, ran after him and lighted him downstairs, murmuring with real emotion:

“Thank you a thousand times, Herr Doctor, and may God bless you!”

And all the way downstairs Wilhelm was followed by the children’s jubilant song of “Bread! bread!”

One morning a few days later–it was December the 2d–as Wilhelm was sitting at his writing-table engaged in making notes from a thick English book of travels on the Australian savage’s ideas on nature, he heard a sound of quarreling going on in the hall. He could distinguish Frau Muller’s irate tones, and then a man’s voice mentioning his name. He gave no further heed to the dispute, thinking it was doubtless some importune person in whom worthy Frau Muller had detected the professional beggar, and was therefore driving away. But it did not leave off, and grew louder and louder, Frau Muller’s voice rising at last to an exasperated scream–there even seemed to be something like a hand-to-hand fight going on–till Wilhelm thought it behooved him to see what was happening, and, if need be, come to the rescue of his faithful house-dragon. He opened the door quickly and received Frau Muller in his arms. If he had not caught her, she would have fallen backward into the room, for she had leaned–a living bulwark–against the door, defending the entrance with her body against two men, one of whom was trying to push her away, while the other, standing further back, was restraining his companion from grasping Frau Muller all too roughly. In the daring man who did not shrink from laying sacrilegious hands upon the furious and snorting landlady, Wilhelm instantly recognized the mechanic whom he had seen at Frau Wander’s. At sight of him the man raised his hat politely, and before the gasping Frau Muller, who was simply choking with excitement, could find her tongue, he said:

“Beg pardon, I am sure, Herr Doctor, for disturbing you; but we really must speak to you. I knew from Herr Stubbe that you are always at home at this hour, so I would not let the lady send us away.”

“The lady indeed!” Frau Muller managed at last to exclaim. “Now he talks about ladies, and a minute ago he had the impudence–“

“You must excuse us, madam,” said the workman with the utmost civility; “we meant no harm, and we simply must speak to the Herr Doctor.”

“Come in,” said Wilhelm curtly, and not overwarmly, while he pressed the still angrily glaring Frau Muller’s hand gratefully.

The second visitor now mentioned his name–it was that of one of the most prominent leaders of the Social Democrats in Germany. Wilhelm signed to the two men to be seated, and asked what he could do for them.

“I heard through the mechanic Groll here,” answered the stranger, pointing to the other man, “what you did for Frau Wander. That encouraged us to come to you with a request.”

At a sign from Wilhelm he continued:

“You have seen one of our cases for yourself, and that not by any means the worst. We have dozens of such cases, and there will probably be hundreds more. Our union does what it can. Every member gives up part of his week’s wages for the unfortunate victims, and thereby we perhaps save the government from the crime of having condemned innocent women and children to death by starvation. But our people are poor, and have to fight against want themselves. We cannot expect any great sacrifice from them. What we want is a considerable lump sum to enable us to send on the families of the exiled workmen to join their respective bread-winners. So we go round knocking at the doors of our wealthy associates, who, though in consideration of the times they do not care to declare themselves openly for us, nevertheless have a feeling heart for the workingman’s distress.”

All the time he was speaking he looked Wilhelm straight in the eyes. Wilhelm bore his gaze quietly, and answered:

“If you think I share your opinions you are much mistaken. I consider that you are pursuing a false course, that you make assertions to the workingman which you cannot prove, and promise him things you cannot fulfill, and I frankly confess that I do not envy you the responsibility you have taken upon your own shoulders.”

The leader stroked his short beard with a nervous movement, and the mechanic twisted his hat awkwardly between his hands. Wilhelm went on after a short pause:

“But that does not prevent me from sympathizing with the distress of women and children, and I shall be very glad to do what I can if you will give me a detailed account of the state of affairs.”

In a few plain words the visitor gave a sketch of the circumstances, all the more heartbreaking for its very unpretentiousness. So many men dismissed, so many wives, so many children, so many parents and near relatives unable to support themselves. Of these so many were sick, so many women lately confined, so many cripples. So many had prospects of better circumstances if they could get away from Berlin. For that purpose such and such a sum was necessary. So much was already in hand. He stated the amount of certain large donations, and added–“I will not mention the names of the subscribers, as it might happen that it would be to your advantage not to know them.”

Wilhelm had listened in silence. He now opened a drawer of his writing-table, took out a yellow envelope in which Schrotter was in the habit of giving him, on the first of every month, fifteen hundred marks out of the Dorfling bequest, and handed the sum which he had received the day before, and was still unbroken, to the workingmen’s leader. The man turned over the three five-hundred-mark notes, and then looked up startled. Wilhelm only nodded his head slightly.

The leader rose. “It would be inadvisable to give you a receipt. You have no doubt, I think, that your noble gift will be used for its proper object. Thank you a thousand times, and if you should ever stand in need of faithful and determined men, then think of us.”

A week later, to the very day, early in the morning a police officer brought Wilhelm an official document summoning him to appear that afternoon before the head police authorities in the Stadtvogtei. He presented himself at the appointed hour in the office, and handed the document to an official, who, after glancing at it, asked:

“You are Dr. Wilhelm Eynhardt?

“Yes.”

He took up a paper lying ready at hand, and said dryly: “I have to inform you that, in accordance with the Socialist Act, you are ordered out of Berlin and its purlieus, and must be out of the city by to-morrow at midnight at the latest.”

“Ordered out of Berlin!” cried Wilhelm, utterly taken, aback. “And may I ask what I have done?”

“You must know that better than I,” answered the official sternly. “However, I have no further information to give you, and can only advise you to address yourself to the Committee of Police, in case you require a day or two more to regulate your affairs.”

At the same time he handed him the paper, which proved to be the written order of banishment, and dismissed him with a slight bend of the head.

Wilhelm went without a word. Naturally he turned his steps almost unconsciously to Schrotter, to whom he held out the police paper in silence. Schrotter read it, and struck his hands together.

“Is it possible?” he murmured. “Is it possible?” He paced the room with long strides, then suddenly stood still before his friend, and laying his hands on Wilhelm’s shoulder, he said in tones of profound emotion: “I never thought I should live to see such things in my own country. I am nearly sixty, and it is late in the day for me to begin a new life. But really I find it difficult to breathe this air any longer. Where shall you go?”

“I do not know yet myself. I must collect my thoughts a little first.”

“Whatever you decide upon, I have a very good mind to go with you. There is nothing left for me to do in my old age but emigrate again.”

“You will not do that!” answered Wilhelm hurriedly. “Men like you are more badly needed here than ever. You must stay. I implore you to do so. Remember how you reproached yourself for twenty years, because you were not there when the people were struggling against the Manteuffel reaction. And then–your patients, your poor, the hundreds who have need of you.”

Schrotter did not answer, and seated himself on the divan. His massive face was gloomy as midnight, and the fiery blue eyes almost closed. After awhile he growled: “But why–why?”

“Oh, I suppose because of the fifteen hundred marks for the families of the dismissed workmen.”

“Of course!” cried Schrotter, clapping his hand to his forehead.

“Dorfling’s gold does not come from the Rhine for nothing,” Wilhelm smiled sadly. “Like the Nibleungen treasure, it is doomed to bring disaster on all who possess it.”

As Schrotter did not answer, Wilhelm resumed: “And as we are on the subject, we may as well settle that matter at once. Of course you will use the whole income now for your poor?”

“Not at all!” cried Schrotter. “Why should things not remain as they are? Wherever you may take up your abode, the poor you have always with you.”

Wilhelm shook his head. “I may possibly go abroad, and you see, Herr Doctor, I am prejudiced in favor of my own country. I think we shall carry our Dorfling’s intentions best by using his money for the relief of German necessity.”

Schrotter made no further objection. That Wilhelm would not, under any circumstances, use a penny of the money for himself he knew perfectly well, and in the end it was all the same whether the poor received it from his hand or Wilhelm’s. He merely wrote down some addresses which Wilhelm gave him of people to whom he gave regular assistance, and whom he recommended to Schrotter to that end.

When toward evening Wilhelm returned home, and, as was inevitable, told Frau Muller the news, she nearly fainted, and had to sit down. She was struck dumb for some time, and then only found strength to utter low groans. Her lodger turned out of Berlin like a vagrant. A householder too! Such a respectable, fine young gentleman, whom she had watched over like the apple of her eye for seven years– dreadful–dreadful. But it was all the fault of the low wretches who had forced their way in last week. She had thought as much at the time. If she had only called in the police at once! The police–oh yes, she had all due respect for the police, she was the widow of a government official, and she loved her good old king certainly–but that they should have banished the Herr Doctor–that was not right– that could not possibly be right! Frau Muller could not reconcile herself to the thought of parting. She would go to her friend and patron the “Geheimer Oberpostrath,” and he would use his influence in the matter; and at last, seeing that Wilhem only smiled or spoke a few soothing words to her, she burst into tears and sobbed out: “I am so used to you, Herr Doctor, I don’t know how I am going to live without you.” She only composed herself a little when Wilhelm told her that, for the present at any rate, he was going to leave his books and other goods and chattels where they were, for he might perhaps be allowed to return after a time, and meanwhile a young man, whom she knew, and who was studying at Wilhelm’s at Schrotter’s expense, should board and lodge with her, and she would receive the same sum as Wilhelm had always paid.

With night came counsel. Wilhelm decided to go first to Hamburg, where Paul lived during the winter, wait there till the spring, and then arrange further plans. He visited the grave of his father and mother, gave Stubbe orders as to the management of the house, took leave of a few friends, visited one or two poor people whom he was in the habit of looking after, and then had nothing further to keep him in Berlin. The rest of the day he passed with Schrotter, who found the parting very hard to bear. Bhani, whom they had acquainted with the matter, had tears in her beautiful dark eyes–the last remnant of youth in the withered face. And as he left the dear familiar house in the Mittelstrasse she begged him–translating the Indian words plainly enough by looks and gestures–to accept an amulet of cold green jade as a remembrance of her.

That night at eleven o’clock a slow train bore Wilhelm away from Berlin.

At the station he caught sight of the face of his old friend Patke, whom he had come across more than once during that day. The former non-commissioned officer had apparently reached the goal of his ambitions and become a private detective.

Schrotter had stood on the step of the carriage till the very last moment, holding his friend’s hand. Now Wilhelm leaned back in his corner and closed his eyes, and while the train rattled along over the snow-covered plain, he asked himself for the first time whether after all Dorfling had been quite such a fool as most of them considered him to have been?

CHAPTER IX.

RESULTS.

On alighting next morning at the station in Hamburg, Wilhelm found himself clasped in a pair of strong arms and pressed to a magnificent fur coat. Inside this warm garment there beat a still warmer heart, that of Paul Haber, who had received a letter from Wilhelm the day before, telling him of his dismissal from Berlin, and that he was leaving for Hamburg by the last train before midnight, and whom neither the cold and darkness nor the extreme earliness of the hour could restrain from meeting his friend at the station.

Their greeting was short and affectionate.

“A hearty welcome to you!” cried Paul. “We will do our best to make a new home for you here.”

“You see, I thought of you at once when I had to look about me for some resting-place in the wide world.”

“I should have expected no less of you. Keep your ears stiff, and don’t let the horrid business worry you.”

Wilhelm’s bag was handed to an attendant servant, and the two friends walked off arm in arm toward an elegant brougham lined with light blue, with a conspicuously handsome long-limbed chestnut and a stout, bearded coachman, which stood waiting for them.

Wilhelm mentioned the name of the hotel where he intended to stay, but Paul cut him short. “Not a bit of it! Home, Hans, and look sharp about it!” And before Wilhelm could offer any remonstrance, he found himself pushed into the carriage, Paul at his side. The door banged, the footman sprang on to the box, and off they went as fast as the long legs of the chestnut would carry them.

For the last two years Paul had owned a villa on the Uhlenhorst, in the Carlstrasse, and there the fast trotter drew up. Wilhelm had said but little during the drive, and Paul had confined the expression of his feeling of delight to clapping his friend on the shoulder from time to time, and pressing his hand. Rather less than half an hour’s drive brought them to their destination. Paul would not hear of Wilhelm making any alteration in his dress, but drew him as he was into the smoking room on the ground floor, where Malvine came to meet him, and received him in her hearty but quiet and uneffusive manner. She was the picture of health, but had grown perhaps a little too stout for her age. She wore a morning wrap of red velvet and gold lace, and looked, in that costly attire, like a princess or a banker’s wife.

“You must be very cold and tired,” she said; “the coffee is ready, come at once to breakfast–that will put some warmth into you–you can dress afterward.” She hurried before them into the next room, where they found an amply spread table over which hovered the fragrant smell of several steaming dishes. It was a lavish breakfast in the English style; beside tea and coffee there were eggs, soles, ham, cold turkey, lobster salad, and several excellent wines. A servant in the livery of a “Jager” waited at table.

Wilhelm shook his head at the sight of all this splendor. “But, my dear lady, so much trouble on my behalf!”

“You are quite mistaken,” Paul answered for Malvine, and not without a smile of satisfied pride; “it is our usual breakfast–we have it so every day.”

Wilhelm looked at him surprised, and then remarked after a short pause: “I would never have written to you, if I had dreamed that you would get up before daybreak, and upset your whole household in order to fetch me from the station.”

“Why, what nonsense! We are quite used to getting up early. At Friesenmoor we have to be still earlier.”

“But that is in the summer.”

“So it is, but then our broken rest is not made up to us by the sight of a friend.”

While they devoured the good things, and Paul, who despised tea and coffee, sipped his slightly warmed claret, he remarked, between two mouthfuls, “I was struck all of a heap by your letter. You turned out! the most harmless, law-abiding citizen I ever heard of! What in the world did you do? You need not mind telling me.”

“I cannot say that I am aware of having committed any crime, Paul.”

“Come now, something must have happened, for the police does not take a step of that kind without some provocation–it’s only your beggarly Progressives who think that, but nobody who knows the fundamental principles of our government and its officials would believe it.”

“You seem to have become a warm admirer of the government.”

“Always was! But, upon my word, when I see the way the opposition parties go on I am more so than ever–positively fanatical.”

“Then I have no doubt that you will consider that I did commit a crime.”

“Ah! so there was something after all?”

“Yes, I contributed fifteen hundred marks to a collection for the distressed families of the Social Democrats who had been dismissed from Berlin.”

“You did?” cried Paul, dropping his knife and fork, and staring at Wilhelm in amazement.

“And that seems so criminal to you?”

“Look here, Wilhelm, you know I’m awfully fond of you, but I must say you have only got what you deserve. How could you take part in a revolutionary demonstration of the kind?”

“I did not, nor do I now see anything political in it. It was a question of women and children deprived of their bread-winners, and whom one cannot allow to starve or freeze to death.”

“Oh, go along with your Progressionist phrases! Nobody need starve or freeze in Berlin. The really poor are thoroughly well looked after by the proper authorities. The supposed distress of these women and children is a mere trumped-up story on the part of the Revolutionists–a means of agitation, a weapon against the government. The beggars simply speculate on the tears of sentimental idiots. They get up a sort of penny-dreadful, whereon the one side you have a picture of injured innocence in the shape of pale despairing mothers and clamoring children, and on the other, villainy triumphant in the form of a police constable or a government official. And to think that you should have been taken in by such a swindle!”

“I suppose you do not see how heartless it appears to speak so lightly of other people’s hunger, sitting oneself at such a table as this?”

“Bravo, Wilhelm! Now you are throwing my prosperity in my teeth like any advocate of division of property. I trust you have not turned Socialist yourself? you who used not to have a good word to say for the lot.”

“Never fear–I am not a Socialist. Their doctrines have not been able to convince me yet. But for years I have seen the distress of the working people with my own eyes, and I know that every human being with a heart in his body is in duty bound to help them.”

“And who says anything against that? Don’t we all do our duty? Poverty has always existed and always will to the end of time. But, on the other hand, that is what charity is there for. We have hospitals for the sick, workhouses and parish relief for the aged and incapable, for lazy vagabonds who won’t work, it is true, only the treadmill.”

“That is all very fine, but what are you going to do with the honest men who want to work but can find none?”

“Wilhelm, I have always had the highest respect for you, your wisdom, your intellect, but forgive me if I say that, in this case, you are talking of things you do not understand. Everybody who wants work finds it. I hope you will be at my place next summer. Then you’ll see how I positively sweat blood in harvest-time trying to get the necessary number of laborers together, and what I have to put up with from the rascals only to keep them in good humor. Don’t try on any of these windy arguments with a landowner–people that want work and can’t find it indeed! Let me tell you, my son, neither I nor any one of my country neighbors can scrape together as many people as we need.”

“But everybody cannot work in the fields.”

“There, at last, you have hit the bull’s eye–that is where the shoe pinches. Agriculture offers a certain means of livelihood to all who can and will work properly. But that does not suit the lazy beggars. The work is too hard, and, more particularly, the discipline on an estate is too strict for their fancy. They would rather be in the town, rather starve in a workshop, or ruin their lungs in a factory, because there they have more freedom–that is, they can go on the spree all night and shirk their work all day, if they like–they can play the gentleman, and think themselves as good as any general or minister. Under these circumstances, it is no wonder that they soon come to want, and instead of admitting that it is entirely the fault of their own pigheadedness and perversity, they go and turn unruly against the government. They should be turned out neck and crop, the whole pack of them.”

“Don’t excite yourself so, Paul,” warned Malvine gently, as her husband grew crimson in the face and ceased to eat.

Wilhelm remained unruffled. “So you think the Socialist Act was quite justified?”

“Justified! Why, my only objection to it is that it is much too mild. A State has a right to use every means it can–even the sharpest–to defend itself against its deadly enemies. To deal mildly with the enemies of society is to be unjust to us, the orderly and industrious members of the community, who work hard to get on, and who don’t want to be for ever trembling for their well- earned possessions, because thieves and vagabonds–as is the way of all robbers–would like to enjoy the good things of this life without working for them.”

“My good Paul, that is the language of fanaticism, and, of course, it is useless to try to reason against that. Only let me tell you this. I do not believe that the Socialists want to rob anybody; I do not believe that they are enemies to the State and to society. They too desire a State and a society, but different from the existing ones; they too have an ideal of justice, but it is not the one that has become traditional with us. Under the new order of things, as they have arranged it in their minds, there should be room for every individual, every opinion, all sorts and conditions of men. What the ruling classes say against them to-day has been said against the adherents of all new ideas since the beginning of time. Whoever tried to make the slightest alteration in the existing order of things was always considered, by those who derived advantages therefrom, to be a foe to the State and to society in general-a robber and a revolutionist. The early Christians enjoyed exactly the same reputation as the Socialists to-day. They were looked upon as enemies of the whole human race, and were torn to pieces by wild beasts, though–doubtless to your regret–it has not come to that with, the Socialists. And nevertheless, though lions and tigers are a good deal worse than police officers, the principles of Christianity have triumphed, and there is nothing to prove that the principles of Socialism will not triumph in their turn.”

“Prophet of evil omen!” cried Paul.

“Not necessarily so. Where would be the misfortune? I am firmly persuaded that a Socialist State would not differ in any important point from the accepted forms of government of the day. The administrative power would merely be transferred from the hands of the military and the landed aristocracy to another class. To those who do not want a share in the governing power, it is all the same who wields it. You see, human nature remains the same, and its organization alters only very gradually, almost imperceptibly, though it sometimes changes its name. Christianity promised to be the beginning of the thousand years’ reign, but in the main, everything has gone on just as it was before. A Socialist State would not be able to make the sun rise in the west, or do away with death any more than we can. They would have ministers, custom-house officers, policemen, virtue, vice and ambition, self-interest, oppression and brotherly love just as we do, and if the Socialists come into power, they will soon pass special acts and prosecute the followers of other opinions just as they are being prosecuted to- day. That is all upon the surface, and does not touch the root of things. Why excite yourself about a mere shadowplay?”

“In practical matters,” answered Paul, laughing, “I consider I am the better man, but you certainly beat me at metaphysics. Prophecy decidedly comes under the heading of metaphysics, so I strike my colors before you.”

“The sooner the better,” said Malvine; “especially as it is quite unpardonable of you to start off on a long discussion when our poor friend must be so tired and sleepy.”

It was eight o’clock by this time, and Wilhelm really felt the want of rest. But before going to his room he asked after his godson, little Willy. Malvine was evidently expecting this, she ran to the door and called into the next room: “Come here, Willy–come quick– Uncle Eynhardt is here and wants to see you.” Whereupon the boy came bounding in, and threw himself with a shout of delight upon Wilhelm’s neck. Willy was still his mother’s only child. He was nearly six years old, not very tall for his age, but a fine, handsome, thoroughly healthy child, with firm legs, a blooming complexion, the dark eyes of his grandmother, and long fair curls. He was charmingly dressed in a sailor suit with a broad turned-back collar over a blue-and-white striped jersey, long black stockings, and pretty little patent leather shoes with silk ties. Wilhelm lifted up this young prince, kissing him, and asked, “Well, Willy, do you remember me?” He had not seen, him for eighteen months.

“Of course, I do, uncle, we talk about you every day,” cried the child in his clear voice. “Are you going to stay with us now?”

“Yes, that he is!” his father answered for the friend.

“How jolly! how jolly!” cried Willy, clapping his hands with glee. “And you will teach me to ride, won’t you, uncle? Papa has no time.”

“But I don’t know how to ride myself,” returned Wilhelm with a smile.

Willy looked up disappointed. “What can you do then?”

“Be a good boy now,” Malvine broke in, “and leave uncle in peace and go back to the nursery. You shall have him again later on.”

After more kisses and caresses Willy ran off, and Paul led his guest to the room prepared for him, where at last he left him to himself.

Wilhelm had visited Paul on his estate during the preceeding summer, but since then had only seen him in Berlin. The house on the Uhlenhorst was new to him, and he marveled at the solid sumptuousness that met the eye at every turn. The visitor’s room was not less splendidly furnished than the smoking and breakfast rooms he had already seen, and when he looked about him at the great carved bedstead with its ample draperies, the silk damask-covered chairs, the thick rugs, the marble washstand, and the toilet table with its array of bottles and dishes of china, cut glass, and silver, he could not help feeling almost abashed. His friend Paul had become a very great gentleman apparently!

And so in point of fact he had. The Friesenmoor had proved itself a very gold mine, and in the district round about they calculated that