are used to that. But where
I have become inspired with a great respect for him, is from the
chapter entitled 'The Sorrows of the World.' I could, at almost every
sentence, make a note or quote an example from what I have myself
experienced or witnessed in others. And I also know why,
notwithstanding this, we like to read it; because he relates it without
a murmur, so calmly and in such a matter-of-course manner, that we see
it would be foolish to complain of it, or to hope for anything better
for our poor miserable selves, than is bestowed upon a whole world. You
must lend me his other books."

"My dear Fraeulein," he replied, "we will discuss the question further
some other time. You must not suppose that I am one of the professors
of philosophy who wish to silence this singular man. It is a pity that
he is not still alive to be asked the various and numerous questions,
from which he carefully retired to his sybarite seclusion in the Swan,
at Frankfort-on-the-Main. But be that as it may, it is too warm
to-night to philosophize. Throw Schopenhauer aside, Fraeulein, and play
something for me,--the Moonlight Sonata, or any sweet, pensive harmony.
I should like to cleanse my ears from the ballet-music to which I have
been compelled to listen."

"You! listen to ballet-music?"

"Yes; it sounds ridiculous, but nevertheless it is true. How did it
come about? You know, at least by sight, our tyrant, the so-called
medical counsellor, my university friend and physician in ordinary. He
comes up to our hen-roost every day. Well, I have overworked myself a
little this summer, finishing a prize essay,--a haste that was most
unnecessary, since with my heresies I am safe from academical honors.
However, I gained the _second_ premium,--a heavy head, with such
rebellious nerves that my state almost borders on a disordered brain,
or one of the mild forms of lunacy. A journey, or a few weeks on the
Rhigi, would be the best cure. But our physician in ordinary, for
excellent reasons, prescribed no such luxurious remedy. It would be
much cheaper, he thought, to let the manufactory of thought rest for a
while. He proposed to me to play cards, make a collection of beetles,
train a poodle, or fall in love. Unfortunately I had neither
inclination nor talent for any of these very simple and undoubtedly
efficacious remedies. So, early this morning, he brought me a ticket to
the opera-house: he always has acquaintances before and behind the
sc