t the feet of the most
celebrated teachers and plunging himself into their systems. In the
autumn of 1872 he appeared suddenly in Berlin, and renewed his old
acquaintance with Wilhelm. Since then he had become a frequent guest at
Dr. Schrotter's dinner table, and a companion to Wilhelm, in his
afternoon walks.

Dorfling was the most wonderful listener that any one could wish to
have, though he himself was rather silent. If the talk turned on great
questions of knowledge, morality, the object of life, Dorfling's share
in the conversation consisted in the following half-audible remark:
"Yes, it is a powerful and interesting subject. I have just been
working at it, and you will find my opinions in my book." If he were
asked to give his opinions now, or at least to indicate them, he shook
his head and gently said, "I am not good at extempore speaking. My
thoughts only come out clearly when I have a pen in my hand." Not a day
passed by without an allusion to "the book," to which he devoted his
nights, and of which he always spoke, with emotion in his voice, as the
work of his life.

It was impossible to get more information out of him, either about its
title, scope, or contents. It was a philosophic work, no doubt, as he
always said on speaking of such subjects, "I have mentioned that in my
book." But that was all that could be got out of him. Schrotter and
Wilhelm were too good to tease him much about it, though the former,
with a suspicion of a smile, would say that he hoped this and that
would have a place in the book, so that one might at least know his
opinion on it. Paul, who always saw him when he came to Berlin, used to
ask whether the book was not yet ready. Dorfling gave no answer, but
his pale face grew paler, and an expression of pain came to his eyes.

Barinskoi, who now sponged on Dorfling just as he had previously done
on Wilhelm, giving them in fact turn and turn about, had the bad taste
to make jokes continually about the book, at one time calling it the
Holy Grail, another time comparing it to the diamond country of
Sindbad's tale, and in a hundred ways making vulgar and sceptical
jokes. On one of his outbreaks of dissipation he had disappeared far
longer than usual, and on his return he looked more miserable than
ever. Dorfling made some kindly inquiries, and learned that he was
recovering from an attack of inflammation of the lungs, and Barinskoi,
by way of showing gratitude, remarked, "The doctors gav