e me up, but I
held out, as I do not mean to die until I have read your book."
Dorfling, with a contemptuous look, turned his back on him.

One day, soon after the Easter of 1874, Dorfling brought his friends a
great piece of news. The book was ready, it was even in the press, and
would be published in a few days by a large firm, but he wanted to
present them with copies before the book appeared at the shops. He
therefore invited them to a little festival to celebrate the occasion.
He had been thinking over the book for seventeen years, had been eight
years in writing it, and as it had taken such an important place in his
life, he must be pardoned a little vanity about it now. Paul had a
written invitation sent him, and he thought the occasion was
sufficiently important to come to Berlin on purpose.

On the appointed evening they all met at eight o'clock at Borchardt's
in the Franzbsischen Strasse. A dignified waiter, who in appearance and
manner looked more like an ambassador, received the guests, and took
them into a private room on the left side of the large room above the
ground floor. This little room was all lined with red like a jewel
case, thick red portieres were over the doors, and the amount of gas
with which it was lighted made it rather warmer than was comfortable. A
large table with divans on three sides of it nearly filled the room; it
was beautifully decorated and covered with flowers. Numerous
wineglasses were placed before each guest, and champagne was cooling in
an ice-bucket near the door.

Dorfling was there, and received his guests as the waiter lifted the
heavy portiere. He was in evening dress, and his slightly flushed face
beamed with pleasure. His friends regretted keenly that they had come
in ordinary morning clothes, and expressed their apologies. He
interrupted them, saying they must overlook one of his little whims and
not say anything more about it.

Then they sat down to table, impressed by his charming manner. Dorfling
put Schrotter on his right hand, and Wilhelm and Paul on his left; near
Schrotter was Barinskoi and a friend of Dorfling's, named Mayboorn.
This man was, like Dorfling, a Rhinelander, he combined a successful
career as a writer of comic verses with a confirmed pessimism. When he
had written one of his merriest couplets, he would stop his work and
sigh with Dorfling over the tragedy of life. The papers treated his
farces as rubbish, but the public adored them. The earne