st critic would
hardly touch his name with a pair of tongs, but the theatre managers
fought for possession of his work. He had a beautiful wife who
worshiped him, two wonderful children, and the appearance and bearing
of Timon of Athens.

At Dorfling's summons two waiters came in; one of them put a large dish
of oysters on the table, while the other placed a thick octavo volume
before each guest.

"The last of the season," cried Barinskoi gayly, and helped himself to
oysters.

"The book! Bravo!" said Paul, and held out his hand to Dorfling.

There was a short silence, while they all, even the cynical Barinskoi,
contemplated the book before them, On the pearl-gray cover they read;

"The Philosophy of Deliverance, by X. Rheinthaler."

"What an expressive title," said Wilhelm, breaking the silence first.

"Admirably adapted for a comic song," remarked Mayboom, with a
melancholy air. Barinskoi laughed loudly, while Dorfling looked blandly
at him. The comic poet sighed deeply and began to eat.

"But why Rheinthaler?" asked Paul.

"I at first wanted the book to appear anonymously; but the public is
accustomed now to see a proper name on the title page. If it does not
find one, its curiosity is excited, and what I particularly wished to
avoid comes to pass, namely, the diversion of attention from the
essential to the unessential."

"That does not explain why you have not put your own name to it," said
Paul.

"My own name? What for? What is a name? What is an individuality, which
a name symbolizes? The thoughts which I have put down in this book are
not from me, the transient accident called Dorfling, but from the
absolute everlasting thing which thinks in my brain. I am merely the
carrier of the truth, appointed by it. What would you say if a postman
put his name on all the letters he delivers?"

"I should not be capable of such self-effacement," said Paul. "If I had
devoted the best years of my life to any work I should be unable to
renounce the recognition I had earned."

"Recognition, Herr Haber. What sort of word is that? One does what one
does, not because one wills, but because one must; not on account of an
operation aimed at, but because of a compelling cause. He who reckons
on any kind of reward for his works is on the same footing as a silly
woman who claims men's approbation because she is pretty or an
unreasoning child, who wants to be praised and petted because he has
eaten his dinner. A mature pe