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.”