must live, noble mortal, until the last millionaire is hung with the entrails of the last priest, which will probably occur about the same time as the death of the Wandering Jew."
"Your jeers do not wound me," replied the printer impetuously. "There are people who consider all the great questions that affect the welfare of mankind a mere jest, and never think seriously of anything except their own dear selves."
"And why not, you preacher in the wilderness? Charity begins at home. Until I have taken care of my own dear self, where am I to find time and courage to look after my neighbor, or provide for mankind at large? These things are too weighty, my noble fellow, to be exhausted by the first eloquent pen, and and that's why I wish you a long life, so you can at least be able to study the subject at leisure."
Franzelius cast a compassionate glance at him. "So in all ages selfishness has intrenched itself behind a hypocritical modesty," he grumbled. "If no one wished for or did better things, before he knew the best, we should still be in the condition of the lake-dwellers. And must an idea for which hitherto only our holier instincts speak, I mean which cannot yet be mathematically proved—and with which the world after all would be—for when the smallest thought concerns all mankind—Edwin will know what I mean."
"God understands you, and that's enough; see Sancho Panza at the right place," jeered Mohr.
"What do you intend to do now, Franzel?" interrupted Edwin, who during the whole conversation had been sitting on the window sill, stroking Balder's cat.
"That's a secondary consideration. Tell me instead whether you approve of what I have done?"
"Will that undo it?"
"As if I would recall it! But you know I value the thought, that we three at least—even if others have a different opinion—"
He paused and looked at Edwin almost timidly.
"What I think," replied the latter, "is no secret to you. But I am firmly persuaded of many truths, and yet should hesitate a long time before demonstrating them to a crowd of strangers. However, why should we discuss the matter? You will do what you cannot leave undone, and as you have very enthusiastic ideas about the equality of men, even in their powers of thought—"
"He who does not work for all, works for none, or at least only for himself."
"Pardon me, my dear fellow. That's a false conclusion. You yourself will not deny that the division of labor is a useful arrangement. Well then, one begins from below, another from above. If I convince ten of the best minds, give them even a little light in regard to the hardest problems, does not my work in time aid others also? Mens' gifts are as different as their ambitions."
Franzelius was about to make some reply, but restrained himself with evident effort, and only said:
"And you, Balder? Are you too of the opinion, that only a mad ambition urges me to let the little light that is in me shine before the multitude?"
"You misunderstood Edwin," replied the youth, limping up to him and gently unclasping his hand from the door latch. "We all know that you forget yourself in the cause. But he thinks it would be better for the cause, if you were more patient. All fruits do not ripen at the same time. Come, don't let us part so."
"But you, you—could you have kept silence under such provocation?"
"Hush!" Mohr suddenly exclaimed. "Don't you hear her?"—Then as if speaking to himself, he added in a scarcely audible tone: "it's enough to tame wild beasts and socialistic democrats. Eternal Gods! how that woman plays."
The four men in the upper room actually kept so quiet that not a note of the improvisation below was lost. Franzelius had thrown himself into the chair beside the bed, on which Balder sat with his lame leg crossed over the other. Edwin was still seated on the window sill, and Mohr leaned over his glass, with his head resting on his hands, and fairly groaned with delight.
When the music ceased, he rose. "My friends," said he, "I think it is our duty to offer this lady some attention. I will go down and invite her to drink a glass of wine with us to her health."
"Are you mad, Mohr?" laughed Edwin. "She's a respectable person, and will think you have already more glasses of wine in your head than is good for your senses."
Mohr looked at him with an air of comical dignity, and twisted his crooked under lip still more awry. "She's an artist," said he, "no common-place, pedant of a woman. Here are four friends of art—I generously include you, Franzel, as you at least kept quiet while she was playing, though you were probably thinking of your social discords. I'll wager it will be an honor and pleasure to her—give me a decent hat—or no, I'll go bare-headed, like an inmate of the house. It will be less formal."
"You've impudence enough for it. Well then, ask her to bring a glass for the festal banquet."
"She shall drink out of mine," replied Mohr, who was already at the door. "I'll run the risk of her guessing my thoughts."
They heard him go down stairs and ring the bell.
"He's really going to do it," cried Balder, hastily rising from his seat. "What will she think of us?"
Franzelius rose too. "I'll go," said he. "I have not sufficient self-control to endure Mohr's jokes and witticisms in the presence of a lady. Will he be here often now? In that case, I prefer to take my leave until—until you too are tired of a man, who never takes anything seriously."
"You wrong him," replied Edwin. "Fire and water are two equally stern elements, although one accomplishes by heat what the other does by cold:—destroys and vivifies like every power."
"Hm! If you don't freeze meantime—Farewell."
"And where are you going to spend the night?" asked Balder.
"There are plenty of benches in the Thiergarten."
"I wouldn't let you go, Franzel," whispered Balder, as he reached the threshold. "You have already camped here many a night. But—Edwin sleeps so badly now. The least thing disturbs his nerves."
"Thank you, Balder. Don't be anxious about me. Good night!"
They heard him go down stairs, and directly after Mohr came slowly up. He entered the room with a face deeply flushed, but apparently calm.
"Our philanthropist has gone," said he. "I believe I drove him away. I'm sorry; he thinks I don't like him and he's very much mistaken. On the contrary, I do him the honor to envy him."
"For what?"
"Because he's possessed, not only with his mania about persecution, which makes a man just as happy as if he believes himself an unappreciated genius, but because he has a demon that drives him about, speaks from his lips, hides within him, and keeps him warm—while I, a mere husk without kernel or substance—foh!"
"And our artist?" asked Edwin after a pause. "Did she not wish to enjoy either the honor or the pleasure?"
"It's late," replied Mohr, looking at his watch, "too late to open a second bottle, I'll seek my virgin couch."
"He evades us," laughed Edwin, turning to Balder. "She has disappointed his expectations. Ah! Heinz, I could have told you that before; this muse is not a beauty. Her fingers promise more than
