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 gave 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.