“Now you are disputing as to your life’s duty,” cried Baninskoi, whose eyes glowed, and whole face was red with the alcohol he had imbibed.  “Prove first that it is a duty.  I deny without exception every duty to others.  Why should I trouble myself about the world?  What are my fellow-creatures to me?  Dinner is trumps, and long live wine!” and he drank a glassful.

“It is an instinct born with us,” said Wilhelm, without any vexation, “to care for one’s fellow-creatures, and to feel a duty in sympathy for others.”

“But suppose I have not got this instinct?” answered Barinskoi.

“Then you are an unhealthy exception.”

“Prove it.”

“The best proof is the continuance of mankind.  If the instinct of sympathy with others were to fail among men, humanity would long ago have ceased to exist.”

Barinskoi laughed.

“That is a convenient arrangement.  Instinct then is the only foundation for your duty, and the continuance of humanity is the only sanction of your instinct.  I will leave you to listen to your instinct, and sympathize as much as you like, but for my part I joyfully renounce this duty; the only punishment I should be afraid of is the destruction of mankind, and that is not likely to happen in my lifetime.”

“There is another punishment,” said Mayboom solemnly, “that I take this bottle of champagne away from you on account of—­your bad behavior.”

While he spoke he took away the bottle, and Barinskoi tried to get it back again; a little struggle ensued.  Dorfling put an end to it by an emphatic “Please don’t do that.”  Turning to Wilhelm he went on: 

“I do not believe in your idea of duty; you place instinct at the foundation.  I use another word.  I call your instinct the foreboding that each has of its being, and its outflow toward the eternal phenomenon of principle.  At all events, that seems to suffice for a foundation.  But I conceive duty to be quite a different thing.  You limit your view to self-culture, and have love for your fellow-creatures, but no desire to instruct them.  Now, I think that culture should begin with oneself, but end with others.  That is my idea of love for humanity.  One need hardly go out of oneself to do this.  One can influence things remote without disturbing oneself.  Just think of the magnet; it is an immense source of influence, called example.  It sets an astonishing example without moving out of itself—­an example which cannot be overlooked, and powerfully affects the imagination.”

“One illustration for another,” said Schrotter, who had shown his interest in the conversation by nodding his head now and then.  “You wish man to play the part of a magnet; that is not enough, I want him to play the part of a cogwheel.  He must catch hold of his surroundings while he moves, he must also move all those round him.  Everyone cannot be a magnet; we are not all made of the same stuff.  But one can make a cogged wheel out of