“So it is your opinion that there is nothing to be done for us, and that we ought calmly to be left in want, and slavery, and ignorance?” Hessel asked angrily.

“I think,” returned Wilhelm, “that it is the bounden duty of every man to love his neighbor, and help him where and when he can.”

“Oh yes,” said Hessel with a sneer, “that is the standpoint of the Church—­the standpoint of the Middle Ages.  You would give us alms.  No, thank you, we accept no presents.  We demand our rights, not charity.”

Wilhelm thought to himself that he had not always found the Socialists so proud, but kept the thought to himself, not wishing to hurt Hessel’s feelings, who seemed to be an honest fanatic.

“Do not let that be your last word,” Hessel went on.  “You are probably but slightly acquainted with our doctrines and writings.  Come nearer to us.  Come to our meetings—­talk to our workmen.  You will find that many of us have very clear heads, and know exactly what we want, although the majority do still cling a good deal to phrases.  You will assuredly soon begin to interest yourself in the emancipation of the proletariat.  And what a future to look forward to!  You might be another Lassalle, famous powerful, adored by thousands, received as a savior wherever you show yourself—­make a triumphal progress through all Germany, perhaps through the world.  And over and above, the consciousness of having rendered such mighty service to your fellow-men.”

Wilhelm rose.

“I seem to myself to be playing a rather ridiculous part in this scene,” he said; “it is a parody of the Gospel story of the Temptation.  Unfortunately, I have not the smallest particle of ambition, and have no desire to be either famous or mighty, or to make triumphal progresses.  If I could really do anything for you, believe me, I would do it gladly.  But I assure you I possess neither the philosopher’s stone, nor a prescription for a universal panacea.  I do not believe either that the remedies they recommend so highly to you are very effectual, so I am much obliged to you for your confidence in me, and beg you to leave me in my obscurity.”

Hessel gave him a dark look, stood up, turned slowly away, and left him without one word, or even offering him his hand.

Wilhelm had sent to Berlin for a box of books, and tried to go on with his work, but found no real pleasure in it.  A deep despondency had come upon him, and the idea that his life was wholly purposeless took more and more hold upon him.  Often, after studying earnestly for a day or two, and making extracts for his book, he would ask himself, “Why take all this trouble?  Who is going to be made wiser or happier by this rigmarole?” and his pleasure in the work was gone again for days.  The consciousness of exile, instead of being blunted by time, weighed ever more heavily upon him.  He never realized till now what an absolute necessity it was to his nature to lean upon a kindred spirit, for he had never