Schrotter’s answer was, as usual, full of faithful affection and wise encouragement.  He chid him gently for his want of spirit, and then went on to say: 

“You have no future!  I am amazed at such a remark in the mouth of a man of thought.  Which one of us can say he has a future?  To say we have a future is simply to say that we wish for something, strive after something, set some aim before us.  That which we call a man’s future does not lie outside of him, but in himself.  I would have you observe that events rarely or never happen as we expect, and that the plans which we have worked out most zealously are scarcely ever carried out.  And yet we firmly believe, all the time, that we have a future.  Nature permits us no outlook into Time.  A wall rises before our eyes to hide what is coming.  But the cheerless nakedness of that wall being unbearable to us, we paint it over with landscapes of our own devising.  And that is what the unthinking mind calls the future.  Any one can paint these pictures on the wall, and to complain of its bareness is to acknowledge the poverty of one’s own imagination wishing for something,—­never mind what.  The higher, the more unattainable, the better.  Only desire earnestly, and you will feel yourself alive again.  Your misfortune, my friend, is that you have not to work for your daily bread.  A settled income is only a blessing to those to whom the attainment of the trifling and external pleasures of life seems worth the trouble of an effort.  You are wise enough to set no value on what the world can give you.  You are neither vain nor ambitious.  Therefore you do not exercise your capacities in wrestling for position, recognition, honors, or fame.  On the other hand, you have no need to trouble yourself about the bare necessities of life, and are thereby deprived of another occasion for bringing your strength into play.  Now, you are provided with organic forces, and it is the circumstance that these forces are lying fallow that affects you like a malady.  It is in work alone that you can hope to find a cure, or at least an improvement.  Accordingly, if you have not sufficient strength of will to set yourself some task, my will shall come to your aid.  I suggest, nay, I insist, that you proceed manfully with your ’History of Human Ignorance,’ about which I have heard nothing for months, and that you show me at least the first volume ready for the press by the end of this time next year.”

Wilhelm caught desperately at this advice, offered to him by his friend in the paradoxical form of a command.  He got out his books and papers again, and began devoting his mornings to work.  Pilar was delighted.  She was far too wise not to know that honeymoons do not last forever, and although she was persuaded that she, for her part, would never desire anything better than to be always at Wilhelm’s side, passing the time in interminable conversations about herself and himself, in kissing and fondling,