Of late a new acquaintance had come into his
limited social circle. This was a man of about thirty-five, called
Dorfling, an overgrown thin creature, with long, straight gray hair,
and deep intellectual eyes in his thin face. He came from the Rhine,
and was the son of a rich merchant, into whose business he should
have gone. However, when he was twenty-six he boldly told his father
that the world outside was of deeper and wider interest to him than
account books. The father died, and Dorfling hastened to put the
business into liquidation, and devote himself to philosophical
studies. For a year he drifted from one school to another, sitting
at the feet of the most celebrated teachers and plunging himself
into their systems. In the autumn of 1872 he appeared suddenly in
Berlin, and renewed his old acquaintance with Wilhelm. Since then he
had become a frequent guest at Dr. Schrotter's dinner table, and a
companion to Wilhelm, in his afternoon walks.
Dorfling was the most wonderful listener that any one could wish to
have, though he himself was rather silent. If the talk turned on
great questions of knowledge, morality, the object of life,
Dorfling's share in the conversation consisted in the following
half-audible remark: "Yes, it is a powerful and interesting subject.
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