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.
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