When he had written one of his merriest
couplets, he would stop his work and sigh with Dorfling over the
tragedy of life. The papers treated his farces as rubbish, but the
public adored them. The earnest critic would hardly touch his name
with a pair of tongs, but the theatre managers fought for possession
of his work. He had a beautiful wife who worshiped him, two
wonderful children, and the appearance and bearing of Timon of
Athens.
At Dorfling's summons two waiters came in; one of them put a large
dish of oysters on the table, while the other placed a thick octavo
volume before each guest.
"The last of the season," cried Barinskoi gayly, and helped himself
to oysters.
"The book! Bravo!" said Paul, and held out his hand to Dorfling.
There was a short silence, while they all, even the cynical
Barinskoi, contemplated the book before them, On the pearl-gray
cover they read;
"The Philosophy of Deliverance, by X. Rheinthaler."
"What an expressive title," said Wilhelm, breaking the silence
first.
"Admirably adapted for a comic song," remarked Mayboom, with a
melancholy air. Barinskoi laughed loudly, while Dorfling looked
blandly at him. The comic poet sighed deeply and began to eat.
"But why Rheinthaler?" asked Paul.
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