hands, the very holiest inwards of philosophy, where madness dwells?

Ay, Otto, madness; for in the serene temples of the wise, the inmost

shrine, which we carefully keep locked, is full of spiders' webs.

All men, all, are fundamentally useless; nature tolerates, she does

not need, she does not use them: sterile flowers! All - down to the

fellow swinking in a byre, whom fools point out for the exception -

all are useless; all weave ropes of sand; or like a child that has

breathed on a window, write and obliterate, write and obliterate,

idle words! Talk of it no more. That way, I tell you, madness

lies.' The speaker rose from his chair and then sat down again. He

laughed a little laugh, and then, changing his tone, resumed: 'Yes,

dear child, we are not here to do battle with giants; we are here to

be happy like the flowers, if we can be. It is because you could,

that I have always secretly admired you. Cling to that trade;

believe me, it is the right one. Be happy, be idle, be airy. To

the devil with all casuistry! and leave the state to Gondremark, as

heretofore. He does it well enough, they say; and his vanity enjoys

the situation.'

'Gotthold,' cried Otto, 'what is this to me? Useless is not the

question; I cannot rest at uselessness; I must be useful or I must

be noxious - one or other. I grant you the whole thing, prince and

principality alike, is pure absurdity, a stroke of satire; and that

a banker or the man who keeps an inn has graver duties. But now,

when I have washed my hands of it three years, and left all -

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