ndured, the life I led, I will not recount to you.
I performed the most menial service, and worked months like a beast of
burden. For want of a shelter, I slept in deserted yards and tumble-down
houses. Upon a piece of bread and a drink of water I lived, saving,
with miserly greediness, the money which I earned as messenger or
day-laborer. At the end of a year, I had earned sufficient to buy an old
suit of clothes at a second-hand clothing-store, and present myself to
the director of the Gymnasium, imploring him to receive me as pupil.
Bitterly weeping, I opened my heart to him, and disclosed the torture
of my sad life as a child, and begged him to give me the opportunity
to educate myself. He repulsed me with scorn, and threatened to give me
over to the police, as a runaway, as a vagabond, and beggar. 'I am no
beggar!' I cried, vehemently, 'I will be under obligation to no one. I
have money to pay for two years in advance, and during this time I shall
be able to earn sufficient to pay for the succeeding two years.' This
softened the anger of the crabbed director; he was friendly and kind,
and promised me his assistance."

"Poor boy!" sighed Goethe. "So young, and yet forced to learn that there
is a power to which not only kings and princes, but mind must bow; to
which science and art have submitted, as to their Maecenas! This power
opened the doors of the Gymnasium to you."

"It was even thus. The director took pity upon me, and permitted me to
enter upon my studies at once; he did more, he assured my future. Oh, he
was a humane and kind man! When he learned that I possessed nothing but
the little sum to which the drops of blood of a year's toil still clung,
then--"

"He returned it to you," interrupted Goethe, kindly.

"No, he offered me board, lodging, and clothing, during my course at the
Gymnasium."

"That was well," cried Goethe. "Tell me the name of this honorable man,
that I may meet him and extend to him my hand."

A troubled smile spread over Philip's face. "Permit me for the time
being to conceal the name," he replied. "I received the generous
proposal gratefully, and asked, deeply moved, if there were no services
which I could return for so much kindness and generosity. It proved that
there were, and the director made them known to me. He was unmarried,
hence the necessity of men's service. I should be society for him--be a
companion, in fact; I should do what every grateful son would do for
his fathe