And what did he retain of philology? Of those sleepy mornings and afternoons in ruined old classrooms, with the brocades and wainscoting disintegrating in the damp? That everything seemed prefatory to outings with Hans.

Wilhelm traded one authority disappointed in him for others, from his father to Dr. Krefeld—whose every sentence began “Well, so …”—to Dr. Widmann, who drifted desk to desk only to pivot suddenly on one foot to launch a question in an unexpected direction.

For the most part, he sat through all of it dull, moony, and silent, interested only in their rhetorical exercises, in which those called upon could be Frederick, or Vercingetorix, or Caesar. Performing these roles, he felt Protean; he entered the thoughts of other men, and understood that each made decisions according to his own laws.

What he loved most were the exercise-walks, he and Hans taking their places behind the others and chattering like birds. Here they embroidered upon the theme of what they’d accomplish once they left school. To begin with, they would go on a long voyage. The thought of that sustained them through all sorts of unpleasantness. Usually they reprised the group walk on their own later in the day. They’d walk for miles. A feeling of suffocation would overcome them, and they’d lie dazed on their backs in a field. Then they’d return and again climb the stairs to their rooms, feeling as sad as if they’d indulged in a wild debauchery. One of their professors maintained that they overexcited each other.

In the evenings they worked together, their studies interrupted by remarks, jokes, confidences, and half-serious arguments. If one of them napped, the other resumed his studies. They composed pantheons and contradicted themselves regularly, their prejudices in a highly confused state. They were jealous of mutual friends. They were each other’s ideal audience. “We saw you two on the street this morning,” classmates told them. “What on earth was the joke?”

One twilight they sat through a downpour at an outdoor café, covering their coffees with their palms, soaked to the skin. After the rain had stopped, a sinister young waiter murmured, “Plenty of young ladies around this evening, gentlemen.”

At times, Hans was so relaxed in his presence that he fell asleep on streetcars. His kindness was so disarming that Wilhelm planned his gifts weeks in advance.

Before meeting Wilhelm, he had strived to model himself on the calm good sense and honesty of Xenophon. He’d cried upon first reading the passage in the Anabasis when the vanguard of the column reached the summit and finally caught sight of the sea. He left notes on Wilhelm’s bed: Thought more about your remarks re Langbehn. Felt I gave them short shrift. More to come. H. His presence educated even when he was silent.