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Updated: June 20, 2025
Now they were on the heights of intellect, talking poetry and philosophy, and reading Lassalle's works; now they were discussing Balzac's Physiologie du Mariage. Anon Lassalle was a large dog, gambolling before his capricious mistress. "Lie down, sir," she cried once, as he was reading a poem to her.
There was nothing in Lassalle's life to warrant the assumption that he would deliberately sell his party for a mess of pottage. Lassalle had put his hand to the plow and it was not in his nature to leave the furrow unturned. Yet Lassalle's title to greatness must lie less in what he himself achieved than in the achievements of others in his name.
No better proof of Lassalle's enthusiasm can be found than a few lines from his own writings: I love Heine. He is my second self. What audacity! What overpowering eloquence! He knows how to whisper like a zephyr when it kisses rose-blooms, how to breathe like fire when it rages and destroys; he calls forth all that is tenderest and softest, and then all that is fiercest and most daring.
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