those of a primitive man, who tore his rare meat with those same white
teeth, and who never heard of a dentist. His hair was short, white, and
bristling. He seemed to have some Jewish blood in him, but he seemed
more than all to be perfectly well, perfectly normal, filled to the brim
with abounding life. It was like a draught from the Elixir of Life to be
in his presence. What a man!

All at once the whole of "Degeneration" was made clear to me. How could
any man as sane, as normal, as superbly health-loving and
health-bestowing keep from writing such a book! I never met any one who
so impressed me with his knowledge. Not pedantry, but with the
deep-lying fundamental truth that humanity ought to know. His sympathies
are so broad, his intuitions so keen, his understanding so subtle.

He asked us at once into his study--a small room, lined with books bound
in calf. Both the chair and his couch had burst out beneath, showing
broken springs and general dilapidation. He speaks many languages, and
his English is very pure and beautiful.

Like all great men, his manner was extremely simple. He did not pose.
He was interested in me, in my work, in my ambitions, hopes, and aims.
He seemed to have no overpoweringly high idea of himself, nor of what he
had achieved. He was thoroughly at home in French, German, English,
Scandinavian, and Russian literature. He read them in the originals, and
his knowledge of the classics seemed to be equally complete. The
well-worn books upon his shelves testified to this.

I asked him if he intended to come to America in the near future. To
which he replied: