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obliged to refer to them in passing, he is
annoyed, and assumes the role of an unfortunate
nonentity, so that at last, out of sympathy, I
put on the air of an old decayed wreck. This
imperceptibly depresses me, while he, who has
his future still before him, elevates himself again
at my expense. I am like a corpse buried at
the root of a tree which sucks nutriment out of
the decomposing life, and grows upwards.
At this time I study Buddhist books, and
wonder at the self-denial with which I mortify
myself for another. But good works deserve a
reward, and mine did not remain wanting.
One day the Revue des Revues comes with a
likeness of the American prophet and empiric
doctor, Francis Schlatter, who in the year 1895
cured five thousand sick persons and then
disappeared without ever being seen again. Now
this man’s features resembled in a remarkable
way those of my new companion. To confirm
my supposition, I show the Revue to a Swedish
sculptor with whom I have an appointment in
the Café de Versailles. He notices the resemblance
at once, and reminds me of a remarkable
coincidence of circumstances. Both the doctor
and my friend were Germans by birth, and
worked in America. Still further, the
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