’"Yes, my good friend.  On that day I had nothing to desire; I had greatly annoyed my principal enemy; I was young, strong; I had friendship; I had the love” (he said “lof”) “of woman, a child I had, to make my heart very full—­and even what I had once dreamed in my sleep had come into my hand too!”

’He struck a match, which flared violently.  His thoughtful placid face twitched once.

’"Friend, wife, child,” he said slowly, gazing at the small flame—­“phoo!” The match was blown out.  He sighed and turned again to the glass case.  The frail and beautiful wings quivered faintly, as if his breath had for an instant called back to life that gorgeous object of his dreams.

’"The work,” he began suddenly, pointing to the scattered slips, and in his usual gentle and cheery tone, “is making great progress.  I have been this rare specimen describing. . . .  Na!  And what is your good news?”

’"To tell you the truth, Stein,” I said with an effort that surprised me, “I came here to describe a specimen. . . .”

’"Butterfly?” he asked, with an unbelieving and humorous eagerness.

’"Nothing so perfect,” I answered, feeling suddenly dispirited with all sorts of doubts.  “A man!”

’"Ach so!” he murmured, and his smiling countenance, turned to me, became grave.  Then after looking at me for a while he said slowly, “Well—­I am a man too.”

’Here you have him as he was; he knew how to be so generously encouraging as to make a scrupulous man hesitate on the brink of confidence; but if I did hesitate it was not for long.

’He heard me out, sitting with crossed legs.  Sometimes his head would disappear completely in a great eruption of smoke, and a sympathetic growl would come out from the cloud.  When I finished he uncrossed his legs, laid down his pipe, leaned forward towards me earnestly with his elbows on the arms of his chair, the tips of his fingers together.

’"I understand very well.  He is romantic.”

’He had diagnosed the case for me, and at first I was quite startled to find how simple it was; and indeed our conference resembled so much a medical consultation—­Stein, of learned aspect, sitting in an arm-chair before his desk; I, anxious, in another, facing him, but a little to one side—­that it seemed natural to ask—­

’"What’s good for it?”

’He lifted up a long forefinger.

’"There is only one remedy!  One thing alone can us from being ourselves cure!” The finger came down on the desk with a smart rap.  The case which he had made to look so simple before became if possible still simpler—­and altogether hopeless.  There was a pause.  “Yes,” said I, “strictly speaking, the question is not how to get cured, but how to live.”

’He approved with his head, a little sadly as it seemed.  “Ja! ja!  In general, adapting the words of your great poet:  That is the question. . . .”  He went on nodding sympathetically. . . .  “How to be!  Ach!  How to be.”