I do not know what I should have become if fate had placed me in the ranks of the proletariat. I cannot picture to myself without anger anyone daring to place his hand upon me, compelling me to do that which I do not wish, purchasing for money my labor, my blood, my nerves, my life. This horror, however, I experienced only for one minute, as it immediately dawned upon me that such as I never remain poor. But father did not understand that. He sincerely considered me a dull youth and viewed with apprehension

my supposed helplessness.

"Oh, Anton, Anton, what will become of you?" he would say. He himself seemed weary; his long, unkempt hair descended over the forehead; his face was yellow. I replied:

"Don't worry about me, papa. As I am not talented, I will kill Rothschild or rob a bank."

My father became angry, as he accepted my answer as an untimely and flat jest. He saw my face, he heard my voice and never-