tinued to appear to father, and that jolly atheist ordered prayers and masses.
My father was very clever and talented, and his speeches in court made not only nervous women, but also serious and balanced people weep. Only I did not weep, listening to him, because I knew him and knew that he himself understood little of what he was saying. He possessed considerable knowledge, many ideas and even more words; and his words and ideas and knowledge frequently combined themselves successfully and beautifully; but of this he had no comprehension. I often even doubted as to whether he existed—to such an extent did he exist in sounds and gestures that it sometimes occurred to me that this was not a human being, but an image flashed by a cinematograph, combined with a gramaphone. He did not comprehend that he was a human being, that to-day he lived and that to-morrow he might die, and he sought nothing. And when he went to bed he ceased to move and fell into a slumber; to all appearances he
