"I was in the
fourth grade at school when I saw Rossi in Hamlet and from that
moment the theater claimed me entirely! I pilfered cash from my
father to buy tragedies and attended the theater. I spent whole days
and nights in learning roles, and dreamed that I would conquer the
whole world . . ."

"And you're nothing but a tyro in Cabinski's company," jeered Dobek.

"I learned that Richter had come to Warsaw and intended to open a
school of dramatic art," continued Wladek. "I went to see him, for I
felt that I had talent and wished to learn. He lived on St. John's
Street. I came to his house and rang the bell. He opened the door
himself, let me in and then locked it. I began to perspire with fear
and didn't know how to begin. I stood first on one foot and then on
the other. He was calmly washing a saucepan. Then, he poured some
oil into an oil-stove, took off his coat, put on a house-jacket and
began to peel potatoes.

"After a long silence, seeing that I would not get him to respond in
that way, I began to stammer something about my calling, my love of
art, my desire to learn and so forth. . . . He continued to peel his
potatoes. Finally, I asked him to give me lessons. He glanced at me
and grumbled: 'How old are you, my boy?' I stood there dumbfounded
like a mummy and he continued to question: 'Did you come with your
mother?' Tears began to fill my eyes, while he spoke again: 'Your
father will give you a walloping, and they'll expel you from
school.' I felt so distressed and humiliated that I could not utter
a word 'Recite some verse for me, young man,' he said quietly, all
the while systematically peeling his potatoes."

"So your inclination to roar on the stage harks away back to those
days, eh?" jeered Glas.

"Glas, don't interrupt me. . . . Ha! thought I, I'll have to show
him! And although I was all trembling with emotion I assumed a
tragic pose and began to recite. . . . I writhed, shouted, burst out
in a fit of passion like Othello, seethed with hatred, like a
samovar and finally finished, all covered with perspiration. 'Some
more,' said Richter, continually peeling the potatoes, while not a
single muscle of his face betrayed what he thought of it all. I
thought that everything was going fine, so I selected 'Hagar.' I
despaired like Niobe, cursed like Lear, pleaded, threatened, and
ended up, all exhausted and breathless. He said: 'Still more!' He
stopped peeling the potatoes and began to chop meat. Enrapt