t and tablecloth[3]; and, lastly, to a few toilet objects found in
my trunk, and an alarm clock, which I still possess, my cell appears
less repulsive than heretofore. And when at night, dressed in one of
those long white flannel dressing-gowns, which Aunt Vera has made
especially for me, I stretch myself in my bed, I am happy as one rarely
is between those walls covered with the dew of prisoners' tears, and
dream of immense steppes, the blue sea, and a vast expanse free and
flooded in sunlight.

[3] The regulations admit only articles in white, black, or grey.

[Illustration: AT NIGHT.]

II.

This period, so poor in events, is for me most memorable, for it is the
commencement of my monotonous life as a prisoner. I spend the greater
portion of my time reading. Pen, ink, and paper are forbidden to
political prisoners, as are also newspapers, reviews, and other works
dealing with current events. Even the books allowed, although they have
already been passed by the Public Censor, are again examined by Colonel
P----, who rigorously eliminates every line even distantly hinting at
politics or social life, or which may appear to him "subversive." Thanks
to this system, I for some time read nothing but scientific and
philosophic works, for which classes of reading I am too young and but
ill-prepared. Gradually, however, these works take hold upon me; they
appeal to my pride, and I struggle to vanquish the difficulties of
understanding these vast systems which rule the world, of which I know
so little. They cause me to reflect, and appeal to my imagination.
Outside of these works, I write Aunt Vera to send me those of different
poets and celebrated novelists, and to send them as much as possible in
chronological order, so that I may improve my knowledge of literature.
This simple desire is in opposition to Colonel P----'s system.
Fortunately, he does not know foreign languages, and such books are sent
for approval to Mr. N----, who, more intelligent than his colleague,
does not need to read a book through to grasp its motive, and so he
signs most of what is presented to him, and then they are sent to me.
Reading, with short intervals for needlework or embroidery, constitutes
my daily life, excepting for the interruptions for meals and the daily
walk in the narrow prison yard. There is very little to attract in this
solitary walk in a small paved court-yard, surrounded by high walls, and
with a soldier or policeman at each