umanity.

[4] In 1877, or '78, an Odessa prisoner, named Solomine, in an access of
melancholia, tied himself on his bed and then set fire to the bedding.
The smoke issuing through the door cracks warned the keepers, but the
key had been handed to the director, and he was in town. When the door
was at last forced open there only remained the ashes of the bedding and
a partly carbonised corpse.

The noise of footsteps, or the closing of a door, a groan or a cry,
sometimes disperse these memories and dreams; for in the prison no doors
open at night save to commit fresh prisoners, and no cries are heard
save cries for help. Uneasy, I rise, as others did the night I was
brought here, and listen. If the noise or the groan is prolonged, if
the cry is repeated, I and others knock on the wicket of our doors in
order to call the attention of the "blue angel." As he is not allowed to
speak to the prisoners, he generally indicates by dumb motions that all
is well and that one may sleep in peace. But as he opens the wicket we
obtain a glimpse of part of the corridor, and that often enables us to
judge of what is taking place. Besides, these signals are intended to
convey to the new arrival, or the comrade taken ill, that he is not
alone, and that we are watching. Generally this suffices, but if not,
then one or more of the prisoners takes up some hard object, such as a
bottle or stool, and commences to knock on the door. In an instant the
prison is alarmed, the prisoners, suddenly awakened, call for an
explanation, often difficult to furnish, and in turn seize their stools
and strike. The din produced by these blows, struck simultaneously, is
enormous, and I know and can imagine nothing more frightfully
lugubrious than to be suddenly awakened by this awful noise, and to find
oneself in a cold cell from which there is no issue.

[Illustration: "GHOSTS."]

This method, one of the few employed by prisoners for the purpose of
imposing their collective will, is only resorted to in exceptional
cases, as, for instance, when it is necessary to force the warders and
the director to attend to a sick comrade, or to summon the doctor at an
unusual hour.

Outside of these events, outside of memories and dreams, my prison life
has also its joys. These consist in the letters I receive from Serge and
Aunt Vera. The former are full of a forced gaiety, short and
commonplace, for the prison regulations forbid prisoners to write on
other su