corner. The walk is soon over,
however, for only one prisoner is allowed there at one time, and there
are many prisoners, and the winter days are short. The most peaceable
time is the twilight hour. Then the feeble light reflected from the
snow and filtered through the frost-covered panes of my window rapidly
declines. Then I am forced to drop work or reading, and I abandon myself
to the current of my sad thoughts. I feel tired and discouraged. The
slow course of a political trial of which the preliminary examinations
often extend over several years; the absolute and arbitrary character of
the proceedings, the ready-made verdict sent from St. Petersburg; the
prisoner's ignorance of the offence of which he is accused, and of which
he seldom obtains details until the trial is ended; the disastrous
influence which prison life exercises, even on the strongest, all tend
to prove that, once in prison, one can never be certain of regaining
liberty. This idea, which the anxiety and the fatigue of the first few
days chases away, returns later on with renewed force. Then another, not
less painful and more important, creeps into the brain, namely, the
absolute inutility of all that one can do or learn. At such times, in
the semi-obscurity of my cell, when the wind is shaking my window as
though it would tear it from its stone casing, I, who am only eighteen
or nineteen years of age, ask myself, with infinite agony of soul, of
what use are these books, of what use is life, if it is only to be a
longer or shorter suffering, without the opportunity of being useful for
something or to somebody?

To escape from these thoughts, I often pass the twilight hour at my
window. The prison regulations forbid it, but prisoners pay little
attention to this or any other rule, and our keepers, soldiers,
officers, or Captain W---- passing by, and noticing a prisoner at
the window, simply shrug their shoulders as who would say, "What can
they see?" And after all they are right, for there is little to be seen.
Above, a small patch of sky; below, under the window, a sentry pacing up
and down; farther on, the wall surrounding the prison; beyond that, the
outside wall surrounding the fortress; and lastly, a plain, through
which a river takes its course. At times on this plain I notice moving
figures. Sometimes, too, the evening breeze brings to my ears the sound
of laughter, a call, or a soldier's song. These indications of life in
the distance are so