feeble that in reality they amount to very little.
And yet, in order to catch them on the wing, I sometimes pass hours at
the little open square in my window, in spite of the cold and the snow
and rain beating upon my face.

[Illustration: IN THE PRISON YARD.]

But now it is night. Tea is served, together with cold meat, purchased
with money deposited at the prison office by prisoners or their
friends. The little lamp above the door is lighted, the cell is locked,
and the key handed over to the prison director. This regulation is not
without its dangers[4], but I am thankful to know that, although I
cannot go out, nor even receive the friends I so much desire to see,
still there is no fear of a sudden visit from Colonel P---- or
his soldiers; nor of one of those examinations that sometimes take place
in the cells. I also like the lamplight at night. Too dim to read or
work by, it enlarges and transforms my little cell, so sad and grey by
daylight, and in filling it with a golden mist produces an illusion of
warmth and life. Besides, the evening is the time for telegraphic
communications with neighbours, conversations which, thanks to the
impossibility of the "blue angel's" interruption, are often prolonged
far into the night. This is also the hour for memories and dreams. Tired
of counting the rapid and hardly perceptible blows, and putting together
the letters and words composing the sentences they convey, I stretch
myself upon my bed; I gaze into the dim and golden mist, and gradually
people it with life and movement. Again I see our immense plains, the
towns, the country with its innumerable natural riches, and the
suffering and misery which our _regime_ imposes upon the inhabitants,
and the view of which agonises my heart. The scene is gradually peopled
with known and loved faces, amongst which those of Serge and Aunt Vera
oftenest appear. Sometimes the figures appear one after the other, then
in groups, bringing back details of their life and of mine. These
figures appearing before me stand out in such strong relief, they are so
truly alive, that I sometimes forget my past and try to read the future
of those for whom it exists--and for others I build castles in Spain.
Often, too, joining my desires to all that my intelligence and
imagination can create that is beautiful, I indulge in Utopias, and
before my eyes, enlarged by the feverish dream, pass immense crowds,
free, good, beautiful and happy, crowds grand as h