voices as sad and sincere as though they were at confession, some of them even weeping and wringing their hands. The whole unexpected scene was for me such a strange and moving picture that for a long time I could not regain my composure.
Later, watching what went on, I saw that the Ivans began to send letters, packages of cigarettes, sugar, soap and other little gifts by means of bits of twine and string which they had pieced together. With the aid of these lines there also travelled up from the ground floor the answering missives and the women's gifts, bits of looking-glass, ribbons, tobacco and sometimes even a bit of chocolate or a fruit lozenge.
After dinner, when I went into Cell No. 1 and invited them all to be seated, as I was about to begin a lecture, one of the prisoners came up to me and said rather naively:
"Starosta, to-day we have other things in mind and … here!" pointing to his heart. "Women have come to the prison, and it is a happy day for us. In these awful bags of stone and brick, in these rooms cursed a thousand times, we live a life of depression without any morrow, without hope. When we hear the voices of these women, who have not yet had time to become such monsters as the prison has made of us, we feel as though a breath of fresh, pure air had come in from the outside world; we picture our families, whom we shall certainly never see again; and in thought we transport ourselves to other places, where our mothers, sisters, wives or our betrothed are waiting for us. Hope returns to us, the hope that cleans our souls, rotting here behind these bars." He smiled bashfully and added in a whisper:
"To-day we don't want learning, Starosta!"
I laughed and was just about to go out, when the
