These regulations are not nearly so strictly kept as regards the ordinary criminals, who are often allowed to wander all about a Russian prison without supervision, and manage to get admitted even to the women’s quarters. Moreover, it not infrequently happens that a criminal who has money at his disposal is allowed by the warders and overseers to be out all night in the town, where he amuses himself or goes about his own business. So far as the treatment of prisoners goes, we “politicals” are only too glad to be put on the footing of “common criminals”; which but seldom happens to us, however. Yet in one respect the “politicals” have an advantage—I mean in the demeanour of the prison staff towards them. Every official, high or low, knows well that he cannot go beyond a certain point with them, and that he must behave with courtesy. This unwritten law arose from the fact that for generations the “politicals” belonged exclusively to the educated and privileged classes, and also from their proud conviction that they have only acted according to the dictates of reason and conscience, which upholds them in the firm feeling of innocence, and makes them fiercely jealous for the preservation of both their own self-respect and their dignity in the eyes of others. If any official ventures to ignore this sentiment he may count on energetic protest, and in such cases the prison is often the scene of a bitter conflict that may lead to tragic results. As a slight example I may relate the following incident. A certain great personage had come from Petersburg—Galkin Vrassky, the head of the controlling department for all Russian prisons. His position demanded the deepest awe and subservience from all minor officials, and he himself was fully conscious of his power and bore himself accordingly. He was a Privy Counsellor and extremely pompous. Before his promised visit to our prison we had heard that it was this gentleman’s custom not to uncover his head when entering the cells, but to keep his hat on all the time. We instantly agreed together that if he behaved so here, the first of us whose cell he visited should teach him a lesson in manners. Galkin Vrassky came, attended by an imposing suite, and accompanied by—among others—Prince Galitzin, the Vice-Governor of Moscow. He began his rounds with our Pugatchev Tower, and went first to the cell of Peter Dashkièvitch. Dashkièvitch had been a theological student; he was a man of very calm but unyielding temperament, and permeated to an uncommon degree with the instinct of justice and fairness. It was now incumbent on him to beard this haughty official, who had scarcely begun the stereotyped question—“Have you any complaints to make?”—when Dashkièvitch interrupted him, saying quietly: “It is very impolite of you, sir, to enter my apartment without removing your hat.” Galkin Vrassky reddened to the roots of his hair, turned on his heel and left the cell, the whole company following him in silence.