and the political prisoners suffered more under this well-meaning _bon vivant_ than under many a thorough-paced tyrant. But I will not anticipate. During the early days of Masyukov’s rule we were able to rejoice in more than one concession. Besides the granting of our petition for a garden, the doors of our rooms were now hardly ever locked by day, and within the stockade surrounding the prison yard we could wander about as we pleased. In Nikolin’s time one of the rooms had always been empty, and for some reason or other he had refused to let us use it; now we were allowed possession of it, and also of the wing containing single cells, during the summer months. We thus had more space, and anyone who wished for solitude could be alone for a few hours at a time; our musicians, too, with their instruments of torture, could be sent where they disturbed no one. Another relief was that the rule against the possession of tools was less strictly interpreted, and we were no longer obliged to conceal any work we had in hand. A vice and some other tools were procured, and our arts and crafts flourished exceedingly. Even an amateur photographer was discovered among us, and with the help of our carpenters set up a regular studio; but I cannot say that his performances were at all remarkable. Masyukov did his best to meet our views, and fulfilled our requests whenever possible. Among other things he agreed that we might settle as we liked in what room each of us should live; so Stefanòvitch and I at once made use of this permission. Our two and a half years’ abode in the “Sanhedrin” had been very irksome to us both, and when the “great migration” caused by the above-mentioned expansion of our territory took place, we transferred ourselves into the room called the “Commune,” or sometimes “the hospital.” It was more comfortable than the other rooms in one or two particulars; it contained proper bedsteads, for instance, and besides the big table there were also little tables, one between each pair of beds. It was, as a rule, unusual for the inmates of a room voluntarily to change their abode; we called the feeling about this “room-patriotism.” Such patriots were very keen about their own room, which was, of course, always “the best”; they never left their room-mates in the lurch, were proud of the success of any of them, and sorrowed over their griefs. The inmates of the “Commune” seemed the least possessed by this _esprit de corps_, perhaps because most of them were among those nomads who had already changed rooms more than once. Here, too, in contradistinction to the habits of the other rooms, each man was much occupied with his own affairs; we isolated ourselves more, and rarely held common debates or jollifications; most of us immersed ourselves in serious study, and on that account less noise and merriment went on among us.