The literature which could be published in Russia under a rigorous censorship--the faintest hint of Socialism being prohibited--was soon found insufficient, and we started a printing office of our own abroad. Pamphlets for the workers and the peasants had to be written, and our small "literary committee," of which I was a member, had its hands full of work. Serghei wrote a couple of such pamphlets--one in the Lammenais style, and another containing an exposition of Socialism in a fairy tale--and both had a wide circulation. The books and pamphlets which were printed abroad were smuggled into Russia by thousands, stored at certain spots, and sent out to the local circles, which distributed them amongst the peasants and the workers. All this required a vast organization as well as much traveling about, and a colossal correspondence, particularly for protecting our helpers and our bookstores from the police. We had special ciphers for different provincial circles, and often, after six or seven hours had been passed in discussing all details, the women, who did not trust to our accuracy in the cipher correspondence, spent all the night in covering sheets of paper with cabalistic figures and fractions. The Revolutionist BY IVAN TURGÉNEV (Russian writer, 1818-1883, one of the masters of the novel form. He was imprisoned and later exiled. In the original the present extract is a prose poem. The versification is by Arthur Guiterman) I saw a spacious house. O'erhung with pall, A narrow doorway pierced the sombre wall. Within was chill, impenetrable shade; Without there stood a maid--a Russian maid, To whom the icy dark sent forth a slow And hollow-sounding Voice: "And dost thou know, When thou hast entered, what awaits thee here?" "I know," she said, "and knowing do not fear." "Cold, hunger, hatred, Slander's blighting breath," The Voice still chanted, "suffering--and Death?" "I know," she said. "Undaunted, wilt thou dare The sneers of kindred? Art thou steeled to bear From those whom most thou lovest, spite and scorn?" "Though Love be paid with Hate, that shall be borne," She answered. "Think! Thy doom may be to die By thine own hand, with none to fathom why, Unthanked, unhonored, desolate, alone, Thy grave unmarked, thy toil, thy love unknown, And none in days to come shall speak thy name." She said: "I ask no pity, thanks or fame." "Art thou prepared for crime?" She bowed her head: "Yes, crime, if that shall need," the maiden said. Now paused the Voice before it asked anew: "But knowest thou that all thou holdest true Thy soul may yet deny in bitter pain, So thou shalt deem thy sacrifice in vain?" "E'en this I know," she said, "and yet again I pray thee, let me enter."