should probably have a theatrical representation in the prison. The convicts proposed to get up a play during the Christmas holidays. The necessary actors were found, and, little by little, the scenery was prepared. Some persons in the town had promised to lend women’s clothes for the performance. Some hopes were even entertained of obtaining, through the medium of an officer’s servant, a uniform with epaulettes, provided only the Major did not take it into his head to forbid the performance, as he had done the previous year. He was at that time in ill-humour through having lost at cards, and he had been annoyed at something that had taken place in the prison. Accordingly, in a fit of ill-humour, he had forbidden the performance. It was possible, however, that this year he would not prevent it. Baklouchin was in a state of exultation. It could be seen that he would be one of the principal supporters of the meditated theatre. I made up my mind to be present at the performance. The ingenuous joy which Baklouchin manifested in speaking of the undertaking was quite touching. From whispering, we gradually got to talk of the matter quite openly. He told me, among other things, that he had not served at St. Petersburg alone. He had been sent to R---- with the rank of non-commissioned officer in a garrison battalion. “From there they sent me on here,” added Baklouchin. “And why?” I asked him. “Why? You would never guess, Alexander Petrovitch. Because I was in love.” “Come now. A man is not exiled for that,” I said, with a laugh. “I should have added,” continued Baklouchin, “that it made me kill a German with a pistol-shot. Was it worth while to send me to hard labour for killing a German? Only think.” “How did it happen? Tell me the story. It must be a strange one.” “An amusing story indeed, Alexander Petrovitch.” “So much the better. Tell me.” “You wish me to do so? Well, then, listen.” And he told me the story of his murder. It was not “amusing,” but it was indeed strange.