Gazin was triumphant. He walked about with a self-satisfied air, by the side of his camp bedstead, beneath which he had concealed his spirits, previously buried beneath the snow behind the barracks, in a secret place. He smiled knowingly when he saw customers arrive in crowds. He was perfectly calm. He had drunk nothing at all; for it was his intention to regale himself the last day of the holidays, after he had emptied the pockets of the other prisoners. Throughout the barracks the drunkenness was becoming infernal. Singing was heard, and the songs were giving way to tears. Some of the prisoners walked about in bands, sheepskin on shoulder, striking with a haughty air the strings of their balalaiki. A chorus of from eight to ten men had been formed in the special section. The singing here was excellent, with its accompaniments of balalaiki and guitars. Songs of a truly popular kind were rare. I remember one which was admirably sung: Yesterday, I, a young girl, Went to the feast. A variation was introduced previously unknown to me. At the end of the song these lines were added: At my house, the house of a young girl, Everything is in order. I have washed the spoons, I have turned out the cabbage-soup, I have wiped down the panels of the door, I have cooked the patties. What they chiefly sang were prison songs; one of them, called “As it happened,” was very humorous. It related how a man amused himself, and lived like a prince until he was sent to the convict prison, where he fared very differently. Another song, only too popular, set forth how the hero of it had formerly possessed capital, but had now nothing but captivity. Here is a true convict’s song: The day breaks in the heavens, We are waked up by the drum. The old man opens the door, The warder comes and calls us. No one sees us behind the prison walls, Nor how we live in this place. But God, the Heavenly Creator, is with us He will not let us perish. Another still more melancholy, but with a superb melody, was sung to tame and incorrect words. I can remember a few of the verses: My eyes no more will see the land, Where I was born; To suffer torments undeserved, Will be my punishment. The owl will shriek upon the roof, And raise the echoes of the forest. My heart is broken down with grief. No, never more shall I return. This song is often sung; not as a chorus, but always as a solo. When the work is over, a prisoner goes out of the barracks, sits down on the threshold, meditates with his chin resting on his hand, and then drawls out his song in a high falsetto. One listens to him, and the effect is heart-breaking. Some of our convicts had beautiful voices.