Not without a sense of pride I shall mention the modest offerings by which my kind admirers were striving to express to me their feelings of love and adoration.  I am not afraid of calling out a smile on the lips of my readers, for I feel how comical it is—­I will say that among the offerings brought me at first were fruit, cakes, all kinds of sweet-meats.  But I am afraid, however, that no one will believe me when I say that I have actually declined these offerings, preferring the observance of the prison regime in all its rigidness.

At the last lecture, a kind and honourable lady brought me a basketful of live flowers.  To my regret, I was compelled to decline this present, too.

“Forgive me, madam, but flowers do not enter into the system of our prison.  I appreciate very much your magnanimous attention—­I kiss your hands, madam—­” I said, “but I am compelled to decline the flowers.  Travelling along the thorny road to self-renunciation, I must not caress my eyes with the ephemeral and illusionary beauty of these charming lilies and roses.  All flowers perish in our prison, madam.”

Yesterday another lady brought me a very valuable crucifix of ivory, a family heirloom, she said.  Not afflicted with the sin of hypocrisy, I told my generous lady frankly that I do not believe in miracles.

“But at the same time,” I said, “I regard with the profoundest respect Him who is justly called the Saviour of the world, and I honour greatly His services to mankind.

“If I should tell you, madam, that the Gospel has long been my favourite book, that there is not a day in my life that I do not open this great Book, drawing from it strength and courage to be able to continue my hard course—­you will understand that your liberal gift could not have fallen into better hands.  Henceforth, thanks to you, the sad solitude of my cell will vanish; I am not alone.  I bless you, my daughter.”

I cannot forego mentioning the strange thoughts brought out by the crucifix as it hung there beside my portrait.  It was twilight; outside the wall the bell was tolling heavily in the invisible church, calling the believers together; in the distance, over the deserted field, overgrown with high grass, an unknown wanderer was plodding along, passing into the unknown distance, like a little black dot.  It was as quiet in our prison as in a sepulchre.  I looked long and attentively at the features of Jesus, which were so calm, so joyous compared with him who looked silently and dully from the wall beside Him.  And with my habit, formed during the long years of solitude, of addressing inanimate things aloud, I said to the motionless crucifix: 

“Good evening, Jesus.  I am glad to welcome You in our prison.  There are three of us here:  You, I, and the one who is looking from the wall, and I hope that we three will manage to live in peace and in harmony.  He is looking silently, and You are silent, and Your eyes are closed—­I shall speak for the three of us, a sure sign that our peace will never be broken.”