Then, in his cell, when the terror had become unbearable, Vasily
Kashirin attempted to pray. Of all that had surrounded his childhood
days in his father's house under the guise of religion only a
repulsive, bitter and irritating sediment remained; but faith there
was none. But once, perhaps in his earliest childhood, he had heard a
few words which had filled him with palpitating emotion and which
remained during all his life enwrapped with tender poetry. These words
were:

"The joy of all the afflicted . . ."

It had happened, during painful periods in his life, that he whispered
to himself, not in prayer, without being definitely conscious of it,
these words: "The joy of all the afflicted"-and suddenly he would feel
relieved and a desire would come over him to go to some dear friend
and question gently:

"Our life-is this life? Eh, my dearest, is this life?"

And then suddenly it would appear laughable to him and he would feel
like mussing up his hair, putting forth his knee and thrusting out his
chest as though to receive heavy "blows; saying: "Here, strike!"

He did not tell anybody, not even his nearest comrades, about his "joy
of all the afflicted" and it was as though he himself did not know
about it,-so deeply was it hidden in his soul. He recalled it but
rarely and cautiously.

Now when the terror of the insoluble mystery, which appeared so
plainly before him, enveloped him completely, even as the water in