Page:The Jail, Experiences in 1916.pdf/107

 "Let's go to bed", said Budi welcoming it as a means of getting rid of Tironi.

The straw mattresses flew about and fell to the ground. Voronin scraped the floor with his broom. The tables were pushed away, everyone was contented, and it looked as if they would sleep peacefully.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, trrrr, crash, crash, crash.

"What do they do it with?"

"With everything that will make a noise. They whack the tables, the ground, beat one dish against another, play the drum with their knives on the woodwork,—there are twenty of them."

"And Fiedler?"

"He drinks, smokes and yells. But you will see what it will look like to-morrow."

Hedrich made my bed. He made it skilfully. He smoothed and spread everything out, he hung up my towel so that the light would not fall in my face,—a pleasant, sterling lad.

Bang, bang, crash, crash, crash.

I don't mind it, I can sleep in any noise, I can always sleep when I want to.

On the floor conversations were proceeding from mattress to mattress. The artillery-man was again lying on the table. And smoking went on the whole time.

Bang, bang, crash, crash, crash, trrrrrr.

Frank has not sent for me, has not cross-examined me,—this occurred to me. Still,—only calm, calm. We are here bearing a fragment of our country's honour, and therefore: No weakness. Poets mould the spirit of a nation. Poets and philosophers. Not politicians, not lawyers, not surgeons, not engineers. And therefore it is quite right of them to lock us up. The spirit of the nation is