my viewpoint. Something seemed to be continually dogging my steps and whispering bad counsel to me, words that appeared to be the dictate of a malicious and relentless Fate.
These periods obsessed me with ever-increasing frequency after the first year of prison life. I called them "yellow days" and was morbidly afraid of them, sensing their coming with terror, when from the corners of my cell and from every crevice in the floor peered out the yellow eyes of longing or stretched toward me the noisome feelers of despair.
During one of these periods of yellow days I was particularly unhappy and had the feeling that somehow I had come to the end of my endurance and my strength of will. I feared that I should go mad or lapse into an incurable melancholia. Suddenly, during the worst hours of my despair, a bright ray seemed to penetrate right into my soul, while an incomprehensible and unexpected serenity spread its influence over me. I could not understand or guess what the reason might be; I knew only that something had definitely healed and calmed me.
A week later I was called to the prison office, where I saw a woman in a black gown; but, as the light was poor, I did not recognize her as anyone I knew.
"Your mother has come to see you," said the Commandant in a low voice. "I shall leave you to yourselves."
The Commandant went out, and only then did my mother give way to her mingled joy and pain at seeing her son, but seeing him in prison. But my mother was a woman of strong soul and she quickly regained possession of herself.
She had come alone from St. Petersburg, all the long road only to say good-bye to me before going away with
