I learned quite accidentally what sort of a man Nikoloff was one day when he came into the wash-room with two other convicts while I was there. Without paying any attention to me, he continued the conversation he had evidently begun in the cell.
"To pray is a good thing, but every prayer does not reach God—not every one, oh no!"
"Tell us how," came in an earnest voice from one of his companions, a man with a pale, emaciated face and sad, appealing eyes.
Nikoloff lighted the candle in the lantern hanging in the middle of the room, for it was already twilight, and began speaking in his slow, deep voice.
"If it is difficult for you to pray, your thoughts cannot follow closely the meaning of the words, and you will be repeating them without understanding. And such a prayer is worth nothing, for it will be caught on its way to Heaven by the devil, who, supported by his black hosts, lays in wait for us everywhere, even in church. One must know how to pray. The prayer must have such strength that each word of it will burn into the mind and heart; each word must be sent forth not only by the lips but by every fibre of the body, by every drop of blood, by every sigh. Only we really know how to pray, only we. I shall teach you … but do not disclose the secret!"
He stopped and came over to me, bent low and began to whisper:
"Starosta, you understand the torture and the longing of men living here. Everything that one can give them of consolation or relief will be a commendable act, agreeable unto God. Do not be astonished, Starosta, and tell no one of what you are about to see."
"Very well," I answered.
