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Transcribers Notes: Title and Table of Contents added.


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 THE IDLER MAGAZINE.
 AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY.

 June 1893.


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 CONTENTS.


 MEMOIRS OF A FEMALE NIHILIST.
     II.--IN PRISON.
     BY SOPHIE WASSILIEFF.

 THE LEGS OF SISTER URSULA.
     BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

 "LIONS IN THEIR DENS."
     VI.--EMILE ZOLA.
     BY V. R. MOONEY.

 PEOPLE I HAVE NEVER MET.
     BY SCOTT RANKIN.

 AN ETHIOPIAN CRICKET MATCH.
     BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS.

 MY FIRST BOOK.
     BY R. M. BALLANTYNE.

 TRIALS AND TROUBLES OF AN ARTIST.
     BY FRED MILLER.

 THE BROTHERS' AGENCY.
     BY DO BAHIN.

 MY OWN MURDERER.
     BY E. J. GOODMAN.

 THE IDLERS CLUB.
     SHALL WE HAVE A DRAMATIC ACADEMY?


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[Illustration: "'No. 16 FOR AN INTERVIEW.'"]

_Memoirs of a Female Nihilist._

BY SOPHIE WASSILIEFF.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. ST. M. FITZ-GERALD.

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II.--IN PRISON.


The life of a female prisoner! It is so uniformly dull that I fear to
weary you, friends, in repeating its history; while for me, even now,
outside of some few days only too memorable, the twenty-seven months
spent in the fortress are like a great hole, empty and badly lighted, at
the bottom of which sometimes passed human shadows and some few
phantasmagorical scenes.

In these scattered remembrances, the foremost is my cell and the first
moments I passed there.

About ten feet square, its stone walls were covered with whitewash. For
furniture, a whitewood stool showing the marks of time and hard wear, a
rough deal table, a narrow iron bedstead with thin mattress, a pillow
filled with horsehair, and a coarse grey blanket such as is used for
covering horses. These details, lighted up for a moment by the candle
held by the director of the prison who accompanied me, soon fade away,
not into darkness, but into semi-obscurity, for above the door, the dark
outlines of which form a contrast with the surrounding whitewashed
walls, is a square of glass the width of the door, and behind this burns
a small paraffin lamp. By the uncertain light of this lamp, I try to get
a more exact idea of my new abode.

High up in the wall opposite the door is a deep and dark hole which I
presume to be a window. On the floor, in addition to the slender
furniture noticed by the light of the candle, I vaguely distinguish the
outlines of my travelling trunk and of a water-jug. The cold humid air
gives off a musty odour. Silence reigns, but, as I move, the sound of my
footsteps echoes and re-echoes beneath the vaulted roof of the corridor.

[Illustration: THE FACE AT THE WICKET.]

All this gives to my cell the aspect of a funeral vault, into which, a
few moments ago, I entered full of feverish life and vibrating emotion,
and in which I now suddenly find myself buried. From time to time, at
intervals of about ten minutes, this cavern is lighted up a little more
brightly. There is in the door, at about the height of a man, another
window much smaller than that to which I have already referred, a sort
of wicket that I have not before noticed, and which on the outside
appears to be protected by a shutter. At intervals, this shutter opens
with a metallic noise; a ray of bluish light penetrates into my cell,
and behind the wicket appears the head and part of the shoulders of a
man. He wears a moustache, and for several seconds regards me
attentively. Accustomed to the stronger gaslight burning in the
corridor, he can only vaguely distinguish what is going on in the cell.
His eyes, fixed on me at