transparent sausage-shaped horse, who was moving simultaneously in five directions. The rider had a bored expression as he supported the stiff reins in one fist. His further leg assisted in his flight. He wore a German soldier’s cap and was smoking. I made up my mind to copy the horse and rider at once, so soon, that is, as I should have obtained a pencil. 

 Last, I found a drawing surrounded by a scrolled motto. The drawing was a potted plant with four blossoms. The four blossoms were elaborately dead. Their death was drawn with a fearful care. An obscure deliberation was exposed in the depiction of their drooping petals. The pot tottered very crookedly on a sort of table, as near as I could see. All around ran a funereal scroll. I read: “My farewell to my beloved wife, Gaby.” A fierce hand, totally distinct from the former, wrote in proud letters above: “Punished for desertion. Six years of prison—military degradation.” 

 It must have been five o’clock. Steps. A vast cluttering of the exterior of the door—by whom? Whang opens the door. Turnkey-creature extending a piece of chocolate with extreme and surly caution. I say “Merci” and seize chocolate. Klang shuts the door. 

 I am lying on my back, the twilight does mistily bluish miracles through the slit over the whang-klang. I can just see leaves, meaning tree. 

 Then from the left and way off, faintly, broke a smooth whistle, cool like a peeled willow-branch, and I found myself listening to an air from Petroushka, Petroushka, which we saw in Paris at the Châtelet, mon ami et moi…. 

 The voice stopped in the middle—and I finished the air. This code continued for a half-hour. 

 It was dark. 

 I had laid a piece of my piece of chocolate on the window-sill. As I lay on my back a little silhouette came along the sill and ate that piece of a piece, taking something like four minutes to do so. He then looked at me, I then smiled at him, and we parted, each happier than before. 

 My cellule was cool, and I fell asleep easily. 

 (Thinking of Paris.) 

 … Awakened by a conversation whose vibrations I clearly felt through the left wall: 

 Turnkey-creature: “What?” 

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