he way, lest I forget, I shall mention the fact that I destroyed my
"Diary of a Prisoner" that night. I had long wished to do it, but the
natural pity and faint-hearted love which we feel for our blunders and
our shortcomings restrained me; besides, there was nothing in my "Diary"
that could have compromised me in any way. And if I have destroyed it
now it is due solely to my desire to throw my past into oblivion and to
save my reader from the tediousness of long complaints and moans, from
the horror of sacrilegious cursings. May it rest in peace!

CHAPTER VI

Having conveyed to the Warden of our prison the contents of my
conversation with K., I asked him not to punish the young man for
spoiling the walls, which would thus betray me, and I, to save the
youth, suggested the following plan, which was accepted by the Warden
after a few purely formal objections.

"It is important for him," I said, "that his drawings should be
preserved, but it is apparently immaterial to him in whose possession
these drawings are. Let him, then, avail himself of his art, paint your
portrait, Mr. Warden, and after that the portraits of the entire staff
of your officials. To say nothing of the honour you would show him
by this condescension--an honour which he will surely know how to
appreciate--the painting may be useful to you as a very original
ornament in your drawing room or study. Besides, nothing will prevent
us from destroying the drawings if we should not care for them, for the
naive and somewhat selfish young man apparently does not even admit the
thought that anybody's hand would destroy his productions."

Smiling, the Warden suggested, with a politeness that flattered me
extremely, that the series of portraits should commence with mine. I
quote word for word that which the Warden said to me:

"Your face actually calls for reproduction on canvas. We shall hang your
portrait in the office."

The zeal of creativeness--these are the only words I can apply to the
passionate, silent agitation in which K. reproduced my features. Usually
talkative, he now maintained silence for hours, leaving unanswered my
jests and remarks.

"Be silent, old man, be silent--you are at your best when you are
silent," he repeated persistently, calling forth an involuntary smile by
his zeal as a professional.

My portrait would remind you, my indulgent reader, of that mysterious
peculiarity of artists, according to which they very often transm