I laughed--I even liked it--but when
the froglike eyes stared at me every day I was seized with horror. I was
afraid they might start to quack--qua-qua!"

Indeed there was a certain fear, even madness, in the eyes of the
artist--the madness which shortly led him to his untimely grave.

"Old man, it is necessary to have something beautiful. Do you understand
me?"

"And the wife of the Warden? Is she not--"

I shall pass in silence the unbecoming expressions with which he spoke
of the lady in his excitement. I must, however, admit that to a certain
extent the artist was right in his complaints. I had been present
several times at the sittings, and noticed that all who had posed for
the artist behaved rather unnaturally. Sincere and naive, conscious of
the importance of their position, convinced that the features of their
faces perpetuated upon the canvas would go down to posterity, they
exaggerated somewhat the qualities which are so characteristic of their
high and responsible office in our prison. A certain bombast of pose, an
exaggerated expression of stern authority, an obvious consciousness of
their own importance, and a noticeable contempt for those on whom their
eyes were directed--all this disfigured their kind and affable faces.
But I cannot understand what horrible features the artist found where
there should have been a smile. I was even indignant at the superficial
attitude with which an artist, who considered himself talented and
sensible, passed the people without noticing that a divine spark was
glimmering in each one of them. In the quest after some fantastic beauty
he light-mindedly passed by the true beauties with which the human soul
is filled. I cannot help feeling sorry for those unfortunate people who,
like K., because of a peculiar construction of their brains, always turn
their eyes toward the dark side, whereas there is so much joy and light
in our prison!

When I said this to K. I heard, to my regret, the same stereotyped and
indecent answer:

"The devil take it!"

All I could do was to shrug my shoulders. Suddenly changing his tone and
bearing, the artist turned to me seriously with a question which, in my
opinion, was also indecent:

"Why do you lie, old man?"

I was astonished, of course.

"I lie?"

"Well, let it be the truth, if you like, but why? I am looking and
thinking. Why did you say that? Why?"

My indulgent reader, who knows well what the truth has cost me, will
readi