“What does this mean, my friend?” I inquired cautiously.  “And how about the portrait of the second assistant?”

“The devil take it!”

“But you—­”

“The devil take it!”

After a pause I remarked distractedly: 

“Your portrait of the Warden is meeting with great success.  Although some of the people who have seen it say that the right moustache is somewhat shorter than the left—­”

“Shorter?”

“Yes, shorter.  But in general they find that you caught the likeness very successfully.”

K. had put aside his slate pencil and, perfectly calm, said: 

“Tell your Warden that I am not going to paint that prison riffraff any more.”

After these words there was nothing left for me to do but leave him, which I decided to do.  But the artist, who could not get along without giving vent to his effusions, seized me by the hand and said with his usual enthusiasm: 

“Just think of it, old man, what a horror!  Every day a new repulsive face appears before me.  They sit and stare at me with their froglike eyes.  What am I to do?  At first 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!