Unfortunately, my advice hardly reached the ears of K. In one of those
paroxysms of despair, which frighten the Warden of our prison, K. began
to throw himself about in his bed, tear his clothes, shout and sob,
manifesting in general all the symptoms of extreme mortification. I
looked at the sufferings of the unfortunate youth with deep emotion
(compared with me he was a youth), vainly endeavouring to hold his
fingers which were tearing his clothes. I knew that for this breach of
discipline new incarceration awaited him.

"O, impetuous youth," I thought when he had grown somewhat calmer, and
I was tenderly unfolding his fine hair which had become entangled, "how
easily you fall into despair! A bit of drawing, which may in the end
fall into the hands of a dealer in old rags, or a dealer in old bronze
and cemented porcelain, can cause you so much suffering!" But, of
course, I did not tell this to my youthful friend, striving, as any one
should under similar circumstances, not to irritate him by unnecessary
contradictions.

"Thank you, old man," said K., apparently calm now. "To tell the truth
you seemed very strange to me at first; your face is so venerable, but
your eyes. Have you murdered anybody, old man?"

I deliberately quote the malicious and careless phrase to show how
in the eyes of lightminded and shallow people the stamp of a terrible
accusation is transformed into the stamp of the crime itself.
Controlling my feeling of bitterness, I remarked calmly to the
impertinent youth:

"You are an artist, my child; to you are known the mysteries of the
human face, that flexible, mobile and deceptive masque, which, like the
sea, reflects the hurrying clouds and the azure ether. Being green, the
sea turns blue under the clear sky and black when the sky is black, when
the heavy clouds are dark. What do you want of my face, over which hangs
an accusation of the most cruel crime?"

But, occupied with his own thoughts, the artist apparently paid no
particular attention to my words and continued in a broken voice:

"What am I to do? You saw my drawing. I destroyed it, and it is
already a whole week since I touched my pencil. Of course," he resumed
thoughtfully, rubbing his brow, "it would be better to break the slate;
to punish me they would not give me another one--"

"You had better return it to the authorities."

"Very well, I may hold out another week, but what then? I know myself.
Even now that devil is pushing