ing answer for my roommate when the appearance of the keeper,
who brought me food, suddenly interrupted me. But apparently my face
bore traces of excitement, for the man asked me with stern sympathy:

"Were you praying?"

I do not remember what I answered.

CHAPTER VIII

Last Sunday a great misfortune occurred in our prison: The artist K.,
whom the reader knows already, ended his life in suicide by flinging
himself from the table with his head against the stone floor. The
fall and the force of the blow had been so skilfully calculated by the
unfortunate young man that his skull was split in two. The grief of the
Warden was indescribable. Having called me to the office, the Warden,
without shaking hands with me, reproached me in angry and harsh terms
for having deceived him, and he regained his calm, only after my hearty
apologies and promises that such accidents would not happen again. I
promised to prepare a project for watching the criminals which would
render suicide impossible. The esteemed wife of the Warden, whose
portrait remained unfinished, was also grieved by the death of the
artist.

Of course, I had not expected this outcome, either, although a few
days before committing suicide, K. had provoked in me a feeling of
uneasiness. Upon entering his cell one morning, and greeting him, I
noticed with amazement that he was sitting before his slate once more
drawing human figures.

"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