The Crushed Flower & Other Stories

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 transmit their own feelings, even their external features, to the subject upon which they are working.  Thus, reproducing with remarkable likeness, the lower part of my face, where kindness and the expression of authoritativeness and calm dignity are so harmoniously blended, K. undoubtedly introduced into my eyes his own suffering and even his horror.  Their fixed, immobile gaze; madness glimmering somewhere in their depth; the painful eloquence of a deep and infinitely lonely soul—­all that was not mine.

“Is this I?” I exclaimed, laughing, when from the canvas this terrible face, full of wild contradictions, stared at me.  “My friend, I do not congratulate you on this portrait.  I do not think it is successful.”

“It is you, old man, you!  It is well drawn.  You criticise it wrongly.  Where will you hang it?”

He grew talkative again like a magpie, that amiable young man, and all because his wretched painting was to be preserved for some time.  O impetuous, O happy youth!  Here I could not restrain myself from a little jest for the purpose of teaching a lesson to the self-confident youngster, so I asked him, with a smile: 

“Well, Mr. Artist, what do you think?  Am I murderer or not?”

The artist, closing one eye, examined me and the portrait critically.  Then whistling a polka, he answered recklessly:  “The devil knows you, old man!”

I smiled.  K. understood my jest at last, burst out laughing and then said with sudden seriousness: 

“You are speaking of the human face but do you know that there is nothing worse in the world than the human face?  Even when it tells the truth, when it shouts about the truth, it lies, it lies, old man, for it speaks its own language.  Do you know, old man, a terrible incident happened to me?  It was in one of the picture galleries in Spain.  I was examining a portrait of Christ, when suddenly—­Christ, you understand, Christ—­great eyes, dark, terrible suffering, sorrow, grief, love—­well, in a word—­Christ.  Suddenly I was struck with something; suddenly it seemed to me that it was the face of the greatest wrongdoer, tormented by the greatest unheard-of woes of repentance—­ Old man, why do you look at me so!  Old man!”

Nearing my eyes to the very face of the artist, I asked him in a cautious whisper, as the occasion required, dividing each word from the other: 

“Don’t you think that when the devil tempted Him in the desert He did not renounce him, as He said later, but consented, sold Himself—­that He did not renounce the devil, but sold Himself.  Do you understand?  Does not that passage in the Gospels seem doubtful to you?”

Extreme fright was expressed on the face of my young friend.  Forcing the palms of his hands against my chest, as if to push me away, he ejaculated in a voice so low that I could hardly hear his indistinct words: 

“What?  You say Jesus sold Himself?  What for?”

I explained softly: 

“That the people, my child, that the people should believe Him.”

“Well?”

I smiled.  K.’s eyes became round, as if a noose was strangling him.  Suddenly, with that lack of respect for old age which was one of his characteristics, he threw me down on the bed with a sharp thrust and jumped away into a corner.  When I was slowly getting up from the awkward position into which the unrestraint of that young man had forced me—­I fell backward, with my head between the pillow and the back of the bed—­he cried to me loudly: 

“Don’t you dare!  Don’t you dare get up, you Devil.”

But I did not think of rising to my feet.  I simply sat down on the bed, and, thus seated, with an involuntary smile at the passionate outburst of the youth, I shook my head good naturedly and laughed.

“Oh, young man, young man!  You yourself have drawn me into this theological conversation.”

But he stared at me stubbornly, wide eyed, and kept repeating: 

“Sit there, sit there!  I did not say this.  No, no!”

“You said it, you, young man—­you.  Do you remember Spain, the picture gallery!  You said it and now you deny it, mocking my clumsy old age.  Oh!”

K. suddenly lowered his hands and admitted in a low voice: 

“Yes.  I said it.  But you, old man—­”

I do not remember what he said after that—­it is so hard to recall all the childish chatter of this kind, but unfortunately too light-minded young man.  I remember only that we parted as friends, and he pressed my hand warmly, expressing to me his sincere gratitude, even calling me, so far as I can remember, his “saviour.”

By the way, I succeeded in convincing the Warden that the portrait of even such a man as I, after all a prisoner, was out of place in such a solemn official room as the office of our prison.  And now the portrait hangs on the wall of my cell, pleasantly breaking the cold monotony of the pure white walls.

Leaving for a time our artist, who is now carried away by the portrait of the Warden, I shall continue my story.