How do you end a canvas painting? Why are you even here? Why don’t we go home now?”
“If that’s how it is, then I don’t much like it,” he said. He had a sort of a paunch. For an artist of the twentieth century his paunch was hardly the greatest indication of intelligence. It was rather the symptom, the last vestige of his former greatness. He thought for the moment how foolish and foolish and pointless it would be to go forth and leave his house all by himself when it was all he wanted to do. “What am I going to do?” he asked suddenly. “I’d rather sit in the barn and cry.”
A sudden shock of anger seized him. “There you are—trampling, trampling, trampling,” he yelled. “You don’t think I can live in that barn with you? Let me go, or you’re going to get killed!”
Suddenly he stopped. He stood trembling. To think that she would say, “Oh my God!” was very disturbing. He suddenly recalled suddenly—to which he gave a sudden cry of horror—”the old lady at the church, the girl with the baby in her arms! Do you know me? And—and,” he shouted. “What are we talking about? The devil—the devil! What are you going to do with me? And what are you going to do with yourself?” He was beginning to sweat again—for there had been so much blood!
“Come in, come in,” she said in a low voice. She did not look up from her canvas; rather she seemed to be reading a book. “What are you doing? I said, ‘Come in,’ you idiot! What am I doing to you? What am I doing to myself?”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “It’s nothing at all!”
“What? What’s your—?”
He seemed to understand her. She took the canvas in her arm and said, without taking a look at her paint,
“Don’t you know all of your father? I—I think you—he wouldn’t have asked you to draw this. He liked it. He liked it!”
But his anger still burned up and burst out into an almost unbelievable rage.
“Come in,” she said. “Come in. Come in—now.”
He took the canvas and put it in his hands,