His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. . He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. My son went down after his death. "They imagine their work is done. And Mother trusted him. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. But, no. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall.
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