“How little this is of what I saw. Swift as a painter’s eye is, his hand is so sluggish, so slow. There are still so many things I have to paint! Often I think I’ll go mad.” All three of them, Klara, Simon and the painter, were standing around the pictures. Few words were spoken, and these were just exclamations of delight. Suddenly Simon leapt over to his hat, which lay on the floor of the room, thrust it savagely, furiously upon his head and dashed out the door, shouting, “I’m late!” “An hour late! This is something a young man should not allow himself,” he was told at the bank. “And if he nonetheless does allow it?” the one being scolded replied defiantly. “What, insolence on top of everything else? Well, go right ahead! Suit yourself!” Simon’s conduct was reported to the director, who decided to dismiss the young man; he called him to his office and gave him this news in a quite soft, even kindly voice.
