Девять рассказов
De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period
IthinkImighthavebeenwillingtojointhegameifIhadbeengrantedaspecialdispensationfromtheChurchofManhattanguaranteeingthatalltheotherplayerswouldremainrespectfullystandingtillIwasseated.Whenitbecameclearthatnothingofthekindwasforthcoming,Itookmoredirectaction.Iprayedforthecitytobeclearedofpeople,forthegiftofbeingalone—a-l-o-n-e:whichistheoneNewYorkprayerthatrarelygetslostordelayedinchannels,andinnotimeatalleverythingItouchedturnedtosolidloneliness.Morningsandearlyafternoons,Iattended—bodily—anartschoolonForty-eighthandLexingtonAvenue,whichIloathed.(TheweekbeforeBobbyandIhadleftParis,Ihadwonthreefirst-prizeawardsattheNationalJuniorExhibition,heldattheFreiburgGalleries.ThroughoutthevoyagetoAmerica,IusedourstateroommirrortonotemyuncannyphysicalresemblancetoElGreco.)ThreelateafternoonsaweekIspentinadentist’schair,where,withinaperiodofafewmonths,Ihadeightteethextracted,threeofthemfrontones.TheothertwoafternoonsIusuallyspentwanderingthroughartgalleries,mostlyonFifty-seventhStreet,whereIdidallbuthissattheAmericanentries.Evenings,Igenerallyread.IboughtacompletesetoftheHarvardClassics—chieflybecauseBobbysaidwedidn’thaveroomfortheminoursuite—andratherperverselyreadallfiftyvolumes.Nights,IalmostinvariablysetupmyeaselbetweenthetwinbedsintheroomIsharedwithBobby,andpainted.
