Девять рассказов
De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period
ThethoughtwasforcedonmethatnomatterhowcoollyorsensiblyorgracefullyImightonedaylearntolivemylife,Iwouldalwaysatbestbeavisitorinagardenofenamelurinalsandbedpans,withasightless,woodendummy-deitystandingbyinamarked-downrupturetruss.Thethought,certainly,couldn’thavebeenendurableformorethanafewseconds.Irememberfleeingupstairstomyroomandgettingundressedandintobedwithoutsomuchasopeningmydiary,muchlessmakinganentry.
Ilayawakeforhours,shivering.IlistenedtothemoaninginthenextroomandIthought,forcibly,ofmystarpupil.ItriedtovisualizethedayIwouldvisitheratherconvent.Isawhercomingtomeetme—nearahigh,wirefence—ashy,beautifulgirlofeighteenwhohadnotyettakenherfinalvowsandwasstillfreetogooutintotheworldwiththePeterAbelard-typemanofherchoice.Isawuswalkingslowly,silently,towardafar,verdantpartoftheconventgrounds,wheresuddenly,andwithoutsin,Iwouldputmyarmaroundherwaist.Theimagewastooecstatictoholdinplace,and,finally,Iletgo,andfellasleep.
IspentallofFridaymorningandmostoftheafternoonathardlabortrying,withtheuseofoverlaytissue,tomakerecognizabletreesoutofaforestofphallicsymbolsthemanfromBangor,Maine,hadconsciouslydrawnonexpensivelinenpaper.Mentally,spiritually,andphysically,Iwasfeelingprettytorpidalongtowardfour-thirtyintheafternoon,andIonlyhalfstoodupwhenM.Yoshotocameovertomydeskforaninstant.
