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- Джером Дэвид Сэлинджер
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- Девять рассказов
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- Стр. 126/159
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Like
many
a
really
good
artist
,
M
.
Yoshoto
taught
drawing
not
a
whit
better
than
it
’
s
taught
by
a
so
-
so
artist
who
has
a
nice
flair
for
teaching
.
With
his
practical
overlay
work
—
that
is
to
say
,
his
tracing
-
paper
drawings
imposed
over
the
student
’
s
drawings
—
along
with
his
written
comments
on
the
backs
of
the
drawings
—
he
was
quite
able
to
show
a
reasonably
talented
student
how
to
draw
a
recognizable
pig
in
a
recognizable
sty
,
or
even
a
picturesque
pig
in
a
picturesque
sty
.
But
he
couldn
’
t
for
the
life
of
him
show
anyone
how
to
draw
a
beautiful
pig
in
a
beautiful
sty
(
which
,
of
course
,
was
the
one
little
technical
bit
his
better
students
most
greedily
wanted
sent
to
them
through
the
mail
)
.
It
was
not
,
need
I
add
,
that
he
was
consciously
or
unconsciously
being
frugal
of
his
talent
,
or
deliberately
unprodigal
of
it
,
but
that
it
simply
wasn
’
t
his
to
give
away
.
For
me
,
there
was
no
real
element
of
surprise
in
this
ruthless
truth
,
and
so
it
didn
’
t
waylay
me
.
But
it
had
a
certain
cumulative
effect
,
considering
where
I
was
sitting
,
and
by
the
time
lunch
hour
rolled
around
,
I
had
to
be
very
careful
not
to
smudge
my
translations
with
the
sweaty
heels
of
my
hands
.
As
if
to
make
things
still
more
oppressive
,
M
.
Yoshoto
’
s
handwriting
was
just
barely
legible
.
At
any
rate
,
when
it
came
time
for
lunch
,
I
declined
to
join
the
Yoshotos
.
I
said
I
had
to
go
to
the
post
office
.
Then
I
almost
ran
down
the
stairs
to
the
street
and
began
to
walk
very
rapidly
,
with
no
direction
at
all
,
through
a
maze
of
strange
,
underprivileged
-
looking
streets
.
When
I
came
to
a
lunch
bar
,
I
went
inside
and
bolted
four
"
Coney
Island
Red
-
Hots
"
and
three
muddy
cups
of
coffee
.
On
the
way
back
to
Les
Amis
Des
Vieux
Maitres
,
I
began
to
wonder
,
first
in
a
familiar
,
faint
-
hearted
way
that
I
more
or
less
knew
from
experience
how
to
handle
,
then
in
an
absolute
panic
,
if
there
had
been
anything
personal
in
M
.
Yoshoto
’
s
having
used
me
exclusively
as
a
translator
all
morning
.
Had
old
Fu
Manchu
known
from
the
beginning
that
I
was
wearing
,
among
other
misleading
attachments
and
effects
,
a
nineteen
-
year
-
old
boy
’
s
moustache
?
The
possibility
was
almost
unendurable
to
consider
.
It
also
tended
to
eat
slowly
away
at
my
sense
of
justice
.
Here
I
was
—
a
man
who
had
won
three
first
-
prizes
,
a
very
close
friend
of
Picasso
’
s
(
which
I
actually
was
beginning
to
think
I
was
)
—
being
used
as
a
translator
.
The
punishment
didn
’
t
begin
to
fit
the
crime
.
For
one
thing
,
my
moustache
,
however
sparse
,
was
all
mine
;
it
hadn
’
t
been
put
on
with
spirit
gum
.
I
felt
it
reassuringly
with
my
fingers
as
I
hurried
back
to
school
.
But
the
more
I
thought
about
the
whole
affair
,
the
faster
I
walked
,
till
finally
I
was
almost
trotting
,
as
if
any
minute
I
half
-
expected
to
be
stoned
from
all
directions
.
Though
I
’
d
taken
only
forty
minutes
or
so
for
lunch
,
both
the
Yoshotos
were
at
their
desks
and
at
work
when
I
got
back
.
They
didn
’
t
look
up
or
give
any
sign
that
they
’
d
heard
me
come
in
.
Perspiring
and
out
of
breath
,
I
went
over
and
sat
down
at
my
desk
.
I
sat
rigidly
still
for
the
next
fifteen
or
twenty
minutes
,
running
all
kinds
of
brand
-
new
little
Picasso
anecdotes
through
my
head
,
just
in
case
M
.
Yoshoto
suddenly
got
up
and
came
over
to
unmask
me
.
And
,
suddenly
,
he
did
get
up
and
come
over
.
I
stood
up
to
meet
him
—
head
on
,
if
necessary
—
with
a
fresh
little
Picasso
story
,
but
,
to
my
horror
,
by
the
time
he
reached
me
I
was
minus
the
plot
.
I
chose
the
moment
to
express
my
admiration
for
the
goose
-
in
-
flight
picture
hanging
over
Mme
.
Yoshoto
.
I
praised
it
lavishly
at
some
length
.
I
said
I
knew
a
man
in
Paris
—
a
very
wealthy
paralytic
,
I
said
—
who
would
pay
M
.
Yoshoto
any
price
at
all
for
the
picture
.
I
said
I
could
get
in
touch
with
him
immediately
if
M
.
Yoshoto
was
interested
.
Luckily
,
however
,
M
.
Yoshoto
said
the
picture
belonged
to
his
cousin
,
who
was
away
visiting
relatives
in
Japan
.
Then
,
before
I
could
express
my
regret
,
he
asked
me
—
addressing
me
as
M
.
DaumierSmith
—
if
I
would
kindly
correct
a
few
lessons
.
He
went
over
to
his
desk
and
returned
with
three
enormous
,
bulging
envelopes
,
and
placed
them
on
my
desk
.
Then
,
while
I
stood
dazed
and
incessantly
nodding
and
feeling
my
jacket
where
my
drawing
pencils
had
been
repocketed
,
M
.
Yoshoto
explained
to
me
the
school
’
s
method
of
instruction
(
or
,
rather
,
its
nonexistent
method
of
instruction
)
.
After
he
’
d
returned
to
his
own
desk
,
it
took
me
several
minutes
to
pull
myself
together
.
All
three
students
assigned
to
me
were
English
-
language
students
.
The
first
was
a
twenty
-
three
-
year
-
old
Toronto
housewife
,
who
said
her
professional
name
was
Bambi
Kramer
,
and
advised
the
school
to
address
her
mail
accordingly
.
All
new
students
at
Les
Amis
Des
Vieux
Maitres
were
requested
to
fill
out
questionnaire
forms
and
to
enclose
photographs
of
themselves
.
Miss
Kramer
had
enclosed
a
glossy
,
eight
by
ten
print
of
herself
wearing
an
anklet
,
a
strapless
bathing
suit
,
and
a
white
-
duck
sailor
’
s
cap
.
On
her
questionnaire
form
she
stated
that
her
favorite
artists
were
Rembrandt
and
Walt
Disney
.
She
said
she
only
hoped
that
she
could
some
day
emulate
them
.
Her
sample
drawings
were
clipped
,
rather
subordinately
,
to
her
photograph
.
All
of
them
were
arresting
.
One
of
them
was
unforgettable
.
The
unforgettable
one
was
done
in
florid
wash
colors
,
with
a
caption
that
read
:
"
Forgive
Them
Their
Trespasses
.
"
It
showed
three
small
boys
fishing
in
an
odd
-
looking
body
of
water
,
one
of
their
jackets
draped
over
a
"
No
Fishing
!
"
sign
.
The
tallest
boy
,
in
the
foreground
of
the
picture
,
appeared
to
have
rickets
in
one
leg
and
elephantiasis
in
the
other
—
an
effect
,
it
was
clear
,
that
Miss
Kramer
had
deliberately
used
to
show
that
the
boy
was
standing
with
his
feet
slightly
apart
.
My
second
student
was
a
fifty
-
six
-
year
-
old
"
society
photographer
"
from
Windsor
,
Ontario
,
named
R
.
Howard
Ridgefield
,
who
said
that
his
wife
had
been
after
him
for
years
to
branch
over
into
the
painting
racket
.
His
favorite
artists
were
Rembrandt
,
Sargent
,
and
"
Titan
,
"
but
he
added
,
advisedly
,
that
he
himself
didn
’
t
care
to
draw
along
those
lines
.
He
said
he
was
mostly
interested
in
the
satiric
rather
than
the
arty
side
of
painting
.
To
support
this
credo
,
he
submitted
a
goodly
number
of
original
drawings
and
oil
paintings
.
One
of
his
pictures
—
the
one
I
think
of
as
his
major
picture
—
has
been
as
recallable
to
me
,
over
the
years
,
as
,
say
,
the
lyrics
of
"
Sweet
Sue
"
or
"
Let
Me
Call
You
Sweetheart
.
"
It
satirized
the
familiar
,
everyday
tragedy
of
a
chaste
young
girl
,
with
belowshoulder
-
length
blond
hair
and
udder
-
size
breasts
,
being
criminally
assaulted
in
church
,
in
the
very
shadow
of
the
altar
,
by
her
minister
.
Both
subjects
’
clothes
were
graphically
in
disarray
.
Actually
,
I
was
much
less
struck
by
the
satiric
implications
of
the
picture
than
I
was
by
the
quality
of
workmanship
that
had
gone
into
it
.
If
I
hadn
’
t
known
they
were
living
hundreds
of
miles
apart
,
I
might
have
sworn
Ridgefield
had
had
some
purely
technical
help
from
Bambi
Kramer
.
Except
under
pretty
rare
circumstances
,
in
any
crisis
,
when
I
was
nineteen
,
my
funny
bone
invariably
had
the
distinction
of
being
the
very
first
part
of
my
body
to
assume
partial
or
complete
paralysis
.
Ridgefield
and
Miss
Kramer
did
many
things
to
me
,
but
they
didn
’
t
come
at
all
close
to
amusing
me
.
Three
or
four
times
while
I
was
going
through
their
envelopes
,
I
was
tempted
to
get
up
and
make
a
formal
protest
to
M
.
Yoshoto
.
But
I
had
no
clear
idea
just
what
sort
of
form
my
protest
might
take
.
I
think
I
was
afraid
I
might
get
over
to
his
desk
only
to
report
,
shrilly
:
"
My
mother
’
s
dead
,
and
I
have
to
live
with
her
charming
husband
,
and
nobody
in
New
York
speaks
French
,
and
there
aren
’
t
any
chairs
in
your
son
’
s
room
.
How
do
you
expect
me
to
teach
these
two
crazy
people
how
to
draw
?
"
In
the
end
,
being
long
self
-
trained
in
taking
despair
sitting
down
,
I
managed
very
easily
to
keep
my
seat
.
I
opened
my
third
student
’
s
envelope
.
My
third
student
was
a
nun
of
the
order
of
Sisters
of
St
.
Joseph
,
named
Sister
Irma
,
who
taught
"
cooking
and
drawing
"
at
a
convent
elementary
school
just
outside
Toronto
.
And
I
haven
’
t
any
good
ideas
concerning
where
to
start
to
describe
the
contents
of
her
envelope
.
I
might
just
first
mention
that
,
in
place
of
a
photograph
of
herself
,
Sister
Irma
had
enclosed
,
without
explanation
,
a
snapshot
of
her
convent
.
It
occurs
to
me
,
too
,
that
she
left
blank
the
line
in
her
questionnaire
where
the
student
’
s
age
was
to
be
filled
in
.
Otherwise
,
her
questionnaire
was
filled
out
as
perhaps
no
questionnaire
in
this
world
deserves
to
be
filled
out
.
