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- Джером Дэвид Сэлинджер
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- Девять рассказов
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Then
,
Thursday
mid
-
afternoon
,
feeling
good
and
jumpy
,
I
started
in
on
one
of
the
two
new
students
,
an
American
from
Bangor
,
Maine
,
who
said
in
his
questionnaire
,
with
wordy
,
Honest
-
John
integrity
,
that
he
was
his
own
favorite
artist
.
He
referred
to
himself
as
a
realist
-
abstractionist
.
As
for
my
after
-
school
hours
,
Tuesday
evening
I
took
a
bus
into
Montreal
proper
and
sat
through
a
Cartoon
Festival
Week
program
at
a
third
-
rate
movie
house
—
which
largely
entailed
being
a
witness
to
a
succession
of
cats
being
bombarded
with
champagne
corks
by
mice
gangs
.
Wednesday
evening
,
I
gathered
up
the
floor
cushions
in
my
room
,
piled
them
three
high
,
and
tried
to
sketch
from
memory
Sister
Irma
’
s
picture
of
Christ
’
s
burial
.
I
’
m
tempted
to
say
that
Thursday
evening
was
peculiar
,
or
perhaps
macabre
,
but
the
fact
is
,
I
have
no
bill
-
filling
adjectives
for
Thursday
evening
.
I
left
Les
Amis
after
dinner
and
went
I
don
’
t
know
where
—
perhaps
to
a
movie
,
perhaps
for
just
a
long
walk
;
I
can
’
t
remember
,
and
,
for
once
,
my
diary
for
1939
lets
me
down
,
too
,
for
the
page
I
need
is
a
total
blank
.
I
know
,
though
,
why
the
page
is
a
blank
.
As
I
was
returning
from
wherever
I
’
d
spent
the
evening
—
and
I
do
remember
that
it
was
after
dark
—
I
stopped
on
the
sidewalk
outside
the
school
and
looked
into
the
lighted
display
window
of
the
orthopedic
appliances
shop
.
Then
something
altogether
hideous
happened
.
The
thought
was
forced
on
me
that
no
matter
how
coolly
or
sensibly
or
gracefully
I
might
one
day
learn
to
live
my
life
,
I
would
always
at
best
be
a
visitor
in
a
garden
of
enamel
urinals
and
bedpans
,
with
a
sightless
,
wooden
dummy
-
deity
standing
by
in
a
marked
-
down
rupture
truss
.
The
thought
,
certainly
,
couldn
’
t
have
been
endurable
for
more
than
a
few
seconds
.
I
remember
fleeing
upstairs
to
my
room
and
getting
undressed
and
into
bed
without
so
much
as
opening
my
diary
,
much
less
making
an
entry
.
I
lay
awake
for
hours
,
shivering
.
I
listened
to
the
moaning
in
the
next
room
and
I
thought
,
forcibly
,
of
my
star
pupil
.
I
tried
to
visualize
the
day
I
would
visit
her
at
her
convent
.
I
saw
her
coming
to
meet
me
—
near
a
high
,
wire
fence
—
a
shy
,
beautiful
girl
of
eighteen
who
had
not
yet
taken
her
final
vows
and
was
still
free
to
go
out
into
the
world
with
the
Peter
Abelard
-
type
man
of
her
choice
.
I
saw
us
walking
slowly
,
silently
,
toward
a
far
,
verdant
part
of
the
convent
grounds
,
where
suddenly
,
and
without
sin
,
I
would
put
my
arm
around
her
waist
.
The
image
was
too
ecstatic
to
hold
in
place
,
and
,
finally
,
I
let
go
,
and
fell
asleep
.
I
spent
all
of
Friday
morning
and
most
of
the
afternoon
at
hard
labor
trying
,
with
the
use
of
overlay
tissue
,
to
make
recognizable
trees
out
of
a
forest
of
phallic
symbols
the
man
from
Bangor
,
Maine
,
had
consciously
drawn
on
expensive
linen
paper
.
Mentally
,
spiritually
,
and
physically
,
I
was
feeling
pretty
torpid
along
toward
four
-
thirty
in
the
afternoon
,
and
I
only
half
stood
up
when
M
.
Yoshoto
came
over
to
my
desk
for
an
instant
.
He
handed
something
to
me
—
handed
it
to
me
as
impersonally
as
the
average
waiter
distributes
menus
.
It
was
a
letter
from
the
Mother
Superior
of
Sister
Irma
’
s
convent
,
informing
M
.
Yoshoto
that
Father
Zimmermann
,
through
circumstances
outside
his
control
,
was
forced
to
alter
his
decision
to
allow
Sister
Irma
to
study
at
Les
Amis
Des
Vieux
Maitres
.
The
writer
said
she
deeply
regretted
any
inconveniences
or
confusions
this
change
of
plans
might
cause
the
school
.
She
sincerely
hoped
that
the
first
tuition
payment
of
fourteen
dollars
might
be
refunded
to
the
diocese
.
The
mouse
,
I
’
ve
been
sure
for
years
,
limps
home
from
the
site
of
the
burning
ferris
wheel
with
a
brand
-
new
,
airtight
plan
for
killing
the
cat
.
After
I
’
d
read
and
reread
and
then
,
for
great
,
long
minutes
,
stared
at
the
Mother
Superior
’
s
letter
,
I
suddenly
broke
away
from
it
and
wrote
letters
to
my
four
remaining
students
,
advising
them
to
give
up
the
idea
of
becoming
artists
.
I
told
them
,
individually
,
that
they
had
absolutely
no
talent
worth
developing
and
that
they
were
simply
wasting
their
own
valuable
time
as
well
as
the
school
’
s
.
I
wrote
all
four
letters
in
French
.
When
I
was
finished
,
I
immediately
went
out
and
mailed
them
.
The
satisfaction
was
short
-
lived
,
but
very
,
very
good
while
it
lasted
.
When
it
came
time
to
join
the
parade
to
the
kitchen
for
dinner
,
I
asked
to
be
excused
.
I
said
I
wasn
’
t
feeling
well
.
(
I
lied
,
in
1939
,
with
far
greater
conviction
than
I
told
the
truth
—
so
I
was
positive
that
M
.
Yoshoto
looked
at
me
with
suspicion
when
I
said
I
wasn
’
t
feeling
well
.
)
Then
I
went
up
to
my
room
and
sat
down
on
a
cushion
.
I
sat
there
for
surely
an
hour
,
staring
at
a
daylit
hole
in
the
window
blind
,
without
smoking
or
taking
off
my
coat
or
loosening
my
necktie
.
Then
,
abruptly
,
I
got
up
and
brought
over
a
quantity
of
my
personal
notepaper
and
wrote
a
second
letter
to
Sister
Irma
,
using
the
floor
as
a
desk
.
