Part 6
my vicinity, stooping a trifle in order not to look disrespectfully tall. He handed me the
sheaf of papers he'd brought over and asked me if I would kindly translate his written
corrections from French into English. I said, "Oui, monsieur!" He bowed slightly, and
padded back to his own desk. I pushed my handful of soft-lead drawing pencils to one
side of my desk, took out my fountain pen, and fell--very nearly heartbroken--to work.
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-yearold
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.
my vicinity, stooping a trifle in order not to look disrespectfully tall. He handed me the
sheaf of papers he'd brought over and asked me if I would kindly translate his written
corrections from French into English. I said, "Oui, monsieur!" He bowed slightly, and
padded back to his own desk. I pushed my handful of soft-lead drawing pencils to one
side of my desk, took out my fountain pen, and fell--very nearly heartbroken--to work.
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-yearold
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.
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