Part 12
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.
I never mailed the letter. The following reproduction is copied straight from the
original.
Montreal, Canada June 28, 1939
DEAR SISTER IRMA,
Did I, by chance, say anything obnoxious or irreverent to you in my last letter that
reached the attention of Father Zimmermann and caused you discomfort in some way?
If this is the case, I beg you to give me at least a reasonable chance to retract whatever
it was I may have unwittingly said in my ardor to become friends with you as well as
student and teacher. Is this asking too much? I do not believe it is.
The bare truth is as follows: If you do not learn a few more rudiments of the
profession, you will only be a very, very interesting artist the rest of your life instead of a
great one. This is terrible, in my opinion. Do you realize how grave the situation is?
It is possible that Father Zimmermann made you resign from the school because he
thought it might interfere with your being a competent nun. If this is the case, I cannot
avoid saying that I think it was very rash of him in more ways than one. It would not
interfere with your being a nun. I live like an evil-minded monk myself. The worst that
being an artist could do to you would be that it would make you slightly unhappy
constantly. However, this is not a tragic situation, in my opinion. The happiest day of
my life was many years ago when I was seventeen. I was on my way for lunch to meet
my mother, who was going out on the street for the first time after a long illness, and I
was feeling ecstatically happy when suddenly, as I was coming in to the Avenue Victor
Hugo, which is a street in Paris, I bumped into a chap without any nose. I ask you to
please consider that factor, in fact I beg you. It is quite pregnant with meaning.
It is also possible that Father Zimmermann caused you to stop matriculating for the
reason perhaps that your convent lacks funds to pay the tuition. I frankly hope this is
the case, not only because it relieves my mind, but in a practical sense. If this is indeed
the case, you have only to say the word and I will offer my services gratis for an
indefinite period of time. Can we discuss this matter further? May I ask again when
your visiting days at the convent are? May I be free to plan to visit you at the convent
next Saturday afternoon, July 6, between 3 and 5 o'clock in the afternoon, dependent
upon the schedule of trains between Montreal and Toronto? I await your reply with
great anxiety.
With respect and admiration,
Sincerely yours,
(signed)
JEAN DE DAUMIER-SMITH
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.
I never mailed the letter. The following reproduction is copied straight from the
original.
Montreal, Canada June 28, 1939
DEAR SISTER IRMA,
Did I, by chance, say anything obnoxious or irreverent to you in my last letter that
reached the attention of Father Zimmermann and caused you discomfort in some way?
If this is the case, I beg you to give me at least a reasonable chance to retract whatever
it was I may have unwittingly said in my ardor to become friends with you as well as
student and teacher. Is this asking too much? I do not believe it is.
The bare truth is as follows: If you do not learn a few more rudiments of the
profession, you will only be a very, very interesting artist the rest of your life instead of a
great one. This is terrible, in my opinion. Do you realize how grave the situation is?
It is possible that Father Zimmermann made you resign from the school because he
thought it might interfere with your being a competent nun. If this is the case, I cannot
avoid saying that I think it was very rash of him in more ways than one. It would not
interfere with your being a nun. I live like an evil-minded monk myself. The worst that
being an artist could do to you would be that it would make you slightly unhappy
constantly. However, this is not a tragic situation, in my opinion. The happiest day of
my life was many years ago when I was seventeen. I was on my way for lunch to meet
my mother, who was going out on the street for the first time after a long illness, and I
was feeling ecstatically happy when suddenly, as I was coming in to the Avenue Victor
Hugo, which is a street in Paris, I bumped into a chap without any nose. I ask you to
please consider that factor, in fact I beg you. It is quite pregnant with meaning.
It is also possible that Father Zimmermann caused you to stop matriculating for the
reason perhaps that your convent lacks funds to pay the tuition. I frankly hope this is
the case, not only because it relieves my mind, but in a practical sense. If this is indeed
the case, you have only to say the word and I will offer my services gratis for an
indefinite period of time. Can we discuss this matter further? May I ask again when
your visiting days at the convent are? May I be free to plan to visit you at the convent
next Saturday afternoon, July 6, between 3 and 5 o'clock in the afternoon, dependent
upon the schedule of trains between Montreal and Toronto? I await your reply with
great anxiety.
With respect and admiration,
Sincerely yours,
(signed)
JEAN DE DAUMIER-SMITH
No comments:
Post a Comment