DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.51521#0016
(8)
The glass reveals to me a pretty apartment in the Rue
de la Tour des Dames with myself sitting at an open
window enjoying the perfume of the spring air coming
up from the fragment of garden between the houses and
the street. The young man is absorbed in happy thoughts,
which vanish quickly when a letter is brought in. He
opens the envelope with reluctance and listening (memory
includes sound as well as sight) I hear him say, ‘ ‘A letter
from Joe Blake.” After a pause the young man, in whom
I can still recognize myself, mutters, “Joe Blake was
always a fool, and now he is more a fool than ever, for he
wishes me to come over to Ireland to find another agent.
A fool he was and a fool he will remain, interested only
in his two-year-olds, and these he breaks down on the
lumpy fields which he calls his racecourse. But I cannot
waste any more time puzzling out a difficult handwriting.
I am engaged to sit for Manet, ’ ’ and it was whilst choos-
ing the suit, the necktie and the hat that he first saw me
in that I said to myself, “I will read Joe’s letter carefully
after the sitting.” But thoughts cannot be restrained, and
Manet, guessing from my face that something disagree-
able had happened to me, said, “You must have received
a disagreeable letter this morning. You are no longer le
plus parisien de tous les anglais.” “Does that matter?”
I asked him. “Of course it matters.” I took the pose and
he repainted his portrait malgre lui, but after an hour’s
work he picked up his knife and to my great disappoint-
The glass reveals to me a pretty apartment in the Rue
de la Tour des Dames with myself sitting at an open
window enjoying the perfume of the spring air coming
up from the fragment of garden between the houses and
the street. The young man is absorbed in happy thoughts,
which vanish quickly when a letter is brought in. He
opens the envelope with reluctance and listening (memory
includes sound as well as sight) I hear him say, ‘ ‘A letter
from Joe Blake.” After a pause the young man, in whom
I can still recognize myself, mutters, “Joe Blake was
always a fool, and now he is more a fool than ever, for he
wishes me to come over to Ireland to find another agent.
A fool he was and a fool he will remain, interested only
in his two-year-olds, and these he breaks down on the
lumpy fields which he calls his racecourse. But I cannot
waste any more time puzzling out a difficult handwriting.
I am engaged to sit for Manet, ’ ’ and it was whilst choos-
ing the suit, the necktie and the hat that he first saw me
in that I said to myself, “I will read Joe’s letter carefully
after the sitting.” But thoughts cannot be restrained, and
Manet, guessing from my face that something disagree-
able had happened to me, said, “You must have received
a disagreeable letter this morning. You are no longer le
plus parisien de tous les anglais.” “Does that matter?”
I asked him. “Of course it matters.” I took the pose and
he repainted his portrait malgre lui, but after an hour’s
work he picked up his knife and to my great disappoint-