Адаптация текста, комментарии и словарь О.Н. Прокофьевой

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The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

In 1860 it was proper to be born at home. Now, so I am told, children are usually born in fashionable hospitals. So young Mr. and Mrs. Roger Button were fifty years ahead of style when they decided that their first baby should be born in a hospital. Whether it played any role in the astonishing story I am about to tell we will never know.

I shall tell you what happened, and let you judge for yourself.

The Roger Buttons held a high position, both social and financial, in Baltimore. This was their first baby—Mr. Button was naturally nervous. He hoped it would be a boy so that he could be sent to Yale College in Connecticut, the institution to which Mr. Button himself had been once sent.

On that September morning he got up at six o’clock, dressed himself, and hurried to the hospital. When he was approximately a hundred yards from the Maryland Private Hospital for Ladies and Gentlemen he saw Doctor Keene, the family physician, descending the front steps, rubbing his hands together as all doctors do by the unwritten ethics of their profession.

Mr. Roger Button, the president of Roger Button & Co., Wholesale Hardware, began to run toward Doctor Keene. “Doctor Keene!” he called.

The doctor heard him, turned around, and stood waiting, with a curious expression on his harsh, medicinal face.

“What happened?” demanded Mr. Button, as he came up in a rush. “How is she? A boy? Who is it?” Doctor Keene seemed somewhat irritated.

“Is the child born?” begged Mr. Button.

Doctor Keene frowned. “Why, yes, I suppose so…”

“Is my wife all right?”

“Yes.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

“I’ll ask you to go and see for yourself!” Then he turned away muttering: “Do you imagine a case like this will help my professional reputation? One more would ruin me—ruin anybody.”

“What’s the matter? Triplets?” “No, not triplets! You can go and see for yourself. And get another doctor. I’m through with you! I don’t want to see you or any of your relatives ever again! Goodbye!”

Without another word he climbed into his carriage and drove away.

Mr. Button stood there trembling from head to foot. He had suddenly lost all desire to go into the Maryland Private Hospital for Ladies and Gentlemen—it was with the greatest difficulty that, a moment later, he forced himself to mount the steps and enter the front door.

A nurse was sitting behind a desk in the hall. Swallowing his shame, Mr. Button approached her.

“Good-morning. I—I am Mr. Button.”

A look of terror spread over the girl’s face.

“I want to see my child,” said Mr. Button.

The nurse gave a little scream. “Oh—of course!” she cried hysterically. “Upstairs. Right upstairs. Go up!”

She pointed the direction, and Mr. Button began to mount to the second floor. In the upper hall he addressed another nurse who approached him. “I’m Mr. Button,” he managed to say. “I want to see my—”

“All right, Mr. Button,” she agreed in a hushed voice. “Very well! But the hospital will never have the ghost of its reputation after—”

“Hurry! I can’t stand this!” “Come this way Mr. Button.”

He went after her. At the end of a long hall they reached a room. They entered. Ranged around the walls were half a dozen rolling cribs.

“Well,” gasped Mr. Button, “which is mine?”

“There!” said the nurse.

Mr. Button’s eyes followed her pointing finger, and this is what he saw. Wrapped in a white blanket, in one of the cribs, there sat an old man apparently about seventy years old. His sparse hair was almost white, and he had a long smoke-coloured beard. He looked up at Mr. Button with a question in his eyes.

“Is this a hospital joke?

“It doesn’t seem like a joke to us,” replied the nurse. “And that is most certainly your child.”

Mr. Button’s closed his eyes, and then, opening them, looked again. There was no mistake—he was gazing at a man of seventy—a baby of seventy, a baby whose feet hung over the sides of the crib.

The old man suddenly spoke in a cracked voice. “Are you my father?” he demanded. “Because if you are,” went on the old man, “I wish you’d get me out of this place…”

“Who are you?”

“I can’t tell you exactly who I am, because I’ve only been born a few hours—but my last name is certainly Button.”

“You lie!”

The old man turned wearily to the nurse. “Nice way to welcome a new-born child,” he complained in a weak voice. “Tell him he’s wrong, why don’t you?”

“You’re wrong. Mr. Button,” said the nurse. “This is your child. We’re going to ask you to take him home with you as soon as possible.” “Home?” repeated Mr. Button. “Yes, we can’t have him here. We really can’t, you know?”

Mr. Button sank down upon a chair near his son and put his face in his hands. “My heavens!” he murmured, in horror. “What will people say? What must I do?”

“You’ll have to take him home,” insisted the nurse—“immediately!”

“I can’t. I can’t,” he moaned. People would stop to speak to him, and what was he going to say? He would have to introduce this—this creature: “This is my son, born early this morning.” And then the old man would gather his blanket around him and they would go on, past stores, the slave market—for a dark instant Mr. Button wished his son was black—past luxurious houses, past the home for the aged…

“Pull yourself together,” commanded the nurse.

“If you think I’m going to walk home in this blanket, you’re entirely mistaken,” the old man announced suddenly.

“Babies always have blankets.” Mr. Button turned to the nurse. “What’ll I do?”

“Go down town and buy your son some clothes.”

Mr. Button’s son’s voice followed him down into the hall:

“And a cane, father. I want to have a cane.”

“Good-morning,” Mr. Button said, nervously, to the clerk in the Chesapeake Dry Goods Company. “I want to buy some clothes for my child.”

“How old is your child, sir?”

“About six hours,” answered Mr. Button.

“Babies’ supply department in the rear.”

“I’m not sure that’s what I want. It’s—he’s an unusually large-size child. Exceptionally—ah—large.”

“They have the largest child’s sizes.”

“Where is the boys’ department?” inquired Mr. Button. He felt that the clerk must scent his shameful secret.

“Right here.”

“Well—” He hesitated. If he could only find a very large boy’s suit, he might cut off that long and awful beard, dye the white hair brown, and hide the worst and retain something of his own self-respect—not to mention his position in Baltimore society.

But there were no suits to fit the new-born Button in the boys’ department. He blamed the store, of course—in such cases it is the thing to blame the store.

“How old did you say that boy of yours was?” demanded the clerk curiously.

“He’s—sixteen.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said six hours. You’ll find the youths’ department in the next aisle.”

Mr. Button turned miserably away. Then he stopped, brightened, and pointed his finger toward a dressed dummy in the window display. “There!” he exclaimed. “I’ll take that suit, out there on the dummy.”

The clerk stared. “Why,” he protested, “that’s not a child’s suit. You could wear it yourself!”

“Wrap it up,” insisted his customer nervously. “That’s what I want.”

The astonished clerk obeyed.

Back at the hospital Mr. Button entered the nursery and almost threw the package at his son: “Here’s your clothes.”

The old man untied the package and viewed the contents.

“They look sort of funny to me,” he complained, “I don’t want to be made a monkey of—”

“You’ve made a monkey of me! Put them on—or I’ll—or I’ll spank you.” He swallowed uneasily at the word, feeling nevertheless that it was the proper thing to say.

“All right, father”—this with a grotesque simulation of respect—”you’ve lived longer; you know best. Just as you say.”

As before, the sound of the word “father” confused Mr. Button. “And hurry.”

“I’m hurrying, father.”

When his son was dressed Mr. Button regarded him with depression. The costume consisted of dotted socks, pink pants, and a belted blouse with a wide white collar. Over the collar waved the long beard.

The effect was not good.

“Wait!”

Mr. Button seized a pair of hospital shears and with three quick snaps cut a large section of the beard. But even without it his son was far from perfection. The remaining hair, the watery eyes, the ancient teeth seemed out of tone with the gayety of the costume. Mr. Button, however, held out his hand.

“Come along!” he said sternly.

His son took the hand trustingly. “What are you going to call me, dad?” he quavered as they walked from the nursery—”just ‘baby’ for a while? till you think of a better name?”

Mr. Button grunted. “I don’t know,” he answered harshly. “I think we’ll call you Methuselah.”

Even after the new-born Button had had his hair cut short and then dyed to an unnatural black, had had his face shaved so close that it glistened, and had been dressed in small-boy clothes made to order, it was impossible for Button to ignore the fact that his son was a poor excuse for a first family baby. Benjamin Button—for it was by this name they called him instead of by Methuselah—was five feet eight inches tall. His clothes did not conceal this, nor did the dyeing of his eyebrows disguise the fact that the eyes under were watery and tired. In fact, the baby-nurse left the house after one look at him in a state of considerable indignation.

But Mr. Button persisted that Benjamin was a baby, and a baby he should remain. At first, he declared that if Benjamin didn’t like warm milk he could go without food altogether, but he finally allowed his son bread and butter, and even oatmeal by way of a compromise. One day he brought home a rattle and, giving it to Benjamin, insisted that he should “play with it.” The old man took it with a weary expression and jingled it obediently at intervals throughout the day.

There can be no doubt that the rattle bored him, and that he found other amusements when he was left alone. For instance, Mr. Button discovered one day that some cigars were missing. A few days later he found the room full of faint blue haze and Benjamin, with a guilty expression on his face, trying to hide the butt.

This, of course, called for a severe spanking, but Mr. Button found that he could not do it.

Nevertheless, he persisted in his attitude. He brought home lead soldiers, he brought toy trains, he brought large pleasant animals made of cotton, and, to perfect the illusion, which he was creating—for himself at least—he passionately demanded of the clerk in the toy store whether “the paint would come of the pink duck if the baby put it in his mouth.” But Benjamin refused to be interested. He would steal down the back stairs and return to the nursery with a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica, which he would read through an afternoon, while his cotton cows were left neglected on the floor. Mr. Button could do nothing against such stubbornness.

The sensation was, at first, huge in Baltimore. But the outbreak of the Civil War drew the city’s attention to other things. A few people who tried to be polite about the child finally declared that the baby resembled his grandfather. Mr. and Mrs. Roger Button were not pleased, and Benjamin’s grandfather was furiously insulted.

Benjamin, once he left the hospital, took life as he found it. Several small boys were brought to see him, and he spent all afternoon trying to work up an interest in tops and marbles—he even managed, quite accidentally, to break a kitchen window with a stone from a sling shot, which secretly delighted his father.

Thereafter Benjamin decided to break something every day, but he did these things only because they were expected of him, and because he was by nature obliging. When his grandfather’s initial antagonism wore off, Benjamin and that gentleman took enormous pleasure in one another’s company. They would sit for hours, these two, so different in age and experience, and, like old friends, discuss with tireless monotony the slow events of the day. Benjamin felt more at ease in his grandfather’s presence than in his parents’—they seemed always somewhat afraid of him and, despite their dictatorial authority, frequently addressed him as “Mr.”

He was as puzzled as anyone else at the advanced age of his mind and body at birth. He read up on it in the medical journal, but found that no such case had been previously recorded.

When he was five, he was sent to kindergarten, where he was taught the art of pasting green paper on orange paper, of weaving coloured maps and manufacturing eternal cardboard necklaces. He often fell asleep in the middle of these tasks, a habit, which both irritated and frightened his young teacher. To his relief she complained to his parents, and he was removed from the school. The Roger Buttons told their friends that they felt he was too young.

By the time he was twelve years old his parents had grown used to him. Moreover, they no longer felt that he was different from any other child—except when some curious anomaly reminded them of the fact. But one day a few weeks after his twelfth birthday, looking in the mirror, Benjamin made, or thought he made, an astonishing discovery. Did his eyes deceive him, or had his hair turned from white to iron-gray under its dye? Was the network of wrinkles on his face fade? Was his skin healthier and firmer? He could not tell. He knew that his physical condition had improved since the early days of his life.

“Can it be—?” he thought to himself, or, rather, scarcely dared to think.

He went to his father. “I am grown,” he announced. “I want to put on long trousers.”

His father hesitated. “Well,” he said finally, “I don’t know. Fourteen is the age for putting on long trousers—and you are only twelve.” “But I’m big for my age.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure of that,” he said. “I was as big as you when I was twelve.”

This was not true—it was all part of Roger Button’s silent agreement with himself to believe in his son’s normality.

Finally a compromise was reached. Benjamin was to continue to dye his hair. He was to make a better attempt to play with boys of his own age. He was not to wear his spectacles or carry a cane in the street. In return he was allowed his first suit of long trousers.

Of Benjamin Button’s life between his twelfth and twenty-first year I intend to say little. They were years of normal ungrowth. When Benjamin was eighteen he reminded of a man of fifty; he had more hair and it was of a dark gray; his step was firm, his voice had lost its cracked quaver and turned into a healthy baritone. So his father sent him up to Connecticut to take examinations for entrance to Yale College. Benjamin passed his examination and became a member of the freshman class.

On the third day after his matriculation he received a notification from Mr. Hart, the college registrar, to call at his office and arrange his schedule. Benjamin, glancing in the mirror, decided that his hair needed a new application of its brown dye, but suddenly he saw that the dye bottle was not there. Then he remembered he had emptied it the day before and thrown it away. He was due at the registrar’s in five minutes. There seemed to be no help for it. He must go as he was. He did.

“Good-morning,” said the registrar politely. “You’ve come to inquire about your son.”

“Why, as a matter of fact, my name’s Button—” began Benjamin, but Mr. Hart cut him off.

“I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Button. I’m expecting your son here any minute.”

“That’s me!” burst out Benjamin. “I’m a freshman.”

“What!”

“I’m a freshman.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

“Not at all.”

The registrar frowned and glanced at a card before him.

“Why, I have Mr. Benjamin Button’s age down here as eighteen.” “That’s my age,” asserted Benjamin, flushing slightly.

The registrar eyed him wearily. “Now surely, Mr. Button, you don’t expect me to believe that.”

Benjamin smiled wearily. “I am eighteen,” he repeated.

The registrar pointed to the door. “Get out,” he said. “Get out of college and get out of town. You are a dangerous lunatic.”

“I am eighteen.”

Mr. Hart opened the door. “The idea!” he shouted. “A man of your age trying to enter here as a freshman. Eighteen years old, are you? Well, I’ll give you eighteen minutes to get out of town.”

Benjamin Button walked with dignity from the room, and the under – graduates, who were waiting in the hall, followed him curiously with their eyes. Benjamin turned around, faced the registrar, who was still standing in the doorway, and repeated in a firm voice: “I am eighteen years old.”

To a chorus of the undergraduates’ laughter Benjamin walked away.

But he was not fated to escape so easily. On his sad walk to the railroad station he found that he was being followed by a group, then by a swarm, and finally by a dense mass of undergraduates. The word had gone around that a lunatic had passed the entrance examinations and claimed he was eighteen. Men ran hatless out of classes, the football team abandoned its practice and joined the mob, professors’ wives ran shouting after the procession that made hundreds of remarks about Benjamin Button.

“Look at the infant prodigy!”

“He thought this was the home for the aged.”

“Go up to Harvard!”

Benjamin was soon running. He would show them! He would go to Harvard, and then they would regret their words!

Safely on board the train for Baltimore, he put his head from the window. “You’ll regret this!” he shouted.

“Ha-ha!” the undergraduates laughed. “Ha-ha-ha!” It was the biggest mistake that Yale College had ever made.

In 1880 Benjamin Button was twenty years old, and he went to work for his father in Roger Button & Co., Wholesale Hardware. It was in that same year that he began “going out socially”—that is, his father insisted on taking him to several dances. Roger Button was now fifty. Since Benjamin had ceased to dye his hair (which was still grayish) he and his father seemed to be about the same age, and looked like brothers.

One night in August they got into the carriage in their suits and drove out to a dance at the Shevlins’ country house. It was a gorgeous evening. It was almost impossible not to be affected by the beauty of the sky—almost.

“There’s a great future in our business,” Roger Button was saying. He was not a romantic man—his aesthetic sense was rudimentary.

“But old fellows like me can’t learn new tricks,” he continued. “It’s you youngsters with energy and vitality that have the great future before you.”

They pulled up behind a handsome carriage whose passengers were disembarking at the door. A lady got out, then an elderly gentleman, then another beautiful young lady.

Blood rose into Benjamin’s cheeks and there was a steady thumping in his ears. It was first love. The girl was slender and frail, with hair that was ashen under the moon and honey-coloured under the gas lamps of the porch.

Roger Button leaned over to his son. “That,” he said, “is young Hildegarde Moncrief, the daughter of General Moncrief.”

Benjamin nodded coldly. “Dad, you might introduce me to her.”

They approached a group, of which Miss Moncrief was the centre. She curtsied low before Benjamin. Yes, he might have a dance. He thanked her and walked away.

The interval until the time for his turn seemed interminable. He stood close to the wall silent, watching with murderous eyes the young men of Baltimore as they surrounded Hildegarde Moncrief. Their curling brown whiskers made him feel sick.

But when his own time came and he drifted with her to the music of the latest waltz from Paris, his jealousies and anxieties melted like snow. He felt that life was just beginning.

“You and your brother got here just as we did, didn’t you?” asked

Hildegarde, looking up at him with her bright blue eyes.

Benjamin hesitated. If she took him for his father’s brother, would it be best to tell her the truth? He remembered his experience at Yale, so he decided against it. It would be rude to contradict a lady. Later, perhaps. So he nodded, smiled, listened, was happy.

“I like men of your age,” Hildegarde told him. “Young boys are so idiotic. They tell me how much champagne they drink at college, and how much money they lose playing cards. Men of your age know how to appreciate women.”

Benjamin was about to propose to her, with an effort he choked back the impulse.

“You’re just the romantic age,” she continued—”fifty. Thirty is pale from overwork; forty is the age of long stories that take a whole cigar to tell; sixty is—oh, sixty is too near seventy; but fifty is the best age. I love fifty.”

Fifty seemed to Benjamin a glorious age. He suddenly wanted to be fifty.

“I’ve always said,” went on Hildegarde, “that I’d rather marry a man of fifty and be taken care of than many a man of thirty and take care of him.”

Hildegarde gave him two more dances, and they discovered that they agreed upon all the questions of the day. She was to go driving with him on the following Sunday, and then they would discuss all these questions further.

Going home in the carriage, Benjamin knew vaguely that his father was discussing wholesale hardware.

“… And what do you think should pay attention to after hammers and nails?” the elder Button was saying.

“Love,” replied Benjamin absent- mindedly.

“Lugs?” exclaimed Roger Button, “Why, I’ve just covered the question of lugs.”

Benjamin regarded him with dazed eyes. When, six months later, the engagement of Miss Hildegarde Moncrief to Mr. Benjamin Button was made known (I say “made known,” because General Moncrief declared he would rather die than announce it), the excitement in Baltimore society reached a feverish pitch. The almost forgotten story of Benjamin’s birth was remembered and became a scandal. It was said that Benjamin was really Roger Button’s father, that he was his brother who had been in prison for forty years, and, finally, that he had two small horns on his head.

The New York papers published fascinating sketches, which showed the head of Benjamin Button attached to a fish or a snake. He was called the Mystery Man of Maryland. But the true story, as is usually the case, was hardly known.

However, everyone agreed with General Moncrief that it was “criminal” for a lovely girl who could have married any handsome young man in Baltimore to marry a fifty- year-old man. In vain Mr. Roger Button published his son’s birth certificate in large type in the Baltimore Blaze. No one believed it. You had only to look at Benjamin and see.

But Hildegarde refused stubbornly to believe even the true story. In vain General Moncrief pointed out to her that a fifty-year-old man was too old for her; in vain he told her of the instability of the wholesale hardware business. Hildegarde had chosen to marry Benjamin, and marry she did…

In one particular, at least, the friends of Hildegarde Moncrief were mistaken. The wholesale hardware business prospered amazingly. In the fifteen years between Benjamin Button’s marriage in 1880 and his father’s retirement in 1895, the family fortune was doubled—and this was due to the younger member of the firm.

Baltimore eventually got used to the couple. Even old General Moncrief accepted his son-in-law when Benjamin gave him the money to publish his “History of the Civil War” in twenty volumes, which had been refused by nine prominent publishers.

Benjamin himself changed a lot in the last fifteen years. It began to be a pleasure to rise in the morning, to walk along the busy, sunny street, to work untiringly with his shipments of hammers and nails. It was in 1890 that he suggested that all nails used in nailing up the boxes, in which nails are shipped, are the property of the company. It saved Roger Button and Company, Wholesale Hardware, more than six hundred nails every year.

In addition, Benjamin discovered that he was becoming more and more attracted by the gay side of life. He was the first man in the city of Baltimore to own and run an automobile. His contemporaries envied him. “He seems to grow younger every year,” they would remark.

There was only one thing that worried Benjamin Button; his wife had ceased to attract him.

At that time Hildegarde was a woman of thirty-five, with a son, Roscoe, fourteen years old. Benjamin had worshipped her, but as the years passed, she became conservative, content, and boring. As a bride it had been she who had “dragged” Benjamin to dances and dinners. Now she went out socially with him, but without enthusiasm.

At the outbreak of the Spanish- American War in 1898 Benjamin’s home had for him so little charm that he decided to join the army. He went there as a captain, and but soon became a lieutenant-colonel. In the war he was slightly wounded, and received a medal.

Benjamin had become so attached to the army life that he regretted to give it up, but his business required attention, so he returned home.

Hildegarde greeted him on the porch. She was a woman of forty now, with a faint line of gray hairs in her head. The sight depressed him.

Up in his room he saw his reflection in the familiar mirror—he went closer and compared his own face with a photograph of himself in uniform taken just before the war.

“Good Lord!” he said aloud. The process was continuing.

There was no doubt of it—he looked now like a man of thirty. Instead of being delighted, he was uneasy—he was growing younger.

His destiny seemed to him awful, incredible.

When he came downstairs, Hildegarde was waiting for him.

“Well,” he remarked lightly, “everybody says I look younger than ever.”

Hildegarde regarded him with scorn:

“I should think you have enough pride to stop it.”

“How can I?” he demanded.

“I’m not going to argue with you,” she retorted. “But there’s a right way of doing things and a wrong way. If you’ve made up your mind to be different from everybody else, I don’t suppose I can stop you, but I don’t approve of it.”

“But, Hildegarde, I can’t help it.”

“You’re simply stubborn. You think you don’t want to be like anyone else. You always have been that way, and you always will be.”

Benjamin made no reply. He wondered what possible fascination she had ever had over him.

Later Benjamin found that his thirst for gayety grew stronger. He never missed a party of any kind in the city of Baltimore, he danced with the prettiest of the young married women and found their company charming, while his wife sat among the chaperons, looking at him reproachfully.

“Look!” people would remark. “What a pity! A young fellow that age tied to a woman of forty-five. He must be twenty years younger than his wife.” They had forgotten—as people inevitably forget—that back in 1880 their mammas and papas had also remarked about this same pair.

Benjamin’s growing unhappiness at home was compensated for by his many new interests. He took up golf, he went in for dancing. His social activities, of course, interfered with his business, but then he had worked hard at wholesale hardware for twenty-five years and felt that he could soon hand it on to his son, Roscoe, who had recently graduated from Harvard.

He and his son were, in fact, often mistaken for each other. This pleased Benjamin—he soon forgot the fear, which had come over him on his return from the Spanish-American War, and grew to take a naive pleasure in his appearance.

There was only one problem—he hated to appear in public with his wife. Hildegarde was almost fifty, and the sight of her made him feel absurd.

One September day in 1910—a few years after Roger Button & Co., Wholesale Hardware, had been handed over to young Roscoe Button—a man, about twenty years old, entered Harvard University in Cambridge. He did not mention the fact that his son had graduated from the same institution ten years before. He was admitted, and almost immediately attained a high position in the class, partly because he seemed a little older than the other freshmen, who were about eighteen.

But his success was largely due to the fact that in the football game with Yale he played so brilliantly that he scored twenty-one goals for Harvard, and caused one entire eleven of Yale men to be carried from the field, unconscious. He was the most celebrated man in college.

Strange to say, in his third or junior year he was scarcely able to “make” the team. The coaches said that he had lost weight, and it seemed that he was not quite as tall as before. He was kept on the team chiefly in hope that his enormous reputation would bring terror and disorganisation to the Yale team.

In his senior year he did not make the team at all. He had grown so slight and frail that one day he was taken by some sophomores for a freshman. The incident humiliated him terribly. He became known as a prodigy—a senior who was surely no more than sixteen. His studies seemed harder to him—he felt that they were too advanced. He heard his classmates speak of St. Midas’, the famous school, at which so many of them had prepared for college, and he decided after his graduation to go to St. Midas’.

Upon his graduation in 1914 he went home to Baltimore with his Harvard diploma in his pocket. Hildegarde was now living in Italy, so Benjamin went to live with his son, Roscoe. But though he was welcomed in a general way, there was obviously no heartiness in Roscoe’s feeling toward him—there was even a tendency on his son’s part to think that Benjamin was somewhat in the way. Roscoe was married now and prominent in Baltimore life, and he wanted no scandal connected with his family.

Benjamin found himself left much alone, except for the companionship of three or four fifteen-year-old boys in the neighborhood. He remembered his idea of going to school.

“I’ve told you over and over that I want to go to school.”

“Well, go, then,” replied Roscoe shortly. He wished to avoid a discussion.

“I can’t go alone,” said Benjamin helplessly. “You’ll have to take me up there.”

“I haven’t got time,” declared Roscoe. His eyes narrowed and he looked uneasily at his father. “As a matter of fact,” he added, “this has gone too far to be a joke. It isn’t funny any longer!”

Benjamin looked at him, on the verge of tears.

“And another thing,” continued Roscoe, “when visitors are in the house I want you to call me ‘Uncle’—not ‘Roscoe,’ but ‘Uncle,’ do you understand? It looks absurd for a boy of fifteen to call me by my first name. Perhaps you’d better call me ‘Uncle’ all the time, so you’ll get used to it.”

With a harsh look at his father, Roscoe turned away. Benjamin stared at himself in the mirror. He had not shaved for three months, but he could find nothing on his face. When he had first come home from Harvard, Roscoe had suggested that he should wear eyeglasses and imitation whiskers glued to his cheeks. But whiskers had itched and made him ashamed. He wept and Roscoe weakened.

Benjamin opened a book of boys’ stories and began to read. But he found himself thinking about the war. America had joined the Allied course during the preceding month, and Benjamin wanted to enlist, but, alas, sixteen was the minimum age, and he did not look that old. His true age, which was fifty-seven, would have been too much.

There was a knock at his door, and the butler appeared with a letter addressed to Mr. Benjamin Button. Benjamin tore it open and read it with delight. It informed him that many reserve officers who had served in the Spanish-American War were being called back into service with a higher rank. He was ordered to report immediately.

Benjamin jumped to his feet. This was what he had wanted. He seized his cap, and ten minutes later he entered a large tailoring establishment on Charles Street, and asked to be measured for a uniform.

“Want to play soldier, sonny?” demanded a clerk.

Benjamin flushed. “Never mind what I want!” he retorted angrily. “My name’s Button and I live on Mt. Vernon Place, so you know I’m good for it.”

“Well,” admitted the clerk, “if you’re not, I guess your daddy is, all right.”

Benjamin was measured, and a week later his uniform was completed.

Saying nothing to Roscoe, he left the house one night and went by train to Camp Mosby, in South Carolina, where he was to command an infantry brigade. On a sultry April day he approached the entrance to the camp, and turned to the sentry on guard.

“Get someone to handle my luggage!” he said.

The sentry eyed him reproachfully. “Say,” he remarked, “where are you going with the general’s duds, sonny?”

Benjamin, veteran of the Spanish- American War, looked at him with fire in his eye.

“Come to attention!” he tried to thunder; he paused for breath—then suddenly he saw the sentry snap his heels together. Benjamin smiled, but when he glanced around his smile faded. It was not he who had inspired obedience, but an artillery colonel who was approaching on horseback.

The colonel looked coolly down at Benjamin. “Whose little boy are you?” he demanded kindly.

“I’ll soon show you whose little boy I am!” retorted Benjamin. “Get down off that horse!”

The colonel roared with laughter. “Here!” cried Benjamin desperately. “Read this.” And he gave his letter to the colonel.

The colonel read it, his eyes popping from their sockets.

“Where’d you get this?” he demanded, slipping the document into his own pocket.

“I got it from the Government, as you’ll soon find out!”

“You come along with me,” said the colonel with a peculiar look.

“We’ll go up to headquarters and talk this over.”

There was nothing for Benjamin to do but follow with as much dignity as possible, promising himself revenge.

But this revenge did not materialize. Two days later, however, his son Roscoe materialized from Baltimore, hot and angry from a long trip, and escorted the weeping general back to his home.

In 1920 Roscoe Button’s first child was born. During the festivities, however, no one mentioned “the thing” that the little boy, surely about ten years old who played around the house with lead soldiers, was the new baby’s own grandfather.

No one disliked the little boy whose fresh, cheerful face had just a hint of sadness on it, but to Roscoe Button his presence was unbearable. It seemed to him that his father refused to look sixty. Indeed, to think about the matter for as much as a half an hour drove him insane.

Five years later Roscoe’s little boy grew old enough to play childish games with little Benjamin under the supervision of the same nurse. Roscoe took them both to kindergarten on the same day, and Benjamin found that playing with little strips of coloured paper, making chains and curious and beautiful designs was the most fascinating game in the world. Once he was bad and had to stand in the corner—then he cried—but there were mostly gay hours in the cheerful room, with the sunlight from the windows and Miss Bailey’s kind hand resting for a moment now and then in his hair.

Roscoe’s son moved up into the first grade after a year, but Benjamin stayed on in the kindergarten. He was very happy. Sometimes when other children talked about what they would do when they grew up, he turned very sad as if he realized that those were things he would never have.

He went back a third year to the kindergarten, but he was too little now to understand what the bright strips of paper were for. He cried because the other boys were bigger than he, and he was afraid of them. The teacher talked to him, but though he tried to understand, he could not understand at all.

He was taken from the kindergarten. His nurse, Nana became the centre of his tiny world. On bright days they walked in the park; Nana would point at a great gray monster and say “elephant,” and Benjamin would say it after her, and when he was being undressed for bed that night he would say it over and over aloud to her: “Elyphant, elyphant, elyphant.” Sometimes Nana let him jump on the bed, which was fun, because if you said “Ah” while you jumped you got a very funny vocal effect.

He loved to take a big cane and hit chairs and tables with it and saying: “Fight, fight, fight.” When a long day was done at five o’clock he would go upstairs with Nana and be fed oatmeal and nice soft food with a spoon.

There were no troublesome memories in his childish sleep. There were only the white, safe walls of his crib, Nana, a man who came to see him sometimes, and a great big orange ball that Nana pointed at and called “sun.” When the sun went down, his eyes were sleepy—there were no dreams.

The past—the war; the first years of his marriage when he worked late down in the busy city for young Hildegarde whom he loved; the days before that when he sat smoking in the gloomy old Button house on Monroe Street with his grandfather—all these had faded from his mind as though they had never been.

He did not remember. He did not remember clearly whether the milk was warm or cool at his last feeding or how the days passed—there was only his crib and Nana.

And then he remembered nothing. When he was hungry, he cried. That was all. He breathed and over him there were soft murmurings that he scarcely heard. He hardly differentiated smells, and light and darkness.

Then it was all dark, and his white crib and the faces that moved above him, and the warm sweet aroma of the milk faded out altogether from his mind.