The Curious Case of Benjamin Button / Загадочная история Бенджамина Баттона. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

to give to the parents-and finally hit upon the ingenious device of declaring that the baby resembled his grandfather, a fact which, due to the standard state of decay common to all men of seventy, could not be denied. 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 a stiff-jointed 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, a feat which secretly delighted his father.

      Thereafter Benjamin contrived 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 far apart in age and experience, and, like old cronies, 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 in awe of him and, despite the dictatorial authority they exercised over him, frequently addressed him as “Mr.”

      He was as puzzled as any one else at the apparently 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. At his father's urging he made an honest attempt to play with other boys, and frequently he joined in the milder games-football shook him up too much, and he feared that in case of a fracture his ancient bones would refuse to knit.

      When he was five he was sent to kindergarten, where he was initiated into the art of pasting green paper on orange paper, of weaving coloured maps and manufacturing eternal cardboard necklaces. He was inclined to drowse off to sleep 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. Indeed, so strong is the force of custom that 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, while looking in the mirror, Benjamin made, or thought he made, an astonishing discovery. Did his eyes deceive him, or had his hair turned in the dozen years of his life from white to iron-gray under its concealing dye? Was the network of wrinkles on his face becoming less pronounced? Was his skin healthier and firmer, with even a touch of ruddy winter colour? He could not tell. He knew that he no longer stooped, and 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 determinedly. “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 you'll have to admit,” protested Benjamin, “that I'm big for my age.”

      His father looked at him with illusory speculation. “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 for these concessions he was allowed his first suit of long trousers…

      IV

      Of the life of Benjamin Button between his twelfth and twenty-first year I intend to say little. Suffice to record that they were years of normal ungrowth. When Benjamin was eighteen he was erect as 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 descended to 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 following 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 an anxious inspection of his bureau drawer disclosed that the dye bottle was not there. Then he remembered-he had emptied it the day before and thrown it away.

      He was in a dilemma. 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 sternly 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 half a dozen undergraduates, who were waiting in the hall, followed him curiously with their eyes. When he had gone a little way he turned around, faced the infuriated registrar, who was still standing in the door-way, and repeated in a firm voice: “I am eighteen years old.”

      To a chorus of titters which went up from the group of undergraduates, Benjamin walked away.

      But he was not fated to escape so easily. On his melancholy 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 for Yale and attempted to palm himself off as a youth of eighteen. A fever of excitement permeated the college. Men ran hatless out of classes, the football team abandoned its practice and joined the mob, professors' wives with bonnets awry and bustles out of position, ran shouting after the procession, from which proceeded a continual succession of remarks aimed at the tender sensibilities of Benjamin Button.

      “He must be the wandering Jew!”

      “He ought to go to prep school at his age!”

      “Look at the infant prodigy!”

      “He thought this was the old men's home.”

      “Go up to Harvard!”

      Benjamin increased his gait, and soon he was running. He would show them! He would go to Harvard, and then they would regret these ill-considered taunts!

      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…

      V

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