Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (267 page)

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."

3
£»*

Even
after
the
new
addition
to
the
Button
family
had
had
his hair
cut
short
and
then
dyed
to
a
sparse
unnatural
black,
had
had his
face
shaved
so
close
that
it
glistened,
and
had
been
attired
in small-boy
clothes
made
to
order
by
a
flabbergasted
tailor,
it
was impossible
for
Mr.
Button
to
ignore
the
fact
that
his
son
was
a poor
excuse
for
a
first
family
baby.
Despite
his
aged
stoop,
Benjamin Button—for
it
was
by
this
name
they
called
him
instead
of
by
the appropriate
but
invidious
Methuselah—was
five
feet
eight
inches
tall. His
clothes
did
not
conceal
this,
nor
did
the
clipping
and
dyeing
of his
eyebrows
disguise
the
fact
that
the
eyes
underneath
were
faded and
watery
and
tired.
In
fact,
the
baby
nurse
who
had
been
engaged in
advance
left
the
house
after
one
look,
in
a
state
of
considerable
indignation.

But
Mr.
Button
persisted
in
his
unwavering
purpose.
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
was
finally
prevailed
upon
to
allow
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
in
no
uncertain
terms that
he
should
"play
with
it,"
whereupon
the
old
man
took
it with
a
weary
expression
and
could
be
heard
jingling
it
obediently
at intervals
throughout
the
day.

There
can
be
no
doubt,
though,
that
the
rattle
bored
him,
and that
he
found
other
and
more
soothing
amusements
when
he
was left
alone.
For
instance,
Mr.
Button
discovered
one
day
that
during the
preceding
week
he
had
smoked
more
cigars
than
ever
before— a
phenomenon
which
was
explained
a
few
days
later
when,
entering the
nursery
unexpectedly,
he
found
the
room
full
of
faint
blue
haze and
Benjamin,
with
a
guilty
expression
on
his
face,
trying
to
conceal the
butt
of
a
dark
Havana.
This,
of
course,
called
for
a
severe
spanking,
but
Mr.
Button
found
that
he
could
not
bring
himself
to
administer
it.
He
merely
warned
his
son
that
he
would
"stunt
his growth."

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
off
the
pink
duck
if
the
baby
put
it
in his
mouth."
But,
despite
all
his
father's
efforts,
Benjamin
refused
to be
interested.
He
would
steal
down
the
back
stairs
and
return
to
the nursery
with
a
volume
of
the
"Encyclopaedia
Britannica,"
over
which he
would
pore
through
an
afternoon,
while
his
cotton
cows
and
his Noah's
ark
were
left
neglected
on
the
floor.
Against
such
a
stubbornness
Mr.
Button's
efforts
were
of
little
avail.