Raintree County (46 page)

—Pure Darwinism, Professor. Where is History in this view? What is the life of a nation? And who—or rather what—is God?

—These questions I will leave to you, said the Perfessor.

—You were talking about genealogy, boys, the Senator said, sitting down again. I've been looking back into the family past of the Raintree County Joneses in connection with my forthcoming little opus. I'm proud to say that there isn't an earl or a duke in the family. Just a bunch of barefoot farmers and horsethieves. I recently got a letter from a fourflusher offering to hunt up a suitable coat of arms for me. I told the skunk to go ahead and see what he could find. What would you suggest for a heraldic device, Professor?

The Perfessor thought for a while.

—An ass ascendant and about to bray,
he said.

—I have one for you, Professor, Mr. Shawnessy said.

—And what's that?

—A serpent pendent from a branch of bay.

—And for you, John, the Perfessor said, how about:
A Raintree rampant in a field of hay.

Golden tree, never labelled by arborealists, I look far down from one of your topmost swinging branches to the shadowy trunk. Here is a good tree, tawny with shocks of shaken flowers, the Shawnessy Tree, spreading on the amorous air of summer the seedburst of its golden bloom. Here is a rare seed, brought overseas in old migrations. Beware, ye virgins! It was made for deep plantings. It will spring in your dark wombs with a fierce leaping, blindly hunting the channels of the future.

Seedtime, summer, and bearded harvest. O, young sporespreader, I lift a wisp of memoryladen smoke to you, fragrant with

where Johnny waited for his father to begin. T. D. sat finger-drumming on his desk. After a while he said without looking up,

—John, this marriage that you've announced. I uh ought to tell you that I don't entirely approve of the precipitate but uh under the circumstances necessary haste with which you have gone into it. I have found out something about the whole thing, and I am deeply pained, and——

T. D. looked out of the window at the gray November earth. Johnny stared at the anatomical chart on the wall. He hadn't seen T. D. so incoherent and pedantic since the time many years before when he had ushered Johnny into the Office to tell him the Facts of Life. At that time, he had taken a pointer and made certain indications at the anatomical chart on the wall. Eyes fixed on the chart now, Johnny saw, under the yellowing varnish, a man's body laid open to show the internal organs. The genitalia were a wrecked mass of blood vessels and tubes. Johnny felt only a dry resentment and a wish to get the thing over with.

—John, T. D. was saying, maybe I've got this whole thing wrong. I hope I have.

—I guess it's the way you heard it, Johnny said.

—You mean, T. D. said, stealing a glance at Johnny, you mean that you uh that you and this young woman——

—Yes, Johnny said. Yes, we did. I haven't any excuse. I got drunk on cider. It was after the Fourth of July Race.

—Fourth of July! T. D. said, reflecting. Jerusalem! boy, that was uh—that was——

He tapped his long fingers quickly——

—nearly five months ago!

—Yes, I know, Johnny said. I'd rather not talk about it, Pa. I was wrong. I'm trying to make it right.

—But this young woman uh, I saw her, you know. I went to see her, after someone wrote me an unsigned note and uh I didn't see any visible outward indication that she uh was in that uh shall we say advanced state of uh the gestatory process which reveals itself uh externally—that is, I——

—I know, Johnny said, feeling sorry for T. D. I don't know how to explain it. She
says
she's with child. It doesn't make any difference. I'm going to marry her anyway.

—She's uh she's quite an attractive young woman, you know, T. D. said, drumming on the table. She uh—that is, I understand how a man might—that is uh, given the circumstances, and the fact that, as you say, you had partaken of what I presume you thought was a harmless beverage—uh, I can see that—but of course, you understand, John, nothing can condone your uh headlong behavior. I had thought that of all my sons—that you——

—Yes, Johnny said, I know. I've been a terrible disappointment to you. I'm sorry.

—Not that I entirely blame you, T. D. said. You're after all only a boy—what?—twenty years old? At twenty, I myself—but then that's another matter. Still, I want you to know that I understand your feelings and I wish to express to you my uh——

At this point, T. D.'s verbal process broke down completely, and he stood head down before the lone window. There was a long silence.

—John, he said, more quietly, there's something I might as well tell you right now. I've told the three older boys, and it's been my intention to tell each of my children when they reached the age of twenty-one. Under the circumstances I think I might as well tell you now since you have uh after a manner of speaking reached the age uh—the age where uh——

Johnny had the strange feeling that somehow his own and his father's role had been subtly reversed and that he, Johnny, was now in the position of the judge and his father in that of the accused.

—I have a special reason for being glad, John, that you've done the manly thing in this case—though a bit late—and have decided to make it up to this young woman, whom you have uh—with whom you have——

—Yes, Johnny said.

—You might as well know it, John, T. D. said, turning around and squaring his shoulders. There is a stain on the name of Shawnessy. Do you know what I mean?

—No, I don't, Johnny said.

—You've never heard me speak much of my father, have you, John? I've always told you that he died in Scotland when I was very small and that my mother came to America with me. You don't know much about my life in Scotland, do you?

—No.

—Well, the truth is, T. D. said slowly, that Shawnessy is not the name of my father. My father's name was Carlyle. Shawnessy is my mother's name.

Johnny felt that he ought to understand now, but somehow he couldn't grasp the significance of what T. D. had said.

—No use mincing words, T. D. said. I was the issue of an illegitimate union.

T. D. squared his shoulders and turned around, looking a little belligerent. His blue eyes flashed. His rabbity mouth worked under his immense blond mustache.

—In plain English, my boy, I'm a bastard. Just a good cleancut bastard.

—O, Johnny said. Is that a fact?

It was the strongest word he had ever heard T. D. use. He felt relief and also a new respect for T. D., who was (the word was somehow comforting) a bastard.

—Yes, sir, T. D. said. I bear what men might call a dishonored name. But I have never been ashamed of the name of Shawnessy. It's the name of my mother, a superb woman.

—Yes, sir, Johnny said, coming crisply to attention.

—As for my father, T. D. said, he bore a name which has since become famous in the world.

Then Johnny understood why it was that T. D. had so often told the children that they were related to a name famous in letters. He had never been explicit about the closeness of that connection, saying only that it was through his father's side of the family.

—Yes, sir, T. D. was saying in his old brisk voice, as if he had suddenly got back all his old assurance, yessirree, and when I got to be old enough to understand my situation, I swore I'd make the
name of Shawnessy as great as the name of Carlyle. Here in America, in a virgin wilderness, where a man's name and past mean nothing, I meant to make the name of Shawnessy a great one in the world.

Johnny nodded. T. D. began to walk back and forth, vibrant with the preternatural energy that seemed to flow into him at times.

—I can't say, T. D. said, that I've entirely realized all my ambitions. I suppose I've been handicapped by a want of education, and perhaps I lacked the native ability to realize my hopes. Not that I consider my life a misspent one. Not at all.

—Of course not, Johnny said.

—I come west with the country, T. D. said. I married young and had children to support. I've grown up with this great country, and I've been one of those who made it grow. I was one of the first settlers in Raintree County. When I come here, this was a wilderness. I've saved the lives of many Americans. I've done my small part for the spiritual welfare of the people of this republic. And if the name of Shawnessy don't become famous in the land, as famous as the name which by rights I ought to bear is in England, I am not in the least ashamed of it. I'm proud of it. And I want my children to be proud of it. I'd rather be Timothy Duff Shawnessy in America than a king in England.

—Certainly, Johnny said.

—In America, T. D. said, nobody cares about a man's past. If I've not become a great man, I've only myself to blame. But I want my children to know that I pass on to them a great name, my mother's, and I'm still confident that in generations to come people will speak the name of Shawnessy with reverence. I take as yet the most hopeful view of my own future and that of my children.

T. D. paused then, with one long arm outflung, and seemed to reflect upon something that he had forgotten.

—But that brings me to say, John, that there's—well—a kind of curse on the Shawnessys. I've noticed it in myself, and I'm afraid that you and perhaps other members of our family bear the mark of it. We're a passionate people, John, us Shawnessys. We are at one and the same time seekers after knowledge, scholars, poets, teachers, and preachers—and also, alas! lovers of beauty. And this second trait is the fatal one. I know, my boy, that you wrestle under more
extreme temptation than most men. I know, because I myself have uh in my youth felt that fatal uh susceptibility. It's hard for a Shawnessy to resist a beautiful woman. It's our curse, my boy, an amiable one—and one, may I say, which I'd be very unhappy not to have, but just the same a curse.

—Yes, sir, Johnny said.

He found it easier to bear his sense of guilt, when he discovered that he had come by it honestly from his grandmother. The fault had acquired a certain dignity and family standing.

—All my younger life, I fought against this legacy of my noble mother, T. D. was saying. I think I may say that I fairly mastered it. By the way, don't breathe a word of this to your mother.

—Of course not, Johnny said.

—Who are we, T. D. said, beginning unconsciously to adopt his pulpit manner, to judge of these moments of weakness? The father and mother of the race sinned. They knew each other in guilty passion after they did eat of the forbidden fruit. 'Tis an ancient curse. Yea, my son, who are we to question the weakness of a woman who surrenders to her desire? No more virtuous woman lived than my mother. She loved and sinned. That was all. But I beg you to take notice, my boy, that if she hadn't, where would you and I be?

T. D. and Johnny looked shyly at each other for a split second and lowered their eyes.

Who shall assign a value to the event or to its consequence? Life has its own inscrutable ends to serve. My grandmother, I am glad that you were once an amorous girl and had the weakness—and the courage—of your love. I am glad, my grandmother, that you allowed yourself to be tumbled in a hayfield beside the little town of Ecclefechan in Scotland years ago. Who knows but even then you fell under the compulsion of the springing impulse that was I! Did you not sin and suffer that I might one day flower and be fair? It was a great gift that you gave that day, my grandmother, in your desirous girlhood. You were one of the makers of America, my gay and guilty paternal grandma. And a woman who gives herself for love only, and without hope of moral security, is she not more courageous than the other kind? O, peerless, antique little Scot, you deserved to give your own great name unto your children and your children's children. Now it can never die. Another of your line has
been busy to that end, in your own inimitable style, my wee, unvirginal grandma.

—I hope, T. D. was saying, that you don't take this thing too hard.

—Not at all, Johnny said. I'm glad you told me. It makes me feel a little better.

—As for your own case, my boy, T. D. said, you've done the manly thing. I hope this young lady is all that she appears to be.
Judge not that ye be not judged.

—Yes, sir.

—Marry her, my boy, T. D. said, standing up erect and tall and holding out his hand, and be happy. Do you need money?

—No, I believe not, Papa.

—When is the wedding?

—December 2, Johnny said. Susanna's choice.

He shook his father's hand and left the Office.

Later on in the evening, he was aware that T. D. was still out in the Office, with no light on. Undoubtedly, he was pacing there in his cluttered cage, a distinguished-looking gentleman with a large blond mustache, marching back and forth surrounded by the Botanical Medicines. He had come to America to make himself famous, and somehow he had got lost in the land. It was strange now to think how some fifty years ago there had been a casting of seed in a putative hayfield in Scotland, and the vital impulse in it was strong, so very strong, that it was carried safely over the sea and so very, very strong that it was carried west and west. Along the way it had lodged in fertile earth, and now there were many vessels, bearers of seed, many and many on the breast of the land.

O, strange little swimmer of so long ago, o, little immortal! What difference is it to you what name you bear! What do you care for a name! O, little lifegiver, you only are eternal. We exist only for you, and you pay us back by faint repetitions of our features, for you never forget anything. You remember us,

YOU REMEMBER OUR FACES, AS YOU PROCEED
UPON YOUR WAY, JETTING
EPHEMERAL