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Curious Case of Benjamin Button
I
As long ago as 1860 it was the proper thing to be born at home. Atpresent, so I am told, the high gods of medicine have decreed that thefirst cries of the young shall be uttered upon the anaesthetic air ofa hospital, preferably a fashionable one. So young Mr. and Mrs. RogerButton were fifty years ahead of style when they decided, one day inthe summer of 1860, that their first baby should be born in ahospital. Whether this anachronism had any bearing upon theastonishing history I am about to set down will never be known.
I shall tell you what occurred, and let you judge for yourself.
The Roger Buttons held an enviable position, both social andfinancial, in ante-bellum Baltimore. They were related to the ThisFamily and the That Family, which, as every Southerner knew, entitledthem to membership in that enormous peerage which largely populatedthe Confederacy. This was their first experience with the charming oldcustom of having babies--Mr. Button was naturally nervous. He hoped itwould be a boy so that he could be sent to Yale College inConnecticut, at which institution Mr. Button himself had been knownfor four years by the somewhat obvious nickname of "Cuff."
On the September morning consecrated to the enormous event he arosenervously at six o'clock dressed himself, adjusted an impeccablestock, and hurried forth through the streets of Baltimore to thehospital, to determine whether the darkness of the night had borne innew life upon its bosom.
When he was approximately a hundred yards from the Maryland PrivateHospital for Ladies and Gentlemen he saw Doctor Keene, the familyphysician, descending the front steps, rubbing his hands together witha washing movement--as all doctors are required to do by the unwrittenethics of their profession.
Mr. Roger Button, the president of Roger Button & Co., WholesaleHardware, began to run toward Doctor Keene with much less dignity thanwas expected from a Southern gentleman of that picturesque period."Doctor Keene!" he called. "Oh, Doctor Keene!"
The doctor heard him, faced around, and stood waiting, a curiousexpression settling on his harsh, medicinal face as Mr. Button drewnear.
"What happened?" demanded Mr. Button, as he came up in a gasping rush."What was it? How is she" A boy? Who is it? What---"
"Talk sense!" said Doctor Keene sharply, He appeared somewhatirritated.
"Is the child born?" begged Mr. Button.
Doctor Keene frowned. "Why, yes, I suppose so--after a fashion." Againhe threw a curious glance at Mr. Button.
"Is my wife all right?"
"Yes."
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
"Here now!" cried Doctor Keene in a perfect passion of irritation,"I'll ask you to go and see for yourself. Outrageous!" He snapped thelast word out in almost one syllable, 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?" demanded Mr. Button appalled. "Triplets?"
"No, not triplets!" answered the doctor cuttingly. "What's more, youcan go and see for yourself. And get another doctor. I brought youinto the world, young man, and I've been physician to your family forforty years, but I'm through with you! I don't want to see you or anyof your relatives ever again! Good-bye!"
Then he turned sharply, and without another word climbed into hisphaeton, which was waiting at the curbstone, and drove severely away.
Mr. Button stood there upon the sidewalk, stupefied and trembling fromhead to foot. What horrible mishap had occurred? He had suddenly lostall desire to go into the Maryland Private Hospital for Ladies andGentlemen--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 opaque gloom of the hall.Swallowing his shame, Mr. Button approached her.
"Good-morning," she remarked, looking up at him pleasantly.
"Good-morning. I--I am Mr. Button."
At this a look of utter terror spread itself over girl's face. Sherose to her feet and seemed about to fly from the hall, restrainingherself only with the most apparent difficulty.
"I want to see my child," said Mr. Button.
The nurse gave a little scream. "Oh--of course!" she criedhysterically. "Upstairs. Right upstairs. Go--_up!_"
She pointed the direction, and Mr. Button, bathed in coolperspiration, turned falteringly, and began to mount to the secondfloor. In the upper hall he addressed another nurse who approachedhim, basin in hand. "I'm Mr. Button," he managed to articulate. "Iwant to see my----"
Clank! The basin clattered to the floor and rolled in the direction ofthe stairs. Clank! Clank! I began a methodical decent as if sharing inthe general terror which this gentleman provoked.
"I want to see my child!" Mr. Button almost shrieked. He was on theverge of collapse.
Clank! The basin reached the first floor. The nurse regained controlof herself, and threw Mr. Button a look of hearty contempt.
"All _right_, Mr. Button," she agreed in a hushed voice. "Very_well!_ But if you _knew_ what a state it's put us all in thismorning! It's perfectly outrageous! The hospital will never havea ghost of a reputation after----"
"Hurry!" he cried hoarsely. "I can't stand this!"
"Come this way, then, Mr. Button."
He dragged himself after her. At the end of a long hall they reached aroom from which proceeded a variety of howls--indeed, a room which, inlater parlance, would have been known as the "crying-room." Theyentered.
"Well," gasped Mr. Button, "which is mine?"
"There!" said the nurse.
Mr. Button's eyes followed her pointing finger, and this is what hesaw. Wrapped in a voluminous white blanket, and partly crammed intoone of the cribs, there sat an old man apparently about seventy yearsof age. His sparse hair was almost white, and from his chin dripped along smoke-coloured beard, which waved absurdly back and forth, fannedby the breeze coming in at the window. He looked up at Mr. Button withdim, faded eyes in which lurked a puzzled question.
"Am I mad?" thundered Mr. Button, his terror resolving into rage. "Isthis some ghastly hospital joke?
"It doesn't seem like a joke to us," replied the nurse severely. "AndI don't know whether you're mad or not--but that is most certainlyyour child."
The cool perspiration redoubled on Mr. Button's forehead. He closedhis eyes, and then, opening them, looked again. There was nomistake--he was gazing at a man of threescore and ten--a _baby_of threescore and ten, a baby whose feet hung over the sides of thecrib in which it was reposing.
The old man looked placidly from one to the other for a moment, andthen suddenly spoke in a cracked and ancient voice. "Are you myfather?" he demanded.
Mr. Button and the nurse started violently.
"Because if you are," went on the old man querulously, "I wish you'dget me out of this place--or, at least, get them to put a comfortablerocker in here,"
"Where in God's name did you come from? Who are you?" burst out Mr.Button frantically.
"I can't tell you _exactly_ who I am," replied the querulouswhine, "because I've only been born a few hours--but my last name iscertainly Button."
"You lie! You're an impostor!"
The old man turned wearily to the nurse. "Nice way to welcome anew-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 severely. "This is yourchild, and you'll have to make the best of it. We're going to ask youto take him home with you as soon as possible-some time to-day."
"Home?" repeated Mr. Button incredulously.
"Yes, we can't have him here. We really can't, you know?"
"I'm right glad of it," whined the old man. "This is a fine place tokeep a youngster of quiet tastes. With all this yelling and howling, Ihaven't been able to get a wink of sleep. I asked for something toeat"--here his voice rose to a shrill note of protest--"and theybrought me a bottle of milk!"
Mr. Button, sank down upon a chair near his son and concealed his facein his hands. "My heavens!" he murmured, in an ecstasy of horror."What will people say? What must I do?"
"You'll have to take him home," insisted the nurse--"immediately!"
A grotesque picture formed itself with dreadful clarity before theeyes of the tortured man--a picture of himself walking through thecrowded streets of the city with this appalling apparition stalking byhis side.
"I can't. I can't," he moaned.
People would stop to speak to him, and what was he going to say? Hewould have to introduce this--this septuagenarian: "This is my son,born early this morning." And then the old man would gather hisblanket around him and they would plod on, past the bustling stores,the slave market--for a dark instant Mr. Button wished passionatelythat his son was black--past the luxurious houses of the residentialdistrict, past the home for the aged....
"Come! Pull yourself together," commanded the nurse.
"See here," the old man announced suddenly, "if you think I'm going towalk home in this blanket, you're entirely mistaken."
"Babies always have blankets."
With a malicious crackle the old man held up a small white swaddlinggarment. "Look!" he quavered. "_This_ is what they had ready forme."
"Babies always wear those," said the nurse primly.
"Well," said the old man, "this baby's not going to wear anything inabout two minutes. This blanket itches. They might at least have givenme a sheet."
"Keep it on! Keep it on!" said Mr. Button hurriedly. He turned to thenurse. "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 acane, father. I want to have a cane."
Mr. Button banged the outer door savagely....
2
"Good-morning," Mr. Button said nervously, to the clerk in theChesapeake Dry Goods Company. "I want to buy some clothes for mychild."
"How old is your child, sir?"
"About six hours," answered Mr. Button, without due consideration.
"Babies' supply department in the rear."
"Why, I don't think--I'm not sure that's what I want. It's--he's anunusually large-size child. Exceptionally--ah large."
"They have the largest child's sizes."
"Where is the boys' department?" inquired Mr. Button, shifting hisground desperately. He felt that the clerk must surely scent hisshameful secret.
"Right here."
"Well----" He hesitated. The notion of dressing his son in men'sclothes was repugnant to him. If, say, he could only find a very largeboy's suit, he might cut off that long and awful beard, dye the whitehair brown, and thus manage to conceal the worst, and to retainsomething of his own self-respect--not to mention his position inBaltimore society.
But a frantic inspection of the boys' department revealed no suits tofit the new-born Button. He blamed the store, of course---in suchcases it is the thing to blame the store.
"How old did you say that boy of yours was?" demanded the clerkcuriously.
"He's--sixteen."
"Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said six _hours_. You'llfind the youths' department in the next aisle."
Mr. Button turned miserably away. Then he stopped, brightened, andpointed 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. Atleast it _is_, but it's for fancy dress. You could wear ityourself!"
"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 threwthe package at his son. "Here's your clothes," he snapped out.
The old man untied the package and viewed the contents with aquizzical eye.
"They look sort of funny to me," he complained, "I don't want to bemade a monkey of--"
"You've made a monkey of me!" retorted Mr. Button fiercely. "Never youmind how funny you look. Put them on--or I'll--or I'll _spank_you." He swallowed uneasily at the penultimate word, feelingnevertheless that it was the proper thing to say.
"All right, father"--this with a grotesque simulation of filialrespect--"you've lived longer; you know best. Just as you say."
As before, the sound of the word "father" caused Mr. Button to startviolently.
"And hurry."
"I'm hurrying, father."
When his son was dressed Mr. Button regarded him with depression. Thecostume consisted of dotted socks, pink pants, and a belted blousewith a wide white collar. Over the latter waved the long whitishbeard, drooping almost to the waist. The effect was not good.
"Wait!"
Mr. Button seized a hospital shears and with three quick snapsamputated a large section of the beard. But even with this improvementthe ensemble fell far short of perfection. The remaining brush ofscraggly hair, the watery eyes, the ancient teeth, seemed oddly out oftone with the gaiety of the costume. Mr. Button, however, wasobdurate--he 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 awhile? till you think of a better name?"
Mr. Button grunted. "I don't know," he answered harshly. "I thinkwe'll call you Methuselah."
