Read The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and Six Other Stories Page 1


  The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

  F. Scott Fitzgerald was born in 1896 in St Paul, Minnesota, and went to Princeton University, which he left in 1917 to join the army. He was said to have epitomized the Jazz Age, which he himself defined as 'a generation grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken'. In 1920 he married Zelda Sayre. Their traumatic marriage and her subsequent breakdowns became the leading influence on his writing. Among his publications were five novels, This Side of Paradise, The Great Gatsby, The Beautiful and Damned, Tender is the Night and The Last Tycoon (his last and unfinished work); six volumes of short stories and The Crack-Up, a selection of autobiographical pieces. Fitzgerald died suddenly in 1940. After his death The New York Times said of him that 'He was better than he knew, for in fact and in the literary sense he invented a "generation"... he might have interpreted and even guided them, as in their middle years they saw a different and nobler freedom threatened with destruction.'


  The Curious Case of Benjamin Button




  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland

  (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd. Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button', 'May Day' and 'O Russet Witch' taken from Tales of the Jazz Age first published by Charles Scribner's Sons 1922

  'Head and Shoulders', 'The Cut-Glass Bowl' and 'The Four Fists' taken from Flappers and Philosophers first published by Charles Scribner's Sons 1920

  'Crazy Sunday' first published 1932

  This selection published in Penguin Classics 2008


  All rights reserved

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser ISBN: 978-0-14-196159-0


  The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

  Head and Shoulders

  The Cut-Glass Bowl

  The Four Fists

  May Day

  'O Russet Witch!'

  Crazy Sunday

  The Curious Case of Benjamin Button


  As long ago as 1860 it was the proper thing to be born at home. At present, so I am told, the high gods of medicine have decreed that the first cries of the young shall be uttered upon the anesthetic air of a hospital, preferably a fashionable one. So young Mr and Mrs Roger Button were fifty years ahead of style when they decided, one day in the summer of 1860, that their first baby should be born in a hospital. Whether this anachronism had any bearing upon the astonishing 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 and financial, in ante-bellum Baltimore. They were related to the This Family and the That Family, which, as every Southerner knew, entitled them to membership in that enormous peerage which largely populated the Confederacy. This was their first experience with the charming old custom of having babies - Mr Button was naturally nervous. He hoped it would be a boy so that he could be sent to Yale College in Connecticut, at which institution Mr Button himself had been known for four years by the somewhat obvious nickname of 'Cuff.'

  On the September morning consecrated to the enormous event he arose nervously at six o'clock, dressed himself, adjusted an impeccable stock, and hurried forth through the streets of Baltimore to the hospital, to determine whether the darkness of the night had borne in new life upon its bosom.

  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 with a washing movement - as all doctors are required to 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 with much less dignity than was 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 curious expression settling on his harsh, medicinal face as Mr Button drew near.

  '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 somewhat irritated.

  'Is the child born?' begged Mr Button.

  Doctor Keene frowned. 'Why, yes, I suppose so - after a fashion.' Again he threw a curious glance at Mr Button.

  'Is my wife all right?'


  '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 the last 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, you can go and see for yourself. And get another doctor. I brought you into the world, young man, and I've been physician to your family for forty years, but I'm through with you! I don't want to see you or any of your relatives ever again! Good-by!'

  Then he turned sharply, and without another word climbed into his phaeton, which was waiting at the curbstone, and drove severely away.

  Mr Button stood there upon the sidewalk, stupefied and trembling from head to foot. What horrible mishap had occurred? 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 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 the girl's face. She rose to her feet and seemed about to fly from the hall, restraining herself 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 cried hysterically. 'Upstairs. Right upstairs. Go - up!'

  She pointed the direction, and Mr Button, bathed in a cool perspi
ration, turned falteringly, and began to mount to the second floor. In the upper hall he addressed another nurse who approached him, basin in hand. 'I'm Mr Button,' he managed to articulate. 'I want to see my--'

  Clank! The basin clattered to the floor and rolled in the direction of the stairs. Clank! Clank! It began a methodical descent as if sharing in the general terror which this gentleman provoked.

  'I want to see my child!' Mr Button almost shrieked. He was on the verge of collapse.

  Clank! The basin had reached the first floor. The nurse regained control of 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 state it's put us all in this morning! It's perfectly outrageous! The hospital will never have the 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 a room from which proceeded a variety of howls - indeed, a room which, in later parlance, would have been known as the 'crying-room.' They entered. Ranged around the walls were half a dozen white-enameled rolling cribs, each with a tag tied at the head.

  '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 voluminous white blanket, and partially crammed into one of the cribs, there sat an old man apparently about seventy years of age. His sparse hair was almost white, and from his chin dripped a long smoke-colored beard, which waved absurdly back and forth, fanned by the breeze coming in at the window. He looked up at Mr Button with dim, faded eyes in which lurked a puzzled question.

  'Am I mad?' thundered Mr Button, his terror resolving into rage. 'Is this some ghastly hospital joke?'

  'It doesn't seem like a joke to us,' replied the nurse severely. 'And I don't know whether you're mad or not - but that is most certainly your child.'

  The cool perspiration redoubled on Mr Button's forehead. He closed his eyes, and then, opening them, looked again. There was no mistake - 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 the crib in which it was reposing.

  The old man looked placidly from one to the other for a moment, and then suddenly spoke in a cracked and ancient voice. 'Are you my father?' he demanded.

  Mr Button and the nurse started violently.

  'Because if you are,' went on the old man querulously, 'I wish you'd get me out of this place - or, at least, get them to put a comfortable rocker 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 querulous whine, 'because I've only been born a few hours - but my last name is certainly Button.'

  'You lie! You're an impostor!'

  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 severely. 'This is your child, and you'll have to make the best of it. We're going to ask you to take him home with you as soon as possible - some time today.'

  '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 to keep a youngster of quiet tastes. With all this yelling and howling, I haven't been able to get a wink of sleep. I asked for something to eat' - here his voice rose to a shrill note of protest - 'and they brought me a bottle of milk!'

  Mr Button sank down upon a chair near his son and concealed his face in 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 the eyes of the tortured man - a picture of himself walking through the crowded streets of the city with this appalling apparition stalking by his side. '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 septuagenarian: 'This is my son, born early this morning.' And then the old man would gather his blanket around him and they would plod on, past the bustling stores, the slave market - for a dark instant Mr Button wished passionately that his son was black - past the luxurious houses of the residential district, 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 to walk home in this blanket, you're entirely mistaken.'

  'Babies always have blankets.'

  With a malicious crackle the old man held up a small white swaddling garment. 'Look!' he quavered. 'This is what they had ready for me.'

  'Babies always wear those,' said the nurse primly.

  'Well,' said the old man, 'this baby's not going to wear anything in about two minutes. This blanket itches. They might at least have given me a sheet.'

  'Keep it on! Keep it on!' said Mr Button hurriedly. He 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.'

  Mr Button banged the outer door savagely...


  '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, 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 an unusually large-size child. Ecceptionally - ah - large.'

  'They have the largest child's sizes.'

  'Where is the boys' department?' inquired Mr Button, shifting his ground desperately. He felt that the clerk must surely scent his shameful secret.

  'Right here.'

  'Well--' He hesitated. The notion of dressing his son in men's clothes was repugnant to him. If, say, 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 thus manage to conceal the worst, and to retain something of his own self-respect - not to mention his position in Baltimore society.

  But a frantic inspection of the boys' department revealed no suits to fit the new-born Button. 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. At least it is, but it's for fancy dress. 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,' he snapped out.

  The old man untied the package and viewed the contents with a quizzical eye.

  '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!' retorted Mr Button fiercely. 'Never you mind how funny you look. Put them on - or I'll - or I'll spank you.' He swallowed uneasily at the penultimate word, feeling nevertheless that it was the proper thing to say.

  'All righ
t, father' - this with a grotesque simulation of filial respect - 'you've lived longer; you know best. Just as you say.'

  As before, the sound of the word 'father' caused Mr Button to start violently.

  '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 latter waved the long whitish beard, drooping almost to the waist. The effect was not good.


  Mr Button seized a hospital shears and with three quick snaps amputated a large section of the beard. But even with this improvement the ensemble fell far short of perfection. The remaining brush of scraggly hair; the watery eyes, the ancient teeth, seemed oddly out of tone with the gayety of the costume. Mr Button, however, was obdurate - 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 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 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.