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Authors: Thomas Fleming
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mother had seized Adrian by his shoulders and said: âYour father is a good man. We live on my money. You must never mention any of this to your father or anyone else.â ,
It was enormously confusing. Ruined meant your wife seldom used your first name. In England his mother called many people by their first names. In New York his mother called his father you. Will you be home for dinner tonight? Do you plan to go to Bar Harbor this summer? Are you going to Long Island this weekend?
Ruined acquired spiritual as well as financial reverberations for Adrian Van Ness. As far as he could see, his father had almost ceased to exist. He was an adult version of a living dead man, haunting the house, the city. At dinner he seldom spoke about anything important. He talked about the weatherâhe could discourse on a late frost or an early snowfall for a full half hourâon who was marrying whom, or on who had just been admitted to the Union League
Club or the Century. He seldom talked to Adrian; he seemed to think there was no hope of winning his respect or friendship.
Ruined became another reason why Adrian liked to read history books. The past made the dismal present easier to accept, if not to understand. History often made people unhappy. He imagined himself as the son of a baron who had supported King Richard II, or of a general who had fought for Napoleon. They too had been ruined by different kinds of catastrophes. What happened to their sons? The history books never mentioned the sons.
His mother pretended she was staying in England for his sake but Adrian suspected she was enjoying herself. She was much more cheerful in London than she was in New York. There she was always solemn. Her eyes had a dull, pained expression. It had to have something to do with his father. She was glad to stay away from him. Why?
Adrian lay in his icy bed thinking about these mysteries until the pain in his buttocks subsided. Should he get the butter and let the Rammer have him tomorrow? The boy in the bed next to him, Carlo Pontecorvo, whom everyone called Ponty, had obeyed the summons last week. He was the son of an Italian nobleman who was a passionate admirer of England. Ponty had cried all night and told Adrian there was blood in the toilet bowl when he shit. Maybe it was better to be one of the living dead. He would be like his father. Ruined .
The next night, Adrian came back from the dining hall without the butter. He was consigned to the living dead. On the way to dinner the following day, Ponty whispered he had done the right thing. Someone ratted and Ponty got fifty strokes of the paddle for speaking to a living dead man.
Day after day, Adrian went to class and ate in the dining hall and studied in study hall and went to bed without speaking to anyone. At first he did not mind. He felt close to his father. It was almost as good as getting a letter from him. His father never wrote to him. His mother wrote almost every day, telling him about the war between Turkey and Bulgaria and the wild protests of the suffragettes, women who wanted the right to vote and threatened to blow up Parliament if they did not get it. She kept him up to date on what their friends were doing. Peter Tillotson had graduated from Sandhurst, the British West Point and joined the newly formed Royal Flying Corps to become a pilot.
One day in the spring of 1912 Adrian was walking across the schoolâs inner quadrangle. Ponty strode toward him. Suddenly Adrian wanted to say hello to him. He wanted Ponty to answer him. Both lonely outsiders, they had naturally gravitated to each other. Ponty used to make Adrian laugh. He did funny imitations of their fat headmaster, Mr. Deakwell. When Ponty passed him without even letting his eyes flicker toward Adrian, it hurt in a new way deep inside. It was a pain worse than the paddle.
Even stranger things began happening inside Adrian as he continued walking across the quadrangle. Something almost as big as
It was enormously confusing. Ruined meant your wife seldom used your first name. In England his mother called many people by their first names. In New York his mother called his father you. Will you be home for dinner tonight? Do you plan to go to Bar Harbor this summer? Are you going to Long Island this weekend?
Ruined acquired spiritual as well as financial reverberations for Adrian Van Ness. As far as he could see, his father had almost ceased to exist. He was an adult version of a living dead man, haunting the house, the city. At dinner he seldom spoke about anything important. He talked about the weatherâhe could discourse on a late frost or an early snowfall for a full half hourâon who was marrying whom, or on who had just been admitted to the Union League
Club or the Century. He seldom talked to Adrian; he seemed to think there was no hope of winning his respect or friendship.
Ruined became another reason why Adrian liked to read history books. The past made the dismal present easier to accept, if not to understand. History often made people unhappy. He imagined himself as the son of a baron who had supported King Richard II, or of a general who had fought for Napoleon. They too had been ruined by different kinds of catastrophes. What happened to their sons? The history books never mentioned the sons.
His mother pretended she was staying in England for his sake but Adrian suspected she was enjoying herself. She was much more cheerful in London than she was in New York. There she was always solemn. Her eyes had a dull, pained expression. It had to have something to do with his father. She was glad to stay away from him. Why?
Adrian lay in his icy bed thinking about these mysteries until the pain in his buttocks subsided. Should he get the butter and let the Rammer have him tomorrow? The boy in the bed next to him, Carlo Pontecorvo, whom everyone called Ponty, had obeyed the summons last week. He was the son of an Italian nobleman who was a passionate admirer of England. Ponty had cried all night and told Adrian there was blood in the toilet bowl when he shit. Maybe it was better to be one of the living dead. He would be like his father. Ruined .
The next night, Adrian came back from the dining hall without the butter. He was consigned to the living dead. On the way to dinner the following day, Ponty whispered he had done the right thing. Someone ratted and Ponty got fifty strokes of the paddle for speaking to a living dead man.
Day after day, Adrian went to class and ate in the dining hall and studied in study hall and went to bed without speaking to anyone. At first he did not mind. He felt close to his father. It was almost as good as getting a letter from him. His father never wrote to him. His mother wrote almost every day, telling him about the war between Turkey and Bulgaria and the wild protests of the suffragettes, women who wanted the right to vote and threatened to blow up Parliament if they did not get it. She kept him up to date on what their friends were doing. Peter Tillotson had graduated from Sandhurst, the British West Point and joined the newly formed Royal Flying Corps to become a pilot.
One day in the spring of 1912 Adrian was walking across the schoolâs inner quadrangle. Ponty strode toward him. Suddenly Adrian wanted to say hello to him. He wanted Ponty to answer him. Both lonely outsiders, they had naturally gravitated to each other. Ponty used to make Adrian laugh. He did funny imitations of their fat headmaster, Mr. Deakwell. When Ponty passed him without even letting his eyes flicker toward Adrian, it hurt in a new way deep inside. It was a pain worse than the paddle.
Even stranger things began happening inside Adrian as he continued walking across the quadrangle. Something almost as big as
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