Read Online Lie Down in Darkness by William Styron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Styron
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enough, and solemnity wisdom, but who nonetheless—through a stew of dogmatism and misinformation, through the scraggle of archaic Edwardian mustache in mild, uncomprehending protest at a world that long ago had passed him by—managed to say things which, if not precisely wise, were at least durable truisms, self-tested——
My son, never let passion be a guide. Nurture hope like a flower in the most barren ground of trouble. If love has fed the flame of your brightest imaginings then passion will perish in that flame and only love endure. … Son, listen …
Believe me, my boy, you have a good woman.
Loftis blinked, sneezed again. The old man faded, smiling with ghostly benevolence; the droop and tremor of unkempt, stained mustache withered away like smoke——
In his youth Loftis’ attitude toward his father had been one of tolerance and of badly concealed impatience. The old man was fatuous and certainly, Loftis had concluded, something of a failure. Possibly as a result of this failure Loftis had never taken his advice seriously. Certainly, too, on the day of his marriage a quarter of a century before, Loftis knew he “had a good woman.” And for the rest—those warnings which came back to him today with such a sense of doom fulfilled—those he had shrugged off quickly, although with a vague feeling of resentment, perhaps because he sensed they might come true. As for love … well, indeed, what about love? Passion had perished in that flame long ago, but at the time he had forgotten his father’s reminder, and had thought that love had vanished, too. It wasn’t true. With a surge of tender warmth he felt that love had never gone away at all.
Suddenly a horrid pain came to his chest, like unexpected fire. Peyton. She is dead. That’s what Harry had told him. He thought of her crazy, wild letter.
Death by falling. Birds. Birds?
And now he couldn’t remember when this passion had flown, leaving him so foolish and bewildered and astray: can any man?
On a spring morning years before, when the dew had nearly melted on the grass and Loftis, deep in the lawn chair and full of coffee, wavered mildly between the Port Warwick Sunday Tribune and contemplation of the early sunlight encroaching upon his private beach, he was aroused by a tumble of feet on the grass behind him, a small voice announcing passionately: “Daddy, Daddy, I’m beautiful!” So he had turned and with the attentive respect given young daughters by their fathers he had watched Peyton—standing in the grass beside him, age nine—while she gazed into a little mirror and said again, “I’m beautiful, Daddy!”
For a moment all this crushed his heart. She was beautiful. Perhaps it was the first cigarette of the morning, or the coffee, but he felt quite giddy. Anyway, he would always remember that moment on the lawn: picking Peyton up with a sudden, almost savage upwelling of love, pressing her against him as he murmured in a voice slightly choked, "Yes, my baby’s beautiful,” with wonder and vague embarrassment paying homage to this beautiful part of him, in which life would continue limitlessly.
“… beautiful,” he was saying; he held her awkwardly against his chest. Her long brown hair was in his face, blinding him. She giggled, pounded his back, and the mirror which she held fell silently to the grass.
“But you mustn’t be so vain,” he said.
“No,” she said.
“Come on, get up.”
“No.”
“No what?” he said.
“No, thank you, stupid.”
“Is that nice? Come on, get up.”
“O.K.,” she said.
Now she was off his lap, spraddle-legged and barefoot on the grass, making faces at him.
“Don’t,” he said. “You’ll freeze that way, you know. All your life you’ll look like the wicked witch.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “Let me see the funnies.”
In his lap the papers lay hopelessly crumpled, printed with small dirty footmarks. He pretended not to notice, yawning, gazing up at the blue spring
My son, never let passion be a guide. Nurture hope like a flower in the most barren ground of trouble. If love has fed the flame of your brightest imaginings then passion will perish in that flame and only love endure. … Son, listen …
Believe me, my boy, you have a good woman.
Loftis blinked, sneezed again. The old man faded, smiling with ghostly benevolence; the droop and tremor of unkempt, stained mustache withered away like smoke——
In his youth Loftis’ attitude toward his father had been one of tolerance and of badly concealed impatience. The old man was fatuous and certainly, Loftis had concluded, something of a failure. Possibly as a result of this failure Loftis had never taken his advice seriously. Certainly, too, on the day of his marriage a quarter of a century before, Loftis knew he “had a good woman.” And for the rest—those warnings which came back to him today with such a sense of doom fulfilled—those he had shrugged off quickly, although with a vague feeling of resentment, perhaps because he sensed they might come true. As for love … well, indeed, what about love? Passion had perished in that flame long ago, but at the time he had forgotten his father’s reminder, and had thought that love had vanished, too. It wasn’t true. With a surge of tender warmth he felt that love had never gone away at all.
Suddenly a horrid pain came to his chest, like unexpected fire. Peyton. She is dead. That’s what Harry had told him. He thought of her crazy, wild letter.
Death by falling. Birds. Birds?
And now he couldn’t remember when this passion had flown, leaving him so foolish and bewildered and astray: can any man?
On a spring morning years before, when the dew had nearly melted on the grass and Loftis, deep in the lawn chair and full of coffee, wavered mildly between the Port Warwick Sunday Tribune and contemplation of the early sunlight encroaching upon his private beach, he was aroused by a tumble of feet on the grass behind him, a small voice announcing passionately: “Daddy, Daddy, I’m beautiful!” So he had turned and with the attentive respect given young daughters by their fathers he had watched Peyton—standing in the grass beside him, age nine—while she gazed into a little mirror and said again, “I’m beautiful, Daddy!”
For a moment all this crushed his heart. She was beautiful. Perhaps it was the first cigarette of the morning, or the coffee, but he felt quite giddy. Anyway, he would always remember that moment on the lawn: picking Peyton up with a sudden, almost savage upwelling of love, pressing her against him as he murmured in a voice slightly choked, "Yes, my baby’s beautiful,” with wonder and vague embarrassment paying homage to this beautiful part of him, in which life would continue limitlessly.
“… beautiful,” he was saying; he held her awkwardly against his chest. Her long brown hair was in his face, blinding him. She giggled, pounded his back, and the mirror which she held fell silently to the grass.
“But you mustn’t be so vain,” he said.
“No,” she said.
“Come on, get up.”
“No.”
“No what?” he said.
“No, thank you, stupid.”
“Is that nice? Come on, get up.”
“O.K.,” she said.
Now she was off his lap, spraddle-legged and barefoot on the grass, making faces at him.
“Don’t,” he said. “You’ll freeze that way, you know. All your life you’ll look like the wicked witch.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “Let me see the funnies.”
In his lap the papers lay hopelessly crumpled, printed with small dirty footmarks. He pretended not to notice, yawning, gazing up at the blue spring
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