Read Online Second Generation by Howard Fast - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Howard Fast
Ads: Link
strange man. I think this is the most wonderful thing that ever happened to him, but he can't cope with it."
"Why? I didn't ask for it, but God, I wanted to please him. I thought he'd be excited—"
"Don't say any more. Not now. One day we'll talk about your father. He was too long away from you. The Chinese have an old saying that unless a man is to be doomed, sooner or later he must turn to himself and ask the question of why he exists. And find the answer. Your father tries, desperately. He's not like any other man I ever knew. Do you understand me?"
"I don't think so."
May Ling went upstairs to the bedroom. Dan was standing in front of the window, looking out.
"Well, Danny?"
He turned to her. "I hurt him, didn't I?"
"He'll understand."
"Do you?"
"Perhaps."
"I didn't know what to say. There was nothing I could put into words."
"It's not so astonishing, Danny. He's a bright boy, and he worked hard. He's well liked. But whatever he does, he feels it falls short of what you expect from him."
"My God, does he feel that?"
"I think so."
"He's my whole world," Dan said.
"He shouldn't be," May Ling said, a note of asperity in her voice. "You're only forty-five years old. How can he be your whole world? He has his own life to live, and so have you. Did he ever tell you what he wants to do? Did you ever talk about it? Did you ever really sit down and talk to him?"
"What does he want to do?"
"He wants to be a doctor. He doesn't think we can afford it."
"We damn well can!"
"Then why not start by telling him that?"
Leona Asquith, Jean's aunt, was seventy-two years old. She was a widowed lady of moderate wealth—moderate if one excluded her house on Beacon Hill, where the eighteenth-century and nineteenth-century furniture and paintings were both authentic and priceless. Her living room held an unfinished Athenaeum Washington, which some experts held to be prior to the Stuart Washington in the Boston museum, and in her library there were two authenticated Vandykes. Jean, who had already gained a national reputation as a sponsor and patroness of the Ashcan School of American painting, and who was one of the first eager buyers of John Sloan, Kuniyoshi, Reginald Marsh, George Biddle, and so many others, had no real interest in acquiring early American paintings for herself, but she did dream of a coup whereby she could bring the Asquith collection to a San Francisco art museum. This was one of the reasons she would go out of her way to spend time in Boston with a woman who regarded California as only slightly less barbaric than a wilderness to the south known as Texas.
Her husband, John Whittier, on the other hand, loved Boston, at least the circle in Boston in which they moved, because its rigidity and folkways gave him a sense of comfort and belonging. At dinner in the Asquith house, the night before his departure for San Francisco, he expressed this and assured Mrs. Asquith that only the circumstances of the waterfront strike could make him cut short his visit. Jean and Tom were to stay for another week, much to Tom's annoyance.
"Oh, no," was his first reaction when she told him that she expected him to remain with her in Boston, to be her escort, and to be very charming to his Aunt Leona. "I am bored. I am fed up to the ears. Mother, I've done four years at Princeton. I've paid my dues. This is the dullest, dreariest place on earth."
Jean looked at him thoughtfully. He was tall, slender, blue eyes under straight brows, a shock of straight brown hair that he parted on one side, a wide mouth, and a long, thin nose—very good-looking in a lackadaisical manner, almost indolent. There was apparently nothing in him of Dan Lavette, nothing of many generations of Italian fishermen, and Jean couldn't decide whether that pleased or displeased her.
"This is the place of your ancestors. I should think you'd be curious. I've always loved Boston."
"I'm not curious."
"And you haven't paid your dues—not quite."
"Oh?"
"It cost us almost three
"Why? I didn't ask for it, but God, I wanted to please him. I thought he'd be excited—"
"Don't say any more. Not now. One day we'll talk about your father. He was too long away from you. The Chinese have an old saying that unless a man is to be doomed, sooner or later he must turn to himself and ask the question of why he exists. And find the answer. Your father tries, desperately. He's not like any other man I ever knew. Do you understand me?"
"I don't think so."
May Ling went upstairs to the bedroom. Dan was standing in front of the window, looking out.
"Well, Danny?"
He turned to her. "I hurt him, didn't I?"
"He'll understand."
"Do you?"
"Perhaps."
"I didn't know what to say. There was nothing I could put into words."
"It's not so astonishing, Danny. He's a bright boy, and he worked hard. He's well liked. But whatever he does, he feels it falls short of what you expect from him."
"My God, does he feel that?"
"I think so."
"He's my whole world," Dan said.
"He shouldn't be," May Ling said, a note of asperity in her voice. "You're only forty-five years old. How can he be your whole world? He has his own life to live, and so have you. Did he ever tell you what he wants to do? Did you ever talk about it? Did you ever really sit down and talk to him?"
"What does he want to do?"
"He wants to be a doctor. He doesn't think we can afford it."
"We damn well can!"
"Then why not start by telling him that?"
Leona Asquith, Jean's aunt, was seventy-two years old. She was a widowed lady of moderate wealth—moderate if one excluded her house on Beacon Hill, where the eighteenth-century and nineteenth-century furniture and paintings were both authentic and priceless. Her living room held an unfinished Athenaeum Washington, which some experts held to be prior to the Stuart Washington in the Boston museum, and in her library there were two authenticated Vandykes. Jean, who had already gained a national reputation as a sponsor and patroness of the Ashcan School of American painting, and who was one of the first eager buyers of John Sloan, Kuniyoshi, Reginald Marsh, George Biddle, and so many others, had no real interest in acquiring early American paintings for herself, but she did dream of a coup whereby she could bring the Asquith collection to a San Francisco art museum. This was one of the reasons she would go out of her way to spend time in Boston with a woman who regarded California as only slightly less barbaric than a wilderness to the south known as Texas.
Her husband, John Whittier, on the other hand, loved Boston, at least the circle in Boston in which they moved, because its rigidity and folkways gave him a sense of comfort and belonging. At dinner in the Asquith house, the night before his departure for San Francisco, he expressed this and assured Mrs. Asquith that only the circumstances of the waterfront strike could make him cut short his visit. Jean and Tom were to stay for another week, much to Tom's annoyance.
"Oh, no," was his first reaction when she told him that she expected him to remain with her in Boston, to be her escort, and to be very charming to his Aunt Leona. "I am bored. I am fed up to the ears. Mother, I've done four years at Princeton. I've paid my dues. This is the dullest, dreariest place on earth."
Jean looked at him thoughtfully. He was tall, slender, blue eyes under straight brows, a shock of straight brown hair that he parted on one side, a wide mouth, and a long, thin nose—very good-looking in a lackadaisical manner, almost indolent. There was apparently nothing in him of Dan Lavette, nothing of many generations of Italian fishermen, and Jean couldn't decide whether that pleased or displeased her.
"This is the place of your ancestors. I should think you'd be curious. I've always loved Boston."
"I'm not curious."
"And you haven't paid your dues—not quite."
"Oh?"
"It cost us almost three
Similar Books
