Read Online When Madeline Was Young by Jane Hamilton - Free Book Online
Authors: Jane Hamilton
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and then he'd want to know what she'd been reading, who she'd been talking to, how she'd arrived at her opinion. For a while they might review, harking back to the Han Dynasty, an ancient time when the Chinese had first overthrown the Kingdom of Nam Viet. My mother was perfectly able to interject and correct through the history before they returned to their initial positions--Arthur insisting that Chin a w as using Viemam as its proxy to spread communism through the region, that substantial bombing would have settled the matter with fewer casualties than there'd already been; Mrs. Maciver holding firm about Vietnam's wanting little more than self-determination.
Julia's nonchalance about the dangers of communism on the other side of the world was considered a sign of perilous ignorance, but even so on those nights Arthur had the charity to seem both amused by her ideas and intrigued by her logic. At first she hadn't approved of Figgy's divorcing her Harvard man, Buddy's father, and running off when the baby was only four toward Arthur Fuller. But once Julia had met the replacement, she could hardly keep casting judgment. Figgy, after all, clearly had made a bad choice in Bill Eastman, had been charmed by his pedigree and his bucking of it. She had been sure his aspirations to be an artist would pass. For a time they'd lived the bohemian life on the Lower East Side, playing at being poor among those who were genuinely talented and poverty-stricken. It turned out, however, that Bill was able to lose money nearly as quickly as the trust fund was turned over to him, and he was also unreliable in every other respect. He died of alcohol poisoning when Buddy was seventeen. Arthur, in contrast, was not only wholesomely fun-loving, but a whippersnapper professor at Princeton, a think-tanker with important friends, piles of dough, a frugal nature, and an island off the coast of Maine. For example, whenever Figgy and Arthur came to Moose Lake they always had to stop in Chicago to have dinner with Leo Strauss.
The late night I remember in particular took place after the honeymoon with us was over for Arthur, or maybe everyone was exhausted from vacation, tired of sunburns and water sports and long afternoons, tired of there always being someone to talk to, tired of cooking for thirty, meal after meal. Possibly Arthur's grace period for us lasted only a few weeks rather than years, although it did seem to me then that they'd been discussing Kennedy's nomination for several seasons. The conversations I've recalled may have taken place all in one evening, or may have been spread out over many days, no wa y n ow to tell. In any case, around midnight I'd come back to the summer kitchen, hoping to find another slice of cake. My mother and Arthur were both speaking loudly, and I wondered if they'd drunk more than they'd meant to. "You cannot be serious, Mrs. Maciver!" His cigarette was burning to ash between his fingers. "To say that war is wrong is to say that existence is wrong. Don't interrupt me again, I know what point you--"
"We understand more than ever the cost of war, Arthur. That's what we're talking about here. I'm not saying private transformation--what is required to change society--won't take generations. But I believe, I do believe it is within our power to evolve as a species."
I knew enough to be embarrassed for my mother, talking about private transformation with Arthur. I understood in broad terms that he was a realist, his eye to our vital national interests and the balance of power, someone who could see all the rulers across the globe poised as they were about to make their incautious or evil moves.
Arthur yawned. "Private transformation, oh my, yes. To protect what we love, my dear--in fact, to love--is to have to fight against those who can't love. Every schoolboy knows this. Every babe in the woods who has lived through the last twenty years understands that we make war of course so that we may live in
Julia's nonchalance about the dangers of communism on the other side of the world was considered a sign of perilous ignorance, but even so on those nights Arthur had the charity to seem both amused by her ideas and intrigued by her logic. At first she hadn't approved of Figgy's divorcing her Harvard man, Buddy's father, and running off when the baby was only four toward Arthur Fuller. But once Julia had met the replacement, she could hardly keep casting judgment. Figgy, after all, clearly had made a bad choice in Bill Eastman, had been charmed by his pedigree and his bucking of it. She had been sure his aspirations to be an artist would pass. For a time they'd lived the bohemian life on the Lower East Side, playing at being poor among those who were genuinely talented and poverty-stricken. It turned out, however, that Bill was able to lose money nearly as quickly as the trust fund was turned over to him, and he was also unreliable in every other respect. He died of alcohol poisoning when Buddy was seventeen. Arthur, in contrast, was not only wholesomely fun-loving, but a whippersnapper professor at Princeton, a think-tanker with important friends, piles of dough, a frugal nature, and an island off the coast of Maine. For example, whenever Figgy and Arthur came to Moose Lake they always had to stop in Chicago to have dinner with Leo Strauss.
The late night I remember in particular took place after the honeymoon with us was over for Arthur, or maybe everyone was exhausted from vacation, tired of sunburns and water sports and long afternoons, tired of there always being someone to talk to, tired of cooking for thirty, meal after meal. Possibly Arthur's grace period for us lasted only a few weeks rather than years, although it did seem to me then that they'd been discussing Kennedy's nomination for several seasons. The conversations I've recalled may have taken place all in one evening, or may have been spread out over many days, no wa y n ow to tell. In any case, around midnight I'd come back to the summer kitchen, hoping to find another slice of cake. My mother and Arthur were both speaking loudly, and I wondered if they'd drunk more than they'd meant to. "You cannot be serious, Mrs. Maciver!" His cigarette was burning to ash between his fingers. "To say that war is wrong is to say that existence is wrong. Don't interrupt me again, I know what point you--"
"We understand more than ever the cost of war, Arthur. That's what we're talking about here. I'm not saying private transformation--what is required to change society--won't take generations. But I believe, I do believe it is within our power to evolve as a species."
I knew enough to be embarrassed for my mother, talking about private transformation with Arthur. I understood in broad terms that he was a realist, his eye to our vital national interests and the balance of power, someone who could see all the rulers across the globe poised as they were about to make their incautious or evil moves.
Arthur yawned. "Private transformation, oh my, yes. To protect what we love, my dear--in fact, to love--is to have to fight against those who can't love. Every schoolboy knows this. Every babe in the woods who has lived through the last twenty years understands that we make war of course so that we may live in
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