Classic Audiobook Collection - The Curious Case of Benjamin Button by F. Scott Fitzgerald ~ Full Audiobook [fantasy]

Episode Date: December 28, 2022

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button by F. Scott Fitzgerald audiobook. Genre: fantasy In a quietly uncanny Baltimore, a child is born under extraordinary circumstances: Benjamin Button arrives with the appearance and manner of an old man, setting his family on a collision course with confusion, embarrassment, and reluctant wonder. As the years pass, Benjamin moves through school, work, love, and social life in the most unexpected direction, forcing everyone around him - and especially Benjamin himself - to confront what it means to belong in a world governed by ordinary time. His father, Roger Button, struggles to protect the family name while navigating a son who upends every expectation. Benjamin's own desires are simple enough: to be taken seriously, to find companionship, and to claim a place where his body and his age make sense together. But society is not built for someone whose life runs against the clock. With Fitzgerald's sharp wit and bittersweet insight, the story uses its fantastical premise to explore identity, ambition, romance, and the fragile rules by which people measure a life. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:40:41) Chapter 02 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

the curious case of benjamin button by f scott fitzgerald section one chapter one as long ago as eighteen sixty 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 The Roger Button were 50 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 anarchism had any bearing upon the astonishing history I'm 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 the antebellum

Baltimore. They were related to the this family and that family, which as every southerner new, entitled them to membership in that enormous peerage, which largely populated the Confederacy. This was the 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 to. 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 any new life upon its bosom. When he was approximately a hundred yards from the Maryland private hospital for ladies and gentlemen, he saw Dr. Keane, 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 and company wholesale hardware, began to run toward Dr. Keene with much less dignity than was expected from a southern gentleman of that picturesque period.

Dr. Keene, he called. Dr. 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 what?' "'Talk sense,' said Dr. Keen sharply. He appeared somewhat irritated. "'Is a child born?' begged Mr. Button.

"'Dr. Keen frowned. "'Why, yes, I suppose, after a far, he was. fashion, again he threw a curious glance at Mr. Button. Is my wife all right? Yes. Is it a boy-girl? Here now, cried Dr. Kane 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 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 40 years, but I'm through with you.

I don't want to see you or any of your relatives ever again. Goodbye. Then he turned sharply, and without another word, climbed into his phaeton, which was waiting at the curb state, and drove severely away. Mr. Button stood there upon 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 entered 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'm 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 cool perspiration, 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 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 a state it's put us all in this morning.

It's perfectly outrageous. The hospital will never have a 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 hallway 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. 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, 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? 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, closed his eyes, and then opening and then looked again. There was no mistake. He was gazing at a man of three score and ten, a baby, of three score 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 crack to an ancient voice.

"'I am a father,' he demanded. Mr. Button and the nurse stared violently. "'Because, if you are,' went on the old man querously, "'I wish you'd get me out of this place, or at least—' get them to put a comfortable rockery in here. Where in God's name did you come from? Who are you? Burst out, Mr. Button, frantically.

Can't tell you exactly who I am, replied the quarreless wine, because I've only been born a few hours, but my last name is certainly Button. You lie, you're an apostor. The old man turned wearily to the news. Nice way to welcome a newborn child, he complained in a weak voice. "'Tommy's wrong. Why don't you?'

"'You're wrong, Mr. Button,' said to nurse severely. "'This is your child, and you have to make the best of it. We're going to ask you to take him home with you as soon as possible, sometime 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 taste.' With all these yelling and howling, I would be able to get a wing of sleep.

I asked for something to eat. Here his voice rose to a shell-rise of protest, And they brought me a bottle of milk. Mr. Button sank down upon the 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. "'Can't, can't,' he moaned. People would stop to speak to him, and what was he going to say?

He would have to introduce this steptogenarian This is my son born early this morning. And then the old man would gather his blanket around him, and they would plot 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. Stay 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 the malicious cackle, the old man held up a small, white swaddling garment. Look, this is what they had ready for me. Babies always wear these, said the nurse primly. Well, said you, 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 downtown and buy your son some clothes. Mr. Button's son's voice followed him down the hall. And a cane, father, I want to have a cane. Mr. Button banged the outer door savagely.

Chapter 2. Good 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 with due consideration. Baby supply department in the rear. I don't think, I'm not sure that's what I want.

It's a he's an unusually large-sized child, except for only a large. They have the largest children's sizes. where's 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 repugged to him if say he could only find a very large boy's suit he might cut off the long and awful beard dye the white hair brown and thus managed to conceal the worst and to retain something of his own self-respect Not to mention his position in Baltimore society, but a pratting inspection of the boys' department reveals no suits to fit the newborn button. He blamed the store, of course.

In such cases, it is the thing to blame the store. How old you say that boy of yours was? demanded the clerk curiously. He's 16. Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said six hours. You'll find the youth department in the next aisle. Mr. Button turned miserably away. Then he stopped, brightened and pointed his finger toward a dress dummy in the window display. There, he exclaimed.

I'll take that suit. Out on the dummy. The clerk stared. 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 to his customer nervously. That's what I want. The stonish clerk over. Bade. 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 its contents with a quizzical eye. "'It looks 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, I'll spank you. He swallowed uneasily at the penitlement word, feeling nervously that it was the proper thing to say. All right, father. This was a grotesque simulation of final respect. You've lived longer, you know best, just as you say. As before, the sound of 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 ladder, waved the long whitish beard. Drooping almost to the waist, the effect was not good. Wait. Mr. Button seized a hospital shears, and with three quick snit.

hips 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 gaiety of the costume. Mr. Button, however, was obdurate. He held out his hand. Come along, he said sternly. His son took the hand, trustingly. "'Weren't you going to call me, Dad?' he quavered as they walked from the nursery. "'Just baby for a while.' "'Do you think of a better name?' "'Mr. Button grunted.

"'I don't know,' he answered Harsie. "'Think we'll call you Methuselah.' "'Chapter three. "'Even after the new addition to the Button family "'had 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 Button to ignore the fact that his son was an excuse for a first family baby. Despite his aged stoop, Benjamin Button, for that was his name they called him instead of by the appropriate but individualist Methuselah, was five feet eight inches tall. His clothes did not conceal this,

nor did the clipping and dyeing of his eyebrows disguised the fact that the eyes under were faded and watery and tired. In fact, the baby nurse who had been engaged in Vance 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 water, and even oatmeal by way of 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. There can be no doubt, though, that the rattle bored him, and that he found other more soothing amusements when he was left alone. For instance, Mr. Button discovered one day that during the preceding week he had smote,

smoked more cigars than ever before, a phenomenon which was explained a few days later, when entering the nursery unexpectedly, he found the room full of a faint blue haze and Benjamin with a guilty expression on his face, trying to conceal the butt of a dark havana. This, of course, called for a severe spanking, but Mr. Button found that he could not bring himself to administer it. He merely warned his son that he would stun his growth. Nevertheless, he persisted in his attitude. He brought home lead soldiers, he brought home toy trains, he brought large pleasant animals made of cotton,

and to perfect the illusion which he was creating, for himself at least, he passionately demanded of the clerk in a toy store, rather the paint would come off the pink duck if the baby put it in his mouth. But despite all his father's efforts, Benjamin refused to be arrested. He would steal down the back stairs and return, to the nursery with a volume of the encyclopedia of fanica, over which he would pour through an afternoon, while his cotton cows and his Noah's Ark were left neglected on the floor.

Against such a stubbornness, Mr. Button's efforts were of little avail. The sensation created in Baltimore was at first prodigious. What the mishap would have cost the buttons and their kinfolk socially cannot be determined for the outbreak of the Civil War brought the city's attention to other things. A few people who were unfalingly polite racked their brains for compliments to give to the parents, and finally hit upon the ingenious device

that declaring that the baby resembled his grandfather. A fact which due to the standard state of decay common to all men of 70 could not be denied, Mr. and Mrs. Roger Button. We're not pleased, but Benjamin's grandfather was furiously insulted. Benjamin, once he left the hospital, took life as he founded. Several small boys were brought to see him, and he spent a stiff jointed afternoon trying to work up an interest in tops and marbles.

He even managed quite accidentally to break a kitchen window with the stone from a slingshot, a feat which secretly delighted his father. Thereafter, Benjamin contrived to break something every day. But he did these things only because they were expected of him and because he was by nature obliging. When his grandfather's initial antagonism wore off, Benjamin and that gentleman took enormous pleasure in one another's company.

They would sit for hours, these two so far apart in age and experience, and like old cronies, discussed with tireless monotony the slow events of the day. Benjamin felt more at ease in his grandfather's presence than in his parents. They seemed always somewhat in awe of him, and despite the dictatorial authority they exercised over him,

frequently addressed him as mister. He was as puzzled as anyone else at the apparently advanced age of his mind and body at birth. He read up in the medical journal but found that no such case had been previously recorded. At his father's urging, he made honest attempts to play with other boys, and frequently he joined in milder games. Football shook him up too much. He feared that in case of a fracture his ancient bones would refuse to knit.

When he was five, he was sent to kindergarten, where he initiated into the art of pasting green paper on orange paper, of weaving, colored maps, and manufacturing eternal cardboard necklaces. He was inclined to drows off to sleep in the middle of these tasks, a habit which both irritated and frightened his young teacher. To his relief she complained to his parents, and he was removed from the school. the roger buttons told their friends that they felt he was too young by the time he was twelve years old his parents had grown used to him indeed so strong as the force of custom that they no longer felt that he was different from any other child

except when some curious anomaly reminded them of the fact one day a few weeks after his twelfth birthday while looking in the mirror benjamin made or thought he made an astonishing discovery. Did his eyes deceive him or had his hair turned in the dozen years of his life from white to iron gray under its concealing dye? Was the network of wrinkles on his face becoming less pronounced? Was his skin healthier and firmer, with even a touch of ruddy winter crawler? He could not tell. He knew that he no longer stooped and that his physical condition had to improve, since the early days of his life. Can it be, he thought to himself or rather scarcely dared to think. He went to his father.

I'm grown, he announced, determinedly. I want to put on long trousers. His father hesitated. Well, he said finally, I don't know, fourteen is the age for putting on long trousers, and you are only twelve. But you have to admit, protested Benjamin. I'm big for my age.

The father looked at him with illusory speculation. I'm not so sure of that, he said. I was as big as you when I was twelve. This was not true. It was all part of Roger Button's silent agreement with himself, to believe in his son's normality. Finally, a compromise was reached. Benjamin was to continue to dye his hair.

He was to make a better attempt to play with boys of his own age. He was not to wear spectacles or carry a cane in the, the street. In return for these concessions, he was allowed his first suit of long trousers. Chapter 4. Of the life of Benjamin Button, between his 12th and 21st year, I intend to say little. Suffice to record that they were years of normal ungrowth. When Benjamin was 18, he was erect as a man of 50. He had more hair, and it was of a dark gray. His step was firm, his voice had lost its crack quaver and descended to a healthy baritone. So his father sent him up to Connecticut to take examinations for entrance to Yale College.

Benjamin passed his examinations and became a member of the freshman class. On the third day following his articulation, he received a notification from Mr. Hart, the college registrar to call at his office and arrange his schedule. Benjamin, glancing in the mirror, decided that his hair needed a new application of its brown dye, but an anxious inspection of his bureau drawer disclosed that the dye bottle was not there. Then he remembered. He had emptied it the day before and thrown it away. He was in a dilemma.

He was due at the registrar's in five minutes. There seemed to be no help for it. He must go as he was. He did. Good morning, said the registrar politely. You've come to inquire about your son. "'Why, as a matter of fact, my name's Button,' began Benjamin, but Mr. Hart cut him off. "'Very glad to meet you, Mr. Button. I'm expecting your son here any minute.'

"'That's me.' First out, Benjamin. I'm a freshman. What? I'm a freshman. Surely you're joking. Not at all. The registrar frowned and glanced at a card before him. "'Why, have Mr. Benjamin Button's aid down it as eighteen?' "'That's my age,' asserted Benjamin. Benjamin, flushing slightly. The register eyed him wearily. Now, surely, Mr. Button, you don't expect me to believe that. Benjamin spiraled wearily.

I'm eighteen, he repeated. The register pointed sternly at the door. Get out. He said, get out of college and get out of town. You are a dangerous lunatic. I'm eighteen. Mr. Hart opened the door. The idea, he shouted.

A man of your age trying to enter here is a first. freshman, 18 years old, are you? Well, I'll give you 18 minutes to get out of town. Benjamin Button walked with dignity from the room, and half a dozen undergraduates who were waiting in the hall followed him curiously with their eyes. When he had gone a little way, he turned around, faced the infuriated registrar, who was still standing in the door and repeated in a firm voice. I am 18 years old. To a chorus of titters which went up from the group of undergraduates, Benjamin walked away. But he was not

fated to escape so easily. On his melancholy walk to the railroad station he found that he was being followed by a group, then by a swarm, and finally by a dense mass of undergraduates. The word had gone around that a lunatic had passed

to enter its examinations for Yale and attempted to palm himself off as a youth of 18. A fever of excitement permeated the college. Men ran hatless out of of classes. The football team abandoned its practice and joined the mob, professor's wife with bonnets awry, and bustles out of position, ran shouting after the procession, from which proceeded a continual succession of remarks aimed at the tender sensibilities of Benjamin Button.

He must be a wandering Jew. He ought to go to prep school or hit Sage. Look at the infant prodigy. He thought this was the old man's home. Go up to Harvard. Benjamin increased his gate, and soon he was running. He would show them. He would go to Harvard, and then they would regret these ill-considerate taunts. Safely on the train for Baltimore, he put his head from the window. He'll regret this, he shouted.

Ha-ha, the undergraduates laughed. Ha, ha, ha. It was the biggest mistake that Yale College had ever made. Chapter 5 In 1880, Benjamin Button was 20 years old, and he signaled his birthday by going to work for his father in Roger Button and company wholesale hardware. It was in the same year that he began going out socially, that is, his father insisted on taking him to several fashionable dances. Roger Button was now 50, and he and his son were more and more compatible. In fact, since Benjamin had ceased to dye his hair, which was still grayish, they appeared

about the same age, and could have passed for brothers. One night in August they got into the phaeton attired in their full-dressed suits and drove out to a dance at the Shelvin's country clouse, situated just outside of Baltimore. It was a gorgeous evening, a full moon drenched the road to the lustreless color of platinum, and late-blooming harvest flowers breathed into the motionless air, aromas that were like low, half-heard laughter. The open country carpeted for rods around with bright wheat, was translucent as in the day.

It was almost impossible not to be affected by the sheer beauty of the sky. Almost. There's a great future in the dry goods business, Roger Button was saying. He was not a spiritual man, his the thethereal man, his aesthetic sense was rudimentary. Old fellows like me can't learn new tricks, he observed profoundly. It's you youngsters with energy and vitality that have the great future before you.

Far up the road the lights of the Shelburne's country house drifted into view, and presently there was a singing sound that crept persistently toward them. It might have been the fine plate of violins or the rustle of the silver wheat under the moon, pulled up behind a handsome brougham, whose passengers were disembarking at the door. A lady got out. Then an elderly gentleman. Then another young lady, beautiful as sin. Benjamin started.

An almost chemical change seemed to dissolve and recompose the very elements of his body. A rigor passed over him, blood rose into his cheeks, his forehead, and there was a steady thumping in his ears. It was first love. the girl was slender and frail with hair that was ashen under the moon and honey-colored under the sputtering gas-lamps of the porch over her shoulders was thrown a spanish mantilla of softest yellow butterflyed in black her feet were glittering buttons at the hem of her bustled dress roger button leaned over his son that he said is young hildegarde montcliffe the daughter of general montcly benjamin nodded coldly pretty little thing he said indifferently but when the boy had led the buggy away dad he might introduce me to her they approached a group of which miss montclieff was the centre reared in the old tradition she curtsied low before benjamin yes he might have a dance he thanked her and walked away staggered away the interval until the time for his turn should arrive dragged itself out interminably

he stood close to the wall silent and equitable watching with murderous eyes the young bloods of as they eddied around hildegarde montclyf passionate admiration in their faces how obnoxious they seemed to benjamin how intolerably rosy Their curling brown whiskers aroused in him, a feeling equivalent to indigestion. But when his own time came and he drifted with her out upon the changing floor, to the music of the latest waltz from Paris, his jealousies and anxieties melted from him, like a mantle of snow, blind with enchantment. He felt that life was just beginning. You and your brother got here just as we did, didn't you? Ask Hildegard.

looking up at him with eyes that were like bright blue enamel. Benjamin hesitated. If she took him for his father's brother, would it be best to enlighten her? He remembered his experience at Yale, so he decided against it. It would be rude to contradict a lady. It would be criminal to mar this exquisite occasion

with the grotesque story of his origin. It perhaps. So he nodded, smiled, listened, was happy. i like men of your age hildegarde told him young boys are so idiotic they tell me how much champagne they drink at college and how much money they lose plain cards men of your age know how to appreciate women benjamin felt himself on the verge of a proposal with an effort he choked back the impulse you're just a romantic age she continued fifty twenty-five is too worldly wise thirty is apt to be pale from overwork forty is the age of long stories that take a whole cigar to tell sixty is ah sixty is too near seventy but fifty is the mellow age i love fifty fifty seemed to benjamin agorrious age he longed passionately to be fifty i have always said went on hildegarde that i'd rather marry a man of fifty and be taken care of than marry a man of thirty and take care of him

benjamin the rest of the evening was bathed in honey-colored mist hildegarde gave him two more dances and they discovered that they were mariously in accord on all the questions of the day she was to go driving with him on the following Sunday, and then they would discuss all their questions further. Going home in the phaeton just before the crack of dawn, when the first bees were humming and the fading moon glimmered in the cool dew, Benjamin, knew vaguely that his father was discussing wholesale hardware. "'And what do you think should merit our biggest attention after hammers and nails?' The elder button was saying. "'Love,' replied Benjamin, absent-mindedly.

"'Lugs!' exclaimed Roger Button. "'Well, I've just covered the question of Lugs.' Benjamin regarded him with dazed eyes just as the eastern sky was suddenly crackled with light, and an oil yawn, piercingly, in the quickening trees. When six months later the engagement of Miss Hildegard Moncliffe to Mr. Benjamin Button was made known, I say made known for General Montcliffe, declared, he would rather fall upon his sword than announce it. The excitement in Baltimore society reached a feverish pitch.

The almost forgotten story of Benjamin's birth was remembered and sent out upon the winds of scandal in picturesque and incredible forms. It was said that Benjamin was really the father of Roger Button, that he was his brother, who had been in prison for 40 years, that he was John Wilkes' booth in disguise, and finally that he had two small conical horns sprouting from his head. The Sunday supplements of the New York papers played up the case with fascinating sketches, which showed the head of Benjamin Button attached to a fish to a snake,

and finally to a body of solid brass. He became known journalistically as the Mystery Man of Maryland, but the true story, as is usually the case, had a very small circulation. However, everyone agreed with General Moncliffe that it was criminal for a lovely girl who could have married any beau in Baltimore to throw herself into the arms of a man

who was assuredly 50. In vain, Mr. Roger Button published his son's birth certificate, in large type in the Baltimore Blaze. No one believed it. You had only to look at Benjamin and see. On the part of the time, two people most concerned, there was no wavering. So many of the stories about her fiance

were false that Hildegard refused stubbornly to believe even the true one. In vain, General Montreif pointed out to her the high mortality among men of fifty, or at least among men who looked fifty. In vain he told her of the instability of the wholesale hardware business, Hildegard, had chosen to marry for mellowness, and merry she did. Chapter 7. In one particular at least, the friend of Hildegard Moncliffe were mistaken. The wholesale hardware business prospered amazingly. In the 15 years between Benjamin Button's marriage in 1880 and his father's retirement in 1895, the family fortune was doubled, and this was due largely to the younger member of the firm. Needless to say, Baltimore eventually

received the couple to its bosom. Even old General Montreif became reconciled to his son-in-law when Benjamin gave him the money to bring out his history of the Civil War in 20 volumes, which had been refused by nine prominent publishers. In Benjamin himself, 15 years had wrought many changes. Seemed to him that the blood flowed with new vigor through his veins, it began to be a pleasure to rise in the morning, to walk with an active step along the busy, sunny street,

To work untiringly with his shipments of hammers and his cargoes of nails, it was in 1890 that he executed his famous business coup. He brought up the suggestion that all nails used in nailing up the boxes in which nails were shipped are the property of the shipee. A proposal which became a statute was approved by Chief Justice Fossil and saved Roger Button and company wholesale hardware, more than 600 nails every year. In addition, Benjamin discovered that he was becoming more and more attracted by the gay side of life.

It was typical of his growing enthusiasm for pleasure that he was the first man of the city of Baltimore to own and run an automobile. Meeting him on the street, his contemporaries would stare enviously at the picture he made of health and vitality. He seems to grow younger every year, they would remark, and if old Roger Benjamin, now 65 years old, had failed at first to give a proper welcome to his son atone at last by bestowing on him what amounted to adulation. And here we come to an unpleasant subject, which it will be well to pass over as quickly as possible. There was only one thing that worried Benjamin Button. His wife had ceased to attract

him. At the time, Hildegard was a woman of 35 with a son, Roscoe, 14 years old. In the early days of their marriage, Benjamin had worshipped her, but as the years passed, her honey-colored hair became an unexciting brown. The blue enamel of her eyes assumed the aspect of cheap crockery. Moreover, and most of all, she had become too settled in ways, too placid, too content, too anemic, in her excitements, and too soul. in her taste. As a bride, it had been she who had dragged Benjamin to dances and dinners. Now, conditions were reversed. She went out socially with him, but without enthusiasm, devoured already by the eternal inertia, which comes to live with each of us one day and stays with

us to the end. Benjamin's discontent waxed stronger. At the outbreak of the Spanish-American War in 1898, his home had for him so little charm that he decided to join the Army. With his business influence, he obtained a commission as captain and proved so adaptable to the work that he was made a major, and finally a lieutenant colonel just in time to participate in the celebrated charge up San Juan Hill. He was slightly wounded and received a medal. Benjamin had become so attached to the activity and excitement of Army life that he regretted to give it up. But his business required attention, so he resigned his commission, came home. He was met at the station by a brass band and escorted to his house.

End of Part 1. Section 2 of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. This levervox recording is in the public domain, recording by Mike Vendetti, Mikevindetti.com. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. By F. Scott Fitzgerald. Section 2. Chapter 8. Hildegarde, waving a large silk flag, greeted him on the porch, and even as he kissed her he felt with a sinking feeling of the heart that these three years had taken their toll.

She was the woman of forty now with a faint skirmish line of gray hairs in her head. The sight depressed him. Up in his room he saw his reflection in the familiar mirror and went closer and examined his own face with anxiety, comparing it after a moment with a photograph of himself and uniform. for him taken just before the war. "'Good Lord,' he said aloud. The process was continuing.

There was no doubt of it. He looked now like a man of thirty, instead of being delighted. He was uneasy. He was growing younger and had hitherto hope that once he reached a bodily age equivalent to his age and years, their grotesque phenomenon which had marked his birth would cease the function. He shuddered. His destiny seemed to him,

awful, incredible. When he came downstairs, Hildegarde was waiting for him. She appeared annoyed, and he wondered if she had at last discovered that there was something amiss. It was with an effort to relieve the tension between them that he broached the matter at dinner in what he considered a delicate way.

Well, he remarked lightly, everybody says it look younger than ever. Hildegard regarded him with scorn, she sniffed. do you think it's anything to boast about i'm not boasting he asserted uncomfortably she sniffed again the idea she said and after a moment i should think you'd have enough pride to stop it how can i he demanded i'm not going to argue with you she retorted but there's a right way of doing things in a wrong way if you've made up your mind to be different from every one else i don't suppose i can stop you but i really don't think it's very considerate but heltegarde i can't help it you can too you're simply stubborn you think you don't want to be like anyone else you always have been that way-and-you always have been that way and you always will be. But just think how it would be

if everyone else looked at things as you do. What would world be like? As this was an inane and unanswerable argument, Benjamin made no reply, and from that time on a chasm began to widen between them. He wondered what possible fascination she had ever exercised over him. To add to the breach,

he found that as a new century gathered headway, that his thirst for gaiety grew stronger, never a party of any kind in the city of Baltimore, but he was there, dancing with the prettiest of the young married women, chatting with the most popular of the debutantes, and finding their company charming, while his wife, a dowager of evil omen, sat among the chaperones, now in haughty disapproval,

and now following him with psalm, puzzled, and reproachful eyes. Look, people remark, what a pity. A young fellow that age tied to a woman, of 45. He must be 20 years younger than his wife. They had forgotten as people invariably forget. That back in 1880, their mammas and papas had also

remarked about this same ill-matched pair. Benjamin's growing unhappiness at home was compensated for by his many new interests. He took up golf and made a great success of it. He went in for dancing. In

1906, he was an expert at the and in 1908 he was considered proficient at the Maxine, while in 1909 his castle walk was the envy of every young man in town. His social activity, this of course interfered to some extent with his business, but then he had worked hard at wholesale hardware for 25 years and felt that he could soon hand it on to his son Roscoe, who had recently graduated from Harvard. He and his son, in fact, were often mistaken for each other. This pleased Benjamin. He soon forgot the insidious fear which had come over him on his return from the Spanish-American War, and grew to take a naive pleasure in his appearance. There was only one fly in the delicious ointment. He hated to

appear in public with his wife. Hildegard was almost fifty, and the sight of her made him feel absurd. Chapter 9 1 September Day in 1910. A few years after Roger Button and company wholesale hardware had been handed over to young Roscoe Button, a man apparently about 20 years old,

entered himself as a freshman at Harvard University in Cambridge. He did not make the mistake of announcing that he would never see 50 again, nor did he mention the fact that his son had been graduated from the same institution ten years before. He was admitted and almost immediately attained a prominent position in the class, partially because he seemed a little older than the other freshman,

whose average age was about 18. But his success was largely due to the fact that in the football game with Yale he played so brilliantly with so much dash and with such a cold, remorseless anger that he scored seven touchdowns. and 14 field goals for Harvard, and caused one entire 11 of Yale men to be carried singularly away from the field unconscious. He was the most celebrated man in college.

Strange to say in his third or junior year, he was scarcely able to make the team. Coaches said that he had lost weight, and it seemed to the more observant among them that he was not quite as tall as before. He made no touchdowns indeed. He was retained on the team, chiefly in hope that his enormous reputation would bring terror and disorganization to the Yale team.

In his senior year he did not make the team at all. He had grown so slight and frail that one day he was taken by some sophomores for freshmen, an incident which humiliated him terribly. He became known as something of a prodigy, a senior who was surely no more than 16, and he was often shocked at the worldliness of some of his classmates. His studies seemed harder. to him, he felt that they were too advanced. He heard his classmates speak of St. Midas, the famous preparatory school at which so many of them had prepared for college, and he determined after his graduation to enter himself at St. Midas, where the sheltered life among boys his own size would be more congenial to him.

Upon his graduation in 1914, he went home to Baltimore with his Harvard diploma in his pocket. Hildegarde was now residing in Italy, so Benjamin went to live with his son Roscoe. But though he was welcomed in a general way, there was obviously no heartiness in Roscoe's feeling toward him. There was even perceptible a tendency on his son's part to think that Benjamin was as he moped about the house in adolescence mooniness, was somewhat in the way. Roscoe was married now and prominent in Baltimore life, and he wanted to be. no scandal to creep out in connection with his family.

Benjamin, no longer persona grata, with the debitants and younger college set, found himself much left done, except for the companionship of three or four fifteen-year-old boys in the neighborhood. His idea of going to St. Midas's school recurred to him. Say, said Rosco one day, I've told you over and over that I want to go to prep school. Well, go then, replied Rosco shortly.

The matter was distasteful to him, and he wished to avoid a discussion. "'I can't go alone,' said Benjamin helplessly. "'You'll have to enter me and take me up there.' "'I haven't got time,' declared Roscoe abruptly. His eye narrowed, and he looked uneasily at his father. As a matter of fact, he added, "'you better not go on with this business much longer. You better pull up short.

He better—you better—he paused and his face crimson that he sought for words. You better turn right around and start back the other way. This has gone too far to be a joke. It isn't funny any longer. You behave yourself. Benjamin looked at him on the verge of tears. And another thing, continued Roscoe, when visitors in the house,

I want you to call me Uncle, not Roscoe, but Uncle. Do you understand? It looks absurd for a boy of 15 to call me by my first name. Perhaps you'd better call me Uncle all the time. so he'd get used to it. With a harsh look after his father, Roscoe turned away. Chapter 10

At the termination of his interview, Benjamin wandered dismally upstairs and stared at himself in a mirror. He had not shaved for three months, but it could find nothing on his face but a faint white down, with which it seemed unnecessary to metal. When he had first come home from Harvard,

Roscoe had approached him with a proposition that he should wear eyeglasses, and imitation whiskers glued to his cheeks. And it seemed for a moment that the farce of his early years was to be repeated, but whiskers had itched and made him ashamed. He wept and Roscoe had reluctantly relented. Benjamin opened a book of Boy Stories, the Boy Scouts in Bimini Bay, began to read, but he found himself thinking persistently about the war. American had joined the Allies' cause

during the preceding month, and Benjamin wanted to enlist. But the last sixteen was the minimum age, and he did not look that old. His true age, which was 57, would have disqualified him anyway. There was a knock at the door. And a butler appeared with a letter

bearing a large official legend in the corner and addressed to Mr. Benjamin Button. Benjamin tore it open eagerly, and read the enclosure with delight. It formed him that many reserve officers who had served in the Spanish-American War were being called back into service with a higher rank, and it enclosed his commission as Brigadier General in the United States Army, with orders to report immediately. Benjamin jumped to his feet, fairly quivering with enthusiasm. This was what he had wanted. He seized his cap, and ten minutes later he had entered a large tailoring establishment on Charles Street,

and asked in his uncertain treble to be measured for a uniform. Want to play soldier, sonny? demanded the clerk casually. Benjamin flushed. Say, never mind what I want. He retorted angrily. My name's Benjamin, and I live on Mount Vernon Place, so you know I'm good for it.

Well, admitted the clerk hesitantly. If you're not, I guess your daddy is all right. Benjamin was measured. and a week later his uniform was completed. He had difficulty in obtaining the proper general's insignia because the dealer kept insisting to Benjamin that a nice VWCA badge would look just as well and be much more fun to play with.

Saying nothing to Roscoe, he left the house one night and proceeded by train to Camp Mosby in South Carolina, where he was to command an infantry brigade. On a sultry April day, he approached the entrance to the can. paid off the taxi cab which had brought him from the station and turned to the sentry on guard get someone to handle my luggage he said briskly the sentry eyed him reproachly say he remarked where you go with the general dudsony benjamin veteran of the spanish-american war whirled upon him with fire in his eye but with alas a changing treble voice "'Come to attention,' he tried to thunder. He paused for breath.

Then suddenly he saw the sentry snap his heels together and bring his rifle to the present. Benjamin concealed a smile of gratification, but when he glanced around, his smile faded. It was not he who had inspired obedience, but an imposing artillery colonel who was approaching on horseback. "'Colonel?' called Benjamin shrilly. The colonel came up, drew rein,

and looked coldly down at him, with a twinkle in his eye. "'Who's little boy are you?' he demanded kindly. "'I'll soon darn well show you whose little boy I am,' retorted Benjamin in a ferocious voice. "'You get out of that horse!' Colonel roared with laughter. "'You want him, eh, General?' "'Here,' cried Benjamin desperately.

"'Read this!' And he thrust his commission toward the Colonel. The Colonel redded his eyes popping from their sockets. "'Where'd you get this?' he demanded. slipping the document into his own pocket. "'I got it from the government as you'll soon find out.' "'You come along with me,' said the colonel, with a peculiar look. "'We'll go up to headquarters and talk this over. Come on.'

The colonel turned and began walking his horse in the direction of headquarters. There was nothing for Benjamin to do but to follow, with as much dignity as possible, meanwhile promising himself a stern revenge. But his revenge did not materialize. Two days later, however, his son Roscoe materialized from Baltimore, hot and cross, from a hasty trip, and escorted the Viking General, Sance Uniform, back to his home. Chapter 11 In 1920, Roscoe Button's first child was born.

During the attendant festivities, however, no one thought it the thing to mention that the little grubby boy apparently about ten years of age, who played around the house with led soldiers in a miniature circus, was a new baby's own grandfather. No one disliked the little boy whose fresh, cheerful face was crossed with just a hint of sadness, but to Roscoe button, his presence was a source of torment. In the idiom of his generation, Roscoe did not consider the matter efficient. It seemed to him that his father, in refusing to look sixty,

had not behaved like a red-blooded he-man. This was Roscoe's favorite expression. but in a curious and perverse manner, indeed, to think about the matter for as much as a half an hour, drove him to the edge of insanity. Roscoe believed that live wires should keep young, but carrying it out on such a scale was inefficient, and there Roscoe rested. Five years later, Roscoe's little boy had grown old enough to play childish games with little Benjamin, under the supervision of the same nurse. Roscoe took them both to kindergarten on the same day, and Benjamin found that

playing with little strips of colored paper, making mats and chains and curious and beautiful designs, was the most fascinating game in the world. Once he was bad and had to stand in the corner, then he cried, but for the most part, there were gay hours in the cheerful room, with the sunlight coming into windows, and Miss Bailey's kind hand, resting for a moment now. and then in his tousled hair. Roscoe's son moved up into the first grade after a year, but Benjamin stayed on in the kindergarten.

He was very happy. Sometimes when other tots talked about what they would do when they grew up, the shadow would cross his little face as if in a dim, childish way, he relished that those were things in which he was never to share. The days flowed on monotonous content. He went back a third year to the kindergarten, but he was too little now to understand what the bright shining strips of paper were for. He cried because the other boys were bigger than he, and he was afraid of them.

Teacher talked to him, but though he tried to understand he could not understand at all. He was taken from kindergarten. His nurse, Nana, in her starched gingham dress, became the center of his tiny world. On bright days, they walked in the part. Nana would point at a great gray monster and say elephant, and Benjamin would say it after her. And when he was being undressed for bed that night,

he would say it over and over aloud to her. "'Ali-funt, Elie-fund, Elie-Funt. Sometimes Nana let him jump on the bed, which was fun, because if you sat down exactly right, it would bouch you up on your feet again. And if you said, ah, for a long time while you jumped, you got a very pleasing broken vocal effect. He loved to take a big cane from the hat-rack

and go around hitting chairs and tables with it saying, fight, fight, fight, fight. When there were people there, the old ladies would cluck at him, which interested him, and the young ladies would try to kiss him, which he submitted to with mild boredom. And when the long day was done at five o'clock, he would go upstairs with Nana and be fed an oatmeal and nice, soft, mushy food with a spoon.

There were no troublesome memories in his childish sleep. No token came to him of his brave days at college, of the glittering years when he flustered the hearts of many girls. There were only the white safe walls of his crib, and Nana and a man who came to see him sometimes and had a great big orange ball that Nana pointed at just before his twilight bed hour and called the sun. When the sun went, his eyes were sleepy.

There were no dreams, no dreams to haunt him. The past, the wild charge at the head of his men up San Juan Hill, the first years of his marriage when he worked late into the summer dusk, down in the busy city for young Hildegard, whom he loved, the days before that when he sat smoking, far into the night in the gloomy old Button House on Monroe Street with his grandfather, all those had faded, like the substantial dreams from his mind as though they had never been. He did not remember.

He did not remember clearly whether the milk was worn. or cool at his last feeding, or how the days passed. There was only his crib and Nana's familiar presence, and then he remembered nothing. When he was hungry he cried. That was all. Through the noons and nights he breathed, and over him, there were soft mumblings and murmurings that he scarcely heard

and faintly differentiated smells and light and darkness. It was all dark, and his white crib and the dim face. that moved above him, and the warm, sweet aroma of the milk faded out altogether from his mind. End of the curious case of Benjamin Button, narrated by Mike Vendetti.