Raintree County

by Ross Lockridge Jr.

  Seedtime, summer, and bearded harvest. O, young sporespreader, I lift a wisp of memoryladen smoke to you, fragrant with

  November 22—1859

  THE SCENT OF WITHERED SUMMERS HOVERED IN THE DUSK OF T. D.’s OFFICE,

  where Johnny waited for his father to begin. T. D. sat finger-drumming on his desk. After a while he said without looking up,

  —John, this marriage that you’ve announced. I uh ought to tell you that I don’t entirely approve of the precipitate but uh under the circumstances necessary haste with which you have gone into it. I have found out something about the whole thing, and I am deeply pained, and——

  T. D. looked out of the window at the gray November earth. Johnny stared at the anatomical chart on the wall. He hadn’t seen T. D. so incoherent and pedantic since the time many years before when he had ushered Johnny into the Office to tell him the Facts of Life. At that time, he had taken a pointer and made certain indications at the anatomical chart on the wall. Eyes fixed on the chart now, Johnny saw, under the yellowing varnish, a man’s body laid open to show the internal organs. The genitalia were a wrecked mass of blood vessels and tubes. Johnny felt only a dry resentment and a wish to get the thing over with.

  —John, T. D. was saying, maybe I’ve got this whole thing wrong. I hope I have.

  —I guess it’s the way you heard it, Johnny said.

  —You mean, T. D. said, stealing a glance at Johnny, you mean that you uh that you and this young woman——

  —Yes, Johnny said. Yes, we did. I haven’t any excuse. I got drunk on cider. It was after the Fourth of July Race.

  —Fourth of July! T. D. said, reflecting. Jerusalem! boy, that was uh—that was——

  He tapped his long fingers quickly——

  —nearly five months ago!

  —Yes, I know, Johnny said. I’d rather not talk about it, Pa. I was wrong. I’m trying to make it right.

  —But this young woman uh, I saw her, you know. I went to see her, after someone wrote me an unsigned note and uh I didn’t see any visible outward indication that she uh was in that uh shall we say advanced state of uh the gestatory process which reveals itself uh externally—that is, I——

  —I know, Johnny said, feeling sorry for T. D. I don’t know how to explain it. She says she’s with child. It doesn’t make any difference. I’m going to marry her anyway.

  —She’s uh she’s quite an attractive young woman, you know, T. D. said, drumming on the table. She uh—that is, I understand how a man might—that is uh, given the circumstances, and the fact that, as you say, you had partaken of what I presume you thought was a harmless beverage—uh, I can see that—but of course, you understand, John, nothing can condone your uh headlong behavior. I had thought that of all my sons—that you——

  —Yes, Johnny said, I know. I’ve been a terrible disappointment to you. I’m sorry.

  —Not that I entirely blame you, T. D. said. You’re after all only a boy—what?—twenty years old? At twenty, I myself—but then that’s another matter. Still, I want you to know that I understand your feelings and I wish to express to you my uh——

  At this point, T. D.’s verbal process broke down completely, and he stood head down before the lone window. There was a long silence.

  —John, he said, more quietly, there’s something I might as well tell you right now. I’ve told the three older boys, and it’s been my intention to tell each of my children when they reached the age of twenty-one. Under the circumstances I think I might as well tell you now since you have uh after a manner of speaking reached the age uh—the age where uh——

  Johnny had the strange feeling that somehow his own and his father’s role had been subtly reversed and that he, Johnny, was now in the position of the judge and his father in that of the accused.

  —I have a special reason for being glad, John, that you’ve done the manly thing in this case—though a bit late—and have decided to make it up to this young woman, whom you have uh—with whom you have——

  —Yes, Johnny said.

  —You might as well know it, John, T. D. said, turning around and squaring his shoulders. There is a stain on the name of Shawnessy. Do you know what I mean?

  —No, I don’t, Johnny said.

  —You’ve never heard me speak much of my father, have you, John? I’ve always told you that he died in Scotland when I was very small and that my mother came to America with me. You don’t know much about my life in Scotland, do you?

  —No.

  —Well, the truth is, T. D. said slowly, that Shawnessy is not the name of my father. My father’s name was Carlyle. Shawnessy is my mother’s name.

  Johnny felt that he ought to understand now, but somehow he couldn’t grasp the significance of what T. D. had said.

  —No use mincing words, T. D. said. I was the issue of an illegitimate union.

  T. D. squared his shoulders and turned around, looking a little belligerent. His blue eyes flashed. His rabbity mouth worked under his immense blond mustache.

  —In plain English, my boy, I’m a bastard. Just a good cleancut bastard.

  —O, Johnny said. Is that a fact?

  It was the strongest word he had ever heard T. D. use. He felt relief and also a new respect for T. D., who was (the word was somehow comforting) a bastard.

  —Yes, sir, T. D. said. I bear what men might call a dishonored name. But I have never been ashamed of the name of Shawnessy. It’s the name of my mother, a superb woman.

  —Yes, sir, Johnny said, coming crisply to attention.

  —As for my father, T. D. said, he bore a name which has since become famous in the world.

  Then Johnny understood why it was that T. D. had so often told the children that they were related to a name famous in letters. He had never been explicit about the closeness of that connection, saying only that it was through his father’s side of the family.

  —Yes, sir, T. D. was saying in his old brisk voice, as if he had suddenly got back all his old assurance, yessirree, and when I got to be old enough to understand my situation, I swore I’d make the name of Shawnessy as great as the name of Carlyle. Here in America, in a virgin wilderness, where a man’s name and past mean nothing, I meant to make the name of Shawnessy a great one in the world.

  Johnny nodded. T. D. began to walk back and forth, vibrant with the preternatural energy that seemed to flow into him at times.

  —I can’t say, T. D. said, that I’ve entirely realized all my ambitions. I suppose I’ve been handicapped by a want of education, and perhaps I lacked the native ability to realize my hopes. Not that I consider my life a misspent one. Not at all.

  —Of course not, Johnny said.

  —I come west with the country, T. D. said. I married young and had children to support. I’ve grown up with this great country, and I’ve been one of those who made it grow. I was one of the first settlers in Raintree County. When I come here, this was a wilderness. I’ve saved the lives of many Americans. I’ve done my small part for the spiritual welfare of the people of this republic. And if the name of Shawnessy don’t become famous in the land, as famous as the name which by rights I ought to bear is in England, I am not in the least ashamed of it. I’m proud of it. And I want my children to be proud of it. I’d rather be Timothy Duff Shawnessy in America than a king in England.

  —Certainly, Johnny said.

  —In America, T. D. said, nobody cares about a man’s past. If I’ve not become a great man, I’ve only myself to blame. But I want my children to know that I pass on to them a great name, my mother’s, and I’m still confident that in generations to come people will speak the name of Shawnessy with reverence. I take as yet the most hopeful view of my own future and that of my children.

  T. D. paused then, with one long arm outflung, and seemed to reflect upon something that he had forgotten.

  —But that brings me to say, John, that there’s—well—a kind of curse on the Shawnessys. I’ve noticed it in myself, and I’m afraid that you and pe
rhaps other members of our family bear the mark of it. We’re a passionate people, John, us Shawnessys. We are at one and the same time seekers after knowledge, scholars, poets, teachers, and preachers—and also, alas! lovers of beauty. And this second trait is the fatal one. I know, my boy, that you wrestle under more extreme temptation than most men. I know, because I myself have uh in my youth felt that fatal uh susceptibility. It’s hard for a Shawnessy to resist a beautiful woman. It’s our curse, my boy, an amiable one—and one, may I say, which I’d be very unhappy not to have, but just the same a curse.

  —Yes, sir, Johnny said.

  He found it easier to bear his sense of guilt, when he discovered that he had come by it honestly from his grandmother. The fault had acquired a certain dignity and family standing.

  —All my younger life, I fought against this legacy of my noble mother, T. D. was saying. I think I may say that I fairly mastered it. By the way, don’t breathe a word of this to your mother.

  —Of course not, Johnny said.

  —Who are we, T. D. said, beginning unconsciously to adopt his pulpit manner, to judge of these moments of weakness? The father and mother of the race sinned. They knew each other in guilty passion after they did eat of the forbidden fruit. ’Tis an ancient curse. Yea, my son, who are we to question the weakness of a woman who surrenders to her desire? No more virtuous woman lived than my mother. She loved and sinned. That was all. But I beg you to take notice, my boy, that if she hadn’t, where would you and I be?

  T. D. and Johnny looked shyly at each other for a split second and lowered their eyes.

  Who shall assign a value to the event or to its consequence? Life has its own inscrutable ends to serve. My grandmother, I am glad that you were once an amorous girl and had the weakness—and the courage—of your love. I am glad, my grandmother, that you allowed yourself to be tumbled in a hayfield beside the little town of Ecclefechan in Scotland years ago. Who knows but even then you fell under the compulsion of the springing impulse that was I! Did you not sin and suffer that I might one day flower and be fair? It was a great gift that you gave that day, my grandmother, in your desirous girlhood. You were one of the makers of America, my gay and guilty paternal grandma. And a woman who gives herself for love only, and without hope of moral security, is she not more courageous than the other kind? O, peerless, antique little Scot, you deserved to give your own great name unto your children and your children’s children. Now it can never die. Another of your line has been busy to that end, in your own inimitable style, my wee, unvirginal grandma.

  —I hope, T. D. was saying, that you don’t take this thing too hard.

  —Not at all, Johnny said. I’m glad you told me. It makes me feel a little better.

  —As for your own case, my boy, T. D. said, you’ve done the manly thing. I hope this young lady is all that she appears to be. Judge not that ye be not judged.

  —Yes, sir.

  —Marry her, my boy, T. D. said, standing up erect and tall and holding out his hand, and be happy. Do you need money?

  —No, I believe not, Papa.

  —When is the wedding?

  —December 2, Johnny said. Susanna’s choice.

  He shook his father’s hand and left the Office.

  Later on in the evening, he was aware that T. D. was still out in the Office, with no light on. Undoubtedly, he was pacing there in his cluttered cage, a distinguished-looking gentleman with a large blond mustache, marching back and forth surrounded by the Botanical Medicines. He had come to America to make himself famous, and somehow he had got lost in the land. It was strange now to think how some fifty years ago there had been a casting of seed in a putative hayfield in Scotland, and the vital impulse in it was strong, so very strong, that it was carried safely over the sea and so very, very strong that it was carried west and west. Along the way it had lodged in fertile earth, and now there were many vessels, bearers of seed, many and many on the breast of the land.

  O, strange little swimmer of so long ago, o, little immortal! What difference is it to you what name you bear! What do you care for a name! O, little lifegiver, you only are eternal. We exist only for you, and you pay us back by faint repetitions of our features, for you never forget anything. You remember us,

  YOU REMEMBER OUR FACES, AS YOU PROCEED

  UPON YOUR WAY, JETTING

  EPHEMERAL

  FACES on the Great Road of the Republic floated through the haze of Mr. Shawnessy’s cigar, rising out of vacant time and fading into vacant time. He thought of all the faces of mankind that had passed briefly through the world of time and space. Flowerlike they rose—like flowers springing and like dense flowers falling and fading back into the swamp.

  —Did you ever stop to consider what a face is, Professor?

  —Isn’t it bad enough to have one, the Perfessor said, without having to explain it?

  —It’s a strange fact, Mr. Shawnessy said, that a woman carries her face naked for all the world to see and thinks she’s respectable because she hides the rest in clothes. The hidden part is, after all, very simple, but the face is delicate, mobile, passionate. The flesh of it moves, the eyes glance about, the lips make sounds. If like Hawthorne’s minister or the Moslem women, we veiled our faces, we’d learn to value the secrecy and mystic beauty of these big lush flowers.

  —The face is merely a traffic center for sense organs, the Perfessor said. For economy’s sake, it got crammed together. A face is really a pretty loathsome proposition, you know.

  —The face is a human discovery, Mr. Shawnessy said. Other animals don’t think of themselves as having separate faces. And only human beings make love face to face. What an exciting discovery that must have been for some dawn man!

  —An ancestor of yours maybe? the Perfessor said. His name should go down to us along with Cadmus, who invented the alphabet. Perhaps the name Shawnessy is a direct lineal derivative and means He-Who-Made-Love-Face-to-Face.

  —A face, Mr. Shawnessy said, is also a memory of a million other faces. Our faces are palimpsests. Like all things human, faces are both synoptic and unique.

  —Have you ever stopped to figure, John, how fearfully fouled up our family trees are? Each human being is fifty thousand kinds of cousin to the stranger he passes on the street. Each time we make love to a woman we’re committing infinitely multiplied incest. Nothing is more certain.

  —How is that? the Senator said. I’m damned if I follow that.

  —It’s a simple question of arithmetic, the Perfessor said. Each person is the child of two. Each of these was the child of two. That makes four. Each of these was the child of two. That makes eight. Each of these was the child of two. That makes sixteen. Now, go on in that fashion, and assume that there’s no intermarriage of relatives back to the time of Charlemagne. That would be about fifty generations only. On that basis, do you know how many human beings were living in the time of Charlemagne to form the base of the pyramid of which you are the apex?

  —I give up, the Senator said.

  —Roughly about six hundred trillion. Just for you—mind you. That’s leaving out of account other human beings now living. Think of all the incest near and far there must have been in order that the few hundred million human beings actually living in Charlemagne’s time could sire the much greater number living now. A few generations back and our family trees get so damnably scrambled that individual names and faces no longer have any importance at all, I assure you. Let me remind you, too, that this does not even take us back to the time of Christ. And even two thousand years is only a quarter of a mile in the Mississippi of human descent. Man has been more or less man for two hundred thousand years. In all this muck of human beings, what is an individual face?

  The Perfessor adjusted his glasses and stroked his brows with sensitive fingertips.

  —Biologically, the Perfessor went on, there’s just one face—with the standard fixtures. All the fuss people expend on their damfool faces is part of the fuss they make over themselves as damfool i
ndividuals. The life-impulse doesn’t really care anything about faces. The ugliest people I know have the most children, and they’re all ugly like their parents. Very beautiful women often have no issue, or ugly issue. Ugly and beautiful, like moral and immoral, are unknown to the Republic of the Great Swamp, which really doesn’t give a hang who your forebears were. It only cares that the seed be sifted back into the muck so that the little faces will pop out again, year after year, generation after generation, and seduce each other like flowers, innocently and promiscuously.

  The Perfessor snorted and puffed on his cigar.

  —What do you think of that, John?

  —I think that you don’t understand faces. Your remorseless logic leaves out the most significant fact about faces.

  —What’s that?

  —That a face is a map.

  —You speak in parables.

  —It takes some explaining and involves my whole philosophy, but——

  He was interrupted by a chord of male voices from the door of the barber shop. A quartet, calling themselves the Freehaven Chanticleers, were beginning a brief program of popular airs to entertain the Senator.

  —Don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?

  Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown. . . .

  Faces of his life rose on the pale stream of the years, like images on cards turning slowly over and over in riverpools. Slowly the white flesh dissolved from the bone. The faces were gone, lost in winter nights. But there had been a republic in which these faces had seemed immortal. Shimmering, it had risen from the Great Swamp, and even the Great Swamp was one of its immortal images. Was this republic really the fool of time? Where was the fading ruin of all its faces?

  The Chanticleers had begun another song.

  —Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,

  Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee. . . .