The Magnificent Ambersons Booth Tarkington (reading like a writer txt) 📖

you ole Billygoat, you!” he shouted, distinctly. “Pull down your vest, wipe off your chin⁠—an’ go to hell!”

Such precocity is less unusual, even in children of the Rich, than most grown people imagine. However, it was a new experience for the Reverend Malloch Smith, and left him in a state of excitement. He at once wrote a note to Georgie’s mother, describing the crime according to his nephew’s testimony; and the note reached Mrs. Minafer before Georgie did. When he got home she read it to him sorrowfully.

Dear Madam:

Your son has caused a painful distress in my household. He made an unprovoked attack upon a little nephew of mine who is visiting in my household, insulted him by calling him vicious names and falsehoods, stating that ladies of his family were in jail. He then tried to make his pony kick him, and when the child, who is only eleven years old, while your son is much older and stronger, endeavoured to avoid his indignities and withdraw quietly, he pursued him into the enclosure of my property and brutally assaulted him. When I appeared upon this scene he deliberately called insulting words to me, concluding with profanity, such as “go to hell,” which was heard not only by myself but by my wife and the lady who lives next door. I trust such a state of undisciplined behaviour may be remedied for the sake of the reputation for propriety, if nothing higher, of the family to which this unruly child belongs.

Georgie had muttered various interruptions, and as she concluded the reading he said: “He’s an ole liar!”

“Georgie, you mustn’t say ‘liar.’ Isn’t this letter the truth?”

“Well,” said Georgie, “how old am I?”

“Ten.”

“Well, look how he says I’m older than a boy eleven years old.”

“That’s true,” said Isabel. “He does. But isn’t some of it true, Georgie?”

Georgie felt himself to be in a difficulty here, and he was silent.

“Georgie, did you say what he says you did?”

“Which one?”

“Did you tell him to⁠—to⁠—Did you say, ‘Go to hell’?”

Georgie looked worried for a moment longer; then he brightened. “Listen here, mamma; grandpa wouldn’t wipe his shoe on that ole storyteller, would he?”

“Georgie, you mustn’t⁠—”

“I mean: none of the Ambersons wouldn’t have anything to do with him, would they? He doesn’t even know you, does he, mamma?”

“That hasn’t anything to do with it.”

“Yes, it has! I mean: none of the Amberson family go to see him, and they never have him come in their house; they wouldn’t ask him to, and they prob’ly wouldn’t even let him.”

“That isn’t what we’re talking about.”

“I bet,” said Georgie emphatically, “I bet if he wanted to see any of ’em, he’d haf to go around to the side door!”

“No, dear, they⁠—”

“Yes, they would, mamma! So what does it matter if I did say somep’m’ to him he didn’t like? That kind o’ people, I don’t see why you can’t say anything you want to, to ’em!”

“No, Georgie. And you haven’t answered me whether you said that dreadful thing he says you did.”

“Well⁠—” said Georgie. “Anyway, he said somep’m’ to me that made me mad.” And upon this point he offered no further details; he would not explain to his mother that what had made him “mad” was Mr. Smith’s hasty condemnation of herself: “Your mother ought to be ashamed,” and, “A woman that lets a bad boy like you⁠—” Georgie did not even consider excusing himself by quoting these insolences.

Isabel stroked his head. “They were terrible words for you to use, dear. From his letter he doesn’t seem a very tactful person, but⁠—”

“He’s just riffraff,” said Georgie.

“You mustn’t say so,” his mother gently agreed. “Where did you learn those bad words he speaks of? Where did you hear anyone use them?”

“Well, I’ve heard ’em several places. I guess Uncle George Amberson was the first I ever heard say ’em. Uncle George Amberson said ’em to papa once. Papa didn’t like it, but Uncle George was just laughin’ at papa, an’ then he said ’em while he was laughin’.”

“That was wrong of him,” she said, but almost instinctively he detected the lack of conviction in her tone. It was Isabel’s great failing that whatever an Amberson did seemed right to her, especially if the Amberson was either her brother George, or her son George. She knew that she should be more severe with the latter now, but severity with him was beyond her power; and the Reverend Malloch Smith had succeeded only in rousing her resentment against himself. Georgie’s symmetrical face⁠—altogether an Amberson face⁠—had looked never more beautiful to her. It always looked unusually beautiful when she tried to be severe with him. “You must promise me,” she said feebly, “never to use those bad words again.”

“I promise not to,” he said promptly⁠—and he whispered an immediate codicil under his breath: “Unless I get mad at somebody!” This satisfied a code according to which, in his own sincere belief, he never told lies.

“That’s a good boy,” she said, and he ran out to the yard, his punishment over. Some admiring friends were gathered there; they had heard of his adventure, knew of the note, and were waiting to see what was going to “happen” to him. They hoped for an account of things, and also that he would allow them to “take turns” riding his pony to the end of the alley and back.

They were really his henchmen: Georgie was a lord among boys. In fact, he was a personage among certain sorts of grown people, and was often fawned upon; the alley negroes delighted in him, chuckled over him, flattered him slavishly. For that matter, he often heard well-dressed people speaking of him admiringly: a group of ladies once gathered about him on the pavement where he was spinning a top. “I know this is Georgie!” one exclaimed, and turned to the others with the impressiveness of a showman. “Major Amberson’s only grandchild!” The others said, “It is?” and made clicking sounds with their mouths; two of them