His Father's Son, Part Three Of Three

In the touching finale to Edith Wharton's story: now that Ronald has voiced his worst suspicions, find out how his father responds and learn the true story of the letters that Ronald's mother wrote to the great composer, Fortune Dolbrowski. Music by Geoff Harvey.

Transcript

Hello,

It's Mandy here.

Welcome back.

We're going to be listening to the third part of His Father's Son,

Which comes from a book of short stories by Edith Walton called Tales of Men and Ghosts.

Just to catch you up with the story,

At the end of the last episode,

Ronald has finally admitted to his father that he believes is the son of Fortune Dolbrofsky and not of Mr.

Grew.

But before we begin,

Go right ahead and make yourself really comfortable on whatever surface you happen to be sitting or lying on.

And I'll begin.

I see,

Said Mr.

Grew,

And what did you mean to do?

I meant to wait till I could earn my living and then repay you,

As far as I can ever repay you.

But now that there's a chance of my marrying and your generosity overwhelms me,

I'm obliged to speak.

I see,

Said Mr.

Grew again.

He let himself down into his chair,

Looking steadily and not unkindly at the young man.

Sit down,

Ronald.

Let's talk.

Ronald made a protesting movement.

Huh,

Is there anything to be gained by it?

You can't change me,

Change what I feel.

The reading of those letters transformed my whole life.

I was a boy till then.

They made a man out of me.

From that moment,

I understood myself.

He paused and then looked up at Mr.

Grew's face.

Don't imagine I don't appreciate your kindness,

Your extraordinary generosity.

But I can't go through life in disguise,

And I want you to know that I haven't won Daisy under false pretenses.

Mr.

Grew started up with the first expletive Ronald had ever heard on his lips.

You damned young fool,

You haven't told her.

Ronald raised his head quickly.

Oh,

You don't know her,

Sir.

She thinks no worse of me for knowing my secret.

She is above and beyond all such conventional prejudices.

She is proud of my parentage.

He straightened his slim young shoulders,

As I'm proud of it.

Yes,

Sir,

Proud of it.

Mr.

Grew sank back into his seat with a dry laugh.

Well,

You ought to be.

You come of good stock,

And you're your father's son,

Every inch of you.

He laughed again,

As though the humour of the situation grew on him with its closer contemplation.

Yes,

I've always felt that,

Ronald murmured,

Flushing.

Your father's son,

And no mistake.

Mr.

Grew leaned forward.

You're the son of as big a fool as yourself,

And here he sits,

Ronald Grew.

The young man's flush deepened to crimson,

But Mr.

Grew checked his reply with a decisive gesture.

Here he sits,

With all your young nonsense still alive in him.

Don't you see the likeness?

If you don't,

I'll tell you the story of those letters.

Ronald stared.

What do you mean?

Don't they tell their own story?

I suppose they did when I gave them to you,

But you've given it a twist,

And it needs straightening.

Mr.

Grew squared his elbows on the table and looked at the young man across the gift books and the dyed pampas grass.

I wrote all the letters that Dolbrowski answered.

Ronald gave back his look in frowning perplexity.

You wrote them.

I don't understand.

His letters are all addressed to my mother.

Yes,

And he thought he was corresponding with her.

But my mother,

What did she think?

Mr.

Grew hesitated,

Puckering his thick lids.

Well,

I guess she kind of thought it was a joke.

Your mother didn't think about things much.

Ronald continued to bend a puzzled frown on the question.

I don't understand,

He reiterated.

Mr.

Grew cleared his throat with a nervous laugh.

Well,

I don't know as he ever will,

Quite,

But this is the way it came about.

I had a toughish time of it when I was young.

Oh,

I don't mean so much the fight I had to put up to make my way.

There was always plenty of fight in me.

But inside of myself,

It was kind of lonesome.

And the outside didn't attract callers.

He laughed again with an apologetic gesture toward his broad,

Blinking face.

When I went round with the other young fellows,

I was always the forlorn Hope,

The one that had to eat the drumsticks and dance with the leftovers.

As sure as there was a blighter at the picnic,

I had to swing her and feed her and drive her home.

And all the time I was mad after all the things you've got,

Poetry and music and all the joy forever business.

So there were the pair of us,

My face and my imagination,

Chained together and fighting and hating each other like poison.

Then your mother came along.

She took pity on me.

It sets up a gawky fellow to find a girl who ain't ashamed to be seen walking with him Sundays.

And I was grateful to your mother.

We got along first rate.

Only I couldn't say things to her and she couldn't answer.

Well,

One day,

A few months after we were married,

Dobrofsky came to New York and the whole place went wild about him.

I'd never heard any good music,

But I'd always had an inkling of what it must be like.

Though I couldn't tell you to this day how I knew.

Well,

Your mother read about him in the papers too,

And she thought it'd be the swagger thing to go to New York and hear him play.

So we went.

I'll never forget that evening.

Your mother wasn't easily stirred up.

She never seemed to need to let off steam,

But that night she seemed to understand the way I felt.

And when we got back to the hotel,

She said suddenly,

I'd like to tell him how I feel.

I'd like to sit right down and write to him.

Would you?

I said.

Well,

So would I.

There was paper and pens there before us and I pulled the sheet towards me and began to write.

Is this what you'd like to say to him?

I asked her when the letter was done and she got pink and said,

I don't understand it,

But it's lovely.

And she copied it out and signed her name to it and sent it.

Mr.

Grew paused and Ronald sat silent with lowered eyes.

That's how it began.

And that's where I thought it would end.

But it didn't,

Because Dolbrofsky answered.

His first letter was dated January the 10th,

1872.

I guess you'll find I'm correct.

Well,

I went back to hear him again and I wrote him after the performance and he answered again.

And after that,

We kept it up for six months.

Your mother always copied the letters and signed them.

She seemed to think it was a kind of joke and she was proud of his answering my letters.

But she never went back to New York to hear him again,

Though I saved up enough to give her the treat again.

She was too lazy and she let me go without her.

I heard him three times in New York and in the spring he came to Wingfield and played once at the Academy.

Your mother was sick and couldn't go,

So I went alone.

After the performance,

I meant to get one of the directors to take me in to see him.

But when the time came,

I just went back home and wrote to him instead.

And the month after,

Before he went back to Europe,

He sent your mother a last little note and that picture hanging up there.

Mr.

Grew paused again and both men lifted their eyes to the photograph.

Is that all?

Ronald slowly asked.

That's all,

Every bit of it,

Said Mr.

Grew.

And my mother,

My mother never even spoke to Dolbrowski.

Never.

She never even saw him but that once in New York at his concert.

The blood crept again to Ronald's face.

Are you sure of that,

Sir?

He asked in a trembling voice.

Sure as I am that I'm sitting here.

Why?

She was too lazy to look at his letters after the first novelty wore off.

She copied the answers just to humor me.

But she always said she couldn't understand what we wrote.

But how could you go on with such a correspondence?

It's incredible.

Mr.

Grew looked at his son thoughtfully.

I suppose it is for you.

You've only had to put out your hand and get the things I was starving for.

Music,

Good talk,

Ideas.

Those letters gave me all that.

You've read them and you know Dolbrowski was not only a great musician but a great man.

There was nothing beautiful he didn't see,

Nothing fine he didn't feel.

For six months I breathed his air and I've lived on it ever since.

Do you begin to understand a little now?

Yes,

A little.

But why write in my mother's name?

Why make it a sentimental correspondence?

Mr.

Grew reddened to his bald temples.

Why?

I tell you it began that way as a kind of joke and when I saw that the first letter pleased and interested him I was afraid to tell him.

I couldn't tell him.

Do you suppose he'd have gone on writing if he'd ever seen me Ronnie?

Ronald suddenly looked at him with new eyes but he must have thought your letters very beautiful to go on as he did.

He broke out.

Well I did my best said Mr.

Grew modestly.

Ronald pursued his idea.

Where are all your letters I wonder?

Weren't they returned to you at his death?

Mr.

Grew laughed.

Lord no.

I guess he had trunks and trunks full of better ones.

I guess queens and empresses wrote to him.

I should have liked to see your letters the young man insisted.

Well they weren't bad said Mr.

Grew dryly.

But I'll tell you one thing Ronnie.

Ronald raised his head with a quick glance and Mr.

Grew continued.

I'll tell you where the best of those letters is.

It's in you.

If it hadn't been I couldn't have made you what you are.

Oh I know you've done a good deal of your own making but I've been there behind you all the time and you'll never know the work I've spared you and the time I've saved you.

Fortune Dolbrowski helped me do that.

I never saw things in little again after I'd looked at him with him and I tried to give you the big view from the stars.

So that's what became of my letters.

Mr.

Grew paused and for a long time Ronald sat motionless his elbows on the table his face dropped on his hands.

Suddenly Mr.

Grew's touch fell on his shoulder.

Look here Ronald Grew do you want me to tell you how you're feeling at this minute?

Just a might let down after all at the idea that you ain't the romantic figure you'd got to think yourself.

Well that's natural enough too but I'll tell you what it proves.

It proves you're my son right enough if any more proof was needed.

For it's just the kind of full nonsense I used to feel at your age and if there's anybody here to laugh at it's myself and not you and you can laugh at me just as much as you like.

Reviews

Your choice if stories is wonderful. Stories I would otherwise never be exposed to yet enjoy immensely all because of you sharing. Big thanks your way.

An interesting, curious story. I quite liked it. I hope you read more Edith Wharton to us please. I like the music too. Thanks Mandy🙏🏻

Thank you, Mandy. Is there anyway to listen to parts 1 & 2? I haven’t been able to readily find them on Insight. They are probably there, so I’ll try harder. Thanks again.