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Being a New Variation of an Ancient Theme

A STORY FOR GROWN-UPS

I

“A certain man had two sons“–so begins the best and most famous story
in the world’s literature. Use of the absolute superlative is always
dangerous, but none will gainsay that statement, I am sure. This story,
which follows that familiar tale afar off, indeed, begins in the same
way. And the parallelism between the two is exact up to a certain point.
What difference a little point doth make; like the little fire, behold,
how great a matter it kindleth! Indeed, lacking that one detail the
older story would have had no value; it would not have been told;
without its addition this would have been a repetition of the other.

When the modern young prodigal came to himself, when he found himself no
longer able to endure the husks of the swine like his ancient exemplar,
when he rose and returned to his father because of that distaste, he
found no father watching and waiting for him at the end of the road!
Upon that change the action of this story hangs. It was a pity, too,
because the elder brother was there and in a mood not unlike that of his
famous prototype.

Indeed, there was added to that elder brother’s natural resentment at
the younger’s course the blinding power of a great sorrow, for the
father of the two sons was dead. He had died of a broken heart.
Possessed of no omniscience of mind or vision, he had been unable to
foresee the long delayed turning point in the career of his younger son
and death came too swiftly to enable them to meet again. So long as he
had strength, that father had stood, as it were, at the top of the hill
looking down the road watching and hoping.

And but the day before the tardy prodigal’s return he had been laid away
with his own fathers in the God’s acre around the village church in the
Pennsylvania hills. Therefore there was no fatted calf ready for the
disillusioned youth whose waywardness had killed his father. It will be
remembered that the original elder brother objected seriously to fatted
calves on such occasions. Indeed, the funeral baked meats would coldly
furnish forth a welcoming meal if any such were called for.

For all his waywardness, for all his self-will, the younger son had
loved his father well, and it was a terrible shock to him (having come
to his senses) to find that he had returned too late. And for all his
hardness and narrowness the eldest son also had loved his father
well–strong tribute to the quality of the dead parent–and when he
found himself bereft he naturally visited wrath upon the head of him who
he believed rightly was the cause of the untimely death of the old man.

As he sat in the study, if such it might be called, of the departed,
before the old-fashioned desk with its household and farm and business
accounts, which in their order and method and long use were eloquent of
his provident and farseeing father, his heart was hot within his breast.
Grief and resentment alike gnawed at his vitals. They had received vivid
reports, even in the little town in which they dwelt, of the wild doings
of the wanderer, but they had enjoyed no direct communication with him.
After a while even rumour ceased to busy itself with the doings of the
youth. He had dropped out of their lives utterly after he passed over
the hills and far away.

The father had failed slowly for a time, only to break suddenly and
swiftly in the end. And the hurried frantic search for the missing had
brought no results. Ironically the god of chance had led the young man’s
repentant footsteps to the door too late.