Giovanni's Room Read Free Page A

right to be the son of such a mother.
    Years later, when I had become a man, I tried to get my father to talk about my mother. But Ellen was dead, he was about to marry again. He spoke of my mother, then, as Ellen had spoken of her and he might, indeed, have been speaking of Ellen.
    They had a fight one night when I was about thirteen. They had a great many fights, of course; but perhaps I remember this one so clearly because it seemed to be about me.
    I was in bed upstairs, asleep. It was quite late. I was suddenly awakened by the sound of my father’s footfalls on the walk beneath my window. I could tell by the sound and the rhythm that he was a little drunk and I remember that at that moment a certain disappointment, an unprecedented sorrow entered into me. I had seen him drunk many times and had never felt this way—on the contrary, my father sometimes had great charm when he was drunk—but that night I suddenly felt that there was something in it, in him, to be despised.
    I heard him come in. Then, at once, I heard Ellen’s voice.
    â€œAren’t you in bed yet?” my father asked. He was trying to be pleasant and trying to avoid a scene, but there was no cordiality in his voice, only strain and exasperation.
    â€œI thought,” said Ellen, coldly, “that someone ought to tell you what you’re doing to your son.”
    â€œWhat I’m doing to my son?” And he was about to say something more, something awful; but he caught himself and only said, with a resigned, drunken, despairing calm: “What are you talking about, Ellen?”
    â€œDo you really think,” she asked—I was certain that she was standing in the center of the room, with her hands folded before her, standing very straight and still—“that you’re the kind of man he ought to be when he grows up?” And, as my father said nothing: “He
is
growing up, you know.” And then, spitefully, “Which is more than I can say for you.”
    â€œGo to bed, Ellen,” said my father—sounding very weary.
    I had the feeling, since they were talking about me, that I ought to go downstairs and tell Ellen that whatever was wrong between my father and myself we could work out between us without her help. And, perhaps—which seems odd—I felt that she was disrespectful of
me
. For I had certainly never said a word to her about my father.
    I heard his heavy, uneven footfalls as he moved across the room, towards the stairs.
    â€œDon’t think,” said Ellen, “that I don’t know where you’ve been.”
    â€œI’ve been out—drinking—” said my father, “and now I’d like to get a little sleep. Do you mind?”
    â€œYou’ve been with that girl, Beatrice,” said Ellen. “That’s where you always are and that’s where all your money goes and all your manhood and self-respect, too.”
    She had succeeded in making him angry. He began to stammer. “If you think—if you
think
—that I’m going to stand—stand—stand here—and argue with
you
about my private life—
my
private life!—if you think I’m going to argue with
you
about it, why, you’re out of your mind.”
    â€œI certainly don’t care,” said Ellen, “what you do with yourself. It isn’t
you
I’m worried about. It’s only that you’re the only personwho has any authority over David. I don’t. And he hasn’t got any mother. And he only listens to me when he thinks it pleases you. Do you really think it’s a good idea for David to see you staggering home drunk all the time? And don’t fool yourself,” she added, after a moment, in a voice thick with passion, “don’t fool yourself that he doesn’t know where you’re coming from, don’t think he doesn’t know about your women!”
    She was wrong. I don’t think I did know about