Загадочная история Бенджамина Баттона / The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

” “But I’m big for my age.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure of that,” he said. “I was as big as you when I was twelve.”

This was not true—it was all part of Roger Button’s silent agreement with himself to believe in his son’s normality.

Finally a compromise was reached. Benjamin was to continue to dye his hair[8 - Benjamin was to continue to dye his hair.—Бенджамин должен был продолжать красить свои волосы.]. He was to make a better attempt to play with boys of his own age.

He was not to wear his spectacles or carry a cane in the street. In return he was allowed his first suit of long trousers.

Of Benjamin Button’s life between his twelfth and twenty-first year I intend to say little. They were years of normal ungrowth. When Benjamin was eighteen he reminded of a man of fifty; he had more hair and it was of a dark gray; his step was firm, his voice had lost its cracked quaver and turned into a healthy baritone. So his father sent him up to Connecticut to take examinations for entrance to Yale College.

Benjamin passed his examination and became a member of the freshman class.

On the third day after his matriculation he received a notification from Mr. Hart, the college registrar, to call at his office and arrange his schedule. Benjamin, glancing in the mirror, decided that his hair needed a new application of its brown dye, but suddenly he saw that the dye bottle was not there. Then he remembered he had emptied it the day before and thrown it away.

He was due at the registrar’s in five minutes. There seemed to be no help for it. He must go as he was. He did.

“Good-morning,” said the registrar politely. “You’ve come to inquire about your son.”

“Why, as a matter of fact, my name’s Button—” began Benjamin, but Mr. Hart cut him off.

“I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Button. I’m expecting your son here any minute.”

“That’s me!” burst out Benjamin. “I’m a freshman.

”

“What!”

“I’m a freshman.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

“Not at all.”

The registrar frowned and glanced at a card before him.

“Why, I have Mr. Benjamin Button’s age down here as eighteen.” “That’s my age,” asserted Benjamin, flushing slightly[9 - flushing slightly—слегка краснея].

The registrar eyed him wearily. “Now surely, Mr. Button, you don’t expect me to believe that.[10 - Now surely, Mr.