The Better Part of Wisdom, Ray Bradbury

The Better Part of Wisdom

The room was like a great warm hearth, lit by an unseen fire, gone comfortable. The fireplace itself struggled to keep a small blaze going on a few wet logs and some turf, which was no more than smoke and several lazy orange eyes of charcoal.

The place was slowly filling, draining, and refilling with music. A single lemon lamp was lit in a far corner, illumining walls painted a summer color of yellow. The hardwood floor was polished so severely it glowed like a dark river upon which floated throw-rugs whose plumage resembled South American wild birds, flashing electric blues, whites, and jungle greens.

White porcelain vases, brimming with freshcut hothouse flowers, kept their serene fires burning on four small tables about the room. Above the fireplace, a serious portrait of a young man gazed out with eyes the same color as the ceramics, a deep blue, raw with intelligence and vitality.

Entering the room quietly, one might not have noticed the two men, they were so still.

One sat reclining back upon the pure white couch, eyes closed. The second lay upon the couch so his head was pillowed in the lap of the other. His eyes were shut, too, listening. Rain touched the windows. The music ended.

Instantly there was a soft scratching at the door.
Both men blinked as if to say: People don’t scratch, they knock.

The man who had been lying down leaped to the door and called: ‘Someone there?’
‘By God, there is,’ said an old voice with a faint brogue.
‘Grandfather!’
With the door flung wide, the young man pulled a small round old man into the warm-lit room.

‘Tom, boy, ah Tom, and glad I am to see you!’
They fell together in bear-hugs, pawing. Then the old man felt the other person in the room and moved back.
Tom spun around, pointing. ‘Grandpa, this is Frank. Frank, this is Grandpa. I mean—oh hell—’

The old man saved the moment by trotting forward to seize and pull Frank to his feet, where he towered high above this small intruder from the night.
‘Frank, is it?’ the old man yelled up the heights.
‘Yes, sir,’ Frank called back down.

‘I—’ said the grandfather, ‘have been standing outside that door for five minutes—’
‘Five minutes?’ cried both young men, alarmed.

‘—debating whether to knock. I heard the music, you see, and finally I said, damn, if there’s a girl with him he can either shove her out the window in the rain or show the lovely likes of her to the old man. Hell, I said, and knocked, and’—he slung down his battered old valise—‘there is no young girl here. I see—or, by God, you’ve smothered her in the closet, eh!’

‘There is no young girl, Grandfather.’ Tom turned in a circle, his hands out to show.
‘But—’ The grandfather eyed the polished floor, the white throw-rugs, the bright flowers, the watchful portraits on the walls. ‘You’ve borrowed her place, then?’

‘Borrowed?’
‘I mean, by the look of the room, there’s a woman’s touch. It looks like them steamship posters I seen in the travel windows half my life.’

‘Well,’ said Frank. ‘We—’
‘The fact is, Grandfather,’ said Tom, clearing his throat, ‘we did this place over. Redecorated.’
‘Redecorated?’ The old man’s jaw dropped. His eyes toured the four walls, stunned. ‘The two of you are responsible? Jesus!’

The old man touched a blue and white ceramic ashtray, and bent to stroke a bright cockatoo throw-rug.
‘Which of you did what?’ he asked, suddenly, squinting one eye at them.
Tom flushed and stammered. ‘Well, we—’

‘Ah, God, no, no, stop!’ cried the old man, lifting one hand. ‘Here I am, fresh in the place, and sniffing about like a crazy hound and no fox. Shut that damn door. Ask me where I’m going, what am I up to, eh, eh? And, while you’re at it, do you have a touch of the Beast in this art gallery?’

‘The Beast it is!’ Tom slammed the door, hustled his grandfather out of his greatcoat, and brought forth three tumblers and a bottle of Irish whiskey, which the old man touched as if it were a newborn babe.

‘Well, that’s more like it. What do we drink to?’
‘Why, you, Grandpa!’

‘No, no.’ The old man gazed at Tom and then at his friend, Frank. ‘Christ,’ he sighed, ‘you’re so damn young it breaks my bones in the ache. Come now, let’s drink to fresh hearts and apple cheeks and all life up ahead and happiness somewhere for the taking. Yes?’

‘Yes!’ said both, and drank.

And drinking watched each other merrily or warily, half one, half the other. And the young saw in the old bright pink face, lined as it was, cuffed as it was by circumstantial life, the echo of Tom’s face itself peering out through the years.

In the old blue eyes, especially, was the sharp bright intelligence that sprang from the old portrait on the wall, that would be young until coins weighted them shut. And around the edges of the old mouth was the smile that blinked and went in Tom’s face, and in the old hands was the quick, surprising action of Tom’s, as if both old man and young had hands that lived to themselves and did sly things by impulse.

So they drank and leaned and smiled and drank again, each a mirror for the other, each delighting in the fact that an ancient man and a raw youth with the same eyes and hands and blood were met on this raining night, and the whiskey was good.

‘Ah, Tom, Tom, it’s a loving sight you are!’ said the grandfather. ‘Dublin’s been sore without you these four years. But, hell, I’m dying. No, don’t ask me how or why. The doctor has the news, damn him, and shot me between the eyes with it.

So I said instead of relatives shelling out their cash to come say good-by to the old horse, why not make the farewell tour yourself and shake hands and drink drinks. So here I am this night and tomorrow beyond London to see Lucie and then Glasgow to see Dick. I’ll stay no more than a day each place, so as not to overload anyone. Now shut that mouth, which is hanging open. I am not out collecting sympathies.

I am eighty, and it’s time for a damn fine wake, which I have saved money for, so not a word. I have come to see everyone and make sure they are in a fit state of halfgraceful joy so I can kick up my heels and fall dead with a good heart, if that’s possible. I—’

‘Grandfather!’ cried Tom, suddenly, and seized the old man’s hands and then his shoulders.

‘Why, bless you, boy, thanks,’ said the old man, seeing the tears in the young man’s eyes. ‘But just what I find in your gaze is enough.’ He set the boy gently back. ‘Tell me about London, your work, this place. You, too, Frank, a friend of Tom’s is as good as my son’s son! Tell everything, Tom!’

‘Excuse me.’ Frank darted toward the door. ‘You both have much to talk about. There’s shopping I must do—’
‘Wait!’
Frank stopped.

For the old man had really seen the portrait over the fireplace now and walked to it to put out his hand, to squint and read the signed name at the bottom.

‘Frank Davis. Is that you, boy? You did this picture?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Frank, at the door.
‘How long ago?’
‘Three years ago, I think. Yes, three.’
The old man nodded slowly, as if this information added to the great puzzle, a continuing bafflement.

‘Tom, do you know who that looks like?’
‘Yes, Grand-da. You. A long time ago.’

‘So you see it, too, eh? Christ in heaven, yes. That’s me on my eighteenth birthday and all Ireland and its grasses and tender maids good for the chewing ahead and not behind me. That’s me, that’s me. Jesus I was handsome, and Jesus, Tom, so are you. And Jesus, Frank, you are uncanny. You are a fine artist, boy.’

‘You do what you can do.’ Frank had come back to the middle of the room, quietly. ‘You do what you know.’

‘And you know Tom, to the hair and eyelash.’ The old man turned and smiled. ‘How does it feel, Tom, to look out of that borrowed face? Do you feel great, is the world your Dublin prawn and oyster?’

Tom laughed. Grandfather laughed. Frank joined them.
‘One more drink.’ The old man poured. ‘And we’ll let you slip diplomatically out. Frank. But come back. I must talk with you.’

‘What about?’ said Frank.
‘Ah, the Mysteries. Of Life, of Time, of Existence. What else did you have in mind, Frank?’
‘Those will do, Grandfather—’ said Frank, and stopped, amazed at the word come out of his mouth. ‘I mean, Mr Kelly—’

‘Grandfather will do.’
‘I must run.’ Frank doused his drink. ‘Phone you later, Tom.’
The door shut. Frank was gone.

‘You’ll sleep here tonight of course, Grandpa?’ Tom seized the one valise. ‘Frank won’t be back. You’ll have his bed.’ Tom was busy arranging the sheets on one of the two couches against the far wall. ‘Now, it’s early. Let’s drink some more, Grandfather, and talk.’

But the old man, stunned, was silent, eying each picture in turn upon the wall. ‘Grand painting, that.’
‘Frank did them.’
‘That’s a fine lamp there.’
‘Frank made it.’
‘The rug on the floor here now—?’
‘Frank.’

‘Jesus,’ whispered the old man, ‘he’s a maniac for work, is he not?’
Quietly, he shuffled about the room like one visiting a gallery.

‘It seems,’ he said, ‘the place is absolutely blowing apart with fine artistic talent. You turned your hand to nothing like this, in Dublin.’
‘You learn a lot, away from home,’ said