The Lords of Discipline Read Online Free PDF Page B

with a resolute sense of commitment to form, and the power to be amused slightly by the whole long journey. Long ago, her face had become beautiful to me.
    We neared the house. Abigail was an unflaggingly dedicated student of her husband’s ancestral place. It was an education she gladly shared with me, and though I had no abiding interest in interior or exterior design, her enthusiasm was catching. There was no antidote against one of Abigail’s enthusiasms. In this extraordinary house I learned about the difference between Hepplewhite and Regency, and between Chippendale and Queen Anne. I could point out to tourists who happened by while I was reading on the wicker couch on the lower piazza, the enormous stone quoins at the entranceway, the exceptional stuccowork in those princely downstairs rooms, and the intricate delicacy of the woodwork. A passing knowledge of the Tradd-St. Croix mansion was a liberal education in itself.
    It was impossible to study the history of South Carolina without encountering the venerable Huguenot name of St. Croix again and again. It was a name with an enviable, irreproachable past (unless one considered owning slaves reproachable, which, of course, the St. Croixs did not) but an uncertain future; it was a name ominously endangered by extinction. The rich and the well-born were not prodigious reproducers of their rare, thin-boned species, and my roommate Tradd had found himself in the unenviable position of bearing complete responsibility for carrying on the family name. He was the last St. Croix and the burden of extending the line weighed heavily upon him even though it was a subject he assiduously avoided. I had more first cousins than a mink, or so it often seemed. If I died suddenly, the name of McLean would flourish prodigally for a thousand years; if Tradd died, the St. Croix name would survive only as a street name, a house name, and in distinguished references in history books. The grandeur and terror of extinction had formed the character of Tradd and had nearly ruined the life of his father, Commerce.
    We found Commerce St. Croix where I usually found him when I came to this house—in the upstairs sitting room watching television.
    “It took you long enough to come visit us, boy,” he said formally as he rose to shake my hand. “I’ve been waiting around since morning for you to show up.”
    Unconsciously, he led me to a seat beside him, while his eyes returned to the television. Commerce never looked at the person he was talking to during a conversation. Nor did he ever seem to change expression. Fury or joy or grief, it did not matter; Commerce had one face and only one face to offer the world.
    “I have many duties since I became regimental commander,” I said, unbuttoning the bottom two buttons of my dress whites as I slumped into the chair.
    “You were born a private, Will. My boy, Tradd, is a first lieutenant,” Commerce said, addressing the television. If I did not watch myself, I would find myself speaking to the television, too.
    “I know, Commerce. I room with your boy.”
    “Thank God you’re back, Will,” Commerce moaned. “Now I can talk to someone who knows a baseball score or two. Hell, Abigail and Tradd think the Boston Red Sox are a new clothing fad.”
    “I’m glad you’re back too, Will,” Abigail intervened quietly. “Now I can quit pretending that I’m interested in baseball scores. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll make us some tea.” She slipped down the back stairway, once more the dutiful wife.
    Staring fiercely at the screen, Commerce said, “Your last year, boy. You’ll be an Institute man in June.”
    “Just like you, Commerce.”
    “What does it feel like? Tradd doesn’t talk to me very much.”
    “It feels real different. My penis grew a foot and a half over the summer. That’s how I could tell graduation was getting close.”
    “It’ll have to grow larger than that if you expect to be a real Institute man,” he