travelers.” He laughed delightedly at his new and improved metaphor, which called up for us both the mischief in Skipper’s smile and in the way he crinkled up his sky-blue eyes as he stared off into the distance at something known only to himself. Then my father’s face clouded as he remembered what it had cost him to “win” Skipper, universally popular on campus and in constant demand as future headmaster, teacher, and family man. “When Skipper began spending more time with me than anyone else, everyone hated me.”
“Not everyone,” I suggested. “What about Granny?”
“Hortense resented me, too.”
“But Granny loves you like her own son. I know she does.” How much like a little boy he looked when the hurt showed through, a little boy with a round, chubby face and a button nose, but he hadn’t heard me. He was looking through me, back to a time I couldn’t envision, when he had felt the first lashes of hostility, the first stings of envy, when he had learned this was the price he must pay, again and again, for having been born with a superabundance of gifts.
“They all hated me,” he said with the sadness of one who believes nothing can alter his fate, “and they still do.”
“They may not like you as much as they should, but they don’t hate you.”
“Dear child! If only it were so …”
T HE H ILLS ’ THREE children, all of whom I had come to know well, viewed Orson Welles much as he himself viewed Maurice Bernstein: an interloper grabbing love that didn’t belong to him. From them I learned that Orson the schoolboy did not find many friends among his peers. Although he was widely admired, he was also seen as imperious and full of himself. He was envied because his close relationship with Skipper gave him privileges not conferred on any other Todd boy before or since. These included a room of his own and permission to cut any class that didn’t interest him. Pleading asthma and flat feet, he excused himself from gym and most forms of physical exercise except swimming, which he happened to like. Thus the budding young director was able to devote most of his time and energy to putting onan astounding number of plays. His talent for self-promotion was equally evident: Under an assumed name, he touted his own productions in the school newspaper.
As for Granny Hill, while she did not resent my father as he believed, she did wonder in retrospect whether she had been too permissive, allowing him to take advantage of her easygoing hospitality. Almost every night, to the consternation of the Hill children, young Orson could be found holding forth at the dinner table. And after dinner, he moved into the Hills’ bedroom, making himself comfortable on their bed and continuing, as Granny recalled “to talk his head off until we had to throw him out.” By that time, it was often two or three in the morning.
“I was always exhausted back then,” Granny remembered, “what with staying up every night with Orson and then having my two girls and baby boy to take care of the next day, not to mention all the school stuff I had to do for Skipper.”
“Then why did you permit it?” I asked her.
“I should have laid down the law more—I see that now—but if you could have heard your dad, Chris, the way he talked at that age. The ideas he had. The words he used. Skipper couldn’t get over it. We’d never had a boy like Orson before. He was so far ahead of himself, it kind of scared us …” And she chuckled, remembering those sleepless nights, then heaved a deep sigh. “It’s never been easy, loving Orson. You know, whenever he came to see us, he expected to be the center of attention, and our own kids were supposed to take a backseat. I couldn’t talk to anyone but him, and if I did, if I turned away or ignored him, he’d look hurt. Why, sometimes he got so upset, he walked right out of the room!”
“Then what happened?”
“Oh, he’d be back before you knew it, ready to charm us
“Not everyone,” I suggested. “What about Granny?”
“Hortense resented me, too.”
“But Granny loves you like her own son. I know she does.” How much like a little boy he looked when the hurt showed through, a little boy with a round, chubby face and a button nose, but he hadn’t heard me. He was looking through me, back to a time I couldn’t envision, when he had felt the first lashes of hostility, the first stings of envy, when he had learned this was the price he must pay, again and again, for having been born with a superabundance of gifts.
“They all hated me,” he said with the sadness of one who believes nothing can alter his fate, “and they still do.”
“They may not like you as much as they should, but they don’t hate you.”
“Dear child! If only it were so …”
T HE H ILLS ’ THREE children, all of whom I had come to know well, viewed Orson Welles much as he himself viewed Maurice Bernstein: an interloper grabbing love that didn’t belong to him. From them I learned that Orson the schoolboy did not find many friends among his peers. Although he was widely admired, he was also seen as imperious and full of himself. He was envied because his close relationship with Skipper gave him privileges not conferred on any other Todd boy before or since. These included a room of his own and permission to cut any class that didn’t interest him. Pleading asthma and flat feet, he excused himself from gym and most forms of physical exercise except swimming, which he happened to like. Thus the budding young director was able to devote most of his time and energy to putting onan astounding number of plays. His talent for self-promotion was equally evident: Under an assumed name, he touted his own productions in the school newspaper.
As for Granny Hill, while she did not resent my father as he believed, she did wonder in retrospect whether she had been too permissive, allowing him to take advantage of her easygoing hospitality. Almost every night, to the consternation of the Hill children, young Orson could be found holding forth at the dinner table. And after dinner, he moved into the Hills’ bedroom, making himself comfortable on their bed and continuing, as Granny recalled “to talk his head off until we had to throw him out.” By that time, it was often two or three in the morning.
“I was always exhausted back then,” Granny remembered, “what with staying up every night with Orson and then having my two girls and baby boy to take care of the next day, not to mention all the school stuff I had to do for Skipper.”
“Then why did you permit it?” I asked her.
“I should have laid down the law more—I see that now—but if you could have heard your dad, Chris, the way he talked at that age. The ideas he had. The words he used. Skipper couldn’t get over it. We’d never had a boy like Orson before. He was so far ahead of himself, it kind of scared us …” And she chuckled, remembering those sleepless nights, then heaved a deep sigh. “It’s never been easy, loving Orson. You know, whenever he came to see us, he expected to be the center of attention, and our own kids were supposed to take a backseat. I couldn’t talk to anyone but him, and if I did, if I turned away or ignored him, he’d look hurt. Why, sometimes he got so upset, he walked right out of the room!”
“Then what happened?”
“Oh, he’d be back before you knew it, ready to charm us
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