Mr Thompson's Prodigal

"Mr. Thompson's Prodigal" by Bret Harte is a poignant short story that explores themes of redemption, familial bonds, and the contrasts between rural and urban life. The narrative follows the journey of a wayward son, who has strayed far from his humble beginnings and the values instilled by his caring father, Mr. Thompson. As the prodigal grapples with his past choices and the allure of his old life, the story delves into the tensions between ambition and integrity, ultimately highlighting the enduring power of love and forgiveness. Harte's vivid characterizations and richly depicted settings bring depth to this exploration of human relationships and moral dilemmas.

• Short story

								
We all knew that Mr. Thompson was looking for his son, and a pretty bad
one at that. That he was coming to California for this sole object was
no secret to his fellow-passengers; and the physical peculiarities, as
well as the moral weaknesses, of the missing prodigal were made equally
plain to us through the frank volubility of the parent. "You was
speaking of a young man which was hung at Red Dog for sluice-robbing,"
said Mr. Thompson to a steerage passenger, one day; "be you aware of
the color of his eyes?" "Black," responded the passenger. "Ah," said
Mr. Thompson, referring to some mental memoranda, "Char-les's eyes was
blue." He then walked away. Perhaps it was from this unsympathetic mode
of inquiry, perhaps it was from that Western predilection to take a
humorous view of any principle or sentiment persistently brought before
them, that Mr. Thompson's quest was the subject of some satire among the
passengers. A gratuitous advertisement of the missing Charles, addressed
to "Jailers and Guardians," circulated privately among them; everybody
remembered to have met Charles under distressing circumstances. Yet
it is but due to my countrymen to state that when it was known that
Thompson had embarked some wealth in this visionary project, but little
of this satire found its way to his ears, and nothing was uttered in
his hearing that might bring a pang to a father's heart, or imperil
a possible pecuniary advantage of the satirist. Indeed, Mr. Bracy
Tibbets's jocular proposition to form a joint-stock company to
"prospect" for the missing youth received at one time quite serious
entertainment.

Perhaps to superficial criticism Mr. Thompson's nature was not
picturesque nor lovable. His history, as imparted at dinner, one day, by
himself, was practical even in its singularity. After a hard and wilful
youth and maturity,--in which he had buried a broken-spirited wife, and
driven his son to sea,--he suddenly experienced religion. "I got it in
New Orleans in '59," said Mr. Thompson, with the general suggestion
of referring to an epidemic. "Enter ye the narrer gate. Parse me the
beans." Perhaps this practical quality upheld him in his apparently
hopeless search. He had no clew to the whereabouts of his runaway son;
indeed, scarcely a proof of his present existence. From his indifferent
recollection of the boy of twelve, he now expected to identify the man
of twenty-five.

It would seem that he was successful. How he succeeded was one of the
few things he did not tell. There are, I believe, two versions of the
story. One, that Mr. Thompson, visiting a hospital, discovered his son
by reason of a peculiar hymn, chanted by the sufferer, in a delirious
dream of his boyhood. This version, giving as it did wide range to the
finer feelings of the heart, was quite popular; and as told by the Rev.
Mr. Gushington, on his return from his California tour, never failed to
satisfy an audience. The other was less simple, and, as I shall adopt it
here, deserves more elaboration.

It was after Mr. Thompson had given up searching for his son among the
living, and had taken to the examination of cemeteries, and a careful
inspection of the "cold hic jacets of the dead." At this time he was a
frequent visitor of "Lone Mountain,"--a dreary hill-top, bleak enough in
its original isolation, and bleaker for the white-faced marbles by which
San Francisco anchored her departed citizens, and kept them down in
a shifting sand that refused to cover them, and against a fierce and
persistent wind that strove to blow them utterly away. Against this wind
the old man opposed a will quite as persistent,--a grizzled, hard face,
and a tall, crape-bound hat drawn tightly over his eyes,--and so spent
days in reading the mortuary inscriptions audibly to himself. The
frequency of Scriptural quotation pleased him, and he was fond of
corroborating them by a pocket Bible. "That's from Psalms," he said,
one day, to an adjacent grave-digger. The man made no reply. Not at all
rebuffed, Mr. Thompson at once slid down into the open grave, with a
more practical inquiry, "Did you ever, in your profession, come across
Char-les Thompson?" "Thompson be d----d!" said the grave-digger,
with great directness. "Which, if he hadn't religion, I think he is,"
responded the old man, as he clambered out of the grave.

It was, perhaps, on this occasion that Mr. Thompson stayed later than
usual. As he turned his face toward the city, lights were beginning
to twinkle ahead, and a fierce wind, made visible by fog, drove him
forward, or, lying in wait, charged him angrily from the corners of
deserted suburban streets. It was on one of these corners that something
else, quite as indistinct and malevolent, leaped upon him with an oath,
a presented pistol, and a demand for money. But it was met by a will of
iron and a grip of steel. The assailant and assailed rolled together on
the ground. But the next moment the old man was erect; one hand grasping
the captured pistol, the other clutching at arm's length the throat of a
figure, surly, youthful, and savage.

"Young man," said Mr. Thompson, setting his thin lips together, "what
might be your name?"

"Thompson!"

The old man's hand slid from the throat to the arm of his prisoner,
without relaxing its firmness.

"Char-les Thompson, come with me," he said, presently, and marched his
captive to the hotel. What took place there has not transpired, but it
was known the next morning that Mr. Thompson had found his son.

It is proper to add to the above improbable story, that there was
nothing in the young man's appearance or manners to justify it. Grave,
reticent, and handsome, devoted to his newly found parent, he assumed
the emoluments and responsibilities of his new condition with a certain
serious ease that more nearly approached that which San Francisco
society lacked, and--rejected. Some chose to despise this quality as a
tendency to "psalm-singing"; others saw in it the inherited qualities
of the parent, and were ready to prophesy for the son the same hard
old age. But all agreed that it was not inconsistent with the habits of
money-getting, for which father and son were respected.

And yet, the old man did not seem to be happy. Perhaps it was that
the consummation of his wishes left him without a practical mission;
perhaps--and it is the more probable--he had little love for the son he
had regained. The obedience he exacted was freely given, the reform he
had set his heart upon was complete; and yet, somehow, it did not
seem to please him. In reclaiming his son, he had fulfilled all the
requirements that his religious duty required of him, and yet the act
seemed to lack sanctification. In this perplexity, he read again the
parable of the Prodigal Son,--which he had long ago adopted for
his guidance,--and found that he had omitted the final feast

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