Library of America, a nonprofit organization,
champions our nation’s cultural heritage
by publishing America’s greatest writing in
authoritative new editions and providing resources
for readers to explore this rich, living legacy.
MARY MCCARTHY
NOVELS & STORIES 1942–1963
The Company She Keeps
The Oasis
The Groves of Academe
A Charmed Life
Stories
Thomas Mallon, editor
THE LIBRARY OF AMERICA
Volume compilation, notes, and chronology copyright © 2017 by
Literary Classics of the United States, Inc., New York, N.Y.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without
the permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The Company She Keeps copyright © 1942 by Mary McCarthy, renewed
1970 by Mary McCarthy. The Groves of Academe copyright © 1952 by
Mary McCarthy, renewed 1980 by Mary McCarthy. A Charmed Life
copyright © 1955 by Mary McCarthy, renewed 1983 by Mary McCarthy.
“The Weeds,” “The Friend of the Family,” “The Cicerone,” “The Old
Men,” from Cast a Cold Eye copyright © 1950 by Mary McCarthy,
renewed 1977 by Mary McCarthy. Published by arrangement with
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
The Oasis copyright © 2013 by The Mary McCarthy Literary Trust.
Published by arrangement with Melville House Publishing, LLC.
“The Company Is Not Responsible,” The New Yorker, April 22, 1944,
copyright © 1944 by Mary McCarthy. “The Unspoiled Reaction,” Atlantic
Monthly, March 1946, copyright © 1946 by Mary McCarthy. “The
Appalachian Revolution,” The New Yorker, September 11, 1954, copyright
© 1954 by Mary McCarthy. “The Hounds of Summer,” The New Yorker,
September 14, 1963, copyright © 1963 by Mary McCarthy.
Published by arrangement with The Mary McCarthy Literary Trust.
Distributed to the trade in the United States
by Penguin Random House Inc.
and in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Ltd.
LIBRARY OF AMERICA, a nonprofit publisher, is dedicated to publishing, and keeping in print, authoritative editions of America’s best and most significant writing. Each year the Library adds new volumes to its collection of essential works by America’s foremost novelists, poets, essayists, journalists, and statesmen.
Visit our website at www.loa.org to find out more about Library of America
and to explore our popular Story of the Week and Moviegoer features.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016946087
ISBN 978–1–59853–516–7
eISBN 978–1–59853–526–6
First Printing
The Library of America—290
Manufactured in the United States of America
Mary McCarthy: Novels and Stories 1942–1963
is published with support from
a friend of
Library of America
Contents
THE COMPANY SHE KEEPS
THE OASIS
THE GROVES OF ACADEME
A CHARMED LIFE
STORIES from Cast a Cold Eye
The Weeds
The Friend of the Family
The Cicerone
The Old Men
UNCOLLECTED STORIES
The Company Is Not Responsible
The Unspoiled Reaction
The Appalachian Revolution
The Hounds of Summer
Chronology
Note on the Texts
Notes
THE COMPANY SHE KEEPS
CONTENTS
Foreword
1. Cruel and Barbarous Treatment
2. Rogue’s Gallery
3. The Man in the Brooks Brothers Shirt
4. The Genial Host
5. Portrait of the Intellectual as a Yale Man
6. Ghostly Father, I Confess
Foreword
“Try to remember. When did you have it last?” we say to that exasperating friend who opens her pocketbook and finds something missing, something ordinary and indispensable, glasses, a coin purse, a driver’s license. If we are patient, we go over her day with her—“I know I had it on the bus because . . . I’m sure I saw it when I paid my lunch check . . .” If we are energetic, we accompany her while she retraces her steps, back to the stocking counter, the phone booth, the doctor’s office: we watch her day unroll before us, like a movie film that is run off backwards, where the diver floats up from the water and lands on the springboard.
“When did you have it last?” the author adjures the distracted heroine, who is fumbling in her spiritual pocketbook for a missing object, for the ordinary, indispensable self that has somehow got mislaid. It is a case of lost identity. The author and the reader together accompany the heroine back over her life’s itinerary, pausing occasionally to ask: “Was it here? Did you still have it at this point?” and suspecting, in spite of her protests, that perhaps she never took it with her at all when she started off in the morning.
It is not only scenes and persons but points of view that are revisited—the intimate “she,” the affectionate, diminutive “you,” the thin, abstract, autobiographical “I.” If the reader is moved to ask: “Can all this be the same person?” why, that is the question that both the heroine and the author are up against. For the search is not conclusive: there is no deciding which of these personalities is the “real” one; the home address of the self, like that of the soul, is not to be found in the book.
MARY MCCARTHY
ONE
Cruel and Barbarous Treatment
SHE could not bear to hurt her husband. She impressed this on the Young Man, on her confidantes, and finally on her husband himself. The thought of Telling Him actually made her heart turn over in a sudden and sickening way, she said. This was true, and yet she knew that being a potential divorcee was deeply pleasurable in somewhat the same way that being an engaged girl had been. In both cases, there was at first a subterranean courtship, whose significance it was necessary to conceal from outside observers. The concealment of the original, premarital courtship had, however, been a mere superstitious gesture, briefly sustained. It had also been, on the whole, a private secretiveness, not a partnership of silence. One put one’s family and one’s friends off the track because one was still afraid that the affair might not come out right, might not lead in a clean, direct line to the altar. To confess one’s aspirations might be, in the end, to publicize one’s failure. Once a solid understanding had been reached, there followed a short intermission of ritual bashfulness, in which both parties awkwardly participated, and then came the Announcement.
But with the extramarital courtship, the deception was prolonged where it had been ephemeral, necessary where it had been frivolous, conspiratorial where it had been lonely. It was, in short, serious where it had been dilettantish. That it was accompanied by feelings of guilt, by sharp and genuine revulsions, only complicated and deepened its delights, by abrading the sensibilities, and by imposing a sense of outlawry and consequent mutual dependence upon the lovers. But what this interlude of deception gave her, above all, she recognized, was an opportunity, unparalleled in her experience, for exercising feelings of superiority over others. For her husband she had, she believed, only sympathy and compunction. She got no fun, she told the Young Man, out of putting horns on her darl
ing’s head, and never for a moment, she said, did he appear to her as the comic figure of the cuckolded husband that one saw on the stage. (The Young Man assured her that his own sentiments were equally delicate, that for the wronged man he felt the most profound respect, tinged with consideration.) It was as if by the mere act of betraying her husband, she had adequately bested him; it was supererogatory for her to gloat, and, if she gloated at all, it was over her fine restraint in not-gloating, over the integrity of her moral sense, which allowed her to preserve even while engaged in sinfulness the acute realization of sin and shame. Her overt superiority feelings she reserved for her friends. Lunches and teas, which had been time-killers, matters of routine, now became perilous and dramatic adventures. The Young Man’s name was a bright, highly explosive ball which she bounced casually back and forth in these feminine tête-à-têtes. She would discuss him in his status of friend of the family, speculate on what girls he might have, attack him or defend him, anatomize him, keeping her eyes clear and impersonal, her voice empty of special emphasis, her manner humorously detached. While all the time . . . !
Three times a week or oftener, at lunch or tea, she would let herself tremble thus on the exquisite edge of self-betrayal, involving her companions in a momentous game whose rules and whose risks only she herself knew. The Public Appearances were even more satisfactory. To meet at a friend’s house by design and to register surprise, to strike just the right note of young-matronly affection at cocktail parties, to treat him formally as “my escort” at the theater during intermissions—these were triumphs of stage management, more difficult of execution, more nerve-racking than the lunches and teas, because two actors were involved. His over-ardent glance must be hastily deflected; his too-self-conscious reading of his lines must be entered in the debit side of her ledger of love, in anticipation of an indulgent accounting in private.
The imperfections of his performance were, indeed, pleasing to her. Not, she thought, because his impetuosities, his gaucheries, demonstrated the sincerity of his passion for her, nor because they proved him a new hand at this game of intrigue, but rather because the high finish of her own acting showed off well in comparison. “I should have gone on the stage,” she could tell him gaily, “or been a diplomat’s wife or an international spy,” while he would admiringly agree. Actually, she doubted whether she could ever have been an actress, acknowledging that she found it more amusing and more gratifying to play herself than to interpret any character conceived by a dramatist. In these private theatricals it was her own many-faceted nature that she put on exhibit, and the audience, in this case unfortunately limited to two, could applaud both her skill of projection and her intrinsic variety. Furthermore, this was a play in which the donnée was real, and the penalty for a missed cue or an inopportune entrance was, at first anyway, unthinkable.
She loved him, she knew, for being a bad actor, for his docility in accepting her tender, mock-impatient instruction. Those superiority feelings were fattening not only on the gullibility of her friends, but also on the comic flaws of her lover’s character, and on the vulnerability of her lover’s position. In this particular hive she was undoubtedly queen bee.
The Public Appearances were not exclusively duets. They sometimes took the form of a trio. On these occasions the studied and benevolent carefulness which she always showed for her husband’s feelings served a double purpose. She would affect a conspicuous domesticity, an affectionate conjugal demonstrativeness, would sprinkle her conversation with “Darlings,” and punctuate it with pats and squeezes till her husband would visibly expand and her lover plainly and painfully shrink. For the Young Man no retaliation was possible. These endearments of hers were sanctioned by law, usage, and habit; they belonged to her role of wife and could not be condemned or paralleled by a young man who was himself unmarried. They were clear provocations, but they could not be called so, and the Young Man preferred not to speak of them. But she knew. . . . Though she was aware of the sadistic intention of these displays, she was not ashamed of them, as she was sometimes twistingly ashamed of the hurt she was preparing to inflict on her husband. Partly she felt that they were punishments which the Young Man richly deserved for the wrong he was doing her husband, and that she herself in contriving them was acting, quite fittingly, both as judge and accused. Partly, too, she believed herself justified in playing the fond wife, whatever the damage to her lover’s ego, because, in a sense, she actually was a fond wife. She did have these feelings, she insisted, whether she was exploiting them or not.
Eventually, however, her reluctance to wound her husband and her solicitude for his pride were overcome by an inner conviction that her love affair must move on to its next preordained stage. The possibilities of the subterranean courtship had been exhausted; it was time for the Announcement. She and the Young Man began to tell each other in a rather breathless and literary style that The Situation Was Impossible, and Things Couldn’t Go On This Way Any Longer. The ostensible meaning of these flurried laments was that, under present conditions, they were not seeing enough of each other, that their hours together were too short and their periods of separation too dismal, that the whole business of deception had become morally distasteful to them. Perhaps the Young Man really believed these things; she did not. For the first time, she saw that the virtue of marriage as an institution lay in its public character. Private cohabitation, long continued, was, she concluded, a bore. Whatever the coziness of isolation, the warm delights of having a secret, a love affair finally reached the point where it needed the glare of publicity to revive the interest of its protagonists. Hence, she thought, the engagement parties, the showers, the big church weddings, the presents, the receptions. These were simply socially approved devices by which the lovers got themselves talked about. The gossip value of a divorce and remarriage was obviously far greater than the gossip value of a mere engagement, and she was now ready, indeed hungry, to hear What People Would Say.
The lunches, the teas, the Public Appearances were getting a little flat. It was not, in the end, enough to be a Woman With A Secret, if to one’s friends one appeared to be a woman without a secret. The bliss of having a secret required, in short, the consummation of telling it, and she looked forward to the My-dear-I-had-no-idea’s, the I-thought-you-and-Tom-were-so-happy-together’s, the How-did-you-keep-it-so-dark’s with which her intimates would greet her announcement. The audience of two no longer sufficed her; she required a larger stage. She tried it first, a little nervously, on two or three of her closest friends, swearing them to secrecy. “Tom must hear it first from me,” she declared. “It would be too terrible for his pride if he found out afterwards that the whole town knew it before he did. So you mustn’t tell, even later on, that I told you about this today. I felt I had to talk to someone.” After these lunches she would hurry to a phone booth to give the Young Man the gist of the conversation. “She certainly was surprised,” she could always say with a little gush of triumph. “But she thinks it’s fine.” But did they actually? She could not be sure. Was it possible that she sensed in these luncheon companions, her dearest friends, a certain reserve, a certain unexpressed judgment?
It was a pity, she reflected, that she was so sensitive to public opinion. “I couldn’t really love a man,” she murmured to herself once, “if everybody didn’t think he was wonderful.” Everyone seemed to like the Young Man, of course. But still . . . She was getting panicky, she thought. Surely it was only common sense that nobody is admired by everybody. And even if a man were universally despised, would there not be a kind of defiant nobility in loving him in the teeth of the whole world? There would, certainly, but it was a type of heroism that she would scarcely be called upon to practice, for the Young Man was popular, he was invited everywhere, he danced well, his manners were ingratiating, he kept up intellectually. But was he not perhaps too amiable, too accommodating? Was it for this that her friends seemed silently to criticize him?
At this time a touch of acridity entered
into her relations with the Young Man. Her indulgent scoldings had an edge to them now, and it grew increasingly difficult for her to keep her make-believe impatience from becoming real. She would look for dark spots in his character and drill away at them as relentlessly as a dentist at a cavity. A compulsive didacticism possessed her: no truism of his, no cliché, no ineffectual joke could pass the rigidity of her censorship. And, hard as she tried to maintain the character of charming schoolmistress, the Young Man, she saw, was taking alarm. She suspected that, frightened and puzzled, he contemplated flight. She found herself watching him with impersonal interest, speculating as to what course he would take, and she was relieved but faintly disappointed when it became clear that he ascribed her sharpness to the tension of the situation and had decided to stick it out.
The moment had come for her to tell her husband. By this single, cathartic act, she would, she believed, rid herself of the doubts and anxieties that beset her. If her husband were to impugn the Young Man’s character, she could answer his accusations and at the same time discount them as arising from jealousy. From her husband, at least, she might expect the favor of an open attack, to which she could respond with the prepared defense that she carried, unspoken, about with her. Further, she had an intense, childlike curiosity as to How Her Husband Would Take It, a curiosity which she disguised for decency’s sake as justifiable apprehension. The confidences already imparted to her friends seemed like pale dress rehearsals of the supreme confidence she was about to make. Perhaps it was toward this moment that the whole affair had been tending, for this moment that the whole affair had been designed. This would be the ultimate testing of her husband’s love, its final, rounded, quintessential expression. Never, she thought, when you live with a man do you feel the full force of his love. It is gradually rationed out to you in an impure state, compounded with all the other elements of daily existence, so that you are hardly sensible of receiving it. There is no single point at which it is concentrated; it spreads out into the past and the future until it appears as a nearly imperceptible film over the surface of your life. Only face to face with its own annihilation could it show itself wholly, and, once shown, drop into the category of completed experiences.
Mary McCarthy Page 1
