Read Online A Charmed Life by Mary McCarthy - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary McCarthy
Tags: General Fiction
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big living-room window; the badminton set. It was a comic spectacle, Warren ineluctably knew; Miles could hardly keep from guffawing, and he did not blame him. Smiling apologetically, he got out the whisk broom and began to brush off the cushioned benches so they could put the sneezing baby down; he used the feather duster on the piano. Removing his kerchief, flushing, he explained for the hundredth time that a modern house did not have much storage space. “Damn fool,” he said, vehemently, “pardon my French, I ought to have had the sense to build a two-story garage.” He knew the Murphys were thinking that it was Jane’s fault and he hated them for thinking it; at the same time, he mildly and politely desired to share their mirth. Miles was prowling about the room, studying the derelict objects with the air of a scientific connoisseur. “What, for God’s sake, is this, Warren?” he demanded, pointing to the infra-red broiler that Jane had got last Christmas, when they were trying a high-protein diet. Warren explained how it worked or, rather, he gamely joked, how it had worked. Jane was in the house, getting a tray of drinks, and it gave him a queer feeling to be jesting so boldly without her, almost like an escapade.
“Why, it’s a regular cemetery of their hobbies,” Miles expatiated to Helen. Warren gently smiled. “That’s what John Sinnott told me,” he agreed. “He says I should do a painting, ‘The Artist in His Studio.’ Only he thinks I should call it, ‘The American Artist in His Studio.’” “Ah,” said Miles, nodding. All at once, his belly began to heave. “That’s good,” he cried, slapping his thigh. “Damn good!” He shook his handkerchief open and wiped the tears from his eyes. Dust flew. Warren waited courteously till the temblor of mirth had subsided. Thanks to Martha’s explanation, he was able to see what John and Miles saw: a satiric canvas, after Titian, in which he himself, the artist, a tiny dusty figure, was pushed into one corner, while his wife’s scientific gadgets and games and decorative fads monstrously took over the foreground. But to him, as he had tried to make clear to Martha, the objects in the room were not ridiculous, though he could see how in the aggregate they might appear so, to an outsider. To him, they evoked exciting memories, of midnight feasts shared with Jane, bicycle trips, skating on winter ponds, ping-pong rallies, doughnuts and cider; the piano made him think of Jane’s mother, and the deep-freeze recalled the hurricane two years ago when the electricity had been off three days and the road blocked, and they had lost nine gallons of assorted ice creams, which he and Jane had poured into buckets and taken on foot to the goat-lady. And it was not Jane’s fault that the appliances broke down; it was partly the climate—the sea air was bad for machines. She was not a good housekeeper, but, darn it, he admired her for that. All the women in her family had been fanatic housekeepers, and Jane had had the gumption to rebel. Martha had shrieked when Jane admitted that Warren had not had an ironed shirt in three years, but if he did not mind, why should Martha object? He would rather have Jane’s companionship than a stiff shirt any day. So he always said, and what was more he meant it. In his young days, he had been quite a dandy: he had carried a stick and yellow gloves and had his clothes made by a Turkish tailor. But those days were over. He had let Jane give his things away to a refugee without batting an eye. You could not dress like a stuffed shirt in New Leeds unless you were a dodo. It was John Sinnott, actually, that New Leeds chuckled over, when he came to parties in a dark business suit and white shirt. And Warren did not go to the city often enough any more to make it worth while to own a city suit. For those rare occasions, his gray corduroy, with a necktie, looked perfectly all right, especially if Jane touched up the shirt collar
“Why, it’s a regular cemetery of their hobbies,” Miles expatiated to Helen. Warren gently smiled. “That’s what John Sinnott told me,” he agreed. “He says I should do a painting, ‘The Artist in His Studio.’ Only he thinks I should call it, ‘The American Artist in His Studio.’” “Ah,” said Miles, nodding. All at once, his belly began to heave. “That’s good,” he cried, slapping his thigh. “Damn good!” He shook his handkerchief open and wiped the tears from his eyes. Dust flew. Warren waited courteously till the temblor of mirth had subsided. Thanks to Martha’s explanation, he was able to see what John and Miles saw: a satiric canvas, after Titian, in which he himself, the artist, a tiny dusty figure, was pushed into one corner, while his wife’s scientific gadgets and games and decorative fads monstrously took over the foreground. But to him, as he had tried to make clear to Martha, the objects in the room were not ridiculous, though he could see how in the aggregate they might appear so, to an outsider. To him, they evoked exciting memories, of midnight feasts shared with Jane, bicycle trips, skating on winter ponds, ping-pong rallies, doughnuts and cider; the piano made him think of Jane’s mother, and the deep-freeze recalled the hurricane two years ago when the electricity had been off three days and the road blocked, and they had lost nine gallons of assorted ice creams, which he and Jane had poured into buckets and taken on foot to the goat-lady. And it was not Jane’s fault that the appliances broke down; it was partly the climate—the sea air was bad for machines. She was not a good housekeeper, but, darn it, he admired her for that. All the women in her family had been fanatic housekeepers, and Jane had had the gumption to rebel. Martha had shrieked when Jane admitted that Warren had not had an ironed shirt in three years, but if he did not mind, why should Martha object? He would rather have Jane’s companionship than a stiff shirt any day. So he always said, and what was more he meant it. In his young days, he had been quite a dandy: he had carried a stick and yellow gloves and had his clothes made by a Turkish tailor. But those days were over. He had let Jane give his things away to a refugee without batting an eye. You could not dress like a stuffed shirt in New Leeds unless you were a dodo. It was John Sinnott, actually, that New Leeds chuckled over, when he came to parties in a dark business suit and white shirt. And Warren did not go to the city often enough any more to make it worth while to own a city suit. For those rare occasions, his gray corduroy, with a necktie, looked perfectly all right, especially if Jane touched up the shirt collar
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