Mary McCarthy

by Thomas Mallon

  But the poetry conference, they had all agreed, was an entirely different matter. They owed it to the college as a whole, to the poets, to the national cultural scene, not to permit Henry, led on by Ellison, to abuse a trust that had been voted to him by the Literature department. Only Domna, with her anarchistic sympathies, showed, at the last moment, a tendency to balk at the idea of a departmental confrontation or showdown, but the others had quickly overridden her. It would be better to seek safety in numbers, they argued; to send Aristide as their deputy with such a commission as this one would not be fair to Aristide. And when Domna, almost inaudibly, volunteered to go herself to Henry, she was grateful when the others cried her down. “You mustn’t think of it,” they exclaimed tenderly, gazing at the fragile girl. “Think what happened to Bentkoop.” For Bentkoop, it seemed, had ventured to remonstrate with Henry on some matter touching a student; and just the week before the amazing story began to circulate that John had tried to run down Mulcahy on the streets of Lancaster, a story that nobody believed but that everybody, Mulcahy’s enemies in particular, repeated for a few days for the fun of it—it was said to be attested by a student and there were a number of variants in currency: that it was not Mulcahy but Mrs. Mulcahy, that it was one of the children, that it was the other way around, that Mulcahy had tried to run down Bentkoop.

  Domna had given in, with a rueful backward glance at what Tolstoy would have thought of this performance; she was teaching Anna Karenina that week and had little doubt of his opinion. But she made no objection when it was decided to call in Furness, like the family doctor, of whom Tolstoy also disapproved. Yet when Furness was summoned and made privy to all their fears regarding the poetry conference, everybody, including Domna, experienced great relief. She had been wondering in secret whether they had not been making a mountain out of a molehill; but Furness listened to what they told him with a look of the gravest concern. To him, scandals were amusing only when they had become unavoidable, that is, after the fact; he anticipated them, so to speak, in retrospect.

  And the fact that he had had no knowledge of these rumors that were spreading of boding indignities to elderly poets seemed to convince him of the existence of an emergency. He left Alma’s apartment in a state of spruce discomposure and telephoned back, almost at once, to say that his own researches among the students confirmed what the three had told him. The campus was seething with gossip; it had even reached the village. Mulcahy, to judge by the evidence, had been colossally indiscreet, talking not only to his students, but telling every local tradesman and repairman, in confidence, of the strategies of the poetry conference, which figured now in the local mind as an event like Armageddon, to be followed by Judgment and the final separation of the sheep from the goats. “They’re counting on seeing it in television,” he observed with a despairing laugh. This, in itself, had a certain professorial charm, to which Furness’ wit automatically responded, as to anything apocryphal or fabulous; but as head of the department, he admitted, he could not indulge his own taste. He was obliged to call a halt and play the old fogey. A private summons to a department meeting was already in Domna’s possession when Ellison played into the hands of the enemy by posting that absurd notice.

  As Domna legged it up the worn stairs to Alma’s apartment, she was suddenly conscious, not only of a weakening of purpose, but of a wild, truant feeling of amusement and sympathy for the dreadful Mulcahy. “You know what Tolstoy would have said?” she demanded, bursting into the apartment. “He would have said we are all fools.” Alma came out of the kitchen in an apron, with her short, wiry hair tied up in a scarf. With her usual efficiency, she had already started cooking her supper. Seeing the single chop in the pan on the hot-plate, the frozen peas garishly bubbling in the copper saucepan beside it, the tray set with a woven straw mat, earthenware plate, large blue-green Mexican glass already filled with milk, Domna felt a light compunction toward the regularity of this woman’s life, so different from her own, which was ill-organized and haphazard like her moods. She herself, for example, could never have planned a series of hot menus around her solitude; she ate the same meal every night—an apple, some cheese, a roll, some salami—with the rare variation, after one of her aunt’s visits, of a can of cold borscht with sour cream and some pâté made by a Russian lady in New York. Even so, she had to force herself to do the dishes by deciding every night not to do them, which, as she pointed out to one of her tutees, was a homely illustration of Kierkegaardian freedom; by deciding not to do the dishes, she recovered her freedom to choose to do them. Her whole existence at Jocelyn had a transient and picnicky character, like that of a train trip on hard boards, in the European third class. The sizzling chop in Alma’s pan appalled her, as though it were a foretaste of eternity. It was Domna’s frailty, as a young and egoistic person, to experience in a heightened way a common subjective illusion, which was that her own life was free, determined only by voluntary choices, while the lives of other people around her were subject to harsh necessity. She was now under the impression that she pitied Alma very much, while in reality, on a sudden impulse, she somewhat scorned her.

  “Why would he say that, Domna?” said Alma, indulgently, taking out a bottle of wine and two old-fashioned glasses and pouring them both a drink. She clicked down the heat under the chop and gently pushed the girl into the sitting-room. “Oh,” said Domna, impatiently, tossing the wine in her glass, “we are all so concerned with trivialities—this ridiculous poetry conference; why are we excited about it?” Alma looked grave. “You know,” continued Domna, lightly, “I have a new obsession. All the time, these days, I say to myself, ‘What would Tolstoy think?’ And you know, one always knows. One does not have to call him up on the telephone.” She laughed. “It’s not at all the same with Dostoievsky. I don’t give a damn what he thinks.” Alma leaned forward. “Perhaps that’s because Dostoievsky is the greater artist,” she said seriously. “It’s all there, in the novels; there’s no injunction to action, no trailing moral imperatives, no direct preaching, as they used to say; the morality’s inseparable from the form.” Domna shook her head. “You are wrong. Tolstoy is the greater artist, even in style, which is not important. But Dostoievsky wrote badly. He was slipshod, like a journalist or a popular crime-novelist. ‘Pyotr Stepanovitch flew into the room.’ Not that it matters.” Alma flung up her hands. “Ah,” she laughingly cried, “I hear the terrible things you tell your students. That Dostoievsky is good only for comedy. You’re very reckless, Domna. You ought to be very sure you’re right.” Domna felt a temptation to get into a literary argument; but she checked herself, watching Alma as she arranged her dinner on the tray. “No, thank you,” she said. “Nothing for me.” She hesitated. “I came here to make you a confession,” she said, smiling. “But I don’t seem to be able to do it.”

  “A confession?” Alma’s face was troubled. “Yes,” said Domna, as if carelessly. “I’m afraid I’ve just done something rather awful.” “No!” exclaimed Alma, politely, but with a shade of uneasiness. “I don’t believe you could.” “Wait until you hear. Henry followed me just now, out of the meeting. He wanted me to tell him who was behind our démarche. I’m afraid I may have left him with the impression that it was you.” Alma gave a shrill cry of horror. “Domna!” she exclaimed. “I don’t believe you! How could you have done such a thing?” Domna dropped her eyes. “Purely from motives of self-protection, I’m afraid. The thing is that I don’t know whether I really did it or I didn’t.” Alma made a gesture of impatience; she dropped her fork on her plate with a loud clatter. “You see,” added Domna in a low voice. “I said it was I, after he said it was you. Taken together, this, I think, may have given the impression that I was lying in order to shield you.” She considered this formulation and quickly nodded. “Yes, I think that is right. I believe I may even have wanted to leave that impression. But, as I say, I am not sure. I find it quite impossible, I discover, to describe to you exactly what happened. My words become disobedient, like the voc
al cords of a person who habitually sings off key. I thought I heard the truth for an instant; somewhere I think I can still hear it, very faintly, but it eludes me, like perfect pitch.” Her whole manner was peculiarly dégagé; she set her wine-glass down on the lowboy and began to button her coat. “Domna!” ordered Alma, pointing to the chair opposite her. “Sit down there this instant and tell me what happened, straightforwardly. No more hints, if you please, and leave the interpretation to me.”

  Domna obeyed, with a slight shrug, observing, as she listened to her own words, as to a performance, that this “straightforward” account was extremely misleading—it left her in a better position than she knew herself to be in. But Alma appeared relieved. “You talked too much,” she conceded. “How could you have been so wobbly, Domna, as to let that man stand there and pump you? Couldn’t you at least have been silent, if you knew your own weakness? You ought to have turned on your heel the minute he accosted you with his questions.” Domna laughed. “You look on him as a seducer,” she suggested. “To me, he is more like Hamlet, with his soul-searching questions to Ophelia, ‘Are you honest?’ ” “Well, for that matter,” said Alma, “I think you were honest enough. Too much so. Has it occurred to you that you may have put your little friend, Sheila, in a pickle?” “Naturally,” agreed Domna. “But what am I to do? Must I go and confess to her also?” Alma failed to see that this question was intended ironically. “Of course not,” she said nervously. “You mustn’t think of such a thing. I already shudder to imagine what tales she must be bringing home to her parents.” She carried her tray out to the kitchen and put water on for her coffee. “And yet,” she pondered, returning, “I wonder whether we shouldn’t take measures to protect her, if Henry should be mad enough to try to trace her down through the files. Could we have her come to the department and petition for a change of tutor? You could take her on and she could shift to Aristide’s French section—no, that would be too crude. Oh, I rue the day, Domna, when you called us together to back that man.” The tea-kettle whistled and she hurried out to the kitchen. “And how we treated poor Howie!” Her voice rose above the whistle. “I blush for us in my bed of nights.”

  “Howard was wrong,” said Domna, abruptly. “He was motivated by cynicism and hardness. And you know, Alma, I think that we are wrong now. That is what Tolstoy would tell us.” Alma laughed. “What would he advise us to do, Domna?” “Leave it alone,” called Domna. “It is all nonsense, you know, like worrying about balldresses and fans.” “Hardly that,” said Alma, coming into the room and handing Domna a cup of coffee rather coldly. “Yes, nonsense, Alma,” repeated Domna intensely. “What could Henry do to that wretched well-meaning little Sheila? He is not dangerous, you know.” “He could fail her,” said Alma, succinctly. “And so?” queried Domna, with a laugh. “To fail a course, is that so serious? She could make it up in the summer. None of our students would be damaged by a course of summer reading.” “You young monster,” said Alma, quizzically, shaking her head. “But the emotional experience, Domna,” she added on a rising note. “Think of the emotional experience for that soft, unformed little child.” Domna shrugged. “There are worse emotional experiences. Henry is an interesting man.” Alma pounced. “Look into your own soul, Domna. You’re simply minimizing the effects on Sheila to extenuate your own behavior.” Her dark eyes glowed; she leaned forward, with something in her aspect, thought Domna, of a fishing stork. “Examine your behavior, Domna,” she said coolly, folding her arms. “You come here to confess a mistake and you fall to condoning Henry, which is only an indirect way of condoning yourself for being weak with him.” Domna colored. “And yet what I say may be right,” she murmured. “I may have been led to truth through error.” Alma tapped impatiently on the table but Domna went on. “This poetry conference, think of it, are we not being nonsensical? Who can be hurt by it if it turns into a fracas? And there will be no fracas. It is all some mad vain delusion in the minds of Ellison and Mulcahy, which we pretend to be frightened by for mad vain reasons of our own. And if we do not pull back and examine we will find ourselves, precisely, doing what Henry fears of us—leading a crusade to force Maynard to fire him.” She stood up and rebuttoned her coat. Alma looked thoughtful. “It’s something we must be on guard against,” she admitted, rising. “Heaven knows,” she interjected, alarmedly, “I should not like to hurt poor Cathy and those children. Thank you,” she exclaimed, after a moment’s reflection, and leaned over and gave Domna a quick, warm hug. Domna responded. “You know,” she murmured, “I sometimes think Henry knows us better than we know ourselves. He forces us to choose whenever we see him. He asks only one question, ‘Are you with me or against me?’ ” She lifted her eyes and smiled. Alma walked her to the door; they stood for a moment, arms interlinked and swinging. “That, I suppose,” mused Alma, “that imperative, I mean, must be the heritage of that unfortunate political past of his. I often wonder how he came to it. I was very close once myself, Domna, and yet never, never!” Domna felt a vibrant shudder run through Alma’s frame. “It was a question of my freedom, I suppose,” Alma continued, with a faraway, firm look in her eyes. Domna’s lips parted and closed again, with reluctance. She had been about to make a suggestion but Alma’s dreamy, romantic expression restrained her, just as John Bentkoop, on a previous occasion, had been restrained, though Domna did not know it, by the belief in her own eyes.

  CHAPTER XII

  The Poets Convene

  JOCELYN’S MOOT poetry conference opened on a fine Friday afternoon in April with the usual difficulties of transportation. Like so many small colleges, Jocelyn had preserved its historic atmosphere at the price of having been passed over by the railroads, the nearest main station being in Harrisburg, twenty-eight miles away. This fact having been made known to the poets, an afternoon train was named, which could be conveniently met by the official welcomers after the last class hour and before the appointed baptism of cocktails at the President’s house—this arrangement, as was pointed out in an official purple hectographed schedule issuing from the President’s office, would give the men poets plenty of time to “get acquainted” with the department and the lady poets time to “wash up.”

  Yet the poets, as usual at such affairs, elected to display their individualism and their freedom from the trammels of the academic by ignoring the train suggested and arriving by diverse routes and at different hours of the day. Some came by car too late for the cocktail party, and also for dinner in commons, having stopped, so they said, to explore the cloisters at Ephrata, so that some faculty-wives in their dinner dresses were obliged to turn to and make sandwiches and coffee. One deaf old poet appeared in the morning and spent the whole day wandering about the campus, lonely as a cloud. One, taking unfair advantage of the provision for expenses, arrived by plane in Pittsburgh, whence he telephoned collect for somebody to come and get him; one came on Saturday morning; one did not come at all. The poet of the masses hitchhiked and was picked up on the highway by some students, who carried him off to Gus’s. The English poet arrived in York, unannounced, having discovered a local train that no one else knew existed. One old freedom-loving poet descended from a parlor-car with his wife, who had not been specified in the invoice; this produced a momentary upheaval in the sleeping arrangements, for it had been planned to create a men’s dormitory in Howard Furness’ upstairs and a women’s dormitory at Miss Rejnev’s. The problem was solved at the last moment by Mrs. Fortune’s offer to vacate her apartment—after a number of beds had already been hauled about by members of the baseball team. In short, of the eleven poets who accepted (representing, in many cases, a second choice on the part of the committee, since a number of the original invitees had to decline, citing prior commitments to attend several other poetry conferences being held the same week on The Contemporary Neglect of Poetry), only one, a woman lyricist, arrived at the proper time and place, and this, as it turned out, proved most inconvenient, requiring two special trips on the part of Considine Van Tour in his ne
w red convertible, which could not travel more than twenty miles an hour, for he had failed to recognize, at first blush, in the large woman with the grip, whom he took for one of the church-workers so prevalent in the neighborhood, the subject of the Cecil Beaton photograph that appeared on the back jacket of her books.

  Yet in this large, comfortable woman, with tight-drawn bands of black hair and a Sunday-meeting hat, who alighted at long last soughing on Miss Rejnev’s doorstep, he had found much sharp discrimination and a worldly understanding of life. They had had a most rewarding conversation on the trip back, concerning the various factional struggles within the department, which he felt it his duty to apprise her of, lest she be made the victim of a deception; she listened with great acuteness to what he himself feared was a rather confused account of the outrageous behavior of Henry Mulcahy and Herbert Ellison, whom he did not hesitate to warn her against by name; and it pleased him to be able to turn her over to Domna with the assurance, “I leave you in good hands,” and see her nod in return, a great, calm, capable nod, like a wink of the universe, that accepted the reliability of her landlady in supra-mundane matters. Meanwhile, other poets, riding perilously in Mulcahy’s swaying old Plymouth, were also “getting to know” the department, an experience they took quite calmly, since it happened to them at every college.