The Group

by Mary McCarthy

  “I don’t know how you feel out in Boise, but there’s a big change here in the East since Roosevelt came in., Probably, as an old Townley man, you distrust him; frankly, I don’t. You’ve read about the influx of professors into government; that is the key to the change, which may mean a bloodless revolution in our own time, with brain replacing finance capital in the management of our untapped resources. The Marxist boys here in New York make a mistake when they expect a final struggle between capital and labor; both capital and labor in their present morphology can be expected to dissolve. The fact that Roosevelt is a patrician is significant, and Kay tells me, by the way, proudly, that he was a trustee of Vassar. I’m wandering a little from the point, but I guess you see the bearing: I feel that my marriage to Kay is a pledge to the future. That sounds rather mystical, but I do have a mystical feeling about her, a sense of ‘rightness’ or destiny, call it what you will. Don’t ask whether I love her; love, apart from chemical attraction, is still an unknown quantity to me. Which you may have divined. She’s a very strong young woman with a radiant, still-undisciplined vitality. You and Mother may not like her at first, but that vitality of hers is necessary to me; it wants form and direction, which I think I can give her.

  “By the way, would Mother mind asking Kay to call her Judith when she writes? Like all modern girls, she has a horror of calling a mother-in-law ‘Mother,’ and ‘Mrs. Petersen’ sounds so formal. Make Mother understand. Kay already thinks of you as Anders and is moved by the quality of our relationship—yours and mine, I mean. I’ve been trying to put the story of your life into a play, but Kay, who has studied theatre at Vassar under a funny, electric little woman, says I have no knack yet for dramatic construction; she may be right, I fear. Oh, Anders …”

  Here the letter broke off; it had never been finished, and Kay wondered what he had said in the letter he finally wrote. There were other unfinished letters too in his rickety suitcase, some to her at Vassar, and several beginnings of a short story or novel, so old that the paper was turning yellow, and the first two acts of his play. The letter, Kay thought, was awfully well written, like everything Harald did, yet reading it had left her with the queerest, stricken feeling. There was nothing in it that she did not already know in a sense, but to know in a sense, apparently, was not the same as knowing. Harald, she had had to admit, had never concealed from her that he had had relations with other women and had even toyed with the idea of marrying them or being married by them. And she had heard all that about her social class (though, when he talked to her, he usually said it was finished) and Roosevelt and his not feeling sure that he loved her and “in a spirit of irony.” Maybe it was just that that made reading the letter so disappointing. It was finding that Harald was just the same all through, which in a funny way made him different. Curiosity was a terrible thing; she had started reading the letter, knowing she shouldn’t, with the thought that she might learn more about him and about herself too. But instead of telling her more about him, the letter was almost a revelation of the limitations of Harald. Or was it only that she did not like to see him “baring his soul” to his father?

  Yet the letter had told her something, she reflected now as she listened to Harald on the telephone (the Blakes evidently were coming) and methodically tossed her salad. The letter explained, in so many words, what her attraction was—something she had never been clear about. When she had first met him in the summer theatre he had treated her like one of the hoi polloi, ordering her around, criticizing the way she hammered flats, sending her on errands to the hardware store. “You’ve got paint in your hair,” he told her one night when the company was having a party and he had asked her to dance; he had just had a fight with the leading lady, a married woman, with whom he was sleeping—her husband was a lawyer in New York. Another time, when they were all having beer in a roadhouse, he had strolled over to her table, where she was sitting with some of the other apprentices, to say—guess what—that her shoulder straps showed. Kay could hardly believe it when he promised to write to her after she went back to Vassar, but he had—a short, casual note—and she had answered, and he had come up for a weekend to see the Hall Play she directed, and now here they were, married. Yet she had never felt sure of him; up to the last minute, she had feared he might be using her as a pawn in a game he was playing with some other woman. Even in bed, he kept his sang-froid; he did the multiplication tables to postpone ejaculating—an old Arab recipe he had learned from an Englishman. Kay dished up her beans. She was “not afraid of life,” she repeated to herself; she had “a radiant vitality.” Their marriage was “a pledge to the future.” Instead of feeling chagrined by this and wishing he had said something more romantic, she should realize that this was her strong suit and play it; never mind those Blakes—a lease was a pledge to the future. No matter what people said, she would not give up the Apartment. She did not know why it meant so much to her—whether it was the Venetian blinds or the concierge or the darling little dressing room or what. She felt she would die if they lost it. And what would they do instead—go back to that sordid Village room across the hall from Dick Brown till Harald’s plans were more “settled”? No! Kay set her jaw. “There are other apartments, dear,” she could hear her mother say. She did not want another apartment; she wanted this one. It was the same as when she had wanted Harald and feared she was going to lose him every time she did not get a letter. She had not given up and said “There are other men,” the way a lot of girls would; she had held on. And it was not only her; for Harald it would be an awful disaster psychologically to relinquish his Life plan and go backward after a single defeat—not to mention losing the deposit, a whole month’s rent.

  They sat down to the meal. The Blakes were coming at 8:30. Kay kept glancing at the lowboy, just behind Harald, where her pocketbook was lying stuffed with upholstery samples. She wondered whether she should not get it over with and show them to Harald before Norine and Putnam came. After bridge, it would be late, and Harald, she suspected, would be wanting to have intercourse; on a night like this she could hardly say no, even though it meant that after her douche, it would be one o’clock before she closed her eyes (thanks to those multiplication tables), and tomorrow morning before going to work would be no time to show him the samples; he would be snappish if she woke him up for that. Yet they would have to decide soon; two weeks on upholstery was the rule at Macy’s. The beds and pots and pans and lamps and a table and all that would have to be ordered too, but at least they were there in the warehouse and you only needed two days for delivery. She thought they should have hair mattresses, which were more expensive but healthier; Consumers’ Research admitted that. Her confidence fled as she passed the butter to Harald; only the other night, they had had quite a debate, ending in tears on her part, about margarine vs. butter—margarine, Harald maintained, was just as tasty and nourishing, but the butter interests had conspired to keep the margarine people from coloring their product; he was right, yet she could not bear to have that oily white stuff on her table, even if her reaction to the whiteness was a conditioned reflex based on class prejudice. Now he speared a piece of butter with a bitter smile, which Kay tried not to notice. Maybe she was not afraid of life, but she was certainly afraid of Harald.

  She decided to edge in to the topic of the samples by a little light chatter about her day in the store; she was worried that if she did not talk Harald might sink into one of his Scandinavian glooms. “You know what?” she said gaily. “I think I was ‘shopped’ today.” That was like having a sprung test in college: a professional Macy shopper, pretending to be a customer, was assigned to evaluate every trainee at one time during his or her six months’ training. The bosses did not tell you this would happen, but of course the word leaked out. “I’m in ‘Better Suits’ this week, did I tell you?” Harald knew that Kay would be shifted around so that she would learn every aspect of merchandising, besides listening to lectures from the executives of the different departments. “Well, this after
noon I had this customer who insisted on trying on every suit on the floor and was dissatisfied with just about everything. It got to be almost closing time, and she couldn’t make up her mind between a black wool with caracul trim and a blue severe tweed, fitted, with a dark-blue velvet collar. So she wanted me to send for the fitter, to get her opinion, and the fitter said she should take both and winked at me, to give me a tip, I guess. They grade you on politeness, good humor, general personality, but the main point is whether you can sell. You flunk if the shopper goes away without buying anything. And, what do you think, thanks to the fitter, this woman in the end bought both suits. Not really ‘bought’ of course; instead of going down to the workrooms, the suits are returned to stock if the customer is a Macy shopper. That way you can tell. But on the other hand if a real customer buys something and returns it, that counts as a mark against you; it means you oversold. …”

  Harald sat chewing in silence; finally, he laid down his fork. In the face of this coldness, Kay could not continue. “Go on, my dear,” he said, as her voice flagged and halted. “This is highly interesting. From what you say, I expect you’ll be valedictorian of your Macy class. You may even find me a job in the rug department or selling refrigerators—isn’t that considered a man’s sphere?” “Yes,” replied Kay, mechanically responding to a request for information. “Only they never start a man in those departments; you have to have other experience in selling first.” Then she dropped her fork and buried her curly head in her hands. “Oh, Harald! Why do you hate me?”

  “Because you ask tedious questions like that,” he retorted. Kay’s face flamed; she did not want to cry, because the Blakes were coming. Harald must have thought of the same thing, for when he spoke again it was in a different tone. “I don’t blame you, dear Kay,” he said gravely, “for comparing yourself to me as a breadwinner. God knows you have a right to.” “But I wasn’t comparing myself to you!” Kay raised her head in outrage. “I was just making conversation.” Harald smiled sadly. “I was not blaming you,” he repeated. “Harald! Please believe me!” She seized his hand. “The thought of a comparison never entered my mind! It couldn’t. I know that you’re a genius and that I’m just a B-average person. That’s why I can coast along in life and you can’t. And I haven’t helped you enough; I know it. I shouldn’t have let you come home to dinner while you were rehearsing; I shouldn’t have made us have cocktails. I should have thought of the strain you were under. …” She felt his hand go flaccid in hers and realized she was blundering again; at least she had avoided naming his lateness at the theatre, which was the real thought that kept preying on her conscience.

  He flung her hand aside. “Kay,” he said. “How many times have I pointed out to you that you’re an unconscionable egotist? Observe how you’ve shifted the center of the drama to yourself. It was I who was fired today, not you. You had nothing to do with it. Being late”—he smiled cruelly—“had nothing to do with it, despite what you’ve been insinuating in your clumsy way for the last two weeks. You’ve developed a time-clock mentality. Nobody takes that ‘hour for dinner’ seriously in the theatre—except you. You saw the night you were there; nothing started for half an hour after we pulled in. Everybody sits around playing pinochle. …” Kay nodded. “All right, Harald. Forgive me.” But he was still angry. “I’ll thank you,” he said, “for keeping your petty-bourgeois conscience out of my affairs. It’s your way of cutting me down to size. You pretend to accuse yourself, but it’s me you’re accusing.” Kay shook her head. “No, no,” she said. “Never.” Harald raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You protest too much,” he remarked, in a lighter tone; she could see that his mood was changing again. “In any case,” he continued, “all that had nothing to do with it. You are on the wrong track, my girl. The nance hates me; that’s all.” “Because you’re superior,” murmured Kay.

  “That, yes,” said Harald. “Doubtless, there was that.” “‘Doubtless’?” cried Kay, affronted by the judicious, qualifying note in his voice. “Why, of course that was it.” It would be just like Harald to start hairsplitting now, when they were both agreed that the basic motivations were as clear as noonday. “What do you mean, ‘doubtless’?” He shook his head and smiled. “Oh, Harald, please tell me!” “Go and make us some coffee, like a good girl.” “No. Harald, tell me!” Harald lit his pipe. “Do you know the story of Hippolytus?” he said finally. “Why, naturally,” protested Kay. “Don’t you remember, we did it at college in Greek, with Prexy playing Theseus? I wrote you, I built the scenery—the big statues of Artemis and Aphrodite. Golly, that was fun. And Prexy forgot his lines and adlibbed ‘To be or not to be’ in Greek, and only old Miss MacCurdy, the head of the Greek department, knew the difference. She’s deaf but she spotted it even with her ear trumpet.” Harald waited, drumming his fingers. “Well?” said Kay. “Well,” said Harald, “if you change the sex of Phaedra …” “I don’t understand. What would happen if you changed the sex of Phaedra?” “You would have the inside story of my getting the ax. Now, make us the coffee.” Kay stared, nonplused. She could not see the connection.

  “Buggery,” said Harald. “I, though not a virgin, am the chaste Hippolytus of the farce, which the play, incidentally, is. A male defending his virtue is always a farcical figure.” Kay’s jaw dropped. “You mean somebody wanted to bugger you? Who? The director?” she gasped. “The other way round, I believe. He assured me that he had a luscious ass.” “When? This afternoon?” Kay was torn between horror and curiosity. “Flits have always been attracted to me”—he had told her that last summer (there had been two who were like that in the company), and then it had made her excited and sort of envious. “No, no. Some weeks ago,” said Harald. “The first time, that is.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” The thought that he had kept such a thing from her cut her to the heart. “There was no reason for you to know.” “But how did it happen? What did he say to you? Where were you?” “In Shubert Alley,” he said. “I was a little liquored up that evening, and in my mood of geniality, I may have given him what he took for signs of encouragement. He suggested that we repair to his apartment later.” “Oh, God!” cried Kay. “Oh, Harald, you didn’t—?” “No, no,” he replied soothingly. “It was an uninviting prospect. The old fruit must be forty.” For a second, Kay was relieved and, at the same time (wasn’t that queer?), almost let down; then a fresh suspicion attacked her. “Harald! Do you mean you would have done it with someone younger? A chorus boy?” She felt sick thinking of the nights he had worked late, and yet there was this funny itch to know. “I can’t answer hypothetical questions,” Harald said, rather impatiently. “The problem hasn’t come up.” “Oh,” said Kay, dissatisfied. “But the director—did he try again?” Harald admitted that he had. One night late, he had reached for Harald’s crotch. “And what happened?” Harald shrugged. “Erection is fairly automatic in the normal male, you know.” Kay turned pale. “Oh, Harald! You encouraged him!” All at once, she was frenzied with jealousy; it took Harald some time to calm her. In her heart was the horrible certainty that erection would not have been so automatic if she had not always been asleep when Harald tiptoed into their bedroom. And how did she know he tiptoed? Because (did he ever suspect this?) she was not always really asleep. Tonight, she decided, they would have intercourse no matter how tired she was when the Blakes left.

  Kay yawned and slipped off Harald’s lap, where he had taken her to comfort her (“I like your freckles,” he had whispered. “And your wild black gipsy hair”). “I’ll make the coffee,” she said. As she turned to go, he reached out and patted her behind, which made her think, distrustfully, of the director. What had got into her, recently, that prompted her to distrust Harald and to always think there was something more than he was telling her behind every little incident he related? To tell the truth, she had wondered sometimes if there could not be some other explanation of the director’s persecution, and now that she knew what it was (“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”), she still wondered whe
ther there was not more to that than Harald said. How far had he let the “nance” go? She could not help remembering a story he had told her, while she was still in college, about undressing an older actress in her apartment and then just leaving her up in the air on her blue percale sheets with scalloped borders.

  Kay believed in Harald completely; she had no doubt he was bound to be famous, sooner or later, in whatever field he chose. But believing in him was different from believing him. In fact, the more impressed she was by him intellectually (his I.Q. must be in the genius percentile), the more she noticed his little lapses. And why was it that, with all his talent, he was still a stage manager when other people of his own age, people not nearly as bright, had forged ahead of him? Was there something wrong with him that was evident to producers and directors and not to her? She wished he would let her give him the Binet and some of the personality tests she had tried on the group at Vassar.

  Once, during exam week (and nobody knew this but her), he had tried to commit suicide by driving somebody’s car off a cliff. The car had rolled over without hurting him, and he had climbed out and walked back to the place where he was staying. The next day the couple he was visiting had sent for a tow truck to pull the car up and the only damage was that acid from the battery had dripped over the upholstery, making holes in it, and ruined Harald’s English hat, which had fallen off his head when the car turned over. This suicide attempt had impressed her terrifically, and she treasured the letter in which he described it; she could not imagine having the coolness to do such a thing herself and certainly not in someone else’s car. He had done it, he said, on a sudden impulse, because he saw his future laid out for him and he did not want to be a tame husband, not even hers. When the attempt failed so miraculously, he had taken it as a sign, he wrote her, that Heaven had decreed their union. Now, however, that she knew Harald better, she wondered whether he had not driven off the cliff by accident; admittedly, he had been drinking applejack at the time. She hated having these suspicions of Harald and she did not know which was worse: to be scared that your husband might kill himself if the slightest little thing went wrong or to be guessing that it was all a cover-up for something commonplace like driving-under-the-influence.