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ISBN-13:

9781466896611

Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Publication date: 04/04/2017
Series: FSG Classics
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: eBook
Pages: 512
Sales rank: 290,864
File size: 2 MB

Jean Stafford (1915-79) was the author of three novels, Boston Adventure, The Mountain Lion, The Catherine Wheel, as well as several children's and nonfiction books. She was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1970.
Jean Stafford (1915-79) was the author of three novels, Boston Adventure, The Mountain Lion, The Catherine Wheel, as well as several children's and nonfiction books. She was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1970.
Joyce Carol Oates has published more than 40 novels and is the recipient of several awards, including the National Book Award, the PEN/Malamud Award for Excellence in Short Fiction, and the Normal Mailer Prize for Lifetime Achievement. Her bestselling novels include them, We Were the Mulvaneys, and Blonde.

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The Collected Stories of Jean Stafford

By Jean Stafford

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Copyright © 2005 Nora Cosgrove
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-9661-1

CHAPTER 1

Maggie Meriwether's Rich Experience

There was a hole so neat that it looked tailored in the dead center of the large round beige velours mat that had been thrown on the grass in the shade of the venerable sycamore, and through it protruded a clump of mint, so chic in its air of casualness, so piquant in its fragrance in the heat of mid-July, that Mme Floquet, a brisk Greek in middle life, suggested, speaking in French with a commandingly eccentric accent, that her host, Karl von Bubnoff, M. le Baron, had contrived it all with shears and a trowel before his Sunday guests arrived at his manorial house, Magnamont, in Chantilly. It was quite too accidental to be accidental, she declared; it was quite too Surrealist to be a happenstance. Mme Floquet had the look and the deportment of a dark wasp; her thin, sharp fingers, crimson-tipped, fiddled with her bracelets, made of rare old coins ("Oh, Byzantine, I daresay, or something of the sort," she had said carelessly to someone who had admired them; one knew that she knew perfectly well the pedigree and the value of each of them), and through smoked glasses of a rosy cast she gave her lightning-paced regard to a compact that had cunningly been made from a tiger cowrie shell and given by M. le Baron to Mrs. Preston, whose birthday it was today. Mrs. Preston, a Russian, was as Amazonian and fair as Mme Floquet was elfin and swart, and she was the beneficiary of so large a fortune, left to her by an American husband (he had manufactured pills), that in certain quarters she was adored. (Mme Floquet, who was dependent for her livelihood on the largess of a moody Danish lover, had been heard to remark, "I can't say that Tanya carries her money as well as she might, but that sort of thing — money, I mean — can't be ignored. I'd not refuse the offer of the Koh-i-noor, even though it wouldn't be my style." Because of this forbearance on the part of Mme Floquet, she and Mrs. Preston were the best of friends, and the little Greek had frequently accepted presents of slightly worn sables and the use of second-best motorcars.)

It was Mme Floquet's chaffing tone that was immediately adopted by the whole party. The conceit of their host's rising before the dew was dry and arranging this neat tatter and its rural adornment amused them, and, to his delight, they ragged him; someone proposed that he had really done it the night before by moonlight and had recited incantations that would endow this particular herb with magic properties — black or benign, the speaker would not care to guess. Rejoicing in his witty nature, they recalled the Baron's fête champêtre of the summer before, when there had actually been jousting and tilting, the knights being jockeys from Longchamp in papier-mâché armor executed by Christian Dior. Someone else, returning to the present joke, said, "If this were Tennessee, we could have mint juleps." But Mme Floquet, who tended to be tutorial, replied to this, "Those, I believe, are made with Bourbon whiskey, and the taste of that, I assure you, is insupportable. I had some one day in America by mistake." She shuddered and her bracelets sang.

Maggie Meriwether, who was from Nashville and was the only American present, and who was abroad for the first time in her young life, blushed at this mention of her native state and country as if someone had cast an aspersion on her secret lover; she was gravely, cruelly homesick. Her French, acquired easily and then polished painstakingly at Sweet Briar, had forsaken her absolutely the very moment the Channel boat docked in Calais, and while, to her regret and often to her bitter abasement, she had understood almost everything she had heard since she had been in France, she had not been able to utter a word. Not so much as "Merci" and certainly not so much as "Merci beaucoup." She had been sure that if she did, she would be greeted with rude laughter (not loud but penetrating), cool looks of disdain, or simply incomprehension, as if she were speaking a Finnish dialect. Her parents, who had had to be cajoled for a year into letting her go to Europe alone, had imagined innumerable dreadful disasters — the theft of her passport or purse, ravishment on the Orient Express, amoebic dysentery, abduction into East Berlin — but it had never occurred to them that their high-spirited, self-confident, happy daughter would be bamboozled into muteness by the language of France. Her itinerary provided for two weeks in Paris, and she had suffered through one week of it when, like an angel from heaven, an Englishman called Tippy Akenside showed up at her hotel at the very moment when she was about to dissolve in tears and book passage home. She had met Tippy in London at a dinner party — the English ate awful food and drank awful drinks, but they surely did speak a nice language — and had liked him, and she would have been pleased to see him again anywhere; seeing him in Paris at the crucial moment had almost caused her to fall in love with him, though young men with wavy black hair and bad teeth had never appealed to her. He had been wonderfully understanding of her dilemma (he had had a similar experience in Germany when he had gone there for a holiday from Eton), and the evening before, which had begun at Maxim's and ended at Le Grand Seigneur with rivers of champagne, he had proposed this day in the country as a cheerful relaxation. He was a friend of the Baron and knew most of the people who were to be at the party, and he assured her that all of them spoke English. He had promised on his word of honor that he would manage cleverly to make everyone speak it — English was ever so smart these days, he said — and do so without embarrassing her. Tippy's word of honor had proved to be no longer than a nonsense syllable, and his cleverness as a social arbiter evidently existed only in his mind. For English was not being spoken, not even by — especially not by — Tippy. Not one of the company was French, although they looked it; as for their host, M. le Baron was the son of a Viennese father and a half-French, half-Irish mother.

Maggie had loathed Tippy Akenside from the moment they got out of his Renault. Looking back, she saw that he was a poor driver — not reckless but gawky — so that they had made the trip in fits and starts, and he had not paid any attention at all to her except for making introductions.

Not only was she miserable over the death grip in which the cat had got her tongue; she was feeling very country-looking, although she had thought she looked quite smart when she set out from Paris. The other ladies had all brought a change of clothes, had taken off their city dresses and their city shoes and were wearing stunning linen shorts and shirts and Italian sandals. They had not, however, removed their jewels; rubies and emeralds and diamonds were visible at the open necks of their informal shirts; fashionably crude-cut gems of inestimable worth glittered at their wrists and ears; Mrs. Preston wore an ankle bracelet of star sapphires. Maggie, in a tie-silk print and high-heeled shoes (and, oh, lackamercy on us, stockings!) and a choker of cultured pearls, could not tell whether they were all really not aware that she was there or whether they thought that Tippy, who was descended from a long line of eccentrics (and, thought Maggie, of traitors), had brought along his mother's tweeny for some sort of awful joke. She did not know, that is, whether she was invisible or whether she was an eyesore too excruciating to look at. Certainly they were managing marvelously to rise above her presence.

Maggie was sorry that she was not enjoying her experience, because she was sure it was a rich one for a simple country-club girl from Tennessee. M. le Baron was a handsome, sparkling man whom many women, according to Tippy, wished to marry. All but a few diehards, mainly girls of a greedy and romantic age, had sensibly faced up to the fact that he would remain a bachelor forever, because he basked in a perfectly rapturously happy marriage to his demesne, this superb Palladian house that confronted a pool filled with blue water hyacinths — a pool that adroitly became a broad and gracefully meandering stream where black swans rode and charming bridges arched to debouch into charming paths, through acres and acres of classical gardens and orchards, up into vineyards, down into cow pastures and paddocks. At some distance behind the house, within a grove of oaks that dated back to Charlemagne, there was a famous, ancient abbey, inhabited now not by clericals — except for the household priest — but by the Baron's aged French-Irish mother, her aged brother, his aged manservant, and a bevy of aged handmaidens. The valet sometimes played the fiddle — badly but with heart — and the maids beautifully crocheted; the brother and sister, who doted on each other, played backgammon almost unceasingly, and both of them cheated without a prick of conscience. It was a supremely contented community. The servants of Magnamont were happy; the tenants were prosperous and exceptionally fecund; the livestock was stalwart; the fruit of the land was unparalleled. And all of this harmony came about because M. le Baron was so faithful to his husbandry.

What he loved best in the world next to grooming and burnishing Magnamont was showing off Magnamont to visitors, but he was so sensitive to any slight upon his true love that he never forced her on anyone. This reluctance dated from two episodes, occurring within a month of each other: Someone had made a stupid joke about the sheep that were wisely and thriftily used to keep down the grass of the far lawns, and someone else, who had had an excess of drink, had gone a little too far about the topiary garden, which, while admittedly absurd, was heirloom and sacrosanct. These boors, needless to say, had never been asked back. If an invitation to look at his dovecotes or his asparagus beds had been received with indifference, M. le Baron's heart would have bled, so he had to be asked — he sometimes even had to be coaxed — to conduct a tour of the grounds.

Maggie had momentarily warmed to this man, for when Tippy introduced them he had smiled in the friendliest possible way and had said, in English, "How nice of you to come," but then, when rotten Tippy said, "Miss Weriwether is the American girl I told you about on the phone," the Baron thereafter addressed her in highly idiomatic French until, encountering nothing but silence and the headshakes and cryptic groans that escaped her involuntarily, he began to pretend, as the others had done from the start, that she wasn't there.

They had had a long ramble, for these guests knew the way to their host's heart; they had seen everything, including the bees, including the Baron's mother and uncle, who were swindling each other and drinking Jamaica rum out of minute silver goblets. Maggie had not minded the excursion, tiring and baffling as it had been, half as much as she did this present situation, when they all sat in a circle on the mat as if they were about to play spin-the-plate and aim for the clump of mint. They were drinking martinis made with a European and abominable exorbitance of vermouth. They were drinking martinis, that is, with the exception of the Contessa Giovennazzo, who, with enormous originality, had asked for iced tilleul. This woman, a vision in shocking pink and violet and with phosphorescent streaks of platinum in her black hair, discomfited Maggie almost more than any of the others, for she talked so much and so knowingly about the United States; she had a great deal to say about the United Nations and about Hollywood, and she told a significant anecdote about a senator of whom Maggie had never heard.

From time to time, Maggie tried to catch Tippy's shifty eye, and she unremittingly sent him an SOS by telepathy. But he was engaged in a preposterous recapitulation of scenes of W. C. Fields movies with a Heer Dokter van Lennep, a psychoanalyst who had emigrated from Amsterdam to practice on Park Avenue, and with a man whose name Maggie had not caught and whose nationality or occupation or age she could not begin to determine; he was rather fat and rather fair and rather seedy and rather melancholy of countenance (he was not enjoying the conversation about W. C. Fields at all), but since all these things were only rather true of him, their opposites could just as easily have obtained. She had never seen anyone so nondescript; he looked like a bundle that might have contained anything on earth. Because of his very lack of definition, she pinned her hopes on him. At least, he wasn't elegant; he did not look rich; he did not look well-connected; not a single scintilla burst from his soggy, shaggy person. And she began, parenthetically, to send him a distress signal.

The gossip, over these many, many bad martinis, was global. The jokes (they laughed like mad and had to wipe the corners of their eyes with their monogrammed handkerchiefs) presupposed a knowledge of the early peccadilloes of papal princesses and of deposed kings and demoted Prussian generals, the sharp wit of footmen in embassies in Africa, the gaucherie of certain spies and the high style of certain others, the moral turpitude — ghastly, really, but screamingly funny — of a choreographer in Berlin, the lineage of a positively fascinating band of juvenile delinquents that were terrorizing Neuilly-sur-Seine.

Maggie grew hotter and larger.

The interminable day progressed from one disgrace to another, and Maggie Meriwether, who once upon a time had been considered something of a belle, became more and more bedraggled. Her stem, that green and golden tie-silk print, began to look as if it had been dragged in by the same cat that had hold of her tongue; her roots were swollen (looked like potatoes, to tell the truth, thought Maggie wretchedly) in too new shoes; and her hair, which was thick and red-gold (once called "strictly Maggie's crowning glory"), got stringy with the heat and with her emotion and looked, she knew, exactly like a dying dandelion. What a wallflower! The more she drank, the more trembly she got, and she was obliged to refuse several courses at lunch because she could not possibly have handled the serving spoons; she fancied that the butler divined her difficulty and despised her, and she wished that she could say in withering French that where she came from horsewhips were still widely used on uppity servants.

Lunch, which was long, was served at a semicircular table on the veranda, so that the party had a view of the pool and the avenues of lime trees that flanked it. They started with cold sorrel soup and went on to salmon in mayonnaise and capers, to a capon stuffed with truffles and the bottoms of artichokes; they had asparagus; they had salad; they had melon; they had Brie. They toasted the birthday girl in sweet wine, dry wine, champagne; with their coffee, they drank cassis. Everything, except for the coffee beans, had been grown at Magnamont. There were two subjects of conversation; one was the food they were eating and the other was the food they had eaten at other times at Magnamont. The nondescript man, who was sitting at Maggie's right, recalled, or failed to recall, past entrees, in mutters. Mme Floquet chided him for his mood with such intimate ill-humor that Maggie concluded they were related; the others ignored him much as they ignored Maggie. M. le Baron spoke to her once. In English, he said "Do you fly?," and when she said that she did, he grew cordial until, on further inquiry, he learned that she had often been a passenger on commercial airplanes, that she was not a pilot. He said, "Too bad. You might have enjoyed flying one of my gliders later on." At this hideous proposal, poor Maggie's butterfingers dropped the glass they were holding and wine went all over the priceless damask; the accident was Olympianly disregarded except by the butler, who scowled blackly. The Baron turned to Mrs. Preston and asked her to recollect the menu he and she had planned together for the christening party of his godson; it had included a roebuck shot in Bavaria.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Collected Stories of Jean Stafford by Jean Stafford. Copyright © 2005 Nora Cosgrove. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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The Collected Stories of Jean Stafford

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The Collected Stories of Jean Stafford

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The Collected Stories of Jean Stafford

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