The Man Who Loved His Wife. Vera CasparyЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Published in 2013 by the Feminist Press

      at the City University of New York

      The Graduate Center

      365 Fifth Avenue, Suite 5406

      New York, NY 10016

       feministpress.org

      First Feminist Press edition

      Text copyright © 1966 The Authors League Fund, as literary executor of the Estate of Vera Caspary

      Originally published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.

      All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced, used, or stored in any information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the Feminist Press at the City University of New York, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      Cover and text design by Drew Stevens.

       Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Caspary, Vera, 1899-1987.

       The man who loved his wife / Vera Caspary.

       pages cm

       Includes bibliographical references and index.

       ISBN 978-1-55861-847-3

       I. Title.

       PS3505.A842M36 2014

       813'.52—dc23

       2013035186

      Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

1

      THE DIARY WAS STARTED, PROPERLY, ON JANUARY first. More than merely the beginning of another year, it marked a new phase in the life of a man. Fletcher Strode had always known quick satisfactions, easy delight, and the exercise of such teeming energy that if one of his many projects failed, he had at once plunged into more extravagant activities. The written word had neither dazzled nor distressed him; the only books he had read all the way through were detective stories. There can be no doubt of their influence on the purpose and content of his diary.

      It was a good thick book, beautifully bound in dark green morocco stamped with his initials. He had got it as a Christmas present, one of many useless, expensive trinkets elaborately wrapped to make a show under the tree. Together he and Elaine had selected the Douglas fir, trimmed it, admired their work but there had been no surprise in it and no one to help them celebrate. Over an abundant Christmas dinner at a charming table, merriment was pretense. They had hoped on New Year’s Eve to recapture some of the old joy, wore New York clothes and drank Cordon Rouge ’59. For a short time, dancing to a tune that had driven them half out of their minds that first whirlwind season, they had let themselves believe a miracle would bring about a return of that delightful fever. They hurried out of the nightclub, leaving half a bottle of champagne.

      On the hilltop their house was as lonely as a ship far out at sea. The night was silent, the world exclusively theirs. In the hall Elaine dropped the fur-lined cloak, left it crumpled on the floor. Before they reached her room, Fletcher had jerked down the zipper of her dress and kissed her back, inch by inch. The chiffon fell about her feet. She stepped over it grandly and, with a fine disregard for things treasured by colder women, tossed upon the dressing table encumbrances of gold, jade, and pearls. Long legs shining in misty stockings, thighs round and female, a narrow strip of satin girdling her hips, she teased and pranced before him like one of those naughty French girls on posters. Fletcher played at the game of pursuit until he had caught her and performed the ritual of the bra, unfastening the single hook, pulling her to him with rough joy, circling her torso with his heavy arms, cupping big hands over her breasts. They kissed like new lovers. This was how it had been in the beginning; they followed the routine for luck.

      Out in the dark an owl hooted.

      Fletcher cursed, but silently, because Elaine actually liked having an owl screeching on the telephone pole near the house. It was amusing (Shakespearean, she said) to hear to-whit, to-who in the night. Fletcher regarded the owl as an enemy. A city man who had learned to live with crickets and night birds, he could not tolerate the mockery of the raucous tones. In the pause between the cracked cries, Fletcher lay tense, waiting for the unbearable repetition.

      Elaine kissed him with many small kisses, touched and teased in a way that would once have aroused superior power. “Be patient, darling.” In aborted groans Fletcher cursed the earth and heaven, himself, the owl. “Try, darling, to relax. Just a bit longer, dear.” Into Fletcher’s mind hobbled the memory of a boy whose unequal arms trembled, whose drawn legs jerked at every step. Sick at the sight of deformity, Fletcher had admitted the poor cripple to his office to offer an unsteady tray of pencils and shoelaces. A dollar had brought tears to the animal eyes, spittle had caked loose lips while, gulping and winking, the poor fellow had spewed out gratitude. Fletcher’s generosity had been the easy penance of a healthy man. He did not like to remember this, but the spastic ghost came to haunt him during those fragile, important moments