Tag Archives: Edith Wharton

Book review: The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton

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The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton. Highly recommended.

I was unaware that Edith Wharton, known for such insightful novels as The Age of Innocence, The House of Mirth, and Ethan Frome (as well as the popular movies these novels inspired), had indulged in writing ghost stories other than “Afterward” until I found this collection. In Ghost Stories, Wharton reveals her mastery of the psychology of horror — where ghosts terrify through their oblique influence on the human mind and emotion — and where these human foibles create their own horrors.

Wharton’s ghosts take many forms — from the loyal retainer in “The Lady’s Maid’s Bell” to the loyal retainers of a different sort in “Kerfol”; from the guilt behind “The Eyes” to the guilt recognised “Afterward”; from the mysterious “Mr. Jones” to the ghostly and ghastly “Miss Mary Pask.” Some of these visitations are not seen, or, in the case of “Kerfol,” even heard. They fulfill various functions: To protect the secrets of the past, to bring the secrets of the past to light, to warn the present about the future, and to remind the living of the dead.

Like the best ghost story writers, Wharton begins each tale with a scenario that seems ordinary enough. Early on, she drops subtle clues that build from a feeling that something is somewhat amiss up to a sense of fractured reality that shatters one’s assumptions. Wharton masterfully creates ironic twists (“Miss Mary Pask”), innocent victims (the wife in “Afterward”), and nontraditional ghosts (“The Eyes,” “Kerfol”). In many cases, the reader is one step ahead of the narrator or protagonist (Hitchcock’s definition of suspense), creating a delicious sense of inevitable, unavoidable doom.

If you are looking for the gore and thrills of today’s tale of horror, you will not find them in Wharton’s work. If, on the other hand, you appreciate the subtle, growing sense of terror that M. R. James insinuates into The Ghost Stories of an Antiquary, you’ll discover the same feeling of the fine line between this world and another that can manifest itself at any time and in any way when the need arises. These are stories to be read, savored, and read again — alone, of course.

28 December 2003
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Reef

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The Reef by Edith Wharton, with an introduction by Louis Auchincloss. Recommended.

In his introduction to The Reef, Louis Auchincloss notes modern readers may not appreciate a moral climate in which a woman opposes her stepson’s engagement to a girl who had an affair with the man the woman is about to marry. The Reef, however, is as concerned with morality as with class.

On his way to France to see his beloved, the widowed Anna Leath, George Darrow receives a telegram telling him not to come “till thirtieth” due to “unexpected obstacle.” When he doesn’t receive an explanation for the delay, he experiences growing feelings of disappointment and humiliation. He imagines the umbrellas and elbows of his fellow travelers saying, “She doesn’t want you, doesn’t want you, doesn’t want you.”

As he waits undecided whether to return to London or to press forward, he encounters Sophy Viner, the recently unemployed servant of a woman whose dinners he once attended. She is on her way to Paris to look up old friends and to pursue a theatrical career. Darrow, who feels sorry for himself and the loss he thinks he is about to suffer, manipulates Sophy into staying with him to attend the theatre, then into a short liaison. He is unaware she has fallen in love with him and his kindness in her hour of uncertainty.

A year later, Anna Leath eagerly anticipates Darrow’s arrival. They are to be married and begin an overseas stint as part of his diplomatic career. Her stepson, Owen Leath, wants to do something both know will upset his aristocratic, old-fashioned grandmother. He wants to marry Anna’s daughter’s governess, who is none other than Sophy Viner.

Darrow and Sophy’s secret is safe with one another. Darrow, however, is uncomfortably aware Anna wants him to support Owen’s choice of a woman he knows to be unsuitable but whom he pities. He tries to convince Sophy that Owen is not right for her. “You’d rather I didn’t marry any friend of yours,” she says “not as a question, but as a mere dispassionate statement of fact.” Darrow’s lack of feeling and poor conduct make Sophy an undesirable wife for Owen. She is a painful reminder that both of them have broken social conventions.

Auchincloss calls Sophy a “fallen woman” in the context of the times, but this is too simplistic. Sophy’s problem, before and after Anna finds out about her relationship with Darrow, is her class and lack of social background. After all, in The House of Mirth, extramarital liaisons are commonplace, understood, and accepted if they are discreet and do not upset the social balance. Within the correct parameters, such affairs become a comfortable topic of gossip and speculation.

Once Anna divines there had been something between Darrow and Sophy beyond a casual acquaintance, he says simply, “She has given me up.” He refers to Sophy’s expectations, not her feelings. In the world she inhabits, she has learned the Darrows seek temporary solace from the Sophys and permanence and stability from the Annas.

Anna keeps returning to the idea that Sophy has been there before, whether it is to the theatre with Darrow or in Darrow’s arms. She is bothered that the liaison happened while he was on his way to her, but is more disturbed that the kiss he places on her neck has also landed on Sophy’s — and that Sophy has been more intimate with him.

Anna asks Darrow, “Do such things happen to men often?” (phrased passively, as though Darrow had been the pursued rather than the pursuer). “I don’t know what happens to other men. Such a thing never happened to me . . .” The “thing” here is not the physical aspect of the relationship. Even the “fine” Anna knows that he has indulged because one of his relationships, with a mutual acquaintance named Kitty, drove her away from him in their youth. This relationship outside their social sphere reflects a lack of discretion that may make him an unsuitable husband and stepparent.

With her finely tuned perceptions, delicacy, generosity, and genuine feelings, Sophy does not deserve her fate. Darrow assures Anna that she is no adventuress, which Anna wants her to be. She returns to the service of Mrs. Murrett in India. In one of the weaknesses of The Reef, Anna’s encounter with Sophy’s fat, frowsy, common sister and her equally common lover, Jimmy Brance, puts the noble Sophy in her proper place for both Anna and the reader.

The Reef is in shallower waters than The House of Mirth or The Age of Innocence, its structure weakened by a forced reliance on dialogue. In the final third, various characters talk to Anna in her room, coming and going through what may as well be a revolving door.

Sophy’s fate further weakens the drama. Yet who but Wharton could write, “Her frugal silence mocked his prodigality of hopes and fears”? Such elegant prose and insights alone distinguish The Reef.

7 July 2003
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

As an aside, it would be interesting if, in the same fashion Jean Rhys gave Bertha Mason from Jane Eyre “a life,” a writer were to do the same for Sophy, whose viewpoint is not shown.

Book review: Ethan Frome

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Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton; afterword by Alfred Kazin. Highly recommended.

Ethan Frome is a powerful story about powerless people. The title character is held in thrall by his parents, his land, his poverty, and his lifeless and loveless marriage. His wife, Zenobia (Zeena), cannot escape the confines of her narrow mind; her imaginary illnesses and the status they give her in a small village like the aptly named Starkfield, Massachusetts; and the meanness of her own life (symbolised by her attachment to her pickle dish and her refusal to use it, even for visits by the minister). Finally, there is Mattie Silver, the relative who has come to help care for Zeena and the house and who has nowhere to go. Interestingly, the three prisoners are related; Zeena is referred to as a cousin of Ethan’s, while Mattie is Zeena’s cousin. Zeena is, literally and figuratively, the central figure who connects them all and who keeps Ethan and Mattie apart.

From his youth, Ethan’s impulsive, reactive nature leads him into trouble. When Zeena helps him out with the care of his mother, who dies and leaves him alone and lonely, “before he knew what he was doing, he had asked her [Zeena] to stay there with him.” It is soon thereafter that he discovers that his loneliness gave him selective vision and that Zeena is more than a good nurse; she’s an excellent hypochondriac. When someone asks him if he lacks money, “‘Not a bit,’ Ethan’s pride retorted before his reason had time to intervene.”

Ethan is hindered from all he desires, whether it’s his technical education, his potential career as an engineer, or the arms of Mattie Silver, by his prevailing sense of duty and honor. Although he feels trapped on his land and in a farming life with which he is not happy because he has had a succession of people for whom to care — first, his father, then his mother, then Zeena — Ethan tells Mattie, “I want to be there when you’re sick and when you’re lonesome.” Later, his last thought before unconsciousness will be about his responsibility to his horse: “I ought to be getting him his feed . . .” He struggles constantly with his need to be free of Zeena and his obligation to take care of her.

Zeena and Mattie are contrasted throughout; Zeena’s lashless lids are nothing like Mattie’s fully lashed lids, which Ethan observes “sinking slowly when anything charmed or moved her.” Her laughter is seen “sparkling through her lashes.” While Zeena is thin and hard, Ethan sees Mattie (in Zeena’s overnight absence) as “taller, fuller, more womanly in shape and motion” than when she is under Zeena’s watchful eye. Light, which brings out the sharp hollows of Zeena’s face as in a horror film, “threw a lustrous fleck on [Mattie’s] lips, edged her eyes with velvet shade, and laid a milky whiteness above the black curve of her brows.” Is this Mattie as she really is, or is this Mattie as Ethan’s loneliness and imagination need her to be?

Around Mattie, Ethan is often overcome by the strength of his emotions. When she serves him dinner, with the cat lying drowsily by the stove in a carefully drawn domestic scene, “Ethan was suffocated with the sense of well-being.” This sense of being overcome recurs throughout their encounters. He doubts that he inspires such a glow. “Could it be his coming that gave her such a kindled face?” He is jealous of every man Mattie encounters, particularly the wealthy Irish grocer’s son, Denis Eady.

Whether Wharton is writing of society New York or rural New England, such an illicit romance cannot succeed, and Ethan’s fails spectacularly — leaving behind people who are emotional and physical wrecks. Zeena is transformed into reluctant caregiver, while Mattie is transformed into yet another part of the trap that keeps Ethan on the farm, impoverished financially, intellectually, and emotionally. His emotions about his fate and that of his would-be lover are never revealed other than through an indescribable look that haunts those who witness it. In life, all are more dead than the Fromes in the graveyard. Ethan Frome is the literary embodiment of Wharton’s quote, “Life is the saddest thing, next to death.”

Ethan Frome‘s framework is awkward; a narrator from outside Starkfield manages to get into Ethan’s home and learn the whole story, which then is improbably told in great detail in third-person omniscient. This detracts only slightly from the novel’s wintry, claustrophobic atmosphere and evocative powers. In her introduction, Wharton calls the reader “sophisticated” and the people of whom she writes “simple” — as stark as the New England backdrop. Yet Ethan Frome, for all his “simplicity,” is a rich, fully realised person as memorable as Newland Archer (The Age of Innocence) — and as tragic as Lily Bart (The House of Mirth).

14 June 2003
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Age of Innocence

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The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. Highly recommended.

A classic novel made famous by a recent movie, The Age of Innocence is the story of a society man, Newland Archer, caught between two very different women. On the one hand is May Welland, the virginal Diana of New York society, whose seeming frankness and innocence discourage and oppress him: “Untrained human nature was not frank and innocent; it was full of the twists and defences of an instinctive guile.” All this is “supposed to be what he wanted, what he had a right to, in order that he might exercise his lordly pleasure in smashing it like an image made of snow.”

Her counterpart is her cousin Countess Ellen Olenska, vaguely exotic, vaguely dangerous, forbidden — primarily because she is not the “artificial product” of society, but a genuine, sensual woman whose independent way of thinking is enough to tacitly and then overtly banish her from the very company that Newland’s life is built around. She is “different,” as Archer will later discuss with one of his children. No one else would say, “Why not make one’s own fashions?” thus giving a voice to what Archer himself deep down believes but can’t put into practice.

Ironically, it is May who first forces him and Ellen together, against his will, in her efforts to be kind to her cousin, who has just returned from Europe. As he sees more of “poor Ellen,” estranged from her emotionally abusive husband and seemingly vulnerable to the wiles of the wealthy outsider scoundrel Julius Beaufort, he finds himself returning again and again to her until he realises he is in love with her — long after the reader has reached that conclusion. He resolves the dilemma by rushing his marriage to May, which makes it that much worse. Thus ensues a delicate balance between the life he has chosen with May, with whom he now realises he has no emotional bond, and the life he would choose if he were more sure of himself, more sure that being true to oneself is more important than being true to one’s system.

Nearly every character is memorable — from the massive Mrs. Manson Mingott, May and Ellen’s grandmother who is old enough and skilled enough to intuit all and manipulate all; to the womanizing Lawrence Lefferts, whose behavior is acceptable because he knows how to play the game, how things are “done”; to the frigid bastions of society, the van der Luydens; to May’s mother, who cannot be exposed in any way to “unpleasantness”; to Archer’s virginal sister Janey, who lives life vicariously through gossip and guesswork.

Many scenes and locations are equally vivid: Beaufort’s lavish house and party; the contrast of the van der Luydens’ dinner party; Archer and May’s conventional and stifling honeymoon, more sporty than romantic or passionate; Archer’s pursuit of May in Florida and his following Ellen to the Blenkers’ and then to Boston; a revealing ride with Ellen in May’s brougham; Mrs. Mingott’s house in the middle of “nowhere,” where she rules like a queen and where the politics are only slightly less complicated than those of Elizabeth I’s court — all unforgettable places and scenes.

In less intelligent or skilled hands, the plot could have become mere melodrama, but Wharton knows how her society worked, who inhabited it, what it forgave, and what it could not pardon. Affairs are pardonable; treachery, real or perceived, to the framework of what holds these people together is not. In the end, May saves Archer from himself — and dooms him to her kind of life by doing so. When he gives up all his dreams, he looks into May’s “blue eyes, wet with tears.” She knows what he does not and remains cold as the moon that the goddess Diana rules.

It could be said that May and Ellen represent two sides of Newland Archer — both are people he is afraid to become. If he is like May, he experiences death of the mind, death of the soul, death of the emotions, becoming what he is expected to be to keep the foundations that society is built upon steady, strong, and standing. (It is no coincidence that a theme in Wharton’s The House of Mirth is the vulnerability of that house to the influx of modern ways.) If he becomes like Ellen, he will lose everything that he has built his own foundations on. In the end, he is neither, nor is he himself. His tragedy is not that much less than that of The House of Mirth‘s Lily Bart, both victims of a society they need but cannot survive.

28 April 2001
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Custom of the Country

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The Custom of the Country by Edith Wharton with an introduction by Diane Johnson and notes by Benjamin Dreyer. Highly recommended.

In The Custom of the Country, Edith Wharton creates one of the most unlikable, even despicable, characters I know of in American fiction. Undine Spragg is not a murderer, sociopath, or monster, but an ambitious young woman determined to climb New York’s social ladder to the very top. The ambitions in themselves are not inherently bad, and other characters clearly share them. It is Undine’s utter lack of regard for anyone else, from her aging parents to her neglected son, that makes her contemptible. What makes her chilling is the odd combination of ingenuousness and its opposite; with rare exceptions she is oblivious to the rights, aspirations, and feelings of others if they do not pertain to her own objectives.

In Wharton’s world, choosing the right man was as important to a society woman’s future as selecting the right college, graduate school, or first job is today for a professional woman. For Undine and her friends, divorce carries no more significance than as a means to get out of the wrong job. As she tells her fiancé’s shocked traditional New York family, “I guess Mabel’ll get a divorce pretty soon . . . They like each other well enough. But he’s been a disappointment to her . . . Mabel realizes she’ll never really get anywhere till she gets rid of him.” This dinner conversation foreshadows the rest of the novel.

Wharton reveals Undine’s competitive nature through her childhood rivalry with Indiana Frusk, and her unsatisfied, reaching one through her travels with her parents. Undine will never be happy because there will always be someone with something she doesn’t have, whether it is greater wealth, fame, or a title or position.

By marrying Undine, Ralph hopes to save her from “Van Degenism,” which helps to set up the irony after irony found throughout The Custom of the Country. Ralph doesn’t know that Undine not only desires “Van Degenism,” but she wants to define it. A would-be poet, Ralph cannot seem to separate surface beauty from inner ugliness. “When she shone on him like that what did it matter what nonsense she talked?” Raymond de Chelles, who reminds Undine of Ralph, first sees her on an evening when, as even the cynical Charles Bowen thinks, ” . . . she seemed to have been brushed by the wing of poetry, and its shadow lingered in her eyes.”

More than greed, selfishness, or hedonism, Undine’s defining characteristic, lack of empathy, shapes her actions. “It never occurred to her that other people’s lives went on when they were our of her range of vision.” What dooms her relationships with Ralph and Raymond is not money, attention, socializing, or any of Undine’s numerous desires and complaints, nor is it simply the gulf between their values and her own. The failure lies in her inability to grasp that anything of importance exists outside her own system and their inability to see this in her until far too late. Because her parents cannot deny her anything, “. . . her sense of the rightfulness of her own cause had been measured by making people do as she pleased.”

Undine wants everything, but especially that which she does not have. Her counterpart, Elmer Moffatt, exhibits this “new money” behavior through collecting objects. “To have things had always seemed to her the first essential of existence,” while Moffatt says, “I mean to have the best, you know; not just to get ahead of the other fellows, but because I know it when I see it.” Raymond’s tapestries have no more deeper emotional value to Moffatt than last year’s dresses do to Undine; all are markers of money and success.

Ironically, Undine is little more than an attractive object to the people around her. As Madame de Trézac tells her, ” . . . they’re delighted to bring you out at their big dinners, with the Sèvres and the plate.”  Later, when she visits dealers with Moffatt, she saw that “the actual touching of rare textures — bronze or marble, or velvets flushed with the bloom of age — gave him a sensations like her own beauty had once roused in him.” To Moffatt, who knows and understands her insatiable hungers, she may be at least in part an object for his collection. He tells her, “You’re not the beauty you were . . . but you’re a lot more fetching.” The “oddly qualified phrase” could be used of Raymond’s tapestries and many of the other old valuables that Moffatt has acquired.

For Wharton, Undine and Moffatt represent those aspects of contemporary American society that she most disliked. As Charles Bowen says, ” . . . in this country, the passion for making money has preceded the knowing how to spend it . . .” Undine, like the Wall Street of Peter Van Degen and Elmer Moffatt, is voracious, self-centered, reaching, and without conscience or moral center (choosing to sell an ill-gotten string of pearls for the money rather than to return it). Unlike Mrs. Marvell, with her hospital committee activities, Undine does not contribute to society; she was born to take. Symbolic and symptomatic of the new America that Wharton left, Undine remains ignorant and without taste.

Wharton’s last paragraph is brilliant, for it cleverly shows how even an Undine who has achieved wealth, position, fame, and power can still find something to desire — something that she has put out of her own reach through her actions. ” . . . . she said to herself that it was the one part she was really made for.” Undine is a young woman; Wharton hints at the potential she still has to leave yet more misery in her wake as she yearns for yet more of what she believes she deserves. She is like a living Tantalus, but one whose every attempt to grasp destroys.

6 May 2007
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf