Revisiting Wharton’s Tragedies 🥀
I was in the seventh grade when I embarked on a journey to become a “cultured” reader, whose defining characteristic, I presumed, was a conversance in classic literature. The desire to enter the elite literary world of Charles Dickens and Jane Austen resulted in my eventual encounters with Whartonian literature - specifically her two significant works, The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth. Over winter break, I reread the novels, so it is my intention to analyze the books from a new perspective while considering the meditations I had approximately six years ago. I can immediately acknowledge that the titles are both exemplary, though endeavoring to decide which one is superior is a challenge that I respectfully demur. Instead, I want to juxtapose them in a way that does not diminish their individual significance or merit; they both have a separate majesty that I hope to examine.
Innocence is the easier read, and that could be a contributor to its higher placement on lists that rank American classics. When I say “easier,” I do not mean that its language is more lucid - both works, though complex in vernacular, are quite comprehensible. What I want to articulate in the usage of that word is the gentleness of its conclusion. It is incontestable that Innocence’s unhappy ending is easier to endure. In it, lawyer Newland Archer - engaged then married to darling debutante May Welland - falls in love with May’s cousin, individualist Ellen Olenska and begins a passionate affair with the latter. Due to familial obligation and honor, however, the couple ends their relationship; though, it is more accurate to state their relationship is ended for them. The ending acts as a palliative, assuaging the heartbreak experienced by readers who hoped for the adulterous lovers by having Newland realize that an elderly reunion with Ellen after May’s pneumonic death is unnecessary because his memories keep their star-crossed dalliance alive and well. Regardless, my seventh-grade self resisted the resolution. Unlike the protagonist, I could not subsist on romantic recollections, so I faintly recall being an emotional wreck after I completed the book. As a 19-year-old, my vision has altered, especially when considering the conclusion of Mirth, wherein the protagonist, Lily Bart, accidentally overdoses on sleeping medication before her true love, Lawrence Selden, saunters to her dilapidated boardinghouse the following morning with a marriage proposal. Mirth is the truer tragedy, though the ending of Innocence still inspires my melancholy. To summarize in medical analogy, Innocence’s injury is a bruise - causing great discomfort but not requiring a prolonged recovery - and Mirth’s injury is a wound - creating a deeper, more lingering pain and mandating an extended path to normalcy.
What I enjoy about both novels is the elegance of expression and delicious detailing. The qualities evince Wharton’s aristocratic upbringing, proving her frequent overseas traveling and centrality in a sumptuous scene. Innocence, though focused on a male character, retains the fastidiousness of Mirth. For example, the clothing worn by different characters is meticulously elaborated: the stylish stores from which they came are identified, fashion designers who produced them are referenced, and the materials of which they are constituted are mentioned. In Innocence, as in Mirth, style is celebrated, though the former has a greater focus on it. The latter, with international travel playing a more significant role in the storyline, appears more dedicated to saluting scenery. Another reason for such an emphasis on environment is Lily’s protagonism. Her personality - being, simultaneously, a sybarite and an aesthete - accommodates such intense illustration of setting. Also, the language of both books, intelligent but not pedantic, increases their charm. Wharton’s refined diction - almost epic but retaining realism - makes reading a pleasure and nearly glorifies a world that proves detrimental to its inhabitants. While immersed in the pretty prose, a character’s most trivial task casts an aureate glow, yet the ornamentation reinforces the loveliness of Innocence and Mirth.
In reviewing the characters, I developed a love-hate relationship and engaged in brutal juxtaposition. I admired Newland for his disillusionment with society - or, the more accurate descriptor, “social system” - and for, quite literally, following his passion - as contrasted with Selden’s vexatious passivity. However, I abhorred his constant committing of adultery - with Ellen and with an earlier lover that I missed in my seventh-grade reading. His decision to stay with May to raise a family and restore his remnant honor was respectable, but strangely enough, I still find myself dissatisfied with it. Moreover, I revered Ellen’s freedom but disliked her cousinly betrayal. As for Lily, I identified with her love of luxury and appreciation of beauty but winced at every demonstration of the improvidence that expedited her descent. I can acknowledge that May played an interesting antagonist to Newland and Ellen’s love because her innocence belied the manipulativeness that she was capable of and that Bertha Dorset - a malicious female character whose misdeeds prompt Lily’s expulsion from society in Mirth - is an excellent villainess. Whatever ambivalence I felt about the characters fails to affect my veneration for the titles; my vacillation actually proves Wharton’s literary virtuosity because it shows that she succeeded in complex characterization.
A motif that recurs in the narratives, of which I was initially oblivious, is flowers. Numerous examples in Innocence and Mirth corroborate Wharton’s floral obsession. In the former, characters decorate their expensive garments with flowers - the peeking of a gardenia from a gown, for instance - and lilies of the valley bring fresh fragrance to their mansions. The opera scene - significant in that Newland sees it as a reflection of his departure from Ellen - features an actress plucking petals as she performs a classic daisy oracle. Wharton’s usage of “efflorescent” presents another demonstration of floral fixation. Most importantly, Newland sends yellow roses to Ellen, whose bravery and brilliance, he believes, is symbolized by them. The prevalence of flowers continues in Mirth, wherein Lily is named after one as well as Simon Rosedale, a Jewish financier obsessed with social ascent. Lily’s movement is compared to a flower, and she even laments the lack of fresh ones during a familial luncheon. Finally, Lily and Selden’s first kiss occurs in a garden felicitously encircled by lilies. Perhaps Wharton’s focus on flowers followed her constant exposure to beauty: she traveled extensively and experienced the elegance expected of an aristocrat, so maybe flowers are representative of that beauty. On the other hand, flowers are fragile and can be connected to the fragility found in the two tragedies. As flowers eventually fade and die, so do Newland and Ellen’s romance as well as Lily’s social prominence and her actual life. I think these interpretations elevate the novels because they correspond to the theme of pretty things - debutantes, designer clothing, love affairs, luxurious lifestyles, etcetera - being vulnerable to destruction.
I am curious as to when I will read Innocence and Mirth for the third time, though I suspect that a couple years will pass since I want to review them with new eyes in order to espy new insights. If I have not made it apparent, I want to re-emphasize my adoration of the books, whose irresistible unhappy endings make me a kind of literary masochist. As a bibliophile, I am always on the search for another magnificent novel and in pursuit of the ecstasy that a phenomenal book can ignite, but which books will match the power of Innocence and Mirth? It is rare for a piece of literature to activate emotions, convey beautiful or original sentiments, and be worthy of deep dives, but Wharton accomplished all of that with her works. Until I discover another title that achieves those same elements, I imagine I will be chasing the ironic high that Wharton’s beautiful tragedies generate.
