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The Floating Press - Edith Wharton

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267 pages

English

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The House of Mirth is an uncompromising depiction of 19th-century New York society. Lily Bart is a society lady who is unwilling to marry for love, but equally unwilling to marry as society dictates. She sabotages every advantageous opportunity she receives, until her society friends begin to hasten her downfall for their own ends.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 février 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775417569
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0164€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE HOUSE OF MIRTH
* * *
EDITH WHARTON

*

The House of Mirth First published in 1905.
ISBN 978-1-775417-56-9
© 2010 THE FLOATING PRESS.
While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike.
Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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BOOK ONE Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 BOOK TWO Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14
BOOK ONE
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Chapter 1
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Selden paused in surprise. In the afternoon rush of the Grand CentralStation his eyes had been refreshed by the sight of Miss Lily Bart.
It was a Monday in early September, and he was returning to his work froma hurried dip into the country; but what was Miss Bart doing in town atthat season? If she had appeared to be catching a train, he might haveinferred that he had come on her in the act of transition between one andanother of the country-houses which disputed her presence after the closeof the Newport season; but her desultory air perplexed him. She stoodapart from the crowd, letting it drift by her to the platform or thestreet, and wearing an air of irresolution which might, as he surmised,be the mask of a very definite purpose. It struck him at once that shewas waiting for some one, but he hardly knew why the idea arrested him.There was nothing new about Lily Bart, yet he could never see her withouta faint movement of interest: it was characteristic of her that shealways roused speculation, that her simplest acts seemed the result offar-reaching intentions.
An impulse of curiosity made him turn out of his direct line to the door,and stroll past her. He knew that if she did not wish to be seen shewould contrive to elude him; and it amused him to think of putting herskill to the test.
"Mr. Selden—what good luck!"
She came forward smiling, eager almost, in her resolve to intercept him.One or two persons, in brushing past them, lingered to look; for MissBart was a figure to arrest even the suburban traveller rushing to hislast train.
Selden had never seen her more radiant. Her vivid head, relieved againstthe dull tints of the crowd, made her more conspicuous than in aball-room, and under her dark hat and veil she regained the girlishsmoothness, the purity of tint, that she was beginning to lose aftereleven years of late hours and indefatigable dancing. Was it reallyeleven years, Selden found himself wondering, and had she indeed reachedthe nine-and-twentieth birthday with which her rivals credited her?
"What luck!" she repeated. "How nice of you to come to my rescue!"
He responded joyfully that to do so was his mission in life, and askedwhat form the rescue was to take.
"Oh, almost any—even to sitting on a bench and talking to me. One sitsout a cotillion—why not sit out a train? It isn't a bit hotter here thanin Mrs. Van Osburgh's conservatory—and some of the women are not a bituglier." She broke off, laughing, to explain that she had come up totown from Tuxedo, on her way to the Gus Trenors' at Bellomont, and hadmissed the three-fifteen train to Rhinebeck. "And there isn't anothertill half-past five." She consulted the little jewelled watch among herlaces. "Just two hours to wait. And I don't know what to do with myself.My maid came up this morning to do some shopping for me, and was to go onto Bellomont at one o'clock, and my aunt's house is closed, and I don'tknow a soul in town." She glanced plaintively about the station. "It IShotter than Mrs. Van Osburgh's, after all. If you can spare the time, dotake me somewhere for a breath of air."
He declared himself entirely at her disposal: the adventure struck him asdiverting. As a spectator, he had always enjoyed Lily Bart; and hiscourse lay so far out of her orbit that it amused him to be drawn for amoment into the sudden intimacy which her proposal implied.
"Shall we go over to Sherry's for a cup of tea?"
She smiled assentingly, and then made a slight grimace.
"So many people come up to town on a Monday—one is sure to meet a lot ofbores. I'm as old as the hills, of course, and it ought not to make anydifference; but if I'M old enough, you're not," she objected gaily. "I'mdying for tea—but isn't there a quieter place?"
He answered her smile, which rested on him vividly. Her discretionsinterested him almost as much as her imprudences: he was so sure thatboth were part of the same carefully-elaborated plan. In judging MissBart, he had always made use of the "argument from design."
"The resources of New York are rather meagre," he said; "but I'll find ahansom first, and then we'll invent something." He led her through thethrong of returning holiday-makers, past sallow-faced girls inpreposterous hats, and flat-chested women struggling with paper bundlesand palm-leaf fans. Was it possible that she belonged to the same race?The dinginess, the crudity of this average section of womanhood made himfeel how highly specialized she was.
A rapid shower had cooled the air, and clouds still hung refreshinglyover the moist street.
"How delicious! Let us walk a little," she said as they emerged from thestation.
They turned into Madison Avenue and began to stroll northward. As shemoved beside him, with her long light step, Selden was conscious oftaking a luxurious pleasure in her nearness: in the modelling of herlittle ear, the crisp upward wave of her hair—was it ever so slightlybrightened by art?—and the thick planting of her straight black lashes.Everything about her was at once vigorous and exquisite, at once strongand fine. He had a confused sense that she must have cost a great deal tomake, that a great many dull and ugly people must, in some mysteriousway, have been sacrificed to produce her. He was aware that the qualitiesdistinguishing her from the herd of her sex were chiefly external: asthough a fine glaze of beauty and fastidiousness had been applied tovulgar clay. Yet the analogy left him unsatisfied, for a coarse texturewill not take a high finish; and was it not possible that the materialwas fine, but that circumstance had fashioned it into a futile shape?
As he reached this point in his speculations the sun came out, and herlifted parasol cut off his enjoyment. A moment or two later she pausedwith a sigh.
"Oh, dear, I'm so hot and thirsty—and what a hideous place New York is!"She looked despairingly up and down the dreary thoroughfare. "Othercities put on their best clothes in summer, but New York seems to sit inits shirtsleeves." Her eyes wandered down one of the side-streets."Someone has had the humanity to plant a few trees over there. Let us gointo the shade."
"I am glad my street meets with your approval," said Selden as theyturned the corner.
"Your street? Do you live here?"
She glanced with interest along the new brick and limestone house-fronts,fantastically varied in obedience to the American craving for novelty,but fresh and inviting with their awnings and flower-boxes.
"Ah, yes—to be sure: THE BENEDICK. What a nice-looking building! Idon't think I've ever seen it before." She looked across at theflat-house with its marble porch and pseudo-Georgian facade. "Which areyour windows? Those with the awnings down?"
"On the top floor—yes."
"And that nice little balcony is yours? How cool it looks up there!"
He paused a moment. "Come up and see," he suggested. "I can give you acup of tea in no time—and you won't meet any bores."
Her colour deepened—she still had the art of blushing at the righttime—but she took the suggestion as lightly as it was made.
"Why not? It's too tempting—I'll take the risk," she declared.
"Oh, I'm not dangerous," he said in the same key. In truth, he had neverliked her as well as at that moment. He knew she had accepted withoutafterthought: he could never be a factor in her calculations, and therewas a surprise, a refreshment almost, in the spontaneity of her consent.
On the threshold he paused a moment, feeling for his latchkey.
"There's no one here; but I have a servant who is supposed to come in themornings, and it's just possible he may have put out the tea-things andprovided some cake."
He ushered her into a slip of a hall hung with old prints. She noticedthe letters and notes heaped on the table among his gloves and sticks;then she found herself in a small library, dark but cheerful, with itswalls of books, a pleasantly faded Turkey rug, a littered desk and, as hehad foretold, a tea-tray on a low table near the window. A breeze hadsprung up, swaying inward the muslin curtains, and bringing a fresh scentof mignonette and petunias from the flower-box on the balcony.
Lily sank with a sigh into one of the shabby leather chairs.
"How delicious to have a place like this all to one's self! What amiserable thing it is to be a woman." She leaned back in a luxury ofdiscontent.
Selden was rummaging in a cupboard for the cake.
"Even women," he said, "have been known to enjoy the privileges of aflat."
"Oh, governesses—or widows. But not girls—not poor, miserable,marriageable girls!"
"I even know a girl who lives in a flat."
She sat up in surprise. "You do?"
"I do," he assured her, emerging from the cupboard with the sought-forcake.
"Oh, I know—you mean Gerty Farish." She smiled a little unkindly. "But Isaid MARRIAGEABLE—and besides, she has a horrid little place, and nomaid, and such queer things to eat. Her cook does the washing and thefood tastes of soap. I should hate that, y