a journey edith wharton

by Edith Wharton

As she lay in her berth, staring at the shadows overhead, the rush of the wheels was in her brain, driving her deeper and deeper into circles of wakeful lucidity. The sleeping-car had sunk into its night-silence. Through the wet window-pane she watched the sudden lights, the long stretches of hurrying blackness. Now and then she turned her head and looked through the opening in the hangings at her husband's curtains across the aisle....

She wondered restlessly if he wanted anything and if she could hear him if he called. His voice had grown very weak within the last months and it irritated him when she did not hear. This irritability, this increasing childish petulance seemed to give expression to their imperceptible estrangement. Like two faces looking at one another through a sheet of glass they were close together, almost touching, but they could not hear or feel each other: the conductivity between them was broken. She, at least, had this sense of separation, and she fancied sometimes that she saw it reflected in the look with which he supplemented his failing words. Doubtless the fault was hers. She was too impenetrably healthy to be touched by the irrelevancies of disease. Her self-reproachful tenderness was tinged with the sense of his irrationality: she had a vague feeling that there was a purpose in his helpless tyrannies. The suddenness of the change had found her so unprepared. A year ago their pulses had beat to one robust measure; both had the same prodigal confidence in an exhaustless future. Now their energies no longer kept step: hers still bounded ahead of life, preempting unclaimed regions of hope and activity, while his lagged behind, vainly struggling to overtake her.

When they married, she had such arrears of living to make up: her days had been as bare as the whitewashed school-room where she forced innutritious facts upon reluctant children. His coming had broken in on the slumber of circumstance, widening the present till it became the encloser of remotest chances. But imperceptibly the horizon narrowed. Life had a grudge against her: she was never to be allowed to spread her wings.

At first the doctors had said that six weeks of mild air would set him right; but when he came back this assurance was explained as having of course included a winter in a dry climate. They gave up their pretty house, storing the wedding presents and new furniture, and went to Colorado. She had hated it there from the first. Nobody knew her or cared about her; there was no one to wonder at the good match she had made, or to envy her the new dresses and the visiting-cards which were still a surprise to her. And he kept growing worse. She felt herself beset with difficulties too evasive to be fought by so direct a temperament. She still loved him, of course; but he was gradually, undefinably ceasing to be himself. The man she had married had been strong, active, gently masterful: the male whose pleasure it is to clear a way through the material obstructions of life; but now it was she who was the protector, he who must be shielded from importunities and given his drops or his beef-juice though the skies were falling. The routine of the sick-room bewildered her; this punctual administering of medicine seemed as idle as some uncomprehended religious mummery.

There were moments, indeed, when warm gushes of pity swept away her instinctive resentment of his condition, when she still found his old self in his eyes as they groped for each other through the dense medium of his weakness. But these moments had grown rare. Sometimes he frightened her: his sunken expressionless face seemed that of a stranger; his voice was weak and hoarse; his thin-lipped smile a mere muscular contraction. Her hand avoided his damp soft skin, which had lost the familiar roughness of health: she caught herself furtively watching him as she might have watched a strange animal. It frightened her to feel that this was the man she loved; there were hours when to tell him what she suffered seemed the one escape from her fears. But in general she judged herself more leniently, reflecting that she had perhaps been too long alone with him, and that she would feel differently when they were at home again, surrounded by her robust and buoyant family. How she had rejoiced when the doctors at last gave their consent to his going home! She knew, of course, what the decision meant; they both knew. It meant that he was to die; but they dressed the truth in hopeful euphuisms, and at times, in the joy of preparation, she really forgot the purpose of their journey, and slipped into an eager allusion to next year's plans.

At last the day of leaving came. She had a dreadful fear that they would never get away; that somehow at the last moment he would fail her; that the doctors held one of their accustomed treacheries in reserve; but nothing happened. They drove to the station, he was installed in a seat with a rug over his knees and a cushion at his back, and she hung out of the window waving unregretful farewells to the acquaintances she had really never liked till then.

The first twenty-four hours had passed off well. He revived a little and it amused him to look out of the window and to observe the humours of the car. The second day he began to grow weary and to chafe under the dispassionate stare of the freckled child with the lump of chewing-gum. She had to explain to the child's mother that her husband was too ill to be disturbed: a statement received by that lady with a resentment visibly supported by the maternal sentiment of the whole car....

That night he slept badly and the next morning his temperature frightened her: she was sure he was growing worse. The day passed slowly, punctuated by the small irritations of travel. Watching his tired face, she traced in its contractions every rattle and jolt of the tram, till her own body vibrated with sympathetic fatigue. She felt the others observing him too, and hovered restlessly between him and the line of interrogative eyes. The freckled child hung about him like a fly; offers of candy and picture- books failed to dislodge her: she twisted one leg around the other and watched him imperturbably. The porter, as he passed, lingered with vague proffers of help, probably inspired by philanthropic passengers swelling with the sense that "something ought to be done;" and one nervous man in a skull-cap was audibly concerned as to the possible effect on his wife's health.

The hours dragged on in a dreary inoccupation. Towards dusk she sat down beside him and he laid his hand on hers. The touch startled her. He seemed to be calling her from far off. She looked at him helplessly and his smile went through her like a physical pang.

"Are you very tired?" she asked.

"No, not very."

"We'll be there soon now."

"Yes, very soon."

"This time to-morrow--"

He nodded and they sat silent. When she had put him to bed and crawled into her own berth she tried to cheer herself with the thought that in less than twenty-four hours they would be in New York. Her people would all be at the station to meet her--she pictured their round unanxious faces pressing through the crowd. She only hoped they would not tell him too loudly that he was looking splendidly and would be all right in no time: the subtler sympathies developed by long contact with suffering were making her aware of a certain coarseness of texture in the family sensibilities.

Suddenly she thought she heard him call. She parted the curtains and listened. No, it was only a man snoring at the other end of the car. His snores had a greasy sound, as though they passed through tallow. She lay down and tried to sleep... Had she not heard him move? She started up trembling... The silence frightened her more than any sound. He might not be able to make her hear--he might be calling her now... What made her think of such things? It was merely the familiar tendency of an over-tired mind to fasten itself on the most intolerable chance within the range of its forebodings.... Putting her head out, she listened; but she could not distinguish his breathing from that of the other pairs of lungs about her. She longed to get up and look at him, but she knew the impulse was a mere vent for her restlessness, and the fear of disturbing him restrained her.... The regular movement of his curtain reassured her, she knew not why; she remembered that he had wished her a cheerful good-night; and the sheer inability to endure her fears a moment longer made her put them from her with an effort of her whole sound tired body. She turned on her side and slept.

She sat up stiffly, staring out at the dawn. The train was rushing through a region of bare hillocks huddled against a lifeless sky. It looked like the first day of creation. The air of the car was close, and she pushed up her window to let in the keen wind. Then she looked at her watch: it was seven o'clock, and soon the people about her would be stirring. She slipped into her clothes, smoothed her dishevelled hair and crept to the dressing-room. When she had washed her face and adjusted her dress she felt more hopeful. It was always a struggle for her not to be cheerful in the morning. Her cheeks burned deliciously under the coarse towel and the wet hair about her temples broke into strong upward tendrils. Every inch of her was full of life and elasticity. And in ten hours they would be at home!

She stepped to her husband's berth: it was time for him to take his early glass of milk. The window-shade was down, and in the dusk of the curtained enclosure she could just see that he lay sideways, with his face away from her. She leaned over him and drew up the shade. As she did so she touched one of his hands. It felt cold....

She bent closer, laying her hand on his arm and calling him by name. He did not move. She spoke again more loudly; she grasped his shoulder and gently shook it. He lay motionless. She caught hold of his hand again: it slipped from her limply, like a dead thing. A dead thing? ... Her breath caught. She must see his face. She leaned forward, and hurriedly, shrinkingly, with a sickening reluctance of the flesh, laid her hands on his shoulders and turned him over. His head fell back; his face looked small and smooth; he gazed at her with steady eyes.

She remained motionless for a long time, holding him thus; and they looked at each other. Suddenly she shrank back: the longing to scream, to call out, to fly from him, had almost overpowered her. But a strong hand arrested her. Good God! If it were known that he was dead they would be put off the train at the next station--

In a terrifying flash of remembrance there arose before her a scene she had once witnessed in travelling, when a husband and wife, whose child had died in the train, had been thrust out at some chance station. She saw them standing on the platform with the child's body between them; she had never forgotten the dazed look with which they followed the receding train. And this was what would happen to her. Within the next hour she might find herself on the platform of some strange station, alone with her husband's body.... Anything but that! It was too horrible--She quivered like a creature at bay.

As she cowered there, she felt the train moving more slowly. It was coming then--they were approaching a station! She saw again the husband and wife standing on the lonely platform; and with a violent gesture she drew down the shade to hide her husband's face.

Feeling dizzy, she sank down on the edge of the berth, keeping away from his outstretched body, and pulling the curtains close, so that he and she were shut into a kind of sepulchral twilight. She tried to think. At all costs she must conceal the fact that he was dead. But how? Her mind refused to act: she could not plan, combine. She could think of no way but to sit there, clutching the curtains, all day long....

She heard the porter making up her bed; people were beginning to move about the car; the dressing-room door was being opened and shut. She tried to rouse herself. At length with a supreme effort she rose to her feet, stepping into the aisle of the car and drawing the curtains tight behind her. She noticed that they still parted slightly with the motion of the car, and finding a pin in her dress she fastened them together. Now she was safe. She looked round and saw the porter. She fancied he was watching her.

"Ain't he awake yet?" he enquired.

"No," she faltered.

"I got his milk all ready when he wants it. You know you told me to have it for him by seven."

She nodded silently and crept into her seat.

At half-past eight the train reached Buffalo. By this time the other passengers were dressed and the berths had been folded back for the day. The porter, moving to and fro under his burden of sheets and pillows, glanced at her as he passed. At length he said: "Ain't he going to get up? You know we're ordered to make up the berths as early as we can."

She turned cold with fear. They were just entering the station.

"Oh, not yet," she stammered. "Not till he's had his milk. Won't you get it, please?"

"All right. Soon as we start again."

When the train moved on he reappeared with the milk. She took it from him and sat vaguely looking at it: her brain moved slowly from one idea to another, as though they were stepping-stones set far apart across a whirling flood. At length she became aware that the porter still hovered expectantly.

"Will I give it to him?" he suggested.

"Oh, no," she cried, rising. "He--he's asleep yet, I think--"

She waited till the porter had passed on; then she unpinned the curtains and slipped behind them. In the semi-obscurity her husband's face stared up at her like a marble mask with agate eyes. The eyes were dreadful. She put out her hand and drew down the lids. Then she remembered the glass of milk in her other hand: what was she to do with it? She thought of raising the window and throwing it out; but to do so she would have to lean across his body and bring her face close to his. She decided to drink the milk.

She returned to her seat with the empty glass and after a while the porter came back to get it.

"When'll I fold up his bed?" he asked.

"Oh, not now--not yet; he's ill--he's very ill. Can't you let him stay as he is? The doctor wants him to lie down as much as possible."

He scratched his head. "Well, if he's _really_ sick--"

He took the empty glass and walked away, explaining to the passengers that the party behind the curtains was too sick to get up just yet.

She found herself the centre of sympathetic eyes. A motherly woman with an intimate smile sat down beside her.

"I'm real sorry to hear your husband's sick. I've had a remarkable amount of sickness in my family and maybe I could assist you. Can I take a look at him?"

"Oh, no--no, please! He mustn't be disturbed."

The lady accepted the rebuff indulgently.

"Well, it's just as you say, of course, but you don't look to me as if you'd had much experience in sickness and I'd have been glad to assist you. What do you generally do when your husband's taken this way?"

"I--I let him sleep."

"Too much sleep ain't any too healthful either. Don't you give him any medicine?"

"Don't you wake him to take it?"

"When does he take the next dose?"

"Not for--two hours--"

The lady looked disappointed. "Well, if I was you I'd try giving it oftener. That's what I do with my folks."

After that many faces seemed to press upon her. The passengers were on their way to the dining-car, and she was conscious that as they passed down the aisle they glanced curiously at the closed curtains. One lantern- jawed man with prominent eyes stood still and tried to shoot his projecting glance through the division between the folds. The freckled child, returning from breakfast, waylaid the passers with a buttery clutch, saying in a loud whisper, "He's sick;" and once the conductor came by, asking for tickets. She shrank into her corner and looked out of the window at the flying trees and houses, meaningless hieroglyphs of an endlessly unrolled papyrus.

Now and then the train stopped, and the newcomers on entering the car stared in turn at the closed curtains. More and more people seemed to pass--their faces began to blend fantastically with the images surging in her brain....

Later in the day a fat man detached himself from the mist of faces. He had a creased stomach and soft pale lips. As he pressed himself into the seat facing her she noticed that he was dressed in black broadcloth, with a soiled white tie.

"Husband's pretty bad this morning, is he?"

"Dear, dear! Now that's terribly distressing, ain't it?" An apostolic smile revealed his gold-filled teeth.

"Of course you know there's no sech thing as sickness. Ain't that a lovely thought? Death itself is but a deloosion of our grosser senses. On'y lay yourself open to the influx of the sperrit, submit yourself passively to the action of the divine force, and disease and dissolution will cease to exist for you. If you could indooce your husband to read this little pamphlet--"

The faces about her again grew indistinct. She had a vague recollection of hearing the motherly lady and the parent of the freckled child ardently disputing the relative advantages of trying several medicines at once, or of taking each in turn; the motherly lady maintaining that the competitive system saved time; the other objecting that you couldn't tell which remedy had effected the cure; their voices went on and on, like bell-buoys droning through a fog.... The porter came up now and then with questions that she did not understand, but that somehow she must have answered since he went away again without repeating them; every two hours the motherly lady reminded her that her husband ought to have his drops; people left the car and others replaced them...

Her head was spinning and she tried to steady herself by clutching at her thoughts as they swept by, but they slipped away from her like bushes on the side of a sheer precipice down which she seemed to be falling. Suddenly her mind grew clear again and she found herself vividly picturing what would happen when the train reached New York. She shuddered as it occurred to her that he would be quite cold and that some one might perceive he had been dead since morning.

She thought hurriedly:--"If they see I am not surprised they will suspect something. They will ask questions, and if I tell them the truth they won't believe me--no one would believe me! It will be terrible"--and she kept repeating to herself:--"I must pretend I don't know. I must pretend I don't know. When they open the curtains I must go up to him quite naturally--and then I must scream." ... She had an idea that the scream would be very hard to do.

Gradually new thoughts crowded upon her, vivid and urgent: she tried to separate and restrain them, but they beset her clamorously, like her school-children at the end of a hot day, when she was too tired to silence them. Her head grew confused, and she felt a sick fear of forgetting her part, of betraying herself by some unguarded word or look.

"I must pretend I don't know," she went on murmuring. The words had lost their significance, but she repeated them mechanically, as though they had been a magic formula, until suddenly she heard herself saying: "I can't remember, I can't remember!"

Her voice sounded very loud, and she looked about her in terror; but no one seemed to notice that she had spoken.

As she glanced down the car her eye caught the curtains of her husband's berth, and she began to examine the monotonous arabesques woven through their heavy folds. The pattern was intricate and difficult to trace; she gazed fixedly at the curtains and as she did so the thick stuff grew transparent and through it she saw her husband's face--his dead face. She struggled to avert her look, but her eyes refused to move and her head seemed to be held in a vice. At last, with an effort that left her weak and shaking, she turned away; but it was of no use; close in front of her, small and smooth, was her husband's face. It seemed to be suspended in the air between her and the false braids of the woman who sat in front of her. With an uncontrollable gesture she stretched out her hand to push the face away, and suddenly she felt the touch of his smooth skin. She repressed a cry and half started from her seat. The woman with the false braids looked around, and feeling that she must justify her movement in some way she rose and lifted her travelling-bag from the opposite seat. She unlocked the bag and looked into it; but the first object her hand met was a small flask of her husband's, thrust there at the last moment, in the haste of departure. She locked the bag and closed her eyes ... his face was there again, hanging between her eye-balls and lids like a waxen mask against a red curtain....

She roused herself with a shiver. Had she fainted or slept? Hours seemed to have elapsed; but it was still broad day, and the people about her were sitting in the same attitudes as before.

A sudden sense of hunger made her aware that she had eaten nothing since morning. The thought of food filled her with disgust, but she dreaded a return of faintness, and remembering that she had some biscuits in her bag she took one out and ate it. The dry crumbs choked her, and she hastily swallowed a little brandy from her husband's flask. The burning sensation in her throat acted as a counter-irritant, momentarily relieving the dull ache of her nerves. Then she felt a gently-stealing warmth, as though a soft air fanned her, and the swarming fears relaxed their clutch, receding through the stillness that enclosed her, a stillness soothing as the spacious quietude of a summer day. She slept.

Through her sleep she felt the impetuous rush of the train. It seemed to be life itself that was sweeping her on with headlong inexorable force-- sweeping her into darkness and terror, and the awe of unknown days.--Now all at once everything was still--not a sound, not a pulsation... She was dead in her turn, and lay beside him with smooth upstaring face. How quiet it was!--and yet she heard feet coming, the feet of the men who were to carry them away... She could feel too--she felt a sudden prolonged vibration, a series of hard shocks, and then another plunge into darkness: the darkness of death this time--a black whirlwind on which they were both spinning like leaves, in wild uncoiling spirals, with millions and millions of the dead....

She sprang up in terror. Her sleep must have lasted a long time, for the winter day had paled and the lights had been lit. The car was in confusion, and as she regained her self-possession she saw that the passengers were gathering up their wraps and bags. The woman with the false braids had brought from the dressing-room a sickly ivy-plant in a bottle, and the Christian Scientist was reversing his cuffs. The porter passed down the aisle with his impartial brush. An impersonal figure with a gold-banded cap asked for her husband's ticket. A voice shouted "Baig- gage express!" and she heard the clicking of metal as the passengers handed over their checks.

Presently her window was blocked by an expanse of sooty wall, and the train passed into the Harlem tunnel. The journey was over; in a few minutes she would see her family pushing their joyous way through the throng at the station. Her heart dilated. The worst terror was past....

"We'd better get him up now, hadn't we?" asked the porter, touching her arm.

He had her husband's hat in his hand and was meditatively revolving it under his brush.

She looked at the hat and tried to speak; but suddenly the car grew dark. She flung up her arms, struggling to catch at something, and fell face downward, striking her head against the dead man's berth.

A Journey is featured in Short Stories for High School II

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Summaries, Analysis & Lists

“A Journey” Summary by Edith Wharton

“A Journey” is a short story by Edith Wharton about a married couple who are returning to New York by train after being away for the husband’s health. Here’s a summary of “A Journey”.

“A Journey” Summary

A woman lies in her train car. She can see her husband in his across the aisle through a gap in the curtain. There’s distance and irritation between them now. His voice is weak; she wonders if she’d hear him if he called. A year ago, when he’d been healthy, they were in step with each other. Now, she’s too energetic for him, and feels confined.

They gave up their nice house and moved to Colorado for his health. He got worse. He’s not the same man anymore—she has to be the protector now and tend to him. She resents his condition, with only occasional moments of pity.

She was happy when the doctors said to return home, even though they know this means he won’t last long. They act like there’s still hope.

She was worried something would interfere with returning home, but it went as planned. She never really liked anyone she met in Colorado.

A Journey Edith Wharton Summary Synopsis Plot

He got some amusement looking out the window the first day but worsened on the second and slept badly. On the third day he’s worse and irritated. Some people offer help, but there’s nothing to do.

She sits with him a while before bed. She tries to look forward to being back home in less than twenty-four hours. She hopes they won’t pretend too much that he’s looking well.

She worries whether he might be calling to her. She wants to check on him but doesn’t want to risk disturbing him either. She eventually clams her mind and sleeps.

She wakes at seven in the morning and feels hopeful. They’ll be home in ten hours. She goes to her husband’s berth to get him his milk. His hand is cold, and she soon realizes he’s dead. She realizes they’ll be put off the train if anyone finds out—she witnessed such a scene once. She can’t deal with being left alone on the platform with her husband’s body.

She keeps the curtain closed when the porter comes. Eventually everyone is up and the porter comes by again to make up the berth. She says he needs his milk first, so it’s brought when they leave the current station. She drinks it herself and persuades the porter to let her husband sleep.

A motherly woman sits by her, offers to take a look and gives some advice but she fends her off. The wife feels the passengers looking at her and the closed curtain. A fat man in black sits across from her and explains sickness is a delusion and one must open up to the spirit. He has a pamphlet.

“A Journey” Summary, Cont’d

She hears a conversation about the best way to take medicine. She’s in a fog, but manages to answer the porter’s questions and fend off the motherly lady.

She anticipates what will happen when they reach New York. His body will be very cold and they might know he’s been dead since morning. There will be lots of questions. She sets it in her mind that she must pretend she doesn’t know and scream when the curtain is opened.

She repeats to herself that she doesn’t know, but the words lose their meaning. She becomes fixated on the pattern in the curtain and then has a vision of her husband’s face. It follows her as she turns away and she’s startled. It feels like a lot of time has passed but everyone seems the same.

Remembering she hasn’t eaten, she has a dry biscuit from her bag and some brandy from her husband’s flask. She feels more relaxed and falls asleep.

She dreams of being swept into darkness and imagines herself lying dead next to her husband. She wakes in terror.

It’s getting dark out and there’s lots of activity as the passengers gather their things. The train enters the Harlem tunnel; they’ll be home in a few minutes. Her family will be at the station.

The porter says they’ll have to get him up now. Everything goes dark and she falls, hitting her head on her husband’s berth.

I hope this summary of “A Journey” by Edith Wharton was helpful.

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She still loved him, of course; but he was gradually, undefinably ceasing to be himself. The man she had married had been strong, active, gently masterful: the male whose pleasure it is to clear a way through the material obstructions of life; but now it was she who was the protector, he who must be shielded from importunities and given his drops or his beef-juice though the skies were falling. .... It frightened her to feel that this was the man she loved.

Life had a grudge against her: she was never to be allowed to spread her wings.

Story of the Week

Friday, november 5, 2010.

I felt like some homeless waif who, after trying for years to take out naturalization papers, and being rejected by every country, has finally acquired a nationality. The Land of Letters was henceforth to be my country, and I gloried in my new citizenship. The publishing of The Greater Inclination broke the chains which had held me so long in a kind or torpor. For nearly twelve years I had tried to adjust myself to the life I had led since my marriage. . . .

The Sitting Bee

Short Story Reviews

A Journey by Edith Wharton

In A Journey by Edith Wharton we have the theme of change, acceptance, gender roles, loyalty, independence, conflict and social opinion. Taken from her The New York Stories collection the story is narrated in the third person by an unnamed narrator and after reading the story the reader realises that Wharton may be exploring the theme of change. The female protagonist though she loves her husband does not necessarily wish to remain with him. Due to his illness he is not the same man that she married. Things have changed in the relationship. However it is noticeable that despite how the protagonist feels she remains by her husband’s side throughout the story. This may be important as Wharton may be placing a spotlight on the accepted societal norms of the time when it came to the role of a woman in a marriage. Though the protagonist has thoughts of leaving her husband due to the pressures imposed on her. She remains by his side. Rather than being a wife she has become a nurse to her husband. Though some critics might suggest that it would be selfish of the protagonist to leave her husband Wharton might be suggesting that should the roles be reversed the protagonist’s husband may not necessarily show the same loyalty. If anything society at the time would have viewed women to have a responsibility to their husbands. Once married a woman lost any sense of independence.

It is also interesting that the protagonist is afraid to tell anybody on the train that her husband is dead. She knows that should she tell people she and her husband will be removed from the train. This could be important as it suggests that there may be a negative attitude towards death within society. Death is something to be seen from a distance rather than close proximity. With social opinion dictating that it may be inappropriate for the protagonist and her husband to continue their journey. How imposing social opinion actually is in the story is noticeable by the sense of panic that the protagonist feels on discovery that her husband is dead. She does not grieve his death rather she is concerned about hiding the fact that he is dead. If anything the protagonist is being practical under very difficult circumstances. She is also accepting of the conditions she finds herself in. Knowing that she will be judged by others due to the fact that her husband has died on the train. If anything Wharton may be suggesting that at times society can lack empathy.

The fact that the protagonist is in conflict with herself may also be significant as it suggests that she is torn between staying with her husband and leaving him. If anything Wharton manages to give the reader an insight into the emotions that the protagonist is feeling. She had aspirations for the future but due to her husband’s illness her own life has been put on hold. Taking on the responsibility as a caregiver or nurse to her husband. It is also possible that Wharton is highlighting how quickly an individual’s life can change from a life of happiness to one of misery without the individual having any control over how things turn out. Which is very much the case when it comes to the protagonist. Her life has been interrupted without her permission. She has no say in what will happen to her due to the accepted societal norms of the time. If she were to leave her husband she would become an outcast within society.

The end of the story is also interesting as the reader is left aware of the fact that there is still so much for the protagonist to do. She still has to tell somebody that her husband is dead. Something which already leaves the protagonist conflicted. In reality there is no real resolution for the protagonist. Her work has really only begun. However the fact that the train has arrived back in New York may be of some benefit to the protagonist as New York is not only her home but her family will also be at the station waiting for her. Having spent six weeks in an unfamiliar environment at least that protagonist is back in an environment that is known to her. It is as though she has the reassurance of familiarity. The protagonist also has the opportunity in time to reclaim her life and to live it as she sees fit. She has done everything that is expected of her by society. Considering the pressure that the protagonist was under throughout the train journey she has done remarkably well. She has stayed by her husband’s side and handled the circumstances she found herself in to the best of her ability. The reader aware that there is not much else that the protagonist can do for her husband.

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According to Keirsey, Edith Wharton may have b...

Edith Wharton (Presumed Public Domain via Wikipedia)

I am a fan of Edith Wharton and have read around seven of her novels, some of which are part of my personal canon. However, I have only read a couple of her short stories, and she wrote quite a few of those too. In fact, she was a prolific writer. And so, when last week’s Library of America story turned out to be one of hers, I decided to read it.

“A journey” was written, according the brief introductory notes, in the 1890s when Wharton was in her late 20s to early 30s. It was written during the time when she was married – unhappily – to Edward Wharton, from whom she was eventually divorced in 1913. The notes say that three of the stories written during the 1890s explore marital misery, and that the journey in this story “becomes a metaphor for an unhappy marriage”.

That could be so, but let’s get to the story. It describes a train journey in which a young woman is accompanying her terminally ill husband back to their home in the East after having spent some time, under doctor’s orders, in Colorado. The story starts with:

As she lay in her berth, staring at the shadows overhead, the rush of wheels was in her brain, driving her deeper and deeper into circles of wakeful lucidity. The sleeping car had sunk into its night silence. Through the wet window-pane she watched the sudden lights, the long stretches of hurrying blackness …

The next paragraph briefly chronicles their short marriage and the sudden disparity between them as his health collapses:

a year ago their pulses had beat to one robust measure; both had the same prodigal confidence in an exhaustless future. Now their energies no longer kept step …

And then here is the entire third paragraph:

When they married, she had such arrears of living to make up: her days had been as bare as the white-washed school-room where she forced innutritious facts upon reluctant children. His coming had broken in on the slumber of circumstance, widening the present till it became the encloser of remotest chances. But imperceptibly the horizon narrowed. Life had a grudge against her: she was never to be allowed to spread her wings.

Oh dear … methinks the note-makers at the Library of America are right. It’s not what is said so much as what is not said and how what is said is said. What is not said is anything about true love and empathy (though we are told in the fourth paragraph that “she still loved him of course”). In other words, there is no sense of the looming tragedy of the loss of a soul-mate. As for how it is all said, the language is heavy and gloomy. It’s clearly raining, and there are “shadows” and the “hurrying blackness” (a metaphor, presumably, for his coming death, as well as being a literal description of night). The paragraph describing his appearance in her life and their marriage is not exactly joyful either. The focus here is more on where she’d been, so the language is negative (“arrears”, “slumber”). And even the description of the possibilities opening up to her through marriage – “the encloser of remotest chances” – is not what you’d call expansive. No wonder she thinks life has a “grudge against her”. I would too.

The rest of the story is about a rather self-focused young woman. She goes through the motions of caring for her husband – and occasionally “warm gushes of pity [not “sympathy” or “love”, note!] swept away her instinctive resentment of his condition” – but her thoughts are all for herself. Here is her reaction to being in Colorado:

Nobody knew about her, or cared about her; there was no one to wonder at the good match she had made, or to envy the new dresses …

This is early Wharton. The hallmarks of her writing style are here – the careful choice of words to convey meaning that may be opposite to what’s expected, the development of character through those words, the build up of atmosphere and tension through a well-sustained tone – but it doesn’t quite have the tightness and singularity of purpose of her later works. We don’t get to understand the young woman well enough to be able to respond to her on anything more than a superficial level. I suspect that Wharton would want us to extend her some sympathy but I think we are more likely to see her as a little pathetic, and we really know almost nothing about the husband (except that he had been “strong, active, gently masterful”) so our reaction to his predicament is more intellectual than emotional.

As the journey proceeds, our heroine is faced with a moral dilemma, but she doesn’t take full responsibility for what is happening: “it seemed to be life that was sweeping her on with headlong inexorable force – sweeping her into darkness and terror”. The story, in fact, takes on some elements of horror fiction but that is not its intent and it doesn’t develop along those lines.

I particularly like Wharton when she tackles the intersection between societal expectations and character. This story has glimmers of that – but it’s not really elaborated. Nonetheless, it’s a good story that grabs you from the start with its oppressive atmosphere and foreboding tone. Even early Wharton, I’ve found, has much to offer her readers.

Edith Wharton “A journey” The Library of America Originally published in a collection in 1899? Available: Online

Note : Stef at So many books has recently reviewed Hermione Lee ‘s biography of Wharton, and Kevin at Interpolations has extensively reviewed some of her novels.

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23 thoughts on “ Edith Wharton, A journey ”

“It’s not what is said so much as what is not said and how what is said is said. What is not said is anything about true love and empathy….”

You know, I’ve had this same experience in my reading of Wharton. She’s very gifted at not saying just the right thing, at just the right time. The periphery of her prose glows, it does. Sometimes I think she’s conciously experimenting with non-mimetic representation but then get swept away by what she does say. She’s a real talent. I do wish, however, that she had given us a robust fictional account of the republic of the spirit, i.e., love, empathy, union, rather than successive bleak marital train wrecks. Maybe Age of Innocence, which I’ll read next, will add some color between the lines. Cheers, Kevin

Thanks Kevin for picking up on that. I like your take on it. As for what you wish, I’ll be interested in what you have to say about The age of innocence – but until then, my lips are sealed.

EW is a great favourite of mine. I haven’t read one of her novels in ages. Thanks for the nudge.

Pleased to have obliged Guy. Shall I look out for your coming review then? (BTW Am off on a another jaunt this am … will check out your latest review in a couple of days. The last two weeks have seen me on three trips away so my blog reading has been sorely tried).

No promises, Gummie. I’ve been meaning to get back to her, but then other books seem to become the priority. Don’t know about all this gadding about.

Poor Wharton, she was unhappily married. Teddy suffered from mental illness. Hermione Lee never really suggests what sort but it sounds like he was manic-depressive and the family knew it when they married Edith off to the guy.

Thanks for adding that Stefanie. The Lee biography is a must read for me one day I think. (Oh, I’ve just noticed I described you as Stef in my post. Is that OK? I didn’t mean to take such liberties).

Stef is tottally OK 🙂

That made for really fascinating reading. I haven’t read any of Wharton but not I will try to do so soon

She’s well worth it, Becky … I haven’t read one yet that I didn’t think was worth it.

Writing a story about a woman whose husband has a terminal illness when you yourself are stuck in an unhappy marriage – there is an uncomfortable sense of ‘if only’ about the choice of plot. Do you have a favourite book by Wharton and, if so, which is it?

Oh yes, zmkc, you don’t look for comfort in Wharton. Probably my favourite is The house of mirth. It has exactly that mix of societal conditions and character that I particularly love about Wharton. Her books were, for me, rather eye-opening about turn of the 20th century New York life.

Thanks for an insightful post. I’ve enjoyed the excerpts here. Thanks for the online link too… I must read this piece. You’ve shown me how ingenious Wharton’s writing is: not so much in what is said but what is not said, and how it is said. There are many words and phrases I love just from these few passages here, but this description particularly stand out for me: “… arrears of living to make up.” The Age of Innocence is one of my all time favourite films and I’ve yet to read the book. But it’s her short stories that I’ll explore first upon reading your post! 😉

Thanks Arti. Do read Age of Innocence. I can’t recollect how close the book was to the film but I think it was pretty good. Did you see The house of mirth? It starred Gillian Anderson and I really didn’t expect her to be up to it – she wasn’t at all how I envisaged Lily Bart to be – but she did a good job. Great book, and the film was pretty good too. Not amazing but good.

I have a vague memory of that movie, which I believe I’d seen years ago. I’m just curious, is this a special EW year? All these interesting posts on her. Now I must start with the short story you recommend.

Thanks Stefanie/Stef … I’ll relax now and use whatever comes to mind at the time!

LOL Guy … gadding has now stopped for a couple of months. It DOES I must say get in the way of blogging!!

Not that I know of Arti. A couple of bloggers have been reading her, I notice, but for me it was just one of the Library of American selections. And since I like her I decided to read it. I’ll be interesting to know what you think.

Just finished ‘A Journey’. This reads like a horror story, and very unsettling. Her writing has to be very good to stir up ripples like that in her readers’ mind I must say. Maybe because of her own unhappy marriage that she created a story like this?

Oh, so glad you read it and came back to comment Arti. It certainly does have a horror element … but it’s not a real “horror” story is it? I guess one has to feel that her feelings about her own marriage stimulated her to write such an unsettling, claustrophobic sort of story.

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I have yet to read anything by Wharton – much to my shame – the fact you have read seven of her books speaks for itself. You are certainly making the most of the Library of Congress resource and have encouraged me to explore it for myself.

The theme of this story is quite contemporary – the conflict between duty and “finding oneself”.

Yes, I never like to say “should” to another reader because there are more great books/writers out there than any of us will ever manage to read, but she is a good’un. She’s written some novellas – Ethan Frome is probably the best – if you want to just put your foot in the water with her.

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A Journey Paperback – March 1, 2014

Print length 26 pages
Language English
Publication date March 1, 2014
Dimensions 5.06 x 0.06 x 7.81 inches
ISBN-10 1496122143
ISBN-13 978-1496122148
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Publisher ‏ : ‎ CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (March 1, 2014)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 26 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1496122143
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1496122148
Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 2.72 ounces
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.06 x 0.06 x 7.81 inches
#89,636 in Short Stories (Books)

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[1] from The Greater Inclination (1889)

"Are you very tired?" she asked.

"No, not very."

"We'll be there soon now."

"Yes, very soon."

"This time to-morrow--"

"Ain't he awake yet?" he enquired.

"No," she faltered.

"I got his milk all ready when he wants it. You know you told me to have it for him by seven."

She nodded silently and crept into her seat.

She turned cold with fear. They were just entering the station.

"Oh, not yet," she stammered. "Not till he's had his milk. Won't you get it, please?"

"All right. Soon as we start again."

"Will I give it to him?" he suggested.

"Oh, no," she cried, rising. "He--he's asleep yet, I think--"

She returned to her seat with the empty glass and after a while the porter came back to get it.

"When'll I fold up his bed?" he asked.

"Oh, not now--not yet; he's ill--he's very ill. Can't you let him stay as he is? The doctor wants him to lie down as much as possible."

He scratched his head. "Well, if he's _really_ sick--"

He took the empty glass and walked away, explaining to the passengers that the party behind the curtains was too sick to get up just yet.

She found herself the centre of sympathetic eyes. A motherly woman with an intimate smile sat down beside her.

"I'm real sorry to hear your husband's sick. I've had a remarkable amount of sickness in my family and maybe I could assist you. Can I take a look at him?"

"Oh, no--no, please! He mustn't be disturbed."

The lady accepted the rebuff indulgently.

"I--I let him sleep."

"Too much sleep ain't any too healthful either. Don't you give him any medicine?"

"Don't you wake him to take it?"

"When does he take the next dose?"

"Not for--two hours--"

The lady looked disappointed. "Well, if I was you I'd try giving it oftener. That's what I do with my folks."

"Husband's pretty bad this morning, is he?"

"Dear, dear! Now that's terribly distressing, ain't it?" An apostolic smile revealed his gold-filled teeth.

Her voice sounded very loud, and she looked about her in terror; but no one seemed to notice that she had spoken.

She roused herself with a shiver. Had she fainted or slept? Hours seemed to have elapsed; but it was still broad day, and the people about her were sitting in the same attitudes as before.

"We'd better get him up now, hadn't we?" asked the porter, touching her arm.

He had her husband's hat in his hand and was meditatively revolving it under his brush.

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.

The longest-living author of this work died in 1937, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 86 years or less . This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works .

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1889 Short Story

Black and white Photo of Author Edith Wharton (1862 - 1937)

A Journey is an English Realism , Social Commentary short story by American writer Edith Wharton . It was first published in 1889.

A Journey by Edith Wharton

The first twenty-four hours had passed off well. He revived a little and it amused him to look out of the window and to observe the humours of the car. The second day he began to grow weary and to chafe under the dispassionate stare of the freckled child with the lump of chewing-gum. She had to explain to the child’s mother that her husband was too ill to be disturbed: a statement received by that lady with a resentment visibly supported by the maternal sentiment of the whole car….

That night he slept badly and the next morning his temperature frightened her: she was sure he was growing worse. The day passed slowly, punctuated by the small irritations of travel. Watching his tired face, she traced in its contractions every rattle and jolt of the tram, till her own body vibrated with sympathetic fatigue. She felt the others observing him too, and hovered restlessly between him and the line of interrogative eyes. The freckled child hung about him like a fly; offers of candy and picture- books failed to dislodge her: she twisted one leg around the other and watched him imperturbably. The porter, as he passed, lingered with vague proffers of help, probably inspired by philanthropic passengers swelling with the sense that “something ought to be done;” and one nervous man in a skull-cap was audibly concerned as to the possible effect on his wife’s health.

“Are you very tired?” she asked.

“No, not very.”

“We’ll be there soon now.”

“Yes, very soon.”

“This time to-morrow–“

He nodded and they sat silent. When she had put him to bed and crawled into her own berth she tried to cheer herself with the thought that in less than twenty-four hours they would be in New York. Her people would all be at the station to meet her–she pictured their round unanxious faces pressing through the crowd. She only hoped they would not tell him too loudly that he was looking splendidly and would be all right in no time: the subtler sympathies developed by long contact with suffering were making her aware of a certain coarseness of texture in the family sensibilities.

Suddenly she thought she heard him call. She parted the curtains and listened. No, it was only a man snoring at the other end of the car. His snores had a greasy sound, as though they passed through tallow. She lay down and tried to sleep… Had she not heard him move? She started up trembling… The silence frightened her more than any sound. He might not be able to make her hear–he might be calling her now… What made her think of such things? It was merely the familiar tendency of an over-tired mind to fasten itself on the most intolerable chance within the range of its forebodings…. Putting her head out, she listened; but she could not distinguish his breathing from that of the other pairs of lungs about her. She longed to get up and look at him, but she knew the impulse was a mere vent for her restlessness, and the fear of disturbing him restrained her…. The regular movement of his curtain reassured her, she knew not why; she remembered that he had wished her a cheerful good-night; and the sheer inability to endure her fears a moment longer made her put them from her with an effort of her whole sound tired body. She turned on her side and slept.

She sat up stiffly, staring out at the dawn. The train was rushing through a region of bare hillocks huddled against a lifeless sky. It looked like the first day of creation. The air of the car was close, and she pushed up her window to let in the keen wind. Then she looked at her watch: it was seven o’clock, and soon the people about her would be stirring. She slipped into her clothes, smoothed her dishevelled hair and crept to the dressing-room. When she had washed her face and adjusted her dress she felt more hopeful. It was always a struggle for her not to be cheerful in the morning. Her cheeks burned deliciously under the coarse towel and the wet hair about her temples broke into strong upward tendrils. Every inch of her was full of life and elasticity. And in ten hours they would be at home!

She stepped to her husband’s berth: it was time for him to take his early glass of milk. The window-shade was down, and in the dusk of the curtained enclosure she could just see that he lay sideways, with his face away from her. She leaned over him and drew up the shade. As she did so she touched one of his hands. It felt cold….

She bent closer, laying her hand on his arm and calling him by name. He did not move. She spoke again more loudly; she grasped his shoulder and gently shook it. He lay motionless. She caught hold of his hand again: it slipped from her limply, like a dead thing. A dead thing? … Her breath caught. She must see his face. She leaned forward, and hurriedly, shrinkingly, with a sickening reluctance of the flesh, laid her hands on his shoulders and turned him over. His head fell back; his face looked small and smooth; he gazed at her with steady eyes.

In a terrifying flash of remembrance there arose before her a scene she had once witnessed in travelling, when a husband and wife, whose child had died in the train, had been thrust out at some chance station. She saw them standing on the platform with the child’s body between them; she had never forgotten the dazed look with which they followed the receding train. And this was what would happen to her. Within the next hour she might find herself on the platform of some strange station, alone with her husband’s body…. Anything but that! It was too horrible–She quivered like a creature at bay.

As she cowered there, she felt the train moving more slowly. It was coming then–they were approaching a station! She saw again the husband and wife standing on the lonely platform; and with a violent gesture she drew down the shade to hide her husband’s face.

“Ain’t he awake yet?” he enquired.

“No,” she faltered.

“I got his milk all ready when he wants it. You know you told me to have it for him by seven.”

She nodded silently and crept into her seat.

At half-past eight the train reached Buffalo. By this time the other passengers were dressed and the berths had been folded back for the day. The porter, moving to and fro under his burden of sheets and pillows, glanced at her as he passed. At length he said: “Ain’t he going to get up? You know we’re ordered to make up the berths as early as we can.”

She turned cold with fear. They were just entering the station.

“Oh, not yet,” she stammered. “Not till he’s had his milk. Won’t you get it, please?”

“All right. Soon as we start again.”

“Will I give it to him?” he suggested.

“Oh, no,” she cried, rising. “He–he’s asleep yet, I think–“

She waited till the porter had passed on; then she unpinned the curtains and slipped behind them. In the semi-obscurity her husband’s face stared up at her like a marble mask with agate eyes. The eyes were dreadful. She put out her hand and drew down the lids. Then she remembered the glass of milk in her other hand: what was she to do with it? She thought of raising the window and throwing it out; but to do so she would have to lean across his body and bring her face close to his. She decided to drink the milk.

She returned to her seat with the empty glass and after a while the porter came back to get it.

“When’ll I fold up his bed?” he asked.

“Oh, not now–not yet; he’s ill–he’s very ill. Can’t you let him stay as he is? The doctor wants him to lie down as much as possible.”

He scratched his head. “Well, if he’s _really_ sick–“

He took the empty glass and walked away, explaining to the passengers that the party behind the curtains was too sick to get up just yet.

She found herself the centre of sympathetic eyes. A motherly woman with an intimate smile sat down beside her.

“I’m real sorry to hear your husband’s sick. I’ve had a remarkable amount of sickness in my family and maybe I could assist you. Can I take a look at him?”

“Oh, no–no, please! He mustn’t be disturbed.”

The lady accepted the rebuff indulgently.

“Well, it’s just as you say, of course, but you don’t look to me as if you’d had much experience in sickness and I’d have been glad to assist you. What do you generally do when your husband’s taken this way?”

“I–I let him sleep.”

“Too much sleep ain’t any too healthful either. Don’t you give him any medicine?”

“Y–yes.”

“Don’t you wake him to take it?”

“Yes.”

“When does he take the next dose?”

“Not for–two hours–“

The lady looked disappointed. “Well, if I was you I’d try giving it oftener. That’s what I do with my folks.”

After that many faces seemed to press upon her. The passengers were on their way to the dining-car, and she was conscious that as they passed down the aisle they glanced curiously at the closed curtains. One lantern- jawed man with prominent eyes stood still and tried to shoot his projecting glance through the division between the folds. The freckled child, returning from breakfast, waylaid the passers with a buttery clutch, saying in a loud whisper, “He’s sick;” and once the conductor came by, asking for tickets. She shrank into her corner and looked out of the window at the flying trees and houses, meaningless hieroglyphs of an endlessly unrolled papyrus.

Now and then the train stopped, and the newcomers on entering the car stared in turn at the closed curtains. More and more people seemed to pass–their faces began to blend fantastically with the images surging in her brain….

“Husband’s pretty bad this morning, is he?”

“Dear, dear! Now that’s terribly distressing, ain’t it?” An apostolic smile revealed his gold-filled teeth.

“Of course you know there’s no sech thing as sickness. Ain’t that a lovely thought? Death itself is but a deloosion of our grosser senses. On’y lay yourself open to the influx of the sperrit, submit yourself passively to the action of the divine force, and disease and dissolution will cease to exist for you. If you could indooce your husband to read this little pamphlet–“

The faces about her again grew indistinct. She had a vague recollection of hearing the motherly lady and the parent of the freckled child ardently disputing the relative advantages of trying several medicines at once, or of taking each in turn; the motherly lady maintaining that the competitive system saved time; the other objecting that you couldn’t tell which remedy had effected the cure; their voices went on and on, like bell-buoys droning through a fog…. The porter came up now and then with questions that she did not understand, but that somehow she must have answered since he went away again without repeating them; every two hours the motherly lady reminded her that her husband ought to have his drops; people left the car and others replaced them…

She thought hurriedly:–“If they see I am not surprised they will suspect something. They will ask questions, and if I tell them the truth they won’t believe me–no one would believe me! It will be terrible”–and she kept repeating to herself:–“I must pretend I don’t know. I must pretend I don’t know. When they open the curtains I must go up to him quite naturally–and then I must scream.” … She had an idea that the scream would be very hard to do.

“I must pretend I don’t know,” she went on murmuring. The words had lost their significance, but she repeated them mechanically, as though they had been a magic formula, until suddenly she heard herself saying: “I can’t remember, I can’t remember!”

Her voice sounded very loud, and she looked about her in terror; but no one seemed to notice that she had spoken.

As she glanced down the car her eye caught the curtains of her husband’s berth, and she began to examine the monotonous arabesques woven through their heavy folds. The pattern was intricate and difficult to trace; she gazed fixedly at the curtains and as she did so the thick stuff grew transparent and through it she saw her husband’s face–his dead face. She struggled to avert her look, but her eyes refused to move and her head seemed to be held in a vice. At last, with an effort that left her weak and shaking, she turned away; but it was of no use; close in front of her, small and smooth, was her husband’s face. It seemed to be suspended in the air between her and the false braids of the woman who sat in front of her. With an uncontrollable gesture she stretched out her hand to push the face away, and suddenly she felt the touch of his smooth skin. She repressed a cry and half started from her seat. The woman with the false braids looked around, and feeling that she must justify her movement in some way she rose and lifted her travelling-bag from the opposite seat. She unlocked the bag and looked into it; but the first object her hand met was a small flask of her husband’s, thrust there at the last moment, in the haste of departure. She locked the bag and closed her eyes … his face was there again, hanging between her eye-balls and lids like a waxen mask against a red curtain….

She roused herself with a shiver. Had she fainted or slept? Hours seemed to have elapsed; but it was still broad day, and the people about her were sitting in the same attitudes as before.

A sudden sense of hunger made her aware that she had eaten nothing since morning. The thought of food filled her with disgust, but she dreaded a return of faintness, and remembering that she had some biscuits in her bag she took one out and ate it. The dry crumbs choked her, and she hastily swallowed a little brandy from her husband’s flask. The burning sensation in her throat acted as a counter-irritant, momentarily relieving the dull ache of her nerves. Then she felt a gently-stealing warmth, as though a soft air fanned her, and the swarming fears relaxed their clutch, receding through the stillness that enclosed her, a stillness soothing as the spacious quietude of a summer day. She slept.

Through her sleep she felt the impetuous rush of the train. It seemed to be life itself that was sweeping her on with headlong inexorable force– sweeping her into darkness and terror, and the awe of unknown days.–Now all at once everything was still–not a sound, not a pulsation… She was dead in her turn, and lay beside him with smooth upstaring face. How quiet it was!–and yet she heard feet coming, the feet of the men who were to carry them away… She could feel too–she felt a sudden prolonged vibration, a series of hard shocks, and then another plunge into darkness: the darkness of death this time–a black whirlwind on which they were both spinning like leaves, in wild uncoiling spirals, with millions and millions of the dead….

She sprang up in terror. Her sleep must have lasted a long time, for the winter day had paled and the lights had been lit. The car was in confusion, and as she regained her self-possession she saw that the passengers were gathering up their wraps and bags. The woman with the false braids had brought from the dressing-room a sickly ivy-plant in a bottle, and the Christian Scientist was reversing his cuffs. The porter passed down the aisle with his impartial brush. An impersonal figure with a gold-banded cap asked for her husband’s ticket. A voice shouted “Baig- gage express!” and she heard the clicking of metal as the passengers handed over their checks.

“We’d better get him up now, hadn’t we?” asked the porter, touching her arm.

He had her husband’s hat in his hand and was meditatively revolving it under his brush.

Edith Wharton

Edith Wharton (1862–1937) was an American novelist known for her novels depicting upper-class society, including “The Age of Innocence” (Pulitzer Prize winner).

What Edith Wharton Knew, a Century Ago, About Women and Fame in America

By Jia Tolentino

sitting in front of a mirror looking at herself.

The first time I read Edith Wharton’s novel “ The Custom of the Country, ” which was published in 1913, I felt at once that I had always known its protagonist and also that I had never before met anyone like her. The values of Undine Spragg—who, in the course of the novel, makes a circuitous and sinister journey from Midwestern rube to ruby-drenched new-money empress—are repulsive, and her attempts to manipulate public attention are mesmerizing. For my money, no literary antiheroine can best Undine—a dazzling monster with rose-gold hair, creamy skin, and a gaping spiritual maw that could swallow New York City. People like her have been abundant in American culture for some time, but I never feel invested in their success; more often, I idly hope for their failure. With Undine, however—thanks to the alchemical mix of sympathy and disdain that animates Wharton’s language in the novel and allows her to match Undine’s savagery with plenty of her own—I find myself wanting her to get everything she desires.

When “The Custom of the Country” begins, Undine is a desperate newcomer to New York, two years sprung from the fictional town of Apex. A string of abortive attempts at romance and sophistication have landed her, and her parents—nineteenth-century A.T.M.s, who fearfully attempt to tranquilize their beastly daughter with diversion and finery—at a hotel called the Stentorian, in what they call the “Looey suites.” This is the fanciest setting to which their unconnected souls can lay claim. Undine and her mother are reliant on their masseuse and manicurist, Mrs. Heeny, to decipher the codes and hierarchies of aristocratic New York. A dinner invite from a Mrs. Fairford brings the deepest sort of existential consternation that Undine can muster: she’d read in the newspaper that “pigeon-blood notepaper” with white ink is the fashion, but Mrs. Fairford used plain white paper. Perhaps, Undine worries, the Fairfords are not the entrée into the society pages that she seeks.

“Undine was fiercely independent and yet passionately imitative,” Wharton explains, in the first of many passages that, in Twitter parlance, might best be described as the author dragging Undine to hell. Wharton goes on: Undine “wanted to surprise every one by her dash and originality, but she could not help modeling herself on the last person she met, and the confusion of ideals thus produced caused her much perturbation when she had to choose between two courses.” The main thing Undine has going for her is that she’s gorgeous—her looks “as vivid, and almost as crude” as the electric lights that blaze in her arriviste hotel room. She “might have been some fabled creature whose home was in a beam of light,” Wharton writes. (She is, in fact, such a creature. Undine is at peace only when illuminated by attention: without it, the reader quickly comes to understand, our heroine would turn to dust.) Undine hangs out in front of her mirror, glittering at herself, picturing an imaginary audience: her “incessant movements,” Wharton notes, are the result of her belief that it was the “correct thing to be animated in society, and noise and restlessness were her only notion of vivacity.” She gets Mrs. Heeny to verify the precise social standing of Mrs. Fairford, and bullies her father into buying her a new dress.

Undine’s ascent begins with this delectable mismatch between her shallow, ridiculous perceptions and her unbelievably savvy instincts. It doesn’t matter that she’s tacky enough to find the Fairford home shabby, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and ferns and wood fire where (she thinks) elaborate gilding and orchids and a gas log ought to be. It doesn’t matter that she not only hasn’t heard of any of the new art exhibitions that are talked about at dinner but is barely aware that art exhibitions exist—or that she thinks Phèdre is pronounced “fade,” or that the only book she’s read recently is “When the Kissing Had to Stop.” Undine gets the essentials: that to be beautiful, for a woman, is to be seen, which is to be wanted, which is to be handed the ability to exploit an economic system. She knows that she can parlay one material commitment from a man into another, as if she were at a medieval marketplace exchanging salt for bread. And, crucially, Undine’s insight into the machinery she manipulates is largely unconscious. As she “often told her parents, all she sought for was improvement; she honestly wanted the best,” Wharton writes.

Undine attracts the attention of Mrs. Fairford’s brother, Ralph Marvell; the Marvells are an old New York family that has retained its vaunted reputation but little of its wealth. Ralph makes a classic mistake: having been taught to imagine that white women are naturally innocent, he sees the purest virtue in Undine’s beauty. He imagines “society careering up to make a mouthful of her, and himself whirling down on his winged horse.” Without him, Ralph thinks, Undine would be “easy prey to the powers of folly.” He proposes marriage, and Wharton, describing a dinner at the Marvell family home, takes another opportunity to fillet her protagonist, even as she keeps us hooked on Undine’s magnificent, incorrigible selfishness. She “ was in love, of course,” Wharton writes. “It was pleasant, when she looked across the table, to meet Ralph’s gray eyes, with that new look in them, and to feel that she had kindled it; but it was only part of her larger pleasure in the general homage to her beauty, in the sensations of interest and curiosity excited by everything about her, from the family portraits overhead to the old Dagonet silver on the table—which were to be hers too, after all!”

It is not long before Ralph discovers that his attention has lost its power to trigger Undine’s graces, but he has already been conquered and committed—Undine has converted his ardor into what little money it can bring her. Still, with this beautiful creature at his side, his senses are invigorated. He dreams of being a writer, and one day experiences an epiphany in the Italian countryside. He rushes to Undine and exclaims, “It’s the meaning of life that I’ve found, and it’s you, dearest, you who’ve given it to me!” She starts to cry. She cannot begin to process what Ralph is saying, as her brain cannot admit the idea that another person might possess an inner life or nurture goals that differ from her own, which begin and end with being wealthy and happy and admired. Undine says that she’s tired of Italy. She wants to go to Switzerland, where it’s fun.

It’s not great for women to have to live in a culture that funnels money and power through men, as Wharton demonstrates in her most famous novels—“ The Age of Innocence ” and “ The House of Mirth ”—by telling stories about women whose choices are restricted by patriarchal systems. The thrill of “The Custom of the Country” is that, in this story, it’s bad for men—for anyone, really—to have to live in a culture with Undine. At one point, Mrs. Fairford has a conversation with Ralph’s friend Charles Bowen, who delivers the novel’s effective thesis: that the “average American looks down on his wife,” and that, for many a wife at the turn of the twentieth century, “money and motors and clothes are simply the big bribe she’s paid for keeping out of some man’s way!” Undine is the “monstrously perfect result of the system: the completest proof of its triumph,” Charles argues, adding that Ralph is the victim. He’s right. In this novel, the tables turn.

Wharton’s portrait of Undine is so acute that it frequently flickers across time into the contemporary. “Every hour was packed with what she would have called life,” Wharton writes. From Mrs. Heeny carrying around a packet of high-society press clippings to Undine calling her press agent to “do a paragraph” on the unveiling of her own new portrait, the novel documents the beginning of the rise of the American fame economy. Undine’s “conception of enjoyment was publicity, promiscuity—the band, the banners, the crowd, the close contact of covetous impulses, and the sense of walking among them in cool security.” At a dinner party, she shines with the “revolving brilliancy that collective approval always struck from her.”

Undine’s life is organized around maintaining her beauty, showing off her carefully dressed figure, gaining as wide and prominent an audience of admirers as possible, and increasing the net worth that allows her to do these three things. Her world, consequently, is sorted into three categories of people: assets, impediments, and those who, being neither, effectively do not exist. This is an awful and embarrassing way to live, and yet, more than a century after “The Custom of the Country” was published, Undine’s habits, given a superficial makeover, could be rebranded not just as aspirational but feminist. Today, she would learn how to defend her life story as that of a woman going after what she wants and getting it—and what could be more progressive than that? This pitch would be bullshit, but plenty of people would believe it. Our twenty-first-century Undine would have a million followers on Instagram. She’d be a Page Six legend. We would give her what Wharton understood that a woman like Undine wants, above everything: the satisfaction of knowing that others are watching her every move.

This piece is adapted from the introduction to a new edition of “ The Custom of the Country ,” out this month .

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Edith Wharton: A Journey

The first twenty-four hours had passed off well. He revived a little and it amused him to look out of the window and to observe the humours of the car. The second day he began to grow weary and to chafe under the dispassionate stare of the freckled child with the lump of chewing-gum. She had to explain to the child’s mother that her husband was too ill to be disturbed: a statement received by that lady with a resentment visibly supported by the maternal sentiment of the whole car….

That night he slept badly and the next morning his temperature frightened her: she was sure he was growing worse. The day passed slowly, punctuated by the small irritations of travel. Watching his tired face, she traced in its contractions every rattle and jolt of the tram, till her own body vibrated with sympathetic fatigue. She felt the others observing him too, and hovered restlessly between him and the line of interrogative eyes. The freckled child hung about him like a fly; offers of candy and picture- books failed to dislodge her: she twisted one leg around the other and watched him imperturbably. The porter, as he passed, lingered with vague proffers of help, probably inspired by philanthropic passengers swelling with the sense that “something ought to be done;” and one nervous man in a skull-cap was audibly concerned as to the possible effect on his wife’s health.

“Are you very tired?” she asked.

“No, not very.”

“We’ll be there soon now.”

“Yes, very soon.”

“This time to-morrow—”

He nodded and they sat silent. When she had put him to bed and crawled into her own berth she tried to cheer herself with the thought that in less than twenty-four hours they would be in New York. Her people would all be at the station to meet her — she pictured their round unanxious faces pressing through the crowd. She only hoped they would not tell him too loudly that he was looking splendidly and would be all right in no time: the subtler sympathies developed by long contact with suffering were making her aware of a certain coarseness of texture in the family sensibilities.

Suddenly she thought she heard him call. She parted the curtains and listened. No, it was only a man snoring at the other end of the car. His snores had a greasy sound, as though they passed through tallow. She lay down and tried to sleep… Had she not heard him move? She started up trembling… The silence frightened her more than any sound. He might not be able to make her hear — he might be calling her now… What made her think of such things? It was merely the familiar tendency of an over-tired mind to fasten itself on the most intolerable chance within the range of its forebodings…. Putting her head out, she listened; but she could not distinguish his breathing from that of the other pairs of lungs about her. She longed to get up and look at him, but she knew the impulse was a mere vent for her restlessness, and the fear of disturbing him restrained her…. The regular movement of his curtain reassured her, she knew not why; she remembered that he had wished her a cheerful good-night; and the sheer inability to endure her fears a moment longer made her put them from her with an effort of her whole sound tired body. She turned on her side and slept.

She sat up stiffly, staring out at the dawn. The train was rushing through a region of bare hillocks huddled against a lifeless sky. It looked like the first day of creation. The air of the car was close, and she pushed up her window to let in the keen wind. Then she looked at her watch: it was seven o’clock, and soon the people about her would be stirring. She slipped into her clothes, smoothed her dishevelled hair and crept to the dressing-room. When she had washed her face and adjusted her dress she felt more hopeful. It was always a struggle for her not to be cheerful in the morning. Her cheeks burned deliciously under the coarse towel and the wet hair about her temples broke into strong upward tendrils. Every inch of her was full of life and elasticity. And in ten hours they would be at home!

She bent closer, laying her hand on his arm and calling him by name. He did not move. She spoke again more loudly; she grasped his shoulder and gently shook it. He lay motionless. She caught hold of his hand again: it slipped from her limply, like a dead thing. A dead thing? … Her breath caught. She must see his face. She leaned forward, and hurriedly, shrinkingly, with a sickening reluctance of the flesh, laid her hands on his shoulders and turned him over. His head fell back; his face looked small and smooth; he gazed at her with steady eyes.

In a terrifying flash of remembrance there arose before her a scene she had once witnessed in travelling, when a husband and wife, whose child had died in the train, had been thrust out at some chance station. She saw them standing on the platform with the child’s body between them; she had never forgotten the dazed look with which they followed the receding train. And this was what would happen to her. Within the next hour she might find herself on the platform of some strange station, alone with her husband’s body…. Anything but that! It was too horrible — She quivered like a creature at bay.

As she cowered there, she felt the train moving more slowly. It was coming then — they were approaching a station! She saw again the husband and wife standing on the lonely platform; and with a violent gesture she drew down the shade to hide her husband’s face.

“Ain’t he awake yet?” he enquired.

“No,” she faltered.

“I got his milk all ready when he wants it. You know you told me to have it for him by seven.”

She nodded silently and crept into her seat.

At half-past eight the train reached Buffalo. By this time the other passengers were dressed and the berths had been folded back for the day. The porter, moving to and fro under his burden of sheets and pillows, glanced at her as he passed. At length he said: “Ain’t he going to get up? You know we’re ordered to make up the berths as early as we can.”

She turned cold with fear. They were just entering the station.

“Oh, not yet,” she stammered. “Not till he’s had his milk. Won’t you get it, please?”

“All right. Soon as we start again.”

“Will I give it to him?” he suggested.

“Oh, no,” she cried, rising. “He — he’s asleep yet, I think—”

She returned to her seat with the empty glass and after a while the porter came back to get it.

“When’ll I fold up his bed?” he asked.

“Oh, not now — not yet; he’s ill — he’s very ill. Can’t you let him stay as he is? The doctor wants him to lie down as much as possible.”

He scratched his head. “Well, if he’s really sick—”

He took the empty glass and walked away, explaining to the passengers that the party behind the curtains was too sick to get up just yet.

She found herself the centre of sympathetic eyes. A motherly woman with an intimate smile sat down beside her.

“I’m real sorry to hear your husband’s sick. I’ve had a remarkable amount of sickness in my family and maybe I could assist you. Can I take a look at him?”

“Oh, no — no, please! He mustn’t be disturbed.”

The lady accepted the rebuff indulgently.

“I — I let him sleep.”

“Too much sleep ain’t any too healthful either. Don’t you give him any medicine?”

“Don’t you wake him to take it?”

“When does he take the next dose?”

“Not for — two hours—”

The lady looked disappointed. “Well, if I was you I’d try giving it oftener. That’s what I do with my folks.”

After that many faces seemed to press upon her. The passengers were on their way to the dining-car, and she was conscious that as they passed down the aisle they glanced curiously at the closed curtains. One lantern- jawed man with prominent eyes stood still and tried to shoot his projecting glance through the division between the folds. The freckled child, returning from breakfast, waylaid the passers with a buttery clutch, saying in a loud whisper, “He’s sick;” and once the conductor came by, asking for tickets. She shrank into her corner and looked out of the window at the flying trees and houses, meaningless hieroglyphs of an endlessly unrolled papyrus.

Now and then the train stopped, and the newcomers on entering the car stared in turn at the closed curtains. More and more people seemed to pass — their faces began to blend fantastically with the images surging in her brain….

“Husband’s pretty bad this morning, is he?”

“Dear, dear! Now that’s terribly distressing, ain’t it?” An apostolic smile revealed his gold-filled teeth.

The faces about her again grew indistinct. She had a vague recollection of hearing the motherly lady and the parent of the freckled child ardently disputing the relative advantages of trying several medicines at once, or of taking each in turn; the motherly lady maintaining that the competitive system saved time; the other objecting that you couldn’t tell which remedy had effected the cure; their voices went on and on, like bell-buoys droning through a fog…. The porter came up now and then with questions that she did not understand, but that somehow she must have answered since he went away again without repeating them; every two hours the motherly lady reminded her that her husband ought to have his drops; people left the car and others replaced them…

She thought hurriedly:— “If they see I am not surprised they will suspect something. They will ask questions, and if I tell them the truth they won’t believe me — no one would believe me! It will be terrible” — and she kept repeating to herself:— “I must pretend I don’t know. I must pretend I don’t know. When they open the curtains I must go up to him quite naturally — and then I must scream.” … She had an idea that the scream would be very hard to do.

Her voice sounded very loud, and she looked about her in terror; but no one seemed to notice that she had spoken.

As she glanced down the car her eye caught the curtains of her husband’s berth, and she began to examine the monotonous arabesques woven through their heavy folds. The pattern was intricate and difficult to trace; she gazed fixedly at the curtains and as she did so the thick stuff grew transparent and through it she saw her husband’s face — his dead face. She struggled to avert her look, but her eyes refused to move and her head seemed to be held in a vice. At last, with an effort that left her weak and shaking, she turned away; but it was of no use; close in front of her, small and smooth, was her husband’s face. It seemed to be suspended in the air between her and the false braids of the woman who sat in front of her. With an uncontrollable gesture she stretched out her hand to push the face away, and suddenly she felt the touch of his smooth skin. She repressed a cry and half started from her seat. The woman with the false braids looked around, and feeling that she must justify her movement in some way she rose and lifted her travelling-bag from the opposite seat. She unlocked the bag and looked into it; but the first object her hand met was a small flask of her husband’s, thrust there at the last moment, in the haste of departure. She locked the bag and closed her eyes … his face was there again, hanging between her eye-balls and lids like a waxen mask against a red curtain….

She roused herself with a shiver. Had she fainted or slept? Hours seemed to have elapsed; but it was still broad day, and the people about her were sitting in the same attitudes as before.

A sudden sense of hunger made her aware that she had eaten nothing since morning. The thought of food filled her with disgust, but she dreaded a return of faintness, and remembering that she had some biscuits in her bag she took one out and ate it. The dry crumbs choked her, and she hastily swallowed a little brandy from her husband’s flask. The burning sensation in her throat acted as a counter-irritant, momentarily relieving the dull ache of her nerves. Then she felt a gently-stealing warmth, as though a soft air fanned her, and the swarming fears relaxed their clutch, receding through the stillness that enclosed her, a stillness soothing as the spacious quietude of a summer day. She slept.

Through her sleep she felt the impetuous rush of the train. It seemed to be life itself that was sweeping her on with headlong inexorable force — sweeping her into darkness and terror, and the awe of unknown days. — Now all at once everything was still — not a sound, not a pulsation… She was dead in her turn, and lay beside him with smooth upstaring face. How quiet it was! — and yet she heard feet coming, the feet of the men who were to carry them away… She could feel too — she felt a sudden prolonged vibration, a series of hard shocks, and then another plunge into darkness: the darkness of death this time — a black whirlwind on which they were both spinning like leaves, in wild uncoiling spirals, with millions and millions of the dead….

She sprang up in terror. Her sleep must have lasted a long time, for the winter day had paled and the lights had been lit. The car was in confusion, and as she regained her self-possession she saw that the passengers were gathering up their wraps and bags. The woman with the false braids had brought from the dressing-room a sickly ivy-plant in a bottle, and the Christian Scientist was reversing his cuffs. The porter passed down the aisle with his impartial brush. An impersonal figure with a gold-banded cap asked for her husband’s ticket. A voice shouted “Baig- gage express!” and she heard the clicking of metal as the passengers handed over their checks.

“We’d better get him up now, hadn’t we?” asked the porter, touching her arm.

He had her husband’s hat in his hand and was meditatively revolving it under his brush.

Bibliographic data

Author: Edith Wharton Title: A Journey Published in: The Greater Inclination (March 1899)

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A Journey Summary
" A Journey" is a short story by Edith Wharton about an unhappy woman traveling by train with her gravely ill husband. The woman had accompanied her husband to Colorado for his health, but he ...
A Journey
A Journey by Edith Wharton A Journey was published in 1889, about a woman's mixed emotions as her husband's health declines rapidly on their train ride home. "Life had a grudge against her: she was never to be allowed to spread her wings." Northern Pacific Railroad car, 1893.
"A Journey" Summary by Edith Wharton
"A Journey" by Edith Wharton: Plot Summary. He got some amusement looking out the window the first day but worsened on the second and slept badly. On the third day he's worse and irritated. Some people offer help, but there's nothing to do. She sits with him a while before bed. She tries to look forward to being back home in less than ...
A Journey by Edith Wharton
A Journey is a short story by Edith Wharton. Edith Wharton was a Pulitzer Prize-winning American novelist, short story writer, and designer. She was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1927, 1928 and 1930. Wharton combined her insider's view of America's privileged classes with a brilliant, natural wit to write humorous, incisive ...
A Journey
A Journey is a short story by Edith Wharton. Edith Wharton ( born Edith Newbold Jones; January 24, 1862 - August 11, 1937) was a Pulitzer Prize-winning American novelist, short story writer, and designer. She was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1927, 1928 and 1930. Wharton combined her insider's view of America's privileged classes with a brilliant, natural wit to write humorous ...
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The journey itself becomes a metaphor for an unhappy marriage: "Life had a grudge against her; she was never to be allowed to spread her wings." If there's an epilogue to this story, perhaps it's to be found in the increasing distance in subsequent years between Edith and Edward Wharton, leading to their inevitable divorce in 1913.
A Journey by Edith Wharton
In A Journey by Edith Wharton we have the theme of change, acceptance, gender roles, loyalty, independence, conflict and social opinion. Taken from her The New York Stories collection the story is narrated in the third person by an unnamed narrator and after reading the story the reader realises that Wharton may be exploring the theme of change.
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Edith Wharton (/ ˈ hw ɔːr t ən /; born ... "Edith Wharton's Journey" is a radio adaptation, for the NPR series Radio Tales, of the short story "A Journey" from Edith Wharton's collection The Greater Inclination. The American singer and songwriter Suzanne Vega paid homage to Edith Wharton in her song "Edith Wharton's Figurines" on her 2007 ...
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Welcome to my classroom! Ready to read a classic with me? In today's story we read from Edith Wharton, famous author of Ethan Frome and The Age of Innocenc...
Edith Wharton, A journey
In fact, she was a prolific writer. And so, when last week's Library of America story turned out to be one of hers, I decided to read it. "A journey" was written, according the brief introductory notes, in the 1890s when Wharton was in her late 20s to early 30s. It was written during the time when she was married - unhappily - to ...
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A Journey is a short story by Edith Wharton. Edith Wharton ( born Edith Newbold Jones; January 24, 1862 - August 11, 1937) was a Pulitzer Prize-winning American novelist, short story writer, and designer. She was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1927, 1928 and 1930. Wharton combined her insider's view of America's privileged ...
A Journey
A Journey. by Edith Wharton. [1] from The Greater Inclination (1889) As she lay in her berth, staring at the shadows overhead, the rush of the wheels was in her brain, driving her deeper and deeper into circles of wakeful lucidity. The sleeping-car had sunk into its night-silence. Through the wet window-pane she watched the sudden lights, the ...
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Learn English Through Story - A Journey by Edith Wharton By: English Stories Collection channel. Story title: A JourneyAuthor: Edith Wharton Thank you for wa...
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A Journey is an English Realism, Social Commentary short story by American writer Edith Wharton. It was first published in 1889. It was first published in 1889. Liked this Story?
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a journey by edith wharton Flashcards
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Edith Wharton: A Journey
Edith Wharton: A Journey. As she lay in her berth, staring at the shadows overhead, the rush of the wheels was in her brain, driving her deeper and deeper into circles of wakeful lucidity. The sleeping-car had sunk into its night-silence. Through the wet window-pane she watched the sudden lights, the long stretches of hurrying blackness.
PDF 02 791010 LC Wharton III
02_791010_LC_Wharton_III 8/23/2000 10:50 AM Page 65 The Library of America • Story of the Week Reprinted from Edith Wharton: Collected Stories 1891-1910 (The Library of America,

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H. P. Lovecraft: The Tree

Bram Stoker: The Judge’s House

Arthur C. Clarke: The Nine Billion Names of God

Katherine Mansfield: Poison

H. G. Wells: The Stolen Bacillus

Mary Shelley: The Trial of Love

Ray Bradbury: The Handler

Agatha Christie: The Sign in the Sky

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