Wharton The Complete Works of Edith Wharton. Illustrated

The Age of Innocence, The House of Mirth, Ethan Frome and others
1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-0-88001-273-7
Verlag: Strelbytskyy Multimedia Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 13299 Seiten

Edith Wharton drew upon her insider's knowledge of the upper class New York 'aristocracy' to realistically portray the lives and morals of the Gilded Age. In 1921, she became the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize in Literature, for her novel The Age of Innocence. Among her other well known works are The House of Mirth and the novella Ethan Frome. Wharton's writings often dealt with themes such as social and individual fulfillment, repressed sexuality, and the manners of old families and the new elite. A key recurring theme in Wharton's writing is the relationship between the house as a physical space and its relationship to its inhabitant's characteristics and emotions. Contents:      The Novels Fast and Loose The Valley of Decision Sanctuary The House of Mirth The Fruit of the Tree Ethan Frome The Reef The Custom of the Country Summer The Age of Innocence The Glimpses of the Moon A Son at the Front The Mother's Recompense Twilight Sleep The Children Hudson River Bracketed The Gods Arrive The Buccaneers      The Novellas The Touchstone Madame de Treymes The Marne Old New York      The Short Story Collections The Greater Inclination Crucial Instances The Descent of Man and Other Stories The Hermit and the Wild Woman and Other Stories Tales of Men and Ghosts Uncollected Early Short Stories Xingu and Other Stories Here and Beyond Certain People Human Nature The World Over Ghosts      The Short Stories List of Stories in Chronological Order List of Stories in Alphabetical Order      The Play The Joy of Living      The Poetry Artemis to Actaeon and Other Verses Uncollected Poetry      The Non-Fiction The Decoration of Houses Italian Villas and Their Gardens Italian Backgrounds A Motor-Flight Through France France, from Dunkerque to Belfort French Ways and Their Meaning In Morocco The Writing of Fiction      The Autobiography A Backward Glance

Edith Wharton (January 24, 1862 - August 11, 1937) was an American novelist, short story writer, and designer.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Wharton, Edith

Leseproben

CHAPTER I. Hearts and Diamonds

“‘TIS BEST TO be off with the old love

Before you are on with the new!”

Song.

A dismal Autumn afternoon in the country. Without, a soft drizzle falling on yellow leaves damp ground; within, two people playing chess by the window of the fire-lighted drawing-room at Holly Lodge. Now, when two people play chess on a rainy afternoon, tete-a-tete in a room with the door shut, they are likely to be either very much bored, or rather dangerously interested; in this case, with all respect to romance, they appeared overcome by the profoundest ennui. The lady — a girl of about 18, plump soft as a partridge, with vivacious brown eyes, a cheek like a sun-warmed peach-occasionally stifled a yawn, as her antagonist, curling a slight blonde moustache (the usual sign of masculine perplexity) sat absently meditating a move on which the game, in his eyes, appeared to depend; at last, pushing aside her chair, she rose stood looking out of the window, as though even the dreary Autumn prospect had more attraction for her than the handsome face on the other side of the chess-board. Her movement seemed to shake her companion out of his reverie, for he rose also, looking over her shoulder, at the soft, misty rain, observed rather languidly, “Cheerful weather!” “Horrid!” said the girl, stamping her foot. “I am dying of stagnation.” “Don’t you mean to finish the game?” “If you choose. I don’t care.” “Nor I–It’s decidedly a bore.” No answer. The bright brown eyes the lazy blue ones stared out of the window for the space of five slow minutes. Then the girl said: “Guy!” “My liege!” “You’re not very amusing this afternoon.” “Neither are you, my own!” “Gallant for a lover!” she cried, pouting turning away from the window. “How can I amuse a stone wall? I might talk all day!” She had a way of tossing her pretty little head, drawing her soft white forehead, that was quite irresistible. Guy, as the most natural thing in the world, put his arm about her, but was met with a sharp, “Don’t! You know I hate to be taken hold of, Sir! Oh, I shall die of ennui if this weather holds.” Guy whistled, went to lean against the fireplace; while his betrothed stood in the middle of the room, the very picture of “I-won’t-be-amused” crossness. “Delightful!” she said, presently. “Really, your conversation today displays your wit genius to a remarkable degree.” “If I talk to you, you scold, Georgie,” said the lover, pathetically. “No, I don’t! I only scold when you twist your arms around me.” “I can’t do one without the other!” Georgie laughed. “You do say nice things, Guy! But you’re a bore this afternoon, nevertheless.” “Isn’t everything a bore?” “I believe so. Oh, I should be another person galloping over the downs on Rochester! ‘What’s his name is himself again!’ Shall we be able to hunt tomorrow?” “Ask the clerk of the weather,” said Guy, rather dismally. “Guy! I do believe you’re going to sleep! Doesn’t it rouse you to think of a tear ‘cross country after the hounds? Oh, Guy, a red coat makes my blood run faster!” “Does it? — Georgie, have you got ‘Je l’ai perdu’ — the thing I sent you from London?” “Yes — somewhere.” “I am going to sing,” said Guy.

“What a treat!” “As you don’t object to my smoking, I thought you mightn’t mind my singing.” “Well,” said Georgie, mischievously, “I don’t suppose it does matter much which sense is offended. What are you going to sing?” Guy, without answering, began to hunt through a pile of music, at last laid a copy of “The ballad to Celia” on the piano-rack. Georgie sat down, while he leaned against the piano, struck a few prelude-chords; then he began to sing in a rich barytone, Ben Jonson’s sweet old lines. At the end of the first stanza, Georgie shut the piano with a bang. “I will not play if you sing so detestably out of time, tune everything. Do make yourself disagreeable in some less noisy way.” “I think I shall make myself agreeable — by saying goodbye.” “Very well, do!” “Georgie — what is the matter?” He took her little hand as he spoke, but she wrenched it away, stamping her foot again. “Dont dont dont! I’m as cross as I can be I won’t make friends!” she cried in a sort of childish passion, running away from him to the other end of the room. He stood for a moment, twirling his moustache; then, taking up his hat, said, “Goodbye.” “Goodbye — Are you very angry?” she said, coming a step or two nearer, looking up through her soft lashes. “No, I suppose not. I believe I have been boring you confoundedly.” “I suppose I have been very cross.” “Not more than I deserved, probably. I am going to London for a few days. Will you give me your hand for goodbye?” She stood still a moment, looking at him thoughtfully; then put out her hand. “Ah, Guy, I am a worthless little thing,” she said, softly, as he took it. It was her left hand a ring set with diamonds twinkled on it. “Worth all the world to me!” he answered; then lifted the hand to his lips turned away. As his receding steps sounded through the hall, Georgie Rivers, taking a screen from the mantel-piece, sat down on the rug before the fire, with a thoughtful face out of which all the sauciness had vanished. As she watched the fire-light play on her ring, she began to think half-aloud as her childish fashion was; but Guy was cantering along the high road to West Adamsborough, if there had been anyone to tell him what she said, he would [have] laughed — [have] doubted it. As there was no one, however, Georgie kept her meditations to herself. “I know he thinks me a coquette,” she whispered, leaning her head against her hand, “ he thinks I like to trifle with him — perhaps he is angry — (he looks very handsome when he is angry) but he doesn’t know — how should he? — that I mean to break it off. I ought to have done it today, I might have ended that beginning of a quarrel by giving him back the ring; but, oh dear, I wish — I wish I didn’t care for him quite so much. He is so cool handsome! And he is the only man I ever knew who neither despises me nor is afraid of me. Oh, Georgie, Georgie, you miserable little fool! I didn’t mean to let him kiss my hand; he surprised me into it, just as he surprised me into accepting him. He always puts me off my guard, somehow! But it must be done. Perhaps I am in love with him, but I hope I haven’t quite lost my common sense. It must be done, I say! I declare, I shall make an utter goose of myself in a minute! Where’s that letter?” She put her hand into her pocket, brought out an envelope, pompously sealed with a large coat of arms motto;, drawing out the folded sheet which it contained, slowly read aloud these words, written in a crabbed, old-fashioned hand:

My dear Miss Rivers: Ever since I was honoured by an introduction to you, my admiration for your charms accomplishments has increased; I have been sufficiently marked by your favour to hope that what I am about to say may not seem an entirely unwarrantable liberty. Although we are separated by many years, I do not perceive why that should be an obstacle to a happy union; I therefore venture to beg that, if the profoundest admiration respect can awaken responsive sentiments in your own bosom, you will honour me with your hand. I shall await with impatience your reply to my proposals, am, my dear Miss Rivers, with deep esteem, Your faithful Servant “Breton.”

Georgie folded the letter again, went on with her reflections in this wise. “I suppose I should have let him know that I was engaged to Guy, but it was so jolly to have an old Lord dangling about one, head over ears in love, figuratively speaking, going down on his noble, gouty knees every time one came into the room. And I really didn’t think it would come to a climax so soon! I marked him by my favour, did I? And the poor old creature has got tipsy, like an old blue-bottle on a little drop of syrup. He is really in love with me! Me, Georgie Rivers, a wicked, fast, flirtatious little pauper — a lazy, luxurious coquette! Oh, Guy, Guy! — I mean, Oh, Lord Breton, Lord — ha? what’s the matter?” For something dropped close by Georgie’s ring, that sparkled as clearly in the fire-light as its own diamonds. “Crying! Crying! I thought I had no heart. I have always been told so. Ah, the horrid thing.” She brushed the bright thing that was not a diamond away, but just then her eyes brimmed over with two more, she was obliged to dry them with her pocket handkerchief, talking on all the while. “This is too ridiculous. Georgie getting sentimental! Georgie booh-hoohing over a lover, when she’s got a real, live Lord, with a deer-park, a house in London ever so much a year, at her feet! What else have I always wished for? But, come, I will think of it calmly. Say I am in love with Guy (if I have no heart, how can I love anybody?) say I am in love with him. He is poor, rather extravagant, lazy just as luxurious as I am. Now, what should we live on? I should have to mend my clothes, do the shopping, I should never ride or dance or do anything worth living for any more; but there would be pinching patching starvation (politely called economy) I should get cross, Guy would get cross, we should fight, fight, fight! Now — take the other side of the picture. First, Lord B. is really in love with me. Second, he is venerable, sleepy fixed in his own ruts, would give me twice as much liberty as a younger man; third, I should have three fine houses, plenty...