HOUSE OF MIRTH, THE(ISBN=9780553213201)pdf/txt下载_在线阅读全文

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One of Wharton's earliest de*ions of her heroine, in the library of her bachelor friend and sometime suitor Lawrence Selden, indicates that she appears "as though she were a captured dryad subdued to the conventions of the drawing room." Indeed, herein lies Lily's problem. She has, we're told, "been brought up to be ornamental," and yet her spirit is larger than what this ancillary role requires. By today's standards she would be nothing more than a mild rebel, but in the era into which Wharton drops her unmercifully, this tiny spark of character, combined with numerous assaults by vicious society women and bad luck, ultimately renders Lily persona non grata. Her own ambivalence about her position serves to open the door to disaster: several times she is on the verge of "good" marriage and squanders it at the last moment, unwilling to play by the rules of a society that produces, as she calls them, "poor, miserable, marriageable girls.

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An immensely popular bestseller upon its publication in 1905,
The House of Mirth was Edith Wharton’s first great novel.
Set among the elegant brownstones of New York City and opulent
country houses like gracious Bellomont on the Hudson, the novel
creates a satiric portrayal of what Wharton herself called “a
society of irresponsible pleasure-seekers” with a precision
comparable to that of Proust. And her brilliant and complex
characterization of the doomed Lily Bart, whose stunning beauty and
dependence on marriage for economic survival reduce her to a
decorative object, becomes an incisive commentary on the nature and
status of women in that society. From her tragic attraction to
bachelor lawyer Lawrence Selden to her desperate relationship with
social-climbing Rosedale, Lily is all too much a product of the
world indicated by the title, a phrase taken from Ecclesiastes:
“The heart of fools is in the house of mirth.” For it is Lily’s
very specialness that threatens the elegance and fulfillment she
seeks in life. Along with the author’s other masterpiece, The
Age of Innocence, this novel claims a place among the
finest American novels of manners.

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作者简介

The upper stratum of New York society into which Edith Whartonwas born in 1862 provided her with an abundance of material as anovelist but did not encourage her growth as an artist. Educated bytutors and governesses, she was raised for only one career:marriage. But her marriage, in 1885, to Edward Wharton was anemotional disappointment, if not a disaster. She suffered the firstof a series of nervous breakdowns in 1894. In spite of the strainof her marriage, or perhaps because of it, she began to writefiction and published her first story in 1889.

The upper stratum of New York society into which Edith Wharton
was born in 1862 provided her with an abundance of material as a
novelist but did not encourage her growth as an artist. Educated by
tutors and governesses, she was raised for only one career:
marriage. But her marriage, in 1885, to Edward Wharton was an
emotional disappointment, if not a disaster. She suffered the first
of a series of nervous breakdowns in 1894. In spite of the strain
of her marriage, or perhaps because of it, she began to write
fiction and published her first story in 1889. 
 
Her first published book was a guide to interior decorating, but
this was followed by several novels and story collections. They
were written while the Whartons lived in Newport and New York,
traveled in Europe, and built their grand home, The Mount, in
Lenox, Massachusetts. In Europe, she met Henry James, who became
her good friend, traveling companion, and the sternest but most
careful critic of her fiction. The House of Mirth (1905) was
both a resounding critical success and a bestseller, as was
Ethan Frome (1911). In 1913 the Whartons were divorced, and
Edith took up permanent residence in France. Her subject, however,
remained America, especially the moneyed New York of her youth. Her
great satiric novel, The Custom of the Country was published
in 1913 and The Age of Innocence won her the Pulitzer Prize
in 1921. 
 
In her later years, she enjoyed the admiration of a new generation
of writers, including Sinclair Lewis and F. Scott Fitzgerald. In
all, she wrote some thirty books, including an autobiography. A
Backwards Glance (1934). She died at her villa near Paris in
1937.

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Chapter 1
Selden paused in surprise. In the afternoon rush of the GrandCentral Station his eyes had been refreshed by the sight of MissLily Bart.
It was a Monday in early September, and he was returning to hiswork from a hurried dip into the country; but what was Miss Bartdoing in town at that season? If she had appeared to be catching atrain, he might have inferred that he had come on her in the act oftransition between one and another of the country-houses whichdisputed her presence after the close of the Newport season; buther desultory air perplexed him. She stood apart from the crowd,letting it drift by her to the platform or the street, and wearingan air of irresolution which might, as he surmised, be the mask ofa very definite purpose. It struck him at once that she was waitingfor some one, but he hardly knew why the idea arrested him. Therewas nothing new about Lily Bart, yet he could never see her withouta faint movement of interest: it was characteristic of her that shealways roused speculation, that her simplest acts seemed the resultof far-reaching intentions.
An impulse of curiosity made him turn out of his direct line tothe door, and stroll past her. He knew that if she did not wish tobe seen she would contrive to elude him; and it amused him to thinkof putting her skill to the test.
"Mr. Selden -- what good luck!"
She came forward smiling, eager almost, in her resolve tointercept him. One or two persons, in brushing past them, lingeredto look; for Miss Bart was a figure to arrest even the suburbantraveller rushing to his last train.
Selden had never seen her more radiant. Her vivid head, relievedagainst the dull tints of the crowd, made her more conspicuous thanin a ball-room, and under her dark hat and veil she regained thegirlish smoothness, the purity of tint, that she was beginning tolose after eleven years of late hours and indefatigable dancing.Was it really eleven years, Selden found himself wondering, and hadshe indeed reached the nine-and-twentieth birthday with which herrivals credited her?
"What luck!" she repeated. "How nice of you to come to myrescue!"

Chapter 1
Selden paused in surprise. In the afternoon rush of the Grand
Central Station his eyes had been refreshed by the sight of Miss
Lily Bart.
It was a Monday in early September, and he was returning to his
work from a hurried dip into the country; but what was Miss Bart
doing in town at that season? If she had appeared to be catching a
train, he might have inferred that he had come on her in the act of
transition between one and another of the country-houses which
disputed her presence after the close of the Newport season; but
her desultory air perplexed him. She stood apart from the crowd,
letting it drift by her to the platform or the street, and wearing
an air of irresolution which might, as he surmised, be the mask of
a very definite purpose. It struck him at once that she was waiting
for some one, but he hardly knew why the idea arrested him. There
was nothing new about Lily Bart, yet he could never see her without
a faint movement of interest: it was characteristic of her that she
always roused speculation, that her simplest acts seemed the result
of far-reaching intentions.
An impulse of curiosity made him turn out of his direct line to
the door, and stroll past her. He knew that if she did not wish to
be seen she would contrive to elude him; and it amused him to think
of putting her skill to the test.
"Mr. Selden -- what good luck!"
She came forward smiling, eager almost, in her resolve to
intercept him. One or two persons, in brushing past them, lingered
to look; for Miss Bart was a figure to arrest even the suburban
traveller rushing to his last train.
Selden had never seen her more radiant. Her vivid head, relieved
against the dull tints of the crowd, made her more conspicuous than
in a ball-room, and under her dark hat and veil she regained the
girlish smoothness, the purity of tint, that she was beginning to
lose after eleven years of late hours and indefatigable dancing.
Was it really eleven years, Selden found himself wondering, and had
she indeed reached the nine-and-twentieth birthday with which her
rivals credited her?
"What luck!" she repeated. "How nice of you to come to my
rescue!"
He responded joyfully that to do so was his mission in life, and
asked what form the rescue was to take.
"Oh, almost any -- even to sitting on a bench and talking to me.
One sits out a cotillion -- why not sit out a train? It isn't a bit
hotter here than in Mrs. Van Osburgh's conservatory -- and some of
the women are not a bit uglier."
She broke off, laughing, to explain that she had come up to town
from Tuxedo, on her way to the Gus Trenors' at Bellomont, and had
missed the three-fifteen train to Rhinebeck.
"And there isn't another till half-past five." She consulted the
little jewelled watch among her laces. "Just two hours to wait. And
I don't know what to do with myself. My maid came up this morning
to do some shopping for me, and was to go on to Bellomont at one
o'clock, and my aunt's house is closed, and I don't know a soul in
town." She glanced plaintively about the station. "It is
hotter than Mrs. Van Osburgh's, after all. If you can spare the
time, do take me somewhere for a breath of air."
He declared himself entirely at her disposal: the adventure
struck him as diverting. As a spectator, he had always enjoyed Lily
Bart; and his course lay so far out of her orbit that it amused him
to be drawn for a moment into the sudden intimacy which her
proposal implied.
"Shall we go over to Sherry's for a cup of tea?"
She smiled assentingly, and then made a slight grimace.
"So many people come up to town on a Monday -- one is sure to
meet a lot of bores. I'm as old as the hills, of course, and it
ought not to make any difference; but if I'm old enough,
you're not," she objected gaily. "I'm dying for tea -- but isn't
there a quieter place?"
He answered her smile, which rested on him vividly. Her
discretions interested him almost as much as her imprudences: he
was so sure that both were part of the same carefully-elaborated
plan. In judging Miss Bart, he had always made use of the "argument
from design."
"The resources of New York are rather meagre," he said; "but
I'll find a hansom first, and then we'll invent something."
He led her through the throng of returning holiday-makers, past
sallow-faced girls in preposterous hats, and flat-chested women
struggling with paper bundles and palm-leaf fans. Was it possible
that she belonged to the same race? The dinginess, the crudity of
this average section of womanhood made him feel how highly
specialized she was.
A rapid shower had cooled the air, and clouds still hung
refreshingly over the moist street.
"How delicious! Let us walk a little," she said as they emerged
from the station.
They turned into Madison Avenue and began to stroll northward.
As she moved beside him, with her long light step, Selden was
conscious of taking a luxurious pleasure in her nearness: in the
modelling of her little ear, the crisp upward wave of her hair --
was it ever so slightly brightened by art? -- and the thick
planting of her straight black lashes. Everything about her was at
once vigorous and exquisite, at once strong and fine. He had a
confused sense that she must have cost a great deal to make, that a
great many dull and ugly people must, in some mysterious way, have
been sacrificed to produce her. He was aware that the qualities
distinguishing her from the herd of her sex were chiefly external:
as though a fine glaze of beauty and fastidiousness had been
applied to vulgar clay. Yet the analogy left him unsatisfied, for a
coarse texture will not take a high finish; and was it not possible
that the material was fine, but that circumstance had fashioned it
into a futile shape?
As he reached this point in his speculations the sun came out,
and her lifted parasol cut off his enjoyment. A moment or two later
she paused with a sigh.
"Oh, dear, I'm so hot and thirsty -- and what a hideous place
New York is!" She looked despairingly up and down the dreary
thoroughfare. "Other cities put on their best clothes in summer,
but New York seems to sit in its shirtsleeves." Her eyes wandered
down one of the side streets. "Some one has had the humanity to
plant a few trees over there. Let us go into the shade."
"I am glad my street meets with your approval," said Selden as
they turned the corner.
"Your street? Do you live here?"
She glanced with interest along the new brick and limestone
house-fronts, fantastically varied in obedience to the American
craving for novelty, but fresh and inviting with their awnings and
flower-boxes.
"Ah, yes -- to be sure: The Benedick. What a nice-looking
building! I don't think I've ever seen it before." She looked
across at the flat-house with its marble porch and pseudo-Georgian
facade. "Which are your windows? Those with the awnings down?"
"On the top floor -- yes."
"And that nice little balcony is yours? How cool it looks up
there!"
He paused a moment. "Come up and see," he suggested. "I can give
you a cup of tea in no time -- and you won't meet any bores."
Her colour deepened -- she still had the art of blushing at the
right time -- but she took the suggestion as lightly as it was
made.
"Why not? It's too tempting -- I'll take the risk," she
declared.
"Oh, I'm not dangerous," he said in the same key. In truth, he
had never liked her as well as at that moment. He knew she had
accepted without afterthought: he could never be a factor in her
calculations, and there was a surprise, a refreshment almost, in
the spontaneity of her consent.
On the threshold he paused a moment, feeling for his
latchkey.
"There's no one here; but I have a servant who is supposed to
come in the mornings, and it's just possible he may have put out
the tea-things and provided some cake."
He ushered her into a slip of a hall hung

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