Sellers, leaves Waythorn as the logical choice to negotiate a deal for Gus Varick,
Alice ’ s second husband. In a pattern repeated in each section of the story, Waythorn ’ s
sense of exclusive ownership is immediately undercut by a reference to one of her
earlier two marriages. Wharton ’ s use of language in the story resonates with the sexual
overtones of his bride ’ s previous intimacy with others, relationships that Waythorn
cannot quite bring himself to admit. The “ softly - lighted room … full of bridal inti-
macy ” that he notices with pride loses that quality as Alice tells him that Haskett
must visit Lily at their home, saying “ I ’ m afraid he has the right ” – of access to Lily ’ s
presence now, and, in years past, of access to Alice ’ s body ( Collected Short Stories I. 382).
Waythorn once again begins to yield “ to the joy of possessorship ” as Alice serves him
coffee, and once again his sense of possessorship suffers a blow when he sees that Alice
pours cognac in his coffee without asking him, for this is the way that Varick, not
Waythorn, takes his coffee. As Alice ’ s actions continue to remind him of her former
husbands, Waythorn begins to put more effort into constructing the history of her
past relationships than into building his current relationship with her. He envisions
Haskett and Alice living in cheap small - town splendor, with a pianola and a copy of
Ben - Hur in the parlor, and marvels, not altogether admiringly, at her adaptation to
New York society and her “ studied negation ” of her past. Although Varick ’ s infi deli-
ties had given Alice cause for a “ New York divorce, ” a sign of virtue, a chance allusion
by Varick makes Waythorn realize that “ a lack of funds had been one of the determin-
ing causes ” (387) of his and Alice ’ s divorce. Alice inadvertently confi rms this impres-
sion when she reveals a vulgar interest in wealth and social advancement by disparaging
Haskett: “ It ’ s not as if he could ever be a help to Lily ” (391). Waythorn realizes that
despite the comic vulgarity of Haskett ’ s “ made - up tie attached with an elastic ” (389),
the man himself is genuine precisely because of this vulgarity, a badge of his small -
town roots. Alice ’ s ability to adapt to various environments, usually an admirable
evolutionary advantage, is by contrast a kind of deception that masks her ambitious
social climbing. With fl awless tact, she speaks to Haskett but lies to Waythorn about
it, remembers Varick ’ s preferences in coffee - drinking, sits next to Varick unbidden
without betraying any nervousness, and glides through each situation with a “ pliancy ”
that begins to
“
sicken
”
Waythorn (393). As is revealed through her mercenary
comment, her manners derive from a conscious adaptation to her surroundings rather
than from the spontaneous responses of the fi ner nature that Waythorn at fi rst attri-
butes to her.
Throughout the story Wharton juxtaposes three rhetorical registers: Waythorn ’ s
private fl ights of fancy over his ownership of Alice, which he couches in the language
of the stock market ( “ discounts ” and “ shares ” ); the scrupulously polite yet loaded
language ( “ he has the right ” ) that he, Alice, and her former husbands use to converse
with one another; and the unspoken language of gesture and the body. The language
of the body undercuts the abstract language of the other registers with constant mate-
rial reminders of Alice ’ s former intimacy with her husbands. She is, Waythorn decides,
“ as easy as an old shoe – a shoe that too many feet had worn ” (393), a simile with
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loaded overtones of sexual promiscuity. Despite his dismay at Alice
’
s elasticity,
Waythorn begins to adjust both his thinking and his rhetoric: in place of his primi-
tive pride of ownership, he is now a modern “ member of a syndicate, ” a stockholder
who “ held so many shares in his wife ’ s personality ” along with “ his predecessors ”
(393). His complete acceptance occurs when, after returning home one day, he fi nds
both Varick and Haskett in the library. Waythorn offers them cigars and even offers
Varick a light from his own cigar, a gesture of intimacy, as Alice enters the room.
Never losing her perfect composure, she offers them all a cup of tea, and as “ the two
visitors … advanced to receive the cups she held out, ” Waythorn “ took the third cup
with a laugh ” (396). Like Lizzie West of “ The Letters, ” who decides to accept her
marriage as it is after learning that her husband has read none of the letters she sent
him and has married her for her money, or Mr. Mindon, who accepts his wife ’ s infi -
delity in “ The Line of Least Resistance, ” Waythorn decides to settle for the marriage
he has instead of pining for the marriage that he thought he had. Confronted with a
situation of multiple marriages that modern civilization has rendered acceptable,
Waythorn chooses the civilized solution. He completes the repression of his primitive
instincts of ownership and accepts that he can never have more than a one - third share
of Alice, sexually, emotionally, or even socially, and he uses the modern tool of a sense
of irony, which occasions his laugh, to seal the process.
The stories of Wharton ’ s later career, from 1915 until her death in 1937, appeared
in six collections: Xingu and Other Stories (1916), Here and Beyond (1926), Certain People
(1930), Human Nature (1933), The World Over (1936), and Ghosts (1937). Among these
are stories lampooning consumer culture ( “ Charm Incorporated ” and “ Permanent
Wave ” ), social satires ( “ Xingu ” and “ After Holbein ” ), stories of empire ( “ A Bottle of
Perrier, ” “ The Seed of the Faith ” ), and ghost stories ( “ Mr. Jones, ” “ All Souls ” ). One
of the most frequently anthologized stories of this period, “ Roman Fever, ” may be
Wharton ’ s defi nitive statement of women ’ s rivalry for the affection of another person,
a theme most notable in The Age of Innocence, The Reef , and The Old Maid , although it
occurs in other works as well. Like “ The Other Two, ” the story is structured in a series
of progressive revelations by two New York society matrons, the imperious Mrs. Alida
Slade and her quieter friend Mrs. Grace Ansley. The pair sit and talk on the terrace
of a restaurant overlooking the Roman forum while waiting for their daughters, Mrs.
Slade ’ s demure Jenny and Mrs. Ansley ’ s brilliant Barbara, who are rivals for the same
eligible man, a piece of exposition that sets in motion the revelation of other rivalries
between women in the past. The more dominant of the two, with “ high color and
energetic brows ” ( Collected Short Stories II. 834), Mrs. Slade refl ects that the two have
“ lived opposite each other – actually as well as fi guratively – for years ” (835). As the
sun sets and the two gaze out on the ruins of the Roman past, Mrs. Slade begins to
probe the less visible ruins of the past that she has shared with Mrs. Ansley when the
two were rivals for the affections of Delphin Slade. Recalling that a jealous great - aunt
of
Mrs. Ansley ’ s had sent her younger sister to the Colosseum at night and that the
girl had died of “ Roman fever, ” Mrs. Slade reveals that she had played a similar trick
on Mrs. Ansley in their youth. Wanting to be sure of Delphin Slade before their
128
Donna Campbell
marriage, Alida Slade had sent a note ostensibly from him to Grace Ansley asking
that Grace meet him at the Colosseum.
Thus far, the conversation has been Mrs. Slade ’ s one - sided attack on Mrs. Ansley,
who metaphorically fends off the attack by keeping a set of knitting needles between
herself and Mrs. Slade, as Alice Hall Petry has suggested; she keeps her emotions in
check by knitting, and thus controlling, a skein of “ red silk ” that suggests the pas-
sionate intensity of her feelings. When Mrs. Slade recites the letter that Delphin had
supposedly sent and reveals that she had been its sender, Mrs. Ansley drops her knit-
ting, and also her defenses, to engage in the fencing match of words that Mrs. Slade
has provoked. The balance of power shifts as Mrs. Ansley reveals that she had answered
the letter and had met Delphin at the Colosseum. Unable to bear Mrs. Ansley ’ s
comment “ I ’ m sorry for you, ” Mrs. Slade tries once again to gain the upper hand,
stating that she had had Delphin Slade for twenty - fi ve years and that Mrs. Ansley
“ had nothing but that one letter that he didn ’ t write. ” “ I had Barbara, ” Mrs. Ansley
replies, and “ move[s] ahead of Mrs. Slade toward the stairway ” (843) symbolically
moving ahead in their ancient rivalry as well. Rachel Bowlby contends that the revela-
tion in “ Roman Fever ” may actually be merely a statement of fact that Mrs. Ansley
had the brilliant Barbara to sustain her while Mrs. Slade has had to make do with the
angelic Jenny, but the clues that Wharton has scattered throughout the story point
to a concealed pregnancy, including Mrs. Ansley ’ s illness and her sudden marriage to
Horace Ansley two months after her visit to the Colosseum by moonlight. “ Girls are
ferocious sometimes … [g]irls in love especially, ” Mrs. Slade admits, trying repeatedly
to explain how she could expose Grace Ansley to possible death, and her incessant
goading of Mrs. Ansley suggests that that ferocity is present even in “ ripe but well -
cared - for middle age ” (833). Beneath the veneer of civilization and lack of passion
implied by the women ’ s wealth, social status, manners, and age lurk the primitive
emotions and drives that Mrs. Slade and Mrs. Ansley display as they run the gamut
of jealousy, competition for status, a drive toward dominance, and the impulse to
protect their offspring and to see their genes survive. The story ’ s evocation of moder-
nity – the Count whose attentions both daughters desire is an aviator – is merely a
cover for the sexual rivalry that spans three generations.
Wharton ’ s ghost stories also address the ferocity and primitive emotions inherent
in human beings. Wharton had begun publishing ghost stories as early as “ The Lady ’ s
Maid ’ s Bell ” (1902), and one of her fi nest stories, “ The Eyes ” (1910), is the product
of her middle period, but the late period ghost stories are among the best examples
of her theory of deriving signifi cance from an economical handling of material.
According to Margaret McDowell, Wharton ’ s later ghost stories are more ambiguous
and less intent on linking the appearance of a ghost to “ some recognizable breach of
morality ” (McDowell 312) than her earlier ones. Another difference, however, is that
the events in these late stories gain in force and terror as the supernatural element
causes physical as well as psychological harm – the terrorizing of an elderly woman
and the breaking of her ankle in “ All Souls, ” a husband ’ s disappearance in “ Pomegran-
ate Seed, ” and the murder of a housekeeper in “ Mr. Jones. ” Moreover, several ghost
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Wharton
129
stories revisit situations from Wharton ’ s earlier career. The early New England stories
lend their settings to some altogether darker stories, “ Bewitched ” and “ The Young
Gentlemen, ” which question “ the nature of Americanness ” (Beer 132) and the nation ’ s
unsavory history of ties to European imperialism, according to Janet Beer. Similarly,
“ The Eyes ” recasts the artistic integrity theme of the earlier artist stories into a dark
parable of predation. Culwin, a Jamesian fi gure with impeccable literary taste who
likes young and “ juicy ” men ( Collected Short Stories II. 116), tells his attractive friend
Phil Frenham about the vision of “ a man ’ s eyes ” with “ thick and red - lined lids ” (120);
they are, he concludes, eyes that “ belong to a man who had done a lot of harm in his
life, but had always kept just inside the danger lines ” (120). The visions occur on two
occasions when Culwin is dishonest: the fi rst when he promises to marry his cousin
Alice Nowell, primarily to inherit her fi ne house; and the second when he lies about
the literary merit of the work of Gilbert Noyes, a young man with whom he is infatu-
ated. The visions of the eyes cease when he behaves ethically by breaking off his
engagement to Alice and telling Noyes the truth about his lack of talent. But Culwin ’ s
vampiric attraction to handsome young men has not changed, and the eyes have not
vanished for good. When Culwin lays his “ gouty hands ” (130) on Frenham ’ s shoul-
ders, clutching the younger man with a gesture of grotesque eroticism, Frenham and
the narrator see the eyes in the mirror and realize that they are, and were, Culwin ’ s.
Culwin, however, “ scarcely ” recognizes his refl ection, gazing at the eyes not with
remorse for the harm he has done but with “ a glare of slowly gathering hate ” (130).
Far from accepting responsibility for the harm he has done, Culwin rejects the vision
of himself in the mirror. A narcissist, he has for years sought his own refl ection in the
eyes of the beautiful young men he cultivated and discarded, but a true refl ection of
his character is abhorrent to him. Like the statue in “ The Duchess at Prayer ” or the
portrait in “ The Portrait, ” the refl ection gives Culwin a picture of the truth: that he
has been the artist of his own corrupt character and that his greatest work of art has
been his own deceptive and destructive self - portrait.
“ All Souls ” likewise revisits a theme from earlier stories. In its depiction of an
elderly woman living alone who is beset by changes to her surroundings, it loosely
resembles “ Mrs. Manstey ’ s View, ” yet the strong and vigorous Sara Clayburn seems
at fi rst only a distant echo of the helpless Mrs. Manstey. As Sara goes for a walk on
All Souls ’ Eve, she meets a mysterious woman who claims that she is going to visit
a servant at Whitegates, Sara ’ s home; shortly thereafter, Sara falls, breaks her ankle,
and is ordered to bed by the doctor. When she awakens, she is terrifi ed to fi nd that
the house is deserted and the electricity is off. The next day, her loyal maidservant
Agnes disclaims any knowledge of the deserted house, saying that Sara must have
been feverish. On the next All Souls ’ Eve, Sara appears on the narrator ’ s doorste
p,
claiming that she does not want to repeat the experience and will never live in the
house again. The narrator hypothesizes that the woman whom Sara saw was a “ fetch ”
who had come to summon the servants to a witches ’ coven. Critics have seen bio-
graphical echoes in this story; as Annette Zilversmit notes, Wharton ’ s house The
Mount, unlike most Berkshires estates, had white gates (Zilversmit 317), and Jenni
130
Donna Campbell
Dyman and Karen J. Jacobsen see in the desertion of the servants Wharton ’ s own fears
about such an event, with Jacobsen tying the issue to anxieties about class resentment.
Reading the stories through the theory that Wharton was an incest victim, Barbara
White considers the story as yet another example of the incest theme, with the dis-
embodied and insinuating male voice coming from the crystal radio set evoking
repressed memories of a sexual abuser. The story ’ s Gothic elements are also controver-
sial, with Kathy Fedorko fi nding it a “ dark Gothic abyss ” of “ sexuality, death, [and]
loss of control ” (Fedorko 160) and Janet Beer and Avril Horner judging the Gothic
elements so excessive as to constitute a parody of the Gothic, using “ comedy and the
supernatural to unsettle conventional values and beliefs ” (Beer and Horner 285).
As Gianfranca Balestra points out, however, the story did not always end with the
narrator ’ s explanation of witchcraft and the “ fetch, ” which some critics have thought
a weakness in it. According to Balestra, the manuscript shows that Wharton had
originally ended the story with Sara ’ s fl ight from the house and had added the witch-
craft explanation later “ for the use of the magazine morons ” who presumably would
not be satisfi ed with the indeterminate nature of the story ’ s events (Balestra 21). In
fact, virtually all the events of the story can be explained by resorting to Agnes ’ s
commonsense explanation that Sara had suffered a fever and become delirious; for
example, the male voice coming from the crystal set would not have been loud enough
to hear without electrical amplifi cation. But despite the narrator ’ s insistence on Sara ’ s
reliability and his or her own (the narrator ’ s gender is never specifi cally stated), the
A Companion to the American Short Story Page 29
