A bestseller upon its 1905 publication, this book took shape under two working titles before Wharton famously borrowed from a biblical verse: “The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.” And, Lord, what fools her mortals be!
The most obvious ones are the vapid members of Lily Bart’s “set,” whose daily schedules are punctuated by glittering luncheons/teas/dinners and highlighted by operas/tableaux vivants/dangerous liaisons. Friendships dance on the edges of knives, as Lily realizes when she finds herself stabbed in the back. Like us, she doesn’t know for sure why Judy Trenor or Bertha Dorset turns on her (it would be ill-mannered to tell her) but when we consider, as she does, her unladylike actions … well, we can only conclude that it’s she who has behaved badly toward them. That’s the genius of their existence!
Moneyed and married (or even divorced, as long as one stays close to the herd), these women are protected in every way that Lily, 29 and single and living with her aunt, isn’t. That Wharton’s narration never allows us into the minds of this tribe reflects her genius: either they have no minds, or their motives are so finely calibrated to each circumstance that they routinely act first and justify afterwards. They are, in the words of a descendant created by F. Scott Fitzgerald a generation later, beautiful little fools. And Lily Bart desperately wants to be Daisy Buchanan. Who wouldn’t rather be in the in-crowd than outside it?
Instead, Lily’s friends make a fool of her. Many readers say she’s trapped, but as early as Chapter 5 she realizes she isn’t locked in – the door “stood always open, but most of the captives were like flies in a bottle, and having once flown in, could never regain their freedom.” Lily is not stupid. Paradoxically, she’s too perceptive to be the vacuous arm-candy she wishes she were. Therefore she makes foolish choices, ones that mark her out as incapable of being a Judy Trenor or a Bertha Dorset or even a Grace Stepney, who’s only a discreet gossip, after all. Like Jay Gatsby, Lily wants a shortcut to the American Dream, but unlike him, she fails because she’s not un homme sérieux – her eyes are not always on the prize.
Of course, she’s not un homme at all, since that’s the point of being Lily Bart: she’s all woman. That’s exactly what catches the eye of every man around her, married or not. I’m talking about you, Lawrence Selden.
The character who opens and closes the novel, Selden is this tragedy’s Shakespearean fool. Lily wouldn’t need a rich man if she could have what a man like Selden can attain in their social class: unconditional inclusion in the glitterati. But to be perceptive and feel superior, and to make ironic comments about the crowd one runs with, one cannot be a woman. That’s a man’s domain. By making this platonic freedom seem so easy to achieve, Selden mocks the fact that Lily is no man. He can’t give her what he has. He enjoys her company because she’s such a beautiful little fool.
The most recent movie adaptation, which I do like, would have us believe this is a love story, but I think Wharton is asking Tina Turner’s question: what’s love got to do with it? Here is a woman who couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t attain the protection of a man. Any man would have done – even Sim Rosedale, who wants to teach Lily the game of life. By refusing, she forfeits the sanction of family as well as friends – yes, even Selden, the ironic bystander. (Only Gerty Farish, one of literature’s most underrated characters, is better than the lot of them put together.) Love? Wharton doesn’t even identify the famous word Lily and Selden finally intend to tell each other, and anyway, it shows up too damn late to work its fairy magic.
Lacking the shallowness and opportunism required in privileged society, Lily allows herself to be voted out. Even her last act, like Hamlet’s, is too fateful to be considered a decision “not to be.” In fact: “She did not, in truth, consider the question very closely – the physical craving for sleep was her only sustained sensation.” More fool, sadly, she.
The most obvious ones are the vapid members of Lily Bart’s “set,” whose daily schedules are punctuated by glittering luncheons/teas/dinners and highlighted by operas/tableaux vivants/dangerous liaisons. Friendships dance on the edges of knives, as Lily realizes when she finds herself stabbed in the back. Like us, she doesn’t know for sure why Judy Trenor or Bertha Dorset turns on her (it would be ill-mannered to tell her) but when we consider, as she does, her unladylike actions … well, we can only conclude that it’s she who has behaved badly toward them. That’s the genius of their existence!
Moneyed and married (or even divorced, as long as one stays close to the herd), these women are protected in every way that Lily, 29 and single and living with her aunt, isn’t. That Wharton’s narration never allows us into the minds of this tribe reflects her genius: either they have no minds, or their motives are so finely calibrated to each circumstance that they routinely act first and justify afterwards. They are, in the words of a descendant created by F. Scott Fitzgerald a generation later, beautiful little fools. And Lily Bart desperately wants to be Daisy Buchanan. Who wouldn’t rather be in the in-crowd than outside it?
Instead, Lily’s friends make a fool of her. Many readers say she’s trapped, but as early as Chapter 5 she realizes she isn’t locked in – the door “stood always open, but most of the captives were like flies in a bottle, and having once flown in, could never regain their freedom.” Lily is not stupid. Paradoxically, she’s too perceptive to be the vacuous arm-candy she wishes she were. Therefore she makes foolish choices, ones that mark her out as incapable of being a Judy Trenor or a Bertha Dorset or even a Grace Stepney, who’s only a discreet gossip, after all. Like Jay Gatsby, Lily wants a shortcut to the American Dream, but unlike him, she fails because she’s not un homme sérieux – her eyes are not always on the prize.
Of course, she’s not un homme at all, since that’s the point of being Lily Bart: she’s all woman. That’s exactly what catches the eye of every man around her, married or not. I’m talking about you, Lawrence Selden.
The character who opens and closes the novel, Selden is this tragedy’s Shakespearean fool. Lily wouldn’t need a rich man if she could have what a man like Selden can attain in their social class: unconditional inclusion in the glitterati. But to be perceptive and feel superior, and to make ironic comments about the crowd one runs with, one cannot be a woman. That’s a man’s domain. By making this platonic freedom seem so easy to achieve, Selden mocks the fact that Lily is no man. He can’t give her what he has. He enjoys her company because she’s such a beautiful little fool.
The most recent movie adaptation, which I do like, would have us believe this is a love story, but I think Wharton is asking Tina Turner’s question: what’s love got to do with it? Here is a woman who couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t attain the protection of a man. Any man would have done – even Sim Rosedale, who wants to teach Lily the game of life. By refusing, she forfeits the sanction of family as well as friends – yes, even Selden, the ironic bystander. (Only Gerty Farish, one of literature’s most underrated characters, is better than the lot of them put together.) Love? Wharton doesn’t even identify the famous word Lily and Selden finally intend to tell each other, and anyway, it shows up too damn late to work its fairy magic.
Lacking the shallowness and opportunism required in privileged society, Lily allows herself to be voted out. Even her last act, like Hamlet’s, is too fateful to be considered a decision “not to be.” In fact: “She did not, in truth, consider the question very closely – the physical craving for sleep was her only sustained sensation.” More fool, sadly, she.