Autumn and Edith Wharton

Just when we think the city couldn't get any hotter, damper or more fragrant with that peculiar summer aroma of garbage and wet asphalt, the first autumn chill creeps upon us. It's unexpected, even a little unpleasant when we have to remember to bring a jacket for the evening return. It's strange to think that soon enough we'll forget about the sweltering heat, have no use for all those pretty summer dresses, and will be similarly surprised when spring melts the layers away and the cycle begins yet again.

September and October are good months - the air is mild and the city breathes with relief as the leaves begin to turn, the cultural seasons return as does oyster season (ok, I know it's a myth). My birthday is at the end of October, the time when it usually begins to get quite chilly and rainy, and when all the Ricky's and many empty storefronts turn into slutty-fill-in-the-blank costume warehouses. I haven't done the costume thing for many years, if I were to do it this year, what would I be?

When I was little I used to have dreams of the 19th century - I was always in these dreams of course. These were not realistic explorations of a time gone by, rather they naturally focused on what I was wearing - lovely princess ball gowns of course. The setting was equally sumptuous, and royalty was likely to be involved. I know what it looks like, but no, this discussion has nothing to do with halloween costumes. Rather, Autumn plus 19th century New York equals Edith Wharton. I go through authors in mini-spurts, which means if I like one book I'll read a few more by the same author right after. The first one I read was House of Mirth, and now I'm on to The Age of Innocence. The latter is even more depressing, even though I'm only about halfway through. When I was a child, I never considered the 19th century for what it really was (especially for my oh-so fair sex), never took into account anything other than the glamorous aristocratic trappings that no longer exist in our lives. Wharton lays it all out in the open, having herself come from that world - the wealthy, conservative New York gentry. Blood was everything, one could never escape family, tradition was paramount, ambition uneccessary and love an afterthought.

The hero, Newland Archer is engaged to marry May, but falls in love with her more interesting and clever Europeanized cousin Ellen who is estranged from her husband and wants to divorce him (but is convinced by Archer, a lawyer with no interest in the law, that it would do her no good and would only scandalize her family and damage her standing in New York society even further). So instead of resolving this obvious dilemma by having Ellen get a divorce and marrying her instead, he goes on to marry May, who is naive and dull and who cares only about her trousseau and decorating their house on 34th St. (in today's Murray Hill, a bad omen indeed).

I love reading about people who lived so long ago but walked in the very same streets I walk in today, rounded the same corners, sat in the same benches in Bryant Park. Of course this handful of characters is fictional, but there were thousands just like them in Wharton's actual existence. And as different as their lives and motivations may seem from ours, they are in fact very much the same, only shrouded in formal language, dozens of petticoats and a greater adherence to decorum and self-control (due to a fear of society, not religious deities). Who has not heard of a May - naive, prone to the occasional moment of lucidity, but mostly content to organize her trousseau and throw parties to show it off to society. And Archer - stifled by his surroundings, in the wrong occupation without any clue to what the right one might be, forgoes love when it knocks him down in his tracks because the path he was on is easier and is expected of him. There are dozens of these people running around in this city at this very moment. They have the same problems and may come to the same compromises, but they act slightly differently in the interim in the manner society expects of them.