The Custom of the Country Read online

  Edith Wharton

  THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY

  Edith Wharton (1862–1937) was born into high society in New York City. After her marriage, she lived in Newport and New York, traveled in Europe, and built a grand home, The Mount, in Lenox, Massachusetts. In Europe, she met Henry James, who became her good friend, traveling companion, and best critic. In 1913, Edith divorced her husband and took up permanent residence in France, but her primary literary subject remained America and especially the moneyed New York of her youth. Her many stories and novels were critical successes as well as bestsellers, and The Age of Innocence won her the Pulitzer Prize in 1921.

  ALSO AVAILABLE IN VINTAGE CLASSICS

  BY EDITH WHARTON

  The Age of Innocence

  Ethan Frome

  The House of Mirth

  FIRST VINTAGE CLASSICS EDITION, JUNE 2012

  Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Classics and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-95058-1

  www.vintagebooks.com

  Cover photograph: William Morris, Victoria & Albert Museum, London

  Cover design: Megan Wilson

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Book I Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Book II Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Book III Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Book IV Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Book V Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter XL

  Chapter XLI

  Chapter XLII

  Chapter XLIII

  Chapter XLIV

  Chapter XLV

  Chapter XLVI

  BOOK I

  I

  ‘UNDINE Spragg – how can you?’ her mother wailed, raising a prematurely wrinkled hand heavy with rings to defend the note which a languid ‘bell-boy’ had just brought in.

  But her defence was as feeble as her protest, and she continued to smile on her visitor while Miss Spragg, with a turn of her quick young fingers, possessed herself of the missive and withdrew to the window to read it.

  ‘I guess it’s meant for me,’ she merely threw over her shoulder at her mother.

  ‘Did you ever, Mrs Heeny?’ Mrs Spragg murmured with deprecating pride.

  Mrs Heeny, a stout professional-looking person in a waterproof, her rusty veil thrown back, and a shabby alligator bag at her feet, followed the mother’s glance with good-humoured approval.

  ‘I never met with a lovelier form,’ she agreed, answering the spirit rather than the letter of her hostess’s inquiry.

  Mrs Spragg and her visitor were enthroned in two heavy gilt armchairs in one of the private drawing-rooms of the Hotel Stentorian. The Spragg rooms were known as one of the Looey suites, and the drawing-room walls, above their wainscoting of highly varnished mahogany, were hung with salmon-pink damask and adorned with oval portraits of Marie Antoinette and the Princess de Lamballe. In the centre of the florid carpet a gilt table with a top of Mexican onyx sustained a palm in a gilt basket tied with a pink bow. But for this ornament, and a copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles which lay beside it, the room showed no traces of human use, and Mrs Spragg herself wore as complete an air of detachment as if she had been a wax figure in a show-window. Her attire was fashionable enough to justify such a post, and her pale soft-cheeked face, with puffy eyelids and drooping mouth, suggested a partially melted wax figure which had run to double-chin.

  Mrs Heeny, in comparison, had a reassuring look of solidity and reality. The planting of her firm black bulk in its chair, and the grasp of her broad red hands on the gilt arms, bespoke an organized and self-reliant activity, accounted for by the fact that Mrs Heeny was a ‘society’ manicure and masseuse. Toward Mrs Spragg and her daughter she filled the double role of manipulator and friend; and it was in the latter capacity that, her day’s task ended, she had dropped in for a moment to ‘cheer up’ the lonely ladies of the Stentorian.

  The young girl whose ‘form’ had won Mrs Heeny’s professional commendation suddenly shifted its lovely lines as she turned back from the window.

  ‘Here – you can have it after all,’ she said, crumpling the note and tossing it with a contemptuous gesture into her mother’s lap.

  ‘Why – isn’t it from Mr Popple?’ Mrs Spragg exclaimed unguardedly.

  ‘No – it isn’t. What made you think I thought it was?’ snapped her daughter; but the next instant she added, with an outbreak of childish disappointment: ‘It’s only from Mr Marvell’s sister – at least she says she’s his sister.’

  Mrs Spragg, with a puzzled frown, groped for her eye-glass among the jet fringes of her tightly girded front.

  Mrs Heeny’s small blue eyes shot out sparks of curiosity. ‘Marvell – what Marvell is that?’

  The girl explained languidly: ‘A little fellow – I think Mr Popple said his name was Ralph’; while her mother continued: ‘Undine met them both last night at that party downstairs. And from something Mr Popple said to her about going to one of the new plays, she thought –’

  ‘How on earth do you know what I thought?’ Undine flashed back, her grey eyes darting warnings at her mother under their straight black brows.

  ‘Why, you said you thought –’ Mrs Spragg began reproachfully; but Mrs Heeny, heedless of their bickerings, was pursuing her own train of thought.

  ‘What Popple? Claud Walsingham Popple – the portrait painter?’

  ‘Yes – I suppose so. He said he’d like to paint me. Mabel Lipscomb introduced him. I don’t care if I never see him again,’ the girl said, bathed in angry pink.

  ‘Do you know him, Mrs Heeny?’ Mrs Spragg inquired.

  ‘I should say I did. I manicured him for his first society portrait – a full-length of Mrs Harmon B. Driscoll.’ Mrs Heeny smiled indulgently on her hearers. ‘I know everybody. If they don’t know me they ain’t in it, and Claud Walsingham Popple’s in it. But he ain’t nearly as in it,’ she continued judicially, ‘as Ralph Marvell – the little fellow, as you call him.’

  Undine Spragg, at the word, swept round on the speaker with one of the quick turns that revealed her youthful flexibility. She was always doubling and twisting on herself, and every movement she made seemed to start at the nape of her neck, just below the lifted roll of reddish-gold hair, and flow
without a break through her whole slim length to the tips of her fingers and the points of her slender restless feet.

  ‘Why, do you know the Marvells? Are they stylish?’ she asked.

  Mrs Heeny gave the discouraged gesture of a pedagogue who has vainly striven to implant the rudiments of knowledge in a rebellious mind.

  ‘Why, Undine Spragg, I’ve told you all about them time and again! His mother was a Dagonet. They live with old Urban Dagonet down in Washington Square.’

  To Mrs Spragg this conveyed even less than to her daughter. ‘ ’way down there? Why do they live with somebody else? Haven’t they got the means to have a home of their own?’

  Undine’s perceptions were more rapid, and she fixed her eyes searchingly on Mrs Heeny.

  ‘Do you mean to say Mr Marvell’s as swell as Mr Popple?’

  ‘As swell? Why, Claud Walsingham Popple ain’t in the same class with him!’

  The girl was upon her mother with a spring, snatching and smoothing out the crumpled note.

  ‘Laura Fairford – is that the sister’s name?’

  ‘Mrs Henley Fairford; yes. What does she write about?’

  Undine’s face lit up as if a shaft of sunset had struck it through the triple-curtained windows of the Stentorian.

  ‘She says she wants me to dine with her next Wednesday. Isn’t it queer? Why does she want me? She’s never seen me!’ Her tone implied that she had long been accustomed to being ‘wanted’ by those who had.

  Mrs Heeny laughed. ‘He saw you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Who? Ralph Marvell? Why, of course he did – Mr Popple brought him to the party here last night.’

  ‘Well, there you are … When a young man in society wants to meet a girl again, he gets his sister to ask her.’

  Undine stared at her incredulously. ‘How queer! But they haven’t all got sisters, have they? It must be fearfully poky for the ones that haven’t.’

  ‘They get their mothers – or their married friends,’ said Mrs Heeny omnisciently.

  ‘Married gentlemen?’ inquired Mrs Spragg, slightly shocked, but genuinely desirous of mastering her lesson.

  ‘Mercy, no! Married ladies.’

  ‘But are there never any gentlemen present?’ pursued Mrs Spragg, feeling that if this were the case Undine would certainly be disappointed.

  ‘Present where? At their dinners? Of course – Mrs Fairford gives the smartest little dinners in town. There was an account of one she gave last week in this morning’s Town Talk: I guess it’s right here among my clippings.’ Mrs Heeny, swooping down on her bag, drew from it a handful of newspaper cuttings, which she spread on her ample lap and proceeded to sort with a moistened forefinger. ‘Here,’ she said, holding one of the slips at arm’s length; and throwing back her head she read, in a slow unpunctuated chant: ‘ “Mrs Henley Fairford gave another of her natty little dinners last Wednesday as usual it was smart small and exclusive and there was much gnashing of teeth among the left-outs as Madame Olga Loukowska gave some of her new steppe dances after dinner” – that’s the French for new dance steps,’ Mrs Heeny concluded, thrusting the documents back into her bag.

  ‘Do you know Mrs Fairford too?’ Undine asked eagerly; while Mrs Spragg, impressed, but anxious for facts, pursued: ‘Does she reside on Fifth Avenue?’

  ‘No, she has a little house in Thirty-eighth Street, down beyond Park Avenue.’

  The ladies’ faces drooped again, and the masseuse went on promptly: ‘But they’re glad enough to have her in the big houses! – Why, yes, I know her,’ she said, addressing herself to Undine. ‘I mass’d her for a sprained ankle a couple of years ago. She’s got a lovely manner, but no conversation. Some of my patients converse exquisitely,’ Mrs Heeny added with discrimination.

  Undine was brooding over the note. ‘It is written to mother – Mrs Abner E. Spragg – I never saw anything so funny! “Will you allow your daughter to dine with me?” Allow! Is Mrs Fairford peculiar?’

  ‘No – you are,’ said Mrs Heeny bluntly. ‘Don’t you know it’s the thing in the best society to pretend that girls can’t do anything without their mothers’ permission? You just remember that, Undine. You mustn’t accept invitations from gentlemen without you say you’ve got to ask your mother first.’

  ‘Mercy! But how’ll mother know what to say?’

  ‘Why, she’ll say what you tell her to, of course. You’d better tell her you want to dine with Mrs Fairford,’ Mrs Heeny added humorously, as she gathered her waterproof together and stooped for her bag.

  ‘Have I got to write the note, then?’ Mrs Spragg asked with rising agitation.

  Mrs Heeny reflected. ‘Why, no. I guess Undine can write it as if it was from you. Mrs Fairford don’t know your writing.’

  This was an evident relief to Mrs Spragg, and as Undine swept to her room with the note her mother sank back, murmuring plaintively: ‘Oh, don’t go yet, Mrs Heeny. I haven’t seen a human being all day, and I can’t seem to find anything to say to that French maid.’

  Mrs Heeny looked at her hostess with friendly compassion. She was well aware that she was the only bright spot on Mrs Spragg’s horizon. Since the Spraggs, some two years previously, had moved from Apex City to New York, they had made little progress in establishing relations with their new environment; and when, about four months earlier, Mrs Spragg’s doctor had called in Mrs Heeny to minister professionally to his patient, he had done more for her spirit than for her body. Mrs Heeny had had such ‘cases’ before: she knew the rich helpless family, stranded in lonely splendour in a sumptuous West Side hotel, with a father compelled to seek a semblance of social life at the hotel bar, and a mother deprived of even this contact with her kind, and reduced to illness by boredom and inactivity. Poor Mrs Spragg had done her own washing in her youth, but since her rising fortunes had made this occupation unsuitable she had sunk into the relative inertia which the ladies of Apex City regarded as one of the prerogatives of affluence. At Apex, however, she had belonged to a social club, and, until they moved to the Mealey House, had been kept busy by the incessant struggle with domestic cares; whereas New York seemed to offer no field for any form of lady-like activity. She therefore took her exercise vicariously, with Mrs Heeny’s help; and Mrs Heeny knew how to manipulate her imagination as well as her muscles. It was Mrs Heeny who peopled the solitude of the long ghostly days with lively anecdotes of the Van Degens, the Driscolls, the Chauncey Ellings and the other social potentates whose least doings Mrs Spragg and Undine had followed from afar in the Apex papers, and who had come to seem so much more remote since only the width of the Central Park divided mother and daughter from their Olympian portals.

  Mrs Spragg had no ambition for herself – she seemed to have transferred her whole personality to her child – but she was passionately resolved that Undine should have what she wanted, and she sometimes fancied that Mrs Heeny, who crossed those sacred thresholds so familiarly, might some day gain admission for Undine.

  ‘Well – I’ll stay a little mite longer if you want; and supposing I was to rub up your nails while we’re talking? It’ll be more sociable,’ the masseuse suggested, lifting her bag to the table and covering its shiny onyx surface with bottles and polishers.

  Mrs Spragg consentingly slipped the rings from her small mottled hands. It was soothing to feel herself in Mrs Heeny’s grasp, and though she knew the attention would cost her three dollars she was secure in the sense that Abner wouldn’t mind. It had been clear to Mrs Spragg, ever since their rather precipitate departure from Apex City, that Abner was resolved not to mind – resolved at any cost to ‘see through’ the New York adventure. It seemed likely now that the cost would be considerable. They had lived in New York for two years without any social benefit to their daughter; and it was of course for that purpose that they had come. If, at the time, there had been other and more pressing reasons, they were such as Mrs Spragg and her husband never touched on, even in the gilded privacy of their bedroom at the Stentorian; and so completely ha
d silence closed in on the subject that to Mrs Spragg it had become non-existent: she really believed that, as Abner put it, they had left Apex because Undine was too big for the place.

  She seemed as yet – poor child! – too small for New York: actually imperceptible to its heedless multitudes; and her mother trembled for the day when her invisibility should be borne in on her. Mrs Spragg did not mind the long delay for herself – she had stores of lymphatic patience. But she had noticed lately that Undine was beginning to be nervous, and there was nothing that Undine’s parents dreaded so much as her being nervous. Mrs Spragg’s maternal apprehensions unconsciously escaped in her next words.

  ‘I do hope she’ll quiet down now,’ she murmured, feeling quieter herself as her hand sank into Mrs Heeny’s roomy palm.

  ‘Who’s that? Undine?’

  ‘Yes. She seemed so set on that Mr Popple’s coming round. From the way he acted last night she thought he’d be sure to come round this morning. She’s so lonesome, poor child – I can’t say as I blame her.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll come round. Things don’t happen as quick as that in New York,’ said Mrs Heeny, driving her nail-polisher cheeringly.

  Mrs Spragg sighed again. ‘They don’t appear to. They say New Yorkers are always in a hurry; but I can’t say as they’ve hurried much to make our acquaintance.’

  Mrs Heeny drew back to study the effect of her work. ‘You wait, Mrs Spragg, you wait. If you go too fast you sometimes have to rip out the whole seam.’

  ‘Oh, that’s so – that’s so!’ Mrs Spragg exclaimed, with a tragic emphasis that made the masseuse glance up at her.

  ‘Of course it’s so. And it’s more so in New York than anywhere. The wrong set’s like fly-paper: once you’re in it you can pull and pull, but you’ll never get out of it again.’

  Undine’s mother heaved another and more helpless sigh. ‘I wish you’d tell Undine that, Mrs Heeny.’

  ‘Oh, I guess Undine’s all right. A girl like her can afford to wait. And if young Marvell’s really taken with her she’ll have the run of the place in no time.’