Ethan Frome(Illustrated) E-Book

Edith Wharton

• Herausgeber: Swish
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

• Includes 20 captivating illustrations that bring the story to life
• Features a detailed summary of the novel
• Contains a comprehensive characters list
• Includes an insightful biography of author Edith Wharton

In Ethan Frome, Edith Wharton masterfully weaves a tale of passion, duty, and tragedy set against the stark, wintry landscape of rural New England. Ethan Frome, a man trapped by the crushing burdens of responsibility and a loveless marriage, finds solace in the presence of his wife’s cousin, the vibrant and warm-hearted Mattie Silver. As their forbidden love blossoms, they must navigate the suffocating confines of societal expectations, leading to a heart-wrenching and unforgettable conclusion.
This beautifully illustrated edition of Ethan Frome captures the emotional depth and tension of the novel, with 20 stunning images that bring the harsh beauty of Starkfield and its inhabitants to vivid life. Accompanied by a detailed summary, a characters list, and an insightful biography of Edith Wharton, this edition offers readers a rich, immersive experience of one of Wharton’s most beloved works.
Dive into the timeless story of love, isolation, and the tragic consequences of impossible choices in this captivating edition of Ethan Frome.
 

Leseprobe

ETHAN FROME

BY

EDITH WHARTON

ABOUT WHARTON

Edith Wharton, born on January 24, 1862, in New York City, was an American novelist, short story writer, and designer who became one of the most influential voices in early 20th-century American literature. Wharton’s literary works often explored the complex inner lives of individuals navigating the rigid social structures of the American elite, a world she knew intimately.

Raised in a wealthy, aristocratic family, Wharton received an extensive education in European languages and literature, but much of her early life was constrained by societal expectations placed on women of her class. Her intellect and creativity, however, could not be suppressed. As a young woman, she began to write stories and poems, but it wasn't until her early 40s that she found critical success as a novelist.

Her breakthrough novel, The House of Mirth (1905), exposed the corrosive nature of the high society in which she was raised. The novel's poignant portrayal of a woman’s struggle for autonomy amidst the pressures of wealth and status cemented Wharton’s reputation as a powerful chronicler of Gilded Age America. She followed this with several iconic works, including Ethan Frome (1911), a tragic story of unfulfilled love set in a bleak New England town, and The Age of Innocence (1920), for which she became the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction.

Wharton was not only a master of social commentary but also a keen observer of the human psyche, often blending her personal experiences with the broader tensions of her time. Her deep understanding of architecture and design is reflected in many of her works, as is her passion for travel and European culture, which she engaged with extensively, particularly after moving to France permanently in 1913.

During World War I, Wharton dedicated herself to humanitarian efforts, running shelters for refugees and orphans and raising funds for the war effort. For her contributions, she was awarded the French Legion of Honor in 1916.

Wharton continued to write prolifically until her death in 1937 in Saint-Brice-sous-Forêt, France. She left behind a rich literary legacy that transcends time, her novels continuing to resonate with readers for their incisive critique of societal norms, their exploration of moral dilemmas, and their complex, often tragic, characters. Edith Wharton remains a pioneering figure in American letters, celebrated for her wit, empathy, and literary craftsmanship.

SUMMARY

Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton is a haunting tale of love, isolation, and the crushing weight of societal expectations. Set in the harsh, snow-covered landscape of rural New England, the novel tells the story of Ethan Frome, a man trapped in a loveless marriage to his ailing wife, Zeena. Burdened by duty and poverty, Ethan's life takes a tragic turn when Zeena’s lively cousin, Mattie Silver, comes to live with them.

As Ethan and Mattie grow closer, their forbidden love ignites a passion that offers Ethan a fleeting glimpse of happiness and escape. However, their desire to be together clashes with the rigid moral and social constraints of the time, leading to a heart-wrenching decision that sets the stage for an inevitable tragedy.

Wharton masterfully weaves themes of longing, despair, and the inescapable nature of fate, drawing readers into a stark, emotionally charged narrative where every choice seems to lead to irreversible consequences. Ethan Frome is a powerful exploration of the human condition, as Wharton expertly captures the suffocating effects of unfulfilled dreams and the devastating consequences of forbidden love.

CHARACTERS LIST

Ethan Frome

The protagonist of the novel, Ethan is a quiet, deeply sensitive man who is trapped in a bleak life. He is a struggling farmer and a caretaker for his sickly wife, Zeena. Ethan’s unfulfilled dreams of education and a better life weigh heavily on him, and his love for Mattie Silver, his wife’s cousin, creates inner conflict and despair.

Zeena (Zenobia) Frome

Ethan’s cold and hypochondriac wife, Zeena is manipulative and emotionally distant. Her constant illnesses and complaints dominate Ethan’s life, and her controlling nature makes it difficult for Ethan to break free from their unhappy marriage.

Mattie Silver

Zeena’s young cousin, Mattie comes to live with the Fromes to help care for the household. She is lively, warm, and brings a spark of joy to Ethan’s otherwise desolate life. Ethan falls in love with Mattie, but her presence also leads to the tragic turn of events that marks the climax of the novel.

The Narrator

A nameless engineer who visits the town of Starkfield and becomes curious about Ethan’s story. The novel is framed through his perspective as he pieces together Ethan’s tragic past by interacting with locals and eventually spending a night at Ethan’s home.

Jotham Powell

A hired hand on the Frome farm, Jotham is a minor character who provides occasional assistance to Ethan with chores and farm work. Though not deeply involved in the central conflict, he represents the outside world’s indifference to Ethan’s struggles.

Andrew Hale

A Starkfield builder and contractor to whom Ethan is indebted. Hale’s role, though small, highlights Ethan’s financial struggles and adds to the pressures that keep him trapped in Starkfield.

Mrs. Ned Hale (Ruth Varnum)

A widow and an old friend of Mattie’s, Mrs. Hale is one of the townspeople who knows about Ethan’s tragic past. Her brief appearances add insight into the societal view of Ethan’s story and the novel’s bleak, small-town setting.

These characters form the heart of Wharton's tragic novel, their relationships and internal conflicts driving the emotional intensity of Ethan Frome.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Prologue

I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.

If you know Starkfield, Massachusetts, you know the post-office. If you know the post-office you must have seen Ethan Frome drive up to it, drop the reins on his hollow-backed bay and drag himself across the brick pavement to the white colonnade; and you must have asked who he was.

It was there that, several years ago, I saw him for the first time; and the sight pulled me up sharp. Even then he was the most striking figure in Starkfield, though he was but the ruin of a man. It was not so much his great height that marked him, for the “natives” were easily singled out by their lank longitude from the stockier foreign breed: it was the careless powerful look he had, in spite of a lameness checking each step like the jerk of a chain. There was something bleak and unapproachable in his face, and he was so stiffened and grizzled that I took him for an old man and was surprised to hear that he was not more than fifty-two. I had this from Harmon Gow, who had driven the stage from Bettsbridge to Starkfield in pre-trolley days and knew the chronicle of all the families on his line.

“He's looked that way ever since he had his smash-up; and that's twenty-four years ago come next February,” Harmon threw out between reminiscent pauses.

The “smash-up” it was—I gathered from the same informant—which, besides drawing the red gash across Ethan Frome's forehead, had so shortened and warped his right side that it cost him a visible effort to take the few steps from his buggy to the post-office window. He used to drive in from his farm every day at about noon, and as that was my own hour for fetching my mail I often passed him in the porch or stood beside him while we waited on the motions of the distributing hand behind the grating. I noticed that, though he came so punctually, he seldom received anything but a copy of the Bettsbridge Eagle, which he put without a glance into his sagging pocket. At intervals, however, the post-master would hand him an envelope addressed to Mrs. Zenobia—or Mrs. Zeena—Frome, and usually bearing conspicuously in the upper left-hand corner the address of some manufacturer of patent medicine and the name of his specific. These documents my neighbour would also pocket without a glance, as if too much used to them to wonder at their number and variety, and would then turn away with a silent nod to the post-master.

Every one in Starkfield knew him and gave him a greeting tempered to his own grave mien; but his taciturnity was respected and it was only on rare occasions that one of the older men of the place detained him for a word. When this happened he would listen quietly, his blue eyes on the speaker's face, and answer in so low a tone that his words never reached me; then he would climb stiffly into his buggy, gather up the reins in his left hand and drive slowly away in the direction of his farm.

“It was a pretty bad smash-up?” I questioned Harmon, looking after Frome's retreating figure, and thinking how gallantly his lean brown head, with its shock of light hair, must have sat on his strong shoulders before they were bent out of shape.

“Wust kind,” my informant assented. “More'n enough to kill most men. But the Fromes are tough. Ethan'll likely touch a hundred.”

“Good God!” I exclaimed. At the moment Ethan Frome, after climbing to his seat, had leaned over to assure himself of the security of a wooden box—also with a druggist's label on it—which he had placed in the back of the buggy, and I saw his face as it probably looked when he thought himself alone. “That man touch a hundred? He looks as if he was dead and in hell now!”

Harmon drew a slab of tobacco from his pocket, cut off a wedge and pressed it into the leather pouch of his cheek. “Guess he's been in Starkfield too many winters. Most of the smart ones get away.”

“Why didn't he?”

“Somebody had to stay and care for the folks. There warn't ever anybody but Ethan. Fust his father—then his mother—then his wife.”

“And then the smash-up?”

Harmon chuckled sardonically. “That's so. He had to stay then.”

“I see. And since then they've had to care for him?”

Harmon thoughtfully passed his tobacco to the other cheek. “Oh, as to that: I guess it's always Ethan done the caring.”

Though Harmon Gow developed the tale as far as his mental and moral reach permitted there were perceptible gaps between his facts, and I had the sense that the deeper meaning of the story was in the gaps. But one phrase stuck in my memory and served as the nucleus about which I grouped my subsequent inferences: “Guess he's been in Starkfield too many winters.”

Before my own time there was up I had learned to know what that meant. Yet I had come in the degenerate day of trolley, bicycle and rural delivery, when communication was easy between the scattered mountain villages, and the bigger towns in the valleys, such as Bettsbridge and Shadd's Falls, had libraries, theatres and Y. M. C. A. halls to which the youth of the hills could descend for recreation. But when winter shut down on Starkfield and the village lay under a sheet of snow perpetually renewed from the pale skies, I began to see what life there—or rather its negation—must have been in Ethan Frome's young manhood.

I had been sent up by my employers on a job connected with the big power-house at Corbury Junction, and a long-drawn carpenters' strike had so delayed the work that I found myself anchored at Starkfield—the nearest habitable spot—for the best part of the winter. I chafed at first, and then, under the hypnotising effect of routine, gradually began to find a grim satisfaction in the life. During the early part of my stay I had been struck by the contrast between the vitality of the climate and the deadness of the community. Day by day, after the December snows were over, a blazing blue sky poured down torrents of light and air on the white landscape, which gave them back in an intenser glitter. One would have supposed that such an atmosphere must quicken the emotions as well as the blood; but it seemed to produce no change except that of retarding still more the sluggish pulse of Starkfield. When I had been there a little longer, and had seen this phase of crystal clearness followed by long stretches of sunless cold; when the storms of February had pitched their white tents about the devoted village and the wild cavalry of March winds had charged down to their support; I began to understand why Starkfield emerged from its six months' siege like a starved garrison capitulating without quarter. Twenty years earlier the means of resistance must have been far fewer, and the enemy in command of almost all the lines of access between the beleaguered villages; and, considering these things, I felt the sinister force of Harmon's phrase: “Most of the smart ones get away.” But if that were the case, how could any combination of obstacles have hindered the flight of a man like Ethan Frome?

During my stay at Starkfield I lodged with a middle-aged widow colloquially known as Mrs. Ned Hale. Mrs. Hale's father had been the village lawyer of the previous generation, and “lawyer Varnum's house,” where my landlady still lived with her mother, was the most considerable mansion in the village. It stood at one end of the main street, its classic portico and small-paned windows looking down a flagged path between Norway spruces to the slim white steeple of the Congregational church. It was clear that the Varnum fortunes were at the ebb, but the two women did what they could to preserve a decent dignity; and Mrs. Hale, in particular, had a certain wan refinement not out of keeping with her pale old-fashioned house.

In the “best parlour,” with its black horse-hair and mahogany weakly illuminated by a gurgling Carcel lamp, I listened every evening to another and more delicately shaded version of the Starkfield chronicle. It was not that Mrs. Ned Hale felt, or affected, any social superiority to the people about her; it was only that the accident of a finer sensibility and a little more education had put just enough distance between herself and her neighbours to enable her to judge them with detachment. She was not unwilling to exercise this faculty, and I had great hopes of getting from her the missing facts of Ethan Frome's story, or rather such a key to his character as should co-ordinate the facts I knew. Her mind was a store-house of innocuous anecdote and any question about her acquaintances brought forth a volume of detail; but on the subject of Ethan Frome I found her unexpectedly reticent. There was no hint of disapproval in her reserve; I merely felt in her an insurmountable reluctance to speak of him or his affairs, a low “Yes, I knew them both... it was awful...” seeming to be the utmost concession that her distress could make to my curiosity.

So marked was the change in her manner, such depths of sad initiation did it imply, that, with some doubts as to my delicacy, I put the case anew to my village oracle, Harmon Gow; but got for my pains only an uncomprehending grunt.

“Ruth Varnum was always as nervous as a rat; and, come to think of it, she was the first one to see 'em after they was picked up. It happened right below lawyer Varnum's, down at the bend of the Corbury road, just round about the time that Ruth got engaged to Ned Hale. The young folks was all friends, and I guess she just can't bear to talk about it. She's had troubles enough of her own.”

All the dwellers in Starkfield, as in more notable communities, had had troubles enough of their own to make them comparatively indifferent to those of their neighbours; and though all conceded that Ethan Frome's had been beyond the common measure, no one gave me an explanation of the look in his face which, as I persisted in thinking, neither poverty nor physical suffering could have put there. Nevertheless, I might have contented myself with the story pieced together from these hints had it not been for the provocation of Mrs. Hale's silence, and—a little later—for the accident of personal contact with the man.

On my arrival at Starkfield, Denis Eady, the rich Irish grocer, who was the proprietor of Starkfield's nearest approach to a livery stable, had entered into an agreement to send me over daily to Corbury Flats, where I had to pick up my train for the Junction. But about the middle of the winter Eady's horses fell ill of a local epidemic. The illness spread to the other Starkfield stables and for a day or two I was put to it to find a means of transport. Then Harmon Gow suggested that Ethan Frome's bay was still on his legs and that his owner might be glad to drive me over.

I stared at the suggestion. “Ethan Frome? But I've never even spoken to him. Why on earth should he put himself out for me?”

Harmon's answer surprised me still more. “I don't know as he would; but I know he wouldn't be sorry to earn a dollar.”

I had been told that Frome was poor, and that the saw-mill and the arid acres of his farm yielded scarcely enough to keep his household through the winter; but I had not supposed him to be in such want as Harmon's words implied, and I expressed my wonder.

“Well, matters ain't gone any too well with him,” Harmon said. “When a man's been setting round like a hulk for twenty years or more, seeing things that want doing, it eats inter him, and he loses his grit. That Frome farm was always 'bout as bare's a milkpan when the cat's been round; and you know what one of them old water-mills is wuth nowadays. When Ethan could sweat over 'em both from sunup to dark he kinder choked a living out of 'em; but his folks ate up most everything, even then, and I don't see how he makes out now. Fust his father got a kick, out haying, and went soft in the brain, and gave away money like Bible texts afore he died. Then his mother got queer and dragged along for years as weak as a baby; and his wife Zeena, she's always been the greatest hand at doctoring in the county. Sickness and trouble: that's what Ethan's had his plate full up with, ever since the very first helping.”