House of Mirth? Edith Wharton Not Laughing over The Mount

Cupcakes are already familiar with the April 2008 New Yorker issue (pictured above) detailing the behind-the-scenes drama of restoring The Mount, Edith Wharton's home in Lenox, MA. Two of us visited there last Friday, in the company of real-time friend Henry James, which was quite fun. This Edith could certainly picture herself living in that house, or at least getting to work in the garden.

The fun of this New Yorker article was imagining the recent performers involved in this non-profit scandal as characters from The House of Mirth, our Cupcake book selection for the month of October. Who was it turning heads while her own was buried so firmly in the sand -- was that a Lily or just a Judy Trenor? Let's hope there wasn't a Bertha Dorset in this cast.

Every non-profit seems to have at least one Carrie Fisher and a Gus Trenor on the board, while what they all need is more Gerty Farrish to go around. Seriously, though, did they all just follow some lovely Lily along while the disaster unraveled like so many pages from the very books that caused financial disaster for this organization? Perhaps there was a Seldon who should have declared himself sooner.

Oh, Lily, will you ever learn? Stay tuned to find out, or jump to this NYT article on a letter discovered last year which sheds some light on Lily's last actions. Casting the main character as a victim of her times, Edith Wharton reveals Lily's character flaws and her self-awareness throughout an unfolding social drama. What I love about Wharton is the attention to detail. This New York Review of Books essay by Elizabeth Hardwick written in 1988 gives a wonderful examination of The House of Mirth as well as some of Wharton's other works.

Perhaps the current trustees of the Edith Wharton Restoration (if there are any left) should seriously consider making the house into an art colony. The Cupcakes would have no difficulty accomplishing writing projects from Edith's private quarters (now empty) which include a boudoir, bath and a bedroom overlooking a beautiful garden. Or Henry James' guest suite would do nicely, too.

And since the Whartons didn't really like each other at all but both loved their dogs, I'm sure we'd be allowed to bring ours along ("a little heartbeat at my feet"). Edith Wharton wrote from bed each morning, letting the pages fall to the floor to be transcribed later. What bliss!

This sounds like automatic writing to me, which is greatly disputed but a very interesting syndrome. Many writers and other artists feel their work is channeled. And then there is hypographia, with its modern day version in evidence here: hypobloggery. Enough said, before I get too carried away. But wait, maybe that's not such a bad idea! Here's a photograph from a plaque at The Mount: