The Triumph Of Night by Edith Wharton, 1914
The magic trick:
Launching the story with strong characters, setting, and relationships
We’re going back 100 years or so for an Edith Wharton weekend double of ghost stories.
“The Triumph Of Night” reads to me as Wharton settling in to write a novel – or at least a novella – before losing interest and bagging the whole project after 20 pages. It sets up richly with great attention paid to the snow-swept setting. The two main characters – Faxon and Frank Rainer – are so strong. Their relationship forms quickly and pulls the reader into the story so well.
It was disappointing then to find the story mostly fall flat when it comes to the third act. As I said, it’s almost as if Wharton was late on a deadline or simply lost interest, because the plot feels slight and the resolution rushed.
But there is much to admire in the story’s opening section.
And that’s quite a trick on Wharton’s part.
The selection:
A delay in the arrival of the New York train lengthened their five minutes to fifteen; and as they paced the icy platform Faxon began to see why it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to accede to his new acquaintance’s suggestion. It was because Frank Rainer was one of the privileged beings who simplify human intercourse by the atmosphere of confidence and good humour they diffuse. He produced this effect, Faxon noted, by the exercise of no gift but his youth, and of no art but his sincerity; and these qualities were revealed in a smile of such sweetness that Faxon felt, as never before, what Nature can achieve when she deigns to match the face with the mind.
He learned that the young man was the ward, and the only nephew, of John Lavington, with whom he had made his home since the death of his mother, the great man’s sister. Mr. Lavington, Rainer said, had been “a regular brick” to him—“But then he is to every one, you know”—and the young fellow’s situation seemed in fact to be perfectly in keeping with his person. Apparently the only shade that had ever rested on him was cast by the physical weakness which Faxon had already detected. Young Rainer had been threatened with tuberculosis, and the disease was so far advanced that, according to the highest authorities, banishment to Arizona or New Mexico was inevitable. “But luckily my uncle didn’t pack me off, as most people would have done, without getting another opinion. Whose? Oh, an awfully clever chap, a young doctor with a lot of new ideas, who simply laughed at my being sent away, and said I’d do perfectly well in New York if I didn’t dine out too much, and if I dashed off occasionally to Northridge for a little fresh air. So it’s really my uncle’s doing that I’m not in exile—and I feel no end better since the new chap told me I needn’t bother.” Young Rainer went on to confess that he was extremely fond of dining out, dancing and similar distractions; and Faxon, listening to him, was inclined to think that the physician who had refused to cut him off altogether from these pleasures was probably a better psychologist than his seniors.
“All the same you ought to be careful, you know.” The sense of elder-brotherly concern that forced the words from Faxon made him, as he spoke, slip his arm through Frank Rainer’s.
The latter met the movement with a responsive pressure. “Oh, I am: awfully, awfully. And then my uncle has such an eye on me!”
“But if your uncle has such an eye on you, what does he say to your swallowing knives out here in this Siberian wild?”
Rainer raised his fur collar with a careless gesture. “It’s not that that does it—the cold’s good for me.”
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