Edith Wharton won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for The Age of Innocence in 1921, becoming the first woman to receive the award. The prize recognized a novel about 1870s New York society that operated as a kind of double portrait: a loving reconstruction of a world Wharton had been born into and a precise analysis of the mechanisms by which that world destroyed the people it most wanted to protect. It is one of the great American novels, and one of the most efficient: every scene advances both the plot and the argument.
Newland Archer is a young lawyer, a member of old New York society, engaged to May Welland, who is everything his world requires: beautiful, proper, predictable, and surrounded by the right families. When May’s cousin Ellen Olenska returns from Europe – having left a dissolute Polish count and seeking a divorce that New York society finds scandalous – Archer is asked by the Welland family to discourage Ellen from pursuing the divorce, to protect the family’s reputation.
Instead, Archer falls in love with Ellen. She is everything May is not: unconventional, ironic, alive to the world’s complexity, having lived in Europe in ways that have given her a perspective on New York that Archer cannot find within himself. The novel follows Archer across the next year as he becomes increasingly trapped between what he wants and what his society will permit.
Old New York, as Wharton depicts it, is a machine for producing conformity. It operates through dinner invitations and calling cards, through knowing who is received and who is not, through the collective withdrawal of approval as a tool of social control. Its members believe they are civilized; Wharton shows them as tribal, and their civilization as a form of organized repression.
Archer is a more complicated character than he first appears. He believes himself to be a person of sophistication and independent judgment, someone who sees the absurdities of his world clearly. He is also entirely unable to act on this clarity. He chooses, repeatedly, to stay within the boundaries his society draws, not simply because the penalties for transgression are real but because part of him wants to belong to his world and cannot conceive of himself outside it.
This is Wharton’s most interesting psychological move: Archer is not simply a victim of social pressure. He is a participant in his own confinement. His suffering is real, and his loss is real, but the novel asks whether he could have chosen differently and concludes that he could, and that he chose not to.
The novel’s last chapter is set twenty-six years after the main action and is one of the most devastating endings in American fiction. Archer has an opportunity to see Ellen again, and what he does with it is both entirely in character and entirely heartbreaking. Wharton does not editorialize; she lets the reader feel what the choice means.
Readers who want social comedy that cuts to the bone, who are interested in the specific forms that American conformity takes, or who want a novel in which the prose itself is a pleasure will find The Age of Innocence one of the great reading experiences in American literature. It is a social comedy that is also a tragedy, and Wharton handles both registers simultaneously without strain.