The Custom of the Country

Undine Spragg wants only two things in the world,

two things which she believed should subsist together in any well-ordered life: amusement and respectability

Both, she's certain, are bestowed by inclusion in the glamorous old money New York social scene, which she's uprooted her upper-middle-class family from Kansas to join. She's been in New York for two years when The Custom of the Country starts, but she's had no luck: she's on the outs.

That is—until she captures the attention of Ralph Marvell, a dazzling gentleman from an old money family, who takes her for a simple girl and snaps her up. Marital bliss quickly sours, however, as they realise that they have nearly nothing in common. They have a child, Paul, in spite of their mounting displeasure in each other's company; Undine pays him almost no mind at all but Ralph loves him dearly and raises him solo (well, inasmuch as a Gilded Age American aristocrat can raise anyone solo).

Too soon, Undine spends Ralph's meagre old-money stipend, and after a downturn in Business her father's allowance dries up. Ralph gives up an—admittedly limp—interest in an artistic career for a job in real estate to try and cover the mounting bills that Undine racks up on dresses, jewels, and parties. The debts accumulate, and by and by the game wears thin. When Ralph can (or will) no longer provide the life that Undine believes she deserves, she wangles a fake illness and sweeps herself off for Paris to woo someone who can (or will).

This doesn't quite work out for Undine, and she suffers from a bit of a low period—one of a few throughout the novel—where boredom overtakes her and she finds her social station somewhat reduced. She manages to land on her feet by catching the eye of Raymond, Comte (and later Marquis) de Chelles, a French aristocrat who, as a Catholic, insists she annul her marriage to Ralph before he can marry her.

Here, Undine is guided by an old acquaintance from her Kansas days, Elmer Moffatt. He's been a sporadic presence throughout the novel, waltzing serendipitously into offices and tearooms with an American swagger to compromise someone's ethics with a shady-seeming deal as a remedy to a key moment of strife. He's the template of the modern capitalist: confident, business-savvy, adept at landing on his feet even when the money doesn't go his way. In a novel full of flawed characters just trying to get their way, he's probably the most enjoyable to watch.

To Undine's limbo woes of being stuck Catholically attached to someone she never sees, and Catholically unable to marry a man who might re-elevate her station, Moffatt innocently suggests leaning on Ralph's attachment to Paul—Undine, after all, technically has custody—to get him (that is, Ralph) to pony up the money for the annulment. Undine does get her way in the end, in a series of scenes that metamorphose Undine from a cunning and spoilt but fundamentally uncomplicated protagonist into a truly awful person, and see her wind up with the annulment she wanted, the money she needed, and the son she never cared for in the first place.

Suitably equipped, she contrives to marry Raymond but quickly comes to realise that a life as the Marquise de Chelles isn't all it's cracked up to be. Raymond is freer with his money than Ralph was—but not by much. Family troubles eat up the family's finances, sequestering Undine in the de Chelles country home, far from Paris society where she longs to be. Raymond quickly loses interest in Undine as well, and where her previous beaux were ever-eager to please, Raymond is quick to dismiss her as a foreigner. Here again Undine is struck low, before Moffatt reappears with a final deal to grant her everything she ever wanted.

* * *

Much of the book is presented almost lightheartedly, the whims and trials of the fabulously wealthy and spoilt. I think that this is what makes the book fun, instead of tiresome and upsetting. But Wharton puts moments of deep pathos at key points throughout the story, as if to remind us that these are people, after all.

There's a scene near the end of the book from the perspective of young Paul, now nine years old, wandering around the rooms of his palatial home, bored and confused and lonely. He wonders what happened to his father and why he never sees him anymore. He laments his missing stepfather, Raymond, no longer in the picture. He gets told off by a servant for trying to read one of the thousands of books on the shelves—they're rare editions and too precious to touch. He longs for the days when he was surrounded by family who loved him. His mother comes home but she can't be bothered with his evident interest:

Paul, seeing his mother's softened face, stole his hand in hers and began: 'Mother, I took a prize in composition—'

'Did you? You must tell me about it tomorrow. No, I really must rush off now and dress—I haven't even placed the dinner-cards.'

Throughout the book, we're meant to sympathise only halfheartedly for the men that Undine leaves wrecked in her wake, but in this moment of pathos for Paul, the impact of her awfulness is made real.

'Why, hullo, old chap—why, what's up?' [Paul's step-father] was on his knees beside the boy, and the arms embracing him were firm and friendly. But Paul, for the life of him, couldn't answer: he could only sob and sob as the great surges of loneliness broke over him.

* * *

Inconsolable children notwithstanding, The Custom of the Country is a very fun book. Undine is despicable, and it's hard not to relish her low moments. It tends a little bit towards the hamfisted on European/American relations late in the book—one character even delivers a monologue/tirade against Americanism—but the commentary on capitalism and business and money is good and sharp and only a little upsetting. The book is well-paced and quick, skipping over years at a time and catching us up on the interim over the course of a quick chapter—though we're sometimes told more than shown, which feels a little clunky. Familiar characters also have a tendency to wander unprompted in to wherever Undine happens to be, and this sort of contrivance repeatedly drives a not-insignificant amount of the plot, but I guess this kind of thing is expected in a book of this era and at any rate it's not distracting. A well-constructed and fun, if at times a bit heartbreaking, romp through some terrible people's lives.