Edith Wharton

Ethan Frome Edith Wharton

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 postoffice you must have seen Ethan Frome drive up to it, drop the reins on his hollow-backedbay and drag himself across the brick pavement to the white colonnade; and you must haveasked who he was. It was there that, several years ago, I saw him for the first time; and the sight pulled meup sharp. Even then he was the most striking figure in Starkfield, though he was but theruin of a man. It was not so much his great height that marked him, for the "natives" wereeasily singled out by their lank longitude from the stockier foreign breed: it was thecareless powerful look he had, in spite of a lameness checking each step like the jerk of achain. There was something bleak and unapproachable in his face, and he was so stiffenedand grizzled that I took him for an old man and was surprised to hear that he was not morethan fifty-two. I had this from Harmon Gow, who had driven the stage from Bettsbridge toStarkfield 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 agocome next February," Harmon threw out between reminiscent pauses