The Moving Finger

The Moving Finger is an 1901 story by Edith Wharton. Won't you join me in a cuppa and perhaps read with me? (I'll be participating in the T Stands for Tuesday blogger gathering.)

You can read it online here or listen to it read to you at the bottom of this post. It begins,

The news of Mrs. Grancy’s death came to me with the shock of an immense blunder–one of fate’s most irretrievable acts of vandalism. It was as though all sorts of renovating forces had been checked by the clogging of that one wheel. Not that Mrs. Grancy contributed any perceptible momentum to the social machine: her unique distinction was that of filling to perfection her special place in the world. So many people are like badly-composed statues, over-lapping their niches at one point and leaving them vacant at another. Mrs. Grancy’s niche was her husband’s life; and if it be argued that the space was not large enough for its vacancy to leave a very big gap, I can only say that, at the last resort, such dimensions must be determined by finer instruments than any ready-made standard of utility. Ralph Grancy’s was in short a kind of disembodied usefulness: one of those constructive influences that, instead of crystallizing into definite forms, remain as it were a medium for the development of clear thinking and fine feeling. He faithfully irrigated his own dusty patch of life, and the fruitful moisture stole far beyond his boundaries. If, to carry on the metaphor, Grancy’s life was a sedulously-cultivated enclosure, his wife was the flower he had planted in its midst–the embowering tree, rather, which gave him rest and shade at its foot and the wind of dreams in its upper branches.

We had all–his small but devoted band of followers–known a moment when it seemed likely that Grancy would fail us. We had watched him pitted against one stupid obstacle after another–ill-health, poverty, misunderstanding and, worst of all for a man of his texture, his first wife’s soft insidious egotism. We had seen him sinking under the leaden embrace of her affection like a swimmer in a drowning clutch; but just as we despaired he had always come to the surface again, blinded, panting, but striking out fiercely for the shore. When at last her death released him it became a question as to how much of the man she had carried with her. Left alone, he revealed numb withered patches, like a tree from which a parasite has been stripped. But gradually he began to put out new leaves; and when he met the lady who was to become his second wife–his one real wife, as his friends reckoned–the whole man burst into flower.

The second Mrs. Grancy was past thirty when he married her...

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