Coming Home

By Edith Wharton

First published in Scribner’s Magazine in 1915, Edith Wharton’s Coming Home is a short story of seven chapters that centers around the life of a French man named Jean de Réchamp during the war. The story is narrated in the first-personal pronoun and bases itself on reports about the atrocities committed by the German army. Jean de Réchamp, who is engaged to Mlle. Malo, wants to know about his family that he left in his home country just before the war was declared. On a journey back to his home town Réchamp in Eastern France, the roads seem eerily empty save for the sentinels guarding the railways. Even the names of towns and roads are scratched out off the milestones in order to mislead the enemy. Fortunately, Jean knows his directions and finally reaches Réchamp with his companions who include a wounded man. When they reach the town, an old woman as well as other countrymen tell them about the atrocities of the what has happened and how the village has been destroyed. Jean finally meets his family. However, by the end of the narrative, the wounded companion dies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Word To The Wise
• Release date: Aug 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781780006499

Edith Wharton

Edith Newbold Jones (nombre de soltera de Edith Wharton) nació en Nueva York en 1862, en el seno de una rica familia del mundo financiero. Con ella pasó parte de su infancia viajando por Europa, y, de vuelta a Nueva York, fue educada por institutrices. A los veinticinco años se casó con Edward Robbins Wharton, un graduado de Harvard doce años mayor. El conflicto entre sus inquietudes artísticas y literarias y el papel que tenía asignado como dama de la alta sociedad fue causa de contrariedades y de una grave depresión, pero también fuente de inspiración. En 1878 había publicado privadamente un volumen de poesías, y en 1897 un libro de decoración contra la estética victoriana, The Decoration of Houses (en colaboración con el arquitecto Ogden Codman), pero hasta 1902 no se atrevió con la que habría de ser su primera novela, The Valley of Decision, y no sería realmente reconocida hasta la segunda, La casa de la alegría (1905). A ésta siguieron, entre otras, The Fruit of the Tree (1907), Ethan Frome (1911; ALBA CLÁSICA, núm. XCV), El arrecife (1912; ALBA CLÁSICA, núm. LXI), Las costumbres nacionales (1913; ALBA CLÁSICA MAIOR, núm. XXXVIII ), La edad de la inocencia (1920), por la que recibió el premio Pulitzer, y Los niños (1928; ALBA CLÁSICA, núm. LXXV), además de un gran número de relatos. En 1910 se estableció en París, y tres años después se divorciaría de su marido. Su contribución a la causa aliada en la Primera Guerra Mundial le valió la Legión de Honor. Murió en 1937 en Pavillon Colombe, su casa en Saint-Brice-sous-Fôret.

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Coming Home by Edith Wharton

Edith Newbold Jones was born in New York on January 24, 1862.   Born into wealth, this background of privilege gave her a wealth of experience to eventually, after several false starts, produce many works based on it culminating in her Pulitzer Prize winning novel ‘The Age Of Innocence’

Marriage to Edward Robbins Wharton, who was 12 years older in 1885 seemed to offer much and for some years they travelled extensively.  After some years it was apparent that her husband suffered from acute depression and so the travelling ceased and they retired to The Mount, their estate designed by Edith.  By 1908 his condition was said to be incurable and prior to divorcing Edward in 1913 she began an affair, in 1908, with Morton Fullerton, a Times journalist, who was her intellectual equal and allowed her writing talents to push forward and write the novels for which she is so well known.

Acknowledged as one of the great American writers with novels such as Ethan Frome and the House of Mirth among many.  Wharton also wrote many short stories, including ghost stories and poems which we are pleased to publish.

Edith Wharton died of a stroke in 1937 at the Domaine Le Pavillon Colombe, her 18th-century house on Rue de Montmorency in Saint-Brice-sous-Forêt.

Index of Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

Edith Wharton – A Short Biography

Edith Wharton – A Concise Bibliography

CHAPTER I

The young men of our American Relief Corps are beginning to come back from the front with stories.

There was no time to pick them up during the first months—the whole business was too wild and grim. The horror has not decreased, but nerves and sight are beginning to be disciplined to it. In the earlier days, moreover, such fragments of experience as one got were torn from their setting like bits of flesh scattered by shrapnel. Now things that seemed disjointed are beginning to link themselves together, and the broken bones of history are rising from the battle-fields.

I can’t say that, in this respect, all the members of the Relief Corps have made the most of their opportunity. Some are unobservant, or perhaps simply inarticulate; others, when going beyond the bald statistics of their job, tend to drop into sentiment and cinema scenes; and none but H. Macy Greer has the gift of making the thing told seem as true as if one had seen it. So it is on H. Macy Greer that I depend, and when his motor dashes him back to Paris for supplies I never fail to hunt him down and coax him to my rooms for dinner and a long cigar.

Greer is a small hard-muscled youth, with pleasant manners, a sallow face, straight hemp-coloured hair and grey eyes of unexpected inwardness. He has a voice like thick soup, and speaks with the slovenly drawl of the new generation of Americans, dragging his words along like reluctant dogs on a string, and depriving his narrative of every shade of expression that intelligent intonation gives. But his eyes see so much that they make one see even what his foggy voice obscures.

Some of his tales are dark and dreadful, some are unutterably sad, and some end in a huge laugh of irony. I am not sure how I ought to classify the one I have written down here.

CHAPTER II

On my first dash to the Northern fighting line, Greer told me the other night, I carried supplies to an ambulance where the surgeon asked me to have a talk with an officer who was badly wounded and fretting for news of his people in the east of France.

He was a young Frenchman, a cavalry lieutenant, trim and slim, with a pleasant smile and obstinate blue eyes that I liked. He looked as if he could hold on tight when it was worth his while. He had had a leg smashed, poor devil, in the first fighting in Flanders, and had been dragging on for weeks in the squalid camp-hospital where I found him. He didn’t waste any words on himself, but began at once about his family.  They were living, when the war broke out, at their country-place in the Vosges; his father and mother, his sister, just eighteen, and his brother Alain, two years younger. His father, the Comte de Rechamp, had married late in life, and was over seventy: his mother, a good deal younger, was crippled with rheumatism; and there was, besides, to round off the group, a helpless but intensely alive and domineering old grandmother about whom all the others