The Fruit of the Tree
Edith Wharton
Literary Realism
Published 1907
Synopsis
The Fruit of the Tree is set in the industrial Berkshires of western Massachusetts and centers on Justine Brent, a professionally trained nurse drawn into the anguished moral dilemmas surrounding class and social reform. She is called to care for her childhood friend Bessy Westmore, a wealthy textile mill owner paralyzed by a horrible accident. Justine is forced to confront Bessy’s plea for death in the face of unbearable suffering, and eventually administers a lethal dose of morphine. This controversial act of mercy haunts Justine as she becomes involved with Bessy’s widowed husband, John Amherst. Their idealistic pursuits to improve the harsh conditions of mill laborers collide with the entrenched social and economic hierarchies of industrial America, revealing the costs and limitations of reform. The narrative explores the tension between compassion and justice, portraying the complexities of moral choice against a backdrop of class struggle.
Novel Excerpt
“I have come from the manager; I am John Amherst—your assistant manager,” he added, as the mention of his name apparently conveyed no enlightenment.
Mrs. Westmore’s face changed, and she let slip a murmur of surprise that would certainly have flattered Amherst’s mother if she could have heard it; but it had an opposite effect on the young man, who inwardly accused himself of having tried to disguise his trade by not putting on his everyday clothes.
“How stupid of me! I took you for—I had no idea; I didn’t expect Mr. Truscomb here,” his employer faltered in embarrassment; then their eyes met and both smiled.
“Mr. Truscomb sent me to tell you that he is ill, and will not be able to show you the mills today. I didn’t mean to ask for you—I was told to give the message to Mr. Langhope,” Amherst scrupulously explained, trying to repress the sudden note of joy in his voice.
He was subject to the unobservant man’s acute flashes of vision, and Mrs. Westmore’s beauty was like a blinding light abruptly turned on eyes subdued to obscurity. As he spoke, his glance passed from her face to her hair, and remained caught in its meshes. He had never seen such hair—it did not seem to grow in the usual orderly way, but bubbled up all over her head in independent clusters of brightness, breaking, about the brow, the temples, the nape, into little irrelevant waves and eddies of light, with dusky hollows of softness where the hand might plunge. It takes but the throb of a nerve to carry such a complex impression from the eye to the mind, but the object of the throb had perhaps felt the electric flash of its passage, for her colour rose while Amherst spoke.