The Rise of Silas Lapham

The Rise of Silas Lapham

The first thing to say about The Rise of Silas Lapham is so obvious that it’s mentioned on the back of my copy of the book, but it must be said. Silas Lapham’s rise is not a financial one. In fact, the first chapter of the book is in my mind the strongest, as it quite effectively confounds my notion of what “realism” is, especially as drawn from Dickens, the ultimate realist. Lapham is being interviewed by a local newspaper because of his wealth – his financial rise has already been effected. This is not a rags to riches story. Furthermore, he tells his interviewer, who suggests that he start with his birth, “I didn’t know whether you wanted me to go quite so far back as that” (4). In defiance of the most traditional understanding of realism, The Rise of Silas Lapham is not going to start with our protagonist’s birth, or even with him at a young age, and it’s not going to be about his financial rise. In fact, its’ about his financial failure, and the moral and social fallout that stems from it.

At its core, Rise is the sort of middle-brow novel of manners that James would have written were he less piercing in his insights or that Wharton would have written were her prose less witty and charming. It’s full of interminable drawing-room scenes, in which the old society Corey’s discuss the disgraceful behavior of the Laphams, the Laphams discuss the snootiness of the Corey’s, young Tom Corey attempts to woo bookish Penelope Lapham but everyone believes he wants beautiful Irene Lapham, etc. Silas’ ultimate rise is neither social (Pen marries Tom, but Silas has no hand in it) or financial (he loses his factory, and becomes a small-time businessman, not a mogul) but moral. “But one thing he could say: he had been no man’s enemy but his ow; every dollar, every cent had gone to pay his debts; he had come out with clean hands” (375). Silas’ rise is the fact that he could have passed his troubles on to someone else, but he didn’t – he took his troubles on himself, and retained moral fiber, even as he lost financially.
This is the first of many ways in which Rise seems diametrically opposed to naturalism. Silas goes bankrupt with clean hands; in The Financier, Cowperwood goes bankrupt playing a semi-dirty deal, and the governor of The Octopus has eternally shamed himself by bribing an official. More importantly, although Silas is “ruined,” no woman are ruined in this novel – realism seems unable to encompass prostitution or even adultery. Briefly Mrs. Lapham suspects Silas of adultery, but the pretty secretary at his office turns out to be the daughter of a man who died saving him in the Civil War (351). The novel seems also incapable of envisioning even true financial ruin; Vandover becomes a cleaning man for his betrayer, Hurstwood becomes homeless and commits suicide, Lapham just becomes a much less successful businessman living on the family property after losing both his Boston houses. In short, Rise is the perfect document of American realism, to be contrasted to any novel seeking entrance into the category of naturalism, for contrast.

A few interesting points do come up at the dinner the Lapham’s take at the Corey’s. First, the pastor, Mr. Sewell, blames romantic novels for all society’s current romantic ideas about love (204) – this pastor later makes it clear that Pen should marry Tom, rather than all three being unhappy because Irene loves him unrequitedly. This willingness for 3 to suffer instead of one is put down as romantic thinking. Secondly, Charles Bellingham suggests that no novelist could get the true feelings of the common people into a novel – this sounds like a challenge to naturalists (209). Finally, Bromfield Corey says “I suppose it isn’t well for us to see human nature at white heat habitually” because, when humanity is stretched to the extremes, it responds with valor and courage that could not be maintained in the rest of the world (209; this is from a discussion of the Civil War). This is the realist model of human excess: the ultimate heroism. Naturalism, of course, is the habitual showing of human nature at “white heat,” and it draws a very different conclusion.1