A Hazard of New Fortunes — Complete — Background and Themes

The Banjo as Social Prop

In the excerpt where Mrs. March visits the Dryfoos sisters, a banjo becomes a charged object. She has lent it to them via Beaton, and when she arrives, she finds herself “making my banjo a property in the little comedy” of the visit. The instrument is not merely a musical item; it is a token of connection, a subject of conversation, and a marker of taste. Mrs. March uses it to navigate the awkwardness of the encounter, while Christine and Mela respond with varying degrees of sophistication—Mela’s “large, coarse laugh” at the mandolin’s tone contrasts with Christine’s guardedness. The banjo reappears as a point of negotiation: Christine plans to have Beaton choose a new one, and Mrs. March offers to recommend her teacher. This recurring object ties together social performance, material desire, and the subtle jockeying for position among characters from different backgrounds.

House-Hunting as Structural Motif

The novel’s movement between scenes is often driven by the Marches’ search for an apartment. This house-hunting is not just a practical concern but a structural device that propels the couple through various neighborhoods and social strata. Each new flat they inspect reveals a different facet of New York’s geography and class divisions. The process forces them to articulate their preferences, budgets, and compromises, making their domestic choices a mirror of their values. Howells uses these episodes to shift the setting naturally from one part of the city to another, allowing the reader to see the metropolis through the Marches’ evolving eyes. The repeated motif of “looking” and “deciding” also echoes the broader theme of hazard—the risk inherent in choosing a new life.

Voice and the Performance of Self

Howells gives each character a distinctive speech pattern that reveals their social position and self-awareness. Mrs. March, for instance, adopts a studied modesty: she resolves “to be very modest and sincere and diffident, and, above all, not to play a part,” yet immediately worries about how to convey that sincerity. Her internal debate about “the choice of a manner” underscores the novel’s interest in the gap between intention and impression. In contrast, Mela Dryfoos speaks with unguarded directness, blurting out observations that her sister would suppress. When Mrs. March characterizes the mandolin’s tone as “faint, mosquitoy,” Mela laughs and says, “Well, that’s just what it does sound like.” This clash of voices—one carefully modulated, the other blunt—creates tension and humor, and it illustrates Howells’s skill at using dialogue to advance both plot and theme.

Movement Between Interior and Exterior

The narrative frequently shifts from domestic interiors to city streets, using these transitions to contrast private anxieties with public spectacle. In the excerpt, the scene begins with Mrs. March waiting in a “drawing-room” whose “impersonal costliness” offers no guidance for her behavior. The room itself is a stage set, and her study of its appointments yields no script. Later, the conversation moves to the banjo and the mandolin, objects that connect the interior to the wider world of music lessons and social calls. Howells often cuts from such interior scenes to descriptions of New York’s streets, elevated trains, and crowds, creating a rhythm of enclosure and exposure. This pattern reinforces the novel’s central tension: the desire for a stable home versus the chaotic energy of the city that constantly intrudes.

Readers will find that the novel’s structure rewards attention to repeated objects and settings. The banjo, the house-hunting expeditions, and the careful calibration of dialogue all serve as threads that Howells weaves across the long narrative. Rather than a straightforward plot, A Hazard of New Fortunes offers a mosaic of social encounters, each revealing the characters’ efforts to define themselves in a city that resists easy categorization.

Sometimes I think of the Marches’ endless house-hunting, that restless pull toward a city that never quite fits, and it reminds me of another quiet story about seeking. There’s a particular tenderness in The Rosary that echoes that same ache for belonging, though its setting feels more like a whispered afternoon than a bustling avenue. The Rosary — Story, Setting & Ideas holds that gentle friction between what we cling to and what we become, a familiar warmth I keep returning to.