Howells opens A Hazard of New Fortunes — Volume 1 with a bibliographical note that frames the story as a product of his own transition from Boston to New York, using Basil and Isabel March as familiar characters now addressed by surname rather than first name—a shift that signals their maturation. The narrative voice is immediately self-aware, blending personal confession with fictional design. The author admits that the story 'took its own time to prescribe its own dimensions,' suggesting a work that evolved beyond its initial plan. This volume, the first of two, establishes the Marches' relocation as both a practical and psychological venture, with Howells's prose oscillating between dry humor and acute social observation.

The Voice of Middle Age

The Marches are introduced not as young adventurers but as people 'in something more than their second youth,' a phrase that sets the tone for their weary yet wry perspective. March's complaint that they are 'imprisoned in the present' captures a voice that is both self-deprecating and philosophically inclined. Howells uses their dialogue to expose the gap between expectation and reality: March remains 'sunk in the superstition that you can live anywhere you like in New York,' while Mrs. March's practical eye catches 'the fatal sign of "Modes" in the ground-floor windows.' The narrative voice is that of a seasoned observer, one who has learned to read the city's codes of respectability and shabbiness. This is not the breathless enthusiasm of a newcomer but the measured, sometimes ironic, commentary of people who have seen enough to know better.

The Rhythm of the Apartment Hunt

The search for a flat dominates the early chapters, and Howells structures it as a series of comic disappointments that accumulate into a portrait of urban frustration. The prose moves in a rhythm of listing and qualifying: advertisements lead to flats that are 'inflexibly seven rooms and a bath,' with rooms 'crooked and cornered backward through increasing and then decreasing darkness.' The repetition of 'light room' as a term of art—any room with a window into a court or shaft qualifies—underscores the gap between language and reality. Mrs. March's escalating criteria (no ratchets, only knobs; no 'Modes' in the windows) give the search a quasi-ritualistic quality. The pace is deliberate, each failed viewing adding a layer of detail about New York's housing stock and the Marches' diminishing expectations. Howells lets the comedy emerge from the sheer accumulation of useless information, as March notes, 'in a degree unequalled in their experience.'

Shifts in Scale and Social Observation

Howells moves between the intimate scale of the Marches' domestic decisions and broader social commentary. The apartment hunt is a microcosm of class anxiety: the line 'at which respectability distinguishes itself from shabbiness' is a matter of streets, door-knobs, and the presence of fire-escapes. The narrative voice expands to include general reflections on New York's 'general infamy' and the 'redeemed' blocks where a painted door suggests 'purity and pride.' This oscillation between the particular and the general is a key structural feature. The author's own note about the story finding 'its way to issues nobler and larger than those of the love-affairs common to fiction' hints at a broadening scope, though in this volume the social canvas remains largely confined to the Marches' perspective. The reader is left to infer the larger forces—the street-car strike mentioned in the preface, the 'humaner economics'—that will later press upon the narrative.

Readers attentive to voice will notice how Howells calibrates his narrator's distance: close enough to render the Marches' irritation and hope, yet detached enough to frame their search as a symptom of something larger. The volume ends without resolution, leaving the Marches still hunting, still caught between their Boston past and an uncertain New York future. This unfinished quality is deliberate, inviting the reader to attend to the process rather than the outcome—a process rendered with a precision that makes the mundane feel momentous.