Washington Square

by Henry James

  XVIII

  CATHERINE sat alone by the parlour fire—sat there for more than an hour,lost in her meditations. Her aunt seemed to her aggressive and foolish,and to see it so clearly—to judge Mrs. Penniman so positively—made herfeel old and grave. She did not resent the imputation of weakness; itmade no impression on her, for she had not the sense of weakness, and shewas not hurt at not being appreciated. She had an immense respect forher father, and she felt that to displease him would be a misdemeanouranalogous to an act of profanity in a great temple; but her purpose hadslowly ripened, and she believed that her prayers had purified it of itsviolence. The evening advanced, and the lamp burned dim without hernoticing it; her eyes were fixed upon her terrible plan. She knew herfather was in his study—that he had been there all the evening; from timeto time she expected to hear him move. She thought he would perhapscome, as he sometimes came, into the parlour. At last the clock struckeleven, and the house was wrapped in silence; the servants had gone tobed. Catherine got up and went slowly to the door of the library, whereshe waited a moment, motionless. Then she knocked, and then she waitedagain. Her father had answered her, but she had not the courage to turnthe latch. What she had said to her aunt was true enough—she was afraidof him; and in saying that she had no sense of weakness she meant thatshe was not afraid of herself. She heard him move within, and he cameand opened the door for her.

  “What is the matter?” asked the Doctor. “You are standing there like aghost.”

  She went into the room, but it was some time before she contrived to saywhat she had come to say. Her father, who was in his dressing-gown andslippers, had been busy at his writing-table, and after looking at herfor some moments, and waiting for her to speak, he went and seatedhimself at his papers again. His back was turned to her—she began tohear the scratching of his pen. She remained near the door, with herheart thumping beneath her bodice; and she was very glad that his backwas turned, for it seemed to her that she could more easily addressherself to this portion of his person than to his face. At last shebegan, watching it while she spoke.

  “You told me that if I should have anything more to say about Mr.Townsend you would be glad to listen to it.”

  “Exactly, my dear,” said the Doctor, not turning round, but stopping hispen.

  Catherine wished it would go on, but she herself continued. “I thought Iwould tell you that I have not seen him again, but that I should like todo so.”

  “To bid him good-bye?” asked the Doctor.

  The girl hesitated a moment. “He is not going away.”

  The Doctor wheeled slowly round in his chair, with a smile that seemed toaccuse her of an epigram; but extremes meet, and Catherine had notintended one. “It is not to bid him good-bye, then?” her father said.

  “No, father, not that; at least, not for ever. I have not seen himagain, but I should like to see him,” Catherine repeated.

  The Doctor slowly rubbed his under lip with the feather of his quill.

  “Have you written to him?”

  “Yes, four times.”

  “You have not dismissed him, then. Once would have done that.”

  “No,” said Catherine; “I have asked him—asked him to wait.”

  Her father sat looking at her, and she was afraid he was going to breakout into wrath; his eyes were so fine and cold.

  “You are a dear, faithful child,” he said at last. “Come here to yourfather.” And he got up, holding out his hands toward her.

  The words were a surprise, and they gave her an exquisite joy. She wentto him, and he put his arm round her tenderly, soothingly; and then hekissed her. After this he said:

  “Do you wish to make me very happy?”

  “I should like to—but I am afraid I can’t,” Catherine answered.

  “You can if you will. It all depends on your will.”

  “Is it to give him up?” said Catherine.

  “Yes, it is to give him up.”

  And he held her still, with the same tenderness, looking into her faceand resting his eyes on her averted eyes. There was a long silence; shewished he would release her.

  “You are happier than I, father,” she said, at last.

  “I have no doubt you are unhappy just now. But it is better to beunhappy for three months and get over it, than for many years and neverget over it.”

  “Yes, if that were so,” said Catherine.

  “It would be so; I am sure of that.” She answered nothing, and he wenton. “Have you no faith in my wisdom, in my tenderness, in my solicitudefor your future?”

  “Oh, father!” murmured the girl.

  “Don’t you suppose that I know something of men: their vices, theirfollies, their falsities?”

  She detached herself, and turned upon him. “He is not vicious—he is notfalse!”

  Her father kept looking at her with his sharp, pure eye. “You makenothing of my judgement, then?”

  “I can’t believe that!”

  “I don’t ask you to believe it, but to take it on trust.”

  Catherine was far from saying to herself that this was an ingenioussophism; but she met the appeal none the less squarely. “What has hedone—what do you know?”

  “He has never done anything—he is a selfish idler.”

  “Oh, father, don’t abuse him!” she exclaimed pleadingly.

  “I don’t mean to abuse him; it would be a great mistake. You may do asyou choose,” he added, turning away.

  “I may see him again?”

  “Just as you choose.”

  “Will you forgive me?”

  “By no means.”

  “It will only be for once.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by once. You must either give him up orcontinue the acquaintance.”

  “I wish to explain—to tell him to wait.”

  “To wait for what?”

  “Till you know him better—till you consent.”

  “Don’t tell him any such nonsense as that. I know him well enough, and Ishall never consent.”

  “But we can wait a long time,” said poor Catherine, in a tone which wasmeant to express the humblest conciliation, but which had upon herfather’s nerves the effect of an iteration not characterised by tact.

  The Doctor answered, however, quietly enough: “Of course you can waittill I die, if you like.” Catherine gave a cry of natural horror.

  “Your engagement will have one delightful effect upon you; it will makeyou extremely impatient for that event.”

  Catherine stood staring, and the Doctor enjoyed the point he had made.It came to Catherine with the force—or rather with the vagueimpressiveness—of a logical axiom which it was not in her province tocontrovert; and yet, though it was a scientific truth, she felt whollyunable to accept it.

  “I would rather not marry, if that were true,” she said.

  “Give me a proof of it, then; for it is beyond a question that byengaging yourself to Morris Townsend you simply wait for my death.”

  She turned away, feeling sick and faint; and the Doctor went on. “And ifyou wait for it with impatience, judge, if you please, what _his_eagerness will be!”

  Catherine turned it over—her father’s words had such an authority for herthat her very thoughts were capable of obeying him. There was a dreadfulugliness in it, which seemed to glare at her through the interposingmedium of her own feebler reason. Suddenly, however, she had aninspiration—she almost knew it to be an inspiration.

  “If I don’t marry before your death, I will not after,” she said.

  To her father, it must be admitted, this seemed only another epigram; andas obstinacy, in unaccomplished minds, does not usually select such amode of expression, he was the more surprised at this wanton play of afixed idea.

  “Do you mean that for an impertinence?” he inquired; an inquiry of which,as he made it, he quite perceived the grossness.

  “An impertinence? Oh, father, what terrible things you say!” />
  “If you don’t wait for my death, you might as well marry immediately;there is nothing else to wait for.”

  For some time Catherine made no answer; but finally she said:

  “I think Morris—little by little—might persuade you.”

  “I shall never let him speak to me again. I dislike him too much.”

  Catherine gave a long, low sigh; she tried to stifle it, for she had madeup her mind that it was wrong to make a parade of her trouble, and toendeavour to act upon her father by the meretricious aid of emotion.Indeed, she even thought it wrong—in the sense of being inconsiderate—toattempt to act upon his feelings at all; her part was to effect somegentle, gradual change in his intellectual perception of poor Morris’scharacter. But the means of effecting such a change were at presentshrouded in mystery, and she felt miserably helpless and hopeless. Shehad exhausted all arguments, all replies. Her father might have pitiedher, and in fact he did so; but he was sure he was right.

  “There is one thing you can tell Mr. Townsend when you see him again,” hesaid: “that if you marry without my consent, I don’t leave you a farthingof money. That will interest him more than anything else you can tellhim.”

  “That would be very right,” Catherine answered. “I ought not in thatcase to have a farthing of your money.”

  “My dear child,” the Doctor observed, laughing, “your simplicity istouching. Make that remark, in that tone, and with that expression ofcountenance, to Mr. Townsend, and take a note of his answer. It won’t bepolite—it will, express irritation and I shall be glad of that, as itwill put me in the right; unless, indeed—which is perfectly possible—youshould like him the better for being rude to you.”

  “He will never be rude to me,” said Catherine gently.

  “Tell him what I say, all the same.”

  She looked at her father, and her quiet eyes filled with tears.

  “I think I will see him, then,” she murmured, in her timid voice.

  “Exactly as you choose!” And he went to the door and opened it for herto go out. The movement gave her a terrible sense of his turning heroff.

  “It will be only once, for the present,” she added, lingering a moment.

  “Exactly as you choose,” he repeated, standing there with his hand on thedoor. “I have told you what I think. If you see him, you will be anungrateful, cruel child; you will have given your old father the greatestpain of his life.”

  This was more than the poor girl could bear; her tears overflowed, andshe moved towards her grimly consistent parent with a pitiful cry. Herhands were raised in supplication, but he sternly evaded this appeal.Instead of letting her sob out her misery on his shoulder, he simply tookher by the arm and directed her course across the threshold, closing thedoor gently but firmly behind her. After he had done so, he remainedlistening. For a long time there was no sound; he knew that she wasstanding outside. He was sorry for her, as I have said; but he was sosure he was right. At last he heard her move away, and then her footstepcreaked faintly upon the stairs.

  The Doctor took several turns round his study, with his hands in hispockets, and a thin sparkle, possibly of irritation, but partly also ofsomething like humour, in his eye. “By Jove,” he said to himself, “Ibelieve she will stick—I believe she will stick!” And this idea ofCatherine “sticking” appeared to have a comical side, and to offer aprospect of entertainment. He determined, as he said to himself, to seeit out.