Washington Square

by Henry James

  XXVIII

  THE letter was a word of warning; it informed him that the Doctor hadcome home more impracticable than ever. She might have reflected thatCatherine would supply him with all the information he needed on thispoint; but we know that Mrs. Penniman’s reflexions were rarely just; and,moreover, she felt that it was not for her to depend on what Catherinemight do. She was to do her duty, quite irrespective of Catherine. Ihave said that her young friend took his ease with her, and it is anillustration of the fact that he made no answer to her letter. He tooknote of it, amply; but he lighted his cigar with it, and he waited, intranquil confidence that he should receive another. “His state of mindreally freezes my blood,” Mrs. Penniman had written, alluding to herbrother; and it would have seemed that upon this statement she couldhardly improve. Nevertheless, she wrote again, expressing herself withthe aid of a different figure. “His hatred of you burns with a luridflame—the flame that never dies,” she wrote. “But it doesn’t light upthe darkness of your future. If my affection could do so, all the yearsof your life would be an eternal sunshine. I can extract nothing fromC.; she is so terribly secretive, like her father. She seems to expectto be married very soon, and has evidently made preparations inEurope—quantities of clothing, ten pairs of shoes, etc. My dear friend,you cannot set up in married life simply with a few pairs of shoes, canyou? Tell me what you think of this. I am intensely anxious to see you;I have so much to say. I miss you dreadfully; the house seems so emptywithout you. What is the news down town? Is the business extending?That dear little business—I think it’s so brave of you! Couldn’t I cometo your office?—just for three minutes? I might pass for a customer—isthat what you call them? I might come in to buy something—some shares orsome railroad things. _Tell me what you think of this plan_. I wouldcarry a little reticule, like a woman of the people.”

  In spite of the suggestion about the reticule, Morris appeared to thinkpoorly of the plan, for he gave Mrs. Penniman no encouragement whateverto visit his office, which he had already represented to her as a placepeculiarly and unnaturally difficult to find. But as she persisted indesiring an interview—up to the last, after months of intimate colloquy,she called these meetings “interviews”—he agreed that they should take awalk together, and was even kind enough to leave his office for thispurpose, during the hours at which business might have been supposed tobe liveliest. It was no surprise to him, when they met at a streetcorner, in a region of empty lots and undeveloped pavements (Mrs.Penniman being attired as much as possible like a “woman of the people”),to find that, in spite of her urgency, what she chiefly had to convey tohim was the assurance of her sympathy. Of such assurances, however, hehad already a voluminous collection, and it would not have been worth hiswhile to forsake a fruitful avocation merely to hear Mrs. Penniman say,for the thousandth time, that she had made his cause her own. Morris hadsomething of his own to say. It was not an easy thing to bring out, andwhile he turned it over the difficulty made him acrimonious.

  “Oh yes, I know perfectly that he combines the properties of a lump ofice and a red-hot coal,” he observed. “Catherine has made it thoroughlyclear, and you have told me so till I am sick of it. You needn’t tell meagain; I am perfectly satisfied. He will never give us a penny; I regardthat as mathematically proved.”

  Mrs. Penniman at this point had an inspiration.

  “Couldn’t you bring a lawsuit against him?” She wondered that thissimple expedient had never occurred to her before.

  “I will bring a lawsuit against _you_,” said Morris, “if you ask me anymore such aggravating questions. A man should know when he is beaten,”he added, in a moment. “I must give her up!”

  Mrs. Penniman received this declaration in silence, though it made herheart beat a little. It found her by no means unprepared, for she hadaccustomed herself to the thought that, if Morris should decidedly not beable to get her brother’s money, it would not do for him to marryCatherine without it. “It would not do” was a vague way of putting thething; but Mrs. Penniman’s natural affection completed the idea, which,though it had not as yet been so crudely expressed between them as in theform that Morris had just given it, had nevertheless been implied sooften, in certain easy intervals of talk, as he sat stretching his legsin the Doctor’s well-stuffed armchairs, that she had grown first toregard it with an emotion which she flattered herself was philosophic,and then to have a secret tenderness for it. The fact that she kept hertenderness secret proves, of course, that she was ashamed of it; but shemanaged to blink her shame by reminding herself that she was, after all,the official protector of her niece’s marriage. Her logic would scarcelyhave passed muster with the Doctor. In the first place, Morris _must_get the money, and she would help him to it. In the second, it was plainit would never come to him, and it would be a grievous pity he shouldmarry without it—a young man who might so easily find something better.After her brother had delivered himself, on his return from Europe, ofthat incisive little address that has been quoted, Morris’s cause seemedso hopeless that Mrs. Penniman fixed her attention exclusively upon thelatter branch of her argument. If Morris had been her son, she wouldcertainly have sacrificed Catherine to a superior conception of hisfuture; and to be ready to do so as the case stood was therefore even afiner degree of devotion. Nevertheless, it checked her breath a littleto have the sacrificial knife, as it were, suddenly thrust into her hand.

  Morris walked along a moment, and then he repeated harshly: “I must giveher up!”

  “I think I understand you,” said Mrs. Penniman gently.

  “I certainly say it distinctly enough—brutally and vulgarly enough.”

  He was ashamed of himself, and his shame was uncomfortable; and as he wasextremely intolerant of discomfort, he felt vicious and cruel. He wantedto abuse somebody, and he began, cautiously—for he was alwayscautious—with himself.

  “Couldn’t you take her down a little?” he asked.

  “Take her down?”

  “Prepare her—try and ease me off.”

  Mrs. Penniman stopped, looking at him very solemnly.

  “My poor Morris, do you know how much she loves you?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t want to know. I have always tried to keep fromknowing. It would be too painful.”

  “She will suffer much,” said Mrs. Penniman.

  “You must console her. If you are as good a friend to me as you pretendto be, you will manage it.”

  Mrs. Penniman shook her head sadly.

  “You talk of my ‘pretending’ to like you; but I can’t pretend to hateyou. I can only tell her I think very highly of you; and how will thatconsole her for losing you?”

  “The Doctor will help you. He will be delighted at the thing beingbroken off, and, as he is a knowing fellow, he will invent something tocomfort her.”

  “He will invent a new torture!” cried Mrs. Penniman. “Heaven deliver herfrom her father’s comfort. It will consist of his crowing over her andsaying, ‘I always told you so!’”

  Morris coloured a most uncomfortable red.

  “If you don’t console her any better than you console me, you certainlywon’t be of much use! It’s a damned disagreeable necessity; I feel itextremely, and you ought to make it easy for me.”

  “I will be your friend for life!” Mrs. Penniman declared.

  “Be my friend _now_!” And Morris walked on.

  She went with him; she was almost trembling.

  “Should you like me to tell her?” she asked. “You mustn’t tell her, butyou can—you can—” And he hesitated, trying to think what Mrs. Pennimancould do. “You can explain to her why it is. It’s because I can’t bringmyself to step in between her and her father—to give him the pretext hegrasps at—so eagerly (it’s a hideous sight) for depriving her of herrights.”

  Mrs. Penniman felt with remarkable promptitude the charm of this formula.

  “That’s so like you,” she said; “it’s so finely f
elt.”

  Morris gave his stick an angry swing.

  “Oh, botheration!” he exclaimed perversely.

  Mrs. Penniman, however, was not discouraged.

  “It may turn out better than you think. Catherine is, after all, so verypeculiar.” And she thought she might take it upon herself to assure himthat, whatever happened, the girl would be very quiet—she wouldn’t make anoise. They extended their walk, and, while they proceeded, Mrs.Penniman took upon herself other things besides, and ended by havingassumed a considerable burden; Morris being ready enough, as may beimagined, to put everything off upon her. But he was not for a singleinstant the dupe of her blundering alacrity; he knew that of what shepromised she was competent to perform but an insignificant fraction, andthe more she professed her willingness to serve him, the greater fool hethought her.

  “What will you do if you don’t marry her?” she ventured to inquire in thecourse of this conversation.

  “Something brilliant,” said Morris. “Shouldn’t you like me to dosomething brilliant?”

  The idea gave Mrs. Penniman exceeding pleasure.

  “I shall feel sadly taken in if you don’t.”

  “I shall have to, to make up for this. This isn’t at all brilliant, youknow.”

  Mrs. Penniman mused a little, as if there might be some way of making outthat it was; but she had to give up the attempt, and, to carry off theawkwardness of failure, she risked a new inquiry.

  “Do you mean—do you mean another marriage?”

  Morris greeted this question with a reflexion which was hardly the lessimpudent from being inaudible. “Surely, women are more crude than men!”And then he answered audibly:

  “Never in the world!”

  Mrs. Penniman felt disappointed and snubbed, and she relieved herself ina little vaguely-sarcastic cry. He was certainly perverse.

  “I give her up, not for another woman, but for a wider career!” Morrisannounced.

  This was very grand; but still Mrs. Penniman, who felt that she hadexposed herself, was faintly rancorous.

  “Do you mean never to come to see her again?” she asked, with somesharpness.

  “Oh no, I shall come again; but what is the use of dragging it out? Ihave been four times since she came back, and it’s terribly awkward work.I can’t keep it up indefinitely; she oughtn’t to expect that, you know.A woman should never keep a man dangling!” he added finely.

  “Ah, but you must have your last parting!” urged his companion, in whoseimagination the idea of last partings occupied a place inferior indignity only to that of first meetings.