Washington Square

Mrs. Almond lived much farther up town, in an embryonic street with a high number—a region where the extension of the city began to assume a theoretic air, where poplars grew beside the pavement (when there was one), and mingled their shade with the steep roofs of desultory Dutch houses, and where pigs and chickens disported themselves in the gutter.  These elements of rural picturesqueness have now wholly departed from New York street scenery; but they were to be found within the memory of middle-aged persons, in quarters which now would blush to be reminded of them.  Catherine had a great many cousins, and with her Aunt Almond’s children, who ended by being nine in number, she lived on terms of considerable intimacy.  When she was younger they had been rather afraid of her; she was believed, as the phrase is, to be highly educated, and a person who lived in the intimacy of their Aunt Penniman had something of reflected grandeur.  Mrs. Penniman, among the little Almonds, was an object of more admiration than sympathy.  Her manners were strange and formidable, and her mourning robes—she dressed in black for twenty years after her husband’s death, and then suddenly appeared one morning with pink roses in her cap—were complicated in odd, unexpected places with buckles, bugles, and pins, which discouraged familiarity.  She took children too hard, both for good and for evil, and had an oppressive air of expecting subtle things of them, so that going to see her was a good deal like being taken to church and made to sit in a front pew.  It was discovered after a while, however, that Aunt Penniman was but an accident in Catherine’s existence, and not a part of its essence, and that when the girl came to spend a Saturday with her cousins, she was available for “follow-my-master,” and even for leapfrog.  On this basis an understanding was easily arrived at, and for several years Catherine fraternised with her young kinsmen.  I say young kinsmen, because seven of the little Almonds were boys, and Catherine had a preference for those games which are most conveniently played in trousers.  By degrees, however, the little Almonds’ trousers began to lengthen, and the wearers to disperse and settle themselves in life.  The elder children were older than Catherine, and the boys were sent to college or placed in counting-rooms.  Of the girls, one married very punctually, and the other as punctually became engaged.  It was to celebrate this latter event that Mrs. Almond gave the little party I have mentioned.  Her daughter was to marry a stout young stockbroker, a boy of twenty; it was thought a very good thing.

IV

Mrs. Penniman, with more buckles and bangles than ever, came, of course, to the entertainment, accompanied by her niece; the Doctor, too, had promised to look in later in the evening.  There was to be a good deal of dancing, and before it had gone very far, Marian Almond came up to Catherine, in company with a tall young man.  She introduced the young man as a person who had a great desire to make our heroine’s acquaintance, and as a cousin of Arthur Townsend, her own intended.

Marian Almond was a pretty little person of seventeen, with a very small figure and a very big sash, to the elegance of whose manners matrimony had nothing to add.  She already had all the airs of a hostess, receiving the company, shaking her fan, saying that with so many people to attend to she should have no time to dance.  She made a long speech about Mr. Townsend’s cousin, to whom she administered a tap with her fan before turning away to other cares.  Catherine had not understood all that she said; her attention was given to enjoying Marian’s ease of manner and flow of ideas, and to looking at the young man, who was remarkably handsome.  She had succeeded, however, as she often failed to do when people were presented to her, in catching his name, which appeared to be the same as that of Marian’s little stockbroker.  Catherine was always agitated by an introduction; it seemed a difficult moment, and she wondered that some people—her new acquaintance at this moment, for instance—should mind it so little.  She wondered what she ought to say, and what would be the consequences of her saying nothing.  The consequences at present were very agreeable.  Mr. Townsend, leaving her no time for embarrassment, began to talk with an easy smile, as if he had known her for a year.

“What a delightful party!  What a charming house!  What an interesting family!  What a pretty girl your cousin is!”

These observations, in themselves of no great profundity, Mr. Townsend seemed to offer for what they were worth, and as a contribution to an acquaintance.  He looked straight into Catherine’s eyes.  She answered nothing; she only listened, and looked at him; and he, as if he expected no particular reply, went on to say many other things in the same comfortable and natural manner.  Catherine, though she felt tongue-tied, was conscious of no embarrassment; it seemed proper that he should talk, and that she should simply look at him.  What made it natural was that he was so handsome, or rather, as she phrased it to herself, so beautiful.  The music had been silent for a while, but it suddenly began again; and then he asked her, with a deeper, intenser smile, if she would do him the honour of dancing with him.  Even to this inquiry she gave no audible assent; she simply let him put his arm round her waist—as she did so it occurred to her more vividly than it had ever done before, that this was a singular place for a gentleman’s arm to be—and in a moment he was guiding her round the room in the harmonious rotation of the polka.  When they paused she felt that she was red; and then, for some moments, she stopped looking at him.  She fanned herself, and looked at the flowers that were painted on her fan.  He asked her if she would begin again, and she hesitated to answer, still looking at the flowers.

“Does it make you dizzy?” he asked, in a tone of great kindness.

Then Catherine looked up at him; he was certainly beautiful, and not at all red.  “Yes,” she said; she hardly knew why, for dancing had never made her dizzy.

“Ah, well, in that case,” said Mr. Townsend, “we will sit still and talk.  I will find a good place to sit.”

He found a good place—a charming place; a little sofa that seemed meant only for two persons.  The rooms by this time were very full; the dancers increased in number, and people stood close in front of them, turning their backs, so that Catherine and her companion seemed secluded and unobserved.  “We will talk,” the young man had said; but he still did all the talking.  Catherine leaned back in her place, with her eyes fixed upon him, smiling and thinking him very clever.  He had features like young men in pictures; Catherine had never seen such features—so delicate, so chiselled and finished—among the young New Yorkers whom she passed in the streets and met at parties.  He was tall and slim, but he looked extremely strong.  Catherine thought he looked like a statue.  But a statue would not talk like that, and, above all, would not have eyes of so rare a colour.  He had never been at Mrs. Almond’s before; he felt very much like a stranger; and it was very kind of Catherine to take pity on him.  He was Arthur Townsend’s cousin—not very near; several times removed—and Arthur had brought him to present him to the family.  In fact, he was a great stranger in New York.  It was his native place; but he had not been there for many years.  He had been knocking about the world, and living in far-away lands; he had only come back a month or two before.  New York was very pleasant, only he felt lonely.

“You see, people forget you,” he said, smiling at Catherine with his delightful gaze, while he leaned forward obliquely, turning towards her, with his elbows on his knees.

It seemed to Catherine that no one who had once seen him would ever forget him; but though she made this reflexion she kept it to herself, almost as you would keep something precious.

They sat there for some time.  He was very amusing.  He asked her about the people that were near them; he tried to guess who some of them were, and he made the most laughable mistakes.  He criticised them very freely, in a positive, off-hand way.  Catherine had never heard any one—especially any young man—talk just like that.  It was the way a young man might talk in a novel; or better still, in a play, on the stage, close before the footlights, looking at the audience, and with every one looking at him, so that you wondered at his presence of mind.  And yet Mr. Townsend was not like an actor; he seemed so sincere, so natural.  This was very interesting; but in the midst of it Marian Almond came pushing through the crowd, with a little ironical cry, when she found these young people still together, which made every one turn round, and cost Catherine a conscious blush.  Marian broke up their talk, and told Mr. Townsend—whom she treated as if she were already married, and he had become her cousin—to run away to her mother, who had been wishing for the last half-hour to introduce him to Mr. Almond.

“We shall meet again!” he said to Catherine as he left her, and Catherine thought it a very original speech.

Her cousin took her by the arm, and made her walk about.  “I needn’t ask you what you think of Morris!” the young girl exclaimed.

“Is that his name?”

“I don’t ask you what you think of his name, but what you think of himself,” said Marian.

“Oh, nothing particular!” Catherine answered, dissembling for the first time in her life.

“I have half a mind to tell him that!” cried Marian.  “It will do him good.  He’s so terribly conceited.”

“Conceited?” said Catherine, staring.

“So Arthur says, and Arthur knows about him.”

“Oh, don’t tell him!” Catherine murmured imploringly.

“Don’t tell him he’s conceited?  I have told him so a dozen times.”

At this profession of audacity Catherine looked down at her little companion in amazement.  She supposed it was because Marian was going to be married that she took so much on herself; but she wondered too, whether, when she herself should become engaged, such exploits would be expected of her.

Half an hour later she saw her Aunt Penniman sitting in the embrasure of a window, with her head a little on one side, and her gold eye-glass raised to her eyes, which were wandering about the room.  In front of her was a gentleman, bending forward a little, with his back turned to Catherine.  She knew his back immediately, though she had never seen it; for when he had left her, at Marian’s instigation, he had retreated in the best order, without turning round.  Morris Townsend—the name had already become very familiar to her, as if some one had been repeating it in her ear for the last half-hour—Morris Townsend was giving his impressions of the company to her aunt, as he had done to herself; he was saying clever things, and Mrs. Penniman was smiling, as if she approved of them.  As soon as Catherine had perceived this she moved away; she would not have liked him to turn round and see her.  But it gave her pleasure—the whole thing.  That he should talk with Mrs. Penniman, with whom she lived and whom she saw and talked with every day—that seemed to keep him near her, and to make him even easier to contemplate than if she herself had been the object of his civilities; and that Aunt Lavinia should like him, should not be shocked or startled by what he said, this also appeared to the girl a personal gain; for Aunt Lavinia’s standard was extremely high, planted as it was over the grave of her late husband, in which, as she had convinced every one, the very genius of conversation was buried.  One of the Almond boys, as Catherine called him, invited our heroine to dance a quadrille, and for a quarter of an hour her feet at least were occupied.  This time she was not dizzy; her head was very clear.  Just when the dance was over, she found herself in the crowd face to face with her father.  Dr. Sloper had usually a little smile, never a very big one, and with his little smile playing in his clear eyes and on his neatly-shaved lips, he looked at his daughter’s crimson gown.

“Is it possible that this magnificent person is my child?” he said.

You would have surprised him if you had told him so; but it is a literal fact that he almost never addressed his daughter save in the ironical form.  Whenever he addressed her he gave her pleasure; but she had to cut her pleasure out of the piece, as it were.  There were portions left over, light remnants and snippets of irony, which she never knew what to do with, which seemed too delicate for her own use; and yet Catherine, lamenting the limitations of her understanding, felt that they were too valuable to waste and had a belief that if they passed over her head they yet contributed to the general sum of human wisdom.

“I am not magnificent,” she said mildly, wishing that she had put on another dress.

“You are sumptuous, opulent, expensive,” her father rejoined.  “You look as if you had eighty thousand a year.”

“Well, so long as I haven’t—” said Catherine illogically.  Her conception of her prospective wealth was as yet very indefinite.

“So long as you haven’t you shouldn’t look as if you had.  Have you enjoyed your party?”

Catherine hesitated a moment; and then, looking away, “I am rather tired,” she murmured.  I have said that this entertainment was the beginning of something important for Catherine.  For the second time in her life she made an indirect answer; and the beginning of a period of dissimulation is certainly a significant date.  Catherine was not so easily tired as that.

Nevertheless, in the carriage, as they drove home, she was as quiet as if fatigue had been her portion.  Dr. Sloper’s manner of addressing his sister Lavinia had a good deal of resemblance to the tone he had adopted towards Catherine.

“Who was the young man that was making love to you?” he presently asked.

“Oh, my good brother!” murmured Mrs. Penniman, in deprecation.

“He seemed uncommonly tender.  Whenever I looked at you, for half an hour, he had the most devoted air.”

“The devotion was not to me,” said Mrs. Penniman.  “It was to Catherine; he talked to me of her.”

Catherine had been listening with all her ears.  “Oh, Aunt Penniman!” she exclaimed faintly.

“He is very handsome; he is very clever; he expressed himself with a great deal—a great deal of felicity,” her aunt went on.

“He is in love with this regal creature, then?” the Doctor inquired humorously.

“Oh, father,” cried the girl, still more faintly, devoutly thankful the carriage was dark.

“I don’t know that; but he admired her dress.”

Catherine did not say to herself in the dark, “My dress only?” Mrs. Penniman’s announcement struck her by its richness, not by its meagreness.

“You see,” said her father, “he thinks you have eighty thousand a year.”

“I don’t believe he thinks of that,” said Mrs. Penniman; “he is too refined.”

“He must be tremendously refined not to think of that!”

“Well, he is!” Catherine exclaimed, before she knew it.

“I thought you had gone to sleep,” her father answered.  “The hour has come!” he added to himself.  “Lavinia is going to get up a romance for Catherine.  It’s a shame to play such tricks on the girl.  What is the gentleman’s name?” he went on, aloud.

“I didn’t catch it, and I didn’t like to ask him.  He asked to be introduced to me,” said Mrs. Penniman, with a certain grandeur; “but you know how indistinctly Jefferson speaks.”  Jefferson was Mr. Almond.  “Catherine, dear, what was the gentleman’s name?”

For a minute, if it had not been for the rumbling of the carriage, you might have heard a pin drop.

“I don’t know, Aunt Lavinia,” said Catherine, very softly.  And, with all his irony, her father believed her.

V

He learned what he had asked some three or four days later, after Morris Townsend, with his cousin, had called in Washington Square.  Mrs. Penniman did not tell her brother, on the drive home, that she had intimated to this agreeable young man, whose name she did not know, that, with her niece, she should be very glad to see him; but she was greatly pleased, and even a little flattered, when, late on a Sunday afternoon, the two gentlemen made their appearance.  His coming with Arthur Townsend made it more natural and easy; the latter young man was on the point of becoming connected with the family, and Mrs. Penniman had remarked to Catherine that, as he was going to marry Marian, it would be polite in him to call.  These events came to pass late in the autumn, and Catherine and her aunt had been sitting together in the closing dusk, by the firelight, in the high back parlour.

Arthur Townsend fell to Catherine’s portion, while his companion placed himself on the sofa, beside Mrs. Penniman.  Catherine had hitherto not been a harsh critic; she was easy to please—she liked to talk with young men.  But Marian’s betrothed, this evening, made her feel vaguely fastidious; he sat looking at the fire and rubbing his knees with his hands.  As for Catherine, she scarcely even pretended to keep up the conversation; her attention had fixed itself on the other side of the room; she was listening to what went on between the other Mr. Townsend and her aunt.  Every now and then he looked over at Catherine herself and smiled, as if to show that what he said was for her benefit too.  Catherine would have liked to change her place, to go and sit near them, where she might see and hear him better.  But she was afraid of seeming bold—of looking eager; and, besides, it would not have been polite to Marian’s little suitor.  She wondered why the other gentleman had picked out her aunt—how he came to have so much to say to Mrs. Penniman, to whom, usually, young men were not especially devoted.  She was not at all jealous of Aunt Lavinia, but she was a little envious, and above all she wondered; for Morris Townsend was an object on which she found that her imagination could exercise itself indefinitely.  His cousin had been describing a house that he had taken in view of his union with Marian, and the domestic conveniences he meant to introduce into it; how Marian wanted a larger one, and Mrs. Almond recommended a smaller one, and how he himself was convinced that he had got the neatest house in New York.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said; “it’s only for three or four years.  At the end of three or four years we’ll move.  That’s the way to live in New York—to move every three or four years.  Then you always get the last thing.  It’s because the city’s growing so quick—you’ve got to keep up with it.  It’s going straight up town—that’s where New York’s going.  If I wasn’t afraid Marian would be lonely, I’d go up there—right up to the top—and wait for it.  Only have to wait ten years—they’d all come up after you.  But Marian says she wants some neighbours—she doesn’t want to be a pioneer.  She says that if she’s got to be the first settler she had better go out to Minnesota.  I guess we’ll move up little by little; when we get tired of one street we’ll go higher.  So you see we’ll always have a new house; it’s a great advantage to have a new house; you get all the latest improvements.  They invent everything all over again about every five years, and it’s a great thing to keep up with the new things.  I always try and keep up with the new things of every kind.  Don’t you think that’s a good motto for a young couple—to keep ‘going higher’?  That’s the name of that piece of poetry—what do they call it?—Excelsior!”

Catherine bestowed on her junior visitor only just enough attention to feel that this was not the way Mr. Morris Townsend had talked the other night, or that he was talking now to her fortunate aunt.  But suddenly his aspiring kinsman became more interesting.  He seemed to have become conscious that she was affected by his companion’s presence, and he thought it proper to explain it.

“My cousin asked me to bring him, or I shouldn’t have taken the liberty.  He seemed to want very much to come; you know he’s awfully sociable.  I told him I wanted to ask you first, but he said Mrs. Penniman had invited him.  He isn’t particular what he says when he wants to come somewhere!  But Mrs. Penniman seems to think it’s all right.”

“We are very glad to see him,” said Catherine.  And she wished to talk more about him; but she hardly knew what to say.  “I never saw him before,” she went on presently.

Arthur Townsend stared.

“Why, he told me he talked with you for over half an hour the other night.”

“I mean before the other night.  That was the first time.”

“Oh, he has been away from New York—he has been all round the world.  He doesn’t know many people here, but he’s very sociable, and he wants to know every one.”

“Every one?” said Catherine.

“Well, I mean all the good ones.  All the pretty young ladies—like Mrs. Penniman!” and Arthur Townsend gave a private laugh.

“My aunt likes him very much,” said Catherine.

“Most people like him—he’s so brilliant.”

“He’s more like a foreigner,” Catherine suggested.

“Well, I never knew a foreigner!” said young Townsend, in a tone which seemed to indicate that his ignorance had been optional.

“Neither have I,” Catherine confessed, with more humility.  “They say they are generally brilliant,” she added vaguely.

“Well, the people of this city are clever enough for me.  I know some of them that think they are too clever for me; but they ain’t!”

“I suppose you can’t be too clever,” said Catherine, still with humility.

“I don’t know.  I know some people that call my cousin too clever.”

Catherine listened to this statement with extreme interest, and a feeling that if Morris Townsend had a fault it would naturally be that one.  But she did not commit herself, and in a moment she asked: “Now that he has come back, will he stay here always?”

“Ah,” said Arthur, “if he can get something to do.”

“Something to do?”

“Some place or other; some business.”

“Hasn’t he got any?” said Catherine, who had never heard of a young man—of the upper class—in this situation.

“No; he’s looking round.  But he can’t find anything.”

“I am very sorry,” Catherine permitted herself to observe.

“Oh, he doesn’t mind,” said young Townsend.  “He takes it easy—he isn’t in a hurry.  He is very particular.”

Catherine thought he naturally would be, and gave herself up for some moments to the contemplation of this idea, in several of its bearings.

“Won’t his father take him into his business—his office?” she at last inquired.

“He hasn’t got any father—he has only got a sister.  Your sister can’t help you much.”

It seemed to Catherine that if she were his sister she would disprove this axiom.  “Is she—is she pleasant?” she asked in a moment.

“I don’t know—I believe she’s very respectable,” said young Townsend.  And then he looked across to his cousin and began to laugh.  “Look here, we are talking about you,” he added.

Morris Townsend paused in his conversation with Mrs. Penniman, and stared, with a little smile.  Then he got up, as if he were going.

“As far as you are concerned, I can’t return the compliment,” he said to Catherine’s companion.  “But as regards Miss Sloper, it’s another affair.”

Catherine thought this little speech wonderfully well turned; but she was embarrassed by it, and she also got up.  Morris Townsend stood looking at her and smiling; he put out his hand for farewell.  He was going, without having said anything to her; but even on these terms she was glad to have seen him.

“I will tell her what you have said—when you go!” said Mrs. Penniman, with an insinuating laugh.

Catherine blushed, for she felt almost as if they were making sport of her.  What in the world could this beautiful young man have said?  He looked at her still, in spite of her blush; but very kindly and respectfully.

“I have had no talk with you,” he said, “and that was what I came for.  But it will be a good reason for coming another time; a little pretext—if I am obliged to give one.  I am not afraid of what your aunt will say when I go.”

With this the two young men took their departure; after which Catherine, with her blush still lingering, directed a serious and interrogative eye to Mrs. Penniman.  She was incapable of elaborate artifice, and she resorted to no jocular device—to no affectation of the belief that she had been maligned—to learn what she desired.