In this blog post, we will examine Henry James’s life and the major themes of his work, focusing on his novel “Washington Square.”
The Author’s Life
It is said that Henry James’s grandfather was the second-richest person in New York State at the time of his death. Since the first was John Jacob Astor—the wealthiest man in the United States at the time and the country’s first millionaire—James was, as the English proverb goes, born “with a silver spoon in his mouth.” It is common for a family to accumulate wealth in the first generation, consolidate its foundation in the second, and only produce figures in the cultural and artistic spheres by the third generation; however, the James family seems to have shifted its focus toward culture—or, in other words, toward spending rather than earning—as early as his father’s generation. The fact that James struggled financially in his later years was not because he squandered his inherited fortune, but because a significant portion of the family’s wealth had already been depleted by his father’s generation.
James’s father, who was regarded as one of the foremost intellectuals of his time as a theologian, broadened his children’s horizons by taking them on trips throughout Europe. One might question whether a life spent moving from hotel to hotel was truly educational, but given that his eldest son became a renowned philosopher and his second son a successful novelist, it seems the educational impact was indeed positive. Having lived in Switzerland, England, France, and Germany for about five years starting around the age of twelve, James mastered French and German, enabling him to read most European literature—with the exception of Russian literature—in the original languages. Their home in the United States was frequented by the leading cultural figures of the time. In short, he was raised in the ideal environment for becoming a writer.
That said, his father did not actively encourage him to become a writer. Even after James’s disastrous experience at an engineering school in Europe, his father still hoped he would study law. James, however, put his supposed law studies on the back burner and spent his college years reading whatever books he wanted to his heart’s content in the library; at the age of twenty-one, he chose the path of a writer. From then on, his life was filled with writing. Cases like this, where an author devotes himself entirely to his craft based on a sense of calling—even if a privileged upbringing certainly played a part—are rare. James left behind 20 novels, approximately 130 short stories and novellas, 12 plays, several travelogues, over 250 book reviews, dozens of critical essays, and more than 10,000 letters. He also meticulously revised the 18 novels selected for inclusion in the New York edition of his collected works. Even considering that he lived as a full-time writer for over 50 years without ever marrying, this is an enormous body of work.
In terms of volume, he brings to mind Honoré de Balzac, whom he regarded as his literary role model; however, unlike Balzac, he lacked popular appeal. The only novels of his that sold reasonably well during his lifetime were ‘Daisy Miller’, ‘The Portrait of a Lady’, and ‘The Turn of the Screw’; his later novels, notorious for their obscurity, completely alienated the general reading public. Sales of the New York edition of his collected works—which compiled his life’s work as a novelist—were so dismal that they plunged James into depression. The fact that he received an honorary doctorate and the Order of Merit in his later years was the result of the efforts of a tiny minority who highly valued his achievements as a novelist.
It was not until the 1950s and 1960s that James was elevated to the ranks of the literary canon. Following F. R. Leavis’s ‘The Great Tradition’ (1948), which laid the groundwork for this, a massive volume of criticism—so extensive it could be called the “James industry”—flooded the field. A prime example of this is the fact that his biography—despite his having done little besides write—spans six volumes. As criticism of the English literature establishment—which traditionally focused on the study and teaching of “serious literature”—took on anti-canonical and anti-literary tones, James’s standing, like that of other canonical authors, has waned compared to the past.
However, since the late 1990s, as not only relatively well-known novels like ‘The Portrait of a Lady’ and ‘Washington Square’ but also more challenging works such as ‘The Wings of the Dove’ and ‘The Golden Bowl’ have been adapted into films, attempts have emerged to interpret the dual structure of literary merit and popular appeal within James’s works.
Regardless of the ups and downs of critical reception, James’s achievements can be summarized in three main points. First, while navigating the ambiguous position of being neither American nor European, James delved deeply into “transatlantic themes” that reflect on the relationship between the two sides of the Atlantic. The field now known as transatlantic studies in English literature has recently gained renewed attention, but James had already brought this issue to the forefront a century ago. Second, as a master of realism and a pioneer of modernism, James imbued novels—which had previously received little attention to form—with formal completeness, and laid the groundwork for literary criticism and theory through critical essays such as “Hawthorne” and “The Art of Fiction.” Finally, we can highlight his prominent portrayal of female characters grappling with inner conflict. Not only did he depict a diverse range of female characters, but he also succeeded in portraying them as individuals with inner lives within their relationships with male characters. ‘Washington Square’ is an example of this third achievement.
Work Analysis
If James’s body of work is broadly divided into three phases, the first phase culminates in ‘The Portrait of a Lady’ (1881). ‘Washington Square’ (1880) is a novel written around the same time as ‘The Portrait of a Lady’. However, it must be said that this novel is very different from ‘The Portrait of a Lady’, which is often cited as James’s masterpiece. In ‘The Portrait of a Lady’, James explores the series of choices made by a spirited young American woman who, after moving to Europe, unexpectedly inherits a fortune. In contrast, ‘Washington Square’ tells the story of a family set against the backdrop of a specific era in America—more specifically, “Old New York,” which had already disappeared by the 1880s. At least in that context, it can be said to be the novel that most closely resembles the works of Jane Austen, who excelled at depicting the lives of several families set against the backdrop of Romantic-era England.
James, who was not particularly fond of Austen, would not have regarded this as a compliment; as evidenced by his decision not to include ‘Washington Square’ in the New York edition of his collected works, he did not consider this Austen-esque novel to be one of his masterpieces. However, regardless of James’s own assessment, ‘Washington Square’ has been cherished for over a century as a work that bears distinct traces not only of Austen but also of Balzac and Nathaniel Hawthorne, while still retaining James’s unique touch. Let’s examine how James reimagines what is, in a sense, an extremely conventional plot—one in which the heroine is unable to marry the man she loves due to her father’s opposition.
A Heroine Unlike Any Other
“Washington Square” is the story of a woman whose pure love has been betrayed. As seen in Balzac’s ‘Eugénie Grandet’, Leo Tolstoy’s ‘Anna Karenina’, and Thomas Hardy’s ‘Tess of the d’Urbervilles’, this is a familiar theme in 19th-century fiction. What distinctly sets ‘Washington Square’ apart from these novels is that the place name takes the place of the heroine, Catherine Sloper, in the title.
There are many examples of 19th-century novels that use place names as their titles. However, compared to Jane Austen’s ‘Mansfield Park’ or Emily Brontë’s ‘Wuthering Heights’, the location “Washington Square”—which serves as the novel’s title—does not carry any particular symbolic meaning. Set against the backdrop of mid-19th-century New York, which was expanding by the day, the heroine’s father moves from a neighborhood that has become bustling as its residential area gave way to commercial development to an upscale residential area near Washington Square Park. This house becomes the main setting of the novel. But that is all. In a sense, the neighborhood where the heroine lives has taken the place of the heroine herself as the title of the novel.
Catherine Sloper, who didn’t even get the novel’s title, is a heroine who doesn’t seem like a heroine at all. In a novel centered on romance, the heroine is expected to possess a charm capable of capturing the male protagonist’s attention. It’s not necessarily about being pretty—after all, heroines aren’t always pretty. Doesn’t Elizabeth Bennet, the heroine of ‘Pride and Prejudice’, also face a humiliating dismissal during her first encounter with Darcy—who remarks that she is “passable, but not enough to make one want to ask her to dance”? Yet Darcy falls so deeply in love with her that he proposes twice—precisely because Elizabeth “appears” more beautiful to him than any other woman in the world. Whether she is a stunning beauty like Anna Karenina or a witty and vivacious young lady like Elizabeth Bennet, the heroine of a novel centered on romantic love between a man and a woman is bound to have something special about her.
Catherine has none of that. Of course, there are some heroines who don’t quite fit the mold. Jane Austen’s ‘Northanger Abbey’ makes this point clear right from the novel’s preface. “No one who saw Catherine Morland in her youth would have thought she was born to be a heroine.” This young lady, while engrossed in the Gothic novels popular at the time, commits the comical mistake of confusing reality with the fictional world; however, through that experience, she grows into a heroine worthy of the male protagonist’s unwavering love.
Catherine, the heroine of ‘Washington Square’, does not receive such love from the man who is her first and last love. Morris Townsend proposed to her solely because he valued her as an heiress; he dismisses her as an unattractive and even boring woman. When her father’s intervention reduces the annual allowance from $30,000 to $10,000, he abandons her, leaving behind the flimsy excuse that “I cannot cause financial harm to the woman I love.” In other words, he cannot marry her on that amount of money. Readers naturally feel sympathy for Catherine. However, they do not experience the same emotional identification as when Tess is abandoned by Angel or Anna Karenina by Count Vronsky—that is, when they side with the tragic heroine. This is because it feels less like she was “abandoned” and more like she was “kicked to the curb.”
It is not difficult to explain why readers find it hard to empathize with Catherine. Catherine is unable to articulate her thoughts and feelings well. Reluctant to put herself forward, she generally hides in the background in social settings. Far from living up to her father’s expectations—who possesses a gift for captivating an audience—she often falls silent, unable to offer a witty retort. Even Tess, who received only a basic education, is able to express herself verbally, but Catherine acts frustratingly, saying either “I can’t explain it” or “I have nothing more to say” even at crucial moments. Her tendency to dress in excessively flashy outfits to “compensate with bold attire for what she cannot express in words” is enough to make one sigh.
The other characters in the novel generally perceive Catherine as a rather insensitive young lady. However, the narrator, who views Catherine with a warm eye, asserts that she is simply too shy to express herself and is, in fact, a deeply sensitive person. This direct statement feels somewhat jarring, and the narrator’s tendency to act like an understanding older man when it comes to Catherine is a bit off-putting. Yet, given that the heroine is portrayed as someone who struggles to express herself, the narrator’s “advice” is arguably unavoidable.
Catherine, who is sensitive but “appears” insensitive, suffers an incurable wound when she learns that her fiancé was only pretending to love her for her money, and that her father despises her for being such an easy prey for a man like that.
From Catherine’s perspective, the key facts of her life are that Maurice Townsend toyed with her affections and that her father destroyed the very foundation of her life. Nothing could change these facts. They were always there, just like her name, her age, and her ordinary face. Nothing could undo the wrong Morris had done to her, nor heal the pain he had caused. And nothing could revive the reverence she had once felt for her father in her childhood. Something in her life had died, and her duty was to try to fill that void.
Her fiancé and her father completely overlook the fact that they committed an “unforgivable sin” that killed a part of her heart. Catherine cannot condemn them, nor can she shake off the past and make a fresh start. It is, indeed, a truly stifling situation.
The film adaptation of this novel takes a different approach to resolving this stifling situation. William Wyler’s ‘The Heiress’ (1949) focuses on Catherine’s transformation into a ruthless woman seeking revenge against the two men. In contrast, the 1997 film, which reverted to the original title, depicts Catherine putting the wounds inflicted by the men behind her and finding meaning in life as a kindergarten teacher. While opinions on the films vary, it seems fair to say that both are adaptations that diverge significantly from the original novel. The Catherine of the novel isn’t ruthless enough to carry out revenge. Moreover, precisely because she is that kind of person, she suffers wounds so deep that she cannot start anew. And readers must endure this frustrating aspect of her character—for it is by despising Catherine’s frustration that her father and fiancé commit “unforgivable sins.”
Catherine’s Two Men—Her Father and Her Fiancé
Much of the novel’s appeal stems from the rivalry between Catherine’s father and her fiancé—neither of whom holds her in particularly high regard—as they compete for her attention. Both men are self-assured and acutely aware of their own superiority, which stands in stark contrast to the heroine. Her father, Austin Sloper, is a man who has achieved extraordinary success as both a physician and a socialite. Having fended off a dozen suitors to marry the young woman with the most beautiful eyes in Manhattan, he finds it hard to believe that Catherine—who inherited neither the beauty nor the vivacity of his wife, who died of postpartum complications after giving birth to her—is his daughter. In the process of coming to terms with this reality, he becomes a philosophical cynic. Adopting the principle that “if a woman isn’t clever, being kind is of no use whatsoever,” he maintains an emotional distance from his daughter, who is so kind as to be boring.
While the father, disappointed by his daughter’s ordinariness, keeps his distance as an objective observer, the daughter’s attitude can be characterized by awe. She adored her father terribly, yet found him very intimidating. She believed her father was smarter, more handsome, and more distinguished than anyone else in the world. Her assessment of her father aligned perfectly with her expression of affection; the slight tremors of fear mingled with that poor child’s fervent filial devotion added depth to her devotion rather than dulling it. Her most ardent wish was to please her father, and for her, happiness lay in believing she had succeeded in doing so. She never succeeded beyond a certain point.
Just as this delicate balance in the father-daughter relationship was being maintained, Maurice Townsend entered the picture. With looks that rivaled those of an actor and a quick wit—believing he deserved to comfortably obtain whatever he desired with minimal effort—he confessed his love to Catherine and won her heart in order to secure the position of husband to an heiress who would bring him an annual income of $30,000. After knowing each other for only a few months, they promise to marry.
Surprised by how quickly things have progressed, the father’s response is, at first glance, beyond reproach. He reasons that if Morris—who is flawless except for being penniless and unemployed—wants to marry Catherine, it must be for the money, but he leaves open the possibility that he might be wrong. He is not a snob who opposes the marriage simply because his prospective son-in-law is poor. He declares that if Morris can prove he is “a decent man, even if penniless,” he is willing to let his daughter marry him based on his character alone. However, as he “confirms” that Morris is after Catherine’s inheritance, the father takes a firm stance against the marriage.
And his judgment of Morris is largely correct. Morris excels only in his outward qualities—such as eloquence and quick wit—but has not developed the capacity to love another person. He is also selfish enough to laze about as an unemployed man while relying on his widowed sister, who has five children, for financial support. It is no surprise that the father, who classifies Morris as the type of young man who, based on a “resolute determination to seek only pleasure in life,” “never does anything himself if he can get someone else to do it,” opposes the marriage. However, what he fails to consider at all is the fact that Catherine loves Morris. Even when his sister, Mrs. Almond, points this out to him, he turns a deaf ear.
The plot of ‘Washington Square’ reaches its climax as two self-assured men clash, with Catherine completely out of their sight. When the father declares, “I intend to strongly urge him to give up, for there is a large fund of respect and affection to be drawn from my daughter’s heart,” Morris counters that, speaking of “a fund of affection to be drawn,” he has one of his own and will never give up. In this power struggle, the father plays his trump card early on, declaring that he will change his will if Catherine marries Morris. Catherine believes she should not receive an inheritance if she marries against her father’s wishes, but she desperately hopes to marry with his permission. For this reason, she accompanies him on a trip to Europe as he proposed. Of course, this happens only after her fiancé agrees to postpone the wedding for the time being.
During this process, a fiery battle of wits erupts between the two men. The father is determined to separate Catherine from Maurice for the time being and manipulate his daughter’s heart, while Maurice believes that Catherine might be able to “play her cards right” during the trip and win her father’s approval. Both are wrong. Contrary to her father’s wishes, Catherine’s love for Maurice remains unshakable. However, contrary to Maurice’s hopes, Catherine fails to demonstrate the shrewdness needed to win her father’s approval. Instead, her father’s contempt for a daughter who remains so devoted to a man like Maurice grows, and he eventually makes his feelings clear to her. Having resolved to demand nothing and expect nothing more from a father who despises her, Catherine decides to marry without her father’s permission. However, the wedding falls through. When it becomes certain that the annual inheritance of $30,000 will be reduced to $10,000, Morris backs out, just as her father had anticipated. The showdown between the two men ends in a “victory” for the father, who is in many ways a step ahead.
Her father’s “victory” stems from his accurate assessment of Morris’s character. However, when it comes to Catherine, he is as blind as a bat. While he succeeded in driving Morris away by changing the terms of the marriage, he overlooks the fact that he has inflicted an incurable wound on his daughter. When Catherine refuses to marry even after a suitable suitor comes along, her father cannot shake the suspicion that she is waiting for Maurice to return. Eventually, he goes so far as to demand that Catherine promise not to marry Maurice after his death. Although Catherine would never in her wildest dreams consider marrying Maurice—who loved her only as an “heiress”—she refuses this unreasonable demand as well. In response, her father drastically reduces the inheritance he had intended to leave her, stating in his will that her existing wealth is already sufficient to attract the interest of men like Maurice. It is nothing short of petty revenge.
Toward the end of the novel, Maurice returns, just as her father had anticipated. However, Catherine feels not even a shred of her former love for him. Morris asks himself, “If you weren’t waiting for me, why on earth didn’t you get married?” Her father had once asked himself the very same question. It is a foolish question posed by self-important men.
Catherine is denied not only marriage but also the tragic deaths of Tess and Anna Karenina, or the sanctification depicted in ‘Eugénie Grandet’. In fact, had those self-important men not used her as a chess piece in their power struggles, she would have married like ordinary women and lived a life as a wife and mother. This was nearly the only creative life permitted to women of that era, and for Catherine, it was a role she could have performed flawlessly. Yet, despite having several opportunities to marry, Catherine does not do so. With her emotional wellspring wounded, she is unable to go through the process of marrying for love. When Catherine picks up her embroidery in the novel’s final scene—“as if she had been doing so all her life”—the house on Washington Square serves as the backdrop to her meaningless life, much like a tomb.
