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THE BLACK CAT.
A PLAY IN THREE ACTS BY
JOHN TODHUNTER.
FIRST ACTED AT
THE INDEPENDENT THEATRE IN LONDON.
LONDON: HENRY AND CO. 93, ST. MARTIN'S LANE, W.C. 1895
_Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
Preface.
Mr. Grein has asked me to write a preface to THE BLACK CAT.
I cannot myself see much occasion for this. Why should an author be
called upon to make a speech before the curtain? Because, I presume,
people want to have something to talk about besides the play itself,
and an author must surely have "views." Well, it is a day of
views--and of talk.
THE BLACK CAT was produced at the Opera Comique on December
8th, 1893, at one of the Independent Theatre Society's performances.
It had a certain _succès d'estime_ before a special audience, for
whom, however, it was not written; and it has not been performed
since.
The critics were wonderfully kind. They actually praised the play;
some reluctantly, some with a reckless enthusiasm which quite
astonished me. I had expected a much less pleasant reception.
The main objection they made to the thing was that it had a tragic
ending, which they kindly suggested I had tacked on to my comedy, to
appeal to the morbid taste of an "Independent" audience.
Unfortunately I had done nothing of the kind. The play was conceived
before the Independent Theatre had come into existence. The end was
foreseen from the beginning; the tragedy being implicit in the
subject. The tragic motive lay deeper than the death of the heroine,
who might have been allowed to live, if that last symbolic pageantry
had not had its dramatic fitness. Given the characters and the
circumstances, the end is the absolutely right one.
Of course the circumstances might have been altered, and a sort of
reconciliation patched up between husband and wife. But this would
be a somewhat flat piece of cynicism, only justifiable on the ground
taken by the _Telegraph_, that modern actors cannot play, and ought
not to be expected to play, modern tragedy.
The conventional "happy ending" demanded by sentimental critics to
suit the taste of sentimental playgoers, the divided parents left
weeping in each other's arms over the recovered child, would also be
quite possible. But surely even a modern dramatist may for once be
allowed to preserve a grain of respect for nature and dramatic art?
This would be an outrage against both. It would not be decent
comedy, it would be mere burlesque, as sentimentality always is to
the judicious.
The only other alternative I see is the exodus of the wife, with or
without her child; or of the husband, with or without his mistress.
But this would be rank Ibsenism, and outrage British morality, which
would be still more dreadful. Only a "practical dramatist" could cut
the Gordian knot, and at the last moment introduce the erring Mrs.
Tremaine, still charming in the garb of a Sister of Mercy, to bring
down the curtain upon a tableau of Woman returning to her Duty, and
Man to his Morality. And I, alas! am not a "practical dramatist."
Still, if the play had been an experiment, I might have further
experimented with it, and rehandled its ending. But it was not in
its main lines an experiment. It was a thing seen and felt; and so
it must remain, in its printed form, at least--"a poor thing," it
may be, "but mine own!"
After the performance, came the managers, wanting to see the play,
and asking why I had not shown it to them before. Well, it never
occurred to me that any of them would seriously have considered the
production of a piece so far off the ordinary lines. They had not,
like the enterprising Director of the Independent Theatre,
undertaken the dreadful trade of educating the public. As a matter
of fact, they fought shy of a piece in which "the new hysteria" was
studied, and which ended badly, or at least sadly.
_A Comedy of Sighs_, produced at the Avenue last spring, _was_
really an experiment on the taste of the British public. I wished to
ascertain whether a play depending for its interest rather upon
character and dialogue than upon plot and sensational situations,
would be at first tolerated and afterwards enjoyed by an average
audience. Perhaps the experiment was too audaciously conceived, and
too carelessly conducted, by both author and management. It was
unfortunately vitiated by the presence of a prevalent bacillus, the
British bugbear, in the test-tubes.
The new play was received with inarticulate cries of horror by the
critics. The _Telegraph_ and the _World_, which had presided in
auspicious opposition over the birth of THE BLACK CAT, now
hung terrific in unnatural conjunction in the horoscope of _A Comedy
of Sighs_. Here was Ibsenism again--nay, worse than Ibsenism,
Dodoism, Sarah-Grandism, Keynotism, rampant on the English stage!
For had I not most impudently exhibited _The Modern Woman_ upon it?
And although there was no tragedy this time, but beautiful
reconciliation, and return to her Duty at the fall of the curtain,
was she not there, the Abomination of Desolation?
Now we know that the Modern Woman ought not to exist anywhere,
therefore she does _not_ exist, therefore she must be stamped out.
Mrs. Grundy and others have already begun the good work, and have
been diligently stamping her out ever since; with such success that
we may hope she will disappear, with infidelity, Ibsenism, the
struggle for existence, and other such objectionable things.
Meanwhile she has made her _début_, and may cry: _J'y suis, j'y
reste!_
The _Comedy of Sighs_ was slain, waving its tiny flag in the van of
a forlorn hope; and over its dead body "Arms and the Man," its
machine-guns volleying pellets of satire, marched to victory.
I do not solace myself with that belief, so comforting to the
unsuccessful, that a play fails merely because of its goodness, or
succeeds merely because it is bad; yet it is evident, I think, that
other things besides its merits or demerits as a piece of dramatic
writing may turn the scale for or against it. _A Comedy of Sighs_,
with its somewhat "impressionist" sketches of character, and
aberrations from the ordinary type of a "well-made play," proved to
be "too lightly tempered for so loud a wind" as blows upon British
bugbears--"Modern Women," and the like.
And now may I say a few words with regard to some misconceptions on
the part of the critics as to my aim in writing these two plays?
One of them, an enthusiast himself, did me the honour to hail me
as a brother enthusiast, albeit an erring one. Possibly I am. But
I have not been trying to educate the public, which is being educated
past its old standards day by day, without such philanthropic effort
on my part. I have not been trying to write "literary" plays. I
quite agree with those who think that a play must be a play first.
If it be "literature" afterwards, that is an added grace which
gives it a permanent value. If it be not, still it may be a good
play in its day and generation. I have not, for the sake of being
unconventional, deliberately set myself to violate all the received
canons of dramatic art, as practised by the "practical dramatist,"
thus making a convention of unconventionality. Unconventional art is
impossible, and the drama, like other arts, has its conventions. But
conventions change, and new ones are evolved, as new problems in art
and other things--even morality itself--come in with each new tide
of the human imagination. The "well-made play" of the day before
yesterday is not a canon for all time, even for the most
conservative playgoer.
No, what I have been trying to do is simply to write a good play. Ah
yes! But what _is_ a good play? The enthusiastic critic has a ready
answer: "The play that succeeds, that has a long run, that has money
in it!" I accept the answer for what it is worth. This potentiality
of money is, like "literature," an added grace: and it certainly,
in a sense, marks the survival of the fittest. But there are other
standards in the great workshop of the artist, Nature. Even the
plant or play that lives but a short time may cast its seed into the
soil, or imagination, of its day, and, like Banquo, beget a royal
race, though not itself a king.
Now, how does such a play as THE BLACK CAT differ from
those we see succeeding on the stage every day? Really not so very
much, after all. It merely accentuates a growing tendency in the
plays of the period to get more of the stuff of life, our every-day
human life, typically upon the stage; with less of the traditional
theatrical-academic element. The "well-made play" has itself
undergone evolution since the days when it was an aphorism that not
what is said but what is done on the stage is the essential thing.
This of course is at once true and false, like every other truism.
Without action there can be no play; and a play may be made fairly
intelligible without a single spoken word, just as a scene from
history or fiction may be quite recognisably depicted in a few
symbolic lines, dots, and dashes, though no single human figure be
decently drawn.
We must not, however, forget that action itself is language. What is
called the action of a play is simply a story told by the movements
of the players. But when we see a man stabbed, or a woman kissed,
our curiosity is excited. We want to know something more about the
people whose actions we see. This, indeed, may be roughly told by
gesture and facial expression, which are themselves language; but,
finally, to understand more than the barest outline of the story, we
are forced to demand words. And the more we are interested in human
nature the more we want to understand the thoughts, emotions,
motives, characters, of the personages in action before us. Hence by
gradual steps have come our latest attempts at studies of complex
characters, in their struggle to solve the problems of life; or what
are objected to as "problem plays." Well, why object? Every play,
from _Charley's Aunt_ to _Hamlet_, is a problem play. It is merely a
matter of degree. Every play deals with the struggle of men and
women to solve some problem of life, great or small: to outwit evil
fortune. It may be merely to persuade a couple of pretty girls to
stay to luncheon in your college rooms, when their chaperon has not
turned up. It may be something more important.
The more interest the public and the dramatist take in human
nature--that is to say, the better developed they are as regards
dramatic sympathy--the more, rich, vivid, and subtle will be the
play of character and passion, in the drama demanded and produced.
In a word, the less wooden-pated and wooden-hearted they become, the
less mechanical and commonplace will their drama be.
We are slowly emerging from the puppet-show conception of drama. Our
dramatists are beginning to do more than refurbish the old puppets,
and move them about the stage according to the rules of the
"well-made" play. They are not content, like their predecessors, to
leave their characters quite at the mercy of the actor who, in
"creating" them, gave them whatever small resemblance to humanity
they may have possessed. And as the play gains in vitality, the
playwright begins to feel the absolute necessity for writing decent
dialogue--not mere stage dialect that may be scamped and ranted _ad
libitum_ by the "star" to suit his own taste, or want of it, but
real dialogue, which, while ideally reflecting the colloquial
language of the day, taxes the intelligence and feeling of the actor
to deliver properly.
This means real progress; for the dialogue is the very life of the
play. It alone can bring out the essential import of the situation,
the relation of character to character, at any given moment. An
action, an incident, may have a thousand different shades of meaning
or motive. Language, tone, and gesture give it its precise value.
Plot and situations are at best but the skeleton; character and
emotion are the flesh and blood. The treatment is everything.
We still want more of life, of the vital movements of our own time,
upon the stage; and we shall get it by degrees. Sentimental
melodrama, with its male puppet, who is hero or villain, its female
puppet, who is angel or devil, may still continue to flourish among
us; for it still satisfies the natural craving for romance,
ideality, which the drama is bound to supply. But these things
belong to a decaying phase of romance; and our so-called realism is
but the first wave of a new romantic movement, on the stage as
elsewhere. For when the old ideals become decrepit, we must go back
to nature to get the stuff wherewith to make new ones.
As our dramatists advance with the times, people begin to go to the
theatre to see plays, and not merely an actor in a part. The
"well-made play," which was a piece of mechanical contrivance into
which the puppets were ingeniously fitted, may some day develop into
a work of art--a thing born rather than made--growing up like a
flower in the imagination of the dramatist.
When that day comes, the actor, who used to "create" the part, will
have to be content to let the part create him. The play will make
the actor, not the actor the play; to the great benefit of both play
and actor.
But why be so serious over an art whose end is only to amuse? To
amuse? Yes; but we are not all equally amused by the same things.
There may be forms of humour which tickle some people more
exquisitely than even that magnificent making of tea in an old
gentleman's hat, which convulses the _Charley's Aunt_ audience. And
if amusement be the object of the drama, we must take the word in an
extended sense. I should myself roughly define a good play as one
that, when adequately performed, can hold the attention of an
unprejudiced audience from beginning to end, whether it amuses or
merely interests them. It does not follow that because it may shock,
or even bore, some worthy people it is a bad play. Even farcical
comedy bores some people, with whom I cannot sympathise.
And now, if I have been rather hard upon the "well-made play," it
must not be assumed that it is because I do not value construction.
I do value it. But it should be vital, not academic, organic, not
mechanical. Still, even mechanical construction is better than none
at all. A play without plot is invertebrate, without bones. It is
at his peril that a dramatist departs from accepted rules, even
those respecting "strong" curtains and "strong" exits, though in
certain cases weak curtains and weak exits may be more really
dramatic. Then, valuable as dialogue is, it may be redundant, and
make a play "flabby." The actor's rule, that all talk that does not
carry on the action is bad, is worthy of all due respect. "You
literary fellows want to say everything twice over," was the shrewd
criticism of a stage-manager in a certain case. But an actor is
often so absorbed in his own part that he does not easily estimate
the bearing of any given speech, even his own, upon the whole play.
"Cuts" at rehearsal are not unfrequently found to be too hastily
made. Then, what is the action? Not merely the external incidents,
but the shifting phases of thought, emotion, character, in the
_dramatis personæ_. It is these that give the incidents their value,
and so give dramatic interest to the plot, or story. The dialogue
and the incidents are but two phases of the presentment of the
story. The action may be rapid or slow, direct, or with episodes.
All depends upon the treatment; and the play that one audience finds
detestable may delight another.
If THE BLACK CAT ever again come to the ordeal of the
footlights, I can only hope that it may find an audience as
sympathetic as that of the Independent Theatre.
OPERA COMIQUE,
STRAND, W.C.
THE INDEPENDENT THEATRE.
FOUNDER AND SOLE DIRECTOR, J.T. GREIN.
Third Season, Fifteenth Performance.
_FRIDAY, 8th December, 1893,_
_THE BLACK CAT,_
A PLAY IN THREE ACTS, BY
JOHN TODHUNTER.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
_Arthur Denham_ Mr. BUCKLAW.
_Fitzgerald_ Mr. NEVILLE DOONE.
_Cyril Vane_ Mr. ORLANDO BARNETT.
_Constance Denham_ Miss HALL CAINE.
_Blanche Tremaine_ Miss MARY KEEGAN.
_Miss Macfarlane_ Miss GLADYS HOMFREY.
_Undine_ Miss DORA BARTON.
_Jane_ Miss FORRESTER.
_The Play produced under the direction of_
Mr. H. DE LANGE.
The ACTION of the play takes place in Denham's Studio in
London, at the PRESENT DAY.
The Black Cat.
Act I.
_Scene: Denham's Studio. Large highlight window in sloping roof at
back. Under it, in back wall, door to landing. L of the
door the corner is curtained off for model's dressing-room.
R of door a large Spanish leather folding screen, which
runs on castors, shuts off from the door the other corner, in which
is a "throne," pushed up against the wall. Above the "throne" hangs
a large square mirror in a carved black frame. In front of the
"throne" is a light couch of Greek form, without back._
_Fireplace, with chimney-breasts panelled in old oak, and high
overmantel, in which are shelves and cupboards, L._
_Against R wall an old oak cabinet, with carved cornice,
and inlaid panelled doors. Close beside it stands on a pedestal a
bust of Demeter. Near the cabinet, halfway up stage R C,
an easel, on which is seen the back of a large picture._
_Beyond the fireplace, and at right angles to it, a large sofa, or
lounge, with square ends and back, broad low seat, loose cushions,
and valance. In front of the fireplace an armchair, with a book face
downward on one arm._
_The walls of the studio are distempered in greenish-blue, the
curtains of the model's dressing-room are in rich yellow plush or
brocade, the couch and sofa covered in greenish-yellow stuffs._
_Various artistic properties, tapestries, embroideries, etc.,
hanging up, or thrown carelessly over Chippendale chairs and the
screen._
_Canvases leaning against the walls, on which hang designs and
figure-studies in chalk and charcoal, with landscape-studies in oil
and watercolour, nailed up without much attempt at arrangement._
_Near the front, just R of the armchair, an oblong carved
oak table, with materials for wood-drawing, paint-box, water in a
tumbler, etc., is set end on to the footlights._
_At the upper end of this table Undine is discovered, as she sits
with a slate and arithmetic book before her, her elbows on the
table, her head supported on both hands, holding a slate pencil from
which a bit of sponge dangles by a string._
Undine.
(_pouting_) I hate these old sums! Mother's always making me do sums
in the holidays. It isn't fair. Seven times three is--what's father
reading? (_Rises, and takes up the book._) That's French, I know.
Father's always reading French. G.Y.P. Gyp? I wonder what it's
about. (_Puts the book down, sits, yawns, and takes up the pencil._)
Seven times three is--twenty-one. Put down one and carry two. Oh,
but it's pence and shillings. I can't do pence and shillings!
(_Throws down the pencil; it falls off the table._) Horrid old
things! they're always coming wrong. (_She rises lazily, and stoops
to pick up the pencil, then looks round her, stretching her arms and
yawning._) I say, what fun to make a libation to Demeter! I will!
Let's see. I wish I had mother's Greek dress. I must have one of
father's rags. This'll do. (_Drapes herself in a piece of
embroidery, runs up stage, jumps on "throne," and poses before the
mirror._) It's awfully jolly dressing up. But I have no wine. Oh, I
know--I'll take some of father's painting water--though it's rather
black-and-whity. (_Takes up the glass, and approaches the statue._)
Hail, Demeter! I have no wine for you, but here's some water.
(_Makes libation._) I suppose I should pray for something now. Oh, I
do wish you'd stop mother persecuting me in the holidays like this!
But you can't, you dear old thing. Father says the old gods are
dead. I wish they'd come alive again. (_Crosses to table._)
(_Enter Denham. Undine drops embroidery, kicks it under the table,
and sits._)
Denham.
Well, imp, what's up now? (_He comes to the fireplace, and takes a
pipe from the rack._) Rags again! I shall have to lock them up, I
see. (_Takes up the embroidery, and throws it over a chair._) Get to
your work at once! Sit up straight. (_He crosses L, seats
himself in the armchair, lights his pipe, and takes up the book,
Undine resumes her crouched position at the table._)
Undine.
(_pouting_) It's very hard to have to do sums in the holidays.
Denham.
(_crosses to table behind Undine_) You are behind your class, you
know. (_Looking over her._) Well, seven times three?
Undine.
Let's see--twenty-one?
Denham.
And how many shillings in that?
Undine.
I suppose two shillings and one penny.
Denham.
Nonsense! Don't suppose anything so un-English. How many pence in a
shilling?
Undine.
Twelve--I suppose.
Denham.
Well, twelve from twenty-one leaves--
(_Undine counts on her fingers_)
How many?
Undine.
About eight, I think.
Denham.
Try again, stupid!
Undine.
But, father, I think there _ought_ to be ten pence in a shilling.
Denham.
Why _ought_ there, you monkey?
Undine.
Oh, because then, don't you see, you could count on your fingers all
right, but now there are too many pennies for your fingers, and so
you never can tell how many are over.
Denham.
Very convenient. But come now, twelve from twenty-one?
Undine.
(_counting again_) Nine?
Denham.
(_resuming his book_) All right then. Down with it in the pence
column, and get on.
Undine.
(_kissing him_) Oh, you jolly old father! I should like to do my
sums with you always.
Denham.
Heaven forbid! Get on! Get on! (_Crosses to chair L._)
(_A pause._)
Undine.
Father! _Father!_
Denham.
H'm!
Undine.
I say, FATHER!
Denham.
Do let me read in peace.
Undine.
But, father--
Denham.
Well?
Undine.
Do the Greeks worship Demeter now?
Denham.
No, not now.
Undine.
The old Greeks were the cleverest people that ever lived, and they
had the nicest gods. Don't you wish there were goddesses now,
father? (_Rises, and leans against table._)
Denham.
(_absently_) Yes, of course.
Undine.
Goddesses sometimes fell in love with _people_, father--didn't they?
Denham.
People who didn't happen to be gods? It did occur sometimes, they
say.
Undine.
And one might fall in love with you, father. That _would_ be fun!
Denham.
That would be awful. But do stop this chatter, and get on.
Undine.
She'd give _me_ all sorts of jolly things.
(_A pause._)
_Mrs. Denham_ (_outside the door_) In a quarter of an hour will do,
Jane.
Denham.
Here comes mother!
Undine.
Oh, bother these horrid old sums! (_Flops into chair._)
(_Enter Mrs. Denham, with flowers. She comes to the cabinet to place
them in a vase, and sees the water spilt._)
Mrs. Denham.
What's all this mess? What have you been doing, miss? (_Crosses to
Undine._)
Undine.
(_rising and standing before her_) Please, mother, I only made a
libation.
Mrs. Denham.
You naughty, _wicked_ girl! Oh, this wicked, _wicked_ waste of time!
Undine.
(_whimpering_) But, mother, I only--
Mrs. Denham.
Hold your tongue, miss. Don't attempt to make excuses. (_Steps back,
looks at Undine._) And just _look_ at that pinafore, that was put on
you clean this morning, and now it is all over dirt! You have been
climbing trees again.
Undine.
(_whimpering_) I wasn't climbing trees. I only climbed _one_ tree.
Denham.
(_aside_) Well parried!
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, these mean prevarications! If I take my eye off you for a
moment, you disobey me. But you _shall_ obey me--you shall obey!
(_Shakes the child; she screams._)
Denham.
Dear! Dear!
Mrs. Denham.
How dare you scream at me like that?
Undine.
(_crying_) But you're hurting me.
Mrs. Denham.
Bear it then, bear it _decently_, without screaming like a beast.
Have you done your sums?
Undine.
Not all.
Mrs. Denham.
(_looking at sums_) Only one done, and that not right. Oh, this
_wicked_ waste of time! You are killing me and killing yourself.
When you waste your time you are wasting your life. Why _will_ you
waste your time?
Undine.
I don't know.
Mrs. Denham.
Then you must be taught to know.
Denham.
May I say a word? I am chiefly to blame. We were talking about the
Greek gods.
Mrs. Denham.
Oh well, if _you_ encourage her in her laziness, I can do nothing.
(_Crosses L as she speaks, then turns suddenly._) Get out
of my sight, miss! It is time for you to go out now. Go away, and
take off that pinafore. You are a disgrace to your father and to me.
(_Gives her a final shake. Undine runs out screaming._) Oh dear! Oh
dear! There! Listen to that precious daughter of yours, filling the
house with her yells. (_She presses her hands over her ears._) Oh,
that child will be the death of me! (_Throws herself down upon the
couch._) She ought never to have been born. Her existence is a
mistake and a curse.
Denham.
(_sighing_) Yes, we are all mistakes from the ideal standpoint.
Mrs. Denham.
It makes me mad to think that I--I--should have brought such an
idiot into the world!
Denham.
Yes, you are an over-populated woman, dear. (_Rises up to her._) The
modern woman is very easily over-populated.
Mrs. Denham.
You can joke about it, of course. To me it is a serious calamity.
(_Weeps._)
Denham.
Well, dear, at least we have not repeated our initial mistake.
(_Crosses to picture._)
Mrs. Denham.
Do you regret it?
Denham.
God forbid! I only regret that our relations were not always
strictly platonic. That is the highest practical ideal of the
age--modern woman being what she is.
Mrs. Denham.
Yes, I know you despise me in your heart. You are always sneering at
me as a modern woman. What do you mean?
Denham.
(_crosses to her_) I agree with Michelet: "_La femme est une
malade._"
Mrs. Denham.
And what is man?
Denham.
(_sits in armchair_) Oh, a sick creature too--that's the worst of
it. The world spirit is moulting, and we're all sick together.
Mrs. Denham.
Phrases, phrases, always phrases! When I am most in earnest you put
me off with a jest.
Denham.
"If I laugh at any mortal thing, 'tis that I may not weep."
Mrs. Denham.
(_sobbing_) I know I have disappointed you; I know you are not
satisfied with me; I have not made you happy.
Denham.
(_starting up and pacing_) Happy? Give me life! Give me life!
Happiness can take care of itself. But there is no use in crying
"Give, give!" like the horse-leech. If we want impossibilities we
must achieve them. (_Crosses R._)
Mrs. Denham.
You want incompatible things.
Denham.
Of course I do. So do you. Your reason and your instincts are at
war, just like mine. That is our sickness.
Mrs. Denham.
How at war?
Denham.
Your reason tells you that woman is independent, self-sufficing.
Your instincts cry feebly for passion, that savage outlaw which
still lies in wait for the modern woman, to carry her whither she
would not. Hence your lapse from strict agnostic morality into
matrimony, bondage, subjection, and the mistake, Undine.
Mrs. Denham.
That child has come between us. I think children often do.
Denham.
Is that one of the _necessary_ horrors of matrimony?
Mrs. Denham.
Heaven help me, that girl drives me mad!
Denham.
Nerves, nerves, as usual. She irritates you, and you irritate her.
The mere presence of a child sets your teeth on edge. (_Crosses, and
sits R of table._)
Mrs. Denham.
My brain has been torn to pieces by children all my life. I was a
slave to my own brothers and sisters, because I was the eldest.
Denham.
That was very hard, I know; but your own child is different, surely?
Mrs. Denham.
You seem to think I don't love her?
Denham.
Not wisely, but too well--as you love me.
(_Re-enter Undine, dressed to go out, and stands just inside door.
Mrs. Denham rises, and Undine comes slowly towards her._)
Mrs. Denham.
Well, dear, have you washed your hands and face?
Undine.
Yes, mother.
Mrs. Denham.
That's my nice clean little girl. (_She embraces and kisses her._)
Why does my little girl make mother angry?
Undine.
I don't know.
Mrs. Denham.
Well, kiss father, and go out while it is fine and bright.
Undine.
(_coming behind Denham, and pulling back his head_) Father, I'm
going to bring you some buttercups, to put on your table and make
your work look pretty.
Denham.
Thanks, my wee one. And bring me some sunshine in their cups, like a
good little fairy.
Undine.
I will.
Denham.
(_kissing her_) Good-bye, and now run away.
Undine.
I'll bring you some speedwell, mother.
Mrs. Denham.
(_kissing her_) Thanks, my little Undine.
(_Undine goes out, then peeps back through the door._)
Undine.
And I'll make a daisy chain for Demeter.
Mrs. Denham.
That _will_ be pretty. Good-bye.
Undine.
Good-bye. (_Kisses her hand to Denham._)
(_Exit Undine._)
Denham.
Well, it isn't such a very wicked idiot, after all. Now is it?
(_Crosses L, and sits._)
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, she is good enough when she hasn't to do what she dislikes.
(_Crosses back of table._)
Denham.
Children _are_ shockingly human, just like you and me. I wish I
could cure you of this intense irritability, Constance.
Mrs. Denham.
You have often lost your own temper with her when you have tried to
teach her anything--often enough. (_Sits L of table._)
Denham.
Yes, it was sheer stupidity. It is a bad educational method. It
involves loss of dignity on both sides. Be as stern as you please,
but not furious.
Mrs. Denham.
Furious! (_Rises_) Thank you for the word. (_Crosses R._) I
know I am making myself hated by her and despised by you; but I must
do my duty as best I can in the teeth of your cruel criticism. I
_must_ think of her future.
Denham.
(_rises, and lights pipe_) Oh, damn the future--and the past too!
You take life too seriously. You are a born self-tormentor, too full
of anxiety to live. You have the worst form of the great malady of
the age, conscience in the agnostic form. You suffer from the new
hysteria.
Mrs. Denham.
I am not hysterical.
Denham.
Pardon me, we are all hysterical nowadays. We have lost our
self-possession. You don't kick on the hearthrug and that kind of
thing. A bucket of cold water is not "indicated" in your case.
Mrs. Denham.
It seems to me you are always throwing buckets of cold water over
me.
Denham.
For heaven's sake, go and reform the world! That is the modern
woman's true vocation--and cure. Denounce our sensuality and
selfishness from the platform, as well as from the hearth. They are
the defects of our qualities. If you don't like us as we are, mould
us.
Mrs. Denham.
(_approaching_) That is what we are trying to do.
Denham.
Yes. You have not mastered your material yet. Your technique is a
little crude. (_He resumes his seat in the armchair, and puts down
his pipe as she comes._)
Mrs. Denham.
(_kneeling beside him_) Why will you push me away from you, Arthur?
You know I only want to be your wife. You are always implying that
our marriage is a failure. Why not say it directly?
Denham.
We are creatures of the transition. We have not quite found the new
centre of equilibrium. Marriage, except as a symbol, is either a
superfluous bond or the consecration of a mistake. You have taught
us this great truth, anyhow.
Mrs. Denham.
Why did you get married then?
Denham.
Practically it is still a necessary evil, like war and politics. The
brute world, howling, forces us into bonds. It is our business to
adjust them so as to gall us as little as possible.
Mrs. Denham.
(_starting up, crosses R_) If the bonds gall you so much,
break them. Don't spend your breath in this puling talk. If you are
tired of me, go! As far as I am concerned, I set you free. Find some
other woman, if you can, who will be more satisfactory.
Denham.
(_rising, and standing with his back to the fire_) But why one other
woman? Why not extend my freedom to two?
Mrs. Denham.
Two or a dozen, what is it to me?
Denham.
A dozen, Constance? Do you take me for a Turk? I have often told you
every man should be content with three wives. More than this verges
upon polygamy. But blessed is he who finds the three in one!
Mrs. Denham.
Indeed. Have you found that in Gyp?
Denham.
No, not directly; though Gyp fills me with thoughts that do often
lie too deep for tears. Her cynicism is always illuminating.
Mrs. Denham.
I wish I could say the same of yours. But why three, and not a
dozen?
Denham.
There are only three possible women in the world, the Divine
Mistress--
Mrs. Denham.
And the "Divine Matron"--I have heard this sickening cant before.
Denham.
Cant? Philosophy! But don't forget the third, The Divine
Virgin--Womanhood fashioning itself independently after its own
ideal. She has driven us, naked and ashamed, into the desert of
disillusion.
Mrs. Denham.
Truth, truth--let me have truth, though it kill me! Men are cowards;
they dare not face the naked facts of life.
Denham.
Men are poets. Facts are but the crude stuff of life. Imagination is
all.
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, if you want romance, had you not better go and look for your
Divine Mistress? Perhaps you may find some ugly truths in her too.
Denham.
(_laughing_) One woman is surely enough for the purposes of
disillusion. It is too late to begin sowing one's wild oats. There
are no dangerous women about. If there were one healthy women in the
world--(_Crosses to picture._)
Mrs. Denham.
Well?
Denham.
You might have some cause for jealousy.
Mrs. Denham.
You would quit the wreck?
Denham.
If it were really a wreck--perhaps. But why should it be? (_He takes
her in his arms, and kisses her._) For Heaven's sake, cease to
wallow in the mud of pessimism! Have faith in yourself and
Nature--or at least Human-nature.
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, if I could, if I could! (_A knock at the door._)
Denham.
Come in.
(_Enter Jane with a telegram, which she hands to Mrs. Denham._)
Jane.
Please, m'm, a telegram; the boy's waiting!
(_Mrs. Denham tears open the telegram._)
Mrs. Denham.
(_pointing to spilt water_) Just wipe up that water, Jane, and push
back this table. (_Jane wipes up water, moves table against
R, wall, and takes away Undine's slate and book._)
Mrs. Denham.
(_reads_) "In town; will call this afternoon."
Jane.
Is there any answer, m'm?
Mrs. Denham.
No answer. (_Exit Jane._) Arthur! this is from Blanche Tremaine. She
is in town, and comes here to-day. Let me see; it must be more than
ten years since we've met--before we were married.
Denham.
Blanche Tremaine? Who is she?
Mrs. Denham.
My old class-fellow at our college in town. She played in our Greek
play. She was just seventeen then.
Denham.
Younger than you?
Mrs. Denham.
Two years. Yes; she must be about eight-and-twenty now. You know I
told you about her. She married a Mr. Overton.
Denham.
Overton? I seem to have heard the name. Didn't she run away from her
husband, or something?
Mrs. Denham.
Yes, poor thing! He led her an awful life.
Denham.
Oh, and then she married the co-respondent! I remember.
Mrs. Denham.
What an interest you take in these scandals!
Denham.
Of course, dear. A scandal is a typical case of the great social
disease.
Mrs. Denham.
She promised to be handsome.
Denham.
I wonder whether this woman is a weak fool, or a bold experimenter
in the art of life?
Mrs. Denham.
How so?
Denham.
Why, having had the courage to come down from the cross, should she
go back to it again?
Mrs. Denham.
What cross?
Denham.
What is woman's cross from the foundation of the world but man, man?
The cords are the bonds of marriage, her children are the nails, and
love her crown of thorns.
Mrs. Denham.
Very poetical, no doubt.
Denham.
Bitter truth, as you are never tired of demonstrating to me. Do you
think the unfortunate cross has not had his share of the torment?
Mrs. Denham.
Too light a share for his tyranny, cruelty, and, above all, his
_mean_ hypocrisy. May he burn in some spiritual fire for that!
Denham.
So he does; it runs in his veins. Well, something better may come of
it, some day. By-the-bye, I expect some men to see my picture.
Mrs. Denham.
Brynhild?
Denham.
Yes, such as she is. (_Crosses_ R, _and looks at the
picture._) Another failure, of course. (_Sighs._)
Mrs. Denham.
Why will you always speak of your work so despondently?
Denham.
Because I want to do better. Vanity, I suppose. (_He comes back
towards the fireplace._)
Mrs. Denham.
Just move out this sofa. (_They move sofa to_ C.) Who are
coming?
Denham.
Oh, Fitzgerald, of course, and possibly Cyril Vane.
Mrs. Denham. That little creature? You know I detest him.
Denham.
Why _little_? Do you estimate men of genius by the pound?
Mrs. Denham.
Men of genius, indeed? The man has a second-hand intellect.
Denham.
Really, you sometimes say a good thing--that is, an ill-natured one.
How you hate culture! (_Enter Jane, showing in Fitzgerald._)
Jane.
Mr. Fitzgerald! (_Exit Jane._)
(_Fitzgerald saunters up to Mrs. Denham, stops suddenly, straddling
his legs, and shakes hands loosely and absently._)
Fitzgerald.
Lovely day, eh? Have you heard the news?
Denham.
We never have heard the news.
Mrs. Denham.
You are the only gossip who comes our way.
Fitzgerald.
(_good-humouredly_) Gossip, eh? Oh, you needn't think I mind being
denounced from your domestic altar, Mrs. Denham! I know you're dying
to hear the last bit of scandal.
Mrs. Denham.
Take pity on me then.
Fitzgerald.
I know this'll interest you awfully. Pottleton Smith's wife's run
away at last. Now wasn't I right? (_Looks smilingly at both for
sympathy._) I always said she would, you know.
Mrs. Denham.
Poor silly little flirt! I'm very sorry.
Fitzgerald.
(_rubbing his hands_) I'm--I'm awfully glad. It'll be the saving of
poor Smith. Though he's awfully cut up about it, of course.
Denham.
Did she run away with--any one in particular?
Fitzgerald.
A Captain Crosby or Cosby, or something. He's in some horse
regiment, the cavalry or something. He's--he's an awful scamp, a
blackleg and all that, but an awfully nice fellow. I met him at
Smith's the other day, and they--they--they were carrying on all the
time under poor little Smith's nose. (_He saunters absently to the
easel and looks at the picture._) The picture--eh? It's--it's
awfully good, you know--an advance on your last.
(_During this speech Denham also goes to the easel._)
Mrs. Denham.
Don't you think so?
Fitzgerald.
Yes, it's an advance, decidedly. What is it, eh? I forget.
Denham.
Brynhild.
Fitzgerald.
Oh, Brynhild! The horse is awfully good, you know--savage and that;
but the woman isn't ugly enough--at least, you haven't quite got the
right kind of ugliness, eh?
Denham.
Unfortunately I meant her to be beautiful.
Mrs. Denham.
(_smiling_) And I gave him some sittings, Mr. Fitzgerald.
Fitzgerald.
(_with a genial laugh_) Did you, now? Well, he tried to improve on
you--that was it. (_With great conviction to Denham._) But--but
surely you're wrong in that. Brynhild was an ugly, passionate woman.
The passionate woman is always ugly. The passionate woman has
character, and character is always ugly.
Denham.
Yes, I know what you mean. But I thought--no, the thing's a failure.
Don't bother about it, but come and sit down. Have a cigarette?
(_Gives him a cigarette._)
Fitzgerald.
Thanks.
(_They sit down, Fitzgerald lights cigarette, and puffs solemnly
before he speaks again._)
Mrs. Smith (_puff_), you didn't know her well? Did you, Mrs. Denham?
(_Puff._)
Mrs. Denham.
No--not well.
Fitzgerald.
You know I painted her portrait (_looks at lighted end of
cigarette_), portrait (_leans back in his chair, replaces cigarette
in his mouth, and puffs again. Then putting his hands behind his
head, he stretches out his legs, and looks at the ceiling_), so I
knew her like my own sister. (_Puff._) She was a pretty little devil
(_puff_), awfully aristocratic, mind you, vulgar, of course,
an'--an' poor refined little Smith just _didn't_ drop his H's.
(_Puffs, chuckles to himself._) Yes, she was a born jade. (_Puff._)
I--I liked her awfully. (_Puff._)
Mrs. Denham.
You seem to like every one awfully.
Fitzgerald.
(_with fervour, sitting up in his chair, and flinging away his
half-smoked cigarette_) So I do. I enjoy the Human Comedy. Now you
don't enjoy the Human Comedy a bit.
Mrs. Denham.
It comes too near me.
Denham.
A cab at the door; this may be Vane. (_Crosses_ L _to
fire._)
Fitzgerald.
Vane? That's splendid! He cuts me dead now, because I reviewed his
last Society Verses, with some other men's, under the head, "Our
Minor Poets," in _Free Lances_.
Denham.
Oh, an editorial? Serves you right, you Jack-of-all-trades. How if
some brother Minor Critic were to class you as a Minor Painter?
Fitzgerald.
For Heaven's sake introduce me to him.
(_Enter Jane, showing in Vane._)
Jane.
Mr. Vane!
(_Exit Jane._)
(_Vane shakes hands languidly with Mrs. Denham and Denham, and
stares at Fitzgerald, who smiles genially._)
Denham.
Ah, Vane, glad to see you.
Vane.
How d'ye do? Ah, Mrs. Denham, that tea-gown is charming.
Mrs. Denham.
Flattery from you, Mr. Vane, is more than flattery. Pray excuse me
for a moment.
(_Exit Mrs. Denham._)
Denham.
Fitzgerald, you know Vane, of course?
Fitzgerald.
Upon my word I scarcely know. _Do_ we know each other, Vane?
Vane.
My dear Fitzgerald, when will you learn that you can never know me?
(_Crosses to picture._)
Fitzgerald.
Then, my dear Vane, I must learn to be resigned. (_Fitzgerald turns
away, and takes up Gyp. Vane looks at the picture._) What's this?
"Autour du Marriage," eh? (_Opens book, and reads, then lies on
sofa, still reading._)
Vane.
Ah, the Brynhild! My dear Denham, why _will_ you do such things?
Denham.
What have I done?
Vane.
Not what you have tried to do--to paint an epic picture.
Denham.
Is that wrong?
Vane.
Worse than wrong; it is a _bêtise_. (_Comes to fire, and stands with
his back to it._) You might as well try to write a long poem. Such
things are certainly _long_, and as certainly not _poems_. That huge
thing is not a picture.
Denham.
Ah, you write quatrains. Should no poem exceed four lines?
Vane.
Not only should not, but in our present state of development,
_cannot_. The quatrain is the analogue of the Greek gem, the
_consummate_ flower of the national art of the period. It will take
at _least_ a century to perfect and exhaust it. Have you seen my
book, "Three Quatrains"?
Denham.
No; have you published it lately?
Vane.
My dear Denham! I never _publish_ anything. In a wilderness of
mediocrity obscurity is fame.
Denham.
Yes, a well-advertised obscurity. But surely you _have_ published
poems?
Vane.
Where have you lived, my dear fellow? I breathe a poem into the air,
and the world hears. If some one prints it, can I help it? One does
not print, wake, and become famous; one becomes famous, and the
world awakes, cackles, and prints one.
Fitzgerald.
By-the-bye, Vane, there's a quatrain in your "In the House of
Hathor" I wanted to ask you about.
Vane.
Which?
Fitzgerald.
Let me see--it begins:
"I saw a serpent in my Lady's heart,"--
Vane.
Ah! spare me the torment of hearing--
Fitzgerald.
Your own lines?
Vane.
_Mur_-dered!
"I saw the serpent of my Lady's heart,
Lovely and leprous; and a violet sigh
Shook the wan, yellowing leaves of threnody,
Bruised in the holy chalice of my Art."
Fitzgerald.
Ah yes! I didn't quite catch the meaning.
Vane.
Meaning? It is a piece of _mu_-sic, in which I have skilfully
e-_lu_-ded ALL _meaning_.
Fitzgerald.
Oh, I see! (_Resumes his book._)
Denham.
(_to Vane_) Have a cigarette? (_Denham offers him a cigarette; he
takes one absently, then lets it drop back into the box._)
Vane.
Thanks, no--I never smoke. It has become so vulgar.
Denham.
Really? What do you do then--_absinthe_?
Vane.
For the purposes of art it is antiquated. (_He sighs._) I have tried
_haschish_.
Denham.
Well?
Vane.
Without distinct results--for one's style, that is.
Denham.
Oh!
Vane.
One sometimes sees oneself inventing the Narghilé. It involves the
black slave, of course, and might lead to a true retrogressive
progress--even to the _Harîm_. One pities the superfluous woman,
there are so many about.
Denham.
Yet Mormonism seems to be a failure.
Vane.
It was so _dreadfully_ upholstered!
Denham.
The _Harîm_ would be a new field for the collector. How prices would
run up!
Vane.
Ah, Denham, never touch a dream with the vulgarity of real things!
(_Crosses to picture._)
(_Fitzgerald, who has been reading Gyp, suddenly comes forward with
the book in his hand, and breaks in._)
Fitzgerald.
This Gyp's _awfully_ good. Who is he, eh?
Vane.
(_with patient scorn_) A woman!
Fitzgerald.
(_with conviction_) To be sure! That makes it--splendid! (_Chuckles
to himself, sits again on sofa, and goes on reading._)
Vane.
(_looking at picture_) Will you never learn to be an _artist_,
Denham? The modern picture should be a painted quatrain, with
colours for words--words which say nothing, because everything has
been said, but which _suggest_ all that has been felt and dreamed.
Art is the initiation into a mood, a mystery--a sphinx whose riddle
every one can answer, yet no one understand.
Fitzgerald.
(_shutting the book on his finger_) Bravo, Vane! 'Pon my word, I
begin to believe in you.
Vane.
I can endure even that.
Denham.
I am on the wrong tack then?
Vane.
My dear fellow, look at that canvas. What a method! You are like an
amateur pianist who tries laboriously to obtain tone, without having
mastered the keyboard. One cannot _blunder_ into great art. Only
Englishmen make the attempt. You are a nation of amateurs. (_He
turns away, and sees a sketch on the_ L _wall_) Did you do
this?
Denham.
My brush did it somehow.
Vane.
Ah! this is exquisite--or would be if you could paint. Why, _why_
not learn the technique of your art, and make these notes of a mood,
a moment, so as to give real delight?
Denham.
Upon my word, Vane, you are right. That sketch is worth a wilderness
of Brynhilds. But look here! (_Crosses to picture. He opens a pocket
knife, and makes a long cut across the figure of Brynhild._) There
goes a year's work.
Fitzgerald.
(_rising_) By Jove!
Vane.
My dear fellow, I congratulate you. The year's work is not thrown
away--now. (_Re-enter Mrs. Denham._)
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, Mr. Vane, what have you made him do?
Vane.
My dear Mrs. Denham, I have saved your husband's reputation for a
few months at least. He cannot do anything so _consummately_ bad in
_less_. Pray, pray, do not try to understand art! Women never can;
they have not yet developed the sixth sense--the sense of _Beauty_.
But I must really tear myself away.
(_Mrs. Denham sits gloomily on throne, ignoring Vane._)
Denham.
Won't you stay and have some tea?
Vane.
Thanks, no. Lady Mayfair made me promise to go and hear her new
tenor. One knows what one has to expect, but one goes.
(_Enter Jane, showing in Miss Macfarlane._)
Jane.
Miss Macfarlane!
(_Miss Macfarlane shakes hands with Mrs. Denham and Denham, and nods
to Fitzgerald and Vane._)
Miss Macfarlane.
How d'ye do, Fitz? Ah, Vane! you here? Don't run away.
Vane.
Unfortunately I must. The wounds of our last encounter are not yet
healed.
Miss Macfarlane.
Pshaw, man! _I_ don't use poisoned weapons.
Vane.
Ah, Miss Macfarlane, the broadsword is very effective in your hands!
(_Going._)
Fitzgerald.
Oh, Vane, will you dine with me at the Bohemians on Friday? I want
you to hear--
Vane.
The Bohemians? Impossible!
Fitzgerald.
You'll see life, at any rate.
Vane.
My dear fellow, I _have_ seen life. _Don't_ ask me to see it again.
It is a painful spectacle. Adieu!
(_Exit._)
Miss Macfarlane.
(_looking at picture_) Why, what's all this?
Mrs. Denham.
Arthur, I shall never forgive you for destroying your picture--just
because that wretched little creature was spiteful about it.
Denham.
Pooh! He wasn't spiteful. He only told me the truth about it, in his
own jargon. I knew it already.
Miss Macfarlane.
Oh, but it's none so bad, my dear boy--if it's a failure, it's a
good wholesome failure. (_Crosses_ L _to fire._)
(_Enter Jane, showing in Mrs. Tremaine._)
Jane.
Mrs. Tremaine! (_Exit Jane._)
Mrs. Denham.
My dear Blanche!
Mrs. Tremaine.
My dear Constance! (_They embrace._)
Mrs. Denham.
My husband, Mrs. Tremaine. Miss Macfarlane, Mr. Fitzgerald. (_She
introduces them._)
Fitzgerald.
(_thrusting the book into his side pocket_) Well, I must run away.
(_Crosses_ C.)
Denham.
Must you go?
Fitzgerald.
Yes--I've--I've a lot of things to do. Good-bye. (_Shakes hands
absently._)
Denham.
Oh, Fitz, I want to show you something. Will you excuse me for a
moment, Mrs. Tremaine?
(_Exeunt Denham and Fitzgerald._)
Mrs. Denham.
Do sit down, and let us have a little quiet talk.
(_They sit down. Mrs. Denham crosses and sits on sofa_ R;
_Mrs. Tremaine on sofa_ L, _and Miss Macfarlane in armchair
by fire, quietly observe each other._)
You are looking splendidly, Blanche.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, I'm in very good form. But you're not looking well--rather
pale, you know.
Mrs. Denham.
I'm a little tired, that's all. I am so glad to see you again. Why
have you quite given me up?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Well, you see, I have been rather making a mess of my life, and I
have not been much in town. Besides, I was a little shy about
coming, after--all my escapades.
Mrs. Denham.
You know I'm not a censorious person, Blanche. I don't think our
conventional morality very admirable, and I never adored the patient
Griselda.
Mrs. Tremaine.
You don't know how I feel your kindness, Constance. I have had a
hard time of it, so far; but now I have taken my life into my own
hands, and I mean to live it out.
Mrs. Denham.
But your husband? You married again, did you not?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes. Fancy a woman making that mistake twice! But, you see, I was in
an equivocal position. I had left my first husband, Miss Macfarlane;
I don't want to conceal my misdeeds.
Miss Macfarlane.
Oh, don't expect paving stones from an old woman like me! I judge
every case on its own merits. I know what men are, though I've been
content to gain my experience at my friends' expense. I tell ye I
know more about the ins and outs of marriages than most married
women, just as the curler on the bank sees most of the game. You
mayn't have been anything worse than a fool, and ye mayn't have been
even that.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Thank you. I was a fool, of course. You see, my first marriage was a
mistake altogether. It was my mother's doing. I knew nothing of
marriage, or love either, for that matter. That came afterwards,
and--all the scandal.
Miss Macfarlane.
And may I ask, young woman, have you run away from your second
husband? You say that marriage was a mistake too.
Mrs. Tremaine.
No; he is dead now.
Miss Macfarlane.
But you don't--(_Looks at her dress._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
No, I don't _afficher_ eternal bereavement. We were separated for
two years.
Mrs. Denham.
Poor Blanche! Then it was not a success?
Mrs. Tremaine.
No; it was not a success.
Miss Macfarlane.
Well, we mustn't ask why?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh, I'm in the humour for confession. I think you can understand. We
got on well enough while I was--free. But he did the chivalrous
thing--asked me to marry him; and I was glad enough to scramble back
to the platform of respectability.
Miss Macfarlane.
Well, I understand that, anyhow.
Mrs. Tremaine.
That seemed to kill the romance, such as it was. I need not go into
the sordid details, but we quarrelled finally about money--my
money. My husband took to gambling in stocks. But I have managed to
keep my little pittance, fortunately. Well, that is enough of my
affairs. Have you any children, Constance?
Mrs. Denham.
One little girl, just nine. Have you any?
Mrs. Tremaine.
No--none.
Miss Macfarlane.
A woman who has had such unpleasant experiences ought to hate and
despise men. But of course _you_ don't?
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_laughing_) No--I don't think I hate men exactly. I despise some
men heartily.
Miss Macfarlane.
They're gey ill to live wi', eh?
Mrs. Tremaine.
I don't think marriage suits me, somehow. I suppose it suits some
people. But I think it often tends to reduce them to a dead level of
commonplace. The artificial bond makes people too sure of each
other. It does not do to take love too much for granted, I think.
(_Re-enter Denham._)
Mrs. Denham.
Well, Arthur, have you got rid of Mr. Fitzgerald?
Denham.
Yes--I'm so glad to have made your acquaintance, Mrs. Tremaine.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Thanks. It is so pleasant meeting unconventional people.
Miss Macfarlane.
(_Rising_) Eh! we've all been getting solemn and lugubrious. I must
be going, my dear. Won't you show me your drawing-room? (_Mrs.
Denham rises._) You wanted my advice about curtains, didn't you?
Mrs. Denham.
Will you excuse me, Blanche? We are refurnishing our drawing-room. I
don't want _you_ to come just yet. Arthur will entertain you.
Denham.
Oh, with pleasure! (_Exeunt Mrs. Denham and Miss Macfarlane._) How
do you think Constance is looking, Mrs. Tremaine? (_Draws chair
over, and sits near her._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
It struck me she was looking rather worn and ill.
Denham.
I'm afraid she is.
Mrs. Tremaine.
She has let herself run down too much. Does she go in for
exercise--tennis or anything?
Denham.
Nothing of the kind, I am sorry to say.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh, I could not live without exercise! I used to ride while I could
afford it, and I always try to do gymnastics or something.
Denham.
I'm sure you're right. Do you intend to stay in town now?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, I hope to get some work. I have enough income to keep me going;
but I want some real employment.
Denham.
Quite right. (_Rises, and puts log of wood on fire, then stands with
tongs in his hand and looks at her; puts down tongs._) Well, until
you get something that suits you, I wish you would give me some
sittings. I'll give you the regular model's wages--a shilling an
hour--no, I'll give you two--two shillings an hour--there!
Mrs. Tremaine.
Thank you, it is a generous offer. I have sat before without the
shillings, and will again with pleasure--if you will promise to talk
to me?
Denham.
I won't promise, but I shall talk all the same. So you have sat
before?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, artists seem to like painting me; I don't know why. I don't
profess to be a beauty.
Denham.
Of course no woman is beautiful; but some women have the art of
persuading you that they are. You have this art.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_laughing_) Really you are very polite. Am I to take that as a
compliment?
Denham.
No, as sincere praise. I am never polite to people I like, and I
like you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Thanks. I like to be liked; and I can forgive your want of
politeness, if you are never more brutally rude than you have been.
I suppose I am to take it as the rudeness of a man of genius?
Denham.
No--like all unsuccessful people who worry themselves over art--I am
only a man of _some_ genius--a very different thing, I assure you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Are _you_ unsuccessful?
Denham.
A man who paints pictures that please only his wife is surely
unsuccessful? But I don't want to bore you with myself. It only
means that I feel we are friends already.
Mrs. Tremaine.
You don't know how pleasant it is to be with people who don't look
upon me as a dreadfully wicked woman.
Denham.
No doubt, like all persons of distinction, you belong to the
criminal classes; but we are all emancipated here.
(_Re-enter Mrs. Denham and Miss Macfarlane, who goes straight to the
fire as she speaks._)
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, Arthur, that precious black cat of yours!
Miss Macfarlane.
We've settled the curtains, now for the cat.
Denham.
What has he been doing now?
Mrs. Denham.
In the larder again. Really that beast must be got rid of. I will
not stand such abominations any longer.
Denham.
Well, don't ask me to be executioner, that's all.
Mrs. Tremaine.
But surely you're not going to kill a black cat? It is awfully
unlucky.
(_Miss Macfarlane keeps Mrs. Tremaine under observation._)
Denham.
Are you superstitious?
Mrs. Tremaine.
I suppose I am. Those peacock feathers made me shiver when I came
in.
Mrs. Denham.
Are peacock's feathers unlucky?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes; didn't you know that?
Mrs. Denham.
No.
Denham.
Constance is not superstitious. It is her worst fault. A little
superstition gives colour to life.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Do let _me_ take the cat, Constance!
Mrs. Denham.
I am sure you are welcome to the beast.
Denham.
Thanks, Mrs. Tremaine.
Mrs. Denham.
Arthur, take Mrs. Tremaine down to have some tea.
Denham.
Will you come, Mrs. Tremaine?
(_Exeunt Denham and Mrs. Tremaine._)
Miss Macfarlane.
(_retaining Mrs. Denham_) My dear, beware of that woman! (_Crosses
to Mrs. Denham._)
Mrs. Denham.
Of Blanche--why?
Miss Macfarlane.
Ye have a husband, that's all.
Mrs. Denham.
But you don't suppose--
Miss Macfarlane.
Eh, I suppose nothing. But that woman loves men. I can see it with
half an eye.
Mrs. Denham.
If my husband does not love me, let him leave me. (_Crosses
C._)
Miss Macfarlane.
Fiddlesticks, my dear; don't go in for heroics. Of course he loves
you. Does it follow he can't love another woman into the bargain?
They think they can, at any rate.
Mrs. Denham.
I don't care for such love.
Miss Macfarlane.
Of course not. But in this world we must make sure of what we can
grab; and then we can grab a bit more, and a bit more, maybe.
Mrs. Denham.
I can trust my husband.
Miss Macfarlane.
(_coming to Mrs. Denham_) Right; but don't trust him into
temptation. Mind you, she's charming. Men haven't been flogged into
constancy, as we have. Remember that. I'm not old-maidish, my dear,
though I've escaped holy matrimony. I don't profess hatred of men,
they're none so much worse than we are; but they're different,
and--pardon my strong language--they're damnably brought up. (_They
go up stage towards door._) Beware of that woman, I tell ye. Don't
let her get a footing here. And now, give me some tea.
ACT DROP.