_Scene: The Studio. Denham discovered at easel near the front
R, a small table with colours, etc., beside him, painting
Mrs. Tremaine, in a black evening dress. She sits in a chair upon
the "throne" a piece of tapestry behind her, up the stage
L. Oak table against L wall, above fireplace._
Denham.
Head a little more up. No, I don't want you like that.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Come and pose me then.
Denham.
All right. (_He poses her, then goes back to the easel._) By Jove!
this is getting serious. This is the best thing I have done.
Mrs. Tremaine.
So you say of them all. This is the third attempt. How many more do
you intend to make?
Denham.
Oh, I don't know! I should like to go on as long as I could make
headway. (_He paints in silence for some time._) There, I am getting
something I never got before--the real woman at last.
Mrs. Tremaine.
May I see?
Denham.
For Heaven's sake, don't stir! (_Paints again._) Blanche!
Mrs. Tremaine.
Well?
Denham.
Do you know I was a fool, to say you were not beautiful?
Mrs. Tremaine.
You only spoke the truth.
Denham.
It is a higher truth to say you are; and you seem to have grown
_more_ beautiful this last month.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh, I am happier now!
Denham.
Happier?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes. You don't know what an oasis this studio has been to me. I
shall be sorry to go back to the desert.
Denham.
Well, I never had a better model. I have learnt a lot since I began
to paint you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
I am so glad if I have been of any use. Have you ever painted
Constance?
Denham.
I have tried; but she's a fidgety sitter, and always looks like an
incarnation of despair. (_He approaches her._) May I arrange these
folds a little?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Certainly.
Denham.
(_arranging skirt of dress_) That will do. The fan so--head a
_little_ more to the left--so. (_He goes back, and paints in silence
again._) This is coming splendidly. I dare not do much more to the
head.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Can you finish it to-day?
Denham.
As much as I can finish anything. (_Paints again in silence._) I
wish Constance had some of your reposeful quality. I can't think
what ails her. She gets more irritable and pessimistic every day.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Perhaps you irritate her.
Denham.
I? But, good heavens!--(_Stops painting, and looks at her._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, I know. You think you are very patient, while you treat her
with a--what shall I say?--a sort of contemptuous respect.
Denham.
Really? I am sorry if it seems so. I wish I could rouse her out of
the slough of despond.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Perhaps she is disappointed?
Denham.
We are all disappointed. It is the niggardliness of Nature--the old
woman in the shoe. (_Paints again in silence._) Do you believe in
love, Blanche? Still?
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_sighing_) Yes, I think I do. There is not very much else left for
one to believe in, nowadays.
Denham.
So do I--as a dream.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Ah! You are the pessimist now.
Denham.
Why make mad efforts to realise it?
Mrs. Tremaine.
A necessity of our nature, I suppose.
Denham.
What does the modern woman desire or expect from a man? You are sick
of marriage, it seems.
Mrs. Tremaine.
As it exists--yes.
Denham.
Well, the instinctive _amourette_ had its poetry--in Arcadia. Keep
your hands quiet a moment.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Let me warm them first. Remember we are in the grip of a London
May.
Denham.
All right--come. (_She comes over to the picture. He stops her._)
No, you must not look yet.
Mrs. Tremaine.
You have become quite a tyrant, do you know?
(_She goes to the fire._)
Denham.
(_taking her hands_) Cold? Yes; I have kept you too long. You have
such good hands! I wish I could paint them.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_kneels at fire, and warms her hands_) One more chance!
Denham.
I shall make the most of it. Well, but what do you want? A
friendship, passionate and Platonic? Why, it takes all the tyranny
of a strong man like Swift to keep instinct within bounds. The
victory killed Stella and Vanessa.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh, we are more rational now! Then, there were two of them; that was
the difficulty there.
Denham.
Yes, there were two of them. Except in a desert island, there is
always a danger of that.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Why are men so inconstant?
Denham.
Why are women so charming--and unsatisfactory? We deceive ourselves,
and are deceived, just like you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
You amuse yourselves, and we pay.
Denham.
It is the will of God--of Nature, I should say. She is an artist;
but as for her morality--
Mrs. Tremaine.
One can't say much for that.
Denham.
Art is Nature's final aim. Love is the Art of Arts, and Art is long.
Mrs. Tremaine.
But could you not be a _little_ more constant, if you tried?
Denham.
Oh, _we_ can resist temptation, when we are not tempted--just like
women.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Your _capacity_ for temptation is wonderful.
Denham.
Yes. _We_ know our own frailty, _you_ never quite realise yours.
Mrs. Tremaine.
What has made you so cynical?
Denham.
The bitterness of life. Are your hands warm yet? (_Takes her
hands._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, I can go back now.
(_She goes back to the "throne." He poses her, and returns to the
easel._)
Denham.
(_painting again_) Marriage must certainly be modified. A woman
should have some honourable way of escape, when her husband gets
tired of her.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_laughing_) How delicately you put it! But the wife? If you had to
bear all you so chivalrously inflict on us in "honourable" marriage,
I wonder how many marriages there would be?
Denham.
Instinct would be too strong for us still. But we should outscheme
Nature. We should invent. What has a woman ever invented since the
beginning of the world? Well, you can easily rail us out of
marriage. How will you live then?
Mrs. Tremaine.
As we are trying to live now.
Denham.
I believe woman's great ambition is to do all the work of the world,
and maintain man in idleness.
Mrs. Tremaine.
That would be awful! You would all be artists and minor poets then.
Denham.
You, I believe, prefer "the Free Union," as it is called, to
marriage?
Mrs. Tremaine.
If it were practicable.
Denham.
Ah yes! We can't live innocently and comfortably in "open sin,"
until the kingdom of heaven comes.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_laughing_) No, I fear there are still difficulties. But, after
all, one can do--well, almost anything; if one does it from
conscientious motives--and knows one's way about.
Denham.
Yes. And how charming the relationship might be made! Women would
really study the art of keeping a lover. But what, in Heaven's name,
is the sympathetic modern man to do, who feels that to love one of
these creatures of a finer clay, in his rough masculine fashion, is
to "insult," or "enslave," or injure her, in one way or another? "I
love you, therefore God forbid I should marry you!"--that is the
newest gospel.
Mrs. Tremaine.
We are not all such miserable creatures as you imagine. Treat us
decently well, and we can stand a good deal, without whining like
men--poor persecuted saints!
Denham.
It is quite impossible to treat you well in this "imperfect
dispensation." Bah! let us talk of something else.
(_Enter Mrs. Denham, dressed to go out._)
Mrs. Denham.
This letter has come for you, Blanche, sent on from your house.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Thanks so much. I have been expecting it. Will you excuse me?
(_Opens letter and reads._)
Mrs. Denham.
I am sorry to interrupt you, Arthur, but I am just going out. Can
you give me a cheque?
Denham.
Certainly. But first look at this.
Mrs. Denham.
(_looks at the picture_) Better, I think.
Denham.
Eyes too big now?
Mrs. Denham.
No, not now. Let me have the cheque, and I will go.
(_Denham crosses in front of easel to table, takes cheque book from
a drawer in the table, and writes. Mrs. Tremaine rises and crosses
C._)
Denham.
Is that all you have to say?
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, my opinion is of no value! I think you have improved; but, you
know, I like your ideal work best.
Denham.
This is miles ahead of anything I have done.
Mrs. Denham.
Perhaps--as a piece of painting.
Denham.
I am finding my way at last. Here is the cheque.
Mrs. Denham.
(_crosses L, takes cheque, and crosses C_) You
will stay to dinner, Blanche, of course?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Thanks very much, but I can't possibly.
Denham.
I am so sorry, but why?
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_waving the letter, crosses in front of easel, and goes down
R_) Work, work! I have got an engagement.
Mrs. Denham.
I congratulate you.
Denham.
But what is it? You have never told us what you have been working at
in secret.
Mrs. Tremaine.
No. It might have come to nothing. I am to sing three songs at a
private concert.
Denham.
A good house?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Capital--and good people to hear me. I may choose my own songs,
Italian, German, or English. I have a fortnight to prepare, and I am
to be _paid_!
Denham.
Brava!
Mrs. Denham.
You are not going just yet?
Mrs. Tremaine.
No, not immediately. (_Crosses to "throne" and sits again. Denham
follows her._)
Mrs. Denham.
We shall meet again then. Good-bye!
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_as Denham arranges her skirt_) _A bientôt!_
(_Exit Mrs. Denham. Denham begins to paint._)
Denham.
Well, you mysterious creature, I think you have chosen your
profession well. Your voice is lovely, and your style--well, not bad
in these days of execrable singing.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Do you know, it was your praise that made me think seriously of
this?
Denham.
(_absorbed in painting_) Really? But why would you never sing to me
since that evening?
Mrs. Tremaine.
I have been working so hard; I wanted to surprise you.
Denham.
And now you will?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Perhaps--some time. (_A pause, Denham painting in silence._)
Denham.
Come down and look at this thing now. I can do no more to it.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_comes over to the easel, Denham puts down brush and palette_) But
this is splendid!
Denham.
(_taking pipe_) Better, isn't it? (_Crosses L, to table,
and strikes a match._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh _yes_! But how you _have_ flattered me! I shall be reduced to a
proper humility when I look in the glass. (_Turns and glances at
mirror, then again at picture._)
Denham.
Never mind the glass. That's how I see you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_crosses C and drops him a curtsey_) Thank you, sir. An
uncynical compliment at last!
Denham.
(_bowing_) 'Tis but your due, madam, I protest. Come, sit down, and
let us be lazy. (_Pushes armchair round for Mrs. Tremaine, takes
chair from "throne" and sits near her._) We have worked very hard.
Do you ever go to the theatre?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Sometimes.
Denham.
Does it amuse you?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh yes! I like a good three act farce.
Denham.
So do I. But our serious plays are amusing in a deeper way--now that
we have begun timidly to scratch the surface of things. I wonder, if
you and I were put on the stage, what they would say of us?
Mrs. Tremaine.
But there is nothing to make a play about in _us_.
Denham.
They would certainly say there was "no situation," though perhaps--
Mrs. Tremaine.
What _is_ a situation?
Denham.
Oh, you know--something threadbare, the outraged husband driving his
erring wife about the stage--all that sort of thing.
Mrs. Tremaine.
I love an outraged husband; they are so magnificently moral!
Denham.
Unfortunately I am on no such pinnacle. (_Rises._) I can only humbly
ask you, when will you sit again?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh, now that you have painted that masterpiece, I must resign the
privilege of being your model.
Denham.
That is unkind of you, Blanche. But why? (_Puts his pipe down._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
You can't go on painting _me_ for ever.
Denham.
I _shall_ go on painting you for ever. But you will surely give me
an occasional sitting?
Mrs. Tremaine.
No; I must be stern. (_Rises and crosses C._) I must work
seriously now.
Denham.
At least you'll come and see us? You'll come and sing the savageness
out of this bear?
Mrs. Tremaine.
No; I must go back into the desert.
Denham.
Seriously?
Mrs. Tremaine. Yes.
Denham.
I knew it must come to an end, Blanche. (_Crosses C._)
Well, we have had a good time.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes. It has been pleasant here.
Denham.
You have been my good genius. Do you know, I was getting sick of it
all before you came?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Sick of what?
Denham.
Of myself, of art, of life.
Mrs. Tremaine.
That was foolish. I am glad if I have reconciled you to existence.
Denham.
You have made me alive again, opened a door to new possibilities,
let me out into the sunshine.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Well, don't go back into the shadow. (_Taking her hat, she goes
towards mirror._)
Denham.
No. I will go forward.
Mrs. Tremaine.
That is right; and now I must go. (_About to take cloak._)
Denham.
No, you must not go yet. Come and sit upon your throne once more.
(_Mrs. Tremaine stops._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
But you are not going to paint again?
Denham.
No. I only want to look at you. Do grant me this last grace! (_He
replaces chair on "throne."_)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_puts down hat, and crosses L_) Really you are too absurd!
(_She sits on the "throne."_)
Denham.
(_crosses C_) Thanks. And now I want you to read something.
(_Goes to table and takes paper from drawer._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
What must I read?
Denham.
This sonnet.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Your own?
Denham.
Mine--and yours. Read it aloud.
Mrs. Tremaine.
I did not know you were a poet.
Denham.
Every man is a poet once in his life. You have made me one. (_He
sits at her feet on the "throne."_)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_Reads_):
TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.
(_Looks down at him and smiles._)
Some women are Love's toys, kiss'd and flung by,
Some his pale martyrs: thou art womanhood,
Superbly symbol'd in rare flesh and blood.
Eternal Beauty, she for whom we sigh,
Dowers thee with her own eternity;
Thou art Love's sibyl: in proud solitude
O'er his old mysteries thy deep eyes brood,
And at thy feet his rich dominions lie.
Hast thou a heart? Let me desire it still.
Torture my heart to life with thy disdain;
Yet smile, give me immortal dreams, still be
My Muse, my inspiration, vision, will!
I ask no pity, I demand but pain:
And if I love thee, what is that to thee?
It sounds very well; but I'm afraid I don't quite understand it.
Denham.
That is the highest praise you could give it; if it be
unintelligible it _must_ be fine. It means "_mes hommages_!"
(_Kisses her hand._) And now come down! (_He hands her down from the
"throne"._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_with a shy laugh, crosses_ R) But you don't mean to say
that you have said all those fine words about me?
Denham.
Yes--_to_ you, Blanche. I love you. What is that to you? (_Comes
down to fire._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
It is very flattering, no doubt, to be made love to in pretty
verses. (_With a mocking smile._) Is this your "situation" at last?
Denham.
Yes, it is a situation.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_sharply_) Oh, I see! I am to be a sort of lay figure for your
poetry, as well as your painting; the Laura of this new Petrarch.
Thank you! (_She bows with a little laugh._)
Denham.
I love you, Blanche, I love you!
Mrs. Tremaine.
Say it in verse as much as you like. It does not sound nice in
prose. Don't let us make fools of ourselves, Mr. Denham.
Denham.
We can't avoid it, Mrs. Tremaine. To do it with dignity is all that
can be expected of us.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_with increased vexation_) That's impossible. (_Crosses_ R, _and
takes cloak._) Don't let us spoil a pleasant friendship with nonsense
of this kind. Let me keep that--and your sonnet--and good-bye!
(_She comes down to_ L C. _Denham takes her cloak and puts
it on her, keeping his hands on her shoulders._)
Denham.
As you please. Call it friendship, or anything you like. To me it is
new life. You have simply taken possession of me from the
first--imagination, heart, soul, everything. I live in you, I see
your face, I hear your voice, I speak to you when you are absent,
just as if you were present. I call you aloud by your name--Blanche,
Blanche!
(_She starts away from him, and the cloak remains in his hands._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Hush, hush, Mr. Denham! I ought not to listen to such words from
you. I never dreamed--
Denham.
(_throwing cloak over back of sofa_) I know, I know. Women never do;
they go on their way like blindfold fates. Is there such a thing as
a magnetic attraction--affinity? I never believed in it till I saw
you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_laughs nervously_) With how little ingenuity men make love!
Denham.
Don't laugh at my raving, you cruel Blanche! I know it sounds as
foolish as a schoolboy's valentine; but it is as sincere--and
inadequate. Words are stupid things. (_He takes her hands, and looks
in her face._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Do let us part friends. If you are in earnest, you must know this is
wicked as well as foolish.
Denham.
Yes, it is always wicked to snatch a moment's supreme happiness in
this world. _If_ I am in earnest! You know I am in earnest! (_He
strokes her hair, then, as she turns away, he puts his arm round her
waist and draws her to him._) Blanche, my beautiful Blanche! I did
not mean to say all this, but it was too strong for me.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Let me go, Mr. Denham!
Denham.
(_releasing her_) Well, go! (_Crosses L._) Go, if you can!
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_angrily_) I can and will. (_Turns to take her cloak._)
Denham.
Do you know, Blanche, I thought you loved me?
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_turning sharply_) Then you were more foolish than I thought.
(_Softening._) Perhaps I was to blame, but I meant nothing wrong.
Denham.
Oh, I acquit you completely! We drifted--that was all. Jest
sometimes turns to earnest. Well, go--go with those tears in your
eyes. There is nothing worth crying about--more than is becoming.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Don't say unkind things to me. I can't bear them, though I suppose I
deserve them. I liked you, and your admiration flattered my vanity;
and I suppose I may have made you think I cared more for you than--I
did.
Denham.
Well, you don't love me. What does it matter? _I_ love _you_; that
is the important thing to me. I thank you for that eternal
possession. Let it be a dream, austere and pure. Passion has its own
ascetic cell, where it can fast and scourge itself. I ask you for
nothing, Blanche. I am yours wholly. Do what you like with me.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Go back to your wife.
Denham.
Yes--my poor Constance! Well, Blanche, at least you and I can't
utterly spoil each other's lives. We can't _marry_ each other.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Don't say any more. Let us forget all this.
Denham.
Forget? No. But we must renounce. You, too, will wear the sackcloth.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_petulantly_) Why should _I_ wear sackcloth?
Denham.
My dear Blanche, you are not such a fine coquette as you imagine.
(_Going close up to her._) Do you think I can't read those beautiful
eyes of yours? You love me! Your love fills the air like the
fragrance of a flower. (_He clasps her in his arms._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_impatiently_) Suppose I did. _Après?_
Denham.
You do love me, Blanche? (_Kisses her._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_with inward rage_) Yes, I love you. (_Suddenly embracing him._) I
love you! What does it matter?
Denham.
Oh, it is the eternal tragedy! We must renounce.
(_Half releasing her._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Why must we renounce? Now that you have gone so far, why turn back?
Denham.
(_releasing her_) It is the least of evils. How should I hide you
from the world's vile slanders? Let us keep our dream unsullied.
(_Crosses_ L.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
I have been through the fire already, and could face it again--for a
man I loved, and who loved me.
Denham.
But it would scorch you worse than before. Then, Constance!
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_with scorn_) Ay, Constance! You ought to have thought of her
before. (_Passionately._) Why have you spoken to me? Why have you
compelled _me_ to speak, if you are not bold enough to break the
bonds that are strangling you?
Denham.
Because I must. Don't tempt me, Blanche. We shall sometimes meet,
look in each other's eyes, and keep our secret. It is best so. I
love you so much that I would save you from yourself.
Mrs. Tremaine.
I don't understand such love. (_Turns away_ R.)
Denham.
Women never do. They prefer being treated like dogs. Is it nothing
that we have met heart to heart for one sweet moment, that you have
rested a moment in my arms? To me it is a glimpse of the
unattainable heaven of love. (_Going up to her._) Kiss me once,
Blanche, and farewell!
Mrs. Tremaine.
It must be for ever, then.
(_They kiss, and remain clasped in each other's arms._)
(_Enter Mrs. Denham suddenly._)
Mrs. Denham.
Arthur! Oh, I see, I am in the way! (_She is about to retire._)
Denham.
(_coming forward_) No; come in, Constance. Blanche is going away.
(_Crosses_ L.)
Mrs. Denham.
Indeed! I must apologise for interrupting a very pretty parting
scene. Had I not better retire until your interesting _tête-à-tête_
is over?
Denham.
There is no necessity. It is over.
Mrs. Denham.
(_coming down_ C) Then may I ask for an explanation
of--what I have unintentionally seen?
Denham.
Certainly. You have a right to ask anything you please.
Mrs. Denham.
Well?
Denham.
We have had our fit of madness. Now we are sane, and Blanche is
going away. That is all. (_Goes to table_ L.)
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, indeed! Arthur, Arthur, I trusted in your love, and you have
betrayed me. You love this woman!
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_coming down_) Let _me_ speak, Constance. If there be a fault or a
folly in the matter, it is mine. You hate me; you have cause. I
have--been vain and selfish. I thought, like many another woman, I
could play with temptation--
Mrs. Denham.
(_with fierce scorn_) And with your experience, too!
Mrs. Tremaine.
I know my own weakness now. But I am going away, Constance--going
away out of your lives for ever. If I have sinned, I can expiate.
Mrs. Denham.
Expiate! A fine word, with which we drug our consciences. You have
treated me basely, cruelly, treacherously, and you _will expiate_! A
common thief can at least make restitution. Can you do that? You are
going away, taking my husband's heart with you. Can you give me that
back? I would rather you had stabbed me--killed me with one merciful
stroke.
Mrs. Tremaine.
No, I am taking nothing with me--nothing but my own folly. I have
been the toy of your husband's imagination, that is all. To him this
has been nothing more than a passing flirtation.
Mrs. Denham.
You love him, and he loves you. Don't palter with the truth.
(_Crosses_ L.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, I love him; but he does _not_ love me. If either of us have
cause for jealousy, it is not you.
Mrs. Denham.
(_laughing bitterly_) You jealous of me? You dare to say this?
(_Moves towards door._)
Denham.
For God's sake, Constance, don't let us lose our heads! Let us be
just to each other. This was our fate. Call it our fault, if you
will. We have been in the grip of a strong temptation; but we have
given each other up.
(_Mrs. Tremaine puts on her hat, cloak, and gloves._)
Mrs. Denham.
(_coming back_ C) Given each other up! Do you think you can
satisfy _me_ with such phrases? I am to be your faithful wife, I
suppose; content with whatever poor shreds of affection you choose
to dole out to me, while all your thoughts are with another woman.
It would have been more straightforward, (_with withering contempt_)
I won't say more _manly_, to have told me plainly: "I cannot love
you, therefore I must leave you." But this intrigue behind my back
is despicable--despicable!
Denham.
(_pacing about angrily_) Intrigue! Yes, of course. You always knew
the value of an ugly word. (_Restraining himself._) Otherwise you
have put the abstract morality of the thing admirably. But I am
unprincipled enough not to want to desert my wife and child, merely
because I love another woman.
Mrs. Denham.
Oh yes, compromise, compromise, the god that men worship! Go to your
mistress, if she will have you. I renounce you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_laughing bitterly_) Excuse me, but our little comedy is played
out. I am out of the story. (_Exit._)
Denham.
(_crosses up to door_) Stay, Blanche! You must not go like this. One
moment, Constance.
(_Exit, following Mrs. Tremaine._)
Mrs. Denham.
(_flinging herself down on the sofa_) My God! my God! what am I to
do? How am I to live? I cannot stay in this house with a man who no
longer loves me. Oh, if _she_ had not come between us! Yes, yes! A
pretty face and a little flattery outweighs a life's devotion. Oh,
it is hard, it is hard!
(_A pause. Then enter Undine._)
Undine.
Mother! Are you sick?
Mrs. Denham.
No, dear. I have a headache, that's all.
Undine.
I'm sorry, mother. (_Kisses her._)
Mrs. Denham.
(_clasping her in her arms_) Well, what does my little girl want
now?
Undine.
May I go and play with Maude and Bertie after school to-morrow, and
stay to tea?
Mrs. Denham.
You may go and play; but you know I cannot let you stay to tea.
Undine.
Oh, but why? They want me to stay to tea.
Mrs. Denham.
You know you broke your promise the last time, and stayed without
leave.
Undine.
But I forgot--I really did.
Mrs. Denham.
You must be taught not to forget. Now I'll give you one more chance.
You may go and play, but you _must_ come back to tea. Promise me
that you will.
Undine.
Well, I promise. But it's very hard to remember promises, when you
want to do a thing very much.
Mrs. Denham.
Yes; but you must learn to be trustworthy. Now run away. (_Exit
Undine._)
The child hates me, I know. I suppose I must expect nothing but
dislike and contempt. She is her father's child. I wish I had died
long ago. (_Crosses_ R, _and sits by table._)
(_A pause, then re-enter Denham._)
Denham.
Well, Blanche is gone.
Mrs. Denham.
(_listlessly_) Indeed!
Denham.
(_seating himself_) To the advanced moralist, I know I am an object
of contempt. I can't help that.
Mrs. Denham.
(_rising_) If you have come here to insult me with sneering
speeches, I will go. (_Crosses_ C _up stage._)
Denham.
Let us leave this tone of falsetto, Constance, and speak seriously
to each other. I have come to you for help in this crisis of our
lives. Sit down. (_Gives her a chair._)
Mrs. Denham.
(_sitting_) To me! That is very magnanimous.
Denham.
No. You are the only friend I have.
Mrs. Denham.
Well?
Denham.
You bid me desert the nest?
Mrs. Denham.
Since it is cold.
Denham.
Is it so cold?
Mrs. Denham.
Need you ask? (_Shivers._) If you do not quit it, I will.
Denham.
I have no doubt you will do what you think right. The question is,
what _is_ right? (_Rises, and looks at her._)
Mrs. Denham.
(_looking away from him_) You have always held yourself aloof from
me. All my love has been powerless to gain an entrance into your
heart. Now it is too late. I give up the useless struggle.
(_Crosses_ L, _and sits in armchair crouching over fire._)
Denham.
(_passionately_) Held myself aloof! Good God! is that my fault? You
want something that you can neither excite nor reciprocate. (_With a
sudden change of manner._) No--it was my own dulness of heart. My
poor Constance! This has been a revelation for us both. But you
don't know how I have tried to conform to your ideals--to spare you
in every possible way.
Mrs. Denham.
(_bitterly_) Yes, you have been very patient, very forbearing, no
doubt. It is better to kill a woman than to tolerate her.
Denham.
You did not always think so. You wanted love in the form of an
unselfish intellectual friendship. Well, I have tried to love you
unselfishly, God knows! It is an impossible basis for marriage.
However, we _are_ married. May we not at least be friends? (_Comes
and stands by her chair._) Do you think marriage exists for the sake
of ideal love? What about Undine?
Mrs. Denham.
I presume you will provide for your daughter?
Denham.
Is she not yours too?
Mrs. Denham.
She loves you; she does not love me. I suppose I don't deserve it. I
know you think I have been a bad wife, a bad mother. I am better out
of your way. (_Weeps._)
Denham.
This is morbid. Oh, if I could have cured you! Constance! (_He
caresses her hair._)
Mrs. Denham.
Don't touch me! It is an insult.
Denham.
(_sighing_) I suppose I have lost the right of comforting you.
(_Crosses_ R.)
Mrs. Denham.
I don't want your pity. (_Rises._)
Denham.
Perhaps I want yours.
Mrs. Denham.
(_indignantly_) Suppose _you_ had caught _me_ in a low intrigue, and
I had dared to speak to you as you have spoken to me--without so
much as a word that implied sorrow or repentance, what would you say
to me?
Denham.
I would ask your forgiveness humbly enough if that were of any use.
It isn't, I know. Sins that are instinctive, not of malice, lie too
deep for forgiveness.
Mrs. Denham.
A fine aphorism, no doubt. How does it apply?
Denham.
You can't forgive insults that were not intended, and a "low
intrigue" which was only a mad, selfish leap for life. Let us part
then, if you please. We missed our moment for passion long ago, if
that is what you want.
Mrs. Denham.
My want aches deeper. Well, you love another woman. Go to her. Let
her make you happy if she can.
Denham.
Why should I go to her? I love her as a dream; let me keep her as a
dream. Why should I spoil her life as I have spoiled yours?
Mrs. Denham.
You could not spoil her life as you have spoiled mine, if you love
her.
Denham.
(_half to himself as he comes down stage_ R) It is a
magnificent temptation. To give one's passion its full reckless
swing, to feel the blood bounding in one's veins--
Mrs. Denham.
Why not? And leave the woman to pay.
Denham.
(_with a reckless bitterness_) Yes, that's the devil of it. You have
put me out of conceit with love. Your chamber of horrors haunts my
imagination. If a woman could give us all she promises, we should be
like gods. But she can't. Why should we worry about it? Why ask for
cakes and ale, when sermons and soda-water are so much better for
us?
Mrs. Denham.
You never loved me. Your cakes and ale are no concern of mine.
(_Crosses to table. Knock at door._) Come in!
(_Enter Jane, showing in Miss Macfarlane._)
Jane.
Miss Macfarlane!
(_Exit._)
Miss Macfarlane.
Well, my dear, how are you all? Eh! but what's the matter now? (_She
looks from one to the other._) Mrs. Tremaine, I suppose?
Denham.
Mrs. Tremaine has gone away--back to the desert, as she says.
Miss Macfarlane.
And high time for her, too. Upon my word, I should like to give that
fascinating person a bit of my mind.
Denham.
And me too, I am sure.
Miss Macfarlane.
Well, as you ask me, Mr. Denham, I think your conduct in bringing
that woman into the house, and carrying on a flirtation with her
under your wife's eyes, was simply abominable. It was an insult to
Constance. Did ye ever consider that? It was not the conduct of a
gentleman!
Denham.
No, a gentleman should throw a decent veil of secrecy over
his--flirtations. But, you see, if I had done that, I should have
been a hypocrite; now I'm only a brute.
Miss Macfarlane.
Oh, my dear boy, don't be a brute, and then you needn't be a
hypocrite. There's the way out of that.
Denham.
It is a narrow way.
Miss Macfarlane.
If ye can't have good morals, at least have good manners. (_Crosses
L._)
Denham.
Oh, good manners are becoming obsolete. They are too much trouble
for this Bohemian age. Ladies and gentlemen went out with gold
snuffboxes and hooped petticoats; we are trying to be men and women
now, frankly and brutally.
Miss Macfarlane.
Eh! and I suppose ye thought ye were learning to be a man by playing
at Adam and Eve with Mrs. Tremaine?
Denham.
(_crosses_ R) We drifted, we drifted.
Miss Macfarlane.
A man has no _right_ to _drift_, Mr. Denham. Ye have to look before
ye, and pick your steps in this world; at any rate, when other
people are hurt by your slips. An irresponsible animal isn't a man.
Denham.
I wish we had a Court of Love, Miss Macfarlane, with you for
President. But, if you'll excuse me, I shall leave you with
Constance now. I know she would like to speak to you.
(_Exit._)
Miss Macfarlane.
Well, my dear, what is it? You see I claim the privilege of an old
friend.
Mrs. Denham.
I can bear my burden alone, Miss Macfarlane. (_Crosses_ C.)
Miss Macfarlane.
Of course you can, my dear. But there's no harm in a little honest
sympathy.
Mrs. Denham.
(_sobbing and embracing her_) Oh, I beg your pardon! But I am so
miserable, so miserable!
Miss Macfarlane.
There, there--that's right. (_Leads Mrs. Denham to sofa._) And now
you can tell me or not, just as you like.
Mrs. Denham.
What is there to tell? It is all over--that is all. (_She sits down,
weeping._)
Miss Macfarlane.
But what's all over? We sometimes think things are all over, when
they're only beginning. A thunderstorm's not the Day of Judgment. It
clears the air.
Mrs. Denham.
This _is_ the Day of Judgment for me. I am weighed in the balance
and found wanting. I wish I were dead.
Miss Macfarlane.
Nonsense, dear; you're no failure. But I'll tell ye what the two of
you are--a pair of fools; that's what you are. You should have put
your foot down, my dear. _She_ was the Black Cat you ought to have
got rid of, and nipped this business in the bud. I don't know how
far it has gone. Does he want to run away with her?
Mrs. Denham.
No; he professes to have given her up.
Miss Macfarlane.
Then he's none such a fool, after all. That woman would have led him
a pretty dance!
Mrs. Denham.
He loves her--let him go to her. (_Rises and crosses_ L.
_Stopped by Miss Macfarlane._)
Miss Macfarlane.
Fiddlesticks, my dear! Don't force him into her arms. Mind you, he
has vowed to cherish you as well as to love you; and how can he do
that if you drive him away? Do ye remember one of his misquotations
from Byron:
"Man's love is from his life a thing apart,
'Tis woman's main subsistence?"
There's truth in that.
Mrs. Denham.
Men make love, like everything else, a mere _game_.
Miss Macfarlane.
Ay, you're right there. But until _we_ hold the purse strings, it's
hard to keep them to the strict rules o' the game.
Mrs. Denham.
That is a vile injustice! I may not be able to fight on equal terms,
but I will never submit. If he does not go, I will. (_Crosses_
R.)
Miss Macfarlane.
Don't wreck your lives for a man's passing fancy. If that's your new
morality, I prefer the old. Don't turn this comedy into a tragedy.
That's all very well on the stage, but we're not acting an Ibsen
play; it doesn't pay in real life.
Mrs. Denham.
A good tragedy is better than a bad comedy.
Miss Macfarlane.
Come to your room, my dear. Have your cry out, sponge your eyes, and
we'll have a quiet talk.
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, this sense of failure! It will drive me mad!
ACT DROP.