The Black Cat by John Todhunter (drm ebook reader .txt) 📖

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. Act II.

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