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

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