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

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: