The Black Cat by John Todhunter (uplifting books for women .TXT) 📕

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.