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

you tell me that before? (Rises, and moves to and fro.) Oh, what have I done? What have I done?

Denham.

We must look for her. Some one may have seen her. Wait a moment. (He opens the door, and meets Fitzgerald, who comes in smiling.) Fitzgerald!

Fitzgerald.

(coming down to back of sofa) Well, I've brought you back your little waif, Mrs. Denham.

Mrs. Denham.

Undine?

Fitzgerald.

Ay, Undine!

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, I am so thankful! But where is she?

Fitzgerald.

Well, I left her below, having some milk or something. She seemed quite done up—excitement or something—eh?

Denham.

Where did you meet her, Fitz?

Fitzgerald.

I was going to my studio, and I met—met her running along the road with—with a little white scared face, and no hat on her—and her curls flying behind her—an'—an'—'pon my word, I could hardly stop her But we met a little girl with a goat, an' we stroked the goat—eh, stroked the goat—an' that comforted her a bit.

Mrs. Denham.

But where was she going?

Fitzgerald.

Oh, that's the cream o' the joke! I had a great piece of work to get out of her what ailed her, an'—an'—would you believe it?—that Undine of yours—that Undine of yours was going back to her native element. The—the mite was looking for the Thames, to drown herself!

Mrs. Denham.

To drown herself?

Fitzgerald.

Ay. She told me, "Mother said—said she was too wicked to live—an' she—she didn't want her any more." By Jove! Mrs. Denham, you must be careful what you say to that imp. She'll take you at your word—eh?

Mrs. Denham.

How can we ever thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald?

Denham.

Well, we can laugh at it now; but it was rather a ghastly bit of tragi-comedy. A thousand thanks, Fitz, old fellow!

Fitzgerald.

Well, I hope she's none the worse for it. I carried her home on my back; an' I can tell you her heart was beating like—like the heart of a hunted mouse. I must be off, Arthur; I have a model coming. You'll bring the drawing round, eh? I must have it by five o'clock.

Denham.

I have about ten minutes' work on the background—the figures are all right. I'll bring it round just now.

Fitzgerald.

All right. Good-bye. (Shakes hands, and exit.)

Denham.

Stay here, Constance. I'll bring the child to you.

(Exit, following Fitzgerald.)

Mrs. Denham.

Undine, my little Undine! Have I been a bad mother to you? And I have tried to do right. Oh, how I have tried! All in vain—all in vain. (Paces up and down, then sits listlessly on the sofa.) Utter wreck! Utter wreck! Utter failure in everything!

(Re-enter Denham, with Undine. Mrs. Denham starts up.)

Denham.

Here's our little truant come back to mother.

(Undine comes down the stage slowly, looking dazed. Mrs. Denham embraces the child passionately.)

Mrs. Denham.

My little Undine! My little girl! Did she think mother wanted to get rid of her?

Undine.

(with sorrowful indignation) You said you wished I was dead, and I thought you didn't want me any more. I thought perhaps you were going to kill me with a knife, like Medea, and I didn't like that. I thought the river would be kinder.

Mrs. Denham.

That was foolish, Undine. Mother would not kill her own little girl.

(Sits down on sofa with Undine. Denham shrugs his shoulders, and sits down at the table to work at his drawing.)

Undine.

But I thought you meant what you said. You oughtn't to say what you don't mean, mother.

Mrs. Denham.

No, my darling, I ought not. But I was angry with you for being disobedient, and I suppose I said more than I meant. I don't remember, Arthur, I don't remember what I said.

Denham.

I quite understand that, dear.

Mrs. Denham.

Will my little girl forgive mother?

Undine.

Yes, you know I'll always forgive you, mother. But you said I had brought shame upon father. (Going up to Denham, bursting into indignant tears.) I don't want to bring shame upon father! (Takes out her handkerchief, and mops her face.)

Denham.

(comforting her) Of course not. But you know you should be obedient to mother, Undine, and keep your promises. Then we sha'n't be ashamed of our little girl.

Undine.

(sobbing) But there's no use promising. Oh, I am so tired! (Yawns.)

Denham.

Well, suppose you go to sleep for a while?

Mrs. Denham.

She can lie on her bed, and I'll put mother's cloak over her. Would you like that?

Undine.

(sleepily) Yes.

(Mrs. Denham leads her away, the handkerchief falls on the floor.)

Denham.

(gets up from the table, takes his pipe, lights it, and sits down again) Everything seems torn up by the roots here. What is to become of that monkey? She has routed her mother, horse, foot, and dragoons, this time. Well, it's a wise mother that knows her own daughter. (Works on again.) Going to drown herself! Perhaps it would have been better if her father had hung himself long ago. There's always that question of: To be or not to be?

(Re-enter Mrs. Denham.)

Mrs. Denham.

She's asleep, Arthur.

Denham.

Poor little ugly duck!

Mrs. Denham.

I suppose you think I have acted very injudiciously?

Denham.

(sighing) Oh, what does it matter what I think? You always act on principle. I must try to get this drawing done.

Mrs. Denham.

Don't send me away, Arthur. You will soon be rid of me altogether.

Denham.

Don't say that, dear. I know you are very miserable about Undine—and other things. So am I. I wonder whether we are all going mad.

Mrs. Denham.

I think Ihave gone mad.

Denham.

Do you say that in earnest?

Mrs. Denham.

You know there was—something in our family.

Denham.

Oh, nonsense, Constance! For Heaven's sake don't brood over that. There is something in every family, if one only inquires. Your nerves are over-strained. I wish you'd go to bed, and let me have some one to see you. You are looking like a ghost.

Mrs. Denham.

I feel like one. But I am not going to haunt the scene of my crimes any longer. I am going away—going away!

Denham.

Well, I'm going with you, then, to take care of you. We'll send Undine somewhere, and go abroad for a while.

Mrs. Denham.

Oh yes. You can be kind enough, if that were all.

Denham.

Will you never make peace?

Mrs. Denham.

The only peace I can make.

Denham.

What do you mean?

Mrs. Denham.

I shall trouble you no longer.

Denham.

My dear girl, don't talk like that. It is ghastly. Constance, I must go to Fitzgerald with this wretched drawing. I have to give some directions about the reproduction. I sha'n't be long. Promise me that you won't do anything foolish—that I shall find you here when I come back.

Mrs. Denham.

Yes—you shall find me here.

Denham.

That's right. (Goes to settee, and takes up shawl.) And now lie down here, and let me cover you with this shawl.

Mrs. Denham.

Very well. (She lies down.) Arthur!

Denham.

Yes, dear.

Mrs. Denham.

Kiss me once before you go.

Denham.

Oh, if I may! (Kisses her.) My poor Constance! I would give my heart's blood to comfort you. And meanwhile I'll send you a better thing—tea.

Mrs. Denham.

Thank you, dear. You have always tried to be good to me. You could not help being cruel, I suppose.

Denham.

I want to be good to you always. Well, good-bye, and God bless you! (Kisses her.)

Mrs. Denham.

God bless you! (Exit Denham.)

Mrs. Denham.

(listens for a while, then starts up) He had tears in his eyes when he kissed me. Poor Arthur! he thinks we are going to patch it up, I suppose. I am to live on pity—a man's pity, more akin to contempt than to love. Why should he love me? I was not born to be loved, not made to be loved. And yet I wanted love so much. I wanted all or nothing, and I have got pity—pity that puts you in a madhouse, and comfortably leaves you to rot! Oh, my God! is this madness—this horror of darkness that seems pressing on my brain? (A knock at the door.) What's that? Come in! (Enter Jane with tea.) No, not there, Jane—the small table; and bring another cup, will you?

Jane.

Yes, m'm.

(Jane places tea-things, and exit.)

Mrs. Denham.

What have I to do? Ah, yes. (Sits at the table and writes hurriedly. Re-enter Jane with a cup.) Jane, take this note to Mrs. Tremaine's at once. You know the house?

Jane.

Yes, m'm.

Mrs. Denham.

(giving note) Take it at once.

Jane.

Yes, m'm. Was I to wait for an answer, please?

Mrs. Denham.

No, Jane; no answer. (Exit Jane.) She will be here directly. She must come—and I? Yes—yes. There is no other way of quitting the wreck for me. The key? (Searches her pockets.) Yes! (She goes to the cupboard, opens it, and takes out a small bottle, places it on the tea-table, and looks at it; then takes out the stopper, and smells the poison.) It smells like some terrible flower. (Re-stops and replaces the bottle.) And now to arrange—to arrange it all decently. (Pushes the couch behind the screen, returns to the table, and pours out a cup of tea.) My throat is parched. (Drinks eagerly.) Poor Arthur! He will be sorry—perhaps he will understand a little now. (She pours the contents of the bottle into the cup.) The Black Cat had a friend; I am not so fortunate. It is a survival of the fittest, I suppose. The world was made for the sleek and treacherous. (She replaces the bottle in the cupboard, then returns, and lays the keys on the table.) Yes, my little Undine, mother is tired too—so tired! Oh, sleep, sleep! If it were but eternal sleep—if I could be sure I should never wake again! No more life. And yet I want to live. Oh, my God, I want to live! (Paces to and fro, mechanically putting things in order; sees Undine's handkerchief on the ground, and picks it up.) Undine's little handkerchief, still wet with her tears—the last human thing on the brink of the abyss. Poor little rag; it will give me courage to face the darkness. (Kisses it, and thrusts it into her bosom, then goes back to the table.) Perhaps I do think too much of things—even of death. And now! (Takes up the cup and shudders.) Who said "Poor Constance"? (Puts it down again, and presses her hands to her ears.) There are voices in my brain—voices that burn like the flames of hell. Sleep, sleep—we must cheat the madness. (Takes the cup, and passes r, as if to go behind screen.) How awfully things look at you when you're going to die! I did not know this. There's Demeter with Undine's wreath of daisies withered on her head. My life has withered with them, since that day she made the libation. She forgot the speedwell for me. Mother! Mother! Mother! This is my libation! (Drinks the poison, and lets the cup fall.) It is done! (She stands a moment perfectly still.) My God! not sleep, but horror! Quick! Quick! (Staggers behind the screen, and throws herself on the couch, where she is hidden from the audience.) Arthur! Arthur! Oh! save me! Arthur—oh! (Moans and dies.)

(A pause, then enter Denham and Mrs. Tremaine.)

Denham.

Constance! I left her here on the sofa, and now—Constance! She must have gone to her room—she sometimes does. Have some tea, won't you?

(They approach the tea-table.)

Mrs. Tremaine.

I don't know why I have come here, I am sure. I never meant to see this place again; and yet, here I am, like the good-natured fool I always was.

(He places a chair for her by the table.)

Denham.

It was awfully good of you to come. That's such a strange letter for Constance to have written. She asked you to come here at once, for my sake and your own?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes. It's a mad kind of letter. (She sits down.)

Denham.

I am very uneasy about her.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Well, what's that to me?

Denham.

Nothing, of course. Blanche, we have been living