The Black Cat | Page 8

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.
Denham.
Overton? I seem to have heard the name. Didn't she run away from her
husband, or something?
Mrs. Denham.
Yes, poor thing! He led her an awful life.
Denham.
Oh, and then she married the co-respondent! I remember.
Mrs. Denham.
What an interest you take in these scandals!
Denham.
Of course, dear. A scandal is a typical case of the great social disease.
Mrs. Denham.
She promised to be handsome.

Denham.
I wonder whether this woman is a weak fool, or a bold experimenter in
the art of life?
Mrs. Denham.
How so?
Denham.
Why, having had the courage to come down from the cross, should she
go back to it again?
Mrs. Denham.
What cross?
Denham.
What is woman's cross from the foundation of the world but man, man?
The cords are the bonds of marriage, her children are the nails, and love
her crown of thorns.
Mrs. Denham.
Very poetical, no doubt.
Denham.
Bitter truth, as you are never tired of demonstrating to me. Do you
think the unfortunate cross has not had his share of the torment?
Mrs. Denham.
Too light a share for his tyranny, cruelty, and, above all, his mean
hypocrisy. May he burn in some spiritual fire for that!
Denham.

So he does; it runs in his veins. Well, something better may come of it,
some day. By-the-bye, I expect some men to see my picture.
Mrs. Denham.
Brynhild?
Denham.
Yes, such as she is. (Crosses R, _and looks at the picture._) Another
failure, of course. (_Sighs._)
Mrs. Denham.
Why will you always speak of your work so despondently?
Denham.
Because I want to do better. Vanity, I suppose. (_He comes back
towards the fireplace._)
Mrs. Denham.
Just move out this sofa. (They move sofa to C.) Who are coming?
Denham.
Oh, Fitzgerald, of course, and possibly Cyril Vane.
Mrs. Denham. That