The Black Cat | Page 9

little creature? You know I detest him.
Denham.
Why _little_? Do you estimate men of genius by the pound?
Mrs. Denham.
Men of genius, indeed? The man has a second-hand intellect.

Denham.
Really, you sometimes say a good thing--that is, an ill-natured one.
How you hate culture! (_Enter Jane, showing in Fitzgerald._)
Jane.
Mr. Fitzgerald! (_Exit Jane._)
(_Fitzgerald saunters up to Mrs. Denham, stops suddenly, straddling his
legs, and shakes hands loosely and absently._)
Fitzgerald.
Lovely day, eh? Have you heard the news?
Denham.
We never have heard the news.
Mrs. Denham.
You are the only gossip who comes our way.
Fitzgerald.
(_good-humouredly_) Gossip, eh? Oh, you needn't think I mind being
denounced from your domestic altar, Mrs. Denham! I know you're
dying to hear the last bit of scandal.
Mrs. Denham.
Take pity on me then.
Fitzgerald.
I know this'll interest you awfully. Pottleton Smith's wife's run away at
last. Now wasn't I right? (_Looks smilingly at both for sympathy._) I
always said she would, you know.

Mrs. Denham.
Poor silly little flirt! I'm very sorry.
Fitzgerald.
(_rubbing his hands_) I'm--I'm awfully glad. It'll be the saving of poor
Smith. Though he's awfully cut up about it, of course.
Denham.
Did she run away with--any one in particular?
Fitzgerald.
A Captain Crosby or Cosby, or something. He's in some horse regiment,
the cavalry or something. He's--he's an awful scamp, a blackleg and all
that, but an awfully nice fellow. I met him at Smith's the other day, and
they--they--they were carrying on all the time under poor little Smith's
nose. (_He saunters absently to the easel and looks at the picture._) The
picture--eh? It's--it's awfully good, you know--an advance on your last.
(_During this speech Denham also goes to the easel._)
Mrs. Denham.
Don't you think so?
Fitzgerald.
Yes, it's an advance, decidedly. What is it, eh? I forget.
Denham.
Brynhild.
Fitzgerald.
Oh, Brynhild! The horse is awfully good, you know--savage and that;

but the woman isn't ugly enough--at least, you haven't quite got the
right kind of ugliness, eh?
Denham.
Unfortunately I meant her to be beautiful.
Mrs. Denham.
(_smiling_) And I gave him some sittings, Mr. Fitzgerald.
Fitzgerald.
(_with a genial laugh_) Did you, now? Well, he tried to improve on
you--that was it. (_With great conviction to Denham._) But--but surely
you're wrong in that. Brynhild was an ugly, passionate woman. The
passionate woman is always ugly. The passionate woman has character,
and character is always ugly.
Denham.
Yes, I know what you mean. But I thought--no, the thing's a failure.
Don't bother about it, but come and sit down. Have a cigarette? (_Gives
him a cigarette._)
Fitzgerald.
Thanks.
(_They sit down, Fitzgerald lights cigarette, and puffs solemnly before
he speaks again._)
Mrs. Smith (_puff_), you didn't know her well? Did you, Mrs. Denham?
(_Puff._)
Mrs. Denham.
No--not well.

Fitzgerald.
You know I painted her portrait (_looks at lighted end of cigarette_),
portrait (_leans back in his chair, replaces cigarette in his mouth, and
puffs again. Then putting his hands behind his head, he stretches out his
legs, and looks at the ceiling_), so I knew her like my own sister.
(_Puff._) She was a pretty little devil (_puff_), awfully aristocratic,
mind you, vulgar, of course, an'--an' poor refined little Smith just
_didn't_ drop his H's. (_Puffs, chuckles to himself._) Yes, she was a
born jade. (_Puff._) I--I liked her awfully. (_Puff._)
Mrs. Denham.
You seem to like every one awfully.
Fitzgerald.
(_with fervour, sitting up in his chair, and flinging away his
half-smoked cigarette_) So I do. I enjoy the Human Comedy. Now you
don't enjoy the Human Comedy a bit.
Mrs. Denham.
It comes too near me.
Denham.
A cab at the door; this may be Vane. (Crosses L _to fire._)
Fitzgerald.
Vane? That's splendid! He cuts me dead now, because I reviewed his
last Society Verses, with some other men's, under the head, "Our Minor
Poets," in Free Lances.
Denham.
Oh, an editorial? Serves you right, you Jack-of-all-trades. How if some
brother Minor Critic were to class you as a Minor Painter?

Fitzgerald.
For Heaven's sake introduce me to him.
(_Enter Jane, showing in Vane._)
Jane.
Mr. Vane!
(_Exit Jane._)
(_Vane shakes hands languidly with Mrs. Denham and Denham, and
stares at Fitzgerald, who smiles genially._)
Denham.
Ah, Vane, glad to see you.
Vane.
How d'ye do? Ah, Mrs. Denham, that tea-gown is charming.
Mrs. Denham.
Flattery from you, Mr. Vane, is more than flattery. Pray excuse me for
a moment.
(_Exit Mrs. Denham._)
Denham.
Fitzgerald, you know Vane, of course?
Fitzgerald.
Upon my word I scarcely know. Do we know each other, Vane?
Vane.

My dear Fitzgerald, when will you learn that you can never know me?
(_Crosses to picture._)
Fitzgerald.
Then, my dear Vane, I must learn to be resigned. (_Fitzgerald turns
away, and takes up Gyp. Vane