John Todhunter - The Black Cat
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John Todhunter >> The Black Cat
THE BLACK CAT.
A PLAY IN THREE ACTS BY
JOHN TODHUNTER.
FIRST ACTED AT
THE INDEPENDENT THEATRE IN LONDON.
LONDON: HENRY AND CO. 93, ST. MARTIN'S LANE, W.C. 1895
_Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
Preface.
Mr. Grein has asked me to write a preface to THE BLACK CAT.
I cannot myself see much occasion for this. Why should an author be
called upon to make a speech before the curtain? Because, I presume,
people want to have something to talk about besides the play itself,
and an author must surely have "views." Well, it is a day of
views--and of talk.
THE BLACK CAT was produced at the Opera Comique on December
8th, 1893, at one of the Independent Theatre Society's performances.
It had a certain _succes d'estime_ before a special audience, for
whom, however, it was not written; and it has not been performed
since.
The critics were wonderfully kind. They actually praised the play;
some reluctantly, some with a reckless enthusiasm which quite
astonished me. I had expected a much less pleasant reception.
The main objection they made to the thing was that it had a tragic
ending, which they kindly suggested I had tacked on to my comedy, to
appeal to the morbid taste of an "Independent" audience.
Unfortunately I had done nothing of the kind. The play was conceived
before the Independent Theatre had come into existence. The end was
foreseen from the beginning; the tragedy being implicit in the
subject. The tragic motive lay deeper than the death of the heroine,
who might have been allowed to live, if that last symbolic pageantry
had not had its dramatic fitness. Given the characters and the
circumstances, the end is the absolutely right one.
Of course the circumstances might have been altered, and a sort of
reconciliation patched up between husband and wife. But this would
be a somewhat flat piece of cynicism, only justifiable on the ground
taken by the _Telegraph_, that modern actors cannot play, and ought
not to be expected to play, modern tragedy.
The conventional "happy ending" demanded by sentimental critics to
suit the taste of sentimental playgoers, the divided parents left
weeping in each other's arms over the recovered child, would also be
quite possible. But surely even a modern dramatist may for once be
allowed to preserve a grain of respect for nature and dramatic art?
This would be an outrage against both. It would not be decent
comedy, it would be mere burlesque, as sentimentality always is to
the judicious.
The only other alternative I see is the exodus of the wife, with or
without her child; or of the husband, with or without his mistress.
But this would be rank Ibsenism, and outrage British morality, which
would be still more dreadful. Only a "practical dramatist" could cut
the Gordian knot, and at the last moment introduce the erring Mrs.
Tremaine, still charming in the garb of a Sister of Mercy, to bring
down the curtain upon a tableau of Woman returning to her Duty, and
Man to his Morality. And I, alas! am not a "practical dramatist."
Still, if the play had been an experiment, I might have further
experimented with it, and rehandled its ending. But it was not in
its main lines an experiment. It was a thing seen and felt; and so
it must remain, in its printed form, at least--"a poor thing," it
may be, "but mine own!"
After the performance, came the managers, wanting to see the play,
and asking why I had not shown it to them before. Well, it never
occurred to me that any of them would seriously have considered the
production of a piece so far off the ordinary lines. They had not,
like the enterprising Director of the Independent Theatre,
undertaken the dreadful trade of educating the public. As a matter
of fact, they fought shy of a piece in which "the new hysteria" was
studied, and which ended badly, or at least sadly.
_A Comedy of Sighs_, produced at the Avenue last spring, _was_
really an experiment on the taste of the British public. I wished to
ascertain whether a play depending for its interest rather upon
character and dialogue than upon plot and sensational situations,
would be at first tolerated and afterwards enjoyed by an average
audience. Perhaps the experiment was too audaciously conceived, and
too carelessly conducted, by both author and management. It was
unfortunately vitiated by the presence of a prevalent bacillus, the
British bugbear, in the test-tubes.
The new play was received with inarticulate cries of horror by the
critics. The _Telegraph_ and the _World_, which had presided in
auspicious opposition over the birth of THE BLACK CAT, now
hung terrific in unnatural conjunction in the horoscope of _A Comedy
of Sighs_. Here was Ibsenism again--nay, worse than Ibsenism,
Dodoism, Sarah-Grandism, Keynotism, rampant on the English stage!
For had I not most impudently exhibited _The Modern Woman_ upon it?
And although there was no tragedy this time, but beautiful
reconciliation, and return to her Duty at the fall of the curtain,
was she not there, the Abomination of Desolation?
Now we know that the Modern Woman ought not to exist anywhere,
therefore she does _not_ exist, therefore she must be stamped out.
Mrs. Grundy and others have already begun the good work, and have
been diligently stamping her out ever since; with such success that
we may hope she will disappear, with infidelity, Ibsenism, the
struggle for existence, and other such objectionable things.
Meanwhile she has made her _debut_, and may cry: _J'y suis, j'y
reste!_
The _Comedy of Sighs_ was slain, waving its tiny flag in the van of
a forlorn hope; and over its dead body "Arms and the Man," its
machine-guns volleying pellets of satire, marched to victory.
I do not solace myself with that belief, so comforting to the
unsuccessful, that a play fails merely because of its goodness, or
succeeds merely because it is bad; yet it is evident, I think, that
other things besides its merits or demerits as a piece of dramatic
writing may turn the scale for or against it. _A Comedy of Sighs_,
with its somewhat "impressionist" sketches of character, and
aberrations from the ordinary type of a "well-made play," proved to
be "too lightly tempered for so loud a wind" as blows upon British
bugbears--"Modern Women," and the like.
And now may I say a few words with regard to some misconceptions on
the part of the critics as to my aim in writing these two plays?
One of them, an enthusiast himself, did me the honour to hail me
as a brother enthusiast, albeit an erring one. Possibly I am. But
I have not been trying to educate the public, which is being educated
past its old standards day by day, without such philanthropic effort
on my part. I have not been trying to write "literary" plays. I
quite agree with those who think that a play must be a play first.
If it be "literature" afterwards, that is an added grace which
gives it a permanent value. If it be not, still it may be a good
play in its day and generation. I have not, for the sake of being
unconventional, deliberately set myself to violate all the received
canons of dramatic art, as practised by the "practical dramatist,"
thus making a convention of unconventionality. Unconventional art is
impossible, and the drama, like other arts, has its conventions. But
conventions change, and new ones are evolved, as new problems in art
and other things--even morality itself--come in with each new tide
of the human imagination. The "well-made play" of the day before
yesterday is not a canon for all time, even for the most
conservative playgoer.
No, what I have been trying to do is simply to write a good play. Ah
yes! But what _is_ a good play? The enthusiastic critic has a ready
answer: "The play that succeeds, that has a long run, that has money
in it!" I accept the answer for what it is worth. This potentiality
of money is, like "literature," an added grace: and it certainly,
in a sense, marks the survival of the fittest. But there are other
standards in the great workshop of the artist, Nature. Even the
plant or play that lives but a short time may cast its seed into the
soil, or imagination, of its day, and, like Banquo, beget a royal
race, though not itself a king.
Now, how does such a play as THE BLACK CAT differ from
those we see succeeding on the stage every day? Really not so very
much, after all. It merely accentuates a growing tendency in the
plays of the period to get more of the stuff of life, our every-day
human life, typically upon the stage; with less of the traditional
theatrical-academic element. The "well-made play" has itself
undergone evolution since the days when it was an aphorism that not
what is said but what is done on the stage is the essential thing.
This of course is at once true and false, like every other truism.
Without action there can be no play; and a play may be made fairly
intelligible without a single spoken word, just as a scene from
history or fiction may be quite recognisably depicted in a few
symbolic lines, dots, and dashes, though no single human figure be
decently drawn.
We must not, however, forget that action itself is language. What is
called the action of a play is simply a story told by the movements
of the players. But when we see a man stabbed, or a woman kissed,
our curiosity is excited. We want to know something more about the
people whose actions we see. This, indeed, may be roughly told by
gesture and facial expression, which are themselves language; but,
finally, to understand more than the barest outline of the story, we
are forced to demand words. And the more we are interested in human
nature the more we want to understand the thoughts, emotions,
motives, characters, of the personages in action before us. Hence by
gradual steps have come our latest attempts at studies of complex
characters, in their struggle to solve the problems of life; or what
are objected to as "problem plays." Well, why object? Every play,
from _Charley's Aunt_ to _Hamlet_, is a problem play. It is merely a
matter of degree. Every play deals with the struggle of men and
women to solve some problem of life, great or small: to outwit evil
fortune. It may be merely to persuade a couple of pretty girls to
stay to luncheon in your college rooms, when their chaperon has not
turned up. It may be something more important.
The more interest the public and the dramatist take in human
nature--that is to say, the better developed they are as regards
dramatic sympathy--the more, rich, vivid, and subtle will be the
play of character and passion, in the drama demanded and produced.
In a word, the less wooden-pated and wooden-hearted they become, the
less mechanical and commonplace will their drama be.
We are slowly emerging from the puppet-show conception of drama. Our
dramatists are beginning to do more than refurbish the old puppets,
and move them about the stage according to the rules of the
"well-made" play. They are not content, like their predecessors, to
leave their characters quite at the mercy of the actor who, in
"creating" them, gave them whatever small resemblance to humanity
they may have possessed. And as the play gains in vitality, the
playwright begins to feel the absolute necessity for writing decent
dialogue--not mere stage dialect that may be scamped and ranted _ad
libitum_ by the "star" to suit his own taste, or want of it, but
real dialogue, which, while ideally reflecting the colloquial
language of the day, taxes the intelligence and feeling of the actor
to deliver properly.
This means real progress; for the dialogue is the very life of the
play. It alone can bring out the essential import of the situation,
the relation of character to character, at any given moment. An
action, an incident, may have a thousand different shades of meaning
or motive. Language, tone, and gesture give it its precise value.
Plot and situations are at best but the skeleton; character and
emotion are the flesh and blood. The treatment is everything.
We still want more of life, of the vital movements of our own time,
upon the stage; and we shall get it by degrees. Sentimental
melodrama, with its male puppet, who is hero or villain, its female
puppet, who is angel or devil, may still continue to flourish among
us; for it still satisfies the natural craving for romance,
ideality, which the drama is bound to supply. But these things
belong to a decaying phase of romance; and our so-called realism is
but the first wave of a new romantic movement, on the stage as
elsewhere. For when the old ideals become decrepit, we must go back
to nature to get the stuff wherewith to make new ones.
As our dramatists advance with the times, people begin to go to the
theatre to see plays, and not merely an actor in a part. The
"well-made play," which was a piece of mechanical contrivance into
which the puppets were ingeniously fitted, may some day develop into
a work of art--a thing born rather than made--growing up like a
flower in the imagination of the dramatist.
When that day comes, the actor, who used to "create" the part, will
have to be content to let the part create him. The play will make
the actor, not the actor the play; to the great benefit of both play
and actor.
But why be so serious over an art whose end is only to amuse? To
amuse? Yes; but we are not all equally amused by the same things.
There may be forms of humour which tickle some people more
exquisitely than even that magnificent making of tea in an old
gentleman's hat, which convulses the _Charley's Aunt_ audience. And
if amusement be the object of the drama, we must take the word in an
extended sense. I should myself roughly define a good play as one
that, when adequately performed, can hold the attention of an
unprejudiced audience from beginning to end, whether it amuses or
merely interests them. It does not follow that because it may shock,
or even bore, some worthy people it is a bad play. Even farcical
comedy bores some people, with whom I cannot sympathise.
And now, if I have been rather hard upon the "well-made play," it
must not be assumed that it is because I do not value construction.
I do value it. But it should be vital, not academic, organic, not
mechanical. Still, even mechanical construction is better than none
at all. A play without plot is invertebrate, without bones. It is
at his peril that a dramatist departs from accepted rules, even
those respecting "strong" curtains and "strong" exits, though in
certain cases weak curtains and weak exits may be more really
dramatic. Then, valuable as dialogue is, it may be redundant, and
make a play "flabby." The actor's rule, that all talk that does not
carry on the action is bad, is worthy of all due respect. "You
literary fellows want to say everything twice over," was the shrewd
criticism of a stage-manager in a certain case. But an actor is
often so absorbed in his own part that he does not easily estimate
the bearing of any given speech, even his own, upon the whole play.
"Cuts" at rehearsal are not unfrequently found to be too hastily
made. Then, what is the action? Not merely the external incidents,
but the shifting phases of thought, emotion, character, in the
_dramatis personae_. It is these that give the incidents their value,
and so give dramatic interest to the plot, or story. The dialogue
and the incidents are but two phases of the presentment of the
story. The action may be rapid or slow, direct, or with episodes.
All depends upon the treatment; and the play that one audience finds
detestable may delight another.
If THE BLACK CAT ever again come to the ordeal of the
footlights, I can only hope that it may find an audience as
sympathetic as that of the Independent Theatre.
OPERA COMIQUE,
STRAND, W.C.
THE INDEPENDENT THEATRE.
FOUNDER AND SOLE DIRECTOR, J.T. GREIN.
Third Season, Fifteenth Performance.
_FRIDAY, 8th December, 1893,_
_THE BLACK CAT,_
A PLAY IN THREE ACTS, BY
JOHN TODHUNTER.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
_Arthur Denham_ Mr. BUCKLAW.
_Fitzgerald_ Mr. NEVILLE DOONE.
_Cyril Vane_ Mr. ORLANDO BARNETT.
_Constance Denham_ Miss HALL CAINE.
_Blanche Tremaine_ Miss MARY KEEGAN.
_Miss Macfarlane_ Miss GLADYS HOMFREY.
_Undine_ Miss DORA BARTON.
_Jane_ Miss FORRESTER.
_The Play produced under the direction of_
Mr. H. DE LANGE.
The ACTION of the play takes place in Denham's Studio in
London, at the PRESENT DAY.
The Black Cat.
Act I.
_Scene: Denham's Studio. Large highlight window in sloping roof at
back. Under it, in back wall, door to landing. L of the
door the corner is curtained off for model's dressing-room.
R of door a large Spanish leather folding screen, which
runs on castors, shuts off from the door the other corner, in which
is a "throne," pushed up against the wall. Above the "throne" hangs
a large square mirror in a carved black frame. In front of the
"throne" is a light couch of Greek form, without back._
_Fireplace, with chimney-breasts panelled in old oak, and high
overmantel, in which are shelves and cupboards, L._
_Against R wall an old oak cabinet, with carved cornice,
and inlaid panelled doors. Close beside it stands on a pedestal a
bust of Demeter. Near the cabinet, halfway up stage R C,
an easel, on which is seen the back of a large picture._
_Beyond the fireplace, and at right angles to it, a large sofa, or
lounge, with square ends and back, broad low seat, loose cushions,
and valance. In front of the fireplace an armchair, with a book face
downward on one arm._
_The walls of the studio are distempered in greenish-blue, the
curtains of the model's dressing-room are in rich yellow plush or
brocade, the couch and sofa covered in greenish-yellow stuffs._
_Various artistic properties, tapestries, embroideries, etc.,
hanging up, or thrown carelessly over Chippendale chairs and the
screen._
_Canvases leaning against the walls, on which hang designs and
figure-studies in chalk and charcoal, with landscape-studies in oil
and watercolour, nailed up without much attempt at arrangement._
_Near the front, just R of the armchair, an oblong carved
oak table, with materials for wood-drawing, paint-box, water in a
tumbler, etc., is set end on to the footlights._
_At the upper end of this table Undine is discovered, as she sits
with a slate and arithmetic book before her, her elbows on the
table, her head supported on both hands, holding a slate pencil from
which a bit of sponge dangles by a string._
Undine.
(_pouting_) I hate these old sums! Mother's always making me do sums
in the holidays. It isn't fair. Seven times three is--what's father
reading? (_Rises, and takes up the book._) That's French, I know.
Father's always reading French. G.Y.P. Gyp? I wonder what it's
about. (_Puts the book down, sits, yawns, and takes up the pencil._)
Seven times three is--twenty-one. Put down one and carry two. Oh,
but it's pence and shillings. I can't do pence and shillings!
(_Throws down the pencil; it falls off the table._) Horrid old
things! they're always coming wrong. (_She rises lazily, and stoops
to pick up the pencil, then looks round her, stretching her arms and
yawning._) I say, what fun to make a libation to Demeter! I will!
Let's see. I wish I had mother's Greek dress. I must have one of
father's rags. This'll do. (_Drapes herself in a piece of
embroidery, runs up stage, jumps on "throne," and poses before the
mirror._) It's awfully jolly dressing up. But I have no wine. Oh, I
know--I'll take some of father's painting water--though it's rather
black-and-whity. (_Takes up the glass, and approaches the statue._)
Hail, Demeter! I have no wine for you, but here's some water.
(_Makes libation._) I suppose I should pray for something now. Oh, I
do wish you'd stop mother persecuting me in the holidays like this!
But you can't, you dear old thing. Father says the old gods are
dead. I wish they'd come alive again. (_Crosses to table._)
(_Enter Denham. Undine drops embroidery, kicks it under the table,
and sits._)
Denham.
Well, imp, what's up now? (_He comes to the fireplace, and takes a
pipe from the rack._) Rags again! I shall have to lock them up, I
see. (_Takes up the embroidery, and throws it over a chair._) Get to
your work at once! Sit up straight. (_He crosses L, seats
himself in the armchair, lights his pipe, and takes up the book,
Undine resumes her crouched position at the table._)
Undine.
(_pouting_) It's very hard to have to do sums in the holidays.
Denham.
(_crosses to table behind Undine_) You are behind your class, you
know. (_Looking over her._) Well, seven times three?
Undine.
Let's see--twenty-one?
Denham.
And how many shillings in that?
Undine.
I suppose two shillings and one penny.
Denham.
Nonsense! Don't suppose anything so un-English. How many pence in a
shilling?
Undine.
Twelve--I suppose.
Denham.
Well, twelve from twenty-one leaves--
(_Undine counts on her fingers_)
How many?
Undine.
About eight, I think.
Denham.
Try again, stupid!
Undine.
But, father, I think there _ought_ to be ten pence in a shilling.
Denham.
Why _ought_ there, you monkey?
Undine.
Oh, because then, don't you see, you could count on your fingers all
right, but now there are too many pennies for your fingers, and so
you never can tell how many are over.
Denham.
Very convenient. But come now, twelve from twenty-one?
Undine.
(_counting again_) Nine?
Denham.
(_resuming his book_) All right then. Down with it in the pence
column, and get on.
Undine.
(_kissing him_) Oh, you jolly old father! I should like to do my
sums with you always.
Denham.
Heaven forbid! Get on! Get on! (_Crosses to chair L._)
(_A pause._)
Undine.
Father! _Father!_
Denham.
H'm!
Undine.
I say, FATHER!
Denham.
Do let me read in peace.
Undine.
But, father--
Denham.
Well?
Undine.
Do the Greeks worship Demeter now?
Denham.
No, not now.
Undine.
The old Greeks were the cleverest people that ever lived, and they
had the nicest gods. Don't you wish there were goddesses now,
father? (_Rises, and leans against table._)
Denham.
(_absently_) Yes, of course.
Undine.
Goddesses sometimes fell in love with _people_, father--didn't they?
Denham.
People who didn't happen to be gods? It did occur sometimes, they
say.
Undine.
And one might fall in love with you, father. That _would_ be fun!
Denham.
That would be awful. But do stop this chatter, and get on.
Undine.
She'd give _me_ all sorts of jolly things.
(_A pause._)
_Mrs. Denham_ (_outside the door_) In a quarter of an hour will do,
Jane.
Denham.
Here comes mother!
Undine.
Oh, bother these horrid old sums! (_Flops into chair._)
(_Enter Mrs. Denham, with flowers. She comes to the cabinet to place
them in a vase, and sees the water 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!