John Todhunter - The Black Cat
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John Todhunter >> The Black Cat
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.
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 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 looks at the picture._) What's this?
"Autour du Marriage," eh? (_Opens book, and reads, then lies on
sofa, still reading._)
Vane.
Ah, the Brynhild! My dear Denham, why _will_ you do such things?
Denham.
What have I done?
Vane.
Not what you have tried to do--to paint an epic picture.
Denham.
Is that wrong?
Vane.
Worse than wrong; it is a _betise_. (_Comes to fire, and stands with
his back to it._) You might as well try to write a long poem. Such
things are certainly _long_, and as certainly not _poems_. That huge
thing is not a picture.
Denham.
Ah, you write quatrains. Should no poem exceed four lines?
Vane.
Not only should not, but in our present state of development,
_cannot_. The quatrain is the analogue of the Greek gem, the
_consummate_ flower of the national art of the period. It will take
at _least_ a century to perfect and exhaust it. Have you seen my
book, "Three Quatrains"?
Denham.
No; have you published it lately?
Vane.
My dear Denham! I never _publish_ anything. In a wilderness of
mediocrity obscurity is fame.
Denham.
Yes, a well-advertised obscurity. But surely you _have_ published
poems?
Vane.
Where have you lived, my dear fellow? I breathe a poem into the air,
and the world hears. If some one prints it, can I help it? One does
not print, wake, and become famous; one becomes famous, and the
world awakes, cackles, and prints one.
Fitzgerald.
By-the-bye, Vane, there's a quatrain in your "In the House of
Hathor" I wanted to ask you about.
Vane.
Which?
Fitzgerald.
Let me see--it begins:
"I saw a serpent in my Lady's heart,"--
Vane.
Ah! spare me the torment of hearing--
Fitzgerald.
Your own lines?
Vane.
_Mur_-dered!
"I saw the serpent of my Lady's heart,
Lovely and leprous; and a violet sigh
Shook the wan, yellowing leaves of threnody,
Bruised in the holy chalice of my Art."
Fitzgerald.
Ah yes! I didn't quite catch the meaning.
Vane.
Meaning? It is a piece of _mu_-sic, in which I have skilfully
e-_lu_-ded ALL _meaning_.
Fitzgerald.
Oh, I see! (_Resumes his book._)
Denham.
(_to Vane_) Have a cigarette? (_Denham offers him a cigarette; he
takes one absently, then lets it drop back into the box._)
Vane.
Thanks, no--I never smoke. It has become so vulgar.
Denham.
Really? What do you do then--_absinthe_?
Vane.
For the purposes of art it is antiquated. (_He sighs._) I have tried
_haschish_.
Denham.
Well?
Vane.
Without distinct results--for one's style, that is.
Denham.
Oh!
Vane.
One sometimes sees oneself inventing the Narghile. It involves the
black slave, of course, and might lead to a true retrogressive
progress--even to the _Harim_. One pities the superfluous woman,
there are so many about.
Denham.
Yet Mormonism seems to be a failure.
Vane.
It was so _dreadfully_ upholstered!
Denham.
The _Harim_ would be a new field for the collector. How prices would
run up!
Vane.
Ah, Denham, never touch a dream with the vulgarity of real things!
(_Crosses to picture._)
(_Fitzgerald, who has been reading Gyp, suddenly comes forward with
the book in his hand, and breaks in._)
Fitzgerald.
This Gyp's _awfully_ good. Who is he, eh?
Vane.
(_with patient scorn_) A woman!
Fitzgerald.
(_with conviction_) To be sure! That makes it--splendid! (_Chuckles
to himself, sits again on sofa, and goes on reading._)
Vane.
(_looking at picture_) Will you never learn to be an _artist_,
Denham? The modern picture should be a painted quatrain, with
colours for words--words which say nothing, because everything has
been said, but which _suggest_ all that has been felt and dreamed.
Art is the initiation into a mood, a mystery--a sphinx whose riddle
every one can answer, yet no one understand.
Fitzgerald.
(_shutting the book on his finger_) Bravo, Vane! 'Pon my word, I
begin to believe in you.
Vane.
I can endure even that.
Denham.
I am on the wrong tack then?
Vane.
My dear fellow, look at that canvas. What a method! You are like an
amateur pianist who tries laboriously to obtain tone, without having
mastered the keyboard. One cannot _blunder_ into great art. Only
Englishmen make the attempt. You are a nation of amateurs. (_He
turns away, and sees a sketch on the_ L _wall_) Did you do
this?
Denham.
My brush did it somehow.
Vane.
Ah! this is exquisite--or would be if you could paint. Why, _why_
not learn the technique of your art, and make these notes of a mood,
a moment, so as to give real delight?
Denham.
Upon my word, Vane, you are right. That sketch is worth a wilderness
of Brynhilds. But look here! (_Crosses to picture. He opens a pocket
knife, and makes a long cut across the figure of Brynhild._) There
goes a year's work.
Fitzgerald.
(_rising_) By Jove!
Vane.
My dear fellow, I congratulate you. The year's work is not thrown
away--now. (_Re-enter Mrs. Denham._)
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, Mr. Vane, what have you made him do?
Vane.
My dear Mrs. Denham, I have saved your husband's reputation for a
few months at least. He cannot do anything so _consummately_ bad in
_less_. Pray, pray, do not try to understand art! Women never can;
they have not yet developed the sixth sense--the sense of _Beauty_.
But I must really tear myself away.
(_Mrs. Denham sits gloomily on throne, ignoring Vane._)
Denham.
Won't you stay and have some tea?
Vane.
Thanks, no. Lady Mayfair made me promise to go and hear her new
tenor. One knows what one has to expect, but one goes.
(_Enter Jane, showing in Miss Macfarlane._)
Jane.
Miss Macfarlane!
(_Miss Macfarlane shakes hands with Mrs. Denham and Denham, and nods
to Fitzgerald and Vane._)
Miss Macfarlane.
How d'ye do, Fitz? Ah, Vane! you here? Don't run away.
Vane.
Unfortunately I must. The wounds of our last encounter are not yet
healed.
Miss Macfarlane.
Pshaw, man! _I_ don't use poisoned weapons.
Vane.
Ah, Miss Macfarlane, the broadsword is very effective in your hands!
(_Going._)
Fitzgerald.
Oh, Vane, will you dine with me at the Bohemians on Friday? I want
you to hear--
Vane.
The Bohemians? Impossible!
Fitzgerald.
You'll see life, at any rate.
Vane.
My dear fellow, I _have_ seen life. _Don't_ ask me to see it again.
It is a painful spectacle. Adieu!
(_Exit._)
Miss Macfarlane.
(_looking at picture_) Why, what's all this?
Mrs. Denham.
Arthur, I shall never forgive you for destroying your picture--just
because that wretched little creature was spiteful about it.
Denham.
Pooh! He wasn't spiteful. He only told me the truth about it, in his
own jargon. I knew it already.
Miss Macfarlane.
Oh, but it's none so bad, my dear boy--if it's a failure, it's a
good wholesome failure. (_Crosses_ L _to fire._)
(_Enter Jane, showing in Mrs. Tremaine._)
Jane.
Mrs. Tremaine! (_Exit Jane._)
Mrs. Denham.
My dear Blanche!
Mrs. Tremaine.
My dear Constance! (_They embrace._)
Mrs. Denham.
My husband, Mrs. Tremaine. Miss Macfarlane, Mr. Fitzgerald. (_She
introduces them._)
Fitzgerald.
(_thrusting the book into his side pocket_) Well, I must run away.
(_Crosses_ C.)
Denham.
Must you go?
Fitzgerald.
Yes--I've--I've a lot of things to do. Good-bye. (_Shakes hands
absently._)
Denham.
Oh, Fitz, I want to show you something. Will you excuse me for a
moment, Mrs. Tremaine?
(_Exeunt Denham and Fitzgerald._)
Mrs. Denham.
Do sit down, and let us have a little quiet talk.
(_They sit down. Mrs. Denham crosses and sits on sofa_ R;
_Mrs. Tremaine on sofa_ L, _and Miss Macfarlane in armchair
by fire, quietly observe each other._)
You are looking splendidly, Blanche.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, I'm in very good form. But you're not looking well--rather
pale, you know.
Mrs. Denham.
I'm a little tired, that's all. I am so glad to see you again. Why
have you quite given me up?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Well, you see, I have been rather making a mess of my life, and I
have not been much in town. Besides, I was a little shy about
coming, after--all my escapades.
Mrs. Denham.
You know I'm not a censorious person, Blanche. I don't think our
conventional morality very admirable, and I never adored the patient
Griselda.
Mrs. Tremaine.
You don't know how I feel your kindness, Constance. I have had a
hard time of it, so far; but now I have taken my life into my own
hands, and I mean to live it out.
Mrs. Denham.
But your husband? You married again, did you not?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes. Fancy a woman making that mistake twice! But, you see, I was in
an equivocal position. I had left my first husband, Miss Macfarlane;
I don't want to conceal my misdeeds.
Miss Macfarlane.
Oh, don't expect paving stones from an old woman like me! I judge
every case on its own merits. I know what men are, though I've been
content to gain my experience at my friends' expense. I tell ye I
know more about the ins and outs of marriages than most married
women, just as the curler on the bank sees most of the game. You
mayn't have been anything worse than a fool, and ye mayn't have been
even that.