The Black Cat | Page 6

(_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!
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