"I saw the serpent of my Lady's heart,Lovely and leprous; and a violet sighShook the wan, yellowing leaves of threnody,Bruised in the holy chalice of my Art."
"I saw the serpent of my Lady's heart,Lovely and leprous; and a violet sighShook 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 ofmu-sic, in which I have skilfully e-lu-dedallmeaning.
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 triedhaschish.
Denham.
Well?
Vane.
Without distinct results—for one's style, that is.
Denham.
Oh!
Vane.
One sometimes sees oneself inventing the Narghilé. It involves the black slave, of course, and might lead to a true retrogressive progress—even to theHarîm. One pities the superfluous woman, there are so many about.
Denham.
Yet Mormonism seems to be a failure.
Vane.
It was sodreadfullyupholstered!
Denham.
TheHarîmwould 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'sawfullygood. 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 anartist, Denham? The modern picture should be a painted quatrain, with colours for words—words which say nothing, because everything has been said, but whichsuggestall 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 cannotblunderinto great art. Only Englishmen make the attempt. You are a nation of amateurs. (He turns away, and sees a sketch on thelwall) Did you do this?
Denham.
My brush did it somehow.
Vane.
Ah! this is exquisite—or would be if you could paint. Why,whynot 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 soconsummatelybad inless. Pray, pray, do not try to understand art! Women never can; they have not yet developed the sixth sense—the sense ofBeauty. 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!Idon'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, Ihaveseen life.Don'task 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. (Crosseslto 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. (Crossesc.)
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 sofar;Mrs. Tremaine on sofal,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.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Thank you. I was a fool, of course. You see, my first marriage was a mistake altogether. It was my mother's doing. I knew nothing of marriage, orlove either, for that matter. That came afterwards, and—all the scandal.
Miss Macfarlane.
And may I ask, young woman, have you run away from your second husband? You say that marriage was a mistake too
Mrs. Tremaine.
No; he is dead now.
Miss Macfarlane.
But you don't—(Looks at her dress.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
No, I don'taffichereternal bereavement. We were separated for two years.
Mrs. Denham.
Poor Blanche! Then it was not a success?
Mrs. Tremaine.
No; it was not a success.
Miss Macfarlane.
Well, we mustn't ask why?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh, I'm in the humour for confession. I think you can understand. We got on well enough while I was—free. But he did the chivalrous thing—asked me to marry him; and I was glad enough to scramble back to the platform of respectability.
Miss Macfarlane.
Well, I understand that, anyhow.
Mrs. Tremaine.
That seemed to kill the romance, such as it was. I need not go into the sordid details, but we quarrelledfinally about money—my money. My husband took to gambling in stocks. But I have managed to keep my little pittance, fortunately. Well, that is enough of my affairs. Have you any children, Constance?
Mrs. Denham.
One little girl, just nine. Have you any?
Mrs. Tremaine.
No—none.
Miss Macfarlane.
A woman who has had such unpleasant experiences ought to hate and despise men. But of courseyoudon't?
Mrs. Tremaine.
(laughing) No—I don't think I hate men exactly. I despise some men heartily.
Miss Macfarlane.
They're gey ill to live wi', eh?
Mrs. Tremaine.
I don't think marriage suits me, somehow. I suppose it suits some people. But I think it often tends to reduce them to a dead level of commonplace. The artificial bond makes people too sure of each other. It does not do to take love too much for granted, I think.
(Re-enter Denham.)
Mrs. Denham.
Well, Arthur, have you got rid of Mr. Fitzgerald?
Denham.
Yes—I'm so glad to have made your acquaintance, Mrs. Tremaine.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Thanks. It is so pleasant meeting unconventional people.
Miss Macfarlane.
(Rising) Eh! we've all been getting solemn and lugubrious. I must be going, my dear. Won't you show me your drawing-room? (Mrs. Denham rises.) You wanted my advice about curtains, didn't you?
Mrs. Denham.
Will you excuse me, Blanche? We are refurnishing our drawing-room. I don't wantyouto come just yet. Arthur will entertain you.
Denham.
Oh, with pleasure! (Exeunt Mrs. Denham and Miss Macfarlane.) How do you think Constance is looking, Mrs. Tremaine? (Draws chair over, and sits near her.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
It struck me she was looking rather worn and ill.
Denham.
I'm afraid she is.
Mrs. Tremaine.
She has let herself run down too much. Does she go in for exercise—tennis or anything?
Denham.
Nothing of the kind, I am sorry to say.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh, I could not live without exercise! I used to ride while I could afford it, and I always try to do gymnastics or something.
Denham.
I'm sure you're right. Do you intend to stay in town now?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, I hope to get some work. I have enough income to keep me going; but I want some real employment.
Denham.
Quite right. (Rises, and puts log of wood on fire, then stands with tongs in his hand and looks at her; puts down tongs.) Well, until you get something that suits you, I wish you would give me some sittings. I'll give you the regular model's wages—a shilling an hour—no, I'll give you two—two shillings an hour—there!
Mrs. Tremaine.
Thank you, it is a generous offer. I have sat before without the shillings, and will again with pleasure—if you will promise to talk to me?
Denham.
I won't promise, but I shall talk all the same. So you have sat before?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, artists seem to like painting me; I don't know why. I don't profess to be a beauty.
Denham.
Of course no woman is beautiful; but some women have the art of persuading you that they are. You have this art.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(laughing) Really you are very polite. Am I to take that as a compliment?
Denham.
No, as sincere praise. I am never polite to people I like, and I like you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Thanks. I like to be liked; and I can forgive your want of politeness, if you are never more brutally rude than you have been. I suppose I am to take it as the rudeness of a man of genius?
Denham.
No—like all unsuccessful people who worry themselves over art—I am only a man ofsomegenius—a very different thing, I assure you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Areyouunsuccessful?
Denham.
A man who paints pictures that please only his wife is surely unsuccessful? But I don't want to bore you with myself. It only means that I feel we are friends already.
Mrs. Tremaine.
You don't know how pleasant it is to be with people who don't look upon me as a dreadfully wicked woman.
Denham.
No doubt, like all persons of distinction, you belong to the criminal classes; but we are all emancipated here.
(Re-enter Mrs. Denham and Miss Macfarlane, who goes straight to the fire as she speaks.)
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, Arthur, that precious black cat of yours!
Miss Macfarlane.
We've settled the curtains, now for the cat.
Denham.
What has he been doing now?
Mrs. Denham.
In the larder again. Really that beast must be got rid of. I will not stand such abominations any longer.
Denham.
Well, don't ask me to be executioner, that's all.
Mrs. Tremaine.
But surely you're not going to kill a black cat? It is awfully unlucky.
(Miss Macfarlane keeps Mrs. Tremaine under observation.)
Denham.
Are you superstitious?
Mrs. Tremaine.
I suppose I am. Those peacock feathers made me shiver when I came in.
Mrs. Denham.
Are peacock's feathers unlucky?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes; didn't you know that?
Mrs. Denham.
No.
Denham.
Constance is not superstitious. It is her worst fault. A little superstition gives colour to life.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Do letmetake the cat, Constance!
Mrs. Denham.
I am sure you are welcome to the beast.
Denham.
Thanks, Mrs. Tremaine.
Mrs. Denham.
Arthur, take Mrs. Tremaine down to have some tea.
Denham.
Will you come, Mrs. Tremaine?
(Exeunt Denham and Mrs. Tremaine.)
Miss Macfarlane.
(retaining Mrs. Denham) My dear, beware of that woman! (Crosses to Mrs. Denham.)
Mrs. Denham.
Of Blanche—why?
Miss Macfarlane.
Ye have a husband, that's all.
Mrs. Denham.
But you don't suppose—
Miss Macfarlane.
Eh, I suppose nothing. But that woman loves men. I can see it with half an eye.
Mrs. Denham.
If my husband does not love me, let him leave me. (Crossesc.)
Miss Macfarlane.
Fiddlesticks, my dear; don't go in for heroics. Of course he loves you. Does it follow he can't love another woman into the bargain? They think they can, at any rate.
Mrs. Denham.
I don't care for such love.
Miss Macfarlane.
Of course not. But in this world we must make sure of what we can grab; and then we can grab a bit more, and a bit more, maybe.
Mrs. Denham.
I can trust my husband.
Miss Macfarlane.
(coming to Mrs. Denham) Right; but don't trust him into temptation. Mind you, she's charming. Men haven't been flogged into constancy, as we have. Remember that. I'm not old-maidish, my dear, though I've escaped holy matrimony. I don't profess hatred of men, they're none so much worse than we are; but they're different, and—pardon my strong language—they're damnably brought up. (They go up stage towards door.) Beware of that woman, I tell ye. Don't let her get a footing here. And now, give me some tea.
Scene: The Studio. Denham discovered at easel near the frontr, a small table with colours, etc., beside him, painting Mrs. Tremaine, in a black evening dress. She sits in a chair upon the "throne" a piece of tapestry behind her, up the stagel. Oak table againstlwall, above fireplace.
Denham.
Head a little more up. No, I don't want you like that.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Come and pose me then.
Denham.
All right. (He poses her, then goes back to the easel.) By Jove! this is getting serious. This is the best thing I have done.
Mrs. Tremaine.
So you say of them all. This is the third attempt. How many more do you intend to make?
Denham.
Oh, I don't know! I should like to go on as long as I could make headway. (He paints in silence for some time.) There, I am getting something I never got before—the real woman at last.
Mrs. Tremaine.
May I see?
Denham.
For Heaven's sake, don't stir! (Paints again.) Blanche!
Mrs. Tremaine.
Well?
Denham.
Do you know I was a fool, to say you were not beautiful?
Mrs. Tremaine.
You only spoke the truth.
Denham.
It is a higher truth to say you are; and you seem to have grownmorebeautiful this last month.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh, I am happier now!
Denham.
Happier?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes. You don't know what an oasis this studio has been to me. I shall be sorry to go back to the desert.
Denham.
Well, I never had a better model. I have learnt a lot since I began to paint you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
I am so glad if I have been of any use. Have you ever painted Constance?
Denham.
I have tried; but she's a fidgety sitter, and always looks like an incarnation of despair. (He approaches her.) May I arrange these folds a little?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Certainly.
Denham.
(arranging skirt of dress) That will do. The fan so—head alittlemore to the left—so. (He goes back, and paints in silence again.) This is coming splendidly. I dare not do much more to the head.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Can you finish it to-day?
Denham.
As much as I can finish anything. (Paints again in silence.) I wish Constance had some of your reposeful quality. I can't think what ails her. She gets more irritable and pessimistic every day.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Perhaps you irritate her.
Denham.
I? But, good heavens!—(Stops painting, and looks at her.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, I know. You think you are very patient, while you treat her with a—what shall I say?—a sort of contemptuous respect.
Denham.
Really? I am sorry if it seems so. I wish I could rouse her out of the slough of despond.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Perhaps she is disappointed?
Denham.
We are all disappointed. It is the niggardliness of Nature—the old woman in the shoe. (Paints again in silence.) Do you believe in love, Blanche? Still?
Mrs. Tremaine.
(sighing) Yes, I think I do. There is not very much else left for one to believe in, nowadays.
Denham.
So do I—as a dream.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Ah! You are the pessimist now.
Denham.
Why make mad efforts to realise it?
Mrs. Tremaine.
A necessity of our nature, I suppose.
Denham.
What does the modern woman desire or expect from a man? You are sick of marriage, it seems.
Mrs. Tremaine.
As it exists—yes.
Denham.
Well, the instinctiveamourettehad its poetry—in Arcadia. Keep your hands quiet a moment.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Let me warm them first. Remember we are in the grip of a London May.
Denham.
All right—come. (She comes over to the picture. He stops her.) No, you must not look yet.
Mrs. Tremaine.
You have become quite a tyrant, do you know?
(She goes to the fire.)
Denham.
(taking her hands) Cold? Yes; I have kept you too long. You have such good hands! I wish I could paint them.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(kneels at fire, and warms her hands) One more chance!
Denham.
I shall make the most of it. Well, but what do you want? A friendship, passionate and Platonic? Why, it takes all the tyranny of a strong man like Swift to keep instinct within bounds. The victory killed Stella and Vanessa.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh, we are more rational now! Then, there were two of them; that was the difficulty there.
Denham.
Yes, there were two of them. Except in a desert island, there is always a danger of that.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Why are men so inconstant?
Denham.
Why are women so charming—and unsatisfactory? We deceive ourselves, and are deceived, just like you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
You amuse yourselves, and we pay.
Denham.
It is the will of God—of Nature, I should say. She is an artist; but as for her morality—
Mrs. Tremaine.
One can't say much for that.
Denham.
Art is Nature's final aim. Love is the Art of Arts, and Art is long.
Mrs. Tremaine.
But could you not be alittlemore constant, if you tried?
Denham.
Oh,wecan resist temptation, when we are not tempted—just like women.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yourcapacityfor temptation is wonderful.
Denham.
Yes.Weknow our own frailty,younever quite realise yours.
Mrs. Tremaine.
What has made you so cynical?
Denham.
The bitterness of life. Are your hands warm yet? (Takes her hands.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, I can go back now.
(She goes back to the "throne." He poses her, and returns to the easel.)
Denham.
(painting again) Marriage must certainly be modified. A woman should have some honourable way of escape, when her husband gets tired of her.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(laughing) How delicately you put it! But the wife? If you had to bear all you so chivalrously inflict on us in "honourable" marriage, I wonder how many marriages there would be?
Denham.
Instinct would be too strong for us still. But we should outscheme Nature. We should invent. What has a woman ever invented since the beginning of the world? Well, you can easily rail us out of marriage. How will you live then?
Mrs. Tremaine.
As we are trying to live now.
Denham.
I believe woman's great ambition is to do all the work of the world, and maintain man in idleness.
Mrs. Tremaine.
That would be awful! You would all be artists and minor poets then.
Denham.
You, I believe, prefer "the Free Union," as it is called, to marriage?
Mrs. Tremaine.
If it were practicable.
Denham.
Ah yes! We can't live innocently and comfortably in "open sin," until the kingdom of heaven comes.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(laughing) No, I fear there are still difficulties. But, after all, one can do—well, almost anything; if one does it from conscientious motives—and knows one's way about.
Denham.
Yes. And how charming the relationship might be made! Women would really study the art of keeping a lover. But what, in Heaven's name, is the sympathetic modern man to do, who feels that to love one of these creatures of a finer clay, in his rough masculine fashion, is to "insult," or "enslave," or injure her, in one way or another? "I love you, therefore God forbid I should marry you!"—that is the newest gospel.
Mrs. Tremaine.
We are not all such miserable creatures as you imagine. Treat us decently well, and we can stand a good deal, without whining like men—poor persecuted saints!
Denham.
It is quite impossible to treat you well in this "imperfect dispensation." Bah! let us talk of something else.
(Enter Mrs. Denham, dressed to go out.)
Mrs. Denham.
This letter has come for you, Blanche, sent on from your house.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Thanks so much. I have been expecting it. Will you excuse me? (Opens letter and reads.)
Mrs. Denham.
I am sorry to interrupt you, Arthur, but I am just going out. Can you give me a cheque?
Denham.
Certainly. But first look at this.
Mrs. Denham.
(looks at the picture) Better, I think.
Denham.
Eyes too big now?
Mrs. Denham.
No, not now. Let me have the cheque, and I will go.
(Denham crosses in front of easel to table, takes cheque book from a drawer in the table, and writes. Mrs. Tremaine rises and crossesc.)
Denham.
Is that all you have to say?
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, my opinion is of no value! I think you have improved; but, you know, I like your ideal work best.
Denham.
This is miles ahead of anything I have done.
Mrs. Denham.
Perhaps—as a piece of painting.
Denham.
I am finding my way at last. Here is the cheque.
Mrs. Denham.
(crossesl, takes cheque, and crossesc) You will stay to dinner, Blanche, of course?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Thanks very much, but I can't possibly.
Denham.
I am so sorry, but why?
Mrs. Tremaine.
(waving the letter, crosses in front of easel, and goes downr) Work, work! I have got an engagement.
Mrs. Denham.
I congratulate you.
Denham.
But what is it? You have never told us what you have been working at in secret.
Mrs. Tremaine.
No. It might have come to nothing. I am to sing three songs at a private concert.
Denham.
A good house?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Capital—and good people to hear me. I may choose my own songs, Italian, German, or English. I have a fortnight to prepare, and I am to bepaid!
Denham.
Brava!
Mrs. Denham.
You are not going just yet?
Mrs. Tremaine.
No, not immediately. (Crosses to "throne" and sits again. Denham follows her.)
Mrs. Denham.
We shall meet again then. Good-bye!
Mrs. Tremaine.
(as Denham arranges her skirt)A bientôt!
(Exit Mrs. Denham. Denham begins to paint.)
Denham.
Well, you mysterious creature, I think you have chosen your profession well. Your voice is lovely, and your style—well, not bad in these days of execrable singing.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Do you know, it was your praise that made me think seriously of this?
Denham.
(absorbed in painting) Really? But why would you never sing to me since that evening?
Mrs. Tremaine.
I have been working so hard; I wanted to surprise you.
Denham.
And now you will?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Perhaps—some time. (A pause, Denham painting in silence.)
Denham.
Come down and look at this thing now. I can do no more to it.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(comes over to the easel, Denham puts down brush and palette) But this is splendid!
Denham.
(taking pipe) Better, isn't it? (Crossesl, to table, and strikes a match.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Ohyes! But how youhaveflattered me! I shall be reduced to a proper humility when I look in the glass. (Turns and glances at mirror, then again at picture.)
Denham.
Never mind the glass. That's how I see you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(crossescand drops him a curtsey) Thank you, sir. An uncynical compliment at last!
Denham.
(bowing) 'Tis but your due, madam, I protest. Come, sit down, and let us be lazy. (Pushes armchair round for Mrs. Tremaine, takes chair from "throne" and sits near her.) We have worked very hard. Do you ever go to the theatre?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Sometimes.
Denham.
Does it amuse you?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh yes! I like a good three act farce.
Denham.
So do I. But our serious plays are amusing in a deeper way—now that we have begun timidly to scratch the surface of things. I wonder, if you and I were put on the stage, what they would say of us?
Mrs. Tremaine.
But there is nothing to make a play about inus.
Denham.
They would certainly say there was "no situation," though perhaps—
Mrs. Tremaine.
Whatisa situation?
Denham.
Oh, you know—something threadbare, the outraged husband driving his erring wife about the stage—all that sort of thing.
Mrs. Tremaine.
I love an outraged husband; they are so magnificently moral!
Denham.
Unfortunately I am on no such pinnacle. (Rises.) I can only humbly ask you, when will you sit again?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Oh, now that you have painted that masterpiece, I must resign the privilege of being your model.
Denham.
That is unkind of you, Blanche. But why? (Puts his pipe down.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
You can't go on paintingmefor ever.
Denham.
Ishallgo on painting you for ever. But you will surely give me an occasional sitting?
Mrs. Tremaine.
No; I must be stern. (Rises and crossesc.) I must work seriously now.
Denham.
At least you'll come and see us? You'll come and sing the savageness out of this bear?
Mrs. Tremaine.
No; I must go back into the desert.
Denham.
Seriously?
Mrs. Tremaine. Yes.
Denham.
I knew it must come to an end, Blanche. (Crossesc.) Well, we have had a good time.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes. It has been pleasant here.
Denham.
You have been my good genius. Do you know, I was getting sick of it all before you came?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Sick of what?
Denham.
Of myself, of art, of life.
Mrs. Tremaine.
That was foolish. I am glad if I have reconciled you to existence.
Denham.
You have made me alive again, opened a door to new possibilities, let me out into the sunshine.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Well, don't go back into the shadow. (Taking her hat, she goes towards mirror.)
Denham.
No. I will go forward.
Mrs. Tremaine.
That is right; and now I must go. (About to take cloak.)
Denham.
No, you must not go yet. Come and sit upon your throne once more. (Mrs. Tremaine stops.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
But you are not going to paint again?
Denham.
No. I only want to look at you. Do grant me this last grace! (He replaces chair on "throne.")
Mrs. Tremaine.
(puts down hat, and crossesl) Really you are too absurd! (She sits on the "throne.")
Denham.
(crossesc) Thanks. And now I want you to read something. (Goes to table and takes paper from drawer.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
What must I read?
Denham.
This sonnet.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Your own?
Denham.
Mine—and yours. Read it aloud.
Mrs. Tremaine.
I did not know you were a poet.
Denham.
Every man is a poet once in his life. You have made me one. (He sits at her feet on the "throne.")
Mrs. Tremaine.
(Reads):
To a Beautiful Woman.
(Looks down at him and smiles.)