Tuesday, 1 April 2014


of the wife, w

Rhaps I _do_ think too much of things--even of death. And now! (_Takes up the cup and shudders._) Who said "Poor Constance"? (_Puts it down again, and presses her hands to her ears._) There are voices in my brain--voices that burn like the flames of hell. Sleep, sleep--we must cheat the madness. (_Takes the cup, and passes_ R, _as if to go behind screen._) How awfully things look at you when you're going to die! I did not know this. There's Demeter with Undine's wreath of daisies withered on her head. My life has withered with them, since that day she made the libation. She forgot the speedwell for me. Mother! Mother! Mother! This is my libation! (_Drinks the poison, and lets the cup fall._) It is done! (_She stands a moment perfectly still._) My God! not sleep, but horror! Quick! Quick! (_Staggers behind the screen, and throws herself on the couch, where she is hidden from the audience._) Arthur! Arthur! Oh! save me! Arthur--oh! (_Moans and dies._) (_A pause, then enter Denham and Mrs. Tremaine._) Denham. Constance! I left her here on the sofa, and now--Constance! She must have gone to her room--she sometimes does. Have some tea, won't you? (_They approach the tea-table._) Mrs. Tremaine. I don't know why I have come here, I am sure. I never meant to see this place again; and yet, here I am, like the good-natured fool I always was. (_He places a chair for her by the table._) Denham. It was awfully good of you to come. That's such a strange letter for Constance to have written. She asked you to come here at once, for my sake and your own? Mrs. Tremaine. Yes. It's a mad kind of letter. (_She sits down._) Denham. I am very uneasy about her. Mrs. Tremaine. Well, what's that to me? Denham. Nothing, of course. Blanche, we have been living in hell since yesterday. Mrs. Tremaine. I daresay. I have not been in Paradise, I assure you. What are you going to do? (_Pours out some tea._) Denham. I don't know. Mrs. Tremaine. (_puts in sugar_) Will she--stay with you? Denham. What else can she do? Mrs. Tremaine. (_stirring her tea_) Then I wish you joy of the _menage_. You don't seem to have gained much by making a fool of me. Denham. You have renewed the world for me. The mere thought of you is sunshine. Here we have always been at loggerheads with life. Mrs. Tremaine. Then why--? (_Sips her tea._) Bah! Upon my word, Arthur Denham, that woman has drained you of your manhood like a vampire, made you the limp coward that you are. Denham

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About Me

We It comes in part from an appreciation that no one can truly sign their own work. Everything is many influences coming together to the one moment where a work exists. The other is a begrudging acceptance that my work was never my own. There is another consciousness or non-corporeal entity that helps and harms me in everything I do. I am not I because of this force or entity. I am "we"