Lord Goring:
My dear Robert, it's a very awkward business, very awkward indeed. You
should have told your wife the whole thing. Secrets from other people's
wives are a necessary luxury in modern life. So, at least, I am always
told at the club by people who are bald enough to know better. But no
man should have a secret from his own wife. She invariably finds it out.
Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover everything
except the obvious.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Arthur, I couldn't tell my wife. When could I have told her? Not last
night. It would have made a life-long separation between us, and I would
have lost the love of the one woman in the world I worship, of the only
woman who has ever stirred love within me. Last night it would have been
quite impossible. She would have turned from me in horror ... in horror
and in contempt.
Lord Goring:
Is Lady Chiltern as perfect as all that?
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Yes; my wife is as perfect as all that.
Lord Goring:
[Taking off his left-hand glove.] What a pity! I beg your pardon, my dear
fellow, I didn't quite mean that. But if what you tell me is true, I should
like to have a serious talk about life with Lady Chiltern.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
It would be quite useless.
Lord Goring:
May I try?
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Yes; but nothing could make her alter her views.
Lord Goring:
Well, at the worst it would simply be a psychological experiment.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
All such experiments are terribly dangerous.
Lord Goring:
Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn't so, life wouldn't
be worth living... . Well, I am bound to say that I think you should
have told her years ago.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
When? When we were engaged? Do you think she would have married me if
she had known that the origin of my fortune is such as it is, the basis
of my career such as it is, and that I had done a thing that I suppose
most men would call shameful and dishonourable?
Lord Goring:
[Slowly.] Yes; most men would call it ugly names. There is no doubt of
that.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
[Bitterly.] Men who every day do something of the same kind themselves.
Men who, each one of them, have worse secrets in their own lives.
Lord Goring:
That is the reason they are so pleased to find out other people's secrets.
It distracts public attention from their own.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
And, after all, whom did I wrong by what I did? No one.
Lord Goring:
[Looking at him steadily.] Except yourself, Robert.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
[After a pause.] Of course I had private information about a certain transaction
contemplated by the Government of the day, and I acted on it. Private
information is practically the source of every large modern fortune.
Lord Goring:
[Tapping his boot with his cane.] And public scandal invariably the result.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
[Pacing up and down the room.] Arthur, do you think that what I did nearly
eighteen years ago should be brought up against me now? Do you think it
fair that a man's whole career should be ruined for a fault done in one's
boyhood almost? I was twenty-two at the time, and I had the double misfortune
of being well-born and poor, two unforgiveable things nowadays. Is it
fair that the folly, the sin of one's youth, if men choose to call it
a sin, should wreck a life like mine, should place me in the pillory,
should shatter all that I have worked for, all that I have built up. Is
it fair, Arthur?
Lord Goring:
Life is never fair, Robert. And perhaps it is a good thing for most of
us that it is not.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Every man of ambition has to fight his century with its own weapons. What
this century worships is wealth. The God of this century is wealth. To
succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one must have wealth.
Lord Goring:
You underrate yourself, Robert. Believe me, without wealth you could have
succeeded just as well.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
When I was old, perhaps. When I had lost my passion for power, or could
not use it. When I was tired, worn out, disappointed. I wanted my success
when I was young. Youth is the time for success. I couldn't wait.
Lord Goring:
Well, you certainly have had your success while you are still young. No
one in our day has had such a brilliant success. Under-Secretary for Foreign
Affairs at the age of forty-that's good enough for any one, I should
think.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
And if it is all taken away from me now? If I lose everything over a horrible
scandal? If I am hounded from public life?
Lord Goring:
Robert, how could you have sold yourself for money?
Sir Robert Chiltern:
[Excitedly.] I did not sell myself for money. I bought success at a great
price. That is all.
Lord Goring:
[Gravely.] Yes; you certainly paid a great price for it. But what first
made you think of doing such a thing?
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Baron Arnheim.
Lord Goring:
Damned scoundrel!
Sir Robert Chiltern:
No; he was a man of a most subtle and refined intellect. A man of culture,
charm, and distinction. One of the most intellectual men I ever met.
Lord Goring:
Ah! I prefer a gentlemanly fool any day. There is more to be said for
stupidity than people imagine. Personally I have a great admiration for
stupidity. It is a sort of fellow-feeling, I suppose. But how did he do
it? Tell me the whole thing.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
[Throws himself into an armchair by the writing-table.] One night after
dinner at Lord Radley's the Baron began talking about success in modern
life as something that one could reduce to an absolutely definite science.
With that wonderfully fascinating quiet voice of his he expounded to us
the most terrible of all philosophies, the philosophy of power, preached
to us the most marvellous of all gospels, the gospel of gold. I think
he saw the effect he had produced on me, for some days afterwards he wrote
and asked me to come and see him. He was living then in Park Lane, in
the house Lord Woolcomb has now. I remember so well how, with a strange
smile on his pale, curved lips, he led me through his wonderful picture
gallery, showed me his tapestries, his enamels, his jewels, his carved
ivories, made me wonder at the strange loveliness of the luxury in which
he lived; and then told me that luxury was nothing but a background, a
painted scene in a play, and that power, power over other men, power over
the world, was the one thing worth having, the one supreme pleasure worth
knowing, the one joy one never tired of, and that in our century only
the rich possessed it.
Lord Goring:
[With great deliberation.] A thoroughly shallow creed.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
[Rising.] I didn't think so then. I don't think so now. Wealth has given
me enormous power. It gave me at the very outset of my life freedom, and
freedom is everything. You have never been poor, and never known what
ambition is. You cannot understand what a wonderful chance the Baron gave
me. Such a chance as few men get.
Lord Goring:
Fortunately for them, if one is to judge by results. But tell me definitely,
how did the Baron finally persuade you to-well, to do what you did?
Sir Robert Chiltern:
When I was going away he said to me that if I ever could give him any
private information of real value he would make me a very rich man. I
was dazed at the prospect he held out to me, and my ambition and my desire
for power were at that time boundless. Six weeks later certain private
documents passed through my hands.
Lord Goring:
[Keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the carpet.] State documents?
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Yes. [LORD GORING sighs, then passes his hand across his forehead and
looks up.]
Lord Goring:
I had no idea that you, of all men in the world, could have been so weak,
Robert, as to yield to such a temptation as Baron Arnheim held out to
you.
Sir Robert Chiltern: Weak? Oh, I am sick of hearing
that phrase. Sick of using it about others. Weak? Do you really think,
Arthur, that it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that
there are terrible temptations that it requires strength, strength and
courage, to yield to. To stake all one's life on a single moment, to risk
everything on one throw, whether the stake be power or pleasure, I care
not - there is no weakness in that. There is a horrible, a terrible courage.
I had that courage. I sat down the same afternoon and wrote Baron Arnheim
the letter this woman now holds. He made three-quarters of a million over
the transaction.
Lord Goring:
And you?
Sir Robert Chiltern:
I received from the Baron 110,000 pounds.
Lord Goring:
You were worth more, Robert.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
No; that money gave me exactly what I wanted, power over others. I went
into the House immediately. The Baron advised me in finance from time
to time. Before five years I had almost trebled my fortune. Since then
everything that I have touched has turned out a success. In all things
connected with money I have had a luck so extraordinary that sometimes
it has made me almost afraid. I remember having read somewhere, in some
strange book, that when the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers.
Lord Goring:
But tell me, Robert, did you never suffer any regret for what you had
done?
Sir Robert Chiltern:
No. I felt that I had fought the century with its own weapons, and won.
Lord Goring:
[Sadly.] You thought you had won.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
I thought so. [After a long pause.] Arthur, do you despise me for what
I have told you?
Lord Goring:
[With deep feeling in his voice.] I am very sorry for you, Robert, very
sorry indeed.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
I don't say that I suffered any remorse. I didn't. Not remorse in the
ordinary, rather silly sense of the word. But I have paid conscience money
many times. I had a wild hope that I might disarm destiny. The sum Baron
Arnheim gave me I have distributed twice over in public charities since
then.
Lord Goring:
[Looking up.] In public charities? Dear me! what a lot of harm you must
have done, Robert!
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Oh, don't say that, Arthur; don't talk like that!
Lord Goring:
Never mind what I say, Robert! I am always saying what I shouldn't say.
In fact, I usually say what I really think. A great mistake nowadays.
It makes one so liable to be misunderstood. As regards this dreadful business,
I will help you in whatever way I can. Of course you know that.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Thank you, Arthur, thank you. But what is to be done? What can be done?
Lord Goring:
[Leaning back with his hands in his pockets.] Well, the English can't
stand a man who is always saying he is in the right, but they are very
fond of a man who admits that he has been in the wrong. It is one of the
best things in them. However, in your case, Robert, a confession would
not do. The money, if you will allow me to say so, is ... awkward. Besides,
if you did make a clean breast of the whole affair, you would never be
able to talk morality again. And in England a man who can't talk morality
twice a week to a large, popular, immoral audience is quite over as a
serious politician. There would be nothing left for him as a profession
except Botany or the Church. A confession would be of no use. It would
ruin you.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
It would ruin me. Arthur, the only thing for me to do now is to fight
the thing out.
Lord Goring:
[Rising from his chair.] I was waiting for you to say that, Robert. It
is the only thing to do now. And you must begin by telling your wife the
whole story.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
That I will not do.
Lord Goring:
Robert, believe me, you are wrong.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
I couldn't do it. It would kill her love for me. And now about this woman,
this Mrs. Cheveley. How can I defend myself against her? You knew her
before, Arthur, apparently.
Lord Goring:
Yes.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Did you know her well?
Lord Goring:
[Arranging his necktie.] So little that I got engaged to be married to
her once, when I was staying at the Tenbys'. The affair lasted for three
days ... nearly.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Why was it broken off?
Lord Goring:
[Airily.] Oh, I forget. At least, it makes no matter. By the way, have
you tried her with money? She used to be confoundedly fond of money.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
I offered her any sum she wanted. She refused.
Lord Goring:
Then the marvellous gospel of gold breaks down sometimes. The rich can't
do everything, after all.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Not everything. I suppose you are right. Arthur, I feel that public disgrace
is in store for me. I feel certain of it. I never knew what terror was
before. I know it now. It is as if a hand of ice were laid upon one's
heart. It is as if one's heart were beating itself to death in some empty
hollow.
Lord Goring:
[Striking the table.] Robert, you must fight her. You must fight her.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
But how?
Lord Goring: I can't tell you how at present.
I have not the smallest idea. But every one has some weak point. There
is some flaw in each one of us. [Strolls to the fireplace and looks
at himself in the glass.] My father tells me that even I have faults.
Perhaps I have. I don't know.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
In defending myself against Mrs. Cheveley, I have a right to use any weapon
I can find, have I not?
Lord Goring: [Still looking in the glass.]
In your place I don't think I should have the smallest scruple in doing
so. She is thoroughly well able to take care of herself.
Sir Robert Chiltern: [Sits down at the table
and takes a pen in his hand.] Well, I shall send a cipher telegram
to the Embassy at Vienna, to inquire if there is anything known against
her. There may be some secret scandal she might be afraid of.
Lord Goring:
[Settling his buttonhole.] Oh, I should fancy Mrs. Cheveley is one of
those very modern women of our time who find a new scandal as becoming
as a new bonnet, and air them both in the Park every afternoon at five-thirty.
I am sure she adores scandals, and that the sorrow of her life at present
is that she can't manage to have enough of them.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
[Writing.] Why do you say that?
Lord Goring:
[Turning round.] Well, she wore far too much rouge last night, and not
quite enough clothes. That is always a sign of despair in a woman.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
[Striking a bell.] But it is worth while my wiring to Vienna, is it not?
Lord Goring:
It is always worth while asking a question, though it is not always worth
while answering one.
[Enter MASON.]
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Is Mr. Trafford in his room?
Mason:
Yes, Sir Robert.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
[Puts what he has written into an envelope, which he then carefully closes.]
Tell him to have this sent off in cipher at once. There must not be a
moment's delay.
Mason:
Yes, Sir Robert.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Oh! just give that back to me again.
[Writes something on the envelope. MASON then goes out with the letter.]
Sir Robert Chiltern:
She must have had some curious hold over Baron Arnheim. I wonder what
it was.
Lord Goring:
[Smiling.] I wonder.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
I will fight her to the death, as long as my wife knows nothing.
Lord Goring: [Strongly.] Oh, fight in any case
- in any case.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
[With a gesture of despair.] If my wife found out, there would be little
left to fight for. Well, as soon as I hear from Vienna, I shall let you
know the result. It is a chance, just a chance, but I believe in it. And
as I fought the age with its own weapons, I will fight her with her weapons.
It is only fair, and she looks like a woman with a past, doesn't she?
Lord Goring:
Most pretty women do. But there is a fashion in pasts just as there is
a fashion in frocks. Perhaps Mrs. Cheveley's past is merely a slightly
DECOLLETE one, and they are excessively popular nowadays. Besides, my
dear Robert, I should not build too high hopes on frightening Mrs. Cheveley.
I should not fancy Mrs. Cheveley is a woman who would be easily frightened.
She has survived all her creditors, and she shows wonderful presence of
mind.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Oh! I live on hopes now. I clutch at every chance. I feel like a man on
a ship that is sinking. The water is round my feet, and the very air is
bitter with storm. Hush! I hear my wife's voice.
[Enter LADY CHILTERN in walking dress.]
Lady Chiltern:
Good afternoon, Lord Goring!
Lord Goring:
Good afternoon, Lady Chiltern! Have you been in the Park?
Lady Chiltern:
No; I have just come from the Woman's Liberal Association, where, by the
way, Robert, your name was received with loud applause, and now I have
come in to have my tea. [To LORD GORING.] You will wait and have some
tea, won't you?
Lord Goring:
I'll wait for a short time, thanks.
Lady Chiltern:
I will be back in a moment. I am only going to take my hat off.
Lord Goring:
[In his most earnest manner.] Oh! please don't. It is so pretty. One of
the prettiest hats I ever saw. I hope the Woman's Liberal Association
received it with loud applause.
Lady Chiltern:
[With a smile.] We have much more important work to do than look at each
other's bonnets, Lord Goring.
Lord Goring:
Really? What sort of work?
Lady Chiltern:
Oh! dull, useful, delightful things, Factory Acts, Female Inspectors,
the Eight Hours' Bill, the Parliamentary Franchise... . Everything,
in fact, that you would find thoroughly uninteresting.
Lord Goring:
And never bonnets?
Lady Chiltern:
[With mock indignation.] Never bonnets, never!
[LADY CHILTERN goes out through the door leading to her boudoir.]
Sir Robert Chiltern:
[Takes LORD GORING'S hand.] You have been a good friend to me, Arthur,
a thoroughly good friend.
Lord Goring:
I don't know that I have been able to do much for you, Robert, as yet.
In fact, I have not been able to do anything for you, as far as I can
see. I am thoroughly disappointed with myself.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
You have enabled me to tell you the truth. That is something. The truth
has always stifled me.
Lord Goring:
Ah! the truth is a thing I get rid of as soon as possible! Bad habit,
by the way. Makes one very unpopular at the club ... with the older
members. They call it being conceited. Perhaps it is.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
I would to God that I had been able to tell the truth ... to live the
truth. Ah! that is the great thing in life, to live the truth. [Sighs,
and goes towards the door.] I'll see you soon again, Arthur, shan't I?
Lord Goring:
Certainly. Whenever you like. I'm going to look in at the Bachelors' Ball
tonight, unless I find something better to do. But I'll come round tomorrow
morning. If you should want me tonight by any chance, send round a note
to Curzon Street.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Thank you.
[As he reaches the door, LADY CHILTERN enters from her boudoir.]
Lady Chiltern:
You are not going, Robert?
Sir Robert Chiltern:
I have some letters to write, dear.
Lady Chiltern:
[Going to him.] You work too hard, Robert. You seem never to think of
yourself, and you are looking so tired.
Sir Robert Chiltern:
It is nothing, dear, nothing.
[He kisses her and goes out.]
Lady Chiltern:
[To LORD GORING.] Do sit down. I am so glad you have called. I want to
talk to you about ... well, not about bonnets, or the Woman's Liberal
Association. You take far too much interest in the first subject, and
not nearly enough in the second.
Lord Goring:
You want to talk to me about Mrs. Cheveley?
Lady Chiltern:
Yes. You have guessed it. After you left last night I found out that what
she had said was really true. Of course I made Robert write her a letter
at once, withdrawing his promise.
Lord Goring:
So he gave me to understand.
Lady Chiltern:
To have kept it would have been the first stain on a career that has been
stainless always. Robert must be above reproach. He is not like other
men. He cannot afford to do what other men do. [She looks at LORD GORING,
who remains silent.] Don't you agree with me? You are Robert's greatest
friend. You are our greatest friend, Lord Goring. No one, except myself,
knows Robert better than you do. He has no secrets from me, and I don't
think he has any from you.
Lord Goring:
He certainly has no secrets from me. At least I don't think so.
Lady Chiltern:
Then am I not right in my estimate of him? I know I am right. But speak
to me frankly.
Lord Goring:
[Looking straight at her.] Quite frankly?
Lady Chiltern:
Surely. You have nothing to conceal, have you?
Lord Goring: Nothing. But, my dear Lady Chiltern,
I think, if you will allow me to say so, that in practical life -
Lady Chiltern: [Smiling.] Of which you know so
little, Lord Goring -
Lord Goring: Of which I know nothing by experience,
though I know something by observation. I think that in practical life
there is something about success, actual success, that is a little unscrupulous,
something about ambition that is unscrupulous always. Once a man has set
his heart and soul on getting to a certain point, if he has to climb the
crag, he climbs the crag; if he has to walk in the mire -
Lady Chiltern:
Well?
Lord Goring:
He walks in the mire. Of course I am only talking generally about life.
Lady Chiltern:
[Gravely.] I hope so. Why do you look at me so strangely, Lord Goring?
Lord Goring: Lady Chiltern, I have sometimes thought
that ... perhaps you are a little hard in some of your views on life.
I think that ... often you don't make sufficient allowances. In every
nature there are elements of weakness, or worse than weakness. Supposing,
for instance, that - that any public man, my father, or Lord Merton, or
Robert, say, had, years ago, written some foolish letter to some one ...
Lady Chiltern:
What do you mean by a foolish letter?
Lord Goring:
A letter gravely compromising one's position. I am only putting an imaginary
case.
Lady Chiltern:
Robert is as incapable of doing a foolish thing as he is of doing a wrong
thing.
Lord Goring:
[After a long pause.] Nobody is incapable of doing a foolish thing. Nobody
is incapable of doing a wrong thing.
Lady Chiltern:
Are you a Pessimist? What will the other dandies say? They will all have
to go into mourning.
Lord Goring:
[Rising.] No, Lady Chiltern, I am not a Pessimist. Indeed I am not sure
that I quite know what Pessimism really means. All I do know is that life
cannot be understood without much charity, cannot be lived without much
charity. It is love, and not German philosophy, that is the true explanation
of this world, whatever may be the explanation of the next. And if you
are ever in trouble, Lady Chiltern, trust me absolutely, and I will help
you in every way I can. If you ever want me, come to me for my assistance,
and you shall have it. Come at once to me.
Lady Chiltern:
[Looking at him in surprise.] Lord Goring, you are talking quite seriously.
I don't think I ever heard you talk seriously before.
Lord Goring:
[Laughing.] You must excuse me, Lady Chiltern. It won't occur again, if
I can help it.
Lady Chiltern:
But I like you to be serious.
[Enter MABEL CHILTERN, in the most ravishing frock.]
Mabel Chiltern:
Dear Gertrude, don't say such a dreadful thing to Lord Goring. Seriousness
would be very unbecoming to him. Good afternoon Lord Goring! Pray be as
trivial as you can.
Lord Goring:
I should like to, Miss Mabel, but I am afraid I am ... a little out
of practice this morning; and besides, I have to be going now.
Mabel Chiltern:
Just when I have come in! What dreadful manners you have! I am sure you
were very badly brought up.
Lord Goring:
I was.
Mabel Chiltern:
I wish I had brought you up!
Lord Goring:
I am so sorry you didn't.
Mabel Chiltern:
It is too late now, I suppose
Lord Goring:
[Smiling.] I am not so sure.
Mabel Chiltern:
Will you ride tomorrow morning?
Lord Goring:
Yes, at ten.
Mabel Chiltern:
Don't forget
Lord Goring:
Of course I shan't. By the way, Lady Chiltern, there is no list of your
guests in THE MORNING POST of to-day. It has apparently been crowded out
by the County Council, or the Lambeth Conference, or something equally
boring. Could you let me have a list? I have a particular reason for asking
you.
Lady Chiltern:
I am sure Mr. Trafford will be able to give you one.
Lord Goring:
Thanks, so much.
Mabel Chiltern:
Tommy is the most useful person in London.
Lord Goring:
[Turning to her.] And who is the most ornamental?
Mabel Chiltern:
[Triumphantly.] I am.
Lord Goring:
How clever of you to guess it! [Takes up his hat and cane.] Good-bye,
Lady Chiltern! You will remember what I said to you, won't you?
Lady Chiltern:
Yes; but I don't know why you said it to me.
Lord Goring:
I hardly know myself. Good-bye, Miss Mabel!
Mabel Chiltern:
[With a little moue of disappointment.] I wish you were not going. I have
had four wonderful adventures this morning; four and a half, in fact.
You might stop and listen to some of them.
Lord Goring:
How very selfish of you to have four and a half! There won't be any left
for me.
Mabel Chiltern:
I don't want you to have any. They would not be good for you.
Lord Goring:
That is the first unkind thing you have ever said to me. How charmingly
you said it! Ten tomorrow.
Mabel Chiltern:
Sharp.
Lord Goring:
Quite sharp. But don't bring Mr. Trafford.
Mabel Chiltern:
[With a little toss of the head.] Of course I shan't bring Tommy Trafford.
Tommy Trafford is in great disgrace.
Lord Goring:
I am delighted to hear it. [Bows and goes out.]
Mabel Chiltern:
Gertrude, I wish you would speak to Tommy Trafford.
Lady Chiltern:
What has poor Mr. Trafford done this time? Robert says he is the best
secretary he has ever had.
Mabel Chiltern:
Well, Tommy has proposed to me again. Tommy really does nothing but propose
to me. He proposed to me last night in the music-room, when I was quite
unprotected, as there was an elaborate trio going on. I didn't dare to
make the smallest repartee, I need hardly tell you. If I had, it would
have stopped the music at once. Musical people are so absurdly unreasonable.
They always want one to be perfectly dumb at the very moment when one
is longing to be absolutely deaf. Then he proposed to me in broad daylight
this morning, in front of that dreadful statue of Achilles. Really, the
things that go on in front of that work of art are quite appalling. The
police should interfere. At luncheon I saw by the glare in his eye that
he was going to propose again, and I just managed to check him in time
by assuring him that I was a bimetallist. Fortunately I don't know what
bimetallism means. And I don't believe anybody else does either. But the
observation crushed Tommy for ten minutes. He looked quite shocked. And
then Tommy is so annoying in the way he proposes. If he proposed at the
top of his voice, I should not mind so much. That might produce some effect
on the public. But he does it in a horrid confidential way. When Tommy
wants to be romantic he talks to one just like a doctor. I am very fond
of Tommy, but his methods of proposing are quite out of date. I wish,
Gertrude, you would speak to him, and tell him that once a week is quite
often enough to propose to any one, and that it should always be done
in a manner that attracts some attention.
Lady Chiltern:
Dear Mabel, don't talk like that. Besides, Robert thinks very highly of
Mr. Trafford. He believes he has a brilliant future before him.
Mabel Chiltern:
Oh! I wouldn't marry a man with a future before him for anything under
the sun.
Lady Chiltern:
Mabel!
Mabel Chiltern:
I know, dear. You married a man with a future, didn't you? But then Robert
was a genius, and you have a noble, self-sacrificing character. You can
stand geniuses. I have no, character at all, and Robert is the only genius
I could ever bear. As a rule, I think they are quite impossible. Geniuses
talk so much, don't they? Such a bad habit! And they are always thinking
about themselves, when I want them to be thinking about me. I must go
round now and rehearse at Lady Basildon's. You remember, we are having
tableaux, don't you? The Triumph of something, I don't know what! I hope
it will be triumph of me. Only triumph I am really interested in at present.
[Kisses LADY CHILTERN and goes out; then comes running back.] Oh, Gertrude,
do you know who is coming to see you? That dreadful Mrs. Cheveley, in
a most lovely gown. Did you ask her?
Lady Chiltern:
[Rising.] Mrs. Cheveley! Coming to see me? Impossible!
Mabel Chiltern:
I assure you she is coming upstairs, as large as life and not nearly so
natural.
Lady Chiltern:
You need not wait, Mabel. Remember, Lady Basildon is expecting you.
Mabel Chiltern:
Oh! I must shake hands with Lady Markby. She is delightful. I love being
scolded by her.
[Enter MASON.]
Mason:
Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley.
[Enter LADY MARKBY and MRS. CHEVELEY.]
Lady Chiltern:
[Advancing to meet them.] Dear Lady Markby, how nice of you to come and
see me! [Shakes hands with her, and bows somewhat distantly to MRS. CHEVELEY.]
Won't you sit down, Mrs. Cheveley?
Mrs Cheveley:
Thanks. Isn't that Miss Chiltern? I should like so much to know her.
Lady Chiltern:
Mabel, Mrs. Cheveley wishes to know you.
[MABEL CHILTERN gives a little nod.]
Mrs Cheveley:
[Sitting down.] I thought your frock so charming last night, Miss Chiltern.
So simple and ... suitable.
Mabel Chiltern:
Really? I must tell my dressmaker. It will be such a surprise to her.
Good-bye, Lady Markby!
Lady Markby:
Going already?
Mabel Chiltern:
I am so sorry but I am obliged to. I am just off to rehearsal. I have
got to stand on my head in some tableaux.
Lady Markby:
On your head, child? Oh! I hope not. I believe it is most unhealthy. [Takes
a seat on the sofa next LADY CHILTERN.]
Mabel Chiltern:
But it is for an excellent charity: in aid of the Undeserving, the only
people I am really interested in. I am the secretary, and Tommy Trafford
is treasurer.
Mrs Cheveley:
And what is Lord Goring?
Mabel Chiltern:
Oh! Lord Goring is president.
Mrs Cheveley:
The post should suit him admirably, unless he has deteriorated since I
knew him first.
Lady Markby:
[Reflecting.] You are remarkably modern, Mabel. A little too modern, perhaps.
Nothing is so dangerous as being too modern. One is apt to grow old-fashioned
quite suddenly. I have known many instances of it
Mabel Chiltern:
What a dreadful prospect!
Lady Markby:
Ah! my dear, you need not be nervous. You will always be as pretty as
possible. That is the best fashion there is, and the only fashion that
England succeeds in setting.
Mabel Chiltern:
[With a curtsey.] Thank you so much, Lady Markby, for England ... and
myself. [Goes out.]
Lady Markby:
[Turning to LADY CHILTERN.] Dear Gertrude, we just called to know if Mrs.
Cheveley's diamond brooch has been found.
Lady Chiltern:
Here?
Mrs Cheveley:
Yes. I missed it when I got back to Claridge's, and I thought I might
possibly have dropped it here.
Lady Chiltern:
I have heard nothing about it. But I will send for the butler and ask.
[Touches the bell.]
Mrs Cheveley:
Oh, pray don't trouble, Lady Chiltern. I dare say I lost it at the Opera,
before we came on here.
Lady Markby:
Ah yes, I suppose it must have been at the Opera. The fact is, we all
scramble and jostle so much nowadays that I wonder we have anything at
all left on us at the end of an evening. I know myself that, when I am
coming back from the Drawing Room, I always feel as if I hadn't a shred
on me, except a small shred of decent reputation, just enough to prevent
the lower classes making painful observations through the windows of the
carriage. The fact is that our Society is terribly over-populated. Really,
some one should arrange a proper scheme of assisted emigration. It would
do a great deal of good.
Mrs Cheveley:
I quite agree with you, Lady Markby. It is nearly six years since I have
been in London for the Season, and I must say Society has become dreadfully
mixed. One sees the oddest people everywhere.
Lady Markby:
That is quite true, dear. But one needn't know them. I'm sure I don't
know half the people who come to my house. Indeed, from all I hear, I
shouldn't like to.
[Enter MASON.]
Lady Chiltern:
What sort of a brooch was it that you lost, Mrs. Cheveley?
Mrs Cheveley:
A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby, a rather large ruby.
Lady Markby:
I thought you said there was a sapphire on the head, dear?
Mrs Cheveley:
[Smiling.] No, lady Markby - a ruby.
Lady Markby:
[Nodding her head.] And very becoming, I am quite sure.
Lady Chiltern:
Has a ruby and diamond brooch been found in any of the rooms this morning,
Mason?
Mason:
No, my lady.
Mrs Cheveley:
It really is of no consequence, Lady Chiltern. I am so sorry to have put
you to any inconvenience.
Lady Chiltern:
[Coldly.] Oh, it has been no inconvenience. That will do, Mason. You can
bring tea.
[Exit MASON.]
Lady Markby:
Well, I must say it is most annoying to lose anything. I remember once
at Bath, years ago, losing in the Pump Room an exceedingly handsome cameo
bracelet that Sir John had given me. I don't think he has ever given me
anything since, I am sorry to say. He has sadly degenerated. Really, this
horrid House of Commons quite ruins our husbands for us. I think the Lower
House by far the greatest blow to a happy married life that there has
been since that terrible thing called the Higher Education of Women was
invented.
Lady Chiltern:
Ah! it is heresy to say that in this house, Lady Markby. Robert is a great
champion of the Higher Education of Women, and so, I am afraid, am I.
Mrs Cheveley:
The higher education of men is what I should like to see. Men need it
so sadly.
Lady Markby:
They do, dear. But I am afraid such a scheme would be quite unpractical.
I don't think man has much capacity for development. He has got as far
as he can, and that is not far, is it? With regard to women, well, dear
Gertrude, you belong to the younger generation, and I am sure it is all
right if you approve of it. In my time, of course, we were taught not
to understand anything. That was the old system, and wonderfully interesting
it was. I assure you that the amount of things I and my poor dear sister
were taught not to understand was quite extraordinary. But modern women
understand everything, I am told.
Mrs Cheveley:
Except their husbands. That is the one thing the modern woman never understands.
Lady Markby:
And a very good thing too, dear, I dare say. It might break up many a
happy home if they did. Not yours, I need hardly say, Gertrude. You have
married a pattern husband. I wish I could say as much for myself. But
since Sir John has taken to attending the debates regularly, which he
never used to do in the good old days, his language has become quite impossible.
He always seems to think that he is addressing the House, and consequently
whenever he discusses the state of the agricultural labourer, or the Welsh
Church, or something quite improper of that kind, I am obliged to send
all the servants out of the room. It is not pleasant to see one's own
butler, who has been with one for twenty-three years, actually blushing
at the side-board, and the footmen making contortions in corners like
persons in circuses. I assure you my life will be quite ruined unless
they send John at once to the Upper House. He won't take any interest
in politics then, will he? The House of Lords is so sensible. An assembly
of gentlemen. But in his present state, Sir John is really a great trial.
Why, this morning before breakfast was half over, he stood up on the hearthrug,
put his hands in his pockets, and appealed to the country at the top of
his voice. I left the table as soon as I had my second cup of tea, I need
hardly say. But his violent language could be heard all over the house!
I trust, Gertrude, that Sir Robert is not like that
Lady Chiltern:
But I am very much interested in politics, Lady Markby. I love to hear
Robert talk about them.
Lady Markby:
Well, I hope he is not as devoted to Blue Books as Sir John is. I don't
think they can be quite improving reading for any one.
Mrs Cheveley: [Languidly.] I have never
read a Blue Book. I prefer books ... in yellow covers.
Lady Markby:
[Genially unconscious.] Yellow is a gayer colour, is it not? I used to
wear yellow a good deal in my early days, and would do so now if Sir John
was not so painfully personal in his observations, and a man on the question
of dress is always ridiculous, is he not?
Mrs Cheveley:
Oh, no! I think men are the only authorities on dress.
Lady Markby:
Really? One wouldn't say so from the sort of hats they wear? would one?
[The butler enters, followed by the footman. Tea is
set on a small table close to LADY CHILTERN.]
Lady Chiltern:
May I give you some tea, Mrs. Cheveley?
Mrs Cheveley:
Thanks. [The butler hands MRS. CHEVELEY a cup of tea on a salver.]
Lady Chiltern:
Some tea, Lady Markby?
Lady Markby:
No thanks, dear. [The servants go out.] The fact is, I have promised to
go round for ten minutes to see poor Lady Brancaster, who is in very great
trouble. Her daughter, quite a well-brought-up girl, too, has actually
become engaged to be married to a curate in Shropshire. It is very sad,
very sad indeed. I can't understand this modern mania for curates. In
my time we girls saw them, of course, running about the place like rabbits.
But we never took any notice of them, I need hardly say. But I am told
that nowadays country society is quite honeycombed with them. I think
it most irreligious. And then the eldest son has quarrelled with his father,
and it is said that when they meet at the club Lord Brancaster always
hides himself behind the money article in THE TIMES. However, I believe
that is quite a common occurrence nowadays and that they have to take
in extra copies of THE TIMES at all the clubs in St. James's Street; there
are so many sons who won't have anything to do with their fathers, and
so many fathers who won't speak to their sons. I think myself, it is very
much to be regretted.
Mrs Cheveley:
So do I. Fathers have so much to learn from their sons nowadays.
Lady Markby:
Really, dear? What?
Mrs Cheveley:
The art of living. The only really Fine Art we have produced in modern
times.
Lady Markby:
[Shaking her head.] Ah! I am afraid Lord Brancaster knew a good deal about
that. More than his poor wife ever did. [Turning to LADY CHILTERN.] You
know Lady Brancaster, don't you, dear?
Lady Chiltern:
Just slightly. She was staying at Langton last autumn, when we were there.
Lady Markby:
Well, like all stout women, she looks the very picture of happiness, as
no doubt you noticed. But there are many tragedies in her family, besides
this affair of the curate. Her own sister, Mrs. Jekyll, had a most unhappy
life; through no fault of her own, I am sorry to say. She ultimately was
so broken-hearted that she went into a convent, or on to the operatic
stage, I forget which. No; I think it was decorative art-needlework she
took up. I know she had lost all sense of pleasure in life. [Rising.]
And now, Gertrude, if you will allow me, I shall leave Mrs. Cheveley in
your charge and call back for her in a quarter of an hour. Or perhaps,
dear Mrs. Cheveley, you wouldn't mind waiting in the carriage while I
am with Lady Brancaster. As I intend it to be a visit of condolence, I
shan't stay long.
Mrs Cheveley: [Rising.] I don't mind waiting
in the carriage at all, provided there is somebody to look at one.
Lady Markby:
Well, I hear the curate is always prowling about the house.
Mrs Cheveley:
I am afraid I am not fond of girl friends.
Lady Chiltern: [Rising.] Oh, I hope Mrs.
Cheveley will stay here a little. I should like to have a few minutes'
conversation with her.
Mrs Cheveley:
How very kind of you, Lady Chiltern! Believe me, nothing would give me
greater pleasure.
Lady Markby: Ah! no doubt you both have many pleasant
reminiscences of your schooldays to talk over together. Good-bye, dear
Gertrude! Shall I see you at Lady Bonar's tonight? She has discovered
a wonderful new genius. He does ... nothing at all, I believe. That is
a great comfort, is it not?
Lady Chiltern: Robert and I are dining at home
by ourselves tonight, and I don't think I shall go anywhere afterwards.
Robert, of course, will have to be in the House. But there is nothing
interesting on.
Lady Markby:
Dining at home by yourselves? Is that quite prudent? Ah, I forgot, your
husband is an exception. Mine is the general rule, and nothing ages a
woman so rapidly as having married the general rule.
[Exit LADY MARKBY.]
Mrs Cheveley:
Wonderful woman, Lady Markby, isn't she? Talks more and says less than
anybody I ever met. She is made to be a public speaker. Much more so than
her husband, though he is a typical Englishman, always dull and usually
violent.
Lady Chiltern:
[Makes no answer, but remains standing. There is a pause. Then the eyes
of the two women meet. LADY CHILTERN looks stern and pale. MRS. CHEVELEY
seem rather amused.] Mrs. Cheveley, I think it is right to tell you quite
frankly that, had I known who you really were, I should not have invited
you to my house last night.
Mrs Cheveley:
[With an impertinent smile.] Really?
Lady Chiltern:
I could not have done so.
Mrs Cheveley:
I see that after all these years you have not changed a bit, Gertrude.
Lady Chiltern:
I never change.
Mrs Cheveley:
[Elevating her eyebrows.] Then life has taught you nothing?
Lady Chiltern:
It has taught me that a person who has once been guilty of a dishonest
and dishonourable action may be guilty of it a second time, and should
be shunned.
Mrs Cheveley:
Would you apply that rule to every one?
Lady Chiltern:
Yes, to every one, without exception.
Mrs Cheveley:
Then I am sorry for you, Gertrude, very sorry for you.
Lady Chiltern:
You see now, I was sure, that for many reasons any further acquaintance
between us during your stay in London is quite impossible?
Mrs Cheveley:
[Leaning back in her chair.] Do you know, Gertrude, I don't mind your
talking morality a bit. Morality is simply the attitude we adopt towards
people whom we personally dislike. You dislike me. I am quite aware of
that. And I have always detested you. And yet I have come here to do you
a service.
Lady Chiltern:
[Contemptuously.] Like the service you wished to render my husband last
night, I suppose. Thank heaven, I saved him from that.
Mrs Cheveley:
[Starting to her feet.] It was you who made him write that insolent letter
to me? It was you who made him break his promise?
Lady Chiltern:
Yes.
Mrs Cheveley: Then you must make him keep it.
I give you till tomorrow morning - no more. If by that time your husband
does not solemnly bind himself to help me in this great scheme in which
I am interested -
Lady Chiltern: This fraudulent speculation -
Mrs Cheveley:
Call it what you choose. I hold your husband in the hollow of my hand,
and if you are wise you will make him do what I tell him.
Lady Chiltern:
[Rising and going towards her.] You are impertinent. What has my husband
to do with you? With a woman like you?
Mrs Cheveley:
[With a bitter laugh.] In this world like meets with like. It is because
your husband is himself fraudulent and dishonest that we pair so well
together. Between you and him there are chasms. He and I are closer than
friends. We are enemies linked together. The same sin binds us.
Lady Chiltern:
How dare you class my husband with yourself? How dare you threaten him
or me? Leave my house. You are unfit to enter it.
[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN enters from behind. He hears his wife's last words,
and sees to whom they are addressed. He grows deadly pale.]
Mrs Cheveley: Your house! A house bought with
the price of dishonour. A house, everything in which has been paid for
by fraud. [Turns round and sees SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Ask him what
the origin of his fortune is! Get him to tell you how he sold to a stockbroker
a Cabinet secret. Learn from him to what you owe your position.
Lady Chiltern:
It is not true! Robert! It is not true!
Mrs Cheveley:
[Pointing at him with outstretched finger.] Look at him! Can he deny it?
Does he dare to?
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Go! Go at once. You have done your worst now.
Mrs Cheveley:
My worst? I have not yet finished with you, with either of you. I give
you both till tomorrow at noon. If by then you don't do what I bid you
to do, the whole world shall know the origin of Robert Chiltern.
[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN strikes the bell. Enter MASON.]
Sir Robert Chiltern:
Show Mrs. Cheveley out.
[MRS. CHEVELEY starts; then bows with somewhat exaggerated
politeness to LADY CHILTERN, who makes no sign of response. As
she passes by SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, who is standing close to the
door, she pauses for a moment and looks him straight in the face. She
then goes out, followed by the servant, who closes the door after him.
The husband and wife are left alone. LADY CHILTERN stands like
some one in a dreadful dream. Then she turns round and looks at her husband.
She looks at him with strange eyes, as though she were seeing him for
the first time.]
Lady Chiltern:
You sold a Cabinet secret for money! You began your life with fraud! You
built up your career on dishonour! Oh, tell me it is not true! Lie to
me! Lie to me! Tell me it is not true!
Sir Robert Chiltern: What this woman said is quite
true. But, Gertrude, listen to me. You don't realise how I was tempted.
Let me tell you the whole thing. [Goes towards her.]
Lady Chiltern:
Don't come near me. Don't touch me. I feel as if you had soiled me for
ever. Oh! what a mask you have been wearing all these years! A horrible
painted mask! You sold yourself for money. Oh! a common thief were better.
You put yourself up to sale to the highest bidder! You were bought in
the market. You lied to the whole world. And yet you will not lie to me.
Sir Robert Chiltern: [Rushing towards her.]
Gertrude! Gertrude!
Lady Chiltern: [Thrusting him back with outstretched
hands.] No, don't speak! Say nothing! Your voice wakes terrible memories
- memories of things that made me love you - memories of words that made
me love you - memories that now are horrible to me. And how I worshipped
you! You were to me something apart from common life, a thing pure, noble,
honest, without stain. The world seemed to me finer because you were in
it, and goodness more real because you lived. And now - oh, when I think
that I made of a man like you my ideal! the ideal of my life!
Sir Robert Chiltern: There was your mistake. There
was your error. The error all women commit. Why can't you women love us,
faults and all? Why do you place us on monstrous pedestals? We have all
feet of clay, women as well as men; but when we men love women, we love
them knowing their weaknesses, their follies, their imperfections, love
them all the more, it may be, for that reason. It is not the perfect,
but the imperfect, who have need of love. It is when we are wounded by
our own hands, or by the hands of others, that love should come to cure
us - else what use is love at all? All sins, except a sin against itself,
Love should forgive. All lives, save loveless lives, true Love should
pardon. A man's love is like that. It is wider, larger, more human than
a woman's. Women think that they are making ideals of men. What they are
making of us are false idols merely. You made your false idol of me, and
I had not the courage to come down, show you my wounds, tell you my weaknesses.
I was afraid that I might lose your love, as I have lost it now. And so,
last night you ruined my life for me - yes, ruined it! What this woman
asked of me was nothing compared to what she offered to me. She offered
security, peace, stability. The sin of my youth, that I had thought was
buried, rose up in front of me, hideous, horrible, with its hands at my
throat. I could have killed it for ever, sent it back into its tomb, destroyed
its record, burned the one witness against me. You prevented me. No one
but you, you know it. And now what is there before me but public disgrace,
ruin, terrible shame, the mockery of the world, a lonely dishonoured life,
a lonely dishonoured death, it may be, some day? Let women make no more
ideals of men! let them not put them on alters and bow before them, or
they may ruin other lives as completely as you - you whom I have so wildly
loved - have ruined mine!
[He passes from the room. LADY CHILTERN rushes towards
him, but the door is closed when she reaches it. Pale with anguish, bewildered,
helpless, she sways like a plant in the water. Her hands, outstretched,
stem to tremble in the air like blossoms in the mind. Then she flings
herself down beside a sofa and buries her face. Her sobs are like the
sobs of a child.]
[END of ACT II]
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