child who, as far as you are concerned, might have died of hunger and of
want?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. You forget, Rachel, it was you who left me. It was
not I who left you.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I left you because you refused to give the child a name.
Before my son was born, I implored you to marry me.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I had no expectations then. And besides, Rachel, I
wasn’t much older than you were. I was only twenty-two. I was
twenty-one, I believe, when the whole thing began in your father’s
garden.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. When a man is old enough to do wrong he should be old
enough to do right also.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear Rachel, intellectual generalities are always
interesting, but generalities in morals mean absolutely nothing. As for
saying I left our child to starve, that, of course, is untrue and silly.
My mother offered you six hundred a year. But you wouldn’t take
anything. You simply disappeared, and carried the child away with you.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I wouldn’t have accepted a penny from her. Your father
was different. He told you, in my presence, when we were in Paris, that
it was your duty to marry me.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh, duty is what one expects from others, it is not
what one does oneself. Of course, I was influenced by my mother. Every
man is when he is young.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I am glad to hear you say so. Gerald shall certainly
not go away with you.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. What nonsense, Rachel!
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Do you think I would allow my son—
LORD ILLINGWORTH. _Our_ son.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. My son [LORD ILLINGWORTH _shrugs his shoulders_]—to go
away with the man who spoiled my youth, who ruined my life, who has
tainted every moment of my days? You don’t realise what my past has been
in suffering and in shame.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear Rachel, I must candidly say that I think
Gerald’s future considerably more important than your past.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald cannot separate his future from my past.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. That is exactly what he should do. That is exactly
what you should help him to do. What a typical woman you are! You talk
sentimentally, and you are thoroughly selfish the whole time. But don’t
let us have a scene. Rachel, I want you to look at this matter from the
common-sense point of view, from the point of view of what is best for
our son, leaving you and me out of the question. What is our son at
present? An underpaid clerk in a small Provincial Bank in a third-rate
English town. If you imagine he is quite happy in such a position, you
are mistaken. He is thoroughly discontented.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He was not discontented till he met you. You have made
him so.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Of course, I made him so. Discontent is the first
step in the progress of a man or a nation. But I did not leave him with
a mere longing for things he could not get. No, I made him a charming
offer. He jumped at it, I need hardly say. Any young man would. And
now, simply because it turns out that I am the boy’s own father and he my
own son, you propose practically to ruin his career. That is to say, if
I were a perfect stranger, you would allow Gerald to go away with me, but
as he is my own flesh and blood you won’t. How utterly illogical you
are!
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not allow him to go.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. How can you prevent it? What excuse can you give to
him for making him decline such an offer as mine? I won’t tell him in
what relations I stand to him, I need hardly say. But you daren’t tell
him. You know that. Look how you have brought him up.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I have brought him up to be a good man.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Quite so. And what is the result? You have educated
him to be your judge if he ever finds you out. And a bitter, an unjust
judge he will be to you. Don’t be deceived, Rachel. Children begin by
loving their parents. After a time they judge them. Rarely, if ever, do
they forgive them.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. George, don’t take my son away from me. I have had
twenty years of sorrow, and I have only had one thing to love me, only
one thing to love. You have had a life of joy, and pleasure, and
success. You have been quite happy, you have never thought of us. There
was no reason, according to your views of life, why you should have
remembered us at all. Your meeting us was a mere accident, a horrible
accident. Forget it. Don’t come now, and rob me of . . . of all I have
in the whole world. You are so rich in other things. Leave me the
little vineyard of my life; leave me the walled-in garden and the well of
water; the ewe-lamb God sent me, in pity or in wrath, oh! leave me that.
George, don’t take Gerald from me.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Rachel, at the present moment you are not necessary to
Gerald’s career; I am. There is nothing more to be said on the subject.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not let him go.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Here is Gerald. He has a right to decide for himself.
[_Enter_ GERALD.]
GERALD. Well, dear mother, I hope you have settled it all with Lord
Illingworth?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I have not, Gerald.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Your mother seems not to like your coming with me, for
some reason.
GERALD. Why, mother?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I thought you were quite happy here with me, Gerald. I
didn’t know you were so anxious to leave me.
GERALD. Mother, how can you talk like that? Of course I have been quite
happy with you. But a man can’t stay always with his mother. No chap
does. I want to make myself a position, to do something. I thought you
would have been proud to see me Lord Illingworth’s secretary.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I do not think you would be suitable as a private
secretary to Lord Illingworth. You have no qualifications.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I don’t wish to seem to interfere for a moment, Mrs.
Arbuthnot, but as far as your last objection is concerned, I surely am
the best judge. And I can only tell you that your son has all the
qualifications I had hoped for. He has more, in fact, than I had even
thought of. Far more. [MRS. ARBUTHNOT _remains silent_.] Have you any
other reason, Mrs. Arbuthnot, why you don’t wish your son to accept this
post?
GERALD. Have you, mother? Do answer.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. If you have, Mrs. Arbuthnot, pray, pray say it. We
are quite by ourselves here. Whatever it is, I need not say I will not
repeat it.
GERALD. Mother?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. If you would like to be alone with your son, I will
leave you. You may have some other reason you don’t wish me to hear.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I have no other reason.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Then, my dear boy, we may look on the thing as
settled. Come, you and I will smoke a cigarette on the terrace together.
And Mrs. Arbuthnot, pray let me tell you, that I think you have acted
very, very wisely.
[_Exit with_ GERALD. MRS. ARBUTHNOT _is left alone_. _She stands
immobile with a look of unutterable sorrow on her face_.]
ACT DROP
THIRD ACT
SCENE
_The Picture Gallery at Hunstanton_. _Door at back leading on to
terrace_.
[LORD ILLINGWORTH _and_ GERALD, R.C. LORD ILLINGWORTH _lolling on a
sofa_. GERALD _in a chair_.]
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Thoroughly sensible woman, your mother, Gerald. I
knew she would come round in the end.
GERALD. My mother is awfully conscientious, Lord Illingworth, and I know
she doesn’t think I am educated enough to be your secretary. She is
perfectly right, too. I was fearfully idle when I was at school, and I
couldn’t pass an examination now to save my life.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear Gerald, examinations are of no value
whatsoever. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is
not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him.
GERALD. But I am so ignorant of the world, Lord Illingworth.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Don’t be afraid, Gerald. Remember that you’ve got on
your side the most wonderful thing in the world—youth! There is nothing
like youth. The middle-aged are mortgaged to Life. The old are in
life’s lumber-room. But youth is the Lord of Life. Youth has a kingdom
waiting for it. Every one is born a king, and most people die in exile,
like most kings. To win back my youth, Gerald, there is nothing I
wouldn’t do—except take exercise, get up early, or be a useful member of
the community.
GERALD. But you don’t call yourself old, Lord Illingworth?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I am old enough to be your father, Gerald.
GERALD. I don’t remember my father; he died years ago.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. So Lady Hunstanton told me.
GERALD. It is very curious, my mother never talks to me about my father.
I sometimes think she must have married beneath her.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. [_Winces slightly_.] Really? [_Goes over and puts
his hand on_ GERALD’S _shoulder_.] You have missed not having a father,
I suppose, Gerald?
GERALD. Oh, no; my mother has been so good to me. No one ever had such
a mother as I have had.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I am quite sure of that. Still I should imagine that
most mothers don’t quite understand their sons. Don’t realise, I mean,
that a son has ambitions, a desire to see life, to make himself a name.
After all, Gerald, you couldn’t be expected to pass all your life in such
a hole as Wrockley, could you?
GERALD. Oh, no! It would be dreadful!
LORD ILLINGWORTH. A mother’s love is very touching, of course, but it is
often curiously selfish. I mean, there is a good deal of selfishness in
it.
GERALD. [_Slowly_.] I suppose there is.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Your mother is a thoroughly good woman. But good
women have such limited views of life, their horizon is so small, their
interests are so petty, aren’t they?
GERALD. They are awfully interested, certainly, in things we don’t care
much about.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I suppose your mother is very religious, and that sort
of thing.
GERALD. Oh, yes, she’s always going to church.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Ah! she is not modern, and to be modern is the only
thing worth being nowadays. You want to be modern, don’t you, Gerald?
You want to know life as it really is. Not to be put off with any
old-fashioned theories about life. Well, what you have to do at present
is simply to fit yourself for the best society. A man who can dominate a
London dinner-table can dominate the world. The future belongs to the
dandy. It is the exquisites who are going to rule.
GERALD. I should like to wear nice things awfully, but I have always
been told that a man should not think too much about his clothes.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. People nowadays are so absolutely superficial that
they don’t understand the philosophy of the superficial. By the way,
Gerald, you should learn how to tie your tie better. Sentiment is all
very well for the button-hole. But the essential thing for a necktie is
style. A well-tied tie is the first serious step in life.
GERALD. [_Laughing_.] I might be able to learn how to tie a tie, Lord
Illingworth, but I should never be able to talk as you do. I don’t know
how to talk.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh! talk to every woman as if you loved her, and to
every man as if he bored you, and at the end of your first season you
will have the reputation of possessing the most perfect social tact.
GERALD. But it is very difficult to get into society isn’t it?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. To get into the best society, nowadays, one has either
to feed people, amuse people, or shock people—that is all!
GERALD. I suppose society is wonderfully delightful!
LORD ILLINGWORTH. To be in it is merely a bore. But to be out of it
simply a tragedy. Society is a necessary thing. No man has any real
success in this world unless he has got women to back him, and women rule
society. If you have not got women on your side you are quite over. You
might just as well be a barrister, or a stockbroker, or a journalist at
once.
GERALD. It is very difficult to understand women, is it not?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. You should never try to understand them. Women are
pictures. Men are problems. If you want to know what a woman really
means—which, by the way, is always a dangerous thing to do—look at her,
don’t listen to her.
GERALD. But women are awfully clever, aren’t they?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. One should always tell them so. But, to the
philosopher, my dear Gerald, women represent the triumph of matter over
mind—just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals.
GERALD. How then can women have so much power as you say they have?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. The history of women is the history of the worst form
of tyranny the world has ever known. The tyranny of the weak over the
strong. It is the only tyranny that lasts.
GERALD. But haven’t women got a refining influence?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Nothing refines but the intellect.
GERALD. Still, there are many different kinds of women, aren’t there?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Only two kinds in society: the plain and the coloured.
GERALD. But there are good women in society, aren’t there?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Far too many.
GERALD. But do you think women shouldn’t be good?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. One should never tell them so, they’d all become good
at once. Women are a fascinatingly wilful sex. Every woman is a rebel,
and usually in wild revolt against herself.
GERALD. You have never been married, Lord Illingworth, have you?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Men marry because they are tired; women because they
are curious. Both are disappointed.
GERALD. But don’t you think one can be happy when one is married?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Perfectly happy. But the happiness of a married man,
my dear Gerald, depends on the people he has not married.
GERALD. But if one is in love?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. One should always be in love. That is the reason one
should never marry.
GERALD. Love is a very wonderful thing, isn’t it?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. When one is in love one begins by deceiving oneself.
And one ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a
romance. But a really _grande passion_ is comparatively rare nowadays.
It is the privilege of people who have nothing to do. That is the one
use of the idle classes in a country, and the only possible explanation
of us Harfords.
GERALD. Harfords, Lord Illingworth?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. That is my family name. You should study the Peerage,
Gerald. It is the one book a young man about town should know
thoroughly, and it is the best thing in fiction the English have ever
done. And now, Gerald, you are going into a perfectly new life with me,
and I want you to know how to live. [MRS. ARBUTHNOT _appears on terrace
behind_.] For the world has been made by fools that wise men should live
in it!
[_Enter_ L.C. LADY HUNSTANTON _and_ DR. DAUBENY.]
LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! here you are, dear Lord Illingworth. Well, I
suppose you have been telling our young friend, Gerald, what his new
duties are to be, and giving him a great deal of good advice over a
pleasant cigarette.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I have been giving him the best of advice, Lady
Hunstanton, and the best of cigarettes.
LADY HUNSTANTON. I am so sorry I was not here to listen to you, but I
suppose I am too old now to learn. Except from you, dear Archdeacon,
when you are in your nice pulpit. But then I always know what you are
going to say, so I don’t feel alarmed. [_Sees_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT.] Ah!
dear Mrs. Arbuthnot, do come and join us. Come, dear. [_Enter_ MRS.
ARBUTHNOT.] Gerald has been having such a long talk with Lord
Illingworth; I am sure you must feel very much flattered at the pleasant
way in which everything has turned out for him. Let us sit down. [_They
sit down_.] And how is your beautiful embroidery going on?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I am always at work, Lady Hunstanton.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Mrs. Daubeny embroiders a little, too, doesn’t she?
THE ARCHDEACON. She was very deft with her needle once, quite a Dorcas.
But the gout has crippled her fingers a good deal. She has not touched
the tambour frame for nine or ten years. But she has many other
amusements. She is very much interested in her own health.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! that is always a nice distraction, is it not? Now,
what are you talking about, Lord Illingworth? Do tell us.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I was on the point of explaining to Gerald that the
world has always laughed at its own tragedies, that being the only way in
which it has been able to bear them. And that, consequently, whatever
the world has treated seriously belongs to the comedy side of things.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Now I am quite out of my depth. I usually am when Lord
Illingworth says anything. And the Humane Society is most careless.
They never rescue me. I am left to sink. I have a dim idea, dear Lord
Illingworth, that you are always on the side of the sinners, and I know I
always try to be on the side of the saints, but that is as far as I get.
And after all, it may be merely the fancy of a drowning person.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. The only difference between the saint and the sinner
is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! that quite does for me. I haven’t a word to say.
You and I, dear Mrs. Arbuthnot, are behind the age. We can’t follow Lord
Illingworth. Too much care was taken with our education, I am afraid.
To have been well brought up is a great drawback nowadays. It shuts one
out from so much.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I should be sorry to follow Lord Illingworth in any of
his opinions.
LADY HUNSTANTON. You are quite right, dear.
[GERALD _shrugs his shoulders and looks irritably over at his mother_.
_Enter_ LADY CAROLINE.]
LADY CAROLINE. Jane, have you seen John anywhere?
LADY HUNSTANTON. You needn’t be anxious about him, dear. He is with
Lady Stutfield; I saw them some time ago, in the Yellow Drawing-room.
They seem quite happy together. You are not going, Caroline? Pray sit
down.
LADY CAROLINE. I think I had better look after John.
[_Exit_ LADY CAROLINE.]
LADY HUNSTANTON. It doesn’t do to pay men so much attention. And
Caroline has really nothing to be anxious about. Lady Stutfield is very
sympathetic. She is just as sympathetic about one thing as she is about
another. A beautiful nature.
[_Enter_ SIR JOHN _and_ MRS. ALLONBY.]
Ah! here is Sir John! And with Mrs. Allonby too! I suppose it was Mrs.
Allonby I saw him with. Sir John, Caroline has been looking everywhere
for you.
MRS. ALLONBY. We have been waiting for her in the Music-room, dear Lady
Hunstanton.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! the Music-room, of course. I thought it was the
Yellow Drawing-room, my memory is getting so defective. [_To the_
ARCHDEACON.] Mrs. Daubeny has a wonderful memory, hasn’t she?
THE ARCHDEACON. She used to be quite remarkable for her memory, but
since her last attack she recalls chiefly the events of her early
childhood. But she finds great pleasure in such retrospections, great
pleasure.
[_Enter_ LADY STUTFIELD _and_ MR. KELVIL.]
LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! dear Lady Stutfield! and what has Mr. Kelvil been
talking to you about?
LADY STUTFIELD. About Bimetallism, as well as I remember.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Bimetallism! Is that quite a nice subject? However, I
know people discuss everything very freely nowadays. What did Sir John
talk to you about, dear Mrs. Allonby?
MRS. ALLONBY. About Patagonia.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Really? What a remote topic! But very improving, I
have no doubt.
MRS. ALLONBY. He has been most interesting on the subject of Patagonia.
Savages seem to have quite the same views as cultured people on almost
all subjects. They are excessively advanced.
LADY HUNSTANTON. What do they do?
MRS. ALLONBY. Apparently everything.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Well, it is very gratifying, dear Archdeacon, is it
not, to find that Human Nature is permanently one.—On the whole, the
world is the same world, is it not?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. The world is simply divided into two classes—those who
believe the incredible, like the public—and those who do the improbable—
MRS. ALLONBY. Like yourself?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Yes; I am always astonishing myself. It is the only
thing that makes life worth living.
LADY STUTFIELD. And what have you been doing lately that astonishes you?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I have been discovering all kinds of beautiful
qualities in my own nature.
MRS. ALLONBY. Ah! don’t become quite perfect all at once. Do it
gradually!
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I don’t intend to grow perfect at all. At least, I
hope I shan’t. It would be most inconvenient. Women love us for our
defects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything,
even our gigantic intellects.
MRS. ALLONBY. It is premature to ask us to forgive analysis. We forgive
adoration; that is quite as much as should be expected from us.
[_Enter_ LORD ALFRED. _He joins_ LADY STUTFIELD.]
LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! we women should forgive everything, shouldn’t we,
dear Mrs. Arbuthnot? I am sure you agree with me in that.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I do not, Lady Hunstanton. I think there are many
things women should never forgive.
LADY HUNSTANTON. What sort of things?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. The ruin of another woman’s life.
[_Moves slowly away to back of stage_.]
LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! those things are very sad, no doubt, but I believe
there are admirable homes where people of that kind are looked after and
reformed, and I think on the whole that the secret of life is to take
things very, very easily.
MRS. ALLONBY. The secret of life is never to have an emotion that is
unbecoming.
LADY STUTFIELD. The secret of life is to appreciate the pleasure of
being terribly, terribly deceived.
KELVIL. The secret of life is to resist temptation, Lady Stutfield.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. There is no secret of life. Life’s aim, if it has
one, is simply to be always looking for temptations. There are not
nearly enough. I sometimes pass a whole day without coming across a
single one. It is quite dreadful. It makes one so nervous about the
future.
LADY HUNSTANTON. [_Shakes her fan at him_.] I don’t know how it is,
dear Lord Illingworth, but everything you have said to-day seems to me
excessively immoral. It has been most interesting, listening to you.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. All thought is immoral. Its very essence is
destruction. If you think of anything, you kill it. Nothing survives
being thought of.
LADY HUNSTANTON. I don’t understand a word, Lord Illingworth. But I
have no doubt it is all quite true. Personally, I have very little to
reproach myself with, on the score of thinking. I don’t believe in women
thinking too much. Women should think in moderation, as they should do
all things in moderation.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Moderation is a fatal thing, Lady Hunstanton. Nothing
succeeds like excess.
LADY HUNSTANTON. I hope I shall remember that. It sounds an admirable
maxim. But I’m beginning to forget everything. It’s a great misfortune.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is one of your most fascinating qualities, Lady
Hunstanton. No woman should have a memory. Memory in a woman is the
beginning of dowdiness. One can always tell from a woman’s bonnet
whether she has got a memory or not.
LADY HUNSTANTON. How charming you are, dear Lord Illingworth. You
always find out that one’s most glaring fault is one’s most important
virtue. You have the most comforting views of life.
[_Enter_ FARQUHAR.]
FARQUHAR. Doctor Daubeny’s carriage!
LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear Archdeacon! It is only half-past ten.
THE ARCHDEACON. [_Rising_.] I am afraid I must go, Lady Hunstanton.
Tuesday is always one of Mrs. Daubeny’s bad nights.
LADY HUNSTANTON. [_Rising_.] Well, I won’t keep you from her. [_Goes
with him towards door_.] I have told Farquhar to put a brace of
partridge into the carriage. Mrs. Daubeny may fancy them.
THE ARCHDEACON. It is very kind of you, but Mrs. Daubeny never touches
solids now. Lives entirely on jellies. But she is wonderfully cheerful,
wonderfully cheerful. She has nothing to complain of.
[_Exit with_ LADY HUNSTANTON.]
MRS. ALLONBY. [_Goes over to_ LORD ILLINGWORTH.] There is a beautiful
moon to-night.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Let us go and look at it. To look at anything that is
inconstant is charming nowadays.
MRS. ALLONBY. You have your looking-glass.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is unkind. It merely shows me my wrinkles.
MRS. ALLONBY. Mine is better behaved. It never tells me the truth.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Then it is in love with you.
[_Exeunt_ SIR JOHN, LADY STUTFIELD, MR. KELVIL _and_ LORD ALFRED.]
GERALD. [_To_ LORD ILLINGWORTH] May I come too?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Do, my dear boy. [_Moves towards door with_ MRS.
ALLONBY _and_ GERALD.]
[LADY CAROLINE _enters_, _looks rapidly round and goes off in opposite
direction to that taken by_ SIR JOHN _and_ LADY STUTFIELD.]
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald!
GERALD. What, mother!
[_Exit_ LORD ILLINGWORTH _with_ MRS. ALLONBY.]
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is getting late. Let us go home.
GERALD. My dear mother. Do let us wait a little longer. Lord
Illingworth is so delightful, and, by the way, mother, I have a great
surprise for you. We are starting for India at the end of this month.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Let us go home.
GERALD. If you really want to, of course, mother, but I must bid
good-bye to Lord Illingworth first. I’ll be back in five minutes.
[_Exit_.]
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Let him leave me if he chooses, but not with him—not
with him! I couldn’t bear it. [_Walks up and down_.]
[_Enter_ HESTER.]
HESTER. What a lovely night it is, Mrs. Arbuthnot.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Is it?
HESTER. Mrs. Arbuthnot, I wish you would let us be friends. You are so
different from the other women here. When you came into the Drawing-room
this evening, somehow you brought with you a sense of what is good and
pure in life. I had been foolish. There are things that are right to
say, but that may be said at the wrong time and to the wrong people.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I heard what you said. I agree with it, Miss Worsley.
HESTER. I didn’t know you had heard it. But I knew you would agree with
me. A woman who has sinned should be punished, shouldn’t she?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes.
HESTER. She shouldn’t be allowed to come into the society of good men
and women?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. She should not.
HESTER. And the man should be punished in the same way?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. In the same way. And the children, if there are
children, in the same way also?
HESTER. Yes, it is right that the sins of the parents should be visited
on the children. It is a just law. It is God’s law.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is one of God’s terrible laws.
[_Moves away to fireplace_.]
HESTER. You are distressed about your son leaving you, Mrs. Arbuthnot?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes.
HESTER. Do you like him going away with Lord Illingworth? Of course
there is position, no doubt, and money, but position and money are not
everything, are they?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. They are nothing; they bring misery.
HESTER. Then why do you let your son go with him?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He wishes it himself.
HESTER. But if you asked him he would stay, would he not?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He has set his heart on going.
HESTER. He couldn’t refuse you anything. He loves you too much. Ask
him to stay. Let me send him in to you. He is on the terrace at this
moment with Lord Illingworth. I heard them laughing together as I passed
through the Music-room.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Don’t trouble, Miss Worsley, I can wait. It is of no
consequence.
HESTER. No, I’ll tell him you want him. Do—do ask him to stay. [_Exit_
HESTER.]
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He won’t come—I know he won’t come.
[Enter LADY CAROLINE. _She looks round anxiously_. _Enter_ GERALD.]
LADY CAROLINE. Mr. Arbuthnot, may I ask you is Sir John anywhere on the
terrace?
GERALD. No, Lady Caroline, he is not on the terrace.
LADY CAROLINE. It is very curious. It is time for him to retire.
[_Exit_ LADY CAROLINE.]
GERALD. Dear mother, I am afraid I kept you waiting. I forgot all about
it. I am so happy to-night, mother; I have never been so happy.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. At the prospect of going away?
GERALD. Don’t put it like that, mother. Of course I am sorry to leave
you. Why, you are the best mother in the whole world. But after all, as
Lord Illingworth says, it is impossible to live in such a place as
Wrockley. You don’t mind it. But I’m ambitious; I want something more
than that. I want to have a career. I want to do something that will
make you proud of me, and Lord Illingworth is going to help me. He is
going to do everything for me.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald, don’t go away with Lord Illingworth. I implore
you not to. Gerald, I beg you!
GERALD. Mother, how changeable you are! You don’t seem to know your own
mind for a single moment. An hour and a half ago in the Drawing-room you
agreed to the whole thing; now you turn round and make objections, and
try to force me to give up my one chance in life. Yes, my one chance.
You don’t suppose that men like Lord Illingworth are to be found every
day, do you, mother? It is very strange that when I have had such a
wonderful piece of good luck, the one person to put difficulties in my
way should be my own mother. Besides, you know, mother, I love Hester
Worsley. Who could help loving her? I love her more than I have ever
told you, far more. And if I had a position, if I had prospects, I
could—I could ask her to—Don’t you understand now, mother, what it means
to me to be Lord Illingworth’s secretary? To start like that is to find
a career ready for one—before one—waiting for one. If I were Lord
Illingworth’s secretary I could ask Hester to be my wife. As a wretched
bank clerk with a hundred a year it would be an impertinence.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I fear you need have no hopes of Miss Worsley. I know
her views on life. She has just told them to me. [_A pause_.]
GERALD. Then I have my ambition left, at any rate. That is something—I
am glad I have that! You have always tried to crush my ambition,
mother—haven’t you? You have told me that the world is a wicked place,
that success is not worth having, that society is shallow, and all that
sort of thing—well, I don’t believe it, mother. I think the world must
be delightful. I think society must be exquisite. I think success is a
thing worth having. You have been wrong in all that you taught me,
mother, quite wrong. Lord Illingworth is a successful man. He is a
fashionable man. He is a man who lives in the world and for it. Well, I
would give anything to be just like Lord Illingworth.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I would sooner see you dead.
GERALD. Mother, what is your objection to Lord Illingworth? Tell
me—tell me right out. What is it?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He is a bad man.
GERALD. In what way bad? I don’t understand what you mean.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will tell you.
GERALD. I suppose you think him bad, because he doesn’t believe the same
things as you do. Well, men are different from women, mother. It is
natural that they should have different views.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is not what Lord Illingworth believes, or what he
does not believe, that makes him bad. It is what he is.
GERALD. Mother, is it something you know of him? Something you actually
know?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is something I know.
GERALD. Something you are quite sure of?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Quite sure of.
GERALD. How long have you known it?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. For twenty years.
GERALD. Is it fair to go back twenty years in any man’s career? And
what have you or I to do with Lord Illingworth’s early life? What
business is it of ours?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. What this man has been, he is now, and will be always.
GERALD. Mother, tell me what Lord Illingworth did? If he did anything
shameful, I will not go away with him. Surely you know me well enough
for that?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald, come near to me. Quite close to me, as you used
to do when you were a little boy, when you were mother’s own boy.
[GERALD _sits down beside his mother_. _She runs her fingers through his
hair_, _and strokes his hands_.] Gerald, there was a girl once, she was
very young, she was little over eighteen at the time. George
Harford—that was Lord Illingworth’s name then—George Harford met her.
She knew nothing about life. He—knew everything. He made this girl love
him. He made her love him so much that she left her father’s house with
him one morning. She loved him so much, and he had promised to marry
her! He had solemnly promised to marry her, and she had believed him.
She was very young, and—and ignorant of what life really is. But he put
the marriage off from week to week, and month to month.—She trusted in
him all the while. She loved him.—Before her child was born—for she had
a child—she implored him for the child’s sake to marry her, that the
child might have a name, that her sin might not be visited on the child,
who was innocent. He refused. After the child was born she left him,
taking the child away, and her life was ruined, and her soul ruined, and
all that was sweet, and good, and pure in her ruined also. She suffered
terribly—she suffers now. She will always suffer. For her there is no
joy, no peace, no atonement. She is a woman who drags a chain like a
guilty thing. She is a woman who wears a mask, like a thing that is a
leper. The fire cannot purify her. The waters cannot quench her
anguish. Nothing can heal her! no anodyne can give her sleep! no poppies
forgetfulness! She is lost! She is a lost soul!—That is why I call Lord
Illingworth a bad man. That is why I don’t want my boy to be with him.
GERALD. My dear mother, it all sounds very tragic, of course. But I
dare say the girl was just as much to blame as Lord Illingworth
was.—After all, would a really nice girl, a girl with any nice feelings
at all, go away from her home with a man to whom she was not married, and
live with him as his wife? No nice girl would.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_After a pause_.] Gerald, I withdraw all my
objections. You are at liberty to go away with Lord Illingworth, when
and where you choose.
GERALD. Dear mother, I knew you wouldn’t stand in my way. You are the
best woman God ever made. And, as for Lord Illingworth, I don’t believe
he is capable of anything infamous or base. I can’t believe it of him—I
can’t.
HESTER. [_Outside_.] Let me go! Let me go! [_Enter_ HESTER _in
terror_, _and rushes over to_ GERALD _and flings herself in his arms_.]
HESTER. Oh! save me—save me from him!
GERALD. From whom?
HESTER. He has insulted me! Horribly insulted me! Save me!
GERALD. Who? Who has dared—?
[LORD ILLINGWORTH _enters at back of stage_. HESTER _breaks from_
GERALD’S _arms and points to him_.]
GERALD [_He is quite beside himself with rage and indignation_.] Lord
Illingworth, you have insulted the purest thing on God’s earth, a thing
as pure as my own mother. You have insulted the woman I love most in the
world with my own mother. As there is a God in Heaven, I will kill you!
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Rushing across and catching hold of him_] No! no!
GERALD. [_Thrusting her back_.] Don’t hold me, mother. Don’t hold
me—I’ll kill him!
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald!
GERALD. Let me go, I say!
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Stop, Gerald, stop! He is your own father!
[GERALD _clutches his mother’s hands and looks into her face_. _She
sinks slowly on the ground in shame_. HESTER _steals towards the door_.
LORD ILLINGWORTH _frowns and bites his lip_. _After a time_ GERALD
_raises his mother up_, _puts his arm round her_, _and leads her from
the room_.]
ACT DROP
FOURTH ACT
SCENE
_Sitting-room at Mrs. Arbuthnot’s_. _Large open French window at back_,
_looking on to garden_. _Doors_ R.C. _and_ L.C.
[GERALD ARBUTHNOT _writing at table_.]
[_Enter_ ALICE R.C. _followed by_ LADY HUNSTANTON _and_ MRS. ALLONBY.]
ALICE. Lady Hunstanton and Mrs. Allonby.
[_Exit_ L.C.]
LADY HUNSTANTON. Good morning, Gerald.
GERALD. [_Rising_.] Good morning, Lady Hunstanton. Good morning, Mrs.
Allonby.
LADY HUNSTANTON. [_Sitting down_.] We came to inquire for your dear
mother, Gerald. I hope she is better?
GERALD. My mother has not come down yet, Lady Hunstanton.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, I am afraid the heat was too much for her last
night. I think there must have been thunder in the air. Or perhaps it
was the music. Music makes one feel so romantic—at least it always gets
on one’s nerves.
MRS. ALLONBY. It’s the same thing, nowadays.
LADY HUNSTANTON. I am so glad I don’t know what you mean, dear. I am
afraid you mean something wrong. Ah, I see you’re examining Mrs.
Arbuthnot’s pretty room. Isn’t it nice and old-fashioned?
MRS. ALLONBY. [_Surveying the room through her lorgnette_.] It looks
quite the happy English home.
LADY HUNSTANTON. That’s just the word, dear; that just describes it.
One feels your mother’s good influence in everything she has about her,
Gerald.
MRS. ALLONBY. Lord Illingworth says that all influence is bad, but that
a good influence is the worst in the world.
LADY HUNSTANTON. When Lord Illingworth knows Mrs. Arbuthnot better he
will change his mind. I must certainly bring him here.
MRS. ALLONBY. I should like to see Lord Illingworth in a happy English
home.
LADY HUNSTANTON. It would do him a great deal of good, dear. Most women
in London, nowadays, seem to furnish their rooms with nothing but
orchids, foreigners, and French novels. But here we have the room of a
sweet saint. Fresh natural flowers, books that don’t shock one, pictures
that one can look at without blushing.
MRS. ALLONBY. But I like blushing.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Well, there _is_ a good deal to be said for blushing,
if one can do it at the proper moment. Poor dear Hunstanton used to tell
me I didn’t blush nearly often enough. But then he was so very
particular. He wouldn’t let me know any of his men friends, except those
who were over seventy, like poor Lord Ashton: who afterwards, by the way,
was brought into the Divorce Court. A most unfortunate case.
MRS. ALLONBY. I delight in men over seventy. They always offer one the
devotion of a lifetime. I think seventy an ideal age for a man.
LADY HUNSTANTON. She is quite incorrigible, Gerald, isn’t she?
By-the-by, Gerald, I hope your dear mother will come and see me more
often now. You and Lord Illingworth start almost immediately, don’t you?
GERALD. I have given up my intention of being Lord Illingworth’s
secretary.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Surely not, Gerald! It would be most unwise of you.
What reason can you have?
GERALD. I don’t think I should be suitable for the post.
MRS. ALLONBY. I wish Lord Illingworth would ask me to be his secretary.
But he says I am not serious enough.
LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear, you really mustn’t talk like that in this
house. Mrs. Arbuthnot doesn’t know anything about the wicked society in
which we all live. She won’t go into it. She is far too good. I
consider it was a great honour her coming to me last night. It gave
quite an atmosphere of respectability to the party.
MRS. ALLONBY. Ah, that must have been what you thought was thunder in
the air.
LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear, how can you say that? There is no resemblance
between the two things at all. But really, Gerald, what do you mean by
not being suitable?
GERALD. Lord Illingworth’s views of life and mine are too different.
LADY HUNSTANTON. But, my dear Gerald, at your age you shouldn’t have any
views of life. They are quite out of place. You must be guided by
others in this matter. Lord Illingworth has made you the most flattering
offer, and travelling with him you would see the world—as much of it, at
least, as one should look at—under the best auspices possible, and stay
with all the right people, which is so important at this solemn moment in
your career.
GERALD. I don’t want to see the world: I’ve seen enough of it.
MRS. ALLONBY. I hope you don’t think you have exhausted life, Mr.
Arbuthnot. When a man says that, one knows that life has exhausted him.
GERALD. I don’t wish to leave my mother.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Now, Gerald, that is pure laziness on your part. Not
leave your mother! If I were your mother I would insist on your going.
[_Enter_ ALICE L.C.]
ALICE. Mrs. Arbuthnot’s compliments, my lady, but she has a bad
headache, and cannot see any one this morning. [_Exit_ R.C.]
LADY HUNSTANTON. [_Rising_.] A bad headache! I am so sorry! Perhaps
you’ll bring her up to Hunstanton this afternoon, if she is better,
Gerald.
GERALD. I am afraid not this afternoon, Lady Hunstanton.
LADY HUNSTANTON. Well, to-morrow, then. Ah, if you had a father,
Gerald, he wouldn’t let you waste your life here. He would send you off
with Lord Illingworth at once. But mothers are so weak. They give up to
their sons in everything. We are all heart, all heart. Come, dear, I
must call at the rectory and inquire for Mrs. Daubeny, who, I am afraid,
is far from well. It is wonderful how the Archdeacon bears up, quite
wonderful. He is the most sympathetic of husbands. Quite a model.
Good-bye, Gerald, give my fondest love to your mother.
MRS. ALLONBY. Good-bye, Mr. Arbuthnot.
GERALD. Good-bye.
[_Exit_ LADY HUNSTANTON _and_ MRS. ALLONBY. GERALD _sits down and reads
over his letter_.]
GERALD. What name can I sign? I, who have no right to any name.
[_Signs name_, _puts letter into envelope_, _addresses it_, _and is about
to seal it_, _when door_ L.C. _opens and_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT _enters_.
GERALD _lays down sealing-wax_. _Mother and son look at each other_.]
LADY HUNSTANTON. [_Through French window at the back_.] Good-bye again,
Gerald. We are taking the short cut across your pretty garden. Now,
remember my advice to you—start at once with Lord Illingworth.
MRS. ALLONBY. _Au revoir_, Mr. Arbuthnot. Mind you bring me back
something nice from your travels—not an Indian shawl—on no account an
Indian shawl.
[_Exeunt_.]
GERALD. Mother, I have just written to him.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. To whom?
GERALD. To my father. I have written to tell him to come here at four
o’clock this afternoon.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He shall not come here. He shall not cross the
threshold of my house.
GERALD. He must come.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald, if you are going away with Lord Illingworth, go
at once. Go before it kills me: but don’t ask me to meet him.
GERALD. Mother, you don’t understand. Nothing in the world would induce
me to go away with Lord Illingworth, or to leave you. Surely you know me
well enough for that. No: I have written to him to say—
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. What can you have to say to him?
GERALD. Can’t you guess, mother, what I have written in this letter?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. No.
GERALD. Mother, surely you can. Think, think what must be done, now, at
once, within the next few days.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. There is nothing to be done.
GERALD. I have written to Lord Illingworth to tell him that he must
marry you.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Marry me?
GERALD. Mother, I will force him to do it. The wrong that has been done
you must be repaired. Atonement must be made. Justice may be slow,
mother, but it comes in the end. In a few days you shall be Lord
Illingworth’s lawful wife.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. But, Gerald—
GERALD. I will insist upon his doing it. I will make him do it: he will
not dare to refuse.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. But, Gerald, it is I who refuse. I will not marry Lord
Illingworth.
GERALD. Not marry him? Mother!
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not marry him.
GERALD. But you don’t understand: it is for your sake I am talking, not
for mine. This marriage, this necessary marriage, this marriage which
for obvious reasons must inevitably take place, will not help me, will
not give me a name that will be really, rightly mine to bear. But surely
it will be something for you, that you, my mother, should, however late,
become the wife of the man who is my father. Will not that be something?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not marry him.
GERALD. Mother, you must.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not. You talk of atonement for a wrong done.
What atonement can be made to me? There is no atonement possible. I am
disgraced: he is not. That is all. It is the usual history of a man and
a woman as it usually happens, as it always happens. And the ending is
the ordinary ending. The woman suffers. The man goes free.
GERALD. I don’t know if that is the ordinary ending, mother: I hope it
is not. But your life, at any rate, shall not end like that. The man
shall make whatever reparation is possible. It is not enough. It does
not wipe out the past, I know that. But at least it makes the future
better, better for you, mother.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I refuse to marry Lord Illingworth.
GERALD. If he came to you himself and asked you to be his wife you would
give him a different answer. Remember, he is my father.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. If he came himself, which he will not do, my answer
would be the same. Remember I am your mother.
GERALD. Mother, you make it terribly difficult for me by talking like
that; and I can’t understand why you won’t look at this matter from the
right, from the only proper standpoint. It is to take away the
bitterness out of your life, to take away the shadow that lies on your
name, that this marriage must take place. There is no alternative: and
after the marriage you and I can go away together. But the marriage must
take place first. It is a duty that you owe, not merely to yourself, but
to all other women—yes: to all the other women in the world, lest he
betray more.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I owe nothing to other women. There is not one of them
to help me. There is not one woman in the world to whom I could go for
pity, if I would take it, or for sympathy, if I could win it. Women are
hard on each other. That girl, last night, good though she is, fled from
the room as though I were a tainted thing. She was right. I am a
tainted thing. But my wrongs are my own, and I will bear them alone. I
must bear them alone. What have women who have not sinned to do with me,
or I with them? We do not understand each other.
[_Enter_ HESTER _behind_.]
GERALD. I implore you to do what I ask you.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. What son has ever asked of his mother to make so hideous
a sacrifice? None.
GERALD. What mother has ever refused to marry the father of her own
child? None.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Let me be the first, then. I will not do it.
GERALD. Mother, you believe in religion, and you brought me up to
believe in it also. Well, surely your religion, the religion that you
taught me when I was a boy, mother, must tell you that I am right. You
know it, you feel it.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I do not know it. I do not feel it, nor will I ever
stand before God’s altar and ask God’s blessing on so hideous a mockery
as a marriage between me and George Harford. I will not say the words
the Church bids us to say. I will not say them. I dare not. How could
I swear to love the man I loathe, to honour him who wrought you
dishonour, to obey him who, in his mastery, made me to sin? No: marriage
is a sacrament for those who love each other. It is not for such as him,
or such as me. Gerald, to save you from the world’s sneers and taunts I
have lied to the world. For twenty years I have lied to the world. I
could not tell the world the truth. Who can, ever? But not for my own
sake will I lie to God, and in God’s presence. No, Gerald, no ceremony,
Church-hallowed or State-made, shall ever bind me to George Harford. It
may be that I am too bound to him already, who, robbing me, yet left me
richer, so that in the mire of my life I found the pearl of price, or
what I thought would be so.
GERALD. I don’t understand you now.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Men don’t understand what mothers are. I am no
different from other women except in the wrong done me and the wrong I
did, and my very heavy punishments and great disgrace. And yet, to bear
you I had to look on death. To nurture you I had to wrestle with it.
Death fought with me for you. All women have to fight with death to keep
their children. Death, being childless, wants our children from us.
Gerald, when you were naked I clothed you, when you were hungry I gave
you food. Night and day all that long winter I tended you. No office is
too mean, no care too lowly for the thing we women love—and oh! how _I_
loved _you_. Not Hannah, Samuel more. And you needed love, for you were
weakly, and only love could have kept you alive. Only love can keep any
one alive. And boys are careless often and without thinking give pain,
and we always fancy that when they come to man’s estate and know us
better they will repay us. But it is not so. The world draws them from
our side, and they make friends with whom they are happier than they are
with us, and have amusements from which we are barred, and interests that
are not ours: and they are unjust to us often, for when they find life
bitter they blame us for it, and when they find it sweet we do not taste
its sweetness with them . . . You made many friends and went into their
houses and were glad with them, and I, knowing my secret, did not dare to
follow, but stayed at home and closed the door, shut out the sun and sat
in darkness. What should I have done in honest households? My past was
ever with me. . . . And you thought I didn’t care for the pleasant things
of life. I tell you I longed for them, but did not dare to touch them,
feeling I had no right. You thought I was happier working amongst the
poor. That was my mission, you imagined. It was not, but where else was
I to go? The sick do not ask if the hand that smooths their pillow is
pure, nor the dying care if the lips that touch their brow have known the
kiss of sin. It was you I thought of all the time; I gave to them the
love you did not need: lavished on them a love that was not theirs . . .
And you thought I spent too much of my time in going to Church, and in
Church duties. But where else could I turn? God’s house is the only
house where sinners are made welcome, and you were always in my heart,
Gerald, too much in my heart. For, though day after day, at morn or
evensong, I have knelt in God’s house, I have never repented of my sin.
How could I repent of my sin when you, my love, were its fruit! Even now
that you are bitter to me I cannot repent. I do not. You are more to me
than innocence. I would rather be your mother—oh! much rather!—than have
been always pure . . . Oh, don’t you see? don’t you understand? It is my
dishonour that has made you so dear to me. It is my disgrace that has
bound you so closely to me. It is the price I paid for you—the price of
soul and body—that makes me love you as I do. Oh, don’t ask me to do
this horrible thing. Child of my shame, be still the child of my shame!
GERALD. Mother, I didn’t know you loved me so much as that. And I will
be a better son to you than I have been. And you and I must never leave
each other . . . but, mother . . . I can’t help it . . . you must become
my father’s wife. You must marry him. It is your duty.
HESTER. [_Running forwards and embracing_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT.] No, no; you
shall not. That would be real dishonour, the first you have ever known.
That would be real disgrace: the first to touch you. Leave him and come
with me. There are other countries than England . . . Oh! other
countries over sea, better, wiser, and less unjust lands. The world is
very wide and very big.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. No, not for me. For me the world is shrivelled to a
palm’s breadth, and where I walk there are thorns.
HESTER. It shall not be so. We shall somewhere find green valleys and
fresh waters, and if we weep, well, we shall weep together. Have we not
both loved him?
GERALD. Hester!
HESTER. [_Waving him back_.] Don’t, don’t! You cannot love me at all,
unless you love her also. You cannot honour me, unless she’s holier to
you. In her all womanhood is martyred. Not she alone, but all of us are
stricken in her house.
GERALD. Hester, Hester, what shall I do?
HESTER. Do you respect the man who is your father?
GERALD. Respect him? I despise him! He is infamous.
HESTER. I thank you for saving me from him last night.
GERALD. Ah, that is nothing. I would die to save you. But you don’t
tell me what to do now!
HESTER. Have I not thanked you for saving _me_?
GERALD. But what should I do?
HESTER. Ask your own heart, not mine. I never had a mother to save, or
shame.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He is hard—he is hard. Let me go away.
GERALD. [_Rushes over and kneels down bedside his mother_.] Mother,
forgive me: I have been to blame.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Don’t kiss my hands: they are cold. My heart is cold:
something has broken it.
HESTER. Ah, don’t say that. Hearts live by being wounded. Pleasure may
turn a heart to stone, riches may make it callous, but sorrow—oh, sorrow
cannot break it. Besides, what sorrows have you now? Why, at this
moment you are more dear to him than ever, _dear_ though you have _been_,
and oh! how dear you _have_ been always. Ah! be kind to him.
GERALD. You are my mother and my father all in one. I need no second
parent. It was for you I spoke, for you alone. Oh, say something,
mother. Have I but found one love to lose another? Don’t tell me that.
O mother, you are cruel. [_Gets up and flings himself sobbing on a
sofa_.]
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_To_ HESTER.] But has he found indeed another love?
HESTER. You know I have loved him always.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. But we are very poor.
HESTER. Who, being loved, is poor? Oh, no one. I hate my riches. They
are a burden. Let him share it with me.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. But we are disgraced. We rank among the outcasts.
Gerald is nameless. The sins of the parents should be visited on the
children. It is God’s law.
HESTER. I was wrong. God’s law is only Love.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Rises_, _and taking_ HESTER _by the hand_, _goes
slowly over to where_ GERALD _is lying on the sofa with his head buried
in his hands_. _She touches him and he looks up_.] Gerald, I cannot
give you a father, but I have brought you a wife.
GERALD. Mother, I am not worthy either of her or you.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. So she comes first, you are worthy. And when you are
away, Gerald . . . with . . . her—oh, think of me sometimes. Don’t
forget me. And when you pray, pray for me. We should pray when we are
happiest, and you will be happy, Gerald.
HESTER. Oh, you don’t think of leaving us?
GERALD. Mother, you won’t leave us?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I might bring shame upon you!
GERALD. Mother!
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. For a little then: and if you let me, near you always.
HESTER. [_To_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT.] Come out with us to the garden.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Later on, later on. [_Exeunt_ HESTER _and_ GERALD.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT _goes towards door_ L.C. _Stops at looking-glass over
mantelpiece and looks into it_. _Enter_ ALICE R.C.]
ALICE. A gentleman to see you, ma’am.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Say I am not at home. Show me the card. [_Takes card
from salver and looks at it_.] Say I will not see him.
[LORD ILLINGWORTH _enters_. MRS. ARBUTHNOT _sees him in the glass and
starts_, _but does not turn round_. _Exit_ ALICE.] What can you have to
say to me to-day, George Harford? You can have nothing to say to me.
You must leave this house.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Rachel, Gerald knows everything about you and me now,
so some arrangement must be come to that will suit us all three. I
assure you, he will find in me the most charming and generous of fathers.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. My son may come in at any moment. I saved you last
night. I may not be able to save you again. My son feels my dishonour
strongly, terribly strongly. I beg you to go.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. [_Sitting down_.] Last night was excessively
unfortunate. That silly Puritan girl making a scene merely because I
wanted to kiss her. What harm is there in a kiss?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Turning round_.] A kiss may ruin a human life, George
Harford. _I_ know that. _I_ know that too well.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. We won’t discuss that at present. What is of
importance to-day, as yesterday, is still our son. I am extremely fond
of him, as you know, and odd though it may seem to you, I admired his
conduct last night immensely. He took up the cudgels for that pretty
prude with wonderful promptitude. He is just what I should have liked a
son of mine to be. Except that no son of mine should ever take the side
of the Puritans: that is always an error. Now, what I propose is this.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Lord Illingworth, no proposition of yours interests me.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. According to our ridiculous English laws, I can’t
legitimise Gerald. But I can leave him my property. Illingworth is
entailed, of course, but it is a tedious barrack of a place. He can have
Ashby, which is much prettier, Harborough, which has the best shooting in
the north of England, and the house in St. James Square. What more can a
gentleman require in this world?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Nothing more, I am quite sure.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. As for a title, a title is really rather a nuisance in
these democratic days. As George Harford I had everything I wanted. Now
I have merely everything that other people want, which isn’t nearly so
pleasant. Well, my proposal is this.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I told you I was not interested, and I beg you to go.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. The boy is to be with you for six months in the year,
and with me for the other six. That is perfectly fair, is it not? You
can have whatever allowance you like, and live where you choose. As for
your past, no one knows anything about it except myself and Gerald.
There is the Puritan, of course, the Puritan in white muslin, but she
doesn’t count. She couldn’t tell the story without explaining that she
objected to being kissed, could she? And all the women would think her a
fool and the men think her a bore. And you need not be afraid that
Gerald won’t be my heir. I needn’t tell you I have not the slightest
intention of marrying.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You come too late. My son has no need of you. You are
not necessary.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. What do you mean, Rachel?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. That you are not necessary to Gerald’s career. He does
not require you.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I do not understand you.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Look into the garden. [LORD ILLINGWORTH _rises and goes
towards window_.] You had better not let them see you: you bring
unpleasant memories. [LORD ILLINGWORTH _looks out and starts_.] She
loves him. They love each other. We are safe from you, and we are going
away.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Where?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. We will not tell you, and if you find us we will not
know you. You seem surprised. What welcome would you get from the girl
whose lips you tried to soil, from the boy whose life you have shamed,
from the mother whose dishonour comes from you?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. You have grown hard, Rachel.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I was too weak once. It is well for me that I have
changed.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I was very young at the time. We men know life too
early.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. And we women know life too late. That is the difference
between men and women. [_A pause_.]
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Rachel, I want my son. My money may be of no use to
him now. I may be of no use to him, but I want my son. Bring us
together, Rachel. You can do it if you choose. [_Sees letter on
table_.]
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. There is no room in my boy’s life for you. He is not
interested in _you_.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Then why does he write to me?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. What do you mean?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. What letter is this? [_Takes up letter_.]
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. That—is nothing. Give it to me.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is addressed to _me_.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You are not to open it. I forbid you to open it.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. And in Gerald’s handwriting.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It was not to have been sent. It is a letter he wrote
to you this morning, before he saw me. But he is sorry now he wrote it,
very sorry. You are not to open it. Give it to me.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. It belongs to me. [_Opens it_, _sits down and reads
it slowly_. MRS. ARBUTHNOT _watches him all the time_.] You have read
this letter, I suppose, Rachel?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. No.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. You know what is in it?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes!
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I don’t admit for a moment that the boy is right in
what he says. I don’t admit that it is any duty of mine to marry you. I
deny it entirely. But to get my son back I am ready—yes, I am ready to
marry you, Rachel—and to treat you always with the deference and respect
due to my wife. I will marry you as soon as you choose. I give you my
word of honour.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You made that promise to me once before and broke it.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I will keep it now. And that will show you that I
love my son, at least as much as you love him. For when I marry you,
Rachel, there are some ambitions I shall have to surrender. High
ambitions, too, if any ambition is high.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I decline to marry you, Lord Illingworth.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Are you serious?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Do tell me your reasons. They would interest me
enormously.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I have already explained them to my son.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I suppose they were intensely sentimental, weren’t
they? You women live by your emotions and for them. You have no
philosophy of life.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You are right. We women live by our emotions and for
them. By our passions, and for them, if you will. I have two passions,
Lord Illingworth: my love of him, my hate of you. You cannot kill those.
They feed each other.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. What sort of love is that which needs to have hate as
its brother?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is the sort of love I have for Gerald. Do you think
that terrible? Well it is terrible. All love is terrible. All love is
a tragedy. I loved you once, Lord Illingworth. Oh, what a tragedy for a
woman to have loved you!
LORD ILLINGWORTH. So you really refuse to marry me?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Because you hate me?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. And does my son hate me as you do?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. No.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I am glad of that, Rachel.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He merely despises you.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. What a pity! What a pity for him, I mean.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Don’t be deceived, George. Children begin by loving
their parents. After a time they judge them. Rarely if ever do they
forgive them.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. [_Reads letter over again_, _very slowly_.] May I ask
by what arguments you made the boy who wrote this letter, this beautiful,
passionate letter, believe that you should not marry his father, the
father of your own child?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It was not I who made him see it. It was another.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. What _fin-de-siècle_ person?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. The Puritan, Lord Illingworth. [_A pause_.]
LORD ILLINGWORTH. [_Winces_, _then rises slowly and goes over to table
where his hat and gloves are_. MRS. ARBUTHNOT _is standing close to the
table_. _He picks up one of the gloves, and begins pulling it on_.]
There is not much then for me to do here, Rachel?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Nothing.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is good-bye, is it?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. For ever, I hope, this time, Lord Illingworth.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. How curious! At this moment you look exactly as you
looked the night you left me twenty years ago. You have just the same
expression in your mouth. Upon my word, Rachel, no woman ever loved me
as you did. Why, you gave yourself to me like a flower, to do anything I
liked with. You were the prettiest of playthings, the most fascinating
of small romances . . . [_Pulls out watch_.] Quarter to two! Must be
strolling back to Hunstanton. Don’t suppose I shall see you there again.
I’m sorry, I am, really. It’s been an amusing experience to have met
amongst people of one’s own rank, and treated quite seriously too, one’s
mistress, and one’s—
[MRS. ARBUTHNOT _snatches up glove and strikes_ LORD ILLINGWORTH _across
the face with it_. LORD ILLINGWORTH _starts_. _He is dazed by the
insult of his punishment_. _Then he controls himself_, _and goes to
window and looks out at his son_. _Sighs and leaves the room_.]
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Falls sobbing on the sofa_.] He would have said it.
He would have said it.
[_Enter_ GERALD _and_ HESTER _from the garden_.]
GERALD. Well, dear mother. You never came out after all. So we have
come in to fetch you. Mother, you have not been crying? [_Kneels down
beside her_.]
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. My boy! My boy! My boy! [_Running her fingers through
his hair_.]
HESTER. [_Coming over_.] But you have two children now. You’ll let me
be your daughter?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Looking up_.] Would you choose me for a mother?
HESTER. You of all women I have ever known.
[_They move towards the door leading into garden with their arms round
each other’s waists_. GERALD _goes to table_ L.C. _for his hat_. _On
turning round he sees_ LORD ILLINGWORTH’S _glove lying on the floor_,
_and picks it up_.]
GERALD. Hallo, mother, whose glove is this? You have had a visitor.
Who was it?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Turning round_.] Oh! no one. No one in particular.
A man of no importance.
CURTAIN