TIME: _The Present_
PLACE: _London_.
_The action of the play is completed within twenty-four hours_.
THEATRE ROYAL, HAYMARKET
_Sole Lessee_: _Mr. Herbert Beerbohm Tree_
_Managers_: _Mr. Lewis Waller and Mr. H. H. Morell_
_January_ 3_rd_, 1895
THE EARL OF CAVERSHAM _Mr. Alfred Bishop_.
VISCOUNT GORING _Mr. Charles H. Hawtrey_.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _Mr. Lewis Waller_.
VICOMTE DE NANJAC _Mr. Cosmo Stuart_.
MR. MONTFORD _Mr. Harry Stanford_.
PHIPPS _Mr. C. H. Brookfield_.
MASON _Mr. H. Deane_.
JAMES _Mr. Charles Meyrick_.
HAROLD _Mr. Goodhart_.
LADY CHILTERN _Miss Julia Neilson_.
LADY MARKBY _Miss Fanny Brough_.
COUNTESS OF BASILDON _Miss Vane Featherston_.
MRS. MARCHMONT _Miss Helen Forsyth_.
MISS MABEL CHILTERN _Miss Maud Millet_.
MRS. CHEVELEY _Miss Florence West_.
FIRST ACT
SCENE
_The octagon room at Sir Robert Chiltern’s house in Grosvenor Square_.
[_The room is brilliantly lighted and full of guests_. _At the top of
the staircase stands_ LADY CHILTERN, _a woman of grave Greek beauty_,
_about twenty-seven years of age_. _She receives the guests as they come
up_. _Over the well of the staircase hangs a great chandelier with wax
lights_, _which illumine a large eighteenth-century French
tapestry—representing the Triumph of Love_, _from a design by
Boucher—that is stretched on the staircase wall_. _On the right is the
entrance to the music-room_. _The sound of a string quartette is faintly
heard_. _The entrance on the left leads to other reception-rooms_. MRS.
MARCHMONT _and_ LADY BASILDON, _two very pretty women_, _are seated
together on a Louis Seize sofa_. _They are types of exquisite
fragility_. _Their affectation of manner has a delicate charm_.
_Watteau would have loved to paint them_.]
MRS. MARCHMONT. Going on to the Hartlocks’ to-night, Margaret?
LADY BASILDON. I suppose so. Are you?
MRS. MARCHMONT. Yes. Horribly tedious parties they give, don’t they?
LADY BASILDON. Horribly tedious! Never know why I go. Never know why I
go anywhere.
MRS. MARCHMONT. I come here to be educated.
LADY BASILDON. Ah! I hate being educated!
MRS. MARCHMONT. So do I. It puts one almost on a level with the
commercial classes, doesn’t it? But dear Gertrude Chiltern is always
telling me that I should have some serious purpose in life. So I come
here to try to find one.
LADY BASILDON. [_Looking round through her lorgnette_.] I don’t see
anybody here to-night whom one could possibly call a serious purpose.
The man who took me in to dinner talked to me about his wife the whole
time.
MRS. MARCHMONT. How very trivial of him!
LADY BASILDON. Terribly trivial! What did your man talk about?
MRS. MARCHMONT. About myself.
LADY BASILDON. [_Languidly_.] And were you interested?
MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Shaking her head_.] Not in the smallest degree.
LADY BASILDON. What martyrs we are, dear Margaret!
MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Rising_.] And how well it becomes us, Olivia!
[_They rise and go towards the music-room_. _The_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC, _a
young attaché known for his neckties and his Anglomania_, _approaches
with a low bow_, _and enters into conversation_.]
MASON. [_Announcing guests from the top of the staircase_.] Mr. and
Lady Jane Barford. Lord Caversham.
[_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM, _an old gentleman of seventy_, _wearing the
riband and star of the Garter_. _A fine Whig type_. _Rather like a
portrait by Lawrence_.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Has my good-for-nothing
young son been here?
LADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] I don’t think Lord Goring has arrived yet.
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Coming up to_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] Why do you call Lord
Goring good-for-nothing?
[MABEL CHILTERN _is a perfect example of the English type of prettiness_,
_the apple-blossom type_. _She has all the fragrance and freedom of a
flower_. _There is ripple after ripple of sunlight in her hair_, _and
the little mouth_, _with its parted lips_, _is expectant_, _like the
mouth of a child_. _She has the fascinating tyranny of youth_, _and the
astonishing courage of innocence_. _To sane people she is not
reminiscent of any work of art_. _But she is really like a Tanagra
statuette_, _and would be rather annoyed if she were told so_.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. Because he leads such an idle life.
MABEL CHILTERN. How can you say such a thing? Why, he rides in the Row
at ten o’clock in the morning, goes to the Opera three times a week,
changes his clothes at least five times a day, and dines out every night
of the season. You don’t call that leading an idle life, do you?
LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Looking at her with a kindly twinkle in his eyes_.]
You are a very charming young lady!
MABEL CHILTERN. How sweet of you to say that, Lord Caversham! Do come
to us more often. You know we are always at home on Wednesdays, and you
look so well with your star!
LORD CAVERSHAM. Never go anywhere now. Sick of London Society.
Shouldn’t mind being introduced to my own tailor; he always votes on the
right side. But object strongly to being sent down to dinner with my
wife’s milliner. Never could stand Lady Caversham’s bonnets.
MABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I love London Society! I think it has immensely
improved. It is entirely composed now of beautiful idiots and brilliant
lunatics. Just what Society should be.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! Which is Goring? Beautiful idiot, or the other
thing?
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Gravely_.] I have been obliged for the present to put
Lord Goring into a class quite by himself. But he is developing
charmingly!
LORD CAVERSHAM. Into what?
MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a little curtsey_.] I hope to let you know very
soon, Lord Caversham!
MASON. [_Announcing guests_.] Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley.
[_Enter_ LADY MARKBY _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY. LADY MARKBY _is a pleasant_,
_kindly_, _popular woman_, _with gray hair à la marquise and good lace_.
MRS. CHEVELEY, _who accompanies her_, _is tall and rather slight_. _Lips
very thin and highly-coloured_, _a line of scarlet on a pallid face_.
_Venetian red hair_, _aquiline nose_, _and long throat_. _Rouge
accentuates the natural paleness of her complexion_. _Gray-green eyes
that move restlessly_. _She is in heliotrope_, _with diamonds_. _She
looks rather like an orchid_, _and makes great demands on one’s
curiosity_. _In all her movements she is extremely graceful_. _A work
of art_, _on the whole_, _but showing the influence of too many
schools_.]
LADY MARKBY. Good evening, dear Gertrude! So kind of you to let me
bring my friend, Mrs. Cheveley. Two such charming women should know each
other!
LADY CHILTERN. [_Advances towards_ MRS. CHEVELEY _with a sweet smile_.
_Then suddenly stops_, _and bows rather distantly_.] I think Mrs.
Cheveley and I have met before. I did not know she had married a second
time.
LADY MARKBY. [_Genially_.] Ah, nowadays people marry as often as they
can, don’t they? It is most fashionable. [_To_ DUCHESS OF MARYBOROUGH.]
Dear Duchess, and how is the Duke? Brain still weak, I suppose? Well,
that is only to be expected, is it not? His good father was just the
same. There is nothing like race, is there?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Playing with her fan_.] But have we really met before,
Lady Chiltern? I can’t remember where. I have been out of England for
so long.
LADY CHILTERN. We were at school together, Mrs. Cheveley.
MRS. CHEVELEY [_Superciliously_.] Indeed? I have forgotten all about my
schooldays. I have a vague impression that they were detestable.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] I am not surprised!
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_In her sweetest manner_.] Do you know, I am quite
looking forward to meeting your clever husband, Lady Chiltern. Since he
has been at the Foreign Office, he has been so much talked of in Vienna.
They actually succeed in spelling his name right in the newspapers. That
in itself is fame, on the continent.
LADY CHILTERN. I hardly think there will be much in common between you
and my husband, Mrs. Cheveley! [_Moves away_.]
VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! chère Madame, quelle surprise! I have not seen
you since Berlin!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Not since Berlin, Vicomte. Five years ago!
VICOMTE DE NANJAC. And you are younger and more beautiful than ever.
How do you manage it?
MRS. CHEVELEY. By making it a rule only to talk to perfectly charming
people like yourself.
VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! you flatter me. You butter me, as they say here.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Do they say that here? How dreadful of them!
VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Yes, they have a wonderful language. It should be
more widely known.
[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _enters_. _A man of forty_, _but looking somewhat
younger_. _Clean-shaven_, _with finely-cut features_, _dark-haired and
dark-eyed_. _A personality of mark_. _Not popular—few personalities
are_. _But intensely admired by the few_, _and deeply respected by the
many_. _The note of his manner is that of perfect distinction_, _with a
slight touch of pride_. _One feels that he is conscious of the success
he has made in life_. _A nervous temperament_, _with a tired look_.
_The firmly-chiselled mouth and chin contrast strikingly with the
romantic expression in the deep-set eyes_. _The variance is suggestive
of an almost complete separation of passion and intellect_, _as though
thought and emotion were each isolated in its own sphere through some
violence of will-power_. _There is nervousness in the nostrils_, _and in
the pale_, _thin_, _pointed hands_. _It would be inaccurate to call him
picturesque_. _Picturesqueness cannot survive the House of Commons_.
_But Vandyck would have liked to have painted his head_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, Lady Markby! I hope you have brought
Sir John with you?
LADY MARKBY. Oh! I have brought a much more charming person than Sir
John. Sir John’s temper since he has taken seriously to politics has
become quite unbearable. Really, now that the House of Commons is trying
to become useful, it does a great deal of harm.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope not, Lady Markby. At any rate we do our
best to waste the public time, don’t we? But who is this charming person
you have been kind enough to bring to us?
LADY MARKBY. Her name is Mrs. Cheveley! One of the Dorsetshire
Cheveleys, I suppose. But I really don’t know. Families are so mixed
nowadays. Indeed, as a rule, everybody turns out to be somebody else.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley? I seem to know the name.
LADY MARKBY. She has just arrived from Vienna.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! yes. I think I know whom you mean.
LADY MARKBY. Oh! she goes everywhere there, and has such pleasant
scandals about all her friends. I really must go to Vienna next winter.
I hope there is a good chef at the Embassy.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is not, the Ambassador will certainly have
to be recalled. Pray point out Mrs. Cheveley to me. I should like to
see her.
LADY MARKBY. Let me introduce you. [_To_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] My dear, Sir
Robert Chiltern is dying to know you!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bowing_.] Every one is dying to know the
brilliant Mrs. Cheveley. Our attachés at Vienna write to us about
nothing else.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you, Sir Robert. An acquaintance that begins with
a compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship. It starts in the
right manner. And I find that I know Lady Chiltern already.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Really?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. She has just reminded me that we were at school
together. I remember it perfectly now. She always got the good conduct
prize. I have a distinct recollection of Lady Chiltern always getting
the good conduct prize!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] And what prizes did you get, Mrs.
Cheveley?
MRS. CHEVELEY. My prizes came a little later on in life. I don’t think
any of them were for good conduct. I forget!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am sure they were for something charming!
MRS. CHEVELEY. I don’t know that women are always rewarded for being
charming. I think they are usually punished for it! Certainly, more
women grow old nowadays through the faithfulness of their admirers than
through anything else! At least that is the only way I can account for
the terribly haggard look of most of your pretty women in London!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What an appalling philosophy that sounds! To
attempt to classify you, Mrs. Cheveley, would be an impertinence. But
may I ask, at heart, are you an optimist or a pessimist? Those seem to
be the only two fashionable religions left to us nowadays.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I’m neither. Optimism begins in a broad grin, and
Pessimism ends with blue spectacles. Besides, they are both of them
merely poses.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You prefer to be natural?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. But it is such a very difficult pose to keep
up.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What would those modern psychological novelists, of
whom we hear so much, say to such a theory as that?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Ah! the strength of women comes from the fact that
psychology cannot explain us. Men can be analysed, women . . . merely
adored.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You think science cannot grapple with the problem
of women?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Science can never grapple with the irrational. That is
why it has no future before it, in this world.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And women represent the irrational.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Well-dressed women do.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a polite bow_.] I fear I could hardly agree
with you there. But do sit down. And now tell me, what makes you leave
your brilliant Vienna for our gloomy London—or perhaps the question is
indiscreet?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Well, at any rate, may I know if it is politics or
pleasure?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Politics are my only pleasure. You see nowadays it is
not fashionable to flirt till one is forty, or to be romantic till one is
forty-five, so we poor women who are under thirty, or say we are, have
nothing open to us but politics or philanthropy. And philanthropy seems
to me to have become simply the refuge of people who wish to annoy their
fellow-creatures. I prefer politics. I think they are more . . .
becoming!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. A political life is a noble career!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. And sometimes it is a clever game, Sir
Robert. And sometimes it is a great nuisance.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Which do you find it?
MRS. CHEVELEY. I? A combination of all three. [_Drops her fan_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Picks up fan_.] Allow me!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But you have not told me yet what makes you honour
London so suddenly. Our season is almost over.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! I don’t care about the London season! It is too
matrimonial. People are either hunting for husbands, or hiding from
them. I wanted to meet you. It is quite true. You know what a woman’s
curiosity is. Almost as great as a man’s! I wanted immensely to meet
you, and . . . to ask you to do something for me.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope it is not a little thing, Mrs. Cheveley. I
find that little things are so very difficult to do.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a moment’s reflection_.] No, I don’t think it is
quite a little thing.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am so glad. Do tell me what it is.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Later on. [_Rises_.] And now may I walk through your
beautiful house? I hear your pictures are charming. Poor Baron
Arnheim—you remember the Baron?—used to tell me you had some wonderful
Corots.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With an almost imperceptible start_.] Did you
know Baron Arnheim well?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Smiling_.] Intimately. Did you?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. At one time.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful man, wasn’t he?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] He was very remarkable, in many
ways.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I often think it such a pity he never wrote his memoirs.
They would have been most interesting.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes: he knew men and cities well, like the old
Greek.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Without the dreadful disadvantage of having a Penelope
waiting at home for him.
MASON. Lord Goring.
[_Enter_ LORD GORING. _Thirty-four_, _but always says he is younger_.
_A well-bred_, _expressionless face_. _He is clever_, _but would not
like to be thought so_. _A flawless dandy_, _he would be annoyed if he
were considered romantic_. _He plays with life_, _and is on perfectly
good terms with the world_. _He is fond of being misunderstood_. _It
gives him a post of vantage_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, my dear Arthur! Mrs. Cheveley, allow
me to introduce to you Lord Goring, the idlest man in London.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I have met Lord Goring before.
LORD GORING. [_Bowing_.] I did not think you would remember me, Mrs.
Cheveley.
MRS. CHEVELEY. My memory is under admirable control. And are you still
a bachelor?
LORD GORING. I . . . believe so.
MRS. CHEVELEY. How very romantic!
LORD GORING. Oh! I am not at all romantic. I am not old enough. I
leave romance to my seniors.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Lord Goring is the result of Boodle’s Club, Mrs.
Cheveley.
MRS. CHEVELEY. He reflects every credit on the institution.
LORD GORING. May I ask are you staying in London long?
MRS. CHEVELEY. That depends partly on the weather, partly on the
cooking, and partly on Sir Robert.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are not going to plunge us into a European war,
I hope?
MRS. CHEVELEY. There is no danger, at present!
[_She nods to_ LORD GORING, _with a look of amusement in her eyes_, _and
goes out with_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. LORD GORING _saunters over to_ MABEL
CHILTERN.]
MABEL CHILTERN. You are very late!
LORD GORING. Have you missed me?
MABEL CHILTERN. Awfully!
LORD GORING. Then I am sorry I did not stay away longer. I like being
missed.
MABEL CHILTERN. How very selfish of you!
LORD GORING. I am very selfish.
MABEL CHILTERN. You are always telling me of your bad qualities, Lord
Goring.
LORD GORING. I have only told you half of them as yet, Miss Mabel!
MABEL CHILTERN. Are the others very bad?
LORD GORING. Quite dreadful! When I think of them at night I go to
sleep at once.
MABEL CHILTERN. Well, I delight in your bad qualities. I wouldn’t have
you part with one of them.
LORD GORING. How very nice of you! But then you are always nice. By
the way, I want to ask you a question, Miss Mabel. Who brought Mrs.
Cheveley here? That woman in heliotrope, who has just gone out of the
room with your brother?
MABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I think Lady Markby brought her. Why do you ask?
LORD GORING. I haven’t seen her for years, that is all.
MABEL CHILTERN. What an absurd reason!
LORD GORING. All reasons are absurd.
MABEL CHILTERN. What sort of a woman is she?
LORD GORING. Oh! a genius in the daytime and a beauty at night!
MABEL CHILTERN. I dislike her already.
LORD GORING. That shows your admirable good taste.
VICOMTE DE NANJAC. [_Approaching_.] Ah, the English young lady is the
dragon of good taste, is she not? Quite the dragon of good taste.
LORD GORING. So the newspapers are always telling us.
VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I read all your English newspapers. I find them so
amusing.
LORD GORING. Then, my dear Nanjac, you must certainly read between the
lines.
VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I should like to, but my professor objects. [_To_
MABEL CHILTERN.] May I have the pleasure of escorting you to the
music-room, Mademoiselle?
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Looking very disappointed_.] Delighted, Vicomte,
quite delighted! [_Turning to_ LORD GORING.] Aren’t you coming to the
music-room?
LORD GORING. Not if there is any music going on, Miss Mabel.
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Severely_.] The music is in German. You would not
understand it.
[_Goes out with the_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC. LORD CAVERSHAM _comes up to his
son_.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir! what are you doing here? Wasting your life
as usual! You should be in bed, sir. You keep too late hours! I heard
of you the other night at Lady Rufford’s dancing till four o’clock in the
morning!
LORD GORING. Only a quarter to four, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Can’t make out how you stand London Society. The thing
has gone to the dogs, a lot of damned nobodies talking about nothing.
LORD GORING. I love talking about nothing, father. It is the only thing
I know anything about.
LORD CAVERSHAM. You seem to me to be living entirely for pleasure.
LORD GORING. What else is there to live for, father? Nothing ages like
happiness.
LORD CAVERSHAM. You are heartless, sir, very heartless!
LORD GORING. I hope not, father. Good evening, Lady Basildon!
LADY BASILDON. [_Arching two pretty eyebrows_.] Are you here? I had no
idea you ever came to political parties!
LORD GORING. I adore political parties. They are the only place left to
us where people don’t talk politics.
LADY BASILDON. I delight in talking politics. I talk them all day long.
But I can’t bear listening to them. I don’t know how the unfortunate men
in the House stand these long debates.
LORD GORING. By never listening.
LADY BASILDON. Really?
LORD GORING. [_In his most serious manner_.] Of course. You see, it is
a very dangerous thing to listen. If one listens one may be convinced;
and a man who allows himself to be convinced by an argument is a
thoroughly unreasonable person.
LADY BASILDON. Ah! that accounts for so much in men that I have never
understood, and so much in women that their husbands never appreciate in
them!
MRS. MARCHMONT. [_With a sigh_.] Our husbands never appreciate anything
in us. We have to go to others for that!
LADY BASILDON. [_Emphatically_.] Yes, always to others, have we not?
LORD GORING. [_Smiling_.] And those are the views of the two ladies who
are known to have the most admirable husbands in London.
MRS. MARCHMONT. That is exactly what we can’t stand. My Reginald is
quite hopelessly faultless. He is really unendurably so, at times!
There is not the smallest element of excitement in knowing him.
LORD GORING. How terrible! Really, the thing should be more widely
known!
LADY BASILDON. Basildon is quite as bad; he is as domestic as if he was
a bachelor.
MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Pressing_ LADY BASILDON’S _hand_.] My poor Olivia!
We have married perfect husbands, and we are well punished for it.
LORD GORING. I should have thought it was the husbands who were
punished.
MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Drawing herself up_.] Oh, dear no! They are as happy
as possible! And as for trusting us, it is tragic how much they trust
us.
LADY BASILDON. Perfectly tragic!
LORD GORING. Or comic, Lady Basildon?
LADY BASILDON. Certainly not comic, Lord Goring. How unkind of you to
suggest such a thing!
MRS. MARCHMONT. I am afraid Lord Goring is in the camp of the enemy, as
usual. I saw him talking to that Mrs. Cheveley when he came in.
LORD GORING. Handsome woman, Mrs. Cheveley!
LADY BASILDON. [_Stiffly_.] Please don’t praise other women in our
presence. You might wait for us to do that!
LORD GORING. I did wait.
MRS. MARCHMONT. Well, we are not going to praise her. I hear she went
to the Opera on Monday night, and told Tommy Rufford at supper that, as
far as she could see, London Society was entirely made up of dowdies and
dandies.
LORD GORING. She is quite right, too. The men are all dowdies and the
women are all dandies, aren’t they?
MRS. MARCHMONT. [_After a pause_.] Oh! do you really think that is what
Mrs. Cheveley meant?
LORD GORING. Of course. And a very sensible remark for Mrs. Cheveley to
make, too.
[_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN. _She joins the group_.]
MABEL CHILTERN. Why are you talking about Mrs. Cheveley? Everybody is
talking about Mrs. Cheveley! Lord Goring says—what did you say, Lord
Goring, about Mrs. Cheveley? Oh! I remember, that she was a genius in
the daytime and a beauty at night.
LADY BASILDON. What a horrid combination! So very unnatural!
MRS. MARCHMONT. [_In her most dreamy manner_.] I like looking at
geniuses, and listening to beautiful people.
LORD GORING. Ah! that is morbid of you, Mrs. Marchmont!
MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Brightening to a look of real pleasure_.] I am so
glad to hear you say that. Marchmont and I have been married for seven
years, and he has never once told me that I was morbid. Men are so
painfully unobservant!
LADY BASILDON. [_Turning to her_.] I have always said, dear Margaret,
that you were the most morbid person in London.
MRS. MARCHMONT. Ah! but you are always sympathetic, Olivia!
MABEL CHILTERN. Is it morbid to have a desire for food? I have a great
desire for food. Lord Goring, will you give me some supper?
LORD GORING. With pleasure, Miss Mabel. [_Moves away with her_.]
MABEL CHILTERN. How horrid you have been! You have never talked to me
the whole evening!
LORD GORING. How could I? You went away with the child-diplomatist.
MABEL CHILTERN. You might have followed us. Pursuit would have been
only polite. I don’t think I like you at all this evening!
LORD GORING. I like you immensely.
MABEL CHILTERN. Well, I wish you’d show it in a more marked way! [_They
go downstairs_.]
MRS. MARCHMONT. Olivia, I have a curious feeling of absolute faintness.
I think I should like some supper very much. I know I should like some
supper.
LADY BASILDON. I am positively dying for supper, Margaret!
MRS. MARCHMONT. Men are so horribly selfish, they never think of these
things.
LADY BASILDON. Men are grossly material, grossly material!
[_The_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC _enters from the music-room with some other
guests_. _After having carefully examined all the people present_, _he
approaches_ LADY BASILDON.]
VICOMTE DE NANJAC. May I have the honour of taking you down to supper,
Comtesse?
LADY BASILDON. [_Coldly_.] I never take supper, thank you, Vicomte.
[_The_ VICOMTE _is about to retire_. LADY BASILDON, _seeing this_,
_rises at once and takes his arm_.] But I will come down with you with
pleasure.
VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I am so fond of eating! I am very English in all my
tastes.
LADY BASILDON. You look quite English, Vicomte, quite English.
[_They pass out_. MR. MONTFORD, _a perfectly groomed young dandy_,
_approaches_ MRS. MARCHMONT.]
MR. MONTFORD. Like some supper, Mrs. Marchmont?
MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Languidly_.] Thank you, Mr. Montford, I never touch
supper. [_Rises hastily and takes his arm_.] But I will sit beside you,
and watch you.
MR. MONTFORD. I don’t know that I like being watched when I am eating!
MRS. MARCHMONT. Then I will watch some one else.
MR. MONTFORD. I don’t know that I should like that either.
MRS. MARCHMONT. [_Severely_.] Pray, Mr. Montford, do not make these
painful scenes of jealousy in public!
[_They go downstairs with the other guests_, _passing_ SIR ROBERT
CHILTERN _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY, _who now enter_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And are you going to any of our country houses
before you leave England, Mrs. Cheveley?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I can’t stand your English house-parties. In
England people actually try to be brilliant at breakfast. That is so
dreadful of them! Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast. And then
the family skeleton is always reading family prayers. My stay in England
really depends on you, Sir Robert. [_Sits down on the sofa_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Taking a seat beside her_.] Seriously?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Quite seriously. I want to talk to you about a great
political and financial scheme, about this Argentine Canal Company, in
fact.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What a tedious, practical subject for you to talk
about, Mrs. Cheveley!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I like tedious, practical subjects. What I don’t
like are tedious, practical people. There is a wide difference.
Besides, you are interested, I know, in International Canal schemes. You
were Lord Radley’s secretary, weren’t you, when the Government bought the
Suez Canal shares?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes. But the Suez Canal was a very great and
splendid undertaking. It gave us our direct route to India. It had
imperial value. It was necessary that we should have control. This
Argentine scheme is a commonplace Stock Exchange swindle.
MRS. CHEVELEY. A speculation, Sir Robert! A brilliant, daring
speculation.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Believe me, Mrs. Cheveley, it is a swindle. Let us
call things by their proper names. It makes matters simpler. We have
all the information about it at the Foreign Office. In fact, I sent out
a special Commission to inquire into the matter privately, and they
report that the works are hardly begun, and as for the money already
subscribed, no one seems to know what has become of it. The whole thing
is a second Panama, and with not a quarter of the chance of success that
miserable affair ever had. I hope you have not invested in it. I am
sure you are far too clever to have done that.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I have invested very largely in it.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Who could have advised you to do such a foolish
thing?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Your old friend—and mine.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Who?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Baron Arnheim.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Frowning_.] Ah! yes. I remember hearing, at the
time of his death, that he had been mixed up in the whole affair.
MRS. CHEVELEY. It was his last romance. His last but one, to do him
justice.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] But you have not seen my Corots yet.
They are in the music-room. Corots seem to go with music, don’t they?
May I show them to you?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shaking her head_.] I am not in a mood to-night for
silver twilights, or rose-pink dawns. I want to talk business.
[_Motions to him with her fan to sit down again beside her_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I fear I have no advice to give you, Mrs. Cheveley,
except to interest yourself in something less dangerous. The success of
the Canal depends, of course, on the attitude of England, and I am going
to lay the report of the Commissioners before the House to-morrow night.
MRS. CHEVELEY. That you must not do. In your own interests, Sir Robert,
to say nothing of mine, you must not do that.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking at her in wonder_.] In my own interests?
My dear Mrs. Cheveley, what do you mean? [_Sits down beside her_.]
MRS. CHEVELEY. Sir Robert, I will be quite frank with you. I want you
to withdraw the report that you had intended to lay before the House, on
the ground that you have reasons to believe that the Commissioners have
been prejudiced or misinformed, or something. Then I want you to say a
few words to the effect that the Government is going to reconsider the
question, and that you have reason to believe that the Canal, if
completed, will be of great international value. You know the sort of
things ministers say in cases of this kind. A few ordinary platitudes
will do. In modern life nothing produces such an effect as a good
platitude. It makes the whole world kin. Will you do that for me?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley, you cannot be serious in making me
such a proposition!
MRS. CHEVELEY. I am quite serious.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Coldly_.] Pray allow me to believe that you are
not.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Speaking with great deliberation and emphasis_.] Ah!
but I am. And if you do what I ask you, I . . . will pay you very
handsomely!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Pay me!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Leaning back on the sofa and looking at him_.] How
very disappointing! And I have come all the way from Vienna in order
that you should thoroughly understand me.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I fear I don’t.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_In her most nonchalant manner_.] My dear Sir Robert,
you are a man of the world, and you have your price, I suppose.
Everybody has nowadays. The drawback is that most people are so
dreadfully expensive. I know I am. I hope you will be more reasonable
in your terms.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rises indignantly_.] If you will allow me, I
will call your carriage for you. You have lived so long abroad, Mrs.
Cheveley, that you seem to be unable to realise that you are talking to
an English gentleman.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Detains him by touching his arm with her fan_, _and
keeping it there while she is talking_.] I realise that I am talking to
a man who laid the foundation of his fortune by selling to a Stock
Exchange speculator a Cabinet secret.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Biting his lip_.] What do you mean?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Rising and facing him_.] I mean that I know the real
origin of your wealth and your career, and I have got your letter, too.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What letter?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Contemptuously_.] The letter you wrote to Baron
Arnheim, when you were Lord Radley’s secretary, telling the Baron to buy
Suez Canal shares—a letter written three days before the Government
announced its own purchase.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Hoarsely_.] It is not true.
MRS. CHEVELEY. You thought that letter had been destroyed. How foolish
of you! It is in my possession.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. The affair to which you allude was no more than a
speculation. The House of Commons had not yet passed the bill; it might
have been rejected.
MRS. CHEVELEY. It was a swindle, Sir Robert. Let us call things by
their proper names. It makes everything simpler. And now I am going to
sell you that letter, and the price I ask for it is your public support
of the Argentine scheme. You made your own fortune out of one canal.
You must help me and my friends to make our fortunes out of another!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is infamous, what you propose—infamous!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! This is the game of life as we all have to play
it, Sir Robert, sooner or later!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I cannot do what you ask me.
MRS. CHEVELEY. You mean you cannot help doing it. You know you are
standing on the edge of a precipice. And it is not for you to make
terms. It is for you to accept them. Supposing you refuse—
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What then?
MRS. CHEVELEY. My dear Sir Robert, what then? You are ruined, that is
all! Remember to what a point your Puritanism in England has brought
you. In old days nobody pretended to be a bit better than his
neighbours. In fact, to be a bit better than one’s neighbour was
considered excessively vulgar and middle-class. Nowadays, with our
modern mania for morality, every one has to pose as a paragon of purity,
incorruptibility, and all the other seven deadly virtues—and what is the
result? You all go over like ninepins—one after the other. Not a year
passes in England without somebody disappearing. Scandals used to lend
charm, or at least interest, to a man—now they crush him. And yours is a
very nasty scandal. You couldn’t survive it. If it were known that as a
young man, secretary to a great and important minister, you sold a
Cabinet secret for a large sum of money, and that that was the origin of
your wealth and career, you would be hounded out of public life, you
would disappear completely. And after all, Sir Robert, why should you
sacrifice your entire future rather than deal diplomatically with your
enemy? For the moment I am your enemy. I admit it! And I am much
stronger than you are. The big battalions are on my side. You have a
splendid position, but it is your splendid position that makes you so
vulnerable. You can’t defend it! And I am in attack. Of course I have
not talked morality to you. You must admit in fairness that I have
spared you that. Years ago you did a clever, unscrupulous thing; it
turned out a great success. You owe to it your fortune and position.
And now you have got to pay for it. Sooner or later we have all to pay
for what we do. You have to pay now. Before I leave you to-night, you
have got to promise me to suppress your report, and to speak in the House
in favour of this scheme.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What you ask is impossible.
MRS. CHEVELEY. You must make it possible. You are going to make it
possible. Sir Robert, you know what your English newspapers are like.
Suppose that when I leave this house I drive down to some newspaper
office, and give them this scandal and the proofs of it! Think of their
loathsome joy, of the delight they would have in dragging you down, of
the mud and mire they would plunge you in. Think of the hypocrite with
his greasy smile penning his leading article, and arranging the foulness
of the public placard.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stop! You want me to withdraw the report and to
make a short speech stating that I believe there are possibilities in the
scheme?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Sitting down on the sofa_.] Those are my terms.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_In a low voice_.] I will give you any sum of
money you want.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Even you are not rich enough, Sir Robert, to buy back
your past. No man is.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will not do what you ask me. I will not.
MRS. CHEVELEY. You have to. If you don’t . . . [_Rises from the sofa_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bewildered and unnerved_.] Wait a moment! What
did you propose? You said that you would give me back my letter, didn’t
you?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. That is agreed. I will be in the Ladies’ Gallery
to-morrow night at half-past eleven. If by that time—and you will have
had heaps of opportunity—you have made an announcement to the House in
the terms I wish, I shall hand you back your letter with the prettiest
thanks, and the best, or at any rate the most suitable, compliment I can
think of. I intend to play quite fairly with you. One should always
play fairly . . . when one has the winning cards. The Baron taught me
that . . . amongst other things.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You must let me have time to consider your
proposal.
MRS. CHEVELEY. No; you must settle now!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Give me a week—three days!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Impossible! I have got to telegraph to Vienna to-night.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My God! what brought you into my life?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Circumstances. [_Moves towards the door_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Don’t go. I consent. The report shall be
withdrawn. I will arrange for a question to be put to me on the subject.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. I knew we should come to an amicable
agreement. I understood your nature from the first. I analysed you,
though you did not adore me. And now you can get my carriage for me, Sir
Robert. I see the people coming up from supper, and Englishmen always
get romantic after a meal, and that bores me dreadfully. [_Exit_ SIR
ROBERT CHILTERN.]
[_Enter Guests_, LADY CHILTERN, LADY MARKBY, LORD CAVERSHAM, LADY
BASILDON, MRS. MARCHMONT, VICOMTE DE NANJAC, MR. MONTFORD.]
LADY MARKBY. Well, dear Mrs. Cheveley, I hope you have enjoyed yourself.
Sir Robert is very entertaining, is he not?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Most entertaining! I have enjoyed my talk with him
immensely.
LADY MARKBY. He has had a very interesting and brilliant career. And he
has married a most admirable wife. Lady Chiltern is a woman of the very
highest principles, I am glad to say. I am a little too old now, myself,
to trouble about setting a good example, but I always admire people who
do. And Lady Chiltern has a very ennobling effect on life, though her
dinner-parties are rather dull sometimes. But one can’t have everything,
can one? And now I must go, dear. Shall I call for you to-morrow?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks.
LADY MARKBY. We might drive in the Park at five. Everything looks so
fresh in the Park now!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Except the people!
LADY MARKBY. Perhaps the people are a little jaded. I have often
observed that the Season as it goes on produces a kind of softening of
the brain. However, I think anything is better than high intellectual
pressure. That is the most unbecoming thing there is. It makes the
noses of the young girls so particularly large. And there is nothing so
difficult to marry as a large nose; men don’t like them. Good-night,
dear! [_To_ LADY CHILTERN.] Good-night, Gertrude! [_Goes out on_ LORD
CAVERSHAM’S _arm_.]
MRS. CHEVELEY. What a charming house you have, Lady Chiltern! I have
spent a delightful evening. It has been so interesting getting to know
your husband.
LADY CHILTERN. Why did you wish to meet my husband, Mrs. Cheveley?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I will tell you. I wanted to interest him in this
Argentine Canal scheme, of which I dare say you have heard. And I found
him most susceptible,—susceptible to reason, I mean. A rare thing in a
man. I converted him in ten minutes. He is going to make a speech in
the House to-morrow night in favour of the idea. We must go to the
Ladies’ Gallery and hear him! It will be a great occasion!
LADY CHILTERN. There must be some mistake. That scheme could never have
my husband’s support.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I assure you it’s all settled. I don’t regret my
tedious journey from Vienna now. It has been a great success. But, of
course, for the next twenty-four hours the whole thing is a dead secret.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Gently_.] A secret? Between whom?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a flash of amusement in her eyes_.] Between your
husband and myself.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Entering_.] Your carriage is here, Mrs.
Cheveley!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks! Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Good-night, Lord
Goring! I am at Claridge’s. Don’t you think you might leave a card?
LORD GORING. If you wish it, Mrs. Cheveley!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, don’t be so solemn about it, or I shall be obliged to
leave a card on you. In England I suppose that would hardly be
considered _en règle_. Abroad, we are more civilised. Will you see me
down, Sir Robert? Now that we have both the same interests at heart we
shall be great friends, I hope!
[_Sails out on_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN’S _arm_. LADY CHILTERN _goes to the
top of the staircase and looks down at them as they descend_. _Her
expression is troubled_. _After a little time she is joined by some of
the guests_, _and passes with them into another reception-room_.]
MABEL CHILTERN. What a horrid woman!
LORD GORING. You should go to bed, Miss Mabel.
MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring!
LORD GORING. My father told me to go to bed an hour ago. I don’t see
why I shouldn’t give you the same advice. I always pass on good advice.
It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself.
MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, you are always ordering me out of the room.
I think it most courageous of you. Especially as I am not going to bed
for hours. [_Goes over to the sofa_.] You can come and sit down if you
like, and talk about anything in the world, except the Royal Academy,
Mrs. Cheveley, or novels in Scotch dialect. They are not improving
subjects. [_Catches sight of something that is lying on the sofa half
hidden by the cushion_.] What is this? Some one has dropped a diamond
brooch! Quite beautiful, isn’t it? [_Shows it to him_.] I wish it was
mine, but Gertrude won’t let me wear anything but pearls, and I am
thoroughly sick of pearls. They make one look so plain, so good and so
intellectual. I wonder whom the brooch belongs to.
LORD GORING. I wonder who dropped it.
MABEL CHILTERN. It is a beautiful brooch.
LORD GORING. It is a handsome bracelet.
MABEL CHILTERN. It isn’t a bracelet. It’s a brooch.
LORD GORING. It can be used as a bracelet. [_Takes it from her_, _and_,
_pulling out a green letter-case_, _puts the ornament carefully in it_,
_and replaces the whole thing in his breast-pocket with the most perfect
sang froid_.]
MABEL CHILTERN. What are you doing?
LORD GORING. Miss Mabel, I am going to make a rather strange request to
you.
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Eagerly_.] Oh, pray do! I have been waiting for it
all the evening.
LORD GORING. [_Is a little taken aback_, _but recovers himself_.] Don’t
mention to anybody that I have taken charge of this brooch. Should any
one write and claim it, let me know at once.
MABEL CHILTERN. That is a strange request.
LORD GORING. Well, you see I gave this brooch to somebody once, years
ago.
MABEL CHILTERN. You did?
LORD GORING. Yes.
[LADY CHILTERN _enters alone_. _The other guests have gone_.]
MABEL CHILTERN. Then I shall certainly bid you good-night. Good-night,
Gertrude! [_Exit_.]
LADY CHILTERN. Good-night, dear! [_To_ LORD GORING.] You saw whom Lady
Markby brought here to-night?
LORD GORING. Yes. It was an unpleasant surprise. What did she come
here for?
LADY CHILTERN. Apparently to try and lure Robert to uphold some
fraudulent scheme in which she is interested. The Argentine Canal, in
fact.
LORD GORING. She has mistaken her man, hasn’t she?
LADY CHILTERN. She is incapable of understanding an upright nature like
my husband’s!
LORD GORING. Yes. I should fancy she came to grief if she tried to get
Robert into her toils. It is extraordinary what astounding mistakes
clever women make.
LADY CHILTERN. I don’t call women of that kind clever. I call them
stupid!
LORD GORING. Same thing often. Good-night, Lady Chiltern!
LADY CHILTERN. Good-night!
[_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, you are not going? Do stop a
little!
LORD GORING. Afraid I can’t, thanks. I have promised to look in at the
Hartlocks’. I believe they have got a mauve Hungarian band that plays
mauve Hungarian music. See you soon. Good-bye!
[_Exit_]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. How beautiful you look to-night, Gertrude!
LADY CHILTERN. Robert, it is not true, is it? You are not going to lend
your support to this Argentine speculation? You couldn’t!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Starting_.] Who told you I intended to do so?
LADY CHILTERN. That woman who has just gone out, Mrs. Cheveley, as she
calls herself now. She seemed to taunt me with it. Robert, I know this
woman. You don’t. We were at school together. She was untruthful,
dishonest, an evil influence on every one whose trust or friendship she
could win. I hated, I despised her. She stole things, she was a thief.
She was sent away for being a thief. Why do you let her influence you?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, what you tell me may be true, but it
happened many years ago. It is best forgotten! Mrs. Cheveley may have
changed since then. No one should be entirely judged by their past.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] One’s past is what one is. It is the only
way by which people should be judged.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That is a hard saying, Gertrude!
LADY CHILTERN. It is a true saying, Robert. And what did she mean by
boasting that she had got you to lend your support, your name, to a thing
I have heard you describe as the most dishonest and fraudulent scheme
there has ever been in political life?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Biting his lip_.] I was mistaken in the view I
took. We all may make mistakes.
LADY CHILTERN. But you told me yesterday that you had received the
report from the Commission, and that it entirely condemned the whole
thing.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Walking up and down_.] I have reasons now to
believe that the Commission was prejudiced, or, at any rate, misinformed.
Besides, Gertrude, public and private life are different things. They
have different laws, and move on different lines.
LADY CHILTERN. They should both represent man at his highest. I see no
difference between them.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Stopping_.] In the present case, on a matter of
practical politics, I have changed my mind. That is all.
LADY CHILTERN. All!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sternly_.] Yes!
LADY CHILTERN. Robert! Oh! it is horrible that I should have to ask you
such a question—Robert, are you telling me the whole truth?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why do you ask me such a question?
LADY CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Why do you not answer it?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sitting down_.] Gertrude, truth is a very
complex thing, and politics is a very complex business. There are wheels
within wheels. One may be under certain obligations to people that one
must pay. Sooner or later in political life one has to compromise.
Every one does.
LADY CHILTERN. Compromise? Robert, why do you talk so differently
to-night from the way I have always heard you talk? Why are you changed?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am not changed. But circumstances alter things.
LADY CHILTERN. Circumstances should never alter principles!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But if I told you—
LADY CHILTERN. What?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That it was necessary, vitally necessary?
LADY CHILTERN. It can never be necessary to do what is not honourable.
Or if it be necessary, then what is it that I have loved! But it is not,
Robert; tell me it is not. Why should it be? What gain would you get?
Money? We have no need of that! And money that comes from a tainted
source is a degradation. Power? But power is nothing in itself. It is
power to do good that is fine—that, and that only. What is it, then?
Robert, tell me why you are going to do this dishonourable thing!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, you have no right to use that word. I
told you it was a question of rational compromise. It is no more than
that.
LADY CHILTERN. Robert, that is all very well for other men, for men who
treat life simply as a sordid speculation; but not for you, Robert, not
for you. You are different. All your life you have stood apart from
others. You have never let the world soil you. To the world, as to
myself, you have been an ideal always. Oh! be that ideal still. That
great inheritance throw not away—that tower of ivory do not destroy.
Robert, men can love what is beneath them—things unworthy, stained,
dishonoured. We women worship when we love; and when we lose our
worship, we lose everything. Oh! don’t kill my love for you, don’t kill
that!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude!
LADY CHILTERN. I know that there are men with horrible secrets in their
lives—men who have done some shameful thing, and who in some critical
moment have to pay for it, by doing some other act of shame—oh! don’t
tell me you are such as they are! Robert, is there in your life any
secret dishonour or disgrace? Tell me, tell me at once, that—
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That what?
LADY CHILTERN. [_Speaking very slowly_.] That our lives may drift
apart.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Drift apart?
LADY CHILTERN. That they may be entirely separate. It would be better
for us both.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, there is nothing in my past life that you
might not know.
LADY CHILTERN. I was sure of it, Robert, I was sure of it. But why did
you say those dreadful things, things so unlike your real self? Don’t
let us ever talk about the subject again. You will write, won’t you, to
Mrs. Cheveley, and tell her that you cannot support this scandalous
scheme of hers? If you have given her any promise you must take it back,
that is all!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Must I write and tell her that?
LADY CHILTERN. Surely, Robert! What else is there to do?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I might see her personally. It would be better.
LADY CHILTERN. You must never see her again, Robert. She is not a woman
you should ever speak to. She is not worthy to talk to a man like you.
No; you must write to her at once, now, this moment, and let your letter
show her that your decision is quite irrevocable!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Write this moment!
LADY CHILTERN. Yes.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But it is so late. It is close on twelve.
LADY CHILTERN. That makes no matter. She must know at once that she has
been mistaken in you—and that you are not a man to do anything base or
underhand or dishonourable. Write here, Robert. Write that you decline
to support this scheme of hers, as you hold it to be a dishonest scheme.
Yes—write the word dishonest. She knows what that word means. [SIR
ROBERT CHILTERN _sits down and writes a letter_. _His wife takes it up
and reads it_.] Yes; that will do. [_Rings bell_.] And now the
envelope. [_He writes the envelope slowly_. _Enter_ MASON.] Have this
letter sent at once to Claridge’s Hotel. There is no answer. [_Exit_
MASON. LADY CHILTERN _kneels down beside her husband_, _and puts her
arms around him_.] Robert, love gives one an instinct to things. I feel
to-night that I have saved you from something that might have been a
danger to you, from something that might have made men honour you less
than they do. I don’t think you realise sufficiently, Robert, that you
have brought into the political life of our time a nobler atmosphere, a
finer attitude towards life, a freer air of purer aims and higher
ideals—I know it, and for that I love you, Robert.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh, love me always, Gertrude, love me always!
LADY CHILTERN. I will love you always, because you will always be worthy
of love. We needs must love the highest when we see it! [_Kisses him
and rises and goes out_.]
[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _walks up and down for a moment_; _then sits down
and buries his face in his hands_. _The Servant enters and begins
pulling out the lights_. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _looks up_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Put out the lights, Mason, put out the lights!
[_The Servant puts out the lights_. _The room becomes almost dark_.
_The only light there is comes from the great chandelier that hangs over
the staircase and illumines the tapestry of the Triumph of Love_.]
ACT DROP.
SECOND ACT
SCENE
_Morning-room at Sir Robert Chiltern’s house_.
[LORD GORING, _dressed in the height of fashion_, _is lounging in an
armchair_. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _is standing in front of the fireplace_.
_He is evidently in a state of great mental excitement and distress_.
_As the scene progresses he paces nervously up and down the room_.]
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.
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 décolleté 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 to-night, unless I find something better to do. But I’ll
come round to-morrow morning. If you should want me to-night 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 to-morrow 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 to-morrow.
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.