is. I don’t think they can be quite improving reading for any one.
MRS. CHEVELEY [_Languidly_.] I have never read a Blue Book. I prefer
books . . . in yellow covers.
LADY MARKBY. [_Genially unconscious_.] Yellow is a gayer colour, is it
not? I used to wear yellow a good deal in my early days, and would do so
now if Sir John was not so painfully personal in his observations, and a
man on the question of dress is always ridiculous, is he not?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I think men are the only authorities on dress.
LADY MARKBY. Really? One wouldn’t say so from the sort of hats they
wear? would one?
[_The butler enters_, _followed by the footman_. _Tea is set on a small
table close to_ LADY CHILTERN.]
LADY CHILTERN. May I give you some tea, Mrs. Cheveley?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. [_The butler hands_ MRS. CHEVELEY _a cup of tea
on a salver_.]
LADY CHILTERN. Some tea, Lady Markby?
LADY MARKBY. No thanks, dear. [_The servants go out_.] The fact is, I
have promised to go round for ten minutes to see poor Lady Brancaster,
who is in very great trouble. Her daughter, quite a well-brought-up
girl, too, has actually become engaged to be married to a curate in
Shropshire. It is very sad, very sad indeed. I can’t understand this
modern mania for curates. In my time we girls saw them, of course,
running about the place like rabbits. But we never took any notice of
them, I need hardly say. But I am told that nowadays country society is
quite honeycombed with them. I think it most irreligious. And then the
eldest son has quarrelled with his father, and it is said that when they
meet at the club Lord Brancaster always hides himself behind the money
article in _The Times_. However, I believe that is quite a common
occurrence nowadays and that they have to take in extra copies of _The
Times_ at all the clubs in St. James’s Street; there are so many sons who
won’t have anything to do with their fathers, and so many fathers who
won’t speak to their sons. I think myself, it is very much to be
regretted.
MRS. CHEVELEY. So do I. Fathers have so much to learn from their sons
nowadays.
LADY MARKBY. Really, dear? What?
MRS. CHEVELEY. The art of living. The only really Fine Art we have
produced in modern times.
LADY MARKBY. [_Shaking her head_.] Ah! I am afraid Lord Brancaster
knew a good deal about that. More than his poor wife ever did.
[_Turning to_ LADY CHILTERN.] You know Lady Brancaster, don’t you, dear?
LADY CHILTERN. Just slightly. She was staying at Langton last autumn,
when we were there.
LADY MARKBY. Well, like all stout women, she looks the very picture of
happiness, as no doubt you noticed. But there are many tragedies in her
family, besides this affair of the curate. Her own sister, Mrs. Jekyll,
had a most unhappy life; through no fault of her own, I am sorry to say.
She ultimately was so broken-hearted that she went into a convent, or on
to the operatic stage, I forget which. No; I think it was decorative
art-needlework she took up. I know she had lost all sense of pleasure in
life. [_Rising_.] And now, Gertrude, if you will allow me, I shall
leave Mrs. Cheveley in your charge and call back for her in a quarter of
an hour. Or perhaps, dear Mrs. Cheveley, you wouldn’t mind waiting in
the carriage while I am with Lady Brancaster. As I intend it to be a
visit of condolence, I shan’t stay long.
MRS. CHEVELEY [_Rising_.] I don’t mind waiting in the carriage at all,
provided there is somebody to look at one.
LADY MARKBY. Well, I hear the curate is always prowling about the house.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I am afraid I am not fond of girl friends.
LADY CHILTERN [_Rising_.] Oh, I hope Mrs. Cheveley will stay here a
little. I should like to have a few minutes’ conversation with her.
MRS. CHEVELEY. How very kind of you, Lady Chiltern! Believe me, nothing
would give me greater pleasure.
LADY MARKBY. Ah! no doubt you both have many pleasant reminiscences of
your schooldays to talk over together. Good-bye, dear Gertrude! Shall I
see you at Lady Bonar’s to-night? She has discovered a wonderful new
genius. He does . . . nothing at all, I believe. That is a great
comfort, is it not?
LADY CHILTERN. Robert and I are dining at home by ourselves to-night,
and I don’t think I shall go anywhere afterwards. Robert, of course,
will have to be in the House. But there is nothing interesting on.
LADY MARKBY. Dining at home by yourselves? Is that quite prudent? Ah,
I forgot, your husband is an exception. Mine is the general rule, and
nothing ages a woman so rapidly as having married the general rule.
[_Exit_ LADY MARKBY.]
MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful woman, Lady Markby, isn’t she? Talks more and
says less than anybody I ever met. She is made to be a public speaker.
Much more so than her husband, though he is a typical Englishman, always
dull and usually violent.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Makes no answer_, _but remains standing_. _There is a
pause_. _Then the eyes of the two women meet_. LADY CHILTERN _looks
stern and pale_. MRS. CHEVELEY _seem rather amused_.] Mrs. Cheveley, I
think it is right to tell you quite frankly that, had I known who you
really were, I should not have invited you to my house last night.
MRS. CHEVELEY [_With an impertinent smile_.] Really?
LADY CHILTERN. I could not have done so.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I see that after all these years you have not changed a
bit, Gertrude.
LADY CHILTERN. I never change.
MRS. CHEVELEY [_Elevating her eyebrows_.] Then life has taught you
nothing?
LADY CHILTERN. It has taught me that a person who has once been guilty
of a dishonest and dishonourable action may be guilty of it a second
time, and should be shunned.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Would you apply that rule to every one?
LADY CHILTERN. Yes, to every one, without exception.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Then I am sorry for you, Gertrude, very sorry for you.
LADY CHILTERN. You see now, I was sure, that for many reasons any
further acquaintance between us during your stay in London is quite
impossible?
MRS. CHEVELEY [_Leaning back in her chair_.] Do you know, Gertrude, I
don’t mind your talking morality a bit. Morality is simply the attitude
we adopt towards people whom we personally dislike. You dislike me. I
am quite aware of that. And I have always detested you. And yet I have
come here to do you a service.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Contemptuously_.] Like the service you wished to
render my husband last night, I suppose. Thank heaven, I saved him from
that.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Starting to her feet_.] It was you who made him write
that insolent letter to me? It was you who made him break his promise?
LADY CHILTERN. Yes.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Then you must make him keep it. I give you till
to-morrow morning—no more. If by that time your husband does not
solemnly bind himself to help me in this great scheme in which I am
interested—
LADY CHILTERN. This fraudulent speculation—
MRS. CHEVELEY. Call it what you choose. I hold your husband in the
hollow of my hand, and if you are wise you will make him do what I tell
him.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising and going towards her_.] You are impertinent.
What has my husband to do with you? With a woman like you?
MRS. CHEVELEY [_With a bitter laugh_.] In this world like meets with
like. It is because your husband is himself fraudulent and dishonest
that we pair so well together. Between you and him there are chasms. He
and I are closer than friends. We are enemies linked together. The same
sin binds us.
LADY CHILTERN. How dare you class my husband with yourself? How dare
you threaten him or me? Leave my house. You are unfit to enter it.
[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _enters from behind_. _He hears his wife’s last
words_, _and sees to whom they are addressed_. _He grows deadly pale_.]
MRS. CHEVELEY. Your house! A house bought with the price of dishonour.
A house, everything in which has been paid for by fraud. [_Turns round
and sees_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Ask him what the origin of his fortune
is! Get him to tell you how he sold to a stockbroker a Cabinet secret.
Learn from him to what you owe your position.
LADY CHILTERN. It is not true! Robert! It is not true!
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Pointing at him with outstretched finger_.] Look at
him! Can he deny it? Does he dare to?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Go! Go at once. You have done your worst now.
MRS. CHEVELEY. My worst? I have not yet finished with you, with either
of you. I give you both till to-morrow at noon. If by then you don’t do
what I bid you to do, the whole world shall know the origin of Robert
Chiltern.
[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _strikes the bell_. _Enter_ MASON.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Show Mrs. Cheveley out.
[MRS. CHEVELEY _starts_; _then bows with somewhat exaggerated politeness
to_ LADY CHILTERN, _who makes no sign of response_. _As she passes by_
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, _who is standing close to the door_, _she pauses for
a moment and looks him straight in the face_. _She then goes out_,
_followed by the servant_, _who closes the door after him_. _The husband
and wife are left alone_. LADY CHILTERN _stands like some one in a
dreadful dream_. _Then she turns round and looks at her husband_. _She
looks at him with strange eyes_, _as though she were seeing him for the
first time_.]
LADY CHILTERN. You sold a Cabinet secret for money! You began your life
with fraud! You built up your career on dishonour! Oh, tell me it is
not true! Lie to me! Lie to me! Tell me it is not true!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What this woman said is quite true. But, Gertrude,
listen to me. You don’t realise how I was tempted. Let me tell you the
whole thing. [_Goes towards her_.]
LADY CHILTERN. Don’t come near me. Don’t touch me. I feel as if you
had soiled me for ever. Oh! what a mask you have been wearing all these
years! A horrible painted mask! You sold yourself for money. Oh! a
common thief were better. You put yourself up to sale to the highest
bidder! You were bought in the market. You lied to the whole world.
And yet you will not lie to me.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rushing towards her_.] Gertrude! Gertrude!
LADY CHILTERN. [_Thrusting him back with outstretched hands_.] No,
don’t speak! Say nothing! Your voice wakes terrible memories—memories
of things that made me love you—memories of words that made me love
you—memories that now are horrible to me. And how I worshipped you! You
were to me something apart from common life, a thing pure, noble, honest,
without stain. The world seemed to me finer because you were in it, and
goodness more real because you lived. And now—oh, when I think that I
made of a man like you my ideal! the ideal of my life!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There was your mistake. There was your error. The
error all women commit. Why can’t you women love us, faults and all?
Why do you place us on monstrous pedestals? We have all feet of clay,
women as well as men; but when we men love women, we love them knowing
their weaknesses, their follies, their imperfections, love them all the
more, it may be, for that reason. It is not the perfect, but the
imperfect, who have need of love. It is when we are wounded by our own
hands, or by the hands of others, that love should come to cure us—else
what use is love at all? All sins, except a sin against itself, Love
should forgive. All lives, save loveless lives, true Love should pardon.
A man’s love is like that. It is wider, larger, more human than a
woman’s. Women think that they are making ideals of men. What they are
making of us are false idols merely. You made your false idol of me, and
I had not the courage to come down, show you my wounds, tell you my
weaknesses. I was afraid that I might lose your love, as I have lost it
now. And so, last night you ruined my life for me—yes, ruined it! What
this woman asked of me was nothing compared to what she offered to me.
She offered security, peace, stability. The sin of my youth, that I had
thought was buried, rose up in front of me, hideous, horrible, with its
hands at my throat. I could have killed it for ever, sent it back into
its tomb, destroyed its record, burned the one witness against me. You
prevented me. No one but you, you know it. And now what is there before
me but public disgrace, ruin, terrible shame, the mockery of the world, a
lonely dishonoured life, a lonely dishonoured death, it may be, some day?
Let women make no more ideals of men! let them not put them on altars and
bow before them, or they may ruin other lives as completely as you—you
whom I have so wildly loved—have ruined mine!
[_He passes from the room_. LADY CHILTERN _rushes towards him_, _but the
door is closed when she reaches it_. _Pale with anguish_, _bewildered_,
_helpless_, _she sways like a plant in the water_. _Her hands_,
_outstretched_, _seem to tremble in the air like blossoms in the wind_.
_Then she flings herself down beside a sofa and buries her face_. _Her
sobs are like the sobs of a child_.]
ACT DROP.
THIRD ACT
SCENE
_The Library in Lord Goring’s house_. _An Adam room_. _On the right is
the door leading into the hall_. _On the left_, _the door of the
smoking-room_. _A pair of folding doors at the back open into the
drawing-room_. _The fire is lit_. _Phipps_, _the butler_, _is arranging
some newspapers on the writing-table_. _The distinction of Phipps is his
impassivity_. _He has been termed by enthusiasts the Ideal Butler_. _The
Sphinx is not so incommunicable_. _He is a mask with a manner_. _Of his
intellectual or emotional life_, _history knows nothing_. _He represents
the dominance of form_.
[_Enter_ LORD GORING _in evening dress with a buttonhole_. _He is
wearing a silk hat and Inverness cape_. _White-gloved_, _he carries a
Louis Seize cane_. _His are all the delicate fopperies of Fashion_.
_One sees that he stands in immediate relation to modern life_, _makes it
indeed_, _and so masters it_. _He is the first well-dressed philosopher
in the history of thought_.]
LORD GORING. Got my second buttonhole for me, Phipps?
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Takes his hat_, _cane_, _and cape_, _and
presents new buttonhole on salver_.]
LORD GORING. Rather distinguished thing, Phipps. I am the only person
of the smallest importance in London at present who wears a buttonhole.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. I have observed that.
LORD GORING. [_Taking out old buttonhole_.] You see, Phipps, Fashion is
what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.
LORD GORING. Just as vulgarity is simply the conduct of other people.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.
LORD GORING. [_Putting in a new buttonhole_.] And falsehoods the truths
of other people.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.
LORD GORING. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society
is oneself.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.
LORD GORING. To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance,
Phipps.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.
LORD GORING. [_Looking at himself in the glass_.] Don’t think I quite
like this buttonhole, Phipps. Makes me look a little too old. Makes me
almost in the prime of life, eh, Phipps?
PHIPPS. I don’t observe any alteration in your lordship’s appearance.
LORD GORING. You don’t, Phipps?
PHIPPS. No, my lord.
LORD GORING. I am not quite sure. For the future a more trivial
buttonhole, Phipps, on Thursday evenings.
PHIPPS. I will speak to the florist, my lord. She has had a loss in her
family lately, which perhaps accounts for the lack of triviality your
lordship complains of in the buttonhole.
LORD GORING. Extraordinary thing about the lower classes in England—they
are always losing their relations.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord! They are extremely fortunate in that respect.
LORD GORING. [_Turns round and looks at him_. PHIPPS _remains
impassive_.] Hum! Any letters, Phipps?
PHIPPS. Three, my lord. [_Hands letters on a salver_.]
LORD GORING. [_Takes letters_.] Want my cab round in twenty minutes.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Goes towards door_.]
LORD GORING. [_Holds up letter in pink envelope_.] Ahem! Phipps, when
did this letter arrive?
PHIPPS. It was brought by hand just after your lordship went to the
club.
LORD GORING. That will do. [_Exit_ PHIPPS.] Lady Chiltern’s
handwriting on Lady Chiltern’s pink notepaper. That is rather curious.
I thought Robert was to write. Wonder what Lady Chiltern has got to say
to me? [_Sits at bureau and opens letter_, _and reads it_.] ‘I want
you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.’ [_Puts down the
letter with a puzzled look_. _Then takes it up_, _and reads it again
slowly_.] ‘I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.’ So she has
found out everything! Poor woman! Poor woman! [ _Pulls out watch and
looks at it_.] But what an hour to call! Ten o’clock! I shall have to
give up going to the Berkshires. However, it is always nice to be
expected, and not to arrive. I am not expected at the Bachelors’, so I
shall certainly go there. Well, I will make her stand by her husband.
That is the only thing for her to do. That is the only thing for any
woman to do. It is the growth of the moral sense in women that makes
marriage such a hopeless, one-sided institution. Ten o’clock. She
should be here soon. I must tell Phipps I am not in to any one else.
[_Goes towards bell_.]
[_Enter_ PHIPPS.]
PHIPPS. Lord Caversham.
LORD GORING. Oh, why will parents always appear at the wrong time? Some
extraordinary mistake in nature, I suppose. [_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM.]
Delighted to see you, my dear father. [_Goes to meet him_.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. Take my cloak off.
LORD GORING. Is it worth while, father?
LORD CAVERSHAM. Of course it is worth while, sir. Which is the most
comfortable chair?
LORD GORING. This one, father. It is the chair I use myself, when I
have visitors.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Thank ye. No draught, I hope, in this room?
LORD GORING. No, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Sitting down_.] Glad to hear it. Can’t stand
draughts. No draughts at home.
LORD GORING. Good many breezes, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Eh? Eh? Don’t understand what you mean. Want to have
a serious conversation with you, sir.
LORD GORING. My dear father! At this hour?
LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, it is only ten o’clock. What is your
objection to the hour? I think the hour is an admirable hour!
LORD GORING. Well, the fact is, father, this is not my day for talking
seriously. I am very sorry, but it is not my day.
LORD CAVERSHAM. What do you mean, sir?
LORD GORING. During the Season, father, I only talk seriously on the
first Tuesday in every month, from four to seven.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, make it Tuesday, sir, make it Tuesday.
LORD GORING. But it is after seven, father, and my doctor says I must
not have any serious conversation after seven. It makes me talk in my
sleep.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Talk in your sleep, sir? What does that matter? You
are not married.
LORD GORING. No, father, I am not married.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! That is what I have come to talk to you about,
sir. You have got to get married, and at once. Why, when I was your
age, sir, I had been an inconsolable widower for three months, and was
already paying my addresses to your admirable mother. Damme, sir, it is
your duty to get married. You can’t be always living for pleasure.
Every man of position is married nowadays. Bachelors are not fashionable
any more. They are a damaged lot. Too much is known about them. You
must get a wife, sir. Look where your friend Robert Chiltern has got to
by probity, hard work, and a sensible marriage with a good woman. Why
don’t you imitate him, sir? Why don’t you take him for your model?
LORD GORING. I think I shall, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would, sir. Then I should be happy. At
present I make your mother’s life miserable on your account. You are
heartless, sir, quite heartless.
LORD GORING. I hope not, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. And it is high time for you to get married. You are
thirty-four years of age, sir.
LORD GORING. Yes, father, but I only admit to thirty-two—thirty-one and
a half when I have a really good buttonhole. This buttonhole is not . . .
trivial enough.
LORD CAVERSHAM. I tell you you are thirty-four, sir. And there is a
draught in your room, besides, which makes your conduct worse. Why did
you tell me there was no draught, sir? I feel a draught, sir, I feel it
distinctly.
LORD GORING. So do I, father. It is a dreadful draught. I will come
and see you to-morrow, father. We can talk over anything you like. Let
me help you on with your cloak, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. No, sir; I have called this evening for a definite
purpose, and I am going to see it through at all costs to my health or
yours. Put down my cloak, sir.
LORD GORING. Certainly, father. But let us go into another room.
[_Rings bell_.] There is a dreadful draught here. [_Enter_ PHIPPS.]
Phipps, is there a good fire in the smoking-room?
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.
LORD GORING. Come in there, father. Your sneezes are quite
heartrending.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, I suppose I have a right to sneeze when I
choose?
LORD GORING. [_Apologetically_.] Quite so, father. I was merely
expressing sympathy.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Oh, damn sympathy. There is a great deal too much of
that sort of thing going on nowadays.
LORD GORING. I quite agree with you, father. If there was less sympathy
in the world there would be less trouble in the world.
LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Going towards the smoking-room_.] That is a paradox,
sir. I hate paradoxes.
LORD GORING. So do I, father. Everybody one meets is a paradox
nowadays. It is a great bore. It makes society so obvious.
LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Turning round_, _and looking at his son beneath his
bushy eyebrows_.] Do you always really understand what you say, sir?
LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Yes, father, if I listen
attentively.
LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Indignantly_.] If you listen attentively! . . .
Conceited young puppy!
[_Goes off grumbling into the smoking-room_. PHIPPS _enters_.]
LORD GORING. Phipps, there is a lady coming to see me this evening on
particular business. Show her into the drawing-room when she arrives.
You understand?
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.
LORD GORING. It is a matter of the gravest importance, Phipps.
PHIPPS. I understand, my lord.
LORD GORING. No one else is to be admitted, under any circumstances.
PHIPPS. I understand, my lord. [_Bell rings_.]
LORD GORING. Ah! that is probably the lady. I shall see her myself.
[_Just as he is going towards the door_ LORD CAVERSHAM _enters from the
smoking-room_.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir? am I to wait attendance on you?
LORD GORING. [_Considerably perplexed_.] In a moment, father. Do
excuse me. [LORD CAVERSHAM _goes back_.] Well, remember my
instructions, Phipps—into that room.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.
[LORD GORING _goes into the smoking-room_. HAROLD, _the footman shows_
MRS. CHEVELEY _in_. _Lamia-like_, _she is in green and silver_. _She
has a cloak of black satin_, _lined with dead rose-leaf silk_.]
HAROLD. What name, madam?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To_ PHIPPS, _who advances towards her_.] Is Lord
Goring not here? I was told he was at home?
PHIPPS. His lordship is engaged at present with Lord Caversham, madam.
[_Turns a cold_, _glassy eye on_ HAROLD, _who at once retires_.]
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_.] How very filial!
PHIPPS. His lordship told me to ask you, madam, to be kind enough to
wait in the drawing-room for him. His lordship will come to you there.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a look of surprise_.] Lord Goring expects me?
PHIPPS. Yes, madam.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Are you quite sure?
PHIPPS. His lordship told me that if a lady called I was to ask her to
wait in the drawing-room. [_Goes to the door of the drawing-room and
opens it_.] His lordship’s directions on the subject were very precise.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_] How thoughtful of him! To expect the
unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect. [_Goes towards the
drawing-room and looks in_.] Ugh! How dreary a bachelor’s drawing-room
always looks. I shall have to alter all this. [PHIPPS _brings the lamp
from the writing-table_.] No, I don’t care for that lamp. It is far too
glaring. Light some candles.
PHIPPS. [_Replaces lamp_.] Certainly, madam.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I hope the candles have very becoming shades.
PHIPPS. We have had no complaints about them, madam, as yet.
[_Passes into the drawing-room and begins to light the candles_.]
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_To herself_.] I wonder what woman he is waiting for
to-night. It will be delightful to catch him. Men always look so silly
when they are caught. And they are always being caught. [_Looks about
room and approaches the writing-table_.] What a very interesting room!
What a very interesting picture! Wonder what his correspondence is like.
[_Takes up letters_.] Oh, what a very uninteresting correspondence!
Bills and cards, debts and dowagers! Who on earth writes to him on pink
paper? How silly to write on pink paper! It looks like the beginning of
a middle-class romance. Romance should never begin with sentiment. It
should begin with science and end with a settlement. [_Puts letter
down_, _then takes it up again_.] I know that handwriting. That is
Gertrude Chiltern’s. I remember it perfectly. The ten commandments in
every stroke of the pen, and the moral law all over the page. Wonder
what Gertrude is writing to him about? Something horrid about me, I
suppose. How I detest that woman! [_Reads it_.] ‘I trust you. I want
you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.’ ‘I trust you. I want you. I am
coming to you.’
[_A look of triumph comes over her face_. _She is just about to steal
the letter_, _when_ PHIPPS _comes in_.]
PHIPPS. The candles in the drawing-room are lit, madam, as you directed.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. [_Rises hastily and slips the letter under a
large silver-cased blotting-book that is lying on the table_.]
PHIPPS. I trust the shades will be to your liking, madam. They are the
most becoming we have. They are the same as his lordship uses himself
when he is dressing for dinner.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a smile_.] Then I am sure they will be perfectly
right.
PHIPPS. [_Gravely_.] Thank you, madam.
[MRS. CHEVELEY _goes into the drawing-room_. PHIPPS _closes the door and
retires_. _The door is then slowly opened_, _and_ MRS. CHEVELEY _comes
out and creeps stealthily towards the writing-table_. _Suddenly voices
are heard from the smoking-room_. MRS. CHEVELEY _grows pale_, _and
stops_. _The voices grow louder_, _and she goes back into the
drawing-room_, _biting her lip_.]
[_Enter_ LORD GORING _and_ LORD CAVERSHAM.]
LORD GORING. [_Expostulating_.] My dear father, if I am to get married,
surely you will allow me to choose the time, place, and person?
Particularly the person.
LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Testily_.] That is a matter for me, sir. You would
probably make a very poor choice. It is I who should be consulted, not
you. There is property at stake. It is not a matter for affection.
Affection comes later on in married life.
LORD GORING. Yes. In married life affection comes when people
thoroughly dislike each other, father, doesn’t it? [_Puts on_ LORD
CAVERSHAM’S _cloak for him_.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, sir. I mean certainly not, sir. You are
talking very foolishly to-night. What I say is that marriage is a matter
for common sense.
LORD GORING. But women who have common sense are so curiously plain,
father, aren’t they? Of course I only speak from hearsay.
LORD CAVERSHAM. No woman, plain or pretty, has any common sense at all,
sir. Common sense is the privilege of our sex.
LORD GORING. Quite so. And we men are so self-sacrificing that we never
use it, do we, father?
LORD CAVERSHAM. I use it, sir. I use nothing else.
LORD GORING. So my mother tells me.
LORD CAVERSHAM. It is the secret of your mother’s happiness. You are
very heartless, sir, very heartless.
LORD GORING. I hope not, father.
[_Goes out for a moment_. _Then returns_, _looking rather put out_,
_with_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, what a piece of good luck meeting
you on the doorstep! Your servant had just told me you were not at home.
How extraordinary!
LORD GORING. The fact is, I am horribly busy to-night, Robert, and I
gave orders I was not at home to any one. Even my father had a
comparatively cold reception. He complained of a draught the whole time.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! you must be at home to me, Arthur. You are my
best friend. Perhaps by to-morrow you will be my only friend. My wife
has discovered everything.
LORD GORING. Ah! I guessed as much!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking at him_.] Really! How?
LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Oh, merely by something in the
expression of your face as you came in. Who told her?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley herself. And the woman I love knows
that I began my career with an act of low dishonesty, that I built up my
life upon sands of shame—that I sold, like a common huckster, the secret
that had been intrusted to me as a man of honour. I thank heaven poor
Lord Radley died without knowing that I betrayed him. I would to God I
had died before I had been so horribly tempted, or had fallen so low.
[_Burying his face in his hands_.]
LORD GORING. [_After a pause_.] You have heard nothing from Vienna yet,
in answer to your wire?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Looking up_.] Yes; I got a telegram from the
first secretary at eight o’clock to-night.
LORD GORING. Well?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Nothing is absolutely known against her. On the
contrary, she occupies a rather high position in society. It is a sort
of open secret that Baron Arnheim left her the greater portion of his
immense fortune. Beyond that I can learn nothing.
LORD GORING. She doesn’t turn out to be a spy, then?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! spies are of no use nowadays. Their profession
is over. The newspapers do their work instead.
LORD GORING. And thunderingly well they do it.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I am parched with thirst. May I ring for
something? Some hock and seltzer?
LORD GORING. Certainly. Let me. [_Rings the bell_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thanks! I don’t know what to do, Arthur, I don’t
know what to do, and you are my only friend. But what a friend you
are—the one friend I can trust. I can trust you absolutely, can’t I?
[_Enter_ PHIPPS.]
LORD GORING. My dear Robert, of course. Oh! [_To_ PHIPPS.] Bring some
hock and seltzer.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.
LORD GORING. And Phipps!
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.
LORD GORING. Will you excuse me for a moment, Robert? I want to give
some directions to my servant.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Certainly.
LORD GORING. When that lady calls, tell her that I am not expected home
this evening. Tell her that I have been suddenly called out of town.
You understand?
PHIPPS. The lady is in that room, my lord. You told me to show her into
that room, my lord.
LORD GORING. You did perfectly right. [_Exit_ PHIPPS.] What a mess I
am in. No; I think I shall get through it. I’ll give her a lecture
through the door. Awkward thing to manage, though.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, tell me what I should do. My life seems to
have crumbled about me. I am a ship without a rudder in a night without
a star.
LORD GORING. Robert, you love your wife, don’t you?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I love her more than anything in the world. I used
to think ambition the great thing. It is not. Love is the great thing
in the world. There is nothing but love, and I love her. But I am
defamed in her eyes. I am ignoble in her eyes. There is a wide gulf
between us now. She has found me out, Arthur, she has found me out.
LORD GORING. Has she never in her life done some folly—some
indiscretion—that she should not forgive your sin?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My wife! Never! She does not know what weakness
or temptation is. I am of clay like other men. She stands apart as good
women do—pitiless in her perfection—cold and stern and without mercy.
But I love her, Arthur. We are childless, and I have no one else to
love, no one else to love me. Perhaps if God had sent us children she
might have been kinder to me. But God has given us a lonely house. And
she has cut my heart in two. Don’t let us talk of it. I was brutal to
her this evening. But I suppose when sinners talk to saints they are
brutal always. I said to her things that were hideously true, on my
side, from my stand-point, from the standpoint of men. But don’t let us
talk of that.
LORD GORING. Your wife will forgive you. Perhaps at this moment she is
forgiving you. She loves you, Robert. Why should she not forgive?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. God grant it! God grant it! [_Buries his face in
his hands_.] But there is something more I have to tell you, Arthur.
[_Enter_ PHIPPS _with drinks_.]
PHIPPS. [_Hands hock and seltzer to_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Hock and
seltzer, sir.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you.
LORD GORING. Is your carriage here, Robert?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; I walked from the club.
LORD GORING. Sir Robert will take my cab, Phipps.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Exit_.]
LORD GORING. Robert, you don’t mind my sending you away?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, you must let me stay for five minutes. I
have made up my mind what I am going to do to-night in the House. The
debate on the Argentine Canal is to begin at eleven. [_A chair falls in
the drawing-room_.] What is that?
LORD GORING. Nothing.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I heard a chair fall in the next room. Some one
has been listening.
LORD GORING. No, no; there is no one there.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There is some one. There are lights in the room,
and the door is ajar. Some one has been listening to every secret of my
life. Arthur, what does this mean?
LORD GORING. Robert, you are excited, unnerved. I tell you there is no
one in that room. Sit down, Robert.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Do you give me your word that there is no one
there?
LORD GORING. Yes.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Your word of honour? [_Sits down_.]
LORD GORING. Yes.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rises_.] Arthur, let me see for myself.
LORD GORING. No, no.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is no one there why should I not look in
that room? Arthur, you must let me go into that room and satisfy myself.
Let me know that no eavesdropper has heard my life’s secret. Arthur, you
don’t realise what I am going through.
LORD GORING. Robert, this must stop. I have told you that there is no
one in that room—that is enough.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Rushes to the door of the room_.] It is not
enough. I insist on going into this room. You have told me there is no
one there, so what reason can you have for refusing me?
LORD GORING. For God’s sake, don’t! There is some one there. Some one
whom you must not see.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah, I thought so!
LORD GORING. I forbid you to enter that room.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stand back. My life is at stake. And I don’t care
who is there. I will know who it is to whom I have told my secret and my
shame. [_Enters room_.]
LORD GORING. Great heavens! his own wife!
[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _comes back_, _with a look of scorn and anger on his
face_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What explanation have you to give me for the
presence of that woman here?
LORD GORING. Robert, I swear to you on my honour that that lady is
stainless and guiltless of all offence towards you.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She is a vile, an infamous thing!
LORD GORING. Don’t say that, Robert! It was for your sake she came
here. It was to try and save you she came here. She loves you and no
one else.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are mad. What have I to do with her intrigues
with you? Let her remain your mistress! You are well suited to each
other. She, corrupt and shameful—you, false as a friend, treacherous as
an enemy even—
LORD GORING. It is not true, Robert. Before heaven, it is not true. In
her presence and in yours I will explain all.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Let me pass, sir. You have lied enough upon your
word of honour.
[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _goes out_. LORD GORING _rushes to the door of the
drawing-room_, _when_ MRS. CHEVELEY _comes out_, _looking radiant and
much amused_.]
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a mock curtsey_] Good evening, Lord Goring!
LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley! Great heavens! . . . May I ask what you
were doing in my drawing-room?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Merely listening. I have a perfect passion for listening
through keyholes. One always hears such wonderful things through them.
LORD GORING. Doesn’t that sound rather like tempting Providence?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! surely Providence can resist temptation by this time.
[_Makes a sign to him to take her cloak off_, _which he does_.]
LORD GORING. I am glad you have called. I am going to give you some
good advice.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! pray don’t. One should never give a woman anything
that she can’t wear in the evening.
LORD GORING. I see you are quite as wilful as you used to be.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Far more! I have greatly improved. I have had more
experience.
LORD GORING. Too much experience is a dangerous thing. Pray have a
cigarette. Half the pretty women in London smoke cigarettes. Personally
I prefer the other half.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I never smoke. My dressmaker wouldn’t like it,
and a woman’s first duty in life is to her dressmaker, isn’t it? What
the second duty is, no one has as yet discovered.
LORD GORING. You have come here to sell me Robert Chiltern’s letter,
haven’t you?
MRS. CHEVELEY. To offer it to you on conditions. How did you guess
that?
LORD GORING. Because you haven’t mentioned the subject. Have you got it
with you?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Sitting down_.] Oh, no! A well-made dress has no
pockets.
LORD GORING. What is your price for it?
MRS. CHEVELEY. How absurdly English you are! The English think that a
cheque-book can solve every problem in life. Why, my dear Arthur, I have
very much more money than you have, and quite as much as Robert Chiltern
has got hold of. Money is not what I want.
LORD GORING. What do you want then, Mrs. Cheveley?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Why don’t you call me Laura?
LORD GORING. I don’t like the name.
MRS. CHEVELEY. You used to adore it.
LORD GORING. Yes: that’s why. [MRS. CHEVELEY _motions to him to sit
down beside her_. _He smiles_, _and does so_.]
MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you loved me once.
LORD GORING. Yes.
MRS. CHEVELEY. And you asked me to be your wife.
LORD GORING. That was the natural result of my loving you.
MRS. CHEVELEY. And you threw me over because you saw, or said you saw,
poor old Lord Mortlake trying to have a violent flirtation with me in the
conservatory at Tenby.
LORD GORING. I am under the impression that my lawyer settled that
matter with you on certain terms . . . dictated by yourself.
MRS. CHEVELEY. At that time I was poor; you were rich.
LORD GORING. Quite so. That is why you pretended to love me.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shrugging her shoulders_.] Poor old Lord Mortlake, who
had only two topics of conversation, his gout and his wife! I never
could quite make out which of the two he was talking about. He used the
most horrible language about them both. Well, you were silly, Arthur.
Why, Lord Mortlake was never anything more to me than an amusement. One
of those utterly tedious amusements one only finds at an English country
house on an English country Sunday. I don’t think any one at all morally
responsible for what he or she does at an English country house.
LORD GORING. Yes. I know lots of people think that.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I loved you, Arthur.
LORD GORING. My dear Mrs. Cheveley, you have always been far too clever
to know anything about love.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I did love you. And you loved me. You know you loved
me; and love is a very wonderful thing. I suppose that when a man has
once loved a woman, he will do anything for her, except continue to love
her? [_Puts her hand on his_.]
LORD GORING. [_Taking his hand away quietly_.] Yes: except that.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] I am tired of living abroad. I want
to come back to London. I want to have a charming house here. I want to
have a salon. If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the
Irish how to listen, society here would be quite civilised. Besides, I
have arrived at the romantic stage. When I saw you last night at the
Chilterns’, I knew you were the only person I had ever cared for, if I
ever have cared for anybody, Arthur. And so, on the morning of the day
you marry me, I will give you Robert Chiltern’s letter. That is my
offer. I will give it to you now, if you promise to marry me.
LORD GORING. Now?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Smiling_.] To-morrow.
LORD GORING. Are you really serious?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes, quite serious.
LORD GORING. I should make you a very bad husband.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I don’t mind bad husbands. I have had two. They amused
me immensely.
LORD GORING. You mean that you amused yourself immensely, don’t you?
MRS. CHEVELEY. What do you know about my married life?
LORD GORING. Nothing: but I can read it like a book.
MRS. CHEVELEY. What book?
LORD GORING. [_Rising_.] The Book of Numbers.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Do you think it is quite charming of you to be so rude to
a woman in your own house?
LORD GORING. In the case of very fascinating women, sex is a challenge,
not a defence.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I suppose that is meant for a compliment. My dear
Arthur, women are never disarmed by compliments. Men always are. That
is the difference between the two sexes.
LORD GORING. Women are never disarmed by anything, as far as I know
them.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] Then you are going to allow your
greatest friend, Robert Chiltern, to be ruined, rather than marry some
one who really has considerable attractions left. I thought you would
have risen to some great height of self-sacrifice, Arthur. I think you
should. And the rest of your life you could spend in contemplating your
own perfections.
LORD GORING. Oh! I do that as it is. And self-sacrifice is a thing that
should be put down by law. It is so demoralising to the people for whom
one sacrifices oneself. They always go to the bad.
MRS. CHEVELEY. As if anything could demoralise Robert Chiltern! You
seem to forget that I know his real character.
LORD GORING. What you know about him is not his real character. It was
an act of folly done in his youth, dishonourable, I admit, shameful, I
admit, unworthy of him, I admit, and therefore . . . not his true
character.
MRS. CHEVELEY. How you men stand up for each other!
LORD GORING. How you women war against each other!
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Bitterly_.] I only war against one woman, against
Gertrude Chiltern. I hate her. I hate her now more than ever.
LORD GORING. Because you have brought a real tragedy into her life, I
suppose.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a sneer_.] Oh, there is only one real tragedy in
a woman’s life. The fact that her past is always her lover, and her
future invariably her husband.
LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern knows nothing of the kind of life to which
you are alluding.
MRS. CHEVELEY. A woman whose size in gloves is seven and three-quarters
never knows much about anything. You know Gertrude has always worn seven
and three-quarters? That is one of the reasons why there was never any
moral sympathy between us. . . . Well, Arthur, I suppose this romantic
interview may be regarded as at an end. You admit it was romantic, don’t
you? For the privilege of being your wife I was ready to surrender a
great prize, the climax of my diplomatic career. You decline. Very
well. If Sir Robert doesn’t uphold my Argentine scheme, I expose him.
_Voilà tout_.
LORD GORING. You mustn’t do that. It would be vile, horrible, infamous.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Shrugging her shoulders_.] Oh! don’t use big words.
They mean so little. It is a commercial transaction. That is all.
There is no good mixing up sentimentality in it. I offered to sell
Robert Chiltern a certain thing. If he won’t pay me my price, he will
have to pay the world a greater price. There is no more to be said. I
must go. Good-bye. Won’t you shake hands?
LORD GORING. With you? No. Your transaction with Robert Chiltern may
pass as a loathsome commercial transaction of a loathsome commercial age;
but you seem to have forgotten that you came here to-night to talk of
love, you whose lips desecrated the word love, you to whom the thing is a
book closely sealed, went this afternoon to the house of one of the most
noble and gentle women in the world to degrade her husband in her eyes,
to try and kill her love for him, to put poison in her heart, and
bitterness in her life, to break her idol, and, it may be, spoil her
soul. That I cannot forgive you. That was horrible. For that there can
be no forgiveness.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you are unjust to me. Believe me, you are quite
unjust to me. I didn’t go to taunt Gertrude at all. I had no idea of
doing anything of the kind when I entered. I called with Lady Markby
simply to ask whether an ornament, a jewel, that I lost somewhere last
night, had been found at the Chilterns’. If you don’t believe me, you
can ask Lady Markby. She will tell you it is true. The scene that
occurred happened after Lady Markby had left, and was really forced on me
by Gertrude’s rudeness and sneers. I called, oh!—a little out of malice
if you like—but really to ask if a diamond brooch of mine had been found.
That was the origin of the whole thing.
LORD GORING. A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. How do you know?
LORD GORING. Because it is found. In point of fact, I found it myself,
and stupidly forgot to tell the butler anything about it as I was
leaving. [_Goes over to the writing-table and pulls out the drawers_.]
It is in this drawer. No, that one. This is the brooch, isn’t it?
[_Holds up the brooch_.]
MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I am so glad to get it back. It was . . a present.
LORD GORING. Won’t you wear it?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Certainly, if you pin it in. [LORD GORING _suddenly
clasps it on her arm_.] Why do you put it on as a bracelet? I never
knew it could be worn as a bracelet.
LORD GORING. Really?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Holding out her handsome arm_.] No; but it looks very
well on me as a bracelet, doesn’t it?
LORD GORING. Yes; much better than when I saw it last.
MRS. CHEVELEY. When did you see it last?
LORD GORING. [_Calmly_.] Oh, ten years ago, on Lady Berkshire, from
whom you stole it.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Starting_.] What do you mean?
LORD GORING. I mean that you stole that ornament from my cousin, Mary
Berkshire, to whom I gave it when she was married. Suspicion fell on a
wretched servant, who was sent away in disgrace. I recognised it last
night. I determined to say nothing about it till I had found the thief.
I have found the thief now, and I have heard her own confession.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Tossing her head_.] It is not true.
LORD GORING. You know it is true. Why, thief is written across your
face at this moment.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I will deny the whole affair from beginning to end. I
will say that I have never seen this wretched thing, that it was never in
my possession.
[MRS. CHEVELEY _tries to get the bracelet off her arm_, _but fails_.
LORD GORING _looks on amused_. _Her thin fingers tear at the jewel to no
purpose_. _A curse breaks from her_.]
LORD GORING. The drawback of stealing a thing, Mrs. Cheveley, is that
one never knows how wonderful the thing that one steals is. You can’t
get that bracelet off, unless you know where the spring is. And I see
you don’t know where the spring is. It is rather difficult to find.
MRS. CHEVELEY. You brute! You coward! [_She tries again to unclasp the
bracelet_, _but fails_.]
LORD GORING. Oh! don’t use big words. They mean so little.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Again tears at the bracelet in a paroxysm of rage_,
_with inarticulate sounds_. _Then stops_, _and looks at_ LORD GORING.]
What are you going to do?
LORD GORING. I am going to ring for my servant. He is an admirable
servant. Always comes in the moment one rings for him. When he comes I
will tell him to fetch the police.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Trembling_.] The police? What for?
LORD GORING. To-morrow the Berkshires will prosecute you. That is what
the police are for.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Is now in an agony of physical terror_. _Her face is
distorted_. _Her mouth awry_. _A mask has fallen from her_. _She is_,
_for the moment_, _dreadful to look at_.] Don’t do that. I will do
anything you want. Anything in the world you want.
LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern’s letter.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Stop! Stop! Let me have time to think.
LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern’s letter.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I have not got it with me. I will give it to you
to-morrow.
LORD GORING. You know you are lying. Give it to me at once. [MRS.
CHEVELEY _pulls the letter out_, _and hands it to him_. _She is horribly
pale_.] This is it?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_In a hoarse voice_.] Yes.
LORD GORING. [_Takes the letter_, _examines it_, _sighs_, _and burns it
with the lamp_.] For so well-dressed a woman, Mrs. Cheveley, you have
moments of admirable common sense. I congratulate you.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Catches sight of_ LADY CHILTERN’S _letter_, _the cover
of which is just showing from under the blotting-book_.] Please get me a
glass of water.
LORD GORING. Certainly. [_Goes to the corner of the room and pours out
a glass of water_. _While his back is turned_ MRS. CHEVELEY _steals_
LADY CHILTERN’S _letter_. _When_ LORD GORING _returns the glass she
refuses it with a gesture_.]
MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. Will you help me on with my cloak?
LORD GORING. With pleasure. [_Puts her cloak on_.]
MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I am never going to try to harm Robert Chiltern
again.
LORD GORING. Fortunately you have not the chance, Mrs. Cheveley.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Well, if even I had the chance, I wouldn’t. On the
contrary, I am going to render him a great service.
LORD GORING. I am charmed to hear it. It is a reformation.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I can’t bear so upright a gentleman, so honourable
an English gentleman, being so shamefully deceived, and so—
LORD GORING. Well?
MRS. CHEVELEY. I find that somehow Gertrude Chiltern’s dying speech and
confession has strayed into my pocket.
LORD GORING. What do you mean?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_With a bitter note of triumph in her voice_.] I mean
that I am going to send Robert Chiltern the love-letter his wife wrote to
you to-night.
LORD GORING. Love-letter?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Laughing_.] ‘I want you. I trust you. I am coming to
you. Gertrude.’
[LORD GORING _rushes to the bureau and takes up the envelope_, _finds is
empty_, _and turns round_.]
LORD GORING. You wretched woman, must you always be thieving? Give me
back that letter. I’ll take it from you by force. You shall not leave
my room till I have got it.
[_He rushes towards her_, _but_ MRS. CHEVELEY _at once puts her hand on
the electric bell that is on the table_. _The bell sounds with shrill
reverberations_, _and_ PHIPPS _enters_.]
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a pause_.] Lord Goring merely rang that you
should show me out. Good-night, Lord Goring!
[_Goes out followed by_ PHIPPS. _Her face is illumined with evil
triumph_. _There is joy in her eyes_. _Youth seems to have come back to
her_. _Her last glance is like a swift arrow_. LORD GORING _bites his
lip_, _and lights a cigarette_.]
ACT DROP.
FOURTH ACT
SCENE
_Same as Act II_.
[LORD GORING _is standing by the fireplace with his hands in his
pockets_. _He is looking rather bored_.]
LORD GORING. [_Pulls out his watch_, _inspects it_, _and rings the
bell_.] It is a great nuisance. I can’t find any one in this house to
talk to. And I am full of interesting information. I feel like the
latest edition of something or other.
[_Enter servant_.]
JAMES. Sir Robert is still at the Foreign Office, my lord.
LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern not down yet?
JAMES. Her ladyship has not yet left her room. Miss Chiltern has just
come in from riding.
LORD GORING. [_To himself_.] Ah! that is something.
JAMES. Lord Caversham has been waiting some time in the library for Sir
Robert. I told him your lordship was here.
LORD GORING. Thank you! Would you kindly tell him I’ve gone?
JAMES. [_Bowing_.] I shall do so, my lord.
[_Exit servant_.]
LORD GORING. Really, I don’t want to meet my father three days running.
It is a great deal too much excitement for any son. I hope to goodness
he won’t come up. Fathers should be neither seen nor heard. That is the
only proper basis for family life. Mothers are different. Mothers are
darlings. [_Throws himself down into a chair_, _picks up a paper and
begins to read it_.]
[_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, what are you doing here? Wasting your time
as usual, I suppose?
LORD GORING. [_Throws down paper and rises_.] My dear father, when one
pays a visit it is for the purpose of wasting other people’s time, not
one’s own.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Have you been thinking over what I spoke to you about
last night?
LORD GORING. I have been thinking about nothing else.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Engaged to be married yet?
LORD GORING. [_Genially_.] Not yet: but I hope to be before lunch-time.
LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Caustically_.] You can have till dinner-time if it
would be of any convenience to you.
LORD GORING. Thanks awfully, but I think I’d sooner be engaged before
lunch.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Humph! Never know when you are serious or not.
LORD GORING. Neither do I, father.
[_A pause_.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. I suppose you have read _The Times_ this morning?
LORD GORING. [_Airily_.] The Times? Certainly not. I only read _The
Morning Post_. All that one should know about modern life is where the
Duchesses are; anything else is quite demoralising.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Do you mean to say you have not read _The Times_ leading
article on Robert Chiltern’s career?
LORD GORING. Good heavens! No. What does it say?
LORD CAVERSHAM. What should it say, sir? Everything complimentary, of
course. Chiltern’s speech last night on this Argentine Canal scheme was
one of the finest pieces of oratory ever delivered in the House since
Canning.
LORD GORING. Ah! Never heard of Canning. Never wanted to. And did . . .
did Chiltern uphold the scheme?
LORD CAVERSHAM. Uphold it, sir? How little you know him! Why, he
denounced it roundly, and the whole system of modern political finance.
This speech is the turning-point in his career, as _The Times_ points
out. You should read this article, sir. [_Opens_ The Times.] ‘Sir
Robert Chiltern . . . most rising of our young statesmen . . . Brilliant
Orator . . . Unblemished career . . . Well-known integrity of character
. . . Represents what is best in English public life . . . Noble contrast
to the lax morality so common among foreign politicians.’ They will
never say that of you, sir.
LORD GORING. I sincerely hope not, father. However, I am delighted at
what you tell me about Robert, thoroughly delighted. It shows he has got
pluck.
LORD CAVERSHAM. He has got more than pluck, sir, he has got genius.
LORD GORING. Ah! I prefer pluck. It is not so common, nowadays, as
genius is.
LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would go into Parliament.
LORD GORING. My dear father, only people who look dull ever get into the
House of Commons, and only people who are dull ever succeed there.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Why don’t you try to do something useful in life?
LORD GORING. I am far too young.
LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Testily_.] I hate this affectation of youth, sir. It
is a great deal too prevalent nowadays.
LORD GORING. Youth isn’t an affectation. Youth is an art.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Why don’t you propose to that pretty Miss Chiltern?
LORD GORING. I am of a very nervous disposition, especially in the
morning.
LORD CAVERSHAM. I don’t suppose there is the smallest chance of her
accepting you.
LORD GORING. I don’t know how the betting stands to-day.
LORD CAVERSHAM. If she did accept you she would be the prettiest fool in
England.
LORD GORING. That is just what I should like to marry. A thoroughly
sensible wife would reduce me to a condition of absolute idiocy in less
than six months.
LORD CAVERSHAM. You don’t deserve her, sir.
LORD GORING. My dear father, if we men married the women we deserved, we
should have a very bad time of it.
[_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN.]
MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! . . . How do you do, Lord Caversham? I hope Lady
Caversham is quite well?
LORD CAVERSHAM. Lady Caversham is as usual, as usual.
LORD GORING. Good morning, Miss Mabel!
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Taking no notice at all of_ LORD GORING, _and
addressing herself exclusively to_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] And Lady Caversham’s
bonnets . . . are they at all better?
LORD CAVERSHAM. They have had a serious relapse, I am sorry to say.
LORD GORING. Good morning, Miss Mabel!
MABEL CHILTERN. [_To_ LORD CAVERSHAM.] I hope an operation will not be
necessary.
LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Smiling at her pertness_.] If it is, we shall have to
give Lady Caversham a narcotic. Otherwise she would never consent to
have a feather touched.
LORD GORING. [_With increased emphasis_.] Good morning, Miss Mabel!
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Turning round with feigned surprise_.] Oh, are you
here? Of course you understand that after your breaking your appointment
I am never going to speak to you again.
LORD GORING. Oh, please don’t say such a thing. You are the one person
in London I really like to have to listen to me.
MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, I never believe a single word that either
you or I say to each other.
LORD CAVERSHAM. You are quite right, my dear, quite right . . . as far
as he is concerned, I mean.
MABEL CHILTERN. Do you think you could possibly make your son behave a
little better occasionally? Just as a change.
LORD CAVERSHAM. I regret to say, Miss Chiltern, that I have no influence
at all over my son. I wish I had. If I had, I know what I would make
him do.
MABEL CHILTERN. I am afraid that he has one of those terribly weak
natures that are not susceptible to influence.
LORD CAVERSHAM. He is very heartless, very heartless.
LORD GORING. It seems to me that I am a little in the way here.
MABEL CHILTERN. It is very good for you to be in the way, and to know
what people say of you behind your back.
LORD GORING. I don’t at all like knowing what people say of me behind my
back. It makes me far too conceited.
LORD CAVERSHAM. After that, my dear, I really must bid you good morning.
MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I hope you are not going to leave me all alone with
Lord Goring? Especially at such an early hour in the day.
LORD CAVERSHAM. I am afraid I can’t take him with me to Downing Street.
It is not the Prime Minster’s day for seeing the unemployed.
[_Shakes hands with_ MABEL CHILTERN, _takes up his hat and stick_, _and
goes out_, _with a parting glare of indignation at_ LORD GORING.]
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Takes up roses and begins to arrange them in a bowl on
the table_.] People who don’t keep their appointments in the Park are
horrid.
LORD GORING. Detestable.
MABEL CHILTERN. I am glad you admit it. But I wish you wouldn’t look so
pleased about it.
LORD GORING. I can’t help it. I always look pleased when I am with you.
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] Then I suppose it is my duty to remain with
you?
LORD GORING. Of course it is.
MABEL CHILTERN. Well, my duty is a thing I never do, on principle. It
always depresses me. So I am afraid I must leave you.
LORD GORING. Please don’t, Miss Mabel. I have something very particular
to say to you.
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Rapturously_.] Oh! is it a proposal?
LORD GORING. [_Somewhat taken aback_.] Well, yes, it is—I am bound to
say it is.
MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a sigh of pleasure_.] I am so glad. That makes
the second to-day.
LORD GORING. [_Indignantly_.] The second to-day? What conceited ass
has been impertinent enough to dare to propose to you before I had
proposed to you?
MABEL CHILTERN. Tommy Trafford, of course. It is one of Tommy’s days
for proposing. He always proposes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, during the
Season.
LORD GORING. You didn’t accept him, I hope?
MABEL CHILTERN. I make it a rule never to accept Tommy. That is why he
goes on proposing. Of course, as you didn’t turn up this morning, I very
nearly said yes. It would have been an excellent lesson both for him and
for you if I had. It would have taught you both better manners.
LORD GORING. Oh! bother Tommy Trafford. Tommy is a silly little ass. I
love you.
MABEL CHILTERN. I know. And I think you might have mentioned it before.
I am sure I have given you heaps of opportunities.
LORD GORING. Mabel, do be serious. Please be serious.
MABEL CHILTERN. Ah! that is the sort of thing a man always says to a
girl before he has been married to her. He never says it afterwards.
LORD GORING. [_Taking hold of her hand_.] Mabel, I have told you that I
love you. Can’t you love me a little in return?
MABEL CHILTERN. You silly Arthur! If you knew anything about . . .
anything, which you don’t, you would know that I adore you. Every one in
London knows it except you. It is a public scandal the way I adore you.
I have been going about for the last six months telling the whole of
society that I adore you. I wonder you consent to have anything to say
to me. I have no character left at all. At least, I feel so happy that
I am quite sure I have no character left at all.
LORD GORING. [_Catches her in his arms and kisses her_. _Then there is
a pause of bliss_.] Dear! Do you know I was awfully afraid of being
refused!
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Looking up at him_.] But you never have been refused
yet by anybody, have you, Arthur? I can’t imagine any one refusing you.
LORD GORING. [_After kissing her again_.] Of course I’m not nearly good
enough for you, Mabel.
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Nestling close to him_.] I am so glad, darling. I
was afraid you were.
LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] And I’m . . . I’m a little over
thirty.
MABEL CHILTERN. Dear, you look weeks younger than that.
LORD GORING. [_Enthusiastically_.] How sweet of you to say so! . . .
And it is only fair to tell you frankly that I am fearfully extravagant.
MABEL CHILTERN. But so am I, Arthur. So we’re sure to agree. And now I
must go and see Gertrude.
LORD GORING. Must you really? [_Kisses her_.]
MABEL CHILTERN. Yes.
LORD GORING. Then do tell her I want to talk to her particularly. I
have been waiting here all the morning to see either her or Robert.
MABEL CHILTERN. Do you mean to say you didn’t come here expressly to
propose to me?
LORD GORING. [_Triumphantly_.] No; that was a flash of genius.
MABEL CHILTERN. Your first.
LORD GORING. [_With determination_.] My last.
MABEL CHILTERN. I am delighted to hear it. Now don’t stir. I’ll be
back in five minutes. And don’t fall into any temptations while I am
away.
LORD GORING. Dear Mabel, while you are away, there are none. It makes
me horribly dependent on you.
[_Enter_ LADY CHILTERN.]
LADY CHILTERN. Good morning, dear! How pretty you are looking!
MABEL CHILTERN. How pale you are looking, Gertrude! It is most
becoming!
LADY CHILTERN. Good morning, Lord Goring!
LORD GORING. [_Bowing_.] Good morning, Lady Chiltern!
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Aside to_ LORD GORING.] I shall be in the
conservatory under the second palm tree on the left.
LORD GORING. Second on the left?
MABEL CHILTERN. [_With a look of mock surprise_.] Yes; the usual palm
tree.
[_Blows a kiss to him_, _unobserved by_ LADY CHILTERN, _and goes out_.]
LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, I have a certain amount of very good news to
tell you. Mrs. Cheveley gave me up Robert’s letter last night, and I
burned it. Robert is safe.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Sinking on the sofa_.] Safe! Oh! I am so glad of
that. What a good friend you are to him—to us!
LORD GORING. There is only one person now that could be said to be in
any danger.
LADY CHILTERN. Who is that?
LORD GORING. [_Sitting down beside her_.] Yourself.
LADY CHILTERN. I? In danger? What do you mean?
LORD GORING. Danger is too great a word. It is a word I should not have
used. But I admit I have something to tell you that may distress you,
that terribly distresses me. Yesterday evening you wrote me a very
beautiful, womanly letter, asking me for my help. You wrote to me as one
of your oldest friends, one of your husband’s oldest friends. Mrs.
Cheveley stole that letter from my rooms.
LADY CHILTERN. Well, what use is it to her? Why should she not have it?
LORD GORING. [_Rising_.] Lady Chiltern, I will be quite frank with you.
Mrs. Cheveley puts a certain construction on that letter and proposes to
send it to your husband.
LADY CHILTERN. But what construction could she put on it? . . . Oh! not
that! not that! If I in—in trouble, and wanting your help, trusting you,
propose to come to you . . . that you may advise me . . . assist me . . .
Oh! are there women so horrible as that . . .? And she proposes to send
it to my husband? Tell me what happened. Tell me all that happened.
LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley was concealed in a room adjoining my library,
without my knowledge. I thought that the person who was waiting in that
room to see me was yourself. Robert came in unexpectedly. A chair or
something fell in the room. He forced his way in, and he discovered her.
We had a terrible scene. I still thought it was you. He left me in
anger. At the end of everything Mrs. Cheveley got possession of your
letter—she stole it, when or how, I don’t know.
LADY CHILTERN. At what hour did this happen?
LORD GORING. At half-past ten. And now I propose that we tell Robert
the whole thing at once.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Looking at him with amazement that is almost terror_.]
You want me to tell Robert that the woman you expected was not Mrs.
Cheveley, but myself? That it was I whom you thought was concealed in a
room in your house, at half-past ten o’clock at night? You want me to
tell him that?
LORD GORING. I think it is better that he should know the exact truth.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising_.] Oh, I couldn’t, I couldn’t!
LORD GORING. May I do it?
LADY CHILTERN. No.
LORD GORING. [_Gravely_.] You are wrong, Lady Chiltern.
LADY CHILTERN. No. The letter must be intercepted. That is all. But
how can I do it? Letters arrive for him every moment of the day. His
secretaries open them and hand them to him. I dare not ask the servants
to bring me his letters. It would be impossible. Oh! why don’t you tell
me what to do?
LORD GORING. Pray be calm, Lady Chiltern, and answer the questions I am
going to put to you. You said his secretaries open his letters.
LADY CHILTERN. Yes.
LORD GORING. Who is with him to-day? Mr. Trafford, isn’t it?
LADY CHILTERN. No. Mr. Montford, I think.
LORD GORING. You can trust him?
LADY CHILTERN. [_With a gesture of despair_.] Oh! how do I know?
LORD GORING. He would do what you asked him, wouldn’t he?
LADY CHILTERN. I think so.
LORD GORING. Your letter was on pink paper. He could recognise it
without reading it, couldn’t he? By the colour?
LADY CHILTERN. I suppose so.
LORD GORING. Is he in the house now?
LADY CHILTERN. Yes.
LORD GORING. Then I will go and see him myself, and tell him that a
certain letter, written on pink paper, is to be forwarded to Robert
to-day, and that at all costs it must not reach him. [_Goes to the
door_, _and opens it_.] Oh! Robert is coming upstairs with the letter in
his hand. It has reached him already.
LADY CHILTERN. [_With a cry of pain_.] Oh! you have saved his life;
what have you done with mine?
[_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. _He has the letter in his hand_, _and is
reading it_. _He comes towards his wife_, _not noticing_ LORD GORING’S
_presence_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. ‘I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.
Gertrude.’ Oh, my love! Is this true? Do you indeed trust me, and want
me? If so, it was for me to come to you, not for you to write of coming
to me. This letter of yours, Gertrude, makes me feel that nothing that
the world may do can hurt me now. You want me, Gertrude?
[LORD GORING, _unseen by_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, _makes an imploring sign
to_ LADY CHILTERN _to accept the situation and_ SIR ROBERT’S _error_.]
LADY CHILTERN. Yes.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You trust me, Gertrude?
LADY CHILTERN. Yes.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! why did you not add you loved me?
LADY CHILTERN. [_Taking his hand_.] Because I loved you.
[LORD GORING _passes into the conservatory_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Kisses her_.] Gertrude, you don’t know what I
feel. When Montford passed me your letter across the table—he had opened
it by mistake, I suppose, without looking at the handwriting on the
envelope—and I read it—oh! I did not care what disgrace or punishment was
in store for me, I only thought you loved me still.
LADY CHILTERN. There is no disgrace in store for you, nor any public
shame. Mrs. Cheveley has handed over to Lord Goring the document that
was in her possession, and he has destroyed it.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Are you sure of this, Gertrude?
LADY CHILTERN. Yes; Lord Goring has just told me.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Then I am safe! Oh! what a wonderful thing to be
safe! For two days I have been in terror. I am safe now. How did
Arthur destroy my letter? Tell me.
LADY CHILTERN. He burned it.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I wish I had seen that one sin of my youth burning
to ashes. How many men there are in modern life who would like to see
their past burning to white ashes before them! Is Arthur still here?
LADY CHILTERN. Yes; he is in the conservatory.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am so glad now I made that speech last night in
the House, so glad. I made it thinking that public disgrace might be the
result. But it has not been so.
LADY CHILTERN. Public honour has been the result.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I think so. I fear so, almost. For although I am
safe from detection, although every proof against me is destroyed, I
suppose, Gertrude . . . I suppose I should retire from public life? [_He
looks anxiously at his wife_.]
LADY CHILTERN. [_Eagerly_.] Oh yes, Robert, you should do that. It is
your duty to do that.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is much to surrender.
LADY CHILTERN. No; it will be much to gain.
[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _walks up and down the room with a troubled
expression_. _Then comes over to his wife_, _and puts his hand on her
shoulder_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And you would be happy living somewhere alone with
me, abroad perhaps, or in the country away from London, away from public
life? You would have no regrets?
LADY CHILTERN. Oh! none, Robert.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] And your ambition for me? You used to
be ambitious for me.
LADY CHILTERN. Oh, my ambition! I have none now, but that we two may
love each other. It was your ambition that led you astray. Let us not
talk about ambition.
[LORD GORING _returns from the conservatory_, _looking very pleased with
himself_, _and with an entirely new buttonhole that some one has made for
him_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Going towards him_.] Arthur, I have to thank you
for what you have done for me. I don’t know how I can repay you.
[_Shakes hands with him_.]
LORD GORING. My dear fellow, I’ll tell you at once. At the present
moment, under the usual palm tree . . . I mean in the conservatory . . .
[_Enter_ MASON.]
MASON. Lord Caversham.
LORD GORING. That admirable father of mine really makes a habit of
turning up at the wrong moment. It is very heartless of him, very
heartless indeed.
[_Enter_ LORD CAVERSHAM. MASON _goes out_.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. Good morning, Lady Chiltern! Warmest congratulations to
you, Chiltern, on your brilliant speech last night. I have just left the
Prime Minister, and you are to have the vacant seat in the Cabinet.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a look of joy and triumph_.] A seat in the
Cabinet?
LORD CAVERSHAM. Yes; here is the Prime Minister’s letter. [_Hands
letter_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Takes letter and reads it_.] A seat in the
Cabinet!
LORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, and you well deserve it too. You have got
what we want so much in political life nowadays—high character, high
moral tone, high principles. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Everything that you
have not got, sir, and never will have.
LORD GORING. I don’t like principles, father. I prefer prejudices.
[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _is on the brink of accepting the Prime Minister’s
offer_, _when he sees wife looking at him with her clear_, _candid eyes_.
_He then realises that it is impossible_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I cannot accept this offer, Lord Caversham. I have
made up my mind to decline it.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Decline it, sir!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My intention is to retire at once from public life.
LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Angrily_.] Decline a seat in the Cabinet, and retire
from public life? Never heard such damned nonsense in the whole course
of my existence. I beg your pardon, Lady Chiltern. Chiltern, I beg your
pardon. [_To_ LORD GORING.] Don’t grin like that, sir.
LORD GORING. No, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Lady Chiltern, you are a sensible woman, the most
sensible woman in London, the most sensible woman I know. Will you
kindly prevent your husband from making such a . . . from taking such
. . . Will you kindly do that, Lady Chiltern?
LADY CHILTERN. I think my husband is right in his determination, Lord
Caversham. I approve of it.
LORD CAVERSHAM. You approve of it? Good heavens!
LADY CHILTERN. [_Taking her husband’s hand_.] I admire him for it. I
admire him immensely for it. I have never admired him so much before.
He is finer than even I thought him. [_To_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] You
will go and write your letter to the Prime Minister now, won’t you?
Don’t hesitate about it, Robert.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a touch of bitterness_.] I suppose I had
better write it at once. Such offers are not repeated. I will ask you
to excuse me for a moment, Lord Caversham.
LADY CHILTERN. I may come with you, Robert, may I not?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes, Gertrude.
[LADY CHILTERN _goes out with him_.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. What is the matter with this family? Something wrong
here, eh? [_Tapping his forehead_.] Idiocy? Hereditary, I suppose.
Both of them, too. Wife as well as husband. Very sad. Very sad indeed!
And they are not an old family. Can’t understand it.
LORD GORING. It is not idiocy, father, I assure you.
LORD CAVERSHAM. What is it then, sir?
LORD GORING. [_After some hesitation_.] Well, it is what is called
nowadays a high moral tone, father. That is all.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Hate these new-fangled names. Same thing as we used to
call idiocy fifty years ago. Shan’t stay in this house any longer.
LORD GORING. [_Taking his arm_.] Oh! just go in here for a moment,
father. Third palm tree to the left, the usual palm tree.
LORD CAVERSHAM. What, sir?
LORD GORING. I beg your pardon, father, I forgot. The conservatory,
father, the conservatory—there is some one there I want you to talk to.
LORD CAVERSHAM. What about, sir?
LORD GORING. About me, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Grimly_.] Not a subject on which much eloquence is
possible.
LORD GORING. No, father; but the lady is like me. She doesn’t care much
for eloquence in others. She thinks it a little loud.
[LORD CAVERSHAM _goes out into the conservatory_. LADY CHILTERN
_enters_.]
LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, why are you playing Mrs. Cheveley’s cards?
LADY CHILTERN. [_Startled_.] I don’t understand you.
LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley made an attempt to ruin your husband. Either
to drive him from public life, or to make him adopt a dishonourable
position. From the latter tragedy you saved him. The former you are now
thrusting on him. Why should you do him the wrong Mrs. Cheveley tried to
do and failed?
LADY CHILTERN. Lord Goring?
LORD GORING. [_Pulling himself together for a great effort_, _and
showing the philosopher that underlies the dandy_.] Lady Chiltern, allow
me. You wrote me a letter last night in which you said you trusted me
and wanted my help. Now is the moment when you really want my help, now
is the time when you have got to trust me, to trust in my counsel and
judgment. You love Robert. Do you want to kill his love for you? What
sort of existence will he have if you rob him of the fruits of his
ambition, if you take him from the splendour of a great political career,
if you close the doors of public life against him, if you condemn him to
sterile failure, he who was made for triumph and success? Women are not
meant to judge us, but to forgive us when we need forgiveness. Pardon,
not punishment, is their mission. Why should you scourge him with rods
for a sin done in his youth, before he knew you, before he knew himself?
A man’s life is of more value than a woman’s. It has larger issues,
wider scope, greater ambitions. A woman’s life revolves in curves of
emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man’s life progresses.
Don’t make any terrible mistake, Lady Chiltern. A woman who can keep a
man’s love, and love him in return, has done all the world wants of
women, or should want of them.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Troubled and hesitating_.] But it is my husband
himself who wishes to retire from public life. He feels it is his duty.
It was he who first said so.
LORD GORING. Rather than lose your love, Robert would do anything, wreck
his whole career, as he is on the brink of doing now. He is making for
you a terrible sacrifice. Take my advice, Lady Chiltern, and do not
accept a sacrifice so great. If you do, you will live to repent it
bitterly. We men and women are not made to accept such sacrifices from
each other. We are not worthy of them. Besides, Robert has been
punished enough.
LADY CHILTERN. We have both been punished. I set him up too high.
LORD GORING. [_With deep feeling in his voice_.] Do not for that reason
set him down now too low. If he has fallen from his altar, do not thrust
him into the mire. Failure to Robert would be the very mire of shame.
Power is his passion. He would lose everything, even his power to feel
love. Your husband’s life is at this moment in your hands, your
husband’s love is in your hands. Don’t mar both for him.
[_Enter_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, here is the draft of my letter. Shall I
read it to you?
LADY CHILTERN. Let me see it.
[SIR ROBERT _hands her the letter_. _She reads it_, _and then_, _with a
gesture of passion_, _tears it up_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What are you doing?
LADY CHILTERN. A man’s life is of more value than a woman’s. It has
larger issues, wider scope, greater ambitions. Our lives revolve in
curves of emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man’s life
progresses. I have just learnt this, and much else with it, from Lord
Goring. And I will not spoil your life for you, nor see you spoil it as
a sacrifice to me, a useless sacrifice!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude! Gertrude!
LADY CHILTERN. You can forget. Men easily forget. And I forgive. That
is how women help the world. I see that now.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Deeply overcome by emotion_, _embraces her_.] My
wife! my wife! [_To_ LORD GORING.] Arthur, it seems that I am always to
be in your debt.
LORD GORING. Oh dear no, Robert. Your debt is to Lady Chiltern, not to
me!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I owe you much. And now tell me what you were
going to ask me just now as Lord Caversham came in.
LORD GORING. Robert, you are your sister’s guardian, and I want your
consent to my marriage with her. That is all.
LADY CHILTERN. Oh, I am so glad! I am so glad! [_Shakes hands with_
LORD GORING.]
LORD GORING. Thank you, Lady Chiltern.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a troubled look_.] My sister to be your
wife?
LORD GORING. Yes.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Speaking with great firmness_.] Arthur, I am
very sorry, but the thing is quite out of the question. I have to think
of Mabel’s future happiness. And I don’t think her happiness would be
safe in your hands. And I cannot have her sacrificed!
LORD GORING. Sacrificed!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes, utterly sacrificed. Loveless marriages are
horrible. But there is one thing worse than an absolutely loveless
marriage. A marriage in which there is love, but on one side only;
faith, but on one side only; devotion, but on one side only, and in which
of the two hearts one is sure to be broken.
LORD GORING. But I love Mabel. No other woman has any place in my life.
LADY CHILTERN. Robert, if they love each other, why should they not be
married?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur cannot bring Mabel the love that she
deserves.
LORD GORING. What reason have you for saying that?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] Do you really require me to
tell you?
LORD GORING. Certainly I do.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. As you choose. When I called on you yesterday
evening I found Mrs. Cheveley concealed in your rooms. It was between
ten and eleven o’clock at night. I do not wish to say anything more.
Your relations with Mrs. Cheveley have, as I said to you last night,
nothing whatsoever to do with me. I know you were engaged to be married
to her once. The fascination she exercised over you then seems to have
returned. You spoke to me last night of her as of a woman pure and
stainless, a woman whom you respected and honoured. That may be so. But
I cannot give my sister’s life into your hands. It would be wrong of me.
It would be unjust, infamously unjust to her.
LORD GORING. I have nothing more to say.
LADY CHILTERN. Robert, it was not Mrs. Cheveley whom Lord Goring
expected last night.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not Mrs. Cheveley! Who was it then?
LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern!
LADY CHILTERN. It was your own wife. Robert, yesterday afternoon Lord
Goring told me that if ever I was in trouble I could come to him for
help, as he was our oldest and best friend. Later on, after that
terrible scene in this room, I wrote to him telling him that I trusted
him, that I had need of him, that I was coming to him for help and
advice. [SIR ROBERT CHILTERN _takes the letter out of his pocket_.]
Yes, that letter. I didn’t go to Lord Goring’s, after all. I felt that
it is from ourselves alone that help can come. Pride made me think that.
Mrs. Cheveley went. She stole my letter and sent it anonymously to you
this morning, that you should think . . . Oh! Robert, I cannot tell you
what she wished you to think. . . .
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What! Had I fallen so low in your eyes that you
thought that even for a moment I could have doubted your goodness?
Gertrude, Gertrude, you are to me the white image of all good things, and
sin can never touch you. Arthur, you can go to Mabel, and you have my
best wishes! Oh! stop a moment. There is no name at the beginning of
this letter. The brilliant Mrs. Cheveley does not seem to have noticed
that. There should be a name.
LADY CHILTERN. Let me write yours. It is you I trust and need. You and
none else.
LORD GORING. Well, really, Lady Chiltern, I think I should have back my
own letter.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] No; you shall have Mabel. [_Takes the
letter and writes her husband’s name on it_.]
LORD GORING. Well, I hope she hasn’t changed her mind. It’s nearly
twenty minutes since I saw her last.
[_Enter_ MABEL CHILTERN _and_ LORD CAVERSHAM.]
MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, I think your father’s conversation much
more improving than yours. I am only going to talk to Lord Caversham in
the future, and always under the usual palm tree.
LORD GORING. Darling! [_Kisses her_.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. [_Considerably taken aback_.] What does this mean, sir?
You don’t mean to say that this charming, clever young lady has been so
foolish as to accept you?
LORD GORING. Certainly, father! And Chiltern’s been wise enough to
accept the seat in the Cabinet.
LORD CAVERSHAM. I am very glad to hear that, Chiltern . . . I
congratulate you, sir. If the country doesn’t go to the dogs or the
Radicals, we shall have you Prime Minister, some day.
[_Enter_ MASON.]
MASON. Luncheon is on the table, my Lady!
[MASON _goes out_.]
MABEL CHILTERN. You’ll stop to luncheon, Lord Caversham, won’t you?
LORD CAVERSHAM. With pleasure, and I’ll drive you down to Downing Street
afterwards, Chiltern. You have a great future before you, a great
future. Wish I could say the same for you, sir. [_To_ LORD GORING.]
But your career will have to be entirely domestic.
LORD GORING. Yes, father, I prefer it domestic.
LORD CAVERSHAM. And if you don’t make this young lady an ideal husband,
I’ll cut you off with a shilling.
MABEL CHILTERN. An ideal husband! Oh, I don’t think I should like that.
It sounds like something in the next world.
LORD CAVERSHAM. What do you want him to be then, dear?
MABEL CHILTERN. He can be what he chooses. All I want is to be . . . to
be . . . oh! a real wife to him.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Upon my word, there is a good deal of common sense in
that, Lady Chiltern.
[_They all go out except_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. _He sinks in a chair_,
_wrapt in thought_. _After a little time_ LADY CHILTERN _returns to look
for him_.]
LADY CHILTERN. [_Leaning over the back of the chair_.] Aren’t you
coming in, Robert?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Taking her hand_.] Gertrude, is it love you feel
for me, or is it pity merely?
LADY CHILTERN. [_Kisses him_.] It is love, Robert. Love, and only
love. For both of us a new life is beginning.
CURTAIN
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