An ideal husband
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—