An ideal husband
John. Sir John’s temper since he has taken seriously to politics has
become quite unbearable. Really, now that the House of Commons is trying
to become useful, it does a great deal of harm.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope not, Lady Markby. At any rate we do our
best to waste the public time, don’t we? But who is this charming person
you have been kind enough to bring to us?
LADY MARKBY. Her name is Mrs. Cheveley! One of the Dorsetshire
Cheveleys, I suppose. But I really don’t know. Families are so mixed
nowadays. Indeed, as a rule, everybody turns out to be somebody else.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley? I seem to know the name.
LADY MARKBY. She has just arrived from Vienna.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! yes. I think I know whom you mean.
LADY MARKBY. Oh! she goes everywhere there, and has such pleasant
scandals about all her friends. I really must go to Vienna next winter.
I hope there is a good chef at the Embassy.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is not, the Ambassador will certainly have
to be recalled. Pray point out Mrs. Cheveley to me. I should like to
see her.
LADY MARKBY. Let me introduce you. [_To_ MRS. CHEVELEY.] My dear, Sir
Robert Chiltern is dying to know you!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Bowing_.] Every one is dying to know the
brilliant Mrs. Cheveley. Our attachés at Vienna write to us about
nothing else.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you, Sir Robert. An acquaintance that begins with
a compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship. It starts in the
right manner. And I find that I know Lady Chiltern already.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Really?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. She has just reminded me that we were at school
together. I remember it perfectly now. She always got the good conduct
prize. I have a distinct recollection of Lady Chiltern always getting
the good conduct prize!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Smiling_.] And what prizes did you get, Mrs.
Cheveley?
MRS. CHEVELEY. My prizes came a little later on in life. I don’t think
any of them were for good conduct. I forget!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am sure they were for something charming!
MRS. CHEVELEY. I don’t know that women are always rewarded for being
charming. I think they are usually punished for it! Certainly, more
women grow old nowadays through the faithfulness of their admirers than
through anything else! At least that is the only way I can account for
the terribly haggard look of most of your pretty women in London!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What an appalling philosophy that sounds! To
attempt to classify you, Mrs. Cheveley, would be an impertinence. But
may I ask, at heart, are you an optimist or a pessimist? Those seem to
be the only two fashionable religions left to us nowadays.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I’m neither. Optimism begins in a broad grin, and
Pessimism ends with blue spectacles. Besides, they are both of them
merely poses.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You prefer to be natural?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. But it is such a very difficult pose to keep
up.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What would those modern psychological novelists, of
whom we hear so much, say to such a theory as that?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Ah! the strength of women comes from the fact that
psychology cannot explain us. Men can be analysed, women . . . merely
adored.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You think science cannot grapple with the problem
of women?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Science can never grapple with the irrational. That is
why it has no future before it, in this world.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And women represent the irrational.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Well-dressed women do.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With a polite bow_.] I fear I could hardly agree
with you there. But do sit down. And now tell me, what makes you leave
your brilliant Vienna for our gloomy London—or perhaps the question is
indiscreet?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Well, at any rate, may I know if it is politics or
pleasure?
MRS. CHEVELEY. Politics are my only pleasure. You see nowadays it is
not fashionable to flirt till one is forty, or to be romantic till one is
forty-five, so we poor women who are under thirty, or say we are, have
nothing open to us but politics or philanthropy. And philanthropy seems
to me to have become simply the refuge of people who wish to annoy their
fellow-creatures. I prefer politics. I think they are more . . .
becoming!
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. A political life is a noble career!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. And sometimes it is a clever game, Sir
Robert. And sometimes it is a great nuisance.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Which do you find it?
MRS. CHEVELEY. I? A combination of all three. [_Drops her fan_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Picks up fan_.] Allow me!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But you have not told me yet what makes you honour
London so suddenly. Our season is almost over.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! I don’t care about the London season! It is too
matrimonial. People are either hunting for husbands, or hiding from
them. I wanted to meet you. It is quite true. You know what a woman’s
curiosity is. Almost as great as a man’s! I wanted immensely to meet
you, and . . . to ask you to do something for me.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope it is not a little thing, Mrs. Cheveley. I
find that little things are so very difficult to do.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_After a moment’s reflection_.] No, I don’t think it is
quite a little thing.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am so glad. Do tell me what it is.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Later on. [_Rises_.] And now may I walk through your
beautiful house? I hear your pictures are charming. Poor Baron
Arnheim—you remember the Baron?—used to tell me you had some wonderful
Corots.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_With an almost imperceptible start_.] Did you
know Baron Arnheim well?
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Smiling_.] Intimately. Did you?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. At one time.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful man, wasn’t he?
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_After a pause_.] He was very remarkable, in many
ways.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I often think it such a pity he never wrote his memoirs.
They would have been most interesting.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes: he knew men and cities well, like the old
Greek.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Without the dreadful disadvantage of having a Penelope
waiting at home for him.
MASON. Lord Goring.
[_Enter_ LORD GORING. _Thirty-four_, _but always says he is younger_.
_A well-bred_, _expressionless face_. _He is clever_, _but would not
like to be thought so_. _A flawless dandy_, _he would be annoyed if he
were considered romantic_. _He plays with life_, _and is on perfectly
good terms with the world_. _He is fond of being misunderstood_. _It
gives him a post of vantage_.]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, my dear Arthur! Mrs. Cheveley, allow
me to introduce to you Lord Goring, the idlest man in London.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I have met Lord Goring before.
LORD GORING. [_Bowing_.] I did not think you would remember me, Mrs.
Cheveley.
MRS. CHEVELEY. My memory is under admirable control. And are you still
a bachelor?
LORD GORING. I . . . believe so.
MRS. CHEVELEY. How very romantic!
LORD GORING. Oh! I am not at all romantic. I am not old enough. I
leave romance to my seniors.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Lord Goring is the result of Boodle’s Club, Mrs.
Cheveley.
MRS. CHEVELEY. He reflects every credit on the institution.
LORD GORING. May I ask are you staying in London long?
MRS. CHEVELEY. That depends partly on the weather, partly on the
cooking, and partly on Sir Robert.
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are not going to plunge us into a European war,
I hope?
MRS. CHEVELEY. There is no danger, at present!
[_She nods to_ LORD GORING, _with a look of amusement in her eyes_, _and
goes out with_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. LORD GORING _saunters over to_ MABEL
CHILTERN.]
MABEL CHILTERN. You are very late!
LORD GORING. Have you missed me?
MABEL CHILTERN. Awfully!
LORD GORING. Then I am sorry I did not stay away longer. I like being
missed.
MABEL CHILTERN. How very selfish of you!
LORD GORING. I am very selfish.
MABEL CHILTERN. You are always telling me of your bad qualities, Lord
Goring.
LORD GORING. I have only told you half of them as yet, Miss Mabel!
MABEL CHILTERN. Are the others very bad?
LORD GORING. Quite dreadful! When I think of them at night I go to
sleep at once.
MABEL CHILTERN. Well, I delight in your bad qualities. I wouldn’t have
you part with one of them.
LORD GORING. How very nice of you! But then you are always nice. By
the way, I want to ask you a question, Miss Mabel. Who brought Mrs.
Cheveley here? That woman in heliotrope, who has just gone out of the
room with your brother?
MABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I think Lady Markby brought her. Why do you ask?
LORD GORING. I haven’t seen her for years, that is all.
MABEL CHILTERN. What an absurd reason!
LORD GORING. All reasons are absurd.
MABEL CHILTERN. What sort of a woman is she?
LORD GORING. Oh! a genius in the daytime and a beauty at night!
MABEL CHILTERN. I dislike her already.
LORD GORING. That shows your admirable good taste.
VICOMTE DE NANJAC. [_Approaching_.] Ah, the English young lady is the
dragon of good taste, is she not? Quite the dragon of good taste.
LORD GORING. So the newspapers are always telling us.
VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I read all your English newspapers. I find them so
amusing.
LORD GORING. Then, my dear Nanjac, you must certainly read between the
lines.
VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I should like to, but my professor objects. [_To_
MABEL CHILTERN.] May I have the pleasure of escorting you to the
music-room, Mademoiselle?
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Looking very disappointed_.] Delighted, Vicomte,
quite delighted! [_Turning to_ LORD GORING.] Aren’t you coming to the
music-room?
LORD GORING. Not if there is any music going on, Miss Mabel.
MABEL CHILTERN. [_Severely_.] The music is in German. You would not
understand it.
[_Goes out with the_ VICOMTE DE NANJAC. LORD CAVERSHAM _comes up to his
son_.]
LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir! what are you doing here? Wasting your life
as usual! You should be in bed, sir. You keep too late hours! I heard
of you the other night at Lady Rufford’s dancing till four o’clock in the
morning!
LORD GORING. Only a quarter to four, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. Can’t make out how you stand London Society. The thing
has gone to the dogs, a lot of damned nobodies talking about nothing.
LORD GORING. I love talking about nothing, father. It is the only thing
I know anything about.
LORD CAVERSHAM. You seem to me to be living entirely for pleasure.
LORD GORING. What else is there to live for, father? Nothing ages like
happiness.
LORD CAVERSHAM. You are heartless, sir, very heartless!
LORD GORING. I hope not, father. Good evening, Lady Basildon!
LADY BASILDON. [_Arching two pretty eyebrows_.] Are you here? I had no
idea you ever came to political parties!
LORD GORING. I adore political parties. They are the only place left to
us where people don’t talk politics.
LADY BASILDON. I delight in talking politics. I talk them all day long.
But I can’t bear listening to them. I don’t know how the unfortunate men
in the House stand these long debates.
LORD GORING. By never listening.
LADY BASILDON. Really?
LORD GORING. [_In his most serious manner_.] Of course. You see, it is
a very dangerous thing to listen. If one listens one may be convinced;
and a man who allows himself to be convinced by an argument is a
thoroughly unreasonable person.
LADY BASILDON. Ah! that accounts for so much in men that I have never