An ideal husband
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_.