The Importance of Being Earnest: And Other Plays

  LORD GORING. My dear Robert, it’s a very awkward business, very awkward indeed. You should have told your wife the whole thing. Secrets from other people’s wives are a necessary luxury in modern life. So, at least, I am always told at the club by people who are bald enough to know better. But no man should have a secret from his own wife. She invariably finds it out. Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover everything except the obvious.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I couldn’t tell my wife. When could I have told her? Not last night. It would have made a life-long separation between us, and I would have lost the love of the one woman in the world I worship, of the only woman who has ever stirred love within me. Last night it would have been quite impossible. she would have turned from me in horror … in horror and in contempt.

  LORD GORING. Is Lady Chiltern as perfect as all that?

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; my wife is as perfect as all that.

  LORD GORING. (Taking off his left-hand glove.) What a pity! I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, I didn’t quite mean that. But if what you tell me is true, I should like to have a serious talk about life with Lady Chiltern.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would be quite useless.

  LORD GORING. May I try?

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; but nothing could make her alter her views.

  LORD GORING. Well, at the worst it would simply be a psychological experiment.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. All such experiments are terribly dangerous.

  LORD GORING. Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn’t so, life wouldn’t be worth living…. Well, I am bound to say that I think you should have told her years ago.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When? When we were engaged? Do you think she would have married me if she had known that the origin of my fortune is such as it is, the basis of my career such as it is, and that I had done a thing that I suppose most men would call shameful and dishonourable?

  LORD GORING. (Slowly.) Yes; most men would call it ugly names. There is no doubt of that.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. (Bitterly.) Men who every day do something of the same kind themselves. Men who, each one of them, have worse secrets in their own lives.

  LORD GORING. That is the reason they are so pleased to find out other people’s secrets. It distracts public attention from their own.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And, after all, whom did I wrong by what I did? No one.

  LORD GORING. (Looking at him steadily.) Except yourself, Robert.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. (After a pause.) Of course I had private information about a certain transaction contemplated by the Government of the day, and I acted on it. Private information is practically the source of every large modern fortune.

  LORD GORING. (Tapping his boot with his cane.) And public scandal invariably the result.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. (Pacing up and down the room.) Arthur, do you think that what I did nearly eighteen years ago should be brought up against me now? Do you think it fair that a man’s whole career should be ruined for a fault done in one’s boyhood almost? I was twenty-two at the time, and I had the double misfortune of being well-born and poor, two unforgivable things nowadays. Is it fair that the folly, the sin of one’s youth, if men choose to call it a sin, should wreck a life like mine, should place me in the pillory, should shatter all that I have worked for, all that I have built up? Is it fair, Arthur?

  LORD GORING. Life is never fair, Robert. And perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Every man of ambition has to fight his century with its own weapons. What this century worships is wealth. The God of this century is wealth. To succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one must have wealth.

  LORD GORING. You underrate yourself, Robert. Believe me, without wealth you could have succeeded just as well.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When I was old, perhaps. When I had lost my passion for power, or could not use it. When I was tired, worn out, disappointed. I wanted my success when I was young. Youth is the time for success. I couldn’t wait.

  LORD GORING. Well, you certainly have had your success while you are still young. No one in our day has had such a brilliant success. Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs at the age of forty—that’s good enough for anyone, I should think.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And if it is all taken away from me now? If I lose everything over a horrible scandal? If I am hounded from public life?

  LORD GORING. Robert, how could you have sold yourself for money?

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. (Excitedly.) I did not sell myself for money. I bought success at a great price. That is all.

  LORD GORING. (Gravely.) Yes; you certainly paid a great price for it.

  But what first made you think of doing such a thing?

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Baron Arnheim.

  LORD GORING. Damned scoundrel!

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; he was a man of a most subtle and refined intellect. A man of culture, charm, and distinction. One of the most intellectual men I ever met.

  LORD GORING. Ah! I prefer a gentlemanly fool any day. There is more to be said for stupidity than people imagine. Personally I have a great admiration for stupidity. It is a sort of fellow-feeling, I suppose. But how did he do it? Tell me the whole thing.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. (Throws himself into an armchair by the writing-table.) One night after dinner at Lord Radley’s the Baron began talking about success in modern life as something that one could reduce to an absolutely definite science. With that wonderfully fascinating quiet voice of his he expounded to us the most terrible of all philosophies, the philosophy of power, preached to us the most marvellous of all gospels, the gospel of gold. I think he saw the effect he had produced on me, for some days afterwards he wrote and asked me to come and see him. He was living then in Park Lane, in the house Lord Woolcomb has now. I remember so well how, with a strange smile on his pale curved lips, he led me through his wonderful picture gallery, showed me his tapestries, his enamels, his jewels, his carved ivories, made me wonder at the strange loveliness of the luxury in which he lived; and then told me that luxury was nothing but a background, a painted scene in a play, and that power, power over other men, power over the world was the one thing worth having, the one supreme pleasure worth knowing, the one joy one never tired of, and that in our century only the rich possessed it.

  LORD GORING. (With great deliberation.) A thoroughly shallow creed.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. (Rising.) I didn’t think so then. I don’t think so now. Wealth has given me enormous power. It gave me at the very outset of my life freedom, and freedom is everything. You have never been poor, and never known what ambition is. You cannot understand what a wonderful chance the Baron gave me. such a chance as few men get.

  LORD GORING. Fortunately for them, if one is to judge by results. But tell me definitely, how did the Baron finally persuade you to—well, to do what you did?

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. When I was going away he said to me that if I ever could give him any private information of real value he would make me a very rich man. I was dazed at the prospect he held out to me, and my ambition and my desire for power were at that time boundless. Six weeks later certain private documents passed through my hands.

  LORD GORING. (Keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the carpet.) State documents?

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes. (Lord Goring sighs, then passes his hand across his forehead and looks up.)

  LORD GORING. I had no idea that you, of all men in the world, could have been so weak, Robert, as to yield to such a temptation as Baron Arnheim held out to you.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Weak? Oh, I am sick of hearing that phrase. Sick of using it about others. Weak? Do you really think, Arthur, that it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible temptations that it requires strength, strength and courage, to yield to. To stake all one’s life on a single moment, to risk everything on one throw, whether the stake be power or pleasure, I care not—there i
s no weakness in that. There is a horrible, a terrible courage. I had that courage. I sat down the same afternoon and wrote Baron Arnheim the letter this woman now holds. He made three-quarters of a million over the transaction.

  LORD GORING. And you?

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I received from the Baron £110,000.

  LORD GORING. You were worth more, Robert.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; that money gave me exactly what I wanted, power over others. I went into the House immediately. The Baron advised me in finance from time to time. Before five years I had almost trebled my fortune. Since then everything that I have touched has turned out a success. In all things connected with money I have had a luck so extraordinary that sometimes it has made me almost afraid. I remember having read somewhere, in some strange book, that when the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers.

  LORD GORING. But tell me, Robert, did you never suffer any regret for what you had done?

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No. I felt that I had fought the century with its own weapons, and won.

  LORD GORING. (Sadly.) You thought you had won?

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I thought so. (After a long pause.) Arthur, do you despise me for what I have told you?

  LORD GORING. (With deep feeling in his voice.) I am very sorry for you, Robert, very sorry indeed.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I don’t say that I suffered any remorse. I didn’t. Not remorse in the ordinary, rather silly sense of the word. But I have paid conscience money many times. I had a wild hope that I might disarm destiny. The sum Baron Arnheim gave me I have distributed twice over in public charities since then.

  LORD GORING. (Looking up.) In public charities? Dear me! what a lot of harm you must have done, Robert!

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh, don’t say that, Arthur; don’t talk like that.

  LORD GORING. Never mind what I say, Robert. I am always saying what I shouldn’t say. In fact, I usually say what I really think. A great misfortune nowadays. It makes one so liable to be misunderstood. As regards this dreadful business, I will help you in whatever way I can. of course you know that.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you, Arthur, thank you. But what is to be done? What can be done?

  LORD GORING. (Leaning back with his hands in his pockets.) Well, the English can’t stand a man who is always saying he is in the right, but they are very fond of a man who admits that he has been in the wrong. It is one of the best things in them. However, in your case, Robert, a confession would not do. The money, if you will allow me to say so, is … awkward. Besides, if you did make a clean breast of the whole affair, you would never be able to talk morality again. And in England a man who can’t talk morality twice a week to a large, popular, immoral audience is quite over as a serious politician. There would be nothing left for him as a profession except Botany or the Church. A confession would be of no use. It would ruin you.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would ruin me. Arthur, the only thing for me to do now is to fight the thing out.

  LORD GORING. (Rising from his chair.) I was waiting for you to say that, Robert. It is the only thing to do now. And you must begin by telling your wife the whole story.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That I will not do.

  LORD GORING. Robert, believe me, you are wrong.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I couldn’t do it. It would kill her love for me. And now about this woman, this Mrs. Cheveley. How can I defend myself against her? You knew her before, Arthur, apparently.

  LORD GORING. Yes.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Did you know her well?

  LORD GORING. (Arranging his necktie.) So little that I got engaged to be married to her once, when I was staying at the Tenbys’. The affair lasted for three days … nearly.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why was it broken off?

  LORD GORING. (Airily.) Oh, I forget. At least, it makes no matter. By the way, have you tried her with money? She used to be confoundedly fond of money.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I offered her any sum she wanted. She refused.

  LORD GORING. Then the marvellous gospel of gold breaks down sometimes. The rich can’t do everything, after all.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not everything. I suppose you are right. Arthur, I feel that public disgrace is in store for me. I feel certain of it. I never knew what terror was before. I know it now. It is as if a hand of ice were laid upon one’s heart. It is as if one’s heart were beating itself to death in some empty hollow.

  LORD GORING. (Striking the table.) Robert, you must fight her. You must fight her.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But how?

  LORD GORING. I can’t tell you how, at present. I have not the smallest idea. But everyone has some weak point. There is some flaw in each one of us. (Strolls over to the fireplace and looks at himself in the glass.) My father tells me that even I have faults. Perhaps I have. I don’t know.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. In defending myself against Mrs. Cheveley, I have a right to use any weapon I can find, have I not?

  LORD GORING. (Still looking in the glass.) In your place I don’t think I should have the smallest scruple in doing so. she is thoroughly well able to take care of herself.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. (Sits down at the table and takes a pen in his hand.) Well, I shall send a cipher telegram to the Embassy at Vienna, to inquire if there is anything known against her. There may be some secret scandal she might be afraid of.

  LORD GORING. (Settling his buttonhole.) Oh, I should fancy Mrs. Cheveley is one of those very modern women of our time who find a new scandal as becoming as a new bonnet, and air them both in the Park every afternoon at five-thirty. I am sure she adores scandals, and that the sorrow of her life at present is that she can’t manage to have enough of them.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. (Writing.) Why do you say that?

  LORD GORING. (Turning round.) Well, she wore far too much rouge last night, and not quite enough clothes. That is always a sign of despair in a woman.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. (Striking a bell.) But it is worth while my wiring to Vienna, is it not?

  LORD GORING. It is always worth while asking a question, though it is not always worth while answering one.

  (Enter Mason.)

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Is Mr. Trafford in his room?

  MASON. Yes, Sir Robert.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. (Puts what he has written into an envelope, which he then carefully closes.) Tell him to have this sent off in cipher at once. There must not be a moment’s delay.

  MASON. Yes, Sir Robert.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! just give that back to me again.

  (Writes something on the envelope. Mason then goes out with the letter.)

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She must have had some curious hold over Baron Arnheim. I wonder what it was.

  LORD GORING. (Smiling.) I wonder.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will fight her to the death, as long as my wife knows nothing.

  LORD GORING. (Strongly.) Oh, fight in any case—in any case.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. (With a gesture of despair.) If my wife found out, there would be little left to fight for. Well, as soon as I hear from Vienna, I shall let you know the result. It is a chance, just a chance, but I believe in it. And as I fought the age with its own weapons, I will fight her with her weapons. It is only fair, and she looks like a woman with a past, doesn’t she?

  LORD GORING. Most pretty women do. But there is a fashion in pasts just as there is a fashion in frocks. Perhaps Mrs. Cheveley’s past is merely a slightly décolleté one, and they are excessively popular nowadays. Besides, my dear Robert, I should not build too high hopes on frightening Mrs. Cheveley. I should not fancy Mrs. Cheveley is a woman who would be easily frightened. She has survived all her creditors, and she shows wonderful presence of mind.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! I live on hopes now. I clutch at every chance. I feel like a man on a ship that is sinking. The water is round my feet, and the very air is bitter with storm. Hush! I hear my wife’s voice.

  (Enter Lady Chiltern in walkin
g dress.)

  LADY CHILTERN. Good afternoon, Lord Goring!

  LORD GORING. Good afternoon, Lady Chiltern! Have you been in the Park?

  LADY CHILTERN. No: I have just come from the Woman’s Liberal Association, where, by the way, Robert, your name was received with loud applause, and now I have come in to have my tea. (To Lord Goring.) You will wait and have some tea, won’t you?

  LORD GORING. I’ll wait for a short time, thanks.

  LADY CHILTERN. I will be back in a moment. I am only going to take my hat off.

  LORD GORING. (In his most earnest manner.) Oh! Please don’t. It is so pretty. One of the prettiest hats I ever saw. I hope the Woman’s Liberal Association received it with loud applause.

  LADY CHILTERN. (With a smile.) We have much more important work to do than to look at each other’s bonnets, Lord Goring.

  LORD GORING. Really? What sort of work?

  LADY CHILTERN. Oh! dull, useful, delightful things, Factory Acts, Female Inspectors, the Eight Hours’ Bill, the Parliamentary Franchise … Everything, in fact, that you would find thoroughly uninteresting. LORD GORING. And never bonnets?

  LADY CHILTERN. (With mock indignation.) Never bonnets, never!

  (Lady Chiltern goes out through the door leading to her boudoir.)

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. (Takes Lord Goring’s hand.) You have been a good friend to me, Arthur, a thoroughly good friend.

  LORD GORING. I don’t know that I have been able to do much for you, Robert, as yet. In fact, I have not been able to do anything for you, as far as I can see. I am thoroughly disappointed with myself.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You have enabled me to tell you the truth. That is something. The truth has always stifled me.

  LORD GORING. Ah! the truth is a thing I get rid of as soon as possible! Bad habit, by the way. Makes one very unpopular at the club … with the older members. They call it being conceited. Perhaps it is.

  SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I would to God that I had been able to tell the truth … to live the truth. Ah! that is the great thing in life, to live the truth. (Sighs, and goes towards the door.) I’ll see you soon again, Arthur, shan’t I?