LORD GORING. I think I shall, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would, sir. Then I should be happy. t present I make your mother’s life miserable on your account. ou 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—hirty-one and a half when I have a really good buttonhole. This uttonhole is not … trivial enough.
LORD CAVERSHAM. I tell you you are thirty-four, sir. And there is a raught in your room, besides, which makes your conduct worse.
Why did you tell me there was no draught, sir? I feel a draught, ir, I feel it distinctly.
LORD GORING. So do I, father. It is a dreadful draught. I will come nd see you to-morrow, father. We can talk over anything you ike. Let me help you on with your cloak, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. No, sir; I have called this evening for a definite urpose, 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 i
t, 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 anyone. 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 standpoint, 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 realize 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?