The Importance of Being Earnest: And Other Plays

by Oscar Wilde

  (The butler enters, followed by the footman. Tea is set on a small table close to Lady Chiltern.)

  LADY CHILTERN. May I give you some tea, Mrs. Cheveley?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. (The butler hands Mrs. Cheveley a cup of tea on a salver.)

  LADY CHILTERN. Some tea, Lady Markby?

  LADY MARKBY. No thanks, dear.

  (The servants go out.

  The fact is, I have promised to go round for ten minutes to see poor Lady Brancaster, who is in very great trouble. Her daughter, quite a well-brought-up girl, too, has actually become engaged to be married to a curate in 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 tonight, 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 seems 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 everyone?

  LADY CHILTERN. Yes, to everyone, without exception.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Then I am sorry for you, Gertrude, very sorry for you.

  LADY CHILTERN. You see now, I am 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 tomorrow 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 Sir 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 politene
ss 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 was 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 realize 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 forever. 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. Then she flings herself down beside a sofa and buries her face. Her sobs are like the sobs of a child.)

  ACT-DROP

  THIRD ACT

  SCENE—The Library in Lord Goring’s house. An Adams room. On the right is the door leading into the hall. On the left, the door of the smoking-room. A pair of folding doors at the back open into the drawing-room. The fire is lit. Phipps, the butler, is arranging some newspapers on the writing-table. The distinction of Phipps is his impassivity. He has been termed by enthusiasts the Ideal Butler. The Sphinx is not so incommunicable. He is a mask with a manner. Of his intellectual or emotional life history knows nothing. He represents the dominance of form.

  (Enter Lord Goring in evening dress with a buttonhole. He is wearing a silk hat and Inverness cape. White-gloved, he carries a Louis Seize cane. His are all the delicate fopperies of Fashion. One sees that he stands in immediate relation to modern life, makes it indeed, and so masters it. He is the first well-dressed philosopher in the history of thought.)

  LORD GORING. Got my second buttonhole for me, Phipps?

  PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. (Takes his hat, cane and cape, and presents new buttonhole on salver.)

  LORD GORING. Rather distinguished thing, Phipps. I am the only person of the smallest importance in London at present who wears a buttonhole.

  PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. I have observed that.

  LORD GORING. (Taking out old buttonhole.) You see, Phipps, Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear.

  PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

  LORD GORING. Just as vulgarity is simply the conduct of other people.

  PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

  LORD GORING. (Putting in new buttonhole.) And falsehoods the truths of other people.

  PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

  LORD GORING. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society is oneself.

  PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

  LORD GORING. To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance, Phipps.

  PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

  LORD GORING. (Looking at himself in the glass.) Don’t think I quite like this buttonhole, Phipps. Makes me look a little too old. Makes me almost in the prime of life, eh, Phipps?

  PHIPPS. I don’t observe any alteration in your lordship’s appearance.

  LORD GORING. You don’t, Phipps?

  PHIPPS. No, my lord.

  LORD GORING. I am not quite sure. For the future a more trivial buttonhole, Phipps, on Thursday evenings.

  PHIPPS. I will speak to the florist, my lord. She has had a loss in her family lately, which perhaps accounts for the lack of triviality your lordship complains of in the buttonhole.

  LORD GORING. Extraordinary thing about the lower classes in England—they are always losing their relations.

  PHIPPS. Yes, my lord! They are extremely fortunate in that respect.

  LORD GORING. (Turns round and looks at him. Phipps remains impassive.) Hum! Any letters, Phipps?

  PHIPPS. Three, my lord. (Hands letters on a salver.)

  LORD GORING. (Takes letters.) Want my cab round in twenty minutes.

  PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. (Goes towards door.)

  LORD GORING. (Holds up letter in pink envelope.) Ahem! Phipps, when did this letter arrive?

  PHIPPS. It was brought by hand just after your lordship went to the Club.

  LORD GORING. That will do. (Exit Phipps.) Lady Chiltern’s handwriting on Lady Chiltern’s pink notepaper. That is rather curious. I thought Robert was to write. Wonder what Lady Chiltern has got to say to me? (Sits at bureau and opens letter, and reads it.) “I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.” (Puts down he letter with a puzzled look. Then takes it up, and reads it again slowly.) “I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.” so she has found out everything! Poor woman! Poor woman! (Pulls out watch and looks at it.) But what an hour to call! Ten o’clock! I shall have to give up going to the Berkshires. However, it is always nice to be expected, and not to arrive. I am not expected at the Bachelors’ so I shall certainly go there. Well, I will make her stand by her husband. That is the only thing for her to do. That is the only thing for any woman to do. It is the growth of the moral sense in omen that makes marriage such a hopeless, one-sided institution. Ten o’clock. She should be here soon. I must tell Phipps I’m not in to
anyone else. (Goes towards bell.)

  (Enter Phipps.)

  PHIPPS. Lord Caversham.

  LORD GORING. Oh, why will parents always appear at the wrong time? Some extraordinary mistake in nature, I suppose. (Enter Lord Caversham.) Delighted to see you, my dear father. (Goes to meet him.)

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Take my cloak off.

  LORD GORING. Is it worth while, father?

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Of course it is worth while, sir. Which is the most comfortable chair?

  LORD GORING. This one, father. It is the chair I use myself, when I ave visitors.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Thank ye. No draught, I hope, in this room?

  LORD GORING. No, father.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. (Sitting down.) Glad to hear it. Can’t stand draughts. No draughts at home.

  LORD GORING. Good many breezes, father.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Eh? Eh? Don’t understand what you mean. Want to have a serious conversation with you, sir.

  LORD GORING. My dear father! At this hour?

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, it is only ten o’clock. What is your objection to the hour? I think the hour is an admirable hour!

  LORD GORING. Well, the fact is, father, this is not my day for talking eriously. I am very sorry, but it is not my day.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. What do you mean, sir?

  LORD GORING. During the season, father, I only talk seriously on the first Tuesday in every month, from four to seven.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, make it Tuesday, sir, make it Tuesday.

  LORD GORING. But it is after seven, father, and my doctor says I must not have any serious conversation after seven. It makes me talk in my sleep.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Talk in your sleep, sir? What does that matter? You are not married.

  LORD GORING. No, father, I am not married.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! That is what I have come to talk to you about, sir. You have got to get married, and at once. Why, when I was your age, sir, I had been an inconsolable widower for three months, and was already paying my addresses to your admirable mother. Damme, sir, it is your duty to get married. You can’t be always living for pleasure. Every man of position is married nowadays. Bachelors are not fashionable any more. They are a damaged lot. Too much is known about them. You must get a wife, sir. Look where your friend Robert Chiltern has got to by probity, hard work, and a sensible marriage with a good woman. Why don’t you imitate him, sir? Why don’t you take him for your model?