The Importance of Being Earnest: And Other Plays

by Oscar Wilde

  MRS. CHEVELEY. To offer it to you on conditions. How did you guess that?

  LORD GORING. Because you haven’t mentioned the subject. Have you got it with you?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Sitting down.) Oh, no! A well-made dress has no pockets.

  LORD GORING. What is your price for it?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. How absurdly English you are! The English think that a cheque-book can solve every problem in life. Why, my dear Arthur, I have very much more money than you have, and quite as much as Robert Chiltern has got hold of. Money is not what I want.

  LORD GORING. What do you want then, Mrs. Cheveley?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Why don’t you call me Laura?

  LORD GORING. I don’t like the name.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. You used to adore it.

  LORD GORING. Yes: that’s why. (Mrs. Cheveley motions to him to sit down beside her. He smiles, and does so.)

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you loved me once.

  LORD GORING. Yes.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. And you asked me to be your wife.

  LORD GORING. That was the natural result of my loving you.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. And you threw me over because you saw, or said you saw, poor old Lord Mortlake trying to have a violent flirtation with me in the conservatory at Tenby.

  LORD GORING. I am under the impression that my lawyer settled that matter with you on certain terms … dictated by yourself.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. At that time I was poor; you were rich.

  LORD GORING. Quite so. That is why you pretended to love me.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Shrugging her shoulders.) Poor old Lord Mortlake, who had only two topics of conversation, his gout and his wife! I never could quite make out which of the two he was talking about. He used the most horrible language about them both. Well, you were silly, Arthur. Why, Lord Mortlake was never anything more to me than an amusement. one of those utterly tedious amusements one only finds at an English country house on an English country Sunday. I don’t think anyone at all morally responsible for what he or she does at an English country house.

  LORD GORING. Yes. I know lots of people think that.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. I loved you, Arthur.

  LORD GORING. My dear Mrs. Cheveley, you have always been far too clever to know anything about love.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. I did love you. And you loved me. You know you loved me; and love is a very wonderful thing. I suppose that when a man has once loved a woman, he will do anything for her, except continue to love her? (Puts her hand on his.)

  LORD GORING. (Taking his hand away quietly.) Yes: except that.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (After a pause.) I am tired of living abroad. I want to come back to London. I want to have a charming house here. I want to have a salon. If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, society here would be quite civilized. Besides, I have arrived at the romantic stage. When I saw you last night at the Chilterns’, I knew you were the only person I had ever cared for, if I ever have cared for anybody, Arthur. And so, on the morning of the day you marry me, I will give you Robert Chiltern’s letter. That is my offer. I will give it to you now, if you promise to marry me.

  LORD GORING. Now?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Smiling.) To-morrow.

  LORD GORING. Are you really serious?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes, quite serious.

  LORD GORING. I should make you a very bad husband.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. I don’t mind bad husbands. I have had two. They amused me immensely.

  LORD GORING. You mean that you amused yourself immensely, don’t you?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. What do you know about my married life?

  LORD GORING. Nothing: but I can read it like a book.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. What book?

  LORD GORING. (Rising.) The Book of Numbers.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Do you think it quite charming of you to be so rude to a woman in your own house?

  LORD GORING. In the case of very fascinating women, sex is a challenge, not a defence.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. I suppose that is meant for a compliment. My dear Arthur, women are never disarmed by compliments. Men always are. That is the difference between the two sexes.

  LORD GORING. Women are never disarmed by anything, as far as I know them.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (After a pause.) Then you are going to allow your greatest friend, Robert Chiltern, to be ruined, rather than marry some one who really has considerable attractions left. I thought you would have risen to some great height of self-sacrifice, Arthur. I think you should. And the rest of your life you could spend in contemplating your own perfections.

  LORD GORING. Oh! I do that as it is. And self-sacrifice is a thing that should be put down by law. It is so demoralizing to the people for whom one sacrifices oneself. They always go to the bad.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. As if anything could demoralize Robert Chiltern! You seem to forget that I know his real character.

  LORD GORING. What you know about him is not his real character. It was an act of folly done in his youth, dishonourable, I admit, shameful, I admit, unworthy of him, I admit, and therefore … not his true character.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. How you men stand up for each other!

  LORD GORING. How you women war against each other!

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Bitterly.) I only war against one woman, against Gertrude Chiltern. I hate her. I hate her now more than ever.

  LORD GORING. Because you have brought a real tragedy into her life, I suppose.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (With a sneer.) Oh, there is only one real tragedy in a woman’s life. The fact that her past is always her lover, and her future invariably her husband.

  LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern knows nothing of the kind of life to which you are alluding.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. A woman whose size in gloves is seven and three-quarters never knows much about anything. You know Gertrude has always worn seven and three-quarters? That is one of the reasons why there was never any moral sympathy between us…. Well, Arthur, I suppose this romantic interview may be regarded as at an end. You admit it was romantic, don’t you? For the privilege of being your wife I was ready to surrender a great prize, the climax of my diplomatic career. You decline. Very well. If Sir Robert doesn’t uphold my Argentine scheme, I expose him. Voilà tout.

  LORD GORING. You mustn’t do that. It would be vile, horrible, infamous.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Shrugging her shoulders.) Oh! don’t use big words. They mean so little. It is a commercial transaction. That is all. There is no good mixing up sentimentality in it. I offered to sell Robert Chiltern a certain thing. If he won’t pay me my price, he will have to pay the world a greater price. There is no more to be said. I must go. Good-bye. Won’t you shake hands?

  LORD GORING. With you? No. Your transaction with Robert Chiltern may pass as a loathsome commercial transaction of a loathsome commercial age; but you seem to have forgotten that you who came here to-night to talk of love, you whose lips desecrated the word love, you to whom the thing is a book closely sealed, went this afternoon to the house of one of the most noble and gentle women in the world to degrade her husband in her eyes, to try and kill her love for him, to put poison in her heart, and bitterness in her life, to break her idol and, it may be, spoil her soul. That I cannot forgive you. That was horrible. For that there can be no forgiveness.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you are unjust to me. Believe me, you are quite unjust to me. I didn’t go to taunt Gertrude at all. I had no idea of doing anything of the kind when I entered. I called with Lady Markby simply to ask whether an ornament, a jewel, that I lost somewhere last night, had been found at the Chilterns’. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Lady Markby. She will tell you it is true. The scene that occurred happened after Lady Markby had left, and was really forced on me by Gertrude’s rudeness and sneers. I called, oh!—a little out of malice if you like—but really to ask if a diamond brooch of mine had been found. That was the origin of the whole thing.

  LORD GORING. A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby?

 
; MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. How do you know?

  LORD GORING. Because it is found. In point of fact, I found it myself, and stupidly forgot to tell the butler anything about it as I was leaving. (Goes over to the writing-table and pulls out the drawers.) It is in this drawer. No, that one. This is the brooch, isn’t it? (Holds up the brooch.)

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I am so glad to get it back. It was … a present.

  LORD GORING. Won’t you wear it?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Certainly, if you pin it in. (Lord Goring suddenly clasps it on her arm.) Why do you put it on as a bracelet? I never knew it could be worn as a bracelet.

  LORD GORING. Really?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Holding out her handsome arm.) No; but it looks very well on me as a bracelet, doesn’t it?

  LORD GORING. Yes; much better than when I saw it last.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. When did you see it last?

  LORD GORING. (Calmly.) Oh, ten years ago, on Lady Berkshire, from whom you stole it.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Starting.) What do you mean?

  LORD GORING. I mean that you stole that ornament from my cousin, Mary Berkshire, to whom I gave it when she was married. Suspicion fell on a wretched servant, who was sent away in disgrace. I recognized it last night. I determined to say nothing about it till I had found the thief. I have found the thief now, and I have heard her own confession.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Tossing her head.) It is not true.

  LORD GORING. You know it is true. Why, thief is written across your face at this moment.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. I will deny the whole affair from beginning to end. I will say that I have never seen this wretched thing, that it was never in my possession.

  (Mrs. Cheveley tries to get the bracelet off her arm, but fails. Lord Goring looks on amused. Her thin fingers tear at the jewel to no purpose. A curse breaks from her.)

  LORD GORING. The drawback of stealing a thing, Mrs. Cheveley, is that one never knows how wonderful the thing that one steals is. You can’t get that bracelet off, unless you know where the spring is. And I see you don’t know where the spring is. It is rather difficult to find.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. You brute! You coward! (She tries again to unclasp the bracelet, but fails.)

  LORD GORING. Oh! don’t use big words. They mean so little.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Again tears at the bracelet in a paroxysm of rage, with inarticulate sounds. Then stops, and looks at Lord Goring.) What are you going to do?

  LORD GORING. I am going to ring for my servant. He is an admirable servant. Always comes in the moment one rings for him. When he comes I will tell him to fetch the police.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Trembling.) The police? What for?

  LORD GORING. To-morrow the Berkshires will prosecute you. That is what the police are for.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Is now in an agony of physical terror. Her face is distorted. Her mouth awry. A mask has fallen from her. She is, for the moment, dreadful to look at.) Don’t do that. I will do anything you want. Anything in the world you want.

  LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern’s letter.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Stop! Stop! Let me have time to think.

  LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern’s letter.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. I have not got it with me. I will give it to you tomorrow.

  LORD GORING. You know you are lying. Give it to me at once. (Mrs. Cheveley pulls the letter out, and hands it to him. She is horribly pale.) This is it?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (In a hoarse voice.) Yes.

  LORD GORING. (Takes the letter, examines it, sighs, and burns it over the lamp.) For so well-dressed a woman, Mrs. Cheveley, you have moments of admirable common sense. I congratulate you.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Catches sight of Lady Chiltern’s letter, the cover of which is just showing from under the blotting-book.) Please get me a glass of water.

  LORD GORING. Certainly.

  (Goes to the corner of the room and pours out a glass of water. While his back is turned Mrs. Cheveley steals Lady Chiltern’s letter. When Lord Goring returns with the glass she refuses it with a gesture.)

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. Will you help me on with my cloak?

  LORD GORING. With pleasure.

  (Puts her cloak on.)

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I am never going to try to harm Robert Chiltern again.

  LORD GORING. Fortunately you have not the chance, Mrs. Cheveley.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Well, if even I had the chance, I wouldn’t. On the contrary, I am going to render him a great service.

  LORD GORING. I am charmed to hear it. It is a reformation.

  MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I can’t bear so upright a gentleman, so honourable an English gentleman, being so shamefully deceived, and so——

  LORD GORING. Well?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. I find that somehow Gertrude Chiltern’s dying speech and confession has strayed into my pocket.

  LORD GORING. What do you mean?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (With a bitter note of triumph in her voice.) I mean that I am going to send Robert Chiltern the love letter his wife wrote to you to-night.

  LORD GORING. Love letter?

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (Laughing.) “I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.”

  (Lord Goring rushes to the bureau and takes the envelope, finds it empty, and turns round.)

  LORD GORING. You wretched woman, must you always be thieving? Give me back that letter. I’ll take it from you by force. You shall not leave my room till I have got it.

  (He rushes towards her, but Mrs. Cheveley at once puts her hand on the electric bell that is on the table. The bell sounds with shrill reverberations, and Phipps enters.)

  MRS. CHEVELEY. (After a pause.) Lord Goring merely rang that you should show me out. Good-night, Lord Goring! (Goes out, followed by Phipps. Her face is illumined with evil triumph. There is joy in her eyes. Youth seems to have come back to her. Her last glance is like a swift arrow. Lord Goring bites his lip, and lights a cigarette.)

  ACT-DROP

  FOURTH ACT

  SCENE—Same as Act II.

  (Lord Goring is standing by the fireplace with his hands in his pockets. He is looking rather bored.)

  LORD GORING. (Pulls out his watch, inspects it, and rings the bell.) It is a great nuisance. I can’t find anyone in this house to talk to. And I am full of interesting information. I feel like the latest edition of something or other.

  (Enter Servant.)

  JAMES. Sir Robert is still at the Foreign Office, my lord.

  LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern not down yet?

  JAMES. Her ladyship has not yet left her room. Miss Chiltern has just come in from riding.

  LORD GORING. (To himself.) Ah! that is something.

  JAMES. Lord Caversham has been waiting some time in the library for Sir Robert. I told him your lordship was here.

  LORD GORING. Thank you. Would you kindly tell him I’ve gone?

  JAMES. (Bowing.) I shall do so, my lord.

  (Exit Servant.)

  LORD GORING. Really, I don’t want to meet my father three days running. It is a great deal too much excitement for any son. I hope to goodness he won’t come up. Fathers should be neither seen nor heard. That is the only proper basis for family life. Mothers are different. Mothers are darlings. (Throws himself down into a chair, picks up a paper and begins to read it.) (Enter Lord Caversham.)

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, what are you doing here? Wasting your time as usual, I suppose?

  LORD GORING. (Throws down paper and rises.) My dear father, when one pays a visit it is for the purpose of wasting other people’s time, not one’s own.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Have you been thinking over what I spoke to you about last night?

  LORD GORING. I have been thinking about nothing else.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Engaged to be married yet?

  LORD GORING. (Genially.) Not yet: but I hope to be before lunchtime.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. (Caustically.) You can have till dinner-time if it would be of any convenience to you.

  LORD GORING. Th
anks awfully, but I think I’d sooner be engaged before lunch.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Humph! Never know when you are serious or not.

  LORD GORING. Neither do I, father.

  (A pause.)

  LORD CAVERSHAM. I suppose you have read “The Times” this morning?

  LORD GORING. (Airily.) “The Times”? Certainly not. I only read “The Morning Post.” All that one should know about modern life is where the Duchesses are; anything else is quite demoralizing.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Do you mean to say you have not read “The Times” leading article on Robert Chiltern’s career?

  LORD GORING. Good heavens! No. What does it say?

  LORD CAVERSHAM. What should it say, sir? Everything complimentary, of course. Chiltern’s speech last night on this Argentine Canal Scheme was one of the finest pieces of oratory ever delivered in the House since Canning.

  LORD GORING. Ah! Never heard of Canning. Never wanted to. And did … did Chiltern uphold the scheme?

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Uphold it, sir? How little you know him! Why, he denounced it roundly, and the whole system of modern political finance. This speech is the turning-point in his career, as “The Times” points out. You should read this article, sir. (Opens “The Times.”) “Sir Robert Chiltern … most rising of all our young statesmen … Brilliant orator … Unblemished career … Well-known integrity of character … Represents what is best in English public life … Noble contrast to the lax morality so common among foreign politicians.” They will never say that of you, sir.

  LORD GORING. I sincerely hope not, father. However, I am delighted at what you tell me about Robert, thoroughly delighted. It shows he has got pluck.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. He has got more than pluck, sir, he has got genius.

  LORD GORING. Ah! I prefer pluck. It is not so common, nowadays, as genius is.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would go into Parliament?

  LORD GORING. My dear father, only people who look dull ever get into the House of Commons, and only people who are dull ever succeed there.

  LORD CAVERSHAM. Why don’t you try to do something useful in life?

  LORD GORING. I am far too young.