An Ideal Husband by Oscar Wilde (classic books for 11 year olds .txt) 📕

1895

 

THE EARL OF CAVERSHAM, Mr. Alfred Bishop.

VISCOUNT GORING, Mr. Charles H. Hawtrey.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, Mr. Lewis Waller.

VICOMTE DE NANJAC, Mr. Cosmo Stuart.

MR. MONTFORD, Mr. Harry Stanford.

PHIPPS, Mr. C. H. Brookfield.

MASON, Mr. H. Deane.

JAMES, Mr. Charles Meyrick.

HAROLD, Mr. Goodhart.

LADY CHILTERN, Miss Julia Neilson.

LADY MARKBY, Miss Fanny Brough.

COUNTESS OF BASILDON, Miss Vane Featherston.

MRS. MARCHMONT, Miss Helen Forsyth.

MISS MABEL CHILTERN, Miss Maud Millet.

MRS. CHEVELEY, Miss Florence West.

FIRST ACT SCENE

The octagon room at Sir Robert Chiltern’s house in Grosvenor Square.

 

[The room is brilliantly lighted and full of guests. At the top of

the staircase stands LADY CHILTERN, a woman of grave Greek beauty,

about twenty-seven years of age. She receives the guests as they

come up. Over the well of the staircase hangs a great chandelier

with wax lights, which illumine a large eighteenth-century French

tapestry - representing the Triumph of Love, from a design by Boucher

- that is stretched on the staircase wall. On the right is the

entrance to the music-room. The sound of a string quartette is

faintly heard. The entrance on the left leads to other reception-rooms. MRS. MARCHMONT and LADY BASILDON, two very pretty women, are

seated together on a Louis Seize sofa. They are types of exquisite

fragility. Their affectation of manner has a delicate charm.

Watteau would have loved to paint them.]

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. Going on to the Hartlocks’ to-night, Margaret?

 

LADY BASILDON. I suppose so. Are you?

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. Yes. Horribly tedious parties they give, don’t

they?

 

LADY BASILDON. Horribly tedious! Never know why I go. Never know

why I go anywhere.

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. I come here to be educated

 

LADY BASILDON. Ah! I hate being educated!

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. So do I. It puts one almost on a level with the

commercial classes, doesn’t it? But dear Gertrude Chiltern is always

telling me that I should have some serious purpose in life. So I

come here to try to find one.

 

LADY BASILDON. [Looking round through her lorgnette.] I don’t see

anybody here to-night whom one could possibly call a serious purpose.

The man who took me in to dinner talked to me about his wife the

whole time.

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. How very trivial of him!

 

LADY BASILDON. Terribly trivial! What did your man talk about?

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. About myself.

 

LADY BASILDON. [Languidly.] And were you interested?

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. [Shaking her head.] Not in the smallest degree.

 

LADY BASILDON. What martyrs we are, dear Margaret!

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. [Rising.] And how well it becomes us, Olivia!

 

[They rise and go towards the music-room. The VICOMTE DE NANJAC, a

young attache known for his neckties and his Anglomania, approaches

with a low bow, and enters into conversation.]

 

MASON. [Announcing guests from the top of the staircase.] Mr. and

Lady Jane Barford. Lord Caversham.

 

[Enter LORD CAVERSHAM, an old gentleman of seventy, wearing the

riband and star of the Garter. A fine Whig type. Rather like a

portrait by Lawrence.]

 

LORD CAVERSHAM. Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Has my good-for-nothing young son been here?

 

LADY CHILTERN. [Smiling.] I don’t think Lord Goring has arrived

yet.

 

MABEL CHILTERN. [Coming up to LORD CAVERSHAM.] Why do you call Lord

Goring good-for-nothing?

 

[MABEL CHILTERN is a perfect example of the English type of

prettiness, the apple-blossom type. She has all the fragrance and

freedom of a flower. There is ripple after ripple of sunlight in her

hair, and the little mouth, with its parted lips, is expectant, like

the mouth of a child. She has the fascinating tyranny of youth, and

the astonishing courage of innocence. To sane people she is not

reminiscent of any work of art. But she is really like a Tanagra

statuette, and would be rather annoyed if she were told so.]

 

LORD CAVERSHAM. Because he leads such an idle life.

 

MABEL CHILTERN. How can you say such a thing? Why, he rides in the

Row at ten o’clock in the morning, goes to the Opera three times a

week, changes his clothes at least five times a day, and dines out

every night of the season. You don’t call that leading an idle life,

do you?

 

LORD CAVERSHAM. [Looking at her with a kindly twinkle in his eyes.]

You are a very charming young lady!

 

MABEL CHILTERN. How sweet of you to say that, Lord Caversham! Do

come to us more often. You know we are always at home on Wednesdays,

and you look so well with your star!

 

LORD CAVERSHAM. Never go anywhere now. Sick of London Society.

Shouldn’t mind being introduced to my own tailor; he always votes on

the right side. But object strongly to being sent down to dinner

with my wife’s milliner. Never could stand Lady Caversham’s bonnets.

 

MABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I love London Society! I think it has immensely

improved. It is entirely composed now of beautiful idiots and

brilliant lunatics. Just what Society should be.

 

LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! Which is Goring? Beautiful idiot, or the

other thing?

 

MABEL CHILTERN. [Gravely.] I have been obliged for the present to

put Lord Goring into a class quite by himself. But he is developing

charmingly!

 

LORD CAVERSHAM. Into what?

 

MABEL CHILTERN. [With a little curtsey.] I hope to let you know

very soon, Lord Caversham!

 

MASON. [Announcing guests.] Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley.

 

[Enter LADY MARKBY and MRS. CHEVELEY. LADY MARKBY is a pleasant,

kindly, popular woman, with gray hair e la marquise and good lace.

MRS. CHEVELEY, who accompanies her, is tall and rather slight. Lips

very thin and highly-coloured, a line of scarlet on a pallid face.

Venetian red hair, aquiline nose, and long throat. Rouge accentuates

the natural paleness of her complexion. Gray-green eyes that move

restlessly. She is in heliotrope, with diamonds. She looks rather

like an orchid, and makes great demands on one’s curiosity. In all

her movements she is extremely graceful. A work of art, on the

whole, but showing the influence of too many schools.]

 

LADY MARKBY. Good evening, dear Gertrude! So kind of you to let me

bring my friend, Mrs. Cheveley. Two such charming women should know

each other!

 

LADY CHILTERN. [Advances towards MRS. CHEVELEY with a sweet smile.

Then suddenly stops, and bows rather distantly.] I think Mrs.

Cheveley and I have met before. I did not know she had married a

second time.

 

LADY MARKBY. [Genially.] Ah, nowadays people marry as often as they

can, don’t they? It is most fashionable. [To DUCHESS OF

MARYBOROUGH.] Dear Duchess, and how is the Duke? Brain still weak,

I suppose? Well, that is only to be expected, is it not? His good

father was just the same. There is nothing like race, is there?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Playing with her fan.] But have we really met

before, Lady Chiltern? I can’t remember where. I have been out of

England for so long.

 

LADY CHILTERN. We were at school together, Mrs. Cheveley.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY [Superciliously.] Indeed? I have forgotten all about

my schooldays. I have a vague impression that they were detestable.

 

LADY CHILTERN. [Coldly.] I am not surprised!

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. [In her sweetest manner.] Do you know, I am quite

looking forward to meeting your clever husband, Lady Chiltern. Since

he has been at the Foreign Office, he has been so much talked of in

Vienna. They actually succeed in spelling his name right in the

newspapers. That in itself is fame, on the continent.

 

LADY CHILTERN. I hardly think there will be much in common between

you and my husband, Mrs. Cheveley! [Moves away.]

 

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! chere Madame, queue surprise! I have not

seen you since Berlin!

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Not since Berlin, Vicomte. Five years ago!

 

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. And you are younger and more beautiful than ever.

How do you manage it?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. By making it a rule only to talk to perfectly

charming people like yourself.

 

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah! you flatter me. You butter me, as they say

here.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Do they say that here? How dreadful of them!

 

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Yes, they have a wonderful language. It should

be more widely known.

 

[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN enters. A man of forty, but looking somewhat

younger. Clean-shaven, with finely-cut features, dark-haired and

dark-eyed. A personality of mark. Not popular - few personalities

are. But intensely admired by the few, and deeply respected by the

many. The note of his manner is that of perfect distinction, with a

slight touch of pride. One feels that he is conscious of the success

he has made in life. A nervous temperament, with a tired look. The

firmly-chiselled mouth and chin contrast strikingly with the romantic

expression in the deep-set eyes. The variance is suggestive of an

almost complete separation of passion and intellect, as though

thought and emotion were each isolated in its own sphere through some

violence of will-power. There is nervousness in the nostrils, and in

the pale, thin, pointed hands. It would be inaccurate to call him

picturesque. Picturesqueness cannot survive the House of Commons.

But Vandyck would have liked to have painted his head.]

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, Lady Markby! I hope you have

brought Sir John with you?

 

LADY MARKBY. Oh! I have brought a much more charming person than

Sir John. Sir John’s temper since he has taken seriously to politics

has become quite unbearable. Really, now that the House of Commons

is trying to become useful, it does a great deal of harm.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope not, Lady Markby. At any rate we do our

best to waste the public time, don’t we? But who is this charming

person you have been kind enough to bring to us?

 

LADY MARKBY. Her name is Mrs. Cheveley! One of the Dorsetshire

Cheveleys, I suppose. But I really don’t know. Families are so

mixed nowadays. Indeed, as a rule, everybody turns out to be

somebody else.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley? I seem to know the name.

 

LADY MARKBY. She has just arrived from Vienna.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! yes. I think I know whom you mean.

 

LADY MARKBY. Oh! she goes everywhere there, and has such pleasant

scandals about all her friends. I really must go to Vienna next

winter. I hope there is a good chef at the Embassy.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is not, the Ambassador will certainly

have to be recalled. Pray point out Mrs. Cheveley to me. I should

like to see her.

 

LADY MARKBY. Let me introduce you. [To MRS. CHEVELEY.] My dear,

Sir Robert Chiltern is dying to know you!

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Bowing.] Every one is dying to know the

brilliant Mrs. Cheveley. Our attaches at Vienna write to us about

nothing else.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you, Sir Robert. An acquaintance that begins

with a compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship. It

starts in the right manner. And I find that I know Lady Chiltern

already.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Really?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. She has just reminded me that we were at school

together. I remember it perfectly now. She always got the good

conduct prize. I have a distinct recollection of Lady Chiltern

always getting the good conduct prize!

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Smiling.] And what prizes did you get, Mrs.

Cheveley?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. My prizes came a little later on in life. I don’t

think any of them were for good conduct. I forget!

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am sure they were for something charming!

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. I don’t know that women are always rewarded for being

charming. I think they are