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

usually punished for it! Certainly, more

women grow old nowadays through the faithfulness of their admirers

than through anything else! At least that is the only way I can

account for the terribly haggard look of most of your pretty women in

London!

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What an appalling philosophy that sounds! To

attempt to classify you, Mrs. Cheveley, would be an impertinence.

But may I ask, at heart, are you an optimist or a pessimist? Those

seem to be the only two fashionable religions left to us nowadays.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I’m neither. Optimism begins in a broad grin,

and Pessimism ends with blue spectacles. Besides, they are both of

them merely poses.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You prefer to be natural?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. But it is such a very difficult pose to

keep up.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What would those modern psychological

novelists, of whom we hear so much, say to such a theory as that?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Ah! the strength of women comes from the fact that

psychology cannot explain us. Men can be analysed, women …

merely adored.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You think science cannot grapple with the

problem of women?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Science can never grapple with the irrational. That

is why it has no future before it, in this world.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And women represent the irrational.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Well-dressed women do.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [With a polite bow.] I fear I could hardly

agree with you there. But do sit down. And now tell me, what makes

you leave your brilliant Vienna for our gloomy London - or perhaps

the question is indiscreet?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes

are.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Well, at any rate, may I know if it is politics

or pleasure?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Politics are my only pleasure. You see nowadays it

is not fashionable to flirt till one is forty, or to be romantic till

one is forty-five, so we poor women who are under thirty, or say we

are, have nothing open to us but politics or philanthropy. And

philanthropy seems to me to have become simply the refuge of people

who wish to annoy their fellow-creatures. I prefer politics. I

think they are more … becoming!

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. A political life is a noble career!

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. And sometimes it is a clever game, Sir

Robert. And sometimes it is a great nuisance.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Which do you find it?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. I? A combination of all three. [Drops her fan.]

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Picks up fan.] Allow me!

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But you have not told me yet what makes you

honour London so suddenly. Our season is almost over.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! I don’t care about the London season! It is too

matrimonial. People are either hunting for husbands, or hiding from

them. I wanted to meet you. It is quite true. You know what a

woman’s curiosity is. Almost as great as a man’s! I wanted

immensely to meet you, and … to ask you to do something for me.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope it is not a little thing, Mrs. Cheveley.

I find that little things are so very difficult to do.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. [After a moment’s reflection.] No, I don’t think it

is quite a little thing.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am so glad. Do tell me what it is.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Later on. [Rises.] And now may I walk through your

beautiful house? I hear your pictures are charming. Poor Baron

Arnheim - you remember the Baron? - used to tell me you had some

wonderful Corots.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [With an almost imperceptible start.] Did you

know Baron Arnheim well?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Smiling.] Intimately. Did you?

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. At one time.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful man, wasn’t he?

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [After a pause.] He was very remarkable, in

many ways.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. I often think it such a pity he never wrote his

memoirs. They would have been most interesting.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes: he knew men and cities well, like the old

Greek.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. Without the dreadful disadvantage of having a

Penelope waiting at home for him.

 

MASON. Lord Goring.

 

[Enter LORD GORING. Thirty-four, but always says he is younger. A

well-bred, expressionless face. He is clever, but would not like to

be thought so. A flawless dandy, he would be annoyed if he were

considered romantic. He plays with life, and is on perfectly good

terms with the world. He is fond of being misunderstood. It gives

him a post of vantage.]

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good evening, my dear Arthur! Mrs. Cheveley,

allow me to introduce to you Lord Goring, the idlest man in London.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. I have met Lord Goring before.

 

LORD GORING. [Bowing.] I did not think you would remember me, Mrs.

Cheveley.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. My memory is under admirable control. And are you

still a bachelor?

 

LORD GORING. I … believe so.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. How very romantic!

 

LORD GORING. Oh! I am not at all romantic. I am not old enough. I

leave romance to my seniors.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Lord Goring is the result of Boodle’s Club,

Mrs. Cheveley.

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. He reflects every credit on the institution.

 

LORD GORING. May I ask are you staying in London long?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. That depends partly on the weather, partly on the

cooking, and partly on Sir Robert.

 

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are not going to plunge us into a European

war, I hope?

 

MRS. CHEVELEY. There is no danger, at present!

 

[She nods to LORD GORING, with a look of amusement in her eyes, and

goes out with SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. LORD GORING saunters over to

MABEL CHILTERN.]

 

MABEL CHILTERN. You are very late!

 

LORD GORING. Have you missed me?

 

MABEL CHILTERN. Awfully!

 

LORD GORING. Then I am sorry I did not stay away longer. I like

being missed.

 

MABEL CHILTERN. How very selfish of you!

 

LORD GORING. I am very selfish.

 

MABEL CHILTERN. You are always telling me of your bad qualities,

Lord Goring.

 

LORD GORING. I have only told you half of them as yet, Miss Mabel!

 

MABEL CHILTERN. Are the others very bad?

 

LORD GORING. Quite dreadful! When I think of them at night I go to

sleep at once.

 

MABEL CHILTERN. Well, I delight in your bad qualities. I wouldn’t

have you part with one of them.

 

LORD GORING. How very nice of you! But then you are always nice.

By the way, I want to ask you a question, Miss Mabel. Who brought

Mrs. Cheveley here? That woman in heliotrope, who has just gone out

of the room with your brother?

 

MABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I think Lady Markby brought her. Why do you

ask?

 

LORD GORING. I haven’t seen her for years, that is all.

 

MABEL CHILTERN. What an absurd reason!

 

LORD GORING. All reasons are absurd.

 

MABEL CHILTERN. What sort of a woman is she?

 

LORD GORING. Oh! a genius in the daytime and a beauty at night!

 

MABEL CHILTERN. I dislike her already.

 

LORD GORING. That shows your admirable good taste.

 

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. [Approaching.] Ah, the English young lady is the

dragon of good taste, is she not? Quite the dragon of good taste.

 

LORD GORING. So the newspapers are always telling us.

 

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I read all your English newspapers. I find them

so amusing.

 

LORD GORING. Then, my dear Nanjac, you must certainly read between

the lines.

 

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I should like to, but my professor objects. [To

MABEL CHILTERN.] May I have the pleasure of escorting you to the

music-room, Mademoiselle?

 

MABEL CHILTERN. [Looking very disappointed.] Delighted, Vicomte,

quite delighted! [Turning to LORD GORING.] Aren’t you coming to the

music-room?

 

LORD GORING. Not if there is any music going on, Miss Mabel.

 

MABEL CHILTERN. [Severely.] The music is in German. You would not

understand it.

 

[Goes out with the VICOMTE DE NANJAC. LORD CAVERSHAM comes up to his

son.]

 

LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir! what are you doing here? Wasting your

life as usual! You should be in bed, sir. You keep too late hours!

I heard of you the other night at Lady Rufford’s dancing till four

o’clock in the morning!

 

LORD GORING. Only a quarter to four, father.

 

LORD CAVERSHAM. Can’t make out how you stand London Society. The

thing has gone to the dogs, a lot of damned nobodies talking about

nothing.

 

LORD GORING. I love talking about nothing, father. It is the only

thing I know anything about.

 

LORD CAVERSHAM. You seem to me to be living entirely for pleasure.

 

LORD GORING. What else is there to live for, father? Nothing ages

like happiness.

 

LORD CAVERSHAM. You are heartless, sir, very heartless!

 

LORD GORING. I hope not, father. Good evening, Lady Basildon!

 

LADY BASILDON. [Arching two pretty eyebrows.] Are you here? I had

no idea you ever came to political parties!

 

LORD GORING. I adore political parties. They are the only place

left to us where people don’t talk politics.

 

LADY BASILDON. I delight in talking politics. I talk them all day

long. But I can’t bear listening to them. I don’t know how the

unfortunate men in the House stand these long debates.

 

LORD GORING. By never listening.

 

LADY BASILDON. Really?

 

LORD GORING. [In his most serious manner.] Of course. You see, it

is a very dangerous thing to listen. If one listens one may be

convinced; and a man who allows himself to be convinced by an

argument is a thoroughly unreasonable person.

 

LADY BASILDON. Ah! that accounts for so much in men that I have

never understood, and so much in women that their husbands never

appreciate in them!

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. [With a sigh.] Our husbands never appreciate

anything in us. We have to go to others for that!

 

LADY BASILDON. [Emphatically.] Yes, always to others, have we not?

 

LORD GORING. [Smiling.] And those are the views of the two ladies

who are known to have the most admirable husbands in London.

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. That is exactly what we can’t stand. My Reginald is

quite hopelessly faultless. He is really unendurably so, at times!

There is not the smallest element of excitement in knowing him.

 

LORD GORING. How terrible! Really, the thing should be more widely

known!

 

LADY BASILDON. Basildon is quite as bad; he is as domestic as if he

was a bachelor.

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. [Pressing LADY BASILDON’S hand.] My poor Olivia!

We have married perfect husbands, and we are well punished for it.

 

LORD GORING. I should have thought it was the husbands who were

punished.

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. [Drawing herself up.] Oh, dear no! They are as

happy as possible! And as for trusting us, it is tragic how much

they trust us.

 

LADY BASILDON. Perfectly tragic!

 

LORD GORING. Or comic, Lady Basildon?

 

LADY BASILDON. Certainly not comic, Lord Goring. How unkind of you

to suggest such a thing!

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. I am afraid Lord Goring is in the camp of the enemy,

as usual. I saw him talking to that Mrs. Cheveley when he came in.

 

LORD GORING. Handsome woman, Mrs. Cheveley!

 

LADY BASILDON. [Stiffly.] Please don’t praise other women in our

presence. You might wait for us to do that!

 

LORD GORING. I did wait.

 

MRS. MARCHMONT. Well, we are not going to praise her. I