An Ideal Husband Part 1

An Ideal Husband.

by Oscar Wilde.

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 cla.s.ses, 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 astonis.h.i.+ng 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 cla.s.s 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 a 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 fas.h.i.+onable. [_To_ d.u.c.h.eSS OF MARYBOROUGH.]

Dear d.u.c.h.ess, 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.