An Ideal Husband quotes

Shaking her head. Not in the smallest degree.

What martyrs we are, dear Margaret!

Rising. And how well it becomes us, Olivia!

Rising.

And how well it becomes us, Olivia!

They rise and go towards the music room. The Vicomte de Nanjac, a young attaché known for his neckties and his Anglomania, approaches with a low bow, and enters into conversation.

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.

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.

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.

Mrs. Cheveley? I seem to know the name.

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.

I am sure they were for something charming!

I don’t know that women are always rewarded for being charming. I think they are 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!

Oh, I’m neither.

Optimism begins in a broad grin, and Pessimism ends with blue spectacles.

Besides, they are both of them merely poses.

Sometimes.

But it is such a very difficult pose to keep up.

What would those modern psychological novelists, of whom we hear so much, say to such a theory as that?

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?

Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are.

Well, at any rate, may I know if it is politics or 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!

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.

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

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

After a moment’s reflection. No, I don’t think it is quite a little thing.

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.

Good evening, my dear Arthur! Mrs. Cheveley, allow me to introduce to you Lord Goring, the idlest man in London.

Bowing. I did not think you would remember me, Mrs. Cheveley.

My memory is under admirable control.

And are you still a bachelor?

Have you missed me?

Then I am sorry I did not stay away longer. I like being missed.

How very selfish of you!

Quite dreadful!

When I think of them at night I go to sleep at once.

Well, I delight in your bad qualities. I wouldn’t have you part with one of them.

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

All reasons are absurd.

What sort of a woman is she?

I read all your English newspapers. I find them so amusing.

Then, my dear Nanjac, you must certainly read between the lines.

I should like to, but my professor objects. To Mabel Chiltern. May I have the pleasure of escorting you to the music room, Mademoiselle?

Can’t make out how you stand London Society. The thing has gone to the dogs, a lot of damned nobodies talking about nothing.

I love talking about nothing, father. It is the only thing I know anything about.

You seem to me to be living entirely for pleasure.

What else is there to live for, father?

Nothing ages like happiness.

You are heartless, sir, very heartless!

Arching two pretty eyebrows. Are you here? I had no idea you ever came to political parties!

I adore political parties. They are the only place left to us where people don’t talk politics.

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.

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.

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!

Pressing Lady Basildon’s hand. My poor Olivia!

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

I should have thought it was the husbands who were punished.

Brightening to a look of real pleasure. I am so glad to hear you say that. Marchmont and I have been married for seven years, and he has never once told me that I was morbid.

Men are so painfully unobservant!

Turning to her. I have always said, dear Margaret, that you were the most morbid person in London.

Oh, no! I can’t stand your English house-parties. In England people actually try to be brilliant at breakfast. That is so dreadful of them!

Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.

And then the family skeleton is always reading family prayers. My stay in England really depends on you, Sir Robert. Sits down on the sofa.

Believe me, Mrs. Cheveley, it is a swindle.

Let us call things by their proper names. It makes matters simpler.

We have all the information about it at the Foreign Office.

You know the sort of things ministers say in cases of this kind. A few ordinary platitudes will do.

In modern life nothing produces such an effect as a good platitude. It makes the whole world kin.

Will you do that for me?

In her most nonchalant manner. My dear Sir Robert, you are a man of the world, and you have your price, I suppose.

Everybody has nowadays. The drawback is that most people are so dreadfully expensive.

I know I am. I hope you will be more reasonable in your terms.

I intend to play quite fairly with you.

One should always play fairly⁠ ⁠… when one has the winning cards.

The Baron taught me that … amongst other things.

My father told me to go to bed an hour ago. I don’t see why I shouldn’t give you the same advice.

I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it.

It is never of any use to oneself.

Sadly.

One’s past is what one is. It is the only way by which people should be judged.

That is a hard saying, Gertrude!

But it is not, Robert; tell me it is not. Why should it be? What gain would you get? Money? We have no need of that! And money that comes from a tainted source is a degradation.

Power? But power is nothing in itself. It is power to do good that is fine⁠—that, and that only.

What is it, then? Robert, tell me why you are going to do this dishonourable thing!

So, at least, I am always told at the club by people who are bald enough to know better. But no man should have a secret from his own wife. She invariably finds it out.

Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover everything except the obvious.

Arthur, I couldn’t tell my wife. When could I have told her? Not last night.

All such experiments are terribly dangerous.

Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn’t so, life wouldn’t be worth living.

… Well, I am bound to say that I think you should have told her years ago.

Bitterly. Men who every day do something of the same kind themselves. Men who, each one of them, have worse secrets in their own lives.

That is the reason they are so pleased to find out other people’s secrets. It distracts public attention from their own.

And, after all, whom did I wrong by what I did? No one.

Is it fair, Arthur?

Life is never fair, Robert. And perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not.

Every man of ambition has to fight his century with its own weapons. What this century worships is wealth. The God of this century is wealth. To succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one must have wealth.

Every man of ambition has to fight his century with its own weapons. What this century worships is wealth.

The God of this century is wealth.

To succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one must have wealth.

When I was old, perhaps. When I had lost my passion for power, or could not use it. When I was tired, worn out, disappointed. I wanted my success when I was young.

Youth is the time for success. I couldn’t wait.

Well, you certainly have had your success while you are still young. No one in our day has had such a brilliant success. Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs at the age of forty—that’s good enough for anyone, I should think.

Ah! I prefer a gentlemanly fool any day.

There is more to be said for stupidity than people imagine.

Personally I have a great admiration for stupidity. It is a sort of fellow-feeling, I suppose. But how did he do it? Tell me the whole thing.

Before five years I had almost trebled my fortune. Since then everything that I have touched has turned out a success. In all things connected with money I have had a luck so extraordinary that sometimes it has made me almost afraid.

I remember having read somewhere, in some strange book, that when the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers.

But tell me, Robert, did you never suffer any regret for what you had done?

Never mind what I say, Robert! I am always saying what I shouldn’t say.

In fact, I usually say what I really think. A great mistake nowadays. It makes one so liable to be misunderstood.

As regards this dreadful business, I will help you in whatever way I can. Of course you know that.

Striking a bell. But it is worth while my wiring to Vienna, is it not?

It is always worth while asking a question, though it is not always worth while answering one.

Is Mr. Trafford in his room?

You have enabled me to tell you the truth. That is something.

The truth has always stifled me.

Ah! the truth is a thing I get rid of as soon as possible! Bad habit, by the way. Makes one very unpopular at the club … with the older members. They call it being conceited. Perhaps it is.

Reflecting. You are remarkably modern, Mabel. A little too modern, perhaps.

Nothing is so dangerous as being too modern. One is apt to grow old-fashioned quite suddenly.

I have known many instances of it.

The higher education of men is what I should like to see.

Men need it so sadly.

They do, dear. But I am afraid such a scheme would be quite unpractical. I don’t think man has much capacity for development. He has got as far as he can, and that is not far, is it?

He has got as far as he can, and that is not far, is it? With regard to women, well, dear Gertrude, you belong to the younger generation, and I am sure it is all right if you approve of it.

In my time, of course, we were taught not to understand anything.

That was the old system, and wonderfully interesting it was. I assure you that the amount of things I and my poor dear sister were taught not to understand was quite extraordinary. But modern women understand everything, I am told.

So do I.

Fathers have so much to learn from their sons nowadays.

The art of living. The only really Fine Art we have produced in modern times.

So do I. Fathers have so much to learn from their sons nowadays.

The art of living. The only really Fine Art we have produced in modern times.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Taking out old buttonhole. You see, Phipps,

Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear.

Just as vulgarity is simply the conduct of other people.

Putting in a new buttonhole. And falsehoods the truths of other people.

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

To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance, Phipps.

To herself. How thoughtful of him!

To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect.

Goes towards the drawing room and looks in. Ugh! How dreary a bachelor’s drawing room always looks. I shall have to alter all this. Phipps brings the lamp from the writing-table. No, I don’t care for that lamp. It is far too glaring.

Takes up letters. Oh, what a very uninteresting correspondence! Bills and cards, debts and dowagers! Who on earth writes to him on pink paper? How silly to write on pink paper! It looks like the beginning of a middle-class romance.

Romance should never begin with sentiment. It should begin with science and end with a settlement.

Puts letter down, then takes it up again. I know that handwriting. That is Gertrude Chiltern’s. I remember it perfectly. The ten commandments in every stroke of the pen, and the moral law all over the page. Wonder what Gertrude is writing to him about?

Oh! pray don’t.

One should never give a woman anything that she can’t wear in the evening.

I see you are quite as wilful as you used to be.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

Testily. I hate this affectation of youth, sir. It is a great deal too prevalent nowadays.

Youth isn’t an affectation. Youth is an art.

Why don’t you propose to that pretty Miss Chiltern?

You don’t deserve her, sir.

My dear father, if we men married the women we deserved, we should have a very bad time of it.

Oh! … How do you do, Lord Caversham? I hope Lady Caversham is quite well?

It is very good for you to be in the way, and to know what people say of you behind your back.

I don’t at all like knowing what people say of me behind my back. It makes me far too conceited.

After that, my dear, I really must bid you good morning.