Quotes by Oscar Wilde

He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro. Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made staccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other and smiled. “I am waiting,” he cried. “Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks.” They rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of the garden a thrush began to sing. “You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, looking at him. “Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?” “Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.” As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry’s arm. “In that case, let our friendship be a caprice,” he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and resumed his pose. Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him. The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything. After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. “It is quite finished,” he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas. Lord Henry came over and examined the picture.

See you soon. Good-bye! [_Exit_] SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. How beautiful you look to-night, Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. Robert, it is not true, is it? You are not going to lend your support to this Argentine speculation? You couldn’t! SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Starting_.] Who told you I intended to do so? LADY CHILTERN. That woman who has just gone out, Mrs. Cheveley, as she calls herself now. She seemed to taunt me with it. Robert, I know this woman. You don’t. We were at school together. She was untruthful, dishonest, an evil influence on every one whose trust or friendship she could win. I hated, I despised her. She stole things, she was a thief. She was sent away for being a thief. Why do you let her influence you? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, what you tell me may be true, but it happened many years ago. It is best forgotten! Mrs. Cheveley may have changed since then. No one should be entirely judged by their past. LADY CHILTERN. [_Sadly_.] One’s past is what one is. It is the only way by which people should be judged. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That is a hard saying, Gertrude! LADY CHILTERN. It is a true saying, Robert. And what did she mean by boasting that she had got you to lend your support, your name, to a thing I have heard you describe as the most dishonest and fraudulent scheme there has ever been in political life? SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Biting his lip_.] I was mistaken in the view I took. We all may make mistakes. LADY CHILTERN. But you told me yesterday that you had received the report from the Commission, and that it entirely condemned the whole thing. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Walking up and down_.] I have reasons now to believe that the Commission was prejudiced, or, at any rate, misinformed. Besides, Gertrude, public and private life are different things. They have different laws, and move on different lines. LADY CHILTERN. They should both represent man at his highest. I see no difference between them. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [_Stopping_.] In the present case, on a matter of practical politics, I have changed my mind.

If we had ‘these hard and fast rules,’ we should find life much more simple. LORD DARLINGTON. You allow of no exceptions? LADY WINDERMERE. None! LORD DARLINGTON. Ah, what a fascinating Puritan you are, Lady Windermere! LADY WINDERMERE. The adjective was unnecessary, Lord Darlington. LORD DARLINGTON. I couldn’t help it. I can resist everything except temptation. LADY WINDERMERE. You have the modern affectation of weakness. LORD DARLINGTON. [_Looking at her_.] It’s only an affectation, Lady Windermere. [_Enter_ PARKER _C._] PARKER. The Duchess of Berwick and Lady Agatha Carlisle. [_Enter the_ DUCHESS OF BERWICK and LADY AGATHA CARLISLE _C._] [_Exit_ PARKER _C._] DUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_Coming down C._, _and shaking hands_.] Dear Margaret, I am so pleased to see you. You remember Agatha, don’t you? [_Crossing L.C._] How do you do, Lord Darlington? I won’t let you know my daughter, you are far too wicked. LORD DARLINGTON. Don’t say that, Duchess. As a wicked man I am a complete failure. Why, there are lots of people who say I have never really done anything wrong in the whole course of my life. Of course they only say it behind my back. DUCHESS OF BERWICK. Isn’t he dreadful? Agatha, this is Lord Darlington. Mind you don’t believe a word he says. [LORD DARLINGTON _crosses R.C._] No, no tea, thank you, dear. [_Crosses and sits on sofa_.] We have just had tea at Lady Markby’s. Such bad tea, too. It was quite undrinkable. I wasn’t at all surprised. Her own son-in-law supplies it. Agatha is looking forward so much to your ball to-night, dear Margaret. LADY WINDERMERE. [_Seated L.C._] Oh, you mustn’t think it is going to be a ball, Duchess. It is only a dance in honour of my birthday. A small and early. LORD DARLINGTON. [_Standing L.C._] Very small, very early, and very select, Duchess. DUCHESS OF BERWICK. [_On sofa L._] Of course it’s going to be select. But we know _that_, dear Margaret, about _your_ house. It is really one of the few houses in London where I can take Agatha, and where I feel perfectly secure about dear Berwick. I don’t know what society is coming to. The most dreadful people seem to go everywhere.

His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. Three o’clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven. Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry’s voice outside. “My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can’t bear your shutting yourself up like this.” He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. “I am so sorry for it all, Dorian,” said Lord Henry as he entered. “But you must not think too much about it.” “Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?” asked the lad. “Yes, of course,” answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. “It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault.

He is sure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives.” “I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don’t want to see Dorian tied to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect.” “Oh, she is better than good—she is beautiful,” murmured Lord Henry, sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. “Dorian says she is beautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn’t forget his appointment.” “Are you serious?” “Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever be more serious than I am at the present moment.” “But do you approve of it, Harry?” asked the painter, walking up and down the room and biting his lip. “You can’t approve of it, possibly. It is some silly infatuation.” “I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality selects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not? If he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting. You know I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other egos. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more highly organized, and to be highly organized is, I should fancy, the object of man’s existence. Besides, every experience is of value, and whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one else.

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 attachés 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 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.

More marriages are ruined nowadays by the common sense of the husband than by anything else. How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly rational being? LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear! MRS. ALLONBY. Man, poor, awkward, reliable, necessary man belongs to a sex that has been rational for millions and millions of years. He can’t help himself. It is in his race. The History of Woman is very different. We have always been picturesque protests against the mere existence of common sense. We saw its dangers from the first. LADY STUTFIELD. Yes, the common sense of husbands is certainly most, most trying. Do tell me your conception of the Ideal Husband. I think it would be so very, very helpful. MRS. ALLONBY. The Ideal Husband? There couldn’t be such a thing. The institution is wrong. LADY STUTFIELD. The Ideal Man, then, in his relations to _us_. LADY CAROLINE. He would probably be extremely realistic. MRS. ALLONBY. The Ideal Man! Oh, the Ideal Man should talk to us as if we were goddesses, and treat us as if we were children. He should refuse all our serious requests, and gratify every one of our whims. He should encourage us to have caprices, and forbid us to have missions. He should always say much more than he means, and always mean much more than he says. LADY HUNSTANTON. But how could he do both, dear? MRS. ALLONBY. He should never run down other pretty women. That would show he had no taste, or make one suspect that he had too much. No; he should be nice about them all, but say that somehow they don’t attract him. LADY STUTFIELD. Yes, that is always very, very pleasant to hear about other women. MRS. ALLONBY. If we ask him a question about anything, he should give us an answer all about ourselves. He should invariably praise us for whatever qualities he knows we haven’t got. But he should be pitiless, quite pitiless, in reproaching us for the virtues that we have never dreamed of possessing. He should never believe that we know the use of useful things. That would be unforgiveable. But he should shower on us everything we don’t want. LADY CAROLINE. As far as I can see, he is to do nothing but pay bills and compliments.

If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything, even our gigantic intellects. MRS. ALLONBY. It is premature to ask us to forgive analysis. We forgive adoration; that is quite as much as should be expected from us. [_Enter_ LORD ALFRED. _He joins_ LADY STUTFIELD.] LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! we women should forgive everything, shouldn’t we, dear Mrs. Arbuthnot? I am sure you agree with me in that. MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I do not, Lady Hunstanton. I think there are many things women should never forgive. LADY HUNSTANTON. What sort of things? MRS. ARBUTHNOT. The ruin of another woman’s life. [_Moves slowly away to back of stage_.] LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! those things are very sad, no doubt, but I believe there are admirable homes where people of that kind are looked after and reformed, and I think on the whole that the secret of life is to take things very, very easily. MRS. ALLONBY. The secret of life is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. LADY STUTFIELD. The secret of life is to appreciate the pleasure of being terribly, terribly deceived. KELVIL. The secret of life is to resist temptation, Lady Stutfield. LORD ILLINGWORTH. There is no secret of life. Life’s aim, if it has one, is simply to be always looking for temptations. There are not nearly enough. I sometimes pass a whole day without coming across a single one. It is quite dreadful. It makes one so nervous about the future. LADY HUNSTANTON. [_Shakes her fan at him_.] I don’t know how it is, dear Lord Illingworth, but everything you have said to-day seems to me excessively immoral. It has been most interesting, listening to you. LORD ILLINGWORTH. All thought is immoral. Its very essence is destruction. If you think of anything, you kill it. Nothing survives being thought of. LADY HUNSTANTON. I don’t understand a word, Lord Illingworth. But I have no doubt it is all quite true. Personally, I have very little to reproach myself with, on the score of thinking. I don’t believe in women thinking too much. Women should think in moderation, as they should do all things in moderation.

It can be bought, and sold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is a soul in each one of us. I know it.” “Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?” “Quite sure.” “Ah! then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely certain about are never true. That is the fatality of faith, and the lesson of romance. How grave you are! Don’t be so serious. What have you or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No: we have given up our belief in the soul. Play me something. Play me a nocturne, Dorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept your youth. You must have some secret. I am only ten years older than you are, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. You are really wonderful, Dorian. You have never looked more charming than you do to-night. You remind me of the day I saw you first. You were rather cheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of course, but not in appearance. I wish you would tell me your secret. To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable. Youth! There is nothing like it. It’s absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth. The only people to whose opinions I listen now with any respect are people much younger than myself. They seem in front of me. Life has revealed to them her latest wonder. As for the aged, I always contradict the aged. I do it on principle. If you ask them their opinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in 1820, when people wore high stocks, believed in everything, and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that thing you are playing is! I wonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca, with the sea weeping round the villa and the salt spray dashing against the panes? It is marvellously romantic. What a blessing it is that there is one art left to us that is not imitative! Don’t stop. I want music to-night. It seems to me that you are the young Apollo and that I am Marsyas listening to you. I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of. The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young.

It looks so calculating. Emotion for the sake of emotion is the aim of art, and emotion for the sake of emotion is the aim of life and of that practical organisation of life that we call society. Men of the noblest possible moral character are extremely susceptible to the influence of the physical charms of others. Modern, no less than ancient, history supplies us with many most painful examples of what I refer to. If it were not so, indeed, history would be quite unreadable. I am not in favour of long engagements. They give people the opportunity of finding out each other's character before marriage, which I think is never advisable. It is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. The two weak points in our age are its want of principle and its want of profile. Thirty-five is a very attractive age. London society is full of women who have of their own free choice remained thirty-five for years. Never speak disrespectfully of society. Only people who can't get into it do that. It is always painful to part with people whom one has known for a very brief space of time. The absence of old friends one can endure with equanimity. But even a momentary separation from anyone to whom one has just been introduced is almost unbearable. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic. One is tempted to define man as a rational animal who always loses his temper when he is called upon to act in accordance with the dictates of reason. The essence of thought, as the essence of life, is growth. What people call insincerity is simply a method by which we can multiply our personalities. In a temple everyone should be serious except the thing that is worshipped. We are never more true to ourselves than when we are inconsistent. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Intellectual generalities are always interesting, but generalities in morals mean absolutely nothing.

My dear boy, if I wasn’t the most good-natured man in London— CECIL GRAHAM. We’d treat you with more respect, wouldn’t we, Tuppy? [_Strolls away_.] DUMBY. The youth of the present day are quite monstrous. They have absolutely no respect for dyed hair. [LORD AUGUSTUS _looks round angrily_.] CECIL GRAHAM. Mrs. Erlynne has a very great respect for dear Tuppy. DUMBY. Then Mrs. Erlynne sets an admirable example to the rest of her sex. It is perfectly brutal the way most women nowadays behave to men who are not their husbands. LORD WINDERMERE. Dumby, you are ridiculous, and Cecil, you let your tongue run away with you. You must leave Mrs. Erlynne alone. You don’t really know anything about her, and you’re always talking scandal against her. CECIL GRAHAM. [_Coming towards him L.C._] My dear Arthur, I never talk scandal. _I_ only talk gossip. LORD WINDERMERE. What is the difference between scandal and gossip? CECIL GRAHAM. Oh! gossip is charming! History is merely gossip. But scandal is gossip made tedious by morality. Now, I never moralise. A man who moralises is usually a hypocrite, and a woman who moralises is invariably plain. There is nothing in the whole world so unbecoming to a woman as a Nonconformist conscience. And most women know it, I’m glad to say. LORD AUGUSTUS. Just my sentiments, dear boy, just my sentiments. CECIL GRAHAM. Sorry to hear it, Tuppy; whenever people agree with me, I always feel I must be wrong. LORD AUGUSTUS. My dear boy, when I was your age— CECIL GRAHAM. But you never were, Tuppy, and you never will be. [_Goes up C._] I say, Darlington, let us have some cards. You’ll play, Arthur, won’t you? LORD WINDERMERE. No, thanks, Cecil. DUMBY. [_With a sigh_.] Good heavens! how marriage ruins a man! It’s as demoralising as cigarettes, and far more expensive. CECIL GRAHAM. You’ll play, of course, Tuppy? LORD AUGUSTUS. [_Pouring himself out a brandy and soda at table_.] Can’t, dear boy.

It is that you have never made love to me. LORD ILLINGWORTH. I have never done anything else. MRS. ALLONBY. Really? I have not noticed it. LORD ILLINGWORTH. How fortunate! It might have been a tragedy for both of us. MRS. ALLONBY. We should each have survived. LORD ILLINGWORTH. One can survive everything nowadays, except death, and live down anything except a good reputation. MRS. ALLONBY. Have you tried a good reputation? LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is one of the many annoyances to which I have never been subjected. MRS. ALLONBY. It may come. LORD ILLINGWORTH. Why do you threaten me? MRS. ALLONBY. I will tell you when you have kissed the Puritan. [_Enter Footman_.] FRANCIS. Tea is served in the Yellow Drawing-room, my lord. LORD ILLINGWORTH. Tell her ladyship we are coming in. FRANCIS. Yes, my lord. [_Exit_.] LORD ILLINGWORTH. Shall we go in to tea? MRS. ALLONBY. Do you like such simple pleasures? LORD ILLINGWORTH. I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex. But, if you wish, let us stay here. Yes, let us stay here. The Book of Life begins with a man and a woman in a garden. MRS. ALLONBY. It ends with Revelations. LORD ILLINGWORTH. You fence divinely. But the button has come off your foil. MRS. ALLONBY. I have still the mask. LORD ILLINGWORTH. It makes your eyes lovelier. MRS. ALLONBY. Thank you. Come. LORD ILLINGWORTH. [_Sees_ MRS. ARBUTHNOT’S _letter on table_, _and takes it up and looks at envelope_.] What a curious handwriting! It reminds me of the handwriting of a woman I used to know years ago. MRS. ALLONBY. Who? LORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh! no one. No one in particular. A woman of no importance. [_Throws letter down_, _and passes up the steps of the terrace with_ MRS. ALLONBY. _They smile at each other_.] ACT DROP. SECOND ACT SCENE _Drawing-room at Hunstanton_, _after dinner_, _lamps lit_. _Door_ L.C. _Door_ R.

” “That you may censure it the better.” “Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?” he inquired. “What do they say of us?” “That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop.” “Is that yours, Harry?” “I give it to you.” “I could not use it. It is too true.” “You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description.” “They are practical.” “They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy.” “Still, we have done great things.” “Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys.” “We have carried their burden.” “Only as far as the Stock Exchange.” She shook her head. “I believe in the race,” she cried. “It represents the survival of the pushing.” “It has development.” “Decay fascinates me more.” “What of art?” she asked. “It is a malady.” “Love?” “An illusion.” “Religion?” “The fashionable substitute for belief.” “You are a sceptic.” “Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith.” “What are you?” “To define is to limit.” “Give me a clue.” “Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth.” “You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else.” “Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming.” “Ah! don’t remind me of that,” cried Dorian Gray. “Our host is rather horrid this evening,” answered the duchess, colouring. “I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly.” “Well, I hope he won’t stick pins into you, Duchess,” laughed Dorian. “Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me.” “And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?” “For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight.” “How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning.” “I daren’t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me.

You mustn’t laugh, I am quite serious. I don’t like compliments, and I don’t see why a man should think he is pleasing a woman enormously when he says to her a whole heap of things that he doesn’t mean. LORD DARLINGTON. Ah, but I did mean them. [_Takes tea which she offers him_.] LADY WINDERMERE. [_Gravely_.] I hope not. I should be sorry to have to quarrel with you, Lord Darlington. I like you very much, you know that. But I shouldn’t like you at all if I thought you were what most other men are. Believe me, you are better than most other men, and I sometimes think you pretend to be worse. LORD DARLINGTON. We all have our little vanities, Lady Windermere. LADY WINDERMERE. Why do you make that your special one? [_Still seated at table L._] LORD DARLINGTON. [_Still seated L.C._] Oh, nowadays so many conceited people go about Society pretending to be good, that I think it shows rather a sweet and modest disposition to pretend to be bad. Besides, there is this to be said. If you pretend to be good, the world takes you very seriously. If you pretend to be bad, it doesn’t. Such is the astounding stupidity of optimism. LADY WINDERMERE. Don’t you _want_ the world to take you seriously then, Lord Darlington? LORD DARLINGTON. No, not the world. Who are the people the world takes seriously? All the dull people one can think of, from the Bishops down to the bores. I should like _you_ to take me very seriously, Lady Windermere, _you_ more than any one else in life. LADY WINDERMERE. Why—why me? LORD DARLINGTON. [_After a slight hesitation_.] Because I think we might be great friends. Let us be great friends. You may want a friend some day. LADY WINDERMERE. Why do you say that? LORD DARLINGTON. Oh!—we all want friends at times. LADY WINDERMERE. I think we’re very good friends already, Lord Darlington. We can always remain so as long as you don’t— LORD DARLINGTON. Don’t what? LADY WINDERMERE. Don’t spoil it by saying extravagant silly things to me. You think I am a Puritan, I suppose? Well, I have something of the Puritan in me. I was brought up like that.

And till you count what is a shame in a woman to be an infamy in a man, you will always be unjust, and Right, that pillar of fire, and Wrong, that pillar of cloud, will be made dim to your eyes, or be not seen at all, or if seen, not regarded. LADY CAROLINE. Might I, dear Miss Worsley, as you are standing up, ask you for my cotton that is just behind you? Thank you. LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear Mrs. Arbuthnot! I am so pleased you have come up. But I didn’t hear you announced. MRS. ALLONBY. Oh, I came straight in from the terrace, Lady Hunstanton, just as I was. You didn’t tell me you had a party. LADY HUNSTANTON. Not a party. Only a few guests who are staying in the house, and whom you must know. Allow me. [_Tries to help her_. _Rings bell_.] Caroline, this is Mrs. Arbuthnot, one of my sweetest friends. Lady Caroline Pontefract, Lady Stutfield, Mrs. Allonby, and my young American friend, Miss Worsley, who has just been telling us all how wicked we are. HESTER. I am afraid you think I spoke too strongly, Lady Hunstanton. But there are some things in England— LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear young lady, there was a great deal of truth, I dare say, in what you said, and you looked very pretty while you said it, which is much more important, Lord Illingworth would tell us. The only point where I thought you were a little hard was about Lady Caroline’s brother, about poor Lord Henry. He is really such good company. [_Enter Footman_.] Take Mrs. Arbuthnot’s things. [_Exit Footman with wraps_.] HESTER. Lady Caroline, I had no idea it was your brother. I am sorry for the pain I must have caused you—I— LADY CAROLINE. My dear Miss Worsley, the only part of your little speech, if I may so term it, with which I thoroughly agreed, was the part about my brother. Nothing that you could possibly say could be too bad for him. I regard Henry as infamous, absolutely infamous. But I am bound to state, as you were remarking, Jane, that he is excellent company, and he has one of the best cooks in London, and after a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations. LADY HUNSTANTON [_to_ MISS WORSLEY] Now, do come, dear, and make friends with Mrs. Arbuthnot. She is one of the good, sweet, simple people you told us we never admitted into society.

Through the streets of Jerusalem at the present day crawls one who is mad and carries a wooden cross on his shoulders. He is a symbol of the lives that are marred by imitation. Father Damien was Christlike when he went out to live with the lepers, because in such service he realised fully what was best in him. But he was not more Christlike than Wagner when he realised his soul in music; or than Shelley, when he realised his soul in song. There is no one type for man. There are as many perfections as there are imperfect men. And while to the claims of charity a man may yield and yet be free, to the claims of conformity no man may yield and remain free at all. Individualism, then, is what through Socialism we are to attain to. As a natural result the State must give up all idea of government. It must give it up because, as a wise man once said many centuries before Christ, there is such a thing as leaving mankind alone; there is no such thing as governing mankind. All modes of government are failures. Despotism is unjust to everybody, including the despot, who was probably made for better things. Oligarchies are unjust to the many, and ochlocracies are unjust to the few. High hopes were once formed of democracy; but democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people by the people for the people. It has been found out. I must say that it was high time, for all authority is quite degrading. It degrades those who exercise it, and degrades those over whom it is exercised. When it is violently, grossly, and cruelly used, it produces a good effect, by creating, or at any rate bringing out, the spirit of revolt and Individualism that is to kill it. When it is used with a certain amount of kindness, and accompanied by prizes and rewards, it is dreadfully demoralising. People, in that case, are less conscious of the horrible pressure that is being put on them, and so go through their lives in a sort of coarse comfort, like petted animals, without ever realising that they are probably thinking other people’s thoughts, living by other people’s standards, wearing practically what one may call other people’s second-hand clothes, and never being themselves for a single moment.

” “I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,” said Lord Henry, elevating his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile. “So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.” “I am afraid I must be going,” exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. “I have promised to drive with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury’s.” “I dare say, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa. “Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian,” he said after a few puffs. “Why, Harry?” “Because they are so sentimental.” “But I like sentimental people.” “Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.” “I don’t think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do everything that you say.” “Who are you in love with?” asked Lord Henry after a pause. “With an actress,” said Dorian Gray, blushing. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “That is a rather commonplace _début_.” “You would not say so if you saw her, Harry.” “Who is she?” “Her name is Sibyl Vane.” “Never heard of her.” “No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius.” “My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals.” “Harry, how can you?” “My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and the coloured.

“But really, if you all worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry again so as to be in the fashion.” “You will never marry again, Lady Narborough,” broke in Lord Henry. “You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs.” “Narborough wasn’t perfect,” cried the old lady. “If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady,” was the rejoinder. “Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough, but it is quite true.” “Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however, that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like bachelors, and all the bachelors like married men.” “_Fin de siêcle_,” murmured Lord Henry. “_Fin du globe_,” answered his hostess. “I wish it were _fin du globe_,” said Dorian with a sigh. “Life is a great disappointment.” “Ah, my dear,” cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, “don’t tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows that life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I sometimes wish that I had been; but you are made to be good—you look so good. I must find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don’t you think that Mr. Gray should get married?” “I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry with a bow. “Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go through Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the eligible young ladies.” “With their ages, Lady Narborough?” asked Dorian. “Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done in a hurry. I want it to be what _The Morning Post_ calls a suitable alliance, and I want you both to be happy.

They always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you. Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them do it by going in for sentimental colours. Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. It always means that they have a history. Others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one’s face, as if it were the most fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me, and I can quite understand it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes; there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one.” “What is that, Harry?” said the lad listlessly. “Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else’s admirer when one loses one’s own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her death. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen. They make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with, such as romance, passion, and love.” “I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that.” “I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more than anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I have never seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how delightful you looked.

MRS. ALLONBY. They are uninteresting then. LORD ILLINGWORTH. How tantalising you are! [_A pause_.] MRS. ALLONBY. Lord Illingworth, there is one thing I shall always like you for. LORD ILLINGWORTH. Only one thing? And I have so many bad qualities. MRS. ALLONBY. Ah, don’t be too conceited about them. You may lose them as you grow old. LORD ILLINGWORTH. I never intend to grow old. The soul is born old but grows young. That is the comedy of life. MRS. ALLONBY. And the body is born young and grows old. That is life’s tragedy. LORD ILLINGWORTH. Its comedy also, sometimes. But what is the mysterious reason why you will always like me? MRS. ALLONBY. It is that you have never made love to me. LORD ILLINGWORTH. I have never done anything else. MRS. ALLONBY. Really? I have not noticed it. LORD ILLINGWORTH. How fortunate! It might have been a tragedy for both of us. MRS. ALLONBY. We should each have survived. LORD ILLINGWORTH. One can survive everything nowadays, except death, and live down anything except a good reputation. MRS. ALLONBY. Have you tried a good reputation? LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is one of the many annoyances to which I have never been subjected. MRS. ALLONBY. It may come. LORD ILLINGWORTH. Why do you threaten me? MRS. ALLONBY. I will tell you when you have kissed the Puritan. [_Enter Footman_.] FRANCIS. Tea is served in the Yellow Drawing-room, my lord. LORD ILLINGWORTH. Tell her ladyship we are coming in. FRANCIS. Yes, my lord. [_Exit_.] LORD ILLINGWORTH. Shall we go in to tea? MRS. ALLONBY. Do you like such simple pleasures? LORD ILLINGWORTH. I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex. But, if you wish, let us stay here. Yes, let us stay here. The Book of Life begins with a man and a woman in a garden. MRS. ALLONBY. It ends with Revelations. LORD ILLINGWORTH. You fence divinely. But the button has come off your foil. MRS. ALLONBY. I have still the mask. LORD ILLINGWORTH. It makes your eyes lovelier.