Lady Windermere's Fan (8 page)

LADY WINDERMERE. Yes; let us go away to-day. No; I can't go to-
day, Arthur. There is some one I must see before I leave town—
some one who has been kind to me.

LORD WINDERMERE.
(Rising and leaning over sofa.)
Kind to you?

LADY WINDERMERE. Far more than that.
(Rises and goes to him.)
I
will tell you, Arthur, but only love me, love me as you used to
love me.

LORD WINDERMERE. Used to? You are not thinking of that wretched
woman who came here last night?
(Coming round and sitting R. of
her.)
You don't still imagine—no, you couldn't.

LADY WINDERMERE. I don't. I know now I was wrong and foolish.

LORD WINDERMERE. It was very good of you to receive her last
night—but you are never to see her again.

LADY WINDERMERE. Why do you say that?
(A pause.)

LORD WINDERMERE.
(Holding her hand.)
Margaret, I thought Mrs.
Erlynne was a woman more sinned against than sinning, as the phrase
goes. I thought she wanted to be good, to get back into a place
that she had lost by a moment's folly, to lead again a decent life.
I believed what she told me—I was mistaken in her. She is bad—as
bad as a woman can be.

LADY WINDERMERE. Arthur, Arthur, don't talk so bitterly about any
woman. I don't think now that people can be divided into the good
and the bad as though they were two separate races or creations.
What are called good women may have terrible things in them, mad
moods of recklessness, assertion, jealousy, sin. Bad women, as
they are termed, may have in them sorrow, repentance, pity,
sacrifice. And I don't think Mrs. Erlynne a bad woman—I know
she's not.

LORD WINDERMERE. My dear child, the woman's impossible. No matter
what harm she tries to do us, you must never see her again. She is
inadmissible anywhere.

LADY WINDERMERE. But I want to see her. I want her to come here.

LORD WINDERMERE. Never!

LADY WINDERMERE. She came here once as YOUR guest. She must come
now as MINE. That is but fair.

LORD WINDERMERE. She should never have come here.

LADY WINDERMERE.
(Rising.)
It is too late, Arthur, to say that
now.
(Moves away.)

LORD WINDERMERE.
(Rising.)
Margaret, if you knew where Mrs.
Erlynne went last night, after she left this house, you would not
sit in the same room with her. It was absolutely shameless, the
whole thing.

LADY WINDERMERE. Arthur, I can't bear it any longer. I must tell
you. Last night -

(Enter PARKER with a tray on which lie LADY WINDERMERE'S fan and a
card.)

PARKER. Mrs. Erlynne has called to return your ladyship's fan
which she took away by mistake last night. Mrs. Erlynne has
written a message on the card.

LADY WINDERMERE. Oh, ask Mrs. Erlynne to be kind enough to come
up.
(Reads card.)
Say I shall be very glad to see her.
(Exit
PARKER.)
She wants to see me, Arthur.

LORD WINDERMERE.
(Takes card and looks at it.)
Margaret, I BEG
you not to. Let me see her first, at any rate. She's a very
dangerous woman. She is the most dangerous woman I know. You
don't realise what you're doing.

LADY WINDERMERE. It is right that I should see her.

LORD WINDERMERE. My child, you may be on the brink of a great
sorrow. Don't go to meet it. It is absolutely necessary that I
should see her before you do.

LADY WINDERMERE. Why should it be necessary?

(Enter PARKER.)

PARKER. Mrs. Erlynne.

(Enter MRS. ERLYNNE.)

(Exit PARKER.)

MRS. ERLYNNE. How do you do, Lady Windermere?
(To LORD
WINDERMERE.)
How do you do? Do you know, Lady Windermere, I am so
sorry about your fan. I can't imagine how I made such a silly
mistake. Most stupid of me. And as I was driving in your
direction, I thought I would take the opportunity of returning your
property in person with many apologies for my carelessness, and of
bidding you good-bye.

LADY WINDERMERE. Good-bye?
(Moves towards sofa with MRS. ERLYNNE
and sits down beside her.)
Are you going away, then, Mrs. Erlynne?

MRS. ERLYNNE. Yes; I am going to live abroad again. The English
climate doesn't suit me. My—heart is affected here, and that I
don't like. I prefer living in the south. London is too full of
fogs and—and serious people, Lord Windermere. Whether the fogs
produce the serious people or whether the serious people produce
the fogs, I don't know, but the whole thing rather gets on my
nerves, and so I'm leaving this afternoon by the Club Train.

LADY WINDERMERE. This afternoon? But I wanted so much to come and
see you.

MRS. ERLYNNE. How kind of you! But I am afraid I have to go.

LADY WINDERMERE. Shall I never see you again, Mrs. Erlynne?

MRS. ERLYNNE. I am afraid not. Our lives lie too far apart. But
there is a little thing I would like you to do for me. I want a
photograph of you, Lady Windermere—would you give me one? You
don't know how gratified I should be.

LADY WINDERMERE. Oh, with pleasure. There is one on that table.
I'll show it to you.
(Goes across to the table.)

LORD WINDERMERE.
(Coming up to MRS. ERLYNNE and speaking in a low
voice.)
It is monstrous your intruding yourself here after your
conduct last night.

MRS. ERLYNNE.
(With an amused smile.)
My dear Windermere, manners
before morals!

LADY WINDERMERE.
(Returning.)
I'm afraid it is very flattering—I
am not so pretty as that.
(Showing photograph.)

MRS. ERLYNNE. You are much prettier. But haven't you got one of
yourself with your little boy?

LADY WINDERMERE. I have. Would you prefer one of those?

MRS. ERLYNNE. Yes.

LADY WINDERMERE. I'll go and get it for you, if you'll excuse me
for a moment. I have one upstairs.

MRS. ERLYNNE. So sorry, Lady Windermere, to give you so much
trouble.

LADY WINDERMERE.
(Moves to door R.)
No trouble at all, Mrs.
Erlynne.

MRS. ERLYNNE. Thanks so much.

(Exit LADY WINDERMERE R.)
You seem rather out of temper this
morning, Windermere. Why should you be? Margaret and I get on
charmingly together.

LORD WINDERMERE. I can't bear to see you with her. Besides, you
have not told me the truth, Mrs. Erlynne.

MRS. ERLYNNE. I have not told HER the truth, you mean.

LORD WINDERMERE.
(Standing C.)
I sometimes wish you had. I
should have been spared then the misery, the anxiety, the annoyance
of the last six months. But rather than my wife should know—that
the mother whom she was taught to consider as dead, the mother whom
she has mourned as dead, is living—a divorced woman, going about
under an assumed name, a bad woman preying upon life, as I know you
now to be—rather than that, I was ready to supply you with money
to pay bill after bill, extravagance after extravagance, to risk
what occurred yesterday, the first quarrel I have ever had with my
wife. You don't understand what that means to me. How could you?
But I tell you that the only bitter words that ever came from those
sweet lips of hers were on your account, and I hate to see you next
her. You sully the innocence that is in her.
(Moves L.C.)
And
then I used to think that with all your faults you were frank and
honest. You are not.

MRS. ERLYNNE. Why do you say that?

LORD WINDERMERE. You made me get you an invitation to my wife's
ball.

MRS. ERLYNNE. For my daughter's ball—yes.

LORD WINDERMERE. You came, and within an hour of your leaving the
house you are found in a man's rooms—you are disgraced before
every one.
(Goes up stage C.)

MRS. ERLYNNE. Yes.

LORD WINDERMERE.
(Turning round on her.)
Therefore I have a right
to look upon you as what you are—a worthless, vicious woman. I
have the right to tell you never to enter this house, never to
attempt to come near my wife -

MRS. ERLYNNE.
(Coldly.)
My daughter, you mean.

LORD WINDERMERE. You have no right to claim her as your daughter.
You left her, abandoned her when she was but a child in the cradle,
abandoned her for your lover, who abandoned you in turn.

MRS. ERLYNNE.
(Rising.)
Do you count that to his credit, Lord
Windermere—or to mine?

LORD WINDERMERE. To his, now that I know you.

MRS. ERLYNNE. Take care—you had better be careful.

LORD WINDERMERE. Oh, I am not going to mince words for you. I
know you thoroughly.

MRS. ERLYNNE.
(Looks steadily at him.)
I question that.

LORD WINDERMERE. I DO know you. For twenty years of your life you
lived without your child, without a thought of your child. One day
you read in the papers that she had married a rich man. You saw
your hideous chance. You knew that to spare her the ignominy of
learning that a woman like you was her mother, I would endure
anything. You began your blackmailing,

MRS. ERLYNNE.
(Shrugging her shoulders.)
Don't use ugly words,
Windermere. They are vulgar. I saw my chance, it is true, and
took it.

LORD WINDERMERE. Yes, you took it—and spoiled it all last night
by being found out.

MRS. ERLYNNE.
(With a strange smile.)
You are quite right, I
spoiled it all last night.

LORD WINDERMERE. And as for your blunder in taking my wife's fan
from here and then leaving it about in Darlington's rooms, it is
unpardonable. I can't bear the sight of it now. I shall never let
my wife use it again. The thing is soiled for me. You should have
kept it and not brought it back.

MRS. ERLYNNE. I think I shall keep it.
(Goes up.)
It's extremely
pretty.
(Takes up fan.)
I shall ask Margaret to give it to me.

LORD WINDERMERE. I hope my wife will give it you.

MRS. ERLYNNE. Oh, I'm sure she will have no objection.

LORD WINDERMERE. I wish that at the same time she would give you a
miniature she kisses every night before she prays—It's the
miniature of a young innocent-looking girl with beautiful DARK
hair.

MRS. ERLYNNE. Ah, yes, I remember. How long ago that seems!
(Goes to sofa and sits down.)
It was done before I was married.
Dark hair and an innocent expression were the fashion then,
Windermere!
(A pause.)

LORD WINDERMERE. What do you mean by coming here this morning?
What is your object?
(Crossing L.C. and sitting.)

MRS. ERLYNNE.
(With a note of irony in her voice.)
To bid good-
bye to my dear daughter, of course.
(LORD WINDERMERE bites his
under lip in anger. MRS. ERLYNNE looks at him, and her voice and
manner become serious. In her accents at she talks there is a note
of deep tragedy. For a moment she reveals herself.)
Oh, don't
imagine I am going to have a pathetic scene with her, weep on her
neck and tell her who I am, and all that kind of thing. I have no
ambition to play the part of a mother. Only once in my life like I
known a mother's feelings. That was last night. They were
terrible—they made me suffer—they made me suffer too much. For
twenty years, as you say, I have lived childless,—I want to live
childless still.
(Hiding her feelings with a trivial laugh.)
Besides, my dear Windermere, how on earth could I pose as a mother
with a grown-up daughter? Margaret is twenty-one, and I have never
admitted that I am more than twenty-nine, or thirty at the most.
Twenty-nine when there are pink shades, thirty when there are not.
So you see what difficulties it would involve. No, as far as I am
concerned, let your wife cherish the memory of this dead, stainless
mother. Why should I interfere with her illusions? I find it hard
enough to keep my own. I lost one illusion last night. I thought
I had no heart. I find I have, and a heart doesn't suit me,
Windermere. Somehow it doesn't go with modern dress. It makes one
look old.
(Takes up hand-mirror from table and looks into it.)
And it spoils one's career at critical moments.

LORD WINDERMERE. You fill me with horror—with absolute horror.

MRS. ERLYNNE.
(Rising.)
I suppose, Windermere, you would like me
to retire into a convent, or become a hospital nurse, or something
of that kind, as people do in silly modern novels. That is stupid
of you, Arthur; in real life we don't do such things—not as long
as we have any good looks left, at any rate. No—what consoles one
nowadays is not repentance, but pleasure. Repentance is quite out
of date. And besides, if a woman really repents, she has to go to
a bad dressmaker, otherwise no one believes in her. And nothing in
the world would induce me to do that. No; I am going to pass
entirely out of your two lives. My coming into them has been a
mistake—I discovered that last night.

LORD WINDERMERE. A fatal mistake.

MRS. ERLYNNE.
(Smiling.)
Almost fatal.

LORD WINDERMERE. I am sorry now I did not tell my wife the whole
thing at once.

MRS. ERLYNNE. I regret my bad actions. You regret your good ones-
-that is the difference between us.

LORD WINDERMERE. I don't trust you. I WILL tell my wife. It's
better for her to know, and from me. It will cause her infinite
pain—it will humiliate her terribly, but it's right that she
should know.

MRS. ERLYNNE. You propose to tell her?

LORD WINDERMERE. I am going to tell her.

MRS. ERLYNNE.
(Going up to him.)
If you do, I will make my name
so infamous that it will mar every moment of her life. It will
ruin her, and make her wretched. If you dare to tell her, there is
no depth of degradation I will not sink to, no pit of shame I will
not enter. You shall not tell her—I forbid you.