Lady Windermere's Fan

Par : Oscar Wilde

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  • Nombre de pages79
  • FormatePub
  • ISBN978-3-7494-3295-0
  • EAN9783749432950
  • Date de parution11/03/2019
  • Protection num.Digital Watermarking
  • Taille517 Ko
  • Infos supplémentairesepub
  • ÉditeurA PRECISER

Résumé

Lord Darlington. How do you do, Lady Windermere? Lady Windermere. How do you do, Lord Darlington? No, I can't shake hands with you. My hands are all wet with these roses. Aren't they lovely? They came up from Selby this morning. Lord Darlington. They are quite perfect. [Sees a fan lying on the table.] And what a wonderful fan! May I look at it? Lady Windermere. Do. Pretty, isn't it! It's got my name on it, and everything.
I have only just seen it myself. It's my husband's birthday present to me. You know today is my birthday? Lord Darlington. No? Is it really? Lady Windermere. Yes, I'm of age today. Quite an important day in my life, isn't it? That is why I am giving this party tonight. Do sit down. [Still arranging flowers.] Lord Darlington. [Sitting down.] I wish I had known it was your birthday, Lady Windermere.
I would have covered the whole street in front of your house with flowers for you to walk on. They are made for you. [A short pause.] Lady Windermere. Lord Darlington, you annoyed me last night at the Foreign Office. I am afraid you are going to annoy me again. Lord Darlington. I, Lady Windermere? [Enter Parker and Footman C., with tray and tea things.] Lady Windermere. Put it there, Parker.
That will do. [Wipes her hands with her pocket-handkerchief, goes to tea-table, and sits down.] Won't you come over, Lord Darlington? [Exit Parker C.] Lord Darlington. [Takes chair and goes across L. C.] I am quite miserable, Lady Windermere. You must tell me what I did. [Sits down at table L.] Lady Windermere. Well, you kept paying me elaborate compliments the whole evening. Lord Darlington.
[Smiling.] Ah, nowadays we are all of us so hard up, that the only pleasant things to pay are compliments. They're the only things we can pay.
Lord Darlington. How do you do, Lady Windermere? Lady Windermere. How do you do, Lord Darlington? No, I can't shake hands with you. My hands are all wet with these roses. Aren't they lovely? They came up from Selby this morning. Lord Darlington. They are quite perfect. [Sees a fan lying on the table.] And what a wonderful fan! May I look at it? Lady Windermere. Do. Pretty, isn't it! It's got my name on it, and everything.
I have only just seen it myself. It's my husband's birthday present to me. You know today is my birthday? Lord Darlington. No? Is it really? Lady Windermere. Yes, I'm of age today. Quite an important day in my life, isn't it? That is why I am giving this party tonight. Do sit down. [Still arranging flowers.] Lord Darlington. [Sitting down.] I wish I had known it was your birthday, Lady Windermere.
I would have covered the whole street in front of your house with flowers for you to walk on. They are made for you. [A short pause.] Lady Windermere. Lord Darlington, you annoyed me last night at the Foreign Office. I am afraid you are going to annoy me again. Lord Darlington. I, Lady Windermere? [Enter Parker and Footman C., with tray and tea things.] Lady Windermere. Put it there, Parker.
That will do. [Wipes her hands with her pocket-handkerchief, goes to tea-table, and sits down.] Won't you come over, Lord Darlington? [Exit Parker C.] Lord Darlington. [Takes chair and goes across L. C.] I am quite miserable, Lady Windermere. You must tell me what I did. [Sits down at table L.] Lady Windermere. Well, you kept paying me elaborate compliments the whole evening. Lord Darlington.
[Smiling.] Ah, nowadays we are all of us so hard up, that the only pleasant things to pay are compliments. They're the only things we can pay.
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde est né à Dublin, en Irlande. Son père est chirurgien, sa mère est poétesse et traductrice d'auteurs français (Dumas et Lamartine). Il fait ses études au Trinity College de Dublin puis à Oxford, en Angleterre. Grâce à son élégance et à sa vivacité d'esprit, il devient vite un auteur très apprécié en Grande-Bretagne, mais aussi en France où il est salué par les milieux littéraires. Ses poésies, ses contes, ses histoires, son roman ("Le Portrait de Dorian Gray") et ses pièces de théâtre - dont l'une "Salomé" est écrite en français, est créée par Sarah Bernhardt - assurent son succès. Il est alors reconnu comme le chef de file de ce que l'on a appelé "le culte esthétique" : extrême raffinement, amour exclusif des belles choses, attitude détachée. Mais sa vie bascule en 1895 ; lorsqu'il est condamné à deux ans de travaux forcés dans une Angleterre victorienne très puritaine. Refusant de fuir, il purge sa peine et sort brisé du bagne. Il est désormais un homme ruiné, exclu de la société. Il finit misérablement sa vie à Paris où il meurt le 30 novembre 1900, à 46 ans d'une méningite. Ses derniers mots, dans une chambre d'hôtel au décor miteux (hôtel d'Alsace, 13, rue des Beaux-Arts à Paris) auraient été : "Ou c'est ce papier peint qui disparaît, ou c'est moi".
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