Importance of Being Earnest E-book
Author: Oscar Wilde
Genre: Comedy, Drama
1895
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST
by Oscar Wilde
Electronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)
THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY
-
JOHN WORTHING, J.P.
ALGERNON MONCRIEFF
REV. CANON CHASUBLE, D.D.
MERRIMAN, BUTLER
LANE, MANSERVANT
LADY BRACKNELL
HON. GWENDOLEN FAIRFAX
CECILY CARDEW
MISS PRISM, GOVERNESS
THE SCENES OF THE PLAY
-
ACT. I, Algernon Moncrieff's Flat in Half-Moon Street, W.
ACT. II, The Garden the at the Manor House, Woolton.
ACT III, Morning-room at the Manor House, Woolton.
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Time, The Present.
FIRST ACT
-
SCENE- Morning-room in Algernon's flat in Half-Moon
Street. The room is luxuriously and artistically furnished.
The sound of a piano is heard in the adjoining room.
-
[Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after
the music has ceased, Algernon enters.]
-
ALG. Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?
LANE. I didn't think it polite to listen, sir.
ALG. I'm sorry for that, for your sake. I don't play accurately-
anyone can play accurately- but I play with wonderful
expression. As far as the piano is concerned, sentiment is my
forte. I keep science for Life.
LANE. Yes, sir.
ALG. And, speaking of the science of Life, have you got the
cucumber sandwiches cut for Lady Bracknell?
LANE. Yes, sir. [Hands them on a salver.]
ALG. [Inspects them, takes two, and sits down on the sofa.] Oh!...
by the way, Lane, I see from your book that on Thursday night,
when Lord Shoreman and Mr. Worthing were dining with me, eight
bottles of champagne are entered as having been consumed.
LANE. Yes, sir; eight bottles and a pint.
ALG. Why is it that at a bachelor's establishment the servants
invariably drink the champagne? I ask merely for information.
LANE. I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. I
have often observed that in married households the champagne is
rarely of a first-rate brand.
ALG. Good Heavens! Is marriage so demoralising as that?
LANE. I believe it is a very pleasant state, sir. I have had very
little experience of it myself up to the present. I have only
been married once. That was in consequence of a misunderstanding
between myself and a young person.
ALG. [Languidly.] I don't know that I am much interested in your
family life, Lane.
LANE. No, sir; it is not a very interesting subject. I never think
of it myself.
ALG. Very natural, I am sure. That will do, Lane, thank you.
LANE. Thank you, sir. [Lane goes out.]
ALG. Lane's views on marriage seem somewhat lax. Really, if the
lower orders don't set us a good example, what on earth is the
use of them? They seem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense
of moral responsibility.
-
[Enter Lane.]
-
LANE. Mr. Ernest Worthing.
-
[Enter Jack.] [Lane goes out.]
-
ALG. How are you, my dear Ernest? What brings you up to town?
JACK. Oh, pleasure, pleasure! What else should bring one anywhere?
Eating as usual, I see, Algy!
ALG. [Stiffly.] I believe it is customary in good society to take
some slight refreshment at five o'clock. Where have you been
since last Thursday?
JACK. [Sitting down on the sofa.] In the country.
ALG. What on earth do you do there?
JACK. [Pulling off his gloves.] When one is in town one amuses
oneself. When one is in the country one amuses other people. It
is excessively boring.
ALG. And who are the people you amuse?
JACK. [Airily.] Oh, neighbours, neighbours.
ALG. Got nice neighbours in your part of Shropshire?
JACK. Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one of them.
ALG. How immensely you must amuse them! [Goes over and takes
sandwich.] By the way, Shropshire is your county, is it not?
JACK. Eh? Shropshire? Yes, of course. Hallo! Why all these cups?
Why cucumber sandwiches? Why such reckless extravagance in one
so young? Who is coming to tea?
ALG. Oh! merely Aunt Augusta and Gwendolen.
JACK. How perfectly delightful!
ALG. Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid Aunt Augusta won't
quite approve of your being here.
JACK. May I ask way?
ALG. My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is perfectly
disgraceful. It is almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts
with you.
JACK. I am in love with Gwendolen. I have come up to town expressly
propose to her.
ALG. I thought you had come up for pleasure?... I call that
business.
JACK. How utterly unromantic you are!
ALG. I really don't see anything romantic in proposing. It is very
romantic to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a
definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I
believe. Then the excitement is all over. The very essence of
romance is uncertainty. If ever I get married, I'll certainly
try to forget the fact.
JACK. I have no doubt about that, dear Algy. The Divorce Court was
specially invented for people whose memories are so curiously
constituted.
ALG. Oh! there is no use speculating on that subject. Divorces are
made in Heaven- [Jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich.
Algernon at once interferes.] Please don't touch the cucumber
sandwiches. They are ordered specially for Aunt Augusta. [Takes
one and eats it.]
JACK. Well, you have been eating them all the time.
ALG. That is quite a different matter. She is my aunt. [Takes plate
from below.] Have some bread and butter. The bread and butter is
for Gwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to bread and butter.
JACK. [Advancing to table and helping himself.] And very good bread
and butter it is too.
ALG. Well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were going to
eat it all. You behave as if you were married to her already.
You are not married to her already, and I don't think you ever
will be.
JACK. Why, on earth do you say that?
ALG. Well, in the first place girls never marry the men they flirt
with. Girls don't think it right.
JACK. Oh, that is nonsense!
ALG. It isn't. It is a great truth. It accounts for the
extraordinary number of bachelors that one sees all over the
place. In the second place, I don't give my consent.
JACK. Your consent!
ALG. My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my first cousin. And before I
allow you to marry her, you will have to clear up the whole
question of Cecily. [Rings bell.]
JACK. Cecily! What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, Algy, by
Cecily? I don't know anyone of the name of Cecily.
-
[Enter Lane.]
-
ALG. Bring me that cigarette case Mr. Worthing left in the
smoking-room the last time he dined here.
LANE. Yes, sir. [Lane goes out.]
JACK. Do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this
time? I wish to goodness you had let me know. I have been
writing frantic letters to Scotland Yard about it. I was very
nearly offering a large reward.
ALG. Well, I wish you would offer one. I happen to be more than
usually hard up.
JACK. There is no good offering a large reward now that the thing
is found.
-
[Enter Lane with the cigarette case on a salver. Algernon
takes it at once. Lane goes out.]
-
ALG. I think that is rather mean of you, Ernest, I must say. [Opens
case and examines it.] However, it makes no matter, for, now
that I look at the inscription inside, I find that the thing
isn't yours after all.
JACK. Of course it's mine. [Moving to him.] You have seen me with
it a hundred times, and you have no right whatsoever to read
what is written inside. It is a very ungentlemanly thing to read
a private cigarette case.
ALG. Oh! it is absurd to have a hard-and-fast rule about what one
should read and what one shouldn't. More than half of modern
culture depends on what one shouldn't read.
JACK. I am quite aware of the fact, and I don't propose to discuss
modern culture. It isn't the sort of thing one should talk of in
private. I simply want my cigarette case back.
ALG. Yes; but this isn't your cigarette case. This cigarette case
is a present from someone of the name of Cecily, and you said
you didn't know anyone of that name.
JACK. Well, if you want to know, Cecily happens to be my aunt.
ALG. Your aunt!
JACK. Yes. Charming old lady she is, too. Lives at Tunbridge Wells.
Just give it back to me, Algy.
ALG. [Retreating to back of sofa.] But why does she call herself
Cecily if she is your aunt and lives at Tunbridge Wells?
[Reading.] "From little Cecily with her fondest love."
JACK. [Moving to sofa and kneeling upon it.] My dear fellow, what
on earth is there in that? Some aunts are tall, some aunts are
not tall. That is a matter that surely an aunt may be allowed to
decide for herself. You seem to think that every aunt should be
exactly like your aunt! That is absurd! For Heaven's sake give
me back my cigarette case. [Follows Algy round the room.]
ALG. Yes. But why does your aunt call you her uncle? "From little
Cecily, with her fondest love to her dear Uncle Jack." There is
no objection, I admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, but why an
aunt, no matter what her size may be, should call her own nephew
her uncle, I can't quite make out. Besides, your name isn't Jack
at all; it is Ernest.
JACK. It isn't Ernest; it's Jack.
ALG. You have always told me it was Ernest. I have introduced you
to everyone as Ernest. You answer to the name of Ernest. You
look as if your name was Ernest. You are the most earnest
looking person I ever saw in my life. It is perfectly absurd
your saying that your name isn't Ernest. It's on your cards.
Here is one of them. [Taking it from case.] "Mr. Ernest
Worthing, B. 4, The Albany." I'll keep this as a proof that your
name is Ernest if ever you attempt to deny, it to me, or to
Gwendolen, or to anyone else. [Puts the card in his pocket.]
JACK. Well, my name is Ernest in town and Jack in the country, and
the cigarette case was given to me in the country.
ALG. Yes, but that does not account for the fact that your small
Aunt Cecily, who lives at Tunbridge Wells, calls you her dear
uncle. Come, old boy, you had much better have the thing out at
once.
JACK. My dear Algy, you talk exactly as if you were a dentist. It
is very vulgar to talk like a dentist when one isn't a dentist.
It produces a false impression.
ALG. Well, that is exactly what dentists always do. Now, go on!
Tell me the whole thing. I may mention that I have always
suspected you of being a confirmed and secret Bunburyist; and I
am quite sure of it now.
JACK. Bunburyist! What on earth do you mean by a Bunburyist?
ALG. I'll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression
as soon as you are kind enough to inform me why you are Ernest
in town and Jack in the country.
JACK. Well, produce my cigarette case first.
ALG. Here it is. [Hands cigarette case.] Now produce your
explanation, and pray make it improbable. [Sits on sofa.]
JACK. My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my
explanation at all. In fact it's perfectly ordinary. Old Mr.
Thomas Cardew, who adopted me when I was a little boy, made me
in his will guardian to his granddaughter, Miss Cecily Cardew.
Cecily, who addresses me as her uncle from motives of respect
that you could not possibly appreciate, lives at my place in the
country under the charge of her admirable governess, Miss Prism.
ALG. Where is that place in the country, by the way?
JACK. That is nothing to you, dear boy. You are not going to be
invited. I may tell you candidly that the place is not in
Shropshire.
ALG. I suspected that, my dear fellow! I have Bunburyed all over
Shropshire on two separate occasions. Now go on. Why are you
Ernest in town and Jack in the country?
JACK. My dear Algy, I don't know whether you will be able to
understand my real motives. You are hardly serious enough. When
one is placed in the position of guardian, one has to adopt a
very high moral tone on all subjects. It's one's duty to do so.
And as a high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much
to either one's health or one's happiness, in order to get up to
town I have always pretended to have a younger brother of the
name of Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets into the most
dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure
and simple.
ALG. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would
be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a
complete impossibility!
JACK. That wouldn't be at all a bad thing.
ALG. Literary criticism is, not your forte, my dear fellow. Don't
try it. You should leave that to people who haven't been at a
University. They do it so well in the daily papers. What you
really are is a Bunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were
a Bunburyist. You are one of the most advanced Bunburyists I
know.
JACK. What on earth do you mean?
ALG. You have invented a very useful young brother called Ernest,
in order that you may be able to come up to town as often as you
like. I have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called
Bunbury, in order that I may be able to go down into the country
whenever I choose. Bunbury is perfectly invaluable. If it wasn't
for Bunbury's extraordinary bad health, for instance, I wouldn't
be able to dine with you at Willis's to-night, for I have been
really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than a week.
JACK. I haven't asked you to dine with me anywhere to-night.
ALG. I know. You are absurdly careless about sending out
invitations. It is very foolish of you. Nothing annoys people so
much as not receiving invitations.
JACK. You had much better dine with your Aunt Augusta.
ALG. I haven't the smallest intention of doing anything of the
kind. To begin with, I dined there on Monday, and once a week is
quite enough to dine with one's own relations. In the second
place, whenever I do dine there I am always treated as a member
of the family, and sent down with either no woman at all, or
two. In the third place, I know perfectly well whom she will
place me next to, to-night. She will place me next to Mary
Farquhar, who always flirts with her own husband across the
dinner-table. That is not very pleasant. Indeed, it is not even
decent... and that sort of thing is enormously on the increase.
The amount of women in London who flirt with their own husbands
is perfectly scandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply washing
one's clean linen in public. Besides, now that I know you to be
a confirmed Bunburyist, I naturally want to talk to you about
Bunburying. I want to tell you the rules.
JACK. I'm not a Bunburyist at all. If Gwendolen accepts me, I am
going to kill my brother, indeed I think I'll kill him in any
case. Cecily is a little too much interested in him. It is
rather a bore. So I am going to get rid of Ernest. And I
strongly advise you to do the same with Mr.... with your invalid
friend who has the absurd name.
ALG. Nothing will induce me to part with Bunbury, and if you ever
get married, which seems to me extremely problematic, you will
be very glad to know Bunbury. A man who marries without knowing
Bunbury has a very tedious time of it.
JACK. That is nonsense. If I marry a charming girl like Gwendolen,
and she is the only girl I ever saw in my life that I would
marry, I certainly won't want to know Bunbury.
ALG. Then your wife will. You don't seem to realize, that in
married life three is company and two is none.
JACK. [Sententiously.] That, my dear young friend, is the theory
that the corrupt French Drama has been propounding for the last
fifty years.
ALG. Yes; and that the happy English home has proved in half the
time.
JACK. For Heaven's sake, don't try to be cynical. It's perfectly
easy to he cynical.
ALG. My dear fellow, it isn't easy to be anything now-a-days.
There's such a lot of beastly competition about. [The sound of
an electric bell is heard.] Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta. Only
relatives, or creditors, ever ring in that Wagnerian manner.
Now, if I get her out of the way for ten minutes, so that you
can have an opportunity for proposing to Gwendolen, may I dine
with you to-night at Willis's?
JACK. I suppose so, if you want to.
ALG. Yes, but you must be serious about it. I hate people who are
not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.
-
[Enter Lane.]
-
LANE. Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax.
-
[Algernon goes forward to meet them. Enter Lady Bracknell
and Gwendolen.]
-
LADY BRA. Good afternoon, dear Algernon. I hope you are behaving
very well.
ALG. I'm feeling very well, Aunt Augusta.
LADY BRA. That's not quite the same thing. In fact the two things
rarely go together. [Sees Jack and bows to him with icy
coldness.]
ALG. [To Gwendolen.] Dear me, you are smart!
GWEN. I am always smart! Aren't I, Mr. Worthing?
JACK. You are quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.
GWEN. Oh! I hope I am not that. It would leave no room for
developments, and I intend to develop in many directions.
[Gwendolen and Jack sit down together in the corner.]
LADY BRA. I'm sorry if we are a little late, Algernon, but I was
obliged to call on dear Lady Harbury. I hadn't been there since
her poor husband's death. I never saw a woman so altered; she
looks quite twenty years younger. And now I'll have a cup of
tea, and one of those nice cucumber sandwiches you promised me.
ALG. Certainly, Aunt Augusta. [Goes over to tea-table.]
LADY BRA. Won't you come and sit here, Gwendolen?
GWEN. Thanks, mamma, I'm quite comfortable where I am.
ALG. [Picking up empty plate in horror.] Good Heavens! Lane! Why,
are there no cucumber sandwiches? I ordered them specially.
LANE. [Gravely.] There were no cucumbers in the market this
morning, sir, I went down twice.
ALG. No cucumbers!
LANE. No, sir. Not even for ready money.
ALG. That will do, Lane, thank you.
LANE. Thank you, sir.
ALG. I am greatly distressed, Aunt Augusta, about there being no
cucumbers, not even for ready money.
LADY BRA. It really makes no matter, Algernon. I had some crumpets
with Lady Harbury, who seems to me to be living entirely for
pleasure now.
ALG. I hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief.
LADY BRA. It certainly has changed its color. From what cause I, of
course, cannot say. [Algernon crosses and hands tea.] Thank you.
I've quite a treat for you to-night, Algernon. I am going to
send you down with Mary Farquhar. She is such a nice woman, and
so attentive to her husband. It's delightful to watch them.
ALG. I am afraid, Aunt Augusta, I shall have to give up the
pleasure of dining with you to-night after all.
LADY BRA. [Frowning.] I hope not, Algernon. It would put my table
completely out. Your uncle would have to dine upstairs.
Fortunately he is accustomed to that.
ALG. It's a great bore, and, I need hardly say, a terrible
disappointment to me, but the fact is I have just had a telegram
to say that my poor friend Bunbury is very ill again. [Exchanges
glances with Jack.] They seem to think I should be with him.
LADY BRA. It is very strange. This Mr. Bunbury seems to suffer from
curiously bad health.
ALG. Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid.
LADY BRA. Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high time
that Mr. Bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live
or to die. This shilly-shallying with the question is absurd.
Nor do I in any way approve of the modern sympathy with
invalids. I consider it morbid. Illness of any kind is hardly a
thing to be encouraged in others. Health is the primary duty of
life. I am always telling that to your poor uncle, but he never
seems to take much notice... as far as any improvement in his
ailments goes. I should be obliged if you would ask Mr. Bunbury,
from me, to be kind enough not to have a relapse on Saturday,
for I rely on you to arrange my music for me. It is my last
reception, and one wants something that will encourage
conversation, particularly at the end of the season when
everyone has practically said whatever they had to say, which,
in most cases, was probably not much.
ALG. I'll speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta, if he is still conscious,
and I think I can promise you he'll be all right by Saturday. Of
course the music is a great difficulty. You see, if one plays
good music, people don't listen, and if one plays bad music,
people don't talk. But I'll run over the programme I've drawn
out, if you will kindly come into the next room for a moment.
LADY BRA. Thank you, Algernon. It is very thoughtful of you.
[Rising, and following Algernon.] I'm sure the programme will be
delightful, after a few expurgations. French songs I cannot
possibly allow. People always seem to think that they are
improper, and either look shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh,
which is worse. But German sounds a thoroughly respectable
language, and indeed, I believe is so. Gwendolen, you will
accompany me.
GWEN. Certainly, mamma.
-
[Lady Bracknell and Algernon go into the music-room,
Gwendolen remains behind.]
-
JACK. Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax.
GWEN. Pray don't talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthing.
Whenever people talk to me about the weather, I always feel
quite certain that they mean something else. And that makes me
so nervous.
JACK. I do mean something else.
GWEN. I thought so. In fact, I am never wrong.
JACK. And I would like to be allowed to take advantage of Lady
Bracknell's temporary absence...
GWEN. I would certainly advise you to do so. Mamma has a way of
coming back suddenly into a room that I have often had to speak
to her about.
JACK. [Nervously.] Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you I have
admired you more than any girl... I have ever met since... I met
you.
GWEN. Yes, I am quite aware of the fact. And I often wish that in
public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative. For me you
have always had an irresistible fascination. Even before I met
you I was far from indifferent to you. [Jack looks at her in
amazement.] We live, as I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, in an age
of ideals. The fact is constantly mentioned in the more
expensive monthly magazines, and has reached the provincial
pulpits I am told: and my ideal has always been to love some one
of the name of Ernest. There is something in that name that
inspires absolute confidence. The moment Algernon first
mentioned to me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was
destined to love you.
JACK. You really love me, Gwendolen?
GWEN. Passionately!
JACK. Darling! You don't know how happy you've made me.
GWEN. My own Ernest!
JACK. But you don't really mean to say that you couldn't love me if
my name wasn't Ernest?
GWEN. But your name is Ernest.
JACK. Yes, I know it is. But supposing it was something else? Do
you mean to say you couldn't love me then?
GWEN. [Glibly.] Ah! that is clearly a metaphysical speculation, and
like most metaphysical speculations has very little reference at
all to the actual facts of real life, as we know them.
JACK. Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don't much
care about the name of Ernest... I don't think the name suits me
at all.
GWEN. It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name. It has a music
of its own. It produces vibrations.
JACK. Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that I think there are
lots of other much nicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a
charming name.
GWEN. Jack?... No, there is very little music in the name Jack, if
any at all, indeed. It does not thrill. It produces absolutely
no vibrations.... I have known several Jacks, and they all,
without exception, were more than usually plain. Besides, Jack
is a notorious domesticity for John! And I pity any woman who is
married to a man called John. She would probably never be
allowed to know the entrancing pleasure of a single moment's
solitude. The only really safe name is Ernest.
JACK. Gwendolen, I must get christened at once- I mean we must get
married at once. There is no time to be lost.
GWEN. Married, Mr. Worthing?
JACK. [Astounded.] Well... surely. You know that I love you, and
you led me to believe, Miss Fairfax, that you were not
absolutely indifferent to me.
GWEN. I adore you. But you haven't proposed to me yet. Nothing has
been said at all about marriage. The subject has not even been
touched on.
JACK. Well... may I propose to you now?
GWEN. I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare
you any possible disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only
fair to tell you quite frankly beforehand that I am fully
determined to accept you.
JACK. Gwendolen!
GWEN. Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you got to say to me?
JACK. You know what I have got to say to you.
GWEN. Yes, but you don't say it.
JACK. Gwendolen, will you marry me? [Goes on his knees.]
GWEN. Of course I will, darling. How long you have been about it!
I am afraid you have had very little experience in how to
propose.
JACK. My own one, I have never loved anyone in the world but you.
GWEN. Yes, but men often propose for practice. I know my brother
Gerald does. All my girl-friends tell me so. What wonderfully
blue eyes you have, Ernest! They are quite, quite blue. I hope
you will always look at me just like that, especially when there
are other people present.
-
[Enter Lady Bracknell.]
-
LADY BRA. Mr. Worthing! Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent
posture. It is most indecorous.
GWEN. Mamma! [He tries to rise; she restrains him.] I must beg you
to retire. This is no place for you. Besides, Mr. Worthing has
not quite finished yet.
LADY BRA. Finished what, may I ask?
GWEN. I am engaged to Mr. Worthing, mamma. [They rise together.]
LADY BRA. Pardon me, you are not engaged to anyone. When you do
become engaged to some one, I, or your father, should his health
permit him, will inform you of the fact. An engagement should
come on a young girl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, as
the case may be. It is hardly a matter that she could be allowed
to arrange for herself.... And now I have a few questions to put
to you, Mr. Worthing. While I am making these inquiries, you,
Gwendolen, will wait for me below in the carriage.
GWEN. [Reproachfully.] Mamma!
LADY BRA. In the carriage, Gwendolen! [Gwendolen goes to the door.
She and Jack blow kisses to each other behind Lady Bracknell's
back. Lady Bracknell looks vaguely about as if she could not
understand what the noise was. Finally turns round.] Gwendolen,
the carriage!
GWEN. Yes, mamma. [Goes out, looking back at Jack.]
LADY BRA. [Sitting down.] You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.
-
[Looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.]
-
JACK. Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.
LADY BRA. [Pencil and note-book in hand.] I feel bound to tell you
that you are not down on my list of eligible young men, although
I have the same list as the dear Duchess of Bolton has. We work
together, in fact. However, I am quite ready to enter your name,
should your answers be what a really affectionate mother
requires. Do you smoke?
JACK. Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.
LADY BRA. I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an
occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in
London as it is. How old are you?
JACK Twenty-nine.
LADY BRA. A very good age to be married at. I have always been of
opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either
everything or nothing. Which do you know?
JACK. [After some hesitation.] I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.
LADY BRA. I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything
that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a
delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole
theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in
England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever.
If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes,
and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. What
is your income?
JACK. Between seven and eight thousand a year.
LADY BRA. [Makes a note in her book.] In land, or in investments?
JACK. In investments, chiefly.
LADY BRA. That is satisfactory. What between the duties expected of
one during one's lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after
one's death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a
pleasure. It gives one position, and prevents one from keeping
it up. That's all that can be said about land.
JACK. I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to
it, about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don't depend
on that for my real income. In fact, as far as I can make out,
the poachers are the only people who make anything out of it.
LADY BRA. A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that point can
be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl
with a simple, unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be
expected to reside in the country.
JACK. Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the
year to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I
like, at six months' notice.
LADY BRA. Lady Bloxham? I don't know her.
JACK. Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably
advanced in years.
LADY BRA. Ah, now-a-days that is no guarantee of respectability of
character. What number in Belgrave Square?
JACK. 149.
LADY BRA. [Shaking her head.] The unfashionable side. I thought
there was something. However, that could easily be altered.
JACK. Do you mean the fashion, or the side?
LADY BRA. [Sternly.] Both, if necessary, I presume. What are your
politics?
JACK. Well, I am afraid I really have none. I am a Liberal Unionist.
LADY BRA. Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come in
the evening, at any rate. Now to minor matters. Are your parents
living?
JACK. I have lost both my parents.
LADY BRA. Both?... That seems like carelessness. Who was your
father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in
what the Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he
rise from the ranks of aristocracy?
JACK. I am afraid I really don't know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell,
I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to
say that my parents seem to have lost me.... I don't actually
know who I am by birth. I was well, I was found.
LADY BRA. Found!
JACK. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very
charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the
name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class
ticket for Worthing in his pocket at the time. Worthing is a
place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.
LADY BRA. Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class
ticket for this seaside resort find you?
JACK. [Gravely.] In a hand-bag.
LADY BRA. A hand-bag?
JACK. [Very seriously.] Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag-
a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it- an
ordinary hand-bag, in fact.
LADY BRA. In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew
come across this ordinary hand-bag?
JACK. In the cloak-room at Victoria Station. It was given to him in
mistake for his own.
LADY BRA. The cloak-room at Victoria Station?
JACK. Yes. The Brighton line.
LADY BRA. The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel
somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born,
or at any rate, bred in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or
not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary
decencies of family life that remind one of the worst excesses
of the French Revolution. And I presume you know what that
unfortunate movement led to? As for the particular locality in
which the handbag was found, a cloak-room at a railway station
might serve to conceal a social indiscretion- has probably,
indeed, been used for that purpose before now- but it could
hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognized position
in good society.
JACK. May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need
hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure
Gwendolen's happiness.
LADY BRA. I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and
acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a
definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either
sex, before the season is quite over.
JACK. I don't see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can
produce the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at
home. I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.
LADY BRA. Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly
imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our
only daughter- a girl brought up with the utmost care- to marry
into a cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good
morning, Mr. Worthing!
-
[Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation.]
-
JACK. Good morning! [Algernon, from the other room, strikes up the
Wedding March. Jack looks perfectly furious, and goes to the
door.] For goodness' sake don't play that ghastly tune, Algy!
How idiotic you are!
-
[The music stops, and Algernon enters cheerily.]
-
ALG. Didn't it go off all right, old boy? You don't mean to say
Gwendolen refused you, I know it is a way she has. She is always
refusing people. I think it is most ill-natured of her.
JACK. Oh, Gwendolen is as right as a trivet. As far as she is
concerned, we are engaged. Her mother is perfectly unbearable.
Never met such a Gorgon... I don't really know what a Gorgon is
like, but I am quite sure that Lady Bracknell is one. In any
case, she is a monster, without being a myth, which is rather
unfair... I beg your pardon, Algy, I suppose I shouldn't talk
about your own aunt in that way before you.
ALG. My dear boy, I love hearing my relations abused. It is the
only thing that makes me put up with them at all. Relations are
simply a tedious pack of people who haven't got the remotest
knowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct about when
to die.
JACK. Oh, that is nonsense!
ALG. It isn't!
JACK. Well, I won't argue about the matter. You always want to
argue about things.
ALG. That is exactly what things were originally made for.
JACK. Upon my word, if I thought that, I'd shoot myself... [A
pause.] You don't think there is any chance of Gwendolen
becoming like her mother in about a hundred and fifty years, do
you, Algy?
ALG. All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No
man does. That's his.
JACK. Is that clever?
ALG. It is perfectly phrased! and quite as true as any observation
in civilized life should be.
JACK. I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever
now-a-days. You can't go anywhere without meeting clever people.
The thing has become an absolute public nuisance. I wish to
goodness we had a few fools left.
ALG. We have.
JACK. I should extremely like to meet them. What do they talk about?
ALG. The fools? Oh! about the clever people, of course.
JACK. What fools!
ALG. By the way, did you tell Gwendolen the truth about your being
Ernest in town, and Jack in the country?
JACK. [In a very patronising manner.] My dear fellow, the truth
isn't quite the sort of thing one tells to a nice sweet refined
girl. What extraordinary ideas you have about the way to behave
to a woman!
ALG. The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her, if
she is pretty, and to someone else if she is plain.
JACK. Oh, that is nonsense.
ALG. What about your brother? What about the profligate Ernest?
JACK. Oh, before the end of the week I shall have got rid of him.
I'll say he died in Paris of apoplexy. Lots of people die of
apoplexy, quite suddenly, don't they?
ALG. Yes, but it's hereditary, my dear fellow. It's a sort of thing
that runs in families. You had much better say a severe chill.
JACK. You are sure a severe chill isn't hereditary, or anything of
that kind?
ALG. Of course it isn't!
JACK. Very well, then. My poor brother Ernest is carried off
suddenly in Paris, by a severe chill. That gets rid of him.
ALG. But I thought you said that... Miss Cardew was a little too
much interested in your poor brother, Ernest? Won't she feel his
loss a good deal?
JACK. Oh, that is all right. Cecily is not a silly romantic girl, I
am glad to say. She has got a capital appetite, goes long walks,
and pays no attention at all to her lessons.
ALG. I would rather like to see Cecily.
JACK. I will take very good care you never do. She is excessively
pretty, and she is only just eighteen.
ALG. Have you told Gwendolen yet that you have an excessively
pretty ward who is only just eighteen?
JACK. Oh! one doesn't blurt these things out to people. Cecily, and
Gwendolen are perfectly certain to be extremely great friends.
I'll bet you anything you like that half an hour after they have
met, they will be calling each other sister.
ALG. Women only do that when they have called each other a lot of
other things first. Now, my dear boy, if we want to get a good
table at Willis's, we really must go and dress. Do you know it
is nearly seven?
JACK. [Irritably.] Oh! it always is nearly seven.
ALG. Well, I'm hungry.
JACK. I never knew you when you weren't....
ALG. What shall we do after dinner? Go to the theatre?
JACK. Oh no! I loathe listening.
ALG. Well, let us go to the club?
JACK. Oh no! I hate talking.
ALG. Well, we might trot round to the Empire at ten?
JACK. Oh no! I can't bear looking at things. It is so silly.
ALG. Well, what shall we do?
JACK. Nothing!
ALG. It is awfully hard work doing nothing. However, I don't mind
hard work where there is no definite object of any kind.
-
[Enter Lane.]
-
LANE. Miss Fairfax.
-
[Enter Gwendolen. Lane goes out.]
-
ALG. Gwendolen, upon my word!
GWEN. Algy, kindly turn your back. I have something very particular
to say to Mr. Worthing.
ALG. Really, Gwendolen, I don't think I can allow this at all.
GWEN. Algy, you always adopt a strictly immoral attitude towards
life. You are not quite old enough to do that. [Algernon retires
to the fireplace.]
JACK. My own darling!
GWEN. Ernest, we may never be married. From the expression on
mamma's face I fear we never shall. Few parents now-a-days pay
any regard to what their children say to them. The old-fashioned
respect for the young is fast dying out. Whatever influence I
ever had over mamma, I lost at the age of three. But although
she may prevent us from becoming man and wife, and I may marry
someone else, and marry often, nothing that she can possibly do
can alter my eternal devotion to you.
JACK. Dear Gwendolen!
GWEN. The story of your romantic origin, as related to me by mamma,
with unpleasing comments, has naturally stirred the deeper
fibres of my nature. Your Christian name has an irresistible
fascination. The simplicity of your character makes you
exquisitely incomprehensible to me. Your town address at the
Albany I have. What is your address in the country?
JACK. The Manor House, Woolton, Hertfordshire.
-
[Algernon, who has been carefully listening, smiles to
himself, and writes the address on his shirt-cuff. Then picks up
the Railway Guide.]
-
GWEN. There is a good postal service, I suppose? It may be
necessary to do something desperate. That of course will require
serious consideration. I will communicate with you daily.
JACK. My own one!
GWEN. How long do you remain in town?
JACK. Till Monday.
GWEN. Good! Algy, you may turn round now.
ALG. Thanks, I've turned round already.
GWEN. You may also ring the bell.
JACK. You will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling?
GWEN. Certainly.
JACK. [To Lane, who now enters.] I will see Miss Fairfax out.
LANE. Yes. sir. [Jack and Gwendolen go off.]
-
[Lane presents several letters on a salver to Algernon.
It is to be surmised that they are bills, as Algernon,
after looking at the envelopes, tears them up.]
-
ALG. A glass of sherry, Lane.
LANE. Yes, sir.
ALG. To-morrow, Lane, I'm going Bunburying.
LANE. Yes, sir.
ALG. I shall probably not be back till Monday. You can put up my
dress clothes, my smoking Jacket, and all the Bunbury suits....
LANE. Yes, sir. [Handing sherry.]
ALG. I hope to-morrow will be a fine day, Lane.
LANE. It never is, sir.
ALG. Lane, you're a perfect pessimist.
LANE. I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.
-
[Enter Jack. Lane goes off.]
-
JACK. There's a sensible, intellectual girl! the only girl I ever
cared for in my life. [Algernon is laughing immoderately.] What
on earth are you so amused at?
ALG. Oh, I'm a little anxious about poor Bunbury, that is all.
JACK. If you don't take care, your friend Bunbury will get you into
a serious scrape some day.
ALG. I love scrapes. They are the only things that are never
serious.
JACK. Oh, that's nonsense, Algy. You never talk anything but
nonsense.
ALG. Nobody ever does.
-
[Jack looks indignantly at him, leaves the room. Algernon
lights a cigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and smiles.]
-
ACT-DROP
SECOND ACT
-
SCENE- Garden at the Manor House. A flight of gray stone
steps leads up to the house. The garden, an old-fashioned
one, full of roses. Time of year, July. Basket chairs, and
a table covered with books, are set under a large yew tree.
-
[Miss Prism discovered seated at the table. Cecily is at
the back watering flowers.]
-
MISS PRI. [Calling.] Cecily, Cecily! Surely such a utilitarian
occupation as the watering of flowers is rather Moulton's duty
than yours? Especially at a moment when intellectual pleasures
await you. Your German grammar is on the table. Pray open it at
page fifteen. We will repeat yesterday's lesson.
CEC. [Coming over very slowly.] But I don't like German. It isn't
at all a becoming language. I know perfectly well that I look
quite plain after my German lesson.
MISS PRI. Child, you know how anxious your guardian is that you
should improve yourself in every way. He laid particular stress
on your German, as he was leaving for town yesterday. Indeed, he
always lays stress on your German when he is leaving for town.
CEC. Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious! Sometimes he is so serious
that I think he cannot be quite well.
MISS PRI. [Drawing herself up.] Your guardian enjoys the best of
health, and his gravity of demeanour is especially to be
commended in one so comparatively young as he is. I know no one
who has a higher sense of duty and responsibility.
CEC. I suppose that is why he often looks a little bored when we
three are together.
MISS PRI. Cecily! I am surprised at you. Mr. Worthing has many
troubles in his life. Idle merriment and triviality would be out
of place in his conversation. You must remember his constant
anxiety about that unfortunate young man his brother.
CEC. I wish Uncle Jack would allow that unfortunate young man, his
brother, to come down here sometimes. We might have a good
influence over him, Miss Prism. I am sure you certainly would.
You know German, and geology, and things of that kind influence
a man very much. [Cecily begins to write in her diary.]
MISS PRI. [Shaking her head.] I do not think that even I could
produce any effect on a character that according to his own
brother's admission is irretrievably weak and vacillating.
Indeed I am not sure that I would desire to reclaim him. I am
not in favour of this modern mania for turning bad people into
good people at a moment's notice. As a man sows so let him reap.
You must put away your diary, Cecily. I really don't see why you
should keep a diary at all.
CEC. I keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my
life. If I didn't write them down I should probably forget all
about them.
MISS PRI. Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry
about with us.
CEC. Yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never
happened, and couldn't possibly have happened. I believe that
Memory is responsible for nearly all the three-volume novels
that Mudie sends us.
MISS PRI. Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel,
Cecily. I wrote one myself in earlier days.
CEC. Did you really, Miss Prism? How wonderfully clever you are! I
hope it did not end happily? I don't like novels that end
happily. They depress me so much.
MISS PRI. The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is
what Fiction means.
CEC. I suppose so. But it seems very unfair. And was your novel
ever published?
MISS PRI. Alas! no. The manuscript unfortunately was abandoned. I
use the word in the sense of lost or mislaid. To your work,
child, these speculations are profitless.
CEC. [Smiling.] But I see dear Dr. Chasuble coming up through the
garden.
MISS PRI. [Rising and advancing.] Dr. Chasuble! This is indeed a
pleasure.
-
[Enter Canon Chasuble.]
-
CHAS. And how are we this morning? Miss Prism, you are, I trust,
well?
CEC. Miss Prism has just been complaining of a slight headache. I
think it would do her so much good to have a short stroll with
you in the Park, Dr. Chasuble.
MISS PRI. Cecily, I have not mentioned anything about a headache.
CEC. No, dear Miss Prism, I know that, but I felt instinctively
that you had a headache. Indeed I was thinking about that, and
not about my German lesson, when the Rector came in.
CHAS. I hope Cecily, you are not inattentive.
CEC. Oh, I am afraid I am.
CHAS. That is strange. Were I fortunate enough to be Miss Prism's
pupil, I would hang upon her lips. [Miss Prism glares.] I spoke
metaphorically. My metaphor was drawn from bees. Ahem! Mr.
Worthing, I suppose, has not returned from town yet?
MISS PRI. We do not expect him till Monday afternoon.
CHAS. Ah yes, he usually likes to spend his Sunday in London. He is
not one of those whose sole aim is enjoyment, as, by all
accounts, that unfortunate young man his brother seems to be.
But I must not disturb Egeria and her pupil any longer.
MISS PRI. Egeria? My name is Laetitia, Doctor.
CHAS. [Bowing.] A classical allusion merely, drawn from the Pagan
authors. I shall see you both no doubt at Evensong?
MISS PRI. I think, dear Doctor, I will have a stroll with you. I
find I have a headache after all, and a walk might do it good.
CHAS. With pleasure, Miss Prism, with pleasure. We might go as far
as the schools and back.
MISS PRI. That would be delightful. Cecily, you will read your
Political Economy in my absence. The chapter on the Fall of the
Rupee you may omit. It is somewhat too sensational. Even these
metallic problems have their melodramatic side.
-
[Goes down the garden with Dr. Chasuble.]
-
CEC. [Picks up books and throws them back on table.] Horrid
Political Economy! Horrid Geography! Horrid, horrid German!
-
[Enter Merriman with a card on a salver.]
-
MERR. Mr. Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station. He
has brought his luggage with him.
CEC. [Takes the card and reads it.] "Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4 The
Albany, W." Uncle Jack's brother! Did you tell him Mr. Worthing
was in town?
MERR. Yes, Miss. He seemed very much disappointed. I mentioned that
you and Miss Prism were in the garden. He said he was anxious to
speak to you privately for a moment.
CEC. Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had better
talk to the housekeeper about a room for him.
MERR. Yes, Miss. [Merriman goes off.]
CEC. I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather
frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like everyone else.
-
[Enter Algernon, very gay and debonnair.]
-
He does!
ALG. [Raising his hat.] You are my little cousin Cecily, I'm sure.
CEC. You are under some strange mistake. I am not little. In fact,
I believe I am more than usually tall for my age. [Algernon is
rather taken aback.) But I am your cousin Cecily. You, I see
from your card, are Uncle Jack's brother, my cousin Ernest, my
wicked cousin Ernest.
ALG. Oh! I am not really wicked at all, Cousin Cecily. You mustn't
think that I am wicked.
CEC. If you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us all
in a very inexcusable manner. I hope you have not been leading a
double life, pretending to be wicked and being really good all
the time. That would be hypocrisy.
ALG. [Looks at her in amazement.] Oh! Of course I have been rather
reckless.
CEC. I am glad to hear it.
ALG. In fact, now you mention the subject, I have been very bad in
my own small way.
CEC. I don't think you should be so proud of that, though I am sure
it must have been very pleasant.
ALG. It is much pleasanter being here with you.
CEC. I can't understand how you are here at all. Uncle Jack won't
be back till Monday afternoon.
ALG. That is a great disappointment. I am obliged to go up by the
first train on Monday morning. I have a business appointment
that I am anxious... to miss.
CEC. Couldn't you miss it anywhere but in London?
ALG. No: the appointment is in London.
CEC. Well, I know, of course, how important it is not to keep a
business engagement, if one wants to retain any sense of the
beauty of life, but still I think you had better wait till Uncle
Jack arrives. I know he wants to speak to you about your
emigrating.
ALG. About my what?
CEC. Your emigrating. He has gone up to buy your outfit.
ALG. I certainly wouldn't let Jack buy my outfit. He has no taste
in neckties at all.
CEC. I don't think you will require neckties. Uncle Jack is sending
you to Australia.
ALG. Australia? I'd sooner die.
CEC. Well, he said at dinner on Wednesday night, that you would
have to choose between this world, the next world, and Australia.
ALG. Oh, well! The accounts I have received of Australia and the
next world are not particularly encouraging. This world is good
enough for me, Cousin Cecily.
CEC. Yes, but are you good enough for it?
ALG. I'm afraid I'm not that. That is why I want you to reform me.
You might make that your mission, if you don't mind, Cousin
Cecily.
CEC. I'm afraid I've no time, this afternoon.
ALG. Well, would you mind my reforming myself this afternoon?
CEC. It is rather Quixotic of you. But I think you should try.
ALG. I will. I feel better already.
CEC. You are looking a little worse.
ALG. That is because I am hungry.
CEC. How thoughtless of me. I should have remembered that when one
is going to lead an entirely new life, one requires regular and
wholesome meals. Won't you come in?
ALG. Thank you. Might I have a buttonhole first? I never have any
appetite unless I have a buttonhole first.
CEC. A Marechale Niel? [Picks up scissors.]
ALG. No, I'd sooner have a pink rose.
CEC. Why? [Cuts a flower.]
ALG. Because you are like a pink rose, Cousin Cecily.
CEC. I don't think it can be right for you to talk to me like that.
Miss Prism never says such things to me.
ALG. Then Miss Prism is a shortsighted old lady. [Cecily puts the
rose in his buttonhole.] You are the prettiest girl I ever saw.
CEC. Miss Prism says that all good looks are a snare.
ALG. They are a snare that every sensible man would like to be
caught in.
CEC. Oh! I don't think I would care to catch a sensible man. I
shouldn't know what to talk to him about.
-
[They pass into the house. Miss Prism and Dr. Chasuble
return.]
-
MISS PRI. You are too much alone, dear Dr. Chasuble. You should get
married. A misanthrope I can understand- a womanthrope, never!
CHAS. [With a scholar's shudder.] Believe me, I do not deserve so
neologistic a phrase. The precept as well as the practice of the
Primitive Church was distinctly against matrimony.
MISS PRI. [Sententiously.] That is obviously the reason why the
Primitive Church has not lasted up to the present day. And you
do not seem to realize, dear Doctor, that by persistently
remaining single, a man converts himself into a permanent public
temptation. Men should be more careful; this very celibacy leads
weaker vessels astray.
CHAS. But is a man not equally attractive when married?
MISS PRI. No married man is ever attractive except to his wife.
CHAS. And often, I've been told, not even to her.
MISS PRI. That depends on the intellectual sympathies of the woman.
Maturity can always be depended on. Ripeness can be trusted.
Young women are green. [Dr. Chasuble starts.] I spoke
horticulturally. My metaphor was drawn from fruits. But where is
Cecily?
CHAS. Perhaps she followed us to the schools.
-
[Enter Jack slowly from the back of the garden. He is
dressed in the deepest mourning, with crape hatband and
black gloves.]
-
MISS PRI. Mr. Worthing!
CHAS. Mr. Worthing!
MISS PRI. This is indeed a surprise. We did not look for you till
Monday afternoon.
JACK. [Shakes Miss Prism's hand in a tragic manner.] I have
returned sooner than I expected. Dr. Chasuble, I hope you are
well?
CHAS. Dear Mr. Worthing, I trust this garb of woe does not betoken
some terrible calamity?
JACK. My brother.
MISS PRI. More shameful debts and extravagance?
CHAS. Still leading his life of pleasure?
JACK. [Shaking his head.] Dead!
CHAS. Your brother Ernest dead?
JACK. Quite dead.
MISS PRI. What a lesson for him! I trust he will profit by it.
CHAS. Mr. Worthing, I offer you my sincere condolence. You have at
least the consolation of knowing that you were always the most
generous and forgiving of brothers.
JACK. Poor Ernest! He had many faults, but it is a sad, sad blow.
CHAS. Very sad indeed. Were you with him at the end?
JACK. No. He died abroad; in Paris, in fact. I had a telegram last
night from the manager of the Grand Hotel.
CHAS. Was the cause of death mentioned?
JACK. A severe chill, it seems.
MISS. PRI. As a man sows, so shall he reap.
CHAS. [Raising his hand.] Charity, dear Miss Prism, charity! None
of us are perfect. I myself am peculiarly susceptible to
draughts. Will the interment take place here?
JACK. No. He seemed to have expressed a desire to be buried in
Paris.
CHAS. In Paris! [Shakes his head.] I fear that hardly points to any
very serious state of mind at the last. You would no doubt wish
me to make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic
affliction next Sunday. [Jack presses his hand convulsively.] My
sermon on the meaning of the manna in the wilderness can be
adapted to almost any occasion, joyful, or, as in the present
case, distressing. [All sigh.] I have preached it at harvest
celebrations, christenings, confirmations, on days of
humiliation and festal days. The last time I delivered it was in
the Cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the Society for
the Prevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders. The Bishop,
who was present, was much struck by some of the analogies I drew.
JACK. Ah! that reminds me, you mentioned christenings, I think, Dr.
Chasuble? I suppose you know how to christen all right? [Dr.
Chasuble looks astounded.] I mean, of course, you are
continually christening, aren't you?
MISS PRI. It is, I regret to say, one of the Rector's most constant
duties in this parish. I have often spoken to the poorer classes
on the subject. But they don't seem to know what thrift is.
CHAS. But is there any particular infant in whom you are
interested, Mr. Worthing? Your brother was, I believe,
unmarried, was he not?
JACK. Oh yes.
MISS. PRI. [Bitterly.] People who live entirely for pleasure
usually are.
JACK. But it is not for any child, dear Doctor. I am very fond of
children. No! the fact is, I would like be christened myself,
this afternoon, if you have nothing better to do.
CHAS. But surely, Mr. Worthing, you have been christened already?
JACK. I don't remember anything about it.
CHAS. But have you any grave doubts on the subject?
JACK. I certainly intend to have. Of course I don't know if the
thing would bother you in any way, or if you think I am a little
too old now.
CHAS. Not at all. The sprinkling, and, indeed, the immersion of
adults is a perfectly canonical practice.
JACK. Immersion!
CHAS. You need have no apprehensions. Sprinkling is all that is
necessary, or indeed I think advisable. Our weather is so
changeable. At what hour would you wish the ceremony performed?
JACK. Oh, I might trot round about five if that would suit you.
CHAS. Perfectly, perfectly! In fact I have two similar ceremonies
to perform at that time. A case of twins that occurred recently
in one of the outlying cottages on your own estate. Poor Jenkins
the carter, a most hard-working man.
JACK. Oh! I don't see much fun in being christened along with other
babies. It would be childish. Would half-past five do?
CHAS. Admirably! Admirably! [Takes out watch.] And now, dear Mr.
Worthing, I will not intrude any longer into a house of sorrow.
I would merely beg you not to be too much bowed down by grief.
What seem to us bitter trials are often blessings in disguise.
MISS PRI. This seems to me a blessing of an extremely obvious kind.
-
[Enter Cecily from the house.]
-
CEC. Uncle Jack! Oh, I am pleased to see you back. But what horrid
clothes you have got on! Do go and change them.
MISS PRI. Cecily!
CHAS. My child! my child! [Cecily goes towards Jack; he kisses her
brow in a melancholy manner.]
CEC. What is the matter, Uncle Jack? Do look happy! You look as if
you had a toothache, and I have got such a surprise for you. Who
do you think is in the dining-room? Your brother!
JACK. Who?
CEC. Your brother Ernest. He arrived about half an hour ago.
JACK. What nonsense! I haven't got a brother!
CEC. Oh, don't say that. However badly he may have behaved to you
in the past he is still your brother. You couldn't be so
heartless as to disown him. I'll tell him to come out. And you
will shake hands with him, won't you, Uncle Jack? [Runs back
into the house.]
CHAS. These are very joyful tidings.
MISS PRI. After we had all been resigned to his loss, his sudden
return seems me peculiarly distressing.
JACK. My brother is in the dining-room? I don't know what it all
means. I think it is perfectly absurd.
-
[Enter Algernon and Cecily hand in hand. They come slowly
up to Jack.]
-
JACK. Good Heavens! [Motions Algernon away.]
ALG. Brother John, I have come down from town to tell you that I am
very sorry for all the trouble I have given you, and that I
intend to lead a better life in the future. [Jack glares at him
and does not take his hand.]
CEC. Uncle Jack, you are not going to refuse your own brother's
hand?
JACK. Nothing will induce me to take his hand. I think his coming
down here disgraceful. He knows perfectly well why.
CEC. Uncle Jack, do be nice. There is some good in one everyone.
Ernest has been telling me about his poor invalid friend Mr.
Bunbury whom he goes to visit so often. And surely there must be
much good in one who is kind to an invalid, and leaves the
pleasures of London to sit by a bed of pain.
JACK. Oh! he has been talking about Bunbury, has he?
CEC. Yes, he has told me all about poor Mr. Bunbury, and his
terrible state of health.
JACK. Bunbury! Well, I won't have him talk to you about Bunbury or
about anything else. It is enough to drive one perfectly
frantic.
ALG. Of course I admit that the faults were all on my side. But I
must say that I think Brother John's coldness to me is
peculiarly painful. I expected a more enthusiastic welcome,
especially considering it is the first time I have come here.
CEC. Uncle Jack, if you don't shake hands with Ernest, I will never
forgive you.
JACK. Never forgive me?
CEC. Never, never, never!
JACK. Well, this is the last time I shall ever do it.
-
[Shakes hands with Algernon and glares.]
-
CHAS. It is pleasant, is it not, to see so perfect a reconciliation?
I think we might leave the two brothers together.
MISS PRI. Cecily, you will come with us.
CEC. Certainly, Miss Prism. My little task of reconciliation is
over.
CHAS. You have done a beautiful action to-day, dear child.
MISS PRI. We must not be premature in our judgments.
CEC. I feel very happy. [They all go off.]
JACK. You young scoundrel, Algy, you must get out of this place as
soon as possible. I don't allow any Bunburying here.
-
[Enter Merriman.]
-
MERR. I have put Mr. Ernest's things in the room next to yours,
sir. I suppose that is all right?
JACK. What?
MERR. Mr. Ernest's luggage, sir. I have unpacked it and put it in
the room next to your own.
JACK. His luggage?
MERR. Yes, sir. Three portmanteaus, a dressing-case, two hat boxes,
and a large luncheon-basket.
ALG. I am afraid I can't stay more than a week this time.
JACK. Merriman, order the dog-cart at once. Mr. Ernest has been
suddenly called back to town.
MERR. Yes, sir. [Goes back into the house.]
ALG. What a fearful liar you are, Jack. I have not been called back
to town at all.
JACK. Yes, you have.
ALG. I haven't heard anyone call me.
JACK. Your duty as a gentleman calls you back.
ALG. My duty as a gentleman has never interfered with my pleasures
in the smallest degree.
JACK. I can quite understand that.
ALG. Well, Cecily is a darling.
JACK. You are not to talk of Miss Cardew like that. I don't like it.
ALG. Well, I don't like your clothes. You look perfectly ridiculous
in them. Why on earth don't you go up and change? It is perfectly
childish to be in deep mourning for a man who is actually staying
for a whole week with you in your house as a guest. I call it
grotesque.
JACK. You are certainly not staying with me for a whole week as a
guest or anything else. You have got to leave... by the four-five
train.
ALG. I certainly won't leave you so long as you are in mourning. It
would be most unfriendly. If I were in mourning you would stay
with me, I suppose. I should think it very unkind if you didn't.
JACK. Well, will you go if I change my clothes?
ALG. Yes, if you are not too long. I never saw anybody take so long
to dress, and with such little result.
JACK. Well, at any rate, that is better than being always
over-dressed as you are.
ALG. If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it by
being always immensely over-educated.
JACK. Your vanity is ridiculous, your conduct an outrage, and your
presence in my garden utterly absurd. However, you have got to
catch the four-five, and I hope you will have a pleasant journey
back to town. This Bunburying, as you call it, has not been a
great success for you. [Goes into the house.]
ALG. I think it has been a great success. I'm in love with Cecily,
and that is everything.
-
[Enter Cecily at the back of the garden. She picks up the
can and begins to water the flowers.]
-
But I must see her before I go, and make arrangements for
another Bunbury. Ah, there she is.
CEC. Oh, I merely came back to water the roses. I thought you were
with Uncle Jack.
ALG. He's gone to order the dog-cart for me.
CEC. Oh, is he going to take you for a nice drive?
ALG. He's going to send me away.
CEC. Then have we got to part?
ALG. I am afraid so. It's very painful parting.
CEC. It is always painful to part from 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.
ALG. Thank you.
-
[Enter Merriman.]
-
MERR. The dog-cart is at the door, sir. [Algernon looks appealingly
at Cecily.]
CEC. It can wait, Merriman... for... five minutes.
MERR. Yes, Miss. [Exit Merriman.]
ALG. I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite
frankly and openly that you seem to me to be in every way the
visible personification of absolute perfection.
CEC. I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If you
will allow me I will copy your remarks into my diary. [Goes over
to table and begins writing in diary.]
ALG. Do you really keep a diary? I'd give anything to look at it.
May I?
CEC. Oh no. [Puts her hand over it.] You see, it is simply a very
young girl's record of her own thoughts and impressions, and
consequently meant for publication. When it appears in volume
form I hope you will order a copy. But pray, Ernest, don't stop.
I delight in taking down from dictation. I have reached
"absolute perfection." You can go on. I am quite ready for more.
ALG. [Somewhat taken aback.] Ahem! Ahem!
CEC. Oh, don't cough, Ernest. When one is dictating one should
speak fluently and not cough. Besides, I don't know how to spell
a cough. [Writes as Algernon speaks.]
ALG. [Speaking very rapidly.] Cecily, ever since I first looked
upon your wonderful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to
love you wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.
CEC. I don't think that you should tell me that you love me wildly,
passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn't seem to
make much sense, does it?
ALG. Cecily!
-
[Enter Merriman.]
-
MERR. The dog-cart is waiting, sir.
ALG. Tell it to come round next week, at the same hour.
MERR. [Looks at Cecily, who makes no sign.] Yes, sir.
[Merriman retires.]
CEC. Uncle Jack would be very much annoyed if he knew you were
staying on till next week, at the same hour.
ALG. Oh, I don't care about Jack. I don't care for anybody in the
whole world but you. I love you, Cecily. You will marry me,
won't you?
CEC. You silly boy! Of course. Why, we have been engaged for the
last three months.
ALG. For the last three months?
CEC. Yes, it will be exactly, three months on Thursday.
ALG. But how did we become engaged?
CEC. Well, ever since dear Uncle Jack first confessed to us that he
had a younger brother who was very wicked and bad, you of course
have formed the chief topic of conversation between myself and
Miss Prism. And of course a man who is much talked about is
always very attractive. One feels there must be something in him
after all. I daresay it was foolish of me, but I fell in love
with you, Ernest.
ALG. Darling! And when was the engagement actually settled?
CEC. On the 14th of February last. Worn out by your entire
ignorance of my existence, I determined to end the matter one
way or the other, and after a long struggle with myself I
accepted you under this dear told tree here. The next day I
bought this little ring in your name, and this is the little
bangle with the true lovers' knot I promised you always to wear.
ALG. Did I give you this? It's very pretty, isn't it?
CEC. Yes, you've wonderfully good taste, Ernest. It's the excuse
I've always given for your leading such a bad life. And this is
the box in which I keep all your dear letters. [Kneels at table,
opens box, and produces letters tied up with blue ribbon.]
ALG. My letters! But my own sweet Cecily, I have never written you
any letters.
CEC. You need hardly remind me of that, Ernest. I remember only too
well that I was forced to write your letters for you. I always
wrote three times a week, and sometimes oftener.
ALG. Oh, do let me read them, Cecily?
CEC. Oh, I couldn't possibly. They would make you far too
conceited. [Replaces box.] The three you wrote me after I had
broken off the engagement are so beautiful, and so badly
spelled, that even now I can hardly read them without crying a
little.
ALG. But was our engagement ever broken off?
CEC. Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see the
entry if you like. [Shows diary.] "To-day I broke off my
engagement with Ernest. I feel it is better to do so. The
weather still continues charming."
ALG. But why on earth did you break it off? What had I done? I had
done nothing at all. Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to hear
you broke it off. Particularly when the weather was so charming.
CEC. It would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it
hadn't been broken off at least once. But I forgave you before
the week was out.
ALG. [Crossing to her, and kneeling.] What a perfect angel you are,
Cecily.
CEC. You dear romantic boy. [He kisses her, she puts her fingers
through his hair.] I hope your hair curls naturally, does it?
ALG. Yes, darling, with a little help from others.
CEC. I am so glad.
ALG. You'll never break off our engagement again, Cecily?
CEC. I don't think I could break it off now that I have actually
met you. Besides, of course, there is the question of your name.
ALG. Yes, of course. [Nervously.]
CEC. You must not laugh at me, darling, but it had always been a
girlish dream of mine to love some one whose name was Ernest.
[Algernon rises, Cecily also.] There is something in that name
that seems to inspire absolute confidence. I pity any poor
married woman whose husband is not called Ernest.
ALG. But, my dear child, do you mean to say you could not love me
if I had some other name?
CEC. But what name?
ALG. Oh, any name you like- Algernon- for instance...
CEC. But I don't like the name of Algernon.
ALG. Well, my own dear, sweet, loving little darling, I really
can't see why you should object to the name of Algernon. It is
not at all a bad name. In fact, it is rather an aristocratic
name. Half of the chaps who get into the Bankruptcy Court are
called Algernon. But seriously, Cecily... [Moving to her.] ...if
my name was Algy, couldn't you love me?
CEC. [Rising.] I might respect you, Ernest, I might admire your
character, but I fear that I should not be able to give you my
undivided attention.
ALG. Ahem! Cecily! [Picking up hat.] Your Rector here is, I
suppose, thoroughly experienced in the practice of all the rites
and ceremonials of the Church?
CEC. Oh, yes. Dr. Chasuble is a most learned man. He has never
written a single book, so you can imagine how much he knows.
ALG. I must see him at once on a most important christening- I mean
on most important business.
CEC. Oh!
ALG. I sha'n't be away more than half an hour.
CEC. Considering that we have been engaged since February the 14th,
and that I only met you to-day for the first time, I think it is
rather hard that you should leave me for so long a period as
half an hour. Couldn't you make it twenty minutes?
ALG. I'll be back in no time.
-
[Kisses her and rushes down the garden.]
-
CEC. What an impetuous boy he is! I like his hair so much. I must
enter his proposal in my diary.
-
[Enter Merriman.]
-
MERR. A Miss Fairfax has just called to see Mr. Worthing. On very
important business Miss Fairfax states.
CEC. Isn't Mr. Worthing in his library?
MERR. Mr. Worthing went over in the direction of the Rectory some
time ago.
CEC. Pray ask the lady to come out here; Mr. Worthing is sure to be
back soon. And you can bring tea.
MERR. Yes, Miss. [Goes out.]
CEC. Miss Fairfax! I suppose one of the many good elderly women who
are associated with Uncle Jack in some of his philanthropic work
in London. I don't quite like women who are interested in
philanthropic work. I think it is so forward of them.
-
[Enter Merriman.]
-
MERR. Miss Fairfax.
-
[Enter Gwendolen.] [Exit Merriman.]
-
CEC. [Advancing to meet her.] Pray let me introduce myself to you.
My name is Cecily Cardew.
GWEN. Cecily Cardew? [Moving to her and shaking hands.] What a very
sweet name! Something tells me that we are going to be great
friends. I like you already more than I can say. My first
impressions of people are never wrong.
CEC. How nice of you to like me so much after we have known each
other such a comparatively short time. Pray sit down.
GWEN. [Still standing up.] I may call you Cecily, may I not?
CEC. With pleasure!
GWEN. And you will always call me Gwendolen, won't you?
CEC. If you wish.
GWEN. Then that is all quite settled, is it not?
CEC. I hope so. [A pause. They both sit down together.]
GWEN. Perhaps this might be a favourable opportunity for my
mentioning who I am. My father is Lord Bracknell. You have never
heard of papa, I suppose?
CEC. I don't think so.
GWEN. Outside the family circle, papa, I am glad to say, is
entirely unknown. I think that is quite as it should be. The
home seems to me to be the proper sphere for the man. And
certainly once a man begins to neglect his domestic duties he
becomes painfully effeminate, does he not? And I don't like
that. It makes men so very attractive. Cecily, mamma, whose
views on education are remarkably strict, has brought me up to
be extremely short-sighted; it is part of her system; so do you
mind my looking at you through my glasses?
CEC. Oh! not at all, Gwendolen. I am very fond of being looked at.
GWEN. [After examining Cecily carefully through a lorgnette.] You
are here on a short visit, I suppose.
CEC. Oh no! I live here.
GWEN. [Severely.] Really? Your mother, no doubt, or some female
relative of advanced years, resides here also?
CEC. Oh no! I have no mother, nor, in fact, any relations.
GWEN. Indeed?
CEC. My dear guardian, with the assistance of Miss Prism, has the
arduous task of looking after me.
GWEN. Your guardian?
CEC. Yes, I am Mr. Worthing's ward.
GWEN. Oh! It is strange he never mentioned to me that he had a
ward. How secretive of him! He grows more interesting hourly. I
am not sure, however, that the news inspires me with feelings of
unmixed delight. [Rising and going to her.] I am very fond of
you, Cecily; I have liked you ever since I met you! But I am
bound to state that now that I know that you are Mr. Worthing's
ward, I cannot help expressing a wish you were- well just a
little older than you seem to be- and not quite so very alluring
in appearance. In fact, if I may speak candidly-
CEC. Pray do! I think that whenever one has anything unpleasant to
say, one should always be quite candid.
GWEN. Well, to speak with perfect candour, Cecily, I wish that you
were fully forty-two, and more than usually plain for your age.
Ernest has a strong, upright nature. He is the very soul of
truth and honour. Disloyalty would be as impossible to him as
deception. But even 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.
CEC. I beg your pardon, Gwendolen, did you say Ernest?
GWEN. Yes.
CEC. Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is my guardian. It
is his brother- his elder brother.
GWEN. [Sitting down again.] Ernest never mentioned to me that he
had a brother.
CEC. I am sorry to say they have not been on good terms for a long
time.
GWEN. Ah! that accounts for it. And now that I think of it I have
never heard any man mention his brother. The subject seems
distasteful to most men. Cecily, you have lifted a load from my
mind. I was growing almost anxious. It would have been terrible
if any cloud had come across a friendship like ours, would it
not? Of course you are quite, quite sure that it is not Mr.
Ernest Worthing who is your guardian?
CEC. Quite sure. [A pause.] In fact, I am going to be his.
GWEN. [Enquiringly.] I beg your pardon?
CEC. [Rather shy and confidingly.] Dearest Gwendolen, there is no
reason why I should make a secret of it to you. Our little
county newspaper is sure to chronicle the fact next week. Mr.
Ernest Worthing and I are engaged to be married.
GWEN. [Quite politely, rising.] My darling Cecily, I think there
must be some slight error. Mr. Ernest Worthing is engaged to me.
The announcement will appear in "The Morning Post" on Saturday
at the latest.
CEC. [Very politely, rising.] I am afraid you must be under some
misconception. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago.
[Shows diary.]
GWEN. [Examines diary through her lorgnette carefully.] It is
certainly very curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday
afternoon at 5:30. If you would care to verify the incident,
pray do so. [Produces diary of her own.] I never travel without
my diary. One should always have something sensational to read
in the train. I am so sorry, dear Cecily, if it is any
disappointment to you, but I am afraid I have the prior
claim.
CEC. It would distress me more than I can tell you, dear Gwendolen,
if it caused you any mental or physical anguish, but I feel
bound to point out that since Ernest proposed to you he clearly
has changed his mind.
GWEN. [Meditatively.] If the poor fellow has been entrapped into
any foolish promise I shall consider it my duty to rescue him at
once, and with a firm hand.
CEC. [Thoughtfully and sadly.] Whatever unfortunate entanglement my
dear boy may have got into, I will never reproach him with it
after we are married.
GWEN. Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew, as an entanglement? You are
presumptuous. On an occasion of this kind it becomes more than a
moral duty to speak one's mind. It becomes a pleasure.
CEC. Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax, that I entrapped Ernest into an
engagement? How dare you? This is no time for wearing the
shallow mask of manners. When I see a spade I call it a spade.
GWEN. [Satirically.] I am glad to say that I have never seen a
spade. It is obvious that our social spheres have been widely
different.
-
[Enter Merriman, followed by the footman. He carries a
salver, table cloth, and plate stand. Cecily is about to
retort. The presence of the servants exercises a restraining
influence, under which both girls chafe.]
-
MERR. Shall I lay tea here as usual, Miss?
CEC. [Sternly, in a calm voice.] Yes, as usual. [Merriman begins to
clear table and lay cloth. A long pause. Cecily and Gwendolen
glare at each other.]
GWEN. Are there many interesting walks in the vicinity, Miss
Cardew?
CEC. Oh! yes! a great many. From the top of one of the hills quite
close one can see five counties.
GWEN. Five counties! I don't think I should like that. I hate
crowds.
CEC. [Sweetly.] I suppose that is why you live in town? [Gwendolen
bites her lip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.]
GWEN. [Looking round.] Quite a well-kept garden this is, Miss
Cardew.
CEC. So glad you like it, Miss Fairfax.
GWEN. I had no idea there were any flowers in the country.
CEC. Oh, flowers are as common here, Miss Fairfax, as people are in
London.
GWEN. Personally I cannot understand how anybody manages to exist
in the country, if anybody who is anybody does. The country
always bores me to death.
CEC. Ah! This is what the newspapers call agricultural depression,
is it not? I believe the aristocracy are suffering very much
from it just at present. It is almost an epidemic amongst them,
I have been told. May I offer you some tea, Miss Fairfax?
GWEN. [With elaborate politeness.] Thank you. [Aside.] Detestable
girl! But I require tea!
CEC. [Sweetly.] Sugar?
GWEN. [Superciliously.] No, thank you. Sugar is not fashionable any
more. [Cecily looks angrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts
four lumps of sugar into the cup.]
CEC. [Sweetly.] Cake or bread and butter?
GWEN. [In a bored manner.] Bread and butter, please. Cake is rarely
seen at the best houses nowadays.
CEC. [Cuts a very large slice of cake, and puts it on the tray.]
Hand that to Miss Fairfax.
-
[Merriman does so, and goes out with footman. Gwendolen
drinks the tea and makes a grimace. Puts down cup at once,
reaches out hand to the bread and butter, looks at it, and
finds it is cake. Rises in indignation.]
-
GWEN. You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I
asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me
cake. I am known for the gentleness of my disposition, and the
extraordinary sweetness of my nature, but I warn you, Miss
Cardew, you may go too far.
CEC. [Rising.] To save my poor, innocent, trusting boy from the
machinations of any other girl there are no lengths to which I
would not go.
GWEN. From the moment I saw you I distrusted you. I felt that you
were false and deceitful. I am never deceived in such matters.
My first impressions of people are invariably right.
CEC. It seems to me, Miss Fairfax, that I am trespassing on your
valuable time. No doubt you have many other calls of a similar
character to make in the neighbourhood.
-
[Enter Jack.]
-
GWEN. [Catching sight of him.] Ernest! My own Ernest!
JACK. Gwendolen! Darling! [Offers to kiss her.]
GWEN. [Drawing back.] A moment! May I ask if you are engaged to be
married to this young lady? [Points to Cecily.]
JACK. [Laughing.] To dear little Cecily! Of course not! What could
have put such an idea into your pretty little head?
GWEN. Thank you. You may! [Offers her cheek.]
CEC. [Very sweetly.] I knew there must be some misunderstanding,
Miss Fairfax. The gentleman whose arm is at present round your
waist is my dear guardian, Mr. John Worthing.
GWEN. I beg your pardon?
CEC. This is Uncle Jack.
GWEN. [Receding.] Jack! Oh!
-
[Enter Algernon.]
-
CEC. Here is Ernest.
ALG. [Goes straight over to Cecily without noticing anyone else.]
My own love! [Offers to kiss her.]
CEC. [Drawing back.] A moment, Ernest! May I ask you- are you
engaged to be married to this young lady?
ALG. [Looking round.] To what young lady? Good Heavens! Gwendolen!
CEC. Yes! to good Heavens, Gwendolen, I mean to Gwendolen.
ALG. [Laughing.] Of course not! What could have put such an idea
into your pretty little head?
CEC. Thank you. [Presenting her cheek to be kissed.] You may.
[Algernon kisses her.]
GWEN. I felt there was some slight error, Miss Cardew. The
gentleman who is now embracing you is my cousin, Mr. Algernon
Moncrieff.
CEC. [Breaking away from Algernon.] Algernon Moncrieff! Oh! [The
two girls move towards each other and put their arms round each
other's waists as if for protection.]
CEC. Are you called Algernon?
ALG. I cannot deny it.
CEC. Oh!
GWEN. Is your name really John?
JACK. [Standing rather proudly.] I could deny it if I liked. I
could deny anything if I liked. But my name certainly is John.
It has been John for years.
CEC. [To Gwendolen.] A gross deception has been practiced on both
of us.
GWEN. My poor wounded Cecily!
CEC. My sweet wronged Gwendolen!
GWEN. [Slowly and seriously.] You will call me sister, will you
not? [They embrace. Jack and Algernon groan and walk up and
down.]
CEC. [Rather brightly.] There is just one question I would like to
be allowed to ask my guardian.
GWEN. An admirable idea! Mr. Worthing, there is just one question I
would like to be permitted to put to you. Where is your brother
Ernest? We are both engaged to be married to your brother
Ernest, so it is a matter of some importance to us to know where
your brother Ernest is at present.
JACK. [Slowly and hesitatingly.] Gwendolen- Cecily- it is very
painful for me to be forced to speak the truth. It is the first
time in my life that I have ever been reduced to such a painful
position, and I am really quite inexperienced in doing anything
of the kind. However I will tell you quite frankly that I have
no brother Ernest. I have no brother at all. I never had a
brother in my life, and I certainly have not the smallest
intention of ever having one in the future.
CEC. [Surprised.] No brother at all?
JACK. [Cheerily.] None!
GWEN. [Severely.] Had you never a brother of any kind?
JACK. [Pleasantly.] Never. Not even of any kind.
GWEN. I am afraid it is quite clear, Cecily, that neither of us is
engaged to be married to anyone.
CEC. It is not a very pleasant position for a young girl suddenly
to find herself in. Is it?
GWEN. Let us go into the house. They will hardly venture to come
after us there.
CEC. No, men are so cowardly, aren't they?
-
[They retire into the house with scornful looks.]
-
JACK. This ghastly state of things is what you call Bunburying, I
suppose?
ALG. Yes, and a perfectly wonderful Bunbury it is. The most
wonderful Bunbury I have ever had in my life.
JACK. Well, you've no right whatsoever to Bunbury here.
ALG. That is absurd. One has a right to Bunbury anywhere one
chooses. Every serious Bunburyist knows that.
JACK. Serious Bunburyist! Good Heavens!
ALG. Well, one must be serious about something, if one wants to
have any amusement in life. I happen to be serious about
Bunburying. What on earth you are serious about I haven't got
the remotest idea. About everything, I should fancy. You have
such an absolutely trivial nature.
JACK. Well, the only small satisfaction I have in the whole of this
wretched business is that your friend Bunbury is quite exploded.
You won't be able to run down to the country quite so often as
you used to do, dear Algy. And a very good thing too.
ALG. Your brother is a little off colour, isn't he, dear Jack? You
won't be able to disappear to London quite so frequently as your
wicked custom was. And not a bad thing either.
JACK. As for your conduct towards Miss Cardew, I must say that your
taking in a sweet, simple, innocent girl like that was quite
inexcusable. To say nothing of the fact that she is my ward.
ALG. I can see no possible defence at all for your deceiving a
brilliant, clever, thoroughly experienced young lady like Miss
Fairfax. To say nothing of the fact that she is my cousin.
JACK. I wanted to be engaged to Gwendolen, that is all. I love her.
ALG. Well, I simply wanted to be engaged to Cecily. I adore her.
JACK. There is certainly no chance of your marrying Miss Cardew.
ALG. I don't think there is much likelihood, Jack, of you and Miss
Fairfax being united.
JACK. Well, that is no business of yours.
ALG. If it was my business, I wouldn't talk about it. [Begins to
eat muffins.] It is very vulgar to talk about one's business.
Only people like stockbrokers do that, and then merely at
dinner-parties.
JACK. How you can sit there, calmly eating muffins when we are in
this horrible trouble, I can't make out. You seem to me to be
perfectly heartless.
ALG. Well, I can't eat muffins in an agitated manner. The butter
would probably get on my cuffs. One should always eat muffins
quite calmly. It is the only way to eat them.
JACK. I say it's perfectly heartless your eating muffins at all,
under the circumstances.
ALG. When I am in trouble, eating is the only thing that consoles
me. Indeed, when I am in really great trouble, as anyone who
knows me intimately will tell you, I refuse everything except
food and drink. At the present moment I am eating muffins
because I am unhappy. Besides, I am particularly fond of
muffins. [Rising.]
JACK. [Rising.] Well, that is no reason why you should eat them all
in that greedy way. [Takes muffins from Algernon.]
ALG. [Offering tea-cake.] I wish you would have tea-cake instead. I
don't like tea-cake.
JACK. Good Heavens! I suppose a man may eat his own muffins in his
own garden.
ALG. But you have just said it was perfectly heartless to eat
muffins.
JACK. I said it was perfectly heartless of you, under the
circumstances. That is a very different thing.
ALG. That may be. But the muffins are the same. [He seizes the
muffin-dish from Jack.]
JACK. Algy, I wish to goodness you would go.
ALG. You can't possibly ask me to go without having some dinner.
It's absurd. I never go without my dinner. No one ever does,
except vegetarians and people like that. Besides I have just
made arrangements with Dr. Chasuble, to be christened at a
quarter to six under the name of Ernest.
JACK. My dear fellow, the sooner you give up that nonsense the
better. I made arrangements this morning with Dr. Chasuble to be
christened myself at 5:30, and I naturally will take the name of
Ernest. Gwendolen would wish it. We can't both be christened
Ernest. It's absurd. Besides, I have a perfect right to be
christened if I like. There is no evidence at all that I ever
have been christened by anybody. I should think it extremely
probable I never was, and so does Dr. Chasuble. It is entirely
different in your case. You have been christened already.
ALG. Yes, but I have not been christened for years.
JACK. Yes, but you have been christened. That is the important
thing.
ALG. Quite so. So I know my constitution can stand it. If you are
not quite sure about your ever having been christened, I must
say I think it rather dangerous your venturing on it now. It
might make you very unwell. You can hardly have forgotten that
someone very closely connected with you was very nearly carried
off this week in Paris by a severe chill.
JACK. Yes, but you said yourself that a severe chill was not
hereditary.
ALG. It usen't to be, I know- but I daresay it is now. Science is
always making wonderful improvements in things.
JACK. [Picking up the muffin-dish.] Oh, that is nonsense; you are
always talking nonsense.
ALG. Jack, you are at the muffins again. I wish you wouldn't. There
are only two left. [Takes them.] I told you I was particularly
fond of muffins.
JACK. But I hate tea-cake.
ALG. Why on earth then do you allow tea-cake to be served up for
your guests? What ideas you have of hospitality!
JACK. Algernon! I have already told you to go. I don't want you
here. Why don't you go?
ALG. I haven't quite finished my tea yet! and there is still one
muffin left. [Jack groans, and sinks into a chair. Algernon
still continues eating.]
-
ACT-DROP
THIRD ACT
-
SCENE- Morning-room at the Manor House.
-
[Gwendolen and Cecily are at the window, looking out into
the garden.]
GWEN. The fact that they did not follow us at once into the house,
as anyone else would have done, seems to me to show that they
have some sense of shame left.
CEC. They have been eating muffins. That looks like repentance.
GWEN. [After a pause.] They don't seem to notice us at all.
Couldn't you cough?
CEC. But I haven't got a cough.
GWEN. They're looking at us. What effrontery!
CEC. They're approaching. That's very forward of them.
GWEN. Let us preserve a dignified silence.
CEC. Certainly. It's the only thing to do now.
-
[Enter Jack followed by Algernon. They whistle some
dreadful popular air from a British Opera.]
-
GWEN. This dignified silence seems to produce an unpleasant effect.
CEC. A most distasteful one.
GWEN. But we will not be the first to speak.
CEC. Certainly not.
GWEN. Mr. Worthing, I have something very particular to ask you.
Much depends on your reply.
CEC. Gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable. Mr. Moncrieff,
kindly answer me the following question. Why did you pretend to
be my guardian's brother?
ALG. In order that I might have an opportunity of meeting you.
CEC. [To Gwendolen.] That certainly seems a satisfactory
explanation, does it not?
GWEN. Yes, dear, if you can believe him.
CEC. I don't. But that does not affect the wonderful beauty of his
answer.
GWEN. True. In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity is
the vital thing. Mr. Worthing, what explanation can you offer to
me for pretending to have a brother? Was it in order that you
might have an opportunity of coming up to town to see me as
often as possible?
JACK. Can you doubt it, Miss Fairfax?
GWEN. I have the gravest doubts upon the subject. But I intend to
crush them. This is not the moment for German scepticism.
[Moving to Cecily.] Their explanations appear to be quite
satisfactory, especially Mr. Worthing's. That seems to me to
have the stamp of truth upon it.
CEC. I am more than content with what Mr. Moncrieff said. His voice
alone inspires one with absolute credulity.
GWEN. Then you think we should forgive them?
CEC. Yes. I mean no.
GWEN. True! I had forgotten. There are principles at stake that one
cannot surrender. Which of us should tell them? The task is not
a pleasant one.
CEC. Could we not both speak at the same time?
GWEN. An excellent idea! I nearly always speak at the same time as
other people. Will you take the time from me?
CEC. Certainly. [Gwendolen beats time with uplifted finger.]
GWEN. AND CEC. [Speaking together.] Your Christian names are still
an insuperable barrier. That is all!
JACK AND ALG. [Speaking together.] Our Christian names! Is that
all? But we are going to be christened this afternoon.
GWEN. [To Jack.] For my sake you are prepared to do this terrible
thing?
JACK. I am.
CEC. [To Algernon.] To please me you are ready to face this fearful
ordeal?
ALG. I am!
GWEN. How absurd to talk of the equality of the sexes! Where
questions of self-sacrifice are concerned, men are infinitely
beyond us.
JACK. We are. [Clasps hands with Algernon.]
CEC. They have moments of physical courage of which we women know
absolutely nothing.
GWEN. [To Jack.] Darling!
ALG. [To Cecily.] Darling! [They fall into each other's arms.]
-
[Enter Merriman. When he enters he coughs loudly, seeing
the situation.]
-
MERR. Ahem! Ahem! Lady Bracknell!
JACK. Good Heavens!
-
[Enter Lady Bracknell. The couples separate in alarm.
Exit Merriman.]
-
LADY BRA. Gwendolen! What does this mean?
GWEN. Merely that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Worthing,
mamma.
LADY BRA. Come here. Sit down. Sit down immediately. Hesitation of
any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical
weakness in the old. [Turns to Jack.] Apprised, sir, of my
daughter's sudden flight by her trusty maid, whose confidence I
purchased by means of a small coin, I followed her at once by a
luggage train. Her unhappy father is, I am glad to say, under
the impression that she is attending a more than usually lengthy
lecture by the University Extension Scheme on the Influence of a
permanent income on Thought. I do not propose to undeceive him.
Indeed I have never undeceived him on any question. I would
consider it wrong. But of course, you will clearly understand
that all communication between yourself and my daughter must
cease immediately from this moment. On this point, as indeed on
all points, I am firm.
JACK. I am engaged to be married to Gwendolen, Lady Bracknell!
LADY BRA. You are nothing of the kind, so. And now, as regards
Algernon!... Algernon!
ALG. Yes, Aunt Augusta.
LADY BRA. May I ask if it is in this house that your invalid friend
Mr. Bunbury resides?
ALG. [Stammering.] Oh! No! Bunbury doesn't live here. Bunbury is
somewhere else at present. In fact, Bunbury is dead.
LADY BRA. Dead! When did Mr. Bunbury die? His death must have been
extremely sudden.
ALG. [Airily.] Oh! I killed Bunbury this afternoon. I mean poor
Bunbury died this afternoon.
LADY BRA. What did he die of?
ALG. Bunbury? Oh, he was quite exploded.
LADY BRA. Exploded! Was he the victim of a revolutionary outrage?
I was not aware that Mr. Bunbury was interested in social
legislation. If so, he is well punished for his morbidity.
ALG. My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he was found out! The doctors
found out that Bunbury could not live, that is what I mean- so
Bunbury died.
LADY BRA. He seems to have had great confidence in the opinion of
his physicians. I am glad, however, that he made up his mind at
the last to some definite course of action, and acted under
proper medical advice. And now that we have finally got rid of
this Mr. Bunbury, may I ask, Mr. Worthing, who is that young
person whose hand my nephew Algernon is now holding in what
seems to me a peculiarly unnecessary manner?
JACK. That lady is Miss Cecily Cardew, my ward. [Lady Bracknell
bows coldly to Cecily.]
ALG. I am engaged to be married to Cecily, Aunt Augusta.
LADY BRA. I beg your pardon?
CEC. Mr. Moncrieff and I are engaged to be married, Lady Bracknell.
LADY BRA. [With a shiver, crossing to the sofa and sitting down.] I
do not know whether there is anything peculiarly exciting in the
air of this particular part of Hertfordshire, but the number of
engagements that go on seems to me considerably above the proper
average that statistics have laid down for our guidance. I think
some preliminary enquiry on my part would not be out of place.
Mr. Worthing, is Miss Cardew at all connected with any of the
larger railway stations in London? I merely desire information.
Until yesterday I had no idea that there were any families or
persons whose origin was a Terminus. [Jack looks perfectly
furious, but restrains himself.]
JACK. [In a clear, cold voice.] Miss Cardew is the granddaughter of
the late Mr. Thomas Cardew of 149, Belgrave Square, S.W.;
Gervase Park, Dorking, Surrey; and the Sporran, Fifeshire, N.B.
LADY BRA. That sounds not unsatisfactory. Three addresses always
inspire confidence, even in tradesmen. But what proof have I of
their authenticity.
JACK. I have carefully preserved the Court Guides of the period.
They are open to your inspection, Lady Bracknell.
LADY BRA. [Grimly.] I have known strange errors in that
publication.
JACK. Miss Cardew's family solicitors are Messrs. Markby, Markby,
and Markby.
LADY BRA. Markby, Markby, and Markby? A firm of the very highest
position in their profession. Indeed I am told that one of the
Mr. Markbys is occasionally to be seen at dinner parties. So far
I am satisfied.
JACK. [Very irritably.] How extremely kind of you, Lady Bracknell!
I have also in my possession, you will be pleased to hear,
certificates of Miss Cardew's birth, baptism, whooping cough,
registration, vaccination, confirmation, and the measles; both
the German and the English variety.
LADY BRA. Ah! A life crowded with incident, I see; though perhaps
somewhat too exciting for a young girl. I am not myself in
favour of premature experiences. [Rises, looks at her watch.]
Gwendolen! the time approaches for our departure. We have not a
moment to lose. As a matter of form, Mr. Worthing, I had better
ask you if Miss Cardew has any little fortune.
JACK. Oh! about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the Funds.
That is all. Good-bye, Lady Bracknell. So pleased to have seen
you.
LADY BRA. [Sitting down again.] A moment, Mr. Worthing. A hundred
and thirty thousand pounds! And in the Funds! Miss Cardew seems
to me a most attractive young lady, now that I look at her. Few
girls of the present day have any really solid qualities, any of
the qualities that last, and improve with time. We live, I
regret to say, in an age of surfaces. [To Cecily.] Come over
here, dear. [Cecily goes across.] Pretty child! your dress is
sadly simple, and your hair seems almost as Nature might have
left it. But we can soon alter all that. A thoroughly
experienced French maid produces a really marvellous result in a
very brief space of time. I remember recommending one to young
Lady Lancing, and after three months her own husband did not
know her.
JACK. [Aside.] And after six months nobody knew her.
LADY BRA. [Glares at Jack for a few moments. Then bends, with a
practised smile, to Cecily.] Kindly turn round, sweet child.
[Cecily turns completely round.] No, the side view is what I
want. [Cecily presents her profile.] Yes, quite as I expected.
There are distinct social possibilities in your profile. The two
weak points in our age are its want of principle and its want of
profile. The chin a little higher, dear. Style largely depends
on the way the chin is worn. They are worn very high, just at
present. Algernon!
ALG. Yes, Aunt Augusta!
LADY BRA. There are distinct social possibilities in Miss Cardew's
profile.
ALG. Cecily is the sweetest, dearest, prettiest girl in the whole
world. And I don't care twopence about social possibilities.
LADY BRA. Never speak disrespectfully of Society, Algernon. Only
people who can't get into it do that. [To Cecily.] Dear child,
of course you know that Algernon has nothing but his debts to
depend upon. But I do not approve of mercenary marriages. When
I married Lord Bracknell I had no fortune of any kind. But I
never dreamed for a moment of allowing that to stand in my way.
Well, I suppose I must give my consent.
ALG. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.
LADY BRA. Cecily, you may kiss me!
CEC. [Kisses her.] Thank you, Lady Bracknell.
LADY BRA. You may also address me as Aunt Augusta for the future.
CEC. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.
LADY BRA. The marriage, I think, had better take place quite soon.
ALG. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.
CEC. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.
LADY BRA. To speak frankly, 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.
JACK. I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Lady Bracknell, but
this engagement is quite out of the question. I am Miss Cardew's
guardian, and she cannot marry without my consent until she
comes of age. That consent I absolutely decline to give.
LADY BRA. Upon what grounds, may I ask? Algernon is an extremely,
I may almost say an ostentatiously, eligible young man. He has
nothing, but he looks everything. What |
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