THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST
A Trivial Comedy for Serious People
OSCAR WILDE
ACT I. Algernon Moncrieff’s Flat in
Half-Moon Street, W.
ACT II. The Garden at the Manor House,
Woolton.
ACT III. Drawing-Room at the Manor
House, Woolton.
TIME: The Present.
John Worthing, J.P.
Algernon Moncrieff.
Rev. Canon Chasuble, D.D.
Merriman.
Lane.
Lady Bracknell.
Hon. Gwendolen Fairfax
Cecily Cardew
Miss Prism
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.]
Algernon. Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?
Lane. I didn’t think it polite to listen, sir.
Algernon. I’m sorry for that, for your sake. I
don’t play accurately—any one 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.
Algernon. 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.]
Algernon. [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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. [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.
Algernon. Very natural, I am sure. That will do,
Lane, thank you.
Lane. Thank you, sir. [Lane goes out.]
Algernon. 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.]
Algernon. 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!
Algernon. [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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. And who are the people you amuse?
Jack. [Airily.] Oh, neighbours, neighbours.
Algernon. Got nice neighbours in your part of Shropshire?
Jack. Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one of them.
Algernon. 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?
Algernon. Oh! merely Aunt Augusta and Gwendolen.
Jack. How perfectly delightful!
Algernon. Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid
Aunt Augusta won’t quite approve of your being here.
Jack. May I ask why?
Algernon. 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
to propose to her.
Algernon. I thought you had come up for pleasure? . . . I
call that business.
Jack. How utterly unromantic you are!
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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?
Algernon. Well, in the first place girls never marry the
men they flirt with. Girls don’t think it right.
Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!
Algernon. 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!
Algernon. 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 any one of the name of Cecily.
[Enter Lane.]
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.]
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. Yes; but this isn’t your cigarette case.
This cigarette case is a present from some one of the name of Cecily, and you
said you didn’t know any one of that name.
Jack. Well, if you want to know, Cecily happens to be my aunt.
Algernon. Your aunt!
Jack. Yes. Charming old lady she is, too. Lives at
Tunbridge Wells. Just give it back to me, Algy.
Algernon. [Retreating to back of sofa.] But why
does she call herself little 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 Algernon round the room.]
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. You have always told me it was Ernest. I
have introduced you to every one 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 any one 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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?
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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
grand-daughter, 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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?
Algernon. You have invented a very useful younger 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. Then your wife will. You don’t seem to
realise, 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.
Algernon. 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 be cynical.
Algernon. My dear fellow, it isn’t easy to be anything
nowadays. 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.
Algernon. 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 Bracknell. Good afternoon, dear Algernon, I hope you are
behaving very well.
Algernon. I’m feeling very well, Aunt Augusta.
Lady Bracknell. That’s not quite the same thing. In fact
the two things rarely go together. [Sees Jack and bows to him with
icy coldness.]
Algernon. [To Gwendolen.] Dear me, you are
smart!
Gwendolen. I am always smart! Am I not, Mr.
Worthing?
Jack. You’re quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.
Gwendolen. 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 Bracknell. 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.
Algernon. Certainly, Aunt Augusta. [Goes over to
tea-table.]
Lady Bracknell. Won’t you come and sit here, Gwendolen?
Gwendolen. Thanks, mamma, I’m quite comfortable where I
am.
Algernon. [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.
Algernon. No cucumbers!
Lane. No, sir. Not even for ready money.
Algernon. That will do, Lane, thank you.
Lane. Thank you, sir. [Goes out.]
Algernon. I am greatly distressed, Aunt Augusta, about
there being no cucumbers, not even for ready money.
Lady Bracknell. It really makes no matter, Algernon. I
had some crumpets with Lady Harbury, who seems to me to be living entirely for
pleasure now.
Algernon. I hear her hair has turned quite gold from
grief.
Lady Bracknell. It certainly has changed its colour. 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.
Algernon. I am afraid, Aunt Augusta, I shall have to give
up the pleasure of dining with you to-night after all.
Lady Bracknell. [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.
Algernon. It is 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 Bracknell. It is very strange. This Mr. Bunbury
seems to suffer from curiously bad health.
Algernon. Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid.
Lady Bracknell. 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 ailment goes. I should be much 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 every one has practically said
whatever they had to say, which, in most cases, was probably not much.
Algernon. 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 Bracknell. 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.
Gwendolen. Certainly, mamma.
[Lady Bracknell and Algernon go
into the music-room, Gwendolen remains behind.]
Jack. Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax.
Gwendolen. 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.
Gwendolen. 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 . . .
Gwendolen. 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.
Gwendolen. Yes, I am quite well 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?
Gwendolen. Passionately!
Jack. Darling! You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.
Gwendolen. My own Ernest!
Jack. But you don’t really mean to say that you couldn’t love me if my
name wasn’t Ernest?
Gwendolen. 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?
Gwendolen. [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.
Gwendolen. 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.
Gwendolen. 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.
Gwendolen. 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.
Gwendolen. 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?
Gwendolen. 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 before-hand that I am fully
determined to accept you.
Jack. Gwendolen!
Gwendolen. Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you got to say to
me?
Jack. You know what I have got to say to you.
Gwendolen. Yes, but you don’t say it.
Jack. Gwendolen, will you marry me? [Goes on his knees.]
Gwendolen. 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 any one in the world but you.
Gwendolen. 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 Bracknell. Mr. Worthing! Rise, sir, from this
semi-recumbent posture. It is most indecorous.
Gwendolen. 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 Bracknell. Finished what, may I ask?
Gwendolen. I am engaged to Mr. Worthing, mamma.
[They rise together.]
Lady Bracknell. Pardon me, you are not engaged to any
one. 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.
Gwendolen. [Reproachfully.] Mamma!
Lady Bracknell. 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!
Gwendolen. Yes, mamma. [Goes out, looking back at Jack.]
Lady Bracknell. [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 Bracknell. [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 Bracknell. 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 Bracknell. 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 Bracknell. 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 Bracknell. [Makes a note in her book.] In land, or
in investments?
Jack. In investments, chiefly.
Lady Bracknell. 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 Bracknell. 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 Bracknell. Lady Bloxham? I don’t know her.
Jack. Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably
advanced in years.
Lady Bracknell. Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of
respectability of character. What number in Belgrave Square?
Jack. 149.
Lady Bracknell. [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 Bracknell. [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 Bracknell. 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 Bracknell. To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be
regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks 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 the 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 Bracknell. 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 Bracknell. Where did the charitable gentleman who had a
first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you?
Jack. [Gravely.] In a hand-bag.
Lady Bracknell. 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 Bracknell. 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 Bracknell. The cloak-room at Victoria Station?
Jack. Yes. The Brighton line.
Lady Bracknell. 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
reminds 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 hand-bag 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 recognised 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 Bracknell. 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. Well, 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 Bracknell. 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.]
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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!
Algernon. It isn’t!
Jack. Well, I won’t argue about the matter. You always want to
argue about things.
Algernon. 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?
Algernon. All women become like their mothers. That
is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.
Jack. Is that clever?
Algernon. It is perfectly phrased! and quite as true as
any observation in civilised life should be.
Jack. I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever
nowadays. 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.
Algernon. We have.
Jack. I should extremely like to meet them. What do they talk
about?
Algernon. The fools? Oh! about the clever people,
of course.
Jack. What fools!
Algernon. 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!
Algernon. The only way to behave to a woman is to make
love to her, if she is pretty, and to some one else, if she is plain.
Jack. Oh, that is nonsense.
Algernon. 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?
Algernon. 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?
Algernon. Of course it isn’t!
Jack. Very well, then. My poor brother Ernest to carried off
suddenly, in Paris, by a severe chill. That gets rid of him.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. Well, I’m hungry.
Jack. I never knew you when you weren’t . . .
Algernon. What shall we do after dinner? Go to a
theatre?
Jack. Oh no! I loathe listening.
Algernon. Well, let us go to the Club?
Jack. Oh, no! I hate talking.
Algernon. Well, we might trot round to the Empire at ten?
Jack. Oh, no! I can’t bear looking at things. It is so
silly.
Algernon. Well, what shall we do?
Jack. Nothing!
Algernon. 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.]
Algernon. Gwendolen, upon my word!
Gwendolen. Algy, kindly turn your back. I have
something very particular to say to Mr. Worthing.
Algernon. Really, Gwendolen, I don’t think I can allow
this at all.
Gwendolen. 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!
Gwendolen. Ernest, we may never be married. From the
expression on mamma’s face I fear we never shall. Few parents nowadays
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 some one else, and marry often, nothing
that she can possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you.
Jack. Dear Gwendolen!
Gwendolen. 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.]
Gwendolen. 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!
Gwendolen. How long do you remain in town?
Jack. Till Monday.
Gwendolen. Good! Algy, you may turn round now.
Algernon. Thanks, I’ve turned round already.
Gwendolen. You may also ring the bell.
Jack. You will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling?
Gwendolen. 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.]
Algernon. A glass of sherry, Lane.
Lane. Yes, sir.
Algernon. To-morrow, Lane, I’m going Bunburying.
Lane. Yes, sir.
Algernon. 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.]
Algernon. I hope to-morrow will be a fine day, Lane.
Lane. It never is, sir.
Algernon. 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?
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. I love scrapes. They are the only things
that are never serious.
Jack. Oh, that’s nonsense, Algy. You never talk anything but
nonsense.
Algernon. Nobody ever does.
[Jack looks indignantly at him, and
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
grey 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 Prism. [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.
Cecily. [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 Prism. 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.
Cecily. Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious! Sometimes he is so
serious that I think he cannot be quite well.
Miss Prism. [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.
Cecily. I suppose that is why he often looks a little bored when we
three are together.
Miss Prism. 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.
Cecily. 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 Prism. [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.
Cecily. 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 Prism. Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we
all carry about with us.
Cecily. 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 Prism. Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume
novel, Cecily. I wrote one myself in earlier days.
Cecily. 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 Prism. The good ended happily, and the bad
unhappily. That is what Fiction means.
Cecily. I suppose so. But it seems very unfair. And was your
novel ever published?
Miss Prism. Alas! no. The manuscript unfortunately
was abandoned. [Cecily starts.] I use the word in the sense
of lost or mislaid. To your work, child, these speculations are
profitless.
Cecily. [Smiling.] But I see dear Dr. Chasuble coming up through
the garden.
Miss Prism. [Rising and advancing.] Dr.
Chasuble! This is indeed a pleasure.
[Enter Canon Chasuble.]
Chasuble. And how are we this morning? Miss Prism,
you are, I trust, well?
Cecily. 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 Prism. Cecily, I have not mentioned anything about a
headache.
Cecily. 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.
Chasuble. I hope, Cecily, you are not inattentive.
Cecily. Oh, I am afraid I am.
Chasuble. 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 Prism. We do not expect him till Monday afternoon.
Chasuble. 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 Prism. Egeria? My name is Lætitia, Doctor.
Chasuble. [Bowing.] A classical allusion merely,
drawn from the Pagan authors. I shall see you both no doubt at Evensong?
Miss Prism. 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.
Chasuble. With pleasure, Miss Prism, with pleasure.
We might go as far as the schools and back.
Miss Prism. 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.]
Cecily. [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.]
Merriman. Mr. Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the
station. He has brought his luggage with him.
Cecily. [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?
Merriman. 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.
Cecily. Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had
better talk to the housekeeper about a room for him.
Merriman. Yes, Miss.
[Merriman goes off.]
Cecily. I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel
rather frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one else.
[Enter Algernon, very gay and
debonnair.] He does!
Algernon. [Raising his hat.] You are my little
cousin Cecily, I’m sure.
Cecily. 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.
Algernon. Oh! I am not really wicked at all, cousin
Cecily. You mustn’t think that I am wicked.
Cecily. 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.
Algernon. [Looks at her in amazement.] Oh! Of
course I have been rather reckless.
Cecily. I am glad to hear it.
Algernon. In fact, now you mention the subject, I have
been very bad in my own small way.
Cecily. I don’t think you should be so proud of that, though I am sure
it must have been very pleasant.
Algernon. It is much pleasanter being here with you.
Cecily. I can’t understand how you are here at all. Uncle Jack
won’t be back till Monday afternoon.
Algernon. 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?
Cecily. Couldn’t you miss it anywhere but in London?
Algernon. No: the appointment is in London.
Cecily. 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.
Algernon. About my what?
Cecily. Your emigrating. He has gone up to buy your outfit.
Algernon. I certainly wouldn’t let Jack buy my
outfit. He has no taste in neckties at all.
Cecily. I don’t think you will require neckties. Uncle Jack is
sending you to Australia.
Algernon. Australia! I’d sooner die.
Cecily. Well, he said at dinner on Wednesday night, that you would have
to choose between this world, the next world, and Australia.
Algernon. 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.
Cecily. Yes, but are you good enough for it?
Algernon. 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.
Cecily. I’m afraid I’ve no time, this afternoon.
Algernon. Well, would you mind my reforming myself this
afternoon?
Cecily. It is rather Quixotic of you. But I think you should try.
Algernon. I will. I feel better already.
Cecily. You are looking a little worse.
Algernon. That is because I am hungry.
Cecily. 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?
Algernon. Thank you. Might I have a buttonhole
first? I never have any appetite unless I have a buttonhole first.
Cecily. A Marechal Niel? [Picks up scissors.]
Algernon. No, I’d sooner have a pink rose.
Cecily. Why? [Cuts a flower.]
Algernon. Because you are like a pink rose, Cousin
Cecily.
Cecily. I don’t think it can be right for you to talk to me like
that. Miss Prism never says such things to me.
Algernon. Then Miss Prism is a short-sighted old
lady. [Cecily puts the rose in his buttonhole.] You are the
prettiest girl I ever saw.
Cecily. Miss Prism says that all good looks are a snare.
Algernon. They are a snare that every sensible man would
like to be caught in.
Cecily. 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 Prism. You are too much alone, dear Dr.
Chasuble. You should get married. A misanthrope I can understand—a
womanthrope, never!
Chasuble. [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 Prism. [Sententiously.] That is obviously the
reason why the Primitive Church has not lasted up to the present day. And
you do not seem to realise, 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.
Chasuble. But is a man not equally attractive when
married?
Miss Prism. No married man is ever attractive except to his
wife.
Chasuble. And often, I’ve been told, not even to her.
Miss Prism. 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?
Chasuble. 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 Prism. Mr. Worthing!
Chasuble. Mr. Worthing?
Miss Prism. 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?
Chasuble. Dear Mr. Worthing, I trust this garb of woe
does not betoken some terrible calamity?
Jack. My brother.
Miss Prism. More shameful debts and extravagance?
Chasuble. Still leading his life of pleasure?
Jack. [Shaking his head.] Dead!
Chasuble. Your brother Ernest dead?
Jack. Quite dead.
Miss Prism. What a lesson for him! I trust he will
profit by it.
Chasuble. 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.
Chasuble. 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.
Chasuble. Was the cause of death mentioned?
Jack. A severe chill, it seems.
Miss Prism. As a man sows, so shall he reap.
Chasuble. [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 seems to have expressed a desire to be buried in
Paris.
Chasuble. 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 Prism. 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.
Chasuble. 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 Prism. [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 to be christened myself, this
afternoon, if you have nothing better to do.
Chasuble. But surely, Mr. Worthing, you have been
christened already?
Jack. I don’t remember anything about it.
Chasuble. 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.
Chasuble. Not at all. The sprinkling, and, indeed,
the immersion of adults is a perfectly canonical practice.
Jack. Immersion!
Chasuble. 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.
Chasuble. 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?
Chasuble. 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 Prism. This seems to me a blessing of an extremely
obvious kind.
[Enter Cecily from the house.]
Cecily. Uncle Jack! Oh, I am pleased to see you back. But
what horrid clothes you have got on! Do go and change them.
Miss Prism. Cecily!
Chasuble. My child! my child! [Cecily goes
towards Jack; he kisses her brow in a melancholy manner.]
Cecily. What is the matter, Uncle Jack? Do look happy! You
look as if you had toothache, and I have got such a surprise for you. Who
do you think is in the dining-room? Your brother!
Jack. Who?
Cecily. Your brother Ernest. He arrived about half an hour ago.
Jack. What nonsense! I haven’t got a brother.
Cecily. 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.]
Chasuble. These are very joyful tidings.
Miss Prism. After we had all been resigned to his loss, his
sudden return seems to 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.]
Algernon. 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.]
Cecily. 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.
Cecily. Uncle Jack, do be nice. There is some good in every
one. Ernest has just 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?
Cecily. 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.
Algernon. Of course I admit that the faults were all on
my side. But I must say that I think that 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.
Cecily. Uncle Jack, if you don’t shake hands with Ernest I will never
forgive you.
Jack. Never forgive me?
Cecily. Never, never, never!
Jack. Well, this is the last time I shall ever do it. [Shakes
with Algernon and glares.]
Chasuble. It’s pleasant, is it not, to see so perfect a
reconciliation? I think we might leave the two brothers together.
Miss Prism. Cecily, you will come with us.
Cecily. Certainly, Miss Prism. My little task of reconciliation is
over.
Chasuble. You have done a beautiful action to-day, dear
child.
Miss Prism. We must not be premature in our judgments.
Cecily. I feel very happy. [They all go off except Jack and
Algernon.]
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.]
Merriman. I have put Mr. Ernest’s things in the room next to yours,
sir. I suppose that is all right?
Jack. What?
Merriman. Mr. Ernest’s luggage, sir. I have
unpacked it and put it in the room next to your own.
Jack. His luggage?
Merriman. Yes, sir. Three portmanteaus, a
dressing-case, two hat-boxes, and a large luncheon-basket.
Algernon. 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.
Merriman. Yes, sir. [Goes back into the house.]
Algernon. What a fearful liar you are, Jack. I have
not been called back to town at all.
Jack. Yes, you have.
Algernon. I haven’t heard any one call me.
Jack. Your duty as a gentleman calls you back.
Algernon. My duty as a gentleman has never interfered
with my pleasures in the smallest degree.
Jack. I can quite understand that.
Algernon. Well, Cecily is a darling.
Jack. You are not to talk of Miss Cardew like that. I don’t like
it.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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?
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.]
Algernon. 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.
Cecily. Oh, I merely came back to water the roses. I thought you
were with Uncle Jack.
Algernon. He’s gone to order the dog-cart for me.
Cecily. Oh, is he going to take you for a nice drive?
Algernon. He’s going to send me away.
Cecily. Then have we got to part?
Algernon. I am afraid so. It’s a very painful
parting.
Cecily. 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.
Algernon. Thank you.
[Enter Merriman.]
Merriman. The dog-cart is at the door, sir. [Algernon
looks appealingly at Cecily.]
Cecily. It can wait, Merriman for . . . five minutes.
Merriman. Yes, Miss. [Exit Merriman.]
Algernon. 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.
Cecily. 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.]
Algernon. Do you really keep a diary? I’d give
anything to look at it. May I?
Cecily. 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.
Algernon. [Somewhat taken aback.] Ahem! Ahem!
Cecily. 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.]
Algernon. [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.
Cecily. 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?
Algernon. Cecily!
[Enter Merriman.]
Merriman. The dog-cart is waiting, sir.
Algernon. Tell it to come round next week, at the same
hour.
Merriman. [Looks at Cecily, who makes no
sign.] Yes, sir.
[Merriman retires.]
Cecily. Uncle Jack would be very much annoyed if he knew you were
staying on till next week, at the same hour.
Algernon. 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?
Cecily. You silly boy! Of course. Why, we have been engaged
for the last three months.
Algernon. For the last three months?
Cecily. Yes, it will be exactly three months on Thursday.
Algernon. But how did we become engaged?
Cecily. 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.
Algernon. Darling! And when was the engagement actually
settled?
Cecily. 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 old tree
here. The next day I bought this little ring in your name, and this is
the little bangle with the true lover’s knot I promised you always to wear.
Algernon. Did I give you this? It’s very pretty,
isn’t it?
Cecily. 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.]
Algernon. My letters! But, my own sweet Cecily, I
have never written you any letters.
Cecily. You need hardly remind me of that, Ernest. I remember only
too well that I was forced to write your letters for you. I wrote always
three times a week, and sometimes oftener.
Algernon. Oh, do let me read them, Cecily?
Cecily. 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.
Algernon. But was our engagement ever broken off?
Cecily. 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.’
Algernon. 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.
Cecily. 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.
Algernon. [Crossing to her, and kneeling.] What a
perfect angel you are, Cecily.
Cecily. You dear romantic boy. [He kisses her, she puts her
fingers through his hair.] I hope your hair curls naturally, does it?
Algernon. Yes, darling, with a little help from others.
Cecily. I am so glad.
Algernon. You’ll never break off our engagement again,
Cecily?
Cecily. 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.
Algernon. Yes, of course. [Nervously.]
Cecily. 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.
Algernon. But, my dear child, do you mean to say you could
not love me if I had some other name?
Cecily. But what name?
Algernon. Oh, any name you like—Algernon—for instance . .
.
Cecily. But I don’t like the name of Algernon.
Algernon. 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?
Cecily. [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.
Algernon. 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?
Cecily. Oh, yes. Dr. Chasuble is a most learned man. He has
never written a single book, so you can imagine how much he knows.
Algernon. I must see him at once on a most important
christening—I mean on most important business.
Cecily. Oh!
Algernon. I shan’t be away more than half an hour.
Cecily. 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?
Algernon. I’ll be back in no time.
[Kisses her and rushes down the garden.]
Cecily. What an impetuous boy he is! I like his hair so
much. I must enter his proposal in my diary.
[Enter Merriman.]
Merriman. A Miss Fairfax has just called to see Mr.
Worthing. On very important business, Miss Fairfax states.
Cecily. Isn’t Mr. Worthing in his library?
Merriman. Mr. Worthing went over in the direction of the
Rectory some time ago.
Cecily. Pray ask the lady to come out here; Mr. Worthing is sure to be
back soon. And you can bring tea.
Merriman. Yes, Miss. [Goes out.]
Cecily. 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.]
Merriman. Miss Fairfax.
[Enter Gwendolen.]
[Exit Merriman.]
Cecily. [Advancing to meet her.] Pray let me introduce myself to
you. My name is Cecily Cardew.
Gwendolen. 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.
Cecily. How nice of you to like me so much after we have known each
other such a comparatively short time. Pray sit down.
Gwendolen. [Still standing up.] I may call you
Cecily, may I not?
Cecily. With pleasure!
Gwendolen. And you will always call me Gwendolen, won’t
you?
Cecily. If you wish.
Gwendolen. Then that is all quite settled, is it not?
Cecily. I hope so. [A pause. They both sit down together.]
Gwendolen. 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?
Cecily. I don’t think so.
Gwendolen. 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?
Cecily. Oh! not at all, Gwendolen. I am very fond of being looked
at.
Gwendolen. [After examining Cecily carefully
through a lorgnette.] You are here on a short visit, I suppose.
Cecily. Oh no! I live here.
Gwendolen. [Severely.] Really? Your mother, no
doubt, or some female relative of advanced years, resides here also?
Cecily. Oh no! I have no mother, nor, in fact, any relations.
Gwendolen. Indeed?
Cecily. My dear guardian, with the assistance of Miss Prism, has the
arduous task of looking after me.
Gwendolen. Your guardian?
Cecily. Yes, I am Mr. Worthing’s ward.
Gwendolen. 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—
Cecily. Pray do! I think that whenever one has anything unpleasant
to say, one should always be quite candid.
Gwendolen. 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.
Cecily. I beg your pardon, Gwendolen, did you say Ernest?
Gwendolen. Yes.
Cecily. Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is my guardian.
It is his brother—his elder brother.
Gwendolen. [Sitting down again.] Ernest never
mentioned to me that he had a brother.
Cecily. I am sorry to say they have not been on good terms for a long
time.
Gwendolen. 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?
Cecily. Quite sure. [A pause.] In fact, I am going to be
his.
Gwendolen. [Inquiringly.] I beg your pardon?
Cecily. [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.
Gwendolen. [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.
Cecily. [Very politely, rising.] I am afraid you must be under
some misconception. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago.
[Shows diary.]
Gwendolen. [Examines diary through her lorgnettte
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.
Cecily. 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.
Gwendolen. [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.
Cecily. [Thoughtfully and sadly.] Whatever unfortunate
entanglement my dear boy may have got into, I will never reproach him with it
after we are married.
Gwendolen. 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.
Cecily. 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.
Gwendolen. [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.]
Merriman. Shall I lay tea here as usual, Miss?
Cecily. [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.]
Gwendolen. Are there many interesting walks in the
vicinity, Miss Cardew?
Cecily. Oh! yes! a great many. From the top of one of the hills
quite close one can see five counties.
Gwendolen. Five counties! I don’t think I should
like that; I hate crowds.
Cecily. [Sweetly.] I suppose that is why you live in town? [Gwendolen
bites her lip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.]
Gwendolen. [Looking round.] Quite a well-kept garden
this is, Miss Cardew.
Cecily. So glad you like it, Miss Fairfax.
Gwendolen. I had no idea there were any flowers in the
country.
Cecily. Oh, flowers are as common here, Miss Fairfax, as people are in
London.
Gwendolen. 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.
Cecily. 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?
Gwendolen. [With elaborate politeness.] Thank
you. [Aside.] Detestable girl! But I require tea!
Cecily. [Sweetly.] Sugar?
Gwendolen. [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.]
Cecily. [Severely.] Cake or bread and butter?
Gwendolen. [In a bored manner.] Bread and butter,
please. Cake is rarely seen at the best houses nowadays.
Cecily. [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 her hand to the bread and butter, looks at it,
and finds it is cake. Rises in indignation.]
Gwendolen. 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.
Cecily. [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.
Gwendolen. 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.
Cecily. 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.]
Gwendolen. [Catching sight of him.] Ernest! My
own Ernest!
Jack. Gwendolen! Darling! [Offers to kiss her.]
Gwendolen. [Draws 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?
Gwendolen. Thank you. You may! [Offers her
cheek.]
Cecily. [Very sweetly.] I knew there must be some
misunderstanding, Miss Fairfax. The gentleman whose arm is at present
round your waist is my guardian, Mr. John Worthing.
Gwendolen. I beg your pardon?
Cecily. This is Uncle Jack.
Gwendolen. [Receding.] Jack! Oh!
[Enter Algernon.]
Cecily. Here is Ernest.
Algernon. [Goes straight over to Cecily without
noticing any one else.] My own love! [Offers to kiss her.]
Cecily. [Drawing back.] A moment, Ernest! May I ask you—are
you engaged to be married to this young lady?
Algernon. [Looking round.] To what young lady?
Good heavens! Gwendolen!
Cecily. Yes! to good heavens, Gwendolen, I mean to Gwendolen.
Algernon. [Laughing.] Of course not! What
could have put such an idea into your pretty little head?
Cecily. Thank you. [Presenting her cheek to be kissed.] You
may. [Algernon kisses her.]
Gwendolen. I felt there was some slight error, Miss
Cardew. The gentleman who is now embracing you is my cousin, Mr. Algernon
Moncrieff.
Cecily. [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.]
Cecily. Are you called Algernon?
Algernon. I cannot deny it.
Cecily. Oh!
Gwendolen. 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.
Cecily. [To Gwendolen.] A gross deception has been
practised on both of us.
Gwendolen. My poor wounded Cecily!
Cecily. My sweet wronged Gwendolen!
Gwendolen. [Slowly and seriously.] You will call me
sister, will you not? [They embrace. Jack and Algernon
groan and walk up and down.]
Cecily. [Rather brightly.] There is just one question I would like
to be allowed to ask my guardian.
Gwendolen. 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.
Cecily. [Surprised.] No brother at all?
Jack. [Cheerily.] None!
Gwendolen. [Severely.] Had you never a brother of
any kind?
Jack. [Pleasantly.] Never. Not even of any kind.
Gwendolen. I am afraid it is quite clear, Cecily, that
neither of us is engaged to be married to any one.
Cecily. It is not a very pleasant position for a young girl suddenly to
find herself in. Is it?
Gwendolen. Let us go into the house. They will
hardly venture to come after us there.
Cecily. 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?
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. That is absurd. One has a right to
Bunbury anywhere one chooses. Every serious Bunburyist knows that.
Jack. Serious Bunburyist! Good heavens!
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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 is quite inexcusable.
To say nothing of the fact that she is my ward.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. Well, I simply wanted to be engaged to
Cecily. I adore her.
Jack. There is certainly no chance of your marrying Miss Cardew.
Algernon. I don’t think there is much likelihood, Jack,
of you and Miss Fairfax being united.
Jack. Well, that is no business of yours.
Algernon. 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 stock-brokers do that, and then merely at
dinner parties.
Jack. How can you 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. When I am in trouble, eating is the only thing
that consoles me. Indeed, when I am in really great trouble, as any one
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.]
Algernon. [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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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 have ever 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.
Algernon. Yes, but I have not been christened for years.
Jack. Yes, but you have been christened. That is the important
thing.
Algernon. 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 some one 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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.
Algernon. 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!
Algernon. 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
To be concluded next week
