The persons of the play
John Worthing, J.P. Moulton, Gardener
Algernon Moncrieff Lady Bracknell
Rev. Canon Chasuble, D.D. Hon. Gwendolen Fairfax
Mr. Grisby, Solicitor Cecily Cardew
Merriman, Butler Miss Prism, Governess
Lane, Manservant
The scenes of the play
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.
ACT IV. Drawing-Room at the Manor House, Woolton.
TIME: The Present.
LONDON: ST. JAMES’S THEATRE
Lessee and Manager: Mr. George Alexander
February 14th, 1895
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
ACT ONE
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.
JACK.
I shall be charmed to reply to any questions, Lady Bracknell.
GWENDOLEN
You mean if you know the answers to them. Mamma's questions are
sometimes peculiarly inquisitorial.
LADY BRACKNELL.
I intend to make them very inquisitorial. And while I am making these in-
quiries, 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. You have, of course, no sympathy with the Radical Party?
JACK.
Oh! I don't want to put the asses against the classes, if that is what
you
mean, Lady Bracknell.
LADY BRACKNELL
That is exactly what I do mean...ahem!...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 think I'll
kill him in Paris...Apoplexy will do perfectly wel. 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 is 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
ACT TWO
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.
Oh! I wish you would give Moulton the German lesson instead of me.
Moulton!
MOULTON
(looking out from behingd a hedge, with a broad grin on his face):
Eh, Miss Cecily?
CECILY
Wouldn't you like to know German, Moulton? German is the language
talked by people who live in Germany.
MOULTON
(shaking his head) I don't hold with them furrin tongues, miss. (Bowing
to Miss Prism) No offense to you, ma'am.
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.
CECILY.
But men don't sew, Miss Prism...And if they did, I don't see why they
should be punished for it. There is a great deal too much punishment
in the world. German is a punishment, certainly, and there is far too
much German. You told me yourself yesterday that Germany was over-
populated.
MISS PRISM
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.
CHASUBLE:
Reading Political Economy, Cecily? It is wonderful how girls are
educated nowadays. I suppose you know all about relations between
Capital and Labour?
CECILY: I am afraid I am not learned at all. All I know is about the
relations between Capital and Idleness – and that is merely from
observation. So I don’t suppose it is true.
MISS PRISM:
Cecily, that sounds like Socialism! And I suppose you know where
Socialism leads to?
CECILY:
Oh, yes! That leads to Rational Dress, Miss Prism. And I suppose that
when a woman is dressed rationally, she is treated rationally. She
certainly deserves to be.
CHASUBLE:
A wilful lamb! Dear child!
MISS PRISM
(smiling): A sad trouble sometimes.
CHASUBLE:
I envy you such tribulation.
[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
(to herself): I don’t think Miss Prism would like my being alone with him.
So I had better send for him at once, before she comes in. (To Merriman)
Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had better talk to
the housekeeper about a room for him.
MERRIMAN:
I have already sent his luggage up to the Blue Room, Miss:
next to Mr. Worthing’s own room.
CECILY:
Oh! That is all right.
[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 telegraphed to
you yesterday at the Albany that he would see you for the last time at
six o’clock. He lets me read all the telegrams he sends you. I know
some of them by heart.
ALGERNON:
The fact is I didn’t get the telegram till it was too late. Then I missed
him at the Club, and the Hall Porter said he thought he had come down
here. So, of course, I followed as I knew he wanted to see me.
CECILY:
He 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:
How dare you suggest that I have a mission?
ALGERNON:
I beg your pardon: but I thought that every woman had a mission
of some kind, nowadays.
CECILY: Every female has! No woman. Besides, I have no time to
reform you 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.
Miss Prism and I lunch at two, off some roast mutton.
ALGERNON:
I fear that would be too rich for me.
CECILY:
Uncle Jack, whose health has been sadly undermined by the late hours
you keep in town, has been ordered by his London doctor to have pate
de foie gras sandwiches and 1889 champagne at twelve. I don’t know if
such invalid fare would suit you.
ALGERNON:
Oh! I will be quite content with '89 champagne.
CECILY:
I am glad to see you have such simple tastes. This is the dining-room.
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.
Death is the inheritance of us all, Miss Prism. Nor should we look on it
as a special judgment, but rather as a general providence. Life were in-
complete without it...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.
The Church rejects no babe, Miss Prism. In every child, there is the
making of a saint. 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. That telegram from Paris seems to have
been a somewhat heartless jest by one who wished to play upon your
feelings.
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.]
CHASUBLE: (to MISS PRISM): There is good in that young man. He
seems to be sincerely repentant.
MISS PRISM: These sudden conversions do not please me. They belong
to Dissent. They savour of the laxity of the Nonconformist.
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.
CHASUBLE:
Young man, you have had a very narrow escape of your life. I hope it
will be a warning to you. We were mourning your demise when you en-
tered.
ALGERNON:
Yes, I see Jack has got a new suit of clothes. They don’t fit him pro-
perly. His necktie is wrong.
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.
CHASUBLE:
Mr. Worthing, your brother has been unexpectedly restored to you by the
mysterious dispensations of providence, who seems to desire your reconci-
liation. And indeed it is good for brothers to dwell together in amity.
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.
I suppose I must then. [Shakes with Algernon and glares.] You young
scoundrel! You must get out of this place as soon as possible. I don’t allow
any Bunburying here.
CHASUBLE.
It’s pleasant, is it not, to see so perfect a reconciliation?You have done
a beautiful action to-day, dear child.
MISS PRISM.
We must not be premature in our judgments.
[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.
MERRIMAN
(to ALGERNON): I beg your pardon, sir, there is an elderly gentleman
wishes to see you. He has just come in a cab from the station.
(Hands card on salver.)
ALGERNON:
To see me?
MERRIMAN:
Yes, sir.
ALGERNON:
(reads card): Parker and Gribsby, Solicitors. I don’t know anything about
them. Who are they?
JACK:
(takes card): Parker and Gribsby. I wonder who they can be. I expect, Er-
nest, they have come about some business for your friend Bunbury. Perhaps
Bunbury wants to make his will and wishes you to be executor. (To MER-
RIMAN.) Show the gentleman in at once.
MERRIMAN:
Very good, sir.
MERRIMAN goes out.
JACK:
I hope, Ernest, that I may rely on the statement you made to me last
week when I finally settled all your bills for you. I hope you have no
out-standing accounts of any kind.
ALGERNON:
I haven’t any debts at all, dear Jack. Thanks to your generosity I don’t
owe a penny, except for a few neckties, I believe.
JACK:
I am sincerely glad to hear it.
Enter MERRIMAN.
MERRIMAN:
Mr. Gribsby.
MERRIMAN goes out. Enter GRIBSBY.
GRIBSBY (to DR. CHASUBLE):
Mr. Ernest Worthing?
MISS PRISM:
This is Mr. Ernest Worthing.
GRIBSBY:
Mr. Ernest Worthing?
ALGERNON:
Yes.
GRIBSBY: Of B.4.,
The Albany?
ALGERNON:
Yes, that is my address.
GRIBSBY:
I am very sorry, sir, but we have a writ of attachment for twenty days
against you at the suit of the Savoy Hotel Co. Limited for £762 14s. 2d.
ALGERNON:
Against me?
GRIBSBY:
Yes, sir.
ALGERNON:
What perfect nonsense! I never dine at the Savoy at my own expense. I
always dine at Willis’s. It is far more expensive. I don’t owe a penny
to
the Savoy.
GRIBSBY:
The writ is marked as having been served on you personally at The Albany
on May the 27th. Judgment was given in default against you on the fifth
of
June. Since then we have written to you no less than fifteen times, without
receiving any reply. In the interest of our clients we had no option but
to
obtain an order for committal of your person.
ALGERNON:
Committal! What on earth do you mean by committal? I haven’t the small-
est intention of going away. I am staying here for a week. I am staying
with
my brother. If you imagine I am going up to town the moment I arrive you
are extremely mistaken.
GRIBSBY:
I am merely a solicitor myself. I do not employ personal violence of any kind.
The officer of the Court, whose function it is to seize the person of the
debtor, is waiting in the fly outside. He has considerable experience in these
matters. That is why we always employ him. But no doubt you will prefer to
pay the bill.
ALGERNON:
Pay it? How on earth am I going to do that? You don’t suppose I have got
any money? How perfectly silly you are. No gentleman ever has any money.
GRIBSBY:
My experience is that it is usually relations who pay.
ALGERNON:
Jack, you really must settle this bill.
JACK:
Kindly allow me to see the particular items, Mr. Gribsby…(turns over im-
mense folio)…£762 14s. 2d. since last October. I am bound to say I
never saw such reckless extravagance in all my life. (Hands it to DR.
CHASUBLE.)
MISS PRISM:
£762 for eating! There can be little good in any young man who eats so
much, and so often.
CHASUBLE:
We are far away from Wordsworth’s plain living and high thinking.
JACK:
Now, Dr. Chasuble, do you consider that I am in any way called upon to
pay this monstrous account for my brother.
CHASUBLE:
I am bound to say that I do not think so. It would be encouraging his
profligacy.
MISS PRISM:
As a man sows, so let him reap. This proposed incarceration might be most
salutary. It is to be regretted that it is only for twenty days.
JACK:
I am quite of your opinion.
ALGERNON:
My dear fellow, how ridiculous you are! You know perfectly well that the
bill is really yours.
JACK:
Mine?
ALGERNON:
Yes, you know it is.
CHASUBLE:
Mr. Worthing, if this is a jest, it is out of place.
MISS PRISM:
It is gross effrontery. Just what I expected from him.
CECILY:
And it is ingratitude. I didn’t expect that.
JACK:
Never mind what he says. This is the way he always goes on. You mean
now to say that you are not Ernest Worthing, residing at B.4., The Albany.
I wonder, as you are at it, that you don’t deny being my brother at all.
Why don’t you?
ALGERNON:
Oh! I am not going to do that, my dear fellow. It would be absurd. Of
course I’m your brother. And that is why you should pay this bill
for me.
JACK:
I will tell you quite candidly that I have not the smallest intention of
doing anything of the kind. Dr. Chasuble, the worthy Rector of this
parish, and Miss Prism, in whose admirable and sound judgment I place
great reliance, are both of the opinion that incarceration would do you
a great deal of good. And I think so, too.
GRIBSBY
(pulls out watch): I am sorry to disturb this pleasant family meeting, but
time presses. We have to be at Holloway not later than four o’clock;
otherwise it is difficult to obtain admission. The rules are very strict.
ALGERNON:
Holloway!
GRIBSBY:
It is at Holloway that detentions of this character take place always.
ALGERNON:
Well, I really am not going to be imprisoned in the suburbs for having
dined in the West End.
GRIBSBY:
The bill is for suppers, not for dinners.
ALGERNON:
I really don’t care. All I say is that I am not going to be imprisoned
in
the suburbs.
GRIBSBY:
The surroundings I admit are middle class; but the gaol itself is fashion-
able and well-aired; and there are ample opportunities of taking exercise
at certain stated hours of the day. In the case of a medical certificate,
which is always easy to obtain, the hours can be extended.
ALGERNON:
Exercise! Good God! No gentleman ever takes exercise. You don’t seem
to understand what a gentleman is.
GRIBSBY:
I have met so many of them, sir, that I am afraid I don’t. There are the
most curious varieties of them. The result of cultivation, no doubt. Will
you kindly come now, sir, if it will not be inconvenient to you.
ALGERNON
(appealingly): Jack!
MISS PRISM:
Pray be firm, Mr. Worthing.
CHASUBLE:
This is an occasion on which any weakness would be out of place. It
would be a form of self-deception.
JACK:
I am quite firm, and I don’t know what weakness or deception of any
kind is.
CECILY:
Uncle Jack! I think you have a little money of mine, haven’t you? Let me
pay this bill. I wouldn’t like your own brother to be in prison.
JACK:
Oh! I couldn’t possibly let you pay it, Cecily. That would be absurd.
CECILY:
Then you will, won’t you? I think you would be sorry if you thought your
own brother was shut up. Of course, I am quite disappointed with him.
JACK:
You won’t speak to him again, Cecily, will you?
CECILY:
Certainly not, unless, of course, he speaks to me first. It would be very
rude not to answer him.
JACK:
Well, I’ll take care he doesn’t speak to you. I’ll take care he doesn’t
speak to anybody in this house. The man should be cut. Mr. Gribsby…
GRIBSBY:
Yes, sir.
JACK:
I’ll pay this bill for my brother. It is the last bill I shall ever pay for him,
too. How much is it?
GRIBSBY:
£762 14s. 2d. Ah! The cab will be five-and-ninepence extra: hired for
the convenience of the client.
JACK:
All right.
MISS PRISM:
I must say that I think such generosity quite foolish.
CHASUBLE
(with a wave of the hand): The heart has its wisdom as well as the head,
Miss Prism.
JACK:
Payable to Parker and Gribsby, I suppose?
GRIBSBY:
Yes, sir. Kindly don’t cross the cheque. Thank you. (To DR. CHASUBLE)
Good day. (DR. CHASUBLE bows coldly.) Good Day. (MISS PRISM bows
coldly.) (To ALGERNON.) I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting you
again.
ALGERNON:
I sincerely hope not. What ideas you have of the sort of society a gentle-
man wants to mix in. No gentleman ever wants to know a solicitor who
wants to imprison one in the suburbs.
GRIBSBY:
Quite so, quite so.
ALGERNON:
By the way, Gribsby: Gribsby, you are not to go back to the station in
that
cab. That is my cab. It was taken for my convenience. You have got to
walk to the station. And a very good thing, too. Solicitors don’t walk nearly
enough. I don’t know any solicitor who takes sufficient exercise. As a rule
they sit in stuffy offices all day long neglecting their business.
JACK:
You can take the cab, Mr. Gribsby.
GRIBSBY
Thank you, sir.
GRIBSBY goes out.
CECILY:
The day is getting very sultry, isn’t it, Dr. Chasuble?
CHASUBLE:
There is thunder in the air.
MISS PRISM:
The atmosphere requires to be cleared.
CHASUBLE:
Have you read ‘The Times’ this morning, Mr. Worthing? There is a very in-
teresting article on the growth of religious feeling among the laity.
JACK:
I am keeping it for after dinner.
Enter MERRIMAN.
MERRIMAN:
Luncheon is on the table, sir.
ALGERNON:
Ah! That is good news. I am excessively hungry.
CECILY:
(interposing): But you have lunched already.
JACK:
Lunched already?
CECILY:
Yes, Uncle Jack. He had some pâté de foie gras sandwiches, and a small
bottle of that champagne that your doctor ordered for you.
JACK:
My ’89 champagne!
CECILY:
Yes. I thought you would like him to have the same one as yourself.
JACK:
Oh! Well, if he has lunched once, he can’t be expected to lunch twice.
It would be absurd.
MISS PRISM:
To partake of two luncheons in one day would not be liberty. It would be
licence.
CHASUBLE:
Even the pagan philosophers condemned excess in eating. Aristotle speaks
of it with severity. He uses the same terms about it as he does about usury.
JACK:
Doctor, will you escort the ladies into luncheon?
CHASUBLE:
With pleasure.
He goes into the house with MISS PRISM and CECILY.
JACK:
Your Bunburying has not been a great success after all, Algy. I don’t think
it is a good day for Bunburying, myself.
ALGERNON:
Oh! There are ups and downs in Bunburying, just as there are in everything
else. I’d be all right if you would let me have some lunch. The main thing is
that I have seen Cecily and she 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 mourn-
ing 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 im-
mensely over-educated.
JACK:
Your vanity is ridiculous, your conduct an outrage, and your presence in my gar-
den 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.
It is all very well, but one can’t Bunbury when one is hungry. I think
I’ll join them
at lunch. (Goes towards door.)
Enter CECILY.
CECILY:
I promised Uncle Jack that I wouldn’t speak to you again, unless you asked me a
question. I can’t understand why you don’t ask me a question of some kind. I am
afraid you are not quite so intellectual as I thought you were at first.
ALGERNON:
Cecily, mayn’t I come in to lunch?
CECILY:
I wonder you can look me in the face after your conduct.
ALGERNON:
I love looking you in the face.
CECILY:
But why did you try to put your horrid bill on poor Uncle Jack? I think that was in-
excusable of you.
ALGERNON:
I know it was; but the fact is I have a most wretched memory. I quite forgot
I owed
the Savoy £762 14s. 2d.
CECILY:
Well, I admit I am glad to hear that you have a bad memory. Good memories are not
a quality that women admire much in men.
ALGERNON:
Cecily, I am fearfully hungry.
CECILY:
I can’t understand your being so hungry, considering all you have had to
eat since
last October.
ALGERNON:
Oh! Those suppers were for poor Bunbury. Late suppers are the only things
his doc-
tor allows him to eat.
CECILY:
Well, I don’t wonder then that Mr. Bunbury is always so ill, if he eats
suppers for six
or eight people every night of the week.
ALGERNON:
That is what I always tell him. But he seems to think his doctors know
best. He’s per-
fectly silly about doctors.
CECILY:
Of course I don’t want you to starve, so I have told the butler to send
you out some
lunch.
ALGERNON:
Cecily, what a perfect angel you are! May I not see you again before I
go?
CECILY:
Miss Prism and I will be here after lunch. I always have my afternoon noon
lessons un-
der the yew-tree.
ALGERNON:
Can’t you invent something to get Miss Prism out of the way?
CECILY:
Do you mean invent a falsehood?
ALGERNON:
Oh! Not a falsehood, of course. Simply something that is not quite true,
but should be.
CECILY:
I am afraid I couldn’t possibly do that. I shouldn’t know how. People never think of
cultivating a young girl’s imagination. It is the great defect of modern
education. Of
course, if you happened to mention that dear Dr. Chasuble was waiting somewhere
to see Miss Prism, she would certainly go to meet him. She never likes
to keep him
waiting. And she has so few opportunities of doing so.
ALGERNON:
What a capital suggestion!
CECILY:
I didn’t suggest anything, Cousin Ernest. Nothing would induce me to deceive
Miss
Prism in the smallest detail. I merely pointed out that if you adopted a certain line
of conduct, a certain result would follow.
ALGERNON:
Of course. I beg your pardon, Cousin Cecily. Then I shall come here at
half-past
three. I have something very serious to say to you.
CECILY:
Serious?
ALGERNON:
Yes: very serious.
CECILY:
In that case I think we had better meet in the house. I don’t like talking
seriously
in the open air. It looks so artificial.
ALGERNON:
Then where shall we meet?
Enter JACK.
JACK:
The dog-cart is at the door. You have got to go. Your place is by Bunbury. (Sees
Cecily.) Cecily! Don’t you think, Cecily, that you had better return to Miss
Prism
and Dr. Chasuble?
CECILY:
Yes, Uncle Jack. Good-bye, Cousin Ernest. I am afraid I shan’t see you again, as I
shall be doing my lessons with Miss Prism in the drawing-room at half-past
three.
ALGERNON:
Good-bye, Cousin Cecily. You have been very kind to me.
CECILY goes out.
JACK:
Now look here, Algy. You have got to go, and the sooner you go the better.
Bun-
bury is extremely ill, and your place is by his side.
ALGERNON:
I can’t go at the present moment. I must first just have my second lunch. And
you will be pleased to hear that Bunbury is very much better.
JACK:
Well, you will have to go at three-fifty, at any rate. I ordered your things to be
packed and the dog-cart to come round.
ACT DROP
ACT THREE
SCENE: The drawing-room at the Manor House. CECILY and MISS
PRISM discovered; each writing at a separate table.
MISS PRISM:
Cecily! (CECILY makes no answer.) Cecily! You are again making entries in your
diary. I think I have had occasion more than once to speak to you about that
morbid habit of yours.
CECILY:
I am merely, as I always do, taking you for my example, Miss Prism.
MISS PRISM:
When one has thoroughly mastered the principles of Bimetallism one has the right
to lead an introspective life. Hardly before. I must beg you to return to your
Political Economy.
CECILY:
In one moment, dear Miss Prism. The fact is I have only chronicled the
events of to-day up till two-fifteen, and it was at two-thirty that the fear-
ful catastrophe occurred.
MISS PRISM:
Pardon me, Cecily, it was exactly at two-forty-five that Dr. Chasuble
mentioned the very painful views held by the Primitive Church on Marriage.
CECILY:
I was not referring to Dr. Chasuble at all. I was alluding to the tragic
exposure
of poor Mr. Ernest Worthing.
MISS PRISM:
I highly disapprove of Mr. Ernest Worthing. He is a thoroughly bad young man.
CECILY:
I fear he must be. It is the only explanation I can find of his strange attract-
iveness.
MISS PRISM
(rising): Cecily, let me entreat of you not to be led away by whatever superficial
qualities this unfortunate young man may possess.
CECILY:
Ah! Believe me, dear Miss Prism, it is only the superficial qualities that last.
Man’s deeper nature is soon found out.
MISS PRISM:
Child! I do not know where you get such ideas. They are certainly not to
be
found in any of the improving books that I have procured for you.
CECILY:
Are there ever any ideas in improving books? I fear not. I get my ideas…in the
garden.
MISS PRISM:
Then you should certainly not be so much in the open air. The fact is, you
have fallen lately, Cecily, into a bad habit of thinking for yourself.
You should
give it up. It is not quite womanly…Men don’t like it.
Enter ALGERNON.
Mr. Worthing, I thought, I may say I was in hopes that you had already
returned to town.
ALGERNON:
My departure will not long be delayed. I have come to bid you good-bye,
Miss
Cardew. I am informed that a dog-cart has been already ordered for me. I have
no option but to go back again into the cold world.
CECILY:
I hardly know, Mr. Worthing, what you can mean by using such an expression.
The day, even for the month of July, is unusually warm.
MISS PRISM:
Profligacy is apt to dull the senses.
ALGERNON:
No doubt. I am far from defending the weather. I think however that it
is only
my duty to mention to you, Miss Prism, that Dr. Chasuble is expecting you in
the vestry.
MISS PRISM:
In the vestry! That sounds serious. It can hardly be for any trivial purpose that
the Rector selects for an interview a place of such peculiarly solemn associa-
tions. I do not think that it would be right to keep him waiting, Cecily?
CECILY:
It would be very, very wrong. The vestry is, I am told, excessively damp.
MISS PRISM:
True! I had not thought of that, and Dr. Chasuble is sadly rheumatic. Mr.
Worth-
ing, we shall probably not meet again. You will allow me, I trust, to express a
sincere hope that you will now turn over a new leaf in life.
ALGERNON:
I have already begun an entire volume, Miss Prism.
MISS PRISM:
I am delighted to hear it. (Puts on a large unbecoming hat.) And do not forget
that there is always hope even for the most depraved. Do not be idle, Cecily.
CECILY:
I have no intention of being idle. I realise only too strongly that I have
a great
deal of serious work before me.
MISS PRISM:
Ah! that is quite as it should be, dear.
MISS PRISM goes out.
ALGERNON:
This parting, Miss Cardew, is very painful.
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 introduc-
ed is almost unbearable.
ALGERNON:
Thank you.
Enter MERRIMAN.
MERRIMAN:
The dog-cart is at the door, sir.
ALGERNON looks appealing 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 co-
py 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): Miss Cardew, ever since half-past twelve this afternoon,
when I first looked upon your wonderful and incomparable beauty, I have
not mere-
ly been your abject slave and servant, but, soaring upon the pinions of
a possibly
monstrous ambition, I have dared to love you wildly, passionately, devotedly,
hope-
lessly.
CECILY:
(laying down her pen): Oh! please say that all over again. You speak far too fast
and far too indistinctly. Kindly say it all over again.
ALGERNON:
Miss Cardew, ever since you were half-past twelve--I mean ever since it
was half-
past twelve, this afternoon, when I first looked upon your wonderful and
incompa-
rable beauty…
CECILY:
Yes, I have got that, all right.
ALGERNON:
(stammering): I--I ?
CECILY lays down her pen and looks reproachfully at him.
(Desperately.) I have not merely been your abject slave and servant, but, soaring on
the pinions of a possibly monstrous ambition, I have dared to love you
wildly, passion-
ately, devotedly, hopelessly. (Takes out his watch and looks at it.)
CECILY
(after writing for some time, looks up): I have not taken down 'hopelessly’. It doesn’t
seem to make much sense, does it? (A slight pause.)
ALGERNON:
(starting back): Cecily!
CECILY:
Is that the beginning of an entirely new paragraph? Or should it be followed
by a note
of admiration?
ALGERNON:
(rapidly and romantically): It is the beginning of an entirely new existence for me, and it
shall be followed by such notes of admiration that my whole life shall
be a subtle and
sustained symphony of Love, Praise and Adoration combined.
CECILY:
Oh, I don’t think that makes any sense at all. The fact is that men should never try to
dictate to women. They never know how to do it, and when they do do it,
they always
say something particularly foolish.
ALGERNON:
I don’t care whether what I say is foolish or not. All that I know is that
I love you, Ce-
cily. I love you, I want you. I can’t live without you, Cecily! You know
I love you. Will
you marry me? Will you be my wife? (Rushes over to her and puts his hand on hers.)
CECILY:
(rising): Oh, you have made me make a blot! And yours is the only real proposal I
have
ever had in all my life. I should like to have entered it neatly.
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:
Three months all but a few days. (Looks at diary, turns over page.) Yes; it will be exactly
three months on Thursday.
ALGERNON:
I didn’t know.
CECILY:
Very few people nowadays ever realise the position in which they are placed. The age is,
as Miss Prism often says, a thoughtless one.
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
be-
tween 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
dare say it was fool-
ish 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 deter-
mined to end the matter one way or the other, and after a long struggle
with myself I ac-
cepted you one evening in the garden. The next day I bought this little ring in your name.
You see I always wear it, Ernest, and though it shows that you are sadly extravagant, still
I have long ago forgiven you for that. Here in this drawer are all the
little presents I have
given you from time to time, neatly numbered and labelled. This is the
pearl necklace you
gave me on my birthday. And this is the box in which I keep all your letters.
(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 it only too well.
I grew tired of
asking the postman every morning if he had a London letter for me. My health began to
give way under the strain and anxiety. So I wrote your letters for you, and had them post-
ed to me in the village by my maid. 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. The three
you wrote me
after I had broken off the engagement are so beautiful and so badly spelt
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.) 'Today 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:
Men seem to forget very easily. I should have thought you would have remembered the
violent letter you wrote to me because I danced with Lord Kelso at the
county ball.
ALGERNON:
But I did take it all back, Cecily, didn’t I?
CECILY:
Of course you did. Otherwise I wouldn’t have forgiven you or accepted this little gold
bangle with the turquoise and diamond heart, that you sent me the next day. (Shows
bangle.)
ALGERNON:
Did I give you this, Cecily? It’s very pretty, isn’t it?
CECILY:
Yes. You have wonderfully good taste, Ernest. I have always said that of you.
It’s the
excuse I’ve always given for your leading such a bad life.
ALGERNON:
My own one! So we have been engaged for three months, Cecily!
CECILY:
Yes; how the time has flown, hasn’t it?
ALGERNON:
I don’t think so. I have found the days very long and very dreary without you.
CECILY:
You dear romantic boy…(puts her fingers through his hair.) I hope your hair curls nat-
urally. 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 that 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 ex-
perienced 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 busi-
ness.
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 hand and rushes out.)
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 in 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 interest-
ed 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 im-
pressions 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 sup-
pose.
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 un-
mixed 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
unusually 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 nob-
lest 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. Er-
nest 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 se-
cret 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 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 disappoin-
tment 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 clear-
ly 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 occa-
sion of this kind it becomes more than a moral duty to speak one’s mind. It becomes a plea-
sure.
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 the 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 coun-
ties.
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 charming room this is of yours, Miss Cardew.
CECILY:
So glad you like it, Miss Fairfax.
GWENDOLEN:
I had no idea there was anything approaching good taste in the more remote
country dis-
tricts. It is quite a surprise to me.
CECILY:
I am afraid you judge of the country from what one sees in town. I believe most London
houses are extremely vulgar.
GWENDOLEN:
I suppose they do dazzle the rural mind. Personally I cannot understand
how anybody man-
ages 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 arist-
ocracy 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 indigna-
tion.
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
(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?
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 over to CECILY without noticing anyone 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 bro-
ther 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. Howev-
er, 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 garden. They will hardly venture to come after us there.
CECILY:
No, men are so cowardly, aren’t they?
They retire into the garden with scornful looks.
JACK:
Pretty mess you have got me into.
ALGERNON sits down at tea table and pours outs some tea. He
seems quite unconcerned.
What on earth do you mean by coming down here and pretending to be my brother?
Per-
fectly monstrous of you!
ALGERNON
(eating muffin): What on earth do you mean by pretending to have a brother! It was abso-
lutely disgraceful! (Eats another muffin.)
JACK:
I told you to go away by the three-fifty. I ordered the dog-cart for you. Why on earth
didn’t you take it?
ALGERNON:
I hadn’t had my tea.
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 Bun-
buryist 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 ex-
perienced 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. It is very vulgar to talk
about one’s bus-
iness. Only people like stockbrokers 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 every-
thing 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 house!
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 dif-
ferent 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 it was not hereditary, or anything of that kind.
ALGERNON:
It usen’t to be, I know--but I dare say it is now. Science is always making
wonderful im-
provements in things.
JACK:
May I ask, Algy, what on earth do you propose to do?
ALGERNON:
Nothing. That is what I have been trying to do for the last ten minutes, and you have kept
on doing everything in your power to distract my attention from my work.
JACK:
Well, I shall go out into the garden, and see Gwendolen. I feel quite sure
she expects me.
ALGERNON:
I know from her extremely cold manner that Cecily expects me so I certainly
shan’t go out
into the garden. When a man does exactly what a woman expects him to do
she doesn’t
think much of him. One should always do what a woman doesn’t expect, just as one should
always say what she doesn’t understand. The result is invariably perfect
sympathy on both
sides.
JACK:
Oh, that is nonsense. You are always talking nonsense.
ALGERNON:
It is much cleverer to talk nonsense than to listen to it, my dear fellow,
and a much rarer
thing too, in spite of all the public may say.
JACK:
I don’t listen to you. I can’t listen to you.
ALGERNON:
Oh, that is merely false modesty. You know perfectly well you could listen to me if you tried.
You always under-rate yourself, an absurd thing to do nowadays when there
are such a lot
of conceited people about. Jack, you are eating the muffins again! I wish
you wouldn’t.
There are only two left. (Removes plate.) I told you I was particularly fond of muffins.
JACK:
But I hate tea-cake.
ALGERNON:
Why on earth do you allow tea-cake to be served up to your guests, then?
What ideas you
have of hospitality!
JACK:
(irritably): Oh! That is not the point. We are not discussing teacakes. (Crosses.) Algy! you are
perfectly maddening. You never can stick to the point in any conversation.
ALGERNON
(slowly): No: it always hurts me.
JACK:
Good heavens! What affectation! I loathe affectation.
ALGERNON:
Well, my dear fellow, if you don’t like affectation, I really don’t see
what you can like. Be-
sides, it isn’t affectation. The point always does hurt me, and I hate physical pain, of any
kind.
JACK
(glares at ALGERNON: walks up and down stage. Finally comes up to table): Algy! I have al-
ready 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. (Takes the last muffin.)
JACK groans and sinks down in a chair and buries his face in his hands.
ACT DROP
ACT FOUR
SCENE: The same. JACK and ALGERNON discovered in the same position
as at the close of Act THREE. Enter behind, GWENDOLEN and CECILY.
GWENDOLEN:
The fact that they did not follow us at once into the garden, as any one
else would have
done, seems to me to show that they have some sense of shame left.
CECILY:
They have been eating muffins. That looks like repentance.
GWENDOLEN
(after a pause): They don’t seem to notice us at all. Couldn’t you cough?
CECILY:
But I haven’t got a cough.
GWENDOLEN:
They’re looking at us. What effrontery!
CECILY:
They’re approaching. That’s very forward of them.
GWENDOLEN:
Let us preserve a dignified silence.
CECILY:
Certainly. It’s the only thing to do now.
JACK and ALGERNON whistle some dreadful popular air from a British Opera.
GWENDOLEN:
This dignified silence seems to produce an unpleasant effect.
CECILY:
A most distasteful one.
GWENDOLEN:
But we will not be the first to speak.
CECILY:
Certainly not.
GWENDOLEN:
Mr. Worthing, I have something very particular to ask you. Much depends
on your reply.
CECILY:
Gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable. Mr. Moncrieff, kindly answer me the fol-
lowing question. Why did you pretend to be my guardian’s brother?
ALGERNON:
In order that I might have an opportunity of meeting you.
CECILY
(to GWENDOLEN): That certainly seems a satisfactory explanation, does it not?
GWENDOLEN:
Yes, dear, if you can believe him.
CECILY:
I don’t. But that does not affect the wonderful beauty of his answer.
GWENDOLEN:
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?
GWENDOLEN:
I have the greatest 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.
CECILY:
I am more than content with what Mr. Moncrieff said. His voice alone inspires
one with ab-
solute credulity.
GWENDOLEN:
Then you think we should forgive them?
CECILY:
Yes. I mean no.
GWENDOLEN:
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.
CECILY:
Could we not both speak at the same time?
GWENDOLEN:
An excellent idea! I always speak at the same time as other people. Will you take the time
from me?
CECILY:
Certainly.
GWENDOLEN beats time with uplifted finger.
GWENDOLEN and CECILY
(speaking together): Your Christian names are still an insuperable barrier. That is all!
JACK and AGERNON
(speaking together): Our Christian names! Is that all? But we are going to be christened this
afternoon.
GWENDOLEN
(to JACK): For my sake you are prepared to do this terrible thing?
JACK:
I am.
CECILY
(to ALGERNON): To please me you are ready to face this fearful ordeal?
ALGERNON:
I am!
GWENDOLEN:
How absurd to talk of the equality of the sexes! Where questions of self-sacrifice are concern-
ed, men are infinitely beyond us.
JACK:
We are. (Clasps hands with ALGERNON.)
CECILY:
They have moments of physical courage of which we women know absolutely
nothing.
GWENDOLEN
(to JACK): Darling.
ALGERNON
(to CECILY): Darling!
They fall into each other’s arms.
Enter MERRIMAN. When he enters he coughs loudly, seeing the situation.
MERRIMAN:
Ahem! Ahem! Lady Bracknell!
JACK:
Good heavens!
Enter LADY BRACKNELL. The couples separate in alarm. Exit MERRIMAN.
LADY BRACKNELL:
Gwendolen! What does this mean?
GWENDOLEN:
Merely that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Worthing, mamma.
LADY BRACKNELL:
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
unde-
ceived 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 im-
mediately 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 BRACKNELL:
You are nothing of the kind, sir. And now, as regards Algernon!…Algernon!
ALGERNON:
Yes, Aunt Augusta.
LADY BRACKNELL:
May I ask if it is in this house that your invalid friend Mr. Bunbury resides?
ALGERNON
(stammering): Oh! No! Bunbury doesn’t live here. Bunbury is somewhere else at pre-
sent. In fact, Bunbury is dead.
LADY BRACKNELL:
Dead! When did Mr. Bunbury die? His death must have been extremely sudden.
ALGERNON
(airily): Oh! I killed Bunbury this afternoon. I mean poor Bunbury died this afternoon.
LADY BRACKNELL:
What did he die of?
ALGERNON:
Bunbury? Oh, he was quite exploded.
LADY BRACKNELL:
Exploded! Was he the victim of a revolutionary outrage? I was not aware
that Mr. Bun-
bury was interested in social legislation. If so, he is well punished for
his morbidity.
ALGERNON:
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 BRACKNELL:
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.
ALGERNON:
I am engaged to be married to Cecily, Aunt Augusta.
LADY BRACKNELL:
I beg your pardon?
CECILY:
Mr. Moncrieff and I are engaged to be married, Lady Bracknell.
LADY BRACKNELL:
(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
aver-
age that statistics have laid down for our guidance. I think some preliminary inquiry 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 yester-
day 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 grand-daughter of the late Mr. Thomas Car-
dew of 149 Belgrave Square, S.W. ; Gervase Park, Dorking, Surrey; and the
Sporran, Fife-
shire, N.B.
LADY BRACKNELL:
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 in-
spection, Lady Bracknell.
LADY BRACKNELL
(grimly): I have known strange errors in that publication.
JACK:
Miss Cardew’s family solicitors are Messrs. Markby, Markby, and Markby
of 149a Lin-
coln’s Inn Fields, Western Central District, London. I have no doubt they
will be hap-
py to supply you with any further information. Their office hours are from
ten till four.
LADY BRACKNELL:
Markby, Markby and Markby? A firm of the very highest position in their profession. In-
deed 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 BRACKNELL:
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 lit-
tle 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 BRACKNELL
(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:
And after six months nobody knew her.
LADY BRACKNELL
(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 prin-
ciple 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!
ALGERNON:
Yes, Aunt Augusta!
LADY BRACKNELL:
There are distinct social possibilities in Miss Cardew’s profile.
ALGERNON:
Cecily is the sweetest, dearest, prettiest girl in the whole world. And I don’t care two-
pence about social possibilities.
LADY BRACKNELL:
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 allow-
ing that to stand in my way. Well, I suppose I must give my consent.
ALGERNON:
Thank you, Aunt Augusta.
LADY BRACKNELL:
Cecily, you may kiss me!
CECILY
(kisses her): Thank you, Lady Bracknell.
LADY BRACKNELL:
You may also address me as Aunt Augusta for the future.
CECILY:
Thank you, Aunt Augusta.
LADY BRACKNELL:
The marriage, I think, had better take place quite soon.
ALGERNON:
Thank you, Aunt Augusta.
CECILY:
Thank you, Aunt Augusta.
LADY BRACKNELL:
To speak frankly, I am not in favour of long engagements. They give people the opportu-
nity of finding out each other’s character before marriage, which I think
is never advis-
able.
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 BRACKNELL:
Upon what grounds, may I ask? Algernon is an extremely, I may almost say an ostenta-
tiously, eligible young man. He has nothing, but he looks everything. What more can one
desire?
JACK:
It pains me very much to have to speak frankly to you, Lady Bracknell,
about your nephew,
but the fact is that I do not approve at all of his moral character. I suspect him of being
untruthful.
ALGERNON and CECILY look at him in indignant amazement.
LADY BRACKNELL:
Untruthful! My nephew Algernon? Impossible! He is an Oxonian.
JACK:
I fear there can be no possible doubt about the matter. This afternoon
during my tempo-
rary absence in London on an important question of romance, he obtained
admission to
my house by means of the false pretence of being my brother. Under an assumed name
he drank, I’ve just been informed by my butler, an entire pint bottle of
my Perrier-Jouet,
Brut, ‘89; wine I was specially reserving for myself. Continuing his disgraceful
deception,
he succeeded in the course of the afternoon in alienating the affections
of my only ward.
He subsequently stayed to tea, and devoured every single muffin. And what
makes his
conduct all the more heartless is, that he was perfectly well aware from
the first that I
have no brother, that I never had a brother, and that I don t intend to
have a brother, not
even of any kind. I distinctly told him so myself yesterday afternoon.
CECILY:
But, dear Uncle Jack, for the last year you have been telling us all that you had a brother.
You dwelt continually on the subject. Algy merely corroborated your statement.
It was no-
ble of him.
JACK:
Pardon me, Cecily, you are a little too young to understand these matters. To invent any-
thing at all is an act of sheer genius, and, in a commercial age like ours,
shows considerable
physical courage. Few of our modern novelists dare to invent a single thing.
It is an open
secret that they don’t know how to do it. Upon the other hand, to corroborate
a falsehood
is a distinctly cowardly action. I know it is a thing that the newspapers
do one for the other,
every day. But it is not the act of a gentleman. No gentleman ever corroborates anything.
ALGERNON
(furiously): Upon my word Jack!
LADY BRACKNELL:
Ahem! Mr. Worthing, after careful consideration I have decided entirely
to overlook my
nephew’s conduct to you.
JACK:
That is very generous of you, Lady Bracknell. My own decision, however,
is unalterable. I
decline to give my consent.
LADY BRACKNELL
(to CECILY): Come here, sweet child. (CECILY goes over). How old are you, dear?
CECILY:
Well, I am really only eighteen, but I always admit to twenty when I go
to evening parties.
LADY BRACKNELL:
You are perfectly right in making some slight alteration. Indeed, no woman should ever be
quite accurate about her age. It looks so calculating…(In a meditative manner.) Eighteen,
but admitting to twenty at evening parties. Well, it will not be very long
before you are of
age and free from the restraints of tutelage. So I don’t think your guardian’s
consent is,
after all, a matter of any importance.
JACK:
Pray excuse me, Lady Bracknell, for interrupting you again, but it is only
fair to tell
you that according to the terms of her grandfather’s will Miss Cardew does
not come
legally of age till she is thirty-five.
LADY BRACKNELL:
That does not seem to me to be a grave objection. Thirty-five is a very attractive age.
London society is full of women of the very highest birth who have, of
their own free
choice, remained thirty-five for years. Lady Dumbleton is an instance in
point. To my
own knowledge she has been thirty-five ever since she arrived at the age
of forty,
which was many years ago now. I see no reason why our dear Cecily should
not be
even still more attractive at the age you mention than she is at present.
There will be
a large accumulation of property.
CECILY
(to JACK): You are quite sure that I can’t marry without your consent till I am thirty-
five?
JACK:
That is the wise provision of your grandfather’s will, Cecily. He undoubtedly
foresaw
the sort of difficulty that would be likely to occur.
CECILY:
Then grandpapa must have had a very extraordinary imagination. Algy…could
you wait
for me till I was thirty-five? Don’t speak hastily. It is a very serious
question, and
much of my future happiness, as well as all of yours, depends on your answer.
ALGERNON:
Of course I could, Cecily. How can you ask me such a question? I could
wait for ever
for you. You know I could.
CECILY:
Yes, I felt it instinctively, but I couldn’t wait all that time. I hate waiting even five min-
utes for anybody. It always makes me rather cross. I am not punctual myself,
I know, but
I do like punctuality in others, and waiting, even to be married, is quite out of the ques-
tion.
ALGERNON:
Then what is to be done, Cecily?
CECILY:
I don’t know, Mr. Moncrieff.
LADY BRACKNELL:
My dear Mr. Worthing, as Miss Cecily states positively that she cannot
wait till she is thirty-
five--a remark which I am bound to say seems to me to show a somewhat impatient
nature--
I would beg of you to reconsider your decision.
JACK:
But my dear Lady Bracknell, the matter is entirely in your own hands. The
moment you con-
sent to my marriage with Gwendolen, I will most gladly allow your nephew
to form an alliance
with my ward.
LADY BRACKNELL
(rising and drawing herself up): You must be quite aware that what you propose is out of the
question.
JACK:
Then a passionate celibacy is all that any of us can look forward to.
LADY BRACKNELL:
That is not the destiny I propose for Gwendolen. Algernon, of course, can
choose for himself.
(Pulls out her watch.) Come, dear--(GWENDOLEN rises)--we have already missed five, if not
six, trains. To miss any more might expose us to comment on the platform.
Enter DR. CHASUBLE.
CHASUBLE:
Everything is quite ready for the christenings.
LADY BRACKNELL:
The christenings, sir! Is not that somewhat premature?
CHASUBLE:
(looking rather puzzled, and pointing to JACK and ALGERNON): Both these gentleman have
expressed a desire for immediate baptism.
LADY BRACKNELL:
At their age? The idea is grotesque and irreligious! Algernon, I forbid you to be baptized.
I will
not hear of such excess. Lord Bracknell would be highly displeased if he learned that that
was the way in which you wasted your time and money.
CHASUBLE:
Am I to understand then that there are to be no christenings at all this
afternoon?
JACK:
I don’t think that, as things are now, it would be of much practical value
to either of us, Dr.
Chasuble.
CHASUBLE:
I am grieved to hear such sentiments from you, Mr. Worthing. They savour
of the heretical
views of the Anabaptists, views that I have completely refuted in four
of my unpublished ser-
mons. Baptismal regeneration is not to be lightly spoken of. Indeed by
the unanimous opinion
of the fathers, baptism is a form of new birth. However, where adults are
concerned, com-
pulsory christening, except in the case of savage tribes, is, I regret
to say, uncanonical, so
I shall return to the church at once. Indeed, I have just been informed
by the pew-opener
that for the last hour and a half Miss Prism has been waiting for me in
the vestry.
LADY BRACKNELL
(starting): Miss Prism! Did I hear you mention a Miss Prism?
CHASUBLE:
Yes, Lady Bracknell. I am on my way to join her.
LADY BRACKNELL:
Pray allow me to detain you for a moment. This matter may prove to be one
of vital impor-
tance to Lord Bracknell and myself. Is this Miss Prism a female of repellent aspect, remote-
ly connected with education?
CHASUBLE
(somewhat indignantly): She is the most cultivated of ladies, and the very picture of respect-
ability.
LADY BRACKNELL:
It is obviously the same person. May I ask what position she holds in your household?
CHASUBLE:
(severely): I am a celibate, madam.
JACK
(interposing): Miss Prism, Lady Bracknell has been for the last three years Miss Cardew’s
esteemed governess and valued companion.
LADY BRACKNELL:
In spite of what I hear of her, I must see her at once. Let her be sent
for.
CHASUBLE
(looking off): She approaches; she is nigh.
Enter MISS PRISM hurriedly.
MISS PRISM:
I was told you expected me in the vestry, dear Canon. I have been waiting
for you there
for an hour and three-quarters. (Catches sight of LADY BRACKNELL, who has fixed her
with a stony glare. MISS PRISM grows pale and quails. She looks anxiously
round as if
desirous to escape.)
LADY BRACKNELL
(in a severe, judicial voice): Prism! (MISS PRISM bows her head in shame.) Come here,
Prism! (MISS PRISM approaches in a humble manner.) Prism! Where is that baby? (General
consternation. The CANON starts back in horror. ALGERNON and JACK pretend
to be an-
xious to shield CECILY and GWENDOLEN from hearing the details of a terrible
public
scandal.) Twenty-eight years ago, Prism, you left Lord Bracknell’s house, Number
104,
Upper Grosvenor Street, in charge of a perambulator that contained a baby
of the male
sex. You never returned. A few weeks later, through the elaborate investigations
of the
Metropolitan police, the perambulator was discovered at midnight standing by itself in a
remote corner of Bayswater. It contained the manuscript of a three-volume
novel of
more than usually revolting sentimentality. (MISS PRISM starts in involuntary indignation.)
But the baby was not there. (Every one looks at MISS PRISM.) Prism! Where is that baby?
(A pause.)
MISS PRISM:
Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that I do not know. I only wish I did.
The plain facts of
the case are these. On the morning of the day you mention, a day that is
for ever branded
on my memory, I prepared as usual to take the baby out in its perambulator.
I had also with
me a somewhat old, capacious hand-bag in which I had intended to place
the manuscript of
a work of fiction that I had written during my few unoccupied hours. In
a moment of mental
abstraction, for which I never can forgive myself, I deposited the manuscript
in the basin-
ette, and placed the baby in the hand-bag.
JACK
(who has been listening attentively): But where did you deposit the hand-bag?
MISS PRISM:
Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.
JACK:
Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me. I insist on
knowing where you
deposited the hand-bag that contained that infant.
MISS PRISM:
I left it in the cloak-room of one of the larger railway stations in London.
JACK:
What railway station?
MISS PRISM
(quite crushed): Victoria. The Brighton line. (Sinks into a chair.)
LADY BRACKNELL
(looking at JACK): I sincerely hope nothing improbable is going to happen. The improbable
is always in bad, or at any rate, questionable taste.
JACK:
I must retire to my room for a moment.
CHASUBLE:
This news seems to have upset you, Mr. Worthing. I trust your indisposition
is merely tem-
porary.
JACK:
I will be back in a few moments, dear Canon. Gwendolen! Wait here for me!
GWENDOLEN:
If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.
Exit JACK in great excitement.
CHASUBLE:
What do you think this means, Lady Bracknell?
LADY BRACKNELL:
I dare not even suspect, Dr. Chasuble. I need hardly tell you that in families of high position
strange coincidences are not supposed to occur. They are hardly considered the thing.
Noises heard overhead as if some one was throwing trunks about. Every one
looks up.
CECILY:
Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.
CHASUBLE:
Your guardian has a very emotional nature.
LADY BRACKNELL:
This noise is extremely unpleasant. It sounds as if he was having an argument
with the furn-
iture. I dislike arguments of any kind. They are always vulgar, and often
convincing.
CHASUBLE:
(looking up): It has stopped now. (The noise is re-doubled.)
LADY BRACKNELL:
I wish he would arrive at some conclusion.
GWENDOLEN:
This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.
Enter JACK with a hand-bag of black leather in his hand.
JACK
(rushing over to MISS PRISM): Is this the hand-bag, Miss Prism? Examine it carefully before
you speak. The happiness of more than one life depends on your answer.
MISS PRISM
(calmly): It seems to be mine. Yes, here is the injury it received through the upsetting of a
Gower Street omnibus in younger and happier days. Here is the stain on
the lining caused by
the explosion of a temperance beverage, an incident that occurred at Leamington. And here,
on the lock, are my initials. I had forgotten that in an extravagant mood
I had had them plac-
ed there. The bag is undoubtedly mine. I am delighted to have it so unexpectedly
restored to
me. It has been a great inconvenience being without it all these years.
JACK
(in a pathetic voice): Miss Prism, more is restored to you than this hand-bag. I was the baby
you placed in it.
MISS PRISM
(amazed): You?
JACK
(embracing her): Yes…mother!
MISS PRISM
(recoiling in indignant astonishment): Mr. Worthing, I am unmarried!
JACK:
Unmarried! I do not deny that is a serious blow. But after all, who has
the right to cast
a stone against one who has suffered? Cannot repentance wipe out an act
of folly?
Why should there be one law for men, and another for women? Mother, I forgive
you.
(Tries to embrace her again.)
MISS PRISM
(still more indignant): But Mr. Worthing, there is some error. Maternity has never been
an incident in my life. The suggestion, if it were not made before such
a large number
of people, would be almost indelicate. (Pointing to LADY BRACKNELL.) There stands the
lady who can tell you who you really are. (Retires to back of stage.)
JACK
(after a pause): Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform
me who I am?
LADY BRACKNELL:
I am afraid that the news I have to give you will not altogether please
you. You are the
son of my poor sister, Mrs. Moncrieff, and consequently Algernon’s elder
brother.
JACK:
Algy’s elder brother! Then I have a brother after all. I knew I had a brother!
I always said
I had a brother! Cecily,--how could you have ever doubted that I had a
brother! (Seizes
hold of ALGERNON.) Dr. Chasuble, my unfortunate brother. Miss Prism, my unfortunate
brother. Gwendolen, my unfortunate brother. Algy, you young scoundrel,
you will have to
treat me with more respect in the future. You have never behaved to me
like a brother in
all your life.
ALGERNON:
Well, not till to-day, old boy, I admit. (Shakes hands.) I did my best, however, though I was
out of practice.
GWENDOLEN
(to JACK): Darling!
JACK:
Darling!
LADY BRACKNELL:
Under these strange and unforeseen circumstances you can kiss your Aunt
Augusta.
JACK:
(staying where he is): I am dazed with happiness. (Kisses GWENDOLEN) I hardly know who
I am kissing.
ALGERNON takes the opportunity to kiss CECILY.
GWENDOLEN:
I hope that will be the last time I shall ever hear you make such an observation.
JACK:
It will, darling.
MISS PRISM
(advancing, after coughing slightly): Mr. Worthing,--Mr. Moncrieff as I should call you now--
after what has just occurred I feel it my duty to resign my position in
this household. Any
inconvenience I may have caused you in your infancy through placing you
inadvertently in
this hand-bag I sincerely apologise for.
JACK:
Don’t mention it, dear Miss Prism. Don’t mention anything. I am sure I had a very pleasant
time in your nice hand-bag in spite of the slight damage it received through
the overturning
of an omnibus in your happier days. As for leaving us, the suggestion is absurd.
MISS PRISM: It is my duty to leave. I have really nothing more to teach dear Cecily.
In the
very difficult accomplishment of getting married I fear my sweet and clever
pupil has far out-
stripped her teacher.
CHASUBLE:
A moment--Laetitia!
MISS PRISM:
Dr. Chasuble!
CHASUBLE:
Laetitia, I have come to the conclusion that the Primitive Church was in
error on certain
points. Corrupt readings seem to have crept into the text. I beg to solicit
the honour of your
hand.
MISS PRISM:
Frederick, at the present moment words fail me to express my feelings.
But I will forward you,
this evening, the three last volumes of my diary. In these you will be
able to peruse a full ac-
count of the sentiments that I have entertained towards you for the last
eighteen months.
Enter MERRIMAN.
MERRIMAN:
Lady Bracknell’s flyman says he cannot wait any longer.
LADY BRACKNELL
(rising): True! I must return to town at once. (Pulls out watch.) I see I have now missed no
less than nine trains. There is only one more.
MERRIMAN goes out. LADY BRACKNELL moves towards the door.
Prism, from your last observation to Dr. Chasuble, I learn with regret
that you have not yet
given up your passion for fiction in three volumes. And, if you really are going to enter into the
state of matrimony which at your age seems to me, I feel bound to say,
rather like flying in the
face of an all-wise Providence, I trust you will be more careful of your
husband than you were
of your infant charge, and not leave poor Dr. Chasuble lying about at railway
stations in hand-
bags or receptacles of any kind. Cloak-rooms are notoriously draughty places.
(MISS PRISM bows
her head meekly.) Dr. Chasuble, you have my sincere good wishes, and if baptism be, as you
say
it is, a form of new birth, I would strongly advise you to have Miss Prism
baptised without delay.
To be born again would be of considerable advantage to her. Whether such
a procedure be in
accordance with the practice of the Primitive Church I do not know. But
it is hardly probable, I
should fancy, that they had to grapple with such extremely advanced problems. (Turning sweetly
to CECILY and patting her cheek.) Sweet child! We will expect you at Upper Grosvenor Street in
a few days.
CECILY:
Thank you, Aunt Augusta!
LADY BRACKNELL:
Come, Gwendolen.
GWENDOLEN
(to JACK): My own! But what own are you? What is your Christian name, now that you
have be-
come some one else?
JACK:
Good heavens!…I had quite forgotten that point. Your decision on the subject of my name is ir-
revocable, I suppose?
GWENDOLEN:
I never change, except in my affections.
CECILY:
What a noble nature you have, Gwendolen!
JACK:
Then the question had better be cleared up at once. Aunt Augusta, a moment.
At the time when
Miss Prism left me in the hand-bag, had I been christened already? Pray
be calm, Aunt Augusta.
This is a terrible crisis and much depends on your answer.
LADY BRACKNELL
(quite calmly): Every luxury that money could buy, including christening, had been lavished on you
by your fond and doting parents.
JACK:
Then I was christened! That is settled. Now, what name was I given? Let
me know the worst.
LADY BRACKNELL
(after a pause): Being the eldest son you were naturally christened after your father.
JACK
(irritably): Yes, but what was my father’s Christian name? Pray don’t be so calm, Aunt Augusta.
This is a terrible crisis and everything hangs on the nature of your reply.
What was my father’s
Christian name?
LADY BRACKNELL (meditatively):
I cannot at the present moment recall what the General’s Christian name
was. Your poor dear
mother always addressed him as ‘General’. That I remember perfectly. Indeed,
I don’t think
she would have dared to have called him by his Christian name. But I have no doubt he had one.
He was violent in his manner, but there was nothing eccentric about him in any way. That was
rather the result of the Indian climate, and marriage, and indigestion,
and other things of that
kind. In fact he was rather a martinet about the little details of daily life. Too much so, I used to
tell my sister.
JACK:
Algy! Can’t you recollect what our father’s Christian name was?
ALGERNON:
My dear boy, we were never even on speaking terms. He died before I was
a year old.
JACK:
His name would appear in the Army Lists of the period, I suppose, Aunt
Augusta?
LADY BRACKNELL:
The General was essentially a man of peace, except in his domestic life.
But I have no doubt his
name would appear in any military directory.
JACK:
The Army Lists for the last forty years are here. (Rushes to the book-case and tears the books
out. Distributes them rapidly.) Here, Dr. Chasuble--Miss Prism, two for you--Cecily, Cecily, an
Army List. Make a precis of it at once. Algernon, pray search English history
for our father’s
Christian name if you have the smallest filial affection left. Aunt Augusta,
I beg you to bring your
masculine mind to bear on this subject. Gwendolen--no, it would agitate you too much. Leave
these researches to less philosophic natures like ours.
GWENDOLEN
(heroically): Give me six copies of any period, this century or the last. I do not care which!
JACK:
Noble girl! Here are a dozen. More might be an inconvenience to you. (Brings her a pile of Army
Lists--rushes through them himself, taking each one from her hands as she
tries to examine it.)
No, just let me look. No, allow me, dear. Darling, I think I can find it
out sooner. Just allow me,
my love.
CHASUBLE:
What station, Mr. Moncrieff, did you say you wished to go to?
JACK
(pausing in despair): Station! Who on earth is talking about a station? I merely want to find out
my father’s Christian name.
CHASUBLE:
But you have handed me a Bradshaw. (Looks at it.) Of 1869, I observe. A book of considerable
antiquarian interest: but not in any way bearing on the question of the
names usually conferred
on Generals at baptism.
CECILY:
I am so sorry, Uncle Jack. But Generals don’t seem to be even alluded to
in the ‘History of our
own times’, although it is the best edition. The one written in collaboration with the type-writing
machine.
MISS PRISM:
To me, Mr. Moncrieff, you have given two copies of the Price Lists of the
Civil Service Stores. I do
not find Generals marked anywhere. There seems to be either no demand or
no supply.
LADY BRACKNELL:
This treatise, ‘The Green Carnation’, as I see it is called, seems to be
a book about the culture
of exotics. It contains no reference to Generals in it. It seems a morbid
and middle-class affair.
JACK
(very irritable indeed): Good Heavens! And what nonsense are you reading, Algy? (Takes book from
him.) The Army List? Well, I don’t suppose you knew it was the Army List. And you have got it o-
pen at the wrong page. Besides, there is the thing staring you in the face.
M. Generals…Malam--
what ghastly names they have--Markby, Migsby, Mobbs, Moncrieff, Moncrieff!
Lieutenant 1840, Cap-
tain, LieutenantColonel, Colonel, General 1860. Christian names, Ernest
John. (Puts book quietly
down and speaks quite calmly.) I always told you Gwendolen, my name was Ernest, didn’t I? Well, it
is Ernest after all. I mean it naturally is Ernest.
LADY BRACKNELL:
Yes, I remember now that the General was called Ernest. I knew I had some
particular reason for
disliking the name. Come, Gwendolen. (Goes out.)
GWENDOLEN:
Ernest! My own Ernest! I felt from the first that you could have no other
name!
JACK:
Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all
his life he has been speaking
nothing but the truth. Can you forgive me?
GWENDOLEN:
I can. For I feel that you are sure to change.
JACK:
My own one!
CHASUBLE
(to MISS PRISM): Laetitia! (Embraces her.)
MISS PRISM
(enthusiastically): Frederick! At last!
ALGERNON:
Cecily! (Embraces her.) At last!
JACK:
Gwendolen! (Embraces her.) At last!
Enter LADY BRACKNELL.
LADY BRACKNELL:
I have missed the last train!--My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality.
JACK:
On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I’ve now realised for the first time in my life the vital Importance
of Being Earnest.
TABLEAU
CURTAIN
