ALGERNON.
Gwendolen, upon my word!
GWENDOLEN.
Algy, kindly turn your back. I have something very particular to say to
Mr. Worthing.
ALGERNON.
Really, Gwendolen, I don’t think I can allow this at all.
GWENDOLEN.
Algy, you always adopt a strictly immoral attitude towards life. You
are not quite old enough to do that. [Algernon retires to the
fireplace.]
JACK.
My own darling!
GWENDOLEN.
Ernest, we may never be married. From the expression on mamma’s face I
fear we never shall. Few parents nowadays pay any regard to what their
children say to them. The old-fashioned respect for the young is fast
dying out. Whatever influence I ever had over mamma, I lost at the age
of three. But although she may prevent us from becoming man and wife,
and I may marry some one else, and marry often, nothing that she can
possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you.
JACK.
Dear Gwendolen!
GWENDOLEN.
The story of your romantic origin, as related to me by mamma, with
unpleasing comments, has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my
nature. Your Christian name has an irresistible fascination. The
simplicity of your character makes you exquisitely incomprehensible to
me. Your town address at the Albany I have. What is your address in the
country?
JACK.
The Manor House, Woolton, Hertfordshire.
[Algernon, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, and
writes the address on his shirt-cuff. Then picks up the Railway Guide.]
GWENDOLEN.
There is a good postal service, I suppose? It may be necessary to do
something desperate. That of course will require serious consideration.
I will communicate with you daily.
JACK.
My own one!
GWENDOLEN.
How long do you remain in town?
JACK.
Till Monday.
GWENDOLEN.
Good! Algy, you may turn round now.
ALGERNON.
Thanks, I’ve turned round already.
GWENDOLEN.
You may also ring the bell.
JACK.
You will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling?
GWENDOLEN.
Certainly.
JACK.
[To Lane, who now enters.] I will see Miss Fairfax out.
LANE.
Yes, sir. [Jack and Gwendolen go off.]
[Lane presents several letters on a salver to Algernon. It is to be
surmised that they are bills, as Algernon, after looking at the
envelopes, tears them up.]
ALGERNON.
A glass of sherry, Lane.
LANE.
Yes, sir.
ALGERNON.
To-morrow, Lane, I’m going Bunburying.
LANE.
Yes, sir.
ALGERNON.
I shall probably not be back till Monday. You can put up my dress
clothes, my smoking jacket, and all the Bunbury suits . . .
LANE.
Yes, sir. [Handing sherry.]
ALGERNON.
I hope to-morrow will be a fine day, Lane.
LANE.
It never is, sir.
ALGERNON.
Lane, you’re a perfect pessimist.
LANE.
I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.
[Enter Jack. Lane goes off.]
JACK.
There’s a sensible, intellectual girl! the only girl I ever cared for
in my life. [Algernon is laughing immoderately.] What on earth are you
so amused at?
ALGERNON.
Oh, I’m a little anxious about poor Bunbury, that is all.
JACK.
If you don’t take care, your friend Bunbury will get you into a serious
scrape some day.
ALGERNON.
I love scrapes. They are the only things that are never serious.
JACK.
Oh, that’s nonsense, Algy. You never talk anything but nonsense.
ALGERNON.
Nobody ever does.
[Jack looks indignantly at him, and leaves the room. Algernon lights a
cigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and smiles.]
ACT DROP
SECOND ACT
SCENE
Garden at the Manor House. A flight of grey stone steps leads up to the
house. The garden, an old-fashioned one, full of roses. Time of year,
July. Basket chairs, and a table covered with books, are set under a
large yew-tree.
[Miss Prism discovered seated at the table. Cecily is at the back
watering flowers.]
MISS PRISM.
[Calling.] Cecily, Cecily! Surely such a utilitarian occupation as the
watering of flowers is rather Moulton’s duty than yours? Especially at
a moment when intellectual pleasures await you. Your German grammar is
on the table. Pray open it at page fifteen. We will repeat yesterday’s
lesson.
CECILY.
[Coming over very slowly.] But I don’t like German. It isn’t at all a
becoming language. I know perfectly well that I look quite plain after
my German lesson.
MISS PRISM.
Child, you know how anxious your guardian is that you should improve
yourself in every way. He laid particular stress on your German, as he
was leaving for town yesterday. Indeed, he always lays stress on your
German when he is leaving for town.
CECILY.
Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious! Sometimes he is so serious that I
think he cannot be quite well.
MISS PRISM.
[Drawing herself up.] Your guardian enjoys the best of health, and his
gravity of demeanour is especially to be commended in one so
comparatively young as he is. I know no one who has a higher sense of
duty and responsibility.
CECILY.
I suppose that is why he often looks a little bored when we three are
together.
MISS PRISM.
Cecily! I am surprised at you. Mr. Worthing has many troubles in his
life. Idle merriment and triviality would be out of place in his
conversation. You must remember his constant anxiety about that
unfortunate young man his brother.
CECILY.
I wish Uncle Jack would allow that unfortunate young man, his brother,
to come down here sometimes. We might have a good influence over him,
Miss Prism. I am sure you certainly would. You know German, and
geology, and things of that kind influence a man very much. [Cecily
begins to write in her diary.]
MISS PRISM.
[Shaking her head.] I do not think that even I could produce any effect
on a character that according to his own brother’s admission is
irretrievably weak and vacillating. Indeed I am not sure that I would
desire to reclaim him. I am not in favour of this modern mania for
turning bad people into good people at a moment’s notice. As a man sows
so let him reap. You must put away your diary, Cecily. I really don’t
see why you should keep a diary at all.
CECILY.
I keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my life. If I
didn’t write them down, I should probably forget all about them.
MISS PRISM.
Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us.
CECILY.
Yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never happened, and
couldn’t possibly have happened. I believe that Memory is responsible
for nearly all the three-volume novels that Mudie sends us.
MISS PRISM.
Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel, Cecily. I wrote one
myself in earlier days.
CECILY.
Did you really, Miss Prism? How wonderfully clever you are! I hope it
did not end happily? I don’t like novels that end happily. They depress
me so much.
MISS PRISM.
The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what Fiction
means.
CECILY.
I suppose so. But it seems very unfair. And was your novel ever
published?
MISS PRISM.
Alas! no. The manuscript unfortunately was abandoned. [Cecily starts.]
I use the word in the sense of lost or mislaid. To your work, child,
these speculations are profitless.
CECILY.
[Smiling.] But I see dear Dr. Chasuble coming up through the garden.
MISS PRISM.
[Rising and advancing.] Dr. Chasuble! This is indeed a pleasure.
[Enter Canon Chasuble.]
CHASUBLE.
And how are we this morning? Miss Prism, you are, I trust, well?
CECILY.
Miss Prism has just been complaining of a slight headache. I think it
would do her so much good to have a short stroll with you in the Park,
Dr. Chasuble.
MISS PRISM.
Cecily, I have not mentioned anything about a headache.
CECILY.
No, dear Miss Prism, I know that, but I felt instinctively that you had
a headache. Indeed I was thinking about that, and not about my German
lesson, when the Rector came in.
CHASUBLE.
I hope, Cecily, you are not inattentive.
CECILY.
Oh, I am afraid I am.
CHASUBLE.
That is strange. Were I fortunate enough to be Miss Prism’s pupil, I
would hang upon her lips. [Miss Prism glares.] I spoke
metaphorically.—My metaphor was drawn from bees. Ahem! Mr. Worthing, I
suppose, has not returned from town yet?
MISS PRISM.
We do not expect him till Monday afternoon.
CHASUBLE.
Ah yes, he usually likes to spend his Sunday in London. He is not one
of those whose sole aim is enjoyment, as, by all accounts, that
unfortunate young man his brother seems to be. But I must not disturb
Egeria and her pupil any longer.
MISS PRISM.
Egeria? My name is Lætitia, Doctor.
CHASUBLE.
[Bowing.] A classical allusion merely, drawn from the Pagan authors. I
shall see you both no doubt at Evensong?
MISS PRISM.
I think, dear Doctor, I will have a stroll with you. I find I have a
headache after all, and a walk might do it good.
CHASUBLE.
With pleasure, Miss Prism, with pleasure. We might go as far as the
schools and back.
MISS PRISM.
That would be delightful. Cecily, you will read your Political Economy
in my absence. The chapter on the Fall of the Rupee you may omit. It is
somewhat too sensational. Even these metallic problems have their
melodramatic side.
[Goes down the garden with Dr. Chasuble.]
CECILY.
[Picks up books and throws them back on table.] Horrid Political
Economy! Horrid Geography! Horrid, horrid German!
[Enter Merriman with a card on a salver.]
MERRIMAN.
Mr. Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station. He has
brought his luggage with him.
CECILY.
[Takes the card and reads it.] ‘Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany,
W.’ Uncle Jack’s brother! Did you tell him Mr. Worthing was in town?
MERRIMAN.
Yes, Miss. He seemed very much disappointed. I mentioned that you and
Miss Prism were in the garden. He said he was anxious to speak to you
privately for a moment.
CECILY.
Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had better talk to
the housekeeper about a room for him.
MERRIMAN.
Yes, Miss.
[Merriman goes off.]
CECILY.
I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather
frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one else.
[Enter Algernon, very gay and debonnair.] He does!
ALGERNON.
[Raising his hat.] You are my little cousin Cecily, I’m sure.
CECILY.
You are under some strange mistake. I am not little. In fact, I believe
I am more than usually tall for my age. [Algernon is rather taken
aback.] But I am your cousin Cecily. You, I see from your card, are
Uncle Jack’s brother, my cousin Ernest, my wicked cousin Ernest.
ALGERNON.
Oh! I am not really wicked at all, cousin Cecily. You mustn’t think
that I am wicked.
CECILY.
If you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us all in a very
inexcusable manner. I hope you have not been leading a double life,
pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time. That would
be hypocrisy.
ALGERNON.
[Looks at her in amazement.] Oh! Of course I have been rather reckless.
CECILY.
I am glad to hear it.
ALGERNON.
In fact, now you mention the subject, I have been very bad in my own
small way.
CECILY.
I don’t think you should be so proud of that, though I am sure it must
have been very pleasant.
ALGERNON.
It is much pleasanter being here with you.
CECILY.
I can’t understand how you are here at all. Uncle Jack won’t be back
till Monday afternoon.
ALGERNON.
That is a great disappointment. I am obliged to go up by the first
train on Monday morning. I have a business appointment that I am
anxious . . . to miss?
CECILY.
Couldn’t you miss it anywhere but in London?
ALGERNON.
No: the appointment is in London.
CECILY.
Well, I know, of course, how important it is not to keep a business
engagement, if one wants to retain any sense of the beauty of life, but
still I think you had better wait till Uncle Jack arrives. I know he
wants to speak to you about your emigrating.
ALGERNON.
About my what?
CECILY.
Your emigrating. He has gone up to buy your outfit.
ALGERNON.
I certainly wouldn’t let Jack buy my outfit. He has no taste in
neckties at all.
CECILY.
I don’t think you will require neckties. Uncle Jack is sending you to
Australia.
ALGERNON.
Australia! I’d sooner die.
CECILY.
Well, he said at dinner on Wednesday night, that you would have to
choose between this world, the next world, and Australia.
ALGERNON.
Oh, well! The accounts I have received of Australia and the next world,
are not particularly encouraging. This world is good enough for me,
cousin Cecily.
CECILY.
Yes, but are you good enough for it?
ALGERNON.
I’m afraid I’m not that. That is why I want you to reform me. You might
make that your mission, if you don’t mind, cousin Cecily.
CECILY.
I’m afraid I’ve no time, this afternoon.
ALGERNON.
Well, would you mind my reforming myself this afternoon?
CECILY.
It is rather Quixotic of you. But I think you should try.
ALGERNON.
I will. I feel better already.
CECILY.
You are looking a little worse.
ALGERNON.
That is because I am hungry.
CECILY.
How thoughtless of me. I should have remembered that when one is going
to lead an entirely new life, one requires regular and wholesome meals.
Won’t you come in?
ALGERNON.
Thank you. Might I have a buttonhole first? I never have any appetite
unless I have a buttonhole first.
CECILY.
A Marechal Niel? [Picks up scissors.]
ALGERNON.
No, I’d sooner have a pink rose.
CECILY.
Why? [Cuts a flower.]
ALGERNON.
Because you are like a pink rose, Cousin Cecily.
CECILY.
I don’t think it can be right for you to talk to me like that. Miss
Prism never says such things to me.
ALGERNON.
Then Miss Prism is a short-sighted old lady. [Cecily puts the rose in
his buttonhole.] You are the prettiest girl I ever saw.
CECILY.
Miss Prism says that all good looks are a snare.
ALGERNON.
They are a snare that every sensible man would like to be caught in.
CECILY.
Oh, I don’t think I would care to catch a sensible man. I shouldn’t
know what to talk to him about.
[They pass into the house. Miss Prism and Dr. Chasuble return.]
MISS PRISM.
You are too much alone, dear Dr. Chasuble. You should get married. A
misanthrope I can understand—a womanthrope, never!
CHASUBLE.
[With a scholar’s shudder.] Believe me, I do not deserve so neologistic
a phrase. The precept as well as the practice of the Primitive Church
was distinctly against matrimony.
MISS PRISM.
[Sententiously.] That is obviously the reason why the Primitive Church
has not lasted up to the present day. And you do not seem to realise,
dear Doctor, that by persistently remaining single, a man converts
himself into a permanent public temptation. Men should be more careful;
this very celibacy leads weaker vessels astray.
CHASUBLE.
But is a man not equally attractive when married?
MISS PRISM.
No married man is ever attractive except to his wife.
CHASUBLE.
And often, I’ve been told, not even to her.
MISS PRISM.
That depends on the intellectual sympathies of the woman. Maturity can
always be depended on. Ripeness can be trusted. Young women are green.
[Dr. Chasuble starts.] I spoke horticulturally. My metaphor was drawn
from fruits. But where is Cecily?
CHASUBLE.
Perhaps she followed us to the schools.
[Enter Jack slowly from the back of the garden. He is dressed in the
deepest mourning, with crape hatband and black gloves.]
MISS PRISM.
Mr. Worthing!
CHASUBLE.
Mr. Worthing?
MISS PRISM.
This is indeed a surprise. We did not look for you till Monday
afternoon.
JACK.
[Shakes Miss Prism’s hand in a tragic manner.] I have returned sooner
than I expected. Dr. Chasuble, I hope you are well?
CHASUBLE.
Dear Mr. Worthing, I trust this garb of woe does not betoken some
terrible calamity?
JACK.
My brother.
MISS PRISM.
More shameful debts and extravagance?
CHASUBLE.
Still leading his life of pleasure?
JACK.
[Shaking his head.] Dead!
CHASUBLE.
Your brother Ernest dead?
JACK.
Quite dead.
MISS PRISM.
What a lesson for him! I trust he will profit by it.
CHASUBLE.
Mr. Worthing, I offer you my sincere condolence. You have at least the
consolation of knowing that you were always the most generous and
forgiving of brothers.
JACK.
Poor Ernest! He had many faults, but it is a sad, sad blow.
CHASUBLE.
Very sad indeed. Were you with him at the end?
JACK.
No. He died abroad; in Paris, in fact. I had a telegram last night from
the manager of the Grand Hotel.
CHASUBLE.
Was the cause of death mentioned?
JACK.
A severe chill, it seems.
MISS PRISM.
As a man sows, so shall he reap.
CHASUBLE.
[Raising his hand.] Charity, dear Miss Prism, charity! None of us are
perfect. I myself am peculiarly susceptible to draughts. Will the
interment take place here?
JACK.
No. He seems to have expressed a desire to be buried in Paris.
CHASUBLE.
In Paris! [Shakes his head.] I fear that hardly points to any very
serious state of mind at the last. You would no doubt wish me to make
some slight allusion to this tragic domestic affliction next Sunday.
[Jack presses his hand convulsively.] My sermon on the meaning of the
manna in the wilderness can be adapted to almost any occasion, joyful,
or, as in the present case, distressing. [All sigh.] I have preached it
at harvest celebrations, christenings, confirmations, on days of
humiliation and festal days. The last time I delivered it was in the
Cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the Society for the
Prevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders. The Bishop, who was
present, was much struck by some of the analogies I drew.
JACK.
Ah! that reminds me, you mentioned christenings I think, Dr. Chasuble?
I suppose you know how to christen all right? [Dr. Chasuble looks
astounded.] I mean, of course, you are continually christening, aren’t
you?
MISS PRISM.
It is, I regret to say, one of the Rector’s most constant duties in
this parish. I have often spoken to the poorer classes on the subject.
But they don’t seem to know what thrift is.
CHASUBLE.
But is there any particular infant in whom you are interested, Mr.
Worthing? Your brother was, I believe, unmarried, was he not?
JACK.
Oh yes.
MISS PRISM.
[Bitterly.] People who live entirely for pleasure usually are.
JACK.
But it is not for any child, dear Doctor. I am very fond of children.
No! the fact is, I would like to be christened myself, this afternoon,
if you have nothing better to do.
CHASUBLE.
But surely, Mr. Worthing, you have been christened already?
JACK.
I don’t remember anything about it.
CHASUBLE.
But have you any grave doubts on the subject?
JACK.
I certainly intend to have. Of course I don’t know if the thing would
bother you in any way, or if you think I am a little too old now.
CHASUBLE.
Not at all. The sprinkling, and, indeed, the immersion of adults is a
perfectly canonical practice.
JACK.
Immersion!
CHASUBLE.
You need have no apprehensions. Sprinkling is all that is necessary, or
indeed I think advisable. Our weather is so changeable. At what hour
would you wish the ceremony performed?
JACK.
Oh, I might trot round about five if that would suit you.
CHASUBLE.
Perfectly, perfectly! In fact I have two similar ceremonies to perform
at that time. A case of twins that occurred recently in one of the
outlying cottages on your own estate. Poor Jenkins the carter, a most
hard-working man.
JACK.
Oh! I don’t see much fun in being christened along with other babies.
It would be childish. Would half-past five do?
CHASUBLE.
Admirably! Admirably! [Takes out watch.] And now, dear Mr. Worthing, I
will not intrude any longer into a house of sorrow. I would merely beg
you not to be too much bowed down by grief. What seem to us bitter
trials are often blessings in disguise.
MISS PRISM.
This seems to me a blessing of an extremely obvious kind.
[Enter Cecily from the house.]
CECILY.
Uncle Jack! Oh, I am pleased to see you back. But what horrid clothes
you have got on! Do go and change them.
MISS PRISM.
Cecily!
CHASUBLE.
My child! my child! [Cecily goes towards Jack; he kisses her brow in a
melancholy manner.]
CECILY.
What is the matter, Uncle Jack? Do look happy! You look as if you had
toothache, and I have got such a surprise for you. Who do you think is
in the dining-room? Your brother!
JACK.
Who?
CECILY.
Your brother Ernest. He arrived about half an hour ago.
JACK.
What nonsense! I haven’t got a brother.
CECILY.
Oh, don’t say that. However badly he may have behaved to you in the
past he is still your brother. You couldn’t be so heartless as to
disown him. I’ll tell him to come out. And you will shake hands with
him, won’t you, Uncle Jack? [Runs back into the house.]
CHASUBLE.
These are very joyful tidings.
MISS PRISM.
After we had all been resigned to his loss, his sudden return seems to
me peculiarly distressing.
JACK.
My brother is in the dining-room? I don’t know what it all means. I
think it is perfectly absurd.
[Enter Algernon and Cecily hand in hand. They come slowly up to Jack.]
JACK.
Good heavens! [Motions Algernon away.]
ALGERNON.
Brother John, I have come down from town to tell you that I am very
sorry for all the trouble I have given you, and that I intend to lead a
better life in the future. [Jack glares at him and does not take his
hand.]
CECILY.
Uncle Jack, you are not going to refuse your own brother’s hand?
JACK.
Nothing will induce me to take his hand. I think his coming down here
disgraceful. He knows perfectly well why.
CECILY.
Uncle Jack, do be nice. There is some good in every one. Ernest has
just been telling me about his poor invalid friend Mr. Bunbury whom he
goes to visit so often. And surely there must be much good in one who
is kind to an invalid, and leaves the pleasures of London to sit by a
bed of pain.
JACK.
Oh! he has been talking about Bunbury, has he?
CECILY.
Yes, he has told me all about poor Mr. Bunbury, and his terrible state
of health.
JACK.
Bunbury! Well, I won’t have him talk to you about Bunbury or about
anything else. It is enough to drive one perfectly frantic.
ALGERNON.
Of course I admit that the faults were all on my side. But I must say
that I think that Brother John’s coldness to me is peculiarly painful.
I expected a more enthusiastic welcome, especially considering it is
the first time I have come here.
CECILY.
Uncle Jack, if you don’t shake hands with Ernest I will never forgive
you.
JACK.
Never forgive me?
CECILY.
Never, never, never!
JACK.
Well, this is the last time I shall ever do it. [Shakes with Algernon
and glares.]
CHASUBLE.
It’s pleasant, is it not, to see so perfect a reconciliation? I think
we might leave the two brothers together.
MISS PRISM.
Cecily, you will come with us.
CECILY.
Certainly, Miss Prism. My little task of reconciliation is over.
CHASUBLE.
You have done a beautiful action to-day, dear child.
MISS PRISM.
We must not be premature in our judgments.
CECILY.
I feel very happy. [They all go off except Jack and Algernon.]
JACK.
You young scoundrel, Algy, you must get out of this place as soon as
possible. I don’t allow any Bunburying here.
[Enter Merriman.]
MERRIMAN.
I have put Mr. Ernest’s things in the room next to yours, sir. I
suppose that is all right?
JACK.
What?
MERRIMAN.
Mr. Ernest’s luggage, sir. I have unpacked it and put it in the room
next to your own.
JACK.
His luggage?
MERRIMAN.
Yes, sir. Three portmanteaus, a dressing-case, two hat-boxes, and a
large luncheon-basket.
ALGERNON.
I am afraid I can’t stay more than a week this time.
JACK.
Merriman, order the dog-cart at once. Mr. Ernest has been suddenly
called back to town.
MERRIMAN.
Yes, sir. [Goes back into the house.]
ALGERNON.
What a fearful liar you are, Jack. I have not been called back to town
at all.
JACK.
Yes, you have.
ALGERNON.
I haven’t heard any one call me.
JACK.
Your duty as a gentleman calls you back.
ALGERNON.
My duty as a gentleman has never interfered with my pleasures in the
smallest degree.
JACK.
I can quite understand that.
ALGERNON.
Well, Cecily is a darling.
JACK.
You are not to talk of Miss Cardew like that. I don’t like it.
ALGERNON.
Well, I don’t like your clothes. You look perfectly ridiculous in them.
Why on earth don’t you go up and change? It is perfectly childish to be
in deep mourning for a man who is actually staying for a whole week
with you in your house as a guest. I call it grotesque.
JACK.
You are certainly not staying with me for a whole week as a guest or
anything else. You have got to leave . . . by the four-five train.
ALGERNON.
I certainly won’t leave you so long as you are in mourning. It would be
most unfriendly. If I were in mourning you would stay with me, I
suppose. I should think it very unkind if you didn’t.
JACK.
Well, will you go if I change my clothes?
ALGERNON.
Yes, if you are not too long. I never saw anybody take so long to
dress, and with such little result.
JACK.
Well, at any rate, that is better than being always over-dressed as you
are.
ALGERNON.
If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it by being
always immensely over-educated.
JACK.
Your vanity is ridiculous, your conduct an outrage, and your presence
in my garden utterly absurd. However, you have got to catch the
four-five, and I hope you will have a pleasant journey back to town.
This Bunburying, as you call it, has not been a great success for you.
[Goes into the house.]
ALGERNON.
I think it has been a great success. I’m in love with Cecily, and that
is everything.
[Enter Cecily at the back of the garden. She picks up the can and
begins to water the flowers.] But I must see her before I go, and make
arrangements for another Bunbury. Ah, there she is.
CECILY.
Oh, I merely came back to water the roses. I thought you were with
Uncle Jack.
ALGERNON.
He’s gone to order the dog-cart for me.
CECILY.
Oh, is he going to take you for a nice drive?
ALGERNON.
He’s going to send me away.
CECILY.
Then have we got to part?
ALGERNON.
I am afraid so. It’s a very painful parting.
CECILY.
It is always painful to part from people whom one has known for a very
brief space of time. The absence of old friends one can endure with
equanimity. But even a momentary separation from anyone to whom one has
just been introduced is almost unbearable.
ALGERNON.
Thank you.
[Enter Merriman.]
MERRIMAN.
The dog-cart is at the door, sir. [Algernon looks appealingly at
Cecily.]
CECILY.
It can wait, Merriman for . . . five minutes.
MERRIMAN.
Yes, Miss. [Exit Merriman.]
ALGERNON.
I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite frankly and
openly that you seem to me to be in every way the visible
personification of absolute perfection.
CECILY.
I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If you will allow
me, I will copy your remarks into my diary. [Goes over to table and
begins writing in diary.]
ALGERNON.
Do you really keep a diary? I’d give anything to look at it. May I?
CECILY.
Oh no. [Puts her hand over it.] You see, it is simply a very young
girl’s record of her own thoughts and impressions, and consequently
meant for publication. When it appears in volume form I hope you will
order a copy. But pray, Ernest, don’t stop. I delight in taking down
from dictation. I have reached ‘absolute perfection’. You can go on. I
am quite ready for more.
ALGERNON.
[Somewhat taken aback.] Ahem! Ahem!
CECILY.
Oh, don’t cough, Ernest. When one is dictating one should speak
fluently and not cough. Besides, I don’t know how to spell a cough.
[Writes as Algernon speaks.]
ALGERNON.
[Speaking very rapidly.] Cecily, ever since I first looked upon your
wonderful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you wildly,
passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.
CECILY.
I don’t think that you should tell me that you love me wildly,
passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn’t seem to make
much sense, does it?
ALGERNON.
Cecily!
[Enter Merriman.]
MERRIMAN.
The dog-cart is waiting, sir.
ALGERNON.
Tell it to come round next week, at the same hour.
MERRIMAN.
[Looks at Cecily, who makes no sign.] Yes, sir.
[Merriman retires.]
CECILY.
Uncle Jack would be very much annoyed if he knew you were staying on
till next week, at the same hour.
ALGERNON.
Oh, I don’t care about Jack. I don’t care for anybody in the whole
world but you. I love you, Cecily. You will marry me, won’t you?
CECILY.
You silly boy! Of course. Why, we have been engaged for the last three
months.
ALGERNON.
For the last three months?
CECILY.
Yes, it will be exactly three months on Thursday.
ALGERNON.
But how did we become engaged?
CECILY.
Well, ever since dear Uncle Jack first confessed to us that he had a
younger brother who was very wicked and bad, you of course have formed
the chief topic of conversation between myself and Miss Prism. And of
course a man who is much talked about is always very attractive. One
feels there must be something in him, after all. I daresay it was
foolish of me, but I fell in love with you, Ernest.
ALGERNON.
Darling! And when was the engagement actually settled?
CECILY.
On the 14th of February last. Worn out by your entire ignorance of my
existence, I determined to end the matter one way or the other, and
after a long struggle with myself I accepted you under this dear old
tree here. The next day I bought this little ring in your name, and
this is the little bangle with the true lover’s knot I promised you
always to wear.
ALGERNON.
Did I give you this? It’s very pretty, isn’t it?
CECILY.
Yes, you’ve wonderfully good taste, Ernest. It’s the excuse I’ve always
given for your leading such a bad life. And this is the box in which I
keep all your dear letters. [Kneels at table, opens box, and produces
letters tied up with blue ribbon.]
ALGERNON.
My letters! But, my own sweet Cecily, I have never written you any
letters.
CECILY.
You need hardly remind me of that, Ernest. I remember only too well
that I was forced to write your letters for you. I wrote always three
times a week, and sometimes oftener.
ALGERNON.
Oh, do let me read them, Cecily?
CECILY.
Oh, I couldn’t possibly. They would make you far too conceited.
[Replaces box.] The three you wrote me after I had broken off the
engagement are so beautiful, and so badly spelled, that even now I can
hardly read them without crying a little.
ALGERNON.
But was our engagement ever broken off?
CECILY.
Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see the entry if
you like. [Shows diary.] ‘To-day I broke off my engagement with Ernest.
I feel it is better to do so. The weather still continues charming.’
ALGERNON.
But why on earth did you break it off? What had I done? I had done
nothing at all. Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to hear you broke it
off. Particularly when the weather was so charming.
CECILY.
It would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it hadn’t been
broken off at least once. But I forgave you before the week was out.
ALGERNON.
[Crossing to her, and kneeling.] What a perfect angel you are, Cecily.
CECILY.
You dear romantic boy. [He kisses her, she puts her fingers through his
hair.] I hope your hair curls naturally, does it?
ALGERNON.
Yes, darling, with a little help from others.
CECILY.
I am so glad.
ALGERNON.
You’ll never break off our engagement again, Cecily?
CECILY.
I don’t think I could break it off now that I have actually met you.
Besides, of course, there is the question of your name.
ALGERNON.
Yes, of course. [Nervously.]
CECILY.
You must not laugh at me, darling, but it had always been a girlish
dream of mine to love some one whose name was Ernest. [Algernon rises,
Cecily also.] There is something in that name that seems to inspire
absolute confidence. I pity any poor married woman whose husband is not
called Ernest.
ALGERNON.
But, my dear child, do you mean to say you could not love me if I had
some other name?
CECILY.
But what name?
ALGERNON.
Oh, any name you like—Algernon—for instance . . .
CECILY.
But I don’t like the name of Algernon.
ALGERNON.
Well, my own dear, sweet, loving little darling, I really can’t see why
you should object to the name of Algernon. It is not at all a bad name.
In fact, it is rather an aristocratic name. Half of the chaps who get
into the Bankruptcy Court are called Algernon. But seriously, Cecily .
. . [Moving to her] . . . if my name was Algy, couldn’t you love me?
CECILY.
[Rising.] I might respect you, Ernest, I might admire your character,
but I fear that I should not be able to give you my undivided
attention.
ALGERNON.
Ahem! Cecily! [Picking up hat.] Your Rector here is, I suppose,
thoroughly experienced in the practice of all the rites and ceremonials
of the Church?
CECILY.
Oh, yes. Dr. Chasuble is a most learned man. He has never written a
single book, so you can imagine how much he knows.
ALGERNON.
I must see him at once on a most important christening—I mean on most
important business.
CECILY.
Oh!
ALGERNON.
I shan’t be away more than half an hour.
CECILY.
Considering that we have been engaged since February the 14th, and that
I only met you to-day for the first time, I think it is rather hard
that you should leave me for so long a period as half an hour. Couldn’t
you make it twenty minutes?
ALGERNON.
I’ll be back in no time.
[Kisses her and rushes down the garden.]
CECILY.
What an impetuous boy he is! I like his hair so much. I must enter his
proposal in my diary.
[Enter Merriman.]
MERRIMAN.
A Miss Fairfax has just called to see Mr. Worthing. On very important
business, Miss Fairfax states.
CECILY.
Isn’t Mr. Worthing in his library?
MERRIMAN.
Mr. Worthing went over in the direction of the Rectory some time ago.
CECILY.
Pray ask the lady to come out here; Mr. Worthing is sure to be back
soon. And you can bring tea.
MERRIMAN.
Yes, Miss. [Goes out.]
CECILY.
Miss Fairfax! I suppose one of the many good elderly women who are
associated with Uncle Jack in some of his philanthropic work in London.
I don’t quite like women who are interested in philanthropic work. I
think it is so forward of them.
[Enter Merriman.]
MERRIMAN.
Miss Fairfax.
[Enter Gwendolen.]
[Exit Merriman.]
CECILY.
[Advancing to meet her.] Pray let me introduce myself to you. My name
is Cecily Cardew.
GWENDOLEN.
Cecily Cardew? [Moving to her and shaking hands.] What a very sweet
name! Something tells me that we are going to be great friends. I like
you already more than I can say. My first impressions of people are
never wrong.
CECILY.
How nice of you to like me so much after we have known each other such
a comparatively short time. Pray sit down.
GWENDOLEN.
[Still standing up.] I may call you Cecily, may I not?
CECILY.
With pleasure!
GWENDOLEN.
And you will always call me Gwendolen, won’t you?
CECILY.
If you wish.
GWENDOLEN.
Then that is all quite settled, is it not?
CECILY.
I hope so. [A pause. They both sit down together.]
GWENDOLEN.
Perhaps this might be a favourable opportunity for my mentioning who I
am. My father is Lord Bracknell. You have never heard of papa, I
suppose?
CECILY.
I don’t think so.
GWENDOLEN.
Outside the family circle, papa, I am glad to say, is entirely unknown.
I think that is quite as it should be. The home seems to me to be the
proper sphere for the man. And certainly once a man begins to neglect
his domestic duties he becomes painfully effeminate, does he not? And I
don’t like that. It makes men so very attractive. Cecily, mamma, whose
views on education are remarkably strict, has brought me up to be
extremely short-sighted; it is part of her system; so do you mind my
looking at you through my glasses?
CECILY.
Oh! not at all, Gwendolen. I am very fond of being looked at.
GWENDOLEN.
[After examining Cecily carefully through a lorgnette.] You are here on
a short visit, I suppose.
CECILY.
Oh no! I live here.
GWENDOLEN.
[Severely.] Really? Your mother, no doubt, or some female relative of
advanced years, resides here also?
CECILY.
Oh no! I have no mother, nor, in fact, any relations.
GWENDOLEN.
Indeed?
CECILY.
My dear guardian, with the assistance of Miss Prism, has the arduous
task of looking after me.
GWENDOLEN.
Your guardian?
CECILY.
Yes, I am Mr. Worthing’s ward.
GWENDOLEN.
Oh! It is strange he never mentioned to me that he had a ward. How
secretive of him! He grows more interesting hourly. I am not sure,
however, that the news inspires me with feelings of unmixed delight.
[Rising and going to her.] I am very fond of you, Cecily; I have liked
you ever since I met you! But I am bound to state that now that I know
that you are Mr. Worthing’s ward, I cannot help expressing a wish you
were—well, just a little older than you seem to be—and not quite so
very alluring in appearance. In fact, if I may speak candidly—
CECILY.
Pray do! I think that whenever one has anything unpleasant to say, one
should always be quite candid.
GWENDOLEN.
Well, to speak with perfect candour, Cecily, I wish that you were fully
forty-two, and more than usually plain for your age. Ernest has a
strong upright nature. He is the very soul of truth and honour.
Disloyalty would be as impossible to him as deception. But even men of
the noblest possible moral character are extremely susceptible to the
influence of the physical charms of others. Modern, no less than
Ancient History, supplies us with many most painful examples of what I
refer to. If it were not so, indeed, History would be quite unreadable.
CECILY.
I beg your pardon, Gwendolen, did you say Ernest?
GWENDOLEN.
Yes.
CECILY.
Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is my guardian. It is his
brother—his elder brother.
GWENDOLEN.
[Sitting down again.] Ernest never mentioned to me that he had a
brother.
CECILY.
I am sorry to say they have not been on good terms for a long time.
GWENDOLEN.
Ah! that accounts for it. And now that I think of it I have never heard
any man mention his brother. The subject seems distasteful to most men.
Cecily, you have lifted a load from my mind. I was growing almost
anxious. It would have been terrible if any cloud had come across a
friendship like ours, would it not? Of course you are quite, quite sure
that it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is your guardian?
CECILY.
Quite sure. [A pause.] In fact, I am going to be his.
GWENDOLEN.
[Inquiringly.] I beg your pardon?
CECILY.
[Rather shy and confidingly.] Dearest Gwendolen, there is no reason why
I should make a secret of it to you. Our little county newspaper is
sure to chronicle the fact next week. Mr. Ernest Worthing and I are
engaged to be married.
GWENDOLEN.
[Quite politely, rising.] My darling Cecily, I think there must be some
slight error. Mr. Ernest Worthing is engaged to me. The announcement
will appear in the _Morning Post_ on Saturday at the latest.
CECILY.
[Very politely, rising.] I am afraid you must be under some
misconception. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago. [Shows
diary.]
GWENDOLEN.
[Examines diary through her lorgnettte carefully.] It is certainly very
curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday afternoon at 5.30. If
you would care to verify the incident, pray do so. [Produces diary of
her own.] I never travel without my diary. One should always have
something sensational to read in the train. I am so sorry, dear Cecily,
if it is any disappointment to you, but I am afraid I have the prior
claim.