CECILY.
It would distress me more than I can tell you, dear Gwendolen, if it
caused you any mental or physical anguish, but I feel bound to point
out that since Ernest proposed to you he clearly has changed his mind.
GWENDOLEN.
[Meditatively.] If the poor fellow has been entrapped into any foolish
promise I shall consider it my duty to rescue him at once, and with a
firm hand.
CECILY.
[Thoughtfully and sadly.] Whatever unfortunate entanglement my dear boy
may have got into, I will never reproach him with it after we are
married.
GWENDOLEN.
Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew, as an entanglement? You are
presumptuous. On an occasion of this kind it becomes more than a moral
duty to speak one’s mind. It becomes a pleasure.
CECILY.
Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax, that I entrapped Ernest into an
engagement? How dare you? This is no time for wearing the shallow mask
of manners. When I see a spade I call it a spade.
GWENDOLEN.
[Satirically.] I am glad to say that I have never seen a spade. It is
obvious that our social spheres have been widely different.
[Enter Merriman, followed by the footman. He carries a salver, table
cloth, and plate stand. Cecily is about to retort. The presence of the
servants exercises a restraining influence, under which both girls
chafe.]
MERRIMAN.
Shall I lay tea here as usual, Miss?
CECILY.
[Sternly, in a calm voice.] Yes, as usual. [Merriman begins to clear
table and lay cloth. A long pause. Cecily and Gwendolen glare at each
other.]
GWENDOLEN.
Are there many interesting walks in the vicinity, Miss Cardew?
CECILY.
Oh! yes! a great many. From the top of one of the hills quite close one
can see five counties.
GWENDOLEN.
Five counties! I don’t think I should like that; I hate crowds.
CECILY.
[Sweetly.] I suppose that is why you live in town? [Gwendolen bites her
lip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.]
GWENDOLEN.
[Looking round.] Quite a well-kept garden this is, Miss Cardew.
CECILY.
So glad you like it, Miss Fairfax.
GWENDOLEN.
I had no idea there were any flowers in the country.
CECILY.
Oh, flowers are as common here, Miss Fairfax, as people are in London.
GWENDOLEN.
Personally I cannot understand how anybody manages to exist in the
country, if anybody who is anybody does. The country always bores me to
death.
CECILY.
Ah! This is what the newspapers call agricultural depression, is it
not? I believe the aristocracy are suffering very much from it just at
present. It is almost an epidemic amongst them, I have been told. May I
offer you some tea, Miss Fairfax?
GWENDOLEN.
[With elaborate politeness.] Thank you. [Aside.] Detestable girl! But I
require tea!
CECILY.
[Sweetly.] Sugar?
GWENDOLEN.
[Superciliously.] No, thank you. Sugar is not fashionable any more.
[Cecily looks angrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts four lumps of
sugar into the cup.]
CECILY.
[Severely.] Cake or bread and butter?
GWENDOLEN.
[In a bored manner.] Bread and butter, please. Cake is rarely seen at
the best houses nowadays.
CECILY.
[Cuts a very large slice of cake, and puts it on the tray.] Hand that
to Miss Fairfax.
[Merriman does so, and goes out with footman. Gwendolen drinks the tea
and makes a grimace. Puts down cup at once, reaches out her hand to the
bread and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake. Rises in
indignation.]
GWENDOLEN.
You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I asked most
distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake. I am known for
the gentleness of my disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my
nature, but I warn you, Miss Cardew, you may go too far.
CECILY.
[Rising.] To save my poor, innocent, trusting boy from the machinations
of any other girl there are no lengths to which I would not go.
GWENDOLEN.
From the moment I saw you I distrusted you. I felt that you were false
and deceitful. I am never deceived in such matters. My first
impressions of people are invariably right.
CECILY.
It seems to me, Miss Fairfax, that I am trespassing on your valuable
time. No doubt you have many other calls of a similar character to make
in the neighbourhood.
[Enter Jack.]
GWENDOLEN.
[Catching sight of him.] Ernest! My own Ernest!
JACK.
Gwendolen! Darling! [Offers to kiss her.]
GWENDOLEN.
[Draws back.] A moment! May I ask if you are engaged to be married to
this young lady? [Points to Cecily.]
JACK.
[Laughing.] To dear little Cecily! Of course not! What could have put
such an idea into your pretty little head?
GWENDOLEN.
Thank you. You may! [Offers her cheek.]
CECILY.
[Very sweetly.] I knew there must be some misunderstanding, Miss
Fairfax. The gentleman whose arm is at present round your waist is my
guardian, Mr. John Worthing.
GWENDOLEN.
I beg your pardon?
CECILY.
This is Uncle Jack.
GWENDOLEN.
[Receding.] Jack! Oh!
[Enter Algernon.]
CECILY.
Here is Ernest.
ALGERNON.
[Goes straight over to Cecily without noticing any one else.] My own
love! [Offers to kiss her.]
CECILY.
[Drawing back.] A moment, Ernest! May I ask you—are you engaged to be
married to this young lady?
ALGERNON.
[Looking round.] To what young lady? Good heavens! Gwendolen!
CECILY.
Yes! to good heavens, Gwendolen, I mean to Gwendolen.
ALGERNON.
[Laughing.] Of course not! What could have put such an idea into your
pretty little head?
CECILY.
Thank you. [Presenting her cheek to be kissed.] You may. [Algernon
kisses her.]
GWENDOLEN.
I felt there was some slight error, Miss Cardew. The gentleman who is
now embracing you is my cousin, Mr. Algernon Moncrieff.
CECILY.
[Breaking away from Algernon.] Algernon Moncrieff! Oh! [The two girls
move towards each other and put their arms round each other’s waists as
if for protection.]
CECILY.
Are you called Algernon?
ALGERNON.
I cannot deny it.
CECILY.
Oh!
GWENDOLEN.
Is your name really John?
JACK.
[Standing rather proudly.] I could deny it if I liked. I could deny
anything if I liked. But my name certainly is John. It has been John
for years.
CECILY.
[To Gwendolen.] A gross deception has been practised on both of us.
GWENDOLEN.
My poor wounded Cecily!
CECILY.
My sweet wronged Gwendolen!
GWENDOLEN.
[Slowly and seriously.] You will call me sister, will you not? [They
embrace. Jack and Algernon groan and walk up and down.]
CECILY.
[Rather brightly.] There is just one question I would like to be
allowed to ask my guardian.
GWENDOLEN.
An admirable idea! Mr. Worthing, there is just one question I would
like to be permitted to put to you. Where is your brother Ernest? We
are both engaged to be married to your brother Ernest, so it is a
matter of some importance to us to know where your brother Ernest is at
present.
JACK.
[Slowly and hesitatingly.] Gwendolen—Cecily—it is very painful for me
to be forced to speak the truth. It is the first time in my life that I
have ever been reduced to such a painful position, and I am really
quite inexperienced in doing anything of the kind. However, I will tell
you quite frankly that I have no brother Ernest. I have no brother at
all. I never had a brother in my life, and I certainly have not the
smallest intention of ever having one in the future.
CECILY.
[Surprised.] No brother at all?
JACK.
[Cheerily.] None!
GWENDOLEN.
[Severely.] Had you never a brother of any kind?
JACK.
[Pleasantly.] Never. Not even of any kind.
GWENDOLEN.
I am afraid it is quite clear, Cecily, that neither of us is engaged to
be married to any one.
CECILY.
It is not a very pleasant position for a young girl suddenly to find
herself in. Is it?
GWENDOLEN.
Let us go into the house. They will hardly venture to come after us
there.
CECILY.
No, men are so cowardly, aren’t they?
[They retire into the house with scornful looks.]
JACK.
This ghastly state of things is what you call Bunburying, I suppose?
ALGERNON.
Yes, and a perfectly wonderful Bunbury it is. The most wonderful
Bunbury I have ever had in my life.
JACK.
Well, you’ve no right whatsoever to Bunbury here.
ALGERNON.
That is absurd. One has a right to Bunbury anywhere one chooses. Every
serious Bunburyist knows that.
JACK.
Serious Bunburyist! Good heavens!
ALGERNON.
Well, one must be serious about something, if one wants to have any
amusement in life. I happen to be serious about Bunburying. What on
earth you are serious about I haven’t got the remotest idea. About
everything, I should fancy. You have such an absolutely trivial nature.
JACK.
Well, the only small satisfaction I have in the whole of this wretched
business is that your friend Bunbury is quite exploded. You won’t be
able to run down to the country quite so often as you used to do, dear
Algy. And a very good thing too.
ALGERNON.
Your brother is a little off colour, isn’t he, dear Jack? You won’t be
able to disappear to London quite so frequently as your wicked custom
was. And not a bad thing either.
JACK.
As for your conduct towards Miss Cardew, I must say that your taking in
a sweet, simple, innocent girl like that is quite inexcusable. To say
nothing of the fact that she is my ward.
ALGERNON.
I can see no possible defence at all for your deceiving a brilliant,
clever, thoroughly experienced young lady like Miss Fairfax. To say
nothing of the fact that she is my cousin.
JACK.
I wanted to be engaged to Gwendolen, that is all. I love her.
ALGERNON.
Well, I simply wanted to be engaged to Cecily. I adore her.
JACK.
There is certainly no chance of your marrying Miss Cardew.
ALGERNON.
I don’t think there is much likelihood, Jack, of you and Miss Fairfax
being united.
JACK.
Well, that is no business of yours.
ALGERNON.
If it was my business, I wouldn’t talk about it. [Begins to eat
muffins.] It is very vulgar to talk about one’s business. Only people
like stock-brokers do that, and then merely at dinner parties.
JACK.
How can you sit there, calmly eating muffins when we are in this
horrible trouble, I can’t make out. You seem to me to be perfectly
heartless.
ALGERNON.
Well, I can’t eat muffins in an agitated manner. The butter would
probably get on my cuffs. One should always eat muffins quite calmly.
It is the only way to eat them.
JACK.
I say it’s perfectly heartless your eating muffins at all, under the
circumstances.
ALGERNON.
When I am in trouble, eating is the only thing that consoles me.
Indeed, when I am in really great trouble, as any one who knows me
intimately will tell you, I refuse everything except food and drink. At
the present moment I am eating muffins because I am unhappy. Besides, I
am particularly fond of muffins. [Rising.]
JACK.
[Rising.] Well, that is no reason why you should eat them all in that
greedy way. [Takes muffins from Algernon.]
ALGERNON.
[Offering tea-cake.] I wish you would have tea-cake instead. I don’t
like tea-cake.
JACK.
Good heavens! I suppose a man may eat his own muffins in his own
garden.
ALGERNON.
But you have just said it was perfectly heartless to eat muffins.
JACK.
I said it was perfectly heartless of you, under the circumstances. That
is a very different thing.
ALGERNON.
That may be. But the muffins are the same. [He seizes the muffin-dish
from Jack.]
JACK.
Algy, I wish to goodness you would go.
ALGERNON.
You can’t possibly ask me to go without having some dinner. It’s
absurd. I never go without my dinner. No one ever does, except
vegetarians and people like that. Besides I have just made arrangements
with Dr. Chasuble to be christened at a quarter to six under the name
of Ernest.
JACK.
My dear fellow, the sooner you give up that nonsense the better. I made
arrangements this morning with Dr. Chasuble to be christened myself at
5.30, and I naturally will take the name of Ernest. Gwendolen would
wish it. We can’t both be christened Ernest. It’s absurd. Besides, I
have a perfect right to be christened if I like. There is no evidence
at all that I have ever been christened by anybody. I should think it
extremely probable I never was, and so does Dr. Chasuble. It is
entirely different in your case. You have been christened already.
ALGERNON.
Yes, but I have not been christened for years.
JACK.
Yes, but you have been christened. That is the important thing.
ALGERNON.
Quite so. So I know my constitution can stand it. If you are not quite
sure about your ever having been christened, I must say I think it
rather dangerous your venturing on it now. It might make you very
unwell. You can hardly have forgotten that some one very closely
connected with you was very nearly carried off this week in Paris by a
severe chill.
JACK.
Yes, but you said yourself that a severe chill was not hereditary.
ALGERNON.
It usen’t to be, I know—but I daresay it is now. Science is always
making wonderful improvements in things.
JACK.
[Picking up the muffin-dish.] Oh, that is nonsense; you are always
talking nonsense.
ALGERNON.
Jack, you are at the muffins again! I wish you wouldn’t. There are only
two left. [Takes them.] I told you I was particularly fond of muffins.
JACK.
But I hate tea-cake.
ALGERNON.
Why on earth then do you allow tea-cake to be served up for your
guests? What ideas you have of hospitality!
JACK.
Algernon! I have already told you to go. I don’t want you here. Why
don’t you go!
ALGERNON.
I haven’t quite finished my tea yet! and there is still one muffin
left. [Jack groans, and sinks into a chair. Algernon still continues
eating.]
ACT DROP
THIRD ACT
SCENE
Morning-room at the Manor House.
[Gwendolen and Cecily are at the window, looking out into the garden.]
GWENDOLEN.
The fact that they did not follow us at once into the house, 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. [Enter Jack followed by
Algernon. They 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 following 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 gravest doubts upon the subject. But I intend to crush them.
This is not the moment for German scepticism. [Moving to Cecily.] Their
explanations appear to be quite satisfactory, especially Mr.
Worthing’s. That seems to me to have the stamp of truth upon it.
CECILY.
I am more than content with what Mr. Moncrieff said. His voice alone
inspires one with absolute 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 nearly 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 ALGERNON [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 concerned, 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 undeceived him on any question. I
would consider it wrong. But of course, you will clearly understand
that all communication between yourself and my daughter must cease
immediately from this moment. On this point, as indeed on all points, I
am firm.
JACK.
I am engaged to be married to Gwendolen, Lady Bracknell!
LADY 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 present. 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. Bunbury 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 average 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 yesterday I had no idea that there were any
families or persons whose origin was a Terminus. [Jack looks perfectly
furious, but restrains himself.]
JACK.
[In a clear, cold voice.] Miss Cardew is the grand-daughter of the late
Mr. Thomas Cardew of 149 Belgrave Square, S.W.; Gervase Park, Dorking,
Surrey; and the Sporran, Fifeshire, 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 inspection, 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.
LADY BRACKNELL.
Markby, Markby, and Markby? A firm of the very highest position in
their profession. Indeed I am told that one of the Mr. Markby’s 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
little fortune?
JACK.
Oh! about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the Funds. That is
all. Goodbye, 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 principle and its want of profile. The chin a little higher,
dear. Style largely depends on the way the chin is worn. They are worn
very high, just at present. Algernon!
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 twopence 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 allowing 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 opportunity of finding out each other’s character before
marriage, which I think is never advisable.
JACK.
I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Lady Bracknell, but this
engagement is quite out of the question. I am Miss Cardew’s guardian,
and she cannot marry without my consent until she comes of age. That
consent I absolutely decline to give.
LADY BRACKNELL.
Upon what grounds may I ask? Algernon is an extremely, I may almost say
an ostentatiously, eligible young man. He has nothing, but he looks
everything. What 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 temporary 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.
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.
Algy, could you wait for me till I was thirty-five?
ALGERNON.
Of course I could, Cecily. You know I could.
CECILY.
Yes, I felt it instinctively, but I couldn’t wait all that time. I hate
waiting even five minutes 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 question.
ALGERNON.
Then what is to be done, Cecily?
CECILY.
I don’t know, Mr. Moncrieff.
LADY BRACKNELL.
My dear Mr. Worthing, as Miss Cardew 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 consent 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
gentlemen 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 excesses. 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 sermons. However, as your
present mood seems to be one peculiarly secular, I will 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 importance to Lord Bracknell and myself. Is this Miss
Prism a female of repellent aspect, remotely connected with education?
CHASUBLE.
[Somewhat indignantly.] She is the most cultivated of ladies, and the
very picture of respectability.
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 anxious 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, but 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 basinette, 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.]
JACK.
I must retire to my room for a moment. 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. I dislike arguments of any kind. They are always vulgar, and
often convincing.
CHASUBLE.
[Looking up.] It has stopped now. [The noise is redoubled.]
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 placed 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.] Mr. Worthing, there is some error. [Pointing to
Lady Bracknell.] There is the lady who can tell you who you really are.
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. I did my best, however, though
I was out of practice.
[Shakes hands.]
GWENDOLEN.
[To Jack.] My own! But what own are you? What is your Christian name,
now that you have become some one else?
JACK.
Good heavens! . . . I had quite forgotten that point. Your decision on
the subject of my name is irrevocable, 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?
LADY BRACKNELL.
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.
Being the eldest son you were naturally christened after your father.
JACK.
[Irritably.] Yes, but what was my father’s Christian name?
LADY BRACKNELL.
[Meditatively.] I cannot at the present moment recall what the
General’s Christian name was. But I have no doubt he had one. He was
eccentric, I admit. But only in later years. And that was the result of
the Indian climate, and marriage, and indigestion, and other things of
that kind.
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 of the last forty years are here. These delightful
records should have been my constant study. [Rushes to bookcase and
tears the books out.] M. Generals . . . Mallam, Maxbohm, Magley, what
ghastly names they have—Markby, Migsby, Mobbs, Moncrieff! Lieutenant
1840, Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel, Colonel, General 1869, Christian
names, Ernest John. [Puts book very 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.
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.] Lætitia! [Embraces her]
MISS PRISM.
[Enthusiastically.] Frederick! At last!
ALGERNON.
Cecily! [Embraces her.] At last!
JACK.
Gwendolen! [Embraces her.] At last!
LADY BRACKNELL.
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