The Importance of BeingEarnest

A Trivial Comedy forSerious People

by Oscar Wilde

Styled by LimpidSoft

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Contents

FIRST ACT 1

SECOND ACT 54

THIRD ACT 126

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The present document was de-rived from text provided by ProjectGutenberg (document 844) whichwas made available free of charge.This document is also free ofcharge.

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THE SCENES OF THE PLAY

Time: The Present.London: St. James’sTheatreLessee and Manager:Mr. George AlexanderFebruary 14th, 1895

THE PERSONS IN THE PLAY

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John Worthing, J.P.Algernon MoncrieffRev. Canon Chasuble,D.D.Merriman, ButlerLane, ManservantLady BracknellHon. Gwendolen Fair-faxCecily CardewMiss Prism, Governess

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FIRST ACT

Scene. Morning-room in Algernon’s flat in Half-Moon Street. The room is luxuriously and artisti-cally furnished. The sound of a piano is heard in theadjoining room.(Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, andafter the music has ceased, Algernon enters.)

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FIRST ACT

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 playaccurately–but I play with wonderful expres-sion. As far as the piano is concerned, senti-ment 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 forLady Bracknell?

Lane. Yes, sir. (Hands them on a salver.)

Algernon. (Inspects them, takes two, and sits downon the sofa.) Oh! ... by the way, Lane, I see from

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FIRST ACT

your book that on Thursday night, when LordShoreman and Mr. Worthing were dining withme, eight bottles of champagne are entered ashaving been consumed.

Lane. Yes, sir; eight bottles and a pint.

Algernon. Why is it that at a bachelor’s es-tablishment the servants invariably drink thechampagne? I ask merely for information.

Lane. I attribute it to the superior quality of thewine, sir. I have often observed that in marriedhouseholds the champagne is rarely of a first-rate brand.

Algernon. Good heavens! Is marriage so de-moralising as that?

Lane. I believe it is a very pleasant state, sir. Ihave had very little experience of it myself up

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FIRST ACT

to the present. I have only been married once.That was in consequence of a misunderstand-ing between myself and a young person.

Algernon. (Languidly.) I don’t know that I ammuch 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 seemsomewhat lax. Really, if the lower orders don’tset us a good example, what on earth is the useof them? They seem, as a class, to have abso-lutely no sense of moral responsibility.

(Enter Lane.)

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FIRST ACT

Lane. Mr. Ernest Worthing.

(Enter Jack.)

(Lane goes out.)

Algernon. How are you, my dear Ernest? Whatbrings you up to town?

Jack. Oh, pleasure, pleasure! What else shouldbring one anywhere? Eating as usual, I see,Algy!

Algernon. (Stiffly.) I believe it is customary ingood society to take some slight refreshment atfive o’clock. Where have you been since lastThursday?

Jack. (Sitting down on the sofa.) In the country.

Algernon. What on earth do you do there?

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FIRST ACT

Jack. (Pulling off his gloves.) When one is in townone amuses oneself. When one is in the coun-try one amuses other people. It is excessivelyboring.

Algernon. And who are the people you amuse?

Jack. (Airily.) Oh, neighbours, neighbours.

Algernon. Got nice neighbours in your part ofShropshire?

Jack. Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one ofthem.

Algernon. How immensely you must amusethem! (Goes over and takes sandwich.) By theway, Shropshire is your county, is it not?

Jack. Eh? Shropshire? Yes, of course. Hallo!Why all these cups? Why cucumber sand-

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FIRST ACT

wiches? Why such reckless extravagance inone so young? Who is coming to tea?

Algernon. Oh! merely Aunt Augusta andGwendolen.

Jack. How perfectly delightful!

Algernon. Yes, that is all very well; but I amafraid Aunt Augusta won’t quite approve ofyour being here.

Jack. May I ask why?

Algernon. My dear fellow, the way you flirtwith Gwendolen is perfectly disgraceful. It isalmost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts withyou.

Jack. I am in love with Gwendolen. I have comeup to town expressly to propose to her.

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FIRST ACT

Algernon. I thought you had come up for plea-sure? ... I call that business.

Jack. How utterly unromantic you are!

Algernon. I really don’t see anything romanticin proposing. It is very romantic to be in love.But there is nothing romantic about a definiteproposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usu-ally is, I believe. Then the excitement is all over.The very essence of romance is uncertainty. Ifever I get married, I’ll certainly try to forget thefact.

Jack. I have no doubt about that, dear Algy.The Divorce Court was specially invented forpeople whose memories are so curiously con-stituted.

Algernon. Oh! there is no use speculating onthat subject. Divorces are made in Heaven–

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FIRST ACT

(Jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich. Alger-non at once interferes.) Please don’t touch thecucumber sandwiches. They are ordered spe-cially for Aunt Augusta. (Takes one and eats it.)

Jack. Well, you have been eating them all thetime.

Algernon. That is quite a different matter. Sheis my aunt. (Takes plate from below.) Have somebread and butter. The bread and butter is forGwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to breadand butter.

Jack. (Advancing to table and helping himself.)And very good bread and butter it is too.

Algernon. Well, my dear fellow, you need noteat as if you were going to eat it all. You behaveas if you were married to her already. You are

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FIRST ACT

not married to her already, and I don’t thinkyou ever will be.

Jack. Why on earth do you say that?

Algernon. Well, in the first place girls nevermarry the men they flirt with. Girls don’t thinkit right.

Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!

Algernon. It isn’t. It is a great truth. It accountsfor the extraordinary number of bachelors thatone sees all over the place. In the second place,I don’t give my consent.

Jack. Your consent!

Algernon. My dear fellow, Gwendolen is myfirst cousin. And before I allow you to marryher, you will have to clear up the whole ques-tion of Cecily. (Rings bell.)

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FIRST ACT

Jack. Cecily! What on earth do you mean? Whatdo you mean, Algy, by Cecily! I don’t knowany one of the name of Cecily.

(Enter Lane.)

Algernon. Bring me that cigarette case Mr. Wor-thing left in the smoking- room the last time hedined here.

Lane. Yes, sir. (Lane goes out.)

Jack. Do you mean to say you have had mycigarette case all this time? I wish to goodnessyou had let me know. I have been writing fran-tic letters to Scotland Yard about it. I was verynearly offering a large reward.

Algernon. Well, I wish you would offer one. Ihappen to be more than usually hard up.

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FIRST ACT

Jack. There is no good offering a large rewardnow 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 Ilook at the inscription inside, I find that thething isn’t yours after all.

Jack. Of course it’s mine. (Moving to him.) Youhave seen me with it a hundred times, and youhave no right whatsoever to read what is writ-ten inside. It is a very ungentlemanly thing toread a private cigarette case.

Algernon. Oh! it is absurd to have a hard andfast rule about what one should read and what

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FIRST ACT

one shouldn’t. More than half of modern cul-ture depends on what one shouldn’t read.

Jack. I am quite aware of the fact, and I don’tpropose to discuss modern culture. It isn’t thesort of thing one should talk of in private. Isimply want my cigarette case back.

Algernon. Yes; but this isn’t your cigarette case.This cigarette case is a present from some oneof the name of Cecily, and you said you didn’tknow any one of that name.

Jack. Well, if you want to know, Cecily happensto be my aunt.

Algernon. Your aunt!

Jack. Yes. Charming old lady she is, too. Livesat Tunbridge Wells. Just give it back to me,Algy.

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FIRST ACT

Algernon. (Retreating to back of sofa.) But whydoes she call herself little Cecily if she is youraunt and lives at Tunbridge Wells? (Reading.)‘From little Cecily with her fondest love.’

Jack. (Moving to sofa and kneeling upon it.) Mydear 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 al-lowed to decide for herself. You seem to thinkthat every aunt should be exactly like youraunt! That is absurd! For Heaven’s sake giveme back my cigarette case. (Follows Algernonround the room.)

Algernon. Yes. But why does your aunt call youher uncle? ‘From little Cecily, with her fondestlove to her dear Uncle Jack.’ There is no objec-tion, I admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, butwhy an aunt, no matter what her size may be,

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FIRST ACT

should call her own nephew her uncle, I can’tquite make out. Besides, your name isn’t Jackat all; it is Ernest.

Jack. It isn’t Ernest; it’s Jack.

Algernon. You have always told me it wasErnest. I have introduced you to every one asErnest. You answer to the name of Ernest. Youlook as if your name was Ernest. You are themost earnest-looking person I ever saw in mylife. It is perfectly absurd your saying that yourname isn’t Ernest. It’s on your cards. Here isone of them. (Taking it from case.) ‘Mr. ErnestWorthing, B. 4, The Albany.’ I’ll keep this as aproof that your name is Ernest if ever you at-tempt to deny it to me, or to Gwendolen, or toany one else. (Puts the card in his pocket.)

Jack. Well, my name is Ernest in town and Jack

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FIRST ACT

in the country, and the cigarette case was givento me in the country.

Algernon. Yes, but that does not account forthe fact that your small Aunt Cecily, who livesat Tunbridge Wells, calls you her dear uncle.Come, old boy, you had much better have thething out at once.

Jack. My dear Algy, you talk exactly as if youwere a dentist. It is very vulgar to talk like adentist when one isn’t a dentist. It produces afalse impression.

Algernon. Well, that is exactly what dentists al-ways do. Now, go on! Tell me the whole thing.I may mention that I have always suspectedyou of being a confirmed and secret Bunbury-ist; and I am quite sure of it now.

Jack. Bunburyist? What on earth do you mean

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FIRST ACT

by a Bunburyist?

Algernon. I’ll reveal to you the meaning of thatincomparable expression as soon as you arekind enough to inform me why you are Ernestin town and Jack in the country.

Jack. Well, produce my cigarette case first.

Algernon. Here it is. (Hands cigarette case.) Nowproduce your explanation, and pray make itimprobable. (Sits on sofa.)

Jack. My dear fellow, there is nothing improb-able about my explanation at all. In fact it’sperfectly ordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew,who adopted me when I was a little boy, mademe in his will guardian to his grand-daughter,Miss Cecily Cardew. Cecily, who addressesme as her uncle from motives of respect that

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FIRST ACT

you could not possibly appreciate, lives at myplace in the country under the charge of her ad-mirable governess, Miss Prism.

Algernon. Where is that place in the country, bythe way?

Jack. That is nothing to you, dear boy. You arenot going to be invited ... I may tell you can-didly that the place is not in Shropshire.

Algernon. I suspected that, my dear fellow! Ihave Bunburyed all over Shropshire on twoseparate occasions. Now, go on. Why are youErnest in town and Jack in the country?

Jack. My dear Algy, I don’t know whetheryou will be able to understand my real mo-tives. You are hardly serious enough. Whenone is placed in the position of guardian, one

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FIRST ACT

has to adopt a very high moral tone on all sub-jects. It’s one’s duty to do so. And as a highmoral tone can hardly be said to conduce verymuch to either one’s health or one’s happiness,in order to get up to town I have always pre-tended to have a younger brother of the nameof Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets intothe most dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy,is the whole truth pure and simple.

Algernon. The truth is rarely pure and neversimple. Modern life would be very tedious if itwere either, and modern literature a completeimpossibility!

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 leavethat to people who haven’t been at a University.

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FIRST ACT

They do it so well in the daily papers. Whatyou really are is a Bunburyist. I was quite rightin saying you were a Bunburyist. You are oneof the most advanced Bunburyists I know.

Jack. What on earth do you mean?

Algernon. You have invented a very usefulyounger brother called Ernest, in order thatyou may be able to come up to town as often asyou like. I have invented an invaluable perma-nent invalid called Bunbury, in order that I maybe able to go down into the country wheneverI choose. Bunbury is perfectly invaluable. If itwasn’t for Bunbury’s extraordinary bad health,for instance, I wouldn’t be able to dine withyou at Willis’s to- night, for I have been re-ally engaged to Aunt Augusta for more thana week.

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FIRST ACT

Jack. I haven’t asked you to dine with me any-where to-night.

Algernon. I know. You are absurdly carelessabout sending out invitations. It is very fool-ish of you. Nothing annoys people so much asnot receiving invitations.

Jack. You had much better dine with your AuntAugusta.

Algernon. I haven’t the smallest intention ofdoing anything of the kind. To begin with, Idined there on Monday, and once a week isquite enough to dine with one’s own relations.In the second place, whenever I do dine thereI am always treated as a member of the fam-ily, and sent down with either no woman atall, or two. In the third place, I know perfectlywell whom she will place me next to, to-night.

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FIRST ACT

She will place me next Mary Farquhar, who al-ways flirts with her own husband across thedinner-table. That is not very pleasant. Indeed,it is not even decent ... and that sort of thingis enormously on the increase. The amountof women in London who flirt with their ownhusbands is perfectly scandalous. It looks sobad. It is simply washing one’s clean linen inpublic. Besides, now that I know you to be aconfirmed Bunburyist I naturally want to talkto you about Bunburying. I want to tell youthe rules.

Jack. I’m not a Bunburyist at all. If Gwendolenaccepts me, I am going to kill my brother, in-deed I think I’ll kill him in any case. Cecily isa little too much interested in him. It is rathera bore. So I am going to get rid of Ernest. AndI strongly advise you to do the same with Mr...

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FIRST ACT

. with your invalid friend who has the absurdname.

Algernon. Nothing will induce me to part withBunbury, and if you ever get married, whichseems to me extremely problematic, you willbe very glad to know Bunbury. A man whomarries without knowing Bunbury has a verytedious time of it.

Jack. That is nonsense. If I marry a charminggirl like Gwendolen, and she is the only girl Iever saw in my life that I would marry, I cer-tainly won’t want to know Bunbury.

Algernon. Then your wife will. You don’t seemto realise, that in married life three is companyand two is none.

Jack. (Sententiously.) That, my dear youngfriend, is the theory that the corrupt French

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FIRST ACT

Drama has been propounding for the last fiftyyears.

Algernon. Yes; and that the happy Englishhome 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 any-thing nowadays. There’s such a lot of beastlycompetition about. (The sound of an electric bellis heard.) Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta. Onlyrelatives, or creditors, ever ring in that Wagne-rian manner. Now, if I get her out of the wayfor ten minutes, so that you can have an oppor-tunity for proposing to Gwendolen, may I dinewith you to-night at Willis’s?

Jack. I suppose so, if you want to.

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FIRST ACT

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.)

Algernon. I’m feeling very well, Aunt Augusta.

Algernon. (To Gwendolen.) Dear me, you aresmart!

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 wouldleave no room for developments, and I intend

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FIRST ACT

to develop in many directions. (Gwendolen andJack sit down together in the corner.)

Algernon. Certainly, Aunt Augusta. (Goes overto tea-table.)

Gwendolen. Thanks, mamma, I’m quite com-fortable where I am.

Algernon. (Picking up empty plate in horror.)Good heavens! Lane! Why are there no cucum-ber sandwiches? I ordered them specially.

Lane. (Gravely.) There were no cucumbers in themarket 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.

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FIRST ACT

Lane. Thank you, sir. (Goes out.)

Algernon. I am greatly distressed, Aunt Au-gusta, about there being no cucumbers, noteven for ready money.

Algernon. I hear her hair has turned quite goldfrom grief.

Algernon. I am afraid, Aunt Augusta, I shallhave to give up the pleasure of dining with youto-night after all.

Algernon. It is a great bore, and, I need hardlysay, a terrible disappointment to me, but thefact is I have just had a telegram to say thatmy poor friend Bunbury is very ill again. (Ex-changes glances with Jack.) They seem to think Ishould be with him.

Algernon. Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful in-

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valid.

Algernon. I’ll speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta,if he is still conscious, and I think I can promiseyou he’ll be all right by Saturday. Of coursethe music is a great difficulty. You see, if oneplays good music, people don’t listen, and ifone plays bad music people don’t talk. But I’llrun over the programme I’ve drawn out, if youwill kindly come into the next room for a mo-ment.

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 theweather, Mr. Worthing. Whenever people talk

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FIRST ACT

to me about the weather, I always feel quite cer-tain that they mean something else. And thatmakes me so nervous.

Jack. I do mean something else.

Gwendolen. I thought so. In fact, I am neverwrong.

Jack. And I would like to be allowed to take ad-vantage of Lady Bracknell’s temporary absence...

Gwendolen. I would certainly advise you to doso. Mamma has a way of coming back sud-denly into a room that I have often had to speakto her about.

Jack. (Nervously.) Miss Fairfax, ever since I metyou I have admired you more than any girl ... Ihave ever met since ... I met you.

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FIRST ACT

Gwendolen. Yes, I am quite well aware of thefact. And I often wish that in public, at anyrate, you had been more demonstrative. Forme you have always had an irresistible fascina-tion. Even before I met you I was far from in-different to you. (Jack looks at her in amazement.)We live, as I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, inan age of ideals. The fact is constantly men-tioned in the more expensive monthly maga-zines, and has reached the provincial pulpits, Iam told; and my ideal has always been to lovesome one of the name of Ernest. There is some-thing in that name that inspires absolute confi-dence. The moment Algernon first mentionedto me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knewI was destined to love you.

Jack. You really love me, Gwendolen?

Gwendolen. Passionately!

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Jack. Darling! You don’t know how happyyou’ve made me.

Gwendolen. My own Ernest!

Jack. But you don’t really mean to say that youcouldn’t love me if my name wasn’t Ernest?

Gwendolen. But your name is Ernest.

Jack. Yes, I know it is. But supposing it wassomething else? Do you mean to say youcouldn’t love me then?

Gwendolen. (Glibly.) Ah! that is clearly a meta-physical speculation, and like most metaphys-ical speculations has very little reference at allto the actual facts of real life, as we know them.

Jack. Personally, darling, to speak quite can-didly, I don’t much care about the name ofErnest ... I don’t think the name suits me at all.

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Gwendolen. It suits you perfectly. It is a divinename. It has a music of its own. It producesvibrations.

Jack. Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that Ithink there are lots of other much nicer names.I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.

Gwendolen. Jack? ... No, there is very little mu-sic in the name Jack, if any at all, indeed. Itdoes not thrill. It produces absolutely no vibra-tions ... I have known several Jacks, and theyall, without exception, were more than usuallyplain. Besides, Jack is a notorious domesticityfor John! And I pity any woman who is mar-ried to a man called John. She would probablynever be allowed to know the entrancing plea-sure of a single moment’s solitude. The onlyreally safe name is Ernest.

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Jack. Gwendolen, I must get christened at once–I mean we must get married at once. There isno time to be lost.

Gwendolen. Married, Mr. Worthing?

Jack. (Astounded.) Well ... surely. You know thatI love you, and you led me to believe, Miss Fair-fax, that you were not absolutely indifferent tome.

Gwendolen. I adore you. But you haven’t pro-posed to me yet. Nothing has been said at allabout marriage. The subject has not even beentouched on.

Jack. Well ... may I propose to you now?

Gwendolen. I think it would be an admirableopportunity. And to spare you any possibledisappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only

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fair to tell you quite frankly before-hand that Iam fully determined to accept you.

Jack. Gwendolen!

Gwendolen. Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have yougot 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 onhis knees.)

Gwendolen. Of course I will, darling. How longyou have been about it! I am afraid you havehad very little experience in how to propose.

Jack. My own one, I have never loved any onein the world but you.

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Gwendolen. Yes, but men often propose forpractice. I know my brother Gerald does. Allmy girl-friends tell me so. What wonderfullyblue eyes you have, Ernest! They are quite,quite, blue. I hope you will always look at mejust like that, especially when there are otherpeople present. (Enter Lady Bracknell.)

Gwendolen. Mamma! (He tries to rise; she re-strains him.) I must beg you to retire. This is noplace for you. Besides, Mr. Worthing has notquite finished yet.

Gwendolen. I am engaged to Mr. Worthing,mamma. (They rise together.)

Gwendolen. (Reproachfully.) Mamma!

Gwendolen. Yes, mamma. (Goes out, looking backat Jack.)

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(Looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.)

Jack. Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer stand-ing.

Jack. Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.

Jack. Twenty-nine.

Jack. (After some hesitation.) I know nothing,Lady Bracknell.

Jack. Between seven and eight thousand a year.

Jack. In investments, chiefly.

Jack. I have a country house with some land,of course, attached to it, about fifteen hundredacres, I believe; but I don’t depend on that formy real income. In fact, as far as I can make out,the poachers are the only people who makeanything out of it.

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FIRST ACT

Jack. Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square,but it is let by the year to Lady Bloxham. Ofcourse, I can get it back whenever I like, at sixmonths’ notice.

Jack. Oh, she goes about very little. She is a ladyconsiderably advanced in years.

Jack. 149.

Jack. Do you mean the fashion, or the side?

Jack. Well, I am afraid I really have none. I ama Liberal Unionist.

Jack. I have lost both my parents.

Jack. I am afraid I really don’t know. The factis, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents.It would be nearer the truth to say that my par-ents seem to have lost me ... I don’t actually

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know who I am by birth. I was ... well, I wasfound.

Jack. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gen-tleman of a very charitable and kindly disposi-tion, found me, and gave me the name of Wor-thing, because he happened to have a first-classticket for Worthing in his pocket at the time.Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seasideresort.

Jack. (Gravely.) In a hand-bag.

Jack. (Very seriously.) Yes, Lady Bracknell. I wasin a hand-bag–a somewhat large, black leatherhand-bag, with handles to it–an ordinary hand-bag in fact.

Jack. In the cloak-room at Victoria Station. Itwas given to him in mistake for his own.

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Jack. Yes. The Brighton line.

Jack. May I ask you then what you would ad-vise me to do? I need hardly say I would doanything in the world to ensure Gwendolen’shappiness.

Jack. Well, I don’t see how I could possibly man-age to do that. I can produce the hand-bagat any moment. It is in my dressing-room athome. I really think that should satisfy you,Lady Bracknell.

(Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indigna-tion.)

Jack. Good morning! (Algernon, from the otherroom, strikes up the Wedding March. Jack looks per-fectly furious, and goes to the door.) For goodness’sake don’t play that ghastly tune, Algy. Howidiotic you are!

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(The music stops and Algernon enters cheerily.)

Algernon. Didn’t it go off all right, old boy? Youdon’t mean to say Gwendolen refused you? Iknow it is a way she has. She is always refusingpeople. 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 metsuch a Gorgon ... I don’t really know what aGorgon is like, but I am quite sure that LadyBracknell 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’ttalk about your own aunt in that way beforeyou.

Algernon. My dear boy, I love hearing my re-lations abused. It is the only thing that makes

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me put up with them at all. Relations are sim-ply a tedious pack of people, who haven’t gotthe remotest knowledge of how to live, nor thesmallest instinct about when to die.

Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!

Algernon. It isn’t!

Jack. Well, I won’t argue about the matter. Youalways want to argue about things.

Algernon. That is exactly what things were orig-inally made for.

Jack. Upon my word, if I thought that, I’d shootmyself ... (A pause.) You don’t think there isany chance of Gwendolen becoming like hermother in about a hundred and fifty years, doyou, Algy?

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Algernon. All women become like their moth-ers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’shis.

Jack. Is that clever?

Algernon. It is perfectly phrased! and quite astrue as any observation in civilised life shouldbe.

Jack. I am sick to death of cleverness. Every-body is clever nowadays. You can’t go any-where without meeting clever people. Thething 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?

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Algernon. The fools? Oh! about the clever peo-ple, of course.

Jack. What fools!

Algernon. By the way, did you tell Gwendolenthe truth about your being Ernest in town, andJack in the country?

Jack. (In a very patronising manner.) My dear fel-low, the truth isn’t quite the sort of thing onetells to a nice, sweet, refined girl. What extraor-dinary ideas you have about the way to behaveto a woman!

Algernon. The only way to behave to a womanis to make love to her, if she is pretty, and tosome one else, if she is plain.

Jack. Oh, that is nonsense.

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FIRST ACT

Algernon. What about your brother? Whatabout the profligate Ernest?

Jack. Oh, before the end of the week I shallhave got rid of him. I’ll say he died in Paris ofapoplexy. Lots of people die of apoplexy, quitesuddenly, don’t they?

Algernon. Yes, but it’s hereditary, my dear fel-low. 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 tocarried off suddenly, in Paris, by a severe chill.That gets rid of him.

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FIRST ACT

Algernon. But I thought you said that ... MissCardew was a little too much interested in yourpoor brother Ernest? Won’t she feel his loss agood deal?

Jack. Oh, that is all right. Cecily is not a sillyromantic girl, I am glad to say. She has got acapital appetite, goes long walks, and pays noattention 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 justeighteen.

Algernon. Have you told Gwendolen yet thatyou have an excessively pretty ward who isonly just eighteen?

Jack. Oh! one doesn’t blurt these things out to

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FIRST ACT

people. Cecily and Gwendolen are perfectlycertain to be extremely great friends. I’ll betyou anything you like that half an hour afterthey have met, they will be calling each othersister.

Algernon. Women only do that when they havecalled each other a lot of other things first.Now, my dear boy, if we want to get a goodtable 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 toa theatre?

Jack. Oh no! I loathe listening.

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FIRST ACT

Algernon. Well, let us go to the Club?

Jack. Oh, no! I hate talking.

Algernon. Well, we might trot round to the Em-pire at ten?

Jack. Oh, no! I can’t bear looking at things. It isso silly.

Algernon. Well, what shall we do?

Jack. Nothing!

Algernon. It is awfully hard work doing noth-ing. However, I don’t mind hard work wherethere is no definite object of any kind.

(Enter Lane.)

Lane. Miss Fairfax.(Enter Gwendolen. Lane goes out.)

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FIRST ACT

Algernon. Gwendolen, upon my word!

Gwendolen. Algy, kindly turn your back. I havesomething very particular to say to Mr. Wor-thing.

Algernon. Really, Gwendolen, I don’t think Ican allow this at all.

Gwendolen. Algy, you always adopt a strictlyimmoral attitude towards life. You are notquite old enough to do that. (Algernon retiresto the fireplace.)

Jack. My own darling!

Gwendolen. Ernest, we may never be married.From the expression on mamma’s face I fear wenever shall. Few parents nowadays pay any re-gard to what their children say to them. The

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old-fashioned respect for the young is fast dy-ing out. Whatever influence I ever had overmamma, I lost at the age of three. But althoughshe may prevent us from becoming man andwife, and I may marry some one else, andmarry often, nothing that she can possibly docan alter my eternal devotion to you.

Jack. Dear Gwendolen!

Gwendolen. The story of your romantic origin,as related to me by mamma, with unpleasingcomments, has naturally stirred the deeper fi-bres of my nature. Your Christian name has anirresistible fascination. The simplicity of yourcharacter makes you exquisitely incomprehen-sible to me. Your town address at the Albany Ihave. What is your address in the country?

Jack. The Manor House, Woolton, Hertford-

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shire.(Algernon, who has been carefully listening,

smiles to himself, and writes the address on hisshirt-cuff. Then picks up the Railway Guide.)

Gwendolen. There is a good postal service, Isuppose? It may be necessary to do somethingdesperate. That of course will require seriousconsideration. I will communicate with youdaily.

Jack. My own one!

Gwendolen. How long do you remain in town?

Jack. Till Monday.

Gwendolen. Good! Algy, you may turn roundnow.

Algernon. Thanks, I’ve turned round already.

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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 MissFairfax out.

Lane. Yes, sir. (Jack and Gwendolen go off.)(Lane presents several letters on a salver to Al-

gernon. It is to be surmised that they are bills, asAlgernon, after looking at the envelopes, tears themup.)

Algernon. A glass of sherry, Lane.

Lane. Yes, sir.

Algernon. To-morrow, Lane, I’m going Bun-burying.

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Lane. Yes, sir.

Algernon. I shall probably not be back till Mon-day. You can put up my dress clothes, mysmoking 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! theonly girl I ever cared for in my life. (Algernon islaughing immoderately.) What on earth are youso amused at?

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Algernon. Oh, I’m a little anxious about poorBunbury, that is all.

Jack. If you don’t take care, your friend Bun-bury will get you into a serious scrape someday.

Algernon. I love scrapes. They are the onlythings that are never serious.

Jack. Oh, that’s nonsense, Algy. You never talkanything 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

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SECOND ACT

Scene Garden at the Manor House. A flight of greystone steps leads up to the house. The garden, anold-fashioned one, full of roses. Time of year, July.Basket chairs, and a table covered with books, are setunder a large yew-tree.(Miss Prism discovered seated at the table. Cecily isat the back watering flowers.)

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Cecily. (Coming over very slowly.) But I don’t likeGerman. It isn’t at all a becoming language. Iknow perfectly well that I look quite plain aftermy German lesson.

Cecily. Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious!Sometimes he is so serious that I think he can-not be quite well.

Cecily. I suppose that is why he often looks alittle bored when we three are together.

Cecily. I wish Uncle Jack would allow thatunfortunate young man, his brother, to comedown here sometimes. We might have a goodinfluence over him, Miss Prism. I am sure youcertainly would. You know German, and ge-ology, and things of that kind influence a manvery much. (Cecily begins to write in her diary.)

Cecily. I keep a diary in order to enter the won-

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derful secrets of my life. If I didn’t write themdown, I should probably forget all about them.

Cecily. Yes, but it usually chronicles the thingsthat have never happened, and couldn’t pos-sibly have happened. I believe that Memoryis responsible for nearly all the three-volumenovels that Mudie sends us.

Cecily. Did you really, Miss Prism? How won-derfully clever you are! I hope it did not endhappily? I don’t like novels that end happily.They depress me so much.

Cecily. I suppose so. But it seems very unfair.And was your novel ever published?

Cecily. (Smiling.) But I see dear Dr. Chasublecoming up through the garden.

(Enter Canon Chasuble.)

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Chasuble. And how are we this morning? MissPrism, you are, I trust, well?

Cecily. Miss Prism has just been complaining ofa slight headache. I think it would do her somuch good to have a short stroll with you inthe Park, Dr. Chasuble.

Cecily. No, dear Miss Prism, I know that, but Ifelt instinctively that you had a headache. In-deed I was thinking about that, and not aboutmy German lesson, when the Rector came in.

Chasuble. I hope, Cecily, you are not inatten-tive.

Cecily. Oh, I am afraid I am.

Chasuble. That is strange. Were I fortunateenough to be Miss Prism’s pupil, I wouldhang upon her lips. (Miss Prism glares.)

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I spoke metaphorically.–My metaphor wasdrawn from bees. Ahem! Mr. Worthing, I sup-pose, has not returned from town yet?

Chasuble. Ah yes, he usually likes to spendhis Sunday in London. He is not one ofthose whose sole aim is enjoyment, as, byall accounts, that unfortunate young man hisbrother seems to be. But I must not disturb Ege-ria and her pupil any longer.

Chasuble. (Bowing.) A classical allusion merely,drawn from the Pagan authors. I shall see youboth no doubt at Evensong?

Chasuble. With pleasure, Miss Prism, with plea-sure. We might go as far as the schools andback.

(Goes down the garden with Dr. Chasuble.)

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Cecily. (Picks up books and throws them back ontable.) Horrid Political Economy! Horrid Geog-raphy! Horrid, horrid German!

(Enter Merriman with a card on a salver.)

Merriman. Mr. Ernest Worthing has just drivenover from the station. He has brought his lug-gage with him.

Cecily. (Takes the card and reads it.) ‘Mr. ErnestWorthing, B. 4, The Albany, W.’ Uncle Jack’sbrother! Did you tell him Mr. Worthing wasin town?

Merriman. Yes, Miss. He seemed very muchdisappointed. I mentioned that you and MissPrism were in the garden. He said he was anx-ious to speak to you privately for a moment.

Cecily. Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I

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suppose you had better talk to the housekeeperabout a room for him.

Merriman. Yes, Miss.

(Merriman goes off.)

Cecily. I have never met any really wicked per-son before. I feel rather frightened. I am soafraid he will look just like every one else.

(Enter Algernon, very gay and debonnair.) Hedoes!

Algernon. (Raising his hat.) You are my littlecousin Cecily, I’m sure.

Cecily. You are under some strange mistake. Iam not little. In fact, I believe I am more thanusually tall for my age. (Algernon is rather takenaback.) But I am your cousin Cecily. You, I see

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from your card, are Uncle Jack’s brother, mycousin Ernest, my wicked cousin Ernest.

Algernon. Oh! I am not really wicked at all,cousin Cecily. You mustn’t think that I amwicked.

Cecily. If you are not, then you have certainlybeen deceiving us all in a very inexcusablemanner. I hope you have not been leading adouble life, pretending to be wicked and be-ing really good all the time. That would behypocrisy.

Algernon. (Looks at her in amazement.) Oh! Ofcourse 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.

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Cecily. I don’t think you should be so proud ofthat, though I am sure it must have been verypleasant.

Algernon. It is much pleasanter being here withyou.

Cecily. I can’t understand how you are here atall. Uncle Jack won’t be back till Monday after-noon.

Algernon. That is a great disappointment. I amobliged to go up by the first train on Mondaymorning. I have a business appointment that Iam anxious ... to miss?

Cecily. Couldn’t you miss it anywhere but inLondon?

Algernon. No: the appointment is in London.

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Cecily. Well, I know, of course, how importantit is not to keep a business engagement, if onewants to retain any sense of the beauty of life,but still I think you had better wait till UncleJack arrives. I know he wants to speak to youabout your emigrating.

Algernon. About my what?

Cecily. Your emigrating. He has gone up to buyyour outfit.

Algernon. I certainly wouldn’t let Jack buy myoutfit. 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

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night, that you would have to choose betweenthis world, the next world, and Australia.

Algernon. Oh, well! The accounts I have re-ceived of Australia and the next world, are notparticularly encouraging. This world is goodenough for me, cousin Cecily.

Cecily. Yes, but are you good enough for it?

Algernon. I’m afraid I’m not that. That is whyI want you to reform me. You might make thatyour mission, if you don’t mind, cousin Cecily.

Cecily. I’m afraid I’ve no time, this afternoon.

Algernon. Well, would you mind my reformingmyself this afternoon?

Cecily. It is rather Quixotic of you. But I thinkyou should try.

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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 haveremembered that when one is going to leadan entirely new life, one requires regular andwholesome meals. Won’t you come in?

Algernon. Thank you. Might I have a button-hole first? I never have any appetite unless Ihave 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.

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Cecily. I don’t think it can be right for you totalk to me like that. Miss Prism never says suchthings to me.

Algernon. Then Miss Prism is a short-sightedold 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 asnare.

Algernon. They are a snare that every sensibleman would like to be caught in.

Cecily. Oh, I don’t think I would care to catch asensible man. I shouldn’t know what to talk tohim about.

(They pass into the house. Miss Prism and Dr.Chasuble return.)

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Chasuble. (With a scholar’s shudder.) Believe me,I do not deserve so neologistic a phrase. Theprecept as well as the practice of the PrimitiveChurch was distinctly against matrimony.

Chasuble. But is a man not equally attractivewhen married?

Chasuble. And often, I’ve been told, not even toher.

Chasuble. Perhaps she followed us to theschools.

(Enter Jack slowly from the back of the garden.He is dressed in the deepest mourning, with crapehatband and black gloves.)

Chasuble. Mr. Worthing?

Jack. (Shakes Miss Prism’s hand in a tragic man-ner.) I have returned sooner than I expected.

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Dr. Chasuble, I hope you are well?

Chasuble. Dear Mr. Worthing, I trust thisgarb of woe does not betoken some terriblecalamity?

Jack. My brother.

Chasuble. Still leading his life of pleasure?

Jack. (Shaking his head.) Dead!

Chasuble. Your brother Ernest dead?

Jack. Quite dead.

Chasuble. Mr. Worthing, I offer you my sincerecondolence. You have at least the consolationof knowing that you were always the most gen-erous and forgiving of brothers.

Jack. Poor Ernest! He had many faults, but it isa sad, sad blow.

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Chasuble. Very sad indeed. Were you with himat the end?

Jack. No. He died abroad; in Paris, in fact. I hada telegram last night from the manager of theGrand Hotel.

Chasuble. Was the cause of death mentioned?

Jack. A severe chill, it seems.

Chasuble. (Raising his hand.) Charity, dear MissPrism, charity! None of us are perfect. I myselfam peculiarly susceptible to draughts. Will theinterment take place here?

Jack. No. He seems to have expressed a desireto be buried in Paris.

Chasuble. In Paris! (Shakes his head.) I fear thathardly points to any very serious state of mind

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at the last. You would no doubt wish me tomake some slight allusion to this tragic domes-tic affliction next Sunday. (Jack presses his handconvulsively.) My sermon on the meaning of themanna in the wilderness can be adapted to al-most any occasion, joyful, or, as in the presentcase, distressing. (All sigh.) I have preached itat harvest celebrations, christenings, confirma-tions, on days of humiliation and festal days.The last time I delivered it was in the Cathe-dral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the Soci-ety for the Prevention of Discontent among theUpper Orders. The Bishop, who was present,was much struck by some of the analogies Idrew.

Jack. Ah! that reminds me, you mentionedchristenings I think, Dr. Chasuble? I supposeyou know how to christen all right? (Dr. Cha-

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suble looks astounded.) I mean, of course, you arecontinually christening, aren’t you?

Chasuble. But is there any particular infant inwhom you are interested, Mr. Worthing? Yourbrother was, I believe, unmarried, was he not?

Jack. Oh yes.

Jack. But it is not for any child, dear Doctor.I am very fond of children. No! the fact is, Iwould like to be christened myself, this after-noon, if you have nothing better to do.

Chasuble. But surely, Mr. Worthing, you havebeen christened already?

Jack. I don’t remember anything about it.

Chasuble. But have you any grave doubts onthe subject?

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Jack. I certainly intend to have. Of course Idon’t know if the thing would bother you inany way, or if you think I am a little too oldnow.

Chasuble. Not at all. The sprinkling, and, in-deed, the immersion of adults is a perfectlycanonical practice.

Jack. Immersion!

Chasuble. You need have no apprehensions.Sprinkling is all that is necessary, or indeed Ithink advisable. Our weather is so changeable.At what hour would you wish the ceremonyperformed?

Jack. Oh, I might trot round about five if thatwould suit you.

Chasuble. Perfectly, perfectly! In fact I have two

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similar ceremonies to perform at that time. Acase of twins that occurred recently in one ofthe outlying cottages on your own estate. PoorJenkins the carter, a most hard-working man.

Jack. Oh! I don’t see much fun in being chris-tened along with other babies. It would bechildish. Would half-past five do?

Chasuble. Admirably! Admirably! (Takes outwatch.) And now, dear Mr. Worthing, I willnot intrude any longer into a house of sorrow.I would merely beg you not to be too muchbowed down by grief. What seem to us bittertrials are often blessings in disguise.

(Enter Cecily from the house.)

Cecily. Uncle Jack! Oh, I am pleased to see youback. But what horrid clothes you have got on!Do go and change them.

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Chasuble. My child! my child! (Cecily goes to-wards Jack; he kisses her brow in a melancholy man-ner.)

Cecily. What is the matter, Uncle Jack? Do lookhappy! You look as if you had toothache, and Ihave got such a surprise for you. Who do youthink is in the dining-room? Your brother!

Jack. Who?

Cecily. Your brother Ernest. He arrived abouthalf an hour ago.

Jack. What nonsense! I haven’t got a brother.

Cecily. Oh, don’t say that. However badly hemay have behaved to you in the past he is stillyour brother. You couldn’t be so heartless as todisown him. I’ll tell him to come out. And you

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will shake hands with him, won’t you, UncleJack? (Runs back into the house.)

Chasuble. These are very joyful tidings.

Jack. My brother is in the dining-room? I don’tknow what it all means. I think it is perfectlyabsurd.

(Enter Algernon and Cecily hand in hand. Theycome slowly up to Jack.)

Jack. Good heavens! (Motions Algernon away.)

Algernon. Brother John, I have come down fromtown to tell you that I am very sorry for all thetrouble I have given you, and that I intend tolead a better life in the future. (Jack glares at himand does not take his hand.)

Cecily. Uncle Jack, you are not going to refuseyour own brother’s hand?

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Jack. Nothing will induce me to take his hand.I think his coming down here disgraceful. Heknows perfectly well why.

Cecily. Uncle Jack, do be nice. There is somegood in every one. Ernest has just been tellingme about his poor invalid friend Mr. Bunburywhom he goes to visit so often. And surelythere must be much good in one who is kindto an invalid, and leaves the pleasures of Lon-don 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 toyou about Bunbury or about anything else. Itis enough to drive one perfectly frantic.

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Algernon. Of course I admit that the faults wereall on my side. But I must say that I thinkthat Brother John’s coldness to me is peculiarlypainful. I expected a more enthusiastic wel-come, especially considering it is the first timeI have come here.

Cecily. Uncle Jack, if you don’t shake handswith 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 perfecta reconciliation? I think we might leave the twobrothers together.

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Cecily. Certainly, Miss Prism. My little task ofreconciliation is over.

Chasuble. You have done a beautiful action to-day, dear child.

Cecily. I feel very happy. (They all go off exceptJack and Algernon.)

Jack. You young scoundrel, Algy, you must getout of this place as soon as possible. I don’tallow any Bunburying here.

(Enter Merriman.)

Merriman. I have put Mr. Ernest’s things in theroom next to yours, sir. I suppose that is allright?

Jack. What?

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Merriman. Mr. Ernest’s luggage, sir. I have un-packed it and put it in the room next to yourown.

Jack. His luggage?

Merriman. Yes, sir. Three portmanteaus,a dressing-case, two hat-boxes, and a largeluncheon-basket.

Algernon. I am afraid I can’t stay more than aweek 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. Ihave not been called back to town at all.

Jack. Yes, you have.

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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 in-terfered with my pleasures in the smallest de-gree.

Jack. I can quite understand that.

Algernon. Well, Cecily is a darling.

Jack. You are not to talk of Miss Cardew likethat. I don’t like it.

Algernon. Well, I don’t like your clothes. Youlook perfectly ridiculous in them. Why onearth don’t you go up and change? It is per-fectly childish to be in deep mourning for aman who is actually staying for a whole weekwith you in your house as a guest. I call itgrotesque.

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Jack. You are certainly not staying with me fora whole week as a guest or anything else. Youhave got to leave ... by the four-five train.

Algernon. I certainly won’t leave you so longas you are in mourning. It would be most un-friendly. If I were in mourning you would staywith me, I suppose. I should think it very un-kind if you didn’t.

Jack. Well, will you go if I change my clothes?

Algernon. Yes, if you are not too long. I neversaw anybody take so long to dress, and withsuch little result.

Jack. Well, at any rate, that is better than beingalways over-dressed as you are.

Algernon. If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it by being always im-

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mensely over-educated.

Jack. Your vanity is ridiculous, your conduct anoutrage, and your presence in my garden ut-terly absurd. However, you have got to catchthe four-five, and I hope you will have a pleas-ant journey back to town. This Bunburying, asyou call it, has not been a great success for you.

(Goes into the house.)

Algernon. I think it has been a great success. I’min love with Cecily, and that is everything.

(Enter Cecily at the back of the garden. She picksup the can and begins to water the flowers.) ButI must see her before I go, and make arrange-ments for another Bunbury. Ah, there she is.

Cecily. Oh, I merely came back to water theroses. I thought you were with Uncle Jack.

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Algernon. He’s gone to order the dog-cart forme.

Cecily. Oh, is he going to take you for a nicedrive?

Algernon. He’s going to send me away.

Cecily. Then have we got to part?

Algernon. I am afraid so. It’s a very painfulparting.

Cecily. It is always painful to part from peoplewhom one has known for a very brief space oftime. The absence of old friends one can en-dure with equanimity. But even a momentaryseparation from anyone to whom one has justbeen introduced is almost unbearable.

Algernon. Thank you.

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(Enter Merriman.)

Merriman. The dog-cart is at the door, sir. (Al-gernon looks appealingly at Cecily.)

Cecily. It can wait, Merriman for ... five min-utes.

Merriman. Yes, Miss. (Exit Merriman.)

Algernon. I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend youif I state quite frankly and openly that you seemto me to be in every way the visible personifi-cation of absolute perfection.

Cecily. I think your frankness does you greatcredit, Ernest. If you will allow me, I will copyyour remarks into my diary. (Goes over to tableand begins writing in diary.)

Algernon. Do you really keep a diary? I’d giveanything to look at it. May I?

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Cecily. Oh no. (Puts her hand over it.) Yousee, it is simply a very young girl’s record ofher own thoughts and impressions, and con-sequently meant for publication. When it ap-pears in volume form I hope you will order acopy. But pray, Ernest, don’t stop. I delightin taking down from dictation. I have reached‘absolute perfection’. You can go on. I am quiteready for more.

Algernon. (Somewhat taken aback.) Ahem!Ahem!

Cecily. Oh, don’t cough, Ernest. When oneis dictating one should speak fluently and notcough. Besides, I don’t know how to spell acough. (Writes as Algernon speaks.)

Algernon. (Speaking very rapidly.) Cecily, eversince I first looked upon your wonderful and

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incomparable beauty, I have dared to love youwildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.

Cecily. I don’t think that you should tell methat you love me wildly, passionately, devot-edly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn’t seem tomake much sense, does it?

Algernon. Cecily!

(Enter Merriman.)

Merriman. The dog-cart is waiting, sir.

Algernon. Tell it to come round next week, atthe same hour.

Merriman. (Looks at Cecily, who makes no sign.)Yes, sir.

(Merriman retires.)

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Cecily. Uncle Jack would be very much an-noyed if he knew you were staying on till nextweek, at the same hour.

Algernon. Oh, I don’t care about Jack. I don’tcare for anybody in the whole world but you.I love you, Cecily. You will marry me, won’tyou?

Cecily. You silly boy! Of course. Why, we havebeen engaged for the last three months.

Algernon. For the last three months?

Cecily. Yes, it will be exactly three months onThursday.

Algernon. But how did we become engaged?

Cecily. Well, ever since dear Uncle Jack first con-fessed to us that he had a younger brother who

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was very wicked and bad, you of course haveformed the chief topic of conversation betweenmyself and Miss Prism. And of course a manwho is much talked about is always very attrac-tive. One feels there must be something in him,after all. I daresay it was foolish of me, but I fellin love with you, Ernest.

Algernon. Darling! And when was the engage-ment actually settled?

Cecily. On the 14th of February last. Wornout by your entire ignorance of my existence,I determined to end the matter one way or theother, and after a long struggle with myself Iaccepted you under this dear old tree here. Thenext day I bought this little ring in your name,and this is the little bangle with the true lover’sknot I promised you always to wear.

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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 foryour leading such a bad life. And this is the boxin which I keep all your dear letters. (Kneels attable, opens box, and produces letters tied up withblue ribbon.)

Algernon. My letters! But, my own sweet Ce-cily, I have never written you any letters.

Cecily. You need hardly remind me of that,Ernest. I remember only too well that I wasforced to write your letters for you. I wrotealways three times a week, and sometimes of-tener.

Algernon. Oh, do let me read them, Cecily?

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Cecily. Oh, I couldn’t possibly. They wouldmake you far too conceited. (Replaces box.)The three you wrote me after I had broken offthe engagement are so beautiful, and so badlyspelled, that even now I can hardly read themwithout crying a little.

Algernon. But was our engagement ever brokenoff?

Cecily. Of course it was. On the 22nd of lastMarch. You can see the entry if you like. (Showsdiary.) ‘To-day I broke off my engagement withErnest. I feel it is better to do so. The weatherstill continues charming.’

Algernon. But why on earth did you break itoff? What had I done? I had done nothing atall. Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to hearyou broke it off. Particularly when the weather

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was so charming.

Cecily. It would hardly have been a really seri-ous engagement if it hadn’t been broken off atleast once. But I forgave you before the weekwas out.

Algernon. (Crossing to her, and kneeling.) What aperfect angel you are, Cecily.

Cecily. You dear romantic boy. (He kisses her, sheputs her fingers through his hair.) I hope your haircurls naturally, does it?

Algernon. Yes, darling, with a little help fromothers.

Cecily. I am so glad.

Algernon. You’ll never break off our engage-ment again, Cecily?

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Cecily. I don’t think I could break it off nowthat 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, butit had always been a girlish dream of mine tolove some one whose name was Ernest. (Al-gernon rises, Cecily also.) There is something inthat name that seems to inspire absolute confi-dence. I pity any poor married woman whosehusband is not called Ernest.

Algernon. But, my dear child, do you mean tosay you could not love me if I had some othername?

Cecily. But what name?

Algernon. Oh, any name you like–Algernon–for

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instance ...

Cecily. But I don’t like the name of Algernon.

Algernon. Well, my own dear, sweet, loving lit-tle darling, I really can’t see why you shouldobject to the name of Algernon. It is not atall a bad name. In fact, it is rather an aristo-cratic name. Half of the chaps who get into theBankruptcy Court are called Algernon. But se-riously, Cecily ... (Moving to her) ... if my namewas Algy, couldn’t you love me?

Cecily. (Rising.) I might respect you, Ernest, Imight admire your character, but I fear that Ishould not be able to give you my undividedattention.

Algernon. Ahem! Cecily! (Picking up hat.) YourRector here is, I suppose, thoroughly experi-

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enced in the practice of all the rites and cere-monials of the Church?

Cecily. Oh, yes. Dr. Chasuble is a most learnedman. He has never written a single book, soyou can imagine how much he knows.

Algernon. I must see him at once on a most im-portant christening–I mean on most importantbusiness.

Cecily. Oh!

Algernon. I shan’t be away more than half anhour.

Cecily. Considering that we have been engagedsince February the 14th, and that I only met youto-day for the first time, I think it is rather hardthat you should leave me for so long a period

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as half an hour. Couldn’t you make it twentyminutes?

Algernon. I’ll be back in no time.

(Kisses her and rushes down the garden.)

Cecily. What an impetuous boy he is! I like hishair so much. I must enter his proposal in mydiary.

(Enter Merriman.)

Merriman. A Miss Fairfax has just called to seeMr. Worthing. On very important business,Miss Fairfax states.

Cecily. Isn’t Mr. Worthing in his library?

Merriman. Mr. Worthing went over in the direc-tion of the Rectory some time ago.

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Cecily. Pray ask the lady to come out here; Mr.Worthing is sure to be back soon. And you canbring tea.

Merriman. Yes, Miss. (Goes out.)

Cecily. Miss Fairfax! I suppose one of the manygood elderly women who are associated withUncle Jack in some of his philanthropic workin London. I don’t quite like women who areinterested in philanthropic work. I think it is soforward of them.

(Enter Merriman.)

Merriman. Miss Fairfax.(Enter Gwendolen.)(Exit Merriman.)

Cecily. (Advancing to meet her.) Pray let me intro-duce myself to you. My name is Cecily Cardew.

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Gwendolen. Cecily Cardew? (Moving to her andshaking hands.) What a very sweet name! Some-thing tells me that we are going to be greatfriends. I like you already more than I cansay. My first impressions of people are neverwrong.

Cecily. How nice of you to like me so much af-ter we have known each other such a compar-atively short time. Pray sit down.

Gwendolen. (Still standing up.) I may call youCecily, may I not?

Cecily. With pleasure!

Gwendolen. And you will always call meGwendolen, won’t you?

Cecily. If you wish.

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Gwendolen. Then that is all quite settled, is itnot?

Cecily. I hope so. (A pause. They both sit downtogether.)

Gwendolen. Perhaps this might be a favourableopportunity for my mentioning who I am. Myfather is Lord Bracknell. You have never heardof papa, I suppose?

Cecily. I don’t think so.

Gwendolen. Outside the family circle, papa, Iam glad to say, is entirely unknown. I thinkthat is quite as it should be. The home seemsto me to be the proper sphere for the man. Andcertainly once a man begins to neglect his do-mestic duties he becomes painfully effeminate,does he not? And I don’t like that. It makes

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men so very attractive. Cecily, mamma, whoseviews on education are remarkably strict, hasbrought me up to be extremely short-sighted; itis part of her system; so do you mind my look-ing at you through my glasses?

Cecily. Oh! not at all, Gwendolen. I am veryfond of being looked at.

Gwendolen. (After examining Cecily carefullythrough a lorgnette.) You are here on a shortvisit, I suppose.

Cecily. Oh no! I live here.

Gwendolen. (Severely.) Really? Your mother,no doubt, or some female relative of advancedyears, resides here also?

Cecily. Oh no! I have no mother, nor, in fact, anyrelations.

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Gwendolen. Indeed?

Cecily. My dear guardian, with the assistanceof Miss Prism, has the arduous task of lookingafter me.

Gwendolen. Your guardian?

Cecily. Yes, I am Mr. Worthing’s ward.

Gwendolen. Oh! It is strange he never men-tioned to me that he had a ward. How secre-tive of him! He grows more interesting hourly.I am not sure, however, that the news inspiresme with feelings of unmixed delight. (Risingand going to her.) I am very fond of you, Cecily;I have liked you ever since I met you! But Iam bound to state that now that I know thatyou are Mr. Worthing’s ward, I cannot helpexpressing a wish you were–well, just a little

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older than you seem to be–and not quite sovery alluring in appearance. In fact, if I mayspeak candidly–

Cecily. Pray do! I think that whenever one hasanything unpleasant to say, one should alwaysbe quite candid.

Gwendolen. Well, to speak with perfect can-dour, Cecily, I wish that you were fully forty-two, and more than usually plain for yourage. Ernest has a strong upright nature. He isthe very soul of truth and honour. Disloyaltywould be as impossible to him as deception.But even men of the noblest possible moralcharacter are extremely susceptible to the in-fluence of the physical charms of others. Mod-ern, no less than Ancient History, supplies uswith many most painful examples of what I re-fer to. If it were not so, indeed, History would

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be quite unreadable.

Cecily. I beg your pardon, Gwendolen, did yousay Ernest?

Gwendolen. Yes.

Cecily. Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest Worthingwho is my guardian. It is his brother–his elderbrother.

Gwendolen. (Sitting down again.) Ernest nevermentioned to me that he had a brother.

Cecily. I am sorry to say they have not been ongood terms for a long time.

Gwendolen. Ah! that accounts for it. And nowthat I think of it I have never heard any manmention his brother. The subject seems dis-tasteful to most men. Cecily, you have lifted

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a load from my mind. I was growing almostanxious. It would have been terrible if anycloud had come across a friendship like ours,would it not? Of course you are quite, quitesure that it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who isyour guardian?

Cecily. Quite sure. (A pause.) In fact, I am goingto be his.

Gwendolen. (Inquiringly.) I beg your pardon?

Cecily. (Rather shy and confidingly.) DearestGwendolen, there is no reason why I shouldmake a secret of it to you. Our little countynewspaper is sure to chronicle the fact nextweek. Mr. Ernest Worthing and I are engagedto be married.

Gwendolen. (Quite politely, rising.) My darlingCecily, I think there must be some slight error.

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Mr. Ernest Worthing is engaged to me. Theannouncement will appear in the Morning Poston Saturday at the latest.

Cecily. (Very politely, rising.) I am afraid youmust be under some misconception. Ernestproposed to me exactly ten minutes ago.(Shows diary.)

Gwendolen. (Examines diary through herlorgnettte carefully.) It is certainly very curious,for he asked me to be his wife yesterday after-noon at 5.30. If you would care to verify theincident, pray do so. (Produces diary of her own.)I never travel without my diary. One shouldalways have something sensational to read inthe train. I am so sorry, dear Cecily, if it is anydisappointment to you, but I am afraid I havethe prior claim.

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Cecily. It would distress me more than I cantell you, dear Gwendolen, if it caused you anymental or physical anguish, but I feel bound topoint out that since Ernest proposed to you heclearly has changed his mind.

Gwendolen. (Meditatively.) If the poor fellowhas been entrapped into any foolish promise Ishall consider it my duty to rescue him at once,and with a firm hand.

Cecily. (Thoughtfully and sadly.) Whatever un-fortunate entanglement my dear boy may havegot into, I will never reproach him with it afterwe are married.

Gwendolen. Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew,as an entanglement? You are presumptuous.On an occasion of this kind it becomes morethan a moral duty to speak one’s mind. It be-

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comes a pleasure.

Cecily. Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax, that I en-trapped Ernest into an engagement? How dareyou? This is no time for wearing the shallowmask of manners. When I see a spade I call it aspade.

Gwendolen. (Satirically.) I am glad to say that Ihave never seen a spade. It is obvious that oursocial spheres have been widely different.

(Enter Merriman, followed by the footman. Hecarries a salver, table cloth, and plate stand. Cecilyis about to retort. The presence of the servants exer-cises a restraining influence, under which both girlschafe.)

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

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long pause. Cecily and Gwendolen glare at eachother.)

Gwendolen. Are there many interesting walksin the vicinity, Miss Cardew?

Cecily. Oh! yes! a great many. From the topof one of the hills quite close one can see fivecounties.

Gwendolen. Five counties! I don’t think Ishould like that; I hate crowds.

Cecily. (Sweetly.) I suppose that is why you livein town? (Gwendolen bites her lip, and beats herfoot nervously with her parasol.)

Gwendolen. (Looking round.) Quite a well-keptgarden this is, Miss Cardew.

Cecily. So glad you like it, Miss Fairfax.

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Gwendolen. I had no idea there were any flow-ers in the country.

Cecily. Oh, flowers are as common here, MissFairfax, as people are in London.

Gwendolen. Personally I cannot understandhow anybody manages to exist in the country,if anybody who is anybody does. The countryalways bores me to death.

Cecily. Ah! This is what the newspapers callagricultural depression, is it not? I believe thearistocracy are suffering very much from it justat present. It is almost an epidemic amongstthem, I have been told. May I offer you sometea, Miss Fairfax?

Gwendolen. (With elaborate politeness.) Thankyou. (Aside.) Detestable girl! But I require tea!

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Cecily. (Sweetly.) Sugar?

Gwendolen. (Superciliously.) No, thank you.Sugar is not fashionable any more. (Cecily looksangrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts fourlumps of sugar into the cup.)

Cecily. (Severely.) Cake or bread and butter?

Gwendolen. (In a bored manner.) Bread andbutter, please. Cake is rarely seen at the besthouses nowadays.

Cecily. (Cuts a very large slice of cake, and puts iton 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 thebread and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake.Rises in indignation.)

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Gwendolen. You have filled my tea with lumpsof sugar, and though I asked most distinctly forbread and butter, you have given me cake. Iam known for the gentleness of my disposition,and the extraordinary sweetness of my nature,but I warn you, Miss Cardew, you may go toofar.

Cecily. (Rising.) To save my poor, innocent,trusting boy from the machinations of anyother girl there are no lengths to which I wouldnot go.

Gwendolen. From the moment I saw you I dis-trusted you. I felt that you were false and de-ceitful. I am never deceived in such matters.My first impressions of people are invariablyright.

Cecily. It seems to me, Miss Fairfax, that I am

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trespassing on your valuable time. No doubtyou have many other calls of a similar charac-ter to make in the neighbourhood.

(Enter Jack.)

Gwendolen. (Catching sight of him.) Ernest! Myown Ernest!

Jack. Gwendolen! Darling! (Offers to kiss her.)

Gwendolen. (Draws back.) A moment! May I askif you are engaged to be married to this younglady? (Points to Cecily.)

Jack. (Laughing.) To dear little Cecily! Of coursenot! What could have put such an idea intoyour pretty little head?

Gwendolen. Thank you. You may! (Offers hercheek.)

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Cecily. (Very sweetly.) I knew there must besome misunderstanding, Miss Fairfax. Thegentleman whose arm is at present round yourwaist 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 withoutnoticing any one else.) My own love! (Offers tokiss her.)

Cecily. (Drawing back.) A moment, Ernest! MayI ask you–are you engaged to be married to thisyoung lady?

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Algernon. (Looking round.) To what young lady?Good heavens! Gwendolen!

Cecily. Yes! to good heavens, Gwendolen, Imean to Gwendolen.

Algernon. (Laughing.) Of course not! Whatcould have put such an idea into your prettylittle head?

Cecily. Thank you. (Presenting her cheek to bekissed.) You may. (Algernon kisses her.)

Gwendolen. I felt there was some slight error,Miss Cardew. The gentleman who is now em-bracing you is my cousin, Mr. Algernon Mon-crieff.

Cecily. (Breaking away from Algernon.) AlgernonMoncrieff! Oh! (The two girls move towards each

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other and put their arms round each other’s waistsas 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 itif I liked. I could deny anything if I liked. Butmy name certainly is John. It has been John foryears.

Cecily. (To Gwendolen.) A gross deception hasbeen practised on both of us.

Gwendolen. My poor wounded Cecily!

Cecily. My sweet wronged Gwendolen!

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Gwendolen. (Slowly and seriously.) You will callme sister, will you not? (They embrace. Jack andAlgernon groan and walk up and down.)

Cecily. (Rather brightly.) There is just one ques-tion I would like to be allowed to ask myguardian.

Gwendolen. An admirable idea! Mr. Worthing,there is just one question I would like to be per-mitted to put to you. Where is your brotherErnest? We are both engaged to be married toyour brother Ernest, so it is a matter of someimportance to us to know where your brotherErnest is at present.

Jack. (Slowly and hesitatingly.) Gwendolen–Cecily–it is very painful for me to be forced tospeak the truth. It is the first time in my lifethat I have ever been reduced to such a painful

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position, and I am really quite inexperienced indoing anything of the kind. However, I will tellyou quite frankly that I have no brother Ernest.I have no brother at all. I never had a brotherin my life, and I certainly have not the smallestintention of ever having one in the future.

Cecily. (Surprised.) No brother at all?

Jack. (Cheerily.) None!

Gwendolen. (Severely.) Had you never a brotherof 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 toany one.

Cecily. It is not a very pleasant position for ayoung girl suddenly to find herself in. Is it?

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Gwendolen. Let us go into the house. They willhardly 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 youcall Bunburying, I suppose?

Algernon. Yes, and a perfectly wonderful Bun-bury it is. The most wonderful Bunbury I haveever had in my life.

Jack. Well, you’ve no right whatsoever to Bun-bury here.

Algernon. That is absurd. One has a right toBunbury anywhere one chooses. Every seriousBunburyist knows that.

Jack. Serious Bunburyist! Good heavens!

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Algernon. Well, one must be serious aboutsomething, if one wants to have any amuse-ment in life. I happen to be serious about Bun-burying. What on earth you are serious aboutI haven’t got the remotest idea. About every-thing, I should fancy. You have such an abso-lutely trivial nature.

Jack. Well, the only small satisfaction I have inthe whole of this wretched business is that yourfriend Bunbury is quite exploded. You won’tbe able to run down to the country quite so of-ten as you used to do, dear Algy. And a verygood thing too.

Algernon. Your brother is a little off colour, isn’the, dear Jack? You won’t be able to disappearto London quite so frequently as your wickedcustom was. And not a bad thing either.

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Jack. As for your conduct towards MissCardew, I must say that your taking in a sweet,simple, innocent girl like that is quite inexcus-able. To say nothing of the fact that she is myward.

Algernon. I can see no possible defence at all foryour deceiving a brilliant, clever, thoroughlyexperienced young lady like Miss Fairfax. Tosay 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 engagedto Cecily. I adore her.

Jack. There is certainly no chance of your mar-rying Miss Cardew.

Algernon. I don’t think there is much like-

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lihood, Jack, of you and Miss Fairfax beingunited.

Jack. Well, that is no business of yours.

Algernon. If it was my business, I wouldn’t talkabout it. (Begins to eat muffins.) It is very vul-gar to talk about one’s business. Only peoplelike stock-brokers do that, and then merely atdinner parties.

Jack. How can you sit there, calmly eatingmuffins when we are in this horrible trouble, Ican’t make out. You seem to me to be perfectlyheartless.

Algernon. Well, I can’t eat muffins in an agi-tated manner. The butter would probably geton my cuffs. One should always eat muffinsquite calmly. It is the only way to eat them.

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Jack. I say it’s perfectly heartless your eatingmuffins at all, under the circumstances.

Algernon. When I am in trouble, eating is theonly thing that consoles me. Indeed, when I amin really great trouble, as any one who knowsme intimately will tell you, I refuse everythingexcept food and drink. At the present momentI am eating muffins because I am unhappy. Be-sides, I am particularly fond of muffins. (Ris-ing.)

Jack. (Rising.) Well, that is no reason why youshould eat them all in that greedy way. (Takesmuffins from Algernon.)

Algernon. (Offering tea-cake.) I wish you wouldhave tea-cake instead. I don’t like tea-cake.

Jack. Good heavens! I suppose a man may eathis own muffins in his own garden.

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Algernon. But you have just said it was per-fectly heartless to eat muffins.

Jack. I said it was perfectly heartless of you, un-der the circumstances. That is a very differentthing.

Algernon. That may be. But the muffins are thesame. (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 with-out having some dinner. It’s absurd. I nevergo without my dinner. No one ever does, ex-cept vegetarians and people like that. BesidesI have just made arrangements with Dr. Cha-suble to be christened at a quarter to six underthe name of Ernest.

Jack. My dear fellow, the sooner you give up

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that nonsense the better. I made arrangementsthis morning with Dr. Chasuble to be chris-tened myself at 5.30, and I naturally will takethe name of Ernest. Gwendolen would wishit. We can’t both be christened Ernest. It’sabsurd. Besides, I have a perfect right to bechristened if I like. There is no evidence at allthat I have ever been christened by anybody. Ishould think it extremely probable I never was,and so does Dr. Chasuble. It is entirely differ-ent in your case. You have been christened al-ready.

Algernon. Yes, but I have not been christenedfor years.

Jack. Yes, but you have been christened. That isthe important thing.

Algernon. Quite so. So I know my constitution

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can stand it. If you are not quite sure aboutyour ever having been christened, I must sayI think it rather dangerous your venturing onit now. It might make you very unwell. Youcan hardly have forgotten that some one veryclosely connected with you was very nearlycarried off this week in Paris by a severe chill.

Jack. Yes, but you said yourself that a severechill was not hereditary.

Algernon. It usen’t to be, I know–but I daresayit is now. Science is always making wonderfulimprovements in things.

Jack. (Picking up the muffin-dish.) Oh, that is non-sense; you are always talking nonsense.

Algernon. Jack, you are at the muffins again!I wish you wouldn’t. There are only two left.

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(Takes them.) I told you I was particularly fondof muffins.

Jack. But I hate tea-cake.

Algernon. Why on earth then do you allow tea-cake to be served up for your guests? Whatideas you have of hospitality!

Jack. Algernon! I have already told you to go. Idon’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 eat-ing.)

ACT DROP

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Scene Morning-room at the Manor House.(Gwendolen and Cecily are at the window, lookingout into the garden.)

Gwendolen. The fact that they did not follow usat once into the house, as any one else wouldhave done, seems to me to show that they have

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some sense of shame left.

Cecily. They have been eating muffins. Thatlooks like repentance.

Gwendolen. (After a pause.) They don’t seem tonotice us at all. Couldn’t you cough?

Cecily. But I haven’t got a cough.

Gwendolen. They’re looking at us. What effron-tery!

Cecily. They’re approaching. That’s very for-ward 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 whistlesome dreadful popular air from a British Opera.)

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Gwendolen. This dignified silence seems to pro-duce an unpleasant effect.

Cecily. A most distasteful one.

Gwendolen. But we will not be the first tospeak.

Cecily. Certainly not.

Gwendolen. Mr. Worthing, I have somethingvery particular to ask you. Much depends onyour reply.

Cecily. Gwendolen, your common sense is in-valuable. Mr. Moncrieff, kindly answer me thefollowing question. Why did you pretend to bemy guardian’s brother?

Algernon. In order that I might have an oppor-tunity of meeting you.

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Cecily. (To Gwendolen.) That certainly seems asatisfactory explanation, does it not?

Gwendolen. Yes, dear, if you can believe him.

Cecily. I don’t. But that does not affect the won-derful beauty of his answer.

Gwendolen. True. In matters of grave impor-tance, style, not sincerity is the vital thing. Mr.Worthing, what explanation can you offer tome for pretending to have a brother? Was itin order that you might have an opportunity ofcoming up to town to see me as often as possi-ble?

Jack. Can you doubt it, Miss Fairfax?

Gwendolen. I have the gravest doubts upon thesubject. But I intend to crush them. This is notthe moment for German scepticism. (Moving to

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Cecily.) Their explanations appear to be quitesatisfactory, especially Mr. Worthing’s. Thatseems to me to have the stamp of truth uponit.

Cecily. I am more than content with what Mr.Moncrieff said. His voice alone inspires onewith absolute credulity.

Gwendolen. Then you think we should forgivethem?

Cecily. Yes. I mean no.

Gwendolen. True! I had forgotten. There areprinciples at stake that one cannot surrender.Which of us should tell them? The task is not apleasant one.

Cecily. Could we not both speak at the sametime?

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Gwendolen. An excellent idea! I nearly alwaysspeak at the same time as other people. Willyou take the time from me?

Cecily. Certainly. (Gwendolen beats time with up-lifted finger.)

Gwendolen and Cecily (Speaking together.) YourChristian names are still an insuperable barrier.That is all!

Jack and Algernon (Speaking together.) OurChristian names! Is that all? But we are goingto be christened this afternoon.

Gwendolen. (To Jack.) For my sake you are pre-pared to do this terrible thing?

Jack. I am.

Cecily. (To Algernon.) To please me you areready to face this fearful ordeal?

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Algernon. I am!

Gwendolen. How absurd to talk of the equalityof the sexes! Where questions of self-sacrificeare concerned, men are infinitely beyond us.

Jack. We are. (Clasps hands with Algernon.)

Cecily. They have moments of physical courageof which we women know absolutely nothing.

Gwendolen. (To Jack.) Darling!

Algernon. (To Cecily.) Darling! (They fall into eachother’s arms.)

(Enter Merriman. When he enters he coughsloudly, seeing the situation.)

Merriman. Ahem! Ahem! Lady Bracknell!

Jack. Good heavens!

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(Enter Lady Bracknell. The couples separate inalarm. Exit Merriman.)

Gwendolen. Merely that I am engaged to bemarried to Mr. Worthing, mamma.

Jack. I am engaged to be married to GwendolenLady Bracknell!

Algernon. Yes, Aunt Augusta.

Algernon. (Stammering.) Oh! No! Bunburydoesn’t live here. Bunbury is somewhere elseat present. In fact, Bunbury is dead.

Algernon. (Airily.) Oh! I killed Bunbury thisafternoon. I mean poor Bunbury died this af-ternoon.

Algernon. Bunbury? Oh, he was quite ex-ploded.

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Algernon. My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean hewas found out! The doctors found out thatBunbury could not live, that is what I mean–soBunbury died.

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.

Cecily. Mr. Moncrieff and I are engaged to bemarried, Lady Bracknell.

Jack. (In a clear, cold voice.) Miss Cardew isthe grand-daughter of the late Mr. ThomasCardew of 149 Belgrave Square, S.W.; Ger-vase Park, Dorking, Surrey; and the Sporran,Fifeshire, N.B.

Jack. I have carefully preserved the Court

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Guides of the period. They are open to yourinspection, Lady Bracknell.

Jack. Miss Cardew’s family solicitors areMessrs. Markby, Markby, and Markby.

Jack. (Very irritably.) How extremely kind ofyou, Lady Bracknell! I have also in my pos-session, you will be pleased to hear, certifi-cates of Miss Cardew’s birth, baptism, whoop-ing cough, registration, vaccination, confirma-tion, and the measles; both the German and theEnglish variety.

Jack. Oh! about a hundred and thirty thousandpounds in the Funds. That is all. Goodbye,Lady Bracknell. So pleased to have seen you.

Jack. And after six months nobody knew her.

Algernon. Yes, Aunt Augusta!

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Algernon. Cecily is the sweetest, dearest, pret-tiest girl in the whole world. And I don’t caretwopence about social possibilities.

Algernon. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Cecily. (Kisses her.) Thank you, Lady Bracknell.

Cecily. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Algernon. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Cecily. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Jack. I beg your pardon for interrupting you,Lady Bracknell, but this engagement is quiteout of the question. I am Miss Cardew’sguardian, and she cannot marry without myconsent until she comes of age. That consentI absolutely decline to give.

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Jack. It pains me very much to have to speakfrankly to you, Lady Bracknell, about yournephew, but the fact is that I do not approve atall of his moral character. I suspect him of be-ing untruthful. (Algernon and Cecily look at himin indignant amazement.)

Jack. I fear there can be no possible doubt aboutthe matter. This afternoon during my tempo-rary absence in London on an important ques-tion of romance, he obtained admission to myhouse by means of the false pretence of beingmy brother. Under an assumed name he drank,I’ve just been informed by my butler, an entirepint bottle of my Perrier-Jouet, Brut, ’89; wineI was specially reserving for myself. Contin-uing his disgraceful deception, he succeededin the course of the afternoon in alienating theaffections of my only ward. He subsequently

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stayed to tea, and devoured every single muf-fin. And what makes his conduct all the moreheartless is, that he was perfectly well awarefrom the first that I have no brother, that I neverhad a brother, and that I don’t intend to have abrother, not even of any kind. I distinctly toldhim so myself yesterday afternoon.

Jack. That is very generous of you, Lady Brack-nell. My own decision, however, is unalterable.I decline to give my consent.

Cecily. Well, I am really only eighteen, but Ialways admit to twenty when I go to eveningparties.

Jack. Pray excuse me, Lady Bracknell, for inter-rupting you again, but it is only fair to tell youthat according to the terms of her grandfather’swill Miss Cardew does not come legally of age

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till she is thirty-five.

Cecily. Algy, could you wait for me till I wasthirty-five?

Algernon. Of course I could, Cecily. You know Icould.

Cecily. Yes, I felt it instinctively, but I couldn’twait all that time. I hate waiting even five min-utes for anybody. It always makes me rathercross. I am not punctual myself, I know, but Ido like punctuality in others, and waiting, evento be married, is quite out of the question.

Algernon. Then what is to be done, Cecily?

Cecily. I don’t know, Mr. Moncrieff.

Jack. But my dear Lady Bracknell, the matter isentirely in your own hands. The moment you

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consent to my marriage with Gwendolen, I willmost gladly allow your nephew to form an al-liance with my ward.

Jack. Then a passionate celibacy is all that anyof us can look forward to.

(Enter Dr. Chasuble.)

Chasuble. Everything is quite ready for thechristenings.

Chasuble. (Looking rather puzzled, and pointing toJack and Algernon.) Both these gentlemen haveexpressed a desire for immediate baptism.

Chasuble. Am I to understand then that thereare to be no christenings at all this afternoon?

Jack. I don’t think that, as things are now, itwould be of much practical value to either ofus, Dr. Chasuble.

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Chasuble. I am grieved to hear such sentimentsfrom you, Mr. Worthing. They savour of theheretical views of the Anabaptists, views thatI have completely refuted in four of my un-published sermons. However, as your presentmood seems to be one peculiarly secular, I willreturn to the church at once. Indeed, I have justbeen informed by the pew-opener that for thelast hour and a half Miss Prism has been wait-ing for me in the vestry.

Chasuble. Yes, Lady Bracknell. I am on my wayto join her.

Chasuble. (Somewhat indignantly.) She is themost cultivated of ladies, and the very pictureof respectability.

Chasuble. (Severely.) I am a celibate, madam.

Jack. (Interposing.) Miss Prism, Lady Bracknell,

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has been for the last three years Miss Cardew’sesteemed governess and valued companion.

Chasuble. (Looking off.) She approaches; she isnigh.

(Enter Miss Prism hurriedly.)

Jack. (Who has been listening attentively.) Butwhere did you deposit the hand-bag?

Jack. Miss Prism, this is a matter of no smallimportance to me. I insist on knowing whereyou deposited the hand-bag that contained thatinfant.

Jack. What railway station?

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

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here for you all my life. (Exit Jack in great excite-ment.)

Chasuble. What do you think this means, LadyBracknell?

(Noises heard overhead as if some one was throw-ing trunks about. Every one looks up.)

Cecily. Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.

Chasuble. Your guardian has a very emotionalnature.

Chasuble. (Looking up.) It has stopped now. (Thenoise is redoubled.)

Gwendolen. This suspense is terrible. I hopeit will last. (Enter Jack with a hand-bag of blackleather in his hand.)

Jack. (Rushing over to Miss Prism.) Is this the

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hand-bag, Miss Prism? Examine it carefully be-fore you speak. The happiness of more thanone life depends on your answer.

Jack. (In a pathetic voice.) Miss Prism, more isrestored to you than this hand-bag. I was thebaby you placed in it.

Jack. (Embracing her.) Yes ... mother!

Jack. Unmarried! I do not deny that is a seriousblow. But after all, who has the right to casta stone against one who has suffered? Can-not repentance wipe out an act of folly? Whyshould there be one law for men, and anotherfor women? Mother, I forgive you. (Tries to em-brace her again.)

Jack. (After a pause.) Lady Bracknell, I hate toseem inquisitive, but would you kindly informme who I am?

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Jack. Algy’s elder brother! Then I have a brotherafter all. I knew I had a brother! I always saidI had a brother! Cecily,–how could you haveever doubted that I had a brother? (Seizes holdof Algernon.) Dr. Chasuble, my unfortunatebrother. Miss Prism, my unfortunate brother.Gwendolen, my unfortunate brother. Algy, youyoung scoundrel, you will have to treat mewith more respect in the future. You have neverbehaved 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 ofpractice.

(Shakes hands.)

Gwendolen. (To Jack.) My own! But what ownare you? What is your Christian name, nowthat you have become some one else?

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Jack. Good heavens! ... I had quite forgottenthat point. Your decision on the subject of myname is irrevocable, I suppose?

Gwendolen. I never change, except in my affec-tions.

Cecily. What a noble nature you have, Gwen-dolen!

Jack. Then the question had better be cleared upat once. Aunt Augusta, a moment. At the timewhen Miss Prism left me in the hand-bag, hadI been christened already?

Jack. Then I was christened! That is settled.Now, what name was I given? Let me knowthe worst.

Jack. (Irritably.) Yes, but what was my father’sChristian name?

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Jack. Algy! Can’t you recollect what our fa-ther’s Christian name was?

Algernon. My dear boy, we were never even onspeaking terms. He died before I was a yearold.

Jack. His name would appear in the Army Listsof the period, I suppose, Aunt Augusta?

Jack. The Army Lists of the last forty yearsare here. These delightful records should havebeen my constant study. (Rushes to bookcaseand tears the books out.) M. Generals ... Mal-lam, Maxbohm, Magley, what ghastly namesthey have–Markby, Migsby, Mobbs, Moncrieff!Lieutenant 1840, Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel,Colonel, General 1869, Christian names, ErnestJohn. (Puts book very quietly down and speaksquite calmly.) I always told you, Gwendolen,

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my name was Ernest, didn’t I? Well, it is Ernestafter all. I mean it naturally is Ernest.

Gwendolen. Ernest! My own Ernest! I felt fromthe first that you could have no other name!

Jack. Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a manto find out suddenly that all his life he has beenspeaking nothing but the truth. Can you for-give me?

Gwendolen. I can. For I feel that you are sure tochange.

Jack. My own one!

Chasuble. (To Miss Prism.) Laetitia! (Embracesher)

Algernon. Cecily! (Embraces her.) At last!

Jack. Gwendolen! (Embraces her.) At last!

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Jack. On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I’ve nowrealised for the first time in my life the vital Im-portance of Being Earnest.

TABLEAU

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