BokRobot leeseditie
Boeken
GratisThe Importance of Being Earnest
Oscar Wilde
Versie kiezen
Hoofdstukken
ACT I. Algernon Moncrieff’s Flat in Half-Moon Street, W
The Importance of Being Earnest
A Trivial Comedy for Serious People
THE PERSONS IN THE PLAY
John Worthing, J.P. Algernon Moncrieff Rev. Canon Chasuble, D.D. Merriman, Butler Lane, Manservant Lady Bracknell Hon. Gwendolen Fairfax Cecily Cardew Miss Prism, Governess
THE SCENES OF THE PLAY
ACT III. Drawing-Room at the Manor House, Woolton
TIME: The Present.
LONDON: ST. JAMES'S THEATRE
Lessee and Manager: Mr. George Alexander
February 14th, 1895
* * * * *
John Worthing, J.P.: Mr. George Alexander. Algernon Moncrieff: Mr. Allen Aynesworth. Rev. Canon Chasuble, D.D.: Mr. H. H. Vincent. Merriman: Mr. Frank Dyall. Lane: Mr. F. Kinsey Peile. Lady Bracknell: Miss Rose Leclercq. Hon. Gwendolen Fairfax: Miss Irene Vanbrugh. Cecily Cardew: Miss Evelyn Millard. Miss Prism: Mrs. George Canninge.
First act
luxuriously and artistically furnished. The sound of a piano is heard
in the adjoining room.
[Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music has
ceased, Algernon enters.]
play accurately—but I play with wonderful expression. As far as the
piano is concerned, sentiment is my forte. I keep science for Life.
sandwiches cut for Lady Bracknell?
way, Lane, I see from your book that on Thursday night, when Lord
Shoreman and Mr. Worthing were dining with me, eight bottles of
champagne are entered as having been consumed.
drink the champagne? I ask merely for information.
observed that in married households the champagne is rarely of a
first-rate brand.
experience of it myself up to the present. I have only been married
once. That was in consequence of a misunderstanding between myself and
a young person.
life, Lane.
myself.
don't set us a good example, what on earth is the use of them? They
seem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense of moral responsibility.
[Enter Lane.]
[Enter Jack.]
[Lane goes out_._]
usual, I see, Algy!
slight refreshment at five o'clock. Where have you been since last
Thursday?
When one is in the country one amuses other people. It is excessively
boring.
the way, Shropshire is your county, is it not?
sandwiches? Why such reckless extravagance in one so young? Who is
coming to tea?
approve of your being here.
disgraceful. It is almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts with you.
propose to her.
to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal.
Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then the
excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty. If
ever I get married, I'll certainly try to forget the fact.
invented for people whose memories are so curiously constituted.
Heaven—[Jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich. Algernon at once
interferes.] Please don't touch the cucumber sandwiches. They are
ordered specially for Aunt Augusta. [Takes one and eats it.]
below.] Have some bread and butter. The bread and butter is for
Gwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to bread and butter.
butter it is too.
all. You behave as if you were married to her already. You are not
married to her already, and I don't think you ever will be.
Girls don't think it right.
of bachelors that one sees all over the place. In the second place, I
don't give my consent.
marry her, you will have to clear up the whole question of Cecily.
[Rings bell.]
don't know any one of the name of Cecily.
[Enter Lane.]
last time he dined here.
to goodness you had let me know. I have been writing frantic letters to
Scotland Yard about it. I was very nearly offering a large reward.
up.
[Enter Lane with the cigarette case on a salver. Algernon takes it at
once. Lane goes out.]
examines it.] However, it makes no matter, for, now that I look at the
inscription inside, I find that the thing isn't yours after all.
hundred times, and you have no right whatsoever to read what is written
inside. It is a very ungentlemanly thing to read a private cigarette
case.
read and what one shouldn't. More than half of modern culture depends
on what one shouldn't read.
culture. It isn't the sort of thing one should talk of in private. I
simply want my cigarette case back.
present from some one of the name of Cecily, and you said you didn't
know any one of that name.
it back to me, Algy.
Cecily if she is your aunt and lives at Tunbridge Wells? [Reading.]
'From little Cecily with her fondest love.'
there in that? Some aunts are tall, some aunts are not tall. That is a
matter that surely an aunt may be allowed to decide for herself. You
seem to think that every aunt should be exactly like your aunt! That is
absurd! For Heaven's sake give me back my cigarette case. [Follows
Algernon round the room.]
with her fondest love to her dear Uncle Jack.' There is no objection, I
admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, but why an aunt, no matter what
her size may be, should call her own nephew her uncle, I can't quite
make out. Besides, your name isn't Jack at all; it is Ernest.
one as Ernest. You answer to the name of Ernest. You look as if your
name was Ernest. You are the most earnest-looking person I ever saw in
my life. It is perfectly absurd your saying that your name isn't
Ernest. It's on your cards. Here is one of them. [Taking it from case.]
'Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany.' I'll keep this as a proof that
your name is Ernest if ever you attempt to deny it to me, or to
Gwendolen, or to any one else. [Puts the card in his pocket.]
cigarette case was given to me in the country.
Cecily, who lives at Tunbridge Wells, calls you her dear uncle. Come,
old boy, you had much better have the thing out at once.
vulgar to talk like a dentist when one isn't a dentist. It produces a
false impression.
whole thing. I may mention that I have always suspected you of being a
confirmed and secret Bunburyist; and I am quite sure of it now.
as you are kind enough to inform me why you are Ernest in town and Jack
in the country.
pray make it improbable. [Sits on sofa.]
all. In fact it's perfectly ordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who
adopted me when I was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to his
grand-daughter, Miss Cecily Cardew. Cecily, who addresses me as her
uncle from motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate,
lives at my place in the country under the charge of her admirable
governess, Miss Prism.
I may tell you candidly that the place is not in Shropshire.
on two separate occasions. Now, go on. Why are you Ernest in town and
Jack in the country?
real motives. You are hardly serious enough. When one is placed in the
position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all
subjects. It's one's duty to do so. And as a high moral tone can hardly
be said to conduce very much to either one's health or one's happiness,
in order to get up to town I have always pretended to have a younger
brother of the name of Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets into
the most dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure
and simple.
tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete
impossibility!
should leave that to people who haven't been at a University. They do
it so well in the daily papers. What you really are is a Bunburyist. I
was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist. You are one of the
most advanced Bunburyists I know.
that you may be able to come up to town as often as you like. I have
invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury, in order that
I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose. Bunbury is
perfectly invaluable. If it wasn't for Bunbury's extraordinary bad
health, for instance, I wouldn't be able to dine with you at Willis's
to-night, for I have been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than
a week.
very foolish of you. Nothing annoys people so much as not receiving
invitations.
begin with, I dined there on Monday, and once a week is quite enough to
dine with one's own relations. In the second place, whenever I do dine
there I am always treated as a member of the family, and sent down with
either no woman at all, or two. In the third place, I know perfectly
well whom she will place me next to, to-night. She will place me next
Mary Farquhar, who always flirts with her own husband across the
dinner-table. That is not very pleasant. Indeed, it is not even decent... and that sort of thing is enormously on the increase. The amount
of women in London who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly
scandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply washing one's clean linen in
public. Besides, now that I know you to be a confirmed Bunburyist I
naturally want to talk to you about Bunburying. I want to tell you the
rules.
kill my brother, indeed I think I'll kill him in any case. Cecily is a
little too much interested in him. It is rather a bore. So I am going
to get rid of Ernest. And I strongly advise you to do the same with Mr.... with your invalid friend who has the absurd name.
married, which seems to me extremely problematic, you will be very glad
to know Bunbury. A man who marries without knowing Bunbury has a very
tedious time of it.
the only girl I ever saw in my life that I would marry, I certainly
won't want to know Bunbury.
three is company and two is none.
corrupt French Drama has been propounding for the last fifty years.
cynical.
lot of beastly competition about. [The sound of an electric bell is
heard.] Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta. Only relatives, or creditors,
ever ring in that Wagnerian manner. Now, if I get her out of the way
for ten minutes, so that you can have an opportunity for proposing to
Gwendolen, may I dine with you to-night at Willis's?
serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.
[Enter Lane.]
[Algernon goes forward to meet them. Enter Lady Bracknell and
Gwendolen.]
together. [Sees Jack and bows to him with icy coldness.]
I intend to develop in many directions. [Gwendolen and Jack sit down
together in the corner.]
on dear Lady Harbury. I hadn't been there since her poor husband's
death. I never saw a woman so altered; she looks quite twenty years
younger. And now I'll have a cup of tea, and one of those nice cucumber
sandwiches you promised me.
no cucumber sandwiches? I ordered them specially.
went down twice.
not even for ready money.
Harbury, who seems to me to be living entirely for pleasure now.
cannot say. [Algernon crosses and hands tea.] Thank you. I've quite a
treat for you to-night, Algernon. I am going to send you down with Mary
Farquhar. She is such a nice woman, and so attentive to her husband.
It's delightful to watch them.
dining with you to-night after all.
Your uncle would have to dine upstairs. Fortunately he is accustomed to
that.
to me, but the fact is I have just had a telegram to say that my poor
friend Bunbury is very ill again. [Exchanges glances with Jack.] They
seem to think I should be with him.
health.
Bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live or to die. This
shilly-shallying with the question is absurd. Nor do I in any way
approve of the modern sympathy with invalids. I consider it morbid.
Illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged in others.
Health is the primary duty of life. I am always telling that to your
poor uncle, but he never seems to take much notice... as far as any
improvement in his ailment goes. I should be much obliged if you would
ask Mr. Bunbury, from me, to be kind enough not to have a relapse on
Saturday, for I rely on you to arrange my music for me. It is my last
reception, and one wants something that will encourage conversation,
particularly at the end of the season when every one has practically
said whatever they had to say, which, in most cases, was probably not
much.
think I can promise you he'll be all right by Saturday. Of course the
music is a great difficulty. You see, if one plays good music, people
don't listen, and if one plays bad music people don't talk. But I'll
run over the programme I've drawn out, if you will kindly come into the
next room for a moment.
following Algernon.] I'm sure the programme will be delightful, after a
few expurgations. French songs I cannot possibly allow. People always
seem to think that they are improper, and either look shocked, which is
vulgar, or laugh, which is worse. But German sounds a thoroughly
respectable language, and indeed, I believe is so. Gwendolen, you will
accompany me.
[Lady Bracknell and Algernon go into the music-room, Gwendolen remains
behind.]
talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain that they
mean something else. And that makes me so nervous.
temporary absence...
suddenly into a room that I have often had to speak to her about.
than any girl... I have ever met since... I met you.
public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative. For me you have
always had an irresistible fascination. Even before I met you I was far
from indifferent to you. [Jack looks at her in amazement.] We live, as
I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, in an age of ideals. The fact is
constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines, and has
reached the provincial pulpits, I am told; and my ideal has always been
to love some one of the name of Ernest. There is something in that name
that inspires absolute confidence. The moment Algernon first mentioned
to me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to love
you.
wasn't Ernest?
say you couldn't love me then?
metaphysical speculations has very little reference at all to the
actual facts of real life, as we know them.
the name of Ernest... I don't think the name suits me at all.
It produces vibrations.
other much nicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.
all, indeed. It does not thrill. It produces absolutely no vibrations... I have known several Jacks, and they all, without exception, were
more than usually plain. Besides, Jack is a notorious domesticity for
John! And I pity any woman who is married to a man called John. She
would probably never be allowed to know the entrancing pleasure of a
single moment's solitude. The only really safe name is Ernest.
once. There is no time to be lost.
me to believe, Miss Fairfax, that you were not absolutely indifferent
to me.
at all about marriage. The subject has not even been touched on.
possible disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to tell you
quite frankly before-hand that I am fully determined to accept you.
you have had very little experience in how to propose.
All my girl-friends tell me so. What wonderfully blue eyes you have,
Ernest! They are quite, quite, blue. I hope you will always look at me
just like that, especially when there are other people present. [Enter
Lady Bracknell.]
indecorous.
This is no place for you. Besides, Mr. Worthing has not quite finished
yet.
to some one, I, or your father, should his health permit him, will
inform you of the fact. An engagement should come on a young girl as a
surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be. It is hardly a
matter that she could be allowed to arrange for herself... And now I
have a few questions to put to you, Mr. Worthing. While I am making
these inquiries, you, Gwendolen, will wait for me below in the
carriage.
blow kisses to each other behind Lady Bracknell's back. Lady Bracknell
looks vaguely about as if she could not understand what the noise was.
Finally turns round.] Gwendolen, the carriage!
[Looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.]
not down on my list of eligible young men, although I have the same
list as the dear Duchess of Bolton has. We work together, in fact.
However, I am quite ready to enter your name, should your answers be
what a really affectionate mother requires. Do you smoke?
kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it is. How old are
you?
man who desires to get married should know either everything or
nothing. Which do you know?
I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. What is your income?
one's lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one's death, land
has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives one position,
and prevents one from keeping it up. That's all that can be said about
land.
fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don't depend on that for my
real income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the
only people who make anything out of it.
afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl with a simple,
unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be expected to reside in
the country.
Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at six
months' notice.
years.
number in Belgrave Square?
something. However, that could easily be altered.
any rate. Now to minor matters. Are your parents living?
lose both looks like carelessness. Who was your father? He was
evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radical papers
call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the
aristocracy?
had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my
parents seem to have lost me... I don't actually know who I am by
birth. I was... well, I was found.
kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of Worthing, because
he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing in his pocket at
the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.
this seaside resort find you?
large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it—an ordinary hand-bag
in fact.
ordinary hand-bag?
for his own.
bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate
bred, in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to
display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that
reminds one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I
presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the
particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a
railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion—has
probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now—but it could
hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognised position in
good society.
would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen's happiness.
relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce
at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is quite over.
the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. I really
think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.
Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter—a girl brought
up with the utmost care—to marry into a cloak-room, and form an
alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing!
[Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation.]
March. Jack looks perfectly furious, and goes to the door.] For
goodness' sake don't play that ghastly tune, Algy. How idiotic you are!
[The music stops and Algernon enters cheerily.]
refused you? I know it is a way she has. She is always refusing people.
I think it is most ill-natured of her.
are engaged. Her mother is perfectly unbearable. Never met such a
Gorgon... I don't really know what a Gorgon is like, but I am quite
sure that Lady Bracknell is one. In any case, she is a monster, without
being a myth, which is rather unfair... I beg your pardon, Algy, I
suppose I shouldn't talk about your own aunt in that way before you.
that makes me put up with them at all. Relations are simply a tedious
pack of people, who haven't got the remotest knowledge of how to live,
nor the smallest instinct about when to die.
things.
don't think there is any chance of Gwendolen becoming like her mother
in about a hundred and fifty years, do you, Algy?
does. That's his.
civilised life should be.
can't go anywhere without meeting clever people. The thing has become
an absolute public nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a few fools
left.
town, and Jack in the country?
the sort of thing one tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl. What
extraordinary ideas you have about the way to behave to a woman!
pretty, and to some one else, if she is plain.
died in Paris of apoplexy. Lots of people die of apoplexy, quite
suddenly, don't they?
runs in families. You had much better say a severe chill.
Paris, by a severe chill. That gets rid of him.
interested in your poor brother Ernest? Won't she feel his loss a good
deal?
to say. She has got a capital appetite, goes long walks, and pays no
attention at all to her lessons.
she is only just eighteen.
who is only just eighteen?
are perfectly certain to be extremely great friends. I'll bet you
anything you like that half an hour after they have met, they will be
calling each other sister.
things first. Now, my dear boy, if we want to get a good table at
Willis's, we really must go and dress. Do you know it is nearly seven?
where there is no definite object of any kind.
[Enter Lane.]
[Enter Gwendolen. Lane goes out.]
Mr. Worthing.
are not quite old enough to do that. [Algernon retires to the
fireplace.]
fear we never shall. Few parents nowadays pay any regard to what their
children say to them. The old-fashioned respect for the young is fast
dying out. Whatever influence I ever had over mamma, I lost at the age
of three. But although she may prevent us from becoming man and wife,
and I may marry some one else, and marry often, nothing that she can
possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you.
unpleasing comments, has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my
nature. Your Christian name has an irresistible fascination. The
simplicity of your character makes you exquisitely incomprehensible to
me. Your town address at the Albany I have. What is your address in the
country?
[Algernon, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, and
writes the address on his shirt-cuff. Then picks up the Railway Guide.]
something desperate. That of course will require serious consideration.
I will communicate with you daily.
[Lane presents several letters on a salver to Algernon. It is to be
surmised that they are bills, as Algernon, after looking at the
envelopes, tears them up.]
clothes, my smoking jacket, and all the Bunbury suits...
[Enter Jack. Lane goes off.]
in my life. [Algernon is laughing immoderately.] What on earth are you
so amused at?
scrape some day.
[Jack looks indignantly at him, and leaves the room. Algernon lights a
cigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and smiles.]
Second act
house. The garden, an old-fashioned one, full of roses. Time of year,
July. Basket chairs, and a table covered with books, are set under a
large yew-tree.
[Miss Prism discovered seated at the table. Cecily is at the back
watering flowers.]
watering of flowers is rather Moulton's duty than yours? Especially at
a moment when intellectual pleasures await you. Your German grammar is
on the table. Pray open it at page fifteen. We will repeat yesterday's
lesson.
becoming language. I know perfectly well that I look quite plain after
my German lesson.
yourself in every way. He laid particular stress on your German, as he
was leaving for town yesterday. Indeed, he always lays stress on your
German when he is leaving for town.
think he cannot be quite well.
gravity of demeanour is especially to be commended in one so
comparatively young as he is. I know no one who has a higher sense of
duty and responsibility.
together.
life. Idle merriment and triviality would be out of place in his
conversation. You must remember his constant anxiety about that
unfortunate young man his brother.
to come down here sometimes. We might have a good influence over him,
Miss Prism. I am sure you certainly would. You know German, and
geology, and things of that kind influence a man very much. [Cecily
begins to write in her diary.]
on a character that according to his own brother's admission is
irretrievably weak and vacillating. Indeed I am not sure that I would
desire to reclaim him. I am not in favour of this modern mania for
turning bad people into good people at a moment's notice. As a man sows
so let him reap. You must put away your diary, Cecily. I really don't
see why you should keep a diary at all.
didn't write them down, I should probably forget all about them.
couldn't possibly have happened. I believe that Memory is responsible
for nearly all the three-volume novels that Mudie sends us.
myself in earlier days.
did not end happily? I don't like novels that end happily. They depress
me so much.
means.
published?
I use the word in the sense of lost or mislaid. To your work, child,
these speculations are profitless.
[Enter Canon Chasuble.]
would do her so much good to have a short stroll with you in the Park,
Dr. Chasuble.
a headache. Indeed I was thinking about that, and not about my German
lesson, when the Rector came in.
would hang on her lips. [Miss Prism glares.] I spoke
metaphorically.—My metaphor was drawn from bees. Ahem! Mr. Worthing, I
suppose, has not returned from town yet?
of those whose sole aim is enjoyment, as, by all accounts, that
unfortunate young man his brother seems to be. But I must not disturb
Egeria and her pupil any longer.
shall see you both no doubt at Evensong?
headache after all, and a walk might do it good.
schools and back.
in my absence. The chapter on the Fall of the Rupee you may omit. It is
somewhat too sensational. Even these metallic problems have their
melodramatic side.
[Goes down the garden with Dr. Chasuble.]
Economy! Horrid Geography! Horrid, horrid German!
[Enter Merriman with a card on a salver.]
brought his luggage with him.
W.' Uncle Jack's brother! Did you tell him Mr. Worthing was in town?
Miss Prism were in the garden. He said he was anxious to speak to you
privately for a moment.
the housekeeper about a room for him.
[Merriman goes off.]
frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one else.
[Enter Algernon, very gay and debonnair.] He does!
I am more than usually tall for my age. [Algernon is rather taken
aback.] But I am your cousin Cecily. You, I see from your card, are
Uncle Jack's brother, my cousin Ernest, my wicked cousin Ernest.
that I am wicked.
inexcusable manner. I hope you have not been leading a double life,
pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time. That would
be hypocrisy.
small way.
have been very pleasant.
till Monday afternoon.
train on Monday morning. I have a business appointment that I am
anxious... to miss?
engagement, if one wants to retain any sense of the beauty of life, but
still I think you had better wait till Uncle Jack arrives. I know he
wants to speak to you about your emigrating.
neckties at all.
Australia.
choose between this world, the next world, and Australia.
are not particularly encouraging. This world is good enough for me,
cousin Cecily.
make that your mission, if you don't mind, cousin Cecily.
to lead an entirely new life, one requires regular and wholesome meals.
Won't you come in?
unless I have a buttonhole first.
Prism never says such things to me.
his buttonhole.] You are the prettiest girl I ever saw.
know what to talk to him about.
[They pass into the house. Miss Prism and Dr. Chasuble return.]
misanthrope I can understand—a womanthrope, never!
a phrase. The precept as well as the practice of the Primitive Church
was distinctly against matrimony.
has not lasted up to the present day. And you do not seem to realise,
dear Doctor, that by persistently remaining single, a man converts
himself into a permanent public temptation. Men should be more careful;
this very celibacy leads weaker vessels astray.
always be depended on. Ripeness can be trusted. Young women are green.
[Dr. Chasuble starts.] I spoke horticulturally. My metaphor was drawn
from fruits. But where is Cecily?
[Enter Jack slowly from the back of the garden. He is dressed in the
deepest mourning, with crape hatband and black gloves.]
afternoon.
than I expected. Dr. Chasuble, I hope you are well?
terrible calamity?
consolation of knowing that you were always the most generous and
forgiving of brothers.
the manager of the Grand Hotel.
perfect. I myself am peculiarly susceptible to draughts. Will the
interment take place here?
serious state of mind at the last. You would no doubt wish me to make
some slight allusion to this tragic domestic affliction next Sunday.
[Jack presses his hand convulsively.] My sermon on the meaning of the
manna in the wilderness can be adapted to almost any occasion, joyful,
or, as in the present case, distressing. [All sigh.] I have preached it
at harvest celebrations, christenings, confirmations, on days of
humiliation and festal days. The last time I delivered it was in the
Cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the Society for the
Prevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders. The Bishop, who was
present, was much struck by some of the analogies I drew.
I suppose you know how to christen all right? [Dr. Chasuble looks
astounded.] I mean, of course, you are continually christening, aren't
you?
this parish. I have often spoken to the poorer classes on the subject.
But they don't seem to know what thrift is.
Worthing? Your brother was, I believe, unmarried, was he not?
No! the fact is, I would like to be christened myself, this afternoon,
if you have nothing better to do.
bother you in any way, or if you think I am a little too old now.
perfectly canonical practice.
indeed I think advisable. Our weather is so changeable. At what hour
would you wish the ceremony performed?
at that time. A case of twins that occurred recently in one of the
outlying cottages on your own estate. Poor Jenkins the carter, a most
hard-working man.
It would be childish. Would half-past five do?
will not intrude any longer into a house of sorrow. I would merely beg
you not to be too much bowed down by grief. What seem to us bitter
trials are often blessings in disguise.
[Enter Cecily from the house.]
you have got on! Do go and change them.
melancholy manner.]
toothache, and I have got such a surprise for you. Who do you think is
in the dining-room? Your brother!
past he is still your brother. You couldn't be so heartless as to
disown him. I'll tell him to come out. And you will shake hands with
him, won't you, Uncle Jack? [Runs back into the house.]
me peculiarly distressing.
think it is perfectly absurd.
[Enter Algernon and Cecily hand in hand. They come slowly up to Jack.]
sorry for all the trouble I have given you, and that I intend to lead a
better life in the future. [Jack glares at him and does not take his
hand.]
disgraceful. He knows perfectly well why.
just been telling me about his poor invalid friend Mr. Bunbury whom he
goes to visit so often. And surely there must be much good in one who
is kind to an invalid, and leaves the pleasures of London to sit by a
bed of pain.
of health.
anything else. It is enough to drive one perfectly frantic.
that I think that Brother John's coldness to me is peculiarly painful.
I expected a more enthusiastic welcome, especially considering it is
the first time I have come here.
you.
and glares.]
we might leave the two brothers together.
possible. I don't allow any Bunburying here.
[Enter Merriman.]
suppose that is all right?
next to your own.
large luncheon-basket.
called back to town.
at all.
smallest degree.
Why on earth don't you go up and change? It is perfectly childish to be
in deep mourning for a man who is actually staying for a whole week
with you in your house as a guest. I call it grotesque.
anything else. You have got to leave... by the four-five train.
most unfriendly. If I were in mourning you would stay with me, I
suppose. I should think it very unkind if you didn't.
dress, and with such little result.
are.
always immensely over-educated.
in my garden utterly absurd. However, you have got to catch the
four-five, and I hope you will have a pleasant journey back to town.
This Bunburying, as you call it, has not been a great success for you.
[Goes into the house.]
is everything.
[Enter Cecily at the back of the garden. She picks up the can and
begins to water the flowers.] But I must see her before I go, and make
arrangements for another Bunbury. Ah, there she is.
Uncle Jack.
brief space of time. The absence of old friends one can endure with
equanimity. But even a momentary separation from anyone to whom one has
just been introduced is almost unbearable.
[Enter Merriman.]
Cecily.]
openly that you seem to me to be in every way the visible
personification of absolute perfection.
me, I will copy your remarks into my diary. [Goes over to table and
begins writing in diary.]
girl's record of her own thoughts and impressions, and consequently
meant for publication. When it appears in volume form I hope you will
order a copy. But pray, Ernest, don't stop. I delight in taking down
from dictation. I have reached 'absolute perfection'. You can go on. I
am quite ready for more.
fluently and not cough. Besides, I don't know how to spell a cough.
[Writes as Algernon speaks.]
wonderful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you wildly,
passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.
passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn't seem to make
much sense, does it?
[Enter Merriman.]
[Merriman retires.]
till next week, at the same hour.
world but you. I love you, Cecily. You will marry me, won't you?
months.
younger brother who was very wicked and bad, you of course have formed
the chief topic of conversation between myself and Miss Prism. And of
course a man who is much talked about is always very attractive. One
feels there must be something in him, after all. I daresay it was
foolish of me, but I fell in love with you, Ernest.
existence, I determined to end the matter one way or the other, and
after a long struggle with myself I accepted you under this dear old
tree here. The next day I bought this little ring in your name, and
this is the little bangle with the true lover's knot I promised you
always to wear.
given for your leading such a bad life. And this is the box in which I
keep all your dear letters. [Kneels at table, opens box, and produces
letters tied up with blue ribbon.]
letters.
that I was forced to write your letters for you. I wrote always three
times a week, and sometimes oftener.
[Replaces box.] The three you wrote me after I had broken off the
engagement are so beautiful, and so badly spelled, that even now I can
hardly read them without crying a little.
you like. [Shows diary.] 'To-day I broke off my engagement with Ernest.
I feel it is better to do so. The weather still continues charming.'
nothing at all. Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to hear you broke it
off. Particularly when the weather was so charming.
broken off at least once. But I forgave you before the week was out.
hair.] I hope your hair curls naturally, does it?
Besides, of course, there is the question of your name.
dream of mine to love some one whose name was Ernest. [Algernon rises,
Cecily also.] There is something in that name that seems to inspire
absolute confidence. I pity any poor married woman whose husband is not
called Ernest.
some other name?
you should object to the name of Algernon. It is not at all a bad name.
In fact, it is rather an aristocratic name. Half of the chaps who get
into the Bankruptcy Court are called Algernon. But seriously, Cecily... [Moving to her]... if my name was Algy, couldn't you love me?
but I fear that I should not be able to give you my undivided
attention.
thoroughly experienced in the practice of all the rites and ceremonials
of the Church?
single book, so you can imagine how much he knows.
important business.
I only met you to-day for the first time, I think it is rather hard
that you should leave me for so long a period as half an hour. Couldn't
you make it twenty minutes?
[Kisses her and rushes down the garden.]
proposal in my diary.
[Enter Merriman.]
business, Miss Fairfax states.
soon. And you can bring tea.
associated with Uncle Jack in some of his philanthropic work in London.
I don't quite like women who are interested in philanthropic work. I
think it is so forward of them.
[Enter Merriman.]
[Enter Gwendolen.]
[Exit Merriman.]
is Cecily Cardew.
name! Something tells me that we are going to be great friends. I like
you already more than I can say. My first impressions of people are
never wrong.
a comparatively short time. Pray sit down.
am. My father is Lord Bracknell. You have never heard of papa, I
suppose?
I think that is quite as it should be. The home seems to me to be the
proper sphere for the man. And certainly once a man begins to neglect
his domestic duties he becomes painfully effeminate, does he not? And I
don't like that. It makes men so very attractive. Cecily, mamma, whose
views on education are remarkably strict, has brought me up to be
extremely short-sighted; it is part of her system; so do you mind my
looking at you through my glasses?
a short visit, I suppose.
advanced years, resides here also?
task of looking after me.
secretive of him! He grows more interesting hourly. I am not sure,
however, that the news inspires me with feelings of unmixed delight.
[Rising and going to her.] I am very fond of you, Cecily; I have liked
you ever since I met you! But I am bound to state that now that I know
that you are Mr. Worthing's ward, I cannot help expressing a wish you
were—well, just a little older than you seem to be—and not quite so
very alluring in appearance. In fact, if I may speak candidly—
should always be quite candid.
forty-two, and more than usually plain for your age. Ernest has a
strong upright nature. He is the very soul of truth and honour.
Disloyalty would be as impossible to him as deception. But even men of
the noblest possible moral character are extremely susceptible to the
influence of the physical charms of others. Modern, no less than
Ancient History, supplies us with many most painful examples of what I
refer to. If it were not so, indeed, History would be quite unreadable.
brother—his elder brother.
brother.
any man mention his brother. The subject seems distasteful to most men.
Cecily, you have lifted a load from my mind. I was growing almost
anxious. It would have been terrible if any cloud had come across a
friendship like ours, would it not? Of course you are quite, quite sure
that it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is your guardian?
I should make a secret of it to you. Our little county newspaper is
sure to chronicle the fact next week. Mr. Ernest Worthing and I are
engaged to be married.
slight error. Mr. Ernest Worthing is engaged to me. The announcement
will appear in the _Morning Post_ on Saturday at the latest.
misconception. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago. [Shows
diary.]
curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday afternoon at 5.30. If
you would care to verify the incident, pray do so. [Produces diary of
her own.] I never travel without my diary. One should always have
something sensational to read in the train. I am so sorry, dear Cecily,
if it is any disappointment to you, but I am afraid I have the prior
claim.
caused you any mental or physical anguish, but I feel bound to point
out that since Ernest proposed to you he clearly has changed his mind.
promise I shall consider it my duty to rescue him at once, and with a
firm hand.
may have got into, I will never reproach him with it after we are
married.
presumptuous. On an occasion of this kind it becomes more than a moral
duty to speak one's mind. It becomes a pleasure.
engagement? How dare you? This is no time for wearing the shallow mask
of manners. When I see a spade I call it a spade.
obvious that our social spheres have been widely different.
[Enter Merriman, followed by the footman. He carries a salver, table
cloth, and plate stand. Cecily is about to retort. The presence of the
servants exercises a restraining influence, under which both girls
chafe.]
table and lay cloth. A long pause. Cecily and Gwendolen glare at each
other.]
can see five counties.
lip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.]
country, if anybody who is anybody does. The country always bores me to
death.
not? I believe the aristocracy are suffering very much from it just at
present. It is almost an epidemic among them, I have been told. May I
offer you some tea, Miss Fairfax?
require tea!
[Cecily looks angrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts four lumps of
sugar into the cup.]
the best houses nowadays.
to Miss Fairfax.
[Merriman does so, and goes out with footman. Gwendolen drinks the tea
and makes a grimace. Puts down cup at once, reaches out her hand to the
bread and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake. Rises in
indignation.]
distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake. I am known for
the gentleness of my disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my
nature, but I warn you, Miss Cardew, you may go too far.
of any other girl there are no lengths to which I would not go.
and deceitful. I am never deceived in such matters. My first
impressions of people are invariably right.
time. No doubt you have many other calls of a similar character to make
in the neighbourhood.
[Enter Jack.]
this young lady? [Points to Cecily.]
such an idea into your pretty little head?
Fairfax. The gentleman whose arm is at present round your waist is my
guardian, Mr. John Worthing.
[Enter Algernon.]
love! [Offers to kiss her.]
married to this young lady?
pretty little head?
kisses her.]
now embracing you is my cousin, Mr. Algernon Moncrieff.
move towards each other and put their arms round each other's waists as
if for protection.]
anything if I liked. But my name certainly is John. It has been John
for years.
embrace. Jack and Algernon groan and walk up and down.]
allowed to ask my guardian.
like to be permitted to put to you. Where is your brother Ernest? We
are both engaged to be married to your brother Ernest, so it is a
matter of some importance to us to know where your brother Ernest is at
present.
to be forced to speak the truth. It is the first time in my life that I
have ever been reduced to such a painful position, and I am really
quite inexperienced in doing anything of the kind. However, I will tell
you quite frankly that I have no brother Ernest. I have no brother at
all. I never had a brother in my life, and I certainly have not the
smallest intention of ever having one in the future.
be married to any one.
herself in. Is it?
there.
[They retire into the house with scornful looks.]
Bunbury I have ever had in my life.
serious Bunburyist knows that.
amusement in life. I happen to be serious about Bunburying. What on
earth you are serious about I haven't got the remotest idea. About
everything, I should fancy. You have such an absolutely trivial nature.
business is that your friend Bunbury is quite exploded. You won't be
able to run down to the country quite so often as you used to do, dear
Algy. And a very good thing too.
able to disappear to London quite so frequently as your wicked custom
was. And not a bad thing either.
a sweet, simple, innocent girl like that is quite inexcusable. To say
nothing of the fact that she is my ward.
clever, thoroughly experienced young lady like Miss Fairfax. To say
nothing of the fact that she is my cousin.
being united.
muffins.] It is very vulgar to talk about one's business. Only people
like stock-brokers do that, and then merely at dinner parties.
horrible trouble, I can't make out. You seem to me to be perfectly
heartless.
probably get on my cuffs. One should always eat muffins quite calmly.
It is the only way to eat them.
circumstances.
Indeed, when I am in really great trouble, as any one who knows me
intimately will tell you, I refuse everything except food and drink. At
the present moment I am eating muffins because I am unhappy. Besides, I
am particularly fond of muffins. [Rising.]
greedy way. [Takes muffins from Algernon.]
like tea-cake.
garden.
is a very different thing.
from Jack.]
absurd. I never go without my dinner. No one ever does, except
vegetarians and people like that. Besides I have just made arrangements
with Dr. Chasuble to be christened at a quarter to six under the name
of Ernest.
arrangements this morning with Dr. Chasuble to be christened myself at
5.30, and I naturally will take the name of Ernest. Gwendolen would
wish it. We can't both be christened Ernest. It's absurd. Besides, I
have a perfect right to be christened if I like. There is no evidence
at all that I have ever been christened by anybody. I should think it
extremely probable I never was, and so does Dr. Chasuble. It is
entirely different in your case. You have been christened already.
sure about your ever having been christened, I must say I think it
rather dangerous your venturing on it now. It might make you very
unwell. You can hardly have forgotten that some one very closely
connected with you was very nearly carried off this week in Paris by a
severe chill.
making wonderful improvements in things.
talking nonsense.
two left. [Takes them.] I told you I was particularly fond of muffins.
guests? What ideas you have of hospitality!
don't you go!
left. [Jack groans, and sinks into a chair. Algernon still continues
eating.]
Third act
[Gwendolen and Cecily are at the window, looking out into the garden.]
else would have done, seems to me to show that they have some sense of
shame left.
cough?
Algernon. They whistle some dreadful popular air from a British Opera.]
on your reply.
answer me the following question. Why did you pretend to be my
guardian's brother?
it not?
thing. Mr. Worthing, what explanation can you offer to me for
pretending to have a brother? Was it in order that you might have an
opportunity of coming up to town to see me as often as possible?
This is not the moment for German scepticism. [Moving to Cecily.] Their
explanations appear to be quite satisfactory, especially Mr.
Worthing's. That seems to me to have the stamp of truth on it.
inspires one with absolute credulity.
surrender. Which of us should tell them? The task is not a pleasant
one.
people. Will you take the time from me?
GWENDOLEN and CECILY [Speaking together.] Your Christian names are
still an insuperable barrier. That is all!
JACK and ALGERNON [Speaking together.] Our Christian names! Is that
all? But we are going to be christened this afternoon.
self-sacrifice are concerned, men are infinitely beyond us.
nothing.
[Enter Merriman. When he enters he coughs loudly, seeing the
situation.]
[Enter Lady Bracknell. The couples separate in alarm. Exit Merriman.]
sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness in the old.
[Turns to Jack.] Apprised, sir, of my daughter's sudden flight by her
trusty maid, whose confidence I purchased by means of a small coin, I
followed her at once by a luggage train. Her unhappy father is, I am
glad to say, under the impression that she is attending a more than
usually lengthy lecture by the University Extension Scheme on the
Influence of a permanent income on Thought. I do not propose to
undeceive him. Indeed I have never undeceived him on any question. I
would consider it wrong. But of course, you will clearly understand
that all communication between yourself and my daughter must cease
immediately from this moment. On this point, as indeed on all points, I
am firm.
Algernon!
resides?
else at present. In fact, Bunbury is dead.
sudden.
this afternoon.
that Mr. Bunbury was interested in social legislation. If so, he is
well punished for his morbidity.
that Bunbury could not live, that is what I mean—so Bunbury died.
I am glad, however, that he made up his mind at the last to some
definite course of action, and acted under proper medical advice. And
now that we have finally got rid of this Mr. Bunbury, may I ask, Mr.
Worthing, who is that young person whose hand my nephew Algernon is now
holding in what seems to me a peculiarly unnecessary manner?
to Cecily.]
whether there is anything peculiarly exciting in the air of this
particular part of Hertfordshire, but the number of engagements that go
on seems to me considerably above the proper average that statistics
have laid down for our guidance. I think some preliminary inquiry on my
part would not be out of place. Mr. Worthing, is Miss Cardew at all
connected with any of the larger railway stations in London? I merely
desire information. Until yesterday I had no idea that there were any
families or persons whose origin was a Terminus. [Jack looks perfectly
furious, but restrains himself.]
Mr. Thomas Cardew of 149 Belgrave Square, S.W.; Gervase Park, Dorking,
Surrey; and the Sporran, Fifeshire, N.B.
confidence, even in tradesmen. But what proof have I of their
authenticity?
open to your inspection, Lady Bracknell.
their profession. Indeed I am told that one of the Mr. Markby's is
occasionally to be seen at dinner parties. So far I am satisfied.
also in my possession, you will be pleased to hear, certificates of
Miss Cardew's birth, baptism, whooping cough, registration,
vaccination, confirmation, and the measles; both the German and the
English variety.
exciting for a young girl. I am not myself in favour of premature
experiences. [Rises, looks at her watch.] Gwendolen! the time
approaches for our departure. We have not a moment to lose. As a matter
of form, Mr. Worthing, I had better ask you if Miss Cardew has any
little fortune?
all. Goodbye, Lady Bracknell. So pleased to have seen you.
thousand pounds! And in the Funds! Miss Cardew seems to me a most
attractive young lady, now that I look at her. Few girls of the present
day have any really solid qualities, any of the qualities that last,
and improve with time. We live, I regret to say, in an age of surfaces.
[To Cecily.] Come over here, dear. [Cecily goes across.] Pretty child!
your dress is sadly simple, and your hair seems almost as Nature might
have left it. But we can soon alter all that. A thoroughly experienced
French maid produces a really marvellous result in a very brief space
of time. I remember recommending one to young Lady Lancing, and after
three months her own husband did not know her.
to Cecily.] Kindly turn round, sweet child. [Cecily turns completely
round.] No, the side view is what I want. [Cecily presents her
profile.] Yes, quite as I expected. There are distinct social
possibilities in your profile. The two weak points in our age are its
want of principle and its want of profile. The chin a little higher,
dear. Style largely depends on the way the chin is worn. They are worn
very high, just at present. Algernon!
I don't care twopence about social possibilities.
get into it do that. [To Cecily.] Dear child, of course you know that
Algernon has nothing but his debts to depend on. But I do not approve
of mercenary marriages. When I married Lord Bracknell I had no fortune
of any kind. But I never dreamed for a moment of allowing that to stand
in my way. Well, I suppose I must give my consent.
people the opportunity of finding out each other's character before
marriage, which I think is never advisable.
engagement is quite out of the question. I am Miss Cardew's guardian,
and she cannot marry without my consent until she comes of age. That
consent I absolutely decline to give.
an ostentatiously, eligible young man. He has nothing, but he looks
everything. What more can one desire?
about your nephew, but the fact is that I do not approve at all of his
moral character. I suspect him of being untruthful. [Algernon and
Cecily look at him in indignant amazement.]
during my temporary absence in London on an important question of
romance, he obtained admission to my house by means of the false
pretence of being my brother. Under an assumed name he drank, I've just
been informed by my butler, an entire pint bottle of my Perrier-Jouet,
Brut, '89; wine I was specially reserving for myself. Continuing his
disgraceful deception, he succeeded in the course of the afternoon in
alienating the affections of my only ward. He subsequently stayed to
tea, and devoured every single muffin. And what makes his conduct all
the more heartless is, that he was perfectly well aware from the first
that I have no brother, that I never had a brother, and that I don't
intend to have a brother, not even of any kind. I distinctly told him
so myself yesterday afternoon.
to overlook my nephew's conduct to you.
is unalterable. I decline to give my consent.
you, dear?
to evening parties.
woman should ever be quite accurate about her age. It looks so
calculating... [In a meditative manner.] Eighteen, but admitting to
twenty at evening parties. Well, it will not be very long before you
are of age and free from the restraints of tutelage. So I don't think
your guardian's consent is, after all, a matter of any importance.
only fair to tell you that according to the terms of her grandfather's
will Miss Cardew does not come legally of age till she is thirty-five.
attractive age. London society is full of women of the very highest
birth who have, of their own free choice, remained thirty-five for
years. Lady Dumbleton is an instance in point. To my own knowledge she
has been thirty-five ever since she arrived at the age of forty, which
was many years ago now. I see no reason why our dear Cecily should not
be even still more attractive at the age you mention than she is at
present. There will be a large accumulation of property.
waiting even five minutes for anybody. It always makes me rather cross.
I am not punctual myself, I know, but I do like punctuality in others,
and waiting, even to be married, is quite out of the question.
wait till she is thirty-five—a remark which I am bound to say seems to
me to show a somewhat impatient nature—I would beg of you to reconsider
your decision.
The moment you consent to my marriage with Gwendolen, I will most
gladly allow your nephew to form an alliance with my ward.
propose is out of the question.
can choose for himself. [Pulls out her watch.] Come, dear, [Gwendolen
rises] we have already missed five, if not six, trains. To miss any
more might expose us to comment on the platform.
[Enter Dr. Chasuble.]
gentlemen have expressed a desire for immediate baptism.
you to be baptized. I will not hear of such excesses. Lord Bracknell
would be highly displeased if he learned that that was the way in which
you wasted your time and money.
this afternoon?
value to either of us, Dr. Chasuble.
savour of the heretical views of the Anabaptists, views that I have
completely refuted in four of my unpublished sermons. However, as your
present mood seems to be one peculiarly secular, I will return to the
church at once. Indeed, I have just been informed by the pew-opener
that for the last hour and a half Miss Prism has been waiting for me in
the vestry.
one of vital importance to Lord Bracknell and myself. Is this Miss
Prism a female of repellent aspect, remotely connected with education?
very picture of respectability.
your household?
years Miss Cardew's esteemed governess and valued companion.
for.
[Enter Miss Prism hurriedly.]
waiting for you there for an hour and three-quarters. [Catches sight of
Lady Bracknell, who has fixed her with a stony glare. Miss Prism grows
pale and quails. She looks anxiously round as if desirous to escape.]
shame.] Come here, Prism! [Miss Prism approaches in a humble manner.]
Prism! Where is that baby? [General consternation. The Canon starts
back in horror. Algernon and Jack pretend to be anxious to shield
Cecily and Gwendolen from hearing the details of a terrible public
scandal.] Twenty-eight years ago, Prism, you left Lord Bracknell's
house, Number 104, Upper Grosvenor Street, in charge of a perambulator
that contained a baby of the male sex. You never returned. A few weeks
later, through the elaborate investigations of the Metropolitan police,
the perambulator was discovered at midnight, standing by itself in a
remote corner of Bayswater. It contained the manuscript of a
three-volume novel of more than usually revolting sentimentality. [Miss
Prism starts in involuntary indignation.] But the baby was not there!
[Every one looks at Miss Prism.] Prism! Where is that baby? [A pause.]
did. The plain facts of the case are these. On the morning of the day
you mention, a day that is for ever branded on my memory, I prepared as
usual to take the baby out in its perambulator. I had also with me a
somewhat old, but capacious hand-bag in which I had intended to place
the manuscript of a work of fiction that I had written during my few
unoccupied hours. In a moment of mental abstraction, for which I never
can forgive myself, I deposited the manuscript in the basinette, and
placed the baby in the hand-bag.
hand-bag?
knowing where you deposited the hand-bag that contained that infant.
London.
Jack in great excitement.]
families of high position strange coincidences are not supposed to
occur. They are hardly considered the thing.
[Noises heard overhead as if some one was throwing trunks about. Every
one looks up.]
argument. I dislike arguments of any kind. They are always vulgar, and
often convincing.
hand-bag of black leather in his hand.]
it carefully before you speak. The happiness of more than one life
depends on your answer.
through the upsetting of a Gower Street omnibus in younger and happier
days. Here is the stain on the lining caused by the explosion of a
temperance beverage, an incident that occurred at Leamington. And here,
on the lock, are my initials. I had forgotten that in an extravagant
mood I had had them placed there. The bag is undoubtedly mine. I am
delighted to have it so unexpectedly restored to me. It has been a
great inconvenience being without it all these years.
hand-bag. I was the baby you placed in it.
the right to cast a stone against one who has suffered? Cannot
repentance wipe out an act of folly? Why should there be one law for
men, and another for women? Mother, I forgive you. [Tries to embrace
her again.]
Lady Bracknell.] There is the lady who can tell you who you really are.
you kindly inform me who I am?
you. You are the son of my poor sister, Mrs. Moncrieff, and
consequently Algernon's elder brother.
brother! I always said I had a brother! Cecily,—how could you have ever
doubted that I had a brother? [Seizes hold of Algernon.] Dr. Chasuble,
my unfortunate brother. Miss Prism, my unfortunate brother. Gwendolen,
my unfortunate brother. Algy, you young scoundrel, you will have to
treat me with more respect in the future. You have never behaved to me
like a brother in all your life.
I was out of practice.
[Shakes hands.]
now that you have become some one else?
the subject of my name is irrevocable, I suppose?
moment. At the time when Miss Prism left me in the hand-bag, had I been
christened already?
lavished on you by your fond and doting parents.
me know the worst.
General's Christian name was. But I have no doubt he had one. He was
eccentric, I admit. But only in later years. And that was the result of
the Indian climate, and marriage, and indigestion, and other things of
that kind.
a year old.
Augusta?
life. But I have no doubt his name would appear in any military
directory.
records should have been my constant study. [Rushes to bookcase and
tears the books out.] M. Generals... Mallam, Maxbohm, Magley, what
ghastly names they have—Markby, Migsby, Mobbs, Moncrieff! Lieutenant
1840, Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel, Colonel, General 1869, Christian
names, Ernest John. [Puts book very quietly down and speaks quite
calmly.] I always told you, Gwendolen, my name was Ernest, didn't I?
Well, it is Ernest after all. I mean it naturally is Ernest.
some particular reason for disliking the name.
other name!
all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. Can you
forgive me?
my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest.

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