The Importance of Being EarnestÅldersanpassad version

Lane, the butler, set the tea things out with quiet care. The last notes of a piano drifted from the next room and faded away. Algernon Moncrieff walked in, light on his feet and pleased with himself.

"Did you hear what I played, Lane?" he asked.

"I did not think it polite to listen, sir," Lane answered, steady and correct as usual.

"I may not play accurately," Algernon said, "but I play with wonderful expression. For me, feeling on the piano, and science in life." He opened the silver cover on a plate. "And for Aunt Augusta's tea—cucumber sandwiches. Excellent."

He lifted one, tasted it, and smiled with delight. "Lane, I see from your book that on Thursday night, when Lord Shoreman and Mr. Worthing dined with me, eight bottles of champagne were consumed."

"Eight bottles and a pint, sir."

"Why do the servants in a bachelor's home always drink the champagne?"

"I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. In married households, the champagne is rarely first-rate."

"How demoralising marriage must be," Algernon sighed, finally deciding that he would worry about it later. Lane, who had once been married, tried to say something good about it. Algernon waved the thought away, declared Lane's view lax, and sent him out.

A moment later Lane returned. "Mr. Ernest Worthing."

Jack Worthing came in. Algernon greeted him with the kind of smile one wears for a friend one expects to be entertaining.

"What brings you to town? Pleasure?"

"Pleasure," Jack said. "You are eating again, Algy."

"It is five o'clock. A person must take slight refreshment at five o'clock. Where have you been since Thursday?"

"In the country."

"Doing what?"

"When in town, one amuses oneself. When in the country, one amuses other people. It is very boring."

"Who are these other people?"

"Neighbours."

"Do you have nice neighbours in Shropshire?"

Jack hesitated. "Perfectly horrid. I never speak to them."

"How immensely you must amuse them," Algernon said, not missing a beat.

Jack, used to the teasing, reached for a cucumber sandwich. Algernon caught his wrist. "Please don't touch. They are for Aunt Augusta."

"But you have been eating them."

"That is different. She is my aunt. You may have bread and butter. It is for Gwendolen."

Jack took a piece of bread and butter, then took another. Algernon watched him with mock horror. "You behave as if you were already married to her. Do try not to eat so much."

Jack put down the buttered slice. "I am in love with Gwendolen. I came to town to propose."

"You came for business, then, not pleasure. How unromantic."

"You talk as if a proposal were a trade."

"The essence of romance is uncertainty, my dear fellow. There is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. If ever I get married, I'll do my best to forget the fact."

"The Divorce Court was invented for people like you," Jack said, trying to sound stern and not quite managing it.

Algernon rang the bell. "Before you ever propose to Gwendolen, you must first clear up the matter of Cecily."

Jack stared. "Cecily? I don't know anyone of that name."

Lane brought in a small, elegant case. Algernon took it and flipped the catch. Inside was engraved: From little Cecily, with her fondest love to her dear Uncle Jack.

"This isn't yours, Ernest," Algernon said, eyes dancing. "It is a present from someone called Cecily, and you say you don't know anyone called Cecily."

Jack reached for the case. "It is mine. Give it here. Reading a man's cigarette case is not gentlemanly."

"It is a very pretty case. The more pretty it is, the more readable," Algernon said. "Besides, why does your aunt sign herself 'little Cecily'? And why does your aunt call her nephew her uncle? And why does the case say 'Jack' when your name is Ernest?"

Jack's face shifted through annoyance, alarm, and at last a surrender that wasn't quite a confession. "In town, my name is Ernest. In the country, my name is Jack."

"I thought so! You are a confirmed and secret Bunburyist."

"A what?"

"A Bunburyist," Algernon repeated, very pleased with himself. "I'll explain if you explain why you have two names."

Jack, frowning, began. He had been adopted as a baby by a kind old gentleman, Thomas Cardew. Cardew made him guardian to his granddaughter, Miss Cecily Cardew, who lived in Jack's house in the country with her governess, Miss Prism. "Cecily calls me uncle out of respect," Jack said. "As her guardian, I must appear very moral. The high moral tone is not good for one's health or happiness. So when I need to come to town, I pretend I have a younger brother, Ernest, who lives at the Albany and gets into dreadful scrapes. I am always going to town to rescue him."

Algernon listened with admiration. "The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Yes, you are a Bunburyist. You have invented a bad brother so you can come to town. I have invented an invalid, Bunbury, so I can escape to the country whenever Aunt Augusta asks me to dine. Bunbury's bad health is a treasure. It gets worse when I need it to."

Jack protested that he would soon get rid of his own false brother. "If Gwendolen accepts me, I will kill Ernest. I shall say he died in Paris of a severe chill."

"I will not get rid of Bunbury," Algernon said. "A man who marries without a Bunbury will have a dull life."

Before Jack could answer, the electric bell rang like a burst of trumpets. Algernon smiled. "Relatives, or creditors. Only they ring like that."

Lady Bracknell entered, large with importance, and with her came Gwendolen, bright-eyed and sure of herself. Lady Bracknell hoped her nephew was behaving well. Algernon said he felt well, which was not the same thing. Lady Bracknell's eyes, cool as ice chips, fell on Jack. She bowed, neither welcoming nor friendly.

There were greetings, talk of hair that changed colour after a friend's death, and the day's social news. Lady Bracknell asked for cucumber sandwiches. Algernon raised the lid to find only crumbs. Lane, solemn, reported that there were no cucumbers to be had in the market. Lady Bracknell did not like the answer but said she had already eaten crumpets elsewhere and did not mind.

A moment later Lady Bracknell stood and swept toward the music room, ordering Algernon to follow and go over the programme of songs for Saturday. "No French songs," she said. "German is a thoroughly respectable language." She told Gwendolen to come too. Gwendolen, however, stayed where she was.

Jack looked at her. "It has been a charming day."

"Please do not talk about the weather," she said in a low voice. "Whenever people talk about the weather, I always feel sure that they mean something else."

Jack swallowed. "I do mean something else."

"I thought so. I am rarely wrong. You should take advantage of Mamma's momentary absence. She has a way of returning suddenly."

Jack took a breath, then said it all at once. "Ever since I met you, I have admired you more than I have admired any girl since I met you."

Gwendolen smiled. "I am well aware of that. I wish you had been more demonstrative in public. We live in an age of ideals. My ideal has always been to love someone by the name of Ernest. The name inspires absolute confidence. When Algy first told me of a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to love you."

"Do you—really—love me, Gwendolen?"

"Passionately."

Joy sprang into Jack's voice. Then caution came in with it. "Could you love me if I had some other name?"

She looked surprised. "But your name is Ernest."

"Suppose it were not."

She frowned slightly. "That is a metaphysical question and has little reference to real life. The only safe name is Ernest. It has music in it, and vibrations. Jack does not. Jack is a name with very little music."

Jack was caught between relief and worry. He chose relief and took her hand. "I must get permission from your mother."

They were discovered in that posture by Lady Bracknell's returning eyes. Gwendolen quickly resumed her calm dignity. Jack asked, carefully, if he could speak to Lady Bracknell. He would like to marry her daughter.

Lady Bracknell sat down and motioned him to a chair opposite. Her eyes were as serious as law. She began a list of questions. Did he smoke? He did. She was glad, men should have an occupation. His income? Between seven and eight thousand a year. She approved. Politically, he was a Liberal Unionist. That was satisfactory. His parents? Jack hesitated. Finally he explained that he had been found, when a baby, in a black handbag in the cloak-room at Victoria Station, the Brighton line, with a ticket tied to him.

Lady Bracknell stared at him as if he had confessed to being made of cardboard. "A handbag?" she repeated, as if the word were a new invention she disliked. She demanded more. Jack told it simply. A respectable man found him, took him into his home, and raised him well. Later, Mr. Thomas Cardew adopted him and left him guardian to his granddaughter. Jack thought the story good enough.

It was not good enough for Lady Bracknell. "To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness," she said. The handbag in a cloak-room was beyond anything she could pass over. She stood, declared that the matter was closed, and ordered Gwendolen to get ready to leave. Jack tried to protest. She cut him off and swept out with her daughter.

Gwendolen, however, managed a quick word with Jack at the door, telling him that she loved him and that she trusted him to produce some relations as soon as possible. She was firm about the name Ernest. She would never marry a man called anything else.

After the visit, the rooms felt bigger and emptier. Algernon, who had been listening behind well-mannered smiles, leaned on the piano and looked at his friend. "You see, Jack," he said gently, "in matters of serious importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thing."

A few days later, in the garden of Jack's house in the country, Miss Prism sat under a large yew tree and arranged schoolbooks with care. She called for Cecily Cardew to put down the watering can and come to her German. Cecily, bright as the sun, obeyed without hurry.

"German is such an unbecoming language," Cecily complained. "It makes one look so plain after one studies it."

"Your guardian is very anxious you should improve yourself," Miss Prism replied. "He laid particular stress on German when he left for town."

"Dear Uncle Jack is always so serious. Sometimes so serious that I think he cannot be quite well."

Miss Prism drew herself up. "Mr. Worthing enjoys the best of health. His gravity is especially commendable in one so comparatively young. I know no one with a higher sense of duty and responsibility."

Cecily's eyes danced. "That is why he looks so bored when we are together. He has so many troubles. I am sure it would not hurt him to be a little less serious sometimes. I wish he would let his unfortunate brother come down here; I might have a good influence on him."

"I do not think even I could influence a character that is, by his own brother's admission, irretrievably weak and vacillating. As a man sows, so let him reap," Miss Prism declared.

Cecily opened her diary and began to write. "I keep a diary to write down the wonderful secrets of my life. If I didn't, I would forget all about them."

"Memory is the diary we all carry with us," Miss Prism said.

"Memory usually tells of things that never happened and could not possibly have happened," Cecily countered. "I believe that memory is responsible for nearly all the three-volume novels that Mudie sends."

Miss Prism stiffened. "Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel. I wrote one myself, in earlier days."

Cecily clapped. "I hope it did not end happily. I am tired of happy endings."

"The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means, my dear," Miss Prism said.

Their talk turned when Dr. Chasuble, the rector, walked through the garden gate. He was a kindly man with soft manners. Cecily, eyes full of mischief, mentioned that Miss Prism had complained of a headache and that a short stroll with the Doctor would help. Miss Prism, who had said no such thing, found herself with a sudden headache after all.

They walked away together, while Cecily, left alone, smiled into the middle distance and wrote more secrets in her diary.

Merriman, the butler, appeared. "Mr. Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station, miss. He brings his luggage and is very anxious to speak to you privately."

Cecily's heart jumped. She had never met anyone really wicked before. She felt a little frightened that he might look just like everyone else.

Algernon entered the garden, dressed in perfect mourning, very solemn and very handsome. He raised his hat. "You are my little cousin Cecily."

"I am not little," she said immediately. "I am more than usually tall for my age. But yes, I am Cecily. And you are my wicked cousin Ernest."

"I am not really wicked, you know," Algernon said, with a look that invited her to doubt him.

"If you are not wicked, then you have been deceiving us in a very inexcusable manner. I hope you have not been leading a double life. That would be hypocrisy."

"I have been rather reckless," Algernon admitted. "In my own small way, very bad."

"Do not be proud of it, though I am sure it must have been pleasant," Cecily said. "But perhaps reforming might be pleasanter."

He declared he already felt better simply being there with her. She offered him a buttonhole; he asked for a pink rose, because she was like a pink rose. As she pinned it, he told her she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She glanced aside and murmured that Miss Prism says good looks are a snare. Algernon replied that they were a snare every sensible man would like to be caught in. Cecily said she would not care to catch a sensible man; she would not know what to talk to him about. They went in to lunch together, laughing.

Miss Prism and Dr. Chasuble came back, still talking about marriage and celibacy, one praising prudence, the other tempted by kindness. Their lively chat ended when Jack himself entered slowly from the back garden. He wore deepest mourning, with a crape hatband and black gloves. His face was full of sorrow.

Miss Prism blinked. "Mr. Worthing! Back before Monday?"

Dr. Chasuble asked, "Does your garb of woe betoken some terrible calamity?"

Jack bowed his head. "My brother."

"More shameful debts and extravagance?" Miss Prism asked sharply.

"Dead," Jack said. "Quite dead."

There were gasps. Dr. Chasuble offered gentle sympathy. Jack said his brother had died in Paris of a severe chill. Miss Prism moralised that as a man sows, so shall he reap. Dr. Chasuble began thinking about a sermon.

The word christening floated into Jack's mind like a lifeline. He turned to Dr. Chasuble. "Can you christen all right, Doctor?"

Dr. Chasuble blinked. "I mean, are you continually christening?"

"It is one of the Rector's most constant duties," Miss Prism said, proud of him.

Jack cleared his throat. "I should like to be christened myself, this afternoon, if you have nothing better to do."

The Rector was taken aback but not unkind. He said sprinkling was all that was necessary at Jack's age; immersion was not advisable in such changeable weather. They agreed to half-past five.

Cecily skipped into the garden, delighted to see her guardian back. Then she saw his horrid clothes and stopped short. "Uncle Jack! Change at once. It is not kind to the eyes."

Miss Prism and Dr. Chasuble scolded her for the remark. Jack kissed Cecily's brow sadly. "There is something I must tell you, my child. Your cousin Ernest is—"

"In the dining-room," Cecily said happily. "He arrived half an hour ago."

Jack stared as if he had been struck. "Who?"

"Your brother Ernest," she repeated. "He has come to say he is sorry and to be good."

Jack said nothing he could say would explain this. When Algernon strolled out, hand in hand with Cecily, Jack could only glare at him. Algernon bowed with easy grace and offered a speech about leading a better life. Cecily begged Jack to be nice, for Ernest had just told her about his poor invalid friend, Mr. Bunbury. Surely there must be much good in a man who leaves the pleasures of London to sit by a bed of pain.

Jack could not bear it. He told his brother to leave at once. There was a short, sharp contest in polite language and stiff hands. Cecily gave Jack an ultimatum: if he did not shake hands with Ernest, she would never forgive him. Jack shook hands, glare unsoftened.

After Miss Prism and the Doctor led Cecily away, Jack rounded on Algernon. "You young scoundrel. Get out of this place at once. I do not allow any Bunburying here."

Merriman entered to say he had put Mr. Ernest's things in the room next to Jack's. Jack's eyes almost rolled out of his head. Algernon announced calmly that he could not stay more than a week.

"You will leave by the four-five train," Jack said. "Merriman, order the dog-cart at once."

When Merriman was gone, Algernon said Jack was a fearful liar. Jack said his duty as a gentleman called him back to town. Algernon replied that duty had never interfered with his pleasures in the smallest degree. Jack told him not to talk about Miss Cardew in that way. Algernon teased him about his mourning for a man who was sitting next to him. Jack promised to change his clothes in order to speed Algernon's departure. Algernon promised to go if Jack did not take too long.

Jack went into the house to change, leaving Algernon alone among the roses. Algernon said to the air that this had been a great success: he was in love with Cecily, and that was everything. He was still smiling when Cecily came back to water the roses.

"I thought you were with Uncle Jack," she said.

"He has gone to order the dog-cart for me."

"To take me for a nice drive?"

"To send me away."

Cecily's face fell. Parting was always painful, she said—but especially painful when one had known a person for a very brief time. The absence of old friends one could endure; but to be parted from someone to whom one had just been introduced was almost unbearable.

Merriman came again. "The dog-cart is at the door."

"It can wait for five minutes," Cecily said firmly. Merriman withdrew.

Algernon looked at her. He had never been at a loss for words with anyone in his life, but now they came in a rush and at cross purposes. "I hope I do not offend if I state frankly that you seem to me the visible personification of absolute perfection."

Cecily, very businesslike, sat at a little table with her diary. "That does you great credit. I will copy that into my diary. Please continue. I delight in taking down dictation."

He tried his best. She corrected his vocabulary when he used the word "hopelessly." He tried again. She watched him with growing pleasure. Finally, he knelt and asked her to marry him.

She smiled as if he had finally arrived at the point. "Why, we have been engaged for the last three months."

"We have?"

"It will be three months on Thursday. Ever since dear Uncle Jack told me he had a wicked brother, you have been the chief topic of conversation between Miss Prism and me. A man who is much talked about is always very attractive. One feels there must be something in him, after all. So I fell in love with you. Worn out by your complete ignorance of my existence, I determined to end the matter. On the fourteenth of February, I accepted you under the dear old tree."

"You did?"

"The next day I bought this little ring in your name. And this is the bangle with the true lover's knot that I promised always to wear."

"Did I give it to you?"

"You have wonderfully good taste. It is the excuse I have always given for your leading such a bad life. And here," she said, lifting a box tied with blue ribbon, "are all your dear letters."

"My letters?"

"I wrote them myself. Your style surpasses mine. Sometimes your spelling does too."

She showed him the entry in her diary from the twenty-second of March: To-day I broke off my engagement with Ernest. The weather continues charming. He was outraged and fascinated. She explained she had forgiven him within a week. He asked, very gently, if she would ever break it off again. She thought not, now that she had actually met him. There remained, however, the question of his name.

He froze. She confessed it had always been her dream to love someone whose name was Ernest. The name inspired absolute confidence. Could she love him if he were called something else? He suggested Algernon. She made a face. The name did not suit her at all.

"Then I must go and see the Rector on a most important business—" He caught himself. "—Christening."

She narrowed her eyes. He claimed he would not be gone more than half an hour. She asked for twenty minutes. He kissed her and ran off.

Not long after, Merriman brought a card on a salver. A Miss Fairfax had arrived to see Mr. Worthing on very important business. Cecily, picturing a soft-faced elderly lady with lists of charities, told Merriman to show her into the garden. She did not mind philanthropic women, she told herself, as long as they did not take too much of Uncle Jack's time.

Gwendolen came out, graceful and cool. The two girls looked at each other and smiled. They liked each other at once, and each hoped that would continue.

"Cecily Cardew," Gwendolen said warmly. "The name has music."

"You may call me Cecily."

"And you may call me Gwendolen. Outside the family circle, my father is quite unknown. It is as it should be. The home is the proper sphere for a man," Gwendolen added with a straight face. "When a man neglects his domestic duties, he becomes effeminate and, in consequence, very attractive."

They sat to tea. Gwendolen asked if Cecily was on a short visit. Cecily said she lived there. Gwendolen, curious, asked about her relations. Cecily had none. Only her guardian, Mr. Worthing. Gwendolen found it strange that Mr. Worthing had never told her he had a ward. It made him more interesting. She also could not help wishing Cecily were a little older and less pretty, as she knew the effect of beauty on even the noblest characters.

Cecily asked if Gwendolen had said "Ernest."

"My fiance," Gwendolen said calmly. "Mr. Ernest Worthing."

"I am also engaged to Mr. Ernest Worthing," Cecily said, just as calmly.

They produced diaries. Gwendolen pointed to yesterday at five-thirty. Cecily pointed to ten minutes ago. The politeness thinned. They both agreed that it was important to speak one's mind on such an occasion. Cecily said she called a spade a spade. Gwendolen said she was glad to say she had never seen a spade. Their social spheres must be quite different.

Merriman brought the tea. Cecily asked if Gwendolen took sugar. Gwendolen said sugar was not fashionable any more, so Cecily put four lumps in her cup. Cake or bread and butter? Gwendolen said bread and butter, as cake was rarely seen at the best houses. Cecily cut a large slice of cake and placed it in front of her with delicate care.

They sipped. They grimaced. They smiled tightly. Then Jack came into the garden.

Gwendolen rose with joy. "Ernest!"

"Darling!" Jack answered, rushing to her. She lifted a hand to stop his kiss and, with sweet firmness, asked whether he was engaged to Cecily. Jack laughed. "Of course not!" He kissed Gwendolen.

Cecily, equally sweet, stood and explained that the gentleman with his arm around Gwendolen's waist was her guardian, Mr. John Worthing. Gwendolen froze.

Algernon entered. Cecily moved to him with natural trust. "Ernest!" She lifted her face. He reached to kiss her, and she stopped him to ask if he was engaged to Gwendolen. He said of course not, kissed Cecily, and turned with a smile to Gwendolen.

"This is my cousin, Mr. Algernon Moncrieff," Gwendolen said in a voice like frost.

The two girls moved together, like recruits to the same flag. They faced the two men, side by side. Cecily asked if Algernon's name was really Algernon. He admitted it. Gwendolen asked Jack if he was really John. He admitted that too.

"A gross deception has been practiced on both of us," Gwendolen said.

"My poor, wounded Gwendolen," Cecily murmured.

"My sweet, wronged Cecily," Gwendolen replied. "Let us go into the house. Men are so cowardly that they will not follow us there."

They went in with a swish of skirts and a cloud of scorn. Jack turned to Algernon. Algernon turned to Jack. They did not speak for a full minute. Then Jack said, "This ghastly state of things is what you call Bunburying."

"It is a perfectly wonderful Bunbury," Algernon said, almost admiring. "One has the right to Bunbury whenever one chooses. Every serious Bunburyist knows that."

Jack could only say that Algernon had taken in a sweet, simple, innocent girl. Algernon said Jack had deceived a brilliant, clever, thoroughly experienced young lady. They argued about muffins while being too upset to leave them alone. Jack said it was heartless to eat muffins under such circumstances. Algernon answered that when he was unhappy, eating was the only thing that consoled him.

Jack tried to take the muffins away. Algernon took them back. Jack told him to go.

Algernon said he could not go without dinner; nobody ever did, except vegetarians. Also, he had arranged to be christened at a quarter to six, under the name of Ernest.

Jack said he had already arranged to be christened at half-past five, and he would take the name Ernest. They could not both be christened Ernest. Algernon thought it dangerous for Jack to venture on it at his age. Jack thought Algernon's science was always making fatal improvements.

Later, in the morning-room, Gwendolen and Cecily watched from the window. They agreed the men must have some sense of shame, since they had not followed them. Cecily pointed out that they were eating muffins, which might look like repentance. The men came in, whistling a very dreadful popular air, and the girls decided they would preserve a dignified silence. They tried, and it did not work.

Gwendolen broke first. She asked Jack why he had pretended to have a brother. Jack said, quite honestly for once, that it was in order to come to town and see her as often as possible. Gwendolen said she had the gravest doubts but intended to crush them. This was not the moment for German scepticism.

Cecily asked Algernon why he had pretended to be her guardian's brother. Algernon's answer—so he might meet her—satisfied her, if not her sense of logic.

They forgave the men in principle, but there was still an important obstacle. They spoke together, like a choir: "Your Christian names are still an insuperable barrier."

Jack and Algernon both declared they would be christened that afternoon, and the girls, impressed by such self-sacrifice, allowed themselves to be embraced.

This was the moment Lady Bracknell chose to arrive. She stood in the doorway like a general at the head of a regiment, and the little private joys scattered. Gwendolen sat down immediately upon being told to. Lady Bracknell explained, in the tone of a person announcing the weather is permanent, that Gwendolen had run away from home, and that she had followed on a luggage train. All communication between Gwendolen and Mr. Worthing must cease at once. On this, as on all points, she was firm.

Jack was equally firm that he and Gwendolen were engaged. Lady Bracknell's expression made it very clear what she thought of the word "engaged." Then, her keen eyes fell on Algernon and the hand he was holding.

"Who is that young person whose hand my nephew is holding in a peculiarly unnecessary manner?"

Jack introduced Cecily, his ward. Algernon announced that he was engaged to her. Lady Bracknell shivered and sat down. She was not sure what was in the air of that part of Hertfordshire, but the number of engagements seemed much above the average set by statistics. She decided some inquiry was needed. Was Miss Cardew connected in any way with any of the larger railway stations in London?

Jack's voice chilled a degree. Miss Cardew was the granddaughter of the late Mr. Thomas Cardew, of 149 Belgrave Square, Gervase Park, and the Sporran, Fifeshire. Lady Bracknell liked three addresses. It inspired confidence, even in tradesmen. She asked for proof. Jack had preserved the Court Guides of the period. She sniffed; there had been errors in that publication. He named Messrs. Markby, Markby, and Markby as the family solicitors. She nodded; one of the Mr. Markbys occasionally got invited to dinner. So far, she was satisfied.

Then she asked if Miss Cardew had any little fortune. Jack, as if casually, said Cecily had about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the Funds. That was all.

Lady Bracknell sat down again so quickly that the chair sighed. "A hundred and thirty thousand pounds! And in the Funds!" She looked at Cecily anew, like a jeweller seeing a stone in proper light. "Come here, my child." Cecily obeyed. "Pretty dear. Your dress is sadly simple, and your hair almost as Nature might have left it. But all that can be altered. Please turn round. I want the side view."

Cecily, amused and obedient, turned. Lady Bracknell nodded. There were distinct social possibilities in that profile. The weakness of their age was not only its want of principle but also its want of profile. She advised that the chin be worn a little higher; style greatly depends upon the way the chin is worn. At present, they were worn very high.

Algernon, fond and foolish, declared Cecily was the sweetest, dearest, prettiest girl in the world, and he did not care twopence about social possibilities. Lady Bracknell warned him never to speak disrespectfully of Society. Only those who could not get into it did that. Still, she supposed she must give her consent. She told Cecily she might kiss her and in future address her as Aunt Augusta. Cecily did so.

Jack cleared his throat. He was Miss Cardew's guardian. She could not marry without his consent until she came of age. And that consent he absolutely declined to give.

Lady Bracknell drew herself up. On what grounds? Algernon was an extremely—she might say ostentatiously—eligible young man.

Jack spoke directly to Lady Bracknell. He did not approve of Algernon's moral character. He suspected him of being untruthful. Lady Bracknell said that was impossible; her nephew was an Oxonian. Jack declared there was no doubt. That very afternoon, in Jack's temporary absence in London on an important question of romance, Algernon had gained admission to his house by the false pretence of being his brother.

Under an assumed name, he had drunk an entire pint bottle of Perrier-Jouet, Brut, '89—being kept specially for Jack—and then he had stayed to tea and devoured every single muffin. He had been perfectly aware all along that Jack had no brother, never had one, and did not intend to have one.

Lady Bracknell, after a pause, decided to overlook her nephew's conduct. Jack said his decision was unalterable: no consent. Lady Bracknell turned to Cecily and asked her age. Cecily admitted she was only eighteen, but when she went to evening parties she always said she was twenty. Lady Bracknell approved the slight alteration. No woman should be quite accurate about her age; it looked so calculating. Eighteen, however, meant it would not be long before she came of age and could marry without her guardian's consent.

Jack shook his head. According to the terms of her grandfather's will, Cecily did not come legally of age until she was thirty-five.

Lady Bracknell saw no grave objection. Thirty-five was a very attractive age. London society was full of women of the highest birth who, of their own free choice, had remained thirty-five for years. Lady Dumbleton had been thirty-five ever since she was forty, many years ago. She did not see why Cecily should not be even more attractive at that age, especially with a large accumulation of property.

Cecily turned to Algernon. "Could you wait for me till I was thirty-five?"

"Of course I could," Algernon said bravely.

"I felt it instinctively," Cecily said, "but I could not wait all that time myself. I hate waiting even five minutes."

Lady Bracknell then entreated Jack to reconsider. It was clear Miss Cardew positively could not wait until thirty-five. Jack replied that the matter was entirely in her hands. The moment she consented to his own marriage with Gwendolen, he would consent to Algernon's with Cecily.

Lady Bracknell's back stiffened. What Jack proposed was out of the question. Jack sighed. Then a passionate celibacy was all any of them could look forward to.

The door opened and Dr. Chasuble came in, hat in hand. Everything was ready for the christenings. Lady Bracknell turned on him as if he had proposed a circus. Was it not somewhat premature for gentlemen of that age? Jack said that given the present state of things, it would not be of much practical value to either of them. Dr. Chasuble, feeling erased, made a small bow and explained that the pew-opener had just informed him Miss Prism had been waiting in the vestry for an hour and a half.

At the name, Lady Bracknell started. The air changed. She asked if he had mentioned a Miss Prism. He had. Lady Bracknell asked a series of quick questions. Was this Miss Prism a woman of repellent aspect, remotely connected with education? Dr. Chasuble flushed and said that Miss Prism was the very picture of respectability and the most cultivated of ladies.

Lady Bracknell, nearly shaking with the weight of her own suspicion, asked what position Miss Prism held in the house. Dr. Chasuble, with proper dignity, said he was a celibate. Jack explained that Miss Prism had been Cecily's esteemed governess and valued companion for three years. Lady Bracknell ordered that she be shown in at once.

Miss Prism came in quickly, apologising to Dr. Chasuble for the delay and saying she had been kept waiting in the vestry for an hour and three-quarters. Then she saw Lady Bracknell and paled. Her hands trembled. She looked like someone searching for a door that was no longer there.

"Prism!" Lady Bracknell said, her voice hard as a judge's gavel. "Where is that baby?"

No one breathed. Dr. Chasuble stepped back. Algernon and Jack shifted, trying to shield the ladies from a public scandal, while they themselves were the scandal.

Lady Bracknell told the story in short, striking lines. Twenty-eight years ago, Miss Prism had left Lord Bracknell's house in charge of a perambulator containing a baby boy. She had never returned. Weeks later, after police searching, the perambulator had been found at midnight in a remote corner of Bayswater. In it lay the manuscript of a three-volume novel of the most revolting sentimentality. The baby was gone.

Miss Prism's head bowed so low it almost touched her chest. In a voice that shook, she admitted she did not know where the baby was. The plain facts of the case were these. On the morning of that day, she took the baby out in its perambulator. She had with her a capacious handbag, intended for safe deposit of the manuscript of a novel she had written in her spare hours. In a moment of mental abstraction, she deposited the manuscript in the bassinette and placed the baby in the handbag. She left the handbag in the cloak-room of a railway station.

Jack moved a step forward, very white. "Where? At which station?" he asked.

Miss Prism, crushed, answered: Victoria. The Brighton line.

Jack looked as if the air had grown thin. "Excuse me for a moment," he said, and hurried out. Gwendolen whispered that if he were not too long, she would wait for him all her life.

There was a crashing overhead as if trunks were being pulled from the tops of wardrobes. Lady Bracknell found the noise vulgar and often convincing. She wished he would arrive at some conclusion. Gwendolen said the suspense was terrible and hoped it would last.

Jack came back, breathing hard, carrying a black leather handbag. He set it on the table and turned to Miss Prism with eyes bright as if from fever. "Is this the bag?" he asked. "Examine it carefully. The happiness of more than one life depends on your answer."

Miss Prism bent over it, then straightened in wonder. She identified a damage caused by a Gower Street omnibus in younger and happier days. She identified a stain caused by the explosion of a temperance beverage at Leamington. She found her initials on the lock, placed there in a moment of youthful extravagance. She put her hands to her face. "I am delighted to have it restored to me after all these years."

Jack's voice was quiet and full. "It is more than a handbag that is now restored to you, Miss Prism. I was the baby you placed in it."

Miss Prism stared, then took a step back. Jack moved forward, arms open. "Mother!"

Miss Prism froze, then stepped aside with indignation. "I am unmarried. I am not your mother, sir. There is some error. Lady Bracknell can tell you who you really are."

Jack turned to Lady Bracknell. "I apologise for seeming inquisitive, Aunt Augusta, but would you kindly inform me who I am?"

Lady Bracknell's eyes glinted, but she spoke with weight and care. He was the son of her poor sister, Mrs. Moncrieff. He was, consequently, Algernon's elder brother.

Jack looked at Algernon as if a portrait had turned and become a mirror. "I always knew I had a brother. I said I had a brother. Algy, my unfortunate brother!" They both stood awkwardly for a moment, then embraced like boys who suddenly found themselves related by more than mischief.

Gwendolen, practical even in astonishment, turned to Jack. "Now that you have become someone else, what is your Christian name?"

Jack had, in his excitement, forgotten that. He asked Gwendolen whether her decision on the subject of his name was irrevocable. She never changed, she said, except in her affections. The question must be cleared up at once. Lady Bracknell, had he been christened at the time Miss Prism left him in the handbag?

Lady Bracknell assured him that every luxury money could buy—including christening—had been lavished on him by his doting parents. Jack was relieved that the christening was true. Now, what name had been given him?

"As the eldest son," Lady Bracknell said, "you were naturally christened after your father."

Jack's patience frayed. "What was my father's Christian name?"

Lady Bracknell frowned at memory's door as if it were locked and she had mislaid the key. The General, she said, had certainly had a name, but he had been known to her by his rank. India, marriage, indigestion, the climate—such things had made him eccentric. She could not, at present, recall the name.

Jack turned to Algernon. Could he remember his father's name? Algernon said that the General had died before he was a year old, and they were never on speaking terms.

Jack rushed to the bookcase and pulled down Army Lists, tearing through the pages of forty years. "Mallam... Maxbohm... Magley... Markby... Migsby... Mobbs... Moncrieff!" He traced the line with his finger. Lieutenant, 1840. Captain. Lieutenant-Colonel. Colonel. General, 1869. Christian names: Ernest John.

Jack closed the book gently. He spoke calmly. "I always told you, Gwendolen, my name was Ernest. It is Ernest after all—naturally."

Lady Bracknell, memory suddenly lighting, said that the General had been called Ernest. She had always known there was a particular reason she disliked the name. Gwendolen glowed with triumph and happiness. "My own Ernest, I felt from the first that you could have no other name."

Jack took her hands. "It is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. Can you forgive me?"

"I can," Gwendolen said, "for I feel you are sure to change."

Dr. Chasuble looked at Miss Prism and, with a heart as brave as any in a uniform, said, "Lætitia." She replied, "Frederick." He folded her hands in his. Algernon and Cecily fell into each other's arms. Jack drew Gwendolen close. Lady Bracknell, still the tallest mountain in the room, told her nephew that he seemed to be displaying signs of triviality.

Jack smiled. "On the contrary, Aunt Augusta. I have now realized for the first time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest."

The sun fell lower on the garden. Merriman set out fresh cups as if nothing in the world had changed and everything had. Miss Prism breathed for the first time in twenty-eight years. Dr. Chasuble spoke of baptisms with a lightness he had not felt since he was a young curate. Lady Bracknell considered that marriage arrangements now required a single word: Saturday.

Gwendolen turned the ring on her finger and listened to its small secret music. Cecily, with a pen she had sharpened herself, wrote in her diary: To-day I learned that truth, like cake, is best when shared. And that a good name, like a good name, fits best when it is one's own.

Jack looked at his brother, his friend, and laughed without any bitterness. Algernon laughed back, and for once, did not reach for a muffin. A lark sprang up from the hedge and swept into the blue. It seemed to say that the world could hold both seriousness and play at once, and that sometimes the most earnest truths wear a comic mask. And if one had to choose a mask to keep, perhaps the one with the kindest eyes was best.

Time ran forward, but the afternoon lingered, as if the house itself was glad to have found the child it had been missing for so long. There would be weddings to plan, godparents to select, tins of biscuits to hide from Algernon, sermons to write that could be preached at harvests, christenings, and charity days alike, and lessons to be learned and unlearned. There would be music at dinner, provided it was not French, and there would be flowers that were as common in the country as people were in town, and possibly a cucumber or two if the market would allow.

In the quiet that followed all the bustle, Jack walked under the yew tree and thought about names. His own new-old name felt like a key returned to him, one that opened many doors in his heart. He thought about Ernest the false brother he had killed off with a severe chill in Paris. That Ernest was gone now, and in his place stood Ernest John Moncrieff, who had been a baby in a handbag and was now a man with a family, a ward, a mother's sister for an aunt, and a brother who stole muffins.

The relief of not having to lie to stay alive was so great that he felt lighter than air.

He found Gwendolen at the garden table reading a book without reading it. He told her again how much he loved her, in words too simple to be fashionable and too honest to be graceful. She told him that he would always be her Ernest, and she tried the sound of Ernest John once or twice in her mind and found it perfectly endurable, even delightful. They stood there hand in hand, and if they did not say that the world was a better place for having discovered them, still, the leaves in the trees seemed to say it for them.

Inside, Lady Bracknell spoke to Cecily about chins and profiles and the importance of wearing one's best expression when entering a room. She gave her advice on French maids and what they could and could not accomplish in three months. Cecily listened politely, did not promise to raise or lower her chin, and decided that her hair could very well be left almost as Nature might have left it. She asked if there might be cake with tea. Lady Bracknell approved of the request; cake was not seen in the best houses very often, but an exception could be made for it now.

Miss Prism and Dr. Chasuble sat in the shade and spoke in low voices that meant more than the words said. He asked to borrow her three-volume novel to keep on his shelf as a lesson against sentimentality. She said it would need to be written again, as the only copy had been used for a purpose that no library could approve. They laughed, and the laugh was the sound of the world forgiving them.

Algernon brought the tea things into the garden himself and set them down in the wrong places. He declared he had never felt so hungry in all his life. Cecily promised that a man who had offered to face a fearful ordeal for her sake deserved both cake and bread and butter, and possibly even a cucumber sandwich if the market would ever be reasonable. Algernon said he would undergo a fearful ordeal any day if it ended with cake. She told him she would hold him to that—a fearful ordeal of being punctual, for instance. He promised. She wrote that down in her diary as well.

Lane arranged a chair behind Lady Bracknell without being seen to do so. He announced that the cook had found a way to prepare cucumber that did not require cucumbers. Lady Bracknell believed that demoralisation might be catching, but decided not to say so, at least not today.

Jack, passing by with a light step, paused before Lane. "Lane, do you think I have ever been christened before?"

"I have no information on that point, sir. In matters of religion, my experience is limited. In matters of weddings, however, I believe we shall be requiring more chairs."

"We shall indeed," Jack said.

When the sun at last slipped down and made the hedges glow, the house rang with too many plans to count. Two weddings, perhaps three, though Lady Bracknell would deny that the rector and the governess were anything but acquaintances. There were lists to make of guests and a few who were not to be invited under any circumstances.

There were letters to write, this time by the proper writers. There were telegrams for people who could not be trusted to read letters properly. There were discussions about gowns and flowers and whether German should be heard at any point. There were pockets of silence between two people, who found that one look told a whole story.

By the time the last cup was washed and Lane had made his silent rounds, the garden was pale with starlight. Jack stood there again, and Algernon came to join him.

"Brother," Jack said, trying the word as if it were a new food. "We must settle a serious family matter."

"I have always suspected that serious family matters are best discussed over muffins," Algernon said. "But proceed."

"You will please not Bunbury any more."

Algernon sighed. "Bunbury is dead. I killed him this afternoon. Or rather, the doctors found he could not live."

"Then the world is safer for it," Jack said.

"Possibly duller, too."

"Possibly truer," Jack said, and they smiled at each other as if the words themselves were a kind of honesty at last.

Beyond the laughter and tea and the endless questions about names, the entire day had been a lesson. Names mattered, yes. They mattered enough to change hearts and open doors and make a person run for a book of Army Lists. But they were not the only things that mattered. A handbag, left in a station by mistake, had made a family, and a girl with a diary had written love into being.

A mother's sister, who disapproved of more than she approved of, had still found her way to yes, once the numbers in the Funds were correct. A governess had become more than a lost name in a story. A rector had learned that sometimes baptisms must wait for revelations.

And at the center of it all, a man who had pretended to be Ernest was now Ernest by right, and he had learned what it meant to be earnest as well: to speak truth, to keep faith, to laugh kindly, and to love with something more than words. He had found his place in a world that had not known where to put him before. It fit.

On another day, some months later, people would still laugh about cucumber sandwiches and the day there were none in the market. They would say that the muffins had saved two men from despair, and that the German sermon on the manna in the wilderness could be preached at almost any festive occasion. They would tell the story of the handbag at Victoria Station and the three-volume novel found inside a baby's pram.

They would remember how Gwendolen and Cecily had stood together and required that the men they loved be named exactly what they should be called. They would always, always repeat the line about losing one parent and both, and even Lady Bracknell would not mind hearing it, now that it ended with two weddings and no scandal in the paper.

But for now, the house slept. The last light went out in the morning-room, and the roses leaned toward the path as if to listen to the night speak. It said nothing that could be written in a diary, but it was enough. In the morning, there would be breakfast and letters and perhaps, if Lane could be persuaded, one single, perfect cucumber sandwich. And in every corner, the quiet, certain feeling that when a person finally owns his name, he can begin to own everything else that matters.

That was the happy end, which, as Miss Prism would remind anyone, was for the good. The bad had ended unhappily some time ago, when lies ran out of breath and could not keep up with the truth. And if it turned out that happiness requires a little nonsense now and then, well, that is what laughter is for. It makes room for seriousness to sit down without complaint.

So they laughed, and they loved, and they used their names properly. And the world, which had seemed so fussy and difficult in the morning, became, by evening, a place where being earnest truly mattered, not only as a word but as a way to live.