The Importance of Being Earnest

A TRIVIAL COMEDY
FOR SERIOUS PEOPLE

TO

ROBERT BALDWIN ROSS1

IN APPRECIATION AND AFFECTION

The Persons of 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.

FIRST ACT

SCENE

Morning-room in Algernon’s at in Half-Moon Street.1 The room is

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.]

ALGERNON: Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?

LANE: I didn’t think it polite to listen, sir.

ALGERNON: I’m sorry for that, for your sake. I don’t play accurately –
anyone can play accurately – but I play with wonderful expression.
As far as the piano is concerned, sentiment is my forte. I keep
science for Life.

LANE: Yes, sir.

ALGERNON: And, speaking of the science of Life, have you got the
cucumber sandwiches cut for Lady Bracknell?

LANE: Yes, sir. [Hands them on a salver.]

ALGERNON [Inspects them, takes two and sits down on the sofa]: Oh!…
by the 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.

LANE: Yes, sir; eight bottles and a pint.

ALGERNON: Why is it that at a bachelor’s establishment the servants

invariably drink the champagne? I ask merely for information.

LANE: I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. I have

often observed that in married households the champagne is rarely
of a rst-rate brand.

ALGERNON: Good heavens! Is marriage so demoralizing as that?2

LANE: I believe it is a very pleasant state, sir. I have had very little
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.

ALGERNON [languidly]: I don’t know that I am much interested in your

family life, Lane.

LANE: No, sir; it is not a very interesting subject. I never think of it

myself.

ALGERNON: Very natural, I am sure. That will do, Lane, thank you.3

LANE: Thank you, sir.

[LANE goes out.]

ALGERNON: Lane’s views on marriage seem somewhat lax. Really, if

the lower orders 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.]

LANE: Mr Ernest Worthing.

[Enter JACK. LANE goes out.]

ALGERNON: How are you, my dear Ernest? What brings you up to

town?

JACK: Oh, pleasure, pleasure! What else should bring one anywhere?
Eating as usual, I see, Algy!

ALGERNON [sti y]: I believe it is customary in good society to take

some slight refreshment at ve o’clock.4 Where have you been
since last Thursday?

JACK [sitting down on the sofa]: In the country.

ALGERNON: What on earth do you do there?

JACK [pulling o his gloves]: When one is in town one amuses oneself.
When one is in the country one amuses other people. It is
excessively boring.

ALGERNON: And who are the people you amuse?

JACK [airily]: Oh, neighbours, neighbours.

ALGERNON: Got nice neighbours in your part of Shropshire?

JACK: Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one of them.

ALGERNON: How immensely you must amuse them! [Goes over and
takes sandwich.] By the way, Shropshire is your county, is it not?

JACK: Eh? Shropshire? Yes, of course. Hallo! Why all these cups? Why
cucumber sandwiches? Why such reckless extravagance in one so
young? Who is coming to tea?

ALGERNON: Oh! merely Aunt Augusta and Gwendolen.

JACK: How perfectly delightful!

ALGERNON: Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid Aunt Augusta
won’t quite approve of your being here.

JACK: May I ask why?

ALGERNON: My dear fellow, the way you irt with Gwendolen is

perfectly disgraceful. It is almost as bad as the way Gwendolen
irts with you.

JACK: I am in love with Gwendolen. I have come up to town

expressly to propose to her.

ALGERNON: I thought you had come up for pleasure?… I call that

business.5

JACK: How utterly unromantic you are!

ALGERNON: I really don’t see anything romantic in proposing. It is

very romantic to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a
de nite 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.

JACK: I have no doubt about that, dear Algy. The Divorce Court was
specially invented for people whose memories are so curiously
constituted.

ALGERNON: Oh, there is no use speculating on that subject. Divorces

are made in 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.]

JACK: Well, you have been eating them all the time.

ALGERNON: That is quite a di erent matter. She is my aunt. [Takes

plate from below.] Have some bread and butter. The bread and
butter is for Gwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to bread and
butter.

JACK [advancing to table and helping himself]: And very good bread
and butter it is too.

ALGERNON: Well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were
going to eat it 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.

JACK: Why on earth do you say that?

ALGERNON: Well, in the rst place, girls never marry the men they irt
with. Girls don’t think it right.

JACK: Oh, that is nonsense!

ALGERNON: It isn’t. It is a great truth. It accounts for the extraordinary

number of bachelors that one sees all over the place. In the second
place, I don’t give my consent.

JACK: Your consent!

ALGERNON: My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my rst cousin. And before

I allow you to marry her, you will have to clear up the whole
question of Cecily. [Rings bell.]

JACK: Cecily! What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, Algy,
by Cecily! I don’t know anyone of the name of Cecily.

[Enter LANE.]

ALGERNON: Bring me that cigarette case Mr Worthing left in the

smoking-room the last time he dined here.

LANE: Yes, sir.

[LANE goes out.]

JACK: Do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this
time? I wish to goodness you had let me know. I have been writing
frantic letters to Scotland Yard6 about it. I was very nearly o ering
a large reward.
ALGERNON: Well, I wish you would o er one. I happen to be more
than usually hard up.

JACK: There is no good o ering a large reward now that the thing is
found.

[Enter LANE with the cigarette case on a salver. ALGERNON takes it at

once. LANE goes out.]

ALGERNON: I think that is rather mean of you, Ernest, I must say.

[Opens case and examines it.] However, it makes no matter, for,
now that I look at the inscription inside, I nd that the thing isn’t
yours after all.

JACK: Of course it’s mine. [Moving to him.] You have seen me with it
a 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.

ALGERNON: Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what
one should read and what one shouldn’t. More than half of modern
culture depends on what one shouldn’t read.7

JACK: I am quite aware of the fact, and I don’t propose to discuss

modern culture. It isn’t the sort of thing one should talk of in
private. I simply want my cigarette case back.

ALGERNON: Yes; but this isn’t your cigarette case. This cigarette case is
a present from someone of the name of Cecily, and you said you
didn’t know anyone of that name.
JACK: Well, if you want to know, Cecily happens to be my aunt.

ALGERNON: Your aunt!

JACK: Yes. Charming old lady she is, too. Lives at Tunbridge Wells.8
Just give it back to me, Algy.

ALGERNON [retreating to back of sofa]: But why does she call herself
little Cecily if she is your aunt and lives at Tunbridge Wells?
[Reading.] ‘From little Cecily with her fondest love’.

JACK [moving to sofa and kneeling upon it]: My dear fellow, what on
earth is there in that? Some aunts are tall, some aunts are not tall.
That is a matter that surely an aunt may be 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.]

ALGERNON: Yes. But why does your aunt call you her uncle? ‘From
little Cecily, 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.

JACK: It isn’t Ernest; it’s Jack.

ALGERNON: You have always told me it was Ernest. I have introduced

you to every 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.’9 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 anyone else. [Puts the card in
his pocket.]

JACK: Well, my name is Ernest in town and Jack in the country, and
the cigarette case was given to me in the country.

ALGERNON: Yes, but that does not account for the fact that your small
Aunt Cecily, who lives at Tunbridge Wells, calls you her dear
uncle. Come, old boy, you had much better have the thing out at
once.

JACK: My dear Algy, you talk exactly as if you were a dentist. It is

very vulgar to talk like a dentist when one isn’t a dentist. It
produces a false impression.

ALGERNON: Well, that is exactly what dentists always do. Now, go on!
Tell me the whole thing. I may mention that I have always
suspected you of being a con rmed and secret Bunburyist; and I
am quite sure of it now.

JACK: Bunburyist? What on earth do you mean by a Bunburyist?

ALGERNON: I’ll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable

expression as soon as you are kind enough to inform me why you
are Ernest in town and Jack in the country.
JACK: Well, produce my cigarette case rst.

ALGERNON: Here it is. [Hands cigarette case.] Now produce your

explanation, and pray make it improbable. [Sits on sofa.]

JACK: My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my

explanation at 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 granddaughter, 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.

ALGERNON: Where is that place in the country, by the way?

JACK: That is nothing to you, dear boy. You are not going to be
invited… I may tell you candidly that the place is not in
Shropshire.

ALGERNON: I suspected that, my dear fellow! I have Bunburyed all

over Shropshire on two separate occasions. Now, go on. Why are
you Ernest in town and Jack in the country?

JACK: My dear Algy, I don’t know whether you will be able to

understand my 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.

ALGERNON: The truth is rarely pure and never simple.10 Modern life
would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a
complete impossibility!

JACK: That wouldn’t be at all a bad thing.

ALGERNON: Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. Don’t

try it. You should 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.

JACK: What on earth do you mean?

ALGERNON: You have invented a very useful younger brother called

Ernest, in order 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’s11 tonight, for I have been really
engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than a week.

JACK: I haven’t asked you to dine with me anywhere tonight.

ALGERNON: I know. You are absurdly careless about sending out

invitations. It is very foolish of you. Nothing annoys people so
 much as not receiving invitations.

JACK: You had much better dine with your Aunt Augusta.

ALGERNON: I haven’t the smallest intention of doing anything of the

kind. To 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.12 In
the third place, I know perfectly well whom she will place me next
to, tonight. She will place me next Mary Farquhar, who always
irts 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 irt 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 con rmed Bunburyist I naturally
want to talk to you about Bunburying. I want to tell you the rules.

JACK: I’m not a Bunburyist at all. If Gwendolen accepts me, I am

going to kill my brother,13 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.

ALGERNON: Nothing will induce me to part with Bunbury, and if you

ever get 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.

JACK: That is nonsense. If I marry a charming girl like Gwendolen,

and she is the only girl I ever saw in my life that I would marry, I
certainly won’t want to know Bunbury.

ALGERNON: Then your wife will. You don’t seem to realize, that in
married life three is company and two is none.

JACK [sententiously]: That, my dear young friend, is the theory that

the corrupt French Drama14 has been propounding for the last fty
years.

ALGERNON: Yes; and that the happy English home has proved in half
the time.

JACK: For heaven’s sake, don’t try to be cynical. It’s perfectly easy to
be cynical.

ALGERNON: My dear fellow, it isn’t easy to be anything nowadays.

There’s such a 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.15 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
tonight at Willis’s?

JACK: I suppose so, if you want to.

ALGERNON: Yes, but you must be serious about it. I hate people who
are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.

[Enter LANE.]

LANE: Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax.

[ALGERNON goes forward to meet them. Enter LADY BRACKNELL and

GWENDOLEN.]

LADY BRACKNELL: Good afternoon, dear Algernon, I hope you are

behaving very well.

ALGERNON: I’m feeling very well, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL: That’s not quite the same thing. In fact the two
things rarely go together. [Sees JACK and bows to him with icy
coldness.]16

ALGERNON [to GWENDOLEN]: Dear me, you are smart!

GWENDOLEN: I am always smart! Am I not, Mr Worthing?

JACK: You’re quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.

GWENDOLEN: Oh! I hope I am not that. It would leave no room for

developments, and I intend to develop in many directions.

[GWENDOLEN and JACK sit down together in the corner.]

LADY BRACKNELL: I’m sorry if we are a little late, Algernon, but I was
obliged to call on dear Lady Harbury.17 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.

ALGERNON: Certainly, Aunt Augusta. [Goes over to tea-table.]

LADY BRACKNELL: Won’t you come and sit here, Gwendolen?

GWENDOLEN: Thanks, mamma, I’m quite comfortable where I am.

ALGERNON [picking up empty plate in horror]: Good heavens! Lane!

Why are there no cucumber sandwiches? I ordered them specially.

LANE [gravely]: There were no cucumbers in the market this morning,

sir. I went down twice.

ALGERNON: No cucumbers!

LANE: No, sir. Not even for ready money.

ALGERNON: That will do, Lane, thank you.

LANE: Thank you, sir. [Goes out.]

ALGERNON: I am greatly distressed, Aunt Augusta, about there being

no cucumbers, not even for ready money.

LADY BRACKNELL: It really makes no matter, Algernon. I had some

crumpets with Lady Harbury, who seems to me to be living
entirely for pleasure now.

ALGERNON: I hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief.

LADY BRACKNELL: It certainly has changed its colour. From what cause
I, of course, cannot say. [ALGERNON crosses and hands tea.] Thank
 you. I’ve quite a treat for you tonight, 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.

ALGERNON: I am afraid, Aunt Augusta, I shall have to give up the

pleasure of dining with you tonight after all.

LADY BRACKNELL [frowning]: I hope not, Algernon. It would put my

table completely out.18 Your uncle would have to dine upstairs.
Fortunately he is accustomed to that.

ALGERNON: It is a great bore, and, I need hardly say, a terrible

disappointment 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.

LADY BRACKNELL: It is very strange. This Mr Bunbury seems to su er

from curiously bad health.

ALGERNON: Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid.

LADY BRACKNELL: Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high time
that Mr 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 everyone has practically said whatever
they had to say, which, in most cases, was probably not much.

ALGERNON: I’ll speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta, if he is still conscious,

and I think I can promise you he’ll be all right by Saturday. Of
course the music is a great di culty. 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.

LADY BRACKNELL: Thank you, Algernon. It is very thoughtful of you.

[Rising, and 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.

GWENDOLEN: Certainly, mamma.

[LADY BRACKNELL and ALGERNON go into the music-room, GWENDOLEN

remains behind.]

JACK: Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax.

GWENDOLEN: Pray don’t talk to me about the weather, Mr Worthing.
Whenever people talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite
certain that they mean something else. And that makes me so
nervous.

JACK: I do mean something else.

GWENDOLEN: I thought so. In fact, I am never wrong.

JACK: And I would like to be allowed to take advantage of Lady

Bracknell’s temporary absence…

GWENDOLEN: I would certainly advise you to do so. Mamma has a way

of coming back suddenly into a room that I have often had to
speak to her about.19

JACK [nervously]: Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you I have admired
you more than any girl… I have ever met since… I met you.

GWENDOLEN: Yes, I am quite well aware of the fact. And I often wish
that in 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 indi erent 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 someone of the name of
Ernest. There is something in that name that inspires absolute
 con dence. The moment Algernon rst mentioned to me that he
had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to love you.

JACK: You really love me, Gwendolen?20

GWENDOLEN: Passionately!

JACK: Darling! You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.

GWENDOLEN: My own Ernest!

JACK: But you don’t really mean to say that you couldn’t love me if
my name wasn’t Ernest?

GWENDOLEN: But your name is Ernest.

JACK: Yes, I know it is. But supposing it was something else? Do you
mean to say you couldn’t love me then?

GWENDOLEN [glibly]: Ah! that is clearly a metaphysical speculation,

and like most metaphysical speculations has very little reference at
all to the actual facts of real life, as we know them.

JACK: Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don’t much care

about the name of Ernest… I don’t think the name suits me at all.

GWENDOLEN: It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name. It has a music

of its own. It produces vibrations.

JACK: Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that I think there are lots
of other much nicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a charming
name.
GWENDOLEN: Jack?… No, there is very little music in the name Jack, if
any at 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.

JACK: Gwendolen, I must get christened at once – I mean we must get

married at once. There is no time to be lost.

GWENDOLEN: Married, Mr Worthing?

JACK [astounded]: Well… surely. You know that I love you, and you
led me to believe, Miss Fairfax, that you were not absolutely
indi erent to me.

GWENDOLEN: I adore you. But you haven’t proposed to me yet.

Nothing has been said at all about marriage. The subject has not
even been touched on.

JACK: Well… may I propose to you now?

GWENDOLEN: I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to

spare you any possible disappointment, Mr Worthing, I think it
only fair to tell you quite frankly beforehand that I am fully
determined to accept you.

JACK: Gwendolen!
GWENDOLEN: Yes, Mr Worthing, what have you got to say to me?

JACK: You know what I have got to say to you.

GWENDOLEN: Yes, but you don’t say it.

JACK: Gwendolen, will you marry me? [Goes on his knees.]

GWENDOLEN: Of course I will, darling. How long you have been about
it! I am afraid you have had very little experience in how to
propose.

JACK: My own one, I have never loved anyone in the world but you.

GWENDOLEN: Yes, but men often propose for practice. I know my

brother Gerald does. 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.]

LADY BRACKNELL: Mr Worthing! Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent

posture. It is most indecorous.

GWENDOLEN: Mamma! [He tries to rise; she restrains him.]21 I must beg
you to retire. This is no place for you. Besides, Mr Worthing has
not quite nished yet.

LADY BRACKNELL: Finished what, may I ask?

GWENDOLEN: I am engaged to Mr Worthing, mamma. [They rise

together.]
LADY BRACKNELL: Pardon me, you are not engaged to anyone. When
you do become engaged to someone, 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.

GWENDOLEN [reproachfully]: Mamma!

LADY BRACKNELL: In the carriage, Gwendolen! [GWENDOLEN goes to the

door. She and JACK 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!

GWENDOLEN: Yes, mamma. [Goes out, looking back at JACK.]

LADY BRACKNELL [sitting down]: You can take a seat, Mr Worthing.

[Looks in her pocket for notebook and pencil.]

JACK: Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.

LADY BRACKNELL [pencil and notebook in hand]: I feel bound to tell you
that you are 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 a ectionate mother requires.
Do you smoke?

JACK: Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.

LADY BRACKNELL: I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an

occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in
London as it is. How old are you?

JACK: Twenty-nine.

LADY BRACKNELL: A very good age to be married at. I have always been
of opinion that a man who desires to get married should know
either everything or nothing. Which do you know?

JACK [after some hesitation]: I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.

LADY BRACKNELL: 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 e ect whatsoever. If it did, it
would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably
lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square.22 What is your
income?

JACK: Between seven and eight thousand a year.23

LADY BRACKNELL [makes a note in her book]: In land, or in investments?

JACK: In investments, chie y.

LADY BRACKNELL: That is satisfactory. What between the duties
expected of one during one’s lifetime, and the duties exacted from
one after one’s death, land has ceased to be either a pro t or a
pleasure. It gives one position, and prevents one from keeping it
up. That’s all that can be said about land.

JACK: I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to

it, about fteen 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.

LADY BRACKNELL: A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that

point can be cleared up 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.

JACK: Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the year
to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at
six months’ notice.

LADY BRACKNELL: Lady Bloxham? I don’t know her.

JACK: Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably
advanced in years.

LADY BRACKNELL: Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability

of character. What number in Belgrave Square?

JACK: 149.
LADY BRACKNELL [shaking her head]: The unfashionable side. I thought
there was something. However, that could easily be altered.

JACK: Do you mean the fashion, or the side?

LADY BRACKNELL [sternly]: Both, if necessary, I presume. What are your

politics?

JACK: Well, I am afraid I really have none. I am a Liberal Unionist.24

LADY BRACKNELL: Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come
in the evening, at any rate. Now to minor matters. Are your
parents living?

JACK: I have lost both my parents.

LADY BRACKNELL: Both? To lose one parent may be regarded as a

misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.25 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?

JACK: I am afraid I really don’t know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I
said I 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.

LADY BRACKNELL: Found!

JACK: The late Mr Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very

charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the
 name of Worthing, because he happened to have a rst-class ticket
for Worthing in his pocket at the time. Worthing is a place in
Sussex. It is a seaside resort.

LADY BRACKNELL: Where did the charitable gentleman who had a rst-
class ticket for this seaside resort nd you?

JACK [gravely]: In a hand-bag.

LADY BRACKNELL: A hand-bag?

JACK [very seriously]: Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag – a

somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it – an
ordinary hand-bag in fact.

LADY BRACKNELL: In what locality did this Mr James, or Thomas,

Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?

JACK: In the cloak-room at Victoria Station. It was given to him in

mistake for his own.

LADY BRACKNELL: The cloak-room at Victoria Station?

JACK: Yes. The Brighton line.

LADY BRACKNELL: The line is immaterial. Mr Worthing, I confess I feel

somewhat 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 recognized position in good society.

JACK: May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need
hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure
Gwendolen’s happiness.

LADY BRACKNELL: I would strongly advise you, Mr Worthing, to try and

acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a de nite
e ort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the
season is quite over.

JACK: Well, I don’t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can
produce the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at
home. I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.

LADY BRACKNELL: Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly
imagine that I and 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.]

JACK: Good morning! [ALGERNON, from the other room, strikes up the
Wedding March.26 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.]

ALGERNON: Didn’t it go o all right, old boy? You don’t mean to say
Gwendolen refused you? I know it is a way she has. She is always
refusing people. I think it is most ill-natured of her.

JACK: Oh, Gwendolen is as right as a trivet. As far as she is

concerned, we are engaged. Her mother is perfectly unbearable.
Never met such a Gorgon27… 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.

ALGERNON: My dear boy, I love hearing my relations abused. It is the

only thing 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.

JACK: Oh, that is nonsense!

ALGERNON: It isn’t!

JACK: Well, I won’t argue about the matter. You always want to argue
about things.

ALGERNON: That is exactly what things were originally made for.

JACK: Upon my word, if I thought that, I’d shoot myself… [A pause.]
You don’t think there is any chance of Gwendolen becoming like
her mother in about a hundred and fty years, do you, Algy?

ALGERNON: All women become like their mothers. That is their

tragedy. No man does. That’s his.

JACK: Is that clever?

ALGERNON: It is perfectly phrased! and quite as true as any

observation in civilized life should be.

JACK: I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays.

You 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.

ALGERNON: We have.

JACK: I should extremely like to meet them. What do they talk about?

ALGERNON: The fools? Oh! about the clever people, of course.

JACK: What fools!

ALGERNON: By the way, did you tell Gwendolen the truth about your
being Ernest in town, and Jack in the country?

JACK [in a very patronizing manner]: My dear fellow, the truth isn’t
quite the sort of thing one tells to a nice, sweet, re ned girl. What
extraordinary ideas you have about the way to behave to a
woman!
ALGERNON: The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to
her, if she is pretty, and to someone else if she is plain.

JACK: Oh, that is nonsense.

ALGERNON: What about your brother? What about the pro igate
Ernest?

JACK: Oh, before the end of the week I shall have got rid of him. I’ll
say he died in Paris of apoplexy. Lots of people die of apoplexy,
quite suddenly, don’t they?

ALGERNON: Yes, but it’s hereditary, my dear fellow. It’s a sort of thing
that runs in families. You had much better say a severe chill.

JACK: You are sure a severe chill isn’t hereditary, or anything of that
kind?

ALGERNON: Of course it isn’t!

JACK: Very well, then. My poor brother Ernest is carried o suddenly

in Paris, by a severe chill. That gets rid of him.

ALGERNON: But I thought you said that… Miss Cardew was a little too
much interested in your poor brother Ernest? Won’t she feel his
loss a good deal?

JACK: Oh, that is all right. Cecily is not a silly romantic girl, I am glad
to say. She has got a capital appetite, goes long walks and pays no
attention at all to her lessons.

ALGERNON: I would rather like to see Cecily.

JACK: I will take very good care you never do. She is excessively
pretty, and she is only just eighteen.28

ALGERNON: Have you told Gwendolen yet that you have an

excessively pretty ward who is only just eighteen?

JACK: Oh! one doesn’t blurt these things out to people. Cecily and
Gwendolen 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.

ALGERNON: Women only do that when they have called each other a
lot of other things rst.29 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?

JACK [irritably]: Oh! it always is nearly seven.

ALGERNON: Well, I’m hungry.

JACK: I never knew you when you weren’t…

ALGERNON: What shall we do after dinner? Go to a theatre?

JACK: Oh, no! I loathe listening.

ALGERNON: Well, let us go to the Club?

JACK: Oh, no! I hate talking.

ALGERNON: Well, we might trot round to the Empire30 at ten?

JACK: Oh, no! I can’t bear looking at things. It is so silly.

ALGERNON: Well, what shall we do?

JACK: Nothing!

ALGERNON: It is awfully hard work doing nothing. However, I don’t

mind hard work where there is no de nite object of any kind.

[Enter LANE.]

LANE: Miss Fairfax.

[Enter GWENDOLEN. LANE goes out.]

ALGERNON: Gwendolen, upon my word!

GWENDOLEN: Algy, kindly turn your back. I have something very

particular to say to Mr Worthing.

ALGERNON: Really, Gwendolen, I don’t think I can allow this at all.

GWENDOLEN: Algy, you always adopt a strictly immoral attitude

towards life. You are not quite old enough to do that. [ALGERNON
retires to the replace.]

JACK: My own darling!

GWENDOLEN: Ernest, we may never be married. From the expression

on mamma’s face I fear we never shall. Few parents nowadays pay
any regard to what their children say to them. The old-fashioned
respect for the young is fast dying out. Whatever in uence 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
 someone else, and marry often, nothing that she can possibly do
can alter my eternal devotion to you.

JACK: Dear Gwendolen!

GWENDOLEN: The story of your romantic origin, as related to me by

mamma, with unpleasing comments, has naturally stirred the
deeper bres of my nature. Your Christian name has an irresistible
fascination. The simplicity of your character makes you exquisitely
incomprehensible to me. Your town address at the Albany I have.
What is your address in the country?

JACK: The Manor House, Woolton, Hertfordshire.

[ALGERNON, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, and

writes the address on his shirt-cu . Then picks up the Railway Guide.]

GWENDOLEN: There is a good postal service, I suppose? It may be

necessary to do something desperate. That of course will require
serious consideration. I will communicate with you daily.

JACK: My own one!

GWENDOLEN: How long do you remain in town?

JACK: Till Monday.

GWENDOLEN: Good! Algy, you may turn round now.

ALGERNON: Thanks, I’ve turned round already.

GWENDOLEN: You may also ring the bell.

JACK: You will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling?

GWENDOLEN: Certainly.

JACK [to LANE, who now enters]: I will see Miss Fairfax out.

LANE: Yes, sir. [JACK and GWENDOLEN go o .]

[LANE presents several letters on a salver to ALGERNON. It is to be

surmised that they are bills, as ALGERNON, after looking at the
envelopes, tears them up.]

ALGERNON: A glass of sherry, Lane.

LANE: Yes, sir.

ALGERNON: Tomorrow, Lane, I’m going Bunburying.

LANE: Yes, sir.

ALGERNON: I shall probably not be back till Monday. You can put up
my dress clothes, my smoking jacket,31 and all the Bunbury suits…

LANE: Yes, sir. [Handing sherry.]

ALGERNON: I hope tomorrow will be a ne day, Lane.

LANE: It never is, sir.

ALGERNON: Lane, you’re a perfect pessimist.

LANE: I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.

[Enter JACK. LANE goes o .]

JACK: There’s a sensible, intellectual girl! the only girl I ever cared
for in my life. [ALGERNON is laughing immoderately.] What on earth
are you so amused at?

ALGERNON: Oh, I’m a little anxious about poor Bunbury, that is all.

JACK: If you don’t take care, your friend Bunbury will get you into a
serious scrape some day.

ALGERNON: I love scrapes. They are the only things that are never
serious.

JACK: Oh, that’s nonsense, Algy. You never talk anything but
nonsense.

ALGERNON: Nobody ever does.

[JACK looks indignantly at him, and leaves the room. ALGERNON

lights a cigarette, reads his shirt-cu and smiles.]32

ACT DROP
SECOND ACT

SCENE

Garden at the Manor House. A ight of grey stone steps leads up to

the house. The garden, an old-fashioned one, full of roses. Time of
year, July. Basket chairs, and a table covered with books, are set under
a large yew-tree.

[MISS PRISM discovered seated at the table. CECILY is at the back,

watering owers.]

MISS PRISM [calling]: Cecily, Cecily! Surely such a utilitarian

occupation as the watering of owers 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 fteen. We will repeat yesterday’s lesson.

CECILY [coming over very slowly]: But I don’t like German. It isn’t at all
a becoming language. I know perfectly well that I look quite plain
after my German lesson.

MISS PRISM: Child, you know how anxious your guardian is that you
should improve yourself in every way. He laid particular stress on
 your German, as he was leaving for town yesterday. Indeed, he
always lays stress on your German when he is leaving for town.1

CECILY: Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious! Sometimes he is so serious

that I think he cannot be quite well.

MISS PRISM [drawing herself up]: Your guardian enjoys the best of
health, and his gravity of demeanour is especially to be
commended in one so comparatively young as he is. I know no one
who has a higher sense of duty and responsibility.

CECILY: I suppose that is why he often looks a little bored when we

three are together.

MISS PRISM: Cecily! I am surprised at you. Mr Worthing has many

troubles in his life. Idle merriment and triviality would be out of
place in his conversation. You must remember his constant anxiety
about that unfortunate young man his brother.

CECILY: I wish Uncle Jack would allow that unfortunate young man,
his brother, to come down here sometimes. We might have a good
in uence over him, Miss Prism. I am sure you certainly would.
You know German, and geology, and things of that kind in uence
a man very much. [CECILY begins to write in her diary.]

MISS PRISM [shaking her head]: I do not think that even I could produce
any e ect 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.2 You must put
away your diary, Cecily. I really don’t see why you should keep a
diary at all.

CECILY: I keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my

life. If I didn’t write them down, I should probably forget all about
them.

MISS PRISM: Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry
about with us.

CECILY: Yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never
happened, and couldn’t possibly have happened. I believe that
Memory is responsible for nearly all the three-volume novels that
Mudie3 sends us.

MISS PRISM: Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel,

Cecily. I wrote one myself in earlier days.

CECILY: Did you really, Miss Prism? How wonderfully clever you are!
I hope it did not end happily? I don’t like novels that end happily.
They depress me so much.

MISS PRISM: The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is
what Fiction means.

CECILY: I suppose so. But it seems very unfair. And was your novel
ever published?
MISS PRISM: Alas! no. The manuscript unfortunately was abandoned.
[CECILY starts.] I used the word in the sense of lost or mislaid. To
your work, child, these speculations are pro tless.

CECILY [smiling]: But I see dear Dr Chasuble coming up through the

garden.

MISS PRISM [rising and advancing]: Dr Chasuble! This is indeed a

pleasure.

[Enter CANON CHASUBLE.]

CHASUBLE: And how are we this morning? Miss Prism, you are, I trust,
well?

CECILY: Miss Prism has just been complaining of a slight headache. I

think it would do her so much good to have a short stroll with you
in the Park, Dr Chasuble.

MISS PRISM: Cecily, I have not mentioned anything about a headache.

CECILY: No, dear Miss Prism, I know that, but I felt instinctively that
you had a headache. Indeed I was thinking about that, and not
about my German lesson, when the Rector came in.

CHASUBLE: I hope, Cecily, you are not inattentive.

CECILY: Oh, I am afraid I am.

CHASUBLE: That is strange. Were I fortunate enough to be Miss Prism’s

pupil, I would hang upon her lips. [MISS PRISM glares.] I spoke
 metaphorically. – My metaphor was drawn from bees. Ahem! Mr
Worthing, I suppose, has not returned from town yet?

MISS PRISM: We do not expect him till Monday afternoon.

CHASUBLE: Ah yes, he usually likes to spend his Sunday in London. He

is not one of those whose sole aim is enjoyment, as, by all
accounts, that unfortunate young man his brother seems to be. But
I must not disturb Egeria and her pupil any longer.

MISS PRISM: Egeria? My name is Laetitia,4 Doctor.

CHASUBLE [bowing]: A classical allusion merely, drawn from the Pagan

authors. I shall see you both no doubt at Evensong?

MISS PRISM: I think, dear Doctor, I will have a stroll with you. I nd I
have a headache after all, and a walk might do it good.

CHASUBLE: With pleasure, Miss Prism, with pleasure. We might go as

far as the schools and back.

MISS PRISM: That would be delightful. Cecily, you will read your
Political Economy in my absence. The chapter on the Fall of the
Rupee you may omit. It is somewhat too sensational.5 Even these
metallic problems have their melodramatic side.

[Goes down the garden with DR CHASUBLE.]

CECILY [picks up books and throws them back on table]: Horrid Political
Economy! Horrid Geography! Horrid, horrid German!

[Enter MERRIMAN with a card on a salver.]

MERRIMAN: Mr Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station.6
He has brought his luggage with him.

CECILY [takes the card and reads it]: ‘Mr Ernest Worthing, B.4, The
Albany, W.’ Uncle Jack’s brother! Did you tell him Mr Worthing
was in town?

MERRIMAN: Yes, Miss. He seemed very much disappointed. I

mentioned that you and Miss Prism were in the garden. He said he
was anxious to speak to you privately for a moment.

CECILY: Ask Mr Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had

better talk to the housekeeper about a room for him.

MERRIMAN: Yes, Miss. [MERRIMAN goes o .]

CECILY: I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel
rather. frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one
else.

[Enter ALGERNON, very gay and debonair.]

He does!7

ALGERNON [raising his hat]: You are my little cousin Cecily, I’m sure.

CECILY: You are under some strange mistake. I am not little. In fact, I
believe I am more than usually tall for my age. [ALGERNON is rather
taken aback.] But I am your cousin Cecily. You, I see from your
card, are Uncle Jack’s brother, my cousin Ernest, my wicked
cousin Ernest.
ALGERNON: Oh! I am not really wicked at all, cousin Cecily. You
mustn’t think that I am wicked.

CECILY: If you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us all
in a very inexcusable manner. I hope you have not been leading a
double life, pretending to be wicked and being really good all the
time. That would be hypocrisy.

ALGERNON [looks at her in amazement]: Oh! Of course I have been

rather reckless.

CECILY: I am glad to hear it.

ALGERNON: In fact, now you mention the subject, I have been very
bad in my own small way.

CECILY: I don’t think you should be so proud of that, though I am sure

it must have been very pleasant.

ALGERNON: It is much pleasanter being here with you.

CECILY: I can’t understand how you are here at all. Uncle Jack won’t
be back till Monday afternoon.

ALGERNON: That is a great disappointment. I am obliged to go up by

the rst train on Monday morning. I have a business appointment
that I am anxious… to miss!

CECILY: Couldn’t you miss it anywhere but in London?

ALGERNON: No: the appointment is in London.

CECILY: Well, I know, of course, how important it is not to keep a
business engagement, if one wants to retain any sense of the
beauty of life, but still I think you had better wait till Uncle Jack
arrives. I know he wants to speak to you about your emigrating.8

ALGERNON: About my what?

CECILY: Your emigrating. He has gone up to buy your out t.

ALGERNON: I certainly wouldn’t let Jack buy my out t. He has no taste

in neckties at all.

CECILY: I don’t think you will require neckties. Uncle Jack is sending
you to Australia.

ALGERNON: Australia! I’d sooner die.

CECILY: Well, he said at dinner on Wednesday night, that you would

have to choose between this world, the next world and Australia.

ALGERNON: Oh, well! The accounts I have received of Australia and

the next world are not particularly encouraging. This world is
good enough for me, Cousin Cecily.

CECILY: Yes, but are you good enough for it?

ALGERNON: I’m afraid I’m not that. That is why I want you to reform
me. You might make that your mission, if you don’t mind, Cousin
Cecily.

CECILY: I’m afraid I’ve no time, this afternoon.

ALGERNON: Well, would you mind my reforming myself this
afternoon?

CECILY: It is rather Quixotic9 of you. But I think you should try.

ALGERNON: I will. I feel better already.

CECILY: You are looking a little worse.

ALGERNON: That is because I am hungry.

CECILY: How thoughtless of me. I should have remembered that when

one is going to lead an entirely new life, one requires regular and
wholesome meals. Won’t you come in?

ALGERNON: Thank you. Might I have a buttonhole rst? I have never

any appetite unless I have a buttonhole rst.

CECILY: A Maréchal Niel?10 [Picks up scissors.]

ALGERNON: No, I’d sooner have a pink rose.

CECILY: Why? [Cuts a ower.]

ALGERNON: Because you are like a pink rose, Cousin Cecily.

CECILY: I don’t think it can be right for you to talk to me like that.
Miss Prism never says such things to me.

ALGERNON: Then Miss Prism is a short-sighted old lady. [CECILY puts the
rose in his buttonhole.] You are the prettiest girl I ever saw.

CECILY: Miss Prism says that all good looks are a snare.
ALGERNON: They are a snare that every sensible man would like to be
caught in.

CECILY: Oh, I don’t think I would care to catch a sensible man. I

shouldn’t know what to talk to him about.

[They pass into the house. MISS PRISM and DR CHASUBLE return.]

MISS PRISM: You are too much alone, dear Dr Chasuble. You should
get married. A misanthrope I can understand – a womanthrope,
never!

CHASUBLE [with a scholar’s shudder]: Believe me, I do not deserve so

neologistic a phrase. The precept as well as the practice of the
Primitive Church was distinctly against matrimony.

MISS PRISM [sententiously]: That is obviously the reason why the

Primitive Church has not lasted up to the present day. And you do
not seem to realize, dear Doctor, that by persistently remaining
single, a man converts himself into a permanent public temptation.
Men should be more careful; this very celibacy leads weaker
vessels astray.

CHASUBLE: But is a man not equally attractive when married?

MISS PRISM: No married man is ever attractive except to his wife.

CHASUBLE: And often, I’ve been told, not even to her.

MISS PRISM: That depends on the intellectual sympathies of the

woman. Maturity can always be depended on. Ripeness can be
 trusted. Young women are green. [DR CHASUBLE starts.] I spoke
horticulturally. My metaphor was drawn from fruits. But where is
Cecily?

CHASUBLE: Perhaps she followed us to the schools.

[Enter JACK slowly from the back of the garden. He is dressed in the
deepest mourning, with crêpe hatband and black gloves.]11

MISS PRISM: Mr Worthing!

CHASUBLE: Mr Worthing?

MISS PRISM: This is indeed a surprise. We did not look for you till
Monday afternoon.

JACK [shakes MISS PRISM’s hand in a tragic manner]: I have returned

sooner than I expected. Dr Chasuble, I hope you are well?

CHASUBLE: Dear Mr Worthing, I trust this garb of woe does not

betoken some terrible calamity?

JACK: My brother.

MISS PRISM: More shameful debts and extravagance?

CHASUBLE: Still leading his life of pleasure?

JACK [shaking his head]: Dead!

CHASUBLE: Your brother Ernest dead?

JACK: Quite dead.

MISS PRISM: What a lesson for him! I trust he will pro t by it.
CHASUBLE: Mr Worthing, I o er you my sincere condolence. You have
at least the consolation of knowing that you were always the most
generous and forgiving of brothers.

JACK: Poor Ernest! He had many faults, but it is a sad, sad blow.12

CHASUBLE: Very sad indeed. Were you with him at the end?

JACK: No. He died abroad; in Paris, in fact. I had a telegram last night
from the manager of the Grand Hotel.

CHASUBLE: Was the cause of death mentioned?

JACK: A severe chill, it seems.

MISS PRISM: As a man sows, so shall he reap.

CHASUBLE [raising his hand]: Charity, dear Miss Prism, charity! None
of us are perfect. I myself am peculiarly susceptible to draughts.
Will the interment take place here?

JACK: No. He seems to have expressed a desire to be buried in Paris.

CHASUBLE: In Paris! [Shakes his head.] I fear that hardly points to any
very serious state of mind at the last. You would no doubt wish me
to make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic a iction next
Sunday. [JACK presses his hand convulsively.] My sermon on the
meaning of the manna in the wilderness13 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,
con rmations, on days of humiliation and festal days. The last
 time I delivered it was in the Cathedral, as a charity sermon on
behalf of the Society for the Prevention of Discontent among the
Upper Orders. The Bishop, who was present, was much struck by
some of the analogies I drew.

JACK: Ah! that reminds me, you mentioned christenings, I think, Dr

Chasuble? I suppose you know how to christen all right? [DR
CHASUBLE looks astounded.] I mean, of course, you are continually
christening, aren’t you?

MISS PRISM: It is, I regret to say, one of the Rector’s most constant
duties in this parish. I have often spoken to the poorer classes on
the subject. But they don’t seem to know what thrift is.

CHASUBLE: But is there any particular infant in whom you are

interested, Mr Worthing? Your brother was, I believe, unmarried,
was he not?

JACK: Oh, yes.

MISS PRISM [bitterly]: People who live entirely for pleasure usually are.

JACK: But it is not for any child, dear Doctor. I am very fond of
children. No! the fact is, I would like to be christened myself, this
afternoon, if you have nothing better to do.

CHASUBLE: But surely, Mr Worthing, you have been christened

already?

JACK: I don’t remember anything about it.

CHASUBLE: But have you any grave doubts on the subject?

JACK: I certainly intend to have. Of course I don’t know if the thing

would bother you in any way, or if you think I am a little too old
now.

CHASUBLE: Not at all. The sprinkling, and indeed, the immersion of

adults is a perfectly canonical practice.

JACK: Immersion!

CHASUBLE: You need have no apprehensions. Sprinkling is all that is

necessary, or indeed I think advisable. Our weather is so
changeable. At what hour would you wish the ceremony
performed?

JACK: Oh, I might trot round about ve if that would suit you.

CHASUBLE: Perfectly, perfectly! In fact I have two similar ceremonies

to perform at that time. A case of twins that occurred recently in
one of the outlying cottages on your own estate. Poor Jenkins the
carter, a most hard-working man.

JACK: Oh! I don’t see much fun in being christened along with other
babies. It would be childish. Would half-past ve do?

CHASUBLE: Admirably! Admirably! [Takes out watch.] And now, dear

Mr Worthing, I will not intrude any longer into a house of sorrow.
I would merely beg you not to be too much bowed down by grief.
What seem to us bitter trials are often blessings in disguise.
MISS PRISM: This seems to me a blessing of an extremely obvious kind.

[Enter CECILY from the house.]

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

MISS PRISM: Cecily!

CHASUBLE: My child! my child. [CECILY goes towards JACK; he kisses her

brow in a melancholy manner.]

CECILY: What is the matter, Uncle Jack? Do look happy! You look as
if you had toothache, and I have got such a surprise for you. Who
do you think is in the dining-room? Your brother!

JACK: Who?

CECILY: Your brother Ernest. He arrived about half an hour ago.

JACK: What nonsense! I haven’t got a brother.

CECILY: Oh, don’t say that. However badly he may have behaved to
you in the past he is still your brother. You couldn’t be so heartless
as to disown him. I’ll tell him to come out. And you will shake
hands with him, won’t you, Uncle Jack? [Runs back into the house.]

CHASUBLE: These are very joyful tidings.

MISS PRISM: After we had all been resigned to his loss, his sudden
return seems to me peculiarly distressing.
JACK: My brother is in the dining-room? I don’t know what it all
means. I think it is perfectly absurd.

[Enter ALGERNON and CECILY hand in hand. They come slowly up to

JACK.]14

JACK: Good heavens! [Motions ALGERNON away.]

ALGERNON: Brother John, I have come down from town to tell you
that I am very sorry for all the trouble I have given you, and that I
intend to lead a better life in the future. [JACK glares at him and
does not take his hand.]

CECILY: Uncle Jack, you are not going to refuse your own brother’s
hand?

JACK: Nothing will induce me to take his hand. I think his coming
down here disgraceful. He knows perfectly well why.

CECILY: Uncle Jack, do be nice. There is some good in everyone.

Ernest has just been telling me about his poor invalid friend Mr
Bunbury whom he goes to visit so often. And surely there must be
much good in one who is kind to an invalid, and leaves the
pleasures of London to sit by a bed of pain.

JACK: Oh! he has been talking about Bunbury, has he?

CECILY: Yes, he has told me all about poor Mr Bunbury, and his
terrible state of health.
JACK: Bunbury! Well, I won’t have him talk to you about Bunbury or
about anything else. It is enough to drive one perfectly frantic.

ALGERNON: Of course I admit that the faults were all on my side. But I
must say that I think that Brother John’s coldness to me is
peculiarly painful. I expected a more enthusiastic welcome,
especially considering it is the rst time I have come here.

CECILY: Uncle Jack, if you don’t shake hands with Ernest I will never
forgive you.

JACK: Never forgive me?

CECILY: Never, never, never!

JACK: Well, this is the last time I shall ever do it. [Shakes hands with
ALGERNON and glares.]

CHASUBLE: It’s pleasant, is it not, to see so perfect a reconciliation? I

think we might leave the two brothers together.

MISS PRISM: Cecily, you will come with us.

CECILY: Certainly, Miss Prism. My little task of reconciliation is over.

CHASUBLE: You have done a beautiful action today, dear child.

MISS PRISM: We must not be premature in our judgements.

CECILY: I feel very happy. [They all go o except JACK and ALGERNON.]

JACK: You young scoundrel, Algy, you must get out of this place as
soon as possible. I don’t allow any Bunburying here.
 [Enter MERRIMAN.]

MERRIMAN: I have put Mr Ernest’s things in the room next to yours,

sir. I suppose that is all right?

JACK: What?

MERRIMAN: Mr Ernest’s luggage, sir. I have unpacked it and put it in

the room next to your own.

JACK: His luggage?

MERRIMAN: Yes, sir. Three portmanteaus, a dressing-case, two

hatboxes and a large luncheon-basket.

ALGERNON: I am afraid I can’t stay more than a week this time.

JACK: Merriman, order the dog-cart15 at once. Mr Ernest has been

suddenly called back to town.

MERRIMAN: Yes, sir. [Goes back into the house.]

ALGERNON: What a fearful liar you are, Jack. I have not been called
back to town at all.

JACK: Yes, you have.

ALGERNON: I haven’t heard anyone call me.

JACK: Your duty as a gentleman calls you back.

ALGERNON: My duty as a gentleman has never interfered with my

pleasures in the smallest degree.

JACK: I can quite understand that.

ALGERNON: Well, Cecily is a darling.

JACK: You are not to talk of Miss Cardew like that. I don’t like it.

ALGERNON: Well, I don’t like your clothes. You look perfectly

ridiculous in them. Why on earth don’t you go up and change? It is
perfectly childish to be in deep mourning for a man who is
actually staying for a whole week with you in your house as a
guest. I call it grotesque.

JACK: You are certainly not staying with me for a whole week as a
guest or anything else. You have got to leave… by the four- ve
train.

ALGERNON: I certainly won’t leave you so long as you are in

mourning. It would be most unfriendly. If I were in mourning you
would stay with me, I suppose. I should think it very unkind if you
didn’t.

JACK: Well, will you go if I change my clothes?

ALGERNON: Yes, if you are not too long. I never saw anybody take so
long to dress, and with such little result.

JACK: Well, at any rate, that is better than being always over-dressed
as you are.

ALGERNON: If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it

by being always immensely over-educated.
JACK: Your vanity is ridiculous, your conduct an outrage, and your
presence in my garden utterly absurd. However, you have got to
catch the four- ve, and I hope you will have a pleasant journey
back to town. This Bunburying, as you call it, has not been a great
success for you.

[Goes into the house.]

ALGERNON: I think it has been a great success. I’m in love with Cecily,
and that is everything.

[Enter CECILY at the back of the garden. She picks up the can and begins
to water the owers.]

But I must see her before I go, and make arrangements for
another Bunbury. Ah, there she is.

CECILY: Oh, I merely came back to water the roses. I thought you
were with Uncle Jack.

ALGERNON: He’s gone to order the dog-cart for me.

CECILY: Oh, is he going to take you for a nice drive?

ALGERNON: He’s going to send me away.

CECILY: Then have we got to part?

ALGERNON: I am afraid so. It’s a very painful parting.

CECILY: It is always painful to part from people whom one has known
for a very brief space of time. The absence of old friends one can
 endure with equanimity. But even a momentary separation from
anyone to whom one has just been introduced is almost
unbearable.

ALGERNON: Thank you.

[Enter MERRIMAN.]

MERRIMAN: The dog-cart is at the door, sir.

[ALGERNON looks appealingly at CECILY.]

CECILY: It can wait, Merriman… for… ve minutes.

MERRIMAN: Yes, miss.

[Exit MERRIMAN.]

ALGERNON: I hope, Cecily, I shall not o end you if I state quite frankly
and openly that you seem to me to be in every way the visible
personi cation of absolute perfection.

CECILY: I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If you
will allow me, I will copy your remarks into my diary. [Goes over
to table and begins writing in diary.]

ALGERNON: Do you really keep a diary? I’d give anything to look at it.
May I?

CECILY: Oh no. [Puts her hand over it.] You see, it is simply a very
young girl’s record of her own thoughts and impressions, and
consequently meant for publication. When it appears in volume
form I hope you will order a copy. But pray, Ernest, don’t stop. I
 delight in taking down from dictation. I have reached ‘absolute
perfection’. You can go on. I am quite ready for more.

ALGERNON [somewhat taken aback]: Ahem! Ahem!

CECILY: Oh, don’t cough, Ernest. When one is dictating one should
speak uently and not cough. Besides, I don’t know how to spell a
cough. [Writes as ALGERNON speaks.]

ALGERNON [speaking very rapidly]: Cecily, ever since I rst looked

upon your wonderful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to
love you wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.

CECILY: I don’t think that you should tell me that you love me wildly,
passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn’t seem to
make much sense, does it?

ALGERNON: Cecily.

[Enter MERRIMAN.]

MERRIMAN: The dog-cart is waiting, sir.

ALGERNON: Tell it to come round next week, at the same hour.

MERRIMAN [looks at CECILY, who makes no sign]: Yes, sir.

[MERRIMAN retires.]

CECILY: Uncle Jack would be very much annoyed if he knew you were
staying on till next week, at the same hour.
ALGERNON: Oh, I don’t care about Jack. I don’t care for anybody in
the whole world but you. I love you, Cecily. You will marry me,
won’t you?

CECILY: You silly boy! Of course. Why, we have been engaged for the
last three months.

ALGERNON: For the last three months?

CECILY: Yes, it will be exactly three months on Thursday.

ALGERNON: But how did we become engaged?

CECILY: Well, ever since dear Uncle Jack rst confessed to us that he
had a younger brother who was very wicked and bad, you of
course have formed the chief topic of conversation between myself
and Miss Prism. And of course a man who is much talked about is
always very attractive. One feels there must be something in him,
after all. I daresay it was foolish of me, but I fell in love with you,
Ernest.

ALGERNON: Darling. And when was the engagement actually settled?

CECILY: On the 14th of February last. Worn out by your entire

ignorance of my existence, I determined to end the matter one way
or the other, and after a long struggle with myself I accepted you
under this dear old tree here. The next day I bought this little ring
in your name, and this is the little bangle with the true lover’s knot
I promised you always to wear.

ALGERNON: Did I give you this? It’s very pretty, isn’t it?
CECILY: Yes, you’ve wonderfully good taste, Ernest. It’s the excuse I’ve
always given for your leading such a bad life. And this is the box
in which I keep all your dear letters. [Kneels at table, opens box and
produces letters tied up with blue ribbon.]

ALGERNON: My letters! But, my own sweet Cecily, I have never written

you any letters.

CECILY: You need hardly remind me of that, Ernest. I remember only

too well that I was forced to write your letters for you. I wrote
always three times a week, and sometimes oftener.

ALGERNON: Oh, do let me read them, Cecily?

CECILY: Oh, I couldn’t possibly. They would make you far too
conceited. [Replaces box.] The three you wrote me after I had
broken o the engagement are so beautiful, and so badly spelled,
that even now I can hardly read them without crying a little.

ALGERNON: But was our engagement ever broken o ?

CECILY: Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see the
entry if you like. [Shows diary.] ‘Today I broke o my engagement
with Ernest. I feel it is better to do so. The weather still continues
charming.’

ALGERNON: But why on earth did you break it o ? What had I done? I
had done nothing at all. Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to
hear you broke it o . Particularly when the weather was so
charming.
CECILY: It would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it
hadn’t been broken o at least once. But I forgave you before the
week was out.

ALGERNON [crossing to her, and kneeling]: What a perfect angel you are,
Cecily.

CECILY: You dear romantic boy. [He kisses her, she puts her ngers
through his hair.] I hope your hair curls naturally, does it?

ALGERNON: Yes, darling, with a little help from others.

CECILY: I am so glad.

ALGERNON: You’ll never break o our engagement again, Cecily?

CECILY: I don’t think I could break it o now that I have actually met
you. Besides, of course, there is the question of your name.

ALGERNON: Yes, of course. [Nervously.]

CECILY: You must not laugh at me, darling, but it had always been a
girlish dream of mine to love some one whose name was Ernest.
[ALGERNON rises, CECILY also.] There is something in that name that
seems to inspire absolute con dence. I pity any poor married
woman whose husband is not called Ernest.

ALGERNON: But, my dear child, do you mean to say you could not love
me if I had some other name?

CECILY: But what name?

ALGERNON: Oh, any name you like – Algernon – for instance…

CECILY: But I don’t like the name of Algernon.

ALGERNON: Well, my own dear, sweet, loving little darling, I really

can’t see why you should object to the name of Algernon. It is not
at all a bad name. In fact, it is rather an aristocratic name. Half of
the chaps who get into the Bankruptcy Court are called Algernon.
But seriously, Cecily… [moving to her] if my name was Algy,
couldn’t you love me?

CECILY [rising]: I might respect you, Ernest, I might admire your

character but I fear that I should not be able to give you my
undivided attention.

ALGERNON: Ahem! Cecily! [Picking up hat.] Your Rector here is, I

suppose, thoroughly experienced in the practice of all the rites and
ceremonials of the Church?

CECILY: Oh, yes. Dr Chasuble is a most learned man. He has never

written a single book, so you can imagine how much he knows.

ALGERNON: I must see him at once on a most important christening – I

mean on most important business.

CECILY: Oh!

ALGERNON: I shan’t be away more than half an hour.

CECILY: Considering that we have been engaged since February the

14th, and that I only met you today for the rst time, I think it is
rather hard that you should leave me for so long a period as half
an hour. Couldn’t you make it twenty minutes?
ALGERNON: I’ll be back in no time. [Kisses her and rushes down the
garden.]

CECILY: What an impetuous boy he is! I like his hair so much. I must
enter his proposal in my diary.

[Enter MERRIMAN.]

MERRIMAN: A Miss Fairfax has just called to see Mr Worthing. On very

important business, Miss Fairfax states.

CECILY: Isn’t Mr Worthing in his library?

MERRIMAN: Mr Worthing went over in the direction of the Rectory

some time ago.

CECILY: Pray ask the lady to come out here: Mr Worthing is sure to be
back soon. And you can bring tea.

MERRIMAN: Yes, miss.

[Goes out.]

CECILY: Miss Fairfax! I suppose one of the many good elderly women
who are associated with Uncle Jack in some of his philanthropic
work in London. I don’t quite like women who are interested in
philanthropic work. I think it is so forward of them.

[Enter MERRIMAN.]

MERRIMAN: Miss Fairfax.

[Enter GWENDOLEN. Exit MERRIMAN.]

CECILY [advancing to meet her]: Pray let me introduce myself to you.
My name is Cecily Cardew.

GWENDOLEN: Cecily Cardew? [Moving to her and shaking hands.] What

a very sweet name! Something tells me that we are going to be
great friends. I like you already more than I can say. My rst
impressions of people are never wrong.

CECILY: How nice of you to like me so much after we have known

each other such a comparatively short time. Pray sit down.

GWENDOLEN [still standing up]: I may call you Cecily, may I not?

CECILY: With pleasure!

GWENDOLEN: And you will always call me Gwendolen, won’t you?

CECILY: If you wish.

GWENDOLEN: Then that is all quite settled, is it not?

CECILY: I hope so. [A pause. They both sit down together.]

GWENDOLEN: Perhaps this might be a favourable opportunity for my

mentioning who I am. My father is Lord Bracknell. You have never
heard of papa, I suppose?

CECILY: I don’t think so.

GWENDOLEN: Outside the family circle, papa, I am glad to say, is

entirely unknown. I think that is quite as it should be. The home
seems to me to be the proper sphere for the man. And certainly
once a man begins to neglect his domestic duties he becomes
 painfully e eminate, does he not? And I don’t like that. It makes
men so very attractive.16 Cecily, mamma, whose views on
education are remarkably strict, has brought me up to be
extremely shortsighted; it is part of her system; so do you mind my
looking at you through my glasses?

CECILY: Oh! not at all, Gwendolen. I am very fond of being looked at.

GWENDOLEN [after examining CECILY carefully through a lorgnette]: You

are here on a short visit, I suppose.

CECILY: Oh no! I live here.

GWENDOLEN [severely]: Really? Your mother, no doubt, or some

female relative of advanced years, resides here also?

CECILY: Oh no! I have no mother, nor, in fact, any relations.

GWENDOLEN: Indeed?

CECILY: My dear guardian, with the assistance of Miss Prism, has the
arduous task of looking after me.

GWENDOLEN: Your guardian?

CECILY: Yes, I am Mr Worthing’s ward.17

GWENDOLEN: Oh! It is strange he never mentioned to me that he had a

ward. How secretive of him! He grows more interesting hourly. I
am not sure, however, that the news inspires me with feelings of
unmixed delight. [Rising and going to her.] I am very fond of you,
Cecily; I have liked you ever since I met you! But I am bound to
 state that now that I know that you are Mr Worthing’s ward, I
cannot help expressing a wish you were – well, just a little older
than you seem to be – and not quite so very alluring in
appearance. In fact, if I may speak candidly –

CECILY: Pray do! I think that whenever one has anything unpleasant
to say, one should always be quite candid.

GWENDOLEN: Well, to speak with perfect candour, Cecily, I wish that

you were fully forty-two, and more than usually plain for your age.
Ernest has a strong upright nature. He is the very soul of truth and
honour. Disloyalty would be as impossible to him as deception.
But even men of the noblest possible moral character are
extremely susceptible to the in uence of the physical charms of
others. Modern, no less than Ancient History, supplies us with
many most painful examples of what I refer to. If it were not so,
indeed, History would be quite unreadable.

CECILY: I beg your pardon, Gwendolen, did you say Ernest?

GWENDOLEN: Yes.

CECILY: Oh, but it is not Mr Ernest Worthing who is my guardian. It is

his brother – his elder brother.

GWENDOLEN [sitting down again]: Ernest never mentioned to me that

he had a brother.

CECILY: I am sorry to say they have not been on good terms for a long
time.
GWENDOLEN: Ah! that accounts for it. And now that I think of it I have
never heard any man mention his brother. The subject seems
distasteful to most men. Cecily, you have lifted a load from my
mind. I was growing almost anxious. It would have been terrible if
any cloud had come across a friendship like ours, would it not? Of
course you are quite, quite sure that it is not Mr Ernest Worthing
who is your guardian?

CECILY: Quite sure. [A pause.] In fact, I am going to be his.

GWENDOLEN [inquiringly]: I beg your pardon?

CECILY [rather shy and con dingly]: Dearest Gwendolen, there is no

reason why I should make a secret of it to you. Our little county
newspaper is sure to chronicle the fact next week. Mr Ernest
Worthing and I are engaged to be married.

GWENDOLEN [quite politely, rising]: My darling Cecily, I think there

must be some slight error. Mr Ernest Worthing is engaged to me.
The announcement will appear in the Morning Post18 on Saturday
at the latest.

CECILY [very politely, rising]: I am afraid you must be under some

misconception. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago.
[Shows diary.]

GWENDOLEN [examines diary through her lorgnette carefully]: It is very

curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday afternoon at
5.30. If you would care to verify the incident, pray do so.
 [Produces diary of her own.] I never travel without my diary. One
should always have something sensational to read in the train. I
am so sorry, dear Cecily, if it is any disappointment to you, but I
am afraid I have the prior claim.

CECILY: It would distress me more than I can tell you, dear

Gwendolen, if it caused you any mental or physical anguish, but I
feel bound to point out that since Ernest proposed to you he
clearly has changed his mind.

GWENDOLEN [meditatively]: If the poor fellow has been entrapped into

any foolish promise I shall consider it my duty to rescue him at
once, and with a rm hand.

CECILY [thoughtfully and sadly]: Whatever unfortunate entanglement

my dear boy may have got into, I will never reproach him with it
after we are married.

GWENDOLEN: Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew, as an entanglement?

You are presumptuous. On an occasion of this kind it becomes
more than a moral duty to speak one’s mind. It becomes a
pleasure.

CECILY: Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax, that I entrapped Ernest into an

engagement? How dare you? This is no time for wearing the
shallow mask of manners. When I see a spade I call it a spade.

GWENDOLEN [satirically]: I am glad to say that I have never seen a

spade. It is obvious that our social spheres have been widely
di erent.
 [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 in uence, under which both girls
chafe.]

MERRIMAN: Shall I lay tea here as usual, miss?

CECILY [sternly, in a calm voice]: Yes, as usual. [MERRIMAN begins to

clear table and lay cloth. A long pause. CECILY and GWENDOLEN glare at
each other.]

GWENDOLEN: Are there many interesting walks in the vicinity, Miss

Cardew?

CECILY: Oh! yes! a great many. From the top of one of the hills quite
close one can see ve counties.

GWENDOLEN: Five counties! I don’t think I should like that; I hate

crowds.

CECILY [sweetly]: I suppose that is why you live in town? [GWENDOLEN

bites her lip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.]

GWENDOLEN [looking around]: Quite a well-kept garden this is, Miss

Cardew.

CECILY: So glad you like it, Miss Fairfax.

GWENDOLEN: I had no idea there were any owers in the country.

CECILY: Oh, owers are as common here, Miss Fairfax, as people are
in London.
GWENDOLEN: Personally I cannot understand how anybody manages to
exist in the country, if anybody who is anybody does. The country
always bores me to death.

CECILY: Ah! This is what the newspapers call agricultural

depression,19 is it not? I believe the aristocracy are su ering very
much from it just at present. It is almost an epidemic amongst
them, I have been told. May I o er you some tea, Miss Fairfax?

GWENDOLEN [with elaborate politeness]: Thank you. [Aside.] Detestable

girl! But I require tea!

CECILY [sweetly]: Sugar?

GWENDOLEN [superciliously]: No, thank you. Sugar is not fashionable

any more. [CECILY looks angrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts
four lumps of sugar into the cup.]

CECILY [severely]: Cake or bread and butter?

GWENDOLEN [in a bored manner]: Bread and butter, please. Cake is

rarely seen at the best houses nowadays.

CECILY [cuts a very large slice of cake and puts it on the tray]: Hand that
to Miss Fairfax.

[MERRIMAN does so, and goes out with footman. GWENDOLEN drinks the
tea and makes a grimace. Puts down cup at once, reaches out her hand
to the bread and butter, looks at it and nds it is cake. Rises in
indignation.]
GWENDOLEN: You have lled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I
asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me
cake. I am known for the gentleness of my disposition, and the
extraordinary sweetness of my nature, but I warn you, Miss
Cardew, you may go too far.

CECILY [rising]: To save my poor, innocent, trusting boy from the

machinations of any other girl there are no lengths to which I
would not go.

GWENDOLEN: From the moment I saw you I distrusted you. I felt that
you were false and deceitful. I am never deceived in such matters.
My rst impressions of people are invariably right.

CECILY: It seems to me, Miss Fairfax, that I am trespassing on your

valuable time. No doubt you have many other calls of a similar
character to make in the neighbourhood.

[Enter JACK.]

GWENDOLEN [catching sight of him]: Ernest! My own Ernest!

JACK: Gwendolen! Darling! [O ers to kiss her.]

GWENDOLEN [drawing back]: A moment! May I ask if you are engaged

to be married to this young lady? [Points to CECILY.]

JACK [laughing]: To dear little Cecily! Of course not! What could have
put such an idea into your pretty little head?

GWENDOLEN: Thank you. You may! [O ers her cheek.]

CECILY [very sweetly]: I knew there must be some misunderstanding,
Miss Fairfax. The gentleman whose arm is at present round your
waist is my guardian, Mr John Worthing.

GWENDOLEN: I beg your pardon?

CECILY: This is Uncle Jack.20

GWENDOLEN [receding]: Jack! Oh!

[Enter ALGERNON.]

CECILY: Here is Ernest.

ALGERNON [goes straight over to CECILY without noticing anyone else]: My

own love! [O ers to kiss her.]

CECILY [drawing back]: A moment, Ernest! May I ask you – are you
engaged to be married to this young lady?

ALGERNON [looking round]: To what young lady? Good heavens!

Gwendolen!

CECILY: Yes: to good heavens, Gwendolen, I mean to Gwendolen.

ALGERNON [laughing]: Of course not! What could have put such an

idea into your pretty little head?

CECILY: Thank you. [Presenting her cheek to be kissed.] You may.

[ALGERNON kisses her.]

GWENDOLEN: I felt there was some slight error, Miss Cardew. The
gentleman who is now embracing you is my cousin, Mr Algernon
 Moncrie .

CECILY [breaking away from ALGERNON]: Algernon Moncrie ! Oh!

[The two girls move towards each other and put their arms round each
other’s waists as if for protection.]

CECILY: Are you called Algernon?

ALGERNON: I cannot deny it.

CECILY: Oh!

GWENDOLEN: Is your name really John?

JACK [standing rather proudly]: I could deny it if I liked. I could deny

anything if I liked. But my name certainly is John. It has been
John for years.

CECILY [to GWENDOLEN]: A gross deception has been practised on both

of us.

GWENDOLEN: My poor wounded Cecily!

CECILY: My sweet wronged Gwendolen!

GWENDOLEN [slowly and seriously]: You will call me sister, will you
not?21 [They embrace. JACK and ALGERNON groan and walk up and
down.]

CECILY [rather brightly]: There is just one question I would like to be

allowed to ask my guardian.
GWENDOLEN: An admirable idea! Mr Worthing, there is just one
question I would like to be permitted to put to you. Where is your
brother Ernest? We are both engaged to be married to your
brother Ernest, so it is a matter of some importance to us to know
where your brother Ernest is at present.

JACK [slowly and hesitatingly]: Gwendolen – Cecily – it is very painful

for me to be forced to speak the truth. It is the rst time in my life
that I have ever been reduced to such a painful position, and I am
really quite inexperienced in doing anything of the kind. However,
I will tell you quite frankly that I have no brother Ernest. I have no
brother at all. I never had a brother in my life, and I certainly have
not the smallest intention of ever having one in the future.

CECILY [surprised]: No brother at all?

JACK [cheerily]: None!

GWENDOLEN [severely]: Had you never a brother of any kind?

JACK [pleasantly]: Never. Not even of any kind.

GWENDOLEN: I am afraid it is quite clear, Cecily, that neither of us is

engaged to be married to anyone.

CECILY: It is not a very pleasant position for a young girl suddenly to

nd herself in. Is it?

GWENDOLEN: Let us go into the house. They will hardly venture to

come after us there.
CECILY: No, men are so cowardly, aren’t they?

[They retire into the house with scornful looks.]22

JACK: This ghastly state of things is what you call Bunburying, I

suppose?

ALGERNON: Yes, and a perfectly wonderful Bunbury it is. The most

wonderful Bunbury I have ever had in my life.

JACK: Well, you’ve no right whatsoever to Bunbury here.

ALGERNON: That is absurd. One has a right to Bunbury anywhere one

chooses. Every serious Bunburyist knows that.

JACK: Serious Bunburyist? Good heavens!

ALGERNON: Well, one must be serious about something, if one wants

to have any amusement in life. I happen to be serious about
Bunburying. What on earth you are serious about I haven’t got the
remotest idea. About everything, I should fancy. You have such an
absolutely trivial nature.

JACK: Well, the only small satisfaction I have in the whole of this
wretched business is that your friend Bunbury is quite exploded.
You won’t be able to run down to the country quite so often as you
used to do, dear Algy. And a very good thing too.

ALGERNON: Your brother is a little o colour, isn’t he, dear Jack? You
won’t be able to disappear to London quite so frequently as your
wicked custom was. And not a bad thing either.
JACK: As for your conduct towards Miss Cardew, I must say that your
taking in a sweet, simple, innocent girl like that is quite
inexcusable. To say nothing of the fact that she is my ward.

ALGERNON: I can see no possible defence at all for your deceiving a

brilliant, clever, thoroughly experienced young lady like Miss
Fairfax. To say nothing of the fact that she is my cousin.

JACK: I wanted to be engaged to Gwendolen, that is all. I love her.

ALGERNON: Well, I simply wanted to be engaged to Cecily. I adore her.

JACK: There is certainly no chance of your marrying Miss Cardew.

ALGERNON: I don’t think there is much likelihood, Jack, of you and

Miss Fairfax being united.

JACK: Well, that is no business of yours.

ALGERNON: If it was my business, I wouldn’t talk about it. [Begins to

eat mu ns.] It is very vulgar to talk about one’s business. Only
people like stockbrokers do that, and then merely at dinner
parties.

JACK: How you can sit there, calmly eating mu ns when we are in
this horrible trouble, I can’t make out. You seem to me to be
perfectly heartless.

ALGERNON: Well, I can’t eat mu ns in an agitated manner. The butter

would probably get on my cu s. One should always eat mu ns
quite calmly. It is the only way to eat them.
JACK: I say it’s perfectly heartless your eating mu ns at all, under
the circumstances.

ALGERNON: When I am in trouble, eating is the only thing that

consoles me. Indeed, when I am in really great trouble, as anyone
who knows me intimately will tell you, I refuse everything except
food and drink. At the present moment I am eating mu ns
because I am unhappy. Besides, I am particularly fond of mu ns.
[Rising.]

JACK [rising]: Well, that is no reason why you should eat them all in
that greedy way. [Takes mu ns from Algernon.]

ALGERNON [o ering tea-cake]: I wish you would have tea-cake instead.

I don’t like tea-cake.

JACK: Good heavens! I suppose a man may eat his own mu ns in his
own garden.

ALGERNON: But you have just said it was perfectly heartless to eat
mu ns.

JACK: I said it was perfectly heartless of you, under the

circumstances. That is a very di erent thing.

ALGERNON: That may be, but the mu ns are the same. [He seizes the
mu n-dish from JACK.]

JACK: Algy, I wish to goodness you would go.

ALGERNON: You can’t possibly ask me to go without having some
dinner. It’s absurd. I never go without my dinner. No one ever
does, except vegetarians and people like that. Besides I have just
made arrangements with Dr Chasuble to be christened at a quarter
to six under the name of Ernest.

JACK: My dear fellow, the sooner you give up that nonsense the
better. I made arrangements this morning with Dr Chasuble to be
christened myself at 5.30, and I naturally will take the name of
Ernest. Gwendolen would wish it. We can’t both be christened
Ernest. It’s absurd. Besides, I have a perfect right to be christened
if I like. There is no evidence at all that I have ever been
christened by anybody. I should think it extremely probable I
never was, and so does Dr Chasuble. It is entirely di erent in your
case. You have been christened already.

ALGERNON: Yes, but I have not been christened for years.

JACK: Yes, but you have been christened. That is the important thing.

ALGERNON: Quite so. So I know my constitution can stand it. If you

are not quite sure about your ever having been christened, I must
say I think it rather dangerous your venturing on it now. It might
make you very unwell. You can hardly have forgotten that
someone very closely connected with you was very nearly carried
o this week in Paris by a severe chill.

JACK: Yes, but you said yourself that a severe chill was not
hereditary.
ALGERNON: It usen’t to be, I know – but I daresay it is now. Science is
always making wonderful improvements in things.

JACK [picking up the mu n-dish]: Oh, that is nonsense; you are always
talking nonsense.

ALGERNON: Jack, you are at the mu ns again! I wish you wouldn’t.

There are only two left. [Takes them.] I told you I was particularly
fond of mu ns.

JACK: But I hate tea-cake.

ALGERNON: Why on earth then do you allow tea-cake to be served up

for your guests? What ideas you have of hospitality!

JACK: Algernon! I have already told you to go. I don’t want you here.
Why don’t you go!

ALGERNON: I haven’t quite nished my tea yet! and there is still one
mu n left. [JACK groans, and sinks into a chair. ALGERNON continues
eating.]23

ACT DROP
THIRD ACT

SCENE

Morning-room1 at the Manor House.

[GWENDOLEN and CECILY are at the window, looking out into the
garden.]

GWENDOLEN: The fact that they did not follow us at once into the
house, as anyone else would have done, seems to me to show that
they have some sense of shame left.

CECILY: They have been eating mu ns. That looks like repentance.

GWENDOLEN [after a pause]: They don’t seem to notice us at all.

Couldn’t you cough?

CECILY: But I haven’t got a cough.

GWENDOLEN: They’re looking at us. What e rontery!

CECILY: They’re approaching. That’s very forward of them.

GWENDOLEN: Let us preserve a digni ed silence.

CECILY: Certainly. It’s the only thing to do now.

 [Enter JACK followed by ALGERNON. They whistle some dreadful popular
air from a British Opera.]2

GWENDOLEN: This digni ed silence seems to produce an unpleasant

e ect.

CECILY: A most distasteful one.

GWENDOLEN: But we will not be the rst to speak.

CECILY: Certainly not.

GWENDOLEN: Mr Worthing, I have something very particular to ask

you. Much depends on your reply.

CECILY: Gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable. Mr Moncrie ,

kindly answer me the following question. Why did you pretend to
be my guardian’s brother?

ALGERNON: In order that I might have an opportunity of meeting you.

CECILY [to GWENDOLEN]: That certainly seems a satisfactory

explanation, does it not?

GWENDOLEN: Yes, dear, if you can believe him.

CECILY: I don’t. But that does not a ect the wonderful beauty of his
answer.

GWENDOLEN: True. In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity,

is the vital thing. Mr Worthing, what explanation can you o er to
me for pretending to have a brother? Was it in order that you
 might have an opportunity of coming up to town to see me as
often as possible?

JACK: Can you doubt it, Miss Fairfax?3

GWENDOLEN: I have the gravest doubts upon the subject. But I intend
to crush them. This is not the moment for German scepticism.4
[Moving to CECILY.] Their explanations appear to be quite
satisfactory, especially Mr Worthing’s. That seems to me to have
the stamp of truth upon it.

CECILY: I am more than content with what Mr Moncrie said. His

voice alone inspires one with absolute credulity.

GWENDOLEN: Then you think we should forgive them?

CECILY: Yes. I mean no.

GWENDOLEN: True! I had forgotten. There are principles at stake that

one cannot surrender. Which of us should tell them? The task is
not a pleasant one.

CECILY: Could we not both speak at the same time?

GWENDOLEN: An excellent idea! I nearly always speak at the same time

as other people. Will you take the time from me?

CECILY: Certainly. [GWENDOLEN beats time with uplifted nger.]

GWENDOLEN and CECILY [speaking together]: Your Christian names are

still an insuperable barrier. That is all!
JACK and ALGERNON [speaking together]: Our Christian names! Is that
all? But we are going to be christened this afternoon.

GWENDOLEN [to JACK]: For my sake you are prepared to do this terrible
thing?

JACK: I am.

CECILY [to ALGERNON]: To please me you are ready to face this fearful
ordeal?

ALGERNON: I am!

GWENDOLEN: How absurd to talk of the equality of the sexes! Where

questions of self-sacri ce are concerned, men are in nitely beyond
us.

JACK: We are. [Clasps hands with ALGERNON.]

CECILY: They have moments of physical courage of which we women

know absolutely nothing.

GWENDOLEN [to JACK]: Darling!

ALGERNON [to CECILY]: Darling! [They fall into each other’s arms.]

[Enter MERRIMAN. When he enters he coughs loudly, seeing the

situation.]

MERRIMAN: Ahem! Ahem! Lady Bracknell.

JACK: Good heavens!

 [Enter LADY BRACKNELL. The couples separate in alarm. Exit
MERRIMAN.]

LADY BRACKNELL: Gwendolen! What does this mean?

GWENDOLEN: Merely that I am engaged to be married to Mr Worthing,

mamma.

LADY BRACKNELL: Come here. Sit down. Sit down immediately.

Hesitation of any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of
physical weakness in the old. [Turns to JACK.] Apprised, sir, of my
daughter’s sudden ight by her trusty maid, whose con dence 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 Scheme5 on the In uence 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 rm.

JACK: I am engaged to be married to Gwendolen, Lady Bracknell!

LADY BRACKNELL: You are nothing of the kind, sir. And now as regards
Algernon!… Algernon!

ALGERNON: Yes, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL: May I ask if it is in this house that your invalid friend
Mr Bunbury resides?

ALGERNON [stammering]: Oh! No! Bunbury doesn’t live here. Bunbury

is somewhere else at present. In fact, Bunbury is dead.

LADY BRACKNELL: Dead! When did Mr Bunbury die? His death must
have been extremely sudden.

ALGERNON [airily]: Oh! I killed Bunbury this afternoon. I mean poor

Bunbury died this afternoon.

LADY BRACKNELL: What did he die of?

ALGERNON: Bunbury? Oh, he was quite exploded.

LADY BRACKNELL: Exploded! Was he the victim of a revolutionary

outrage?6 I was not aware that Mr Bunbury was interested in
social legislation. If so, he is well punished for his morbidity.

ALGERNON: My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he was found out! The

doctors found out that Bunbury could not live, that is what I mean
– so Bunbury died.

LADY BRACKNELL: He seems to have had great con dence in the

opinion of his physicians. I am glad, however, that he made up his
mind at the last to some de nite course of action, and acted under
proper medical advice. And now that we have nally got rid of
this Mr Bunbury, may I ask, Mr Worthing, who is that young
person whose hand my nephew Algernon is now holding in what
seems to me a peculiarly unnecessary manner?
JACK: That lady is Miss Cecily Cardew, my ward. [LADY BRACKNELL bows
coldly to CECILY.]

ALGERNON: I am engaged to be married to Cecily, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL: I beg your pardon?

CECILY: Mr Moncrie and I are engaged to be married, Lady

Bracknell.

LADY BRACKNELL [with a shiver, crossing to the sofa and sitting down]: I
do not know whether there is anything peculiarly exciting in the
air of this particular part of Hertfordshire, but the number of
engagements that go on seems to me considerably above the
proper average that statistics have laid down for our guidance. I
think some preliminary inquiry on my part would not be out of
place. Mr Worthing, is Miss Cardew at all connected with any of
the larger railway stations in London? I merely desire information.
Until yesterday I had no idea that there were any families or
persons whose origin was a Terminus. [JACK looks perfectly furious,
but restrains himself.]

JACK [in a cold, clear voice]: Miss Cardew is the granddaughter of the
late Mr Thomas Cardew of 149 Belgrave Square, SW; Gervase
Park, Dorking, Surrey; and the Sporran, Fifeshire, NB.7

LADY BRACKNELL: That sounds not unsatisfactory. Three addresses

always inspire con dence, even in tradesmen. But what proof have
I of their authenticity?
JACK: I have carefully preserved the Court Guides of the period. They
are open to your inspection, Lady Bracknell.

LADY BRACKNELL [grimly]: I have known strange errors in that

publication.

JACK: Miss Cardew’s family solicitors are Messrs Markby, Markby and
Markby.

LADY BRACKNELL: Markby, Markby and Markby? A rm of the very

highest position in their profession. Indeed I am told that one of
the Mr Markby’s is occasionally to be seen at dinner parties. So far
I am satis ed.

JACK [very irritably]: How extremely kind of you, Lady Bracknell! I

have also in my possession, you will be pleased to hear, certi cates
of Miss Cardew’s birth, baptism, whooping cough, registration,
vaccination, con rmation and the measles; both the German and
the English variety.

LADY BRACKNELL: Ah! A life crowded with incident, I see; though

perhaps somewhat too exciting for a young girl. I am not myself in
favour of premature experiences.8 [Rises, looks at her watch.]
Gwendolen! the time approaches for our departure. We have not a
moment to lose. As a matter of form, Mr Worthing, I had better ask
you if Miss Cardew has any little fortune?

JACK: Oh! about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the

Funds.9 That is all. Good-bye, Lady Bracknell. So pleased to have
 seen you.

LADY BRACKNELL [sitting down again]: A moment, Mr Worthing. A

hundred and thirty thousand pounds! And in the Funds! Miss
Cardew seems to me a most attractive young lady, now that I look
at her. Few girls of the present day have any really solid qualities,
any of the qualities that last, and improve with time. We live, I
regret to say, in an age of surfaces. [To CECILY.] Come over here,
dear. [CECILY goes across.] Pretty child! your dress is sadly simple,
and your hair seems almost as Nature might have left it. But we
can soon alter all that. A thoroughly experienced French maid
produces a really marvellous result in a very brief space of time. I
remember recommending one to young Lady Lancing, and after
three months her own husband did not know her.

JACK: And after six months nobody knew her.

LADY BRACKNELL [glares at Jack for a few moments. Then bends, with a
practised smile, to CECILY]: Kindly turn round, sweet child. [CECILY
turns completely round.] No, the side view is what I want. [CECILY
presents her pro le.] Yes, quite as I expected. There are distinct
social possibilities in your pro le.10 The two weak points in our
age are its want of principle and its want of pro le. The chin a
little higher, dear. Style largely depends on the way the chin is
worn. They are worn very high, just at present. Algernon!

ALGERNON: Yes, Aunt Augusta!

LADY BRACKNELL: There are distinct social possibilities in Miss
Cardew’s pro le.

ALGERNON: Cecily is the sweetest, dearest, prettiest girl in the whole

world. And I don’t care twopence about social possibilities.

LADY BRACKNELL: Never speak disrespectfully of Society, Algernon.

Only people who can’t get into it do that. [To CECILY.] Dear child,
of course you know that Algernon has nothing but his debts to
depend upon. But I do not approve of mercenary marriages. When
I married Lord Bracknell I had no fortune of any kind. But I never
dreamed for a moment of allowing that to stand in my way.11
Well, I suppose I must give my consent.

ALGERNON: Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL: Cecily, you may kiss me!

CECILY [kisses her]: Thank you, Lady Bracknell.

LADY BRACKNELL: You may also address me as Aunt Augusta for the
future.

CECILY: Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL: The marriage, I think, had better take place quite
soon.

ALGERNON: Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

CECILY: Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL: To speak frankly, I am not in favour of long
engagements. They give people the opportunity of nding out each
other’s character before marriage, which I think is never advisable.

JACK: I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Lady Bracknell, but this
engagement is quite out of the question. I am Miss Cardew’s
guardian, and she cannot marry without my consent until she
comes of age. That consent I absolutely decline to give.

LADY BRACKNELL: Upon what grounds, may I ask? Algernon is an

extremely, I may almost say an ostentatiously, eligible young man.
He has nothing, but he looks everything. What more can one
desire?

JACK: It pains me very much to have to speak frankly to you, Lady

Bracknell, about your nephew, but the fact is that I do not approve
at all of his moral character. I suspect him of being untruthful.
[ALGERNON and CECILY look at him in indignant amazement.]

LADY BRACKNELL: Untruthful! My nephew Algernon? Impossible! He is

an Oxonian.12

JACK: I fear there can be no possible doubt about the matter. This
afternoon during my temporary absence in London on an
important question of romance, he obtained admission to my
house by means of the false pretence of being my brother. Under
an assumed name he drank, I’ve just been informed by my butler,
an entire pint bottle of my Perrier-Jouet, Brut, ’89; wine I was
specially reserving for myself. Continuing his disgraceful
 deception, he succeeded in the course of the afternoon in
alienating the a ections of my only ward. He subsequently stayed
to tea, and devoured every single mu n. And what makes his
conduct all the more heartless is, that he was perfectly well aware
from the rst that I have no brother, that I never had a brother
and that I don’t intend to have a brother, not even of any kind. I
distinctly told him so myself yesterday afternoon.

LADY BRACKNELL: Ahem! Mr Worthing, after careful consideration I

have decided entirely to overlook my nephew’s conduct to you.

JACK: That is very generous of you, Lady Bracknell. My own decision,

however, is unalterable. I decline to give my consent.

LADY BRACKNELL [to CECILY]: Come here, sweet child. [CECILY goes over.]
How old are you, dear?

CECILY: Well, I am really only eighteen, but I always admit to twenty

when I go to evening parties.

LADY BRACKNELL: You are perfectly right in making some slight

alteration. Indeed, no woman should ever be quite accurate about
her age. It looks so calculating… [In a meditative manner.]
Eighteen, but admitting to twenty at evening parties. Well, it will
not be very long before you are of age and free from the restraints
of tutelage. So I don’t think your guardian’s consent is, after all, a
matter of any importance.

JACK: Pray excuse me, Lady Bracknell, for interrupting you again, but
it is only fair to tell you that according to the terms of her
 grandfather’s will Miss Cardew does not come legally of age till
she is thirty- ve.

LADY BRACKNELL: That does not seem to me to be a grave objection.

Thirty- ve is a very attractive age. London society is full of women
of the very highest birth who have, of their own free choice,
remained thirty- ve for years. Lady Dumbleton is an instance in
point. To my own knowledge she has been thirty- ve ever since
she arrived at the age of forty, which was many years ago now. I
see no reason why our dear Cecily should not be even still more
attractive at the age you mention than she is at present. There will
be a large accumulation of property.

CECILY: Algy, could you wait for me till I was thirty- ve?

ALGERNON: Of course I could, Cecily. You know I could.

CECILY: Yes, I felt it instinctively, but I couldn’t wait all that time. I
hate waiting even ve minutes for anybody. It always makes me
rather cross. I am not punctual myself, I know, but I do like
punctuality in others, and waiting, even to be married, is quite out
of the question.

ALGERNON: Then what is to be done, Cecily?

CECILY: I don’t know, Mr Moncrie .13

LADY BRACKNELL: My dear Mr Worthing, as Miss Cardew states

positively that she cannot wait till she is thirty- ve – a remark
 which I am bound to say seems to me to show a somewhat
impatient nature – I would beg of you to reconsider your decision.

JACK: But my dear Lady Bracknell, the matter is entirely in your own
hands. The moment you consent to my marriage with Gwendolen,
I will most gladly allow your nephew to form an alliance with my
ward.

LADY BRACKNELL [rising and drawing herself up]: You must be quite
aware that what you propose is out of the question.

JACK: Then a passionate celibacy is all that any of us can look

forward to.

LADY BRACKNELL: That is not the destiny I propose for Gwendolen.

Algernon, of course, can choose for himself. [Pulls out her watch.]
Come, dear [GWENDOLEN rises], we have already missed ve, if not
six, trains. To miss any more might expose us to comment on the
platform.

[Enter DR CHASUBLE.]

CHASUBLE: Everything is quite ready for the christenings.

LADY BRACKNELL: The christenings, sir! Is not that somewhat

premature?

CHASUBLE [looking rather puzzled, and pointing to JACK and ALGERNON]:

Both these gentlemen have expressed a desire for immediate
baptism.
LADY BRACKNELL: At their age? The idea is grotesque and irreligious!
Algernon, I forbid you to be baptized. I will not hear of such
excesses. Lord Bracknell would be highly displeased if he learned
that that was the way in which you wasted your time and money.

CHASUBLE: Am I to understand then that there are to be no

christenings at all this afternoon?

JACK: I don’t think that, as things are now, it would be of much

practical value to either of us, Dr Chasuble.

CHASUBLE: I am grieved to hear such sentiments from you, Mr

Worthing. They savour of the heretical views of the Anabaptists,14
views that I have completely refuted in four of my unpublished
sermons. However, as your present mood seems to be one
peculiarly secular, I will return to the church at once. Indeed, I
have just been informed by the pew-opener that for the last hour
and a half Miss Prism has been waiting for me in the vestry.

LADY BRACKNELL [starting]: Miss Prism! Did I hear you mention a Miss
Prism?

CHASUBLE: Yes, Lady Bracknell. I am on my way to join her.

LADY BRACKNELL: Pray allow me to detain you for a moment. This

matter may prove to be one of vital importance to Lord Bracknell
and myself. Is this Miss Prism a female of repellent aspect,
remotely connected with education?
CHASUBLE [somewhat indignantly]: She is the most cultivated of ladies,
and the very picture of respectability.

LADY BRACKNELL: It is obviously the same person. May I ask what

position she holds in your household?

CHASUBLE [severely]: I am a celibate, madam.

JACK [interposing]: Miss Prism, Lady Bracknell, has been for the last
three years Miss Cardew’s esteemed governess and valued
companion.

LADY BRACKNELL: In spite of what I hear of her, I must see her at once.
Let her be sent for.

CHASUBLE [looking o ]: She approaches; she is nigh.

[Enter MISS PRISM hurriedly.]

MISS PRISM: I was told you expected me in the vestry, dear Canon. I
have been waiting for you there for an hour and three-quarters.

[Catches sight of LADY BRACKNELL, who has xed her with a stony glare.
MISS PRISM grows pale and quails. She looks anxiously round as if
desirous to escape.]

LADY BRACKNELL [in a severe, judicial voice]: Prism! [MISS PRISM bows her
head in shame.] Come here, Prism! [MISS PRISM approaches in a
humble manner.] Prism! Where is that baby? [General consternation.
The Canon starts back in horror. ALGERNON and JACK pretend to be
anxious to shield CECILY and GWENDOLEN from hearing the details of a
 terrible public scandal.] Twenty-eight years ago, Prism, you left
Lord Bracknell’s house, Number 104, Upper Grosvenor Square, in
charge of a perambulator that contained a baby of the male sex.
You never returned. A few weeks later, through the elaborate
investigations of the Metropolitan police, the perambulator was
discovered at midnight standing by itself in a remote corner of
Bayswater. It contained the manuscript of a three-volume novel of
more than usually revolting sentimentality. [MISS PRISM starts in
involuntary indignation.] But the baby was not there. [Every one
looks at MISS PRISM.] Prism! Where is that baby? [A pause.]

MISS PRISM: Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that I do not know. I
only wish I did. The plain facts of the case are these. On the
morning of the day you mention, a day that is for ever branded on
my memory, I prepared as usual to take the baby out in its
perambulator. I had also with me a somewhat old, but capacious
hand-bag in which I had intended to place the manuscript of a
work of ction that I had written during my few unoccupied
hours. In a moment of mental abstraction, for which I can never
forgive myself, I deposited the manuscript in the bassinette and
placed the baby in the hand-bag.

JACK [who had been listening attentively]: But where did you deposit
the hand-bag?

MISS PRISM: Do not ask me, Mr Worthing.

JACK: Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me. I
insist on knowing where you deposited the hand-bag that
contained that infant.

MISS PRISM: I left it in the cloak-room of one of the larger railway

stations in London.

JACK: What railway station?

MISS PRISM [quite crushed]: Victoria. The Brighton line. [Sinks into a
chair.]

JACK: I must retire to my room for a moment. Gwendolen, wait here

for me.

GWENDOLEN: If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my
life. [Exit JACK in great excitement.]

CHASUBLE: What do you think this means, Lady Bracknell?

LADY BRACKNELL: I dare not even suspect, Dr Chasuble. I need hardly

tell you that in families of high position strange coincidences are
not supposed to occur. They are hardly considered the thing.

[Noises heard overhead as if some one was throwing trunks about.

Every one looks up.]

CECILY: Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.

CHASUBLE: Your guardian has a very emotional nature.

LADY BRACKNELL: This noise is extremely unpleasant. It sounds as if he
was having an argument. I dislike arguments of any kind. They are
always vulgar, and often convincing.

CHASUBLE [looking up]: It has stopped now. [The noise is redoubled.]

LADY BRACKNELL: I wish he would arrive at some conclusion.

GWENDOLEN: This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.

[Enter JACK with a hand-bag of black leather in his hand.]

JACK [rushing over to MISS PRISM]: Is this the hand-bag, Miss Prism?
Examine it carefully before you speak. The happiness of more than
one life depends on your answer.

MISS PRISM [calmly]: It seems to be mine. Yes, here is the injury it

received through the upsetting of a Gower Street omnibus15 in
younger and happier days. Here is the stain on the lining caused
by the explosion of a temperance beverage, an incident that
occurred at Leamington. And here, on the lock, are my initials. I
had forgotten that in an extravagant mood I had had them placed
there. The bag is undoubtedly mine. I am delighted to have it so
unexpectedly restored to me. It has been a great inconvenience
being without it all these years.

JACK [in a pathetic voice]: Miss Prism, more is restored to you than
this hand-bag. I was the baby you placed in it.

MISS PRISM [amazed]: You?

JACK [embracing her]: Yes… mother!

MISS PRISM [recoiling in indignant astonishment]: Mr Worthing. I am

unmarried!

JACK: Unmarried! I do not deny that is a serious blow. But after all,
who has the right to cast a stone against one who has su ered?16
Cannot repentance wipe out an act of folly? Why should there be
one law for men, and another for women? Mother, I forgive you.

[Tries to embrace her again.]

MISS PRISM [still more indignant]: Mr Worthing, there is some error.

[Pointing to LADY BRACKNELL.] There is the lady who can tell you who
you really are.

JACK [after a pause]: Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem inquisitive, but

would you kindly inform me who I am?

LADY BRACKNELL: I am afraid that the news I have to give you will not
altogether please you. You are the son of my poor sister, Mrs
Moncrie , and consequently Algernon’s elder brother.

JACK: Algy’s elder brother! Then I have a brother after all. I knew I
had a brother! I always said I had a brother! Cecily – how could
you have ever doubted that I had a brother? [Seizes hold of
ALGERNON.] Dr Chasuble, my unfortunate brother. Miss Prism, my
unfortunate brother. Gwendolen, my unfortunate brother. Algy,
you young scoundrel, you will have to treat me with more respect
 in the future. You have never behaved to me like a brother in all
your life.

ALGERNON: Well, not till today, old boy, I admit. I did my best,
however, though I was out of practice.

[Shakes hands.]

GWENDOLEN [to JACK]: My own! But what own are you? What is your
Christian name, now that you have become someone else?

JACK: Good heavens!… I had quite forgotten that point. Your

decision on the subject of my name is irrevocable, I suppose?

GWENDOLEN: I never change, except in my a ections.

CECILY: What a noble nature you have, Gwendolen!

JACK: Then the question had better be cleared up at once. Aunt

Augusta, a moment. At the time when Miss Prism left me in the
hand-bag, had I been christened already?

LADY BRACKNELL: Every luxury that money could buy, including

christening, had been lavished on you by your fond and doting
parents.

JACK: Then I was christened! That is settled. Now, what name was I
given? Let me know the worst.

LADY BRACKNELL: Being the eldest son you were naturally christened
after your father.

JACK [irritably]: Yes, but what was my father’s Christian name?

LADY BRACKNELL [meditatively]: I cannot at the present moment recall
what the General’s Christian name was. But I have no doubt he
had one. He was eccentric, I admit. But only in later years. And
that was the result of the Indian climate, and marriage, and
indigestion, and other things of that kind.

JACK: Algy! Can’t you recollect what our father’s Christian name
was?

ALGERNON: My dear boy, we were never even on speaking terms. He

died before I was a year old.

JACK: His name would appear in the Army Lists of the period, I
suppose, Aunt Augusta?

LADY BRACKNELL: The General was essentially a man of peace, except

in his domestic life. But I have no doubt his name would appear in
any military directory.

JACK: The Army Lists of the last forty years are here. These delightful
records should have been my constant study. [Rushes to bookcase
and tears the books out.] M. Generals… Mallam, Maxbohm, Magley
– what ghastly names they have – Markby, Migsby, Mobbs,
Moncrie ! Lieutenant 1840, Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel, Colonel,
General 1869, Christian names, Ernest John. [Puts book very quietly
down and speaks quite calmly.] I always told you, Gwendolen, my
name was Ernest, didn’t I? Well, it is Ernest after all. I mean it
naturally is Ernest.
LADY BRACKNELL: Yes, I remember now that the General was called
Ernest. I knew I had some particular reason for disliking the name.

GWENDOLEN: Ernest! My own Ernest! I felt from the rst that you
could have no other name!

JACK: Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to nd out suddenly

that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. Can
you forgive me?

GWENDOLEN: I can. For I feel that you are sure to change.

JACK: My own one!

CHASUBLE [to MISS PRISM]: Laetitia! [Embraces her.]

MISS PRISM [enthusiastically]: Frederick! At last!

ALGERNON: Cecily! [Embraces her.] At last!

JACK: Gwendolen! [Embraces her.] At last!

LADY BRACKNELL: My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of

triviality.

JACK: On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I’ve now realized for the rst
time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest.17

TABLEAU

CURTAIN
APPENDIX

The excised scene, involving Gribsby, from The Importance of Being

Earnest

[Enter MERRIMAN.]1

MERRIMAN: I have put Mr Ernest’s things in the room next to yours,

sir. I suppose that is all right!

JACK: What?

MERRIMAN: Mr Ernest’s luggage, sir! I have unpacked it and put it in

the room next to your own!

ALGY: I am afraid I can’t stay more than a week, Jack, this time.

MERRIMAN [to ALGY]: I beg your pardon, sir; there is an elderly

gentleman wishes to see you! He has just come in a cab from the
station. [Hands card on salver.]

ALGY: To see me?

MERRIMAN: Yes, sir!

ALGY [reads card]: Parker and Gribsby, Solicitors, Chancery Lane. I

don’t know anything about them. Who are they?
JACK [takes card]: Parker and Gribsby. I wonder.2 [To MERRIMAN]
Show the gentleman in at once.

MERRIMAN: Yes, sir.

[Exit.]

ALGY: What do you think it all means, Jack?

JACK: I expect, Ernest, they have come about some business for your
friend Bunbury. Perhaps Bunbury wants to make his will and
wishes you to be his executor. From what I know of Bunbury, I
think it is extremely likely.

[Enter MERRIMAN.]

MERRIMAN: Mr Gribsby.

[Enter GRIBSBY.]

GRIBSBY [to DR CHASUBLE]: Mr Ernest Worthing?

MISS PRISM: This is Mr Ernest Worthing.

GRIBSBY: Mr Ernest Worthing?

ALGY: Yes, I am Mr Ernest Worthing.

GRIBSBY: Of E.4.3 The Albany?

ALGY: Yes, that is my address. Charming rooms, too.

GRIBSBY: I am very sorry, sir, but we have a writ of attachment for 20

days against you at the suit of the Savoy Hotel Co. Limited, for
£762.14.2.
ALGY: Against me?

GRIBSBY: Yes, sir.

ALGY: What perfect nonsense! I never dine at the Savoy at my own

expense. I always dine at Willis’s. It is far more expensive. I don’t
owe a penny to the Savoy!

GRIBSBY: The writ is marked as having been [served] on you

personally at The Albany on May the 27th. Judgment was given in
default against you on the fth of June – since then we have
written to you no less than thirteen times without receiving any
reply. In the interest of our clients we had no option but to obtain
an order for committal of your person.4

ALGY: Committal! What on earth do you mean by committal? I

haven’t the smallest intention of going away. I am staying here for
a week. I am stopping with my brother. If you imagine I am going
up to town the moment I arrive in the country you are extremely
mistaken.

GRIBSBY: I am merely a solicitor myself. I do not employ personal

violence of any kind. The o cer of the Court whose function it is
to seize the person of the debtor is waiting in the y outside. He
has considerable experience in these matters.5 But no doubt you
will prefer to pay the bill?

ALGY: Pay it? How on earth am I going to do that? You don’t suppose
I have got any money? How perfectly silly you are. No gentleman
 ever has any money.

GRIBSBY: My experience is that it is usually relations who pay!

ALGY: Jack, you really must settle this bill.

JACK: Kindly allow me to see the items, Mr Gribsby. [Turns over

immense folio]…£762.14.2 since last October! I am bound to say I
never saw such reckless extravagance in all my life. [Hands it to DR
CHASUBLE.]

MISS PRISM: £762 for eating! There can be little good in any young
man who eats so much and so often.

DR CHASUBLE: We are far away from Wordsworth’s plain living and

high thinking.6

JACK: Now, Dr Chasuble, do you consider that I am in any way called

upon to pay this monstrous account for my brother?

DR CHASUBLE: I am bound to say that I do not think so! It would be

encouraging his pro igacy!

MISS PRISM: As a man sows so let him reap. This proposed

incarceration might be most salutary. It is to be regretted that it is
only for 20 days!

JACK: I am quite of your opinion!

ALGY: My dear fellow, how ridiculous you are! You know perfectly
well that the bill is really yours!

JACK: Mine?
ALGY: Yes, you know it is!

DR CHASUBLE: Mr Worthing, if this is a jest it is out of place!

MISS PRISM: It is gross e rontery. Just what I expected from him!

CECILY: It is ingratitude. I didn’t expect that!

JACK: Never mind what he says! This is the way he always goes on.
You mean now to say that you are not Ernest Worthing, residing at
E.4. The Albany. I wonder, as you are at it, that you don’t deny
being my brother at all. Why don’t you?

ALGY: Oh! I am not going to do that, my dear fellow. It would be

absurd. Of course I’m your brother. And that is why you should
pay this bill for me.7

JACK: I had better tell you quite candidly that I have not the smallest
intention of doing anything of the kind. Dr Chasuble, the worthy
Rector of this parish, and Miss Prism, in whose admirable and
sound judgement I place great reliance, are both of opinion that
incarceration would do you a great deal of good, and I think so
too!

GRIBSBY [pulls out watch]: I am sorry to be forced to break in on this

interesting family discussion, but time presses. We have to be at
Holloway not later than four o’clock, otherwise it is di cult to
obtain admission. The rules are very strict!

ALGY: Holloway?
GRIBSBY: It is at Holloway, sir, that detentions of this character take
place always!

ALGY: Well, I really am not going to be imprisoned in the suburbs for

having dined in the West End. It is perfectly ridiculous! What
nonsensical laws there are in England!

GRIBSBY: The bill is for suppers, not for dinners.

ALGY: I really don’t care which it is for! All I say is that I am not
going to be imprisoned in the suburbs! For anything!

GRIBSBY: The surroundings of Holloway, I admit, are middle class; I

reside myself in the vicinity; but the gaol is fashionable and well-
aired – and there are ample opportunities of taking exercise at
certain stated hours of the day.8

ALGY: Exercise! Good Heavens! No gentleman ever takes exercise.

You don’t seem to understand what a gentleman is!

GRIBSBY: I have met so many of them, sir, that I am afraid I don’t!

There are most curious varieties of them. The result of cultivation,
no doubt. Will you kindly come now, sir, if it will not be
inconvenient to you!

ALGY [appealingly]: Jack! You really can’t allow me to be arrested.

MISS PRISM: Pray be rm, Mr Worthing.

DR CHASUBLE: This is an occasion on which any weakness would be

out of place! It would be a form of self-deception!
JACK: I am quite rm, and I don’t know what weakness or deception
of any kind is!

CECILY: Uncle Jack! I think you have a little money of mine, haven’t
you? Let me pay this bill. I couldn’t bear the idea of your own
brother being in prison.

JACK: Oh, I couldn’t possibly let you pay it, Cecily! It would be
absurd!

CECILY: Then you will pay it for him, won’t you? I think you would be
sorry tomorrow if you thought your own brother was shut up. Of
course, I am quite disappointed with Ernest. He is just what I
expected.9

JACK: You will never speak to him again, Cecily, will you?

CECILY: Certainly not! Unless, of course, he speaks to me rst. It

would be rude not to answer him!

JACK: Well, I’ll take very good care he doesn’t speak to you rst. I’ll
take good care he doesn’t speak to anybody in this house. The man
should be cut! Mr Gribsby –

GRIBSBY: Yes, sir!

JACK: I’ll pay this bill for my brother. It is the last bill I shall ever pay
for him, remember that. How much is the wretched thing?

GRIBSBY: £762.14.2. Ah! The cab will be 5/9 extra – hired for the
convenience of the client.
JACK: All right.

MISS PRISM: I must say that I think such generosity misplaced.

DR CHASUBLE [with a wave of the hand]: The heart has its wisdom as
well as the head, Miss Prism.

JACK: Payable to Gribsby and Parker, I suppose?

GRIBSBY: Yes, sir. An open cheque, please. Thank you!10 [To DR

CHASUBLE] Good-day! [DR CHASUBLE bows coldly] Good-day. [MISS
PRISM bows coldly] Hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting you
again. [To ALGY]

ALGY: I sincerely hope not! What ideas you have of the sort of society
a gentleman wants to mix in. No gentleman cares much about
knowing a solicitor who wants to imprison one in the suburbs.

GRIBSBY: Quite so! Quite so!

ALGY: By the way, Gribsby – Gribsby! You’re not to go back to the

station in that cab. That is my cab. It was taken for my
convenience. You have got to walk to the station. And a very good
thing too. Solicitors don’t walk nearly enough. I don’t know any
solicitor who takes su cient exercise. As a rule they sit in stu y
o ces all day long, neglecting their business.

JACK: You can take the cab, Mr Gribsby.

GRIBSBY: Thank you, sir.

[Exit.]