Act II

Garden at the Manor House. A flight 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 backwatering flowers.]

MISS PRISM.[Calling.]Cecily, Cecily! Surely such a utilitarian

occupation as the watering of flowers is rather Moulton's duty than

yours? Especially at a moment when intellectual pleasures await

you. Your German grammar is on the table. Pray open it at page

fifteen. We will repeat yesterday's lesson.

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.

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

commanded 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

influence over him, Miss Prism. I am sure you certainly would.

You know German, and geology, and things of that kind influence a

man very much.[CECILY begins to write in her diary.]

MISS PRISM.[Shaking her head.]I do not think that even I could

produce any effect on a character that according to his own

brother's admission is irretrievably weak and vacillating. Indeed

I am not sure that I would desire to reclaim him. I am not in

favour of this modern mania for turning bad people into good people

at a moment's notice. As a man sows so let him reap. You must put

away your diary, Cecily. I really don't see why you should keep a

diary at all.

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

Mudie 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 use the word in the sense of lost or mislaid.

To your work, child, these speculations are profitless.

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, 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 find 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. 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. 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 off.]

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 debonnair.] He does!

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.[ALGERNONis 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 first 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.

ALGERNON. About my what?

CECILY. Your emigrating. He has gone up to buy your outfit.

ALGERNON. I certainly wouldn't let Jack buy my outfit. 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 Quixotic 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 first? I never

have any appetite unless I have a buttonhole first.

CECILY. A Marechal Niel?[Picks up scissors.]

ALGERNON. No, I'd sooner have a pink rose.

CECILY. Why?[Cuts a flower.]

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

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.[CECILYputs 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 realise, dear Doctor, that by persistently remaining

single, a man converts himself into a permanent public temptation.

Men should be more careful; this very celibacy leads weaker vessels

astray.

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 inthe deepest mourning, with crape hatband and black gloves.]

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 profit by it.

CHASUBLE. Mr. Worthing, I offer 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.

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

affliction next Sunday.[JACK presses his hand convulsively.]My

sermon on the meaning of the manna in the wilderness can be adapted

to almost any occasion, joyful, or, as in the present case,

distressing.[All sigh.]I have preached it at harvest

celebrations, christenings, confirmations, on days of humiliation

and festal days. The last time I delivered it was in the

Cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the Society for the

Prevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders. The Bishop, who

was present, was much struck by some of the analogies I drew.

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 five 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 five 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; hekisses 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 intothe 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 toJACK.]

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 himand 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 every one.

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 first 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.[Shakeswith 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 to-day, dear child.

MISS PRISM. We must not be premature in our judgments.

CECILY. I feel very happy.[They all go off except JACK andALGERNON.]

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 hat-

boxes, and a large luncheon-basket.

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

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

suddenly called back to town.

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

ALGERNON. What a fearful liar you are, Jack. I have not been

called back to town at all.

JACK. Yes, you have.

ALGERNON. I haven't heard any one call me.

JACK. Your duty as a gentleman calls you back.

ALGERNON. My duty as a gentleman has never 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-

five 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-five, and I hope you will have a pleasant journey

back to town. This Bunburying, as you call it, has not been a

great success for you.

[Goes into the house.]

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 andbegins to water the flowers.] 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 looksappealingly at CECILY.]

CECILY. It can wait, Merriman for . . . five minutes.

MERRIMAN. Yes, Miss.[Exit MERRIMAN.]

ALGERNON. I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite

frankly and openly that you seem to me to be in every way the

visible personification 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.[Goesover 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 fluently 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 first

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 first 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 attable, 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 of 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 off?

CECILY. Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see

the entry if you like.[Shows diary.]'To-day I broke off my

engagement with Ernest. I feel it is better to do so. The weather

still continues charming.'

ALGERNON. But why on earth did you break it of? What had I done?

I had done nothing at all. Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to

hear you broke it off. Particularly when the weather was so

charming.

CECILY. It would hardly have been a really serious engagement if

it hadn't been broken off 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 herfingers 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 of our engagement again, Cecily?

CECILY. I don't think I could break it off 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 confidence. 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 to-day for the first time, I think it

is rather hard that you should leave me for so long a period as

half an hour. Couldn't you make it twenty minutes?

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 first

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 effeminate, does he not? And I don't like that. It

makes men so very attractive. Cecily, mamma, whose views on

education are remarkably strict, has brought me up to be extremely

short-sighted; it is part of her system; so do you mind my looking

at you through my glasses?

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.

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 influence of the physical charms

of others. Modern, no less than Ancient History, supplies us with

many most painful examples of what I refer to. If it were not so,

indeed, History would be quite unreadable.

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 confidingly.]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 POST 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 lorgnettte carefully.]It

is certainly 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