ACT I

by Oscar Wilde

　　FIRST ACTSCENEMorning-room in Algernon’s flat in Half-MoonStreet. The room is luxuriously and artisticallyfurnished. The sound of a piano is heard in the adjoiningroom.

　　[Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, andafter 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 yoursake. I don’t play accurately—any one can playaccurately—but I play with wonderful expression. Asfar as the piano is concerned, sentiment is my forte. Ikeep 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 asalver.]

　　Algernon. [Inspects them, takes two, and sitsdown on the sofa.] Oh! . . . by the way, Lane, I see fromyour book that on Thursday night, when Lord Shoreman and Mr.Worthing were dining with me, eight bottles of champagne areentered as having been consumed.

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

　　Algernon. Why is it that at a bachelor’sestablishment the servants invariably drink the champagne? I ask merely for information.

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

　　Algernon. Good heavens! Is marriage sodemoralising as that?

　　Lane. I believe it is a very pleasantstate, sir. I have had very little experience of it myselfup to the present. I have only been married once. That was in consequence of a misunderstanding between myself anda young person.

　　Algernon. [Languidly.] I don’tknow that I am much interested in your family life, Lane.

　　Lane. No, sir; it is not a very interestingsubject. I never think of it myself.

　　Algernon. Very natural, I am sure. Thatwill do, Lane, thank you.

　　Lane. Thank you, sir. [Lane goesout.]

　　Algernon. Lane’s views on marriage seemsomewhat lax. Really, if the lower orders don’t setus a good example, what on earth is the use of them? Theyseem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense of moralresponsibility.

　　[Enter Lane.]

　　Lane. Mr. Ernest Worthing.

　　[Enter Jack.]

　　[Lane goes out.]

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

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

　　Algernon. [Stiffly.] I believe it iscustomary in good society to take some slight refreshment at fiveo’clock. Where have you been since last Thursday?

　　Jack. [Sitting down on the sofa.] In thecountry.

　　Algernon. What on earth do you do there?

　　Jack. [Pulling off his gloves.] Whenone is in town one amuses oneself. When one is in thecountry one amuses other people. It is excessivelyboring.

　　Algernon. And who are the people you amuse?

　　Jack. [Airily.] Oh, neighbours,neighbours.

　　Algernon. Got nice neighbours in your part ofShropshire?

　　Jack. Perfectly horrid! Never speak to oneof them.

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

　　Jack. Eh? Shropshire? Yes, ofcourse. Hallo! Why all these cups? Why cucumbersandwiches? Why such reckless extravagance in one soyoung? Who is coming to tea?

　　Algernon. Oh! merely Aunt Augusta andGwendolen.

　　Jack. How perfectly delightful!

　　Algernon. Yes, that is all very well; but I amafraid Aunt Augusta won’t quite approve of your beinghere.

　　Jack. May I ask why?

　　Algernon. My dear fellow, the way you flirt withGwendolen is perfectly disgraceful. It is almost as bad asthe way Gwendolen flirts with you.

　　Jack. I am in love with Gwendolen. I havecome up to town expressly to propose to her.

　　Algernon. I thought you had come up for pleasure?. . . I call that business.

　　Jack. How utterly unromantic you are!

　　Algernon. I really don’t see anythingromantic in proposing. It is very romantic to be inlove. But there is nothing romantic about a definiteproposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, Ibelieve. Then the excitement is all over. The veryessence of romance is uncertainty. If ever I get married,I’ll certainly try to forget the fact.

　　Jack. I have no doubt about that, dearAlgy. The Divorce Court was specially invented for peoplewhose memories are so curiously constituted.

　　Algernon. Oh! there is no use speculating on thatsubject. Divorces are made in Heaven—[Jackputs out his hand to take a sandwich. Algernon atonce interferes.] Please don’t touch the cucumbersandwiches. They are ordered specially for AuntAugusta. [Takes one and eats it.]

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

　　Algernon. That is quite a different matter. She is my aunt. [Takes plate from below.] Have somebread and butter. The bread and butter is forGwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to bread and butter.

　　Jack. [Advancing to table and helpinghimself.] And very good bread and butter it is too.

　　Algernon. Well, my dear fellow, you need not eatas if you were going to eat it all. You behave as if youwere married to her already. You are not married to heralready, and I don’t think you ever will be.

　　Jack. Why on earth do you say that?

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

　　Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!

　　Algernon. It isn’t. It is a greattruth. It accounts for the extraordinary number ofbachelors that one sees all over the place. In the secondplace, I don’t give my consent.

　　Jack. Your consent!

　　Algernon. My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my firstcousin. And before I allow you to marry her, you will haveto clear up the whole question of Cecily. [Rings bell.]

　　Jack. Cecily! What on earth do youmean? What do you mean, Algy, by Cecily! Idon’t know any one of the name of Cecily.

　　[Enter Lane.]

　　Algernon. Bring me that cigarette case Mr.Worthing left in the smoking-room the last time he dinedhere.

　　Lane. Yes, sir. [Lane goes out.]

　　Jack. Do you mean to say you have had mycigarette case all this time? I wish to goodness you hadlet me know. I have been writing frantic letters toScotland Yard about it. I was very nearly offering a largereward.

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

　　Jack. There is no good offering a large rewardnow that the thing is found.

　　[Enter Lane with the cigarette case on a salver. Algernon takes it at once. Lane goesout.]

　　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 theinscription inside, I find that the thing isn’t yours afterall.

　　Jack. Of course it’s mine. [Moving tohim.] You have seen me with it a hundred times, and youhave no right whatsoever to read what is written inside. Itis a very ungentlemanly thing to read a private cigarettecase.

　　Algernon. Oh! it is absurd to have a hard andfast rule about what one should read and what oneshouldn’t. More than half of modern culture dependson what one shouldn’t read.

　　Jack. I am quite aware of the fact, and Idon’t propose to discuss modern culture. Itisn’t the sort of thing one should talk of inprivate. I simply want my cigarette case back.

　　Algernon. Yes; but this isn’t yourcigarette 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 happensto be my aunt.

　　Algernon. Your aunt!

　　Jack. Yes. Charming old lady she is,too. Lives at Tunbridge Wells. Just give it back tome, Algy.

　　Algernon. [Retreating to back of sofa.] Butwhy does she call herself little Cecily if she is your aunt andlives at Tunbridge Wells? [Reading.] ‘Fromlittle Cecily with her fondest love.’

　　Jack. [Moving to sofa and kneeling uponit.] My dear fellow, what on earth is there in that? Some aunts are tall, some aunts are not tall. That is amatter that surely an aunt may be allowed to decide forherself. You seem to think that every aunt should beexactly like your aunt! That is absurd! ForHeaven’s sake give me back my cigarette case. [Follows Algernon round the room.]

　　Algernon. Yes. But why does your aunt callyou her uncle? ‘From little Cecily, with her fondestlove to her dear Uncle Jack.’ There is no objection,I admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, but why an aunt, nomatter what her size may be, should call her own nephew heruncle, I can’t quite make out. Besides, your nameisn’t Jack at all; it is Ernest.

　　Jack. It isn’t Ernest; it’s Jack.

　　Algernon. You have always told me it wasErnest. I have introduced you to every one as Ernest. You answer to the name of Ernest. You look as if your namewas Ernest. You are the most earnest-looking person I eversaw in my life. It is perfectly absurd your saying thatyour name isn’t Ernest. It’s on yourcards. Here is one of them. [Taking it fromcase.] ‘Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, TheAlbany.’ I’ll keep this as a proof that yourname is Ernest if ever you attempt to deny it to me, or toGwendolen, or to any one else. [Puts the card in hispocket.]

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

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

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

　　Algernon. Well, that is exactly what dentistsalways do. Now, go on! Tell me the whole thing. I may mention that I have always suspected you of being aconfirmed and secret Bunburyist; and I am quite sure of itnow.

　　Jack. Bunburyist? What on earth do you mean by aBunburyist?

　　Algernon. I’ll reveal to you the meaning ofthat incomparable expression as soon as you are kind enough toinform me why you are Ernest in town and Jack in the country.

　　Jack. Well, produce my cigarette case first.

　　Algernon. Here it is. [Hands cigarettecase.] Now produce your explanation, and pray make itimprobable. [Sits on sofa.]

　　Jack. My dear fellow, there is nothing improbableabout my explanation at all. In fact it’s perfectlyordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who adopted me when I wasa little boy, made me in his will guardian to his grand-daughter,Miss Cecily Cardew. Cecily, who addresses me as her unclefrom motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate,lives at my place in the country under the charge of heradmirable governess, Miss Prism.

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

　　Jack. That is nothing to you, dear boy. Youare not going to be invited . . . I may tell you candidly thatthe place is not in Shropshire.

　　Algernon. I suspected that, my dear fellow! I have Bunburyed all over Shropshire on two separateoccasions. Now, go on. Why are you Ernest in town andJack in the country?

　　Jack. My dear Algy, I don’t know whetheryou will be able to understand my real motives. You arehardly serious enough. When one is placed in the positionof guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on allsubjects. It’s one’s duty to do so. Andas a high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much toeither one’s health or one’s happiness, in order toget up to town I have always pretended to have a younger brotherof the name of Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets into themost dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the wholetruth pure and simple.

　　Algernon. The truth is rarely pure and neversimple. Modern life would be very tedious if it wereeither, and modern literature a complete impossibility!

　　Jack. That wouldn’t be at all a badthing.

　　Algernon. Literary criticism is not your forte,my dear fellow. Don’t try it. You should leavethat to people who haven’t been at a University. Theydo it so well in the daily papers. What you really are is aBunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were aBunburyist. You are one of the most advanced Bunburyists Iknow.

　　Jack. What on earth do you mean?

　　Algernon. You have invented a very useful youngerbrother called Ernest, in order that you may be able to come upto town as often as you like. I have invented an invaluablepermanent invalid called Bunbury, in order that I may be able togo down into the country whenever I choose. Bunbury isperfectly invaluable. If it wasn’t forBunbury’s extraordinary bad health, for instance, Iwouldn’t be able to dine with you at Willis’sto-night, for I have been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for morethan a week.

　　Jack. I haven’t asked you to dine with meanywhere to-night.

　　Algernon. I know. You are absurdly carelessabout sending out invitations. It is very foolish ofyou. Nothing annoys people so much as not receivinginvitations.

　　Jack. You had much better dine with your AuntAugusta.

　　Algernon. I haven’t the smallest intentionof doing anything of the kind. To begin with, I dined thereon Monday, and once a week is quite enough to dine withone’s own relations. In the second place, whenever Ido dine there I am always treated as a member of the family, andsent down with either no woman at all, or two. In the thirdplace, I know perfectly well whom she will place me next to,to-night. She will place me next Mary Farquhar, who alwaysflirts with her own husband across the dinner-table. Thatis not very pleasant. Indeed, it is not even decent . . .and that sort of thing is enormously on the increase. Theamount of women in London who flirt with their own husbands isperfectly scandalous. It looks so bad. It is simplywashing one’s clean linen in public. Besides, nowthat I know you to be a confirmed Bunburyist I naturally want totalk to you about Bunburying. I want to tell you therules.

　　Jack. I’m not a Bunburyist at all. IfGwendolen accepts me, I am going to kill my brother, indeed Ithink I’ll kill him in any case. Cecily is a littletoo much interested in him. It is rather a bore. So Iam going to get rid of Ernest. And I strongly advise you todo the same with Mr. . . . with your invalid friend who has theabsurd name.

　　Algernon. Nothing will induce me to part withBunbury, and if you ever get married, which seems to me extremelyproblematic, you will be very glad to know Bunbury. A manwho marries without knowing Bunbury has a very tedious time ofit.

　　Jack. That is nonsense. If I marry acharming girl like Gwendolen, and she is the only girl I ever sawin my life that I would marry, I certainly won’t want toknow Bunbury.

　　Algernon. Then your wife will. Youdon’t seem to realise, that in married life three iscompany and two is none.

　　Jack. [Sententiously.] That, my dear youngfriend, is the theory that the corrupt French Drama has beenpropounding for the last fifty years.

　　Algernon. Yes; and that the happy English homehas proved in half the time.

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

　　Algernon. My dear fellow, it isn’t easy tobe anything nowadays. There’s such a lot of beastlycompetition about. [The sound of an electric bell isheard.] Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta. Onlyrelatives, or creditors, ever ring in that Wagnerianmanner. Now, if I get her out of the way for ten minutes,so that you can have an opportunity for proposing to Gwendolen,may I dine with you to-night at Willis’s?

　　Jack. I suppose so, if you want to.

　　Algernon. Yes, but you must be serious aboutit. I hate people who are not serious about meals. Itis so shallow of them.

　　[Enter Lane.]

　　Lane. Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax.

　　[Algernon goes forward to meet them. EnterLady Bracknell and Gwendolen.]

　　Lady Bracknell. Good afternoon, dear Algernon, Ihope you are behaving very well.

　　Algernon. I’m feeling very well, AuntAugusta.

　　Lady Bracknell. That’s not quite the samething. In fact the two things rarely go together. [Sees Jack and bows to him with icy coldness.]

　　Algernon. [To Gwendolen.] Dear me,you are smart!

　　Gwendolen. I am always smart! Am I not, Mr.Worthing?

　　Jack. You’re quite perfect, MissFairfax.

　　Gwendolen. Oh! I hope I am not that. Itwould leave no room for developments, and I intend to develop inmany directions. [Gwendolen and Jack sit downtogether in the corner.]

　　Lady Bracknell. I’m sorry if we are alittle late, Algernon, but I was obliged to call on dear LadyHarbury. I hadn’t been there since her poorhusband’s death. I never saw a woman so altered; shelooks quite twenty years younger. And now I’ll have acup of tea, and one of those nice cucumber sandwiches youpromised me.

　　Algernon. Certainly, Aunt Augusta. [Goesover to tea-table.]

　　Lady Bracknell. Won’t you come and sithere, Gwendolen?

　　Gwendolen. Thanks, mamma, I’m quitecomfortable where I am.

　　Algernon. [Picking up empty plate inhorror.] Good heavens! Lane! Why are there nocucumber sandwiches? I ordered them specially.

　　Lane. [Gravely.] There were no cucumbers inthe market this morning, sir. I went down twice.

　　Algernon. No cucumbers!

　　Lane. No, sir. Not even for readymoney.

　　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 seemsto me to be living entirely for pleasure now.

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

　　Lady Bracknell. It certainly has changed itscolour. From what cause I, of course, cannot say. [Algernon crosses and hands tea.] Thank you. I’ve quite a treat for you to-night, Algernon. I amgoing to send you down with Mary Farquhar. She is such anice woman, and so attentive to her husband. It’sdelightful to watch them.

　　Algernon. I am afraid, Aunt Augusta, I shall haveto give up the pleasure of dining with you to-night afterall.

　　Lady Bracknell. [Frowning.] I hope not,Algernon. It would put my table completely out. Youruncle would have to dine upstairs. Fortunately he isaccustomed to that.

　　Algernon. It is a great bore, and, I need hardlysay, a terrible disappointment to me, but the fact is I have justhad a telegram to say that my poor friend Bunbury is very illagain. [Exchanges glances with Jack.] Theyseem to think I should be with him.

　　Lady Bracknell. It is very strange. ThisMr. Bunbury seems to suffer from curiously bad health.

　　Algernon. Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadfulinvalid.

　　Lady Bracknell. Well, I must say, Algernon, thatI think it is high time that Mr. Bunbury made up his mind whetherhe was going to live or to die. This shilly-shallying withthe question is absurd. Nor do I in any way approve of themodern sympathy with invalids. I consider it morbid. Illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged inothers. Health is the primary duty of life. I amalways telling that to your poor uncle, but he never seems totake much notice . . . as far as any improvement in his ailmentgoes. I should be much obliged if you would ask Mr.Bunbury, from me, to be kind enough not to have a relapse onSaturday, for I rely on you to arrange my music for me. Itis my last reception, and one wants something that will encourageconversation, particularly at the end of the season when everyone has practically said whatever they had to say, which, in mostcases, was probably not much.

　　Algernon. I’ll speak to Bunbury, AuntAugusta, if he is still conscious, and I think I can promise youhe’ll be all right by Saturday. Of course the musicis a great difficulty. You see, if one plays good music,people don’t listen, and if one plays bad music peopledon’t talk. But I’ll run over the programmeI’ve drawn out, if you will kindly come into the next roomfor a moment.

　　Lady Bracknell. Thank you, Algernon. It isvery thoughtful of you. [Rising, and followingAlgernon.] I’m sure the programme will bedelightful, after a few expurgations. French songs I cannotpossibly allow. People always seem to think that they areimproper, and either look shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh,which is worse. But German sounds a thoroughly respectablelanguage, and indeed, I believe is so. Gwendolen, you willaccompany me.

　　Gwendolen. Certainly, mamma.

　　[Lady Bracknell and Algernon go into themusic-room, Gwendolen remains behind.]

　　Jack. Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax.

　　Gwendolen. Pray don’t talk to me about theweather, Mr. Worthing. Whenever people talk to me about theweather, I always feel quite certain that they mean somethingelse. And that makes me so nervous.

　　Jack. I do mean something else.

　　Gwendolen. I thought so. In fact, I amnever wrong.

　　Jack. And I would like to be allowed to takeadvantage of Lady Bracknell’s temporary absence . . .

　　Gwendolen. I would certainly advise you to doso. Mamma has a way of coming back suddenly into a roomthat I have often had to speak to her about.

　　Jack. [Nervously.] Miss Fairfax, ever sinceI met you I have admired you more than any girl . . . I have evermet since . . . I met you.

　　Gwendolen. Yes, I am quite well aware of thefact. And I often wish that in public, at any rate, you hadbeen more demonstrative. For me you have always had anirresistible fascination. Even before I met you I was farfrom indifferent to you. [Jack looks at her inamazement.] We live, as I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, inan age of ideals. The fact is constantly mentioned in themore expensive monthly magazines, and has reached the provincialpulpits, I am told; and my ideal has always been to love some oneof the name of Ernest. There is something in that name thatinspires absolute confidence. The moment Algernon firstmentioned to me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I wasdestined to love you.

　　Jack. You really love me, Gwendolen?

　　Gwendolen. Passionately!

　　Jack. Darling! You don’t know howhappy you’ve made me.

　　Gwendolen. My own Ernest!

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

　　Gwendolen. But your name is Ernest.

　　Jack. Yes, I know it is. But supposing itwas something else? Do you mean to say you couldn’tlove me then?

　　Gwendolen. [Glibly.] Ah! that is clearly ametaphysical speculation, and like most metaphysical speculationshas very little reference at all to the actual facts of reallife, as we know them.

　　Jack. Personally, darling, to speak quitecandidly, 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 adivine name. It has a music of its own. It producesvibrations.

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

　　Gwendolen. Jack? . . . No, there is very littlemusic in the name Jack, if any at all, indeed. It does notthrill. It produces absolutely no vibrations . . . I haveknown several Jacks, and they all, without exception, were morethan usually plain. Besides, Jack is a notoriousdomesticity for John! And I pity any woman who is marriedto a man called John. She would probably never be allowedto know the entrancing pleasure of a single moment’ssolitude. The only really safe name is Ernest.

　　Jack. Gwendolen, I must get christened atonce—I mean we must get married at once. There is notime to be lost.

　　Gwendolen. Married, Mr. Worthing?

　　Jack. [Astounded.] Well . . . surely. You know that I love you, and you led me to believe, MissFairfax, that you were not absolutely indifferent to me.

　　Gwendolen. I adore you. But youhaven’t proposed to me yet. Nothing has been said atall about marriage. The subject has not even been touchedon.

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

　　Gwendolen. I think it would be an admirableopportunity. And to spare you any possible disappointment,Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to tell you quite franklybefore-hand that I am fully determined to accept you.

　　Jack. Gwendolen!

　　Gwendolen. Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you gotto 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? [Goeson his knees.]

　　Gwendolen. Of course I will, darling. Howlong you have been about it! I am afraid you have had verylittle experience in how to propose.

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

　　Gwendolen. Yes, but men often propose forpractice. I know my brother Gerald does. All mygirl-friends tell me so. What wonderfully blue eyes youhave, Ernest! They are quite, quite, blue. I hope youwill always look at me just like that, especially when there areother people present. [Enter Lady Bracknell.]

　　Lady Bracknell. Mr. Worthing! Rise, sir,from this semi-recumbent posture. It is mostindecorous.

　　Gwendolen. Mamma! [He tries to rise; sherestrains him.] I must beg you to retire. This is noplace for you. Besides, Mr. Worthing has not quite finishedyet.

　　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 toany one. When you do become engaged to some one, I, or yourfather, should his health permit him, will inform you of thefact. An engagement should come on a young girl as asurprise, pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be. It ishardly 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 Jackblow kisses to each other behind Lady Bracknell’sback. Lady Bracknell looks vaguely about as if shecould not understand what the noise was. Finally turnsround.] Gwendolen, the carriage!

　　Gwendolen. Yes, mamma. [Goes out, lookingback at Jack.]

　　Lady Bracknell. [Sitting down.] You cantake a seat, Mr. Worthing.

　　[Looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.]

　　Jack. Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I preferstanding.

　　Lady Bracknell. [Pencil and note-book inhand.] I feel bound to tell you that you are not down on mylist of eligible young men, although I have the same list as thedear Duchess of Bolton has. We work together, infact. However, I am quite ready to enter your name, shouldyour answers be what a really affectionate mother requires. Do you smoke?

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

　　Lady Bracknell. I am glad to hear it. A manshould always have an occupation of some kind. There arefar too many idle men in London as it is. How old areyou?

　　Jack. Twenty-nine.

　　Lady Bracknell. A very good age to be marriedat. I have always been of opinion that a man who desires toget married should know either everything or nothing. Whichdo you know?

　　Jack. [After some hesitation.] I knownothing, Lady Bracknell.

　　Lady Bracknell. I am pleased to hear it. Ido not approve of anything that tampers with naturalignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touchit and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of moderneducation is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, atany rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If itdid, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, andprobably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. Whatis your income?

　　Jack. Between seven and eight thousand ayear.

　　Lady Bracknell. [Makes a note in her book.] In land, or in investments?

　　Jack. In investments, chiefly.

　　Lady Bracknell. That is satisfactory. Whatbetween the duties expected of one during one’s lifetime,and the duties exacted from one after one’s death, land hasceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives oneposition, and prevents one from keeping it up. That’sall that can be said about land.

　　Jack. I have a country house with some land, ofcourse, attached to it, about fifteen hundred acres, I believe;but I don’t depend on that for my real income. Infact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the only peoplewho make anything out of it.

　　Lady Bracknell. A country house! How manybedrooms? Well, that point can be cleared upafterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girlwith a simple, unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly beexpected to reside in the country.

　　Jack. Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, butit is let by the year to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can getit back whenever I like, at six months’ notice.

　　Lady Bracknell. Lady Bloxham? I don’tknow her.

　　Jack. Oh, she goes about very little. Sheis a lady considerably advanced in years.

　　Lady Bracknell. Ah, nowadays that is no guaranteeof respectability of character. What number in BelgraveSquare?

　　Jack. 149.

　　Lady Bracknell. [Shaking her head.] Theunfashionable 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, ifnecessary, I presume. What are your politics?

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

　　Lady Bracknell. Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come in the evening, at anyrate. Now to minor matters. Are your parentsliving?

　　Jack. I have lost both my parents.

　　Lady Bracknell. To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing,may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks likecarelessness. Who was your father? He was evidently aman of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radical paperscall the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of thearistocracy?

　　Jack. I am afraid I really don’tknow. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost myparents. It would be nearer the truth to say that myparents seem to have lost me . . . I don’t actually knowwho I am by birth. I was . . . well, I was found.

　　Lady Bracknell. Found!

　　Jack. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an oldgentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me,and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened to have afirst-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 charitablegentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resortfind you?

　　Jack. [Gravely.] In a hand-bag.

　　Lady Bracknell. A hand-bag?

　　Jack. [Very seriously.] Yes, LadyBracknell. I was in a hand-bag—a somewhat large,black leather hand-bag, with handles to it—an ordinaryhand-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 VictoriaStation. It was given to him in mistake for his own.

　　Lady Bracknell. The cloak-room at VictoriaStation?

　　Jack. Yes. The Brighton line.

　　Lady Bracknell. The line is immaterial. Mr.Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you havejust told me. To be born, or at any rate bred, in ahand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display acontempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that remindsone of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And Ipresume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? Asfor the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, acloak-room at a railway station might serve to conceal a socialindiscretion—has probably, indeed, been used for thatpurpose before now—but it could hardly be regarded as anassured basis for a recognised position in good society.

　　Jack. May I ask you then what you would advise meto do? I need hardly say I would do anything in the worldto 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 definite effort to produce at any rate one parent,of either sex, before the season is quite over.

　　Jack. Well, I don’t see how I couldpossibly manage to do that. I can produce the hand-bag atany moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. Ireally think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.

　　Lady Bracknell. Me, sir! What has it to dowith me? You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknellwould dream of allowing our only daughter—a girl brought upwith the utmost care—to marry into a cloak-room, and forman alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing!

　　[Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majesticindignation.]

　　Jack. Good morning! [Algernon, fromthe other room, strikes up the Wedding March. Jack looksperfectly furious, and goes to the door.] Forgoodness’ sake don’t play that ghastly tune,Algy. How idiotic you are!

　　[The music stops and Algernon enters cheerily.]

　　Algernon. Didn’t it go off all right, oldboy? You don’t mean to say Gwendolen refusedyou? I know it is a way she has. She is alwaysrefusing people. I think it is most ill-natured of her.

　　Jack. Oh, Gwendolen is as right as atrivet. As far as she is concerned, we are engaged. Her mother is perfectly unbearable. Never met such a Gorgon. . . I don’t really know what a Gorgon is like, but I amquite sure that Lady Bracknell is one. In any case, she isa monster, without being a myth, which is rather unfair . . . Ibeg your pardon, Algy, I suppose I shouldn’t talk aboutyour own aunt in that way before you.

　　Algernon. My dear boy, I love hearing myrelations abused. It is the only thing that makes me put upwith them at all. Relations are simply a tedious pack ofpeople, who haven’t got the remotest knowledge of how tolive, nor the smallest instinct about when to die.

　　Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!

　　Algernon. It isn’t!

　　Jack. Well, I won’t argue about thematter. You always want to argue about things.

　　Algernon. That is exactly what things wereoriginally made for.

　　Jack. Upon my word, if I thought that, I’dshoot myself . . . [A pause.] You don’t think thereis any chance of Gwendolen becoming like her mother in about ahundred and fifty years, do you, Algy?

　　Algernon. All women become like theirmothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.

　　Jack. Is that clever?

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

　　Jack. I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays. You can’t go anywherewithout meeting clever people. The thing has become anabsolute public nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a fewfools left.

　　Algernon. We have.

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

　　Algernon. The fools? Oh! about the cleverpeople, of course.

　　Jack. What fools!

　　Algernon. By the way, did you tell Gwendolen thetruth about your being Ernest in town, and Jack in thecountry?

　　Jack. [In a very patronising manner.] Mydear fellow, the truth isn’t quite the sort of thing onetells to a nice, sweet, refined girl. What extraordinaryideas you have about the way to behave to a woman!

　　Algernon. The only way to behave to a woman is tomake love to her, if she is pretty, and to some one else, if sheis plain.

　　Jack. Oh, that is nonsense.

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

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

　　Algernon. Yes, but it’s hereditary, my dearfellow. It’s a sort of thing that runs infamilies. You had much better say a severe chill.

　　Jack. You are sure a severe chill isn’thereditary, or anything of that kind?

　　Algernon. Of course it isn’t!

　　Jack. Very well, then. My poor brotherErnest to carried off suddenly, in Paris, by a severechill. That gets rid of him.

　　Algernon. But I thought you said that . . . MissCardew was a little too much interested in your poor brotherErnest? Won’t she feel his loss a good deal?

　　Jack. Oh, that is all right. Cecily is nota silly romantic girl, I am glad to say. She has got acapital appetite, goes long walks, and pays no attention at allto her lessons.

　　Algernon. I would rather like to see Cecily.

　　Jack. I will take very good care you neverdo. She is excessively pretty, and she is only justeighteen.

　　Algernon. Have you told Gwendolen yet that youhave an excessively pretty ward who is only just eighteen?

　　Jack. Oh! one doesn’t blurt these thingsout to people. Cecily and Gwendolen are perfectly certainto be extremely great friends. I’ll bet you anythingyou like that half an hour after they have met, they will becalling each other sister.

　　Algernon. Women only do that when they havecalled each other a lot of other things first. Now, my dearboy, if we want to get a good table at Willis’s, we reallymust go and dress. Do you know it is nearly seven?

　　Jack. [Irritably.] Oh! It always isnearly seven.

　　Algernon. Well, I’m hungry.

　　Jack. I never knew you when you weren’t . ..

　　Algernon. What shall we do after dinner? Goto 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 Empireat ten?

　　Jack. Oh, no! I can’t bear looking atthings. It is so silly.

　　Algernon. Well, what shall we do?

　　Jack. Nothing!

　　Algernon. It is awfully hard work doingnothing. However, I don’t mind hard work where thereis no definite 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. Ihave something very particular to say to Mr. Worthing.

　　Algernon. Really, Gwendolen, I don’t thinkI can allow this at all.

　　Gwendolen. Algy, you always adopt a strictlyimmoral attitude towards life. You are not quite old enoughto do that. [Algernon retires to the fireplace.]

　　Jack. My own darling!

　　Gwendolen. Ernest, we may never be married. From the expression on mamma’s face I fear we nevershall. Few parents nowadays pay any regard to what theirchildren say to them. The old-fashioned respect for theyoung is fast dying out. Whatever influence I ever had overmamma, I lost at the age of three. But although she mayprevent us from becoming man and wife, and I may marry some oneelse, and marry often, nothing that she can possibly do can altermy eternal devotion to you.

　　Jack. Dear Gwendolen!

　　Gwendolen. The story of your romantic origin, asrelated to me by mamma, with unpleasing comments, has naturallystirred the deeper fibres of my nature. Your Christian namehas an irresistible fascination. The simplicity of yourcharacter makes you exquisitely incomprehensible to me. Your town address at the Albany I have. What is youraddress in the country?

　　Jack. The Manor House, Woolton,Hertfordshire.

　　[Algernon, who has been carefully listening, smiles tohimself, and writes the address on his shirt-cuff. Thenpicks up the Railway Guide.]

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

　　Jack. My own one!

　　Gwendolen. How long do you remain in town?

　　Jack. Till Monday.

　　Gwendolen. Good! Algy, you may turn roundnow.

　　Algernon. Thanks, I’ve turned roundalready.

　　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.] Iwill see Miss Fairfax out.

　　Lane. Yes, sir. [Jack andGwendolen go off.]

　　[Lane presents several letters on a salver toAlgernon. It is to be surmised that they are bills,as Algernon, after looking at the envelopes, tears themup.]

　　Algernon. A glass of sherry, Lane.

　　Lane. Yes, sir.

　　Algernon. To-morrow, Lane, I’m goingBunburying.

　　Lane. Yes, sir.

　　Algernon. I shall probably not be back tillMonday. You can put up my dress clothes, my smoking jacket,and all the Bunbury suits . . .

　　Lane. Yes, sir. [Handing sherry.]

　　Algernon. I hope to-morrow will be a fine day,Lane.

　　Lane. It never is, sir.

　　Algernon. Lane, you’re a perfectpessimist.

　　Lane. I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.

　　[Enter Jack. Lane goes off.]

　　Jack. There’s a sensible, intellectualgirl! the only girl I ever cared for in my life. [Algernon is laughing immoderately.] What on earthare you so amused at?

　　Algernon. Oh, I’m a little anxious aboutpoor Bunbury, that is all.

　　Jack. If you don’t take care, your friendBunbury will get you into a serious scrape some day.

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

　　Jack. Oh, that’s nonsense, Algy. Younever talk anything but nonsense.

　　Algernon. Nobody ever does.

　　[Jack looks indignantly at him, and leaves theroom. Algernon lights a cigarette, reads hisshirt-cuff, and smiles.]

　　ACT DROP