SCENE

Morning-room in Algernon's flat in Half-Moon Street. The room isluxuriously and artistically furnished. The sound of a piano is heard inthe adjoining room.

[Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music hasceased, 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 playaccurately--any one can play accurately--but I play with wonderfulexpression. As far 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 thecucumber 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, whenLord Shoreman and Mr. Worthing were dining with me, eight bottles ofchampagne 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 servantsinvariably drink the champagne? I ask merely for information.

Lane. I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. I haveoften observed that in married households the champagne is rarely of afirst-rate brand.

Algernon. Good heavens! Is marriage so demoralising as that?

Lane. I believe it _is_ a very pleasant state, sir. I have had verylittle experience of it myself up to the present. I have only beenmarried once. That was in consequence of a misunderstanding betweenmyself and a young person.

Algernon. [Languidly_._] I don't know that I am much interested in yourfamily life, Lane.

Lane. No, sir; it is not a very interesting subject. I never think ofit myself.

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

Lane. Thank you, sir. [Lane goes out.]

Algernon. Lane's views on marriage seem somewhat lax. Really, if thelower orders don't set us a good example, what on earth is the use ofthem? They seem, 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? What brings you up to town?

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

Algernon. [Stiffly_._] I believe it is customary in good society totake some slight refreshment at five o'clock. Where have you been sincelast Thursday?

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

Algernon. What on earth do you do there?

Jack. [Pulling off his gloves_._] When one is in town one amusesoneself. When one is in the country one amuses other people. It isexcessively 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 takessandwich.] By the way, Shropshire is your county, is it not?

Jack. Eh? Shropshire? Yes, of course. Hallo! Why all these cups? Whycucumber sandwiches? Why such reckless extravagance in one so young? Whois 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'tquite approve of your being here.

Jack. May I ask why?

Algernon. My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is perfectlydisgraceful. It is almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts with you.

Jack. I am in love with Gwendolen. I have come up to town expressly topropose to her.

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

Jack. How utterly unromantic you are!

Algernon. I really don't see anything romantic in proposing. It is veryromantic to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definiteproposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Thenthe 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 wasspecially invented for people whose memories are so curiouslyconstituted.

Algernon. Oh! there is no use speculating on that subject. Divorces aremade in Heaven--[Jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich. Algernon atonce interferes.] Please don't touch the cucumber sandwiches. They areordered specially for Aunt Augusta. [Takes one and eats it.]

Jack. Well, you have been eating them all the time.

Algernon. That is quite a different matter. She is my aunt. [Takesplate from below.] Have some bread and butter. The bread and butter isfor Gwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to bread and butter.

Jack. [Advancing to table and helping himself.] And very good bread andbutter it is too.

Algernon. Well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were going toeat it all. You behave as if you were married to her already. You arenot 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 first place girls never marry the men they flirtwith. Girls don't think it right.

Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!

Algernon. It isn't. It is a great truth. It accounts for theextraordinary number of bachelors that one sees all over the place. Inthe second place, I don't give my consent.

Jack. Your consent!

Algernon. My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my first cousin. And before Iallow you to marry her, you will have to clear up the whole question ofCecily. [Rings bell.]

Jack. Cecily! What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, Algy, byCecily! I don'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 dined here.

Lane. Yes, sir. [Lane goes out.]

Jack. Do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this time? Iwish to goodness you had let me know. I have been writing franticletters to Scotland Yard about it. I was very nearly offering a largereward.

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

Jack. There is no good offering a large reward now that the thing isfound.

[Enter Lane with the cigarette case on a salver. Algernon takes it atonce. Lane goes out.]

Algernon. I think that is rather mean of you, Ernest, I must say. [Openscase and examines it.] However, it makes no matter, for, now that I lookat the inscription inside, I find that the thing isn't yours after all.

Jack. Of course it's mine. [Moving to him.] You have seen me with it ahundred times, and you have no right whatsoever to read what is writteninside. It is a very ungentlemanly thing to read a private cigarettecase.

Algernon. Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what oneshould read and what one shouldn't. More than half of modern culturedepends on what one shouldn't read.

Jack. I am quite aware of the fact, and I don't propose to discussmodern culture. It isn't the sort of thing one should talk of inprivate. I simply want my cigarette case back.

Algernon. Yes; but this isn't your cigarette case. This cigarette caseis a present from some one of the name of Cecily, and you said you didn'tknow any one 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.Just give it back to me, Algy.

Algernon. [Retreating to back of sofa.] But why does she call herselflittle 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 onearth 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 forherself. You seem to think that every aunt should be exactly like youraunt! 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 littleCecily, with her fondest love to her dear Uncle Jack.' There is noobjection, I admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, but why an aunt, nomatter what her size may be, should call her own nephew her uncle, Ican't quite make out. Besides, your name isn't Jack at all; it isErnest.

Jack. It isn't Ernest; it's Jack.

Algernon. You have always told me it was Ernest. I have introduced youto every one as Ernest. You answer to the name of Ernest. You look asif your name was Ernest. You are the most earnest-looking person I eversaw in my life. It is perfectly absurd your saying that your name isn'tErnest. It's on your cards. Here is one of them. [Taking it fromcase.] 'Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany.' I'll keep this as aproof that your name is Ernest if ever you attempt to deny it to me, orto Gwendolen, or to any one else. [Puts the card in his pocket.]

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

Algernon. Yes, but that does not account for the fact that your smallAunt 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 isvery vulgar to talk like a dentist when one isn't a dentist. It producesa 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 youof being a confirmed and secret Bunburyist; and I am quite sure of itnow.

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

Algernon. I'll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expressionas soon as you are kind enough to inform me why you are Ernest in townand Jack in the country.

Jack. Well, produce my cigarette case first.

Algernon. Here it is. [Hands cigarette case.] Now produce yourexplanation, and pray make it improbable. [Sits on sofa.]

Jack. My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanationat all. In fact it's perfectly ordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, whoadopted me when I was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to hisgrand-daughter, Miss Cecily Cardew. Cecily, who addresses me as heruncle from motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate,lives at my place in the country under the charge of her admirablegoverness, 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 overShropshire on two separate occasions. Now, go on. Why are you Ernest intown and Jack in the country?

Jack. My dear Algy, I don't know whether you will be able to understandmy real motives. You are hardly serious enough. When one is placed inthe position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on allsubjects. It's one's duty to do so. And as a high moral tone can hardlybe 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 youngerbrother of the name of Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets into themost dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure andsimple.

Algernon. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life wouldbe very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a completeimpossibility!

Jack. That wouldn't be at all a bad thing.

Algernon. Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. Don'ttry it. You should leave that to people who haven't been at aUniversity. They do it so well in the daily papers. What you really areis a Bunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist. Youare 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. Ihave invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury, in orderthat I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose. Bunburyis perfectly invaluable. If it wasn't for Bunbury's extraordinary badhealth, for instance, I wouldn't be able to dine with you at Willis's to-night, for I have been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than aweek.

Jack. I haven't asked you to dine with me anywhere to-night.

Algernon. I know. You are absurdly careless about sending outinvitations. It is very foolish of you. Nothing annoys people so muchas not receiving invitations.

Jack. You had much better dine with your Aunt Augusta.

Algernon. I haven't the smallest intention of doing anything of thekind. To begin with, I dined there on Monday, and once a week is quiteenough to dine with one's own relations. In the second place, whenever Ido dine there I am always treated as a member of the family, and sentdown with either no woman at all, or two. In the third place, I knowperfectly well whom she will place me next to, to-night. She will placeme next Mary Farquhar, who always flirts with her own husband across thedinner-table. That is not very pleasant. Indeed, it is not even decent. . . and that sort of thing is enormously on the increase. The amountof women in London who flirt with their own husbands is perfectlyscandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply washing one's clean linen inpublic. Besides, now that I know you to be a confirmed Bunburyist Inaturally want to talk to you about Bunburying. I want to tell you therules.

Jack. I'm not a Bunburyist at all. If Gwendolen accepts me, I am goingto kill my brother, indeed I think I'll kill him in any case. Cecily isa little too much interested in him. It is rather a bore. So I am goingto 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 everget married, which seems to me extremely problematic, you will be veryglad to know Bunbury. A man who marries without knowing Bunbury has avery tedious time of it.

Jack. That is nonsense. If I marry a charming girl like Gwendolen, andshe is the only girl I ever saw in my life that I would marry, Icertainly won't want to know Bunbury.

Algernon. Then your wife will. You don't seem to realise, that inmarried life three is company and two is none.

Jack. [Sententiously.] That, my dear young friend, is the theory thatthe corrupt French Drama has been propounding for the last fifty years.

Algernon. Yes; and that the happy English home has proved in half thetime.

Jack. For heaven's sake, don't try to be cynical. It's perfectly easyto be cynical.

Algernon. My dear fellow, it isn't easy to be anything nowadays. There'ssuch a lot of beastly competition about. [The sound of an electric bellis heard.] Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta. Only relatives, or creditors,ever ring in that Wagnerian manner. Now, if I get her out of the way forten minutes, so that you can have an opportunity for proposing toGwendolen, 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 about it. I hate people who arenot 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 andGwendolen.]

Lady Bracknell. Good afternoon, dear Algernon, I hope you are behavingvery well.

Algernon. I'm feeling very well, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell. That's not quite the same thing. In fact the two thingsrarely 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, Miss Fairfax.

Gwendolen. Oh! I hope I am not that. It would leave no room fordevelopments, and I intend to develop in many directions. [Gwendolen andJack sit down together in the corner.]

Lady Bracknell. I'm sorry if we are a little late, Algernon, but I wasobliged to call on dear Lady Harbury. I hadn't been there since her poorhusband's death. I never saw a woman so altered; she looks quite twentyyears younger. And now I'll have a cup of tea, and one of those nicecucumber 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! Whyare 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 nocucumbers, not even for ready money.

Lady Bracknell. It really makes no matter, Algernon. I had somecrumpets with Lady Harbury, who seems to me to be living entirely forpleasure 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 to-night, Algernon. I am going to send youdown with Mary Farquhar. She is such a nice woman, and so attentive toher husband. It's delightful to watch them.

Algernon. I am afraid, Aunt Augusta, I shall have to give up thepleasure of dining with you to-night after all.

Lady Bracknell. [Frowning.] I hope not, Algernon. It would put mytable completely out. 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 terribledisappointment to me, but the fact is I have just had a telegram to saythat my poor friend Bunbury is very ill again. [Exchanges glances withJack.] They seem to think I should be with him.

Lady Bracknell. It is very strange. This Mr. Bunbury seems to sufferfrom curiously bad health.

Algernon. Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid.

Lady Bracknell. Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high timethat 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 wayapprove of the modern sympathy with invalids. I consider it morbid.Illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged in others. Healthis the primary duty of life. I am always telling that to your pooruncle, but he never seems to take much notice . . . as far as anyimprovement in his ailment goes. I should be much obliged if you wouldask 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. It is my lastreception, and one wants something that will encourage conversation,particularly at the end of the season when every one has practically saidwhatever 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 coursethe music is a great difficulty. You see, if one plays good music,people don't listen, and if one plays bad music people don't talk. ButI'll run over the programme I've drawn out, if you will kindly come intothe 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 bedelightful, after a few expurgations. French songs I cannot possiblyallow. People always seem to think that they are improper, and eitherlook shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh, which is worse. But Germansounds 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 remainsbehind.]

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 certainthat 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 LadyBracknell's temporary absence . . .

Gwendolen. I would certainly advise you to do so. Mamma has a way ofcoming back suddenly into a room that I have often had to speak to herabout.

Jack. [Nervously.] Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you I have admiredyou 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 wishthat in public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative. For me youhave always had an irresistible fascination. Even before I met you I wasfar from indifferent to you. [Jack looks at her in amazement.] We live,as I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, in an age of ideals. The fact isconstantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines, and hasreached the provincial pulpits, I am told; and my ideal has always beento love some one of the name of Ernest. There is something in that namethat inspires absolute confidence. The moment Algernon first mentionedto me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to loveyou.

Jack. You really love me, Gwendolen?

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 myname wasn't Ernest?

Gwendolen. But your name is Ernest.

Jack. Yes, I know it is. But supposing it was something else? Do youmean 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 allto the actual facts of real life, as we know them.

Jack. Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don't much careabout 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 musicof its own. It produces vibrations.

Jack. Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that I think there are lots ofother 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 novibrations . . . I have known several Jacks, and they all, withoutexception, were more than usually plain. Besides, Jack is a notoriousdomesticity for John! And I pity any woman who is married to a mancalled John. She would probably never be allowed to know the entrancingpleasure of a single moment's solitude. The only really safe name isErnest.

Jack. Gwendolen, I must get christened at once--I mean we must getmarried at once. There is no time to be lost.

Gwendolen. Married, Mr. Worthing?

Jack. [Astounded.] Well . . . surely. You know that I love you, andyou led me to believe, Miss Fairfax, that you were not absolutelyindifferent to me.

Gwendolen. I adore you. But you haven't proposed to me yet. Nothinghas been said at all about marriage. The subject has not even beentouched on.

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

Gwendolen. I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spareyou any possible disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair totell you quite frankly before-hand that I am fully determined to acceptyou.

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 any one in the world but you.

Gwendolen. Yes, but men often propose for practice. I know my brotherGerald does. All my girl-friends tell me so. What wonderfully blue eyesyou have, Ernest! They are quite, quite, blue. I hope you will alwayslook at me just like that, especially when there are other peoplepresent. [Enter Lady Bracknell.]

Lady Bracknell. Mr. Worthing! Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbentposture. It is most indecorous.

Gwendolen. Mamma! [He tries to rise; she restrains him.] I must begyou to retire. This is no place for you. Besides, Mr. Worthing has notquite finished 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 any one. When you dobecome engaged to some one, I, or your father, should his health permithim, will inform you of the fact. An engagement should come on a younggirl as a surprise, 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 ammaking these inquiries, you, Gwendolen, will wait for me below in thecarriage.

Gwendolen. [Reproachfully.] Mamma!

Lady Bracknell. In the carriage, Gwendolen! [Gwendolen goes to thedoor. She and Jack blow kisses to each other behind Lady Bracknell'sback. Lady Bracknell looks vaguely about as if she could not understandwhat 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 note-book and pencil.]

Jack. Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.

Lady Bracknell. [Pencil and note-book in hand.] I feel bound to tellyou that you are not down on my list of eligible young men, although Ihave 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 youranswers 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 man should always have anoccupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as itis. How old are you?

Jack. Twenty-nine.

Lady Bracknell. A very good age to be married at. I have always been ofopinion that a man who desires to get married should know eithereverything 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 anythingthat tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exoticfruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of moderneducation is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate,education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove aserious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts ofviolence in Grosvenor Square. What is your income?

Jack. Between seven and eight thousand a year.

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

Jack. In investments, chiefly.

Lady Bracknell. That is satisfactory. What between the duties expectedof one during one's lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one'sdeath, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives oneposition, and prevents one from keeping it up. That's all that can besaid about land.

Jack. I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it,about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don't depend on that for myreal income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are theonly people who make anything out of it.

Lady Bracknell. A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that pointcan be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girlwith a simple, unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be expectedto reside in the country.

Jack. Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the yearto Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at sixmonths' notice.

Lady Bracknell. Lady Bloxham? I don't know her.

Jack. Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerablyadvanced in years.

Lady Bracknell. Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability ofcharacter. What number in Belgrave Square?

Jack. 149.

Lady Bracknell. [Shaking her head.] The unfashionable side. I thoughtthere 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 areyour 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 comein the evening, at any rate. 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 amisfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Who was your father?He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radicalpapers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of thearistocracy?

Jack. I am afraid I really don't know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, Isaid I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that myparents seem to have lost me . . . I don't actually know who I am bybirth. I was . . . well, I was found.

Lady Bracknell. Found!

Jack. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitableand kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of Worthing,because he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing in hispocket at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seasideresort.

Lady Bracknell. Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-classticket for this seaside resort find you?

Jack. [Gravely.] In a hand-bag.

Lady Bracknell. A hand-bag?

Jack. [Very seriously.] Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag--asomewhat 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, Cardewcome across this ordinary hand-bag?

Jack. In the cloak-room at Victoria Station. It was given to him inmistake 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 feelsomewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at anyrate bred, in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me todisplay a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that remindsone of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I presume youknow what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the particularlocality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railwaystation might serve to conceal a social indiscretion--has probably,indeed, been used for that purpose before now--but it could hardly beregarded as an assured basis for a recognised position in good society.

Jack. May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardlysay I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen's happiness.

Lady Bracknell. I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try andacquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effortto produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season isquite over.

Jack. Well, I don't see how I could possibly manage to do that. I canproduce the hand-bag at any 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 do with me? You can hardlyimagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our onlydaughter--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 theWedding March. Jack looks perfectly 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, old boy? You don't mean to sayGwendolen refused you? 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 a trivet. As far as she isconcerned, we are engaged. Her mother is perfectly unbearable. Nevermet such a Gorgon . . . I don't really know what a Gorgon is like, but Iam 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 beforeyou.

Algernon. My dear boy, I love hearing my relations abused. It is theonly thing that makes me put up with them at all. Relations are simply atedious pack of people, 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 the matter. You always want to argueabout 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 motherin about a hundred and fifty 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 observationin civilised 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 hasbecome an absolute 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 clever people, of course.

Jack. What fools!

Algernon. By the way, did you tell Gwendolen the truth about your beingErnest in town, and Jack in the country?

Jack. [In a very patronising manner.] My dear fellow, the truth isn'tquite the sort of thing one tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl. Whatextraordinary 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, ifshe is pretty, and to some one else, if she is plain.

Jack. Oh, that is nonsense.

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

Jack. Oh, before the end of the week I shall have got rid of him. I'llsay he died in Paris of apoplexy. Lots of people die of apoplexy, quitesuddenly, don't they?

Algernon. Yes, but it's hereditary, my dear fellow. It's a sort ofthing 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 thatkind?

Algernon. Of course it isn't!

Jack. Very well, then. My poor brother Ernest to carried off suddenly,in Paris, by a severe chill. That gets rid of him.

Algernon. But I thought you said that . . . Miss Cardew was a little toomuch interested in your poor brother Ernest? Won't she feel his loss agood deal?

Jack. Oh, that is all right. Cecily is not a silly romantic girl, I amglad to say. She has got a capital appetite, goes long walks, and paysno 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 excessivelypretty, and she is only just eighteen.

Algernon. Have you told Gwendolen yet that you have an excessivelypretty ward who is only just eighteen?

Jack. Oh! one doesn't blurt these things out to people. Cecily andGwendolen are perfectly certain to be extremely great friends. I'll betyou anything you like that half an hour after they have met, they will becalling each other sister.

Algernon. Women only do that when they have called each other a lot ofother things first. Now, my dear boy, if we want to get a good table atWillis'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 Empire 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 mindhard work where there is 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. I have something veryparticular 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 towardslife. You are not quite old enough to do that. [Algernon retires to thefireplace.]

Jack. My own darling!

Gwendolen. Ernest, we may never be married. From the expression onmamma's face I fear we never shall. Few parents nowadays pay any regardto what their children say to them. The old-fashioned respect for theyoung is fast dying out. Whatever influence I ever had over mamma, Ilost at the age of three. But although she may prevent us from becomingman and wife, and I may marry some one else, and marry often, nothingthat 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 fibres of mynature. Your Christian name has an irresistible fascination. Thesimplicity of your character makes you exquisitely incomprehensible tome. Your town address at the Albany I have. What is your address in thecountry?

Jack. The Manor House, Woolton, Hertfordshire.

[Algernon, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, andwrites the address on his shirt-cuff. Then picks up the Railway Guide.]

Gwendolen. There is a good postal service, I suppose? It may benecessary to do something desperate. 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 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 off.]

[Lane presents several letters on a salver to Algernon. It is to besurmised that they are bills, as Algernon, after looking at theenvelopes, tears them up.]

Algernon. A glass of sherry, Lane.

Lane. Yes, sir.

Algernon. To-morrow, Lane, I'm going Bunburying.

Lane. Yes, sir.

Algernon. I shall probably not be back till Monday. You can put up mydress 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 perfect pessimist.

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

[Enter Jack. Lane goes off.]

Jack. There's a sensible, intellectual girl! the only girl I ever caredfor in my life. [Algernon is laughing immoderately.] What on earth areyou 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 aserious scrape some day.

Algernon. I love scrapes. They are the only things that are neverserious.

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 acigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and smiles.]

ACT DROP