The Importance of Being Earnest

FOOTSTEPS

MAN: Hey! Hey!

There he is!

Where's he gone?

Stop! You won't get away, sir!

Time to pay your debt.

Hey!

Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?

I didn't think it polite to listen, sir.

I'm sorry for that, for your sake.

I don't play accurately -

anyone can play accurately -

but I play with wonderful expression.

Yes, sir.

Bills, bills, bills - all I ever get is bills.

And then there's the matter of my unpaid wages, sir.

Yet again the wasteful habits of my brother Ernest

tear me from my duties here. Yes, sir.

Terrible nuisance, but there's nothing to be done.

I shall return Monday afternoon.

Yes, sir.

Pay particular attention, if you will, Miss Prism,

to her German grammar.

Yes, Mr Worthing.

Have you found my cigarette case, Merriman?

We're still looking, sir.

CROWD CHEERS

Ernest!

Algy! How are you, my dear Ernest?

What brings you up to town? Oh, pleasure.

What else should bring one anywhere?

Where have you been? In the country.

What on earth do you do there?

Well, when one is in town, one amuses oneself.

In the country, one amuses other people. It's excessively boring.

Who are these people you amuse? Oh, neighbours.

Nice neighbours in Shropshire? Horrid. Never speak to them.

How immensely you must amuse them.

Shropshire is your county, is it not?

What? Shropshire.

Oh, yes, of course.

MUSIC STARTS UP CROWD CHEERS

Dear boy, what plans have you got for tea tomorrow?

You know Aunt Augusta is coming to tea tomorrow.

Aunt Augusta?

Yes, Aunt Augusta...

and Gwendolen.

How perfectly delightful.

Perhaps I might pay my respects.

Yes, that is all very well, but I'm afraid Aunt Augusta

won't approve. Why?

The way that you flirt with Gwendolen is disgraceful.

Almost as bad as the way she flirts with you.

I am in love with Gwendolen. Ahh.

And I have come up to town expressly to propose to her.

I thought you came up for pleasure.

I call that business. How utterly unromantic you are.

I don't see what there is romantic about proposing.

Why, one may be accepted. One usually is.

And then - ha ha! - the excitement is over.

No. The very essence of romance is uncertainty.

25 a player.

Anyway, I certainly can't see you and Gwendolen being married.

Why on earth do you say that?

In the first place, I don't give consent. Consent?

My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my cousin,

and before I allow you to marry her,

you shall have to clear up this whole question of Cecily.

Cecily? Mmm.

What on earth do you mean, Algy, by Cecily?

I don't know anyone by the name of Cecily.

Do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this time?

I wish you had let me know.

I've been writing to Scotland Yard.

nearly offering a large reward.

I wish you would offer one. I am more than usually hard up.

Oh, it makes no matter,

for I see now the thing isn't yours after all.

Of course it's mine. Not according to the inscription.

And you have no right to read what is written inside.

It is ungentlemanly to read a cigarette case.

Yes, but this isn't your cigarette case.

This is a present from someone of the name of Cecily,

and don't know anyone of that name.

Well, if you want to know, Cecily happens to be my aunt.

THEY LAUGH Your aunt?

Yes. Charming old lady she is, too.

Just give it back, Algy.

Yes, but why does your aunt call you her uncle?

Hmm?

"From little Cecily, with her fondest love

"to her dear Uncle Jack." Mmm.

There is no objection, I admit,

to an aunt being a small aunt,

but why an aunt, no matter what her size may be,

should call her own nephew her uncle

I can't quite make out.

And your name isn't Jack - it's Ernest.

It isn't Ernest, it's Jack.

WOMEN GASP

You've always told me it was Ernest.

I've introduced you as Ernest.

It is perfectly absurd.

It's on your cards. Here is one of them.

"Mr Ernest Worthing, B4, The Albany."

Well, it is Ernest - in town,

and Jack in the country,

and the cigarette case was given to me in the country.

So I've always pretended to have a younger brother.

Ah, of the name of Ernest.

And, uh, little Cecily?

My ward, Miss Cecily Cardew.

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

That is nothing to you, dear boy.

You are certainly not going to be invited.

It is not in Shropshire.

Oh, I suspected that, my dear fellow,

just as I suspected you to be a Bunburyist.

Indeed, you are one of the most advanced Bunburyists I know.

SHOUTS >

See you at five.

Moncrieff!

A quick word, sir!

"Bunburyist"?

Cecily, your German grammar is on the table.

Pray open it at page 15.

We will repeat yesterday's lesson.

But I don't like German.

It isn't at all a becoming language.

I know perfectly well I look quite plain after my German lesson.

Child, you know how anxious your guardian is

that you should improve yourself in every way.

Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious.

Sometimes I think he is so serious he cannot be quite well.

Cecily, I'm surprised at you.

Mr Worthing has many troubles in his life.

You must remember his constant anxiety

about that unfortunate young man, his brother.

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.

I'm not sure that I would desire to reclaim him.

I'm not in favour of this modern mania

for turning bad people into good people at a moment's notice.

HORSE NEIGHS

< Cecily?

Do your work, child.

"Bunburyist"?

What on earth do you mean by a "Bunburyist"?

You have invented a very useful younger brother called Ernest

in order to come up to town as often as you like.

I have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury

in order to go down to the country as often as I choose.

If it wasn't for Bunbury's extraordinary bad health,

I wouldn't be able to dine with you tonight,

for I've an appointment with Aunt Augusta.

I haven't asked you to dine with me.

I know. You're absurdly careless about giving out invitations.

Don't touch the cucumber sandwiches.

They're for Aunt Augusta. You've been eating them.

Well, that is quite a different matter. She is MY aunt.

BELL RINGS Oh, that must be her.

Only relatives or creditors ever ring in that Wagnerian manner.

Now, if I manage to get her out of the way for ten minutes

so that you may have an opportunity for proposing to Gwendolen,

may I dine with you at the Savoy tonight?

Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax.

Good afternoon, dear Algy.

I hope you are behaving very well.

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

That's not quite the same thing.

In fact, the two things rarely go together.

Lady Bracknell, I...

Oh, goodness, you are smart.

I'm always smart. Am I not, Mr Worthing?

You are quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.

Oh, I hope I am not that.

It would leave no room for development,

and I intend to develop in many directions.

AUGUSTA: I'm sorry if we're a little late, Algy.

I was obliged to call on dear Lady Harbury.

I had not been since her husband's death.

I never saw a woman so altered.

She looks quite 20 years younger.

And now I'll have a cup of tea

and one of those nice cucumber sandwiches you promised me.

Certainly, Aunt Augusta.

Won't you sit here, Gwendolen?

Thanks, Mama, I'm comfortable where I am.

Good heavens, Lane, why are there no cucumber sandwiches?

There were no cucumbers in the market, sir.

I went down twice. Oh, no cucumbers?

No, sir. Not even for ready money.

That will do, Lane. Thank you, sir.

I am greatly distressed, Aunt Augusta,

about there being no cucumbers, not even for ready money.

It makes no matter, Algy.

I had some crumpets with Lady Harbury.

I've got quite a treat for you tonight, Algy.

I'm going to send you down with Mary Farquhar.

She is such a nice... I'm afraid, Aunt Augusta,

I have to give up dining with you tonight. I hope not, Algy.

It will put my table completely out.

It is a great bore, and I need hardly say,

a terrible disappointment,

but I've just had a telegram to say that Bunbury is very ill again.

They seem to think I should be with him.

Very strange.

This Mr Bunbury seems to suffer from curiously bad health.

Oh, yes, poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid.

I must say, Algy, it's time Mr Bunbury

made up his mind whether he was going to live or die.

This shilly-shallying with the question is absurd.

I should be much obliged if you would ask Mr Bunbury from me

to be kind enough not to have a relapse next Saturday.

It is my last reception, and I rely on you to arrange my music for me.

I'll speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta,

if he's still conscious.

Now, if you'll follow me into the next room,

I'll run over the programme I've drawn up.

Thank you, Algy.

It is very thoughtful of you.

Gwendolen, you will accompany me.

Certainly, Mama.

Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax.

Pray don't talk to me about the weather, Mr Worthing.

Whenever people talk to me about the weather,

I always feel quite certain that they mean something else,

and that makes me nervous. I do mean something else.

I thought so.

I would like to take advantage of Lady Bracknell's temporary absence...

I would advise you to do so.

Mama has a way of coming back suddenly into a room

that I've often had to speak to her about.

Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you,

I have admired you more than any girl I have ever met since...

I met you.

Yes. I'm quite aware of the fact.

I often wish that in public, at any rate, you'd been more demonstrative.

For me...

you have always had an irresistible fascination.

Gwendolen... Even before I met you,

I was far from indifferent to you.

PIANO PLAYS IN BACKGROUND

We live, as I hope you know, Mr Worthing,

in an age of ideals,

and my ideal has always been to love someone

of the name of...Ernest.

There's something in that name

that inspires absolute confidence.

The moment Algy first mentioned to me

that he had a friend called Ernest,

I knew I was destined to love you.

You really love me, Gwendolen?

Passionately. Oh, darling, you...

you don't know how happy you've made me. My own Ernest.

You don't mean to say though, dear,

that you couldn't love me if my name wasn't Ernest...?

But your name is Ernest.

Yes, I know it is,

but supposing it was something else?

Ah. Well, that is clearly a metaphysical speculation,

and like most metaphysical speculations,

has very little reference at all

to the actual facts of real life as we know them.

Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly,

I don't much care about the name of Ernest.

I don't think it suits me at all.

It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name.

It has a music of its own.

It produces vibrations.

Well, really, Gwendolen,

I must say I think there are lots of other much nicer names.

I think...

Jack, for instance, a charming name.

Jack? I've known several Jacks, and they all,

without exception, were more than usually plain.

The only really safe name is Ernest.

Gwendolen, we must get married at once.

Married, Mr Worthing? Well, surely.

You know that I love you,

and you led me to believe, Miss Fairfax,

that you were not absolutely indifferent to me.

I adore you. But you haven't proposed to me yet.

Nothing's been said at all about marriage.

The subject has not even been touched on.

Gwendolen.

Yes, Mr Worthing, what have you to say to me?

You know what I have to say to you.

Yes, but you don't say it.

Gwendolen,

will you marry me?

Mr Worthing!

Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture. It is indecorous.

Mama! I must beg you to retire.

Mr Worthing has not finished yet. Finished what, may I ask?

I am engaged to be married to Mr Worthing, Mama.

You are not engaged to anyone.

When you do become engaged to someone, I or your father,

should his health permit him, will inform you of the fact.

You will wait for me below in the carriage.

Mama... In the carriage, Gwendolen.

Gwendolen! The carriage!

I feel bound to tell you, Mr Worthing,

you are not down on my list of eligible young men.

However, I'm quite ready to enter your name as a possible candidate.

Perhaps you would attend a meeting at my house

at 11 o'clock tomorrow morning.

I shall have a few questions to put to you.

Algernon?

So, did you tell Gwendolen the truth

about being Ernest in town and Jack in the country?

My dear fellow, the truth isn't quite the sort of thing

one tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl.

What odd ideas you have about how to behave!

The only way to behave to a woman

is to love her if she's pretty and someone else if she is plain.

That is nonsense. You never talk anything but nonsense.

Well, nobody ever does.

Oh, my dear fellow, you forgot to pay the bill.

Not at all.

I make it a point never to pay at the Savoy.

Why on earth not? You have heaps of money.

Yes, but Ernest hasn't,

and he's got quite a reputation to keep up.

Cecily?

More intellectual pleasures await you, my child.

You should put away your diary, Cecily.

I really don't see why you should keep a diary at all.

I keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my life.

If I didn't write them down, I'd probably forget all about them.

Memory, my dear Cecily,

is the diary that we all carry with us.

I believe memory is responsible

for nearly all these three-volume novels people write now.

Do not speak slightingly

of the three-volume novel, Cecily.

I wrote one myself in earlier days.

Did you really, Miss Prism?

I hope it did not end happily.

The good ended happily and the bad unhappily.

That is what fiction means.

Do your work, child. These speculations are profitless.

But I see dear Dr Chasuble

coming through the garden.

Oh, Dr Chasuble!

This is indeed a pleasure.

And how are we today?

Miss Prism, you are, I trust, well.

Miss Prism has just been complaining of a slight headache.

It would do her so much good

to have a short stroll with you in the park, Dr Chasuble.

Cecily! I have not mentioned anything about a headache.

No, I felt instinctively that you had a headache.

Indeed, I was thinking about that and not my German lesson

when the rector came along.

I hope, Cecily, you are not inattentive. I am afraid I am.

That's strange.

Were I fortunate enough to be Miss Prism's pupil,

I would hang upon her lips.

I spoke metaphorically.

My metaphor was drawn from...bees.

Oh...

Hmm.

Ahem. I shall, um,

see you both, no doubt, at Evensong.

Good luck, sir.

BELL RINGS

WHISPERED: Ernest!

This way, sir. Shall I, uh...?

You can take a seat, Mr Worthing.

Thank you, Lady Bracknell. I prefer standing.

Do you smoke?

Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.

I'm glad to hear it.

A man should always have an occupation.

There are far too many idle men in London as it is.

How old are you?

35.

A very good age to be married at.

I've always been of opinion a man who desires to get married

should know either everything or nothing.

Which do you know?

I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.

I'm pleased to hear it.

I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance.

Ignorance is like a delicate, exotic fruit.

Touch it, and the bloom is gone.

The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound.

Fortunately, in England, education produces no effect whatsoever.

If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes

and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square.

What is your income?

Between 7 and 8,000 a year.

In land or in investments?

In investments, chiefly. Oh, that is satisfactory.

I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it.

About 1,500 acres, I believe.

You have a town house, I hope.

A girl with a simple nature like Gwendolen

could not be expected to reside in the country.

I also own a house in Belgrave Square.

Number? 149.

The unfashionable side.

I thought there was something.

However, that could easily be altered.

Do you mean the fashion or the side?

Well, both, if necessary, I presume.

Are your parents living?

I have lost both my parents.

To lose one parent, Mr Worthing,

may be regarded as a misfortune.

To lose both looks like carelessness.

Who was your father?

He was evidently a man of some wealth.

I'm afraid I really don't know.

The fact is, Lady Bracknell,

I said I had lost my parents.

It would be nearer the truth

to say my parents seem to have lost me.

I actually don't know who I am by birth.

I was...

Well, I was found.

Found?

The late Mr Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman

of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me

and called me Worthing because he happened to have a ticket for Worthing in his pocket.

Worthing is a place in Sussex.

It is a seaside resort.

And where did this charitable gentlemen

with a ticket for the seaside resort find you?

In a handbag.

A handbag?

Yes, Lady Bracknell.

I was in a handbag.

A somewhat large, um,

black leather handbag

with handles to it.

An ordinary handbag, in fact.

In what locality did this Mr James or Thomas Cardew

come across this ordinary handbag?

In the cloakroom at Victoria Station.

It was given him in mistake.

The cloakroom at Victoria Station?

Yes. The Brighton line.

The line is immaterial.

SHE TEARS PAPER

Mr Worthing, I confess I am somewhat bewildered

by what you have just told me.

To be born or at any rate bred in a handbag,

whether it has handles or not,

seems to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life,

which remind one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution.

And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to.

May I ask you then what you would advise me to do?

I need hardly say I would do anything in the world

to ensure Gwendolen's happiness.

I would strongly advise you

to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible

and to make a definite effort to produce

one parent of either sex before the season is quite over.

I don't see how I could possibly do that!

I can produce the handbag at any moment.

It's in my storeroom at home. That should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.

Me, sir?

What has it to do with me?

You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell

would dream of allowing our only daughter -

a girl brought up with the utmost care -

to marry into a cloakroom and form an alliance with a parcel.

Good morning, Mr Worthing.

Good morning.

You don't think there's any chance of Gwendolen

becoming like her mother in 150 years, do you?

My dear fellow, all women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy.

No man does, and that's his.

Is that clever? It's perfectly phrased

and as true as any observation in civilised life should be.

Ernest.

Gwendolen!

Ernest, my dear Ernest.

Algy, please, I have something very particular to say to Mr Worthing.

My own darling.

Ernest, the story of your romantic origin

as related to me by Mama with unpleasing comments

has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my nature.

I followed you here to reassure you

that nothing that she can possibly do

can alter my eternal devotion to you.

Dear Gwendolen.

Your town address at the Albany I have.

What is your address in the country?

The Manor, Woolton, Hertfordshire.

I will communicate with you daily.

My own one.

Oh!

"Yes, I must confess, I do smoke."

"I know nothing, Lady Bracknell."

"I can produce the handbag at a moment's notice." Shh! Shh.

Before you can be found in a handbag at a railway station,

someone must have lost you in a handbag at a railway station.

Do you see?

In the first place, what with Lady Bracknell sniffing about,

dear, dissolute Ernest is a risk I can no longer afford.

And Cecily is becoming a little too interested in him.

It's rather a bore. I'd rather like to meet Cecily.

Well, I shall take very good care you never do.

She is excessively pretty and only just 18.

No, I'll say he died in Paris...

of apoplexy.

But it's hereditary, my dear fellow.

It runs in families.

You had much better say it was a chill. Very well, then.

Poor brother Ernest is carried off suddenly

in Paris by a severe chill.

That gets rid of him.

Have you told Gwendolen that you have an excessively pretty ward who's only just 18?

No. One doesn't blurt these things out to people.

Cecily and Gwendolen are certain to become extremely great friends.

I bet you half an hour after they've met

they will be calling each other sister.

Women only do that when they have called each other a lot of other things first.

HE CLEARS HIS THROAT

Don't let me disturb you.

I hope tomorrow will be a fine day, Lane.

It never is, sir.

You are a perfect pessimist.

I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.

Thank you.

You can put out my dress clothes,

my smoking jacket,

and even bring on the curling tongs.

Yes, sir.

Tomorrow, Lane...

..I'm going Bunburying.

Yes, sir.

That must be it over there.

Bring it down there, Mr Smithers.

Ask Mr Ernest Worthing to come here.

Yes, miss.

You are my little cousin Cecily, I'm sure.

You are under some strange mistake.

I'm not little. In fact, I believe

I'm more than usually tall for my age.

But I am your cousin Cecily.

And you, I see from your card,

are Uncle Jack's brother, my cousin Ernest.

My wicked cousin Ernest.

I'm not really wicked at all. You mustn't think I'm wicked.

Well, if you are not, then you've been

deceiving us in an inexcusable manner.

Well, I have been rather reckless.

Hmm, I'm glad to hear it.

In fact, now that you mention it,

I have been very bad in my own small way.

I don't think you should be proud of that,

though it must've been pleasant.

It's much pleasanter being here.

I can't understand how you're here at all.

Uncle Jack won't be back till Monday.

Oh, that is a disappointment.

I'm obliged to go out on Monday morning.

I have a business appointment I'm anxious to miss.

Hmm. That's all very well, but still,

I think you had better wait until Uncle Jack arrives.

I know he wants to speak to you about your emigrating. My what?

Uncle Jack is sending you to Australia. Australia? I'd sooner die.

He said at dinner on Wednesday

that you'd have to choose between this world,

the next world, and Australia. Oh, well!

The accounts I have received of Australia and the next world

are not particularly encouraging, cousin Cecily.

This world is good enough for me.

Yes, but are you good enough for it?

No, I'm afraid not.

That is why I want you to reform me.

You might make that your mission, if you don't mind.

I'm afraid I've no time this afternoon.

Well, would you mind me reforming myself this afternoon?

It is rather quixotic of you,

but I think you should try.

I will.

I feel better already.

You're looking a little worse.

Well, that's because I'm hungry.

Mr Worthing! Mr Worthing!

This is indeed a surprise.

We did not look for you till Monday afternoon.

I have returned sooner than I expected.

Dear Mr Worthing, I trust this garb of woe

does not betoken some terrible calamity.

My brother.

More shameful debts and extravagance.

Still leading a life of pleasure.

Dead.

Your brother Ernest is dead?

Quite dead.

What a lesson for him!

I trust he will profit by it.

He had many faults, but it is a sad, sad blow.

Yes, indeed, sad.

Um, were you with him at the end?

No. He died abroad.

In Paris, in fact.

I had a telegram last night

from the manager of the Grand Hotel.

Is the cause of death mentioned?

A severe chill, it seems.

As a man sows, so shall he reap.

Oh, charity, Miss Prism, charity.

I myself am peculiarly susceptible to draughts.

Ah...ah...

Ah-choo!

Bless you.

Uncle Jack, I'm so pleased to see you back.

What is the matter, Uncle Jack?

Do look happy. You look as if you had toothache,

and I have such a surprise.

Who do you think is in the rose garden?

Your brother.

Who? Your brother Ernest!

He arrived about half an hour ago.

Nonsense. I haven't got a brother.

I mean... Well, he's...

Come! He'll be pleased to see you've returned.

I...

These are joyful tidings.

Good heavens.

Mmm.

Brother John,

I've come down from town to tell you

that I'm very sorry for all the trouble I have given you

and that I fully intend to lead a better life in the future.

Well, what can I say?

The old Ernest is dead. Long live the new Ernest.

I thought you'd like my little joke.

Knowing me as you do, brother John,

I'm surprised you took it so seriously.

At any rate, I stand before you an entirely new man,

rising, as it were, like a phoenix from the ashes.

Uncle Jack, you're not going to refuse your own brother's hand?

Nothing would induce me to take his hand.

I think his behaviour disgraceful. He knows perfectly well why!

Do shake his hand, Uncle Jack.

After all, it could be worse.

I could be dead in Paris. You could, indeed.

Of a severe chill.

Ah-choo!

Sorry about that, Jack. Shake. Go on.

Excuse me, sir.

We're putting Mr Ernest's things

in the blue room on the second floor.

What?

Mr Ernest's luggage, sir.

We're taking it up to the blue room.

His luggage? Yes, sir.

Two portmanteaus, two dressing cases,

two hat boxes, and a large luncheon basket.

I fear I can only stay a week this time.

You scoundrel, Algy. Mmm?

What have you to say for yourself?

What I have to say, Uncle Jack,

is that little Cecily is a darling.

You are not to talk of Miss Cardew like that!

I don't like it.

Your vanity is ridiculous,

your conduct an outrage, and your presence in my house utterly absurd!

However, you have got to catch the four train.

I hope you have a pleasant journey.

This Bunburying, as you call it, has not been a great success for you.

HE SOBS

It's pleasant, is it not,

to see so perfect a reconciliation?

I think it's been a great success.

HE PLAYS HESITANTLY

HE SPEEDS UP

MISS PRISM CLEARS HER THROAT

GONG SOUNDS

< Dinner is served.

Cecily.

Might I have a, uh, buttonhole first?

I never have an appetite unless I have a buttonhole.

Mr Worthing.

Marigold? No.

I'd sooner have a pink rose.

Why?

Because you are like a pink rose, cousin Cecily.

I don't think it could be right for you to talk to me like that.

Miss Prism never says such things. Then Miss Prism

is a short-sighted old lady.

You are the prettiest girl I ever saw. GONG SOUNDS AGAIN

You see, Uncle Jack, there is some good in everyone.

Ernest was telling me about his poor invalid friend

whom he goes to visit so often.

He has been talking about poor Mr Bunbury?

There must be good in one who is kind to an invalid

and leaves the pleasures of London to sit by a bed of pain.

Hmm.

BABY CRIES

PEOPLE CHATTER

Right. It's first class.

CHATTERING CONTINUES

Good morning, sir.

Good morning.

'Dear Ernest...

'how desperately I have missed you.

'It seems an age since I last saw you,

'and our separation

'is now proving an intolerable strain.

'The feelings you have aroused within me

'are at once delightful

'and exquisitely...'

SHE GASPS '..Painful.

'My dearest darling Ernest,

'it is your very name that inspires me now

'to take my future in my hands -

'burnt, as it were, into my very being.

'And so it is I have resolved

'to flee these prison walls

'and make my way directly to your side,

'to my one and only.'

CECILY: Ernest.

Ernest!

Algy.

Hmm.

Algy.

Ernest.

Ah. Good morning, my dear fellow.

We have to talk.

You have to leave.

If I leave, how can we talk? We cannot both be called Ernest.

I don't believe we are, brother Jack.

SPEAKING GERMAN

Mmm.

SPEAKING GERMAN

MISS PRISM SNORES

I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you

if I state quite openly and frankly,

you seem to me to be in every way

the visible personification

of absolute perfection.

I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest.

If you will allow me, I will copy your remarks into my diary.

I'd give anything to see it. May I?

Oh, no. You'd see it as a very young girl's record

of her thoughts and impressions.

But, pray, Ernest, I delight in taking down from dictation.

You can go on.

HE COUGHS

Don't cough, Ernest.

When one is dictating, one should speak fluently and not cough.

Cecily...

ever since I first looked upon

your wondrous and incomparable beauty,

I have dared to love you wildly...

SHE SNORES

Wildly...

passionately... < Ahem.

Devotedly, hopelessly.

I beg your pardon, sir.

There are two gentlemen wishing to see you.

ENGINE SPUTTERS

ENGINE BACKFIRES

ENGINE BACKFIRES

Mr Ernest Worthing? Yes.

Of B4, The Albany?

Yes, that is my address.

I am very sorry, sir, but I have a writ against you

at the suit of the Savoy Hotel Company Limited

for 762 pounds, 14 shillings.

What perfect nonsense. I never dine at the Savoy at my own expense.

In the interests of our clients,

we have no option but committal of your person.

Committal? Of MY person?

For six months.

Oh, for six months? Ha ha!

No doubt you'll prefer to pay the bill. Pay it?

How am I going to do that? No gentleman ever has any money.

In my experience, it is usually relations who pay.

Oh, all right. Uh, brother Jack?

762 pounds, 14 shillings,

and tuppence -

since last October?

I'm bound to say

I never saw such reckless extravagance

in all my life.

How ridiculous you are.

You have your debts, and I have mine.

You know this bill is yours.

Mine? Yes, and you know it.

Mr Worthing... If this is another jest, it is most out of place.

It is not. Gross effrontery.

Just what I expected from him.

And it is ingratitude. I didn't expect that.

He'll be denying he's Ernest Worthing in the first place.

I'm sorry to disturb this pleasant family meeting, but time presses.

We have to be at Holloway not later than four.

Otherwise, it is difficult to obtain admission.

Holloway?

Get off me!

It is at Holloway that detentions of this character...

I will not be imprisoned for having dined in the West End!

Jack!

I agree to settle my brother's accounts...

..on the condition that he makes his way without delay

to the bedside of the poor bed-ridden Bunbury,

whose health, I am informed, is rapidly declining.

Well, Ernest?

ENGINE SPUTTERS

BICYCLE BELL RINGS

ENGINE BACKFIRES

CECILY SPEAKS FRENCH

Mr Worthing.

I would ask you not to interrupt

Miss Cardew's studies. Miss Prism, I almost forgot to mention

that Dr Chasuble is expecting you in the vestry.

In the vestry? Dr Chasuble?

Expecting you, yes.

That sounds serious.

I do not think it would be right to keep him waiting, Cecily.

It would be very, very wrong.

The vestry is, I am told, excessively damp.

This parting, Miss Cardew, is very painful.

But I suppose you cannot desert

poor Mr Bunbury in his hour of need.

I don't care about Bunbury. I don't seem to care about anything any more.

I only care for you.

I love you, Cecily.

Will you marry me, Cecily? Will you?

Of course.

Why, we have been engaged for the last three months.

For the last three months?

Yes. It will be exactly three months on Thursday.

Darling...

Aah!

So, when was the engagement actually settled?

On the 14th of February last.

After a long struggle with myself,

I accepted you under this dear old tree here.

Hmm.

And this is the box in which I keep all your dear letters.

My letters?

But my own sweet Cecily, I have never written any letters.

You need hardly remind me of that.

I remember only too well that I was forced to write your letters for you.

I wrote always three times a week.

Do let me look at them. Oh, no, I couldn't possibly.

They would make you far too conceited.

The three you wrote me after I had broken off the engagement

were so beautiful and so badly spelled.

Even now I can hardly read them

without crying a little.

Was our engagement ever broken off?

Yes, of course it was. What?

On the 22nd of last March.

You can see the entry if you like.

"Today I broke off my engagement with Ernest.

"The weather still continues charming."

Why did you break it off? I had done nothing at all.

Cecily, I'm very much hurt to hear you broke it off.

When the weather was charming.

It would hardly have been a really serious engagement

if I hadn't broken it off at least once, Ernest.

But I forgave you before the week was out.

Oh, you're a perfect angel.

You dear romantic boy.

MUSIC PLAYS

You know...

I never really thought of myself as the marrying kind until now.

You mustn't break it off again, Cecily.

I don't think I could break it off

now that I've actually met you.

Besides, of course, there is the question of your name.

MUSIC STOPS

Yes, of course.

You mustn't laugh at me, darling,

but it has always been a girlish dream of mine

to love someone whose name is Ernest.

There's something in that name

that seems to inspire confidence.

My own dear joy,

do you mean to say you couldn't love me if I had another name?

But what name? Well...

I mean, Algy, for instance.

I might respect you, Ernest,

I might admire your character,

but I fear that I would never be able to give you

my...undivided attention.

MAN: Ahem.

The dog cart is ready for you, sir.

And now you must go,

for sooner then shall you return.

Oh, what a charming boy.

I like his hair so much.

You wanted to see me, Dr Chasuble?

I didn't.

Oh.

You didn't?

Oh.

I'm sorry,

but merely for the purposes of clarification,

when you said you didn't,

did you mean you didn't SAY you wanted to see me

or that you didn't, in fact, want to see me?

Isn't language a curious thing?

Will you excuse me?

I have a double baptism this afternoon,

and I have to, um... top up the font.

SNEEZES LOUDLY Bless you.

A Miss Fairfax has called to see Mr Worthing -

on very important business, Miss Fairfax states.

Mr Worthing is sure to be out soon, Merriman,

so kindly bring some tea. Yes, ma'am.

Miss Cardew. Thank you.

Miss Fairfax,

pray let me introduce myself to you.

My name is Cecily Cardew. Cecily Cardew. What a very sweet name.

Something tells me we're going to be great friends.

I like you already, and my first impressions are never wrong.

CECILY COUGHS

You're here on a short visit, I suppose.

Oh, no, I live here.

Really? Your mother, no doubt,

or some female relative of advanced years

resides here also. Oh, no. I have no mother, nor, in fact, any relations.

Indeed. My guardian has the task of looking after me.

Your guardian? Yes. I'm Mr Worthing's ward.

Oh.

It is strange. He never mentioned it.

How secretive of him.

He grows more interesting hourly.

But I am bound to state that

now that I know you are Mr Worthing's ward,

I cannot help expressing a wish that you were,

well, just a little bit older than you seem to be

and not quite so very alluring in appearance.

In fact, if I may speak candidly...

Pray do. I think whenever one has anything unpleasant to say,

one should always be candid.

Yes. Well, to speak with perfect candour, Cecily,

I wish you were fully 42

and more than usually plain for your age.

Ernest has a strong, upright nature.

He's the very soul of truth and honour.

I think Jack, for instance, Jack.

I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.

'Oh, but it is not Mr Ernest Worthing who's my guardian.'

It is his brother, his elder brother.

Oh. That accounts for it.

Cecily, you've lifted a load from my mind.

I was growing almost anxious.

Of course, you're quite sure

it's not Mr Ernest Worthing who is your guardian?

Quite sure.

In fact...

I am going to be his.

I beg your pardon?

Mr Ernest Worthing and I are engaged

to be married.

Oh.

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.

I'm afraid you must be under some misconception.

Ernest proposed to me ten minutes ago.

Oh, it's 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.

I never travel without my diary.

One should always have something sensational to read in the train.

I'm so sorry, dear Cecily,

but I'm afraid I have the prior claim.

Ow!

May I offer you some tea, Miss Fairfax?

Thank you, Miss Cardew.

Sugar?

No, thank you. Sugar is not fashionable anymore.

Cake or bread and butter?

Bread and butter, please.

Cake is rarely seen in the best houses nowadays.

From the moment I saw you, I distrusted you.

I felt you were false.

It seems to me, Miss Fairfax,

that I am trespassing on your valuable time.

No doubt, you have many other calls

of a similar character to make in the neighbourhood.

Ernest!

You're back so soon. My own love.

A moment, Ernest.

May I ask you, are you engaged to be married to this young lady?

What young lady?

Good heavens, Gwendolen! Yes, "Good heavens, Gwendolen."

Of course not. What put such an idea

into your pretty little head?

Thank you. You may.

I felt there must be some error.

The gentleman who is now embracing you is my cousin,

Mr Algernon Moncrieff.

Algernon?

Moncrieff?

Uhh... Yes.

Algy.

Ohh!

Here is Ernest.

Ohh.

Oh, my own Ernest.

Gwendolen, my darling.

I knew there must be some misunderstanding.

The gentleman whose arm is at present around your waist

is my guardian, Mr John Worthing.

I beg your pardon?

This is Uncle Jack.

Jack?

WHIRRING

GASPS

Are you called Algy?

I cannot deny it.

Is your name really John?

I could deny it if I liked.

I could deny anything, but it certainly is John.

It has been John for years.

A gross deception has been practiced on both of us.

My poor wounded Cecily. My sweet wronged Gwendolen.

You will call me sister, will you not?

Of course.

Let us go into the house, sister.

They will hardly venture to come after us there.

No. Men are so cowardly, aren't they?

How you can sit there calmly eating muffins

when we're in trouble I don't know.

You seem to be heartless.

I can hardly eat muffins in an agitated manner, can I?

The butter would get on my cuffs.

It's perfectly heartless you're eating muffins at all.

Eating is my only consolation.

Indeed, when I'm in really great trouble,

as anyone who knows me intimately will tell you,

I refuse everything except food and drink.

At the present moment, I am eating muffins because I am unhappy.

Besides, I am particularly fond of muffins.

There's no reason why you should eat them all in that greedy way.

Would you like some tea cake? I don't like tea cake.

Good heavens. I suppose a man

may eat his own muffins in his own garden.

They seem to be eating muffins.

But you just said it was perfectly heartless to eat muffins.

I said it was perfectly heartless of YOU.

That is a different thing. Maybe, but the muffins are the same.

No. Give them to me!

Well, I certainly don't rate your chances with my ward, Algernon.

I don't think there's much likelihood of you, Jack, and Miss Fairfax being united, Jack!

But is there any particular infant

in whom you are interested, Mr Worthing?

The fact is, dear doctor,

I would like to be christened myself.

This afternoon, if you have nothing better to do.

Surely... Mr Worthing, you've been christened already.

I don't remember anything about it.

Of course, I don't know if the thing would bother you in any way

or if you think that I'm a little too old now.

No, no, no, no, no.

Not at all, not at all, not at all.

The sprinkling and, indeed, immersion of adults

is a perfectly canonical practice.

Um, what hour would you wish

the ceremony performed?

I might trot round at about six if that would suit you.

Oh, perfectly, perfectly.

Thank you.

But we cannot both be christened Ernest. It's absurd.

I have a right to be christened.

You've been christened already. Yes, but not for years.

Yes, but you've been christened.

Quite so. So, I know my constitution can stand it.

If you're not sure about having been christened,

I think it rather dangerous your venturing on it now.

Oh, nonsense. You are always talking nonsense.

THEY LAUGH

PIANO PLAYS FAINTLY

Let us preserve a dignified silence.

Certainly. It's the only thing to do now.

JACK: # The western wind is blowing fair

ALGY: # Across the dark Aegean sea

BOTH: # And at the secret marble stair

# My Tyrian galley waits for thee

# Come down the purple sail is spread

# The watchman sleeps within the town... #

This dignified silence seems to have had an unpleasant effect.

A most distasteful one.

# O lady mine, Come down, come down

# Dum dum dum dum # Lady, come down... #

DOOR SLAMS

SONG BEGINS AGAIN

# She will not come I know her well

# Of lover's vows she hath no care

# And little good a man can tell

# For one so cruel and so fair

# True love is but a woman's toy

# They never know the lover's pain

# And I who loved as love's a boy

# Must love in vain Must love in vain

# Come down

# Lady, come down

# Dum dum dum dum # Come down

# Dum dum dum dum # Lady, come down

# Dum dum dum dum # Lady, come down. #

We will not be the first to speak. Certainly not.

Mr Worthing, I have something to ask you. Much depends on your reply.

Gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable.

Mr Moncrieff, kindly answer me the following question.

Why did you pretend to be my guardian's brother?

In order that I might meet you.

That seems a satisfactory explanation, does it not?

Yes, dear, if you can believe him.

Well, I don't, but that doesn't affect

the wonderful beauty of his answer.

True. In matters of grave importance,

style, not sincerity, is the vital thing.

Mr Worthing, what possible explanation

can you offer me for pretending to have a brother?

Was it in order that you might have an opportunity

of coming up to town to see me as often as possible?

Can you doubt it, Miss Fairfax?

I have the gravest doubts on the subject,

but I intend to crush them.

Their explanations appear to be quite satisfactory,

..especially Mr Worthing's.

That seems to me to have the stamp of truth.

I am content with Mr Moncrieff.

WHISPERING: His voice alone seemed to inspire credulity.

You think we should forgive them? Yes.

HE PLUCKS NOTE I mean, no.

True, there are principles at stake that one cannot surrender.

BOTH: Your Christian names are still an insuperable barrier.

That is all. Our Christian names? Is that all?

We're going to be christened today.

For my sake you're prepared to do this terrible thing?

I am.

To please me you're ready to face this fearful ordeal?

I am.

Where self-sacrifice is concerned men are beyond us.

We are.

Darling.

Darling.

CLEARS THROAT

Lady Bracknell.

Gwendolen!

What does this mean?

Merely that I am engaged to be married

to Mr Worthing, Mama.

Come here.

Sit down.

Sit down immediately.

Of course, you will clearly understand, sir,

that all communication must cease immediately from this moment.

On this point, as indeed on all points, I am firm.

I am engaged to be married to Gwendolen.

You are nothing of the kind, sir.

And now, as regards Algy...

Algy?

Yes, Aunt Augusta.

May I ask if it is in this house

that your Mr Bunbury resides?

Oh, no, Bunbury doesn't live here.

Bunbury's somewhere else at the present.

In fact, um,

Bunbury is dead.

Dead? Dead.

When did Mr Bunbury die? It must've been extremely sudden.

Bunbury died this afternoon.

What did he die of?

Bunbury?

He was quite exploded.

Exploded?

Mm. Was he the victim of some revolutionary outrage?

I was not aware that he was interested in social legislation.

My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he was found out.

The doctors found out that Bunbury could not live.

That is what I mean. So Bunbury died.

He seems to have had great confidence

in the opinion of his physicians.

I am glad, however, that he made his up mind at the last

to some definite course of action, and acted under medical advice.

And now that we have finally got rid of this Mr Bunbury,

may I ask, Mr Worthing, who is that young person

whose hand my nephew Algernon is now holding

in what seems to me

to be a peculiarly unnecessary manner?

That lady is Miss Cecily Cardew, my ward.

Yes, I am engaged to be married to Cecily, Aunt Augusta.

I beg your pardon?

Mr Moncrieff and I are engaged to be married.

I do not know whether there's anything

peculiarly exciting about the air

of this part of Hertfordshire,

but the number of engagements that go on seem to me

to be above the proper average

that statistics have laid down for our guidance.

Mr Worthing, is Miss Cardew at all connected

with any of the larger railway stations in London?

I merely desire information.

Until recently, I was not aware that there were families or persons

whose origin was a terminus.

Gwendolen, the time approaches for our departure.

We have not a moment to lose.

Mr Worthing, I'd better ask if Miss Cardew has any fortune.

Oh, about £130,000 in the funds, that is all.

Goodbye, Lady Bracknell. A moment, Mr Worthing.

£130,000?

And in the funds?

Miss Cardew seems to me to be a most attractive young lady,

now that I look at her.

Come over here, dear.

The chin a little higher, dear.

Style largely depends on the way the chin is worn.

They're worn very high just at present. Algy?

Yes, Aunt Augusta.

There are possibilities in Miss Cardew's profile.

Cecily is the sweetest, prettiest girl

and I don't give tuppence for her social possibilities.

Never speak disrespectfully of society, Algernon.

Only people who can't get into it do that.

Dear child, you know, of course,

that Algy has nothing but his debts to depend upon.

But I do not approve of mercenary marriages.

Indeed, when I married Lord Bracknell,

I had no fortune of any kind.

MUSIC PLAYS

PEOPLE CHEER

LADY BRACKNELL: But I never dreamed for a moment

of allowing that to stand in my way.

Well, I suppose I give my consent. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

I beg your pardon, Lady Bracknell, but I am Miss Cardew's guardian.

She cannot marry without my consent until she comes of age,

and that consent I absolutely decline to give.

Upon what grounds, may I ask?

I suspect him of being untruthful.

Untruthful?

My nephew Algy?

I fear there can be no possible doubt about the matter.

During my temporary absence in London

on an important question of romance,

he obtained admission to my house

by means of the false pretence of being my brother.

He then proceeded to win over the affections of my only ward,

when his own intentions, I'm convinced, were purely financial.

Deny it if you dare.

He subsequently stayed to tea

and devoured every single muffin,

and what makes his behaviour more heartless

is that he was aware from the start that I have no brother,

and that I don't intend to have a brother.

Uncle Jack, please! Oh, my word, Jack.

Come here, sweet child.

How old are you, dear?

18, Aunt Augusta.

18.

Well, it will not be long before you are of age

and free from the restraints of your guardian.

According to the terms of her grandfather's will,

she is not legally of age until she is 35.

That does not seem to me to be a grave objection.

35 is a very attractive age.

London society is full of women

of the very highest birth who have,

of their own free choice, remained 35 for years.

Algy, could you wait for me till I was 35?

Of course I could. You know I could.

Yes, I felt it instinctively.

But I couldn't wait all that time.

Then what is to be done, Cecily?

I don't know, Mr Moncrieff.

My dear Mr Worthing,

as Miss Cardew states quite positively

that she cannot wait until she is 35 -

a remark which I am bound to say

seems to me to show a somewhat impatient nature -

I would beg you to reconsider your decision.

But my dear Lady Bracknell,

the matter is entirely in your own hands.

If you consent to my marriage with Gwendolen,

I will gladly allow your nephew to form an alliance with my ward.

You must be aware that what you propose

is out of the question.

Then a passionate celibacy

is all any of us can look forward to.

Oh, but Mama! Come, dear.

We've already missed five or six trains.

To miss any more might expose us to comment.

Everything is quite ready

for the christenings.

The christenings, sir?

Is not that somewhat premature?

But both of these gentlemen have expressed a desire

for immediate baptism.

At their age?

The idea is grotesque and irreligious.

Algy, I forbid you to be baptised.

I will not hear of such excesses.

I'm sorry to interrupt,

Dr Chasuble.

Yes, yes.

Miss Prism has asked me to tell you

she's waiting for you in the vestry.

Indeed, I believe she's been waiting for some time.

Miss Prism...

in the vestry.

Waiting for you.

Yes.

Miss Prism?

Did I hear you mention a Miss Prism?

Yes, Madame, I'm...

I'm on my...

Bless you. Bless.

Yes, Madame, I'm on my way to join her.

Is this Miss Prism a female of repellent aspect,

connected with education?

She is the most cultivated of ladies

and the picture of respectability.

It is obviously the same person.