Certainly, Mamma.

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

I do mean something else.

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

And I would like to be allowed to take advantage of Lady Bracknell's temporary absence …

I would certainly advise you to do so. Mamma has a way of coming back suddenly into a room that I have often had to speak to her about.

[Nervously.] 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 am quite aware of the fact. And I often wish that in public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative. For me you have always had an irresistible fascination. Even before I met you I was far from 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 is constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines, and has reached the provincial pulpits I am told: and my ideal has always been to love someone of the name of Ernest. There is something in that name that inspires absolute confidence. The moment Algernon 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!

Darling! You don't know how happy you've made me.

My own Ernest!

But you don't really mean to say 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? Do you mean to say you couldn't love me then?

[Glibly.] Ah! that is clearly a metaphysical explanation, 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 the name 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 that I think there are lots of other much nicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.

Jack? … No, there is very little music in the name Jack, if any at all, indeed. It does not thrill. It produces absolutely no vibrations. … I have known several Jacks, and they all, without exception, were more than usually plain. Besides, Jack is a notorious domesticity for John! And I pity any woman who is married to a man called John. She would probably never be allowed to know the entrancing pleasure of a single moment's solitude. The only really safe name is Ernest.

Gwendolen, I must get christened at once—I mean we must get married at once. There is no time to be lost.

Married, Mr. Worthing?

[Astounded.] 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 has been said at all about marriage. The subject has not even been touched on.

Well … may I propose to you know?

I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare you any possible disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to tell you quite frankly before hand that I am fully determined to accept you.

Gwendolen!

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

You know what I have got to say to you.

Yes, but you don't say it.

Gwendolen, will you marry me?

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.

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

Yes, but men often propose for practice. I know my brother Gerald does. All my girlfriends tell me so. What wonderfully blue eyes you have, Ernest! They are quite, quite blue. I hope you will always look at me just like that, especially when there are other people present.

Mr. Worthing! Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture. It is most indecorous.

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

Finished what, may I ask?

I am engaged to Mr. Worthing, Mamma.

Pardon me, you are not engaged to anyone. When you do become engaged to someone, I, or your father, should his health permit him, will inform you of the fact. An engagement should come on a young girl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be. It is hardly a matter that she could be allowed to arrange for herself. … And now I have a few questions to put to you, Mr. Worthing. While I am making these inquiries, you, Gwendolen, will wait for me below in the carriage.

[Reproachfully.] Mamma!

In the carriage, Gwendolen! [Gwendolen goes to the door. She and Jack blow kisses to each other behind Lady Bracknell's back. Lady Bracknell looks vaguely about as if she could not understand what the noise was. Finally turns round.] Gwendolen, the carriage!

[Sitting down.] You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.

Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.

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

Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.

I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it is. How old are you?

Twenty-nine.

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

[After some hesitation.] I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.

I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no 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 seven and eight thousand a year.

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

In investments, chiefly.

That is satisfactory. What between the duties expected of one during one's lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one's death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives one position, and prevents one from keeping it up. That's all that can be said about land.

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 my real income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the only people who make anything out of it.

A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that point can be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl with a simple, unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be expected to reside in the country.

It's pleasant, is it not, to see so perfect a reconciliation? I think we might leave the two brothers together.

Cecily, you will come with us.

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

You have done a beautiful action today, dear child.

We must not be premature in our judgments.

I feel very happy.

You young scoundrel, Algy, you must get out of this place as soon as possible. I don't allow any Bunburying here. Enter Merriman.

I have put Mr. Ernest's things in the room next to yours, sir. I suppose that is all right?

What?

Mr. Ernest's luggage, sir. I have unpacked it and put it in the room next to your own.

His luggage?

Yes, sir. Three portmanteaux, a dressing-case, two hat-boxes, and a large luncheon-basket.

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

Merriman, order the dog-cart at once. Mr. Ernest has been suddenly called back to town.

Yes, sir.

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

Yes, you have.

I haven't heard anyone call me.

Your duty as a gentleman calls you back.

My duty as a gentleman has never interfered with my pleasures in the smallest degree.

I can quite understand that.

Well, Cecily is a darling.

You are not to talk of Miss Cardew like that. I don't like it.

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

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

I certainly won't leave you so long as you are in mourning. It would be most unfriendly. If I were in mourning you would stay with me, I suppose. I should think it very unkind if you didn't.

Well, will you go if I change my clothes?

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

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

If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it by being always immensely over-educated.

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

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

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

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

He's gone to order the dog-cart for me.

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

He's going to send me away.

Then have we got to part?

I am afraid so. It's very painful parting.

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

Thank you.

The dog-cart is at the door, sir.

It can wait, Merriman … for … five minutes.

Yes, Miss.

I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite frankly and openly that you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection.

I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If you will allow me, I will copy your remarks into my diary.

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

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

[Somewhat taken aback.] Ahem! Ahem!

Oh, don't cough, Ernest. When one is dictating one should speak fluently and not cough. Besides, I don't know how to spell a cough.

[Speaking very rapidly.] Cecily, ever since I first looked upon your wonderful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.

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

Cecily!

The dog-cart is waiting, sir.

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

Ahem! Mr. Worthing, after careful consideration I have decided entirely to overlook my nephew's conduct to you.

That is very generous of you, Lady Bracknell. My own decision, however, is unalterable. I decline to give my consent.

[To Cecily.] Come here, sweet child. [Cecily goes over.] How old are you, dear?

Well, I am really only eighteen, but I always admit to twenty when I go to evening parties.

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

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

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

Algy, could you wait for me till I was thirty-five?

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

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

Then what is to be done, Cecily?

I don't know, Mr. Moncrieff.

My dear Mr. Worthing, as Miss Cardew states positively that she cannot wait till she is thirty-five—a remark which I am bound to say seems to me to show a somewhat impatient nature—I would beg of you to reconsider your decision.

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

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

Then a passionate celibacy is all that any of us can look forward to.

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

Everything is quite ready for the christenings.

The christenings, sir! Is not that somewhat premature?

[Looking rather puzzled, and pointing to Jack and Algernon.] Both these gentlemen have expressed a desire for immediate baptism.

At their age? The idea is grotesque and irreligious! Algernon, I forbid you to be baptized. I will not hear of such excesses. Lord Bracknell would be highly displeased if he learned that that was the way in which you wasted your time and money.

Am I to understand then that there are to be no christenings at all this afternoon?

I don't think that, as things are now, it would be of much practical value to either of us, Dr. Chasuble.

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

[Starting.] Miss Prism! Did I hear you mention a Miss Prism?

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

Pray allow me to detain you for a moment. This matter may prove to be one of vital importance to Lord Bracknell and myself. Is this Miss Prism a female of repellent aspect, remotely connected with education?

[Somewhat indignantly.] She is the most cultivated of ladies, and the very picture of respectability.

It is obviously the same person. May I ask what position she holds in your household?

[Severely.] I am a celibate, madam.

[Interposing.] Miss Prism, Lady Bracknell, has been for the last three years Miss Cardew's esteemed governess and valued companion.

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

[Looking off.] She approaches; she is nigh.

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

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

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

[Who has been listening attentively.] But where did you deposit the hand-bag?

Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.

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

I left it in the cloak-room of one of the larger railway stations in London.

What railway station?

[Quite crushed.] Victoria. The Brighton line. [Sinks into a chair.]

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

If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.

What do you think this means, Lady Bracknell?

I dare not even suspect, Dr. Chasuble. I need hardly tell you that in families of high position strange coincidences are not supposed to occur. They are hardly considered the thing.

Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.

Your guardian has a very emotional nature.

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

[Looking up.] It has stopped now. [The noise is redoubled.]

I wish he would arrive at some conclusion.

The suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.

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

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

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

[Amazed.] You?

[Embracing her.] Yes … mother!

[Recoiling in indignant astonishment.] Mr. Worthing! I am unmarried!

Unmarried! I do not deny that is a serious blow. But after all, who has the right to cast a stone against one who has suffered? Cannot repentance wipe out an act of folly? Why should there be one law for men, and another for women? Mother, I forgive you. [Tries to embrace her again.]

[Still more indignant.] Mr. Worthing, there is some error. [Pointing to Lady Bracknell.] There is the lady who can tell you who you really are.

[After a pause.] Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform me who I am?

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