SCENE
Morning-room in Algernon’s flat in Half-Moon Street. The room is
luxuriously and artistically furnished. The sound of a piano is
heard in the adjoining room.
[Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music
has ceased, Algernon enters.]
Algernon. Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?
Lane. I didn’t think it polite to listen, sir.
Algernon. I’m sorry for that, for your sake. I don’t play
accurately—any one can play accurately—but I play with wonderful
expression. As far as the piano is concerned, sentiment is my
forte. I keep science for Life.
Lane. Yes, sir.
Algernon. And, speaking of the science of Life, have you got the
cucumber sandwiches cut for Lady Bracknell?
Lane. Yes, sir. [Hands them on 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, when Lord Shoreman and Mr. Worthing were dining with me,
eight bottles of champagne 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 servants
invariably drink the champagne? I ask merely for information.
Lane. I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. I
have often observed that in married households the champagne is
rarely of a first-rate brand.
Algernon. Good heavens! Is marriage so demoralising as that?
Lane. I believe it is a very pleasant state, sir. I have had very
little experience of it myself up to the present. I have only been
married once. That was in consequence of a misunderstanding between
myself and a young person.
Algernon. [Languidly.] I don’t know that I am much interested in
your family life, Lane.
Lane. No, sir; it is not a very interesting subject. I never think
of it 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
the lower orders don’t set us a good example, what on earth is the
use of them? They seem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense of
moral responsibility.
[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 to
take some slight refreshment at five o’clock. Where have you been
since last 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 amuses
oneself. When one is in the country one amuses other people. It is
excessively 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 takes
sandwich.] By the way, Shropshire is your county, is it not?
Jack. Eh? Shropshire? Yes, of course. Hallo! Why all these cups?
Why cucumber sandwiches? Why such reckless extravagance in one so
young? Who is 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’t quite approve of your being here.
Jack. May I ask why?
Algernon. My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is
perfectly disgraceful. 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
to propose to her.
Algernon. I thought you had come up for pleasure? . . . I call that
business.
Jack. How utterly unromantic you are!
Algernon. I really don’t see anything romantic in proposing. It is
very romantic to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a
definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I
believe. Then the 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 was
specially invented for people whose memories are so curiously
constituted.
Algernon. Oh! there is no use speculating on that subject. Divorces
are made in Heaven—[Jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich.
Algernon at once interferes.] Please don’t touch the cucumber
sandwiches. They are ordered 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. [Takes
plate from below.] Have some bread and butter. The bread and butter
is for Gwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to bread and butter.
Jack. [Advancing to table and helping himself.] And very good bread
and butter it is too.
Algernon. Well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were
going to eat it all. You behave as if you were married to her
already. You are not 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
flirt with. Girls don’t think it right.
Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!
Algernon. It isn’t. It is a great truth. It accounts for the
extraordinary number of bachelors that one sees all over the place.
In the second place, I don’t give my consent.
Jack. Your consent!
Algernon. My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my first cousin. And before
I allow you to marry her, you will have to clear up the whole
question of Cecily. [Rings bell.]
Jack. Cecily! What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, Algy, by
Cecily! 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? I wish to goodness you had let me know. I have been writing
frantic letters to Scotland Yard about it. I was very nearly
offering a large reward.
Algernon. Well, I wish you would offer one. I happen to be more
than usually hard up.
Jack. There is no good offering a large reward now that the thing
is found.
[Enter Lane with the cigarette case on a salver. Algernon takes it
at once. Lane goes out.]
Algernon. I think that is rather mean of you, Ernest, I must say.
[Opens case and examines it.] However, it makes no matter, for, now
that I look at 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 a hundred times, and you have no right whatsoever to read what
is written inside. It is a very ungentlemanly thing to read a
private cigarette case.
Algernon. Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what
one should read and what one shouldn’t. More than half of modern
culture depends on what one shouldn’t read.
Jack. I am quite aware of the fact, and I don’t propose to discuss
modern culture. It isn’t the sort of thing one should talk of in
private. I simply want my cigarette case back.
Algernon. Yes; but this isn’t your cigarette case. This cigarette
case is a present from some one of the name of Cecily, and you said
you didn’t know 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
herself little 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
on earth 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
for herself. You seem to think that every aunt should be exactly
like your aunt! 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
little Cecily, with her fondest love to her dear Uncle Jack.’ 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. Besides, your name isn’t Jack at
all; it is Ernest.
Jack. It isn’t Ernest; it’s Jack.
Algernon. You have always told me it was Ernest. I have introduced
you to every one as Ernest. You answer to the name of Ernest. You
look as if your name was Ernest. You are the most earnest-looking
person I ever saw in my life. It is perfectly absurd your saying
that your name isn’t Ernest. It’s on your cards. Here is one of
them. [Taking it from case.] ‘Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The
Albany.’ I’ll keep this as a proof that your name is Ernest if ever
you attempt to deny it to me, or to 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
the cigarette case was given to me in the country.
Algernon. Yes, but that does not account for the fact that your
small Aunt Cecily, who lives at Tunbridge Wells, calls you her dear
uncle. Come, old boy, you had much better have the thing out at
once.