All language subtitles for The importance.English

"The Importance of Being Earnest."

Eating as usual, I see, Algy.

I believe it is usual in good society...

to take some slight refreshment
after morning exercise.

And what brings you to London,
my dear Ernest?

Oh, pleasure, pleasure.
What else should bring one anywhere?

Where have you been
since last Thursday?

- In the country.
- What on earth do you do there?

When one is in town,
one amuses oneself.

When one is in the country,
one amuses other people.

And who are the people you amuse?

Oh, neighbors, neighbors.

Got nice neighbors
in your part of Shropshire?

Perfectly horrid.
Never speak to them.

How immensely
you must amuse them.

- Shropshire is your county, is it not?
- Shropshire? Yes, of course.

By the way,
Gwendolen is in town, isn't she?

She is. In fact, she's having tea
with me this afternoon.

- How perfectly delightful.
- And so is Aunt Augusta.

Oh.

You know, the way
you flirt with Gwendolen...

is almost as bad as the way
Gwendolen flirts with you.

I am in love with Gwendolen.

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

I thought you had come up on pleasure.
I call that business.

How utterly unromantic you are.

I really don't see anything
romantic in proposing.

It's very romantic to be in love,

but there's nothing romantic
about a definite proposal.

Why, one may be accepted.

One usually is, I believe,
and then the whole excitement is over.

The very essence of romance
is uncertainty.

If ever I get married, I shall
certainly try and forget the fact.

I have no doubt about that,
my dear Algy.

The divorce court was specially
invented for people like you.

Divorces are made in heaven.
Marriages are...

Yes, Algy?

Oh, well, there's no use
my speculating on that subject.

Or, indeed, your speculating
on marrying Gwendolen.

Why on earth do you say that?

In the first place, girls never marry
the men they flirt with.

- Ah! That is nonsense.
- It isn't. It's a great truth.

It accounts for the extraordinary number
of bachelors that one sees
all over the place.

Second place,
I don't give my consent.

Your consent?

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.

Cecily? What on earth
do you mean?

What you mean, Algy,
by "Cecily"?

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

Do you mean to say that you've had
my cigarette case all this time?
I wish you'd let me know.

I've been writing frantic letters
to Scotland Yard about it.

I was very nearly offering
a large reward.

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

It's no good offering a large reward
now that the thing is found.

I think that's rather mean of you,
Ernest, I must say.

However, it makes no matter,

for now that I look at the inscription,
I find that the thing isn't yours after all.

Well, of course it's mine!
You've seen me with it a hundred times.

You have no right whatsoever
to read what is written inside.

It is a very ungentlemanly thing
to read a private cigarette case.

It's absurd to have a hard-and-fast rule
about what one should
and shouldn't read.

More than half of modern culture
depends on what one shouldn't read.

I'm quite aware of the fact,
and I don't propose
to discuss modern culture with you.

It isn't the sort of thing
one should talk of in private.

- I simply want my cigarette case back.
- Yes!

But this isn't your cigarette case.

This cigarette case is a present
from someone of the name of Cecily.

You said that you didn't know
anyone of that name.

- Well, if you want to know,
- Hmm.

Cecily happens to be my aunt.

- Your aunt?
- Yes.

Charming old lady she is too.
Lives at Tunbridge Wells.

But why does she call herself Cecily...

if she's your aunt
and lives in Tunbridge Wells?

"From little Cecily,
with her fondest love."

Well, well, my dear fellow,
what on earth is there in that?

Some aunts are tall.
Some aunts are not tall.

That is surely a matter that an aunt
may be allowed to decide for herself.

For heaven's sake,
give me my cigarette case.

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

"From little Cecily, with her fondest
love, to her dear Uncle Jack."

There's 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.

It isn't Ernest. It's Jack.

You have always told me
it was Ernest.

You are the most earnest-looking person
I ever saw in my life.

It's absolutely absurd
you saying your name isn't Ernest.

Why, it's on your cards.
Here is one of them.

"Mr. Ernest Worthing,
B4, The Albany."

I shall keep this as a proof
that your name is Ernest...

if ever you attempt to deny the fact
to me, to Gwendolen or to anyone else.

Well, my name is Ernest in town
and Jack in the country,

and the cigarette case
was given me in the country.

Yes, but that doesn't account for
the fact that your small Aunt Cecily,

who lives in Tunbridge Wells,
calls you her dear uncle.

Come on, old boy, much better
have the thing out at once.

My dear Algy,
you talk exactly like a dentist.

I may mention that
I have always suspected,

and now I am quite sure,

that you are a confirmed
and secret Bunburyist.

Bunburyist?

What on earth do you mean
by Bunburyist?

I will reveal to you the meaning
of that incomparable expression...

when you are kind enough
to tell me...

why you are Ernest in town
and Jack in the country.

- Well, produce my cigarette case first.
- There it is.

Now produce your explanation,

and pray make it improbable.

There's nothing improbable
about my explanation at all.

Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who
adopted me when I was a little boy,

made me, in his will,
guardian to his granddaughter,

Miss Cecily Cardew.

Cecily, who addresses me as uncle
out of motives of respect,

which you could not possibly
appreciate,

lives at my place in the country under
the charge of her admirable governess,

Miss Prism.

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

That is nothing to you, dear boy.
You are not going to be invited.

I may tell you candidly
that it is not in Shropshire.

I suspected that.

I have Bunburyed all over Shropshire
on two separate occasions. Well, go on.

When one is placed
in the position of guardian,

one has to adopt a very high
moral tone on all subjects.

It is one's duty to do so.

And as a high moral tone can hardly
be 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 younger brother
of the name of Ernest,

who lives here in the Albany and who
gets into the most dreadful scrapes.

- That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth.
- Oh, no.

What you really are is a Bunburyist.

I was perfectly right in saying
you were a Bunburyist.

You one are of the most advanced
Bunburyists I know.

What on earth do you mean?

You have invented a very useful
younger brother called Ernest...

in order that you may be able to come
up to London as often as you like.

I have invented an invaluable
permanent invalid called Bunbury...

in order that I may be able to go down
to the country whenever I choose.

Bunbury really is invaluable.

It if wasn't for Bunbury's extraordinary
bad health, for instance,

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

for I have really been engaged to dine
at Aunt Augusta's for more than a week.

I haven't asked you to dine
with me anywhere tonight.

I know. You are absurdly careless
about sending out invitations.

It's very foolish of you.

Nothing annoys people more
than not receiving invitations.

- Algy!

Seton!

Sir?

Seton, I shall require a fresh gardenia
this afternoon at 4:00 precisely.

- Very good, sir.

Ethel, come here!

Thank you, governor.

Giddap now!

Did you hear
what I was singing, Lane?

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

Sorry about that, for your sake.

I don't sing in tune...
anybody can sing in tune...

but I sing with wonderful feeling.

Yes, sir.

You have got the cucumber sandwiches
for Lady Bracknell?

- Yes, sir.
- Ah!

- Excuse me, sir.

- Have Lady Bracknell
and Miss Fairfax arrived yet, Lane?
- No, sir.

- Mr. Ernest Worthing.
- Jack! I don't seem to remember
inviting you.

No, you're absurdly careless
about sending out invitations.

Cucumber sandwiches? Why such
reckless extravagance in one so young?

Don't you touch them! They're ordered
specially for Aunt Augusta.

- Well, you're eating them.
- That's quite a different matter.
She's my aunt.

Have some bread and butter.

The bread and butter
is for Gwendolen.

Gwendolen is devoted
to bread and butter.

And very good bread and butter
it is too.

My dear fellow, you needn't eat it
as if you were going to eat it all.

You behave exactly as if
you were married to her already.

You are not married to her already,
and I don't think you ever will be.

- Now, Algy...

That must be Aunt Augusta.

Only relatives or creditors
ever ring in that Wagnerian manner.

If I can get her out of the way
for ten minutes...

in order that you may have the
opportunity for proposing to Gwendolen,

may I dine with you
at Willis' tonight?

- I suppose so, if you want to.
- But you must be serious about it.

I hate people who are not serious
about meals.

Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax.

Good afternoon, dear Algernon.

I hope you're behaving very well.

- I'm feeling very well, Aunt Augusta.
- Yes, that's not quite the same thing.

In fact, the two things
rarely go together.

Oh. How do you do,
Mr. Worthing.

- Dear me, Gwendolen, you are smart.
- I am always smart.

- Aren't I, 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.

Gwendolen?

Won't you come
and sit here, Gwendolen?

Thank you, Mama.
I am quite comfortable where I am.

I'm sorry if we are
a little late, Algernon.

I was obliged to call
on dear Lady Harbury.

I hadn't been there
since her poor 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.

Good heavens, Lane!
Why are there no cucumber sandwiches?

I ordered them specially.

There were no cucumbers in the market
this morning, sir. I went down twice.

No cucumbers?

No, sir.
Not even for ready money.

Thank you, Lane.
That will do.

I'm greatly distressed,
Aunt Augusta,

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

Well, it really makes no matter,
Algernon.

I had some crumpets
with Lady Harbury,

who seems to me to be living
entirely for pleasure now.

I hear her hair has turned
quite gold from grief.

Well, it certainly
has changed its color.

From what cause,
I, of course, cannot say.

Uh, forgive me, Aunt Augusta,
but I'm afraid...

I shall have to give up the pleasure
of dining with you tonight.

Oh, I hope not, Algernon.
'Twould put my table completely out.

Well, the fact is, I have just had
a telegram to say...

that my poor friend Bunbury
is very ill again.

They think I should be with him.

Well, I must say,
I should be much obliged...

if you would ask
Mr. Bunbury from me...

not to have a relapse on Saturday,

for I rely on you to arrange
my music for me.

It is my last reception,
and one wants something...

that will encourage conversation,

particularly at the end
of the season,

when everybody has practically said
whatever they had to say,

which, in most cases,
was probably not much.

I will speak to Bunbury,
Aunt Augusta, if he is still conscious,

and I think I can promise you
that he will be all right by Saturday.

Of course, the music is
a great difficulty,

but I will run over the program
I've worked out...

if you'll come into the other room.

Thank you, Algernon.
That's very thoughtful of you.

I'm sure the program
will be delightful...

after a few expurgations.

French songs
I cannot possibly allow.

People always seem to think
they're improper...

and either look shocked,
which is vulgar,

or laugh, which is worse.

Now, German sounds a thoroughly
respectable language,

and, indeed, I believe, is so.

Gwendolen, you will accompany me.

Certainly, Mama.

Well, here is the program
I suggest, Aunt Augusta.

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
they mean something else,

and that makes me so nervous.

I do mean something else.

I thought so.
In fact, I'm never wrong.

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

I would certainly advise you
to do so.

Mama has a way of coming back
suddenly into a room...

that I have often had
to speak to her about.

Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you,
I have admired you...

more than any girl I have every met
s-s-since I met you...

Yes, I am quite aware of the fact,

and I often wish that, in public at any
rate, you would be more demonstrative.

For me you have always had
an irresistible fascination.

Even before I met you,
I was far from indifferent to you.

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 is something in that name
which inspires absolute confidence.

The moment Algernon first mentioned
to me he had a friend called Ernest,

I knew I was destined to love you.

But you...

You really love me,
Gwendolen?

Passionately.

Darling, it...

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

My own Ernest!

But you don't mean to say you couldn't
love me if my name wasn't Ernest?

But your name is Ernest.

Yes, I know it is, but...
but supposing it wasn't?

Supposing it was something else?

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

Ah, this 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.

Well, personally, darling,
to speak candidly,

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

I really don't think
it suits me at all.

It suits you perfectly.
It's a divine name.

It has music of its own.

It... It produces vibrations.

Well, I must say, Gwendolen,

I think there are lots
of other much nicer names.

I think, um, Jack, for instance,
a charming name.

Jack? Oh, no.

There's very little music in the name
of Jack, if any at all, indeed.

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.

No, the only really safe name
is Ernest.

Gwendolen, I...
I must get christened at once.

I mean, we must
get married at once.

Married, Mr. Worthing?

Well, surely.

You know that I love you, and you have
led me to believe, Miss Fairfax,

that you are not
entirely indifferent to me.

I adore you, but you haven't
proposed to me yet.

Well,
May I propose to you now?

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 beforehand...

that I'm fully determined
to accept you.

Gwendolen.

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

Well, you know
what I've 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've been about it!

I'm afraid you've had
very little practice in how to propose.

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

Yes, but men often propose
for practice.

I know my brother does.
All my girlfriends tell me so.

What wonderfully blue eyes
you have, Ernest.

They're 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
semirecumbent posture.

It is most indecorous.

Mama, 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, Mama.

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
upon a young girl as a surprise,

pleasant or unpleasant
as the case may be.

'Tis 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.

- Mama.
- In the carriage, Gwendolen.

Gwendolen, the carriage.

Yes, Mama.

You can take a seat,
Mr. Worthing.

Thank you, Lady Bracknell.
I prefer standing.

I feel bound to tell you...

that you are not down on my list
of eligible young men,

though I have the same list
as the dear Duchess of Bolton has.

We work together, in fact.

But 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'm glad to hear it.

A man should have
an occupation of some kind.

I have always been of opinion
that a man who desires to get married...

should either know everything
or nothing.

Which do you know?

- 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.

What is your income?

Between 7,000 and 8,000 a year.

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
but 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 1,500 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.

You have a town house, I hope.

A girl with a simple, unspoiled
nature like Gwendolen...

can hardly be expected
to reside in the country.

Well, I own a house
in Belgrave Square,

but it is let by the year
to Lady Bloxham.

Lady Bloxham?

No, I don't know her.

Oh, she goes about very little.

She's a lady considerably
advanced in years.

Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee...

of respectability of character.

What are your politics?

Well, I am afraid
I really have none.

I am a liberal.

Oh, they count as Tories.

They dine with us
or come in the evening, at any rate.

Now to minor matters.

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?

Well, I'm afraid I really don't know.

The fact is, Lady Bracknell,
I said I had lost both my parents.

It would be nearer the truth
to say my parents seem to have lost me.

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

I was...

Well, I was found.

Found?

The late Mr. Thomas Cardew,

an old gentleman of most charitable
and kindly disposition,

found me and gave me
the name of Worthing...

because he happened to have
a first-class ticket for Worthing...

in his pocket at the time.

Worthing is a place in Sussex.
It is a seaside resort.

And where did
the charitable gentleman...

who had a first-class ticket
for this seaside resort...

find you?

In a handbag.

A handbag?

Yes, Lady Bracknell,
I was in a handbag.

A somewhat large
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 for his own.

The cloakroom
at Victoria Station?

Yes, the Brighton line.

The line is immaterial.

Mr. Worthing,

I confess I feel somewhat bewildered
by what you have just told me.

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

whether it had handles or not,

seems to me to display contempt for
the ordinary decencies of family life...

that reminds one of the worst
excesses of the French Revolution,

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

Well, may I ask, then,
what you 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,
Mr. Worthing,

to try and acquire some relations
as soon as possible,

and to make a definite effort
to produce...

at any rate one parent
of either sex...

before the season is quite over.

Well, I really don't see how I can
possibly do that, Lady Bracknell.

I can produce the handbag at any moment.
It's in my dressing room at home.

I really think that ought to 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, Lady Bracknell.

Algy, for heaven's sake,
stop playing that ghastly tune!

- Didn't it go off all right, old boy?
- Oh.

- Do you mean Gwendolen refused you?
- Oh, Gwendolen is as right as a trivet.

As far as she's concerned,
we're engaged.

Her mother is an absolute gorgon!

I don't really know what a gorgon is,
but I'm sure Lady Bracknell is one.

In any case, she's a monster without
being a myth, which is rather unfair.

Algy, you don't suppose
that Gwendolen...

will become like her mother
in about 150 years, do you?

All women become like their mothers.
That is their tragedy.

- No man does. That's his.
- Is that clever?

It's perfectly phrased
and quite as true...

as any observation
in civilized life should be.

By the way, did you tell
Gwendolen the truth...

about your being Ernest in town
and Jack in the country?

My dear fellow, the truth
is not quite the sort of thing...

one tells to a nice, sweet,
refined girl.

Besides, before the end of the week,
I shall have got rid of Ernest.

My poor brother Ernest
is going to be carried off...

quite suddenly in Paris
by a severe chill.

I thought you said that your ward
was a little too much interested...

in your poor brother Ernest.

Won't she feel his loss a good deal?

Oh, Cecily isn't a silly romantic girl,
I'm happy to say.

She's got a capital appetite,
goes for long walks...

and pays no attention at all
to her lessons.

I should rather like to see Cecily.

I shall take very good care
that you never do.

She is excessively pretty
and only just 18.

Have you told Gwendolen
you have an excessively pretty ward
who is only just 18?

Oh, one doesn't blurt
these things out to people.

Cecily and Gwendolen are
certain to be extremely good friends.

I'll bet you that half an hour after
they've met, they'll be calling
each other "sister."

Hmm. Women only do that...

when they've called each other
a lot of other things first.

- Miss Fairfax.

Algy, kindly turn your back.

I have something very particular
to say to Mr. Worthing.

Really, Gwendolen, I don't think
I can allow this at all.

- Ernest, we may never be married.
- Huh?

From the expression on Mama's face,
I fear we never shall.

But although she may prevent us
from becoming man and wife,

nothing she can possibly do
can alter my eternal devotion to you.

Your... Your Christian name has
an irresistible fascination.

The simplicity of your character...

makes you exquisitely
incomprehensible to me.

Your town address I have.
What is your address in the country?

The Manor House,
Woolton, Hertfordshire.

There is a good postal service,
I suppose.

It may be necessary
to do something desperate.

The Manor House, Woolton,

Hertfordshire.

My own one.

- Cecily.
- Yes, Miss Prism?

Oh, dear!

Cecily!

Come here at once, child.

We should have been at our labors
quite 20 minutes ago, Cecily.

Unfortunately, I was detained
by a slight mishap to my, uh, my...

Oh, well, never mind about that.

Your German grammar
is on the table.

- Oh.
- But I don't like German.

It isn't at all a becoming language.

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

Oh, child, you know how anxious
your guardian is...

that you should improve yourself
in every way.

He laid particular stress on your German
as he was leaving for town yesterday.

Indeed, he always lays stress on your
German when he's leaving for town.

We will repeat yesterday's lesson.
Genders.

Dear Uncle Jack.
He's so very serious.

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

Your guardian enjoys
the best of health,

and his gravity of demeanor...

His gravity of demeanor
is especially to be commended...

in one so comparatively
young as he is.

I know no one who has a higher sense
of duty and responsibility.

I suppose that is why he often looks a
little bored when we three are together.

Cecily, I'm surprised at you!

Mr. Worthing has
many troubles in his life.

Idle merriment and triviality would be
out of place in his conversation.

You must remember his constant anxiety
about that unfortunate young man,

his brother Ernest.

Oh, I... I wish Uncle Jack
would allow...

that unfortunate young man,
his brother Ernest,

- to come down here sometimes.
- Oh, really!

Diminutives are always neuter.

That is, they belong to neither sex,

even when appearances
are to the contrary.

As for example,
das Fr�ulein, the young lady,

das M�dchen, the young girl.

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 should
probably forget all about them.

Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary
that we all carry about with us.

Yes, but it usually chronicles
the things that have never happened...

and couldn't possibly have happened.

I believe that memory is responsible...

for nearly all the three-volume novels
that the library sends us.

Oh, do not speak slightingly
of the three-volume novel.

I wrote one myself in earlier days.

Did you really, Miss Prism?

Oh, how wonderfully clever you are!

I hope it did not end happily.
I don't like novels that end happily.

The good ended happily
and the bad, unhappily.

That is what fiction means.

I suppose so.
And was it ever published?

Alas, no. The manuscript
unfortunately was abandoned.

- Oh!
- Oh, I use the word...

in the sense of lost or mislaid.

Now to your work, child.

These speculations are profitless.

But I see dear Dr. Chasuble
coming up through the garden.

Oh, really?

Ah! And... And how are we
this morning?

Miss Prism, you are, I trust, well?

Dr. Chasuble,
this is indeed a pleasure.

Miss Prism has just been complaining
of a slight headache.

- Oh!
- I think it would do her so much good...

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

Cecily, I have not mentioned
anything about a headache.

No, I know that, dear Miss Prism,

but I felt instinctively
that you had a headache.

Indeed, I was thinking about that,

and not about my German lesson,
when the rector arrived.

I hope, Cecily,
you are not inattentive.

- Oh, I'm afraid I am.
- That is strange.

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

I would hang upon her lips.

- Oh!
- I spoke metaphorically.

My metaphor was drawn from bees.

Mr. Worthing, I suppose,
has not returned from town yet.

We do not expect him
till Monday afternoon.

Ah, yes, he usually likes
to spend his Sunday in London.

He is not one of those
whose sole aim is enjoyment,

as, by all accounts, that unfortunate
young man, his brother, seems to be.

I must not disturb
Egeria and her pupil any longer.

Egeria? My name is Laetitia,
Doctor.

Ah! Laetitia, the Latin for "joy."

Yes...

I shall, uh, I shall see you both,
no doubt, at evensong.

I think, dear Doctor, I will have
a stroll with you.

I find I have a headache after all,
and a stroll might do it good.

Oh, Cecily, you will read your
political economy in my absence.

The chapter on the fall of the rupee
you may omit.

It is somewhat too sensational.

Even these metallic problems
have their melodramatic side.

Horrid political economy,
horrid geology,

horrid, horrid German!

You are too much alone,
dear Dr. Chasuble.

- You should get married.
- Oh, no!

You do not seem to realize,
dear Doctor,

that by persistently remaining single,
a man converts himself...

into a permanent public temptation.

Oh!

A man should be more careful...

or he may lead
weaker vessels astray.

But is a man not equally attractive
when married?

Oh, no married man is ever attractive,
except to his wife.

And often, I've been told,
not even to her.

Oh, doesn't that depend upon the
intellectual sympathies of the woman?

Maturity can always be depended on.

Ripeness can be trusted.

- Young women are green.
- Oh!

I spoke horticulturally.
My metaphor was drawn from fruits.

Fruits, yes.

Mr. Ernest Worthing has just
driven over from the station, miss.

He's brought his luggage with him.

"Mr. Ernest Worthing,
B4, The Albany."

Uncle Jack�s brother?

Did you tell him
Mr. Worthing was in London?

Yes, miss. He seemed
very much disappointed.

He said he would like to speak to you
privately for a moment.

I've left him in the morning room.

Thank you, Merriman.

I've never met
a really wicked person before.

I feel rather frightened.

I'm so afraid he'll look
just like everyone else.

He does.

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

You are under some
strange misapprehension.

I am not little. In fact, I believe that
I am more than usually tall for my age.

But I am your cousin Cecily.

You, I see from your card,
are Uncle Jack�s brother,

my cousin Ernest.

My wicked cousin Ernest.

Oh, I am not really wicked at all,
Cousin Cecily.

You mustn't think I'm wicked.

If you are not, then you have
certainly been deceiving us all...

in a very inexcusable manner.

I hope you have not been leading
a double life,

pretending to be wicked
and being really good all the time.

That would be hypocrisy.

Of course, I...
I have been rather reckless.

I'm glad to hear it.

In fact, now you mention
the subject,

I really have been very bad
in my own small way.

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

though I'm sure
it must have been very pleasant.

It's much pleasanter
being here with you.

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

Uncle Jack won't be back
till Monday afternoon.

That is a great disappointment.

I'm obliged to go up
by the first train Monday morning.

I have a business appointment
that I am anxious...

to miss.

Couldn't you miss it
anywhere but in London?

No, the appointment is in London.

Well, I know, of course,
how important it is...

not to keep
a business engagement.

Still, I think you had better wait
until Uncle Jack arrives.

I know he wants to speak to you
about your emigrating.

My what?

About your emigrating.
He's gone up to buy your outfit.

I certainly wouldn't allow Jack
to buy my outfit.

He has got absolutely no taste
at all in neckties.

I don't think
that you will require a necktie.

Uncle Jack is sending you
to Australia.

Australia?
I'd sooner die.

He said at dinner on Wednesday
night that you would have to choose...

between this world,
the next world,

and Australia.

Oh. Well, the reports I have
of Australia and the next world...

are not particularly encouraging.

This world is good enough
for me, Cousin Cecily.

Yes. But are you
good enough for it?

Well, no, I am not that.

That is why I would like you
to reform me.

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

I am afraid I have
no time this afternoon.

Well, would you mind
if I reform myself this afternoon?

It is rather romantic of you,
but I think you should try.

I will.

- I feel better already.
- You are looking a little worse.

- That's because I'm hungry.
- Oh, how thoughtless of me!

I should have remembered that when one
is going to lead an entirely new life,

one requires regular
and wholesome meals.

Might I have a buttonhole first?

L-I never have any appetite
unless I have a buttonhole.

A Marechale Niel?

- No, I would sooner have a pink rose.
- Why?

Because you are like a pink rose,
Cousin Cecily.

I don't think it can be right
for you to say such things to me.

Miss Prism never talks like that.

Then Miss Prism is
a shortsighted old lady.

You are the prettiest girl
I ever saw.

Miss Prism says
that all good looks are a snare.

Then they are a snare that any sensible
man would like to be caught in.

Oh?

I don't think I should care
to catch a sensible man.

I wouldn't know
what to talk to him about.

Mr. Worthing.

- Mr. Worthing.
- Dear Mr. Worthing,

I trust this garb of woe does not
betoken some terrible calamity.

- My brother.
- More shameful debts and extravagance?

- Dead.
- Your brother Ernest dead?

Quite dead.

What a lesson for him.
I trust he will profit by it.

Oh, Mr. Worthing, I...
I offer my sincere condolence.

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

Oh, very sad indeed.
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.

- Was the cause of death mentioned?
- A severe chill, it seems.

As a man sows,
so let him reap.

Charity, dear Miss Prism, charity.
None of us are perfect.

I myself am peculiarly
susceptible to drafts.

Will the interment
take place here?

No, he seems to have expressed
a desire to be buried in Paris.

Paris!

I fear that hardly points to any
very serious state of mind at the last.

Oh, Uncle Jack!

I'm so glad to see you back,

but what horrid clothes
you have got on.

- Cecily!
- My child, my child.

Do look happy.
I have got such a surprise for you.

Who do you think
is in the dining room?

- Your brother!
- Who?

Your brother Ernest.
He arrived about half an hour ago.

Well, what nonsense.
I haven't got a brother.

Oh, don't say that.

However badly he may have behaved
to you in the past,

he is still your brother.

You couldn't be so heartless
as to disown him.

And you will shake hands
with him, won't you, Uncle Jack?

These are very joyful tidings, hmm?

After we had all been resigned
to his loss,

his sudden return seems to me
peculiarly distressing.

- Good heavens!
- Brother John.

I have come all the way from London
to tell you how very sorry I am...

for all the trouble
that I have caused you,

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

Uncle Jack, you are not going
to refuse your own brother's hand.

Nothing would induce me
to take his hand.

I consider his coming here disgraceful.
He... He knows perfectly well why.

Uncle Jack, do be nice.
There is some good in everyone.

Ernest has just been telling me...

about his poor invalid friend,
Mr. Bunbury.

Oh, he's been telling you
about Bunbury, has he?

I won't have him talking to you
about Bunbury or about anything else.

Of course, I admit that all the faults
are on my side,

but I must say I think brother John�s
coldness to me on my first visit here...

peculiarly painful.

Uncle Jack, if you won't
shake hands with Ernest,

I will never forgive you.

- Never forgive me?
- Never.

Never, never.

Well, this is the last time
I shall do it.

- We might leave the brothers together.
- Cecily, you will come with us.

Certainly, Miss Prism.

My little task
of reconciliation is over.

Algy, you young scoundrel,
you must leave this place at once.

L-I won't have any Bunburying here.

Merriman,
order the dogcart at once.

Merriman,
order the dogcart at once.

Mr. Ernest has been called back
suddenly to town.

Yes, sir.

What a fearful liar you are, Jack.

- I haven't been called back to town.
- Oh, yes, you have.

I haven't heard anyone call me.

Your duty as a gentleman
calls you back.

I have never allowed my duty
as a gentleman...

to interfere with my pleasures
to the smallest degree.

I can quite understand that.

Well, Cecily is a darling.

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

Well, I don't like your clothes.
You look perfectly grotesque in them.

Why on earth
don't you go up and change?

It's perfectly childish
to be in deep mourning...

for a man who is staying for a whole
week in your own house as a guest.

You are not staying with me for a whole
week as a guest or anything else!

You are going to leave this afternoon
by the four-five train.

I certainly shall not leave
as long as you are in mourning.

It would be most unfriendly.

If I were in mourning,
you'd stay with me, I suppose.

I should think it very unkind
if you did not.

Well, will you go
if I change my clothes?

- Yes, if you don't take too long.

I never saw a man take so long
to dress with such little result.

Well, at any rate, that is better than
being always overdressed, as you are.

This Bunburying,
as you call it,

has not been a great success for you.

It think it's been a great success.

You rang, sir?

Merriman, am I correctly garbed
for a christening?

No, sir. Black is for funerals
and weddings, sir.

White is for christenings.
I'll lay out your tennis clothes, sir.

Thank you, Merriman.

Oh! I thought you were
with Uncle Jack.

He has gone to order
the dogcart 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'm afraid so.

'Tis very painful parting.

It is always painful to part
from people...

whom one has known
for only 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 dogcart 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 openly and frankly
that you seem to me to be...

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 see it.

- May I?
- Oh, no.

You see, it is simply
a very young girl's record...

of her own thoughts
and impressions,

and consequently meant
for publication.

Oh, 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 may go on.
I'm quite ready for more.

- Oh, don't cough, Ernest.

I don't know how to spell a cough.

Cecily, ever since I first saw...

your wonderful
and incomparable perfection,

I have dared to love you wildly,
passionately, devotedly,

hopelessly.

I don't think you should tell me
that you love me...

wildly, passionately,
devotedly, hopelessly.

"Hopelessly" doesn't seem
to make much sense, does it?

- Cecily!

The dogcart is waiting, sir.

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

Very good, sir.

I think Uncle Jack would be
very much annoyed...

if he knew you were staying
until next week at the same hour.

I don't care about Jack.

I don't care for anybody
in the world but you.

I love you, Cecily.
Will you marry me?

Of course. Why, we've been engaged
for the last three months.

The last three months?

Yes, it will be exactly
three months on Thursday.

But how did we become engaged?

Well, ever since dear Uncle Jack
first confessed to us...

that he had a younger brother
who was very wicked and bad,

you, of course, have formed
the chief topic of conversation...

between myself and Miss Prism,

and, of course, a man who is much
talked about is always very attractive.

One always feels there must be
something in him after all.

I daresay it was foolish of me,

but I fell in love with you, Ernest.

Darling! And when was
our engagement actually settled?

On the 22nd of February last.

Worn out by your entire ignorance
of my existence,

I determined to end the matter
one way or the other,

and, after a long struggle
with myself,

I accepted you...

under that dear old chandelier there.

And then, next day,
I bought this ring in your name.

And this is the bangle
with the true lovers' knot...

that I promised you
always to wear.

Did I give you this?
It's very pretty, isn't it?

Yes. Yes, you've wonderfully
good taste, Ernest.

It's always been my excuse
for your leading such a bad life.

And then...

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

My letters? But, my own sweet Cecily,
I never wrote you any letters.

You need hardly
remind me of that, Ernest.

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

I wrote three times a week.
Sometimes oftener.

- Oh, do let me read them.
- Oh, no, you couldn't possibly!

They would make you
far too conceited.

The three you wrote to me...

after our engagement
had been broken off...

are so beautiful...

and so badly spelled...

that even now I can hardly read them
without crying a little.

- But was our engagement broken off?
- Of course it was.

On the 22nd of last March.
You can see the entry, if you like.

"Today I broke off my engagement with
Ernest. I feel it is better to do so.

The weather still continues
charming."

But why on earth did you break it off?
What had I done?

I had done nothing at all.

Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed
that you broke it off,

particularly when the weather
was so charming.

But it would hardly have been
a really serious engagement...

if it hadn't been broken off
at least once.

But I forgave you
before the week was out.

What a perfect angel you are!

You won't ever break off
our engagement again, will you?

I don't think I could,
now that I've actually met you.

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

Of course.

You mustn't laugh at me, darling,

but it had always been
a girlish dream of mine...

to love someone
by the name of Ernest.

There is something in that name that
seems to inspire absolute confidence.

Indeed, I pity any poor married woman
whose husband is not called Ernest.

But, my dear child,
do you mean to say...

that you couldn't love me
if I had some other name?

- But what name?
- Well, any name you like. Um...

Algernon, for instance.

But I don't like
the name of Algernon.

I... I really don't see why you should
object to the name of Algernon.

It... It's not a bad name at all.

In fact, it's rather
an aristocratic name.

Half the chaps who get into the
bankruptcy court are called Algernon.

But seriously, Cecily, if my name
was Algy, couldn't you love me?

I might respect you, Ernest.
I might admire your character.

But I fear that I should not be able
to give you my undivided attention.

Cecily, your vicar here is, I suppose,
thoroughly experienced...

in the practice of all the rites
and ceremonials of the church?

Oh, yes. Dr. Chasuble
is a most learned man.

I must see him at once on a most
important christen...
I mean, on most important business.

- I won't be more than half an hour.
- Ernest!

Considering that we have been engaged
since February the 22nd,

and that I only met you today
for the first time,

I think it is rather hard
that you should leave me...

for so long a period
as half an hour.

Couldn't you make it 20 minutes?

I'll be back in no time.

- Mr. Worthing.
- Good afternoon, Dr. Chasuble.

You will, I trust, excuse...

a postprandial relapse
into the arms of Morpheus.

In other words, 40 winks.

Dr. Chasuble, I suppose you know
how to christen all right?

I mean, of course, you are
continually christening, aren't you?

It is, I regret to say, one of
my most constant duties in this parish.

I've often spoken to the poorer
classes on the subject,

but they don't seem
to know what thrift is.

Is there any particular infant in whom
you're interested, Mr. Worthing?

- Yes.
- Of course... your brother.

- I beg your pardon?
- Your brother, I know,
is unmarried, but, uh...

Dr. Chasuble,
it is not for any child.

The fact is, I was thinking of getting
christened myself this afternoon,

if you've nothing better to do.

But surely, Mr. Worthing,
you've been christened already?

- I don't remember anything about it.
- Have you any grave doubts
on the subject?

Well, I certainly intend to have.

Unless, of course, you think
I'm a little too old now, hmm?

Oh, not at all.

Sprinkling and, indeed,
even the immersion of adults...

is a perfectly canonical practice.

- Immersion?
- You need have no apprehensions.

- Sprinkling is all that is necessary...
- Ah.

Or, indeed, I think, advisable.

Our weather... so changeable.

At what hour would you like
the ceremony performed?

I thought I would trot around
about 5:00, if that would suit you.

Oh, perfectly, perfectly.

In fact, I have two similar ceremonies
to perform at that time.

A case of twins
that occurred recently...

in one of the... the outlying cottages
of your own estate.

Poor Jenkins, the carter.
A most hardworking man.

Well, I don't see much fun
in being christened
along with a lot of other babies.

It would be childish.
Would half past 5:00 do?

- Oh, admirably, admirably.
- Till half past 5:00, then.

Half past 5:00 at the font.

- Come in.

Dr. Chasuble?

"What a perfect angel
you are, Cecily."

But that is where he knelt.

Yes, I am sure
that is where he knelt.

A Miss Fairfax has called
to see Mr. Worthing, miss.

On very important business,
Miss Fairfax states.

Isn't Mr. Worthing in the library?

Mr. Worthing went over in the direction
of the rectory some time ago, miss.

Pray ask the lady to come out here.
Mr. Worthing is sure to be back soon.

- And, Merriman, you may bring tea.
- Yes, miss.

Oh, dear.

One of the many good elderly women
associated with Uncle Jack...

in some of his philanthropic work
in London, I suppose.

Miss Fairfax.

Oh!

Miss Fairfax?

Pray let me introduce myself to you.

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

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

I like you already
more than I can say.

My first impressions of people
are never wrong.

How nice of you
to like me so much...

after we have known one another
for such a comparatively short time.

Shall we sit over there?

- I may call you Cecily, may I not?
- With pleasure.

And you will always call me
Gwendolen, won't you?

If you wish.

Then that's all quite settled,
is it not?

I hope so.

Cecily,

Mama, whose views on education
are remarkably strict,

has brought me up to be extremely
shortsighted. It's part of her system.

So... do you mind my looking at you
through my glasses?

Oh, not at all, Gwendolen.
I'm very fond of being looked at.

You are 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.

I am Mr. Worthing's ward.

Oh.

It is strange he never mentioned to me
that he had a ward.

How secretive of him.
He grows more interesting hourly.

I am not sure, however,

that the news inspires me
with feelings of unmixed delight.

In fact, if I may speak
quite candidly...

Pray do.

I think that whenever one has
anything unpleasant to say,

one should always be quite candid.

Well, to speak
with perfect candor, Cecily,

I wish that you were fully 42...

and more than usually plain
for your age.

Ernest has a strong, upright nature.

I beg your pardon, Gwendolen.
Did you say Ernest?

Yes.

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

It is his brother,
his elder brother.

Ernest never mentioned to me
that he had a brother.

I'm sorry to say that they have not been
on good terms for a long time.

Ah, that accounts for it.

Of course, you are quite...
quite sure that...

it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing
who is your guardian?

Quite sure.

In fact, I am going to be his...

I beg your pardon?

Dearest Gwendolen,
there is no reason...

why I should make
a secret of it to you.

Our little county newspaper
is sure to chronicle the fact next week.

Mr. Ernest Worthing
and I are engaged to be married.

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 at the latest.

I am afraid you must be
under some misconception.

Ernest proposed to me
exactly ten minutes ago.

It is certainly 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 am so sorry, dearest Cecily,

if it is any disappointment to you.

But I'm afraid
I have the prior claim.

It would distress me
more than I can say, dearest Gwendolen,

if it caused you
any mental or physical anguish,

but I feel bound to point out
that since Ernest proposed to you,

he has clearly changed his mind.

If the poor fellow has been entrapped
into any foolish promise,

I shall consider it my duty
to rescue him at once...

and with a firm hand.

Whatever unfortunate entanglement
my dear boy may have got himself into,

I will never reproach him with it
after we are married.

Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew,
as an entanglement?

You are presumptuous.

On an occasion of this kind,
it becomes more than a moral duty
to speak one's mind.

It becomes a pleasure.

Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax,

that I entrapped Ernest
into an engagement?

How dare you!

This is no time for wearing
the shallow mask of manners.

When I see a spade,
I call it a spade.

I am glad to say
I have never seen a spade.

It is obvious that our social spheres
have been widely different.

Shall I lay tea here as usual, miss?

Yes, as usual.

Are there many interesting walks
in the vicinity, Miss Cardew?

Oh, yes, a great many.

From the top of one of the hills,
quite close, one can see five counties.

Five counties?

Oh, I don't think I should like that.
I hate crowds.

I suppose that is why
you live in a town.

I had no idea
there were any flowers in the country.

Oh, flowers are as common here,
Miss Fairfax,

as people are in London.

May I offer you some tea?

Thank you.

Sugar?

No, thank you.
Sugar is not fashionable anymore.

Cake... or bread and butter?

Bread and butter, please.
Thank you.

Cake is rarely seen
in the best houses nowadays.

Hand that... to Miss Fairfax.

You have filled my tea
with lumps of sugar.

And though I most distinctly
asked for bread and butter,

you have given me cake.

I am known for the gentleness
of my disposition...

and extraordinary sweetness
of my nature.

But I warn you, Miss Cardew,
you may go too far.

To save my poor, innocent,
trusting boy...

from the machinations
of any other girl,

there are no lengths
to which I would not go.

From the moment I saw you,
I distrusted you.

I felt that you were
false and deceitful.

I'm never deceived in such matters.

My first impressions of people
are invariably right.

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 neighborhood.

Gwendolen!

My own Ernest.

- Gwendolen, darling.
- A moment.

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

What, to dear little Cecily?
Good heavens, no.

What could have put such an idea
into your pretty little head?

Thank you. You may.

I knew there must be
some misunderstanding, Miss Fairfax.

The gentleman whose arm
is at present around your waist...

is my dear guardian,
Mr. John Worthing.

- I beg your pardon?
- This is Uncle Jack.

- Jack? Oh.
- Cecily?

- Here is Ernest.
- My own love.

A moment.

Are you by any chance engaged
to be married to this young lady?

To what young lady?
Good heavens! Gwendolen.

Yes, to good heavens Gwendolen.
I mean, Gwendolen.

Of course not.
What could have put such an idea
into your pretty little head?

Thank you. You may.

I felt there must be
some slight error, Miss Cardew.

The gentleman
who is now embracing you...

is my cousin,
Mr. Algernon Moncrieff.

Algernon Moncrieff?

Are you called Algernon?

- I cannot deny it.
- Oh!

Is your name really John?

Well, I could deny it if I liked.
I could deny anything if I liked.

But my name certainly is John.

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?

There is just one question I would like
to be allowed to ask my guardian.

An admirable idea. Mr. Worthing,
there is just one question...

I would like to be permitted
to put to you.

Where is your brother Ernest?

We are both engaged to be married
to your brother Ernest,

so it is a matter of some importance
to us to know...

where your brother Ernest is
at present.

Gwendolen and Cecily,

I will tell you quite frankly...
that I have no brother Ernest.

- I have no brother at all.
- No brother at all?

None.

Have you never had
a brother of any kind?

Never, not even of any kind.

I am afraid it is quite clear, Cecily,

that neither of us is engaged
to be married to anyone.

It is not a very pleasant position...

for a young girl suddenly
to find herself in, is it?

Let us go into the house.

They will hardly venture
to come after us there.

No. Men are such cowards,
aren't they?

This ghastly state of affairs is what
you would call Bunburying, I suppose?

Yes, the most wonderful Bunbury
I ever had in my life.

Well, the only small satisfaction
I get out of the whole
of this wretched business...

is that your friend Bunbury,
dear Algy, is quite exploded,

and a very good thing too.

Your brother is a little off-color,
isn't he, dear Jack?

And not a bad thing either.

As for your deceiving a sweet, simple,
innocent girl like Miss Cardew,
I can only say that it...

It's inexcusable.

To say nothing of the fact
that she is my ward.

I can see no possible defense at all
for your deceiving a clever, experienced
young lady like Miss Fairfax.

To say nothing of the fact
that she is my cousin.

I simply wanted to be engaged
to Gwendolen, that is all. I love her.

Well, I simply wanted to be engaged
to Cecily. I adore her.

There is certainly no chance
of your marrying Miss Cardew.

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

Guard!

Will you be good enough
to inform me...

how soon this railway train
arrives at Woolton?

Now, let me see.

There's Gothrington...
no, we've passed her.

Then there's Goostrey Halt, Sopley,

Cobbler's Corner, Combe Brissett,

High Totten, Low Totten,
Little...

How you can sit there
calmly eating muffins...

when we're in this terrible trouble,
I can't imagine.

You seem to be perfectly heartless.

I can't eat muffins
in an agitated manner.

The butter would probably
get on my cuffs.

One should always eat muffins quite
calmly. It's the only way to eat them.

I say it's perfectly heartless
to be eating them at all.

When I'm in trouble, eating
is the only thing that consoles me.

They are eating muffins!

Algy, I wish to goodness you would go.

But I've just made arrangements
with Dr. Chasuble...

to be christened at 6:00
under the name of Ernest.

My dear fellow, I've made arrangements
with Dr. Chasuble myself...

to be christened at 5:30, and I
naturally will take the name of Ernest.

I have a perfect right
to be christened if I like.

There's no evidence that
I was ever christened by anyone.

It's entirely different with you.
You've been christened already.

- Yes, but I haven't been
christened for years.
- Yes, but you have been christened.

- That is the important thing.
- Quite so. So I know
my constitution can stand it.

It might make you very unwell.

You can hardly have forgotten someone
very closely connected with you...

was nearly carried off in Paris
this week by a severe chill.

You talk as if a severe chill
were hereditary.

Well, it usen't to be, I know,
but it may be now.

Science is always making
wonderful improvements in things.

- They are looking this way.
- What effrontery!

- They are approaching!
- That is very forward of them.

Let us preserve a dignified silence.

Certainly.
It is the only thing to do now.

Mr. Worthing, I have something
very particular to ask you.

Much depends on your reply.

Your common sense
is invaluable, Gwendolen.

Mr. Moncrieff, kindly answer me
the following question.

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

In order that I might
have an opportunity of meeting you.

That certainly seems
a satisfactory explanation, does it not?

Yes, dear, if you can believe him.

Mr. Worthing, what 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 me
to have the stamp of truth on them.

Especially Mr. Worthing's.

I am more than content
with what Mr. Moncrieff has said.

His voice alone inspires one
with absolute credulity.

- Then you think we should forgive them?
- Yes.

I mean, no.

True, I had forgotten.

There are principles at stake
that one cannot surrender.

Which of us should tell them?
The task is not a pleasant one.

- Could we not both speak
at the same time?
- An excellent idea.

I nearly always speak
at the same time as other people.

Will you take the time from me?

Your Christian names are still
an insuperable barrier. That is all.

Our Christian names? Is that all?

But we're going to be
christened this afternoon.

For my sake you are prepared
to do this terrible thing?

I am.

To please me you are ready
to face this fearful ordeal?

I am.

How absurd to talk of
the equality of the sexes.

Where questions of self-sacrifice
are concerned,

men are infinitely beyond us.

We are.

Darling!

Gwendolen!
What does this mean?

Merely that I am engaged
to Mr. Worthing, Mama.

Come here. Sit down.

Sit down, immediately!

Mr. Worthing,
you will clearly understand...

that all communication between
yourself and my daughter...

must cease immediately
from this moment.

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

I am engaged to be married
to Gwendolen, Lady Bracknell.

You are nothing of the kind, sir.

And now, as regards Algernon.

- Algernon!
- Yes, Aunt Augusta?

May I ask if it is in this house...

that your invalid friend,
Mr. Bunbury, resides?

Oh, no. Bunbury doesn't live here.
Bunbury is somewhere else at present.

In fact, Bunbury is dead.

Dead? When did Mr. Bunbury die?

Oh, I killed Bunbury this afternoon.
I mean, Bunbury died this afternoon.

What did he die of?

Bunbury?
Oh, he was quite exploded.

Exploded?

Was he a victim
of a revolutionary outrage?

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.
- Hmm.

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 holding...

in what appears to me to be
a peculiarly unnecessary manner?

That lady
is Miss Cecily Cardew, my ward.

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

I beg your pardon?

Mr. Moncrieff and I are engaged
to be married, Lady Bracknell.

Indeed? I think some preliminary inquiry
on my part would not be out of place.

Mr. Worthing,
is Miss Cardew at all connected...

with any of the larger
railway stations in London?

I merely require information.

Until yesterday, I had no idea...

there were any families or persons
whose origin was a terminus.

Miss Cardew is the granddaughter
of the late Mr. Thomas Cardew...

of 149 Belgrave Square,
Southwest, Gervase Park,

Dorking, Surrey
and the Sperran Fifeshire.

That sounds not unsatisfactory.

Three addresses always inspire
confidence, even in tradesmen.

But what proof have I
of their authenticity?

I have carefully preserved
the Court Guides of the period.

They are open for your inspection,
Lady Bracknell.

I have known strange errors
in that publication.

Miss Cardew's family's solicitors
are Messrs. Markby, Markby and Markby.

Oh, Markby, Markby and Markby.

A firm of the very highest position
in their profession.

I have also in my possession,
you will be pleased to hear,

certificates of Miss Cardew's
birth, baptism, whooping cough,

registration, vaccination,

confirmation and the measles...
the German and the English variety.

A life crowded with incident, I see.

But somewhat too exciting
for a young girl.

- Gwendolen, the time approaches
for our departure.

We have not a moment to lose.

As a matter of form, Mr. Worthing,

I had better ask if Miss Cardew
has any little fortune.

Oh, only about 130,000 pounds
in the Funds. That is all.

Good-bye, Lady Bracknell.
So pleased to have seen you.

One moment, Mr. Worthing.

130,000 pounds, and in the Funds.

Miss Cardew seems a most attractive
young lady now that I look at her.

Few girls of the present day
have any really solid qualities...

qualities that last
and improve with time.

We live, I regret to say,
in an age of surfaces.

Come over here, dear.

Pretty child.

Your dress is sadly simple...

and your hair seems almost
as nature might have left it.

But we can soon alter that.

A thoroughly experienced
French maid...

produces a really remarkable result
in a very brief space of time.

There are distinct social possibilities
in your profile.

Cecily is the dearest, sweetest,
prettiest girl in the world.

And I don't care two pins
for social possibilities.

Never speak disrespectfully
of society, Algernon.

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

I suppose you know
that Algernon...

has nothing but his debts
to depend upon?

But I do not approve
of mercenary marriages.

When I married Lord Bracknell,
I had no fortune of any kind,

but I never dreamed
of allowing that to stand in my way.

Well, I suppose
I must give my consent.

- Thank you, Aunt Augusta.
- Cecily, you may kiss me.

Thank you, Lady Bracknell.

And you may address me
as Aunt Augusta for the future.

Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

The marriage, I think,
had better take place quite soon.

Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

To speak frankly,
I am not in favor of long engagements.

They give people an opportunity...

of finding out each other's characters
before marriage,

which I think is never advisable.

I beg your pardon
for interrupting you, Lady Bracknell,

but this engagement
is quite out of the question.

I am Miss Cardew's guardian,

and she cannot marry without my consent
until she comes of age.

That consent
I absolutely decline to give.

Upon what grounds, may I ask?

Algernon is an extremely...

one might almost say ostentatiously...
eligible young man.

He has nothing and looks everything.
What more could one desire?

It pains me very much
to have to speak frankly to you,
Lady Bracknell, about your nephew,

but the fact is that I do not
approve at all of his moral character.

- I suspect him of being untruthful.
- Untruthful?

My nephew Algernon, untruthful?

Impossible.
He was at Oxford.

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

This afternoon, during
my temporary absence in London...

on an important question
of... romance,

he obtained admission to my house...

by means of the false pretense
of being my brother.

Under an assumed name, he drank,
I have just been informed by my butler,

an entire pint bottle
of Perrier-Jouet, Brut '89,

a wine that I was specially
reserving for myself.

Continuing his disgraceful deception,

he succeeded, during the course
of the afternoon,

in alienating the affections
of my only ward.

He subsequently stayed to tea
and devoured every single muffin,

and what makes his conduct
all the more heartless
is that he was perfectly well aware...

from the first that I have no brother,
that I never had a brother...

and I don't intend to
have a brother... not even of any kind.

Mm-hmm!

Mr. Worthing,
after careful consideration,

I have decided entirely to overlook
my nephew's conduct towards you.

That is very generous of you,
Lady Bracknell.

My own decision, however,
is unalterable.

I decline to give my consent.

Come here, sweet child.

How old are you?

Well, I'm really only 18,

but I always admit to 20
when I go to evening parties.

You are perfectly right
to make some slight alteration.

A woman should never be
really accurate about her age.

It looks so calculating.

Eighteen, admitting to twenty
at evening parties.

Well, you will soon be of age and free
from the restraints of tutelage.

So I do not think your guardian's
consent is a matter of any importance.

Pray excuse me for interrupting you
once again, Lady Bracknell,
but I think it is only fair...

to point out that under the terms
of her grandfather's will,

Miss Cardew does not
legally come of age...

until she is 35.

That doesn't seem to me
to be a very grave objection.

Thirty-five is a very attractive age.

London society is full of women
of the highest birth...

who, of their own free choice,
have remained 35 for years.

Lady Dumbleton
is an instance in point.

To my own knowledge she's been 35
ever since she arrived at the age of 40,

which is many years ago now.

I see no reason why our dear Cecily
should not be even 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 35?

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

Yes, I felt that... instinctively.

But I couldn't wait all that time.

- But Cecily!
- My dear Mr. Worthing,

as Miss Cardew states 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 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.

That is not the destiny
I propose for Gwendolen.

Algernon, of course,
can choose for himself.

Come, dear. We've already missed
five, if not six, trains.

To miss any more might expose us
to comment on the platform.

Uh, everything is quite ready
for the christenings.

The christenings, sir?

Is not this somewhat premature?

Both these gentlemen have expressed
their 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.

Am I to understand
there are to be...

no christenings at all
this afternoon?

I don't think that
with things as they are, Dr. Chasuble,

they would be of much practical value
to either of us.

As your present mood seems to be
one peculiarly secular,

I will return to the church at once.

Indeed, I've just been informed
Miss Prism has been waiting for me.

Miss Prism?

Did I hear you mention a Miss Prism?

Yes, indeed.
I am on my way to join her.

Kindly allow me to detain you
for one moment.

Is this Miss Prism
a female of repellent aspect...

remotely connected with education?

She is the most cultivated of ladies
and the very picture of respectability.

It is obviously the same person.

May I ask what is her position
in your household?

Miss Prism, Lady Bracknell,
has for the last three years been...

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.
- Oh, 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.

Prism?

Come here, Prism.

Prism, where is that baby?

Twenty-eight years ago, Prism,
you left Lord Bracknell's house...

in charge of a perambulator
containing an infant of the male sex.

You never returned.

Some few weeks later, 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.

- Ohh.
- But the baby was not there.

Prism, where is that baby?

Where is that baby, Prism?

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 forever 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 handbag...

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 bassinet...

and placed the baby
in the handbag.

- But where did you deposit the handbag?
- 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 handbag that contained that infant!

I left it in the cloakroom of one of
the larger railway stations in London.

What railway station?

Victoria.

The Brighton line?

The Brighton line.

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

This suspense is terrible.

- Miss Prism, is this the handbag?
- Let me look.

Examine it carefully
before you speak.

The happiness of more than one life
depends on your answer.

Thank you.

It seems to be mine.

Oh, 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.

Miss Prism,

more is restored to you
than the handbag.

I am the baby
that was placed in it.

- You?
- Yes... Mother!

Mr. Worthing, I am unmarried!

Unmarried?

L-I do not deny that
that is a serious blow,

but 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.

Mr. Worthing, there is some error!

There is the lady who can tell you
who you really are. Oh, dear.

Lady Bracknell,
I hate to seem inquisitive,

but could you kindly inform me
who I really am?

You are the son of my poor sister,
Mrs. Moncrieff,

and, consequently,
Algernon's elder brother.

Algy's elder brother?
Then I have a brother after all.

I knew I had a brother.
I always said I had a brother.

Cecily, how could you ever have
doubted that I had a brother?

Dr. Chasuble, my unfortunate brother.
Miss Prism, my unfortunate brother.

Gwendolen, my unfortunate brother.

Algy, you young scoundrel,
you will have to behave
with more respect to me in the future.

You've never behaved to me
like a brother in all your life.

Not till today, I admit.
I tried my best, however,
though I was out of practice.

My own!
But what "own" are you?

What is your Christian name
now that you've become someone else?

Your decision on the subject
of my Christian name
is irrevocable, I suppose.

I never change,
except in my affections.

What a noble nature
you have, Gwendolen.

Then the question must be
cleared up once and for all.

Aunt Augusta, at the time when
Miss Prism left me in the handbag,

had I been christened already?

Every luxury that money could buy,
including christening,

had been lavished on you
by your fond and doting parents.

Then I was christened.
That is settled.

Now, what was my Christian name?
Let me know the worst.

Being the eldest son, you were
naturally called after your father.

Yes, but what was
my father's Christian name?

I cannot at the moment recall
what the general's Christian name was.

I've no doubt he had one.

He was eccentric, I admit,
but only in later years.

Algy, can't you recollect
what our father's Christian name was?

My dear boy, we were never
even on speaking terms.

He died before I was a year old.

His name would be in the army lists
of the period, I suppose, Aunt Augusta?

The general was essentially a man
of peace, except in his domestic life,

but I've no doubt his name
would appear in any military directory.

The army lists
of the last 40 years are here.

These delightful records
should have been my constant study.

M, generals.

"Magley," "Maxby,"
"Maxbohm"...what ghastly names!

"Markly," "Migsby," "Mobbs."

"Moncrieff." Lieutenant, 1840.

Captain, lieutenant colonel,
colonel, general, 1869.

Christian name...

Ernest John.

Gwendolen, I always told you
that my name was Ernest, didn't I?

Ernest, my own Ernest.

Cecily, at last.

Laetitia, at last.

Gwendolen, at last.

My nephew? You seem to be
displaying signs of triviality.

On the contrary, Aunt Augusta.

I have now realized
for the first time in my life...

the vital importance
of being earnest.