THIRD ACT

SCENE

Morning-room at the Manor House.

[Gwendolen and Cecily are at the window, looking out into the garden.]

Gwendolen.  The fact that they did not follow us at once into the house,
as any one else would have done, seems to me to show that they have some
sense of shame left.

Cecily.  They have been eating muffins.  That looks like repentance.

Gwendolen.  [After a pause.]  They don't seem to notice us at all.
Couldn't you cough?

Cecily.  But I haven't got a cough.

Gwendolen.  They're looking at us.  What effrontery!

Cecily.  They're approaching.  That's very forward of them.

Gwendolen.  Let us preserve a dignified silence.

Cecily.  Certainly.  It's the only thing to do now.  [Enter Jack followed
by Algernon.  They whistle some dreadful popular air from a British
Opera.]

Gwendolen.  This dignified silence seems to produce an unpleasant effect.

Cecily.  A most distasteful one.

Gwendolen.  But we will not be the first to speak.

Cecily.  Certainly not.

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

Cecily.  Gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable.  Mr. Moncrieff,
kindly answer me the following question.  Why did you pretend to be my
guardian's brother?

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

Cecily.  [To Gwendolen.]  That certainly seems a satisfactory
explanation, does it not?

Gwendolen.  Yes, dear, if you can believe him.

Cecily.  I don't.  But that does not affect the wonderful beauty of his
answer.

Gwendolen.  True.  In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity
is the vital thing.  Mr. Worthing, what explanation can you offer to 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?

Jack.  Can you doubt it, Miss Fairfax?

Gwendolen.  I have the gravest doubts upon the subject.  But I intend to
crush them.  This is not the moment for German scepticism.  [Moving to
Cecily.]  Their explanations appear to be quite satisfactory, especially
Mr. Worthing's.  That seems to me to have the stamp of truth upon it.

Cecily.  I am more than content with what Mr. Moncrieff said.  His voice
alone inspires one with absolute credulity.

Gwendolen.  Then you think we should forgive them?

Cecily.  Yes.  I mean no.

Gwendolen.  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.

Cecily.  Could we not both speak at the same time?

Gwendolen.  An excellent idea!  I nearly always speak at the same time as
other people.  Will you take the time from me?

Cecily.  Certainly.  [Gwendolen beats time with uplifted finger.]

Gwendolen and Cecily [Speaking together.]  Your Christian names are still
an insuperable barrier.  That is all!

Jack and Algernon [Speaking together.]  Our Christian names!  Is that
all?  But we are going to be christened this afternoon.

Gwendolen.  [To Jack.]  For my sake you are prepared to do this terrible
thing?

Jack.  I am.

Cecily.  [To Algernon.]  To please me you are ready to face this fearful
ordeal?

Algernon.  I am!

Gwendolen.  How absurd to talk of the equality of the sexes!  Where
questions of self-sacrifice are concerned, men are infinitely beyond us.

Jack.  We are.  [Clasps hands with Algernon.]

Cecily.  They have moments of physical courage of which we women know
absolutely nothing.

Gwendolen.  [To Jack.]  Darling!

Algernon.  [To Cecily.]  Darling!  [They fall into each other's arms.]

[Enter Merriman.  When he enters he coughs loudly, seeing the situation.]

Merriman.  Ahem!  Ahem!  Lady Bracknell!

Jack.  Good heavens!

[Enter Lady Bracknell.  The couples separate in alarm.  Exit Merriman.]

Lady Bracknell.  Gwendolen!  What does this mean?

Gwendolen.  Merely that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Worthing,
mamma.

Lady Bracknell.  Come here.  Sit down.  Sit down immediately.  Hesitation
of any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness
in the old.  [Turns to Jack.]  Apprised, sir, of my daughter's sudden
flight by her trusty maid, whose confidence I purchased by means of a
small coin, I followed her at once by a luggage train.  Her unhappy
father is, I am glad to say, under the impression that she is attending a
more than usually lengthy lecture by the University Extension Scheme on
the Influence of a permanent income on Thought.  I do not propose to
undeceive him.  Indeed I have never undeceived him on any question.  I
would consider it wrong.  But of course, you will clearly understand that
all communication between yourself and my daughter must cease immediately
from this moment.  On this point, as indeed on all points, I am firm.

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

Lady Bracknell.  You are nothing of the kind, sir.  And now, as regards
Algernon! . . . Algernon!

Algernon.  Yes, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell.  May I ask if it is in this house that your invalid
friend Mr. Bunbury resides?

Algernon.  [Stammering.]  Oh!  No!  Bunbury doesn't live here.  Bunbury
is somewhere else at present.  In fact, Bunbury is dead.

Lady Bracknell.  Dead!  When did Mr. Bunbury die?  His death must have
been extremely sudden.

Algernon.  [Airily.]  Oh!  I killed Bunbury this afternoon.  I mean poor
Bunbury died this afternoon.

Lady Bracknell.  What did he die of?

Algernon.  Bunbury?  Oh, he was quite exploded.

Lady Bracknell.  Exploded!  Was he the victim of a revolutionary outrage?
I was not aware that Mr. Bunbury was interested in social legislation.  If
so, he is well punished for his morbidity.

Algernon.  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.

Lady Bracknell.  He seems to have had great confidence in the opinion of
his physicians.  I am glad, however, that he made up his mind at the last
to some definite course of action, and acted under proper medical advice.
And now that we have finally got rid of this Mr. Bunbury, may I ask, Mr.
Worthing, who is that young person whose hand my nephew Algernon is now
holding in what seems to me a peculiarly unnecessary manner?

Jack.  That lady is Miss Cecily Cardew, my ward.  [Lady Bracknell bows
coldly to Cecily.]

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

Lady Bracknell.  I beg your pardon?

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

Lady Bracknell.  [With a shiver, crossing to the sofa and sitting down.]
I do not know whether there is anything peculiarly exciting in the air of
this particular part of Hertfordshire, but the number of engagements that
go on seems to me considerably above the proper average that statistics
have laid down for our guidance.  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
desire information.  Until yesterday I had no idea that there were any
families or persons whose origin was a Terminus.  [Jack looks perfectly
furious, but restrains himself.]

Jack.  [In a clear, cold voice.]  Miss Cardew is the grand-daughter of
the late Mr. Thomas Cardew of 149 Belgrave Square, S.W.; Gervase Park,
Dorking, Surrey; and the Sporran, Fifeshire, N.B.

Lady Bracknell.  That sounds not unsatisfactory.  Three addresses always
inspire confidence, even in tradesmen.  But what proof have I of their
authenticity?

Jack.  I have carefully preserved the Court Guides of the period.  They
are open to your inspection, Lady Bracknell.

Lady Bracknell.  [Grimly.]  I have known strange errors in that
publication.

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

Lady Bracknell.  Markby, Markby, and Markby?  A firm of the very highest
position in their profession.  Indeed I am told that one of the Mr.
Markby's is occasionally to be seen at dinner parties.  So far I am
satisfied.

Jack.  [Very irritably.]  How extremely kind of you, Lady Bracknell!  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; both the German and the English variety.

Lady Bracknell.  Ah! A life crowded with incident, I see; though perhaps
somewhat too exciting for a young girl.  I am not myself in favour of
premature experiences.  [Rises, looks at her watch.]  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 you if Miss Cardew has any little
fortune?

Jack.  Oh! about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the Funds.  That
is all.  Goodbye, Lady Bracknell.  So pleased to have seen you.

Lady Bracknell.  [Sitting down again.]  A moment, Mr. Worthing.  A
hundred and thirty thousand pounds!  And in the Funds!  Miss Cardew seems
to me a most attractive young lady, now that I look at her.  Few girls of
the present day have any really solid qualities, any of the qualities
that last, and improve with time.  We live, I regret to say, in an age of
surfaces.  [To Cecily.]  Come over here, dear.  [Cecily goes across.]
Pretty child! your dress is sadly simple, and your hair seems almost as
Nature might have left it.  But we can soon alter all that.  A thoroughly
experienced French maid produces a really marvellous result in a very
brief space of time.  I remember recommending one to young Lady Lancing,
and after three months her own husband did not know her.

Jack.  And after six months nobody knew her.

Lady Bracknell.  [Glares at Jack for a few moments.  Then bends, with a
practised smile, to Cecily.]  Kindly turn round, sweet child.  [Cecily
turns completely round.]  No, the side view is what I want.  [Cecily
presents her profile.]  Yes, quite as I expected.  There are distinct
social possibilities in your profile.  The two weak points in our age are
its want of principle and its want of profile.  The chin a little higher,
dear.  Style largely depends on the way the chin is worn.  They are worn
very high, just at present.  Algernon!

Algernon.  Yes, Aunt Augusta!

Lady Bracknell.  There are distinct social possibilities in Miss Cardew's
profile.

Algernon.  Cecily is the sweetest, dearest, prettiest girl in the whole
world.  And I don't care twopence about social possibilities.

Lady Bracknell.  Never speak disrespectfully of Society, Algernon.  Only
people who can't get into it do that.  [To Cecily.]  Dear child, of
course 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 for a moment
of allowing that to stand in my way.  Well, I suppose I must give my
consent.

Algernon.  Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell.  Cecily, you may kiss me!

Cecily.  [Kisses her.]  Thank you, Lady Bracknell.

Lady Bracknell.  You may also address me as Aunt Augusta for the future.

Cecily.  Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

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

Algernon.  Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Cecily.  Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell.  To speak frankly, I am not in favour of long
engagements.  They give people the opportunity of finding out each
other's character before marriage, which I think is never advisable.

Jack.  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.

Lady Bracknell.  Upon what grounds may I ask?  Algernon is an extremely,
I may almost say an ostentatiously, eligible young man.  He has nothing,
but he looks everything.  What more can one desire?

Jack.  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.  [Algernon
and Cecily look at him in indignant amazement.]

Lady Bracknell.  Untruthful!  My nephew Algernon?  Impossible!  He is an
Oxonian.

Jack.  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
pretence of being my brother.  Under an assumed name he drank, I've just
been informed by my butler, an entire pint bottle of my Perrier-Jouet,
Brut, '89; wine I was specially reserving for myself.  Continuing his
disgraceful deception, he succeeded in 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 that I don't
intend to have a brother, not even of any kind.  I distinctly told him so
myself yesterday afternoon.

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

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

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

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

Lady Bracknell.  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.

Jack.  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.

Lady Bracknell.  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.

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

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

Cecily.  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.

Algernon.  Then what is to be done, Cecily?

Cecily.  I don't know, Mr. Moncrieff.

Lady Bracknell.  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.

Jack.  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.

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

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

Lady Bracknell.  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.

[Enter Dr. Chasuble.]

Chasuble.  Everything is quite ready for the christenings.

Lady Bracknell.  The christenings, sir!  Is not that somewhat premature?

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

Lady Bracknell.  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.

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

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

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.

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

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

Lady Bracknell.  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?

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

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

Chasuble.  [Severely.]  I am a celibate, madam.

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

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

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

[Enter Miss Prism hurriedly.]

Miss Prism.  I was told you expected me in the vestry, dear Canon.  I
have been waiting for you there for an hour and three-quarters.  [Catches
sight of Lady Bracknell, who has fixed her with a stony glare.  Miss
Prism grows pale and quails.  She looks anxiously round as if desirous to
escape.]

Lady Bracknell.  [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!
[Every one looks at Miss Prism.]  Prism!  Where is that baby?  [A pause.]

Miss 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 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 basinette,
and placed the baby in the hand-bag.

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

Miss Prism.  Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.

Jack.  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.

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

Jack.  What railway station?

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

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

Gwendolen.  If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my
life.  [Exit Jack in great excitement.]

Chasuble.  What do you think this means, Lady Bracknell?

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.

[Noises heard overhead as if some one was throwing trunks about.  Every
one looks up.]

Cecily.  Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.

Chasuble.  Your guardian has a very emotional nature.

Lady Bracknell.  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.

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

Lady Bracknell.  I wish he would arrive at some conclusion.

Gwendolen.  This suspense is terrible.  I hope it will last.  [Enter Jack
with a hand-bag of black leather in his hand.]

Jack.  [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.

Miss Prism.  [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.

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

Miss Prism.  [Amazed.]  You?

Jack.  [Embracing her.]  Yes . . . mother!

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

Jack.  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.]

Miss Prism.  [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.

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

Lady Bracknell.  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.

Jack.  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
have ever doubted that I had a brother?  [Seizes hold of Algernon.]  Dr.
Chasuble, my unfortunate brother.  Miss Prism, my unfortunate brother.
Gwendolen, my unfortunate brother.  Algy, you young scoundrel, you will
have to treat me with more respect in the future.  You have never behaved
to me like a brother in all your life.

Algernon.  Well, not till to-day, old boy, I admit.  I did my best,
however, though I was out of practice.

[Shakes hands.]

Gwendolen.  [To Jack.]  My own!  But what own are you?  What is your
Christian name, now that you have become some one else?

Jack.  Good heavens! . . . I had quite forgotten that point.  Your
decision on the subject of my name is irrevocable, I suppose?

Gwendolen.  I never change, except in my affections.

Cecily.  What a noble nature you have, Gwendolen!

Jack.  Then the question had better be cleared up at once.  Aunt Augusta,
a moment.  At the time when Miss Prism left me in the hand-bag, had I
been christened already?

Lady Bracknell.  Every luxury that money could buy, including
christening, had been lavished on you by your fond and doting parents.

Jack.  Then I was christened!  That is settled.  Now, what name was I
given?  Let me know the worst.

Lady Bracknell.  Being the eldest son you were naturally christened after
your father.

Jack.  [Irritably.]  Yes, but what was my father's Christian name?

Lady Bracknell.  [Meditatively.]  I cannot at the present moment recall
what the General's Christian name was.  But I have no doubt he had one.
He was eccentric, I admit.  But only in later years.  And that was the
result of the Indian climate, and marriage, and indigestion, and other
things of that kind.

Jack.  Algy!  Can't you recollect what our father's Christian name was?

Algernon.  My dear boy, we were never even on speaking terms.  He died
before I was a year old.

Jack.  His name would appear in the Army Lists of the period, I suppose,
Aunt Augusta?

Lady Bracknell.  The General was essentially a man of peace, except in
his domestic life.  But I have no doubt his name would appear in any
military directory.

Jack.  The Army Lists of the last forty years are here.  These delightful
records should have been my constant study.  [Rushes to bookcase and
tears the books out.]  M. Generals . . . Mallam, Maxbohm, Magley, what
ghastly names they have--Markby, Migsby, Mobbs, Moncrieff!  Lieutenant
1840, Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel, Colonel, General 1869, Christian
names, Ernest John.  [Puts book very quietly down and speaks quite
calmly.]  I always told you, Gwendolen, my name was Ernest, didn't I?
Well, it is Ernest after all.  I mean it naturally is Ernest.

Lady Bracknell.  Yes, I remember now that the General was called Ernest,
I knew I had some particular reason for disliking the name.

Gwendolen.  Ernest!  My own Ernest!  I felt from the first that you could
have no other name!

Jack.  Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly
that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth.  Can you
forgive me?

Gwendolen.  I can.  For I feel that you are sure to change.

Jack.  My own one!

Chasuble.  [To Miss Prism.]  Laetitia!  [Embraces her]

Miss Prism.  [Enthusiastically.]  Frederick!  At last!

Algernon.  Cecily!  [Embraces her.]  At last!

Jack.  Gwendolen!  [Embraces her.]  At last!

Lady Bracknell.  My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of
triviality.

Jack.  On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I've now realised for the first
time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest.

TABLEAU

Gwendolen and Cecily are seeking sanctuary in the morning room at the Manor House. They peer out the window in curiosity at the two men. The girls notice that the men haven't followed them into the house and are eating muffins. They're worried that the guys don't seem to be noticing them at all. A moment later, when the two guys start walking toward the house, the women are affronted and agree to give them the silent treatment. But that soon falls apart. Cecily breaks her silence to ask Algernon why he pretended to be Jack's brother. He answers candidly--to "have an opportunity of meeting you" . Cecily melts. Then it's Gwendolen's turn. She asks Jack why he pretended to have a brother. Before he can answer, she suggests that it was possibly so that he could have an excuse to come up to town to see her as often as possible. He confirms it. Satisfied, the girls forgive the men. But there's a still a problem. The girls confront the guys in loud unison: "Your Christian names are still an insuperable barrier. That is all!" . In other words, the girls can't possibly marry them if their names aren't Ernest. In response, the men answer in unison: "Our Christian names! Is that all? But we are going to be christened this afternoon" . Seeing that their beloveds are brave enough to endure such a harrowing ordeal as a christening for their sake, the women rush into their lovers' arms. Merriman enters, sees all the hugging going on, and coughs loudly. He announces the arrival of Lady Bracknell. The startled couples separate. Lady Bracknell loses no time in asking Gwendolen just what she's doing. At the news that she's engaged to Jack, Lady Bracknell turns her wrath on him. She orders that all communication between them must stop immediately and ignores his protests. Then she turns to Algernon and asks if this is where Bunbury resides. Caught by surprise, Algernon answers no, then stutters that Bunbury is actually dead. He died by exploding. Lady Bracknell is appalled by his method of death, considering it a "revolutionary outrage" , but is glad that the matter is settled. Onto business. Lady Bracknell asks Jack who is that young person holding Algernon's hand so inappropriately. When she learns Algernon is engaged to Cecily, she comments that there must be something in the air here that is particularly exciting. Because the number of engagements here "seems to me considerably above the proper average that statistics have laid down for our guidance" . Slyly, she asks if Miss Cardew has any relations to the railway stations in London. Jack is fuming, but coldly answers no and recites Cecily's proper parents, plus their address. He assures her that she can find the same information in the Court Guides. And he lists off all the documentation he has of Cecily--including birth certificates, baptism records, incidents of illness, and vaccinations. Lady Bracknell brushes him off, telling Gwendolen it's time to leave. As they exit, she asks offhand if Miss Cardew has any amount of fortune. Oh, Jack answers, just a hundred and thirty thousand pounds. Lady Bracknell freezes. Suddenly, Cecily looks much more attractive to her. With Cecily's eager cooperation, Lady Bracknell inspects her profile and declares she has "distinct social possibilities" . Finally, she gives her consent. She even allows Cecily to call her Aunt Augusta. But Jack has other ideas. As Cecily's legal guardian, he refuses to give consent for her to marry Algernon. When Lady Bracknell, insulted, asks what could possibly be wrong with Algernon, Jack reveals that Algernon has lied--deceiving his whole family into thinking he was the nonexistent younger brother, Ernest. On top of that, Jack continues, he not only drank an entire bottle of his best wine, but also ate every single muffin at tea. Jack stands by his verdict; he won't give Algernon consent to marry Cecily. Lady Bracknell, however, has hope. After learning Cecily is eighteen, Lady Bracknell says it won't be long before she comes of age and she can make her own decisions. But Jack interrupts, saying her grandfather's will dictates she won't come of age until she's thirty-five. Although Lady Bracknell doesn't think the wait is that bad, Cecily is impatient and declares she can't wait that long. Finally, Jack deigns to negotiate: if Lady Bracknell will give consent for him to marry Gwendolen, he'll consent to let Algernon marry Cecily. Lady Bracknell flatly refuses and tells Gwendolen to get ready to go. They've already missed five trains back to town. Dr. Chasuble enters at this crucial moment to announce that everything is ready for the christenings. Lady Bracknell will not hear of such nonsense. Jack sadly agrees to call off the christenings, because there's no point now. Nobody is getting married. This news saddens Dr. Chasuble, but he's glad to have some free time this evening. He's heard that Miss Prism has been waiting for him in the vestry. Lady Bracknell starts at the name. Apparently they have a history. Jack tries to explain that Miss Prism is Cecily's esteemed governess. But this has no impact on Lady Bracknell. She orders Chasuble to send for Miss Prism at once. At the sight of the stern Lady Bracknell, Miss Prism stops dead in her tracks, and turns around with the intention of running away. Prism! Lady Bracknell spits. Miss Prism approaches humbly. Lady Bracknell recites Prism's crime: twenty-eight years ago, Miss Prism left Lord Bracknell's house with a perambulator containing a male child. Both of them disappeared without a trace. Weeks later, the police found the perambulator in Bayswater with an especially sappy three-volume novel inside. But the baby was gone. Prism, Lady Bracknell screeches, where is that baby? Shamed, Miss Prism confesses. She doesn't know where the child is, but she tells what happened the best she can. On that fateful day, she not only had the baby in the perambulator with her, but the prized three-volume novel she had written, contained in an old hangbag. Later that day, she got confused and accidentally put the book into the perambulator and the baby into the handbag. Jack, who's been listening intently, asks where she sent the handbag. Miss Prism confesses she deposited it at a cloakroom in Victoria Station , the Brighton line. At this news, Jack runs up to his room, leaving the others baffled. It sounds like things are being frantically thrown around. After some time, Jack returns with a black leather handbag. He asks Miss Prism to inspect it and decide whether or not it's the one she owned. After a few moments, Miss Prism declares that it is indeed hers. She points to the lock, which is engraved with her initials, as proof. Jack smiles and reveals that he was the baby inside the handbag. Then he impulsively hugs Miss Prism, screaming in joy, "Mother!" . But Miss Prism recoils, saying that she is not married. How could he dare insinuate such a thing? But Jack is in a generous mood and forgives her, only to hug her again. Stunned, Miss Prism detaches herself and points to Lady Bracknell. That woman, she says, can tell you who you really are. Lady Bracknell delivers the stunning news. "You are the son of my poor sister, Mrs. Moncrieff, and consequently Algernon's elder brother" . Jack is beside himself with joy, glad because this means that he had been telling the truth all these years; he does indeed have a younger brother. He grabs Algy and goes around the room, introducing each and every person to his "unfortunate brother," Algernon. Gwendolen finally asks the question that's been on our minds. What is Jack's real name? He must remember that his marriage depends on it. Jack turns to Lady Bracknell for the answer. She answers that he was indeed christened, and--as befits the eldest son--was named after his father. But, unfortunately, she cannot remember the General's name. Neither can Algy, because their father died when he was a baby. But Jack has an idea. His father's name would appear in the Army Lists, wouldn't it? Jack turns to the bookcase and tears out volumes until he finds the Army List he wants. He flips through the M's until he finds the Moncrieff entry. He reads out the Christian name: Ernest John. He shuts the book and turns to Gwendolen with the suspenseful news that his name really is Ernest. He hasn't been lying after all. Lady Bracknell now remembers that the General's name was Ernest. She knew she had a reason for disliking that name. This clears the way for a love-fest. Gwendolen rushes into Jack's arms. Dr. Chasuble embraces Miss Prism . Algernon sweeps Cecily off her feet. There's general chaotic joy. When Lady Bracknell tries to put a damper on things by saying Jack is "displaying signs of triviality" , Jack replies suavely that, on the contrary, "I've now realised for the first time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest."

No time has elapsed, but in Act III Gwendolen and Cecily are in the morning room of the Manor House, looking out the window at Jack and Algernon and hoping they will come in. If they do, the ladies intend to be cold and heartless. The men do come in and start explaining why they lied about their names. The women accept their explanations but still have a problem with them lacking the name Ernest. Both men proclaim that they plan to be rechristened, and Gwendolen and Cecily forgive them, and both couples embrace. Merriman discretely coughs to signal the entrance of Lady Bracknell. She desires an explanation for these hugs, and Gwendolen tells her that she is engaged to Jack. Lady Bracknell says that they are not engaged and insists that they cease all communication. She inquires about Algernon's invalid friend, Bunbury, and Algernon explains that he killed him that afternoon; Bunbury exploded. He also adds that he and Cecily are engaged. Immediately, Lady Bracknell interrogates Jack about Cecily's expectations. However, because she has a fortune of 130,000 pounds, Lady Bracknell believes her to have "distinct social possibilities." Lady Bracknell gives her consent to Algernon's engagement, but Jack immediately objects as Cecily's guardian. He says that Algernon is a liar and lists all the lies he has told. Also, Cecily does not come into her fortune and lose Jack as a guardian until she is 35 years old. Algernon says he can wait, but Cecily says she cannot. So Jack, in a moment of brilliance, declares that he will agree to the marriage if Lady Bracknell will consent to his engagement to Gwendolen. That is out of the question, and Lady Bracknell prepares to leave with Gwendolen. Dr. Chasuble arrives and announces that he is ready for the christenings. Jack replies that they are useless now, and Chasuble decides to head back to the church where Miss Prism is waiting. The name Prism shocks Lady Bracknell, and she demands to see the governess. When Miss Prism arrives, she sees Lady Bracknell and turns pale. In a moment of great coincidence, Lady Bracknell reveals that Miss Prism left Lord Bracknell's house 28 years ago. On a normal walk with the baby carriage, she disappeared, along with the baby. She demands to know where the baby is. Prism explains that in a moment of great distraction, she placed the baby in her handbag and her three-volume, manuscript in the baby carriage. The baby and handbag were accidentally left in the train station. When she discovered her error, she abandoned the baby carriage and disappeared. Jack excitedly asks her which station it was, and when she reveals that it was Victoria Station, the Brighton Line, he runs from the room and returns with a black leather bag. When Prism identifies it, he embraces her, believing her to be his mother. She protests that she is not married and says that he will have to ask Lady Bracknell for the identity of his mother. Jack discovers that he is actually the son of Lady Bracknell's sister, Mrs. Moncrieff, and that Algy is his older brother. Jack is overcome to know that he really does have an unfortunate scoundrel for a brother. He asks what his christened name was, and Lady Bracknell explains that it is Ernest John. So, Jack asserts that he had been speaking the truth all along: His name is Ernest, and he does have a brother. Both couples embrace, as do Chasuble and Miss Prism, and Jack declares that he finally realizes the importance of being earnest.

Act III offers happy resolution to the problems of identity and marriage that drive much of the humor in the previous acts. Wilde continues to mock the social customs and attitudes of the aristocratic class. He relentlessly attacks their values, views on marriage and respectability, sexual attitudes, and concern for stability in the social structure. Wilde attacks social behavior with the continuation of speeches by his characters that are the opposite of their actions. While Cecily and Gwendolen agree to keep a dignified silence, Gwendolen actually states that they will not be the first ones to speak to the men. In the very next line she says, "Mr. Worthing, I have something very particular to ask you." Wilde seems to be saying that people speak as if they have strong opinions, but their actions do not support their words. If actions truly do speak louder than words, Wilde has made his point: Society, literally, speaks volumes, but the words are meaningless. Wilde continues his criticism of society's valuing style over substance when Gwendolen says, "In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity is the vital thing." Lady Bracknell discusses Algernon's marriage assets in the same light. She says, "Algernon is an extremely, I may almost say an ostentatiously, eligible young man. He has nothing, but he looks everything. What more can one desire?" Indeed, in a society where looks are everything and substance is discounted, Algernon is the perfect husband. What else do aristocrats value? They seem to esteem the appearance of respectability. Respectability means children are born within the context of marriage. Wilde once again mocks the hypocrisy of the aristocrats who appear to value monogamy but pretend not to notice affairs. Jack's speech to Miss Prism, whom he believes to be his mother, is humorous in both its indignant defense of marriage and also its mocking of the loudly touted religious reformer's virtues of repentance and forgiveness. He says to Miss Prism, "Unmarried! I do not deny that is a serious blow.... Mother, I forgive you." His words are all the more humorous when Miss Prism indignantly denies being his mother. It was not at all unusual for aristocrats to have children born out of wedlock, but society turned its head, pretended not to know about those children, and did not condemn their fathers. The gulf between the upper class and its servants is explored in the scenes with Merriman and Prism. When Lady Bracknell unexpectedly shows up at Jack's, Merriman coughs discretely to warn the couples of her arrival. One can only imagine his humorous thoughts as he watches the wealthy tiptoe around each other and argue about what should be important. When Lady Bracknell hears the description of Prism and recognizes her as their former nanny, she calls for Miss Prism by shouting "Prism!" without using a title in front of her name. Imperiously, Lady Bracknell divides the servant from the lady of the manor. Wilde's audience would recognize this behavior on the part of the servants and the upper class. The stuffy class distinctions defined the society in which they lived. In an age of social registers, Lady Bracknell laments that even the Court Guides have errors. In the next breath, she discusses bribing Gwendolen's maid to find out what is happening in her daughter's life. In Act III she also reveals that her aristocratic brother's family entrusted their most precious possession -- Jack -- to a woman who is more interested in her handbag and manuscript than in what happens to the baby in her charge. Wilde seems to be questioning the values of a society that believes in social registers, hires other people to neglectfully watch its children, and uses bribery to keep track of the children who are not missing. The death of Bunbury gives Wilde the opportunity to speak of aristocratic fears and have some continued fun with the upper class's lack of compassion about death. The 1885 Trafalgar Square riots brought on ruling-class fears of insurrection, anarchism and socialism. Wilde humorously touches on these fears when he allows Algernon to explain the explosion of Bunbury. Lady Bracknell, fearing the worst, exclaims, "Was he the victim of a revolutionary outrage? I was not aware that Mr. Bunbury was interested in social legislation. If so, he is well punished for his morbidity." Evidently, to Lady Bracknell's acquaintances, laws that protect the welfare of those less fortunate are strictly morbid subjects. In fact, this attitude seems to contradict the upper-class concern for reform. However, in reality, Wilde is confirming the upper-class definition of social reform: conforming to the status quo. In Act III Wilde makes a comment on the value of being homosexual with a veiled reference to Lady Lancing. When Lady Bracknell asserts that Cecily needs to have a more sophisticated hairstyle, she recommends "a thoroughly experienced French maid" who can make a great deal of change in a very short time. She explains that such a change happened to an acquaintance of hers, Lady Lancing, and that after three months "her own husband did not know her." Jack uses the opportunity to make a pun on the word know, using it in an aside -- a comment only the audience can hear. Jack interprets know to mean they no longer had sex, insinuating Lady Lancing's preference for the French maid. He says, "And after six months nobody knew her," indicating that the homosexual experience made a new woman of her. Although homosexuality would have been seen as immoral to Wilde's audience, Jack indicates that being homosexual might be a good thing -- almost as a social commentary -- directly to the audience. It seems a double life is necessary after one is married, whether it be bunburying or the homosexual life Wilde was experiencing in an increasingly public way. Wilde continues his assault on family life in Act III by mentioning its strange qualities in several conversations. It appears rather strange, for example, that Lady Bracknell cannot even recall the Christian name of her brother-in-law, Algy's father. Algernon's father died before Algernon was one, so stranger yet is Algernon's comment, "We were never even on speaking terms." He gives that as the reason he cannot remember his father's name. Further assaulting family life, Wilde has Lady Bracknell describe Lord Moncrieff as "eccentric" but excuses his behavior because it "was the result of the Indian climate, and marriage, and indigestions, and other things of that kind." Marriage is lumped together with things such as indigestion. In explaining Lord Moncrieff's marriage, Lady Bracknell says that he was "essentially a man of peace, except in his domestic life." Her description invites suspicion that the local constabulary might have visited because of domestic disturbances. Family life and domestic bliss do not get high marks in Wilde's estimation. When Miss Prism humorously resolves the problem of Jack's lineage, Wilde takes his hero of unknown origins and paints him as the aristocrat who will now be assimilated into his rightful place in the social structure. Through the sad melodrama of Jack's handbag parentage, Wilde exaggerates the Victorian cliche of the poor foundling who makes good. As soon as Jack is known to be a member of the established aristocracy, a Moncrieff in fact, he is seen as an appropriate person for Gwendolen to marry. They will, according to Wilde, live happily ever after in wedded bliss and continue the aristocratic blindness to anything that truly matters. The tag line of the play, spoken by Jack, is a familiar convention in Victorian farces. In discovering that he has been telling the truth all along -- his name is Ernest, and he has a brother -- Jack makes fun of the Victorian virtues of sincerity and honesty and asks Gwendolen to forgive him for "speaking nothing but the truth." He now realizes the importance of being the person he is supposed to be. Wilde is saying perhaps that a new kind of earnestness exists, one that is different from the virtues extolled by the Victorians. Maybe it is possible to be honest and understand what should be taken seriously in life rather than being deceptive, hypocritical, and superficial. Some readers believe, however, that the ending shows Jack mockingly redefining Victorian earnestness as just the opposite: a life of lies, pleasure and beauty. Critics debate the interpretation of the last line. A curious stage direction occurs in Act III, revealing the concern Wilde had for the staging of his play to compliment his ideas. As his couples come together and move apart, he emphasizes the choreography of the pairs. He has them speak in unison, both the women together and the men together. It matters not who they are; they are interchangeable. Marriage is simply an institution that is a gesture, like a christening. The unison speaking is very stylistic, not meant to be realistic at all. It reveals Wilde's attitude that what is important in Victorian marriage -- names -- really should not be as important as other considerations. In the end, Wilde leaves his audience thinking about the trivial social conventions they deem important. Their Victorian virtues perhaps need redefining. Institutions such as marriage, religion, family values and money should perhaps have new interpretations. The character of people, rather than their names and family fortunes, should weigh most heavily when considering their worth. Wilde was able to use humor to skewer these attitudes and convince his audience about the importance of being earnest. Glossary effrontery unashamed boldness. German skepticism a German philosophy that examines style or appearance rather than substance. University Extension Scheme The University of London began these extension courses that were early developments in adult education. terminus either the end of a transportation line, or a station or town located there; terminal. Court Guides an annual reference manual listing the names and addresses of members of the upper class and aristocracy. Funds government stocks that give a low yield of interest but are conservative and safe. Oxonian someone who graduated from Oxford University. Anabaptists a religious group that believes the only form of baptism should be complete immersion of the body in water. pew-opener a person who works for a church by opening the private pews of the wealthy. perambulator  a baby carriage; buggy. Temperance beverage a drink that expressly does not contain alcohol. Army Lists published lists of commissioned officers in the British Army.


The evening before my departure for Blithedale, I was returning to my
bachelor apartments, after attending the wonderful exhibition of the
Veiled Lady, when an elderly man of rather shabby appearance met me in
an obscure part of the street.

"Mr. Coverdale," said he softly, "can I speak with you a moment?"

As I have casually alluded to the Veiled Lady, it may not be amiss to
mention, for the benefit of such of my readers as are unacquainted with
her now forgotten celebrity, that she was a phenomenon in the mesmeric
line; one of the earliest that had indicated the birth of a new
science, or the revival of an old humbug.  Since those times her
sisterhood have grown too numerous to attract much individual notice;
nor, in fact, has any one of them come before the public under such
skilfully contrived circumstances of stage effect as those which at
once mystified and illuminated the remarkable performances of the lady
in question.  Nowadays, in the management of his "subject,"
"clairvoyant," or "medium," the exhibitor affects the simplicity and
openness of scientific experiment; and even if he profess to tread a
step or two across the boundaries of the spiritual world, yet carries
with him the laws of our actual life and extends them over his
preternatural conquests.  Twelve or fifteen years ago, on the contrary,
all the arts of mysterious arrangement, of picturesque disposition, and
artistically contrasted light and shade, were made available, in order
to set the apparent miracle in the strongest attitude of opposition to
ordinary facts.  In the case of the Veiled Lady, moreover, the interest
of the spectator was further wrought up by the enigma of her identity,
and an absurd rumor (probably set afloat by the exhibitor, and at one
time very prevalent) that a beautiful young lady, of family and
fortune, was enshrouded within the misty drapery of the veil.  It was
white, with somewhat of a subdued silver sheen, like the sunny side of
a cloud; and, falling over the wearer from head to foot, was supposed
to insulate her from the material world, from time and space, and to
endow her with many of the privileges of a disembodied spirit.

Her pretensions, however, whether miraculous or otherwise, have little
to do with the present narrative--except, indeed, that I had
propounded, for the Veiled Lady's prophetic solution, a query as to the
success of our Blithedale enterprise.  The response, by the bye, was of
the true Sibylline stamp,--nonsensical in its first aspect, yet on
closer study unfolding a variety of interpretations, one of which has
certainly accorded with the event.  I was turning over this riddle in
my mind, and trying to catch its slippery purport by the tail, when the
old man above mentioned interrupted me.

"Mr. Coverdale!--Mr. Coverdale!" said he, repeating my name twice, in
order to make up for the hesitating and ineffectual way in which he
uttered it.  "I ask your pardon, sir, but I hear you are going to
Blithedale tomorrow."

I knew the pale, elderly face, with the red-tipt nose, and the patch
over one eye; and likewise saw something characteristic in the old
fellow's way of standing under the arch of a gate, only revealing
enough of himself to make me recognize him as an acquaintance.  He was
a very shy personage, this Mr. Moodie; and the trait was the more
singular, as his mode of getting his bread necessarily brought him into
the stir and hubbub of the world more than the generality of men.

"Yes, Mr. Moodie," I answered, wondering what interest he could take in
the fact, "it is my intention to go to Blithedale to-morrow.  Can I be
of any service to you before my departure?"

"If you pleased, Mr. Coverdale," said he, "you might do me a very great
favor."

"A very great one?" repeated I, in a tone that must have expressed but
little alacrity of beneficence, although I was ready to do the old man
any amount of kindness involving no special trouble to myself. "A very
great favor, do you say?  My time is brief, Mr. Moodie, and I have a
good many preparations to make.  But be good enough to tell me what you
wish."

"Ah, sir," replied Old Moodie, "I don't quite like to do that; and, on
further thoughts, Mr. Coverdale, perhaps I had better apply to some
older gentleman, or to some lady, if you would have the kindness to
make me known to one, who may happen to be going to Blithedale. You are
a young man, sir!"

"Does that fact lessen my availability for your purpose?" asked I.
"However, if an older man will suit you better, there is Mr.
Hollingsworth, who has three or four years the advantage of me in age,
and is a much more solid character, and a philanthropist to boot.  I am
only a poet, and, so the critics tell me, no great affair at that! But
what can this business be, Mr. Moodie?  It begins to interest me;
especially since your hint that a lady's influence might be found
desirable.  Come, I am really anxious to be of service to you."

But the old fellow, in his civil and demure manner, was both freakish
and obstinate; and he had now taken some notion or other into his head
that made him hesitate in his former design.

"I wonder, sir," said he, "whether you know a lady whom they call
Zenobia?"

"Not personally," I answered, "although I expect that pleasure
to-morrow, as she has got the start of the rest of us, and is already a
resident at Blithedale.  But have you a literary turn, Mr. Moodie? or
have you taken up the advocacy of women's rights? or what else can have
interested you in this lady?  Zenobia, by the bye, as I suppose you
know, is merely her public name; a sort of mask in which she comes
before the world, retaining all the privileges of privacy,--a
contrivance, in short, like the white drapery of the Veiled Lady, only
a little more transparent.  But it is late.  Will you tell me what I
can do for you?"

"Please to excuse me to-night, Mr. Coverdale," said Moodie.  "You are
very kind; but I am afraid I have troubled you, when, after all, there
may be no need.  Perhaps, with your good leave, I will come to your
lodgings to-morrow morning, before you set out for Blithedale. I wish
you a good-night, sir, and beg pardon for stopping you."

And so he slipt away; and, as he did not show himself the next morning,
it was only through subsequent events that I ever arrived at a
plausible conjecture as to what his business could have been. Arriving
at my room, I threw a lump of cannel coal upon the grate, lighted a
cigar, and spent an hour in musings of every hue, from the brightest to
the most sombre; being, in truth, not so very confident as at some
former periods that this final step, which would mix me up irrevocably
with the Blithedale affair, was the wisest that could possibly be
taken.  It was nothing short of midnight when I went to bed, after
drinking a glass of particularly fine sherry on which I used to pride
myself in those days.  It was the very last bottle; and I finished it,
with a friend, the next forenoon, before setting out for Blithedale.

Mr. Coverdale heads back to his apartment after seeing an exhibition of the Veiled Lady, "a phenomenon in the mesmeric line" who is rumored to be a beautiful young woman, when he is met by a reserved older man named Mr. Moodie who asks if may have a word. He asks if Coverdale is going to Blithedale tomorrow, to which Coverdale assents. Moodie asks if he may beg a favor, but then demurs. Coverdale finds him "both freakish and obstinate" , as all Moodie asks is if he knows the lady Zenobia. Coverdale says he knows she will be one of their numbers at Blithedale but does not know her yet. Moodie grows a bit distressed and excuses himself, leaving Coverdale to wonder at his behavior. He only sees later what the man wanted. He has a drink of sherry and goes to bed

Hawthorne's third novel is rich, complex, and layered; it has dozens of symbols, metaphors, and philosophical, historical, religious, literary, and psychosexual references. Thus, it is rife with topics for discussion, but can often be difficult in terms of narrowing down areas of focus. Each chapter is utterly jam-packed with things to discuss, so, in terms of a disclaimer, this study guide cannot possibly address every facet of Hawthorne's fascinating and at times inscrutable book. With that in mind, the first six chapters bring us a myriad of mysteries, examples of foreshadowing, and symbols. First of all, Hawthorne sets his story in the spring -it is a cold, blustery April when Coverdale sets out for Blithedale -and ends it in the Fall, when the leaves, Blithedale's founding spirit, and one of its own are dying. He also is keen to begin his exploration of the contrasts between city and countryside. Coverdale speaks of how fresh and revivifying the air is, contrasting it with the stifling air of the city; the invented biography for Priscilla also places the city in a negative light. The countryside is supposed to be an idyllic place where the human spirit can be renewed. It is the perfect place for this experiment of Blithedale to take place, as it is free from the constraints, hierarchies, and engrained norms of the city. Despite the sense of exuberance that pervades Coverdale's narrative for a couple chapters, there is already quite a bit of foreshadowing that things will not turn out well. Coverdale acknowledges that the world outside is hostile to them. He says that the group decides to ignore the land's Indian name, and thus its history, in favor of the anodyne "Blithedale." Silas Foster speaks of the practicalities of working on a farm, destroying some of the illusions of their great purpose, while everyone knows right away that Hollingsworth is barely committed. There are tensions regarding gender roles and duties. Coverdale also catches cold and has feverish dreams that allude to some future doom. Finally, Coverdale begins to exhibit the tendency that makes him a fascinating and complicated narrator: he is obsessively interested in those around him, watching, wondering, and judging. The thing that Coverdale is overwhelmingly concerned with in these early chapters is Zenobia's past. He wonders if she was married, and then wonders if she is not a virgin: "the freedom of her deportment...was not exactly maidenlike...Her constrained and inevitable manifestation, I said often to myself, was that of a woman to whom wedlock had thrown wide the gates of mystery" . Zenobia notices his interest in her, speculating that "I cannot reckon you as an admirer" . Sex is an important underlying tension throughout the novel, with Coverdale often inadvertently revealing his own fixations as well as giving us clues to those of other characters. Related to this is Zenobia's flower, one of the most potent symbols in the text. It is absolutely identified with her sexuality, and the language Coverdale uses to describe it is rife with eroticism: "It was an exotic, of rare beauty, and as fresh as if the hot-house gardener had just clipped it...I can see and smell it, at this moment" .


There can hardly remain for me (who am really getting to be a frosty
bachelor, with another white hair, every week or so, in my mustache),
there can hardly flicker up again so cheery a blaze upon the hearth, as
that which I remember, the next day, at Blithedale.  It was a wood
fire, in the parlor of an old farmhouse, on an April afternoon, but
with the fitful gusts of a wintry snowstorm roaring in the chimney.
Vividly does that fireside re-create itself, as I rake away the ashes
from the embers in my memory, and blow them up with a sigh, for lack of
more inspiring breath.  Vividly for an instant, but anon, with the
dimmest gleam, and with just as little fervency for my heart as for my
finger-ends!  The staunch oaken logs were long ago burnt out. Their
genial glow must be represented, if at all, by the merest phosphoric
glimmer, like that which exudes, rather than shines, from damp
fragments of decayed trees, deluding the benighted wanderer through a
forest.  Around such chill mockery of a fire some few of us might sit
on the withered leaves, spreading out each a palm towards the imaginary
warmth, and talk over our exploded scheme for beginning the life of
Paradise anew.

Paradise, indeed!  Nobody else in the world, I am bold to
affirm--nobody, at least, in our bleak little world of New
England,--had dreamed of Paradise that day except as the pole suggests
the tropic.  Nor, with such materials as were at hand, could the most
skilful architect have constructed any better imitation of Eve's bower
than might be seen in the snow hut of an Esquimaux.  But we made a
summer of it, in spite of the wild drifts.

It was an April day, as already hinted, and well towards the middle of
the month.  When morning dawned upon me, in town, its temperature was
mild enough to be pronounced even balmy, by a lodger, like myself, in
one of the midmost houses of a brick block,--each house partaking of
the warmth of all the rest, besides the sultriness of its individual
furnace--heat.  But towards noon there had come snow, driven along the
street by a northeasterly blast, and whitening the roofs and sidewalks
with a business-like perseverance that would have done credit to our
severest January tempest.  It set about its task apparently as much in
earnest as if it had been guaranteed from a thaw for months to come.
The greater, surely, was my heroism, when, puffing out a final whiff of
cigar-smoke, I quitted my cosey pair of bachelor-rooms,--with a good
fire burning in the grate, and a closet right at hand, where there was
still a bottle or two in the champagne basket and a residuum of claret
in a box,--quitted, I say, these comfortable quarters, and plunged into
the heart of the pitiless snowstorm, in quest of a better life.

The better life!  Possibly, it would hardly look so now; it is enough
if it looked so then.  The greatest obstacle to being heroic is the
doubt whether one may not be going to prove one's self a fool; the
truest heroism is to resist the doubt; and the profoundest wisdom to
know when it ought to be resisted, and when to be obeyed.

Yet, after all, let us acknowledge it wiser, if not more sagacious, to
follow out one's daydream to its natural consummation, although, if the
vision have been worth the having, it is certain never to be
consummated otherwise than by a failure.  And what of that?  Its
airiest fragments, impalpable as they may be, will possess a value that
lurks not in the most ponderous realities of any practicable scheme.
They are not the rubbish of the mind.  Whatever else I may repent of,
therefore, let it be reckoned neither among my sins nor follies that I
once had faith and force enough to form generous hopes of the world's
destiny--yes!--and to do what in me lay for their accomplishment; even
to the extent of quitting a warm fireside, flinging away a freshly
lighted cigar, and travelling far beyond the strike of city clocks,
through a drifting snowstorm.

There were four of us who rode together through the storm; and
Hollingsworth, who had agreed to be of the number, was accidentally
delayed, and set forth at a later hour alone.  As we threaded the
streets, I remember how the buildings on either side seemed to press
too closely upon us, insomuch that our mighty hearts found barely room
enough to throb between them.  The snowfall, too, looked inexpressibly
dreary (I had almost called it dingy), coming down through an
atmosphere of city smoke, and alighting on the sidewalk only to be
moulded into the impress of somebody's patched boot or overshoe.  Thus
the track of an old conventionalism was visible on what was freshest
from the sky.  But when we left the pavements, and our muffled
hoof-tramps beat upon a desolate extent of country road, and were
effaced by the unfettered blast as soon as stamped, then there was
better air to breathe.  Air that had not been breathed once and again!
air that had not been spoken into words of falsehood, formality, and
error, like all the air of the dusky city!

"How pleasant it is!" remarked I, while the snowflakes flew into my
mouth the moment it was opened.  "How very mild and balmy is this
country air!"

"Ah, Coverdale, don't laugh at what little enthusiasm you have left!"
said one of my companions.  "I maintain that this nitrous atmosphere is
really exhilarating; and, at any rate, we can never call ourselves
regenerated men till a February northeaster shall be as grateful to us
as the softest breeze of June!"

So we all of us took courage, riding fleetly and merrily along, by
stone fences that were half buried in the wave-like drifts; and through
patches of woodland, where the tree-trunks opposed a snow-incrusted
side towards the northeast; and within ken of deserted villas, with no
footprints in their avenues; and passed scattered dwellings, whence
puffed the smoke of country fires, strongly impregnated with the
pungent aroma of burning peat.  Sometimes, encountering a traveller, we
shouted a friendly greeting; and he, unmuffling his ears to the bluster
and the snow-spray, and listening eagerly, appeared to think our
courtesy worth less than the trouble which it cost him.  The churl!  He
understood the shrill whistle of the blast, but had no intelligence for
our blithe tones of brotherhood.  This lack of faith in our cordial
sympathy, on the traveller's part, was one among the innumerable tokens
how difficult a task we had in hand for the reformation of the world.
We rode on, however, with still unflagging spirits, and made such good
companionship with the tempest that, at our journey's end, we professed
ourselves almost loath to bid the rude blusterer good-by. But, to own
the truth, I was little better than an icicle, and began to be
suspicious that I had caught a fearful cold.

And now we were seated by the brisk fireside of the old farmhouse, the
same fire that glimmers so faintly among my reminiscences at the
beginning of this chapter.  There we sat, with the snow melting out of
our hair and beards, and our faces all ablaze, what with the past
inclemency and present warmth.  It was, indeed, a right good fire that
we found awaiting us, built up of great, rough logs, and knotty limbs,
and splintered fragments of an oak-tree, such as farmers are wont to
keep for their own hearths, since these crooked and unmanageable boughs
could never be measured into merchantable cords for the market.  A
family of the old Pilgrims might have swung their kettle over precisely
such a fire as this, only, no doubt, a bigger one; and, contrasting it
with my coal-grate, I felt so much the more that we had transported
ourselves a world-wide distance from the system of society that
shackled us at breakfast-time.

Good, comfortable Mrs. Foster (the wife of stout Silas Foster, who was
to manage the farm at a fair stipend, and be our tutor in the art of
husbandry) bade us a hearty welcome.  At her back--a back of generous
breadth--appeared two young women, smiling most hospitably, but looking
rather awkward withal, as not well knowing what was to be their
position in our new arrangement of the world.  We shook hands
affectionately all round, and congratulated ourselves that the blessed
state of brotherhood and sisterhood, at which we aimed, might fairly be
dated from this moment.  Our greetings were hardly concluded when the
door opened, and Zenobia--whom I had never before seen, important as
was her place in our enterprise--Zenobia entered the parlor.

This (as the reader, if at all acquainted with our literary biography,
need scarcely be told) was not her real name.  She had assumed it, in
the first instance, as her magazine signature; and, as it accorded well
with something imperial which her friends attributed to this lady's
figure and deportment, they half-laughingly adopted it in their
familiar intercourse with her.  She took the appellation in good part,
and even encouraged its constant use; which, in fact, was thus far
appropriate, that our Zenobia, however humble looked her new
philosophy, had as much native pride as any queen would have known what
to do with.

It is an April afternoon, full of swirling snow and cold wind. Coverdale leaves his warm hearth to set out for his better life. He reflects how it is nobler to follow a dream to its logical conclusion even if it does not pan out. He may have things to repent of, but no one could accuse him of not having faith and "form enough to form generous hopes of the world's destiny". Four set off together, as Hollingsworth is delayed. The city air feels stale and close but once they emerge into the countryside Coverdale marvels at the freshness of it. They ride through small towns, occasionally encountering people of a churlish nature who have little time for their grandiose ideas. Coverdale wonders if he isn't getting a cold. Finally they arrive and sit before their roaring fire in the farmhouse, already feeling worlds away from their shackling society. Two young women greet them. Everyone shakes hands. Suddenly Zenobia enters, her bearing and manner like that of a queen


Zenobia bade us welcome, in a fine, frank, mellow voice, and gave each
of us her hand, which was very soft and warm.  She had something
appropriate, I recollect, to say to every individual; and what she said
to myself was this:--"I have long wished to know you, Mr. Coverdale,
   and to thank you for your beautiful poetry, some of which I have
   learned by heart; or rather it has stolen into my memory, without my
   exercising any choice or volition about the matter.  Of course--permit
   me to say you do not think of relinquishing an occupation in which you
   have done yourself so much credit.  I would almost rather give you up
   as an associate, than that the world should lose one of its true poets!"

   "Ah, no; there will not be the slightest danger of that, especially
   after this inestimable praise from Zenobia," said I, smiling, and
   blushing, no doubt, with excess of pleasure.  "I hope, on the contrary,
   now to produce something that shall really deserve to be called
   poetry,--true, strong, natural, and sweet, as is the life which we are
   going to lead,--something that shall have the notes of wild birds
   twittering through it, or a strain like the wind anthems in the woods,
   as the case may be."

   "Is it irksome to you to hear your own verses sung?" asked Zenobia,
   with a gracious smile.  "If so, I am very sorry, for you will certainly
   hear me singing them sometimes, in the summer evenings."

   "Of all things," answered I, "that is what will delight me most."

   While this passed, and while she spoke to my companions, I was taking
   note of Zenobia's aspect; and it impressed itself on me so distinctly,
   that I can now summon her up, like a ghost, a little wanner than the
   life but otherwise identical with it.  She was dressed as simply as
   possible, in an American print (I think the dry-goods people call it
           so), but with a silken kerchief, between which and her gown there was
   one glimpse of a white shoulder.  It struck me as a great piece of good
   fortune that there should be just that glimpse.  Her hair, which was
   dark, glossy, and of singular abundance, was put up rather soberly and
   primly--without curls, or other ornament, except a single flower.  It
   was an exotic of rare beauty, and as fresh as if the hothouse gardener
   had just clipt it from the stem.  That flower has struck deep root into
   my memory.  I can both see it and smell it, at this moment.  So
   brilliant, so rare, so costly as it must have been, and yet enduring
   only for a day, it was more indicative of the pride and pomp which had
   a luxuriant growth in Zenobia's character than if a great diamond had
   sparkled among her hair.

   Her hand, though very soft, was larger than most women would like to
   have, or than they could afford to have, though not a whit too large in
   proportion with the spacious plan of Zenobia's entire development. It
   did one good to see a fine intellect (as hers really was, although its
           natural tendency lay in another direction than towards literature) so
   fitly cased.  She was, indeed, an admirable figure of a woman, just on
   the hither verge of her richest maturity, with a combination of
   features which it is safe to call remarkably beautiful, even if some
   fastidious persons might pronounce them a little deficient in softness
   and delicacy.  But we find enough of those attributes everywhere.
   Preferable--by way of variety, at least--was Zenobia's bloom, health,
   and vigor, which she possessed in such overflow that a man might well
   have fallen in love with her for their sake only.  In her quiet moods,
   she seemed rather indolent; but when really in earnest, particularly if
   there were a spice of bitter feeling, she grew all alive to her
   finger-tips.

   "I am the first comer," Zenobia went on to say, while her smile beamed
   warmth upon us all; "so I take the part of hostess for to-day, and
   welcome you as if to my own fireside.  You shall be my guests, too, at
   supper.  Tomorrow, if you please, we will be brethren and sisters, and
   begin our new life from daybreak."

   "Have we our various parts assigned?" asked some one.

   "Oh, we of the softer sex," responded Zenobia, with her mellow, almost
   broad laugh,--most delectable to hear, but not in the least like an
   ordinary woman's laugh,--"we women (there are four of us here already)
   will take the domestic and indoor part of the business, as a matter of
   course.  To bake, to boil, to roast, to fry, to stew,--to wash, and
   iron, and scrub, and sweep,--and, at our idler intervals, to repose
   ourselves on knitting and sewing,--these, I suppose, must be feminine
   occupations, for the present.  By and by, perhaps, when our individual
   adaptations begin to develop themselves, it may be that some of us who
   wear the petticoat will go afield, and leave the weaker brethren to
   take our places in the kitchen."

   "What a pity," I remarked, "that the kitchen, and the housework
   generally, cannot be left out of our system altogether!  It is odd
   enough that the kind of labor which falls to the lot of women is just
   that which chiefly distinguishes artificial life--the life of
   degenerated mortals--from the life of Paradise.  Eve had no dinner-pot,
   and no clothes to mend, and no washing-day."

   "I am afraid," said Zenobia, with mirth gleaming out of her eyes, "we
   shall find some difficulty in adopting the paradisiacal system for at
   least a month to come.  Look at that snowdrift sweeping past the
   window!  Are there any figs ripe, do you think?  Have the pineapples
   been gathered to-day?  Would you like a bread-fruit, or a cocoanut?
   Shall I run out and pluck you some roses?  No, no, Mr. Coverdale; the
   only flower hereabouts is the one in my hair, which I got out of a
   greenhouse this morning.  As for the garb of Eden," added she,
   shivering playfully, "I shall not assume it till after May-day!"

   Assuredly Zenobia could not have intended it,--the fault must have been
   entirely in my imagination.  But these last words, together with
   something in her manner, irresistibly brought up a picture of that
   fine, perfectly developed figure, in Eve's earliest garment.  Her free,
   careless, generous modes of expression often had this effect of
   creating images which, though pure, are hardly felt to be quite
   decorous when born of a thought that passes between man and woman.  I
   imputed it, at that time, to Zenobia's noble courage, conscious of no
   harm, and scorning the petty restraints which take the life and color
   out of other women's conversation.  There was another peculiarity about
   her.  We seldom meet with women nowadays, and in this country, who
   impress us as being women at all,--their sex fades away and goes for
   nothing, in ordinary intercourse.  Not so with Zenobia.  One felt an
   influence breathing out of her such as we might suppose to come from
   Eve, when she was just made, and her Creator brought her to Adam,
   saying, "Behold! here is a woman!"  Not that I would convey the idea of
   especial gentleness, grace, modesty, and shyness, but of a certain warm
   and rich characteristic, which seems, for the most part, to have been
   refined away out of the feminine system.

   "And now," continued Zenobia, "I must go and help get supper.  Do you
   think you can be content, instead of figs, pineapples, and all the
   other delicacies of Adam's supper-table, with tea and toast, and a
   certain modest supply of ham and tongue, which, with the instinct of a
   housewife, I brought hither in a basket?  And there shall be bread and
   milk, too, if the innocence of your taste demands it."

   The whole sisterhood now went about their domestic avocations, utterly
   declining our offers to assist, further than by bringing wood for the
   kitchen fire from a huge pile in the back yard.  After heaping up more
   than a sufficient quantity, we returned to the sitting-room, drew our
   chairs close to the hearth, and began to talk over our prospects.
   Soon, with a tremendous stamping in the entry, appeared Silas Foster,
   lank, stalwart, uncouth, and grizzly-bearded. He came from foddering
   the cattle in the barn, and from the field, where he had been
   ploughing, until the depth of the snow rendered it impossible to draw a
   furrow.  He greeted us in pretty much the same tone as if he were
   speaking to his oxen, took a quid from his iron tobacco-box, pulled off
   his wet cowhide boots, and sat down before the fire in his
   stocking-feet.  The steam arose from his soaked garments, so that the
   stout yeoman looked vaporous and spectre-like.

   "Well, folks," remarked Silas, "you'll be wishing yourselves back to
   town again, if this weather holds."

   And, true enough, there was a look of gloom, as the twilight fell
   silently and sadly out of the sky, its gray or sable flakes
   intermingling themselves with the fast-descending snow.  The storm, in
   its evening aspect, was decidedly dreary.  It seemed to have arisen for
   our especial behoof,--a symbol of the cold, desolate, distrustful
   phantoms that invariably haunt the mind, on the eve of adventurous
   enterprises, to warn us back within the boundaries of ordinary life.

   But our courage did not quail.  We would not allow ourselves to be
   depressed by the snowdrift trailing past the window, any more than if
   it had been the sigh of a summer wind among rustling boughs.  There
   have been few brighter seasons for us than that.  If ever men might
   lawfully dream awake, and give utterance to their wildest visions
   without dread of laughter or scorn on the part of the audience,--yes,
   and speak of earthly happiness, for themselves and mankind, as an
   object to be hopefully striven for, and probably attained, we who made
   that little semicircle round the blazing fire were those very men.  We
   had left the rusty iron framework of society behind us; we had broken
   through many hindrances that are powerful enough to keep most people on
   the weary treadmill of the established system, even while they feel its
   irksomeness almost as intolerable as we did.  We had stepped down from
   the pulpit; we had flung aside the pen; we had shut up the ledger; we
   had thrown off that sweet, bewitching, enervating indolence, which is
   better, after all, than most of the enjoyments within mortal grasp.  It
   was our purpose--a generous one, certainly, and absurd, no doubt, in
   full proportion with its generosity--to give up whatever we had
   heretofore attained, for the sake of showing mankind the example of a
   life governed by other than the false and cruel principles on which
   human society has all along been based.

   And, first of all, we had divorced ourselves from pride, and were
   striving to supply its place with familiar love.  We meant to lessen
   the laboring man's great burden of toil, by performing our due share of
   it at the cost of our own thews and sinews.  We sought our profit by
   mutual aid, instead of wresting it by the strong hand from an enemy, or
   filching it craftily from those less shrewd than ourselves (if, indeed,
           there were any such in New England), or winning it by selfish
   competition with a neighbor; in one or another of which fashions every
   son of woman both perpetrates and suffers his share of the common evil,
   whether he chooses it or no.  And, as the basis of our institution, we
   purposed to offer up the earnest toil of our bodies, as a prayer no
   less than an effort for the advancement of our race.

   Therefore, if we built splendid castles (phalansteries perhaps they
           might be more fitly called), and pictured beautiful scenes, among the
   fervid coals of the hearth around which we were clustering, and if all
   went to rack with the crumbling embers and have never since arisen out
   of the ashes, let us take to ourselves no shame.  In my own behalf, I
   rejoice that I could once think better of the world's improvability
   than it deserved.  It is a mistake into which men seldom fall twice in
   a lifetime; or, if so, the rarer and higher is the nature that can thus
   magnanimously persist in error.

   Stout Silas Foster mingled little in our conversation; but when he did
   speak, it was very much to some practical purpose.  For
   instance:--"Which man among you," quoth he, "is the best judge of
   swine?  Some of us must go to the next Brighton fair, and buy half a
   dozen pigs."

   Pigs!  Good heavens! had we come out from among the swinish multitude
   for this?  And again, in reference to some discussion about raising
   early vegetables for the market:--"We shall never make any hand at
   market gardening," said Silas Foster, "unless the women folks will
   undertake to do all the weeding.  We haven't team enough for that and
   the regular farm-work, reckoning three of your city folks as worth one
   common field-hand.  No, no; I tell you, we should have to get up a
   little too early in the morning, to compete with the market gardeners
   round Boston."

   It struck me as rather odd, that one of the first questions raised,
   after our separation from the greedy, struggling, self-seeking world,
   should relate to the possibility of getting the advantage over the
   outside barbarians in their own field of labor.  But, to own the truth,
   I very soon became sensible that, as regarded society at large, we
   stood in a position of new hostility, rather than new brotherhood. Nor
   could this fail to be the case, in some degree, until the bigger and
   better half of society should range itself on our side. Constituting so
   pitiful a minority as now, we were inevitably estranged from the rest
   of mankind in pretty fair proportion with the strictness of our mutual
   bond among ourselves.

   This dawning idea, however, was driven back into my inner consciousness
   by the entrance of Zenobia.  She came with the welcome intelligence
   that supper was on the table.  Looking at herself in the glass, and
   perceiving that her one magnificent flower had grown rather languid
   (probably by being exposed to the fervency of the kitchen fire), she
   flung it on the floor, as unconcernedly as a village girl would throw
   away a faded violet.  The action seemed proper to her character,
   although, methought, it would still more have befitted the bounteous
   nature of this beautiful woman to scatter fresh flowers from her hand,
   and to revive faded ones by her touch. Nevertheless, it was a singular
   but irresistible effect; the presence of Zenobia caused our heroic
   enterprise to show like an illusion, a masquerade, a pastoral, a
   counterfeit Arcadia, in which we grown-up men and women were making a
   play-day of the years that were given us to live in.  I tried to
   analyze this impression, but not with much success.

   "It really vexes me," observed Zenobia, as we left the room, "that Mr.
   Hollingsworth should be such a laggard.  I should not have thought him
   at all the sort of person to be turned back by a puff of contrary wind,
   or a few snowflakes drifting into his face."

   "Do you know Hollingsworth personally?"  I inquired.

   "No; only as an auditor--auditress, I mean--of some of his lectures,"
   said she.  "What a voice he has! and what a man he is!  Yet not so much
   an intellectual man, I should say, as a great heart; at least, he moved
   me more deeply than I think myself capable of being moved, except by
   the stroke of a true, strong heart against my own.  It is a sad pity
   that he should have devoted his glorious powers to such a grimy,
   unbeautiful, and positively hopeless object as this reformation of
   criminals, about which he makes himself and his wretchedly small
   audiences so very miserable.  To tell you a secret, I never could
   tolerate a philanthropist before.  Could you?"

   "By no means," I answered; "neither can I now."

   "They are, indeed, an odiously disagreeable set of mortals," continued
   Zenobia.  "I should like Mr. Hollingsworth a great deal better if the
   philanthropy had been left out.  At all events, as a mere matter of
   taste, I wish he would let the bad people alone, and try to benefit
   those who are not already past his help.  Do you suppose he will be
   content to spend his life, or even a few months of it, among tolerably
   virtuous and comfortable individuals like ourselves?"

   "Upon my word, I doubt it," said I. "If we wish to keep him with us, we
   must systematically commit at least one crime apiece!  Mere peccadillos
   will not satisfy him."

   Zenobia turned, sidelong, a strange kind of a glance upon me; but,
   before I could make out what it meant, we had entered the kitchen,
   where, in accordance with the rustic simplicity of our new life, the
   supper-table was spread.

Zenobia warmly greets everyone, telling Coverdale how she has read and enjoys his poetry very much. He is charmed by her praise, blushing with pleasure. He describes her: dressed simply; dark and glossy hair with one single ornamental flower of exotic and fresh plumage; an "admirable figure" ; remarkably beautiful. She says she will play hostess tonight, though tomorrow they will all be brothers and sisters. Someone asks how parts are assigned, and she laughs that women will do women's work, but over time that may change. Coverdale wonders aloud that the lot of women is that which "chiefly distinguishes artificial life -the life of degenerate mortals -from the life of Paradise". He privately sees her as an Eve of sorts, almost actually beholding her in Eve's earliest garment. He is impressed by her openness and lack of restraint that women usually have, seeing her as warm and rich in a way other women are not. The women begin to cook and the others talk. Silas Foster enters, shaking off snow. He is heavy, uncouth, and bearded. The storm grows stronger outside, but their courage does not flag. They are sure of their vision, not caring for other men's scorn. They are no longer at the pulpit, at the ledger, using their pen; they are no longer indolent but ready to embrace a life of principle that human society has shunned. They will replace pride with love. Foster mingles only a little, annoying Coverdale by talking about practical matters like buying pigs. He begins to realize, though, that in terms of society, they stand in a position of hostility, not brotherhood. When Zenobia comes in, he is slightly surprised to find that her presence makes their experiment seem like an illusion or a masquerade. Later she tells him that she finds it piquing that Hollingsworth is late. They both discuss how strange and lamentable it is that the man is so concerned with his philanthropic endeavor of reforming criminals. Zenobia comments that he ought to spend time working on people who can be saved, not those past help. Coverdale laughs that to please him they ought to commit a crime, and Zenobia gives him a look he cannot quite parse