ACT V. SCENE I.
The woods. Before TIMON's cave

Enter POET and PAINTER

  PAINTER. As I took note of the place, it cannot be far where he
    abides.
  POET. to be thought of him? Does the rumour hold for true that
he's
    so full of gold?
  PAINTER. Certain. Alcibiades reports it; Phrynia and Timandra
had
    gold of him. He likewise enrich'd poor straggling soldiers
with
    great quantity. 'Tis said he gave unto his steward a mighty
sum.
  POET. Then this breaking of his has been but a try for his
friends?
  PAINTER. Nothing else. You shall see him a palm in Athens
again,
    and flourish with the highest. Therefore 'tis not amiss we
tender
    our loves to him in this suppos'd distress of his; it will
show
    honestly in us, and is very likely to load our purposes with
what
    they travail for, if it be just and true report that goes of
his
    having.
  POET. What have you now to present unto him?
  PAINTER. Nothing at this time but my visitation; only I will
    promise him an excellent piece.
  POET. I must serve him so too, tell him of an intent that's
coming
    toward him.
  PAINTER. Good as the best. Promising is the very air o' th'
time;
    it opens the eyes of expectation. Performance is ever the
duller
    for his act, and but in the plainer and simpler kind of
people
    the deed of saying is quite out of use. To promise is most
    courtly and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or
    testament which argues a great sickness in his judgment that
    makes it.

                    Enter TIMON from his cave

  TIMON. [Aside] Excellent workman! Thou canst not paint a man so
bad
    as is thyself.
  POET. I am thinking what I shall say I have provided for him.
It
    must be a personating of himself; a satire against the
softness
    of prosperity, with a discovery of the infinite flatteries
that
    follow youth and opulency.
  TIMON. [Aside] Must thou needs stand for a villain in thine own
    work? Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men? Do so, I
have
    gold for thee.
  POET. Nay, let's seek him;
    Then do we sin against our own estate
    When we may profit meet and come too late.
  PAINTER. True;
    When the day serves, before black-corner'd night,
    Find what thou want'st by free and offer'd light.
    Come.
  TIMON. [Aside] I'll meet you at the turn. What a god's gold,
    That he is worshipp'd in a baser temple
    Than where swine feed!
    'Tis thou that rig'st the bark and plough'st the foam,
    Settlest admired reverence in a slave.
    To thee be worship! and thy saints for aye
    Be crown'd with plagues, that thee alone obey!
    Fit I meet them.                   [Advancing from his cave]
  POET. Hail, worthy Timon!
  PAINTER. Our late noble master!
  TIMON. Have I once liv'd to see two honest men?
  POET. Sir,
    Having often of your open bounty tasted,
    Hearing you were retir'd, your friends fall'n off,
    Whose thankless natures- O abhorred spirits!-
    Not all the whips of heaven are large enough-
    What! to you,
    Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence
    To their whole being! I am rapt, and cannot cover
    The monstrous bulk of this ingratitude
    With any size of words.
  TIMON. Let it go naked: men may see't the better.
    You that are honest, by being what you are,
    Make them best seen and known.
  PAINTER. He and myself
    Have travail'd in the great show'r of your gifts,
    And sweetly felt it.
  TIMON. Ay, you are honest men.
  PAINTER. We are hither come to offer you our service.
  TIMON. Most honest men! Why, how shall I requite you?
    Can you eat roots, and drink cold water- No?
  BOTH. What we can do, we'll do, to do you service.
  TIMON. Y'are honest men. Y'have heard that I have gold;
    I am sure you have. Speak truth; y'are honest men.
  PAINTER. So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore
    Came not my friend nor I.
  TIMON. Good honest men! Thou draw'st a counterfeit
    Best in all Athens. Th'art indeed the best;
    Thou counterfeit'st most lively.
  PAINTER. So, so, my lord.
  TIMON. E'en so, sir, as I say. [To POET] And for thy
fiction,
    Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth
    That thou art even natural in thine art.
    But for all this, my honest-natur'd friends,
    I must needs say you have a little fault.
    Marry, 'tis not monstrous in you; neither wish I
    You take much pains to mend.
  BOTH. Beseech your honour
    To make it known to us.
  TIMON. You'll take it ill.
  BOTH. Most thankfully, my lord.
  TIMON. Will you indeed?
  BOTH. Doubt it not, worthy lord.
  TIMON. There's never a one of you but trusts a knave
    That mightily deceives you.
  BOTH. Do we, my lord?
  TIMON. Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble,
    Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him,
    Keep in your bosom; yet remain assur'd
    That he's a made-up villain.
  PAINTER. I know not such, my lord.
  POET. Nor I.
  TIMON. Look you, I love you well; I'll give you gold,
    Rid me these villains from your companies.
    Hang them or stab them, drown them in a draught,
    Confound them by some course, and come to me,
    I'll give you gold enough.
  BOTH. Name them, my lord; let's know them.
  TIMON. You that way, and you this- but two in company;
    Each man apart, all single and alone,
    Yet an arch-villain keeps him company.
    [To the PAINTER] If, where thou art, two villians shall not
be,
    Come not near him. [To the POET] If thou wouldst not reside
    But where one villain is, then him abandon.-
    Hence, pack! there's gold; you came for gold, ye slaves.
    [To the PAINTER] You have work for me; there's payment;
hence!
    [To the POET] You are an alchemist; make gold of that.-
    Out, rascal dogs!                [Beats and drives them out]

                    Enter FLAVIUS and two SENATORS

  FLAVIUS. It is vain that you would speak with Timon;
    For he is set so only to himself
    That nothing but himself which looks like man
    Is friendly with him.
  FIRST SENATOR. Bring us to his cave.
    It is our part and promise to th' Athenians
    To speak with Timon.
  SECOND SENATOR. At all times alike
    Men are not still the same; 'twas time and griefs
    That fram'd him thus. Time, with his fairer hand,
    Offering the fortunes of his former days,
    The former man may make him. Bring us to him,
    And chance it as it may.
  FLAVIUS. Here is his cave.
    Peace and content be here! Lord Timon! Timon!
    Look out, and speak to friends. Th' Athenians
    By two of their most reverend Senate greet thee.
    Speak to them, noble Timon.

                   Enter TIMON out of his cave

  TIMON. Thou sun that comforts, burn. Speak and be hang'd!
    For each true word a blister, and each false
    Be as a cauterizing to the root o' th' tongue,
    Consuming it with speaking!
  FIRST SENATOR. Worthy Timon-
  TIMON. Of none but such as you, and you of Timon.
  FIRST SENATOR. The senators of Athens greet thee, Timon.
  TIMON. I thank them; and would send them back the plague,
    Could I but catch it for them.
  FIRST SENATOR. O, forget
    What we are sorry for ourselves in thee.
    The senators with one consent of love
    Entreat thee back to Athens, who have thought
    On special dignities, which vacant lie
    For thy best use and wearing.
  SECOND SENATOR. They confess
    Toward thee forgetfulness too general, gross;
    Which now the public body, which doth seldom
    Play the recanter, feeling in itself
    A lack of Timon's aid, hath sense withal
    Of it own fail, restraining aid to Timon,
    And send forth us to make their sorrowed render,
    Together with a recompense more fruitful
    Than their offence can weigh down by the dram;
    Ay, even such heaps and sums of love and wealth
    As shall to thee blot out what wrongs were theirs
    And write in thee the figures of their love,
    Ever to read them thine.
  TIMON. You witch me in it;
    Surprise me to the very brink of tears.
    Lend me a fool's heart and a woman's eyes,
    And I'll beweep these comforts, worthy senators.
  FIRST SENATOR. Therefore so please thee to return with us,
    And of our Athens, thine and ours, to take
    The captainship, thou shalt be met with thanks,
    Allow'd with absolute power, and thy good name
    Live with authority. So soon we shall drive back
    Of Alcibiades th' approaches wild,
    Who, like a boar too savage, doth root up
    His country's peace.
  SECOND SENATOR. And shakes his threat'ning sword
    Against the walls of Athens.
  FIRST SENATOR. Therefore, Timon-
  TIMON. Well, sir, I will. Therefore I will, sir, thus:
    If Alcibiades kill my countrymen,
    Let Alcibiades know this of Timon,
    That Timon cares not. But if he sack fair Athens,
    And take our goodly aged men by th' beards,
    Giving our holy virgins to the stain
    Of contumelious, beastly, mad-brain'd war,
    Then let him know- and tell him Timon speaks it
    In pity of our aged and our youth-
    I cannot choose but tell him that I care not,
    And let him take't at worst; for their knives care not,
    While you have throats to answer. For myself,
    There's not a whittle in th' unruly camp
    But I do prize it at my love before
    The reverend'st throat in Athens. So I leave you
    To the protection of the prosperous gods,
    As thieves to keepers.
  FLAVIUS. Stay not, all's in vain.
  TIMON. Why, I was writing of my epitaph;
    It will be seen to-morrow. My long sickness
    Of health and living now begins to mend,
    And nothing brings me all things. Go, live still;
    Be Alcibiades your plague, you his,
    And last so long enough!
  FIRST SENATOR. We speak in vain.
  TIMON. But yet I love my country, and am not
    One that rejoices in the common wreck,
    As common bruit doth put it.
  FIRST SENATOR. That's well spoke.
  TIMON. Commend me to my loving countrymen-
  FIRST SENATOR. These words become your lips as they pass
through
    them.
  SECOND SENATOR. And enter in our ears like great triumphers
    In their applauding gates.
  TIMON. Commend me to them,
    And tell them that, to ease them of their griefs,
    Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, losses,
    Their pangs of love, with other incident throes
    That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain
    In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them-
    I'll teach them to prevent wild Alcibiades' wrath.
  FIRST SENATOR. I like this well; he will return again.
  TIMON. I have a tree, which grows here in my close,
    That mine own use invites me to cut down,
    And shortly must I fell it. Tell my friends,
    Tell Athens, in the sequence of degree
    From high to low throughout, that whoso please
    To stop affliction, let him take his haste,
    Come hither, ere my tree hath felt the axe,
    And hang himself. I pray you do my greeting.
  FLAVIUS. Trouble him no further; thus you still shall find him.
  TIMON. Come not to me again; but say to Athens
    Timon hath made his everlasting mansion
    Upon the beached verge of the salt flood,
    Who once a day with his embossed froth
    The turbulent surge shall cover. Thither come,
    And let my gravestone be your oracle.
    Lips, let sour words go by and language end:
    What is amiss, plague and infection mend!
    Graves only be men's works and death their gain!
    Sun, hide thy beams. Timon hath done his reign.
                                        Exit TIMON into his cave
  FIRST SENATOR. His discontents are unremovably
    Coupled to nature.
  SECOND SENATOR. Our hope in him is dead. Let us return
    And strain what other means is left unto us
    In our dear peril.
  FIRST SENATOR. It requires swift foot.                  Exeunt

The poet and the painter come into the woods. They are looking for Timon. They discuss the rumors that Timon now possesses a lot of gold. The painter informs the poet how Timon has enriched the prostitutes Phrynia and Timandra, the steward Flavius and also Alcibiades. Then they both discuss what present they should give Timon. The painter says that, it is better to promise something instead of actually giving something and that this pleases the person more than dull work. Timon overhears them. When they see Timon, they greet him and express their sympathy. Timon questions them if they were aware of his newly found gold. They admit it. Timon advises them to get rid of the evil villain within them. He then gives them some gold, gives them a good thrashing, calls them rascal dogs, and drives them away. The next visitors are two Senators from Athens. They are accompanied by Flavius. The steward tells the Senators that he is sure that Timon will not help them. Flavius now calls Timon from his cave. The Senators greet Timon and, as expected, he speaks to them very roughly. The Senators express their regret at what they have done. They request Timon to come back to Athens to fight against Alcibiades, who is causing trouble and threatening to destroy the city. They want him to accept the command of the army so that together they can drive away Alcibiades. Timon refuses to accompany them as he does not care for Athens any more and therefore the misery of the Athenians does not concern him anymore. Timon tells them not to come back to him again. The Senators realize that Timon is not going to help them and therefore decide to go back to Athens soon so that they can think of some means to save the city.

Notes The fifth act is a reversal of the third Act. The fact that Timon is rich again reaches Athens. Those who had abandon him during his trouble now flock back in the hope of gaining something. The poet and the painter are the first ones to come to the woods to meet Timon. Their artificiality can be seen in their conversation with Timon. The painter has nothing to give Timon and decides to promise him an excellent piece of work. The poet also decides to promise him something based on his tragic life. They dont want to take a chance of losing a huge wealth. When Timon overhears this he agrees to what Apemantus had been repeatedly trying to convey . The betrayal has affected Timon so deeply that he says to himself that he is ready to give gold to spread their evil thought to others. They express their outward sympathy, which obviously does not spring from their heart. Timon calls the painter an alchemist because he blends color. Timon then tells him to transform stones into gold. Flavius brings two Senators to meet Timon. The steward informs the Senators that it is fruitless to approach Timon because he knows his master well. The Senators apologize to Timon for all the wrongs that they have done to him. They request Timon to come back to the city because they are scared of Alcibiades, as he has threatened to destroy the city. The first Senator tempts Timon with good name, wealth and power. The Senators want Timons help in driving Alcibiades out. Hence, the readers can see here that, the Senators have not come here because they sympathize with Timon but because he is the only person, who can save them from Alcibiades fury. However, experience has made Timon a wise man. At first, it seems that he will help them but to the surprise of the Senators, he says that he does not value the lives of the Athenians. He leaves them under the protection of God, as the thieves are under the mercy of the person responsible for executing him. He treats them in the same way that they have treated him. Here, one notices a similarity between Timons curse and that of Alcibiades, when the Senators refused to listen to his request. They both wish the Senators a long life full of similarity in Timons curse with those of Alcibiades in Act three scene five in which he wishes them long life of suffering. From Timons last speech in this scene, it seems as though Timon is awaiting his death. He however is all prepared for it. He has seen both the good and the bad part of life. He no longer seems to be interested in it.


SCENE II.
Before the walls of Athens

Enter two other SENATORS with a MESSENGER

  FIRST SENATOR. Thou hast painfully discover'd; are his files
    As full as thy report?
  MESSENGER. I have spoke the least.
    Besides, his expedition promises
    Present approach.
  SECOND SENATOR. We stand much hazard if they bring not Timon.
  MESSENGER. I met a courier, one mine ancient friend,
    Whom, though in general part we were oppos'd,
    Yet our old love had a particular force,
    And made us speak like friends. This man was riding
    From Alcibiades to Timon's cave
    With letters of entreaty, which imported
    His fellowship i' th' cause against your city,
    In part for his sake mov'd.

               Enter the other SENATORS, from TIMON

  FIRST SENATOR. Here come our brothers.
  THIRD SENATOR. No talk of Timon, nothing of him expect.
    The enemies' drum is heard, and fearful scouring
    Doth choke the air with dust. In, and prepare.
    Ours is the fall, I fear; our foes the snare.         Exeunt

The scene opens with a conversation between a Senator and a messenger. The messenger informs the Senator that Alcibiades and his army are ready to attack Athens. This news disturbs the Senator. The messenger also informs the Senator about the message that Alcibiades has sent to Timon, asking him to join his campaign against Athens. In the meanwhile, the other Senators return from the woods and give the Senator the news that Timon has refused to help them. The Senator now knows that there is no hope of victory.

Notes The Senators meet and express their fears about the forthcoming attack. The atmosphere both outside the city and within is tense as Alcibiades is expected to attack any minute. A messenger arrives and tells the Senators that he has just met a friend who is working for Alcibiades and that the friend has given him some important information. This shows that the messenger is not loyal to his master Alcibiades because he has leaked out information to the enemy camp. Such things happening on the war front can cause big trouble. The Senators seem to have lost all confidence in themselves and are sure that they are not going to win against Alcibiades huge and strong army. The messengers news that Alcibiades army is all ready to attack, makes them even more nervous. When the two Senators return from the woods and inform the others that, Timon has refused to help them, it crushes what little hope they had about surviving the situation. At this moment, they are perhaps repenting the fact that they did not help Timon in his time of need. If they had done so, then they probably would not have had to face such a situation.


SCENE III.
The TIMON's cave, and a rude tomb seen

Enter a SOLDIER in the woods, seeking TIMON

  SOLDIER. By all description this should be the place.
    Who's here? Speak, ho! No answer? What is this?
    Timon is dead, who hath outstretch'd his span.
    Some beast rear'd this; here does not live a man.
    Dead, sure; and this his grave. What's on this tomb
    I cannot read; the character I'll take with wax.
    Our captain hath in every figure skill,
    An ag'd interpreter, though young in days;
    Before proud Athens he's set down by this,
    Whose fall the mark of his ambition is.                 Exit

A soldier looks for Timon in the woods. He is able to locate the place by its description. He however does not find Timon. His eyes fall on an inscription, which Timon has left behind. The soldier also sees the grave and is sure Timon is dead. Something is written on the tomb, which he cannot read. He decides to take the impression with wax and shows it to Alcibiades the captain who is an experienced interpreter.

Notes The inscription on the tomb is quite misanthropic. It says that Timon has lived more that he had wished for. Timon compares man to a beast, when he says that there are no men in this world. What he means to say here is that, there is not a single individual with a sense of humanity who is fit to be called a man. The soldier is able to read only the first piece of writing. He cannot read the rest because it is written in a language unknown to him.


SCENE IV.
Before the walls of Athens

Trumpets sound. Enter ALCIBIADES with his powers before Athens

  ALCIBIADES. Sound to this coward and lascivious town
    Our terrible approach.

       Sound a parley. The SENATORS appear upon the walls

    Till now you have gone on and fill'd the time
    With all licentious measure, making your wills
    The scope of justice; till now, myself, and such
    As slept within the shadow of your power,
    Have wander'd with our travers'd arms, and breath'd
    Our sufferance vainly. Now the time is flush,
    When crouching marrow, in the bearer strong,
    Cries of itself 'No more!' Now breathless wrong
    Shall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease,
    And pursy insolence shall break his wind
    With fear and horrid flight.
  FIRST SENATOR. Noble and young,
    When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit,
    Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of fear,
    We sent to thee, to give thy rages balm,
    To wipe out our ingratitude with loves
    Above their quantity.
  SECOND SENATOR. So did we woo
    Transformed Timon to our city's love
    By humble message and by promis'd means.
    We were not all unkind, nor all deserve
    The common stroke of war.
  FIRST SENATOR. These walls of ours
    Were not erected by their hands from whom
    You have receiv'd your griefs; nor are they such
    That these great tow'rs, trophies, and schools, should fall
    For private faults in them.
  SECOND SENATOR. Nor are they living
    Who were the motives that you first went out;
    Shame, that they wanted cunning, in excess
    Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord,
    Into our city with thy banners spread.
    By decimation and a tithed death-
    If thy revenges hunger for that food
    Which nature loathes- take thou the destin'd tenth,
    And by the hazard of the spotted die
    Let die the spotted.
  FIRST SENATOR. All have not offended;
    For those that were, it is not square to take,
    On those that are, revenge: crimes, like lands,
    Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman,
    Bring in thy ranks, but leave without thy rage;
    Spare thy Athenian cradle, and those kin
    Which, in the bluster of thy wrath, must fall
    With those that have offended. Like a shepherd
    Approach the fold and cull th' infected forth,
    But kill not all together.
  SECOND SENATOR. What thou wilt,
    Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile
    Than hew to't with thy sword.
  FIRST SENATOR. Set but thy foot
    Against our rampir'd gates and they shall ope,
    So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before
    To say thou't enter friendly.
  SECOND SENATOR. Throw thy glove,
    Or any token of thine honour else,
    That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress
    And not as our confusion, all thy powers
    Shall make their harbour in our town till we
    Have seal'd thy full desire.
  ALCIBIADES. Then there's my glove;
    Descend, and open your uncharged ports.
    Those enemies of Timon's and mine own,
    Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof,
    Fall, and no more. And, to atone your fears
    With my more noble meaning, not a man
    Shall pass his quarter or offend the stream
    Of regular justice in your city's bounds,
    But shall be render'd to your public laws
    At heaviest answer.
  BOTH. 'Tis most nobly spoken.
  ALCIBIADES. Descend, and keep your words.
                       [The SENATORS descend and open the gates]

                 Enter a SOLDIER as a Messenger

  SOLDIER. My noble General, Timon is dead;
    Entomb'd upon the very hem o' th' sea;
    And on his grave-stone this insculpture, which
    With wax I brought away, whose soft impression
    Interprets for my poor ignorance.

                  ALCIBIADES reads the Epitaph

    'Here lies a wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft;
    Seek not my name. A plague consume you wicked caitiffs left!
    Here lie I, Timon, who alive all living men did hate.
    Pass by, and curse thy fill; but pass, and stay not here thy
      gait.'
    These well express in thee thy latter spirits.
    Though thou abhorr'dst in us our human griefs,
    Scorn'dst our brain's flow, and those our droplets which
    From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit
    Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye
    On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead
    Is noble Timon, of whose memory
    Hereafter more. Bring me into your city,
    And I will use the olive, with my sword;
    Make war breed peace, make peace stint war, make each
    Prescribe to other, as each other's leech.
    Let our drums strike.                                 Exeunt

THE END

Alcibiades and his army are seen moving towards Athens. The Senators are standing behind the walls. Alcibiades tells the Senators that their happy times have finally come to an end. He also accuses the Senators of often trampling upon justice, but now the time has changed. Wrong deeds will no longer be tolerated. The Senator tries to tell Alcibiades how they have tried to compensate for their act of unkindness. One of the Senators tells Timon that it wont be fair on his part to destroy the structures of Athens, which have been built by generations of Athenians. He also tells Alcibiades that all those Senators, who had wronged against him, are no longer alive. The Senator now tells Alcibiades that if he still wants his revenge, then he can come into the city and kill those that he feels are guilty. Alcibiades commands them to open the gates of the city. The Senators surrender the city of Athens to Alcibiades and his army. Just as Alcibiades is about to enter the city of Athens, the soldier who has discovered Timons grave enters and informs Alcibiades about Timons death and hands over the epitaph to him. Alcibiades translates it, after which he promises that he is going to establish a righteous government in Athens and rule the city justly.

Notes This is the last scene of the play. A conversation takes place between Alcibiades and the Senators. Alcibiades points out how he himself was under the Senators who were powerful. He could not ask for fair justice. The Senators try to convince Alcibiades that they have realized their faults. They tried sending messages to him repenting their ingratitude. They also tell Alcibiades that they have even tried to make peace with Timon. Hence they do not deserve the stroke of war. But in reality the Senators do all this only because they are scared and unprepared for the war. They hope that by saying this they can save Athens. Alcibiades agrees not to destroy the city but tells the Senators that he is going to take action against those who have wronged against both him and Timon. A soldier hands over the epitaph, which he has brought from Timons grave. While reading the epitaph, Alcibiades is sad and realizes that his friend Timon died a misanthrope. He muses that although Timon did not want anybodys sympathies, his friends will express their grief on his humble grave. Alcibiades promises to establish a just government in Athens.


FIRST ACT

SCENE

Morning-room in Algernon's flat in Half-Moon Street.  The room is
luxuriously and artistically furnished.  The sound of a piano is heard in
the adjoining room.

[Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music has
ceased, Algernon enters.]

Algernon.  Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?

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

Algernon.  I'm sorry for that, for your sake.  I don't play
accurately--any one can play accurately--but I play with wonderful
expression.  As far as the piano is concerned, sentiment is my forte.  I
keep science for Life.

Lane.  Yes, sir.

Algernon.  And, speaking of the science of Life, have you got the
cucumber sandwiches cut for Lady Bracknell?

Lane.  Yes, sir.  [Hands them on a salver.]

Algernon.  [Inspects them, takes two, and sits down on the sofa.]  Oh! . . .
by the way, Lane, I see from your book that on Thursday night, when
Lord Shoreman and Mr. Worthing were dining with me, eight bottles of
champagne are entered as having been consumed.

Lane.  Yes, sir; eight bottles and a pint.

Algernon.  Why is it that at a bachelor's establishment the servants
invariably drink the champagne?  I ask merely for information.

Lane.  I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir.  I have
often observed that in married households the champagne is rarely of a
first-rate brand.

Algernon.  Good heavens!  Is marriage so demoralising as that?

Lane.  I believe it _is_ a very pleasant state, sir.  I have had very
little experience of it myself up to the present.  I have only been
married once.  That was in consequence of a misunderstanding between
myself and a young person.

Algernon.  [Languidly_._]  I don't know that I am much interested in your
family life, Lane.

Lane.  No, sir; it is not a very interesting subject.  I never think of
it myself.

Algernon.  Very natural, I am sure.  That will do, Lane, thank you.

Lane.  Thank you, sir.  [Lane goes out.]

Algernon.  Lane's views on marriage seem somewhat lax.  Really, if the
lower orders don't set us a good example, what on earth is the use of
them?  They seem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense of moral
responsibility.

[Enter Lane.]

Lane.  Mr. Ernest Worthing.

[Enter Jack.]

[Lane goes out_._]

Algernon.  How are you, my dear Ernest?  What brings you up to town?

Jack.  Oh, pleasure, pleasure!  What else should bring one anywhere?
Eating as usual, I see, Algy!

Algernon.  [Stiffly_._]  I believe it is customary in good society to
take some slight refreshment at five o'clock.  Where have you been since
last Thursday?

Jack.  [Sitting down on the sofa.]  In the country.

Algernon.  What on earth do you do there?

Jack.  [Pulling off his gloves_._]  When one is in town one amuses
oneself.  When one is in the country one amuses other people.  It is
excessively boring.

Algernon.  And who are the people you amuse?

Jack.  [Airily_._]  Oh, neighbours, neighbours.

Algernon.  Got nice neighbours in your part of Shropshire?

Jack.  Perfectly horrid!  Never speak to one of them.

Algernon.  How immensely you must amuse them!  [Goes over and takes
sandwich.]  By the way, Shropshire is your county, is it not?

Jack.  Eh?  Shropshire?  Yes, of course.  Hallo!  Why all these cups?  Why
cucumber sandwiches?  Why such reckless extravagance in one so young?  Who
is coming to tea?

Algernon.  Oh! merely Aunt Augusta and Gwendolen.

Jack.  How perfectly delightful!

Algernon.  Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid Aunt Augusta won't
quite approve of your being here.

Jack.  May I ask why?

Algernon.  My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is perfectly
disgraceful.  It is almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts with you.

Jack.  I am in love with Gwendolen.  I have come up to town expressly to
propose to her.

Algernon.  I thought you had come up for pleasure? . . . I call that
business.

Jack.  How utterly unromantic you are!

Algernon.  I really don't see anything romantic in proposing.  It is very
romantic to be in love.  But there is nothing romantic about a definite
proposal.  Why, one may be accepted.  One usually is, I believe.  Then
the excitement is all over.  The very essence of romance is uncertainty.
If ever I get married, I'll certainly try to forget the fact.

Jack.  I have no doubt about that, dear Algy.  The Divorce Court was
specially invented for people whose memories are so curiously
constituted.

Algernon.  Oh! there is no use speculating on that subject.  Divorces are
made in Heaven--[Jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich.  Algernon at
once interferes.]  Please don't touch the cucumber sandwiches.  They are
ordered specially for Aunt Augusta.  [Takes one and eats it.]

Jack.  Well, you have been eating them all the time.

Algernon.  That is quite a different matter.  She is my aunt.  [Takes
plate from below.]  Have some bread and butter.  The bread and butter is
for Gwendolen.  Gwendolen is devoted to bread and butter.

Jack.  [Advancing to table and helping himself.]  And very good bread and
butter it is too.

Algernon.  Well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were going to
eat it all.  You behave as if you were married to her already.  You are
not married to her already, and I don't think you ever will be.

Jack.  Why on earth do you say that?

Algernon.  Well, in the first place girls never marry the men they flirt
with.  Girls don't think it right.

Jack.  Oh, that is nonsense!

Algernon.  It isn't.  It is a great truth.  It accounts for the
extraordinary number of bachelors that one sees all over the place.  In
the second place, I don't give my consent.

Jack.  Your consent!

Algernon.  My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my first cousin.  And before I
allow you to marry her, you will have to clear up the whole question of
Cecily.  [Rings bell.]

Jack.  Cecily!  What on earth do you mean?  What do you mean, Algy, by
Cecily!  I don't know any one of the name of Cecily.

[Enter Lane.]

Algernon.  Bring me that cigarette case Mr. Worthing left in the smoking-
room the last time he dined here.

Lane.  Yes, sir.  [Lane goes out.]

Jack.  Do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this time?  I
wish to goodness you had let me know.  I have been writing frantic
letters to Scotland Yard about it.  I was very nearly offering a large
reward.

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

Jack.  There is no good offering a large reward now that the thing is
found.

[Enter Lane with the cigarette case on a salver.  Algernon takes it at
once.  Lane goes out.]

Algernon.  I think that is rather mean of you, Ernest, I must say.  [Opens
case and examines it.]  However, it makes no matter, for, now that I look
at the inscription inside, I find that the thing isn't yours after all.

Jack.  Of course it's mine.  [Moving to him.]  You have seen me with it a
hundred times, and you have no right whatsoever to read what is written
inside.  It is a very ungentlemanly thing to read a private cigarette
case.

Algernon.  Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one
should read and what one shouldn't.  More than half of modern culture
depends on what one shouldn't read.

Jack.  I am quite aware of the fact, and I don't propose to discuss
modern culture.  It isn't the sort of thing one should talk of in
private.  I simply want my cigarette case back.

Algernon.  Yes; but this isn't your cigarette case.  This cigarette case
is a present from some one of the name of Cecily, and you said you didn't
know any one of that name.

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

Algernon.  Your aunt!

Jack.  Yes.  Charming old lady she is, too.  Lives at Tunbridge Wells.
Just give it back to me, Algy.

Algernon.  [Retreating to back of sofa.]  But why does she call herself
little Cecily if she is your aunt and lives at Tunbridge Wells?
[Reading.]  'From little Cecily with her fondest love.'

Jack.  [Moving to sofa and kneeling upon it.]  My dear fellow, what on
earth is there in that?  Some aunts are tall, some aunts are not tall.
That is a matter that surely an aunt may be allowed to decide for
herself.  You seem to think that every aunt should be exactly like your
aunt!  That is absurd!  For Heaven's sake give me back my cigarette case.
[Follows Algernon round the room.]

Algernon.  Yes.  But why does your aunt call you her uncle?  'From little
Cecily, with her fondest love to her dear Uncle Jack.'  There is no
objection, I admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, but why an aunt, no
matter what her size may be, should call her own nephew her uncle, I
can't quite make out.  Besides, your name isn't Jack at all; it is
Ernest.

Jack.  It isn't Ernest; it's Jack.

Algernon.  You have always told me it was Ernest.  I have introduced you
to every one as Ernest.  You answer to the name of Ernest.  You look as
if your name was Ernest.  You are the most earnest-looking person I ever
saw in my life.  It is perfectly absurd your saying that your name isn't
Ernest.  It's on your cards.  Here is one of them.  [Taking it from
case.]  'Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany.'  I'll keep this as a
proof that your name is Ernest if ever you attempt to deny it to me, or
to Gwendolen, or to any one else.  [Puts the card in his pocket.]

Jack.  Well, my name is Ernest in town and Jack in the country, and the
cigarette case was given to me in the country.

Algernon.  Yes, but that does not account for the fact that your small
Aunt Cecily, who lives at Tunbridge Wells, calls you her dear uncle.
Come, old boy, you had much better have the thing out at once.

Jack.  My dear Algy, you talk exactly as if you were a dentist.  It is
very vulgar to talk like a dentist when one isn't a dentist.  It produces
a false impression.

Algernon.  Well, that is exactly what dentists always do.  Now, go on!
Tell me the whole thing.  I may mention that I have always suspected you
of being a confirmed and secret Bunburyist; and I am quite sure of it
now.

Jack.  Bunburyist? What on earth do you mean by a Bunburyist?

Algernon.  I'll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression
as soon as you are kind enough to inform me why you are Ernest in town
and Jack in the country.

Jack.  Well, produce my cigarette case first.

Algernon.  Here it is.  [Hands cigarette case.]  Now produce your
explanation, and pray make it improbable.  [Sits on sofa.]

Jack.  My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanation
at all.  In fact it's perfectly ordinary.  Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who
adopted me when I was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to his
grand-daughter, Miss Cecily Cardew.  Cecily, who addresses me as her
uncle from motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate,
lives at my place in the country under the charge of her admirable
governess, Miss Prism.

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

Jack.  That is nothing to you, dear boy.  You are not going to be invited
. . . I may tell you candidly that the place is not in Shropshire.

Algernon.  I suspected that, my dear fellow!  I have Bunburyed all over
Shropshire on two separate occasions.  Now, go on.  Why are you Ernest in
town and Jack in the country?

Jack.  My dear Algy, I don't know whether you will be able to understand
my real motives.  You are hardly serious enough.  When one is placed in
the position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all
subjects.  It's 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 in the Albany, and gets into the
most dreadful scrapes.  That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure and
simple.

Algernon.  The truth is rarely pure and never simple.  Modern life would
be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete
impossibility!

Jack.  That wouldn't be at all a bad thing.

Algernon.  Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow.  Don't
try it.  You should leave that to people who haven't been at a
University.  They do it so well in the daily papers.  What you really are
is a Bunburyist.  I was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist.  You
are one of the most advanced Bunburyists I know.

Jack.  What on earth do you mean?

Algernon.  You have invented a very useful younger brother called Ernest,
in order that you may be able to come up to town as often as you like.  I
have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury, in order
that I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose.  Bunbury
is perfectly invaluable.  If it wasn't for Bunbury's extraordinary bad
health, for instance, I wouldn't be able to dine with you at Willis's to-
night, for I have been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than a
week.

Jack.  I haven't asked you to dine with me anywhere to-night.

Algernon.  I know.  You are absurdly careless about sending out
invitations.  It is very foolish of you.  Nothing annoys people so much
as not receiving invitations.

Jack.  You had much better dine with your Aunt Augusta.

Algernon.  I haven't the smallest intention of doing anything of the
kind.  To begin with, I dined there on Monday, and once a week is quite
enough to dine with one's own relations.  In the second place, whenever I
do dine there I am always treated as a member of the family, and sent
down with either no woman at all, or two.  In the third place, I know
perfectly well whom she will place me next to, to-night.  She will place
me next Mary Farquhar, who always flirts with her own husband across the
dinner-table.  That is not very pleasant.  Indeed, it is not even decent
. . . and that sort of thing is enormously on the increase.  The amount
of women in London who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly
scandalous.  It looks so bad.  It is simply washing one's clean linen in
public.  Besides, now that I know you to be a confirmed Bunburyist I
naturally want to talk to you about Bunburying.  I want to tell you the
rules.

Jack.  I'm not a Bunburyist at all.  If Gwendolen accepts me, I am going
to kill my brother, indeed I think I'll kill him in any case.  Cecily is
a little too much interested in him.  It is rather a bore.  So I am going
to get rid of Ernest.  And I strongly advise you to do the same with Mr.
. . . with your invalid friend who has the absurd name.

Algernon.  Nothing will induce me to part with Bunbury, and if you ever
get married, which seems to me extremely problematic, you will be very
glad to know Bunbury.  A man who marries without knowing Bunbury has a
very tedious time of it.

Jack.  That is nonsense.  If I marry a charming girl like Gwendolen, and
she is the only girl I ever saw in my life that I would marry, I
certainly won't want to know Bunbury.

Algernon.  Then your wife will.  You don't seem to realise, that in
married life three is company and two is none.

Jack.  [Sententiously.]  That, my dear young friend, is the theory that
the corrupt French Drama has been propounding for the last fifty years.

Algernon.  Yes; and that the happy English home has proved in half the
time.

Jack.  For heaven's sake, don't try to be cynical.  It's perfectly easy
to be cynical.

Algernon.  My dear fellow, it isn't easy to be anything nowadays.  There's
such a lot of beastly competition about.  [The sound of an electric bell
is heard.]  Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta.  Only relatives, or creditors,
ever ring in that Wagnerian manner.  Now, if I get her out of the way for
ten minutes, so that you can have an opportunity for proposing to
Gwendolen, may I dine with you to-night at Willis's?

Jack.  I suppose so, if you want to.

Algernon.  Yes, but you must be serious about it.  I hate people who are
not serious about meals.  It is so shallow of them.

[Enter Lane.]

Lane.  Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax.

[Algernon goes forward to meet them.  Enter Lady Bracknell and
Gwendolen.]

Lady Bracknell.  Good afternoon, dear Algernon, I hope you are behaving
very well.

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

Lady Bracknell.  That's not quite the same thing.  In fact the two things
rarely go together.  [Sees Jack and bows to him with icy coldness.]

Algernon.  [To Gwendolen.]  Dear me, you are smart!

Gwendolen.  I am always smart!  Am I not, Mr. Worthing?

Jack.  You're quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.

Gwendolen.  Oh! I hope I am not that.  It would leave no room for
developments, and I intend to develop in many directions.  [Gwendolen and
Jack sit down together in the corner.]

Lady Bracknell.  I'm sorry if we are a little late, Algernon, but 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 twenty
years younger.  And now I'll have a cup of tea, and one of those nice
cucumber sandwiches you promised me.

Algernon.  Certainly, Aunt Augusta.  [Goes over to tea-table.]

Lady Bracknell.  Won't you come and sit here, Gwendolen?

Gwendolen.  Thanks, mamma, I'm quite comfortable where I am.

Algernon.  [Picking up empty plate in horror.]  Good heavens!  Lane!  Why
are there no cucumber sandwiches?  I ordered them specially.

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

Algernon.  No cucumbers!

Lane.  No, sir.  Not even for ready money.

Algernon.  That will do, Lane, thank you.

Lane.  Thank you, sir.  [Goes out.]

Algernon.  I am greatly distressed, Aunt Augusta, about there being no
cucumbers, not even for ready money.

Lady Bracknell.  It really makes no matter, Algernon.  I had some
crumpets with Lady Harbury, who seems to me to be living entirely for
pleasure now.

Algernon.  I hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief.

Lady Bracknell.  It certainly has changed its colour.  From what cause I,
of course, cannot say.  [Algernon crosses and hands tea.]  Thank you.
I've quite a treat for you to-night, Algernon.  I am going to send you
down with Mary Farquhar.  She is such a nice woman, and so attentive to
her husband.  It's delightful to watch them.

Algernon.  I am afraid, Aunt Augusta, I shall have to give up the
pleasure of dining with you to-night after all.

Lady Bracknell.  [Frowning.]  I hope not, Algernon.  It would put my
table completely out.  Your uncle would have to dine upstairs.
Fortunately he is accustomed to that.

Algernon.  It is a great bore, and, I need hardly say, a terrible
disappointment to me, but the fact is I have just had a telegram to say
that my poor friend Bunbury is very ill again.  [Exchanges glances with
Jack.]  They seem to think I should be with him.

Lady Bracknell.  It is very strange.  This Mr. Bunbury seems to suffer
from curiously bad health.

Algernon.  Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid.

Lady Bracknell.  Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high time
that Mr. Bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live or to die.
This shilly-shallying with the question is absurd.  Nor do I in any way
approve of the modern sympathy with invalids.  I consider it morbid.
Illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged in others.  Health
is the primary duty of life.  I am always telling that to your poor
uncle, but he never seems to take much notice . . . as far as any
improvement in his ailment goes.  I should be much obliged if you would
ask Mr. Bunbury, from me, to be kind enough 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 every one has practically said
whatever they had to say, which, in most cases, was probably not much.

Algernon.  I'll speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta, if he is still conscious,
and I think I can promise you he'll be all right by Saturday.  Of course
the music is a great difficulty.  You see, if one plays good music,
people don't listen, and if one plays bad music people don't talk.  But
I'll run over the programme I've drawn out, if you will kindly come into
the next room for a moment.

Lady Bracknell.  Thank you, Algernon.  It is very thoughtful of you.
[Rising, and following Algernon.]  I'm sure the programme will be
delightful, after a few expurgations.  French songs I cannot possibly
allow.  People always seem to think that they are improper, and either
look shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh, which is worse.  But German
sounds a thoroughly respectable language, and indeed, I believe is so.
Gwendolen, you will accompany me.

Gwendolen.  Certainly, mamma.

[Lady Bracknell and Algernon go into the music-room, Gwendolen remains
behind.]

Jack.  Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax.

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

Jack.  I do mean something else.

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

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

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

Jack.  [Nervously.]  Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you I have admired
you more than any girl . . . I have ever met since . . . I met you.

Gwendolen.  Yes, I am quite well aware of the fact.  And I often wish
that in public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative.  For me you
have always had an irresistible fascination.  Even before I met you I was
far from indifferent to you.  [Jack looks at her in amazement.]  We live,
as I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, in an age of ideals.  The fact is
constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines, and has
reached the provincial pulpits, I am told; and my ideal has always been
to love some one of the name of Ernest.  There is something in that name
that inspires absolute confidence.  The moment Algernon first mentioned
to me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to love
you.

Jack.  You really love me, Gwendolen?

Gwendolen.  Passionately!

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

Gwendolen.  My own Ernest!

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

Gwendolen.  But your name is Ernest.

Jack.  Yes, I know it is.  But supposing it was something else?  Do you
mean to say you couldn't love me then?

Gwendolen.  [Glibly.]  Ah! that is clearly a metaphysical speculation,
and like most metaphysical speculations has very little reference at all
to the actual facts of real life, as we know them.

Jack.  Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don't much care
about the name of Ernest . . . I don't think the name suits me at all.

Gwendolen.  It suits you perfectly.  It is a divine name.  It has a music
of its own.  It produces vibrations.

Jack.  Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that I think there are lots of
other much nicer names.  I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.

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

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

Gwendolen.  Married, Mr. Worthing?

Jack.  [Astounded.]  Well . . . surely.  You know that I love you, and
you led me to believe, Miss Fairfax, that you were not absolutely
indifferent to me.

Gwendolen.  I adore you.  But you haven't proposed to me yet.  Nothing
has been said at all about marriage.  The subject has not even been
touched on.

Jack.  Well . . . may I propose to you now?

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

Jack.  Gwendolen!

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

Jack.  You know what I have got to say to you.

Gwendolen.  Yes, but you don't say it.

Jack.  Gwendolen, will you marry me?  [Goes on his knees.]

Gwendolen.  Of course I will, darling.  How long you have been about it!
I am afraid you have had very little experience in how to propose.

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

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

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

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

Lady Bracknell.  Finished what, may I ask?

Gwendolen.  I am engaged to Mr. Worthing, mamma.  [They rise together.]

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

Gwendolen.  [Reproachfully.]  Mamma!

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

Gwendolen.  Yes, mamma.  [Goes out, looking back at Jack.]

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

[Looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.]

Jack.  Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.

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

Jack.  Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.

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

Jack.  Twenty-nine.

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

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

Lady Bracknell.  I am pleased to hear it.  I do not approve of anything
that tampers with natural ignorance.  Ignorance is like a delicate exotic
fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone.  The whole theory of modern
education is radically unsound.  Fortunately in England, at any rate,
education produces no effect whatsoever.  If it did, it would prove a
serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of
violence in Grosvenor Square.  What is your income?

Jack.  Between seven and eight thousand a year.

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

Jack.  In investments, chiefly.

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

Jack.  I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it,
about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don't depend on that for my
real income.  In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the
only people who make anything out of it.

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

Jack.  Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the year
to Lady Bloxham.  Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at six
months' notice.

Lady Bracknell.  Lady Bloxham?  I don't know her.

Jack.  Oh, she goes about very little.  She is a lady considerably
advanced in years.

Lady Bracknell.  Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability of
character.  What number in Belgrave Square?

Jack.  149.

Lady Bracknell.  [Shaking her head.]  The unfashionable side.  I thought
there was something.  However, that could easily be altered.

Jack.  Do you mean the fashion, or the side?

Lady Bracknell.  [Sternly.]  Both, if necessary, I presume.  What are
your politics?

Jack.  Well, I am afraid I really have none.  I am a Liberal Unionist.

Lady Bracknell.  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?

Jack.  I have lost both my parents.

Lady Bracknell.  To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a
misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.  Who was your father?
He was evidently a man of some wealth.  Was he born in what the Radical
papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the
aristocracy?

Jack.  I am afraid I really don't know.  The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I
said I had lost my parents.  It would be nearer the truth to say that my
parents seem to have lost me . . . I don't actually know who I am by
birth.  I was . . . well, I was found.

Lady Bracknell.  Found!

Jack.  The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very 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.

Lady Bracknell.  Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class
ticket for this seaside resort find you?

Jack.  [Gravely.]  In a hand-bag.

Lady Bracknell.  A hand-bag?

Jack.  [Very seriously.]  Yes, Lady Bracknell.  I was in a hand-bag--a
somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it--an ordinary
hand-bag in fact.

Lady Bracknell.  In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew
come across this ordinary hand-bag?

Jack.  In the cloak-room at Victoria Station.  It was given to him in
mistake for his own.

Lady Bracknell.  The cloak-room at Victoria Station?

Jack.  Yes.  The Brighton line.

Lady Bracknell.  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 hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to
display a 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?  As for the particular
locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway
station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion--has probably,
indeed, been used for that purpose before now--but it could hardly be
regarded as an assured basis for a recognised position in good society.

Jack.  May I ask you then what you would advise me to do?  I need hardly
say I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen's happiness.

Lady Bracknell.  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.

Jack.  Well, I don't see how I could possibly manage to do that.  I can
produce the hand-bag at any moment.  It is in my dressing-room at home.  I
really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.

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 cloak-
room, and form an alliance with a parcel?  Good morning, Mr. Worthing!

[Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation.]

Jack.  Good morning!  [Algernon, from the other room, strikes up the
Wedding March.  Jack looks perfectly furious, and goes to the door.]  For
goodness' sake don't play that ghastly tune, Algy.  How idiotic you are!

[The music stops and Algernon enters cheerily.]

Algernon.  Didn't it go off all right, old boy?  You don't mean to say
Gwendolen refused you?  I know it is a way she has.  She is always
refusing people.  I think it is most ill-natured of her.

Jack.  Oh, Gwendolen is as right as a trivet.  As far as she is
concerned, we are engaged.  Her mother is perfectly unbearable.  Never
met such a Gorgon . . . I don't really know what a Gorgon is like, but I
am quite sure that Lady Bracknell is one.  In any case, she is a monster,
without being a myth, which is rather unfair . . . I beg your pardon,
Algy, I suppose I shouldn't talk about your own aunt in that way before
you.

Algernon.  My dear boy, I love hearing my relations abused.  It is the
only thing that makes me put up with them at all.  Relations are simply a
tedious pack of people, who haven't got the remotest knowledge of how to
live, nor the smallest instinct about when to die.

Jack.  Oh, that is nonsense!

Algernon.  It isn't!

Jack.  Well, I won't argue about the matter.  You always want to argue
about things.

Algernon.  That is exactly what things were originally made for.

Jack.  Upon my word, if I thought that, I'd shoot myself . . . [A pause.]
You don't think there is any chance of Gwendolen becoming like her mother
in about a hundred and fifty years, do you, Algy?

Algernon.  All women become like their mothers.  That is their tragedy.
No man does.  That's his.

Jack.  Is that clever?

Algernon.  It is perfectly phrased! and quite as true as any observation
in civilised life should be.

Jack.  I am sick to death of cleverness.  Everybody is clever nowadays.
You can't go anywhere without meeting clever people.  The thing has
become an absolute public nuisance.  I wish to goodness we had a few
fools left.

Algernon.  We have.

Jack.  I should extremely like to meet them.  What do they talk about?

Algernon.  The fools?  Oh! about the clever people, of course.

Jack.  What fools!

Algernon.  By the way, did you tell Gwendolen the truth about your being
Ernest in town, and Jack in the country?

Jack.  [In a very patronising manner.]  My dear fellow, the truth isn't
quite the sort of thing one tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl.  What
extraordinary ideas you have about the way to behave to a woman!

Algernon.  The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her, if
she is pretty, and to some one else, if she is plain.

Jack.  Oh, that is nonsense.

Algernon.  What about your brother?  What about the profligate Ernest?

Jack.  Oh, before the end of the week I shall have got rid of him.  I'll
say he died in Paris of apoplexy.  Lots of people die of apoplexy, quite
suddenly, don't they?

Algernon.  Yes, but it's hereditary, my dear fellow.  It's a sort of
thing that runs in families.  You had much better say a severe chill.

Jack.  You are sure a severe chill isn't hereditary, or anything of that
kind?

Algernon.  Of course it isn't!

Jack.  Very well, then.  My poor brother Ernest to carried off suddenly,
in Paris, by a severe chill.  That gets rid of him.

Algernon.  But I thought you said that . . . Miss Cardew was a little too
much interested in your poor brother Ernest?  Won't she feel his loss a
good deal?

Jack.  Oh, that is all right.  Cecily is not a silly romantic girl, I am
glad to say.  She has got a capital appetite, goes long walks, and pays
no attention at all to her lessons.

Algernon.  I would rather like to see Cecily.

Jack.  I will take very good care you never do.  She is excessively
pretty, and she is only just eighteen.

Algernon.  Have you told Gwendolen yet that you have an excessively
pretty ward who is only just eighteen?

Jack.  Oh! one doesn't blurt these things out to people.  Cecily and
Gwendolen are perfectly certain to be extremely great friends.  I'll bet
you anything you like that half an hour after they have met, they will be
calling each other sister.

Algernon.  Women only do that when they have called each other a lot of
other things first.  Now, my dear boy, if we want to get a good table at
Willis's, we really must go and dress.  Do you know it is nearly seven?

Jack.  [Irritably.]  Oh!  It always is nearly seven.

Algernon.  Well, I'm hungry.

Jack.  I never knew you when you weren't . . .

Algernon.  What shall we do after dinner?  Go to a theatre?

Jack.  Oh no!  I loathe listening.

Algernon.  Well, let us go to the Club?

Jack.  Oh, no!  I hate talking.

Algernon.  Well, we might trot round to the Empire at ten?

Jack.  Oh, no!  I can't bear looking at things.  It is so silly.

Algernon.  Well, what shall we do?

Jack.  Nothing!

Algernon.  It is awfully hard work doing nothing.  However, I don't mind
hard work where there is no definite object of any kind.

[Enter Lane.]

Lane.  Miss Fairfax.

[Enter Gwendolen.  Lane goes out.]

Algernon.  Gwendolen, upon my word!

Gwendolen.  Algy, kindly turn your back.  I have something very
particular to say to Mr. Worthing.

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

Gwendolen.  Algy, you always adopt a strictly immoral attitude towards
life.  You are not quite old enough to do that.  [Algernon retires to the
fireplace.]

Jack.  My own darling!

Gwendolen.  Ernest, we may never be married.  From the expression on
mamma's face I fear we never shall.  Few parents nowadays pay any regard
to what their children say to them.  The old-fashioned respect for the
young is fast dying out.  Whatever influence I ever had over mamma, I
lost at the age of three.  But although she may prevent us from becoming
man and wife, and I may marry some one else, and marry often, nothing
that she can possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you.

Jack.  Dear Gwendolen!

Gwendolen.  The story of your romantic origin, as related to me by mamma,
with unpleasing comments, has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my
nature.  Your Christian name has an irresistible fascination.  The
simplicity of your character makes you exquisitely incomprehensible to
me.  Your town address at the Albany I have.  What is your address in the
country?

Jack.  The Manor House, Woolton, Hertfordshire.

[Algernon, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, and
writes the address on his shirt-cuff.  Then picks up the Railway Guide.]

Gwendolen.  There is a good postal service, I suppose?  It may be
necessary to do something desperate.  That of course will require serious
consideration.  I will communicate with you daily.

Jack.  My own one!

Gwendolen.  How long do you remain in town?

Jack.  Till Monday.

Gwendolen.  Good!  Algy, you may turn round now.

Algernon.  Thanks, I've turned round already.

Gwendolen.  You may also ring the bell.

Jack.  You will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling?

Gwendolen.  Certainly.

Jack.  [To Lane, who now enters.]  I will see Miss Fairfax out.

Lane.  Yes, sir.  [Jack and Gwendolen go off.]

[Lane presents several letters on a salver to Algernon.  It is to be
surmised that they are bills, as Algernon, after looking at the
envelopes, tears them up.]

Algernon.  A glass of sherry, Lane.

Lane.  Yes, sir.

Algernon.  To-morrow, Lane, I'm going Bunburying.

Lane.  Yes, sir.

Algernon.  I shall probably not be back till Monday.  You can put up my
dress clothes, my smoking jacket, and all the Bunbury suits . . .

Lane.  Yes, sir.  [Handing sherry.]

Algernon.  I hope to-morrow will be a fine day, Lane.

Lane.  It never is, sir.

Algernon.  Lane, you're a perfect pessimist.

Lane.  I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.

[Enter Jack.  Lane goes off.]

Jack.  There's a sensible, intellectual girl! the only girl I ever cared
for in my life.  [Algernon is laughing immoderately.]  What on earth are
you so amused at?

Algernon.  Oh, I'm a little anxious about poor Bunbury, that is all.

Jack.  If you don't take care, your friend Bunbury will get you into a
serious scrape some day.

Algernon.  I love scrapes.  They are the only things that are never
serious.

Jack.  Oh, that's nonsense, Algy.  You never talk anything but nonsense.

Algernon.  Nobody ever does.

[Jack looks indignantly at him, and leaves the room.  Algernon lights a
cigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and smiles.]

ACT DROP

Let's set the scene: Lane, Algernon's servant, is arranging tea on the table in his luxurious morning-room. We hear the sound of piano music in the next room. After it falls silent, Algernon enters. Algernon checks that Lane has ordered the cucumber sandwiches for Lady Bracknell. When Lane hands them to him, Algernon takes some and flops down on the sofa. They talk about drinking and married life. Finishing his duties, Lane leaves the room. To himself, Algernon remarks that Lane's views about marriage are "lazy." Algernon comments he thinks it should be the job of the "lower classes" to demonstrate good behavior for everyone else. His thoughts are interrupted by Lane, who announces the arrival of Mr. Ernest Worthing. The two friends discuss where Ernest has been and what activities he's been up to. Ernest claims he was in the country. Doubtful about that, Algy tests Ernest--asking if he was in Shropshire. Ernest seems confused, then stutters yes, he was in Shropshire. Uncomfortable, Ernest quickly changes the subject. Algernon reveals that Aunt Augusta and Gwendolen are coming for tea, but that Aunt Augusta won't be happy that Ernest is here because he flirts disgracefully with Gwendolen. Ernest protests that he's in love with Gwendolen and has come to town specifically to propose to her. Algernon is startled. "I thought you'd come up for pleasures?... I call that business" . Algy kindly comments that he doesn't think Ernest will ever marry Gwendolen. When Ernest asks why not, Algy replies that girls never marry the men they flirt with. Plus, Algy says he doesn't give his consent--Gwen is his first cousin. Algernon follows up: Ernest still hasn't explained the Cecily situation to him. Ernest claims that he doesn't know of any Cecily. Algernon is perplexed, and decides to pull out his secret weapon; he summons Lane to get the cigarette case Ernest left on his last visit. Now Ernest has some explaining to do. There's an inscription inside the cigarette case that says: "From little Cecily with her fondest love to her dear Uncle Jack" . Algernon plays with Ernest, asking him pointed questions about this mysterious Cecily while Ernest chases him around the room, grabbing for his cigarette case. Ernest tries to get out of his sticky situation by claiming Cecily is his aunt and a short woman, which would explain the "little" part. In the end, the truth is revealed. Ernest's name is not really Ernest. It's Jack. Actually, he explains: it's "Ernest" in town and "Jack" in the country. Algernon thinks this reply makes total sense. He then exclaims that he knew Ernest/Jack was a Bunburyist. A what? Here's the deal: when he was a little boy, Jack's adopted guardian Mr. Thomas Cardew wrote in his will that he was to be the guardian of his granddaughter, Miss Cecily Cardew. Little Cecily calls Jack "Uncle" out of "motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate" . She lives out in his country house with her governess, Miss Prism. When Algernon tries to find out where this country house is, Jack curtly says that's none of his business, but it's most definitely not in Shropshire. Jack explains why he has two different names. Jack is a very moral and boring legal guardian in the country. Jack invented Ernest, who is supposedly his troublesome little brother. Ernest's scandalous doings in the city give Jack an excuse to leave the country and go to town. Delighted, Algernon exclaims that Jack is really a "Bunburyist" and, when he sees Jack's puzzled expression, begins to explain. Like Jack, Algernon has invented a useful residing-in-the-country pal named Bunbury who is "an invaluable permanent invalid" . Because of Bunbury, Algernon always has an excuse to get out of social engagements. In fact, Algernon explains, Bunbury was the reason that he's able to dine with Jack tonight at Willis's. Jack protests that he never invited Algy to dinner, but Algernon pleads with him to come because he's too embarrassed and bored to dine with his family. Jack goes back to the original topic and protests that he's not a Bunburyist since he intends to kill off Ernest very conveniently if Gwendolen accepts his proposal. Besides, Jack continues, Cecily is a little too interested in Ernest. Which is polite parent talk for "she has a crush on him." Suddenly, the bell rings, signaling that Aunt Augusta has arrived. Algernon quickly cuts a deal with Jack: if Algernon can get Aunt Augusta away from Gwendolen for ten minutes so that Jack can propose, Jack will dine with him tonight at Willis's as compensation. Jack agrees. Lane enters to announce the arrival of Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax . Algernon goes forward to greet his guests. Lady Bracknell is icily cold and polite to Jack, but Gwendolen starts flirting with him immediately. When Lady Bracknell asks for the promised cucumber sandwiches, Algernon finds--to his horror--that he's eaten all of them without noticing. Algernon and Lane improvise, putting on a charade that there were no cucumbers to be found at market that morning, "not even for ready money" . Lady Bracknell takes the missing sandwiches kindly since she's already had crumpets with a friend, Lady Harbury. But she doesn't take it so well when Algernon informs her he's not dining with her tonight, since poor Bunbury is sick again. Lady Bracknell remarks that it's irresponsible for someone to be so unhealthy. She orders Algernon to tell Mr. Bunbury to be well on Saturday because she needs Algernon to arrange the music at her last party of the season. Soon, Algernon and Lady Bracknell proceed into the next room to review the music arrangements Algernon has prepared. Gwendolen, disobeying her mother's orders, stays behind to talk to Jack. Jack, with Gwendolen's encouragement, loses no time in confessing his ardent and undying love for her. She reciprocates, calling him "my own Ernest!" . We learn that Gwendolen has always had a fantasy about marrying a man named Ernest. This is a problem for Jack. So he asks if she really couldn't love him if his name weren't Ernest? He suggests the charming name, Jack, for example. When Gwendolen scoffs, Jack suggests that "I must get christened--I mean we must get married at once" . Gwendolen protests that he has not proposed yet. Jack doesn't hesitate. And Gwendolen accepts. But here comes trouble. Lady Bracknell enters and, horrified, orders Jack to "rise... from this semi-recumbent posture" because "it is most indecorous" . Gwendolen tries to stop her mother, protesting that Jack isn't finished yet. When Lady Bracknell learns of their engagement, things get messy. She reminds Gwendolen that "when you do become engaged to someone, I, or your father... will inform you of the fact" . Lady Bracknell commands Gwendolen to wait for her in the carriage outside. Gwendolen obeys. Lady Bracknell interrogates Jack. She tells him he's not on her list of eligible young men, but she might change her mind if he answers her questions satisfactorily. She makes notes in her book as she asks questions. Does he smoke? Yes. She's pleased since men should always have some sort of "occupation." How old is he? Twenty-nine. Lady Bracknell has no problem with his age. Does he know everything or nothing? Nothing. She's delighted to hear that his "natural ignorance" is preserved. How much does he make? Seven to eight thousand pounds a year in investments. But, Jack hastens to add, he does have both nice country and town houses. This answer is satisfactory. What's his town address? 149 Belgrave Square. Lady Bracknell disproves of the address, but that can change. What is his political party? Liberal Unionist. Well, that "counts as being a Tory" . Just when we think Jack's got it in the bag, Lady Bracknell asks the tough questions. Are his parents living? He's lost both his parents. She is appalled and asks who his father was. Jack doesn't know. He explains that he was an orphan, found in a handbag at Victoria Station by a gentleman named Thomas Cardew. Lady Bracknell is not happy to hear this news. She declares his good social standing is in severe question. She advises him to try to "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" . With that, he is dismissed. From the other room, clueless Algy starts playing the "Weddng March" on the piano. Jack is furious. The interrogation conveniently gives both of the men a chance to rant about Lady Bracknell, a rant that ends in Jack's uncomfortable realization that Gwendolen might end up just like her mother. When Algernon slyly asks if Jack told Gwendolen the truth of his double identities, Jack indignantly replies that "the truth isn't quite the sort of thing one tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl" . In an effort to make himself seem more acceptable to Lady Bracknell, Jack conjures up a plan to have his brother Ernest die of a severe chill in Paris by the end of the week. When Algernon interrupts that the news of Ernest's death will devastate Cecily, Jack replies that it'll be good for her. Algy remarks offhand that he'd like to meet Cecily, but Jack is adamant that he never will because Cecily is "excessively pretty" and "only just eighteen" . Jack thinks that if Cecily ever meets Gwendolen they would be great friends, but Algy is more skeptical. As they're figuring out what to do for the rest of the evening, Gwendolen enters unaccompanied. She asks Algernon to turn his back so she can something privately to Ernest. She admits that Lady Bracknell will not let her marry Ernest, but Gwen promises she'll always love him. She admits that the story of his "romantic origin" has "naturally stirred the deeper fibres of nature" . She asks for his country house address. As Jack recites it to her, Algernon stealthily copies it down on his shift-cuff. He tells her he's only in the country until Monday, and then accompanies her out to her carriage. Algernon is left alone with Lane, who brings him his daily mail. Algernon announces that he's going Bunburying tomorrow and will not be back until Monday. Algernon starts laughing in delight, only to be interrupted by the returning Jack. When Jack asks why Algy is laughing, Algernon jokes that he's worried about Bunbury. As Jack leaves, Algernon glances at his shirt-cuff and smiles.