The Importance of Being Earnest

by Oscar Wilde

Second Act

Sixth Part

Scene. Garden at the Manor House. A flight of grey stone steps leads up to
the house. The garden, an old-fashioned one, full of roses. Time of year,
July. Basket chairs, and a table covered with books, are set under a large
yew tree. Cecily is alone writing in her diary.
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(Enter Merriman.)

Merriman. A Miss Fairfax has just called to see Mr. Worthing. On very
important business Miss Fairfax states.

Cecily. Isn't Mr. Worthing in his library?

Merriman. Mr. Worthing went over in the direction of the Rectory some time
ago.

Cecily. Pray ask the lady to come out here; Mr. Worthing is sure to be back
soon. And you can bring tea.

Merriman. Yes, Miss. (Goes out.)

Cecily. Miss Fairfax! I suppose one of the many good elderly women who are
associated with Uncle Jack in some of his philanthropic work in London. I
don't quite like women who are interested in philanthropic work. I think it
is so forward of them.

(Enter Merriman.) Merriman. Miss Fairfax.

(Enter Gwendolen.) (Exit Merriman.)

Cecily. (Advancing to meet her.) Pray let me introduce myself to you. My
name is Cecily Cardew.

Gwendolen. Cecily Cardew? (Moving to her and shaking hands.) What a very
sweet name! Something tells me that we are going to be great friends. I
like you already more than I can say. My first impressions of people are
never wrong.

Cecily. How nice of you to like me so much after we have known each other
such a comparatively short time. Pray sit down.

Gwendolen. (Still standing up.) I may call you Cecily, may I not?

Cecily. With pleasure!

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

Cecily. If you wish.

Gwendolen. Then that is all quite settled, is it not?

Cecily. I hope so. (A pause. They both sit down together.)

Gwendolen. Perhaps this might be a favourable opportunity for my mentioning
who I am. My father is Lord Bracknell. You have never heard of Papa, I
suppose?

Cecily. I don't think so.

Gwendolen. Outside the family circle, Papa, I am glad to say, is entirely
unknown. I think that is quite as it should be. The home seems to me to be
the proper sphere for the man. And certainly once a man begins to neglect
his domestic duties he becomes painfully effeminate, does he not? And I
don't like that. It makes men so very attractive. Cecily, Mamma, whose
views on education are remarkably strict, has brought me up to be extremely
short-sighted; it is part of her system; so do you mind my looking at you
through my glasses?

Cecily. Oh! not at all, Gwendolen. I am very fond of being looked at.

Gwendolen. (After examing Cecily carefully through a lorgnette.) You are
here on a short visit I suppose.

Cecily. Oh no! I live here.

Gwendolen. (Severely.) Really? Your mother, no doubt, or some female
relative of advanced years, resides here also?

Cecily. Oh no! I have no mother, nor, in fact, any relations.

Gwendolen. Indeed?

Cecily. My dear guardian, with the assistance of Miss Prism, has the
arduous task of looking after me.

Gwendolen. Your guardian?

Cecily. Yes, I am Mr. Worthing's ward.

Gwendolen. Oh! It is strange he never mentioned to me that he had a ward.
How secretive of him! He grows more interesting hourly. I am not sure,
however, that the news inspires me with feelings of unmixed delight.
(Rising and going to her.) I am very fond of you, Cecily; I have liked you
ever since I met you! But I am bound to state that now that I know that you
are Mr. Worthing's ward, I cannot help expressing a wish you were--well
just a little older than you seem to be--and not quite so very alluring in
appearance. In fact, if I may speak candidly--

Cecily. Pray do! I think that whenever one has anything unpleasant to say,
one should always be quite candid.

Gwendolen. Well, to speak with perfect candour, Cecily, I wish that you
were fully forty-two, and more than usually plain for your age. Ernest has
a strong upright nature. He is the very soul of truth and honour.
Disloyalty would be as impossible to him as deception. But even men of the
noblest possible moral character are extremely susceptible to the influence
of the physical charms of others. Modern, no less than ancient history,
supplies us with many most painful examples of what I refer to. If it were
not so, indeed, history would be quite unreadable.

Cecily. I beg your pardon, Gwendolen, did you say Ernest?

Gwendolen. Yes.

Cecily. Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is my guardian. It is his
brother--his elder brother.

Gwendolen. (Sitting down again.) Ernest never mentioned to me that he had a
brother.

Cecily. I am sorry to say they have not been on good terms for a long time.

Gwendolen. Ah! that accounts for it. And now that I think of it I have
never heard any man mention his brother. The subject seems distasteful to
most men. Cecily, you have lifted a load from my mind. I was growing almost
anxious. It would have been terrible if any cloud had come across a
friendship like ours, would it not? Of course you are quite, quite sure
that it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is your guardian?

Cecily. Quite sure. (A pause.) In fact, I am going to be his.

Gwendolen. (Enquiringly.) I beg your pardon?

Cecily. (Rather shy and confidingly.) Dearest Gwendolen, there is no reason
why I should make a secret of it to you. Our little county newspaper is
sure to chronicle the fact next week. Mr. Ernest Worthing and I are engaged
to be married.

Gwendolen. (Quite politely, rising.) My darling Cecily, I think there must
be some slight error. Mr. Ernest Worthing is engaged to me. The
announcement will appear in the Morning Post on Saturday at the latest.

Cecily. (Very politely, rising.) I am afraid you must be under some
misconception. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago. (Shows
diary.)

Gwendolen. (Examines diary through her lorgnette carefully.) It is
certainly very curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday afternoon
at 5:30. If you would care to verify the incident, pray do so. (Produces
diary of her own.) I never travel without my diary. One should always have
something sensational to read in the train. I am so sorry, dear Cecily, if
it is any disappointment to you, but I am afraid I have the prior claim.

Cecily. It would distress me more than I can tell you, dear Gwendolen, if
it caused you any mental or physical anguish, but I feel bound to point out
that since Ernest proposed to you he clearly has changed his mind.

Gwendolen. (Meditatively.) If the poor fellow has been entrapped into any
foolish promise I shall consider it my duty to rescue him at once, and with
a firm hand.

Cecily. (Thoughtfully and sadly.) Whatever unfortunate entanglement my dear
boy may have got into, I will never reproach him with it after we are
married.

Gwendolen. Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew, as an entanglement? You are
presumptuous. On an occasion of this kind it becomes more than a moral duty
to speak one's mind. It becomes a pleasure.

Cecily. Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax, that I entrapped Ernest into an
engagement? How dare you? This is no time for wearing the shallow mask of
manners. When I see a space I call it a space.

Gwendolen. (Satirically.) I am glad to say that I have never seen a spade.
It is obvious that our social spheres have been widely different.

(Enter Merriman, followed by the footman. He carries a salver, table cloth,
and plate stand. Cecily is about to retort. The presence of the servants
exercises a restraining influence, under which both girls chafe.)

Merriman. Shall I lay tea here as usual, Miss?

Cecily. (Sternly, in a calm voice.) Yes, as usual. (Merriman begins to
clear table and lay cloth. A long pause. Cecily and Gwendolen glare at each
other.)

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

Cecily. Oh! yes! a great many. From the top of one of the hills quite close
one can see five counties.

Gwendolen. Five counties! I don't think I should like that. I hate crowds.

Cecily. (Sweetly.) I suppose that is why you live in town? (Gwendolen bites
her lip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.)

Gwendolen. (Looking round.) Quite a well-kept garden this is, Miss Cardew.

Cecily. So glad you like it, Miss Fairfax.

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

Cecily. Oh, flowers are as common here, Miss Fairfax, as people are in
London.

Gwendolen. Personally I cannot understand how anybody manages to exist in
the country, if anybody who is anybody does. The country always bores me to
death.

Cecily. Ah! This is what the newspapers call agricultural depression, is it
not? I believe the aristocracy are suffering very much from it just at
present. It is almost an epidemic amongst them, I have been told. May I
offer you some tea, Miss Fairfax?

Gwendolen. (With elaborate politeness.) Thank you. (Aside.) Detestable
girl! But I require tea!

Cecily. (Sweetly.) Sugar?

Gwendolen. (Superciliously.) No, thank you. Sugar is not fashionable any
more. (Cecily looks angrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts four lumps
of sugar into the cup.)

Cecily. (Severely.) Cake or bread and butter?

Gwendolen. (In a bored manner.) Bread and butter, please. Cake is rarely
seen at the best houses nowadays.

Cecily. (Cuts a very large slice of cake, and puts it on the tray.) Hand
that to Miss Fairfax.

(Merriman does so, and goes out with footman. Gwendolen drinks the tea and
makes a grimace. Puts down cup at once, reaches out her hand to the bread
and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake. Rises in indignation.)

Gwendolen. You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I asked
most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake. I am known
for the gentleness of my disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my
nature, but I warn you, Miss Cardew, you may go too far.

Cecily. (Rising.) To save my poor, innocent, trusting boy from the
machinations of any other girl there are no lengths to which I would not
go.

Gwendolen. From the moment I saw you I distrusted you. I felt that you were
false and deceitful. I am never deceived in such matters. My first
impressions of people are invariably right.

Cecily. It seems to me, Miss Fairfax, that I am trespassing on your
valuable time. No doubt you have many other calls of a similar charcter to
make in the neighbourhood.

(Enter Jack.)

   * Next: Act II, Part VII

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The Scenes of the Play

   * Act I: Algernon Moncrieff's Flat in Half-Moon Street, W.
   * Act II: The Garden at the Manor House, Woolton.
        o Part 1
        o Part 2
        o Part 3
        o Part 4
        o Part 5
        o Part 7
   * Act III: Drawing-Room at the Manor House, Woolton

Transcription and organization by Jerry Stratton, for FireBlade
Coffeehouse. If you have any comments or questions, please let us know!
Jerry
jerry@acusd.edu
