SECOND ACT
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.
[Miss Prism discovered seated at the table. Cecily is at the back
watering flowers.]
MISS PRISM.
[Calling.] Cecily, Cecily! Surely such a utilitarian occupation as the
watering of flowers is rather Moulton’s duty than yours? Especially at
a moment when intellectual pleasures await you. Your German grammar is
on the table. Pray open it at page fifteen. We will repeat yesterday’s
lesson.
CECILY.
[Coming over very slowly.] But I don’t like German. It isn’t at all a
becoming language. I know perfectly well that I look quite plain after
my German lesson.
MISS PRISM.
Child, you know how anxious your guardian is that you should improve
yourself in every way. He laid particular stress on your German, as he
was leaving for town yesterday. Indeed, he always lays stress on your
German when he is leaving for town.
CECILY.
Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious! Sometimes he is so serious that I
think he cannot be quite well.
MISS PRISM.
[Drawing herself up.] Your guardian enjoys the best of health, and his
gravity of demeanour is especially to be commended in one so
comparatively young as he is. I know no one who has a higher sense of
duty and responsibility.
CECILY.
I suppose that is why he often looks a little bored when we three are
together.
MISS PRISM.
Cecily! I am surprised at you. Mr. Worthing has many troubles in his
life. Idle merriment and triviality would be out of place in his
conversation. You must remember his constant anxiety about that
unfortunate young man his brother.
CECILY.
I wish Uncle Jack would allow that unfortunate young man, his brother,
to come down here sometimes. We might have a good influence over him,
Miss Prism. I am sure you certainly would. You know German, and
geology, and things of that kind influence a man very much. [Cecily
begins to write in her diary.]
MISS PRISM.
[Shaking her head.] I do not think that even I could produce any effect
on a character that according to his own brother’s admission is
irretrievably weak and vacillating. Indeed I am not sure that I would
desire to reclaim him. I am not in favour of this modern mania for
turning bad people into good people at a moment’s notice. As a man sows
so let him reap. You must put away your diary, Cecily. I really don’t
see why you should keep a diary at all.
CECILY.
I keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my life. If I
didn’t write them down, I should probably forget all about them.
MISS PRISM.
Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us.
CECILY.
Yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never happened, and
couldn’t possibly have happened. I believe that Memory is responsible
for nearly all the three-volume novels that Mudie sends us.
MISS PRISM.
Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel, Cecily. I wrote one
myself in earlier days.
CECILY.
Did you really, Miss Prism? How wonderfully clever you are! I hope it
did not end happily? I don’t like novels that end happily. They depress
me so much.
MISS PRISM.
The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what Fiction
means.
CECILY.
I suppose so. But it seems very unfair. And was your novel ever
published?
MISS PRISM.
Alas! no. The manuscript unfortunately was abandoned. [Cecily starts.]
I use the word in the sense of lost or mislaid. To your work, child,
these speculations are profitless.
CECILY.
[Smiling.] But I see dear Dr. Chasuble coming up through the garden.
MISS PRISM.
[Rising and advancing.] Dr. Chasuble! This is indeed a pleasure.
[Enter Canon Chasuble.]
CHASUBLE.
And how are we this morning? Miss Prism, you are, I trust, well?
CECILY.
Miss Prism has just been complaining of a slight headache. I think it
would do her so much good to have a short stroll with you in the Park,
Dr. Chasuble.
MISS PRISM.
Cecily, I have not mentioned anything about a headache.
CECILY.
No, dear Miss Prism, I know that, but I felt instinctively that you had
a headache. Indeed I was thinking about that, and not about my German
lesson, when the Rector came in.
CHASUBLE.
I hope, Cecily, you are not inattentive.
CECILY.
Oh, I am afraid I am.
CHASUBLE.
That is strange. Were I fortunate enough to be Miss Prism’s pupil, I
would hang upon her lips. [Miss Prism glares.] I spoke
metaphorically.—My metaphor was drawn from bees. Ahem! Mr. Worthing, I
suppose, has not returned from town yet?
MISS PRISM.
We do not expect him till Monday afternoon.
CHASUBLE.
Ah yes, he usually likes to spend his Sunday in London. He is not one
of those whose sole aim is enjoyment, as, by all accounts, that
unfortunate young man his brother seems to be. But I must not disturb
Egeria and her pupil any longer.
MISS PRISM.
Egeria? My name is Lætitia, Doctor.
CHASUBLE.
[Bowing.] A classical allusion merely, drawn from the Pagan authors. I
shall see you both no doubt at Evensong?
MISS PRISM.
I think, dear Doctor, I will have a stroll with you. I find I have a
headache after all, and a walk might do it good.
CHASUBLE.
With pleasure, Miss Prism, with pleasure. We might go as far as the
schools and back.
MISS PRISM.
That would be delightful. Cecily, you will read your Political Economy
in my absence. The chapter on the Fall of the Rupee you may omit. It is
somewhat too sensational. Even these metallic problems have their
melodramatic side.
[Goes down the garden with Dr. Chasuble.]
CECILY.
[Picks up books and throws them back on table.] Horrid Political
Economy! Horrid Geography! Horrid, horrid German!
[Enter Merriman with a card on a salver.]
MERRIMAN.
Mr. Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station. He has
brought his luggage with him.
CECILY.
[Takes the card and reads it.] ‘Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany,
W.’ Uncle Jack’s brother! Did you tell him Mr. Worthing was in town?
MERRIMAN.
Yes, Miss. He seemed very much disappointed. I mentioned that you and
Miss Prism were in the garden. He said he was anxious to speak to you
privately for a moment.
CECILY.
Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had better talk to
the housekeeper about a room for him.
MERRIMAN.
Yes, Miss.
[Merriman goes off.]
CECILY.
I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather
frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one else.
[Enter Algernon, very gay and debonnair.] He does!
ALGERNON.
[Raising his hat.] You are my little cousin Cecily, I’m sure.
CECILY.
You are under some strange mistake. I am not little. In fact, I believe
I am more than usually tall for my age. [Algernon is rather taken
aback.] But I am your cousin Cecily. You, I see from your card, are
Uncle Jack’s brother, my cousin Ernest, my wicked cousin Ernest.
ALGERNON.
Oh! I am not really wicked at all, cousin Cecily. You mustn’t think
that I am wicked.
CECILY.
If you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us all in a very
inexcusable manner. I hope you have not been leading a double life,
pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time. That would
be hypocrisy.
ALGERNON.
[Looks at her in amazement.] Oh! Of course I have been rather reckless.
CECILY.
I am glad to hear it.
ALGERNON.
In fact, now you mention the subject, I have been very bad in my own
small way.
CECILY.
I don’t think you should be so proud of that, though I am sure it must
have been very pleasant.
ALGERNON.
It is much pleasanter being here with you.
CECILY.
I can’t understand how you are here at all. Uncle Jack won’t be back
till Monday afternoon.
ALGERNON.
That is a great disappointment. I am obliged to go up by the first
train on Monday morning. I have a business appointment that I am
anxious . . . to miss?
CECILY.
Couldn’t you miss it anywhere but in London?
ALGERNON.
No: the appointment is in London.
CECILY.
Well, I know, of course, how im