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There he is!
Where's he going?
You won't get away, sir!
Time to pay your debt.
Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?
I didn't think it polite to listen, sir.
I'm sorry for that, for your sake.
I don't play accurately-- anyone can play accurately--
but I play with wonderful expression.
Bills, bills, bills-- all I ever get is bills.
And then there's the matter...
of my unpaid wages, sir.
Yet again the wasteful habits of my brother Ernest...
tear me from my duties here.
It's a terrible nuisance, but there's nothing to be done.
I shall return Monday afternoon.
Pay particular attention, if you will, Miss Prism...
to her German grammar.
Yes, Mr. Worthing.
I don't suppose you've found my cigarette case...
have you, Merriman?
We're still looking, sir.
-Algy! -How are you, my dear Ernest?
-What brings you up to town? -Oh, pleasure, pleasure.
What else should bring one anywhere?
Where have you been since last Thursday?
In the country.
You're always in the country. What on earth do you do there?
Well, when one is in town, one amuses oneself.
When one is in the country, one amuses other people.
It's excessively boring.
-Who are these people you amuse? -Oh, neighbours, neighbours.
Nice neighbours in your part of Shropshire?
Perfectly horrid. Never speak to one of them.
How immensely you must amuse them.
By the way, Shropshire is your country, is it not?
Oh, yes, of course.
Say. dear boy...
What plans have you got for tea tomorrow?
You know perfectly well...
that Aunt Augusta is coming to tea tomorrow.
-Aunt Augusta? -Yes. Aunt Augusta...
How perfectly delightful.
Perhaps I might pay my respects.
Yes, that is all very well, but I'm afraid Aunt Augusta...
won't approve of your being there.
Why do you say that?
My dear fellow, the way that you flirt with Gwendolen...
is perfectly disgraceful.
It's almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts with you.
-I am in love with Gwendolen. -Ahh.
And I have come up to town expressly to propose to her.
I thought you came up for pleasure.
I call that business.
Oh, how utterly unromantic you are.
I really don't see what there is romantic about proposing.
Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe.
And then--Ha ha!-- the excitement is over.
No. The very essence of romance is uncertainty.
Twenty-five a player.
Anyway, I certainly can't see...
you and Gwendolen being married.
Why on earth do you say that?
Well, in the first place, I don't give my consent.
My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my cousin...
and before I allow you to marry her...
you shall have to clear up this whole question of Cecily.
What on earth do you mean?
I don't know anyone by the name of Cecily.
Do you mean you have had my cigarette case all this time?
I wish to goodness you had let me know.
I've been writing frantic letters to Scotland Yard.
I was very nearly offering a very large reward.
I wish you would offer one.
I happen to be more than usually hard up.
It makes no matter...
for I see now the thing isn't yours after all.
Of course it's mine.
You have seen me with it a hundred times.
Not according to the inscription.
And you have no right whatsoever...
to read what is written inside.
It is a very ungentlemanly thing...
to read a private cigarette case.
Yes, but this isn't your cigarette case.
This cigarette case is a present from someone...
of the name of Cecily, and you said...
you didn't know anyone of that name.
Well, if you want to know, Cecily happens to be my aunt.
Yes. charming old lady she is, too.
Lives at Tunbridge Wells. Just give it back to me, Algy.
Yes, but why does your aunt call you her uncle?
"From little Cecily, with her fondest love...
"to her dear Uncle Jack." Mmm.
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's Ernest.
It isn't Ernest, it's Jack.
You've always told me it was Ernest.
I've introduced you to everyone as Ernest.
It is perfectly absurd your saying your name isn't Ernest.
It's on your cards. Here is one of them.
"Mr. Ernest Worthing, B.4, The Albany."
Well, it is Ernest in town and Jack in the country...
and the cigarette case was given to me in the country.
So I've always pretended to have a younger brother.
Ah, of the name of Ernest. And little Cecily?
My ward, Miss Cecily Cardew.
Where is that place in the country, by the way?
That is nothing to you, dear boy.
You are certainly not going to be invited.
I may tell you candidly the place is not in Shropshire.
Oh, I suspected that, my dear fellow...
just as I suspected you to be a Bunburyist.
Indeed, you are one of the most advanced...
Bunburyists I know.
See you at five.
A quick word, sir!
Cecily, your German grammar is on the table.
Pray open it at page fifteen.
We will repeat yesterday's lesson.
But I don't like German.
It isn't at all a becoming language.
I know perfectly well...
I look quite plain after my German lesson.
Child, you know how anxious your guardian is...
that you should improve yourself in every way.
Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious.
Sometimes I think he is so serious he cannot be quite well.
Cecily, I'm surprised at you.
Mr. Worthing has many troubles in his life.
You must remember his constant anxiety...
about that unfortunate young man, his brother.
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'm not sure that I would desire to reclaim him.
I'm not in favour of this modern mania...
for turning bad people into good people...
at a moment's notice.
Do your work, child.
He, she, it praises.
What on earth do you mean by a "Bunburyist"?
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...
to the country as often as I choose.
If it wasn't for Bunbury's extraordinary bad health...
for instance, I wouldn't be able to dine with you...
at the Savoy tonight, for I've had an appointment...
with Aunt Augusta for more than a week.
I haven't asked you to dine with me anywhere tonight.
I know. You're absurdly careless...
about giving out invitations.
Don't touch the cucumber sandwiches.
They were ordered especially for Aunt Augusta.
You've been eating them all the time.
Well, that is quite a different matter.
She is my aunt.
That must be her.
Only relatives or creditors ever ring...
in that Wagnerian manner.
Now, if I manage to get her out of the way for 10 minutes...
so that you may have an opportunity...
for proposing to Gwendolen...
may I dine with you at the Savoy tonight?
Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax.
Good afternoon, dear Algy.
I hope you are behaving very well.
I'm feeling very well, Aunt Augusta.
That's not quite the same thing.
In fact, the two things rarely go together.
Lady Bracknell, I--
Oh, goodness, you are smart.
I'm always smart. Am I not, Mr. Worthing?
You are quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.
I hope I am not that.
It would leave no room for development...
and I intend to develop in many directions.
I'm sorry if we're a little late, Algy.
I was obliged to call on dear Lady Harbury.
I had not 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.
Certainly, Aunt Augusta.
Won't you sit here, Gwendolen?
Thanks, Mama, I'm quite comfortable where I am.
Good heavens, Lane, why are there no cucumber sandwiches?
There were no cucumbers in the market this morning, sir.
-I went down twice. -Oh, no cucumbers?
No, sir. Not even for ready money.
-That will do, Lane. -Thank you, sir.
I am greatly distressed, Aunt Augusta...
about there being no cucumbers, not even for ready money.
It really makes no matter, Algy.
I had some crumpets with Lady Harbury.
I've got quite a treat for you tonight, Algy.
I'm going to send you down with Mary Farquhar.
-She is such a nice-- -I'm afraid, Aunt Augusta...
I shall have to give up the pleasure...
of dining with you tonight.
I hope not, Algy.
It will put my table completely out.
It is a great bore, and I need hardly say...
a terrible disappointment to me...
but I've just had a telegram to say...
that my poor friend Bunbury is very ill again.
They seem to think I should be with him.
This Mr. Bunbury seems to suffer...
from curiously bad health.
Yes, poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid.
I must say, Algy, I think it is high time...
Mr. Bunbury made up his mind whether to live or die.
This shilly-shallying with the question is absurd.
I should be much obliged if you would ask...
Mr. Bunbury from me to be kind enough...
not to have a relapse next Saturday.
It is my last reception, and I rely on you...
to arrange my music for me.
I'll speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta...
if he's still conscious.
Now, if you'll follow me into the next room...
I'll run over the musical program...
I've already drawn up for the occasion.
Thank you, Algy.
It is very thoughtful of you.
Gwendolen, you will accompany me.
Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax.
Pray don't talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthing.
Whenever people talk to me about the weather...
I always feel quite certain that they mean something else...
and that makes me so nervous.
-I do mean something else. -I thought so.
And I would like to take advantage...
of Lady Bracknell's temporary absence--
I would certainly advise you to do so.
Mama has a way of coming back suddenly into a room...
that I've often had to speak to her about.
Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you...
I have admired you more than any girl...
I have ever met since I met you.
Yes, I'm quite aware of the fact.
And I often wish that in public, at any rate...
you had been more demonstrative.
you have always had an irresistible fascination.
Even before I met you...
I was far from indifferent to you.
We live, as I hope you know, Mr. Worthing...
in an age of ideals, and my ideal has always been...
to love someone of the name of Ernest.
There's something in that name...
that inspires absolute confidence.
The moment Algy first mentioned to me...
that he had a friend called Ernest...
I knew I was destined to love you.
-You really love me, Gwendolen? -Passionately.
Darling, you don't know how happy you've made me.
My own Ernest.
You don't mean to say though, dear...
you couldn't love me if my name wasn't Ernest.
But your name is Ernest.
Yes, I know it is...
but supposing it was something else?
Ah. Well, 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.
Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly...
I don't much care about the name of Ernest.
I don't think it suits me at all.
It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name.
It has a music of its own.
It produces vibrations.
Well, really, Gwendolen...
I must say I think there are lots of other much nicer names.
Jack, for instance, a charming name.
I've known several Jacks, and they all...
without exception, were more than usually plain.
The only really safe name is Ernest.
Gwendolen, we must get married at once.
Married, Mr. Worthing?
You know that I love you, and you led me to believe...
Miss Fairfax, that you were not absolutely indifferent to me.
I adore you.
But you haven't proposed to me yet.
Nothing's been said at all about marriage.
The subject has not even been touched on.
Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you to say to me?
You know what I have to say to you.
Yes, but you don't say it.
Gwendolen, will you marry me?
Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture.
It is most indecorous.
Mama! I must beg you to retire.
Mr. Worthing has not quite finished yet.
Finished what, may I ask?
I am engaged to be married to Mr. Worthing, Mama.
Pardon me, Gwendolen. You are not engaged to anyone.
When you do become engaged to someone...
I or your father, should his health permit him...
will inform you of the fact.
You will wait for me below in the carriage.
-Mama-- -In the carriage, Gwendolen.
Gwendolen! The carriage!
I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Worthing...
you are not down on my list of eligible young men.
However, I'm quite ready...
to enter your name as a possible candidate.
Perhaps you would attend a meeting at my house...
at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning.
I shall have a few questions to put to you.
So, did you tell Gwendolen the truth...
about being Ernest in town and Jack in the country?
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.
The only way to behave to a woman...
is to make love to her if she's pretty...
and to someone else if she is plain.
That is nonsense.
You never talk anything but nonsense.
Well, nobody ever does.
Oh, my dear fellow, you forgot to pay the bill.
Not at all, I make it a point never to pay at the Savoy.
Why on earth not? You have heaps of money.
Yes, but Ernest hasn't...
and he's got quite a reputation to keep up.
More intellectual pleasures await you, my child.
You should put away your diary, Cecily.
I really don't see why you should keep a diary at all.
I keep a diary in order to enter...
the wonderful secrets of my life.
If I didn't write them down...
I should probably forget all about them.
Memory, my dear Cecily...
is the diary that we all carry about with us.
I believe memory is responsible...
for nearly all these three-volume novels...
people write nowadays.
Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel, Cecily.
I wrote one myself in earlier days.
Did you really, Miss Prism?
I hope it did not end happily.
The good ended happily and the bad unhappily.
That is what fiction means.
Do your work, child.
These speculations are profitless.
But I see dear Dr. Chasuble...
coming through the garden.
Oh, Dr. Chasuble!
This is indeed a pleasure.
And how are we today?
Miss Prism, you are, I trust, well.
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.
Cecily! I have not mentioned anything about a headache.
No, dear Miss Prism. I know that...
but I felt instinctively that you had a headache.
Indeed, I was thinking about that...
and not my German lesson when the rector came along.
I hope, Cecily, you are not inattentive.
-I am afraid I am. -That's strange.
Were I fortunate enough to be Miss Prism's pupil...
I would hang upon her lips.
I spoke metaphorically.
My metaphor was drawn from...bees.
Ahem. I shall, um...
see you both, no doubt, at Evensong.
Good luck, sir.
-This way, sir. -Shall I, uh--
You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.
Thank you, Lady Bracknell. I prefer standing.
Do you smoke?
Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.
I'm 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? -Thirty-five.
A very good age to be married at.
I've always been of opinion...
that a man who desires to get married...
should know either everything or nothing.
Which do you know?
I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.
I'm 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? -Between 7 and 8,000 a year.
-In land or in investments? -In investments, chiefly.
Oh, that is satisfactory.
I have a country house with some land...
of course, attached to it.
About 1,500 acres, I believe.
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.
Well, of course I also own a house in Belgrave Square.
-Number? -A hundred and forty-nine.
The unfashionable side. I thought there was something.
However, that could easily be altered.
Do you mean the fashion or the side?
Well, both, if necessary, I presume.
Are your parents living?
I have lost both my parents.
To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing...
may be regarded as a misfortune.
To lose both looks like carelessness.
Who was your father?
He was evidently a man of some wealth.
I'm 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 my parents seem to have lost me.
I actually don't know who I am by birth.
Well, I was found.
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.
And where did this charitable gentlemen...
with a first-class ticket for the seaside resort...
In a handbag.
-A handbag? -Yes, Lady Bracknell.
I was in a handbag--
a somewhat large, um, black leather handbag...
with handles to it.
An ordinary handbag, in fact.
In what locality did this Mr. James or Thomas Cardew...
come across this ordinary handbag?
In the cloakroom at Victoria Station.
It was given him in mistake for his own.
The cloakroom at Victoria Station?
Yes. The Brighton line.
The line is immaterial.
Mr. Worthing, I confess I am somewhat bewildered...
by what you have just told me.
To be born or at any rate bred in a handbag...
whether it has handles or not...
seems to me to display a contempt...
for the ordinary decencies of family life...
which remind one of the worst excesses...
of the French Revolution.
And I presume you know...
what that unfortunate movement led to.
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.
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.
I don't see how I could possibly manage to do that.
I can produce the handbag at any moment.
It's in my storeroom at home.
I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.
What has it to do with me?
You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell...
would dream of allowing our only daughter--
a girl brought up with the utmost care--
to marry into a cloakroom...
and form an alliance with a parcel.
Good morning, Mr. Worthing.
You don't think there's any chance of Gwendolen becoming...
like her mother in about 150 years, do you, Algy?
My dear fellow, all women become...
like their mothers. That is their tragedy.
No man does, and that's his.
Is that clever?
It's perfectly phrased and about as true...
as any observation in civilized life should be.
-Gwendolen! -Ernest, my dear Ernest.
Algy, please, I have something...
very particular to say to Mr. Worthing.
My own darling.
Ernest, the story of your romantic origin...
as related to me by Mama with unpleasing comments...
has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my nature.
I followed you here to reassure you...
that there is nothing that she can possibly do...
can alter my eternal devotion to you.
Your town address at The Albany I have.
What is your address in the country?
The Manor, Woolton, Hertfordshire.
I will communicate with you daily.
My own one.
Yes. I must confess. I do smoke.
I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.
I can produce the handbag at a moment's notice.
Before you can be found...
in a handbag at a railway station...
someone must have lost you in a handbag...
at a railway station. Do you see?
In the first place, what with Lady Bracknell...
sniffing about, dear, dissolute Ernest...
is a risk I can no longer afford.
And secondly, Cecily is becoming a little too much...
interested in him. It's rather a bore.
I'd rather like to meet Cecily.
Well. I shall take very good care you never do.
She is excessively pretty and only just eighteen.
No, I'll say he died in Paris of apoplexy.
But it's hereditary, my dear fellow.
It's the sort of thing that runs in families.
You had much better say it was a severe chill.
Very well. then.
Poor brother Ernest is carried off suddenly...
in Paris by a severe chill.
That gets rid of him.
Have you told Gwendolen that you have...
an excessively pretty ward who's only just eighteen?
No. One doesn't blurt these things out to people.
Cecily and Gwendolen are perfectly certain...
to become extremely great friends.
I bet you anything half an hour after they've met...
they will be calling each other sister.
Women only do that when they have...
called each other a lot of other things first.
Don't let me disturb you.
I hope tomorrow will be a fine day, Lane.
It never is, sir.
You are a perfect pessimist.
I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.
You can put out my dress clothes...
my smoking jacket...
and even bring on the curling tongs.
I'm going Bunburying.
That must be it over there.
Bring it down there, Mr. Smithers.
Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here.
You are my little cousin Cecily, I'm sure.
You are under some strange mistake.
I'm not little. In fact, I believe...
I'm more than usually tall for my age.
But I am your cousin Cecily.
And you--you, I see from your card...
are Uncle Jack's brother, my cousin Ernest.
My wicked cousin Ernest.
I'm not really wicked at all, Cousin Cecily.
You mustn't think that I'm wicked.
Well, if you are not, then you've certainly...
been deceiving us all in a very inexcusable manner.
Well, I have been rather reckless.
I'm glad to hear it.
In fact, now that you mention the subject...
I have been very bad in my own small way.
Well, I don't think you should be so proud of that...
though I am sure it must've been very pleasant.
It's much pleasanter being here with you.
I can't understand how you're here at all.
Uncle Jack won't be back till Monday afternoon.
Oh, that is a great disappointment.
I'm obliged to go out...
by the first train on Monday morning.
I have a business appointment that I'm anxious to miss.
That's all very well, but still...
I think you had better wait until Uncle Jack arrives.
I know he wants to speak to you about your emigrating.
About my what?
Uncle Jack is sending you to Australia.
Australia? I'd sooner die.
He said at dinner on Wednesday night...
that you would have to choose between this world...
the next world, and Australia.
The accounts I have received of Australia...
and the next world are not particularly...
encouraging, Cousin Cecily.
This world is good enough for me.
Yes, but are you good enough for it?
No, I'm afraid not.
That is why I want you to reform me.
You might make that your mission...
if you don't mind, Cousin Cecily.
I'm afraid I've no time this afternoon.
Well, would you mind me...
reforming myself this afternoon?
It is rather quixotic of you, but I think you should try.
-I feel better already. -You're looking a little worse.
Well, that's because I'm hungry.
-Mr. Worthing! -Mr. Worthing!
This is indeed a surprise.
We did not look for you till Monday afternoon.
I have returned sooner than I expected.
Dear Mr. Worthing, I trust this garb of woe...
does not betoken some terrible calamity.
More shameful debts and extravagance.
Still leading a life of pleasure.
Your brother Ernest is dead?
What a lesson for him! I trust he will profit by it.
He had many faults, but it is a sad, sad blow.
Yes. indeed. sad.
Um, were you with him at the end?
No. He died abroad. In Paris, in fact.
I had a telegram last night...
from the manager of the Grand Hotel.
Is the cause of death mentioned?
A severe chill, it seems.
As a man sows, so shall he reap.
Oh, charity, Miss Prism, charity.
I myself am peculiarly susceptible to draft.
Uncle Jack, I'm so pleased to see you back.
What is the matter, Uncle Jack? Do look happy.
You look as if you had toothache...
and I have such a surprise for you.
Who do you think is in the rose garden?
-Who? -Your brother Ernest.
He arrived about half an hour ago.
Nonsense. I haven't got a brother.
-I mean... -Well, he's...
Come, he'll be so pleased to see you've returned so soon.
These are joyful tidings.
Brother John, I've come down from town...
to tell you that I'm very sorry...
for all the trouble I have given you...
and that I fully intend...
to lead a better life in the future.
Well, what can I say?
The old Ernest is dead. Long live the new Ernest.
I thought you'd like my little joke.
Your little joke?
Knowing me as you do, brother John...
I'm surprised you took it so seriously.
At any rate, I stand before you now...
an entirely new man, risen, as it were...
like a phoenix from the ashes.
Uncle Jack, you're not going to refuse...
your own brother's hand.
Nothing would induce me to take his hand.
I think his behaviour utterly disgraceful.
He knows perfectly well why!
Do shake his hand, Uncle Jack.
After all, it could be worse. I could be dead in Paris.
You could, indeed.
Of a severe chill.
Sorry about that, Jack. Shake. Go on.
Excuse me, sir.
We're putting Mr. Ernest's things...
in the blue room on the second floor.
Very nice to see you, Doctor. Do tell me, when is confession?
Mr. Ernest's luggage, sir.
We're taking it up to the blue room.
-His luggage? -Yes, sir.
Two portmanteaus, two dressing cases...
two hat boxes, and a large luncheon basket.
I fear I can only stay a week this time.
-You scoundrel, Algy. -Mm?
What have you to say for yourself?
What I have to say, Uncle Jack...
is that little Cecily is a darling.
You are not to talk of Miss Cardew like that!
I don't like it.
Your vanity is ridiculous...
your conduct an outrage, and your presence...
in my house utterly absurd!
However, you have got to catch the four-five train.
I hope you have a pleasant journey back to town.
This Bunburying, as you call it...
has not been a great success for you.
It's pleasant. is it not...
to see so perfect a reconciliation.
I think it's been a great success.
Dinner is served.
Might I have a buttonhole first?
I never have an appetite unless I have a buttonhole.
I'd sooner have a pink rose.
Because you are like a pink rose, Cousin Cecily.
I don't think it could be right...
for you to talk to me like that.
Miss Prism never says such things to me.
Then Miss Prism is a short-sighted old lady.
You are the prettiest girl I ever saw.
You see, Uncle Jack, there is some good in everyone.
Ernest has just been telling me about his poor invalid friend...
whom he goes to visit so often.
Oh, he has been talking about poor Mr. Bunbury, has he?
And surely there must be much good...
in one who is kind to an invalid...
and leaves the pleasures of London...
to sit by a bed of pain.
Right. It's first class.
-Good morning, sir. -Good morning.
how desperately I have missed you.
It seems an age since I last saw you...
and our separation is now proving an intolerable strain.
The feelings you have aroused within me...
are at once delightful and exquisitely...
My dearest darling Ernest...
it is your very name that inspires me now...
to take my future in my hands--
burnt. as it were. into my very being.
And so it is. I have resolved to flee these prison walls...
and make my way directly to your side...
to my one and only...
Ah. Good morning, my dear fellow.
We have to talk. You have to leave.
If I leave, how can we talk?
We cannot both be called Ernest
I don't believe we are, Brother Jack.
I believe you are praiseworthy.
He, she, it praises.
I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you...
if I state quite openly and frankly...
You seem to me to be in every way...
the visible personification of absolute perfection.
I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest.
If you will allow me, I will copy your remarks into my diary.
Do you keep a diary? I'd give anything to see it.
Oh, no. You'd see it as simply a very young girl's record...
of her own thoughts and impressions.
But, pray, Ernest, I delight in taking down from dictation.
You can go on.
Don't cough, Ernest. When one is dictating...
one should speak fluently and not cough.
Cecily, ever since I first looked upon...
your wondrous and incomparable beauty...
I have dared to love you-- wildly...
I beg your pardon, sir.
There are two gentlemen wishing to see you.
-Mr. Ernest Worthing? -Yes.
-Of B.4, The Albany? -Yes, that is my address.
I am very sorry. sir...
but I have a writ of attachment against you...
and the suit of the Savoy Hotel Company Limited...
for 762 pounds, 14 shillings.
What perfect nonsense.
I never dine at the Savoy at my own expense.
In the interests of our clients...
we have no option but to take out an order...
for committal of your person.
-Committal? Of my person? -For six months.
Oh, for six months? Ha ha!
No doubt you'll prefer to pay the bill.
Pay it? How on earth am I going to do that?
No gentleman ever has any money.
In my experience, it is usually relations who pay.
Oh, all right. Uh, Brother Jack?
762 pounds, 14 shillings, and a tuppence--
since last October.
I'm bound to say...
I never saw such reckless extravagance in all my life.
My dear fellow, how ridiculous you are.
You have your debts, and I have mine.
You know quite well this bill is really yours.
-Mine? -Yes, and you know it.
if this is another jest, it is most out of place.
-It is not. -It is gross effrontery.
Just what I expected from him.
And it is ingratitude. I didn't expect that.
Next thing you know. he'll be denying...
he's Ernest Worthing in the first place.
I'm sorry to disturb this so pleasant family meeting...
but time presses.
We have to be at Holloway not later than four o'clock.
Otherwise, it is difficult to obtain admission.
The rules are very strict.
Holloway? But--Get off me!
It is at Holloway that detentions of this character...
are made away.
I will not be imprisoned for having dined in the West End!
I agree to settle my brother's accounts...
on the condition that he makes his way without delay...
to the bedside of the poor bed-ridden Bunbury...
whose health, I have recently been informed...
is rapidly declining.
...it's only life.
I would ask you not to interrupt...
Miss Cardew's studies.
Miss Prism, I almost forgot to mention...
that Dr. Chasuble is expecting you in the vestry.
In the vestry? Dr. Chasuble?
Expecting you, yes.
That sounds serious.
I do not think it would be right to keep him waiting, Cecily.
It would be very, very wrong.
The vestry is, I am told, excessively damp.
This parting, Miss Cardew, is very painful.
But I suppose you cannot desert...
poor Mr. Bunbury in his hour of need.
I don't care about Bunbury anymore.
I don't seem to care about anything anymore.
I only care for you. I love you, Cecily.
Will you marry me, Cecily? Will you?
Why, we have been engaged for the last three months.
For the last three months?
Yes. It will be exactly three months on Thursday.
So, when was the engagement actually settled?
On the fourteenth of February last.
After a long struggle with myself...
I accepted you under this dear old tree here.
And this is the box in which I keep all your dear letters.
But my own sweet Cecily, I have never written you any letters.
You need hardly remind me of that, Ernest.
I remember only too well...
that I was forced to write your letters for you.
I wrote always three times a week and sometimes oftener.
-Do let me look at them. -Oh, no, I couldn't possibly.
They would make you far too conceited.
The three you wrote after I had broken off the engagement...
were so beautiful and so badly spelled.
Even now I can hardly read them without crying a little.
Was our engagement ever broken off?
-Yes, of course it was. -What?
On the twenty-second of last March.
You can see the entry if you like.
"Today I broke off my engagement with Ernest.
"The weather still continues charming."
Why on earth did you break it off?