All language subtitles for The Importance of Being Earnest 1952

The Importance...

...of being...

...Earnest.

"La, la lol la la-lol."

"La la lol la-lol."

"La la la la looooooooooooooooooool
lo, lol-e oh, pom pom."

Brruh.

Eating as usual, I see, Algy.

I believe it is usual in good society to
take some slight refreshment...

...after morning exercise.

And what brings you to
London, my dear Ernest?

Oh, pleasure, pleasure. What else
should bring one anywhere?

Where have you been
since last Thursday?

In the country.

What on earth do you do there?

When one is in town
one amuses oneself.

When one is in the country
one amuses other people.

Well, who are the
people you amuse?

Oh, neighbours, neighbours.

Got nice neighbours
in your part of Shropshire?

Perfectly horrid,
never speak to them.

How immensely you
must amuse them.

Shropshire is your county,
is it not?

Shropshire? Hm.
Yes, of course.

Er, by the way...

...Gwendolen is in town,
isn't she?

She is. In fact, she's having
tea with me this afternoon.

How perfectly delightful.

And so is Aunt Augusta.

Oh.

You know, the way you
flirt with Gwendolen...

...is almost as bad as the
way Gwendolen flirts with you.

I am in love with Gwendolen.

I have come up to town
expressly to propose to her.

I thought you had
come up on pleasure.

They call that business.

How utterly unromantic
you are.

I really don't see anything
romantic in proposing.

It's very romantic to
be in love.

But there's nothing romantic
about a definite proposal.

Why, one may be accepted.

One usually is, I believe. And then
the whole excitement is over.

The very essence of
romance is uncertainty.

If ever I get married I shall
certainly try and forget the fact.

I've no doubt about
that, my dear Algy.

The divorce court was specially
invented for people like you.

Divorces are made in Heaven.

- Marriages are---
- Yes, Algy?

Oh, well, there's no use my
speculating on that subject.

Or, indeed, your speculating
on marrying Gwendolen.

Why on earth do you say that?

Well, in the first place, girls never
marry the men they flirt with.

- Ah, that is nonsense.
- It isn't, it's a great truth.

It accounts for the extraordinary
number of bachelors...

...that one sees
all over the place.

Second place,
I don't give my consent.

Your consent?

Oh, 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.

Cecily?

What on earth do you mean?

What do you mean,
Algy, by Cecily?

I don't know anyone of the
name of Cecily.

Do you mean to say that you've had
my cigarette case all this time?

I wish to goodness you'd
let me know, I've been writing...

...frantic letters to
Scotland Yard about it.

I was very nearly
offering a large reward.

Well, I wish you would offer one.

I happen to be more than
usually hard up.

It's no good offering a large reward
now that the thing is found.

I think that's rather mean
of you, Ernest, I must say.

However, it makes no matter...

...for now that I look at
the inscription...

I find that the thing isn't
yours, after all.

Wha--? Well, of course it's mine. You've
seen me with a it hundred times.

You've no right whatsoever
to read what is written inside.

It is a very ungentlemanly thing
to read a private cigarette case.

It's perfectly absurd to have
a hard and fast...

...rule about what one should read
and what one shouldn't read.

More than half of modern culture
depends on what one shouldn't read.

I am quite aware of the
fact, and I don't propose...

...to discuss modern culture
with you.

It isn't the sort of thing
one should talk of in private.

I simply want my
cigarette case back.

- Yes.
- Ah--!

But this isn't your
cigarette case.

This cigarette case is a present
from someone of the name of Cecily.

You said that you didn't
know anyone of that name.

Well...

- ...if you want to know...
- Hm.

...Cecily happens to be
my aunt.

- Your aunt?
- Yes.

Charming old lady she is, too.
Lives at Tunbridge Wells.

Ugh!

But why does she
call herself Cecily...

...if she is your aunt, and
lives in Tunbridge Wells?

"From little Cecily"...

- ..."with her fondest love."
- Er, we---

My dear fellow, what
on earth is there in that?

Some aunts are tall,
some aunts are not tall.

That is surely a matter that an aunt
may be allowed to decide for herself.

Oh, for heaven's sake,
give me back my cigarette case.

Yes, but why does your aunt
call you her uncle?

"From little Cecily, with her fondest
love, to her dear Uncle Jack."

Well, there's 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.

It isn't Ernest, it's Jack.

You have always told
me it was Ernest.

You're the most earnest-looking
person I ever saw in my life.

Absolutely absurd, you saying
your name isn't Ernest.

Why, it's on you cards,
here is one of them.

"Mr Ernest Worthing,
B4, The Albany."

I shall keep this as a
proof that your name is Ernest.

If ever you attempt to deny the fact to
me, to Gwendolen or to anyone else.

Well, my name is
Ernest in town, and...

...Jack in the country, and the cigarette
case was given to me in the country.

Oh, yes, but that still doesn't
account for the fact...

...that your small Aunt Cecily,
who lives in Tunbridge Wells...

...calls you her "dear Uncle".

Come on, old boy, much better
to have the thing out at once.

My dear, Algy, you talk
exactly like a dentist.

I may mention that I
have always suspected...

...and now I am quite sure, that
you are a confirmed and secret...

- ...Bunburyist.
- "Bun-buryist"?

Now what on earth do
you mean by--- "Bunburyist"?

I will reveal to you the meaning
of that incomparable expression...

...when you are kind enough...

...to tell me why you are Ernest
in town and Jack in the country.

Well, produce my
cigarette case first.

Here it is.

Now produce your explanation.

And pray make it improbable.

There's nothing improbable
about my explanation at all.

Old Mr Thomas Cardew, who adopted
me when I was a little boy...

...made me in his will guardian
to his granddaughter...

...Miss Cecily Cardew.

Cecily, who addresses me as "Uncle"
out of motives of respect...

...which you could not
possibly appreciate.

...lives at my place in
the country under the charge...

...of her admirable governess...

...Miss Prism.

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

That is nothing to you, dear boy,
you are not going to be invited.

I may tell you candidly that
it is not in Shropshire.

I suspected that.

I have Bunburyed all over Shropshire
on two separate occasions.

Well, go on.

When one is placed in the position
of guardian one has to adopt...

...a very high moral tone
on all subjects.

It is 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 here, in the Albany, and who
gets into the most dreadful scrapes.

That, my dear Algy,
is the whole truth.

Oh, no. What you really
are is a Bunburyist.

I was perfectly right in
saying you were a Bunburyist.

You're one of the most
advanced Bunburyists I know.

What on earth do you mean?

You have invented a very useful
younger brother called Ernest...

...in order that you may be able to
come up to London 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 whenever I choose.

Bunbury really is invaluable.

If it wasn't for Bunbury's extraordinarily
bad health, for instance...

...I wouldn't be able to dine
with you at Willis's tonight...

...for I have really been engaged
to dine at Aunt Augusta's...

...for more than a week.

I haven't asked you to dine
with me anywhere tonight.

I know. You are absurdly careless
about sending out invitations.

It's very foolish of you.

Nothing annoys people more
than not receiving invitations.

Algy, er---

Hm da-dum bom bom bom.
Seton!

- Hum, be dum, dah dah dah.
- Hello.

Seton, I shall require a fresh gardenia
this afternoon at...

...four o'clock precisely.

- Very good, sir.
- Hum be dum dum...

...deeeeee...

...la la-le-le-le om, bom.

Dee da da dee, dum diddly um bom bom.

Dee-da dee, da-da dee.
Dum diddly-um bom bom.

Ethel, come here!

Thank y'u guv'nor.

Giddy up, now.

Did you hear what
I was singing, Lane?

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

Sorry about that, for your sake.

I don't sing in tune.
Anybody can sing in tune...

...but I sing with
wonderful feeling.

Yes, sir.

You have got the cucumber
sandwiches for Lady Bracknell?

- Yes, sir.
- Ah.

Excuse me, sir.

Have Lady Bracknell and
Miss Fairfax arrived yet, Lane?

No, sir.

Mr Ernest Worthing.

Jack. Don't seem to
remember inviting you.

No. You're absurdly careless
about sending out invitations.

Cucumber sandwiches? Why such
reckless extravagance in one so young?

Don't you touch them. They are
ordered especially for Aunt Augusta.

- Well, you're eating them.
- That's quite a different matter.

She's my aunt.

Have some bread and butter.

Bread and butter is
for Gwendolen.

Gwendolen is devoted to
bread and butter.

And very good bread
and butter it is, too.

My dear fellow, you needn't eat it
as if you were going to eat it all.

You behave exactly as if you
were married to her already.

You are not married to her already.
And I don't think you ever will be.

- Now, Algy---

That must be Aunt Augusta.

Only relatives or creditors ever
ring in that Wagnerian manner.

Now, if I can get her
out of the way for ten minutes...

...in order that you may have the
opportunity for proposing to Gwendolen...

...may I dine with you
at Willis's tonight?

Oh, I suppose so, if you want to.

Yes, but you must be
serious about it.

I hate people who are
not serious about meals.

Lady Bracknell and
Miss Fairfax.

Good afternoon, dear Algernon.

I hope you're
behaving very well?

I'm feeling very well,
Aunt Augusta.

Yes, that's not quite
the same thing.

In fact, the two things
rarely go together.

Oh. How d'you do,
Mr Worthing?

Dear me, Gwendolen.
You are smart.

I am always smart.

Aren't I, Mr Worthing?

You are quite perfect,
Miss Fairfax.

Oh, I hope I am not that.

It would leave no
room for development.

And I intend to develop,
in many directions.

Gwendolen.

Won't you come and
sit here, Gwendolen?

Thank you, Mama. I am quite
comfortable where I am.

I'm sorry if we are a little
late, Algernon.

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.

Certainly, Aunt Augusta.

Good heavens, Lane. Why are
there no cucumber sandwiches?

I ordered them specially.

There were no cucumbers
in the market this morning, sir.

I went down twice.

No cucumbers?

No, sir. Not even for
ready money.

Er, thank you, Lane,
that will do.

I am greatly distressed, Aunt Augusta
about there being no cucumbers...

...not even for ready money.

Well, it really makes
no matter, Algernon.

I had some crumpets
with Lady Harbury.

Who seems to me to be
living entirely for pleasure now.

I hear her hair has
turned quite gold from grief.

Well, it certainly has
changed its colour.

From what cause I,
of course, cannot say.

Er, forgive me, Aunt Augusta,
but I'm afraid I shall have to...

...give up the pleasure
of dining with you tonight.

Oh, I hope not, Algernon.

It would put my
table completely out.

Well, the fact is, I have just
had a telegram to say that my...

...poor friend Bunbury
is very ill again.

They seem to think I
should be with him.

Well, I must say, I shall be much obliged
if you would ask Mr Bunbury from me...

...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 everybody has practically
said whatever they had to say...

...which, in most cases,
was probably not much.

I will speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta,
if he is still conscious.

And I think I can promise you
that he will be all right by Saturday.

Of course, the music is
a great difficulty.

But I will run over the
programme I've worked out.

If you'll come into the
other room for a moment.

Thank you, Algernon, that's
very thoughtful of you.

I'm sure the programme
will be delightful...

...after a few expurgations.

French songs I cannot
possibly allow.

People always seem to
think they're improper...

...and either look shocked,
which is vulgar...

...or laugh, which is worse.

Now, German sounds a
thoroughly respectable language.

And indeed, I believe, is so.

Gwendolen, you
will accompany me.

Certainly, Mama.

Er, well, here is the
programme I suggest, Aunt Augusta.

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 they mean
something else...

...and it makes me so nervous.

I do mean... something else.

I thought so.

In fact, I'm never wrong.

I would like to be allowed 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 have 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 am quite 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.

We live...

...as I hope you know, Mr
Worthing, in an age of ideals.

Ohh.

And my ideal has always been to love
someone of the name of Ernest.

There is something in that name
which 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.

You---

You really love me, Gwendolen?

Passionately.

Darling, it---

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

My own Ernest.

But you don't mean
to say that you...

...couldn't love me if my
name wasn't Ernest?

But your name is Ernest.

Yes, I know it is. But---
supposing it wasn't?

Supposing it was
something else, you---

Do you mean to say you
couldn't love me then?

Ah, this 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.

Well, personally, darling,
to speak candidly...

...I don't much care for
the name of Ernest. I...

...I don't think it suits me at all.

It suits you perfectly.
It's a divine name.

It has music of its own.

It... it produces vibrations.

Well, I must say, Gwendolen, I think
there are lots of other, much nicer names.

Er, I think, um---
Jack, for instance. Hm?

- A charming name.
- Jack?

- Hm.
- Oh, no.

There's very little music in the
name of Jack. If any at all, indeed.

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.

No, the only really
safe name is Ernest.

Gwendolen, I must get
christened at once. I mean...

...we must get married at once.

Married, Mr Worthing?

Well, surely...

...you know that I love you, and you
have led me to believe, Miss Fairfax...

...that you are not entirely
indifferent to me.

I adore you.

But you haven't
proposed to me yet.

Well, er---

May I propose to you now?

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 beforehand...

...that I am fully
determined to accept you.

Gwendolen!

Yes, Mr Worthing?
What have you got to say to me?

Well, you, you know what
I've got to say to you.

Yes, but you don't say it.

Gwendolen.

Will you marry me?

Of course I will, darling.
How long you've been about it.

I'm afraid you've had very
little practice in how to propose.

My own one, I've never loved
anyone in the world but you.

Yes, but men often
propose for practice.

I know my brother does - all
my girlfriends tell me so.

What wonderfully blue
eyes you have, Ernest.

They're quite, quite blue.

I hope you will always
look at me just like that.

Especially when there are
other people present.

Mr Worthing! Rise, sir, from
this semi-recumbent posture.

It is most indecorous.

Mama, I must beg you to retire.
This is no place for you.

Besides, Mr Worthing
has not quite finished yet.

FINISHED WHAT...

...may I ask..?

I am engaged to Mr Worthing, Mama.

Pardon me, 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.

An engagement should come
upon 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.

- Mama.
- In the carriage, Gwendolen.

Gwendolen. The carriage.

Yes, Mama.

You can take a seat,
Mr Worthing.

Thank you Lady Bracknell,
I prefer standing.

I feel bound to tell you...

...that you are not down on my
list of eligible young men.

Though I have the same list
as the dear Duchess of Bolton has.

We work together, in fact. But I
am quite ready to enter your name...

...should your answers be what a
really affectionate mother requires.

Do you smoke?

Well, yes, I must
admit I smoke.

I am glad to hear it.

A man should have an
occupation of some kind.

I have always been of opinion that
a man who desires to get married...

...should either know everything,
or nothing.

Which do you know?

I know nothing, 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.

What is your income?

Between seven and
eight thousand a year.

In land, or in investments?

In investments, chiefly.

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, but
prevents one from keeping it up.

That's all that can
be said about land.

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...

...the poachers are the only people
who make anything out of it.

- Ha, ha, ha.
- Huh-hum.

You have a town-house,
I hope?

A girl with a simple, unspoiled
nature, like Gwendolen...

...can hardly be expected
to reside in the country.

Well, I own a house in
Belgrave Square, but...

...it is let by the year to
Lady Bloxham.

Lady Bloxham?

No, I don't know her.

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

Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee
of respectability of character.

What are your politics?

Well, I am afraid I
really have none. I...

...I am a Liberal.

They count as Tories.
They dine with us...

...or come in the evening,
at any rate.

Now to minor matters.

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?

Well, I'm afraid I really
don't know.

The fact is, Lady Bracknell,
I said I had lost both my parents.

Er... It would be nearer the truth to say,
my parents seem to have lost me.

I don't actually know
who I am by birth.

I was...

...well...

...I was found.

Found?

The late Mr Thomas Cardew,
an old gentleman of...

...most 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.

Er, it is a seaside resort.

And where did
the charitable gentleman...

...who had a first-class ticket
for this seaside resort find you?

In a handbag.

A HANDBAG?!

Yes, Lady Bracknell, I was in a
handbag - a somewhat large, black...

...leather handbag...

...with handles to it.
Um...

...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 feel somewhat bewildered
by what you have just told me.

To be born, or at any rate,
bred in a handbag...

...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?

Well, may I ask, then,
what you advise me to do? I...

...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.

Well, I really don't see...

...how I can possibly do that,
Lady Bracknell.

I-I-I can produce the handbag
at any moment.

It's in my dressing-room at home.
I really think...

...that ought to satisfy you,
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 cloakroom...

...and form an alliance with
a parcel?

Good morning, Mr Worthing.

Good morning, Lady Bracknell.

Oohh..!

Algy, for heaven's sake,
stop playing that ghastly tune.

- Didn't it go off all right, old boy?
- Oh.

You mean to say
Gwendolen refused you?

Oh, Gwendolen is as right
as a trivet.

As far as she's concerned,
we're engaged.

Her mother is an
absolute Gorgon.

I don't really know what
a Gorgon is...

...but I'm quite sure that
Lady Bracknell is one.

In any case, she is a monster,
without being a myth.

Which is rather unfair.

Algy.

You don't suppose that Gwendolen
will become like her mother in about...

...one hundred and fifty years...

...do you?

All women become like their
mothers. That is their tragedy.

No man does.
That's his.

Is that clever?

It's perfectly phrased.

And quite as true as any
observation in civilised life should be.

By the way, did you tell
Gwendolen the truth...

...about your being Ernest in town,
and Jack in the country?

My dear fellow, the truth...

...is not quite the sort of thing one
tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl.

Besides, before the end of the
week I shall have got rid of Ernest.

My poor brother Ernest is going
to be carried off, quite suddenly...

...in Paris, by a severe chill.

But I thought
you said that your...

...your ward was a little too much
interested in your poor brother Ernest?

Won't she feel his loss
a good deal?

Oh, Cecily isn't a silly romantic
girl, I'm happy to say.

She's got a capital appetite...

...goes for long walks, and pays no
attention at all to her lessons.

I should rather like to
see Cecily.

I shall take very good
care that you never do.

She is excessively pretty,
and only just eighteen.

Have you told Gwendolen that
you have an excessively pretty...

...ward who is only just eighteen?

Oh, one doesn't blurt
these things out to people!

Cecily and Gwendolen are perfectly
certain to be extremely good friends.

I'll bet you anything you like, that
half an hour after they've met...

...they'll be calling
each other sister.

Hmm. Women only do that
when they've...

...called each other a lot
of other things first.

Miss Fairfax.

Algy, kindly turn your back.

I have something very particular
to say to Mr Worthing.

Well, really, Gwendolen,
I don't think I can allow this at all.

- Ernest, we may never be married.
- Oh..?

From the expression on
Mama's face...

- ...I fear we never shall.
- But--?

But although she may prevent
us from becoming man and wife...

...nothing that she can possibly do
can alter my eternal devotion to you.

Your, your Christian name has
an irresistible fascination.

The simplicity of your character makes
you exquisitely incomprehensible to me.

Your town address I have.
What is your address in the country?

The Manor House,
Woolton, Hertfordshire.

There is a good postal service,
I suppose?

It may be necessary to
do something desperate.

- The Manor House...
- Hm.

- ...Wool-ton.
- Hmm.

- Hert-ford-shire.
- Ah.

My own one!

- Cecily?
- Yes, Miss Prism?

Oh, er... uh. Huh!

Cecily.

Come here at once, child.

We should have been at our labours
quite twenty minutes ago, Cecily.

Unfortunately, I was detained by a
slight mishap to my, er...

...my er, hm, hum.

Oh, well, never mind about that.

Your German grammar
is on the table.

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.

Oh, 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's leaving for town.

We will repeat yesterday's lesson.

Genders.

Dear Uncle Jack is
so very serious.

Sometimes he is so serious that
I think he cannot be quite well.

Your guardian enjoys
the best of health.

And his gravity of demeanour...

...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.

I suppose that is why he often looks a
little bored when we three are together.

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 Ernest.

Why, I wish Uncle Jack would allow
that unfortunate young man...

...his brother Ernest...

- ...to come down here sometimes.
- Oh, no.

Diminutives are always neuter.

That is, they belong to
neither sex.

Even when appearances
are to the contrary.

As, for example: Das Fraulein,
the young lady.

Das Madchen, the young girl.

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.

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 the library sends us.
- Oh, do not speak slightingly...

...of the three-volume novelist.

I wrote one myself, in
earlier days.

Did you really, Miss Prism?

Oh, how wonderfully
clever you are!

I hope it did not end happily?

I don't like novels that
end happily.

The good ended happily,
and the bad unhappily.

That is what fiction means.

I suppose so.

- And was it ever published?
- Alas, no.

The manuscript unfortunately
was abandoned.

- Oh.
- Oh, I use the word...

...in the sense of lost,
or mislaid.

Now, do your work, child.

These speculations
are profitless.

But I see dear Dr Chasuble...

...coming up through the garden.
- Oh.

Ah, ha. And how are we
this morning?

Miss Prism, you are,
I trust, well?

Dr Chasuble, this is
indeed a pleasure.

Um, Miss Prism has just been
complaining of a slight headache.

Oh---

I think it would do her so
much good...

...to go for a short stroll with you
in the Park...

- ... Dr Chasuble.
- Cecily, I have not...

...mentioned anything about
a headache.

Oh, no, I know that,
dear Miss Prism.

But I felt instinctively
that you had a headache.

Indeed, I was thinking
about that...

...and not about my German
lesson, when the Rector arrived.

I hope, Cecily,
you are not inattentive.

Oh, I'm afraid I am.

That is strange.

Were I fortunate enough
to be Miss Prism's pupil...

- I would hang upon her lips, ha, ha.
- Oh!

Oh, I spoke metaphorically.
My metaphor was drawn from bees.

Um, Mr Worthing, I suppose,
has not returned from town yet?

We do not expect him
till Monday afternoon.

Ah, yes, he usually likes to
spend his Sunday in London.

He's not one of those whose
sole aim is enjoyment...

...as by all accounts that unfortunate
young man, his brother, seems to be.

Uh, I must not disturb Egeria
and her pupil any longer.

Egeria? My name is
Laetitia, Doctor.

Ah, Lae-ti-tia -
the Latin for Joy!

Ah, ha, ha, ha,
yes, er--- uh--- oh.

Well, I shall, um, I shall see
you both, no doubt, at Evensong?

I think, dear Doctor, I
will have a stroll with you.

I find I have a headache after all,
and a stroll might do it good.

Oh, 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.

Horrid Political Economy!

Horrid Geology!
Horrid, horrid German!

You are too much alone,
dear Dr Chasuble.

You should get married.

No.

You do not seem to
realise, dear Doctor...

...that by persistently remaining
single, a man...

...converts himself into a
permanent public temptation.

Oh..!

A man should be more careful.

Or he may lead weaker
vessels astray.

But is a man not equally
attractive when married?

Oh, no married man is ever
attractive, except to his wife.

And often, I've been told,
not even to her.

Oh, doesn't that depend upon the
intellectual sympathies of the woman?

Maturity can always be
depended on.

Ripeness can be trusted.

Young women are green.
I spoke horticulturally.

My metaphor was drawn from fruits.

Fruits, yes.

Ahum. Mr Ernest Worthing has just
driven over from the station, Miss.

He's brought his luggage
with him.

Mr Ernest Worthing,
B4, The Albany.

Uncle Jack's brother!

Did you tell him Mr Worthing
was in London?

Yes, Miss, and he seemed
very much disappointed.

He said he would like to speak
to you privately for a moment.

I've left him in the
morning room.

Thank you, Merriman.

I've never met a
really wicked person before.

I feel rather frightened.

I'm so afraid he'll look just
like everyone else.

He does!

You are my little cousin
Cecily, I'm sure.

You are under some strange
misapprehension.

I am not little.

In fact, I believe that I am more
than usually tall for my age.

But I am your cousin, Cecily.

You, I see from your card,
are Uncle Jack's brother.

My cousin, Ernest.

My wicked cousin Ernest.

Oh, I am not really wicked
at all, cousin Cecily.

You mustn't think I'm wicked.

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.

Oh, of course I, I have been
rather reckless.

I'm glad to hear it.

In fact, now you mention
the subject...

...I really have been very bad,
in my own small way.

I don't think you should
be so proud of that.

Though I am sure it must
have 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.

That is a great disappointment. I...

...I'm obliged to go up by the
first train on Monday morning. I...

...I have a business appointment
that I am anxious...

...to miss.

Couldn't you miss it anywhere
but in London?

No, the appointment
is in London.

Well, I know, of course...

...how important it is not to
keep a business engagement.

But still I think you had
better wait until Uncle Jack arrives.

I know he wants to speak to
you about your emigrating.

My what?!

About your emigrating.
He has gone up to buy your outfit.

I certainly wouldn't allow
Jack to buy my outfit.

He's got absolutely no taste
at all in neckties.

I don't think that you will
require neckties.

Uncle Jack is sending
you to Australia.

Australia?!

I'd sooner die.

Well, he said at dinner on Wednesday
night that you would have to choose...

...between this world, the next
world, and Australia.

Oh.

Well, the reports I have of Australia
and the next world...

...are not particularly encouraging.

This world is good enough
for me, cousin Cecily.

Yes, but are you good
enough for it?

Well, no, I am not that.

That is why I would like
you to reform me.

You might make that your
mission, if you don't mind...

...Cousin Cecily.

I am afraid I have no time,
this afternoon.

Well, would you mind if I
reform myself this afternoon?

It is rather romantic of you.
But I think you should try.

I will.

- I feel better already.
- You are looking a little worse.

- That's because I'm hungry.
- Oh, how thoughtless of me.

I should have remembered that
when one is going to lead...

...an entirely new life, one requires
regular and wholesome meals.

Might I have a buttonhole first?
I...

...I never have any appetite unless
I have a buttonhole first.

A Marechal Niel?

No, I'd sooner have a pink rose.

Why?

Because you are like a
pink rose, Cousin Cecily.

I don't think it can be right for you
to say such things to me.

Miss Prism never talks like that.

Then Miss Prism is a
short-sighted old lady.

You are the prettiest
girl I ever saw.

Miss Prism says that
all good looks are a snare.

Then they are a snare that any sensible
man would like to be caught in.

Oh-ho? I don't think I should
care to catch a sensible man.

I wouldn't know what to
talk to him about.

Mr Worthing.

- Mr Worthing.
- Dear Mr Worthing...

...I trust this garb of woe does not
betoken some terrible calamity?

My brother.

More shameful debts
and extravagance?

Dead.

Your brother Ernest, dead?

Quite dead.

What a lesson for him!
I trust he will profit by it.

Oh, Mr Worthing, I---
I offer my sincere condolence.

Poor Ernest! He had many faults,
but it is a sad, sad blow.

Oh, very sad indeed.

- 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.

Was the cause of death
mentioned?

A severe chill, it seems.

As a man sows,
so let him reap.

Charity, dear Miss Prism, charity.
None of us are perfect.

I myself am peculiarly
susceptible to draughts.

Er, will the interment
take place here?

No, he seems to have expressed a
desire to be buried in Paris.

Paris?

I fear that hardly points to any very
serious state of mind at the last.

Oh, Uncle Jack! I am so glad
to see you back.

But what horrid clothes
you have got on.

- Cecily!
- My child, my child.

Do look happy! I have got
such a surprise for you.

Who do you think is in
the dining room?

Your brother!

- Who?
- Your brother, Ernest.

He arrived about half an hour ago.

What nonsense,
I haven't got a brother.

Oh, don't say that.

However badly he may have
behaved to you in the past...

...he is still your brother.

You couldn't be so
heartless as to disown him.

And, you will shake hands with
him, won't you, Uncle Jack?

These are very joyful
tidings. Hm?

After we had all been resigned
to his loss...

...his sudden return seems to
me peculiarly distressing.

- Good heavens!
- Brother John.

I have come all the way from
London to tell you how very...

...sorry I am for all the
trouble that I have caused you.

And that I intend to lead a
better life in future.

Uncle Jack, you are not going to
refuse your own brother's hand?

Nothing would induce me to take his hand,
I consider his coming here disgraceful.

He, he knows perfectly well why.

Uncle Jack, do be nice.

There is some good in everyone.

Ernest has just been telling me about
his poor invalid friend, Mr Bunbury.

Oh! he's been telling you about
Bunbury, has he?

We--- well I won't have him
talking to you about...

...Bunbury or about anything else.

Of course I admit that all the
faults were on my side, but...

...I must say, I think Brother John's
coldness to me on my first visit here...

...peculiarly painful.

Uncle Jack, if you won't shake hands
with Ernest, I will never forgive you.

- Never forgive me?
- Never.

Never, never!

Well, this is the last
time I shall do it.

I think we might leave
the brothers together.

Cecily, you will come with us.

Certainly, Miss Prism.

My little task of
reconciliation is over.

Algy, you young scoundrel, you
must leave this place at once. I...

...I won't have any
Bunburying here.

Merriman. Order the
dog cart at once.

Mr Ernest has been called
back suddenly to town.

Yes, sir.

What a fearful liar you are. Jack,
I haven't been called back to town at all.

- Oh, yes, you have.
- I haven't heard anyone call me.

Your duty as a gentleman
calls you back.

I have never allowed my duty
as a gentleman to interfere...

...with my pleasures to
the smallest degree.

I can quite understand that.

Well, Cecily is a darling.

You are not to speak of Miss Cardew
that way. I don't like it.

Well, I don't like your clothes.
You look perfectly grotesque in them.

Why on earth don't you
go up and change?

Perfectly childish to be in deep
mourning for a man who is actually...

...staying for a whole week with
you in your own house as a guest.

You are not staying with me for a
whole week as a guest, or anything else.

You are going to leave this
afternoon... by the four-five train.

I certainly shall not leave you
so long as you are in mourning.

You've been most most unfriendly.

If I were in mourning you
would stay with me, I suppose?

I should think it very
unkind if you did not.

Well, will you go if I
change my clothes?

- Yes, if you don't take too long.
- Huh.

I never saw a man take so long
to dress with such little result.

Well, at any rate, that is better than
being always overdressed, as you are.

This Bunburying, as you call it...

...has not been a great
success for you.

I think it has been a great success.

You rang, sir?

Merriman, am I correctly
garbed for a christening?

No, sir.

Black is for funerals
and weddings, sir.

White is for christenings.

I'll lay out your
tennis clothes, sir.

Thank you, Merriman.

Oh! I thought you
were with Uncle Jack.

He has gone to order
the dog cart for me.

Oh, is he going to take
you for a nice drive?

He's going to send me away.

Then have we got to part?

I'm afraid so.

It's a very painful parting.

It's always painful to part from people
whom one has known...

...for only a very brief space of time.

The absence of old friends
one can endure with equanimity.

But even a momentary separation...

...from anyone to whom one is just
been introduced is almost...

...unbearable.

Thank you.

The dog cart is at
the door, sir.

It can wait, Merriman,
for... five minutes.

Yes, Miss.

I hope, Cecily, I shall
not offend you...

...if I state quite openly and frankly
that 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 really keep a diary? I'd give
anything to see it. May I?

Oh, no. You see, it is simply a
very young girl's record...

...of her own thoughts
and impressions...

...and consequently meant
for publication.

Oh, when it appears in volume form,
I hope you will order a copy.

But pray, Ernest, don't stop. I
delight in taking down from dictation.

I have reached
"absolute perfection".

You may go on, I am
quite ready for more.

Ah...

Oh, don't cough, Ernest.
I don't know how to spell a cough.

Cecily!

Ever since I first saw your wonderful
and incomparable perfection...

...I have dared to love you wildly,
passionately, devotedly...

...hopelessly.

I don't think that you should
tell me that you love me...

..."wildly, passionately,
devotedly, hopelessly."

"Hopelessly"...

...doesn't seem to make
much sense...

- ...does it?
- Cecily!

The dog cart is waiting, sir.

Tell it to come round next week
at the same hour.

Very good, sir.

I think Uncle Jack would
be very much annoyed...

...if he knew you were
staying until next week...

- ...at the same hour.
- Oh, I don't care about Jack.

I don't care for anybody
in the world but you.

I love you, Cecily.
You will marry me?

Of course.

Why, we have been engaged
for the last three months.

- For the last three months?
- Yes, it will be exactly three months...

- ... on Thursday.
- But how did we become engaged?

Well, ever since
dear Uncle Jack...

...first confessed to us that
he had a younger brother...

...who was very
wicked and bad...

...you, of course, have formed
the chief topic...

...of conversation
between myself and Miss Prism.

And, of course, a man who is much
talked about is always very attractive.

One always feels there must be
something in him, after all.

I daresay it was
foolish of me.

- But I fell in love with you, Ernest.
- Darling!

When was our engagement
actually settled?

On the 22nd of February last.

Worn out by your entire
ignorance of my existence...

...I determined to
end the matter...

...one way or the other.

And after a long struggle
with myself...

...I accepted you...

...under that dear old
chandelier there.

And then next day, I bought
this ring in your name.

And this is the bangle,
with the true lover's knot...

...that I promised you
always to wear.

Did I give you this?

- It's very pretty, isn't it?
- Yes.

Yes, you've wonderfully
good taste, Ernest.

It's always been my excuse
for your leading such a bad life.

And then...

...this is the box in which I
keep all your dear letters.

My letters? But my own sweet Cecily,
I never wrote you any letters.

You need hardly remind
me of that, Ernest.

I remember only too well, I was
forced to write all your letters for you.

I wrote three times a week,
and sometimes oftener.

- Oh, do let me read them!
Oh, no, you couldn't possibly...

...they would make you
far too conceited.

The three you to wrote me, after our
engagement had been broken off...

...are so beautiful...

...and so badly spelled...

...that even now I can hardly read
them without crying a little.

- But was our engagement broken off?
- Of course it was.

On the 22nd of last March.
You can see the entry if you like.

"Today I broke off my engagement
with Ernest. I feel it is better to do so."

"The weather still continues
charming."

But why on earth did you break
it off? What had I done?

I had done nothing at all.

Cecily, I am very much hurt
indeed that you broke it off.

Particularly when the weather
was so charming.

But it would hardly
have been a really...

...serious engagement if it hadn't
been broken off at least once.

But I forgave you before
the week was out.

What a perfect angel
you are.

You won't ever break off our
engagement again, will you?

I don't think I could now that
I've actually met you.

Besides, of course...

...there is the question
of your name.

- Of course.
- You mustn't laugh at me, darling.

But it had always been
a girlish dream of mine...

...to love someone by
the name of Ernest.

There is something in that name that
seems to inspire absolute confidence.

Indeed, I pity any poor married woman
whose husband is not called Ernest.

But my dear child, do you mean
to say you couldn't love me if I...

...if I had some other name?

- But what name?
- Well, any name you like. Erm...

...um... Algernon, for instance?

But I don't like the
name of Algernon.

I, I really don't see why you should
object to the name of Algernon, it...

...it-it's not a bad name at all, er, in fact,
it's rather an aristocratic name.

Half the chaps who get into the
Bankruptcy Court are called Algernon.

But, seriously, Cecily - if my name
was Algy, couldn't you love me?

I might respect you, Ernest.

I might admire your character.

But I fear that I should not be able
to give you my undivided attention.

Cecily, your Vicar here is, I suppose,
thoroughly experienced in the...

...practice of all the rites and
ceremonials of the Church?

Oh, yes, Dr Chasuble
is a most learned man.

Then I must see him at once on
a most important christening.

I mean, on most important business.
I won't be more than half an hour.

Ernest!

Considering that we have been
engaged since February the 22nd...

...and that I only met you
today for the first time...

...I think it is rather hard...

...that you should leave me for so
long a period as half an hour.

Couldn't you make it
twenty minutes?

I'll be back in no time.

Ahem-hm.

- Mr Worthing.
- Good afternoon, Dr Chasuble, er---

Ah, you will, I trust, excuse a...

...a post-prandial relapse
into the arms of Morpheus?

Ha, in other words, forty winks.

Dr Chasuble, I suppose you
know how to christen all right?

I mean, of course, you are
continually christening, aren't you?

It is, I regret to say, one my most
constant duties in this parish.

I have often spoken to the
poorer classes on this subject...

...but they don't seem to
know what thrift is.

Well, is there, any particular infant in
whom you're interested, Mr Worthing?

- Yes.
- Of course, your brother!

- I beg your pardon?
- Your brother, I know, is unmarried...

- ...but, er---
- Dr Chasuble, it is not for any child. Ahem.

The fact is, I was thinking of
getting christened myself.

This afternoon, if you've
nothing better to do?

But surely, Mr Worthing, you've
been christened already?

Well, I don't remember
anything about it.

Have you any grave
doubts on the subject?

Well, I certainly intend to have.

Unless, of course, you think I'm
a little too old now..?

Oh, not at all, it's...

...the sprinkling and indeed even
the immersion...

...of adults, is a perfectly
canonical practice.

Immersion?

Ah, you need have no apprehension,
sprinkling is all that is necessary.

- Ah.
- Or indeed, I think, advisable.

Our weather...

...so changeable.

At what hour would
you like the ceremony performed?

Well, I thought I would trot round
about five, if that would suit you?

Oh, perfectly, perfectly,
in fact I have...

...two similar ceremonies
to perform at that time.

A case of twins...

...that occurred recently in one of the, the
outlying cottages of your own estate.

- Oh, yes?
- Poor Jenkins, the carter.

A most hard-working man.

Well, I don't see much fun in being
christened along with a lot of other babies.

No, it would be childish.
Would half past five do?

- Oh, admirably, admirably!
- Oh. Ha, ha!

- Till half past five, then.
- Half past five, at the font.

Ahem.

Come in?

Dr Chasuble.

"What a perfect angel
you are, Cecily."

Oh!

But that is where he knelt.

Yes, I am sure that is where
he knelt.

A Miss Fairfax has called to
see Mr Worthing, Miss...

...on very importance business,
Miss Fairfax states.

Isn't Mr Worthing in the library?

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

Pray ask the lady to come out here.
Mr Worthing is sure to be back soon.

- And, Merriman - you may bring tea.
- Yes, Miss.

Oh, dear.

One of the many good elderly women...

...associated with Uncle
Jack in some of his...

...philanthropic work in London,
I suppose.

Miss Fairfax.

Oh!

Miss Fairfax?

Pray let me introduce
myself to you.

- My name is Cecily Cardew.
- What a very sweet name.

Something tells me we're
going to be great friends.

I like you already
more than I can say.

My first impressions of
people are never wrong.

How nice of you to like
me so much...

...after we have known each other for
such a comparatively short time.

Shall we sit over there?

I may call you Cecily,
may I not?

- With pleasure!
- And you will always...

-...call me Gwendolen, won't you?
- If you wish.

Then that's all quite settled,
is it not?

I hope so.

Cecily - Mama, whose views on
education are remarkably strict...

...has brought me up to be
extremely short-sighted.

It's part of her system.
So...

...do you mind my looking
at you through my glasses?

Oh, not at all, Gwendolen.
I'm very fond of being looked at.

Ahem.

You are here on a short visit
I suppose?

- Oh, no. I live here.
- Really?

Your mother, no doubt, or...

...or some female relative of
advanced years resides here also?

Oh, no, I have no mother.
Nor, in fact, any relations.

I am Mr Worthing's ward.

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.

In fact, if I may speak
quite candidly..?

Pray do! I think that
whenever one has anything...

...unpleasant to say, one should
always be quite candid.

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.

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

Yes.

Oh, but it is not Mr Ernest
Worthing who is my guardian...

...it is his brother, his elder brother.

Ernest never mentioned to
me that he had a brother.

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

Ah! That accounts for it.

Of course, you are quite,
quite sure that it is not Mr...

...Ernest Worthing who is
your guardian?

Quite sure.

In fact...

...I am going to be his.

I beg your pardon?

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.

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.

I am afraid you must be under
some misconception.

Ernest proposed to me, exactly
ten minutes ago.

It is certainly very curious...

...for he asked me to be his wife
yesterday afternoon at five thirty.

If you would care to verify
the incident, pray do so.

I never travel without my diary.

One should always have something
sensational to read in the train.

Hm. I am so sorry...

...dearest Cecily, if it is any
disappointment to you.

But I am afraid I
have the prior claim.

It would distress me more than
I can say, dearest Gwendolen...

...if it caused you any mental
or physical anguish.

But I feel bound to point out
that since Ernest proposed to you...

...he has clearly
changed his mind.

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.

Whatever unfortunate entanglement
my dear boy may have got himself into...

...I will never reproach him with
it, after we are married.

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.

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 spade
I call it a spade.

I am glad to say I have
never seen a spade.

It is obvious that our social spheres
have been widely different.

Shall I lay tea here
as usual, Miss?

Yes, as usual.

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

Oh, yes, a great many.

From the top of one of the hills, quite
close, one can see five counties.

Five counties!

Oh, I don't think I should like that.
I hate crowds.

I suppose that is why
you live in a town?

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

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

May I offer you some tea?

Thank you.

- Sugar?
- No, thank you!

Sugar is not fashionable
any more.

Cake, or bread and butter?

Bread and butter, please.
Thank you.

Cake is rarely seen in the
best houses nowadays.

Hand that to Miss Fairfax.

You have filled my tea
with lumps of sugar.

And though I asked most distinctly
asked for bread and butter...

...you have given me cake.

I am known for the gentleness
of my disposition...

...and extraordinary
sweetness of my nature.

But I warn you, Miss Cardew,
you may go too far.

To save my poor, innocent,
trusting boy...

...from the machinations
of any other girl...

...there are no lengths to
which I would not go.

From the moment I saw
you I distrusted you.

I felt that you were false and deceitful.
I'm never deceived in such matters.

My first impressions of people
are invariably right.

It seems to me, Miss Fairfax, that I am
trespassing on your valuable time.

No doubt you have many other calls...

...of a similar character to
make in the neighbourhood.

Gwendolen!

My own Ernest!

- Gwendolen, darling.
- A moment.

May I ask if you are engaged
to be married to this young lady?

What, to dear little Cecily?
Good heavens, no.

What could have put such an idea
into your pretty little head?

Thank you.
You may.

I knew there must be some
misunderstanding, Miss Fairfax.

The gentleman whose arm is at
present round your waist...

...is my dear guardian,
Mr John Worthing.

I beg your pardon?

This is Uncle Jack.

Jack? Oh!

Cecily!

Here is Ernest.

My own love.

A moment.

Are you by any chance engaged
to be married to this young lady?

To what young lady?

- Good heavens! Gwendolen.
- Yes, to good heavens, Gwendolen.

- I mean, Gwendolen.
- Of course not!

What could have put such an
idea into your pretty little head?

Thank you. Ahem.
You may.

I felt there must be some slight
error, Miss Cardew.

The gentleman who is now embracing you
is my cousin, Mr Algernon Moncrieff.

Algernon Moncrieff?

Are you called Algernon?

I cannot deny it.

Oh!

Is your name really John?

Well, I could deny it if I liked. I
could deny anything if I liked.

But my name certainly is John.

A gross deception has been
practised on both of us.

My poor, wounded Cecily.

My sweet, wronged Gwendolen.

You will call me sister -
will you not?

There is just one question I would like
to be allowed to ask my guardian.

An admirable idea.

Mr Worthing, there is just one question
I would like to be permitted to put to you.

Where is your
brother, Ernest?

We are both engaged to be
married to your brother Ernest...

...so it is a matter of some importance
to us to know where your brother Ernest is...

- ...at present.
- Gwendolen.

Cecily.
I will tell you quite frankly...

...that I have no brother Ernest.

- I've no brother at all.
- No brother at all?

None.

Have you never had a
brother of any kind?

Never. Not even of any kind.

I am afraid it is quite clear,
Cecily...

...that neither of us is engaged
to be married to anyone.

It is not a very pleasant position for a
young girl suddenly to find herself in, is it?

Let us go into the house. They will hardly
venture to come after us there.

No, men are such cowards,
aren't they?

This ghastly state of affairs is what
you would call Bunburying, I suppose?

Yes. The most wonderful Bunbury
I ever had in my life.

Well, the only small satisfaction I
get out of the whole of this...

...wretched business, is that your friend
Bunbury, dear Algy, is quite exploded.

And a very good thing, too.

Your brother is a little off-colour,
isn't he, dear Jack?

And not a bad thing, either.

As for you deceiving a sweet,
simple, innocent girl like Miss Cardew.

I can only say that it...

...it's inexcusable.

To say nothing of the fact
that she is my ward.

I can see no possible defence at all,
for your deceiving a clever...

...experienced young lady like
Miss Fairfax.

To say nothing of the fact that
she is my cousin.

I simply wanted to be engaged to
Gwendolen, that is all. I love her.

Well, I simply wanted to be
engaged to Cecily. I adore her.

There is certainly no chance
of your marrying Miss Cardew.

I don't think there is much likelihood
Jack, of you and Miss Fairfax being united.

Guard!

Will you be good enough
to inform me...

...how soon this railway
train arrives at Woolton?

Now, let me see.
There's Gothrington.

No, we've past there.
Then there's Ghostly Halt...

...Sopley, Cobbler's Corner...

...Coombe Brissett, High Totton,
Low Totton, Little Thicket---

How you can sit there calmly
eating muffins...

...when we are in this terrible trouble,
I can't imagine.

You seem to be
perfectly heartless.

Well, I can't eat muffins
in an agitated manner.

The butter would probably
get on my cuffs.

One should always eat muffins quite
calmly. It is the only way to eat them.

I said it's perfectly heartless
to be eating them at all.

When I am in trouble, eating is
the only thing that consoles me.

They are eating muffins!

Algy, I wish to goodness
you would go.

But I've just made arrangements
with Dr Chasuble to be christened...

...at six o'clock under
the name of Ernest.

Oh, my dear fellow, I've made
arrangements with Dr Chasuble myself...

...to be christened
at five thirty.

And I naturally will take
the name of Ernest.

I have a perfect right
to be christened if I like.

There's no evidence at all that
I was ever christened by anyone.

It's entirely different with you,
you've been christened already.

Yes, but I haven't been christened
for years.

Yes, but you have been christened.
That is the important thing.

Quite so. So I know my
constitution can stand it.

It might make you very unwell.

You can hardly have forgotten
that someone...

...very closely connected with you
was nearly carried off...

...in Paris this
week, by a severe chill.

You talk as if a severe
chill were hereditary.

Well, it usen't to be, I know.
But it may be now.

Science is always making wonderful
improvements in things.

They are looking this way.

What effrontery.

- They are approaching.
- That is very forward of them.

Let us preserve a dignified silence.

Certainly. It is the only
thing to do now.

- La-ba-da, da-ree-ree...
- Rom-ba-dom bom bo-om...

...rom-ba-dom-bomb-eeeeee---
didilly um, pom pom.

Mr Worthing.

I have something very
particular to ask you.

Much depends on your reply.

Your common sense is invaluable,
Gwendolen. Mr Moncrieff...

...kindly answer me the
following question.

Why did you pretend to be
my guardian's brother?

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

That certainly seems a satisfactory
explanation, does it not?

Yes, dear,
if you can believe him.

Mr Worthing...

...what explanation can you offer me
for pretending to have a brother?

Was it in order that you might have
an opportunity of coming up to town...

...to see me as often
as possible?

Can you doubt it,
Miss Fairfax?

I have the gravest
doubts on the subject.

But I intend to crush them.

Their explanations appear to me to
have the stamp of truth on them.

Especially Mr Worthing's.

I am more than content with
what Mr Moncrieff has said.

His voice alone inspires one
with absolute credulity.

Then you think we
should forgive them?

Yes.

I mean, no!

True, I had forgotten.

There are principles at stake
that one cannot surrender.

Which of us should tell them?
The task is not a pleasant one.

Could we not both speak
at the same time?

An excellent idea, I nearly always speak
at the same time as other people.

Will you take the time from me?

Your Christian names are still an
insuperable barrier. That is all.

Our Christian names. Is that all? But we
are going to be christened this afternoon.

For my sake you are prepared
to do this terrible thing?

I am.

To please me you are ready
to face this fearful ordeal?

I am.

How absurd to talk of the
equality of the sexes.

Where questions of self-sacrifice are
concerned, men are infinitely beyond us.

We are.

Darling!

Gwendolen!

What does this mean?

Merely that I am engaged
Mr Worthing, Mama.

Come here.

Sit down.

Sit down immediately.

Mr Worthing, you will
clearly understand...

...that all communication between
yourself and my daughter must cease.

Immediately, from this moment.

On this point, as indeed on all
points, I am firm.

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

You are nothing of the kind, sir.

And now, as regards Algernon.

- Algernon.
- Yes, Aunt Augusta?

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

Oh, no, Bunbury doesn't live here.
Bunbury is somewhere else at present.

In fact, Bunbury is dead.

Dead?

When did Mr Bunbury die?

Oh, I killed Bunbury this afternoon.

I mean, Bunbury died
this afternoon.

What did he die of?

Bunbury? Oh, he was
quite exploded.

Exploded?

Was he a victim of a
revolutionary outrage?

My dear Aunt Augusta,
I mean he was found out.

The doctors found out that
Bunbury could not live.

That is what I mean.
So Bunbury died.

Mm.

And now that we have finally
got rid of this Mr Bunbury...

...may I ask Mr Worthing, who
is that young person...

...whose hand my nephew
Algernon is holding...

...in what appears to me to be a
peculiarly unnecessary manner?

That lady is Miss Cecily
Cardew, my ward.

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

I beg your pardon?

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

Indeed!

I think some preliminary inquiry on
my part should not be out of place.

Mr Worthing.

Is Miss Cardew at all connected
with any of the...

...larger railway stations in London?

I merely require information.

Until yesterday...

...I had no idea there were any families
or persons whose origin was a Terminus.

Miss Cardew is the granddaughter
of the late Mr Thomas Cardew of...

...149 Belgrave Square, South West.
Gervase Park, Dorking, Surrey...

...and the Sporran, Fifeshire.

That sounds not unsatisfactory.

Three addresses always inspire
confidence, even in tradesmen.

But what proof have I
of their authenticity?

I have carefully preserved
the Court Guides...

...of the period. They are open for your
inspection, Lady Bracknell.

I have known strange
errors in that publication.

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

Oh, Markby, Markby, and Markby?

A firm of the very highest
position in their profession.

I have also in my possession,
you will be pleased to hear,

...certificates of Miss Cardew's birth...

...baptism, whooping cough,
registration, vaccination, confirmation...

...and the measles - the German
and the English variety.

A life crowded with incident,
I see.

But somewhat too exciting
for a young girl.

Gwendolen.

The time approaches for
our departure.

We have not a moment to lose.

As a matter of form, Mr Worthing,
I had better ask...

...if Miss Cardew has any
little fortune?

Oh, only about, one hundred and
thirty thousand pounds in the Funds.

That is all.

Goodbye, Lady Bracknell.
So pleased to have seen you.

One moment, Mr Worthing.

A hundred and thirty thousand
pounds, and in the Funds.

Miss Cardew seems a most attractive
young lady, now that I look at her.

Few girls of the present day
have any really solid qualities.

Qualities that last, and
improve with time.

We live, I regret to say,
in an age of surfaces.

Come over here, dear.

Pretty child.

Your dress is sadly simple, and your hair
seems almost as Nature might have left it.

But we can soon alter that.

A thoroughly experienced French maid
produces a really remarkable result...

...in a very brief space of time.

There are distinct social
possibilities in your profile.

Cecily is the dearest, sweetest,
prettiest girl in the world.

And I don't care two pins
for social possibilities.

Never speak disrespectfully
of Society, Algernon.

Only people who can't
get into it do that.

I suppose you know that Algernon has
nothing but his debts to depend upon.

But I do not approve of
mercenary marriages.

When I married Lord Bracknell
I had no fortune of any kind.

But I never dreamed of
allowing that to stand in my way.

Well, I suppose I
must give my consent.

Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Cecily, you may kiss me.

Thank you, Lady Bracknell.

And you may address me as
Aunt Augusta for the future.

Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

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

Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

To speak frankly, I am not
in favour of long engagements.

They give people an opportunity of finding
out each other's characters before marriage...

...which I think is never advisable.

I beg your pardon for
interrupting you, Lady Bracknell.

But this engagement is
quite out of the question.

I am Miss Cardew's guardian...

...and she cannot marry without
my consent until she comes of age.

That consent I absolutely
decline to give.

Upon what grounds,
may I ask?

Algernon is an extremely - one might almost
say ostentatiously - eligible young man.

He has nothing,
and looks everything.

What more can one desire?

It pains me very much to have to
speak frankly to you, Lady Bracknell...

...about your nephew, but the fact is that I
do not approve at all of his moral character.

I suspect him of
being untruthful.

Untruthful? My nephew
Algernon, untruthful?

Impossible. He was at Oxford.

I fear there can be no possible
doubt about the matter.

This afternoon, during
my temporary absence...

...in London on an important
question of... romance.

He obtained admission to
my house...

...by means of the false pretence
of being my brother.

Under an assumed name he drank,
I've just been informed by my butler...

...an entire pint bottle
of Perrier-Jouet, Brut, '89.

A wine I was specially
reserving for myself.

Continuing his disgraceful
deception, he succeeded...

...during the course of the afternoon in
alienating the affections of my only ward.

He subsequently stayed to tea,
and devoured every single muffin.

And what makes his conduct all
the more heartless is that he was...

...perfectly well aware from
the first that I have no brother...

...that I never had a brother, and that
I don't intend to have a brother...

...not even of any kind.

Um-hum.

Mr Worthing, after
careful consideration...

...I have decided entirely to overlook
my nephew's conduct toward you.

That is very generous of you, Lady Bracknell.
My own decision, however, is unalterable.

I decline to give my consent.

Come here, sweet child.

How old are you?

Well, I am really only eighteen...

...but I always admit to twenty
when I go to evening parties.

You are perfectly right to make
some slight alteration.

A woman should never be
really accurate about her age.

It looks so calculating.

Eighteen, admitting to
twenty at evening parties.

Well, you will soon be of age, and
free from the restraints of tutelage.

So I do not think your guardian's
consent is a matter of any importance.

Pray excuse me for interrupting
you again, Lady Bracknell...

...but I think it is only fair
to point out that under...

...the terms of her
grandfather's will, Miss Cardew...

...does not legally come
of age until she is thirty-five.

That doesn't seem to me to
be a very grave objection.

Thirty-five is a very
attractive age.

London society is full of women
of the highest birth...

...who of their own free choice,
have remained thirty-five for years.

Lady Dumbleton is an
instance in point.

To my own knowledge she has
been thirty-five...

...ever since she arrived at
the age of forty...

...which is many years ago now.

I see no reason why our dear
Cecily should not be even more...

...attractive at the age you mention,
than she is at present.

There will be a large
accumulation of property. Hm.

Algy.

Could you wait for me
till I was thirty-five?

Of course I could, Cecily.

- You know I could.
- Yes.

I felt that, instinctively.

But I couldn't wait all that time.

But, Cecily!

My dear Mr Worthing.

As Miss Cardew states positively that
she cannot wait until she is thirty-five...

...a remark which I am bound to say
seems to me to show a...

...somewhat impatient nature...

...I would beg of you to
reconsider your decision.

But my dear Lady Bracknell, the
matter is entirely in your own hands.

The moment you consent to my
marriage with Gwendolen, I will most...

...gladly allow your nephew to
form an alliance with my ward.

That is not the destiny I
propose for Gwendolen.

Algernon, of course, can
choose for himself.

Come, dear.

We've already missed
five, if not six, trains.

To miss any more might expose
us to comment on the platform.

Um, everything is quite ready
for the christenings.

The christenings, sir?

Is not this somewhat premature?

Both these gentlemen have expressed
their desire for immediate baptism.

At their age?

The idea is grotesque
and irreligious!

Algernon,
I forbid you to be baptised.

I will not hear of such excesses.

Am I to understand there to be no
christenings at all this afternoon?

I don't think that with things as they are,
Dr Chasuble, they would be much...

...practical value to either of us.

As your present mood
seems to be one...

...peculiarly secular, I will
return to the church at once.

Indeed, I have just been informed
Miss Prism has been waiting for me.

Miss Prism?

Did I hear you mention
a Miss Prism?

Yes, indeed. I am on my way
to join her.

Kindly allow me to detain
you for one moment.

Is this Miss Prism a female of repellent
aspect, remotely connected with education?

She is the most cultivated of ladies,
and the very picture of respectability.

It is obviously the same person.

May I ask what is her position
in your household?

Miss Prism, Lady Bracknell, has for the
last three years been Miss Cardew's...

...esteemed governess
and valued companion.

In spite of what I hear of
her, I must see her at once.

Let her be sent for.

Oh! She approaches; she is nigh.

I was told you expected me
in the vestry, dear Canon.

I have been waiting for you there
for an hour and three quarters.

PRISM!

Come here, Prism.

Prism...

...where is that baby?

Twenty eight years ago, Prism,
you left Lord Bracknell's house...

...in charge of a perambulator
containing an infant of the male sex.

You never returned.

Some few weeks later, the
perambulator was discovered at midnight...

...standing by itself in a
remote corner of Bayswater.

It contained the manuscript
of a...

...three-volume novel of more
than usually revolting sentimentality.

- Oh!
- But the baby was not there.

Prism, where is that baby?

Where is that baby, Prism?

Lady Bracknell.

I admit with shame that
I do not know.

I only wish I did.

The plain facts of
the case are these.

On the morning of the day you mention,
a day that is for ever branded on my memory...

...I prepared as usual to take
the baby out in its perambulator.

I had also with me a somewhat old,
but capacious handbag...

...in which I had intended
to place the manuscript...

...of a work of fiction that I had
written during my few unoccupied hours.

In a moment of mental abstraction,
for which I never can forgive myself...

...I deposited the manuscript in the basinette,
and placed the baby in the handbag.

But where did you deposit
the handbag?

Do not ask me, Mr Worthing.

Miss Prism, this is a matter
of no small importance to me.

I insist on knowing where you deposited
the handbag that contained that infant.

I left it in the cloakroom of one of
the larger railway stations in London.

What railway station?

Victoria.

The Brighton line?

The Brighton line.

Gwendolen, wait here for me.

If you are not too long,
I will wait here for you all my life.

This suspense is terrible.

Miss Prism, is this
the handbag?

Let me look.

Examine it carefully
before you speak.

The happiness of more than one
life depends on your answer.

Thank you.

It seems to be mine.

Oh, yes, here is the injury
it received...

...through the upsetting of a
Gower Street omnibus...

...in younger and happier days.

There is the stain on the lining caused by
the explosion of a temperance beverage.

An incident that occurred
at Leamington.

And here on the lock are my initials!

I had forgotten that in an extravagant
mood I had had them placed there.

The bag is undoubtedly mine.

I am delighted to have it so
unexpectedly restored to me.

It has been a great inconvenience
being without it all these years.

Miss Prism.

More is restored to you
than the handbag.

I am the baby that was placed in it.

- You?
- Yes.

Mother!

Mr Worthing
I am unmarried!

Unmarried?

I do not deny that that is
a serious blow. But...

...who has the right to cast a stone
against one who has suffered?

- Oh, no!
- May not repentance...

...wipe out an act of folly?

Why should there be one law for
men, and another for women?

- Mother, I forgive you.
- Mr Worthing, there is some error!

There is the lady who can tell you
who you really are. Oh dear.

Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem
inquisitive, but...

...could you kindly inform
me who I really am?

You are the son of my poor sister...

...Mrs Moncrieff, and consequently
Algernon's elder brother.

Algy's elder brother!

Huh. Then I have a brother
after all.

I knew I had a brother!
I always said I had a brother!

Cecily, how could you ever have
doubted that I had a brother?

Dr Chasuble, my
unfortunate brother.

Miss Prism, my unfortunate
brother. Gwendolen...

...my unfortunate brother.

Algy, you young scoundrel, you will have to
behave with more respect to me in the future.

You've never behaved to me
like a brother in all your life.

Well, not till today, old boy, I admit. I tried
my best, however, though I was out of practice.

My own! But...

...but what own are you?

What is your Christian name, now that
you have become someone else?

Your decision on the subject of my
Christian name is irrevocable, I suppose?

I never change,
except in my affections.

What a noble nature you
have, Gwendolen.

Then the question must be
cleared up, once and for all.

Aunt Augusta, at the time when
Miss Prism left me in the handbag...

...had I been christened already?

Every luxury that money
could buy, including christening...

...had been lavished on you by
your fond and doting parents.

Then I was christened,
that is settled.

Now, what was my Christian name?
Let me know the worst.

Being the eldest son you were
naturally called after your father.

Yes, but what was my
father's Christian name?

I cannot at the moment recall what
the General's Christian name was.

I've no doubt he had one.

He was eccentric, I admit.
But only in later years.

Algy, can't you recollect what our
father's Christian name was?

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

His name would be in the Army Lists
of the period, I suppose, Aunt Augusta?

The General was essentially
a man of peace...

...except in his domestic life.

But I've no doubt his name would
appear in any military directory.

The Army Lists of the last
forty years are here.

These delightful records should
have been my constant study.

"M. Generals"...

..."Magley, Maxby, Maxbohm",
what ghastly names they have.

"Markby, Migsby, Mobbs"...

..."Moncrieff"!

"Lieutenant 1840, Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel,
Colonel, General 1869."

"Christian name"...

..."Ernest John."

Gwendolen, I always told you
that my name was Ernest.

- Didn't I?
- Ernest, my own Ernest.

Cecily, at last!

- Lae-ti-tia, at last!
- Oh.

Gwendolen, at last!

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

On the contrary,
Aunt Augusta.

I have now realised for the
first time in my life...

...the vital Importance
of Being Earnest.