Hey! Hey!
There he is!
Where's he going?
-Bastard!
Stop!
You won't get away, sir!
Time to pay your debt.
Hey!
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.
Yes, sir.
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.
Yes, sir.
It's a terrible nuisance,
but there's nothing to be done.
I shall return Monday afternoon.
Yes, sir.
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.
Walk on.
Hey!
Excuse me.
Ernest!
-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?
-What?
-Shropshire.
-Shropshire?
-Mm.
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...
And Gwendolen.
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.
Your 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.
-Cecily?
-Mm.
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.
Your 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.
Moncrieff!
A quick word, sir!
"Bunburyist"?
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.
Cecily?
Do your work, child.
He, she, it praises.
"Bunburyist"?
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.
Very strange.
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.
Certainly, Mama.
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.
For me...
you have always had
an irresistible fascination.
Gwendolen--
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.
I think...
Jack, for instance,
a charming name.
Jack?
I've known several Jacks,
and they all...
without exception,
were more than usually plain.
Mm.
The only really
safe name is Ernest.
Gwendolen, we must
get married at once.
Married, Mr. Worthing?
Well, surely.
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.
Gwendolen.
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?
Mr. Worthing!
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.
Algernon?
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.
Cecily?
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.
Ernest!
-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.
I was--
Well, I was found.
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...
find you?
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.
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.
You don't think there's any
chance of Gwendolen becoming...
like her mother in about
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.
Ernest.
-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.
Dear Gwendolen.
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.
Shh! Shh.
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.
Thank you.
You can put out
my dress clothes...
my smoking jacket...
and even bring on
the curling tongs.
Yes, sir.
Tomorrow, Lane...
I'm going Bunburying.
Yes. sir.
That must be it over there.
Bring it down there,
Mr. Smithers.
Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing
to come here.
Yes. Miss.
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.
Oh, well.
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 will.
-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.
My brother.
More shameful debts
and extravagance.
Still leading
a life of pleasure.
Dead.
Your brother Ernest is dead?
Quite 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.
Ah...ah...Ah-choo!
Bless you.
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?
Your brother.
-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.
I--
These are joyful tidings.
Good heavens.
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?
What?
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.
Heh heh.
-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.
Cecily.
Might I have a buttonhole first?
I never have an appetite
unless I have a buttonhole.
Mr. Worthing.
-Marigold?
-No.
I'd sooner have
a pink rose.
Why?
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.
Dear Ernest...
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...
painful.
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...
Ernest.
Ernest.
Algy.
Algy.
Ernest.
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.
You're snoring?
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...
wildly...
-passionately...
-Ahem.
devotedly, hopelessly.
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?
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.
-Mr. Worthing...
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!
Jack!
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.
Well, Ernest?
...it's only life.
Mr. Worthing.
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?
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.
Darling...
Aah!
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.
My 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?
What had I done?
I had done nothing at all.
I'm very much hurt indeed
to hear you broke it off.
Particularly when
the weather was so charming.
Well, it would hardly have been
a really serious engagement...
if I hadn't broken it off
at least once, Ernest.
But I forgave you
before the week was out.
Oh, you're a perfect angel.
-You dear romantic boy.
-Mmm.
You know, I never really
thought of myself...
as the marrying kind until now.
You mustn't break it off
again, Cecily.
Well, I don't think
I could break it off...
now that I've actually met you.
Besides, of course, there is
the question of your name.
Yes, of course.
You mustn't laugh at me,
darling...
but it has always been
a girlish dream of mine...
to love someone
whose name is Ernest.
There's something
in that name...
that seems to inspire
absolute confidence.
My own dear joy, do you mean
to say you couldn't love me...
if I had another name?
-But what name?
-Well...
Algy, for instance.
I might respect you, Ernest...
I might admire
your character...
but I fear that I would
never be able to give you...
my undivided attention.
Mmm. Mmm.
Ahem.
The dog cart
is ready for you, sir.
-Ahem.
-Ahem.
And now you must go, my love...
for sooner then
shall you return.
Oh, what a charming boy.
I like his hair so much.
You wanted to see me,
Dr. Chasuble?
I didn't.
Oh.
You didn't?
Oh.
I'm sorry...
but merely for
the purposes of clarification...
when you said you didn't...
did you mean you didn't say
you wanted to see me...
or that you didn't, in fact,
want to see me?
Isn't language a curious thing?
Will you excuse me?
I have a double baptism
this afternoon...
Bless you.
A Miss Fairfax has called
to see Mr. Worthing--
on very important business,
Miss Fairfax states.
Mr. Worthing is sure
to be out soon, Merriman...
so kindly bring some tea.
Yes, miss.
-Miss Cardew.
-Thank you.
Miss Fairfax, pray let me
introduce myself to you.
My name is Cecily Cardew.
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...
and my first impressions
of people are never wrong.
You're here on a short visit,
I suppose.
-Oh, no, I live here.
-Really?
Your mother, no doubt,
or some female relative...
of advanced years
resides here also.
Oh, no. I have no mother,
nor, in fact, any relations.
-Indeed.
-My dear guardian...
has the arduous task
of looking after me.
-Your guardian?
-I'm Mr. Worthing's ward.
Oh.
It is strange.
He never mentioned it.
How secretive of him.
Ha ha ha!
He grows
more interesting hourly.
But I am bound to state that...
now that I know
you are Mr. Worthing's ward...
I cannot help expressing
a wish that you were...
well, just a little bit older
than you seem to be...
and not quite so very alluring
in appearance.
In fact,
if I may speak candidly...
Pray do.
I think whenever one...
has anything unpleasant
to say...
one should always be
quite candid.
Yes. Well, to speak
with perfect candour, Cecily...
I wish
you were fully forty-two...
and more than usually plain
for your age.
Ernest has
a strong upright nature.
He's the very soul
of truth and honour.
I think--I think Jack,
for instance.
Jack. I think Jack,
for instance, a charming name.
Oh. but it is not
Mr. Ernest Worthing...
who's my guardian.
It is his brother,
his elder brother.
Oh. That accounts for it.
Cecily, you've lifted a load
from my mind.
I was growing almost anxious.
Of course, you're quite sure...
it's not Mr. Ernest Worthing
who is your guardian?
Quite sure.
In fact...
I am going to be his.
I beg your pardon?
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'm afraid you must be
under some misconception.
Ernest proposed to me
exactly ten minutes ago.
Oh, it's 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.
I'm so sorry, dear Cecily...
but I'm afraid
I have the prior claim.
May I offer you some tea,
Miss Fairfax?
Thank you, Miss Cardew.
Sugar?
No, thank you. Sugar
is not fashionable anymore.
Cake or bread and butter?
Bread and butter, please.
Cake is rarely seen
in the best houses nowadays.
From the moment I saw you,
I distrusted you.
I felt that you were
false and deceitful.
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.
Ernest.
-You're back so soon.
-My own love.
A moment, Ernest.
May I ask you--
are you engaged to be married
to this young lady?
What young lady?
Good heavens, Gwendolen.
Yes, to
"Good heavens, Gwendolen".
Of course not.
What put such an idea...
into your pretty little head?
Thank you. 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?
-Yes.
Algy.
Here is Ernest.
Oh, my own Ernest.
Gwendolen, my darling.
I knew there must be some
misunderstanding. Miss Fairfax.
The man whose arm is
at present around your waist...
is my guardian
Mr. John Worthing.
I beg your pardon?
This is Uncle Jack.
Jack?
Are you called Algy?
I cannot deny it.
Is your name really John?
I could deny it if I liked.
I could deny anything
if I liked...
but it certainly is John.
It has been John for years.
A gross deception has been
practiced on both of us.
-My poor wounded Cecily.
-My sweet wronged Gwendolen.
Ohh.
You will call me sister,
will you not?
Of course.
Let us go
into the house, sister.
They will hardly venture
to come after us there.
No. Men are so cowardly,
aren't they?
How you can sit there
calmly eating muffins...
when we're in this horrible
trouble I can't make out.
You seem to me to be
perfectly heartless.
I can hardly eat muffins
in an agitated manner, can l?
The butter
would probably get on my cuffs.
I say, it's perfectly heartless
you're eating muffins at all...
under the circumstances.
When I'm in trouble,
eating is my only consolation.
Indeed, when I'm
in really great trouble...
as anyone who knows me
intimately will tell you...
I refuse everything
except food and drink.
At the present moment,
I am eating muffins...
because I am unhappy.
Besides, I am
particularly fond of muffins.
There's no reason why
you should eat them all...
in that greedy way.
Would you like some tea cake?
I don't like tea cake.
Good heavens!
I suppose a man...
may eat his own muffins
in his own garden.
They seem to be eating muffins.
But you just said
it was perfectly heartless...
to eat muffins.
I said it was
perfectly heartless...
of you
under the circumstances.
That is a very different thing.
Maybe, but the muffins
are the same.
No.
Give them to me!
Well, I certainly don't
rate your chances...
with my ward, Algernon.
Well, I don't think
there's much likelihood...
of you, Jack, and Miss Fairfax
being united, Jack!
But is there
any particular infant...
in whom you are interested,
Mr. Worthing?
The fact is, dear doctor...
I would like to be christened
myself.
This afternoon, if you have
nothing better to do.
Surely, Mr. Worthing,
you've been christened already.
I don't remember
anything about it.
Of course, I don't know...
if the thing
would bother you in any way...
or if you think
that I'm a little too old now.
No, no, no.
Not at all, not at all.
The sprinkling
and, indeed, immersion...
of adults is
a perfectly canonical practice.
What hour would you wish
the ceremony performed?
I might trot round
at about six o'clock...
if that would suit you.
Oh, perfectly, perfectly.
Thank you.
But we cannot both be
christened Ernest.
It's absurd.
I have a perfect right
to be christened if I like.
But you've been christened
already.
Yes, but I haven't been
christened for years.
But you've been christened.
That is the important thing.
Quite so. So, I know
my constitution can stand it.
If you're not quite sure...
about your ever
having been christened...
I must say,
I think it rather dangerous...
your venturing on it now.
Oh, nonsense.
You are always talking nonsense.
Let us preserve
a dignified silence.
Certainly.
It's the only thing to do now.
The western wind
is blowing fair
Across
the dark Aegean Sea
And at the secret
marble stair
My Tyrian galley
waits for thee
Come down.
the purple sail is spread
The watchman sleeps
within the town
This dignified silence
seems to have produced...
an unpleasant effect.
A most distasteful one.
O lady mine, come down
Come down
Dum dum dum dum
Lady, come down
She will not come.
I know her well
Of lover's vows.
she hath no care
And little good
a man can tell
For one so cruel
and so fair
True love
is but a woman's toy
They never know
the lover's pain
And I who loved
as love's a boy
Must love in vain.
must love in vain
Come down
Lady, come down
Come down
Lady, come down
Lady, come down
We will not be
the first to speak.
Certainly not.
Mr. Worthing, I have something
very particular to ask you.
Much depends on your reply.
Gwendolen,
your common sense is invaluable.
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.
Yes, dear,
if you can believe him.
Well, I don't,
but that doesn't affect...
the wonderful beauty
of his answer.
True. In matters
of grave importance...
style, not sincerity,
is the vital thing.
Mr. Worthing,
what possible 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 be quite satisfactory, espe--
Especially Mr. Worthing's.
That seems to me to have
the stamp of truth upon it.
I am more than content
with what Mr. Moncrieff said.
His voice alone seemed to
inspire absolute credulity.
Then you think
we should forgive them?
Yes.
I mean, no.
True, there are principles
at stake...
that one cannot surrender.
Your Christian names are
still an insuperable barrier.
That is all.
-Our Christian names?
-Is that all?
We're going to be
christened this afternoon.
For my sake, you're prepared
to do this terrible thing?
I am.
To please me, you're ready
to face this fearful ordeal?
I am.
Where questions of
self-sacrifice are concerned...
men are infinitely beyond us.
-We are.
-Darling.
Darling.
-Lady Bracknell.
-Gwendolen!
What does this mean?
Merely that I am engaged to be
married to Mr. Worthing, Mama.
Come here.
Sit down.
Sit down immediately.
Of course, you will
clearly understand, sir...
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 Algy...
Algy?
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's somewhere else
at the present.
In fact, um, ahem...
Bunbury is dead.
-Dead?
-Dead.
When did Mr. Bunbury die?
His death must've been
extremely sudden.
Bunbury died this afternoon.
What did he die of?
Bunbury?
He was quite exploded.
Exploded?
Mm.
Was he the victim
of some revolutionary outrage?
I was not aware that
Mr. Bunbury was interested...
in social legislation.
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.
He seems to have had
great confidence...
in the opinion
of his physicians.
I am glad, however,
that he made his up mind...
at the last to some
definite course of action...
and acted under
proper medical advice.
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 now holding...
in what seems to me to be
a peculiarly unnecessary manner?
That lady is
Miss Cecily Cardew, my ward.
Yes, 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.
I do not know
whether there's anything...
peculiarly exciting
about the air...
of this particular part
of Hertfordshire...
but the number of engagements
that go on seem to me...
to be considerably above
the proper average...
that statistics have laid down
for our guidance.
Mr. Worthing...
is Miss Cardew
at all connected...
with any of the larger
railway stations in London?
I merely desire information.
Until recently,
I was not aware...
that there were
any families or persons...
whose origin was a terminus.
Gwendolen, the time approaches
for our departure.
We have not a moment to lose.
As a matter of form,
Mr. Worthing, I'd better ask...
if Miss Cardew
has any little fortune.
Oh, about 130,000
in the funds, that is all.
Good-bye, Lady Bracknell,
so pleased to have seen you.
A moment, Mr. Worthing.
A hundred and thirty thousand
pounds?
And in the funds?
Miss Cardew seems to me to be
a most attractive young lady...
now that I look at her.
Come over here, dear.
The chin a little higher, dear.
Style largely depends
on the way the chin is worn.
They're worn very high
just at present.
-Algy?
-Yes, Aunt Augusta.
There are distinct
social possibilities...
in Miss Cardew's profile.
Cecily is the sweetest,
dearest, prettiest girl...
in the whole world,
and I don't give tuppence...
for her social possibilities.
Never speak disrespectfully
of society, Algernon.
Only people who can't
get into it do that.
Dear child,
you know, of course...
that Algy has nothing
but his debts to depend upon.
But I do not approve
of mercenary marriages.
Indeed, when I married
Lord Bracknell...
I had no fortune of any kind.
But I never
dreamed for a moment...
of allowing that
to stand in my way.
Well, I suppose
I must give my consent.
Thank you, Aunt Augusta.
I beg your pardon
for interrupting you...
Lady Bracknell, but I am
Miss Cardew's guardian.
She cannot marry
without my consent...
until she comes of age...
and that consent
I absolutely decline to give.
Upon what grounds, may I ask?
I suspect him
of being untruthful.
Untruthful?
My nephew Algy?
I fear there can be no
possible doubt about the matter.
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.
He then proceeded
to win over...
the affections
of my only ward...
when his own intentions,
I'm utterly convinced...
were purely financial.
Deny it if you dare.
He subsequently stayed
to tea...
and devoured
every single muffin...
and what makes his behaviour
all the more heartless...
is that he was perfectly
aware from the start...
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.
-Uncle Jack, please!
-On my word, Jack.
Come here, sweet child.
How old are you, dear?
-Eighteen, Aunt Augusta.
-Eighteen!
Well, it will not be long
before you are of age...
and free from the restraints
of your guardian.
According to the terms
of her grandfather's will...
she does not come legally
of age until she is thirty-five.
That does not seem to me
to be a grave objection.
Thirty-five
is a very attractive age.
London society
is full of women...
of the very highest birth
who have...
of their own free choice,
remained thirty-five for years.
Algy, could you wait for me
till I was thirty-five?
Of course, I could.
You know I could.
Yes, I felt it instinctively.
But I couldn't wait
all that time.
Then what is to be done,
Cecily?
I don't know, Mr. Moncrieff.
My dear Mr. Worthing...
as Miss Cardew
states quite 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 you
to reconsider your decision.
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.
You must be aware that what you
propose is out of the question.
Then a passionate celibacy...
is all any of us
can look forward to.
-Oh, but Mama.
-Come, dear.
We've already missed five,
if not six, trains.
To miss any more might expose
us to comment on the platform.
Everything is quite ready
for the christenings.
The christenings, sir?
Is not that
somewhat premature?
But both of these gentlemen
have expressed a desire...
for immediate baptism.
At their age? The idea
is grotesque and irreligious.
Algy,
I forbid you to be baptized.
I will not hear
of such excesses.
I'm sorry
to interrupt, Dr. Chasuble.
Yes, yes.
Miss Prism
has asked me to tell you...
she's waiting for you
in the vestry.
Indeed. I believe she's been
waiting for some time.
Miss Prism in the vestry.
Waiting for you.
Yes.
Miss Prism?
Did I hear you mention
a Miss Prism?
Yes, madame. I'm--
I'm on my--
-Bless you.
-Yes, madame, I'm on my way...
to--to--to join her.
Is this Miss Prism
a female of repellent aspect...
remotely connected
with education?
She is the most cultivated
of ladies...
and the picture
of respectability.
It is obviously
the same person.
Dr. Chasuble,
take me to the vestry at once.
I've been expecting you,
dear doctor.
Prism!
Prism.
Prism!
Where is that baby?
Thirty-four years ago. Prism...
you left
Lord Bracknell's house...
Number 104.
Upper Grosvenor Street...
in charge of a perambulator...
that contained a baby
of the male sex.
You never returned.
A few weeks later, through
the elaborate investigations...
of the metropolitan police...
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.
But the baby was not there.
Prism, where is that baby?
Lady Bracknell...
I admit with shame
that I do not know.
The plain facts
of the case are these--
on the morning
of the day in question--
a day that is forever 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 bassinet...
and placed
the baby in the handbag.
...manuscript
in the bassinet...
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.
I--
Uncle Jack
seems strangely agitated.
Is this the handbag,
Miss Prism?
Examine it carefully
before you speak.
The happiness of more than
one life depends on your answer.
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 this handbag.
I was the baby you placed in it.
-You?
-Yes.
Mother!
Oh, Mr. Worthing.
I am unmarried.
Unmarried?
I cannot deny
that is a serious blow.
But after all,
who has the right...
to cast a stone
against one who has suffered?
Cannot repentance
wipe out an act of folly?
-Mother, I forgive you!
-No, Mr. Worthing!
There is some error.
There is the lady...
who can tell you
who you really are.
Lady Bracknell,
I hate to seem inquisitive...
but would you kindly inform me
who I am?
You are the son of my poor
sister Mrs. Moncrieff...
and consequently
Algy's younger brother.
Algy's younger brother?
So...
I have a brother after all.
Yes.
I knew I had a brother!
I always said
I had a brother. Huh.
Cecily, how could you ever have
doubted that I had a brother?
Dr. Chasuble,
my unfortunate brother.
How do you do?
Miss Prism,
my unfortunate brother.
How do you do?
Gwendolen,
my unfortunate brother.
How do you do?
Lady Bracknell, my--my brother.
-Algy!
-Algy!
Oh!
Oh!
-So?
-Oh!
Under these strange
and unforeseen circumstances...
Mr. Moncrieff...
you may kiss your Aunt Augusta.
John!
Mr. Moncrieff.
After all that has occurred...
and any inconvenience
I may have caused you...
in your infancy...
I feel it is my duty to resign
my position in this household.
The suggestion is absurd.
I won't hear of it.
Sir, it is my duty to leave.
I have really nothing more
to teach dear Cecily.
In the very difficult
accomplishment...
of getting married...
I fear
my sweet and clever pupil...
has far outstripped her teacher.
No.
A moment, um, Miss Prism.
Dr. Chasuble.
I've come
to the conclusion...
that the primitive church
is in error...
on certain points
on the question of matrimony.
Corrupt readings seem
to have crept into the text.
In consequence. I--
I beg to solicit...
the honour of your hand.
Frederick.
Laetitia.
-My dear Cecily.
-My dearest Algernon.
My own Gwendolen.
My own--
But wait! Who are you?
I mean, what is your
Christian name, Mr. Moncrieff?
Now you have become
someone else.
Good heavens,
I'd quite forgotten that point.
The question had better be
cleared up at once.
Aunt Augusta, a moment.
At the time when Miss Prism
left me in the handbag...
had I been christened already?
Yes, I think you were
christened after your father.
I see. Then what was
my father's Christian name?
I cannot at the present moment
recall...
what the general's name was.
I have no doubt he had one.
Algy, can't you recollect what
our father's Christian name was?
My dear fellow, we were hardly
on speaking terms.
He died when I was only three.
His name would appear
on the army lists...
of the period,
I suppose, Aunt Augusta.
The general was essentially
a man of peace...
except in his domestic life.
But no doubt
his name would appear...
on any military directory.
The army lists
of the last 40 years are here.
These delightful records should
have been my constant study.
Lieutenants. captains...
colonels...
-Oh!
-colonels...
generals.
"M."
"Maxbohm," "Magley"...
"Markby," "Migsby," "Mobbs,"
"Moncrieff."
"Lieutenant, 1860.
"Christian names..."
I always told you, Gwendolen...
that my name was Ernest,
didn't I?
Well, it is Ernest after all.
I mean, it naturally is Ernest.
Ernest. My own Ernest.
I felt from the first that
you could have no other name.
My nephew.
You seem to be displaying
signs of triviality.
On the contrary, Aunt Augusta.
I've now realized for
the first time in my life...
the vital importance
of being earnest.
The western wind
is blowing fair
Across the dark Aegean Sea
And at
the secret marble stair
My Tyrian galley
waits for thee
Come down,
the purple sail is spread
The watchman
sleeps within the town
Oh leave
thy lily-flowered bed
Oh lady mine, come down
Come down
Lady, come down
Come down
Lady, come down
Oh lady, come down
She will not come.
I know her well
Of lover's vows.
she hath no care
And little good
a man can tell
Of one so cruel
and so fair
True love
is but a woman's toy
They never know
the lover's pain
And I who loved
as loves a boy
Must love in vain
Must love in vain
Come down
Come down
Lady, come down
Come down
Come down
Lady, come down
I think your high notes...
may have damaged
our chances, old boy.
You do want them
to come down, don't you?
She's never
going to come down...
if you're singing like that,
youre completely out of tune.
-How dare you?
-I'll take this.
You leave this to me,
you go and have a lie down, old man.
No, I'll take this bit.
Out of my way,
I'm coming through.
Go easy, my dear fellow.
Come do-o-o-own
Come down
Lady, come down
Overdoing it, less is more.
Come down
Come down
Lady, come down
That wasn't so bad, was it?
Maybe they're not
going to come down.
Think we should go up?
Maybe we should go up.
Algy,
you're always talking nonsense.
Well, it's better
than listening to it.
Lady, come down
Did you hear
what I was playing, Lane?
I didn't think it
polite to listen, sir.