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 Geography! Horrid, horrid German! Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station.
He has brought his luggage with him. Did you tell him Mr. Worthing was in town? Yes, Miss. He seemed very much disappointed. I mentioned that you and Miss Prism were in the garden. He said he was anxious to speak to you privately for a moment. Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had better talk to the housekeeper about a room for him.
I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one else. You are under some strange mistake. I am not little.
In fact, I believe I am more than usually tall for my age. I am not really wicked at all, cousin Cecily. If you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us all in a very inexcusable manner. I hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time.
That would be hypocrisy. That is a great disappointment. I am obliged to go up by the first train on Monday morning. I have a business appointment that I am anxious. Well, I know, of course, how important it is not to keep a business engagement, if one wants to retain any sense of the beauty of life, but still I think you had better wait till Uncle Jack arrives.
I know he wants to speak to you about your emigrating. He has no taste in neckties at all. Uncle Jack is sending you to Australia. 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 accounts I have received of Australia and the next world, are not particularly encouraging. This world is good enough for me, cousin Cecily. That is why I want you to reform me.
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. Thank you. Might I have a buttonhole first? I never have any appetite unless I have a buttonhole first. Miss Prism never says such things to me. Then Miss Prism is a short-sighted old lady. You are too much alone, dear Dr. You should get married. A misanthrope I can understand—a womanthrope, never!
The precept as well as the practice of the Primitive Church was distinctly against matrimony. And you do not seem to realise, dear Doctor, that by persistently remaining single, a man converts himself into a permanent public temptation. Men should be more careful; this very celibacy leads weaker vessels astray. That depends on the intellectual sympathies of the woman.
Maturity can always be depended on. Ripeness can be trusted. Young women are green. Chasuble starts. My metaphor was drawn from fruits. But where is Cecily? He is dressed in the deepest mourning, with crape hatband and black gloves. Chasuble, I hope you are well?
Dear Mr. Worthing, I trust this garb of woe does not betoken some terrible calamity? Worthing, I offer you my sincere condolence. You have at least the consolation of knowing that you were always the most generous and forgiving of brothers.
He died abroad; in Paris, in fact. I had a telegram last night from the manager of the Grand Hotel. None of us are perfect. I myself am peculiarly susceptible to draughts. Will the interment take place here? In Paris! You would no doubt wish me to make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic affliction next Sunday.
The last time I delivered it was in the Cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the Society for the Prevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders. The Bishop, who was present, was much struck by some of the analogies I drew. I suppose you know how to christen all right? Chasuble looks astounded.
I have often spoken to the poorer classes on the subject. But is there any particular infant in whom you are interested, Mr. Your brother was, I believe, unmarried, was he not? But it is not for any child, dear Doctor. I am very fond of children. I certainly intend to have. Not at all. The sprinkling, and, indeed, the immersion of adults is a perfectly canonical practice. You need have no apprehensions. Sprinkling is all that is necessary, or indeed I think advisable.
Our weather is so changeable. At what hour would you wish the ceremony performed? 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 outlying cottages on your own estate. Poor Jenkins the carter, a most hard-working man. It would be childish. Would half-past five do? Worthing, I will not intrude any longer into a house of sorrow.
I would merely beg you not to be too much bowed down by grief. What seem to us bitter trials are often blessings in disguise. Uncle Jack! Oh, I am pleased to see you back. But what horrid clothes you have got on!
Do go and change them. My child! What is the matter, Uncle Jack? Do look happy! You look as if you had toothache, and I have got such a surprise for you. Who do you think is in the dining-room? Your brother! However badly he may have behaved to you in the past he is still your brother. After we had all been resigned to his loss, his sudden return seems to me peculiarly distressing. My brother is in the dining-room?
I think it is perfectly absurd. Brother John, I have come down from town to tell you that I am very sorry for all the trouble I have given you, and that I intend to lead a better life in the future. Nothing will induce me to take his hand. I think his coming down here disgraceful. He knows perfectly well why. Uncle Jack, do be nice. There is some good in every one. Ernest has just been telling me about his poor invalid friend Mr. Bunbury whom he goes to visit so often.
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. Yes, he has told me all about poor Mr. Bunbury, and his terrible state of health. It is enough to drive one perfectly frantic. Of course I admit that the faults were all on my side. I expected a more enthusiastic welcome, especially considering it is the first time I have come here.
Well, this is the last time I shall ever do it. I think we might leave the two brothers together. You young scoundrel, Algy, you must get out of this place as soon as possible. I have put Mr. I suppose that is all right? I have unpacked it and put it in the room next to your own.
Yes, sir. Three portmanteaus, a dressing-case, two hat-boxes, and a large luncheon-basket. Merriman, order the dog-cart at once. Ernest has been suddenly called back to town. My duty as a gentleman has never interfered with my pleasures in the smallest degree. You look perfectly ridiculous in them. It is perfectly childish to be in deep mourning for a man who is actually staying for a whole week with you in your house as a guest.
I call it grotesque. You are certainly not staying with me for a whole week as a guest or anything else. You have got to leave. It would be most unfriendly. If I were in mourning you would stay with me, I suppose. Yes, if you are not too long. I never saw anybody take so long to dress, and with such little result. If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it by being always immensely over-educated. Your vanity is ridiculous, your conduct an outrage, and your presence in my garden utterly absurd.
However, you have got to catch the four-five, and I hope you will have a pleasant journey back to town. This Bunburying, as you call it, has not been a great success for you. I think it has been a great success. She picks up the can and begins to water the flowers. Ah, there she is. It is always painful to part from people whom one has known for 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 has just been introduced is almost unbearable. The dog-cart is at the door, sir. I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite frankly and openly 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. Oh no. When it appears in volume form I hope you will order a copy.
I delight in taking down from dictation. You can go on. I am quite ready for more. When one is dictating one should speak fluently and not cough. Uncle Jack would be very much annoyed if he knew you were staying on till next week, at the same hour. I love you, Cecily. 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 feels there must be something in him, after all. I daresay it was foolish of me, but I fell in love with you, Ernest.
On the 14th 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 this dear old tree here. And this is the box in which I keep all your dear 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. They would make you far too conceited.
Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see the entry if you like. 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 to hear you broke it off. Particularly when the weather was so charming. But I forgave you before the week was out.
You dear romantic boy. Besides, of course, there is the question of your name. You must not laugh at me, darling, but it had always been a girlish dream of mine to love some one whose name was Ernest.
I pity any poor married woman whose husband is not called Ernest. But, my dear child, do you mean to say you could not love me if I had some other name? It is not at all a bad name. In fact, it is rather an aristocratic name. Half of the chaps who get into the Bankruptcy Court are called Algernon. But seriously, Cecily. Oh, yes. Chasuble is a most learned man. He has never written a single book, so you can imagine how much he knows. I must see him at once on a most important christening—I mean on most important business.
Considering that we have been engaged since February the 14th, and that I only met you to-day for the first time, I think it is rather hard that you should leave me for so long a period as half an hour.
What an impetuous boy he is! I like his hair so much. I must enter his proposal in my diary. A Miss Fairfax has just called to see Mr. On very important business, Miss Fairfax states. Pray ask the lady to come out here; Mr. Worthing is sure to be back soon. And you can bring tea. Miss Fairfax! I suppose one of the many good elderly women who are associated with Uncle Jack in some of his philanthropic work in London. I think it is so forward of them. My name is Cecily Cardew.
Cecily Cardew? Something tells me that we are going to be great friends. I like you already more than I can say. My first impressions of people are never wrong. How nice of you to like me so much after we have known each other such a comparatively short time. Pray sit down. Perhaps this might be a favourable opportunity for my mentioning who I am. My father is Lord Bracknell. You have never heard of papa, I suppose? Outside the family circle, papa, I am glad to say, is entirely unknown.
I think that is quite as it should be. The home seems to me to be the proper sphere for the man. And certainly once a man begins to neglect his domestic duties he becomes painfully effeminate, does he not? It makes men so very attractive.
Cecily, mamma, whose views on education are remarkably strict, has brought me up to be extremely short-sighted; it is part of her system; so do you mind my looking at you through my glasses? Your mother, no doubt, or some female relative of advanced years, resides here also? My dear guardian, with the assistance of Miss Prism, has the arduous task of looking after me.
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. But I am bound to state that now that I know that you are Mr. In fact, if I may speak 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. He is the very soul of truth and honour. Disloyalty would be as impossible to him as deception. But even men of the noblest possible moral character are extremely susceptible to the influence of the physical charms of others. Modern, no less than Ancient History, supplies us with many most painful examples of what I refer to. If it were not so, indeed, History would be quite unreadable.
Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is my guardian. It is his brother—his elder brother. And now that I think of it I have never heard any man mention his brother.
The subject seems distasteful to most men. Cecily, you have lifted a load from my mind. I was growing almost anxious.
It would have been terrible if any cloud had come across a friendship like ours, would it not? Of course you are quite, quite sure that it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is your guardian? Our little county newspaper is sure to chronicle the fact next week. Ernest Worthing and I are engaged to be married. Ernest Worthing is engaged to me. The announcement will appear in the Morning Post on Saturday at the latest. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago. If you would care to verify the incident, pray do so.
One should always have something sensational to read in the train. I am so sorry, dear Cecily, if it is any disappointment to you, but I am afraid I have the prior claim. It would distress me more than I can tell you, dear Gwendolen, if it caused you any mental or physical anguish, but I feel bound to point out that since Ernest proposed to you he clearly has changed his mind. Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew, as an entanglement? You are presumptuous. 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. It is obvious that our social spheres have been widely different. He carries a salver, table cloth, and plate stand. Cecily is about to retort. The presence of the servants exercises a restraining influence, under which both girls chafe.
A long pause. Cecily and Gwendolen glare at each other. From the top of one of the hills quite close one can see five counties. Personally I cannot understand how anybody manages to exist in the country, if anybody who is anybody does.
The country always bores me to death. This is what the newspapers call agricultural depression, is it not? I believe the aristocracy are suffering very much from it just at present. It is almost an epidemic amongst them, I have been told.
May I offer you some tea, Miss Fairfax? But I require tea! Sugar is not fashionable any more. Cake is rarely seen at the best houses nowadays. Gwendolen drinks the tea and makes a grimace. Puts down cup at once, reaches out her hand to the bread and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake. Rises in indignation. You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake.
I am known for the gentleness of my disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my nature, but I warn you, Miss Cardew, you may go too far. From the moment I saw you I distrusted you. I felt that you were false and deceitful. I am never deceived in such matters. My first impressions of people are invariably right. 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. May I ask if you are engaged to be married to this young lady?
Of course not! What could have put such an idea into your pretty little head? The gentleman whose arm is at present round your waist is my guardian, Mr. John Worthing. May I ask you—are you engaged to be married to this young lady? I felt there was some slight error, Miss Cardew. The gentleman who is now embracing you is my cousin, Mr. Algernon Moncrieff. I could deny anything if I liked. But my name certainly is John. It has been John for years. Jack and Algernon groan and walk up and down.
An admirable idea! 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. It is the first time in my life that I have ever been reduced to such a painful position, and I am really quite inexperienced in doing anything of the kind.
However, I will tell you quite frankly that I have no brother Ernest. I have no brother at all. I never had a brother in my life, and I certainly have not the smallest intention of ever having one in the future. I am afraid it is quite clear, Cecily, that neither of us is engaged to be married to any one.
It is not a very pleasant position for a young girl suddenly to find herself in. Is it? Yes, and a perfectly wonderful Bunbury it is. The most wonderful Bunbury I have ever had in my life. That is absurd. One has a right to Bunbury anywhere one chooses.
Every serious Bunburyist knows that. Well, one must be serious about something, if one wants to have any amusement in life.
I happen to be serious about Bunburying. About everything, I should fancy. You have such an absolutely trivial nature. Well, the only small satisfaction I have in the whole of this wretched business is that your friend Bunbury is quite exploded. I will pour some in thy other mouth. Mercy, mercy! This is a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I have no long spoon. If thou beest Stephano, touch me and speak to me: for I am Trinculo—be not afeard—thy good friend Trinculo.
Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How camest thou to be the siege of this moon-calf? But art thou not drowned, Stephano? I hope now thou art not drowned.
Is the storm overblown? And art thou living, Stephano? I will kneel to him. How camest thou hither? Though thou canst swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose.
How now, moon-calf! I afeard of him! A very weak monster! A most poor credulous monster! Well drawn, monster, in good sooth! A most scurvy monster! A plague upon the tyrant that I serve! Wilt thou go with me? Freedom, hey-day! Lead the way. I must remove Some thousands of these logs and pile them up, Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress Weeps when she sees me work, and says, such baseness Had never like executor.
I forget: But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours, Most busy lest, when I do it. Pray, set it down and rest you: when this burns, Twill weep for having wearied you. This visitation shows it. I do beseech you— Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers— What is your name? Indeed the top of admiration!
Hear my soul speak: The very instant that I saw you, did My heart fly to your service; there resides, To make me slave to it; and for your sake Am I this patient log—man. But this is trifling; And all the more it seeks to hide itself, The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning! And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!
Servant-monster, drink to me. By this light, thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or my standard. Let me lick thy shoe. Why, thou deboshed fish thou, was there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much sack as I to-day?
Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a fish and half a monster? That a monster should be such a natural! Wilt thou be pleased to hearken once again to the suit I made to thee? I do not lie. Canst thou bring me to the party?
Thou scurvy patch! I did nothing. A murrain on your monster, and the devil take your fingers! Prithee, stand farther off. Come, proceed. Burn but his books. And bring thee forth brave brood.
Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo? Come on, Trinculo, let us sing. Mercy upon us! Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.
I would I could see this tabourer; he lays it on. By your patience, I needs must rest me. Well, let him go. Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose That you resolved to effect. My good friends, hark! What were these? If I should say, I saw such islanders— For, certes, these are people of the island— Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note, Their manners are more gentle-kind than of Our human generation you shall find Many, nay, almost any.
Brother, my lord the duke, Stand to and do as we. Thunder and lightning. I have made you mad; And even with such-like valour men hang and drown Their proper selves. If you could hurt, Your swords are now too massy for your strengths And will not be uplifted.
Thee of thy son, Alonso, They have bereft; and do pronounce by me: Lingering perdition, worse than any death Can be at once, shall step by step attend You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from— Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls Upon your heads—is nothing but heart-sorrow And a clear life ensuing.
ALONSO O, it is monstrous, monstrous: Methought the billows spoke and told me of it; The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder, That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass. I do beseech you That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly And hinder them from what this ecstasy May now provoke them to.
O Ferdinand, Do not smile at me that I boast her off, For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise And make it halt behind her. Sit then and talk with her; she is thine own.
What, Ariel! Do you love me, master? Do not approach Till thou dost hear me call. Now come, my Ariel! No tongue! Juno sings her blessings upon you. May I be bold To think these spirits?
Enter certain Nymphs You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary, Come hither from the furrow and be merry: Make holiday; your rye-straw hats put on And these fresh nymphs encounter every one In country footing.
To the Spirits Well done! Our revels now are ended. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. ARIEL I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; So fun of valour that they smote the air For breathing in their faces; beat the ground For kissing of their feet; yet always bending Towards their project.
Thy shape invisible retain thou still: The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither, For stale to catch these thieves. I will plague them all, Even to roaring. Do you hear, monster? Do that good mischief which may make this island Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, For aye thy foot-licker. I do begin to have bloody thoughts. O peer! O worthy Stephano! O king Stephano! Mistress line, is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair and prove a bald jerkin.
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