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JACK. I can quite understand that.
ALGERNON. Well, Cecily is a darling.
JACK. You are not to talk of Miss Cardew like that. I don’t like it.
ALGERNON. Well, I don’t like your clothes. You look perfectly ridiculous in them. Why on earth don’t you go up and change? 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.
JACK. You are certainly not staying with me for a whole week as a guest or anything else. You have got to leave… by the four-five train.
ALGERNON. I certainly won’t leave you so long as you are in mourning. It would be most unfriendly. If I were in mourning you would stay with me, I suppose. I should think it very unkind if you didn’t.
JACK. Well, will you go if I change my clothes?
ALGERNON. Yes, if you are not too long. I never saw anybody take so long to dress, and with such little result.
JACK. Well, at any rate, that is better than being always over-dressed as you are.
ALGERNON. If I am occasionally a little overdressed, I make up for it by being always immensely over-educated.
JACK. 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.
(Goes into the house.)
ALGERNON. I think it has been a great success. I’m in love with Cecily, and that is everything.
(Enter CECILY at the back of the garden. She picks up the can and begins to water the flowers.)
But I must see her before I go, and make arrangements for another Bunbury. Ah, there she is.
CECILY. Oh, I merely came back to water the roses. I thought you were with Uncle Jack.
ALGERNON. He’s gone to order the dog-cart for me.
CECILY. Oh, is he going to take you for a nice drive?
ALGERNON. He’s going to send me away.
CECILY. Then have we got to part?
ALGERNON. I am afraid so. It’s a very painful parting.
CECILY. 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.
ALGERNON. Thank you.
(Enter MERRIMAN.)
MERRIMAN. The dog-cart is at the door, sir. (ALGERNON looks appealingly at CECILY.)
CECILY. It can wait, Merriman… for… five minutes.
MERRIMAN. Yes, Miss. (Exit MERRIMAN.)
ALGERNON. 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.
CECILY. I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If you will allow me, I will copy your remarks into my diary. (Goes over to table and begins writing in diary.)
ALGERNON. Do you really keep a diary? I’d give anything to look at it. May I?
CECILY. Oh no. (Puts her hand over it.) You see, it is simply a very young girl’s record of her own thoughts and impressions, and consequently meant for publication. 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 can go on. I am quite ready for more.
ALGERNON. (Somewhat taken aback.) Ahem! Ahem!
CECILY. Oh, don’t cough, Ernest. When one is dictating one should speak fluently and not cough. Besides, I don’t know how to spell a cough. (Writes as ALGERNON speaks.)
ALGERNON. (Speaking very rapidly.) Cecily, ever since I first looked upon your wonderful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.
CECILY. 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?
ALGERNON. Cecily!
(Enter MERRIMAN.)
MERRIMAN. The dog-cart is waiting, sir.
ALGERNON. Tell it to come round next week, at the same hour.
MERRIMAN. (Looks at CECILY, who makes no sign.) Yes, sir.
(MERRIMAN retires.)
CECILY. Uncle Jack would be very much a
ALGERNON. Oh, I don’t care about Jack. I don’t care for anybody in the whole world but you. I love you, Cecily. You will marry me, won’t you?
CECILY. You silly boy! Of course. Why, we have been engaged for the last three months.
ALGERNON. For the last three months?
CECILY. Yes, it will be exactly three months on Thursday.
ALGERNON. But how did we become engaged?
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.
ALGERNON. Darling! And when was the engagement actually settled?
CECILY. 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. The next day I bought this little ring in your name, and this is the little bangle with the true lovers’ knot I promised you always to wear.
ALGERNON. Did I give you this? It’s very pretty, isn’t it?
CECILY. Yes, you’ve wonderfully good taste, Ernest. It’s the excuse I’ve always given for your leading such a bad life. And this is the box in which I keep all your dear letters. (Kneels at table, opens box, and produces letters tied up with blue ribbon.)
ALGERNON. My letters! But, my own sweet Cecily, I have never written you any letters.
CECILY. 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.
ALGERNON. Oh, do let me read them, Cecily?
CECILY. Oh, I couldn’t possibly. They would make you far too conceited. (Replaces box.) The three you wrote me after I had broken of the engagement are so beautiful, and so badly spelled, that even now I can hardly read them without crying a little.
ALGERNON. But was our engagement ever broken off?
CECILY. Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see the entry if you like. (Shows diary.) “To-day I broke off my engagement with Ernest. I feel it is better to do so. The weather still continues charming.”
ALGERNON. 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.
CECILY. 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.
ALGERNON. (Crossing to her, and kneeling.) What a perfect angel you are, Cecily.
CECILY. You dear romantic boy. (He kisses her, she puts her fingers through his hair.) I hope your hair curls naturally, does it?
ALGERNON. Yes, darling, with a little help from others.
CECILY. I am so glad.
ALGERNON. You’ll never break off our engagement again, Cecily?
CECILY. I don’t think I could break it off now that I have actually met you. Besides, of course, there is the question of your name.
ALGERNON. Yes, of course. (Nervously.)
CECILY. You must not laugh at me, darling, but it had always been a girlish dream of mine to love someone whose name was Ernest. (ALGERNON rises, CECILY also.) There is something in that name that seems to inspire absolute confidence. I pity any poor married woman whose husband is not called Ernest.