The Importance of Being Earnest Page #6

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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, hmm?

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 the 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?

I won't have him talking to you

about Bunbury or about anything else.

Of course, I admit that all the faults

are on my side,

but I must say I think brother Johns

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.

- 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.

L-I won't have any Bunburying here.

Merriman,

order the dogcart at once.

Merriman,

order the dogcart 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.

- 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?

It's perfectly childish

to be in deep mourning...

for a man who is staying for a whole

week 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

as long as you are in mourning.

It would be most unfriendly.

If I were in mourning,

you'd 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.

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.

It think it's 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 dogcart 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.

'Tis very painful parting.

It is 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 has just been

introduced is almost unbearable.

- Thank you.

The dogcart 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...

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'm quite ready for more.

- 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 you should tell me

that you love me...

wildly, passionately,

devotedly, hopelessly.

"Hopelessly" doesn't seem

to make much sense, does it?

- Cecily!

The dogcart 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.

I don't care about Jack.

I don't care for anybody

in the world but you.

I love you, Cecily.

Will you marry me?

Of course. Why, we've been engaged

for the last three months.

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! And 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 lovers' 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.

Sometimes oftener.

- Oh, do let me read them.

- Oh, no, you couldn't possibly!

They would make you

far too conceited.

The three you wrote to me...

after our engagement

had been broken off...

are so beautiful...

and so badly spelled...

that even now I can hardly read them

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