The Importance of Being Earnest Page #3

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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

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