Selected Plays / Избранные пьесы. Оскар Уайльд
Well, what shall we do?
JACK. Nothing!
ALGERNON. It is awfully hard work doing nothing. However, I don’t mind hard work where there is no definite object of any kind.
(Enter LANE.)
LANE. Miss Fairfax.
(Enter GWENDOLEN. LANE goes out.)
ALGERNON. Gwendolen, upon my word!
GWENDOLEN. Algy, kindly turn your back. I have something very particular to say to Mr. Worthing.
ALGERNON. Really, Gwendolen, I don’t think I can allow this at all.
GWENDOLEN. Algy, you always adopt a strictly immoral attitude towards life. You are not quite old enough to do that. (ALGERNON retires to the fireplace.)
JACK. My own darling!
GWENDOLEN. Ernest, we may never be married. From the expression on Mamma’s face I fear we never shall. Few parents nowadays pay any regard to what their children say to them. The old-fashioned respect for the young is fast dying out. Whatever influence I ever had over Mamma, I lost at the age of three. But although she may prevent us from becoming man and wife, and I may marry someone else, and marry often, nothing that she can possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you.
JACK. Dear Gwendolen!
GWENDOLEN. The story of your romantic origin, as related to me by Mamma, with unpleasing comments, has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my nature. Your Christian name has an irresistible fascination. The simplicity of your character makes you exquisitely incomprehensible to me. Your town address at the Albany I have. What is your address in the country?
JACK. The Manor House, Woolton, Hertfordshire.
(ALGERNON, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, and writes the address on his shirt-cuff. Then picks up the Railway Guide.)
GWENDOLEN. There is a good postal service, I suppose? It may be necessary to do something desperate. That of course will require serious consideration. I will communicate with you daily.
JACK. My own one!
GWENDOLEN. How long do you remain in town?
JACK. Till Monday.
GWENDOLEN. Good! Algy, you may turn round now.
ALGERNON. Thanks, I’ve turned round already.
GWENDOLEN. You may also ring the bell.
JACK. You will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling?
GWENDOLEN. Certainly.
JACK. (To LANE, who now enters.) I will see Miss Fairfax out.
LANE. Yes, sir. (JACK and GWENDOLEN go off.)
(LANE presents several letters on a salver to ALGERNON. It is to be surmised that they are bills, as ALGERNON after looking at the envelopes, tears them up.)
ALGERNON. A glass of sherry, Lane.
LANE. Yes, sir.
ALGERNON. Tomorrow, Lane, I’m going Bunburying.
LANE. Yes, sir.
ALGERNON. I shall probably not be back till Monday. You can put up my dress clothes, my smoking jacket, and all the Bunbury suits…
LANE. Yes, sir. (Handing sherry.)
ALGERNON. I hope tomorrow will be a fine day, Lane.
LANE. It never is, sir.
ALGERNON. Lane, you’re a perfect pessimist.
LANE. I do my best to give satisfaction, sir.
(Enter JACK. LANE goes off.)
JACK. There’s a sensible, intellectual girl! The only girl I ever cared for in my life. (ALGERNON is laughing immoderately.) What on earth are you so amused at?
ALGERNON. Oh, I’m a little anxious about poor Bunbury, that is all.
JACK. If you don’t take care, your friend Bunbury will get you into a serious scrape some day.
ALGERNON. I love scrapes. They are the only things that are never serious.
JACK. Oh, that’s nonsense, Algy. You never talk anything but nonsense.
ALGERNON. Nobody ever does.
(JACK looks indignantly at him, and leaves the room. ALGERNON lights a cigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and smiles.)
Act Drop
Act II
Scene. Garden at the Manor House. A flight of grey stone steps leads up to the house. The garden, an old-fashioned one, full of roses. Time of year, July. Basket chairs, and a table covered with books, are set under a large yew-tree.
(MISS PRISM discovered seated at the table. CECILY is at the back watering flowers.)
MISS PRISM. (Calling.) Cecily, Cecily! Surely such a utilitarian occupation as the watering of flowers is rather Moulton’s duty than yours? Especially at a moment when intellectual pleasures await you. Your German grammar is on the table. Pray open it at page fifteen. We will repeat yesterday’s lesson.
CECILY. (Coming over very slowly.) But I don’t like German. It isn’t at all a becoming language. I know perfectly well that I look quite plain after my German lesson.
MISS PRISM. Child, you know how anxious your guardian is that you should improve yourself in every way. He laid particular stress on your German, as he was leaving for town yesterday. Indeed, he always lays stress on your German when he is leaving for town.
CECILY. Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious! Sometimes he is so serious that I think he cannot be quite well.
MISS PRISM. (Drawing herself up.) Your guardian enjoys the best of health, and his gravity of demeanour is especially to be commanded in one so comparatively young as he is. I know no one who has a higher sense of duty and responsibility.
CECILY. I suppose that is why he often looks a little bored when we three are together.
MISS PRISM. Cecily! I am surprised at you. Mr. Worthing has many troubles in his life. Idle merriment and triviality would be out of place in his conversation. You must remember his constant anxiety about that unfortunate young man his brother.
CECILY. 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 am sure you certainly would. You know German, and Geology, and things of that kind influence a man very much. (CECILY begins to write in her diary.)
MISS PRISM. (Shaking her head.) I do not think that even I could produce any effect on a character that according to his own brother’s admission is irretrievably weak and vacillating. Indeed I am not sure that I would desire to reclaim him. I am not in favour of this modern mania for turning bad people into good people at a moment’s notice. As a man sows so let him reap. You must put away your diary, Cecily. I really don’t see why you should keep a diary at all.
CECILY. 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.
MISS PRISM. Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us.
CECILY. Yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never happened, and couldn’t possibly have happened. I believe that memory is responsible for nearly all the three-volume novels that Mudie sends us.
MISS PRISM. Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel, Cecily. I wrote one myself in earlier days.
CECILY. Did you really, Miss Prism? How wonderfully clever you are! I hope it did not end happily? I don’t like novels that end happily. They depress me so much.
MISS PRISM. The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means.
CECILY. I suppose so. But it seems very unfair. And was your novel ever published?
MISS