Act II — The Garden at Woolton

by Oscar Wilde · 2026-08-05

The garden at the Manor House was an old-fashioned one, full of roses. A flight of grey stone steps led up to the house, and under a great yew tree a table had been laid for tea. Miss Prism sat at it with her books; Cecily, at the far end of the garden, went on watering the flowers with rather more devotion than the task required.

Miss Prism called across the garden.

Miss Prism: 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 came over very slowly.

Cecily: 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 drew herself up.

Miss Prism: Your guardian enjoys the best of health, and his gravity of demeanour is especially to be commended 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 began to write in her diary.

She shook her head.

Miss Prism: 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: Alas! no. The manuscript unfortunately was abandoned.

Cecily started.

Miss Prism: I use the word in the sense of lost or mislaid. To your work, child, these speculations are profitless.

Cecily said it smiling. Miss Prism rose and went forward to meet him.

Canon Chasuble reached the top of the steps.

Chasuble: And how are we this morning? Miss Prism, you are, I trust, well?

Cecily: 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.

Miss Prism: Cecily, I have not mentioned anything about a headache.

Cecily: No, dear Miss Prism, I know that, but I felt instinctively that you had a headache. Indeed I was thinking about that, and not about my German lesson, when the Rector came in.

Chasuble: I hope, Cecily, you are not inattentive.

Cecily: Oh, I am afraid I am.

Chasuble: That is strange. Were I fortunate enough to be Miss Prism’s pupil, I would hang upon her lips.

Miss Prism glared.

Chasuble: I spoke metaphorically.—My metaphor was drawn from bees. Ahem! Mr. Worthing, I suppose, has not returned from town yet?

Miss Prism: We do not expect him till Monday afternoon.

Chasuble: Ah yes, he usually likes to spend his Sunday in London. He is not one of those whose sole aim is enjoyment, as, by all accounts, that unfortunate young man his brother seems to be. But I must not disturb Egeria and her pupil any longer.

Miss Prism: Egeria? My name is Lætitia, Doctor.

Dr. Chasuble bowed.

Chasuble: A classical allusion merely, drawn from the Pagan authors. I shall see you both no doubt at Evensong?

Miss Prism: I think, dear Doctor, I will have a stroll with you. I find I have a headache after all, and a walk might do it good.

Chasuble: With pleasure, Miss Prism, with pleasure. We might go as far as the schools and back.

Miss Prism: That would be delightful. Cecily, you will read your Political Economy in my absence. The chapter on the Fall of the Rupee you may omit. It is somewhat too sensational. Even these metallic problems have their melodramatic side.

Miss Prism went off down the garden with Dr. Chasuble.

Cecily picked up the books and threw them back on the table.

Cecily: Horrid Political Economy! Horrid Geography! Horrid, horrid German!

Merriman came out with a card on a salver.

Merriman: Mr. Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station. He has brought his luggage with him.

Cecily took the card and read it.

Cecily: ‘Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany, W.’ Uncle Jack’s brother! Did you tell him Mr. Worthing was in town?

Merriman: 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.

Merriman went off.

Cecily: 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.