thegoodfellas/blogset-br huggingface dataset:
haven't asked you to dine withme anywhere to-night.Algernon. I know. You are absurdly carelessabout sending out invitations. It is very foolish of you. Nothing annoys peopleso much as not receiving invitations.Jack. You had much better dine withyour Aunt Augusta.Algernon. I haven't the smallest intentionof doing anything of the kind. To begin with, I dined there on Monday, and oncea week is quite enough to dine with one's own relations. In the second place,whenever I do dine there I am always treated as a member of the family, andsent down with either no woman at all, or two. In the third place, I knowperfectly well whom she will place me next to, to-night. She will place me nextMary Farquhar, who always flirts with her own husband across the dinner-table.That is not very pleasant. Indeed, it is not even decent . . . and that sort ofthing is enormously on the increase. The amount of women in London who flirtwith their own husbands is perfectly scandalous. It looks so bad. It is simplywashing one's clean linen in public. Besides, now that I know you to be aconfirmed Bunburyist, I naturally want to talk to you about Bunburying. I wantto tell you the rules.Jack. I'm not a Bunburyist at all. IfGwendolen accepts me, I am going to kill my brother, indeed I think I'll killhim in any case. Cecily is a little too much interested in him. It is rather abore. So I am going to get rid of Ernest. And I strongly advise you to p.458do the same with Mr. . . . withyour invalid friend who has the absurd name. Algernon. Nothing will induce me to partwith Bunbury, and if you ever get married, which seems to me extremelyproblematic, you will be very glad to know Bunbury. A man who marries withoutknowing Bunbury has a very tedious time of it.Jack. That is nonsense. If I marry acharming girl like Gwendolen, and she is the only girl I ever saw in my lifethat I would marry, I certainly won't want to know Bunbury.Algernon. Then your wife will. You don'tseem to realize, that in married life three is company and two is none.Jack. [[Sententiously]]That, my dear young friend, is the theory that the corrupt French Drama hasbeen propounding for the last fifty years.Algernon. Yes; and that the happy Englishhome has proved in half the time.Jack. For heaven's sake, don't try tobe cynical. It's perfectly easy to be cynical.Algernon. My dear fellow, it isn't easy tobe anything nowadays. There's such a lot of beastly competition about.[The sound of an electricbell is heard.]Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta.Only relatives, or creditors, ever ring in that Wagnerian manner. Now, if I gether out of the way for ten minutes, so that you can have an opportunity forproposing to Gwendolen, may I dine with you to-night at Willis's?Jack. I suppose so, if you want to.Algernon. Yes, but you must be seriousabout it. I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow ofthem.Enter Lane.Lane. Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax.[Algernon goes forward tomeet them. Enter Lady Bracknell
ailments goes.I should be obliged if you would ask Mr. Bunbury, from me, to be kind enoughnot to have a relapse on Saturday, for I rely on you to arrange my music forme. It is my last reception, and one wants something that will encourageconversation, particularly at the end of the season when everyone haspractically said whatever they had to say, which, in most cases, was probablynot much.Algernon. I'll speak to Bunbury, AuntAugusta, if he is still conscious, and I think I can promise you he'll be allright by Saturday. Of course the music is a great difficulty. You see, if oneplays good music, people don't listen, and if one plays bad music, people don'ttalk. But I'll run over the programme I've drawn out, if you will kindly comeinto the next room for a moment.Lady Bracknell. Thank you, Algernon. It is verythoughtful of you. [[Rising, and following Algernon.]] I'm sure theprogramme will be delightful, after a few expurgations. French songs I cannotpossibly allow. People always seem to think that they are improper, and eitherlook shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh, which is worse. But German sounds athoroughly respectable language, and indeed, I believe it is so. Gwendolen, youwill accompany me. p.461Gwendolen. Certainly, Mamma.[Lady Bracknell and Algernongo into the music-room, Gwendolen remains behind.]Gwendolen. Pray don't talk to me about theweather, Mr. Worthing. Whenever people talk to me about the weather, I alwaysfeel quite certain that they mean something else. And that makes me so nervous.Jack. I do mean something else.Gwendolen. I thought so. In fact, I am neverwrong.Jack. And I would like to be allowed totake advantage of Lady Bracknell's temporary absence . . .Gwendolen. I would certainly advise you todo so. Mamma has a way of coming back suddenly into a room that I have oftenhad to speak to her about.Jack. [[Nervously.]]Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you I have admired you more than any girl . . .I have ever met since . . . I met you.Gwendolen. Yes, I am quite aware of thefact. And I often wish that in public, at any rate, you had been moredemonstrative. For me you have always had an irresistible fascination. Evenbefore I met you I was far from indifferent to you. [[Jack looks at her inamazement.]] We live, as I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, in an ageof ideals. The fact is constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthlymagazines, and has reached the provincial pulpits I am told: and my ideal hasalways been to love someone of the name of Ernest. There is something in thatname that inspires absolute confidence. The moment Algernon first mentioned tome that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to love you.Jack. You really love me, Gwendolen?Gwendolen. Passionately!Jack. Darling! You don't know how happyyou've made me.Gwendolen. My own Ernest!Jack. But you don't really mean to saythat you couldn't love me if my name wasn't Ernest?Gwendolen. But your name is Ernest.Jack. Yes, I know it is. But supposingit was something else? Do you mean to say you couldn't love me then?Gwendolen. [[Glibly.]] Ah!that is clearly
a metaphysical explanation, p.462and like most metaphysicalspeculations has very little reference at all to the actual facts of real life,as we know them. Jack. Personally, darling, to speakquite candidly, I don't much care about the name of Ernest . . . I don't thinkthe name suits me at all.Gwendolen. It suits you perfectly. It is adivine name. It has a music of its own. It produces vibrations.Jack. Well, really, Gwendolen, I mustsay that I think there are lots of other much nicer names. I think Jack, forinstance, a charming name.Gwendolen. Jack? . . . No, there is verylittle music in the name Jack, if any at all, indeed. It does not thrill. Itproduces absolutely no vibrations. . . . I have known several Jacks, and theyall, without exception, were more than usually plain. Besides, Jack is anotorious domesticity for John! And I pity any woman who is married to a man calledJohn. She would probably never be allowed to know the entrancing pleasure of asingle moment's solitude. The only really safe name is Ernest.Jack. Gwendolen, I must get christenedat once---I mean we must get married at once. There is no time to be lost.Gwendolen. Married, Mr. Worthing?Jack. [[Astounded.]]Well . . . surely. You know that I love you, and you led me to believe, MissFairfax, that you were not absolutely indifferent to me.Gwendolen. I adore you. But you haven'tproposed to me yet. Nothing has been said at all about marriage. The subjecthas not even been touched on.Jack. Well . . . may I propose to youknow?Gwendolen. I think it would be an admirableopportunity. And to spare you any possible disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I thinkit only fair to tell you quite frankly before hand that I am fully determinedto accept you.Jack. Gwendolen!Gwendolen. Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have yougot to say to me?Jack. You know what I have got to sayto you.Gwendolen. Yes, but you don't say it.Jack. Gwendolen, will you marry me?[Goes on his knees.]Gwendolen. Of course I will, darling. Howlong you have been p.463about it! I am afraid you havehad very little experience in how to propose. Jack. My own one, I have never lovedanyone in the world but you.Gwendolen. Yes, but men often propose forpractice. I know my brother Gerald does. All my girlfriends tell me so. Whatwonderfully blue eyes you have, Ernest! They are quite, quite blue. I hope youwill always look at me just like that, especially when there are other peoplepresent.Enter Lady Bracknell.Lady Bracknell. Mr. Worthing! Rise, sir, fromthis semi-recumbent posture. It is most indecorous.Gwendolen. Mamma! [[He tries to rise; sherestrains him.]] I must beg you to retire. This is no place foryou. Besides, Mr. Worthing has not quite finished yet.Lady Bracknell. Finished what, may I ask?Gwendolen. I am engaged to Mr. Worthing,Mamma.[They rise together.]Lady Bracknell. Pardon me, you are not engaged toanyone. When you do become engaged to someone, I, or your father, should hishealth permit him, will inform you of the fact. An engagement should come on ayoung girl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be. It ishardly a matter that she
could be allowed to arrange for herself. . . . And nowI have a few questions to put to you, Mr. Worthing. While I am making theseinquiries, you, Gwendolen, will wait for me below in the carriage.Gwendolen. [[Reproachfully.]]Mamma!Lady Bracknell. In the carriage, Gwendolen! [[Gwendolengoes to the door. She and Jack blow kisses to each other behind LadyBracknell's back. Lady Bracknell looks vaguely about as if she could notunderstand what the noise was. Finally turns round.]] Gwendolen,the carriage!Lady Bracknell. [[Sitting down.]]You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.[Looks in her pocket fornote-book and pencil.]Jack. Thank you, Lady Bracknell, Iprefer standing.Lady Bracknell. [[Pencil and note-book inhand.]] I feel bound to tell p.464you that you are not down on mylist of eligible young men, although I have the same list as the dear Duchessof Bolton has. We work together, in fact. However, I am quite ready to enteryour name, should your answers be what a really affectionate mother requires. Doyou smoke? Jack. Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.Lady Bracknell. I am glad to hear it. A manshould always have an occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle menin London as it is. How old are you?Jack. Twenty-nine.Lady Bracknell. A very good age to be married at.I have always been of opinion that a man who desires to get married should knoweither everything or nothing. Which do you know?Jack. [[After some hesitation.]]I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.Lady Bracknell. I am pleased to hear it. I do notapprove of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like adelicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory ofmodern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate,education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a seriousdanger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in GrosvenorSquare. What is your income?Jack. Between seven and eight thousanda year.Lady Bracknell. [[Makes a note in her book.]]In land, or in investments?Jack. In investments, chiefly.Lady Bracknell. That is satisfactory. Whatbetween the duties expected of one during one's lifetime, and the dutiesexacted from one after one's death, land has ceased to be either a profit or apleasure. It gives one position, and prevents one from keeping it up. That'sall that can be said about land.Jack. I have a country house with someland, of course, attached to it, about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but Idon't depend on that for my real income. In fact, as far as I can make out, thepoachers are the only people who make anything out of it.Lady Bracknell. A country house! How manybedrooms? Well, that point can be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house,I hope? A girl with a simple, unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly beexpected to reside in the country. p.465Jack. Well, I own a house in BelgraveSquare, but it is let by the year to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it backwhenever I like, at six months' notice.Lady Bracknell. Lady Bloxham? I don't know her.Jack. Oh, she goes about very little.She is a lady considerable advanced in years.Lady
Bracknell. Ah, nowadays that is no guaranteeof respectability of character. What number in Belgrave Square?Jack. 149.Lady Bracknell. [[Shaking her head.]]The unfashionable side. I thought there was something. However, that couldeasily be altered.Jack. Do you mean the fashion, or theside?Lady Bracknell. [[Sternly.]]Both, if necessary, I presume. What are your politics?Jack. Well, I am afraid I really havenone. I am a Liberal Unionist.Lady Bracknell. Oh, they count as Tories. Theydine with us. Or come in the evening, at any rate. Now to minor matters. Areyour parents living.Jack. I have lost both my parents.Lady Bracknell. To lose one parent, Mr Worthing,maybe regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Who wasyour father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what theRadical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks ofaristocracy?Jack. I am afraid I really don't know.The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearerthe truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me. . . . I don't actuallyknow who I am by birth. I was . . . well, I was found.Lady Bracknell. Found!Jack. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, anold gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gaveme the name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket forWorthing in his pocket at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is aseaside resort.Lady Bracknell. Where did the charitablegentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you?Jack. [[Gravely.]] In ahand-bag.Lady Bracknell. A hand-bag? p.466Jack. [[Very seriously.]]Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag---a somewhat large, black leatherhand-bag, with handles to it---an ordinary hand-bag, in fact.Lady Bracknell. In what locality did this Mr.James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?Jack. In the cloak-room at VictoriaStation. It was given to him in mistake for his own.Lady Bracknell. The cloak-room at VictoriaStation?Jack. Yes. The Brighton Line.Lady Bracknell. The line is immaterial. Mr.Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me.To be born, or at any rate, bred in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not,seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family lifethat remind one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I presumeyou know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the particular localityin which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway station might serveto conceal a social indiscretion---has probably, indeed, been used for thatpurpose before now---but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for arecognized position in good society.Jack. May I ask you then what you wouldadvise me to do? I need hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensureGwendolen's happiness.Lady Bracknell. I would strongly advise you, Mr.Worthing, to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make adefinite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before theseason is quite over.Jack. Well, I don't see how I couldpossibly manage to do that. I can
produce the hand-bag at any moment. It is inmy dressing-room at home. I really think that should satisfy you, LadyBracknell.Lady Bracknell. Me, sir! What has it to do withme? You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowingour only daughter---a girl brought up with the utmost care---to marry into acloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing![Lady Bracknell sweeps out inmajestic indignation.]Jack. Good morning! [[Algernon,from the other room, strikes up the p.467Wedding March. Jack looks perfectly furious, and goes to the door.]]For goodness' sake don't play that ghastly tune, Algy! How idiotic you are! [The music stops, andAlgernon enters cheerily.]Algernon. Didn't it go off all right, oldboy? You don't mean to say Gwendolen refused you? I know it is a way she has.She is always refusing people. I think it is most ill-natured of her.Jack. Oh, Gwendolen is as right as atrivet. As far as she is concerned, we are engaged. Her mother is perfectlyunbearable. Never met such a Gorgon . . . I don't really know what a Gorgon islike, but I am quite sure that Lady Bracknell is one. In any case, she is amonster, without being a myth, which is rather unfair . . . I beg your pardon,Algy, I suppose I shouldn't talk about your own aunt in that way before you.Algernon. My dear boy, I love hearing myrelations abused. It is the only thing that makes me put up with them at all.Relations are simply a tedious pack of people who haven't got the remotestknowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct about when to die.Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!Algernon. It isn't!Jack. Well, I won't argue about thematter. You always want to argue about things.Algernon. That is exactly what things wereoriginally made for.Jack. Upon my word, if I thought that,I'd shoot myself. . . . [[A pause.]] You don't thinkthere is any chance of Gwendolen becoming like her mother in about a hundredand fifty years, do you, Algy?Algernon. All women become like theirmothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his.Jack. Is that clever?Algernon. It is perfectly phrased! andquite as true as any observation in civilized life should be.Jack. I am sick to death of cleverness.Everybody is clever nowadays. You can't go anywhere without meeting cleverpeople. The thing has become an absolute public nuisance. I wish to goodness wehad a few fools left.Algernon. We have. p.468Jack. I should extremely like to meetthem. What do they talk about?Algernon. The fools! Oh! about the cleverpeople, of course.Jack. What fools!Algernon. By the way, did you tellGwendolen the truth about your being Ernest in town, and Jack in the country?Jack. [[In a very patronizingmanner.]] My dear fellow, the truth isn't quite the sort of thingone tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl. What extraordinary ideas you haveabout the way to behave to a woman!Algernon. The only way to behave to a womanis to make love to her, if she is pretty, and to someone else, if she is plain.Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!Algernon. What about your brother? Whatabout the profligate Ernest?Jack.
Oh, before the end of the week Ishall have got rid of him. I'll say he died in Paris of apoplexy. Lots ofpeople die of apoplexy, quite suddenly, don't they?Algernon. Yes, but it's hereditary, my dearfellow. It's a sort of thing that runs in families. You had much better say asevere chill.Jack. You are sure that a severe chillisn't hereditary, or anything of that kind?Algernon. Of course it isn't!Jack. Very well, then. My poor brotherErnest is carried off suddenly, in Paris, by a severe chill. That gets rid ofhim.Algernon. But I thought you said that . . .Miss Cardew was a little too much interested in your poor brother Ernest? Won'tshe feel his loss a good deal?Jack. Oh, that is all right. Cecily isnot a silly romantic girl, I am glad to say. She has got a capital appetite,goes long walks, and pays no attention at all to her lessons.Algernon. I would rather like to seeCecily.Jack. I will take very good care younever do. She is excessively pretty, and she is only just eighteen.Algernon. Have you told Gwendolen yet thatyou have an excessively pretty ward who is only just eighteen?Jack. Oh! one doesn't blurt thesethings out to people. Cecily and Gwendolen are perfectly certain to beextremely great friends. p.469I'll bet you anything you likethat half an hour after they have met, they will be calling each other sister. Algernon. Women only do that when they havecalled each other a lot of other things first. Now, my dear boy, if we want toget a good table at Willis's, we really must go and dress. Do you know it isnearly seven?Jack. [[Irritably.]]Oh! it always is nearly seven.Algernon. Well, I'm hungry.Jack. I never knew you when youweren't. . . .Algernon. What shall we do after dinner? Goto a theatre?Jack. Oh, no! I loathe listening.Algernon. Well, let us go to the Club?Jack. Oh, no! I hate talking.Algernon. Well, we might trot round to theEmpire at ten?Jack. Oh, no! I can't bear looking atthings. It is so silly.Algernon. Well, what shall we do?Jack. Nothing!Algernon. It is awfully hard work doingnothing. However, I don't mind hard work where there is no definite object ofany kind.Enter Lane.Lane. Miss Fairfax.Enter Gwendolen. Lane goes out.Algernon. Gwendolen, upon my word!Gwendolen. Algy, kindly turn your back. Ihave something very particular to say to Mr. Worthing.Algernon. Really, Gwendolen, I don't thinkI can allow this at all.Gwendolen. Algy, you always adopt a strictlyimmoral attitude towards life. You are not quite old enough to do that.[Algernon retires to thefireplace.]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 nowadayspay any regard to what their children say to them. The old-fashioned respectfor the young is fast dying out. Whatever influence I ever had over mamma, Ilost at the age of three. But although she may prevent us from becoming man andwife, and p.470I may marry someone else, andmarry often, nothing that she can possibly do can alter my eternal devotion toyou. Jack. Dear Gwendolen!Gwendolen. The story of your romanticorigin, as related to me by mamma,