Always Ridiculous

REMEDIOS: You may say what you like, Don Cosme, I can't agree that Teresina is quite as complex as you think she is, and I'm certainly not subject to illusions. I know the World; I'm not an ingenuous child; I say I'm not because, good Lord! no widow has any business to be one. Although I must admit that as far as years go, and in looks and manner, I am still something of a child. But that's because of certain characteristics. Don't you think so? Why don't you speak? You understand my character? [Turning toward DON COSME and looking carefully at him.] Good Lord! the man's asleep again! Up at ten this morning, it's now eleven. And he sleeps! No, sir! I must have somebody to talk to. Teresina is in the garden flirting with the two of them--spinning like a planet between her two poles, Juan and Eugenio. Don Pablo has gone on his usual walk. Don Hilarion? No one knows where he is! Here I am left alone with Don Cosme, and he sleeps, leaving me in full monologue. I won't stand it! I came to this house on the express condition that I should not be bored, and the condition is not being fulfilled. The place is beautiful--Art, Oh! plenty of Art--pictures, tapestry, statues, bronzes, porcelains; and Nature, Oh! a great deal of Nature, woods and flowers and lakes and water-falls and sunsets! But all that's not enough. There is no Life! No warmth! As they say nowadays, the warmth of humanity. And he goes on sleeping! This life is giving that man softening of the brain. Don Cosme! Oh, Don Cosme! [Striking him with her fan] Open your eyes!

Sonnet 130 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

MRS. PRINGLE: I shall go mad! I'll never entertain again--never--never--people ought to know whether they're coming or not--but they accept and regret and regret and accept--they drive me wild. This is my last dinner party-my very last--a fiasco--an utter fiasco! A haphazard crowd--hurried together--when I had planned everything so beautifully--now how shall I seat them--how shall I seat them? If I put Mr. Tupper here and Mrs. Conley there then Mrs. Tupper has to sit next to her husband and if I want Mr. Morgan there--Oh! It's impossible--I might as well put their names in a hat and draw them out at random--never again! I'm through! Through with society--with parties--with friends--I wipe my slate clean-they'll miss my entertainments--they'll wish they had been more considerate--after this, I'm going to live for myself! I'm going to be selfish and hard--and unsociable--and drink my liquor myself instead of offering it gratis to the whole town!--I'm through--Through with men like Oliver Farnsworth!--I don't care how rich they are! How influential they are--how important they are! They're nothing without courtesy and consideration--business--off on train--nonsense--didn't want to come-didn't want to meet a sweet, pretty girl--didn't want to marry her--well, he's not good enough for you!--don't you marry him! Don't you dare marry him! I won't let you marry him! Do you hear? If you tried to elope or anything like that, I'd break it off--yes, I would--Oliver Farnsworth will never get recognition from me!--He is beneath my notice! I hate Oliver Farnsworth!