Major Barbara

LADY BRITOMART. It’s not pleasant for me, either, especially if you are still so childish that you must make it worse by a display of embarrassment. It is only in the middle classes, Stephen, that people get into a state of dumb helpless horror when they find that there are wicked people in the world. In our class, we have to decide what is to be done with wicked people; and nothing should disturb our self possession. Now ask your question properly. (…) Treat you as a child! What do you mean? It is most unkind and ungrateful of you to say such a thing. You know I have never treated any of you as children. I have always made you my companions and friends, and allowed you perfect freedom to do and say whatever you liked, so long as you liked what I could approve of.

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A Doll’s House

Nora: (meditatively, and with a half smile.) Yes—some day, perhaps, after many years, when I am no longer as nice-looking as I am now. Don’t laugh at me! I mean, of course, when Torvald is no longer as devoted to me as he is now; when my dancing and dressing-up and reciting have palled on him; then it may be a good thing to have something in reserve—(Breaking off,) What nonsense! That time will never come. Now, what do you think of my great secret, Christine? Do you still think I am of no use? I can tell you, too, that this affair has caused me a lot of worry. It has been by no means easy for me to meet my engagements punctually. I may tell you that there is something that is called, in business, quarterly interest, and another thing called payment in instalments, and it is always so dreadfully difficult to manage them. I have had to save a little here and there, where I could, you understand. I have not been able to put aside much from my housekeeping money, for [pg 24] Torvald must have a good table. I couldn’t let my children be shabbily dressed; I have felt obliged to use up all he gave me for them, the sweet little darlings!

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As You Like It

PHEBE: Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
‘Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well.
But what care I for words? Yet words do well
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
It is a pretty youth- not very pretty;
But, sure, he’s proud; and yet his pride becomes him.
He’ll make a proper man. The best thing in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not very tall; yet for his years he’s tall;
His leg is but so-so; and yet ’tis well.
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper and more lusty red
Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him; but, for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him;
For what had he to do to chide at me?
He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black,
And, now I am rememb’red, scorn’d at me.
I marvel why I answer’d not again;
But that’s all one: omittance is no quittance.
I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,

And thou shalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius?

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The Tinker’s Wedding

MARY: [A priest is tied in a sack, wriggling and struggling about on the ground. The others bundle things together in a wild haste while old Mary tries to keep him quiet.] Be quiet, your reverence. What is it ails you, with your wrigglings now? Is it choking maybe? [She puts her hand under the sack, and feels his mouth, patting him on the back.] It’s only letting on you are, holy father, for your nose is blowing back and forward as easy as an east wind on an April day. [In a soothing voice.] There now, holy father, let you stay easy, I’m telling you, and learn a little sense and patience, the way you’ll not be so airy again going to rob poor sinners of their scraps of gold. [He gets quieter.] That’s a good boy you are now, your reverence, and let you not be uneasy, for we wouldn’t hurt you at all. It’s sick and sorry we are to tease you; but what did you want meddling with the like of us, when it’s a long time we are going our own ways–father and son, and his son after him, or mother and daughter, and her own daughter again–and its little need we ever had of going up into a church and swearing–I’m told there’s swearing with it–a word no man would believe, or with drawing rings on our fingers, would be cutting our skins maybe when we’d be taking the ass from the shafts, and pulling the straps the time they’d be slippy with going around beneath the heavens in rains falling. [To the others.] Maybe he’d swear a mighty oath he wouldn’t harm us, and then we’d safer loose him; for if we went to drown him, they’d maybe hang the batch of us, man and child and woman, and the ass itself. [To the priest.] Would you swear an oath, holy father, to leave us in our freedom, and not talk at all? [Priest nods in sacking.] Didn’t I tell you? Look at the poor fellow nodding his head off in the bias of the sacks. Strip them off from him, and he’ll be easy now.

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A Woman Of No Importance

MRS. ALLONBY: The Ideal Man! Oh, the Ideal Man should talk to us as if we were goddesses, and treat us as if we were children. He should refuse all our serious requests, and gratify every one of our whims. He should encourage us to have caprices, and forbid us to have missions. He should always say much more than he means, and always mean much more than he says. He should never run down other pretty women. That would show he had no taste, or make one suspect that he had too much. No; he should be nice about them all, but say that somehow they don’t attract him. If we ask him a question about anything, he should give us an answer all about ourselves. He should invariably praise us for whatever qualities he knows we haven’t got. But he should be pitiless, quite pitiless, in reproaching us for the virtues that we have never dreamed of possessing. He should never believe that we know the use of useful things. That would be unforgivable. But he should shower on us everything we don’t want. He should persistently compromise us in public, and treat us with absolute respect when we are alone. And yet he should be always ready to have a perfectly terrible scene, whenever we want one, and to become miserable, absolutely miserable, at a moment’s notice, and to overwhelm us with just reproaches in less than twenty minutes, and to be positively violent at the end of half an hour, and to leave us for ever at a quarter to eight, when we have to go and dress for dinner. And when, after that, one has seen him for really the last time, and he has refused to take back the little things he has given one, and promised never to communicate with one again, or to write one any foolish letters, he should be perfectly broken-hearted, and telegraph to one all day long, and send one little notes every half-hour by a private hansom, and dine quite alone at the club, so that every one should know how unhappy he was. And after a whole dreadful week, during which one has gone about everywhere with one’s husband, just to show how absolutely lonely one was, he may be given a third last parting, in the evening, and then, if his conduct has been quite irreproachable, and one has behaved really badly to him, he should be allowed to admit that he has been entirely in the wrong, and when he has admitted that, it becomes a woman’s duty to forgive, and one can do it all over again from the beginning, with variations.

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No Smoking

LADY: For goodness’ sake, don’t stop upon our account! Smoke as much as you want to–it doesn’t bother me, or my daughter, either. We are used to it. Her poor father, my first husband–who is now in glory–was never without a cigar in his mouth. As he bit off one, it lit it with the butt of the other. And my second husband–who now rests in peace–they were alike as two buttons; you could scarcely tell the difference. I had a difficulty at one time myself, a suffocating feeling, all stuffed up here–terrible distress–and the doctors were telling me that it was asthma and that it wasn’t asthma– Well, I smoked then myself–aromatic cigarettes–which didn’t do me any good, either, by the way, I can say that. So you see as far as we are concerned, you needn’t think you are inconveniencing us. You can’t annoy us by smoking. Before we changed we were travelling in the ladies’ compartment, and we transferred to this one as soon as we could because there were people in it one simply couldn’t travel with; they were out of the question. You would think that people who travelled first class would have manners, that they would know something. But not a bit of it! Believe me, if you want to find out what people are like, play cards with them, or watch them eat, or else go travelling. You’ll find out soon enough. There was a woman in that compartment–I say she was a woman because I don’t know what else to call her–with her companion–she must have been her companion, she was with her anyway–well, I can tell you I was mortified. I was ashamed–such a conversation! Between the two of them! They might as well have been sitting in their own parlors. As far as that goes, you know, speaking for myself, a widow twice, it was nothing to me; but before my daughter…. I had to make her sit with her head out of the window all the way. It was pretty chilly for her. You can see for yourself she has taken cold. And she’s got a cinder in her eye, too–worse luck! Her eyes are the best part of her.

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A Leap Year Leap

MARTHA: I’ve made up my mind at last. I’ll throw convention to the winds and show the world that I’m a new woman. I’ll do it–I’ll do it to-night! I’ll propose to Reginald Brady. [A little faster.] I’ve considered the question from every possible stand-point and I’ve come to the conclusion that a girl of to-day has just as much right to propose marriage as a man has. For centuries the poor girl has had to sit quietly by waiting for a man to snap his fingers before she can say, “Thank you!” Now, I’ll do the snapping! Reginald has been calling on me three times a week for the past year–but [Sadly] never a word about love, never a thrill or a hand-clasp, never a syllable about matrimony. I can’t stand it any longer, and I won’t. To-night is my chance. I am to escort him to the Leap Year Ball at the Country Club and I intend to ask him right out, pointblank, to marry me. Am I right? I’ll say so. [Pause] I wonder if he’ll take it as a joke. He can’t; it’s a tragedy. He’ll read tragedy in my voice, in my face. I’d die if he didn’t take it seriously, but of course he will. I wonder if I’m feverish. [Looks in small pocket mirror.] I am, I know I am. My face is flushed, and I’m hot and my heart is beating like everything. But my mind is made up. To-night I’ll make a leap year leap. I’ll propose on the veranda overlooking the lake. [Pulls a large chair forward.] He’ll be sitting there and I’ll be sitting here. [Pulls small chair close to large chair.] No, I’ll be closer than that. [Puts small chair closer to large chair.] I’ll start by resting my hand on the arm of his chair, like that. No, that isn’t careless enought. That’s better. Wait a minute, I’ll have to have a Reginald. [Places a pillow in large chair and puts a man's hat on it.] Hello, Reggy! It’s not a very striking likeness, but it’s the best I can do. Ah! [Sentimentally] Isn’t the moon bright tonight, Reginald? [Pause] Don’t you just adore a moonlight night? [Pause] Yes, so do I. It makes me so sentimental. [Pause] Don’t you feel sentimental, too? The moon shining on the lake, and the music, and the perfume of the roses, and everything. [With a long, audible sigh.] Ohhh! it’s just heavenly. [Pause] Oh, no, I’m not the least bit chilly. Chilly? Why, I’m burning up. [Sentimentally] ‘Twas on such a night as this that what-cha-call her stood on the banks and waved a willow wand at Cypress. A night for romance, a night for love. [Matter-of-fact tone.] That isn’t very good. It doesn’t seem to lead to anything. No, it’s too much introduction. I’ll start right in at the critical moment. [Deep, sepulchral voice.] Reginald! [Normal voice.] Oh, no, that would probably scare him to death. [High, throaty voice.] Reginald, dear! [Normal.] Too high, he’d think I’d seen a mouse or something. Er– [Clears throat] hum! Reginald! That’s much better. Reginald, the subject I am about to introduce will probably cause you some surprise. [To audience.] I should think it would. [To dummy.] But I trust it will cause you some feeling of joy. You surely must have learned during the past year–during the past year–you must have learned–that I–that you–that we–both of us–during the past year [Clears throat] hem! You must have learned– [To audience.] Oh, fudge, I can’t make it sound natural, at all. [In a confidential tone to the dummy.] Say, Reggy, you and I seem to hit it off awfully well together. We’ve seen a lot of each other during the past year and we always get on like a house afire, you and I. I was just wondering why we couldn’t always get on that way together, all through life, I mean, until death do us part. You know what I mean. [To audience.] That’s splendid. [To dummy.] I never cared for any other man the way I care for you, Reginald. Don’t you care a little for me, too? If you do, why don’t you say so, and make me the happiest—-! [Rises suddenly in alarm, as the maid is supposed to have entered the room.] Who’s there? Mercy, is that you, Marie? I wish you would knock before you enter my room. [Pause] You did knock? Well, knock louder. I didn’t hear you. I was just … rehearsing a little scene from a play. Please don’t giggle. I must say, Marie, that you giggle more than any maid we ever had in the house. There’s nothing at all to giggle at. What do you want? [Pause] A letter–for me? A special delivery? Oh. Thank you. [Pantomimes looking at the envelope.] Reggy’s writing! Oh, he must be sick or something. [Opens letter and reads it.] Oh! [Reads some more.] Well, I never! [Reads some more, registering delight; reads a few lines aloud.] –have long loved you! [Gives a long audible sigh and reads some more.] –marry me at once. Oh, it’s a proposal. Reginald has proposed. [Long sigh of relief.] Thank goodness. [Goes toward entrance and calls.]

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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!

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You Never Can Tell

MRS. CLANDON: (rising, with all the placidity of her age suddenly broken up; and a curious hard excitement, dignified but dogged, ladylike but implacable–the manner of the Old Guard of the Women’s Rights movement–coming upon her). Phil: take care. Remember what I have always taught you. There are two sorts of family life, Phil; and your experience of human nature only extends, so far, to one of them. (Rhetorically.) The sort you know is based on mutual respect, on recognition of the right of every member of the household to independence and privacy (her emphasis on “privacy” is intense) in their personal concerns. And because you have always enjoyed that, it seems such a matter of course to you that you don’t value it. But (with biting acrimony) there is another sort of family life: a life in which husbands open their wives’ letters, and call on them to account for every farthing of their expenditure and every moment of their time; in which women do the same to their children; in which no room is private and no hour sacred; in which duty, obedience, affection, home, morality and religion are detestable tyrannies, and life is a vulgar round of punishments and lies, coercion and rebellion, jealousy, suspicion, recrimination–Oh! I cannot describe it to you: fortunately for you, you know nothing about it. (She sits down, panting. Gloria has listened to her with flashing eyes, sharing all her indignation.)

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The Philanderer

JULIA: But why? We could be so happy. You love me–I know you love me–I feel it. You say “My dear” to me: you have said it several times this evening. I know I have been wicked, odious, bad. I say nothing in defence of myself. But don’t be hard on me. I was distracted by the thought of losing you. I can’t face life without you Leonard. I was happy when I met you: I had never loved anyone; and if you had only let me alone I could have gone on contentedly by myself. But I can’t now. I must have you with me. Don’t cast me off without a thought of all I have at stake. I could be a friend to you if you would only let me–if you would only tell me your plans–give me a share in your work—treat me as something more than the amusement of an idle hour. Oh Leonard, Leonard, you’ve never given me a chance: indeed you haven’t. I’ll take pains; I’ll read; I’ll try to think; I’ll conquer my jealousy; I’ll– (She breaks down, rocking her head desperately on his knee and writhing.) Oh, I’m mad: I’m mad: you’ll kill me if you desert me.

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