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Updated: June 10, 2025
This is why the greatest commonness is when our guide turns out a vulgar fellow the angel, as we had supposed him, who has taken us by the hand. Then what becomes of our escape? Florentia. It's precisely then that I complain of him. He leads us into foul and dreary places into flat and foolish deserts. Dorriforth.
It gave, what a judicious mise-en-scène should always do, the essence of the matter, and left the embroidery to the actors. Florentia. At the "Merry Wives," where you could see your hand before your face, I could make out the embroidery. Dorriforth. Could you, under Falstaff's pasteboard cheeks and the sad disfigurement of his mates? There was no excess of scenery, Auberon says.
Dorriforth, the grave, the pious, the anchorite Dorriforth, by their force is animated to all the ardour of the most impassioned lover; while the proud priest, the austere guardian, is humbled, if I but frown, into the veriest slave of love." She then asked: "Why did I not keep him longer in suspense? He could not have loved me more, I believe, but my power over him might have been greater still.
My acharnement is your little joke, and my contention is a little lesson in philosophy. Florentia. I prefer a lesson in taste. I had one the other night at the "Merry Wives." Dorriforth. If you come to that, so did I! Amicia. So she does spare an evening sometimes. Florentia.
Catherine felt as if she had gone through some terrible physical exertion which had left her worn out stupefied. And yet she could not rest. Even now her day was not over; Charles often grew restless and talkative at night. He and Mr. Dorriforth were no doubt still sitting talking together downstairs. Mrs.
"Nay, shame to him if he is not in love!" answered his lordship. "For who but a savage could behold beauty like yours without owning its power? And surely when your guardian looks at you, his wishes " "Are never less pure," Miss Milner replied eagerly, "than those which dwell in the bosom of my celestial guardian." At this moment Dorriforth entered the room.
Aren't they perpetually talking about the actor's conception of it? Dorriforth. Dear lady, what better proof can there be of their ineptitude, and that painted canvas and real water are the only things they understand? The vanity of wasting time over that! Auberon. Over what? Dorriforth. The actor's conception of a part.
There's such a diversity in our idea of amusement. Auberon. Don't you impute to people more ideas than they have? Dorriforth. Ah, one must do that or one couldn't talk about them. We go to be interested; to be absorbed, beguiled and to lose ourselves, to give ourselves up, in short, to a charm. Florentia. And the charm is the strange, the extraordinary. Amicia. Ah, speak for yourself!
The artistic effect, as a whole, is so welded together that you can't pick out the parts. Dorriforth. Precisely; that's what it is in the best cases, and some examples are wonderfully clever. Florentia. Then what fault do you find? Dorriforth. Simply this that the whole is a pictorial whole, not a dramatic one.
Oh, Miss Woodley, pity the agonies of my heart, my heart by nature sincere, when such are the fatal propensities it cherishes that I must submit to the grossest falsehoods rather than reveal the truth! Are you so blind," she exclaimed, "as to believe I do not care for Mr. Dorriforth? Oh, Miss Woodley, I love him with all the passion of a woman, and with all the tenderness of a wife!"
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