The Age of Innocence Monologues

A tale of nineteenth-century New York high society in which a young lawyer falls in love with a woman separated from her husband, while he is engaged to the woman's cousin.

Newland. You couldn't be happy if it meant being cruel. If we act any other way I'll be making you act against what I love in you most. And I can't go back to that way of thinking. Don't you see? I can't love you unless I give you up.

I think we should look at reality, not dreams.

I can't be your wife, Newland! Is it your idea that I should live with you as your mistress?

How can we be happy behind the backs of people who trust us?

Is New York such a labyrinth? I thought it was all straight up and down like Fifth Avenue. All the cross streets numbered and big honest labels on everything.

Then I must count on you for warnings too.

They never knew what it meant to be tempted, but you did. You understood. I've never known that before - and it's better than anything I've known.

Centuries and centuries. So long, I'm sure I'm dead and buried, in this dear old place, as heaven.

I know. I know, as long as they don't hear anything unpleasant. Does no one here want to know - want to know the truth, Mr. Archer? The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only asks you to pretend.

Do you think her lover will send her a box of yellow roses tomorrow morning?

Don't make love to me. Too many people have done that.

May I tell you what most interests me about New York; not all the blind obeying of traditions, somebody else's traditions; it seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it a copy of another country. Do you suppose Christopher Columbus would have taken all that trouble just to go to the opera with Larry Lefferts?

I should go were I'm invited or I should be too lonely.

So, how do you like this odd little house? To me it's like heaven.

I remember we played together. How this brings it all back to me. I remember everybody here the same way in knickerbockers and pantalettes.

I gave up arguing with young people 50 years ago.

Your name was Beaufort when he covered you with jewels and it's got to stay Beaufort now that he's covered you with shame.

The entire family is difficult! Not one of them wants to be different. When they are different, they end up like Ellen's parents. No masks. Continental wanderers, dragging Ellen about, lavishing on her an expensive but incoherent education. Out of all of them, I don't believe there's one that takes after me, but my little Ellen. You've got a quick eye. Why in the world didn't you marry her?

Know each other? Everybody in New York has always known everybody. Don't wait till the bubbles off the wine. Marry them before Lent. I may catch pneumonia any winter now and I want to give the Wedding Breakfast.

We should remember, marriage is marriage and Ellen is still a wife.