thout tears). Am I so ugly?

GERARDO. Ugly?--How does that make you ugly?--You are young and
indiscreet! (Rises nervously, walks over to the left, returns, puts his
arm around her and takes her hand.) Listen to me, my child! If I have
to sing, if I am an artist by profession, how does that make you ugly?
What an unreasonable inference: I am ugly, I am ugly. And yet it is
the same wherever I go. Think of it! When I've only a few minutes left
to catch the train, and tomorrow night it's Tristan ...! Do not
misunderstand me, but surely, my being a singer does not make it
incumbent upon me to affirm the charm of your youthfulness and beauty.
Does that make you ugly, my child? Make your appeal to other people who
are not as hard-pressed as I am. Do you really think it would ever
occur to me to, say such a thing to you?

MISS COEURNE. To say it? No. But to think it.

GERARDO. Now, Miss Coeurne, let us be reasonable! Do not inquire into
my thoughts about you. Really, at this moment they do not concern us in
the least. I assure you, and please take my word for it as an artist,
for I could not be more honest to you: I am unfortunately so
constituted that I simply cannot bear to see any creature whatsoever
suffer, not even the meanest. (Looking at her critically, but with
dignity.) And for you, my child, I am sincerely sorry; I may say that
much, after you have so far fought down your maidenly pride as to wait
for me here. But please, Miss Coeurne, do take into account the life I
have to lead. Just think of the mere question of time! At least two
hundred, may be as many as three hundred charmingly attractive young
girls of your age saw me on the stage yesterday in the part of
Tannhaeuser. Suppose now every one of these young girls expected as much
of me as you do. What in the world would become of my singing? What
would become of my voice? Just how could I keep up my profession?
(She sinks into a chair, covers her face and weeps; he sits down
on the armrest beside her, bends over her, sympathetically.) It's
really sinful of you, my child, to shed tears over being so young. Your
whole life is still before you. Be patient. The thought of your youth
should make you happy. How glad the rest of us would be--even if one
lives the life of an artist like myself--to start over again from the
very beginning. Please be not ungrateful for hearing me yesterday.
Spare me this disconcerting sequel. Am I to blame for your falling in
love with