ARKADINA. What did I say to him?

SORIN. You hurt his feelings.

ARKADINA. But he told me himself that this was all in fun, so I treated
his play as if it were a comedy.

SORIN. Nevertheless---

ARKADINA. Now it appears that he has produced a masterpiece, if you
please! I suppose it was not meant to amuse us at all, but that he
arranged the performance and fumigated us with sulphur to demonstrate to
us how plays should be written, and what is worth acting. I am tired
of him. No one could stand his constant thrusts and sallies. He is a
wilful, egotistic boy.

SORIN. He had hoped to give you pleasure.

ARKADINA. Is that so? I notice, though, that he did not choose an
ordinary play, but forced his decadent trash on us. I am willing to
listen to any raving, so long as it is not meant seriously, but in
showing us this, he pretended to be introducing us to a new form of art,
and inaugurating a new era. In my opinion, there was nothing new about
it, it was simply an exhibition of bad temper.

TRIGORIN. Everybody must write as he feels, and as best he may.

ARKADINA. Let him write as he feels and can, but let him spare me his
nonsense.