"AS SIMPLE AS ITALIAN."
(A Dramatic Fragment from Drury Lane.)
Scene—The Auditorium of the National Theatre. Present the customary throng. A performance on the stage is occupying the spectators' wrapt attention. Newly-married couple in stalls holding a discussion in undertones.
Angelina. I am so glad, dear, you did not get a book of the words. It will be such a capital exercise for my Italian. I find that I can understand every word.
Edwin (happy to have saved the expense of purchasing a translated libretto). Quite so, dear. You can tell me what they are doing.
Ang. Certainly, dear. Look, they are now having supper. You see, the heroine called for candles, and the waiter put them on the table. And now they are talking about things in general. And that is Armande. And don't you see Marguerite is ill.
Edwin. Yes; she is fainting in front of a window.
Ang. Exactly. Italian is so easy—almost like English. She gives him a flower, and he goes away. He says adieu, and then the curtain falls.
Edwin Was that in Italian too?
Ang. Don't be absurd. (They discuss things in general, until the curtain rises on the Second Act.) Look, it is the same scene. You see, they are engaged. She is making love to him.
Edwin. Is that why he is sitting in a chair with his back to the audience while Marguerite strokes his hair?
Ang. Yes. While she is stroking his hair she is saying how fond she is of him. And now he is telling her how fond he is of her.
Edwin (after a quarter of an hour). What are they saying?
Ang. Oh, just the same thing over and over again. The Italian language is so beautiful. "Oh, Armande!" She calls him by his Christian name. She is so attached to him.
Edwin. But what was the meaning of that?
Ang. (at the end of the Act). Oh, don't you see, he said something that pleased her. Then she kissed him. Really, I had no idea how easy Italian was. Of course, one understands it from knowing French. (Entr'acte passes as before, and curtain rises on Act Three.) Ah, here we are at Auteuil. Yes, and here comes Marguerite with some flowers. Isn't it interesting?
Edwin. Isn't this piece rather like the Traviata?
Ang. I don't know. But I never saw the Opera. And there, that old gentleman has come to call upon Marguerite.
Edwin. Why, of course, like the old chap with the baritone song. Now I begin to understand Italian myself.
Ang. Do you, dear? Well, you see, he was going to be rude, and then they made it up, and she gave him a chair. And there, do you see? she leaves a letter for Armande. It is for him to read. And now she leaves him. And he is reading the letter.
Edwin. And doesn't seem to like it. And there's the old chap (without the song), and he is consoling him.
Ang. (after a glance at her playbill). Yes, because they are father and son. (The Fourth Act passes, and she explains to her husband that Marguerite has been playing at cards, and that Armande is very angry with her.) That's why he throws money at her.
Edwin. Rather a cad—Armande.
Ang. Oh, no. You know we must not judge foreigners by an English standard. (The last Act commences.) You see, she is very ill. That cradle covered with rugs is her bed.
Edwin. Indeed!
Ang. Yes. And that I suppose must be the doctor. I wonder what they are saying! This Act they all seem to be talking faster than they did in the others. That old woman was her friend. I wonder why she has left her like that!
Edwin. Didn't she say something like "What a rum go?" It is the only line I have understood since the commencement of the performance. What is she saying now?
Ang. (hesitating). Well, I am not quite sure. But you see she is very ill. She scarcely recognises Armande.
Edwin. What is he saying? What has he done with his father?
Ang. (perplexed). I can't quite follow this Act—they talk so fast.
Edwin. And, I say, why on earth have these two turned up? A lady in complete bridal costume—wreath, veil, and all—and a chap in evening dress. What on earth have they got to do with the story?
Ang. Don't you think, dear, we had better get a book?
Edwin (ignoring the suggestion). There's the poor thing dead!
Ang. Ah, I understood the last bit quite well. The Italian language is so much more expressive than our own, isn't it, dear?
Edwin. Darling, it is!
[Cigarettes, cabs, and Curtain.