“And this must be Rosina,” whispered the buffo; “Dio mio, how death has aged her!” Seeing I was about to speak, he interrupted me: “It does not do to be fastidious. No real Sicilian would make any objection.”
The lady sang a song telling us in the Neapolitan dialect that her notion of happiness was to stroll up and down the
Toledo ogling the men. When she had finished acknowledging the applause she departed and, almost immediately, they both came on together.
“I told you so,” exclaimed the buffo triumphantly; “they have met in paradise and are happy at last.”
They performed a duet in the Neapolitan dialect and showed us how they strolled up and down the Toledo ogling one another. After they had finished acknowledging the applause the curtain fell and we all left the theatre. I said:
“I do not know whether you are aware of what you have done, but by making that temple of spangled pastry into heaven you have wrecked your tragedy.”
“Oh, I gave up my tragedy as soon as I saw where we were, and the play ended quite in your manner, didn’t it? like the Comedy of Dante. Or do you mean that you have any doubts about that last act taking place in heaven?”
“I have many doubts about that.”
“I admit, of course, that it would have been more satisfactory, and much clearer as a comedy, if we could have seen them both die before they went to paradise.”
“Would you like me to tell you the plain, straightforward, honest, manly, brutal truth about it?”