opportunities for effects, but with no more plot than the doings of the paladins in the marionette theatres. They were like the Pietro Longo play, which I had told him about, and he said that, if that was really all of it, it began with one story and ended with another and cried aloud for a third act to hold it together.
“Pietro must escape from prison,” said Micio; “he must return home and we must know whether his sister died or went into a convent or married the policeman.”
“What is the stupid fellow to do?” I inquired, “the play was made for him.”
“He must escape too, Pietro will help him because they will become friends; besides, any one can escape from a stage prison, especially if the knives are not taken away from the convicts. And then he can do whatever the author likes.
“But it is always so in life,” he continued, with a sigh, “we must not be discontented because the best we can get is not the best we can imagine. I am still young, but not too young to have kn--- Let us not talk about that. What did you think of the play last night?”
I replied that it was a fine play.
He agreed, saying it was “strepitosamente bello.” It opened with a state of things easily comprehensible and of great interest. There were no tedious explanatory speeches, but plenty of action leading naturally to a catastrophe which was at once seen to be inevitable, though no one could have predicted precisely that. And the conclusion sent the audience away feeling that something tremendous had happened, and that the state of things existing at the beginning could never exist again.
“That is how a play should be,” said Micio.
I took a leaf out of Giovanni’s book and patted him on the back.
“Bravo, Micio, bravo! No one has yet said anything like that at supper. This is the second time this morning that you have expressed my thoughts for me. We must get your sister to let you sit up with us one of these evenings. You would keep us straight.”