She would take the clients away, one by one, in the room. They would make appointments with her at the exit. These ladies were no longer, as they say, investing in their appearance. They left the theater. And the management had to hastily put up a sign on the door!
Young and pretty girls wanted.
What a disaster! The hastily assembled troupe is no longer cohesive, if I may express it that way. One who has passable thighs carries a small belly of a landlady. Another who exhibits beautiful arms is perched on skinny heron legs. All the breasts sag. It's as if there are bad years for breasts, just like there are for apples in Normandy. In my opinion, the play won't last ten performances. It would require a big star, a beautiful artist. I mean a woman who has a beautiful body.
I can tell that the author agrees with me. He senses the disaster. And yet, from time to time, he casts a disapproving eye my way—jettatore!—to see if I'm not courting his wife.
I'm not thinking of it. She is sweet, shy, and kind. He loves her, and I find it very ugly to try to steal someone else's happiness.
The rehearsal of the seamstresses ends in chaos. These ladies parade in a pitiful manner. They're not used to it.
I will attend the premiere, with the morbid curiosity of the Englishman who wanted to see the tamer devoured. I want to see the audience devour the author.
From the first act, the regular gentlemen, who are connoisseurs, start mocking the extras fiercely. Nothing escapes their notice. Neither the small landlady belly, nor the heron legs, nor the arms resembling spaghetti.
I venture into the backstage area. There, I encounter the author and his little wife. The author seems devastated. I say to him, pointing towards the audience with a gesture:
