It is almost a fortnight now that I am domiciled in a medieval
villa in the country, a mile or two from Florence. I cannot speak
the language; I am too old not to learn how, also too busy when I
am busy, and too indolent when I am not; wherefore some will
imagine that I am having a dull time of it. But it is not so.
The "help" are all natives; they talk Italian to me, I answer
in English; I do not understand them, they do not understand me,
consequently no harm is done, and everybody is satisfied. In order
to be just and fair, I throw in an Italian word when I have one,
and this has a good influence. I get the word out of the morning paper.
I have to use it while it is fresh, for I find that Italian words
do not keep in this climate. They fade toward night, and next
morning they are gone. But it is no matter; I get a new one out
of the paper before breakfast, and thrill the domestics with it
while it lasts. I have no dictionary, and I do not want one;
I can select words by the sound, or by orthographic aspect.
Many of them have French or German or English look, and these are
the ones I enslave for the day's service. That is, as a rule.
Not always. If I find a learnable phrase that has an imposing look
and warbles musically along I do not care to know the meaning of it;
I pay it out to the first applicant, knowing that if I pronounce it
carefully he will understand it, and that's enough.
Yesterday's word was avanti. It sounds Shakespearian, and probably
means Avaunt and quit my sight. Today I have a whole phrase:
Sono dispiacentissimo. I do not know what it means, but it seems
to fit in everywhere and give satisfaction. Although as a rule
my words and phrases are good for one day and train only, I have
several that stay by me all the time, for some unknown reason,
and these come very handy when I get into a long conversation and need
things to fire up with in monotonous stretches. One of the best ones
is dov' `e il gatto. It nearly always produces a pleasant surprise,
therefore I save it up for places where I want to express applause
or admiration. The fourth word has a French sound, and I think
the phrase means "that takes the cake."
During my first week in the deep and dreamy stillness of this woodsy
and flowery place I was without news of the outside world, and was
well content without it. It has been four weeks since I had seen
a newspaper, and this lack seemed to give life a new charm and grace,
and to saturate it with a feeling verging upon actual delight.
Then came a change that was to be expected: the appetite for news
began to rise again, after this invigorating rest. I had to feed it,
but I was not willing to let it make me its helpless slave again;
I determined to put it on a diet, and a strict and limited one.
So I examined an Italian paper, with the idea of feeding it on that,
and on that exclusively. On that exclusively, and without help of
a dictionary. In this way I should surely be well protected against
overloading and indigestion.
A glance at the telegraphic page filled me with encouragement.
There were no scare-heads. That was good--supremely good. But there
were headings--one-liners and two-liners--and that was good too;
for without these, one must do as one does with a German paper--pay our
precious time in finding out what an article is about, only to discover,
in many cases, that there is nothing in it of interest to you.
The headline is a valuable thing.
Necessarily we are all fond of murders, scandals, swindles,
robberies, explosions, collisions, and all such things, when we
knew the people, and when they are neighbors and friends, but when
they are strangers we do not get any great pleasure out of them,
as a rule. Now the trouble with an American paper is that it has
no discrimination; it rakes the whole earth for blood and garbage,
and the result is that you are daily overfed and suffer a surfeit.
By habit you stow this muck every day, but you come by and by to
take no vital interest in it--indeed, you almost get tired of it.
As a rule, forty-nine-fiftieths of it concerns strangers only--
people away off yonder, a thousand miles, two thousand miles,
ten thousand miles from where you are. Why, when you come to think
of it, who cares what becomes of those people? I would not give
the assassination of one personal friend for a whole massacre
of those others. And, to my mind, one relative or neighbor mixed
up in a scandal is more interesting than a whole Sodom and Gomorrah
of outlanders gone rotten. Give me the home product every time.
Very well. I saw at a glance that the Florentine paper would
suit me: five out of six of its scandals and tragedies were local;
they were adventures of one's very neighbors, one might almost say
one's friends. In the matter of world news there was not too much,
but just about enough. I subscribed. I have had no occasion
to regret it. Every morning I get all the news I need for the day;
sometimes from the headlines, sometimes from the text. I have never
had to call for a dictionary yet. I read the paper with ease.
Often I do not quite understand, often some of the details escape me,
but no matter, I get the idea. I will cut out a passage or two,
then you see how limpid the language is:
Il ritorno dei Beati d'Italia
Elargizione del Re all' Ospedale italiano
The first line means that the Italian sovereigns are coming back--
they have been to England. The second line seems to mean that they
enlarged the King at the Italian hospital. With a banquet, I suppose.
An English banquet has that effect. Further:
Il ritorno dei Sovrani
a Roma
Roma, 24, ore 22,50.--I Sovrani e le Principessine Reali si attendono
a Roma domani alle ore 15,51.
Return of the sovereigns to Rome, you see. Date of the telegram,
Rome, November 24, ten minutes before twenty-three o'clock. The
telegram seems to say, "The Sovereigns and the Royal Children expect
themselves at Rome tomorrow at fifty-one minutes after fifteen o'clock."
I do not know about Italian time, but I judge it begins at midnight
and runs through the twenty-four hours without breaking bulk.
In the following ad, the theaters open at half-past twenty.
If these are not matinees, 20.30 must mean 8.30 P.M., by my reckoning.
Spettacolli del di 25
Teatro della Pergola--(Ore 20,30)--Opera. Boh`eme. Teatro
Alfieri.--Compagnia drammatica Drago--(Ore 20,30)--La Legge.
Alhambra--(Ore 20,30)--Spettacolo variato. Sala Edison--
Grandiosoo spettacolo Cinematografico: Quo Vadis?--Inaugurazione della
Chiesa Russa--In coda al Direttissimo--Vedute di Firenze con
gran movimeno--America: Transporto tronchi giganteschi--I ladri
in casa del Diavolo--Scene comiche. Cinematografo--Via Brunelleschi
n. 4.--Programma straordinario, Don Chisciotte--Prezzi populari.
The whole of that is intelligible to me--and sane and rational, too--
except the remark about the Inauguration of a Russian Chinese.
That one oversizes my hand. Give me five cards.
This is a four-page paper; and as it is set in long primer leaded
and has a page of advertisements, there is no room for the crimes,
disasters, and general sweepings of the outside world--thanks be!
Today I find only a single importation of the off-color sort:
Una Principessa
che fugge con un cocchiere
Parigi, 24.--Il Matin ha da Berlino che la principessa
Schovenbare-Waldenbure scomparve il 9 novembre. Sarebbe partita
col suo cocchiere.
La Principassa ha 27 anni.
Twenty-seven years old, and scomparve--scampered--on the 9th November.
You see by the added detail that she departed with her coachman.
I hope Sarebbe has not made a mistake, but I am afraid the chances
are that she has. Sono Dispiacentissimo.
There are several fires: also a couple of accidents. This is
one of them:
Grave disgrazia sul Ponte Vecchio
Stammattina, circe le 7,30, mentre Giuseppe Sciatti, di anni 55,
di Casellina e Torri, passava dal Ponte Vecchio, stando seduto sopra
un barroccio carico di verdura, perse l' equilibrio e cadde al suolo,
rimanendo con la gamba destra sotto una ruota del veicolo.
Lo Sciatti fu subito raccolto da alcuni cittadini, che, per mezzo
della pubblica vettura n. 365, lo transporto a San Giovanni di Dio.
Ivi il medico di guardia gli riscontro la frattura della gamba
destra e alcune lievi escoriazioni giudicandolo guaribile in 50
giorni salvo complicazioni.
What it seems to say is this: "Serious Disgrace on the Old
Old Bridge. This morning about 7.30, Mr. Joseph Sciatti, aged 55,
of Casellina and Torri, while standing up in a sitting posture
on top of a carico barrow of vedure (foliage? hay? vegetables?),
lost his equilibrium and fell on himself, arriving with his left
leg under one of the wheels of the vehicle.
"Said Sciatti was suddenly harvested (gathered in?) by several citizens,
who by means of public cab No. 365 transported to St. John of God."
Paragraph No. 3 is a little obscure, but I think it says that
the medico set the broken left leg--right enough, since there
was nothing the matter with the other one--and that several
are encouraged to hope that fifty days well fetch him around
in quite giudicandolo-guaribile way, if no complications intervene.
I am sure I hope so myself.
There is a great and peculiar charm about reading news-scraps in a
language which you are not acquainted with--the charm that always goes
with the mysterious and the uncertain. You can never be absolutely
sure of the meaning of anything you read in such circumstances;
you are chasing an alert and gamy riddle all the time, and the
baffling turns and dodges of the prey make the life of the hunt.
A dictionary would spoil it. Sometimes a single word of doubtful
purport will cast a veil of dreamy and golden uncertainty over a
whole paragraph of cold and practical certainties, and leave steeped
in a haunting and adorable mystery an incident which had been vulgar
and commonplace but for that benefaction. Would you be wise to draw
a dictionary on that gracious word? would you be properly grateful?
After a couple of days' rest I now come back to my subject and seek
a case in point. I find it without trouble, in the morning paper;
a cablegram from Chicago and Indiana by way of Paris. All the words
save one are guessable by a person ignorant of Italian:
Revolverate in teatro
Parigi, 27.--La Patrie ha da Chicago:
Il guardiano del teatro dell'opera di Walace (Indiana), avendo voluto
espellare uno spettatore che continuava a fumare malgrado il diviety,
questo spalleggiato dai suoi amici tir`o diversi colpi di rivoltella.
Il guardiano ripose. Nacque una scarica generale. Grande panico
tra gli spettatori. Nessun ferito.
Translation.--"Revolveration in Theater. Paris, 27th. La Patrie
has from Chicago: The cop of the theater of the opera of Wallace,
Indiana, had willed to expel a spectator which continued to smoke
in spite of the prohibition, who, spalleggiato by his friends,
tir'o (Fr. tir'e, Anglice pulled) manifold revolver-shots;
great panic among the spectators. Nobody hurt."
It is bettable that that harmless cataclysm in the theater of the opera
of Wallace, Indiana, excited not a person in Europe but me, and so
came near to not being worth cabling to Florence by way of France.
But it does excite me. It excites me because I cannot make out,
for sure, what it was that moved the spectator to resist the officer.
I was gliding along smoothly and without obstruction or accident,
until I came to that word "spalleggiato," then the bottom fell out.
You notice what a rich gloom, what a somber and pervading mystery,
that word sheds all over the whole Wallachian tragedy. That is the charm
of the thing, that is the delight of it. This is where you begin,
this is where you revel. You can guess and guess, and have all
the fun you like; you need not be afraid there will be an end to it;
none is possible, for no amount of guessing will ever furnish you
a meaning for that word that you can be sure is the right one.
All the other words give you hints, by their form, their sound,
or their spelling--this one doesn't, this one throws out no hints,
this one keeps its secret. If there is even the slightest slight
shadow of a hint anywhere, it lies in the very meagerly suggestive
fact that "spalleggiato" carries our word "egg" in its stomach.
Well, make the most out of it, and then where are you at?
You conjecture that the spectator which was smoking in spite
of the prohibition and become reprohibited by the guardians,
was "egged on" by his friends, and that was owing to that evil
influence that he initiated the revolveration in theater that has
galloped under the sea and come crashing through the European
press without exciting anybody but me. But are you sure,
are you dead sure, that that was the way of it? No. Then the
uncertainty remains, the mystery abides, and with it the charm.
Guess again.
If I had a phrase-book of a really satisfactory sort I would
study it, and not give all my free time to undictionarial readings,
but there is no such work on the market. The existing phrase-books
are inadequate. They are well enough as far as they go, but when
you fall down and skin your leg they don't tell you what to say.
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