Penelope's Postscripts

To-day when the boys took off the tattered hats from their bonny little heads, all black waves and riotous curls, and with disarming dimples and sparkling eyes presented them to me for alms, I looked at them with smiling admiration, thinking how like Raphael’s cherubs they were, and then said in my best Italian: “Oh, yes, I see them; they are indeed most beautiful hats.  I thank you for showing them to me, and I am pleased to see you courteously take them off to a lady.”

This American pleasantry was passed from mouth to mouth gleefully, and so truly enjoyed that they seemed to forget they had been denied.  They ran, still laughing and chattering, to the wood-carver’s shop near-by and told him the story, or so I judged, for he came to his window and smiled benignly upon me as I sat in the gondola with my writing-pad on my knees.  I was pleased at the friendly glance, for he is the hero of a pretty little romance, and I long to make his acquaintance.

It seems that, some years ago, the Queen, with one lady-in-waiting in attendance, came to his shop quite early in the morning.  Both were plainly dressed in cotton gowns, and neither made any pretensions.  He was carving something that could not be dropped, a cherub’s face that had to be finished while his thought of it was fresh.  Hurriedly asking pardon, he continued his work, and at end of an hour raised his eyes, breathless and apologetic, to look at his visitors.  The taller lady had a familiar appearance.  He gazed steadily, and then, to his surprise and embarrassment, recognized the Queen.  Far from being offended, she respected his devotion to his art, and before she left the shop she gave him a commission for a royal staircase.  I am going to ask the Little Genius to take me to see his work, but, alas! there will be an unsurmountable barrier between us, for I cannot utter in my new Italian anything but the most commonplace and conventional statements.

VI

    Casa Rosa, May 28.

Oh, this misery of being dumb, incoherent, unintelligible, foolish, inarticulate in a foreign land, for lack of words!  It is unwise, I fear, to have at the outset too high an ideal either in grammar or accent.  As our gondola passed one of the hotels this afternoon, we paused long enough to hear an intrepid lady converse with an Italian who carried a mandolin and had apparently come to give a music lesson to her husband.  She seemed to be from the Middle West of America, but I am not disposed to insist upon this point, nor to make any particular State in the Union blush for her crudities of speech.  She translated immediately everything that she said into her own tongue, as if the hearer might, between French and English, possibly understand something.

“Elle nay pars easy—he ain’t here,” she remarked, oblivious of gender.  “Elle retoorneray ah seas oors et dammi—he’ll be back sure by half-past six.  Bone swar, I should say Bony naughty—Good-night to you, and I won’t let him forget to show up to-morrer.”

This was neither so ingenious nor so felicitous as the language-expedient of the man who wished to leave some luggage at a railway station in Rome, and knowing nothing of any foreign tongue but a few Latin phrases, mostly of an obituary character, pointed several times to his effects, saying, “Requiescat in pace,” and then, pointing again to himself, uttered the one pregnant word “Resurgam.”  This at any rate had the merit of tickling his own sense of humour, if it availed nothing with the railway porters, and if any one remarks that he has read the tale in some ancient “Farmers’ Almanack,” I shall only retort that it is still worth repeating.

My little red book on the “Study of Italian Made Easy for the Traveller” is always in my pocket, but it is extraordinary how little use it is to me.  The critics need not assert that individuality is dying out in the human race and that we are all more or less alike.  If we were, we should find our daily practical wants met by such little books.  Mine gives me a sentence requesting the laundress to return the clothes three days hence, at midnight, at cock-crow, or at the full of the moon, but nowhere can the new arrival find the phrase for the next night or the day after to-morrow.  The book implores the washerwoman to use plenty of starch, but the new arrival wishes scarcely any, or only the frills dipped.

Before going to the dressmaker’s yesterday, I spent five minutes learning the Italian for the expression “This blouse bags; it sits in wrinkles between the shoulders.”  As this was the only criticism given in the little book, I imagined that Italian dressmakers erred in this special direction.  What was my discomfiture to find that my blouse was much too small and refused to meet.  I could only use gestures for the dressmaker’s enlightenment, but in order not to waste my recently gained knowledge, I tried to tell a melodramatic tale of a friend of mine whose blouse bagged and sat in wrinkles between the shoulders.  It was not successful, because I was obliged to substitute the past for the present tense of the verb.

Somebody says that if we learn the irregular verbs of a language first, all will be well.  I think by the use of considerable mental agility one can generally avoid them altogether, although it materially reduces one’s vocabulary; but at all events there is no way of learning them thoroughly save by marrying a native.  A native, particularly after marriage, uses the irregular verbs with great freedom, and one acquires a familiarity with them never gained in the formal instruction of a teacher.  This method of education may be considered radical, and in cases where one is already married, illegal and bigamous, but on the whole it is not attended with any more difficulty than the immersing of one’s self in a study day after day and month after month learning the irregular verbs from a grammar.

My rule in studying a language is to seize upon some salient point, or one generally overlooked by foreigners, or some very subtle one known only to the scholar, and devote myself to its mastery.  A little knowledge here blinds the hearer to much ignorance elsewhere.  In Italian, for example, the polite way of addressing one’s equal is to speak in the third person singular, using Ella (she) as the pronoun.  “Come sta Ella?”  (How are you? but literally “How is she?”)

I pay great attention to this detail, and make opportunities to meet our padrona on the staircase and say “How is she?” to her.  I can never escape the feeling that I am inquiring for the health of an absent person; moreover, I could not understand her symptoms if she should recount them, and I have no language in which to describe my own symptoms, which, so far as I have observed, is the only reason we ever ask anybody else how he feels.

To remember on the instant whether one is addressing equals, superiors, or inferiors, and to marshal hastily the proper pronoun, adds a new terror to conversation, so that I find myself constantly searching my memory to decide whether it shall be:

Scusate or Scusi, Avanti or Passi, A rivederci or Addio, Che cosa dite? or Che coma dice?  Quanto domandate? or Quanto domanda?  Dove andate? or Dove va?  Come vi chiamate? or Come si chiama? and so forth and so forth until one’s mind seems to be arranged in tabulated columns, with special N.B.’s to use the infinitive in talking to the gondolier.

Finding the hours of time rather puzzling as recorded in the “Study of Italian Made Easy,” I devoted twenty-four hours to learning how to say the time from one o’clock at noon to midnight, or thirteen to twenty-three o’clock.  My soul revolted at the task, for a foreign tongue abounds in these malicious little refinements of speech, invented, I suppose, to prevent strangers from making too free with it on short acquaintance.  I found later on that my labour had been useless, and that evidently the Italians themselves have no longer the leisure for these little eccentricities of language and suffer them to pass from common use.  If the Latin races would only meet in convention and agree to bestow the comfortable neuter gender on inanimate objects and commodities, how popular they might make themselves with the English-speaking nations; but having begun to “enrich” their language, and make it more “subtle” by these perplexities, centuries ago, they will no doubt continue them until the end of time.

If one has been a devoted patron of the opera or student of music, one has an Italian vocabulary to begin with.  This, if accompanied by the proper gestures (for it is vain to speak without liberal movements, of the hands, shoulders, and eyebrows), this, I maintain, will deceive all the English-speaking persons who may be seated near your table in a foreign café.

The very first evening after our arrival, Jack Copley asked Salemina and me to dine with him at the best restaurant in Venice.  Jack Copley is a well of nonsense undefiled, and he, like ourselves, had been in Italy only a few hours.  He called for us in his gondola, and in the row across from the Giudecca we amused ourselves by calling to mind the various Italian words or phrases with which we were familiar.  They were mostly titles of arias or songs, but Jack insisted, notwithstanding Salemina’s protestations, that, properly interlarded with names of famous Italians, he could maintain a brilliant conversation with me at table, to the envy and amazement of our neighbours.  The following paragraph, then, was our stock in trade, and Jack’s volubility and ingenuity in its use kept Salemina quite helpless with laughter:—

Guarda che bianca luna—Il tempo passato—Lascia ch’ io pianga—Dolce far niente—Batti batti nel Masetto—Da capo—Ritardando—Andante—Piano—Adagio—Spaghetti—Macaroni—Polenta—Non è ver—Ah, non giunge—Si la stanchezza—Bravo—Lento—Presto—Scherzo—Dormi pura—La ci darem la mano—Celeste Aïda—Spirito gentil—Voi che sapete—Crispino e la Comare—Pietà, Signore—Tintoretto—Boccaccio—Garibaldi—Mazzini—Beatrice Cenci—Gordigiani—Santa Lucia—Il mio tesoro—Margherita—Umberto—Vittoria Colonna—Tutti frutti—Botticelli—Una furtiva lagrima.

No one who has not the privilege of Jack Copley’s acquaintance could believe with what effect he used these unrelated words and sentences.  I could only assist, and lead him to ever higher flights of fancy.

We perceive with pleasure that our mother tongue presents equal difficulties to Italian manufacturers and men of affairs.  The so-called mineral water we use at table is specially still and dead, and we think it may have been compared to its disadvantage with other more sparkling beverages, since every bottle bears a printed label announcing, “To Distrust of the mineral waters too foaming, since that they do invariable spread the Stomach.”

We learn also by studying another bottle that “The Wermouth is a white wine slightly bitter, and parfumed with who leso me aromatic herbs.”  Who leso me we printed in italics in our own minds, giving the phrase a pure Italian accent until we discovered that it was the somewhat familiar adjective “wholesome.”

In one of the smaller galleries we were given the usual pasteboard fans bearing explanations of the frescoes:—

Room I.  In the middle.  The sin of our fathers.

On every side.  The ovens of Babylony.  Möise saved from the water.

Room II.  In the middle.  Möise who sprung the water.

On every side.  The luminous column in the dessert and the ardent wood.

Room III.  In the middle.  Elia transported in the heaven.

On every side.  Eliseus dispansing brods.

Room IV.  The wood carvings are by Anonymous.  The tapestry shows the multiplications of brods and fishs.

VII

    Casa Rosa, May 30.

We have had a battle royal in Casa Rosa—a battle over the breaking of a huge blue pitcher valued at eight francs, a pitcher belonging to the Little Genius.

The room that leads from the dining-room to the kitchen is reached by the descent of two or three stone steps.  It is always full, and is like the orthodox hell in one respect, that though myriads of people are seen to go into it, none ever seem to come out.  It is not more than twelve feet square, and the persons most continuously in it, not counting those who are in transit, are the Padrona Angela; the Padrona Angela’s daughter, Signorina Rita; the Signorina Rita’s temporary suitor; the suitor’s mother and cousin; the padrona’s great-aunt; a few casual acquaintances of the two families, and somebody’s baby: not always the same baby; any baby answers the purpose and adds to the confusion and chatter of tongues.

This morning, the door from the dining-room being ajar, I heard a subdued sort of Bedlam in the distance, and finally went nearer to the scene of action, finding the cause in a heap of broken china in the centre of the floor.  I glanced at the excited company, but there was nothing to show me who was the criminal.  There was a spry girl washing dishes; the fritter-woman (at least we call her so, because she brings certain goodies called, if I mistake not, frittoli); the gardener’s wife; Angelo, the gondolier; Peppina, the waiting-maid; and the men that had just brought the sausages and sweetmeats for the gondolier’s ball, which we were giving in the evening.  There was also the contralto, with a large soup-ladle in her hand.  (We now call Rosalia, the cook, “the contralto,” because she sings so much better than she cooks that it seems only proper to distinguish her in the line of her special talent.)

The assembled company were all talking and gesticulating at once.  There was a most delicate point of justice involved, for, as far as I could gather, the sweetmeat-man had come in unexpectedly and collided with the sausage-man, thereby startling the fritter-woman, who turned suddenly and jostled the spry girl: hence the pile of broken china.

The spry girl was all for justice.  If she had carelessly or wilfully dropped the pitcher, she would have been willing to suffer the extreme penalty,—the number of saints she called upon to witness this statement was sufficient to prove her honesty,—but under the circumstances she would be blessed if she suffered anything, even the abuse that filled the air.  The fritter-woman upbraided the sweetmeat-man, who in return reviled the sausage-vender, who remarked that if Angelo or Peppina had received the sausages at the door, as they should, he would never have been in the house at all; adding a few picturesque generalizations concerning the moral turpitude of Angelo’s parents and the vicious nature of their offspring.

The contralto, who was divided in her soul, being betrothed to the sausage-vender, but aunt to the spry girl, sprang into the arena, armed with the soup-ladle, and dispensed injustice on all sides.  The feud now reached its height.  There is nothing that the chief participants did not call one another, and no intimation or aspersion concerning the reputation of ancestors to the remotest generation that was not cast in the others’ teeth.  The spry girl referred to the sausage-vender as a generalissimo of all the fiends, and the compliments concerning the gentle art of cookery which flew between the fritter-woman and the contralto will not bear repetition.  I listened breathlessly, hoping to hear one of the party refer to somebody as the figure of a pig (strangely enough the most unforgettable of insults), for each of the combatants held, suspended in air, the weapon of his choice—broken crockery, soup-ladle, rolling-pin, or sausage.  Each, I say, flourished the emblem of his craft wildly in the air—and then, with a change of front like that of the celebrated King of France in the Mother Goose rhyme, dropped it swiftly and silently; for at this juncture the Little Genius flew down the broad staircase from her eagle’s nest.  Her sculptor’s smock surmounted her blue cotton gown, and her blond hair was flying in the breeze created by her rapid descent.  I wish I could affirm that by her gentle dignity and serene self-control she awed the company into silence, or that there was a holy dignity about her that held them spellbound; but such, unhappily, is not the case.  It was her pet blue pitcher that had been broken—the pitcher that was to serve as just the right bit of colour at the evening’s feast.  She took command of the situation in a masterly manner—a manner that had American energy and decision as its foundation and Italian fluency as its superstructure.  She questioned the virtue of no one’s ancestors, cast no shadow of doubt on the legitimacy of any one’s posterity, called no one by the name of any four-footed beast or crawling, venomous thing, yet she somehow brought order out of chaos.  Her language (for which she would have been fined thirty days in her native land) charmed and enthralled the Venetians by its delicacy, reserve, and restraint, and they dispersed pleasantly.  The sausage-vender wished good appetite to the cook,—she had need of it, Heaven knows, and we had more,—while the spry girl embraced the fritter-woman ardently, begging her to come in again soon and make a longer visit.

VIII

    Casa Rosa, June 10

I am saying all my good-byes—to Angelo and the gondola; to the greedy pigeons of San Marco, so heavy in the crop that they can scarcely waddle on their little red feet; to the bees and birds and flowers and trees of the beautiful garden behind the casa; to the Little Genius and her eagle’s nest on the house-top; to “the city that is always just putting out to sea.”  It has been a month of enchantment, and although rather expensive, it is pleasant to think that the padrona’s mortgage is nearly paid.

It is a saint’s day, and to-night there will be a fiesta.  Coming home to our island, we shall hear the laughter and the song floating out from the wine shops and the caffès; we shall see the lighted barges with their musicians; we shall thrill with the cries of “Viva Italia! viva el Re!”  The moon will rise above the white palaces; their innumerable lights will be reflected in the glassy surface of the Grand Canal.  We shall feel for the last time “the quick silent passing” of the only Venetian cab.

“How light we move, how softly!  Ah,
Were life but as the gondola!”

To-morrow we shall be rowed against the current to Padua.  We shall see Malcontenta and its ruined villa: Oriago and Mira and the campanile of Dolo.  Venice will lie behind us, but she will never be forgotten.  Many a time on such a night as this we shall say with other wandering Venetians:—

“O Venezia benedetta!
Non ti voglio più lasciar!”

III

PENELOPE’S PRINTS OF WALES

And at length it chanced that I came to the fairest Valley in the World, wherein were trees of equal growth; and a river ran through the Valley, and a path was by the side of the river.  And I followed the path until midday, and I continued my journey along the remainder of the Valley until the evening: and at the extremity of a plain I came to a lone and lustrous Castle, at the foot of which was a torrent.

We are coaching in Wales, having journeyed by easy stages from Liverpool through Llanberis, Penygwryd, Bettws-y-Coed, Beddgelert and Dolgelly on our way to Bristol, where we shall make up our minds as to the next step; deciding in solemn conclave, with floods of argument and temperamental differences of opinion, what is best worth seeing where all is beautiful and inspiring.  If I had possessed a little foresight I should have avoided Wales, for, having proved apt at itinerary doggerel, I was solemnly created, immediately on arrival, Mistress of Rhymes and Travelling Laureate to the party—an office, however honourable, that is no sinecure since it obliges me to write rhymed eulogies or diatribes on Dolgelly, Tan-y-Bulch, Gyn-y-Coed, Llanrychwyn, and other Welsh hamlets whose names offer breakneck fences to the Muse.