Читать книгу Wonder Stories of Travel - E. E. Brown - Страница 8

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“DO you speak English?”

“Non, Signora!”

“Do you speak any other language than Italian?”

“Non, Signora!”

“Then you are the person I desire as guide!”

The above dialogue took place near the Amphitheatre of Verona. The Italian, standing awaiting employment, was an old man, bright and active. The American, who addressed him was an elderly woman, who had studied the languages of Europe nearly half a century. She had just arrived in Verona. Leaving the younger members of her party she had strolled off alone, the better, as she said, to air her lore. One must be alone to succeed with a foreign tongue; an audience of one’s own countrymen is particularly distracting if not embarrassing.

Following her leader into the Amphitheatre she sat where, ages ago, the Royalty had done, and commenced audible reflections to this effect:

“Did scenes such as took place here have a charm for court ladies, ladies educated as were the Zenobias and the Julias of those days?”

She had no idea that her language could be understood, but the guide vociferated as if angry:

“People of those days were great, strong, just!”

She felt that she was answered, but nevertheless was practicing her Italian.

The Amphitheatre of Verona, being in a state of preservation, is a good introduction to the Coliseum at Rome. The old man, my guide, was present at the Congress of 1822, when twenty-two thousand persons were seated within its walls. The Chariot Entrance is pointed out, also that through which the culprits came; and the gate which held back the hungry animal longing for his prize. These oft told tales were recited by the guide, as are the speeches of Daniel Webster by the American school-boy, learned and rehearsed many times, till the traveler, having exhausted her own vocabulary as applied to this show, seemed ready to depart.

“Cathedrals,” proposed the conductor as a matter of course. Cathedrals consequently obtained.

In one of these of the time of Charlemagne, the guide seized with a religious zeal, begged his companion to be seated while he joined in the services. She could not conscientiously interfere with his soul’s instincts, therefore consented to rest awhile.

The performances seemed exceedingly tedious, as the monotone of the priest was relieved only by the click of the collections. But the old man was very devout, never allowing the box to pass without his contribution. Magnanimous spirit! How many of our home churches would give twice and thrice without wincing?

Growing rather anxious to leave these premises, the Protestant tried to hurry the brother-at-prayer by a motion towards the door.

“Will Madame condescend a ten minutes longer? A collection for a deceased infant is next.”

Madame did condescend. The coin was deposited. After this emotional act the twain left the church, the guide very gay and lively, the lady rather moved to compassion. Suppose her companion were steeped in ignorance, how beautiful his faith!

“Was the little child a relative, or were its parents his friends?”

“Oh, no! he had never heard of it in life, but only a hard heart would keep one so young and alone in the shades.” Here he wiped a tear.

The guide turned, quickly melting into the smile again, remarking: “The Tombs of the Scaligers.”

These monuments are indeed worth seeing, especially that of the last of this great family. This Scaliger, to outdo his ancestry had spent many years laboring with his own hands upon the marble which was to mark his resting-place. The devices were his own; no other person was employed in the hewing, the cutting, even in the erection of this showy memorial. Its maker died satisfied with the result of his lifetime, a work for ages to succeed.

The oldest of this name rests under a comparatively simple canopy. During the First Napoleon’s time this tomb was opened that a cast might be made of the head, there being no authentic representation extant; and by order of the Emperor, the bust was placed in the Louvre at Paris, and sketches of this wonderfully fine head sold for great sums.

“The house of the Capulets,” said the old man.

Standing beneath the balcony on the very spot where stood poor Romeo (or Charlotte Cushman as well), quite absorbed in the few lines of Shakspeare that floated in her mind, the lady was aroused from her revery by the guide, who, pointing at the almost obliterated coat-of-arms, said ambitiously:

“Chapeau, capello, Inglese!”

At the same time he crushed his head-gear, till his face was quite covered.

“Hat!” shrieked she, judging that one who can not speak English must be deaf to this tongue though in proper condition to hear his native. If there is any letter that an Italian cannot pronounce, it is the “h.” His attempts were many and fruitless. At length, violently coughing out the aspirate, he added with great gusto the “at” and was satisfied though exhausted. His next effort was “how;” his next “head,” and finally “woman.” If there is any letter after “h” that the Italian can not get, it is our “w” and lo! his choice of first steps in English, “hat, head, how and woman.”

Passing through the market-places which are gorgeous in the distance, but whose goods when inspected are very common, they were met by many beggars. To those dressed in a peculiar garb the guide invariably gave, at no time to those in any other suit. He always reached the mite with a smile, good soul that he was!

Overlooking the lovely Adige they stood upon the great bridge, when it suddenly occurred to madame that the humble individual beside her might be giving her more time than customary, even as he had freely given to God’s “poor in other respects.”

Feeling satisfied with her day’s work and knowing her way to the hotel, she commenced the process of bidding him adieu—in more common parlance, “getting clear of him.”

“I am indeed obliged to you,” began she. “I have learned so much Ital—”

Here she was interrupted by the sage Mentor.

“If madame is so well pleased with my services, as she has taught me much English (the hypocrite,) I shall take but twelve lire.”

“Twelve lire!” she quietly repeated after him, while her astonishment was mingling with rage within, so as to render her voice almost inaudible.

“Five lire should be your demand,” she humbly ventured at last.

“Madame is quite right, but she forgets her three worships in the Cathedral and the many who partook of her bounty in the market!”

“Three worships,” thought she with a perplexed air, “and bounties in the market!”

As if reading her mind, he explained by means of gestures that the contributions made in the church were charged to her, (probably with added interest by the time the account reached her;) also the coins given to the various mendicants in their walks.

Alas! A Quaker by parentage, educated to pay no clergy in her own Protestant land, had here been playing into the hands of the foreign devotee! She nevertheless submitted with a grace, trusting that the next edition of Ollendorff will change its sentence of:

“Has he the hammer of the good blacksmith or the waistcoat of the handsome joiner,” etc., into

“Has she the shrewdness of the saintly guide or the mask of the beggar in the market-place?” She has neither the shrewdness of the saintly guide, neither the mask of the beggar; she has a meagre purse and a “thorough lesson in Italian.”