In the course of a recent search for Italian conversation manuals I came
upon one which put so strangely novel a complexion on our own tongue that,
though it was not quite what I was seeking, I bought it. To see ourselves
as others see us may be a difficult operation, but to hear ourselves as
others hear us is by this little book made quite easy. Everyone knows the
old story of the Italian who entered an East-bound omnibus in the Strand
and asked to be put down at Kay-ahp-see-day. Well, this book should prevent
him from doing it again.
But its great attraction is the courageous personality of the protagonist
as revealed by his various remarks. For example, most of us who are not
linguists confine our conversations in foreign places to the necessities
of life, rarely leaving the beaten track of bread and butter, knives and
forks, the times of trains, cab fares, the way to the station, the way to
the post-office, hotel prices and washing lists. And even then we disdain
or flee from syntax. But this conversationalist embroiders and dilates.
He is intrepid. He has no reluctances. Where we in Italy would, at the
most, say to the _cameriere_, "_Portaci una tazza di caffè_," and think
ourselves lucky to get it, he lures the London waiter to invite a
disquistion on the precious berry. Thus, he begins: "Còffi is rI-marchêbl
fòr iZ vèrE stim-iùlêtin pròpèRtÊ. Du ju nô hau it uòs discòvvaRd?" The
waiter very promptly and properly saying, "Nô, Sôr," the Italian unloads
as follows: "Uèl, ai uil tèl ju thèt iZ discòvvarê is sêd tu hèv bin
òchêsciònt bai thi fòllôin sôrcòmstanZ. Som gôtS, hu brauS-t òp-òn thi
plènt fròm huicc thi còffi sîds aR gàthaRd, ueaR òbsèrv-D bai thi
gôthaRds tu bi èchsîdinglE uêchful, ènd òfn tu chêpaR èbaut in thi nait;
thi pràioR Ôv ê nêbArin mònnastErE, uiscin tu chip his mònchs êuêch èt
thèaR mat-tins, traid if thi côffi ud prôdiùS thi sêm èffècht òp-òn thèm,
ès it uòs òbsèrv-D tu du òp-òn thi gôtS; thi sòch-sès òv his èchspèrimènt
lèd tu thi apprèsciêsciòn òv iZ valliù."
A little later a London bookseller has the temerity to place some of the
latest fiction before our chatty alien, but pays dearly for his rash act.
In these words did the Italian let him have it:--"Ai du nòt laich nòv-èls
èt òl, bicô-S ê nòv-èl is bàt ê fichtisciòs têl stof-T òv sô mènE
fantastical dîds ènd nònsènsical wòrDs, huicc òpsèt maind ènd hàRt.
An-hêppe thô-S an-uêrE jòngh pèrsòns, hu spènd thèaR prê-sciòs taim in
ridin nòv-èls! Thê du nòt nô thèt nòv-èllists, gènnèrallE spichin, aR thi
laitèst ènd thi môst huim-sical raittaRs, hu hèv uêstèd ènd uêst thèaR
laif in liùdnès."
English people abroad do not, as a rule, drop aphorisms by the way; but
our Italian loves to do so. Thus, to one stranger (in the section devoted
to Virtues and Vices), he remarks, "Uith-aut Riligiòn ui sciùd bi uòrS
thèn bîsts." To another, "Thi igotist spîchs còntinniùallE òv himself ènd
mêchs himsèlf thi sèntaR òv èvvèrE thingh." And to a third, a little
tactlessly perhaps, "Impólait-nès is disgòstin." He is sententious even
to his hatter: "Ê hèt sciùd bi prôpôrsciònD tu thi hèd ènd pèrsòn, fòr it
is lâf-èbl tu sî ê laRgg hèt òp-òn ê smòl hèd, ènd ê smòl hèt òp-òn ê
laRgg hèd." But sometimes he goes all astray. He is, for instance,
desperately ill-informed as to English law. In England, he tells us, and
believes the pathetic fallacy, "thi trêns stàrt ènd arraiv vèrE
pòngh-ciùAllE, òthaR-uais passèn-giàRs hu arraiv-lêt fòr thèaR bis-nès
cud siù thi CompAnE fôr dèm-êgg-S."
He is calm and collected in an emergency. Thus, to a lady who has burst
into flames, "Bi not êfrêd, Madam," he says, "thi faiR hès còt jur gaun.
Lé daun òp-òn thi flòR, ènd ju uil put aut thi faiR uith jur hèndS." His
presence of mind saves him from using his own hands for the purpose.
Resourcefulness is indeed as natural to him as to Sir CHRISTOPHER WREN in
the famous poem. "Uilliam," he says to his man, "if ènEbòdE asch-s fòr
mi, ju uil sê thèt ai scèl bi bèch in ê fòrt-nait."
He meets Miss Butterfield.
"Mis BòttaRfild," he says, "uil ju ghiv mi ê glàs òv uòtaR, if ju plîS?"
And that is the end of the lady. Or I think so. But there is just a
possibility that it is she (no longer Miss Butterfield, but now a
Signora) whom he rebukes in a coffee-house: "Mai diaR, du nòt spích òv
pòllitichs in ê Còffi-Haus, fòr nò travvEllaR, if priùdènt, èvvaR tòchs
èbaut pòllitichs in pòblich." And again it may be for Miss Butterfield
that he orders a charming present (first saying it is for a lady): "Ghiv
mi thèt ripittaR sèt uith rubès, thèt straich-S thi aurS ènd thi
hâf-aurS."
Finally he embarks for Australia and quickly becomes as human as the rest
of us. "Thi uind," he murmurs uneasily, "is raisin. Thi si is vèrE ròf.
Thi mô-sciòn òv thi Stim-bôt mêch-S mi an-uèl. Ai fîl vèrE sich. Mai hèd
is diZZE. Ai hèv gòt ê hèd-êch." But he assures a fellow- passenger that
there is no cause for fear, even if a storm should come on. "Du nòt bi
àlaRmD," he says; "thèaR is nô dêngg-aR. Thi Chèp-tèn òv this Stima-R is
è vèrE clèvaR mèn."
His last words, addressed apparently to the rest of the passengers as
they reach Adelaide, are these: "Lèt òs mêch hêst ènd gô tu thi
Còstòm-HauS tu hèv aur lògh-êggS èch-samint. In ÒstrêlIa, thi Còstòm-HauS
ÒffIsaRs aR nòt hòttE, bàt vèrE pôlait."
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[Illustration: "I AIN'T ENOUGH PAPER TO WROP HIM UP, MISTER; BUT NO ONE'LL
NOTICE A NOOD WURZEL IN WAR-TIME."]
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