There was nobody in the box I was
let into but a kindly old French officer. I love the
character, not only because I honour the man whose manners are
softened by a profession which makes bad men worse; but that I
once knew one,—for he is no more,—and why should I
not rescue one page from violation by writing his name in it, and
telling the world it was Captain Tobias Shandy, the dearest of my
flock and friends, whose philanthropy I never think of at this
long distance from his death—but my eyes gush out with
tears. For his sake I have a predilection for the whole
corps of veterans; and so I strode over the two back rows of
benches and placed myself beside him.
The old officer was reading attentively a small pamphlet, it
might be the book of the opera, with a large pair of
spectacles. As soon as I sat down, he took his spectacles
off, and putting them into a shagreen case, return’d them
and the book into his pocket together. I half rose up, and
made him a bow.
Translate this into any civilized language in the
world—the sense is this:
“Here’s a poor stranger come into the box—he
seems as if he knew nobody; and is never likely, was he to be
seven years in Paris, if every man he comes near keeps his
spectacles upon his nose:—’tis shutting the door of
conversation absolutely in his face—and using him worse
than a German.”
The French officer might as well have said it all aloud: and if he
had, I should in course have put the bow I made him into French
too, and told him, “I was sensible of his attention, and
return’d him a thousand thanks for it.”
There is not a secret so aiding to the progress of sociality,
as to get master of this short hand, and to be quick in
rendering the several turns of looks and limbs with all their
inflections and delineations, into plain words. For my own
part, by long habitude, I do it so mechanically, that, when I
walk the streets of London, I go translating all the way; and
have more than once stood behind in the circle, where not three
words have been said, and have brought off twenty different
dialogues with me, which I could have fairly wrote down and sworn
to.
I was going one evening to Martini’s concert at Milan,
and, was just entering the door of the hall, when the Marquisina
di F— was coming out in a sort of a hurry:—she was
almost upon me before I saw her; so I gave a spring to once side
to let her pass.—She had done the same, and on the same
side too; so we ran our heads together: she instantly got to the
other side to get out: I was just as unfortunate as she had been,
for I had sprung to that side, and opposed her passage
again.—We both flew together to the other side, and then
back,—and so on:—it was ridiculous: we both
blush’d intolerably: so I did at last the thing I should
have done at first;—I stood stock-still, and the Marquisina
had no more difficulty. I had no power to go into the room,
till I had made her so much reparation as to wait and follow her
with my eye to the end of the passage. She look’d
back twice, and walk’d along it rather sideways, as if she
would make room for any one coming up stairs to pass
her.—No, said I—that’s a vile translation: the
Marquisina has a right to the best apology I can make her, and
that opening is left for me to do it in;—so I ran and
begg’d pardon for the embarrassment I had given her, saying
it was my intention to have made her way. She answered, she
was guided by the same intention towards me;—so we
reciprocally thank’d each other. She was at the top
of the stairs; and seeing no cicisbeo near her, I
begg’d to hand her to her coach;—so we went down the
stairs, stopping at every third step to talk of the concert
and the adventure.—Upon my word, Madame, said I, when I had
handed her in, I made six different efforts to let you go
out.—And I made six efforts, replied she, to let you
enter.—I wish to heaven you would make a seventh, said
I.—With all my heart, said she, making room.—Life is
too short to be long about the forms of it,—so I instantly
stepp’d in, and she carried me home with her.—And
what became of the concert, St. Cecilia, who I suppose was at it,
knows more than I.
I will only add, that the connexion which arose out of the
translation gave me more pleasure than any one I had the honour
to make in Italy.
