The Goth And The Pigeon

Among the merry tales of olden time Which are still current in fair Italy Are many told in taverns or in type About the rude barbarians of the North Who cross the Alps, even as they did of yore, When they invaded fertile Lombardy, And helped themselves to all which pleased their eyes, And paid for it in iron and with blood: Those times are fled, but Northmen still are here; States fall, arts fade, but English yet abound, And Austrian-Germans and Americans Stalk proudly through the streets with Baedeker, Or Murray, with the very gait and air Of their barbarian ancestors—although They are cleaner washed and more completely shaved— Bet high upon the latter; for as once They came to rob the natives of their goods, The latter now do live by spoiling them. And thus strange things do happen in this world.

Thus we may note that all these foreigners, Be it the daintiest English dame alive, Or damsel born in fair America, Or Russians of a royal family, Or Frenchmen of the very noblest stock, Or Viennese as elegant and fesch As even Viennese can be produced— Wherein they wellnigh rival Baltimore— Are still regarded by the Italian with A doubtful smile, who as he smiles exclaims: “Sono forestieri”—which indeed Means “They are foreigners”—and yet the word Comes from Foresto—savage—desert—wild— And so do ancient thorns live round the rose. And thus strange things do happen in the world.

Now it befell that in the Lombard time When Dieterich-Theodoric was king, And from Ravenna ruled all Italy, The court religion was the Arian, To which men nowadays an Unit add, Yet do not add by the process—that I see— Aught to its value; but the odd result Was that the Gothic warriors nothing knew About the mystery of the Trinity,— Nay, they were even far more ignorant Than was the English curate, who when asked What he did understand by the Holy Ghost, Replied: “I am not sure, but I believe It is a kind of pigeon.” These poor Goths Had never learned so much as this youth knew. And thus strange things do happen in the world.

Now it befell that once a Visigoth Stately, while all unconscious of his state, And proud while nothing thinking of his pride, Went stalking onwards through the streets of Rome, Unheeding all the casual passers-by Who turned to look at him—as a grave bull Might walk through many sheep—or as my lord Guy de Plantagenet just now walked by Before my window, where I writing sit, In Florence—true he came bien à propos. And thus strange things do happen in this world.

Well then, this fierce barbarian from the North, Who as I said was densely ignorant Of Trinitarian theology, Was not much further in the Italian tongue, Seeing that that which he essayed to speak Was of the pidgin kind,—oh, marvel strange! Oh, wondrous miracle!—lo, how the Muse Brings up that word to keep me to my tale! Ah! what strange things do happen in this world!

Now as he strode along the Roman street, With thoughts of dinner flitting through his soul, Lifting his eyes he saw upon a sign The picture of a dove with outspread wings Above the door of a trattoria, Which means a place where you can treat yourself To what you want—that is, a restaurant. And ’neath the bird he read inscribed in gold: Spirito Santo; and he gazed at it, And took an object-lesson, and exclaimed: “So that is the Italian for a dove! I must remember it.” So in he went Repeating ever to himself the words “Spirito Santo! Santo Spirito!” Those who o’erheard him deemed him a devout And fervid follower of the Trinity. And thus strange things do happen in the world.

And having sat him down, the waiter came And asked His Excellence what he would have; To which his Gothic Excellence replied: “I want a bottle of your noblest wine, With it a soup of highest quality, And after that a roast San’ Spirito!” “A roasted—WHAT? Signore,” cried the man, As one who had not rightly understood, While all the guests around did glare amazed. “I said,” resumed the Northern warrior, “A Spirito Santo, such as you have got Upon your sign outside—a bird, you know, That moves its wings like this”—and here he moved His bended arms like wings, both up and down, While with his voice he murmured Coo-oo-oo! Or what is called in French a roucoulement, Or girren in the German. Hearing this, All who were present promptly understood; And though they all were naturally polite, And never laughed at any foreigner Before his face, because he erred in words, This was too—too—too much, and all burst out In a tremendous—an Homeric roar. They drew the line at pigeons; and the Goth When ’twas explained laughed loudest of them all; And thus it was he learned another word. And thus strange things do happen in the world.

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A very peculiar Viennese slang word, signifying stylish or elegant. It is supposed to be an abbreviation of the mispronunciation of the English word fashionable—Germanicé, feshionable.