As the military vocabulary of English is testimony to the former
leadership of the French in the art of war, so the vocabulary of fashion
and of gastronomy is evidence of the cosmopolitan primacy of French
millinery and French cookery. But most of the military terms were
absorbed before the middle of the seventeenth century and were therefore
assimilated, whereas the terms of the French dressmaker and of the
French cook, chef, or _cordon bleu_, are being for ever multiplied in
France and are very rarely being naturalized in English-speaking lands.
So far as these two sets of words are concerned the case is probably
hopeless, because, if for no other reason, they are more or less in the
domain of the gentler sex and we all know that
'A woman, convinced against her will,
Is of the same opinion still.'
The terms of the motor-car, however, and those of the airplane, are in
the control of men; and there may be still a chance of bringing about a
better state of affairs than now exists. While the war correspondents
were actually in France, and while they were often forced to write at
topmost speed, there was excuse for _avion_ and _camion, vrille_ and
_escadrille_, and all the other French words which bespattered the
columns of British and American, Canadian and Australian newspapers.
I doubt if there was ever any necessity for _hangar_, the shed which
sheltered the airplane or the airship. _Hangar_ is simply the French
word for 'shed', no more and no less; it does not indicate specifically
a shed for a flying-machine; and as we already had 'shed' we need not
take over _hangar_.
When we turn from the gas-engine on wings to the gas-engine on wheels,
we find a heterogeny of words in use which bear witness to the fact that
the French were the first to develop the motor-car, and also to the
earlier fact that they had long been renowned for their taste and their
skill as coach-builders. As the terminology of the railway in England
is derived in part from that of the earlier stage-coach--in the United
States, I may interject, it was derived in part from that of the earlier
river-steamboat--so the terminology of the motor-car in France was
derived in part from that of the pleasure-carriage. So we have the
_landaulet_ and _limousine_ to designate different types of body.
I think _landaulet_ had already acquired an English pronunciation; at
least I infer this because I cannot now recall that I ever heard it fall
from the lips of an English-speaking person with its original French
pronunciation of the nasal _n_. And _limousine_, being without accent
and without nasal _n_ can be trusted to take care of itself.
There are other technical terms of the motor-car industry which present
more difficult problems. _Tonneau_ is not troublesome, even if its
spelling is awkward. There is _chauffeur_ first of all; and I wish that
it might generally acquire the local pronunciation it is said to have in
Norfolk--_shover_. Then there is _chassis_. Is this the exact equivalent
of 'running gear'? Is there any available substitute for the French
word? And if _chassis_ is to impose itself from sheer necessity what
is to be done with it? Our forefathers boldly cut down _chaise_ to
'shay'--at least my forefathers did it in New England, long before
Oliver Wendell Holmes commemorated their victory over the alien in the
'Deacon's Masterpiece', more popularly known as the 'One Horse Shay'.
And the men of old were even bolder when they curtailed _cabriolet_ to
'cab', just as their children have more recently and with equal courage
shortened 'taximeter vehicle' to 'taxi', and 'automobile' itself to
'auto'. Unfortunately it is not possible to cut the tail off _chassis_,
or even to cut the head off, as the men of old did with 'wig',
originally 'periwig', which was itself only a daring and summary
anglicization of _peruke_.
Due to the fact that the drama has been more continuously alive in the
literature of France than in that of any other country, and due also,
it may be, to the associated fact that the French have been more loyally
devoted to the theatre than any other people, the vocabulary of the
English-speaking stage has probably more unassimilated French words than
we can discover in the vocabulary of any of our other activities. We are
none of us surprised when we find in our newspaper criticisms _artiste,
ballet, conservatoire, comédienne, costumier, danseuse, début,
dénoûment, diseuse, encore, ingénue, mise-en-scène, perruquier,
pianiste, première, répertoire, revue, rôle, tragédienne_--the catalogue
stretches out to the crack of doom.
Long as the list is, the words on it demand discussion. As to _rôle_ I
need say nothing since it has been considered carefully in Tract No. 3;
I may merely mention that it appeared in English at least as early as
1606, so that it has had three centuries to make itself at home in our
tongue. _Conservatoire_ and _répertoire_ have seemingly driven out the
English words, which were long ago made out of them, 'conservatory'
and 'repertory'. What is the accepted pronunciation of _ballet_? Is it
_bal-lett_ or _ballay_ or _bally_? (If it is _bally_, it has a recently
invented cockney homophone.) For _costumier_ and _perruquier_ I can see
no excuse whatever; although I have observed them frequently on London
play-bills, I am delighted to be able to say that they do not disgrace
the New York programmes, which mention the 'costumer' and the
'wigmaker'. 'Encore' was used by Steele in 1712; it was early made into
an English verb; and yet I have heard the verb pronounced with the nasal
_n_ of the original French. Here is another instance of English taking
over a French word and giving it a meaning not acceptable in Paris,
where the playgoers do not _encore_, they _bis_.
Why should we call a nondescript medley of dialogue and dance and
song a _revue_, when _revue_ in French is the exact equivalent of
'review' in English? Why should we call an actress of comic characters
a _comédienne_ and an actress of tragic characters a _tragédienne_,
when we do not call a comic actor a _comédien_ or a tragic actor a
_tragédien_? Possibly it is because 'comedian' and 'tragedian' seem
to be too exclusively masculine--so that a want is felt for words to
indicate a female tragedian and a female comedian. Probably it is for
the same reason that a male dancer is not termed a _danseur_ while
a female dancer is termed a _danseuse_. Then there is _diseuse_,
apparently reserved for the lady who recites verse, no name being
needed apparently for the gentleman who recites verse--at least, I am
reasonably certain that I have never seen _diseur_ applied to any male
reciter.
_Mise-en-scène_ is another of the French terms which has suffered a
Channel-change. In Paris it means the arrangement of the stage-business,
whereas in London and in New York it is employed rather to indicate the
elaboration of the scenery and of the spectacular accessories. An even
more extraordinary misadventure has befallen _pianiste_, in that it is
sometimes used as if it was to be applied only to a female performer.
And this blunder is of long standing; but I remember as lately as forty
years ago seeing an American advertisement of Teresa Carreño which
proclaimed her to be 'the greatest living _lady_ pianiste'. I have
also detected evidences of a startling belief of the illiterate that
_artiste_ is the feminine of 'artist'. Nevertheless I found recently in
a volume caricaturing the chief performers of the London music-halls a
foot-note which explained that these celebrities were therein entitled
_artistes_--because 'an artist creates, an _artiste_ performs'.
Still to be analysed are _première_ for 'first performance' or 'opening
night' and _debut_ for 'first appearance'; and I fear that it is beyond
expectation that these alien words will speedily drop their alien
accents and their alien pronunciations. The same must be said also of
_dénoûment_ and of _ingénue_--French words which really fill a gap in
our vocabulary and which are none the less abhorrent to our speech
habits. The most that is likely to happen is that they may shed their
accents and more or less approximate an English pronunciation,
_dee-noo-meant_, perhaps, and _inn-je-new_, an approximation which will
be sternly resisted by the literate. I well remember one occasion when I
overheard scorn poured upon a charming American actress who had happened
to mention the date of her own _deb-you_ in New York.
V
_Encore_ and _mise-en-scène_ are only two of a dozen or a score of
French words not infrequently used in English and misused by being
charged with meanings not strictly in accord with French usage. 'Levee'
is one; the French say _lever_. _Nom de plume_ is another; the French
say _nom de guerre_. _Musicale_ also is rarely, if ever, to be found
in French, at least I believe it to be the custom in Paris to call
an 'evening with music' a _soirée musicale_. If _musicale_ is too
serviceable to demand banishment, why should it not drop the _e_ and
become _musical_? When Theodore Roosevelt, always as exact as he was
vigorous in his use of language, was President of the United States, the
cards of invitation which went out from the White House bore 'musical'
in one of their lower corners; so that the word, if not the King's
English, is the President's English.
To offset this I must record with regret that the late Clyde Fitch once
wrote a one-act play about a manicurist, and as this operator on the
finger-nails was a woman he entitled his playlet, the _Manicuriste_; and
he did this in spite of the fact that, as a writer fairly familiar with
French, he ought to have known the proper term--_manucure_.
Then there is _double-entendre_, implying a secondary meaning of
doubtful delicacy. Dryden used it in 1673, when it was apparently
good French, although it has latterly been superseded in France by
_double-entente_--which has not, however, the somewhat sinister
suggestion we attach to _double-entendre_. I noted it in Trench's
'Calderon' (in the 1880 reprint); and also in Thackeray; and both
Calderon and Thackeray were competent French scholars.
Perhaps this is as good a place as any to consider _née_, put after the
name of a married woman and before the family name of her father. The
Germans have a corresponding usage, Frau Schmidt, _geboren_ Braun. There
is no doubt that _née_ is convenient, and there is little doubt that
it would be difficult to persuade the men of culture to surrender it
or even to translate it. To the literate 'Mrs. Smith, born Brown',
might seem discourteously abrupt. But the French word is awkward,
nevertheless, since the illiterate often take it as meaning only
'formerly', writing 'Mrs. Smith, _née_ Mary Brown', which implies that
this lady had been christened before she was born. And there is a tale
of a profiteer's wife who wrote herself down as 'Mrs. John Smith, New
York, _née_ Chicago'.
Yet the French themselves are not always scrupulous to follow _née_ with
only the family name of the lady. No less a scholar than Gaston Paris
dedicated his _Poètes et Penseurs_ to 'Madame James Darmesteter, _née_
Mary Robinson'. Perhaps this is an instance of the modification of the
strict meaning of a word by convention because of its enlarged
usefulness when so modified.
Gaston Paris must be allowed all the rights and privileges of a master
of language; but his is a dangerous example for the unscholarly, who are
congenitally careless and who are responsible for _soubriquet_ instead
of _sobriquet_, for _à l'outrance_ instead of _à outrance_, and for _en
déshabille_ instead of _en déshabillé_. The late Mrs. Oliphant in her
little book on Sheridan credited him with _gaieté du coeur_. It was
long an American habit to term a railway station a _dépot_ (totally
anglicized in its pronunciation--_deep-oh)_; but _dépôt_ is in French
the name for a storehouse, and it is not--or not customarily--the name
of a railway station. It was also a custom in American theatres to give
the name of _parquette_-seats to the chairs which are known in England
as 'stalls'; and in village theatres _parquette_ was generally
pronounced 'par-kay'.
There are probably as many in Great Britain as in the United States
who speak the French which is not spoken by the French themselves.
Affectation and pretentiousness and the desire to show off are abundant
in all countries. They manifest themselves even in Paris, where I once
discovered on a bill of fare at the Grand Hotel _Irisch-stew à la
française_. This may be companioned by a bill of fare on a Cunard
steamer plying between Liverpool and New York, whereon I found myself
authorized to order _tartletes_ and _cutletes_. When I called the
attention of a neighbour to these outlandish vocables, the affable
steward bent forward to enlighten my ignorance. 'It's the French,
sir,' he explained; '_tartlete_ and _cutlete_ is French.'
That way danger lies; and when we are speaking or writing to those who
have English as their mother-tongue there are obvious advantages in
speaking and writing English, with no vain effort to capture Gallic
graces. Readers of Mark Twain's _Tramp Abroad_ will recall the scathing
rebuke which the author administered to his agent, Harris, because a
report which Harris had submitted was peppered, not only with French and
German words, but also with savage plunder from Choctaw and Feejee and
Eskimo. Harris explained that he intruded these hostile verbs and nouns
to adorn his page, and justified himself by saying that 'they all do
it. Everybody that writes elegantly'. Whereupon Mark Twain, whose own
English was as pure as it was rich and flexible, promptly read Harris a
needed lesson: 'A man who writes a book for the general public to read
is not justified in disfiguring his pages with untranslated foreign
expressions. It is an insolence toward the majority of the purchasers,
for it is a very frank and impudent way of saying, "Get the translations
made yourselves if you want it--this book is not written for the
ignorant classes".... The writer would say that he uses the foreign
language where the delicacy of his point cannot be conveyed in English.
Very well, then, he writes his best things for the tenth man, and he
ought to warn the other nine not to buy his book.'
The result of these straight-forward and out-spoken remarks is set
forth by Mark Twain himself: 'When the musing spider steps upon the
red-hot shovel, he first exhibits a wild surprise, then he shrivels
up. Similar was the effect of these blistering words upon the tranquil
and unsuspecting agent. I can be dreadfully rough on a person when the
mood takes me.'