A Straight Deal [50]
parlor cars we do stand it. It is a good instance to show that the Englishman's right to privacy is larger than ours, and thus that his liberty is larger than ours.
Before leaving this point, which to my thinking is the cause of many frictions and misunderstandings between ourselves and the English, I mustn't omit to give instances of divergence, where an Englishman will speak of matters upon which we are silent, and is silent upon subjects of which we will speak.
You may present a letter of introduction to an Englishman, and he wishes to be civil, to help you to have a good time. It is quite possible he may say something like this:
"I think you had better know my sister Sophy. You mayn't like her. But her dinners are rather amusing. Of course the food's ghastly because she's the stingiest woman in London."
On the other hand, many Americans (though less willing than the French) are willing to discuss creed, immortality, faith. There is nothing from which the Englishman more peremptorily recoils, although he hates well nigh as deeply all abstract discussion, or to be clever, or to have you be clever. An American friend of mine had grown tired of an Englishman who had been finding fault with one American thing after another. So he suddenly said:
"Will you tell me why you English when you enter your pews on Sunday always immediately smell your hats? "
The Englishman stiffened. "I refuse to discuss religious subjects with you," he said.
To be ponderous over this anecdote grieves me--but you may not know that orthodox Englishmen usually don't kneel, as we do, after reaching their pews; they stand for a moment, covering their faces with their well-brushed hats: with each nation the observance is the same, it is in the manner of the observing that we differ.
Much is said about our "common language," and its being a reason for our understanding each other. Yes; but it is also almost as much a cause for our misunderstanding each other. It is both a help and a trap. If we Americans spoke something so wholly different from English as French is, comparisons couldn't be made; and somebody has remarked that comparisons are odious.
"Why do you call your luggage baggage?" says the Englishman--or used to say.
"Why do you call your baggage luggage?" says the American--or used to say.
"Why don't you say treacle?" inquires the Englishman.
"Because we call it molasses," answers the American.
"How absurd to speak of a car when you mean a carriage!" exclaims the Englishman.
"We don't mean a carriage, we mean a car," retorts the American.
You, my reader, may have heard (or perhaps even held) foolish conversations like that; and you will readily perceive that if we didn't say "car" when we spoke of the vehicle you get into when you board a train, but called it a voiture, or something else quite "foreign," the Englishman would not feel that we had taken a sort of liberty with his mother-tongue. A deep point lies here: for most English the world is divided into three peoples, English, foreigners, and Americans; and for most of us likewise it is divided into Americans, foreigners, and Eng- lish. Now a "foreigner" can call molasses whatever he pleases; we do not feel that he has taken any liberty with our mother-tongue; his tongue has a different mother; he can't help that; he's not to be criticized for that. But we and the English speak a tongue that has the same mother. This identity in pedigree has led and still leads to countless family discords. I've not a doubt that divergences in vocabulary and in accent were the fount and origin of some swollen noses, some battered eyes, when our Yankees mixed with the Tommies. Each would be certain to think that the other couldn't "talk straight"--and each would be certain to say so. I shall not here spin out a list of different names for the same things now current in English and American usage: molasses and treacle will suffice for an example; you will be able easily to think of others, and there are many such that occur in everyday speech. Almost more tricky are
Before leaving this point, which to my thinking is the cause of many frictions and misunderstandings between ourselves and the English, I mustn't omit to give instances of divergence, where an Englishman will speak of matters upon which we are silent, and is silent upon subjects of which we will speak.
You may present a letter of introduction to an Englishman, and he wishes to be civil, to help you to have a good time. It is quite possible he may say something like this:
"I think you had better know my sister Sophy. You mayn't like her. But her dinners are rather amusing. Of course the food's ghastly because she's the stingiest woman in London."
On the other hand, many Americans (though less willing than the French) are willing to discuss creed, immortality, faith. There is nothing from which the Englishman more peremptorily recoils, although he hates well nigh as deeply all abstract discussion, or to be clever, or to have you be clever. An American friend of mine had grown tired of an Englishman who had been finding fault with one American thing after another. So he suddenly said:
"Will you tell me why you English when you enter your pews on Sunday always immediately smell your hats? "
The Englishman stiffened. "I refuse to discuss religious subjects with you," he said.
To be ponderous over this anecdote grieves me--but you may not know that orthodox Englishmen usually don't kneel, as we do, after reaching their pews; they stand for a moment, covering their faces with their well-brushed hats: with each nation the observance is the same, it is in the manner of the observing that we differ.
Much is said about our "common language," and its being a reason for our understanding each other. Yes; but it is also almost as much a cause for our misunderstanding each other. It is both a help and a trap. If we Americans spoke something so wholly different from English as French is, comparisons couldn't be made; and somebody has remarked that comparisons are odious.
"Why do you call your luggage baggage?" says the Englishman--or used to say.
"Why do you call your baggage luggage?" says the American--or used to say.
"Why don't you say treacle?" inquires the Englishman.
"Because we call it molasses," answers the American.
"How absurd to speak of a car when you mean a carriage!" exclaims the Englishman.
"We don't mean a carriage, we mean a car," retorts the American.
You, my reader, may have heard (or perhaps even held) foolish conversations like that; and you will readily perceive that if we didn't say "car" when we spoke of the vehicle you get into when you board a train, but called it a voiture, or something else quite "foreign," the Englishman would not feel that we had taken a sort of liberty with his mother-tongue. A deep point lies here: for most English the world is divided into three peoples, English, foreigners, and Americans; and for most of us likewise it is divided into Americans, foreigners, and Eng- lish. Now a "foreigner" can call molasses whatever he pleases; we do not feel that he has taken any liberty with our mother-tongue; his tongue has a different mother; he can't help that; he's not to be criticized for that. But we and the English speak a tongue that has the same mother. This identity in pedigree has led and still leads to countless family discords. I've not a doubt that divergences in vocabulary and in accent were the fount and origin of some swollen noses, some battered eyes, when our Yankees mixed with the Tommies. Each would be certain to think that the other couldn't "talk straight"--and each would be certain to say so. I shall not here spin out a list of different names for the same things now current in English and American usage: molasses and treacle will suffice for an example; you will be able easily to think of others, and there are many such that occur in everyday speech. Almost more tricky are