Feet of Clay

Many of you have heard me call Mark Twain my favorite all-time American.  I quote him frequently and reread him often.

Since my time with books is never enough, I have taken to listening to ones that I have read before and want to read again.  We New Yorkers spend a lot of time walking, which creates opportunities to transport oneself and “read” at the same time.

Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn were early candidates and enormously satisfying, especially when read aloud by folks who managed the accents and understood the irony.

 

A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, what fun.

My next choice, however, has been causing me a lot of trouble.   The Innocents Abroad.  I had read it before.  But long ago.  The book has not changed.  I guess I have.  Or something.  I will finish it.  But it is killing me.

Oh, I love the jokes—some of which have made me giggle out loud, despite the miserable weather, on Fifth Avenue between Twenty-second Street and Twenty-third.  Twain’s itinerary is a blast.  I have been to a number of the places he visited while writing this travelogue.  His reminders of Europe’s wonders—of say, the palazzi of Genoa or the Cathedral of Milan—bring back my own pleasant memories.

But I find myself wincing more than smiling.  The way Twain characterizes the denizens of the countries he visits is positively painful to read.  No one who is not American or English is at all pleasing to him.  He berates the citizens of France or Spain or Italy for “jabbering” in “foreign” languages.  He calls their countries “puppy republics.”  The French are “garlic chewers.”  The Italians are “lazy spaghetti stuffers.”  The Greeks are all “mendacious.”  Everyone is dirty.  Everyone is swarthy.  Everyone is stupid, except for those who are too clever at cheating tourists.

Twain feels free to break the laws of the countries he visits—illegally going a shore when his ship has been quarantined to make sure there is no cholera on board.  Borrowing someone else’s passport when he had lost his own, and gleeful that the ridiculous people in the Russian port of Sebastopol could not read the English description of the passport holder.  Serves them right to be fooled if they can’t read English!

 

At one point, while illegally sneaking around Athens in the middle of the night, having broken quarantine, he and his companions steal grapes from a vineyard—about ten pounds apiece he says.  The Greek owner of the grapes notices what they have done and follows them.  Twain calls the man and his friends “brigands.”  Excuse me, but who are the thieves in this situation?  And we are not talking here about frat boy pranks.  Twain and his companions are grown ups, and wealthy enough to enjoy a months-long cruise

I am sure that Twain’s contemporary American readers were heartily amused by all of this.  I find it very disappointing.  Cheap shots from the masterful wielder of the verbal scalpel.   

  

I love his language.  I love how alive his prose is.  He is still a beacon of great writing.  I will continue to the end, but I won’t read this book again.  Ever.  And I mourn the loss of my idol.  Boohoo. 

Annamaria Alfieri   

Britglish vs. Amerglish

Writing, as I am now, about British East Africa in the early 20^th Century, I have a new challenge—making my characters sound British and still have the dialog comprehensible to modern readers on the both sides of the pond.   The task is complicated by the fact that the scenes take place a hundred years ago.

The disparity between the two languages became apparent to me shortly after I left school, when an English friend pointed out the verbosity of English (as opposed to American) speech.  “In New York,” he said, “a stranger needing to break a large bill will walk up to you and say, ‘Hey, have you got change of a ten?’ But a Londoner will approach and say, ‘I beg your pardon and please forgive me for interrupting you, but I wonder if you would mind helping me.  I find that I am in need of smaller money than I am in possession of.  Would you mind at all, if you can, giving me change for this ten pound note.”  That friend was the first person I ever heard utter the chestnut: the United States and Great Britain, two countries separated by a common language.

He gave me a Xerox of a chapter of Mark Twain’s A Tramp Abroad, which I still have.  It begins like this:

“There was as Englishman in our compartment, and he complimented me on --on what? But you would never guess. He complimented me on my English. He said Americans in general did not speak the English language as correctly as I did. I said I was obliged to him for his compliment, since I knew he meant it for one, but that I was not fairly entitled to it, for I did not speak English at all--I only spoke American.”

Twain goes on to make great fun of how the English pronounce the language through their noses (cow vs. käow, etc.)  But then he takes up usage and finishes the chapter, of course, with a punch line:

“When you are exhausted, you say you are 'knocked up.' We don't. When you say you will do a thing 'directly,' you mean 'immediately'; in the American language--generally speaking--the word signifies 'after a little.' When you say 'clever,' you mean 'capable'; with us the word used to mean 'accommodating,' but I don't know what it means now. Your word 'stout' means 'fleshy'; our word 'stout' usually means 'strong.' Your words 'gentleman' and 'lady' have a very restricted meaning; with us they include the barmaid, butcher, burglar, harlot, and horse-thief. You say, 'I haven't got any stockings on,' 'I haven't got any memory,' 'I haven't got any money in my purse; we usually say, 'I haven't any stockings on,' 'I haven't any memory!' 'I haven't any money in my purse.' You say 'out of window'; we always put in a the. If one asks 'How old is that man?' the Briton answers, 'He will be about forty'; in the American language we should say, 'He is about forty.' However, I won't tire you, sir; but if I wanted to, I could pile up differences here until I not only convinced you that English and American are separate languages, but that when I speak my native tongue in its utmost purity an Englishman can't understand me at all."
"I don't wish to flatter you, but it is about all I can do to understand you now."
That was a very pretty compliment, and it put us on the pleasantest terms directly--I use the word in the English sense.”

If you want, you can read the whole chapter here:

http://www.online-literature.com/donne/3276/

To serve my prissy desire to get history right in my novels, I found the most wonderful website.  It gives the meanings of idiomatic expressions in Britglish and even tells when they came into use.  A boon for an American writer who wants to make sure her British-isms are not anachronistic.  If you have a mind to browse it, here it is:

www.phrases.org.uk

For myself, my editor asked about some of the phrases I used in Strange Gods.  Here is what I answered in an email last week:

“Regards Britglish vs. Amerglish:

                In this latest version, I have three instances where the characters, in dialog, use the word “whilst” as is still commonly used by the educated Brits.

                You questioned three expressions that are British-isms.  We can Amercanize them if they are too distracting.  I tried to make these people sound British to American ears and would like to maintain that, but not if it is disturbing.

                Page 100: Cranford says “Rum business.”  Modern Americans would say “Crazy business,” but that would not sound right to me coming out of that snob’s mouth.

                Page 155: Cranford again:  he says “that will be an end on it,” which is how Brits say “that will be the end of it.”

                Page 206: Nurse Freemantle says, “Vera is from home.” An American would say “Vera is not home.”

My editor said we should leave them the way I had them.  I am really glad of that.  If, once the book is out, I get any flack about this from readers, I have my response ready.  I will just shout, “Popycock!”