Max O'Rell

The Word and the Thing — Little Essay on the English Language — There is nothing like a good telescope if you want to see well — Master Dubius — Puritan Parlance — Salvation Fair — May Meetings and Spring Cleanings — Are you Pooty Well? — A suitable Menu.

It is the name of a thing that shocks an English woman, not so much the thing itself.

That which we call a pair of indispensables goes by the name of a pair of unmentionables over here. If you remark in a room, that the trousers Mr. So-and-so wears are always irreproachable, you will send all the ladies behind their fans. If you were to follow up the subject, you would soon create a veritable panic in the room. But go to any athletic meeting—to Lord’s Cricket Ground, or Lillie Bridge—there you will see gentlemen who, for all covering, have on their skin a thin flannel jersey, and drawers of the same, about the size of a fig leaf; saturated with perspiration, these elementary articles of the toilette cleave to the form as if their wearers had come straight out of a bath. Nevertheless, all around the course, looking, admiring, and applauding, you will see a crowd of the fair sex, that will convince you that an Englishwoman’s eyes are not so easily shocked as her ears.

In the room that contains the Elgin marbles, at the British Museum, I have seen young girls shading Apollos, whose nakedness was distressing. The glance of the passer-by did not disconcert them; with a firm hand, they continued their work unmoved. I have more than once run away blushing from those faithful reproductions.

Some English girls make studies from the nude figure, under the guidance of a male professor. I must add, however, in order to be just, that this latter does not make his observations directly to his pupils: the young ladies retire to another room, while the master writes on the margin of their drawings the remarks that their work suggests to him. I am told that Sir Frederick Leighton, the celebrated English painter, interdicts the undraped model to his pupils of the Royal Academy, of which he is President.

Everyone must still remember the indignation which was aroused among righteous upper circles by the revelations of the Daily News, when that paper had the courage to make known the atrocities that were being committed in Bulgaria. The ancient spinsters of philanthropic England have never forgiven the great organ of the Liberal party for having dared to enter into those details that froze the whole civilized world with horror and affright. “To think that I should have lived until to-day,” wrote one of them to a Conservative paper, “to read such things in a newspaper! Have we lost all sentiment of shame? Must we women be exposed to see these hideous, revolting accounts in print? That such things should be is bad enough; but that they should be described in detail ought not to be allowed.”

Thanks to the courage of the lamented Mac Gahan, the valorous correspondent of the Daily News, these atrocities were brought to light, too late, perhaps, to repair the evil already done, but not too late to hinder the utter annihilation of a poor nation, which was trying to shake off a shameful yoke that had weighed it down for four centuries. Let us hope that, in future, the worthy maiden lady will not venture to open any other paper than her Myra’s Journal and the Animal World.

I find the following anecdote in the Pall Mall Gazette:— “A foreigner well known in English society sends us the following amusing account of his bathing experiences in England:—

“‘I have been much amused by your suggesting to the ladies who object to bathers in the River Thames the use of their inevitable companion, the parasol. Let me relate what happened to me last year while a temporary resident in a quiet seaside place of great renown. I was in the habit of bathing off a boat, for which purpose I was rowed out a couple of hundred yards or so from the shore, where I divested myself of my “many” clothes and donned the “few” generally worn by bathers. I practised this favourite pursuit of mine unmolested for several days; but one fine afternoon I indulged in a game of tennis with the vicar of some parish or other in the neighbourhood, and he gravely “took the opportunity” to inform me that among his pious flock there were two venerable old ladies, who—having a house facing the sea and close to the spot whence I embarked for my daily revelry—were much distressed in their minds by my proceedings, and, as they had disburdened their souls to him for consolation, he earnestly begged me to see my way to relieve the old ladies from their dire grievance. I told him I should get myself rowed out a hundred yards further from shore, and the good priest much applauded this resolution which would in his opinion prevent any further mischief. However, the gods willed it otherwise. The next day the vicar informed me—not without a suspicion of a smile on his face—that the two “venerable dames” could still see me quite plainly ... by means of a “capital binocular.”’”

We would rather not attempt to describe the despair of the noble foreigner.

There is nothing like a good telescope, if you want to see well.

That is evident.

The most striking feature of the English language is euphemism: it is its very genius. So, “to be taken in adultery” is in English law phraseology, “to be surprised in criminal conversation.” Conversation! Charming, is it not? A cosy talk, a bit of a chat, you know.

If, in France, you must turn your tongue in your mouth seven times before speaking, in England, you must turn it at least eight. You get used to it in time.

In France, when something is offered us at table we say: “With pleasure,” or “No, thank you, not any more.” “Thank you,” alone, is sufficient, if you wish to refuse. In England, thank you, alone, signifies that you are ready to allow yourself to be helped to such-and-such a dish, as I once or twice found to my dismay and the distress of my poor stomach. However, these are not the usual ways of accepting or refusing. At the family table, when the master of the house asks you if you will have a little more of the dish he has before him, if you are still hungry, you reply: “I think I will.” If you are satisfied, you answer: “I don’t think I’ll have any more,” or, “I would rather not have any more.”

A Frenchman, taking leave of his friends, says: “Well, I must leave you; so, good-bye,” and he shakes hands and goes. An Englishman will say: “I am afraid I must go.” He is afraid it must be late; he thinks he must leave you; he fears so: anyhow, he is not very sure; and if you were to ask an Englishman if it is true that his nose is in the middle of his face, he would reply that he hopes and presumes it is in the place you mention:

I happened the other day to be travelling, in a first-class carriage, with half a dozen young people who were going to Hammersmith, to do a little boating on the Thames. One of the young men was smoking. Up comes the guard to the carriage door. “You are not in a smoking-compartment, sir,” said he to the young fellow, “and I see you are smoking.”

——“You make a mistake, I am not,” promptly replied my smoker, who had taken his pipe from his mouth at the approach of the guard, and was holding it out of sight.

He was right: while he was answering the guard, it was his pipe that was smoking, not he.

In a nation that boasts of its truthfulness, that punishes perjury with transportation, but which is not more virtuous than its neighbours, it was necessary to find avec le ciel des accommodements, and so white lies were invented: lies more or less innocent.

How many good Englishmen do I know who would not for the world say, “My God,” but who get over the difficulty by saying mon Dieu or mein Gott, as if the Deity only understood English!

But it is the Puritans that you should hear, if you would form an idea of the genius of the English language. Their phraseology hangs about their tongues like so much treacle.

It is quite a study apart.

If you would be thoroughly edified, take a walk along the Strand in the month of May.

There stands in this thoroughfare an immense hall belonging to the Young Men’s Christian Association. This building, which ought to be called Salvation Hall, is simply named Exeter Hall. It is in this place that, from the first to the thirty-first of May, the various angelical, evangelical, and archangelical societies, successively hold their annual conferences, called May Meetings.

It is Salvation Fair.

To Exeter Hall throng la gent trotte-menu from all parts of the United Kingdom to do their souls’ spring-cleaning.

For a whole month, the air of the Strand is impregnated with an odour of sanctity ... of which it stands sadly in need, to speak the truth: it is a spectacle thoroughly English, to see on one side of a street—the north side of the Strand—edifying groups, unctuous specimens of the most austere virtue; on the other side, a few yards off, groups of unfortunate, shameless women, dirty, intoxicated, daring specimens of the lowest debauch: on the right, hymns; on the left, obscene songs: on the right, the Bible and the Gospel; on the left, beer, gin ... and the rest.

In this pious society the note resembles the plumage.

Look at the Puritan, trotting along the Strand, going religiously to the meeting of his sect. He walks with light, short, jaunty steps, his head a little on one side. He is dressed in black shiny raiment, and a wide-brimmed felt hat covers his head: it is the uniform of piety in England. He wears all the imaginable symbols of English goodness, including a brand-new piece of blue ribbon in his buttonhole; and he carries his indispensable umbrella in his hand. The umbrella is the fidus Achates of every true-born Briton. You will never see one of them so lost to the sense of propriety as to carry a walking-stick to these meetings of male and female cherubim.

Does he enter into conversation? he trusts you are pretty well (pronounced pooty well). He will never push his presumption so far as to imagine that, in this world of trials and sufferings, you can be quite well. We must not expect too much; we must be content with the small mercies Providence sends. Does he give you an appointment for the morrow? “he hopes to have the pleasure of seeing you, if the Lord will.” If you are to meet together to pray, to dine, nay, were it only to take tea, the invitation invariably bears the proviso, D.V.

This prudent and wise person enters and leaves the tabernacle of the West-end noiselessly. He would walk upon eggs without breaking them. He casts right and left little grimaces that are so many forced smiles; then takes his seat, and says a short prayer in his hands or in his hat. It is generally in their hats that the Englishmen of Low Church and dissenting sects address their prayers to Heaven.

The secretary’s report of the state of the Association’s finances is read to the audience; some monotonous and endless hymns are sung; and an edifying conference follows, showing the flourishing condition of the society, and the benefits it confers upon humanity in general, and its ministers in particular.

The meeting then breaks up, and at the door, little groups are formed, a great deal of hand-shaking goes on, accompanied with felicitations on the subject of the success of the good cause. Here is a sample conversation that I caught one day in passing, and which I give word for word:—

1st Cherub (male).—“How do you do, Mrs. Jones? Are you pooty well?”

2nd Cherub (female).—“Pooty well, thank you; are you pooty well?”

1st Cherub.—“Pooty well. How is dear Miss Evans? Is she pooty well?”

3rd Cherub (female).—“Not very well; she has such a bad cold!”

4th Cherub (male).—“Has she really? This is a dreary world, is it not? Dear soul, I hope she will take care of herself.”

5th Cherub (female).—“Glorious meeting, was it not?” Chorus.—“Glorious, indeed!”

I make my way to the door of the Hall. The entrance and lobby are covered with advertisements: the programmes of the performances. In this steeple-chase of people, who know how to believe in God and make a snug little income out of it, it is the General of the Salvation Army that carries off the palm: he announces assets to the amount of over 350,000 pounds sterling, and an army of 500,000 soldiers, male and female, well disciplined, and devoted to the cause. He has outshone Messrs. Moody and Sankey, the American evangelists, who, in 1875, were preaching every evening to London audiences of thirty and forty thousand persons, and that for months running! It is all over. Mr. Sankey accompanies himself on a harmonium; the general has big drums, cymbals and trombones; long live the general! Since the imprisonment of Miss Booth, in Switzerland, the shares of the Salvation Army have gone up steadily: there is no more lucrative profession than that of a martyr, when it is properly carried out ... and the “General” knows how to battre la caisse et la remplir.

As in this weary world, people do not live on the word of life alone, Exeter Hall keeps a restaurant. I notice the bill of fare, posted up at the door. This bill of fare fills my soul with sadness and regret. My illusions vanish; I am no longer in paradise. I had expected something in this way:—

Potage alleluia aux flageolets,
Petit Agneau sauce PÉnitence,
Haricots bon jeune homme,
Lentilles sauce EsaÜ,
CrÊme À la Vertu,
SoufflÉ aux petits Anges,
Paradise pudding.

But I was doomed to be disappointed.