Memories of The Great and The Good (2 page)

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The roly-poly, merry, bespectacled William Temple, Archbishop of York; Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson, a regal presence, the last survivor of the Victorian heyday, when an actor was recognizable at a hundred paces; the renowned biologist Julian Huxley, representing Science; Logan Pearsall Smith, a dapper old American expatriate, fashioner of exquisite prose, representing (I suppose) belles lettres, which in the early 1930s was still, in England at any rate, a going profession; and C. K. Og-den, representing—probably—Basic English, for it was unlikely that he had been chosen to serve as the author or explicator of “The Meaning of Meaning,” a writhing thesis that nobody cared to have unraveled, not anyway at these meetings. I can't recall now who else was present to represent which of the other arts and sciences. But leaning over a sheaf of papers was a porcine, affable man with clean-shaven jowls. Not, in such company, an equally eminent man but in his own circle, which was that of linguists and phoneticians, a giant: A. Lloyd James, professor of phonetics at the University of London. He was here as the secretary of the board or committee. And what was I, an unknown beginning journalist in his mid-twenties, doing in this assembly of magnificoes? I was just back in England after a two-year stint of graduate work (and play) in the United States. The second year of my American fellowship had been spent at Harvard working under Professor Miles L. Hanley (an American Henry Higgins at the time) on the history of
spoken
English in America, a fascinating field to all, it appeared, but Americans. Registered for this course were three of us, and of the other two one was an Englishwoman. So no assignment could have been more flattering to a novice in a new specialty than an invitation from Professor Lloyd James, who knew about my work, to join this committee as “the referent on American us-age.”

The committee bore the impressive, and to many people the mysterious, title of: The BBC's Advisory Committee on Spoken English. And before we cue the assembled cast into “action,” it is necessary to say something about the founding of this exotic committee, for its title and purpose were popularly misunderstood from its inception. So much so that a useful and civilized institution was killed off within five years and never resurrected.

It had been set up with a single purpose: which was to establish, for the BBC's news and program announcers, a guide to the uniform pronunciation of names, place-names especially, and other words whose educated pronunciation were at the time arousing controversy (or controversy).

What made a large part of the population misunderstand the committee's function was the accent of the announcers. They were a special breed, recruited only after a rigorous test which required them to speak, or at least pronounce, French, German and Italian according to Foreign Office standards. More to the point of the popular complaint, all of them in the London studios were hired because they spoke southern educated English, what was then known to phoneticians and language teachers as Received Standard. “Received by whom?” my headmaster used to intone in a mischievous singsong. With equal monotonous certainty, back came the answer: “The public schools, the Church, the army.”

Since the BBC was something quite new to civilization: a radio broadcasting company and then the only one in the nation, it was obvious—if not imperative— that the BBC's spokesmen, the announcers, should not diffuse various forms of educated spoken English. Social democracy had not then invaded England and spread the alien notion that it might be natural for public speech to reflect the variety of regional speech, and that there was no longer any social compulsion to have the educated follow the upper-crust dialect that had evolved from the establishment in the mid-nineteenth century of that most peculiar institution, the English public (i.e. private) school.

But, as I say, the committee was concerned only with setting a uniform standard of pronunciation—of nouns mostly, proper and improper. The uniformity of the announcers' accent was taken for granted. However, they were falsely assumed, most conspicuously by the inhabitants of the Midlands and the North, to be “teaching us how to speak.” What the vast majority of midlanders and northerners were hearing from the BBC announcers for the first time in their lives was southern educated speech. By an obvious sleight of mind, what they said they were hearing was “BBC English.” This confusion was sufficiently widespread to spawn vaudeville jokes, newspaper cartoons and enough ridicule to belittle and wound the advisory committee's reputation. It was killed off by the Second World War, the oncoming invasion of social democracy and the transatlantic doctrine about the health, the naturalness, the inevitable triumph of “multiculturalism” in democratic societies. Today, educated speech in England is changing so rapidly that such exemplars as John Gielgud or Nigel Hawthorne will soon be as antediluvian as the vaudeville baritones of Edwardian England. The BBC no longer demands either a uniform accent or pronunciation (except of foreign place-names) and allows its reporters to speak whatever compound or atonal mix of their native wood-notes wild comes naturally to them. So what we are flashing back to is, it only now occurs to me, very much a period piece.

Into this leisurely group—human representatives of the church, literature, the stage, science, belles lettres (no army so far as I can recall), there suddenly intruded an exotic figure indeed, not conceivably a product of the English public school system—a tall, upright, snapdragon old man in an old-fashioned four-button Norfolk tweed suit. He had a glittering eye, and he uttered a peremptory, musically inflected “Gentlemen, let us begin!” It was the chairman himself, George Bernard Shaw. A true British touch was added to this most English institution (not unlike the April-born queen celebrating her birthday in June) by the fact that Shaw himself, who as chairman—and in a tie vote, the supreme arbiter on correct pronunciation—spoke with an unmistakable Dublin brogue and maintained, in the teeth of legions of dissenters, that Dublin was the only place on earth where one could hear “pure spoken English,” whatever that was. (This contention occasionally came up in our discussions of pronunciations, but since it was pointed out, usually by Prof. James, that we were confusing specific or particular pronunciations with questions of accent, the chairman would shrug his shoulders, make some final derisory comment in rich Dublinese and pass on.)

The meetings were never less than lively, a spirit practically guaranteed by Shaw's presence and his impish irascibility. (It strikes me, in my own senescence, that perhaps irascibility is a natural reflex of old age: Shaw was, at that first meeting, in his seventy-ninth year.)

A list of the words to be ruled on was handed out to each member, and we first usually disposed of the place-names. They were not chosen arbitrarily for their peculiarity (Buchleuch—
pron
. “Buckloo,” Leveson-Gower—
prom
“Loosen-Gore”), but because they had come up in the news. At one meeting, for instance, we had to pronounce on Marylebone, which had just been the victim of some colorful accident. There was little dispute. It should be noted that most, if not all, of the members were in late middle age, and the old vernacular pronunciation “Marryb'n” was preferred. Shaw accepted the verdict, while noting in a petulant aside that the young, and most people outside London, wouldn't have a notion what the announcer was talking about.

Time and again, the members demonstrated a truth that Hanley had mentioned in the early days as universal: that any group of people, confronted with a word they have known all their lives, and then offered a certain pronunciation, will divide into those who say they've never heard it and those who say they've never heard anything else. This often happened at the committee hearings and when it did, Shaw, rebelling against all his instincts, resorted to the democratic procedure of a vote. When it went against his own preference, he would sigh or incline his head, implying that the winners would rue the day.

The first time I was called on to offer an American alternative was when a clear variation was well-known. In the guide, which the BBC would publish later, the reader would find: “lieutenant—lefftenant
(Am
. loo-tenant).” The committee seemed to accept my function agreeably enough, though Logan Pearsall Smith, as an expatriate Anglophile, hinted from time to time that it would be better if American English did not exist, or at least were never mentioned.

There is a street in London called Conduit Street. The non-Londoners on the committee bowed to the true educated vernacular
Cun-dit
, and the ruling was about to be recorded when Lloyd James, in a spasm of mischief, wondered if Mr. Cooke might like to suggest an alternative American pronunciation. It would not be an exotic word to New Englanders, I said, but plainly an Indian word, cousin to Cotuit, Mass. If so, it would be pronounced Cun-do-it. General chuckle and on to business. Only the chairman thought that an American variant should be printed, on the understanding that when the next Irish variation came up, it should get the same treatment. We moved on.

The most memorable little battle happened at a meeting where the simple word “canine” came up for adjudication. Shaw asked each member to pronounce his preference. To a man, they came through:
can-ine
. In spite of the overwhelming preference, Shaw took a vote and, announcing the result, added: “Somebody voted twice.” Gentlemanly uproar. I pleaded guilty. “Because, sir,” I said, “the American is unquestionably different: it's
‘cane-ine.'“
To the disgust of the company, Shaw said firmly: “Quite right!” But, the committee protested, we are unanimous for
can-ine
. Shaw thereupon made a speech, the gist of which was: “I believe strongly in following the pronunciation of men who use the word every day in their profession, and my dentist says,
‘cane-ine.'“

“Then, sir,” nipped in the witty Logan Pearsall Smith, “your dentist must be an American.”

“Of course!” roared Shaw, “how d'you suppose I came to have all my teeth at my age?”

This retort, I recall, was greeted with a not wholly comprehending chuckle by the assembled Britons, who seemed vaguely unaware of the dim reputation of British dentistry. Shaw beamed on them with a well-satisfied grin, willingly registered the general preference
(can-ine)
but wagged a finger to remind them that he was insisting on “Mr. Cooke's adding in brackets:
(Am. cane-ine).”

Once the last word had been questioned, argued over and ruled on, the chairman rose to attention, as he had been sitting at attention, and gave an offhand nod, the social equivalent of a thank you and good-bye, stepped down from the rostrum and was out the door. I never remember his mixing with the members or attempting any small talk or socializing in any degree. This was true of the three or four meetings that were held in my time. After a while I could well understand what one or other of the group told me, that Shaw was a man with no friends. In his early, Fabian-campaigning days, he developed at most what you might call enthusiastic acquaintanceships with the other Socialist crusaders, but I can find little evidence, even from his biographer, Hesketh Pearson, that he kept or ever achieved any close friendships at all. Indeed, the notion of Shaw as “a man's man,” a normal male with several cronies, is as bizarre as imagining his taking up golf or draw poker.

At one time, in late middle age—say well into his sixties—he socialized, always alone, to the extent of lunching with almost any celebrity who invited him. If they expected a cordial private exchange with a famous public character, they were uniformly disillusioned. The impressions of him from single encounters are strikingly similar. The benevolent P. G. Wodehouse, who liked everybody, was offended by Shaw's coming as a guest to lunch, imagining his host's lavish way of life and deploring it. At another luncheon party, Shaw dismayed the company by teasing H. G. Wells with a joke about his (Wells's) wife's newly diagnosed cancer. At a luncheon in honor of Bergson, Shaw told the guest, simmering with bottled rage, that his philosophy was not what he thought it was. Arriving as a guest of Thomas Masaryk, the founding president of Czechoslovakia, Shaw described the foreign policy of the new country as a disaster and marched from the room. Winston Churchill was unusually laconic: “He was one of my earliest antipathies. “ James Agate, in the 1930s and 1940s England's most eminent dramatic critic, although he had made it plain in print that “Shaw's plays are the price we have to pay for his prefaces,” yet thought Shaw to be the greatest living polemical writer and “a very great man.” Agate was delirious when Shaw invited him to lunch with Mrs. Shaw and was prepared to sit and worship: “He sat upright in a chair which was frail, spindly and altogether beautiful like himself.” Not only did Shaw talk continuously throughout the meal but Agate noticed “an odd habit” (which is surely disturbing to most listeners) “of not looking at you but gazing fixedly at a point somewhere over your shoulder.”

When Shaw was the host, however, there is ample record that he could be droll and charming, once it was understood that the available food was to be the vegetarian platter prepared by Mrs. Shaw and that the guests had been invited to be present at a monologue. “Although,” Bertrand Russell recalled, “like many witty men he considered wit an adequate substitute for wisdom, he could defend any idea, however silly, so cleverly as to make those who did not accept it look like fools.”

The meetings of this committee provided my only contact with the great man. It was transitory but vivid and, I now realize, disappointing to a young man who, as an even younger man, had been something of an idolater. At Cambridge I once wrote to him out of the blue and asked him for a photograph and specified, in cocky sophomoric fashion, for “something unusual, not the regular studio portrait.” He sent me a sepia photograph of himself lying down on a divan and tossing a bemused smile at the photographer. Underneath, in his beautiful spidery script, he said that this photo was unusual enough to be unique and he hoped it would satisfy me. If it didn't, please to let him know. The tone of the postcard was that of an uncle to a favorite nephew. I was enchanted by it and by the evident cordial good nature of the man himself.