That's Not English (14 page)

In which a word seldom heard in America still speaks to the English.

S
hall
has all but disappeared from American English. If an American uses
shall
it is usually in an effort to sound more formal or to take what the English would call a “softly-softly” approach with someone.
Shall
survives in the service industry—“Shall I take your coat?”—and in fairy tales like
Cinderella
: “You
shall
go to the ball, my dear.”

Shall
denotes obligation and necessity rather than choice; it’s the “have to” to
will
’s “want to.” In everyday speech,
shall
strikes Americans as having what H. L. Mencken called a “pansy cast.”

Indeed, for the benefit of anyone who isn’t clear on the distinction (you’re in good company), here’s the rule:

For simple futurity, use
shall
after
I
or
we
, but
will
after everything else:

I shall get help. We shall get help
. (Whether we like it or not, help is coming.)

They will get help
. (No need to do anything; help is coming.)

To express determination or command, use
will
after
I
or
we
but
shall
after everything else:

I will get help. We will get help.
(My/our intention is to go and get help.)

They shall get help.
(They’ve been ordered to go and get help).

It is far simpler to substitute
will
. What’s more, its connotations of the deliberate determination, rather than inevitability, of the future, chime with Americans’ beliefs about how the world ought to work. It is part laziness, part vigor, that has killed
shall
in America. If you want to be a stickler about it, any book you consult will likely put the issue of
shall
vs.
will
to rest in two pages or fewer. Grammar Girl dispatches it in less than a page, with one caveat: “if you use
shall
in the British way during normal conversation, you might end up sounding pretentious or haughty.”

In England, it is far more complicated and always has been. One of the more thorough prescriptions for the use of
shall
vs.
will
, in H. W. Fowler’s
The King’s English
, runs to twenty-two pages, and begins with a here-be-dragons: “It is unfortunate that the idiomatic use, while it comes by nature to southern
Englishmen (who will find most of this section superfluous), is so complicated that those who are not to the manner born can hardly acquire it; and for them, the section is in danger of being useless.” Although social class cannot be conflated with region, as Fowler seems to do here, his point remains: Here are twenty pages’ worth of ways—based on a single word—to keep the lower classes in their place.

In England, no one wants to be seen to try too hard. Skills must come naturally, and seem effortless, in order to count. One mustn’t be a plodder or a swot
(grind), but come up with the goods while appearing not to care too much. This is particularly true of intellectual pursuits, but the rule extends to sports. The 1960s comedy duo Flanders and Swann sang of foreigners that “they argue with umpires, they cheer when they’ve won / And they practice beforehand, which ruins the fun.”

Should an English person appear to make an embarrassing effort, and rise too far above his peers, vulnerability to attack is his reward. “Congratulations!” they’ll say, with knives behind their backs. This is known as tall poppy syndrome, because, as an English friend explained, the tallest poppy is the one you want to cut first.

In America, effort (and, above all, being seen to make an effort) is practically a religion. In a 2011 study by the Pew Research Center, in which Americans were asked whether success in life is determined by forces outside their control, only 36 percent agreed. So perhaps it isn’t surprising that
shall
is not really part of Americans’ vocabulary. For them it is all about the individual
will
.

Americans persist in thinking they can be, do, or have anything they want if they work hard enough. This may not be
strictly true in America these days; nevertheless it’s an idea that runs deep in the American psyche and attests to the power the American Dream still holds.

Americans love and celebrate the successful. Not because jealousy doesn’t exist, but because success for one gives hope to all. Nothing feels like a zero-sum game in an enormous country founded on the ideals of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The sentiment is
I want what she has
rather than
I don’t want her to have what she has
. To the extent that an American believes those who rise above the rest deserve it, he is happy to see them as inspirations for dreams of his own limitless possibilities. After all, he could be next. It is only when he perceives that someone has cheated or swindled his or her way to the top that he sharpens the scissors.

An Englishman without a native understanding of
shall
vs.
will
should emigrate to America, where he will have a swell time indeed. If you doubt that Americans project such sterling qualities as authority, a sense of humor, and a refined intellect onto anyone who comes equipped with any sort of British accent, you haven’t been there lately.

The English who are capable of deploying
shall
without making Fowler turn in his grave may be in the minority, but they are a powerful minority. Should you wish to join them, you might try using a helpful mnemonic devised by William Ward in 1765:

The verb by
shall
, States of fixed order shows;

Or States which Chance directs, as we suppose.

And
shall
those verbal Future States declares

Which
for itself
, an Object hopes or Fears,

Thinks
of itself
, surmises, or foresees;

But which for other objects it decrees.

The verb by
will
those Future States declares

For others
, which an Object hopes or fears,

Of others thinks, surmises or foresees;

But
for itself
, States which itself decrees.

Confused?

The distinction between
shall
and
will
is breaking down even in England, and it’s no mystery why. Imagine the plight of the non-native speaker, contemplating a beam so narrow that even the English themselves do not always stick the landing. The younger and more international the crowd, the more likely they are to avoid the issue altogether by using contractions, or substituting
will
.
Shall
isn’t dead yet, though. Just two months after starting at an English nursery school, my daughter asked, “When shall we go to the park? Shall I get the umbrella?” I guess there are worse habits she could have picked up. In some English schools they still teach little girls to curtsy.

The attitude underlying
shall
endures although the upper-class credentials that redound to those who get it right are becoming less important, even to those who belong to the class in question. Anyone looking down his nose at someone for misusing
shall
in England today would be considered something worse than a stickler. Still, those who care might counter that while English may be perfectly intelligible without
shall
, any form of English that doesn’t include it will be the
poorer.

In which the great and the good get gongs (and I explain what that means, in English).

I
t is our wedding day and people are all dressed up. Our American guests, having heard that the English contingent would be there, have made an effort with hats, like something out of a Richard Curtis movie. Most of the English guests have elected to leave their hats at home. It’s Cambridge, Massachusetts, not Cambridgeshire. But it is all taking place during the day, so many of the men are wearing morning suits—even my father, who prefers flip-flops. I am ridiculously young, and getting away with a pouf of white silk and a veil attached to what the English romantically call an “Alice band,” because Alice wore one in the Tenniel illustrations for Lewis Carroll’s
Through the Looking Glass
. To me it is a headband.

I compliment an older gentleman, whom I’ve never met
before, on his tie. He says, “Thank you, darling. My wife gave it to me when I was ninety.” I say, “Really? But you don’t look a day over seventy-five.” He says, “No, darling,
knighted
!” We both laugh and I’m not sure who is more pleased. To me, he might as well be a member of the royal family. Actually, his title has been awarded on merit—as are most titles in England nowadays.

Twice each year—on New Year’s Day and on the queen’s birthday in June—the Cabinet Office publishes the Queen’s Honours List, “marking the achievements and service of extraordinary people across the UK.” There is a baffling array of orders within which honors may be awarded, depending on the type of service one has rendered to crown and country. These include (among others) the Order of the Bath, for senior civil servants and military officers (so named because of the ritual washing, symbolizing spiritual purification, that took place in late medieval times before investiture ceremonies); the Order of St. Michael and St. George, for diplomats and those who have served the UK abroad; the Royal Victorian Order, for people who have served the queen or the monarchy personally; the Order of the Garter, a rarefied order reserved for the king and twenty-five knights who have held public office or contributed in a meaningful way to national life; and the Order of the British Empire, which recognizes distinguished service to the arts and sciences, public services outside the Civil Service, and work with charitable and welfare organizations.

Within each order there are different ranks conferring gradations of prestige. For example, within the largest order, the Order of the British Empire, these are the MBE (member of the Order of the British Empire), for service that sets an example to others; the OBE (officer of the OBE), for a distinguished
regional role in any field; the CBE (commander of the OBE), for work with a national impact; and finally the KBE/DBE (knight/dame commander of the OBE). To receive a knighthood or be made a dame, one has to have made a significant and inspirational contribution at a national level. Prominent people have been known to turn down honors that they did not feel were of a sufficiently exalted rank. Alfred Hitchcock turned down a CBE, but later accepted a knighthood. Evelyn Waugh also turned down a CBE in the hope of later being offered a knighthood, which, as it turned out, was not forthcoming.

Although it is the queen who bestows the honors, the Cabinet Office Honours and Appointments Secretariat handles the nominations at home, while the Foreign Office is responsible for the Diplomatic Service and Overseas List. Nominations may come from anyone, and there are nine independent committees who consider applications and make recommendations to the central honors committee before sending a list to the queen via the prime minister. It all sounds surprisingly corporate. The process is also competitive—so competitive, in fact, that many hopefuls pay specialist consultants to prepare their applications. The website for one of these organizations, Awards Intelligence, reads like a classier version of an ad for a personal injury attorney: “Are you ready for a queen’s honour nomination? . . . Do you know someone who may be deserving of a queen’s honour but you don’t know if they meet all the right criteria? . . . Do you want your nomination to have the best possible chance of success in the Queen’s Honours List? If you answered ‘yes’ to one or more of these questions contact us today.”

When the long-awaited lists are released, inevitably it is the actors, footballers, and entertainers who receive the most
publicity. But the overwhelming majority of those who get these coveted prizes, or “gongs,” as the English call them, are not famous. The official website of the British monarchy notes that they could be charity volunteers, members of the emergency services or armed forces, industrial pioneers, or specialists in various professions. A prestigious award from the queen helps draw attention to their work and increase support for their causes. A friend who knows several recent OBE award-winners said that even the lefties (and ostensible antiroyalists) among them gushed about the experience of meeting the queen, and actually teared up when describing how proud their mothers were. It is also a huge ego boost, whether one likes to admit it or not. A gag in the popular 1980s political sitcom
Yes Minister
illustrates the point. Jim Hacker, the minister for administrative affairs, has asked his private secretary, Bernard, to explain the abbreviations for honors emanating from the Foreign Office (all under the Order of St. Michael and St. George):

BERNARD:
. . . in the service, CMG stands for Call Me God. And KCMG for Kindly Call Me God.

HACKER:
What about GCMG?

BERNARD:
God Calls Me God.

Other titles exist in England, of course. There is the peerage, with ranks in descending order from duke, to marquess, earl, viscount, and baron. But today these titles are relics—like classic cars passed down from father to son—since only four new nonroyal hereditary peerages have been created since 1964 (and two went to men with no sons). The Life Peerages Act of
1958, in a very English gesture toward egalitarianism, made it possible to confer a life peerage on an accomplished individual without giving his heirs the right to the title in perpetuity. Membership in the House of Lords ceased to be automatic for peers in the late nineties anyway, so these titles now derive most of their cachet from reflected glory (and, of course,
HELLO!
magazine).

The word
knight
originally carried the sense of a servant or soldier, and service is still central to what it means to be a knight or a dame. People from other nationalities—even Americans—can be given honorary knighthoods. Bill Gates, former New York City mayor Rudolph Giuliani, presidents Reagan and George H. W. Bush, and Steven Spielberg are among those who have received this honor. But honorary knights are not “dubbed” with the sword by the queen, and they are not permitted to style themselves “Sir.” Where’s the fun in that?

Being known as “Sir” apparently can be more trouble than it is worth. Alistair Cooke, author of the popular
Letter from America
radio broadcast—weekly talks on American life that aired between 1946 and 2004—met a knighted actor who, having moved to Hollywood, complained that American service providers assumed his title meant he was “a very wealthy lord with twenty thousand acres . . . so where I normally gave a quarter tip I had to give a dollar and . . . where the car parking attendant used to get a dollar, now, unless I give him five, he positively sneers and mutters ‘cheapskate.’” Cooke (who had given up his British citizenship) was later awarded an honorary knighthood himself, for his outstanding contributions to Anglo-American understanding.

The royal family is the source of all titles and the seat of
hereditary privilege in England. Americans tend to be less critical and (if anything) more fascinated by the royals than the English. Cynics would say that is at least partly because Americans are not being taxed for their upkeep, unlike the English. England’s antimonarchists (somewhat confusingly known as republicans) would like to abolish the whole business, and the Queen’s Honours are just one manifestation of the nobility that they sneer at. Numerous nonrepublicans have turned down honors in the past for reasons other than snobbery, whether in protest or because they simply didn’t want the attention or the title—these include C. S. Lewis, David Hockney, Nigella Lawson, the comedy duo French and Saunders, Roald Dahl, and J. G. Ballard, who called the Honours system a “preposterous charade.” It isn’t uncommon for someone to be criticized for accepting a knighthood—especially if it seems at odds with his public persona. Keith Richards was apoplectic when Mick Jagger was knighted in 2003, calling the honor “bollocks” and saying (among other, less-printable things), “It’s not what the Stones is about, is it?”

Still, about 80 percent of Britons approve of the monarchy. And, as Olga Khazan reported in
The Atlantic
, the royal family—while born to their titles—works quite hard representing the UK. According to the British tourism agency, the royal family generates close to five hundred million pounds in revenue per year. Their estimated cost to the taxpayer likely falls somewhere between Buckingham Palace’s estimate of 33.3 million pounds (or fifty-three pence per person) and the republicans’ estimate of two hundred million pounds per year. Either way, the royal family looks like a bargain. More than most members of modern society, they could be said to be “in service”: giving up any semblance of a normal life and their privacy, spending most of
their time attending official events, and having to appear flawless in public at all times, without complaint. Not everyone is equal to that level of scrutiny, and it is more than most of us would be willing to put up with. Even so, like anyone refusing a knighthood or other honor from the queen, they must know that many others would gladly take their place.

As for my cousin by marriage, Bill Cotton, who had been knighted for his roles as head of light entertainment at the BBC and vice president of the Marie Curie Cancer Care charity, he died a few years ago. His memorial service packed St. Martin-in-the-Fields to the rafters, and no one noticed, I’m sure, that my American mother-in-law and I were among the only ones wearing hats. We’d assumed (embarrassingly? touchingly?) that hats would be the done thing. But we were so honored to be counted among Sir Bill’s family, friends, and admirers: some of them knighted, some ninety, others not a day over
seventy-five.