“Of
what the heart is full, the mouth runs over”, as the saying goes,
and mine is full as you already know of Greek, though I don't, unlike
Virginia Woolf, know of any birds that speak it, and if I did I
wouldn't be able to converse with them for I don't speak it either.
Of French and German I know a little. I should know more since in my
more youthful years I studied both - the former to the equivalent of
an A-level and the latter to GCSE – though I was never what you
might call fluent, or comfortable or at ease. Of Italian, I know
nothing, though according to an incorrect and never corrected BTEC
certificate I speak it with distinction.
Of
French and German I've retained the odd phrase and word, not enough
for a two-way conversation since I don't think my ear would cope with
the other person answering back, certainly not if it was at their
native pace; even subtitles sometimes move too quickly. Yet it's
comforting to still have some knowledge.
In
listening I do better, as in I like the sounds of that being spoken.
The different modulations of tone, the abruptness or the jollity, the
way the tongue has to wrap itself around words or press itself
against teeth or the mouth's roof. But can I understand any of that
being said? Not in its entirety – a whole sentence, for example –
unless it's a phrase book classic. However, you do get to recognise
similarities between languages you know and those you don't, like
when a word which sounds similar also shares the same meaning, which
is, for me, a University
Challenge
moment: I was right!
Surprisingly,
the written is where I come apart, utterly, if the writing that is
has to be done by yours truly. I get all tangled up in verbs and
nouns, regular and irregular, masculine and feminine. The accents.
The umlaut. If written by another hand I can often comprehend the
meaning, or at least grasp it and derive some sense of it. All then
is not lost. Although I sometimes wish in printed text there were
more footnotes and less assumptions that you'll know how to translate
or interpret a foreign verse or phrase suddenly inserted, say, in an
English language novel. That's one area I think new editions of
classics could improve upon, because though you read on you wonder
what you've missed: was it a witty remark or a reprimand?
We're
not as well-versed (or as well educated? Perhaps 'drilled' is a apter
term) in European languages as people were, if you were of a certain
class, that is, and had access to schooling, in the form of private
tutors, governesses or boarding schools. Or possibly had ambitions
(and the finances) to embark on European tours as some of them had
(and did!), where it would have been prudent to have been able to
speak with the locals to settle your own arrangements, especially if
you foresaw staying months at a time. I could be entirely wrong, but
phrases, including those written, seem to trip off their tongues.
Some of the, ahem, more socially mobile even seem to use this skill
as a 'secret' language, in correspondence, for example, where their
meaning might be hidden should the letter be opened by someone other
than the intended or maybe just better expressed.
Was
this the product of rote learning, I wonder? And did it prove to be
of some, or no, help, when in the land of its origin, if, as I'm
presuming European travel was de
rigueur?
But then, perhaps the advantage of being able to speak another
language was solely, at that time, in setting yourself apart from the
lower classes and getting ahead.
Whatever
the case, as I'm no (as you may have guessed) scholar on the subject,
the English now are lazier in this regard. In learning and speaking.
In comprehension. (And yes, also in our mother tongue!) Such
conversational skill is really an art, which I think is the crux of
the matter for the English tackling anything foreign. It's a
confidence issue – it was and still is for me at any rate - yet I
enjoy subtitled dramas and films and translated works. I get as close
as my brain will permit me to appreciate languages i.e. in forms I
can readily absorb through my eyes and ears, where nothing is asked
of my tongue and where no, or very few, demands are made on my
brain's underdeveloped language department.
Picture credit: The Two Knights Sat and Looked at Each Other Without Speaking, 1970, Peter Blake (source: WikiArt).
This post was penned during 2019.
