Memories of The Great and The Good Read Free

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.’“
    â€œThen, sir,” nipped in the witty Logan Pearsall Smith, “your dentist must be an American.”
    â€œOf 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