Faux pas
Arthur Marshall
French False Friends C. W. E. Kirk-Greene (Routledge & Kegan Paul £7.95) French False Friends C. W. E. Kirk-Greene (Routledge & Kegan Paul £7.95) Those of us who, and with very good reason if you care to examine history's Pages, regard the French with, at the least, suspicion, will find our unease considerably increased by a close study of their language. They have, and deliberately who can doubt, littered it with terrible traps for foreigners 'n general and the detested English in par- ticular. However, let not those who are Planning to sit their '0' Levels take fright. At that stage, things aren't too bad, with table meaning table and les fruits meaning frun. It is later on when 'A' Levels crop up °1- when ambitious persons are wishful to show off (`Pardon, mais at se trouve Bergerac?') on that motor tour of the Dor- dogne, that dreadful difficulties arise, the chief ones being admirably paraded here and fully commented on by our distinguish- ed schoolmaster author. Whatever is one to make of a race which takes the humble aubergine, such a tasty and loyal stand-by vegetable, and in addi- tl°11 to making it mean the delightful fruit °,,f the egg-plant, also uses it to mean a 'ennale traffic-warden? Who would ever have thought that, at the greengrocer's, a simple request such as 'Pray let me feel your aubergines' might land one in the local l angry.c)ck-uP, subjected to garlicky abuse and ,_cries of `salaud'? And then, and at Lae same shop, a purchase of 'asparagus' will merely secure ypu a fistful of asparagus-fern, quite inedible and purely Intended for decorative use. What you were after is really asperges, though here too there is a complication, for if you aren't careful, you're going to get a lb of holy- water sprinklers instead, a grave accent on the
ultimate `e' instantly transforming deliciousness into holiness. Could anything be dottier?
While on the subject of aubergines and other vaguely indelicate matters (never very far away, alas, with that amorous and allegedly virile nation), what, may 1 ask, about 'knickers'? Mr Kirk-Greene, who I feel to be very much on our side in all these discussions, tells us that in Paul Dreyfus's spirited account of the Resistance, he describes how a Frenchman managed to escape from the dreaded Colditz 'in an in- conspicuous disguise' but a disguise which included the wearing of knickers. One would have thought that even the dimmest Kraut sentry might have smelt a rat when a male in knickers went flashing past, but they are in fact just plus-fours and knickers is short for knickerbockers, which was a silly enough word in the first place and one which we owe, if memory serves, to wide- bagged Dutch Settlers in New York.
This brings us to a whole series of pitfalls caused by the appalling laziness of our neighbours across the Channel. I refer to their abbreviations. Too exhausted with work or, more likely, the activities at which I politely hinted above, they haven't the energy to gasp out the whole word, with the result that a 'pull' means un pullover, `fox' means fox-terrier, 'cherry' means cherry- brandy, and 'self' means le self-service. As all must by now know, I do not go in at all for 'smut' but I feel it my duty to state that, in addition to 'dry' having to do duty for `dry martini'; I have heard the word `cocktail' being similarly truncated and a somewhat startled actress being offered un gentil cock.
Mark my words, wherever one goes one is going to make a goose of oneself. Mislay- ing your set of dentures and leaving them by mistake in, perhaps, a rather over-gooey and discarded mille-feuille at the Care de Lyon, you hasten to the Lost Property Of- fice, demanding to see and test all unclaim- ed dentures that have been handed in. Blank faces, and cries of mail, mon- sieur . . . greet you, for denture in that outlandish country means your very own natural teeth, while those gleaming, false and proudly Steradent-fresh sparklers come out as dentiers. But then what possible faith can one have in a foreign language which, hunting about for the absolutely perfect word for that wax stuff that skiers put on their skis, settles, doubtless with a glad cry, on the short word fart? I ask you (je vous demande).
Headlines in newspapers can give one a fearful jolt. The Wimbledon season brings with it year by year an increasing excite- ment, so picture yourself on, maybe, a June holiday at Le Touquet suddenly seeing on the front page of the paper the words TENNISMAN CONNU IMPOTENT. Oh dear, one thinks in one's kindly way, what hard luck, but will it necessarily affect his play? After all, wise Dame Nature may merely increase his capabilities in other directions (one somehow feels that Henry James was impo- tent, and just look what he managed). We must, however, revise our views for, in ad- dition to having to put up with the ugliness of Tennisman, we learn that impotent ineans disabled (you'll want to know the other: impuissant).
Finally, some information about cars. A spider is completely uninterested in flies and means one of those old-fashioned dickeys at the back. A torpedo is an open tourer, while a chauffeuse can also be a low and comfortable chair. Be careful to whom you address the remark 'My chauffeuse is old and has loose springs. Kindly renew them.'
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