A Spectator's Notebook

Let us consider words, for words, after all, are our sole means of communication in this distressful world. Words are the antennae of thought.

And let us begin with the word 'f...'

The only way in which we can put this teasing verb in its proper place — and it is high time that somebody did — is by setting the clOck back, and comparing it with the word 'damn.' If the shelves of your library contain editions of the early Victorian bestsellers, and if you take the trouble to open them, you will not have to turn many pages before you come across some such passage as this: "The earl threw back his head. The countess paled. ' D ... you!' he snarled, and strode into the night. .." Whereupon, the countess swooned, and the book sold another 5,000 copies. In those days, being d d was even worse than being f d. Some of us may think that it still is.

But whether our fate is to be d d or f , d (and in these times, with all this mugging about, by the oddest characters, 'nobody of either sex can be quite certain what lies ahead at the end of the day) — we should surely make up our minds about the word itself, its impact on us, and the propriety of its usage.

Less moral than musical

My own objection to the word is less moral that musical. ' F ' seems an unnecessary stridence in the current cacophony. There must ,surely be more elegant ways of referring to a process which is basic to our existence. After all, everybody knows what f ing means. But no, I must correct myself. Not everybody knows what it means. Quite 'recently I was in conversation with the niece of an eminent pillar of the Roman Catholic Church, when the word was mentioned (not by myself). She did not know what it meant, .but she seemed to be under the impression that it had something to do with central heating. In which supposition, perhaps, she was not so far off the mark.

In the distant days when I was at Oxford I used to sit at the feet of Professor Gilbert Murray, who ' had a way with words.' At one of his tutorials, greatly daring, he chose to discuss the word 'damn, which was echoing through the world with increasing frequency. ' Damns ' were falling, like petals, from the rose-bud lips of debutantes. He described the word as "a nervous twitch," and followed it up with a consideration of the word 'bloody,' which, he suggested, was another nervous twitch, though on a lower social level. Both these words were symptoms of a neurosis, of an imperfect ,functioning of the antennae of thought. One was emotionally disturbed, one needed an outlet of expression, and one chose the nearest verbal implement at hand.

All's word

Incidentally, it is interesting to note that in one of the most popular television series that is currently being offered to the docile British public, the leading character seems unable to open his mouth without putting his bloody. foot in it. When he opens the door or his.

bloody council hquse, he greets his guest with a good-bloody-afternoon. I have not made a transcription of this bloody production, but I can affirm, with reasonably bloody assurance, that this is a fairly bloody accurate description of the bloody dialogue.

You see what I mean? A nervous twitch. What are we to do about it?

The one thing I hope that we shall not do about it is to use any form of compulsion to withdraw the word from circulation. If it is indeed obscene — mid this is arguable — the more freely we employ it the better. Eventually it will become blunter by usage and lose all power to shock. And then, of course, we shall find another word as an outlet for our twitchings. What shall it be? I suggest again that we should set the clock back and revive a word like 'bother.' Spelt with dots r' — it looks highly improper. And if, it were pronounced in the right circumstances by, say, John Gielgud, it might be positively blood-curdling.

Melba memories

Yesterday a young man from the BBC came down to the cottage to record some of my memories of the great Dame Nellie Melba. When he arrived I expressed surprise that there should still be interest in this legendary figure, particularly as the programme was geared for the younger generation. One imagined that if they had heard the name at all they associated it only with peaches on toast.

But no, he said, there was a very great interest in her among his generation, and it was on the increase. And so it should be. One cannot normally . dogmatise about musical matters, particularly regarding the quality of the human voice, but Melba was an exception; her voice was unique. This is'not a matter of opinion but of scientific fact, as I was privileged to prove.

In those days there was a brilliant young scientist called Professor A. M. Low among whose many inventions was a device for photographing sound, which he called the ' audiometer.' I cannot give a technical description of the process but the sound appeared on the tape as a progression of constantly duplicated designs, reiterated ad infiniturn. After a great deal of temperamental 'shilly-shallying we persuaded Melba to sing into the machine and then compared the result with the voices of other famous sopranos. The Melba tape was incomparably more complex, more delicate, and in a strange way, more visually beautiful. The acid test came when she trilled. The trills of her rivals were a series of irregular squiggles in which the voice seemed to have got out of control. Melba's trill was mathematically impeccable, as though it had been drawn between two parallel lines. Heaven knows what would happen if a certain celebrated 'diva, who shall be nameless, were to submit to such a test. Her voice would probably go off the tape altogether. And a good thing too.

Pot luck

Is the common chamber-pot a legitimate object of contemplation in our column? Yes. For chamber-pots are not what they were. They have a message for the modern world.

The other day, while clearing out an old trunk, I discovered one of these ancient conveniences among a load of rubbish. How it got there I had no idea, nor who had ever used it. Certainly not myself. For a moment I toyed with the idea of filling it with compost and using it as a receptacle for indoor hyacinths. 'Thought better of it. Took it out to the toolshed and put it on top of a dustbin, hoping that the young sanitary gentlemen, when they came on Tuesday morning, would not feel insulted and go on strike.

A charming young American comes to lunch, is conducted to tour the garden, via the tool shed, observes the chamber-pot, pauses, and regards it with ecstasy. Never, it seems, has she encountered such a ravishing chamber-pot. (For your information it was circa 1900, in a gloomy sort of bogus Willow. Pattern, and the handle was cracked.) What was it doing on top of the dustbin? Was I selling it? Puzzlement of your correspondent. No, I was not selling it. I was hoping that the young sanitary gentlemen, who were due on Tuesday, would take it away.

But I was mad, she exclaimed. Absolutely mad. Was I not aware that, in Boston, chamber-pots such as these were fetching astronomical 'prices? I assured her that this information had escaped me. Would I be prepared to sell it to her? Quite unprepared, I regretted, but she was welcome to have it as a present, with my affectionate compliments. ,So she waltzed away with it, clasped to her bosom under a mink coat.

Never sell

And the message of the chamber-pot for the modern world? Never sell anything that has been made by the human hand. Sell stocks, sell shares, sell options, sell each and every sort of paper based on the shifting sands of the international monetary system. But never sell chamber-pots. Some day they will come in handy, in more ways than one.

Beverley Nichols