THE UNGUARDED PHRASE

Evening Star, Issue 22619, 10 April 1937, Page 2

THE UNGUARDED PHRASE

[Written by Maiu- Scott, for the ‘ Evening Star.’]

The cynical have told us that speech was invented to conceal thought, it may be so, but on the other hand there are various cliches much in vogue that may possibly reveal more than we wish, and occasionally convey to the overperceptive an impression exactly the reverse from the one that we desire to produce. For example, that ponderous “ I venture to think,” that is so popular in political controversy, seems to be most persistently used by the people that make a habit of never thinking if they can possibly help it. “ Without saying anything against her ” is a preface that makes my blood run cold, for 1 know perfectly well that some particularly noisome piece of scandal is sure to follow “ You know that I never repeat gossip ” is another beginning that promises ill—and usually performs worse than its promise. The ‘ New Statesman,’ a somewhat relentless de-bunker at all times, once held a competition, in which its readers were asked for phrases that would unconsciously reveal the user as belonging to certain objectionable types, amongst which I remember the stingy person, the prig, the or the aesthetic snob, the person without a sense of humour, the domestic tyrant, the egotist, and the liar. The only condition laid down was that the revelation, in order that it might seem genuinely unconscious, should bo rather of the subtle than the blatant order.

Subtle they were, and a few of them have clung in my memory some with a certain measure of discomfort. Were people as over-perceptive as all this? If so, I must remember not to use my favourite “ personally,” lest I declare myself an egotist, nor my beloved “ frankly,” lest I brand myself a liar. As consolation, I was permitted to recognise some phrases under which I have long chafed, and to welcome others that had been only vaguely and subconsciously obnoxious to me. For the domestic tyrant, I was spitefully delighted to meet here a phrase heard often, and almost word- for word, from the lips of one of the most selfish and possessive women I know :—“ My girlies are such home-birds; they never want to go out in the evenings.” Let me offer another, less subtle than this competitor’s effort, but one under which. I have often seen young people wince:— “ Of course, my dear child, you must please yourself, as you always do, but. , . .” Still a bird that always

rouses my suspicions, perhaps because I have heard it most often from the heads of households that do not look particularly devoted or happy, is: “ You see, wo are such a united family.” _ Most of us. I think, will recognise the particularly subtle and offensive use of that innocent phrase “ of course ” on the lips of the social snob. “ She was, of course, the daughter of Sir Thingummy.” Or, “Of course, everybody knows that he belonged to a distinguished family.” More openly rude is: “They were great_friends of mine, but, of course, you mightn’t have met them. There were other expressions that I hailed delightedly as old enemies, though my quarrel with them had been vague and undefined until I saw them relentlessly exposed in this competition. This was the aesthetic snob’s contribution: “ I’m not in the least afraid of admitting that I like Tennyson” (and bo careful to give that “ like ” its right accent of kindly to this I dare to add one from which I have often suffered: “ Yes, very pretty. After all, I don’t mind a little sentiment for a change every now and then. And another ancient enemy: “ Why, yes, I quite liked it, in that class of literature.” The social snob, perhaps, is easy prey. _ Personally (as the egotist says), nothing irritates me more than “ Oh, but I’m quite a democrat. Lots of my friends belong to the working classes.” And “ I do like simple folk. • W T hat does it matter _ if their origin is humble ? ” But it is to the ‘ New Statesman ’ I owe this frequentlyseen pearl of great price: “We of the peasant stock.” About the phrase that betrays the prig wo shall probably all differ. I liked one competitor’s “ Everybody enjoys a flutter? Oh, come now, not everybody , surely!” and another’s “ Entirely as a matter of principle ” ; but I claim a place for some of my own pet aversions, notably: “Of course, it’s hard to speak when you’ve never been tempted,” and, usually preceding some particularly uncharitable judgment, “ I always act on the principle ‘ Judge not, that ye be not judged ’ ” and that overworked “ After all in these days one must have some definite standard.”

The person without a sense _ of humour is perhaps easy prey. It is a pity that he nearly always feels bound to tell us “I’ve always been so thankful for my sense of humour,” or “I’m much luckier than X—you see, I can always see the funny side.” There is also that social blight, who at the end of your best story says laboriously and conscientiously: “I’m so sorry if I seem stupid, but I can’t quite see how.” . . . And that embarrassing female who says brightly “ Dear, how funny you always are,” with her sister, who remarks with false contrition “ I suppose I shouldn’t laugh about 'it, but I was born with such a sense of humour.” Most of us have at some time or another been severely dashed by some such comment as “ Of course, dear, you had to make a story of it, hut when you say ‘ millions,’ don’t you think perhaps you’re exaggerating?” The stingy person has certain trade marks by which without fail ye shall know him. When he has let you pay, after a little false argument, for the afternoon tea to which he invited you, you will say brightly “ Well, don’t forget that it’s my turn next time,” or “ Ah, well, if you insist.” He has a way of leaving his purse at home and remarking genially: “ You know what it is—l’m so forgetful about money affairs—positively like a child.” When, with much inward gnashing of teeth, you have paid his subscription for the third time running to some society, simply because yoif were not quick enough to get out of the way or coolheaded enough to avoid his wandering eye, he will say at the top of his voice; “ Now, whatever you do, old chap, be sure to remind me to pay you back.” When he has contributed a reluctant half-crown to some charity he inevitably remarks “ I’d like to give more, but you know what it is—ypur hand is always in your pocket for some deserving cause,” or “ What little I have to give 1 like to devote to . . . (any cause that is not likely to have a branch in New Zealand). The liar, if I remember rightly, fared badly at the bands of the ‘ New Statesman ’ competitors, one particularly subtle contribution reading: “I am never so happy as when I’m with tiny children.’’ They pilloried, too, the people who use such cliches as “Frankly,” “Honestly,” and “As a matter of fact.” My own experience leads me to doiibt the veracity of statements prefaced by “If you think I’m exaggerating, ask So-and-so,” or “ Anyone who was there will tell you exactly the same thing ” ; and I always feel a faint stir of misgiving when an acquaintance says “Ithink you know that I am always meticulous about the

truth,” or “ I assure you, you can take my word for it that . . .” It is easy to believe that the competition was popular—almost as much so as that old game that calls itself “ Home truths.” It is, after all, not a difficult matter to be smart about other people, to doubt their sincerity, to claim that out of their own mouths they are unintentionally condemned. But we can carry it too far, can condemn an honest man who is speaking a simple truth, can credit him with un-dreamed-of subtlety, a tortuous mind that disavows in order to conceal. It is possible maliciously to draw the worst conclusions from innocent remarks, to be so clever that we cannot credit anyone with real simplicity. However, the competition has this saving grace: one and all are likely to find amongst the entries some little, half-suspected, long-ignored pet insincerity of our own, and such discoveries are exceeding salutary..