Here Comes Treble: The Odd Thing About Language
The trouble with language, says Isabel Bradley, is that it is often a barrier to understanding and appreciation rather than revealing facts and feelings with glorious lucidity, particularly when words accompany fine music.
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In 1995 I travelled to France to do some research for a book I was writing. ‘S’il vous plait’ and ‘merci beaucoup’ were the only French phrases I could remember from my long-past school days. For the three days I was in Paris, I struggled along, managed to sign in at the hotel where not one member of the reception staff could find a word of English.
I couldn’t work the automatic teller machines, which left me stranded without access to more cash than I’d thought to bring, and couldn’t face going into the banks to ask for help. I walked miles rather than catching buses or the Metro; stretched the little money I did have by sneaking croissants and apples from the breakfast table into my bag for lunches, and made a ham and cheese baguette last two dinners.
During my last day there, the flash arm for my camera jammed. Try what I might, I could not get the beastly thing off the camera – an old, 1938 Voigtlander. In desperation, I walked up to the reception counter in the hotel, and pantomimed my problem to the supercilious young man who had, seemingly, not understood a word of what I had said to him for three days. He was a camera enthusiast. Suddenly, he spoke wonderful English as he drooled over my old, heavy, inconvenient but excellent camera – and solved the problem for me.
Language – or dislike of its speakers – can create enormous barriers to communication.
A friend of ours, Olga, immigrated to South Africa from Russia about ten years ago. She speaks excellent English with a charming accent. Her parents, Vladimir and Rita, spend six months each year with her, here in Johannesburg. Neither of them has mastered much spoken English. Rita can read and understand our language at a high level, but does not understand much English when spoken with the local, South African, accent. An odd change happens, though, when Rita converses with our Polish friend, Ewa. Rita speaks Russian, which Ewa understands; and Ewa speaks English with a Polish-South African accent – which Rita understands. The Polish accent seemingly makes the language sound more like that which Rita ‘hears’ when she reads. Because these two women are so fond of each other, they have found the perfect means of communication.
Music is an international language, which cuts across the need for language. In some instances, indeed, words added to music can confuse the issue terribly, particularly when listening to arias written by any of the famous composers, from the light and fluffy Strauss and Léhar to Puccini and Verdi – and anyone in between. Take the glorious tune in Die Fledermaus by Strauss: the music is tragic, heartbreakingly beautiful – until someone translates the German words to English for me, and I realise the silly woman is fibbing to her employer about her aunt being sick in order to get a night off work.
The famous ‘O Mio Babino Cara’ aria used to reduce me to tears every time I heard it – until subtitles on a DVD performance told me a young girl – translate into ‘teenager’ – is throwing a tantrum at her beloved Papa, telling him that if he doesn’t let her have her way she’ll jump into the rive. What she really needs is to be banned from watching television for a week and have all privileges removed for a month. Then, there’s that glorious duet for tenor and baritone from Bizet’s opera, The Pearl Fishers, in which the men’s velvet voices blend with the rippling harp and flute accompaniment: the sounds, the harmonies, the melody, all combine to make me thrill with delight. Well, they did, until I realised that these chaps were swearing eternal friendship, that no woman would ever come between them. From that point of the opera, of course, everything goes downhill, because they both proceed to fall in love with the same woman, ruining a good friendship. In each case, until I understood the language, the music was sublime. Well, it’s still sublime, but I prefer not to think of the words.
The trouble with language is that it is often a barrier to understanding and appreciation rather than revealing facts and feelings with glorious lucidity.
Until next week, ‘here comes Treble!’
By Isabel Bradley © copyright reserved
