Chapter 3

The Voice and Diction of Conversation

The people who in conversation make me feel most desperate, who make me want to cry "fire" in order to get out of the conversation or to get pep into it, are the well-meaning souls who talk too slowly, who stop, look, and listen before every word. They talk as slowly and deliberately about having gone out and bought a loaf of bread as one would if one had at midnight stealthily placed a homemade atom bomb under Fort Knox. A runner-up to these is the person who talks to a roomful of people as if she were talking a baby to sleep, and then, just as one has given up trying to listen, suddenly appeals to one for confirmation of some point, asking directly, "Don't you agree with me, Mr. Smith?"

A few fundamentals of voice and tone, of time, pitch, and force must be observed by anyone who wants to be an acceptable conversationalist.

Not essential for liveliness, but important for being respected is acquiring what for lack of a better word might be called a cultivated level of voice, diction, and pronunciation. This is a delicate, a touchy subject. Nevertheless a few helpful hints should be in place. Literature and history abound with illustrations of the importance of an agreeable level of pronunciation. In this chapter, though diction also means choice of words, we shall use it to mean the art or manner of speaking, the tone and vocal expression. One recalls that it was his manner of speaking, his diction, which revealed Peter to the bystanders at the trial as a follower of Christ. According to the Missal account of Palm Sunday, "the bystanders came up and said to Peter, 'Surely thou also art one of them, for even thy speech betrays thee.' "

Usually the historical examples have reference to the often embarrassing factor of brogue or accent in speech, of speech peculiarities reflecting nationality or locality. Peter's speech was recognized as Galilean. The classical case of that sort is the word shibboleth. In Judges of the Old Testament, the Gileadites, trying to detect fleeing Ephraimites, made them pronounce that word. But every Ephraimite pronounced the "sh" as an "s," saying sibboleth, whereupon the Gileadites "took him and killed him in the very passage of the Jordan. And there fell at that time of Ephraim two and forty thousand" (Judg. 12:6). That was in the "good old days"! Now, except perhaps behind the Iron Curtain, an accent is not likely to lead to such serious damage.

This is fortunate, for while everyone should of course try to conform his pronunciation to the national standard, the accidents of birth and background do not enable everyone to do so. A Bostonian in Chicago certainly should tone his Bostonian down and try to sound more like a refined Chicagoan, but try as he might he would not be likely to succeed entirely. In general, given a different background in youth, perfect conformity to the national standard can hardly be achieved. Nor need this be of too much concern, since some little differences and pecularities exist in the best of speakers. The scholar, Albert C. Baugh, in his History of the English Language, writes, "There is no such thing as uniformity in language. Not only does the speech of one community differ from that of another, but the speech of different individuals of a single community, even different members of the same family, is marked by individual peculiarities" (p. 19).

Therefore, while everybody should try sensibly to reduce his speech peculiarities, he should not be too concerned over those which nature, let us say because of his foreign extraction or background, will not let him overcome entirely. In this connection it might be well to recall Henry van Dyke's comment,

A brogue is not a fault. It is a beauty, an heirloom, a distinction. A local accent is like a landed inheritance; it makes a man's place in the world, tells where he comes from . . . within limits, the accent of a native region is delightful.

What seems to be really more important than uniformity, and in the nature of speech more possible, is a certain level of refinement of diction. Even a foreigner, while he cannot overcome a certain accent, can yet speak English with an accent that sounds as if he is a gentleman. There is a way of pronouncing English which makes a person sound "cheap" and uncouth, and a way which sounds as if one paid one's taxes and did not live on the water front. Many radio programs suggest the difference probably very much better than written words can describe it. The careful conversationalist can listen to them and learn. The diction which in England is notorious for sounding "cheap" is the London Cockney; in America, it is the East Side New Yorker's erl for oil, and goil for girl. According to Bernard Shaw, "People know very well that certain sorts of speech cut off a person for ever from getting more than three or four pounds a week all their life long — sorts of speech which make them entirely impossible in certain professions."

Part of this is due to grammar and vocabulary, but much more, and the most difficult part to analyze, is due to a mode of pronunciation and a timber of voice. In his play, Pygmalion, Shaw shows how lowly born Eliza is trained away from her crude-sounding Cockney diction to the cultured articulation of better society. Perhaps reading this play might be as good as anything for developing an understanding of what is meant by talking in a pleasing level of refinement. Courses in phonetics and elocution give hundreds of rules and exercises. Here only a few practical short cuts to diction acceptable in good conversation can be indicated.

The simplest road to respectable diction is not to drop consonants which according to the dictionary should not be dropped and to make sure that the accented vowels are given their full, resonant value. The difference in culture between "Watchu wan fdinner?" and "What do you want for dinner?" is that of the Bowery and Fifth Avenue. Substituting n for the digraph ng in coming and going is all right in popular songs, but it is still an index of unrefined speech. As to vowels, it is a common observation that the most cultured Englishmen and noticeably refined Americans tend to pronounce the a wherever at all possible like that in father. This suggests a generalization that refined speakers generally will tend to give their vowels a fuller, broader value rather than a thin or flat one. Perhaps one can say that refined speakers will not let their a's slip altogether into e's, their can't and plan and hat will never sound like ken't and plen and het. Their o's and u's will retain some of the same value as in French, German, and Italian. In short, a good speaker will give resonance, real sound, to the accented vowels. As for the secondary syllables, he will clearly de-emphasize them, unaccent them, but he will not slur or drop them.

The caution not to drop syllables requires the counter-caution not to spell out every syllable. This leads to a sort of prissy diction, a particularly painful fault. Persons who have suddenly reformed their speech habits are especially liable to this form of overdoing careful pronunciation. The point to remember is that only the accented syllables should get the full rich vowel value, and only the important words in a sentence should get any force or time. The others, while they should not be slurred or dropped, may very well be spoken rapidly and inconspicuously. Even the unimportant words should be spoken rapidly and unemphatically, with little value on the vowels. In, "What do you want for dinner?" only the words "What" and "dinner" are significant. Therefore, "do you want" must be spoken unemphatically, that is, rather quickly, without any lingering value on the vowels.

This injunction really embodies one of the most important demands of good conversation and good public speaking. It is that the significant word in a phrase and sentence must be pronounced emphatically, with force and time and pitch change, and all the others should be pronounced as if grouped around that word. In a good talker, one not only hears the meaning of the sentence, but also feels its significance. If every word is pronounced with almost the same care and tempo, the hearer loses the significance in the procession of monotonous words. If one furthermore pronounces every syllable with as much care and force as the next, then one becomes insufferable. It is the technique to use if you want to be rid of an unwelcome suitor or the bill collector, for no hearer can suffer this precision monotony very long.

In some elocution courses, a student is required to underline all the significant words in a poem or article before reading the selection aloud. He is then urged to read the underlined words with special emphasis. He can do this by pronouncing them in a higher pitch or with more force, that is, with a louder, stronger tone of voice and, most effectively, by judicious timing. He will in properly regulated tempo take as much time to speak the significant words as it took him to speak three or four of the preceding words. That is the important technique for speaking interestingly, with an edge of liveliness. Nature abhors monotony. Speaking all syllables in the same measured way, pronouncing all words in the same tempo, creates monotony, blurs the true meaning, and propagates yawns. Let everyone remember that the sine qua non, the minimum essential of good talking, is to make the important, the significant words in a phrase, in a sentence, and in a paragraph stand out. If that is done, no matter how, the worst danger of tiresome diction will be by-passed. A person may well set the rule for himself to take about as much time to speak any important word as three less important ones.

While the proper relation of meaning to tempo is most essential, there are many other voice and speech factors that mend or mar conversation. One of life's greatest assets, of course, is a naturally good voice. Most people instantly recognize a beautiful voice — and envy it. Unfortunately such voices are gifts of nature, which like a beautiful face, one cannot grow. But fortunately, while a good native voice is essential for public speaking, nearly any voice can be sufficient for agreeable conversation — if it is used intelligently. Proper accent on significance as indicated above is one intelligent use. There are others, among the first of which one might perhaps stress energy and vitality. Everybody knows the painfulness of a "tired" voice. A strong or a weak voice may sound tired. A person who indulges in conversation has no right to let his fatigue settle in his voice. A Christian determination to be agreeable can usually put enough life into the voice to make it acceptable.

Since nature abhors monotony, a conversationalist should consciously try to increase the variety of his tones, the range and flexibility of his pitch. Quintilian said, "The art of varying the tones of the voice not only affords pleasure and relief to the hearer, but, by the alternation of exercise, relieves the speaker." A good speaker, some speech books say, varies his pitch in ordinary speech as much as the notes within the regular stave of musical notation. This range is not so much recognized as felt and enjoyed. As in other matters of speech, a person who has range of pitch is more likely to be credited with a pleasing personality than with any special speech virtue. You might ask a close friend to note your inflection particularly and rate it for possible monotony. Certainly you should keep tab on it yourself, to see if your voice seems to travel up and down some seven notes, or confines itself to a range of merely three or four. A mechanical help is to play a linguaphone record of some good actor or speaker, and to recite it along in the same pitch. You might also try to keep in pitch with the speakers and announcers on your radio. Half the job is becoming conscious of one's need for pitch variation, the other half, trying to vary it on the right phrases. With the proper tempo and good inflection, one is dictionally well on the way to being a pleasing conversationalist.

In connection with tempo, one has to touch upon the whole matter of rate of speech. It seems to me many fine people are somewhat tiresome because they talk too slowly, too deliberately. They seem to fear that they might make a slip of the tongue or discharge the wrong word. Or perhaps they are too fearful of sounding like a chatterbox. Naturally, the opposite fault is talking too rapidly. But of the two extremes, I would rather suffer ten who talk too fast than one who seems to labor uphill like an ox.

In nearly every gathering of more than four people I seem to notice one who talks too sententiously, too slowly. The basic fault is usually that of tempo — of speaking every phrase as if it were as important as every other phrase. But, in addition, it is also the fault of simply talking too few words a minute. Someone has estimated that in Shakespeare's time the actor spoke his lines at approximately the rate of 160 words a minute. It seems to me that anyone who in ordinary conversation does not reach 150 words a minute will be tiresome to most hearers. Naturally, rate should vary with topic and circumstances. Difficult, serious, solemn matter needs a slower rate. Nevertheless one can safely say that most people could talk somewhat more rapidly most of the time. If only they learn to stress the important words, then the others can properly be spoken rapidly. This does not decrease understanding, it facilitates it. In reading, it has been discovered that if one does not read rapidly enough, about 300 words a minute on the average, one's mind wanders, so that one remembers less than in more concentrated, rapid reading. In conversation, something similar happens. As soon as a person, holding the floor for a few minutes, talks too slowly, his listeners' eyes and minds start wandering. A good conversationalist talks as fast as the topics and the circumstances seem to permit.

Few people talk too fast. Since it is assumed that a certain mental alertness goes with speed, people are less hesitant about checking one who does so. Naturally, if ever so checked one should mark it well. When one seems to talk too fast, the root problem usually is that one thinks too little, that one just rattles on, probably in strings of main clauses with little subordination. As soon as a speaker tries to get some significance into what he says, and to place his ideas in proper relationship to one another, the speed tends to adjust itself. It is not likely to gallop away with him. The greater danger is always some form of hesitation or stumbling or turtle wobble.

The whole world sympathizes with a stammerer. And when no one is looking the world probably laughs at his painful antics in innocent revenge for the agony he has caused it. That the Lord, who had ready to hand a teeming range of trials for mankind, should also have found time to invent stammering for a multiplication of man's vicissitudes passes beyond our limited understanding. But there it is, and we cannot help it. However, that anyone not so afflicted should willingly aggravate man's unhappy lot by prefacing his words with a series of a-a-ah-s can only be a tribute to original sin! Anyone who has this terrifying habit, who delays his words, as if he were stammering, by drawling or grunting, should absent himself from society awhile until this speech atrocity is corrected. It ought to be a law of charity that friends must tell a friend who has this fault. It is, sad to say, an affliction as frequent in brilliant and educated people, such as teachers, as it is in lathe operators. I do not know how it can be corrected. But I suggest that the afflicted one absolutely refrain from starting his words until he is ready to push them out in full without any barnacles. If he cannot manage an unbarnacled word and a weighty thought at one and the same time, then he should refrain from weighty thoughts. One simply cannot have a graceful society in the same room with someone who sits there a-a-ah-ing his words 1

Another voice matter which everybody notices except the one speaking is force or loudness, and the lack of it. The discomfort the human race endures from people who talk so low that one must strain to hear them is extensive. It is as much a sin in a conversationalist as in a public speaker. An elocution book says, "Every effort to understand the word detracts from the thought." Loudness, of course, is relative. It has to be adjusted to the group and the place. Too much or too little is equally bad. A good conversationalist, truly considerate of his hearers, will talk just loud enough for everyone in his circle to hear easily, and for everyone outside it not to be forced to hear him.

If in a general conversation of more than six persons, one person starts talking so low that only the two next to him can hear, he can quickly ruin the general conversation, and force it to disintegrate into twosomes and threesomes. A general unified conversation of many participants is talk at its most cultivated and stimulating level. This should be every hostess's aim and guest's hope. As long as it is on this level, one for all people in the room, you should be especially careful to talk loud enough for everyone in the room or circle to hear easily. You should not be the one who causes it to dissolve into smaller groups. This is true, too, at a dinner table. While the conversation embraces the whole table, a person should take care to have his voice reach everyone. On the other hand, once the talk has broken into several sectors, then he must moderate his voice so as to reach only the reduced circle. It should not impose itself on those outside it. Properly, it is the privilege of the host or hostess, by an elevated voice, to draw several circles together again into a larger one.

The boorishness of a loud voice out of place is a byword. The whole world mocks, and fears, a person who in restaurants, lobbies, or trains, on ship, sidewalk, or job talks to his crony or his set with such force that he seems to be addressing everyone in the place. The person who does not adjust his voice to his circle is a boor.

Many other things could be said about the voice in good conversation. It is a truism that the voice can be more beautiful than an organ. While a rich beautiful voice is in part a natural gift, endowing its possessor with a great conversational advantage, it is true, too, that every voice, even the humblest, can be improved. The hints in this chapter will, if heeded, make any voice seem more beautiful. As a final hint, a most practical one, we say: "This above all," try ever and always to let your voice mirror your meaning and feelings honestly and sincerely. If you do this, and if your thoughts are worthy, and your feelings noble, you cannot go wrong with your voice.

If you are really sorry that Mary was sick, then your voice in saying it should have quite different and richer overtones than when you say, "I am sorry you missed the bus yester-day."A famous preacher was asked what he said to mothers about their babies that made each think he paid it a special compliment. He answered, "I look at the baby admiringly and then exclaim, 'Well, this is a baby.' " It was the emotion in his voice and the tempo of his words that were the compliment. A person who cannot get any emotional "umph" into his voice when a topic that ought to stir the feelings is broached is not a good conversationalist, and very probably he is not a very sympathetic, charitable, or neighborly person cither. He had better get into a spiritual retreat and work for those humane traits and for that charity without which St. Paul tells us our words are as tinkling cymbals and sounding brass.

A good conversationalist puts into his voice not merely what he means, but what and how much he feels. His voice never just rattles words, but always reflects the significance and the emotional impact. If one tries to do that — it really amounts to little more than being truly thoughtful and sincere — then the voice will of its own nature become more and more agreeable and effective. Nature seldom gives a harsh voice to a truly kind and sympathetic person. Even an aged voice, coming from a truly kind and sympathetic person, can be pleasant. Though Shakespeare speaks of an old man's "big manly voice, turning again toward childish treble," piping and whistling, old people who are more concerned with pleasing others than themselves, who are selfless and sincere, seldom have voices one is not glad to hear.

In voice and diction, as in many other things, nature tends to supply or to supplement what one intelligently needs and tries to use. If a person thinks clearly and honestly, feels sincerely and justly, and then tries to convey this to his fellow men for their good and their amusement, he will hardly talk too low or too loud, drawl monotonously or rattle disconnectedly. If he prizes both his ideas and his fellow men, nature will help him with enough voice and diction to bring his ideas and his neighbors together — forcefully and pleasantly.