The highest point of wit in this direction must be supposed to have been reached when Evariste Parny, a poet of no mean celebrity, produced his “Goddam! poëme en quatre chants, par un French-dog.” This was in the year XII. or, as we now should prefer to call it, 1804.
The countrymen, and in one remarkable instance, a countrywoman of Beaumarchais, have been particularly industrious in fastening this aspersion upon their English neighbours. So long ago as 1429, when the arms of Shrewsbury and Bedford had well-nigh wrested the last jewel from the diadem of France, and a peasant maiden of the Calvados had flung herself into Orleans to stem the tide of the English advance, there likewise came to the aid of the fainting cause a welcome supply of mirth and invective. The Maid of Orleans, inspiriting the beleaguered army by harangue, by entreaty, even by quips and jests, kept them constantly reminded of the insular nickname. Rising from sleep and putting on her armour to direct the memorable assault upon the Tournelles, a soldier of her command ventured to produce a repast of fish, and prayed her to break her fast. “Joan, let us eat this shad-fish before we set out.” The Maid indignantly put aside the proffered gift, “In the name of God,” said she, “it shall not be eaten till supper, by which time we will return by way of the bridge, and I will bring you back a Goddam to eat it with.” How the redoubtable Tournelles was taken by steel and culverin, and how Joan succeeded in bringing back many hundred Goddams, has become matter of history. As to the conclusion of the Maid’s career, there has been opened a wide field of controversy, but one incident in the closing chapter of her life is supported by reliable testimony. While undergoing close imprisonment pending the decision of her fate, two English noblemen, the Earls of Warwick and Stafford, came to visit her in gaol, and would seem to have held out hopes of ransom; Joan, irritated at the specious language of her visitors, retorted on them sharply: “I know you well,” she cried, “you have neither the will nor the power to ransom me. You think when you have slain me, you will conquer France; but that you will never bring about. No! although there were one hundred thousand Goddams in this land more than there are!”[11]
With the assumption of the soldier’s tunic, it did not follow that she adopted the manners of the military fire-eater, or suited herself to the wild talk of camps. The epithet “Goddam” in the mouth of La Pucelle was expressive only of acrimony towards the oppressor, and even assuming it to have been irreverent and ungainly, was not the least in accord with the language that usually distinguished her. So far from condoning the irregularities of military life, Joan seems to have laid her strongest commands upon the soldiery to abstain from oath-taking, and in one instance would appear to have made a convert of an illustrious kind. Stories are told, which we need not here repeat, of the licence in expression of the celebrated La Hire, who may be likened to a Boanerges among swearers. With him the habit was perfectly indispensable. At last Joan came to a compromise. He was to retain to the full his privilege of swearing, provided he referred in his oaths to no other substantive than his marshal’s baton, and thenceforward this sturdy soldier betook himself to this emasculated form of swearing.
According to an authority that is entitled to credit, a very similar subterfuge would seem to have been attempted at a still earlier period of French history. The courtiers of Louis IX. were wont to indulge in what may be described as a very flippant and volatile description of swearing. The indignation of their master, the beloved St. Louis, may of itself have been no inconsiderable punishment, but a still worse one was provided in the statute-book, which prescribed the penalty of branding the tongue with a red-hot iron upon every commission of the offence. The oaths which at this period were the cause of the greatest mortification to the saintly king were the cordieus, the têtedieus, the pardieus and the numerous offshoots, the effigies of which still survive in the pages of Rabelais and Molière—the “Moyen de Parvenir” and the “Baron de Fœneste”. With the airy nonchalance of practised sophistry, these apologists of swearing conceived a device that to themselves at least proved eminently satisfactory. At this time there was at the palace a pet dog, known by the name of Bleu. To elude the harsh sentence of the law that might for ever deprive these gay swearers of the power of taking oaths, they determine to substitute for dieu the name of the favourite dog. Thus cordieu became CORBLEU and têtedieu became TÊTEBLEU, and so on throughout the entire series. Unlike the rigid St. Louis, a later French monarch, Henry IV. was himself a notorious offender in this respect. On every occasion of annoyance, he was heard to give utterance to his favourite oath “Jarnidieu!” To him once came his confessor, Coton. “Sire,” said the confessor, “it is a great sin to mention the holy name in these terms.” “You are right,” said Henry, “in future I will say ‘Jarnicoton.’”
It is singular to turn for a moment from the extravagant exuberance of a polished French court to find the same device existing in a very different era of the world’s history. The educated Athenian vented his “Mon Dieus” like any Frenchman on the boulevard, and in like manner learned to soften his “Μὰ τὸν θεὸν” to a simple “Μὰ τὸν” in deference to ears polite. Socrates himself, never altogether free from a predilection for jocose forms of swearing, also took the palace dog, so to speak, as his colloquial stalking-horse, and, like the courtiers of St. Louis, swore νὴ τον κύνα.
The framework of the story dealing with the conversion of La Hire has not been lost upon the writers of the theatre. A petite comédie well known on the boards of the Théâtre Français as ‘Les Jurons de Cadillac,’ is occupied with the sufferings of a naval officer who is constrained by feminine influence to relinquish his customary expletives. “How is it,” asks La Comtesse, “that you have contracted this horrible habit; you, a scion of an old stock, one of our first Gascon gentlemen?” Cadillac’s answer is spirited. “Comtesse, I was brought up by my grandfather, an old sea dog, corbleu! With him I learnt to swear before I learnt to read, and if he has not taught me the language of courts, it is because, sacrébleu! he did not know it. He made me a true sailor, ventre mahon!” The Comtesse insists that, as a proof of the captain’s professions of regard, he should abstain from indulging in this habit for the space of one single hour. Should the ordeal be successfully passed, she consents that he shall receive her hand as his reward. Cadillac is fairly driven to desperation. “Ask of me anything but that!” he exclaims; “only let me swear, or I shall go mad!” Finally he sees no help for it but to accept the challenge, and the audience is detained in a state of amusing suspense while witnessing the contrivances with which the honest captain endeavours to overcome the difficulty. He tampers with the hands of the clock in the hope of abridging the hour of trial, and this ruse being discovered he unworthily seeks safety in sullen silence. “No, no, captain,” objects the Comtesse, “unless you converse it is not fair play.” His tormentor lures him with all her skill to let slip one of his unpremeditated expletives, and a hundred times the worthy fellow is on the point of giving way. At last, beguiled into a description of one of his most thrilling sea-fights, and with the recollection of the wild scenes of carnage passing vividly before his eyes, he is no longer able to maintain composure. He bursts into a volume of his old sea terms, but the lady, moved, as it would seem, by the élan and spirit of the recital, finds it in her heart to be merciful. The play concludes with a modest sacrébleu, this time spoken by La Comtesse. It will be seen from the evidence of this performance alone that in ascribing to our nationality a monopoly of energetic language, public report has hardly been discriminating.
Not desiring, however, to turn the tables upon our aspersers, we propose to still further pursue the fortunes of the Britannic shibboleth from when we left it upon the lips of La Pucelle. The aspersion cast upon the English on the Picard battle-fields continued to be handed down in camp story and in rugged vaux-de-vire. Neither did it cease to provoke derision and merriment when it had entered into the common parlance of the Paris cabaret, and became the stock property of the Palais Royal farce.[12] The “Goddam” that greeted British officers rollicking through the city of pleasure in the days succeeding Waterloo was the same term of opprobrium that assailed the English archers at Agincourt and Honfleur.
To what “mute inglorious” satirist we are indebted for this lasting compliment we shall probably never now determine. The word is at least discovered in the collection of Norman ballads subjoined to the ‘Vaux-de-Vire’ of Master Oliver Basselin published at Caen, 1821. This work dates from the early part of the sixteenth century, but has reference to the events of the preceding one. It more particularly speaks of Henry V. as dying par le mal de St. Fiacre and of Henry VI. as ascending the throne. It is the latter monarch who is referred to in these verses as “little King Goddam”—
“Ils out chargé l’artillerye sus mer,
Force bisquit et chascun ung bydon,
Et par la mer jusqu’en Biscaye aller,
Pour couronner leur petit roy godon.”
We might search in vain for mention of the expression in English writings of the same period. In France however the epithet is repeated with equal malignancy in the angry verses which Guillaume Crétin was pleased to write upon the ‘Battle of the Spurs’: