French, finally, has developed two distinct forms of compromise between the conflicting principles, for in ‘Est-ce que Pierre bat Jean?’ est-ce represents the interrogatory and Pierre bat the usual word order, and in ‘Pierre bat-il Jean?’ the real subject is placed before and the sham subject after the verb. Here also, as in Danish, the ultimate result is the creation of ‘empty words,’ or interrogatory adverbs: est-ce-que in every respect except in spelling is one word (note that it does not change with the tense of the main verb), and thus is a sentence prefix to introduce questions; and in popular speech we find another empty word, namely ti (see, among other scholars, G. Paris, Mélanges ling. 276). The origin of this ti is very curious. While the t of Latin amat, etc., coming after a vowel, disappeared at a very early period of the French language, and so produced il aime, etc., the same t was kept in Old French wherever a consonant protected it,[88] and so gave the forms est, sont, fait (from fact, for facit), font, chantent, etc. From est-il, fait-il, etc., the t was then by analogy reintroduced in aime-t-il, instead of the earlier aime il. Now, towards the end of the Middle Ages, French final consonants were as a rule dropped in speech, except when followed immediately by a word beginning with a vowel. Consequently, while t is mute in sentences like ‘Ton frère dit | Tes frères disent,’ it is sounded in the corresponding questions, ‘Ton frère dit-il? Tes frères disent-ils?’ As the final consonants of il and ils are also generally dropped, even by educated speakers, the difference between interrogatory and declarative sentences in the spoken language depends solely on the addition of ti to the verb: written phonetically, the pairs will be:
[tɔ̃ frɛ·r di—tɔ̃ frɛ·r di ti]
[te frɛ·r di·z—te frɛ·r di·z ti].
Now, popular instinct seizes upon this ti as a convenient sign of interrogative sentences, and, forgetting its origin, uses it even with a feminine subject, turning ‘Ta sœur di(t)’ into the question ‘Ta sœur di ti?’, and in the first person: ‘Je di ti?’ ‘Nous dison ti?’ ‘Je vous fais-ti tort?’ (Maupassant). In novels this is often written as if it were the adverb y: C’est-y pas vrai? | Je suis t’y bête! | C’est-y vous le monsieur de l’Académie qui va avoir cent ans? (Daudet). I have dwelt on this point because, besides showing the interest of many problems of word order, it also throws some light on the sometimes unexpected ways by which languages must often travel to arrive at new expressions for grammatical categories.
It was mentioned above that the inverted order, Verb-Subject, is used extensively, not only in questions, but also to express wishes and invitations. Here, too, we find in English compromises with the usual order, Subject-Verb. For, apart from such formulas as ‘Long live the King!’ a wish is generally expressed by means of may, which is placed first, while the real verb comes after the subject: ‘May she be happy!’, and instead of the old ‘Go we!’ we have now ‘Let us go!’ with us, the virtual subject, placed before the real verb. When a pronoun is wanted with an imperative, it used to be placed after the verb, as in Shakespeare: ‘Stand thou forth’ and ‘Fear not thou,’ or in the Bible: ‘Turn ye unto him,’ but now the usual order has prevailed: ‘You try!’ ‘You take that seat, and somebody fetch a few more chairs!’ But if the auxiliary do is used, we have the compromise order: ‘Don’t you stir!’
XVIII.—§ 12. Order Beneficial?
I have here selected one point, the place of the subject, to illustrate the growing regularity in word order; but the same tendency is manifested in other fields as well: the place of the object (or of two objects, if we have an indirect besides a direct object), the place of the adjunct adjective, the place of a subordinate adverb, which by coming regularly before a certain case may become a preposition ‘governing’ that case, etc. It cannot be denied that the tendency towards a more regular word order is universal, and in accordance with the general trend of this inquiry we must next ask the question: Is this tendency a beneficial one? Does the more regular word order found in recent stages of our languages constitute a progress in linguistic structure? Or should it be deplored because it hinders freedom of movement?
In answering this question we must first of all beware of letting our judgment be run away with by the word ‘freedom.’ Because freedom is desirable elsewhere, it does not follow that it should be the best thing in this domain; just as above we did not allow ourselves to be imposed on by the phrase ‘wealth of forms,’ so here we must be on our guard against the word ‘free’: what if we turned the question in another way: Which is preferable, order or disorder? It may be true that, viewed exclusively from the standpoint of the speaker, freedom would seem to be a great advantage, as it is a restraint to him to be obliged to follow strict rules; but an orderly arrangement is decidedly in the interest of the hearer, as it very considerably facilitates his understanding of what is said; it is therefore, though indirectly, in the interest of the speaker too, because he naturally speaks for the purpose of being understood. Besides, he is soon in his turn to become the hearer: as no one is exclusively hearer or speaker, there can be no real conflict of interest between the two.
If it be urged in favour of a free word order that we owe a certain regard to the interests of poets, it must be taken into consideration, first, that we cannot all of us be poets, and that a regard to all those of us who resemble Molière’s M. Jourdain in speaking prose without being aware of it is perhaps, after all, more important than a regard for those very few who are in the enviable position of writing readable verse; secondly, that a statistical investigation would, no doubt, give as its result that those poets who make the most extensive use of inversions are not among the greatest of their craft; and, finally, that so many methods are found of neutralizing the restraint of word order, in the shape of particles, passive voice, different constructions of sentences, etc., that no artist in language need despair.
So far, we have scarcely done more than clear the ground before answering our question. And now we must recognize that there are some rules of word order which cannot be called beneficial in any way; they are like certain rules of etiquette, in so far as one can see no reason for their existence, and yet one is obliged to bow to them. Historians may, in some cases, be able to account for their origin and show that they had a raison d’être at some remote period; but the circumstances that called them into existence then have passed away, and they are now felt to be restraints with no concurrent advantage to reconcile us to their observance. Among rules of this class we may reckon those for placing the French pronouns now before, and now after, the verb, now with the dative and now with the accusative first, ‘elle me le donne | elle le lui donne | donnez-le moi | ne me le donnez pas.’ And, again, the rules for placing the verb, object, etc., in German subordinate clauses otherwise than in main sentences. That the latter rules are defective and are inferior to the English rules, which are the same for the two kinds of sentences, was pointed out before, when we examined Johannson’s German sentences (p. [341]), but here we may state that the real, innermost reason for condemning them is their inconsistency: the same rule does not apply in all cases. It seems possible to establish the important principle that the more consistent a rule for word order is, the more useful it is in the economy of speech, not only as facilitating the understanding of what is said, but also as rendering possible certain thoroughgoing changes in linguistic structure.