TWO HICCUPS AND A SNEEZE
I was preparing to give a talk at wonderful Orchard House, the amazing and magical half-house half-museum in Concord, Massachusetts, dedicated to Louisa May Alcott and her extraordinary family, and during the course of it was planning to mention Louisa’s friend Ladislas Wisniewski, a young Polish soldier whom she met while she was traveling in Switzerland in 1865, with whom she might, or then again might not, have had a romance, and who might, or then again might not, have been the model for Little Women’s ultimate teen dreamboat, the eternally swoonable Laurie.
reproduced by permission of Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House
Louisa herself, who was a merry soul, was much amused by Ladislas’, to her, outlandish name, which she described as “two hiccups and a sneeze,” and promptly shortened to Laddie. I happen to be fairly comfortable with Polish surnames myself, because there were a number of Polish girls at my Catholic school in London, daughters of families who had fled the Communist régime, and so was more or less confident of how Wisniewski should be pronounced; but as the date of the speech approached, I thought it would do no harm to check with an expert, so called my old schoolfriend, Kasia, to confirm.
“Can I ask you a favor?” I said, having established that she, and her husband, and her daughters, and her sister, and her sister’s sons, and her mother, and I, and Mr. Los Angeles, and my brothers, and my brothers’ families, and all of the schoolfriends with whom we were both separately and jointly in touch, and the former Sister Mary Campion, everyone’s favorite nun, who had left the Order and got married, and my cousin Philip, with whom Kasia had had a dalliance when they were both in the Sixth Form, were all in more or less the same state of health as when we had last spoken. “Can I check with you on how to pronounce a Polish name?”
“Of course,” said Kasia, who is a kind and generous person, and a teacher by profession, to boot. “What’s the name?”
“Thank you,” I said. “Next week, I’m giving a speech on Louisa May Alcott, who once made friends with a young man called Ladislas …”
From the telephone issued the mournful ululation of a throat scrabbling deep into the lowermost reaches of the lungs, as of a heartbroken Slav yearning for the Vistula while simultaneously attempting to eject a large fragment of wrongly swallowed hot buttered crumpet.
“Excuse me?” I said, surprised, because Kasia is a mild-mannered woman and not usually given to extravagant utterances.
The sound repeated itself.
“Are you all right, Kasia?” I asked, because it is a far cry from Los Angeles to Muswell Hill, and if medical help should turn out to be required, then I would need to find a way to summon it immediately.
“That's how you say it,” said Kasia.
“Say what?” I said. And hastily, before she could make the sound again, “Ladislas?”
“Yes,” she said. “You see, the 'w' at the beginning is pronounced 'v’ …”
There was a “w” at the beginning of Ladislas?
“And there's supposed to be a line through the first 'l,” she continued, “' which makes it 'chghl' like the Welsh double ell.”
Now we were talking. My grandmother was half-Welsh.
“Chghl,” I repeated.
“Right,” she said. “Chghl.”
I allowed myself a quiet preen.
“And then,” she said, “the 'w' at the end ...”
There was a “w” at the end of Ladislas?
“... is pronounced 'v' again. Vrchghlodishlov.”
I sat for a moment, digesting this.
“Chghlaadyshlav?” I attempted.
“Vrchghlodishlov,” she repeated.
“Chghludishluv?” I tried.
Kasia’s pupils adore her, and with good reason.
“Vrchghlodishlov,” she reiterated, without betraying even the hint of a desire to reach through the telephone, grab the larynx of her former school friend in Los Angeles, and shake it until the correct sound had been formed.
Nevertheless, I know when I am beaten.
“Thank you very much, Kasia,” I said. “I'll practice.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
But we did agree I had Wisniewski right, which was something.
For more information on Orchard House, click here: https://louisamayalcott.org/