Last name, Mr

   The ‘Mr’ was formerly an abbreviation of ‘Master’. Between the late sixteenth century and the beginning of the eighteenth century the pronunciation of ‘Master’ when used before a family name slowly changed to ‘Mister’, and a new word was created, used as a prefixed social title for any man not entitled to be addressed by a superior social or professional title. There is a comment in Fowler’s Modern English Usage to the effect that:

   In Victorian days as soon as a girl put her hair up and wore long skirts and a boy went into tails they became Miss Jones and Mr Smith; and quite a long apprenticeship, perhaps even formal permission, was needed before they were Mary and John to each other.

   This was equally true of the eighteenth century. Sophia Western, in Fielding’s Tom Jones, may be in love with Tom, but she still addresses him as Mr Jones. Such usage may have continued after their marriage. In Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, Mr and Mrs Shandy address each other by those terms. In Oliver Goldsmith’s She Stoops to Conquer, Mrs Hardcastle resolutely addresses her husband as Mr Hardcastle, though he uses Dorothy to her. She quite clearly considers the more formal manner to be socially correct and fashionable, but there is also the point that when one has become used to addressing a person in a certain way, it can be difficult to change to something else. Mr Knightley and Emma, in Jane Austen’s Emma, discuss the subject after they have declared their love for one another:

   ‘You always called me “Mr Knightley”, and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound. And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what.’

   ‘I remember once calling you “George”, in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again.’

   ‘And cannot you call me “George” now?’

   ‘Impossible! I can never call you anything but “Mr Knightley”. I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs Elton, by calling you Mr K. But I will promise,’ she added presently, laughing and blushing, ‘I will promise to call you once by your Christian name.’

   Emma is thinking of the moment when she will say: ‘I, Emma, take thee, George, etc.’ Men do seem to have found it easier to use a woman’s first name. In The Pickwick Papers, by Charles Dickens, Mr Tupman draws his lady-love into a corner and begins: ‘Miss Wardle! you are an angel.’ After further declarations of this kind he says: ‘Oh, Rachael! say you love me.’ ‘Mr Tupman,’ says Rachael, ‘I can hardly speak the words: but - but - you are not wholly indifferent to me.’

   All the above examples concern middleclass speakers. These manners would have been imitated by upward-looking workingclass families, anxious to be thought higher in the social scale than perhaps they were, but other families would have used first names freely, both to their own sex and between the sexes. When Fagin tries to address Bill Sikes as Mr Sikes, in Dickens’s Oliver Twist, the latter is highly suspicious. ‘None of your mistering,’ he tells Fagin. ‘You always mean mischief when you come that. You know my name: out with it.’

   In the present century there has been a steady decrease in the use of ‘Mr’ + last name as a form of address. In Our Man in Havana, Graham Greene says: ‘It was typical of Dr Hasselbacher that after fifteen years of friendship, he still used the prefix Mr - friendship proceeded with the slowness and assurance of a careful diagnosis.’ This is, in fact, unusual, since male friends would more normally have used one another’s last names without the prefix before first names began to be generally used. The latter were used socially in the USA before the habit spread to Britain. James Purdy, in Eustace Chisholm and the Works, has: ‘“Well, do you want me to move out, Mr Haws?” Amos Ratcliffe said. “Mr Haws, chicken shit!” he roared at the boy. “Don’t you talk up smart to me, you little snot. You’ll Daniel me or you’ll call me nothing.”’ This is an extreme reaction, similar to that of Bill Sikes. An invitation to use the first name would normally be couched in gentler terms, or a speaker who wished to use a first name might check that it was all right to do so. ‘Do you mind that I call you Aaron?’ asks a man in Aaron’s Rod, by D. H.Lawrence. ‘Not at all,’ replies Aaron, ‘I hate Misters, always.’ ‘Yes, so do I. I like one name only.’

   In business circles the situation could be rather different. Until very recent times the form of address used by the director of a company to his male employees might indicate with some precision their position in the hierarchy. In Oneupmanship, Stephen Potter suggested that Michael Yates would be Mike if he were a fellow-director, Michael if assistant director, Mr Yates if sectional manager, Yates if sectional assistant, Michael if an apprentice and Mike if night-watchman. Though meant humorously, Potter was making a serious point. Those in the middle of a professional hierarchy valued the politeness of the ‘Mr’. Iris Murdoch makes the same point in The Word Child:

   Skinker, the messenger, came in. He was the only person in the office who called me ‘Mr Burde’. The downstairs porters despised me and called me nothing. I was ‘Burde’ (or sometimes ‘Hilary’) for ordinary purposes. Skinker’s ‘Mr’ was a tender attention which I appreciated.

   Distinctions of this kind may still be made in some very traditional professional circles, but there has, on the whole, been a move towards the universal use of first names at all levels, except in sensitive circumstances.

   Such circumstances might involve, for example, a white man addressing a black American. In the days of slavery the latter would never have been dignified as ‘Mr’ + last name: he was ‘boy’, or ‘uncle’ when old. He was obliged to do the mistering to white males, even when the latter were very young.

   In The Web and the Rock, Thomas Wolfe has a Negro addressing some twelve-year-old white boys as Mr Crane, Mr Potterham, Mr Webber, etc. This, says Wolfe, ‘pleased them immensely, gave them a feeling of mature importance and authority’. This might be true, though the ‘Mr’ was being used, of course, because of the speaker’s circumstances. It is a different matter in Arnold Bennett’s Clayhanger, where a boy who has just left school is addressed as ‘Mr’ instead of ‘Master’ for the first time, to mark his adult status. The situation for American blacks has changed, as a passage in Chesapeake, by James A.Michener, illustrates very well:

   ‘Mr Cater, we’d really like to have you…’

   ‘Name’s Absalom.’

   ‘Goddamnit!’ Steed snapped. ‘I spent thirty years in Oklahoma disciplining myself to call you sons-ofbitches Mister. What do you want to be called? Negro, black, coloured - you name it.’ Absalom laughed. ‘My problem is to discipline myself to stop callin’ you white-asses Mister. Now what in hell do you want, Steed?’

   Steed here is doing what any reasonably sensitive speaker would do - using a polite form to a hearer who might interpret a too-ready use of a first name as condescension. In all such situations in real life it is probably better to admit the problem and ask the hearer how he wishes to be addressed. There is a special professional use of ‘Mr’ + last name in British medical circles, discussed under Doctor. In Whisky Galore, by Compton Mackenzie, there is mention of a special reason for a speaker’s reverting to ‘Mr’ + last name when he normally uses a first name: ‘Extreme formality was always a sign that Alec Mackinnon was carrying a good load.’ Perhaps this is akin to the cautious movements made by someone who has drunk too much.

   In modern times, ‘caution’ rather sums up the rule for using the ‘Mr’ + last name form of address to a man encountered socially or professionally. If the hearer does not want or need such formality, he can say so without embarrassment, suggesting a friendlier form. Demanding a politer form of address is far more difficult. The man concerned may not do so, but if the form of address causes an underlying resentment, it will do the relationship little good.