had been with his men. No one was snoring when Lady Darley finished. The applause that rang out was fervent, and her colour was high—although curiously there was no sign of tears in her eyes.
After the room had cleared, I approached Miss Sato. “I’d like to put my name down for borrowing the Murasaki book,” I told her. It had been claimed within seconds of the talk’s end.
“Certainly,” she said. “But in the meantime, this is for you.” She handed me a small, cheaply printed booklet called “A Travel-Worn Rucksack.” “I saw it in a stall in Singapore, and thought you might enjoy it.”
I opened it, and read:
Kono michi ya
Yuku hito nashi ni
Aki no kure .
All along the road
Not a person is walking .
Just autumn’s evening .
“The first poem is one of the last Bashō wrote. The rest of the book concerns a trip he made along the Kisokaido Road, that still connects the Shogun’s capital, Edo—now Tokyo—with the Imperial capital of Kyoto. For Bashō, the road was both a way of life and a … how you say, paradox?”
“Paradigm?” Although paradox, too, perhaps.
“Paradigm, yes. In Buddhism, the road and the Way are the same.”
“That is true in other religions as well,” I told her. “In the Christian Bible, Jesus calls himself ‘The Way.’ Literally, the path.”
“You have an interest in religion, Mrs Russell?”
“It is my area of academic interest. Mostly Western religion, but I look forward to seeing something of the East as well.”
Miss Sato smiled. “You will find Shinto and Buddhism difficult to miss, in Japan.”
I thanked her for the book, and went in search of my own partner on the Way.
“Lady Darley did have to explain it a bit, for the Japanese speakers,” I was telling Holmes, later that afternoon. He had been in the Marconi room catching up on the latest in wireless technology—for once, his clothes were not impregnated with coal dust. “Although the thing that confused them most was, who is Harry? She ended up admitting she didn’t know how the English get ‘Harry’ or ‘Hal’ out of ‘Henry.’ ”
“Not being an expert in Medieval English,” Holmes commented. “But overall, you got the impression of her distress being something by way of a performance?”
“Not performance, exactly, although eight years is a long time to mourn a cousin. I would say that the emotions themselves might be genuine, but she does not care to lay them out for the appraisal of hoi polloi .”
“Although she will present them in a manner suitable for her audience.”
“Many women hide behind a public face, Holmes. Particularly women who marry into a position.”
The third overheard conversation took place following tea that same afternoon, when I carried the day’s grammar notes to a quiet corner where I might enfold a few more verbs into my brain. The sun deck, up at the top, tended to be less popular in the heat of the day, and even when the sun was going down, it was still too exposed for anyone who wanted to be fresh for dinner. Still, there was a shelter, and some of those chairs were free. I chose one near a trio of older women, who were sure to go down to change for dinner soon, leaving me in peace.
I greeted them politely, took the furthest-away chair to indicate that I was not actually joining them, and settled down with my notes.
Their voices quieted politely for a few minutes, but it was only a matter of time before a mosquito-buzz of a voice rose above the endless grumble of the engines, the sing of the wires, and the flutter of the flags overhead, drilling itself into my ear and pushing aside the verbs.
“… my dear husband, on one of his trips to Manhattan—or was it Chicago? Or maybe Philadelphia. Oh, he took so many trips, he used to joke that it was the only way he could get away from my voice, what a jester the man was, it made him friends all over! What was I saying?”
“Your hand-mirror.”
“Of course! Silly me, the mirror . So
After the room had cleared, I approached Miss Sato. “I’d like to put my name down for borrowing the Murasaki book,” I told her. It had been claimed within seconds of the talk’s end.
“Certainly,” she said. “But in the meantime, this is for you.” She handed me a small, cheaply printed booklet called “A Travel-Worn Rucksack.” “I saw it in a stall in Singapore, and thought you might enjoy it.”
I opened it, and read:
Kono michi ya
Yuku hito nashi ni
Aki no kure .
All along the road
Not a person is walking .
Just autumn’s evening .
“The first poem is one of the last Bashō wrote. The rest of the book concerns a trip he made along the Kisokaido Road, that still connects the Shogun’s capital, Edo—now Tokyo—with the Imperial capital of Kyoto. For Bashō, the road was both a way of life and a … how you say, paradox?”
“Paradigm?” Although paradox, too, perhaps.
“Paradigm, yes. In Buddhism, the road and the Way are the same.”
“That is true in other religions as well,” I told her. “In the Christian Bible, Jesus calls himself ‘The Way.’ Literally, the path.”
“You have an interest in religion, Mrs Russell?”
“It is my area of academic interest. Mostly Western religion, but I look forward to seeing something of the East as well.”
Miss Sato smiled. “You will find Shinto and Buddhism difficult to miss, in Japan.”
I thanked her for the book, and went in search of my own partner on the Way.
“Lady Darley did have to explain it a bit, for the Japanese speakers,” I was telling Holmes, later that afternoon. He had been in the Marconi room catching up on the latest in wireless technology—for once, his clothes were not impregnated with coal dust. “Although the thing that confused them most was, who is Harry? She ended up admitting she didn’t know how the English get ‘Harry’ or ‘Hal’ out of ‘Henry.’ ”
“Not being an expert in Medieval English,” Holmes commented. “But overall, you got the impression of her distress being something by way of a performance?”
“Not performance, exactly, although eight years is a long time to mourn a cousin. I would say that the emotions themselves might be genuine, but she does not care to lay them out for the appraisal of hoi polloi .”
“Although she will present them in a manner suitable for her audience.”
“Many women hide behind a public face, Holmes. Particularly women who marry into a position.”
The third overheard conversation took place following tea that same afternoon, when I carried the day’s grammar notes to a quiet corner where I might enfold a few more verbs into my brain. The sun deck, up at the top, tended to be less popular in the heat of the day, and even when the sun was going down, it was still too exposed for anyone who wanted to be fresh for dinner. Still, there was a shelter, and some of those chairs were free. I chose one near a trio of older women, who were sure to go down to change for dinner soon, leaving me in peace.
I greeted them politely, took the furthest-away chair to indicate that I was not actually joining them, and settled down with my notes.
Their voices quieted politely for a few minutes, but it was only a matter of time before a mosquito-buzz of a voice rose above the endless grumble of the engines, the sing of the wires, and the flutter of the flags overhead, drilling itself into my ear and pushing aside the verbs.
“… my dear husband, on one of his trips to Manhattan—or was it Chicago? Or maybe Philadelphia. Oh, he took so many trips, he used to joke that it was the only way he could get away from my voice, what a jester the man was, it made him friends all over! What was I saying?”
“Your hand-mirror.”
“Of course! Silly me, the mirror . So
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