humor.
“The other day,” he remarked, “a man called Beauchamp Blowlamp came to see me with an introduction from you.”
“Ah, did he? Beauchamp’s an uncommonly honest person, but, as he is also somewhat odd, I was afraid that he might make himself a nuisance to you. However, since he had pressed me so hard to be introduced to you. . .”
“Not especially a nuisance. . .”
“Didn’t he, during his visit, go on at length about his name?”
“No, I don’t recall him doing so.”
“No? He’s got a habit at first meeting of expatiating upon the singularity of his name.”
“What is the nature of that singularity?” butts in Waverhouse, who has been waiting for something to happen.
“He gets terribly upset if someone pronounces Beauchamp as Beecham.”
“Odd!” said Waverhouse, taking a pinch of tobacco from his gold-painted, leather tobacco pouch.
“Invariably he makes the immediate point that his name is not Beecham Blowlamp but Bo-champ Blowlamp.”
“That’s strange,” and Waverhouse inhales pricey tobacco-smoke deep into his stomach.
“It comes entirely from his craze for literature. He likes the effect and is inexplicably proud of the fact that his personal name and his family name can be made to rhyme with each other. That’s why when one pronounces Beauchamp incorrectly, he grumbles that one does not appreciate what he is trying to get across.”
“He certainly is extraordinary.” Getting more and more interested, Waverhouse hauls back the pipe smoke from the bottom of his stomach to let it loose at his nostrils. The smoke gets lost en route and seems to be snagged in his gullet. Transferring the pipe to his hand, he coughs chokingly.
“When he was here the other day, he said he’d taken the part of a boatman at a meeting of his Reading Society, and that he’d gotten himself laughed at by a gaggle of schoolgirls,” says my master with a laugh.
“Ah, that’s it, I remember.” Waverhouse taps his pipe upon his knees.
This strikes me as likely to prove dangerous, so I move a little way farther off. “That Reading Society, now. The other day when I treated him to moat-bells, he mentioned it. He said they were going to make their second meeting a grand affair by inviting well-known literary men, and he cordially invited me to attend. When I asked him if they would again try another of Chikamatsu’s dramas of popular life, he said no and that they’d decided on a fairly modern play, The Golden Demon . I asked him what role he would take and he said, ‘I’m going to play O-miya.’
Beauchamp as O-miya would certainly be worth seeing. I’m determined to attend the meeting in his support.”
“It’s going to be interesting, I think,” says Coldmoon and he laughs in an odd way.
“But he is so thoroughly sincere, which is good, and has no hint of frivolousness about him. Quite different from Waverhouse, for instance.” My master is revenged for Andrea del Sarto, for peacocks’ tongues, and for moat-bells all in one go. Waverhouse appears to take no notice of the remark.
“Ah well, when all’s said and done, I’m nothing but a chopping board at Gyōtoku.”
“Yes, that’s about it,” observes my master, although in fact he does not understand Waverhouse’s involved method of describing himself as a highly sophisticated simpleton. But not for nothing has he been so many years a schoolteacher. He is skilled in prevarication, and his long experience in the classrooms can be usefully applied at such awkward moments in his social life.
“What is a chopping board at Gyōtoku?” asks the guileless Coldmoon.
My master looks toward the alcove and pulverizes that chopping board at Gyōtoku by saying, “Those narcissi are lasting well. I bought them on my way home from the public baths toward the end of last year.”
“Which reminds me,” says Waverhouse, twirling his pipe, “that at the end of last year I had a really most extraordinary experience.”
“Tell us
“The other day,” he remarked, “a man called Beauchamp Blowlamp came to see me with an introduction from you.”
“Ah, did he? Beauchamp’s an uncommonly honest person, but, as he is also somewhat odd, I was afraid that he might make himself a nuisance to you. However, since he had pressed me so hard to be introduced to you. . .”
“Not especially a nuisance. . .”
“Didn’t he, during his visit, go on at length about his name?”
“No, I don’t recall him doing so.”
“No? He’s got a habit at first meeting of expatiating upon the singularity of his name.”
“What is the nature of that singularity?” butts in Waverhouse, who has been waiting for something to happen.
“He gets terribly upset if someone pronounces Beauchamp as Beecham.”
“Odd!” said Waverhouse, taking a pinch of tobacco from his gold-painted, leather tobacco pouch.
“Invariably he makes the immediate point that his name is not Beecham Blowlamp but Bo-champ Blowlamp.”
“That’s strange,” and Waverhouse inhales pricey tobacco-smoke deep into his stomach.
“It comes entirely from his craze for literature. He likes the effect and is inexplicably proud of the fact that his personal name and his family name can be made to rhyme with each other. That’s why when one pronounces Beauchamp incorrectly, he grumbles that one does not appreciate what he is trying to get across.”
“He certainly is extraordinary.” Getting more and more interested, Waverhouse hauls back the pipe smoke from the bottom of his stomach to let it loose at his nostrils. The smoke gets lost en route and seems to be snagged in his gullet. Transferring the pipe to his hand, he coughs chokingly.
“When he was here the other day, he said he’d taken the part of a boatman at a meeting of his Reading Society, and that he’d gotten himself laughed at by a gaggle of schoolgirls,” says my master with a laugh.
“Ah, that’s it, I remember.” Waverhouse taps his pipe upon his knees.
This strikes me as likely to prove dangerous, so I move a little way farther off. “That Reading Society, now. The other day when I treated him to moat-bells, he mentioned it. He said they were going to make their second meeting a grand affair by inviting well-known literary men, and he cordially invited me to attend. When I asked him if they would again try another of Chikamatsu’s dramas of popular life, he said no and that they’d decided on a fairly modern play, The Golden Demon . I asked him what role he would take and he said, ‘I’m going to play O-miya.’
Beauchamp as O-miya would certainly be worth seeing. I’m determined to attend the meeting in his support.”
“It’s going to be interesting, I think,” says Coldmoon and he laughs in an odd way.
“But he is so thoroughly sincere, which is good, and has no hint of frivolousness about him. Quite different from Waverhouse, for instance.” My master is revenged for Andrea del Sarto, for peacocks’ tongues, and for moat-bells all in one go. Waverhouse appears to take no notice of the remark.
“Ah well, when all’s said and done, I’m nothing but a chopping board at Gyōtoku.”
“Yes, that’s about it,” observes my master, although in fact he does not understand Waverhouse’s involved method of describing himself as a highly sophisticated simpleton. But not for nothing has he been so many years a schoolteacher. He is skilled in prevarication, and his long experience in the classrooms can be usefully applied at such awkward moments in his social life.
“What is a chopping board at Gyōtoku?” asks the guileless Coldmoon.
My master looks toward the alcove and pulverizes that chopping board at Gyōtoku by saying, “Those narcissi are lasting well. I bought them on my way home from the public baths toward the end of last year.”
“Which reminds me,” says Waverhouse, twirling his pipe, “that at the end of last year I had a really most extraordinary experience.”
“Tell us
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