A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [56]
She did it laboriously, but correctly. “Anthropos; anēr; gunē.”
“Good. In English, we use the word man to translate both anthropos, “human being,” and anēr, a “male person.” Gunē is woman, the counterpart of anēr. Most of the time it is obvious which is meant, and occasionally one finds in Greek anēr when one might expect anthropos, and vice versa, but it is good to keep in mind, for example, the fact that Jesus is called the Son of Humanity, not the Son of a Man.”
We worked on this for a while and I gave her a Greek Testament to use. We talked briefly about the difference between gender and sex, but since she was fairly fluent in French, I could pass lightly over that issue.
It was a stimulating ninety minutes, and I found, as I had expected, that Margery had a quick mind and an acute ear for theological subtleties, as well as having the determination necessary to overcome her lack of training. She might never compete with an Oxford scholar, but she might communicate with one.
That first session unavoidably served largely to point out to Margery her ignorance. She watched me slide my books into my case, a subdued and almost wistful look on her face.
“It’s quite hopeless, isn’t it, Mary?” she said with a rueful laugh. “I feel like a child who’s just discovered sweets, standing at the sweet-shop window. I’ll never have it all.”
“It’s hardly an all-or-nothing proposition, Margery. And remember Akiva—you can at least read.”
* * *
ELEVEN
Monday, 3 January-
Saturday, 8 January
Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions,
match’d with mine,
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water
unto wine.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)
« ^ »
I had to wait for a bath at the Vicissitude, and instead of the long, hot soak I had hoped to indulge in, I merely cleaned myself, jabbed the pins back into my hair, and dropped the embroidered suit back over my head. I was more fortunate with a taxi, which appeared only moments after I stepped onto the pavement, and it ducked and slid with ease through the lesser byways to the restaurant (which was not actually called “Dominic’s,” that being a pet name adopted by Holmes based on the proprietor’s name, which was Masters.)
The maître d’ recognized me (or perhaps he gave that impression to everyone) and escorted me to the table that had been reserved for Holmes. I declined his offer of drink and looked around me. The restaurant had suffered a brief period of popularity the previous year, but the tide had washed on, assisted, no doubt, by Masters’s refusal to serve cocktails, provide dinner music, or offer unlikely foreign dishes on his menu.
Holmes came in, in one great shake shedding his overcoat, stick, hat, scarf, and gloves onto Masters’s arms, and began to thread his way through the tables towards me. His bones were aching, I thought as I watched him approach, and when he came closer, the contrast between my mood and the gaunt grey exhaustion carved into his face hit me like a slap.
“Holmes,” I blurted out, “you look dreadful!”
“I am sorry, Russell, that my appearance offends,” he said dryly. “I did stop to shave and change my shirt.”
“No, it’s not that; you look fine. Just… quiet,” I said inadequately. Only profound exhaustion, not just physical but spiritual, could so dim the normal nervous hum of the man’s movements and voice.
“Ah, well, we cannot have that. I shall assume an air of raucous and disruptive behavior, if it makes you happy. However, I should like to eat first, if I may?” I felt reassured. If he could be rude, he was reviving.
He lowered himself into the chair and offered me a weary smile. “You, on the other hand, appear almost ostentatiously pleased with life.” I sat under his unblinking gaze for a long minute and saw some of the lines in his face relax their hold. “Am I to take it that your majority agrees with you?”
“I believe it will. Holmes, where have you been?”