Henry Gladstone was sitting in the office of the director of the Christian Missionary Society, discussing a project for a new Indian translation of the Bible. He had previously been a Classics scholar at Oxford, but had married into a little bit of money, and was now, in the fall of 1835, a gentleman of leisure, passing his time as an amateur philologist. He was a regular at the Philological Society meetings at London University.

The door to the office was open, so he could overhear something that was going on in the hallway outside. It caught his attention because it sounded, well, philological. Multiple languages being spoken, with apparently no common understanding. He walked over to the open door for a look, accompanied by the director. There he saw a beautiful, dark-haired young woman, dressed in what could only be described as a noble woman’s formal attire from the Caucasus. What had first caught his attention was hearing her calmly say, “Adyghe.”

“Who is she?” he asked the director.

“Oh, she’s just come to us from the Royal Navy at Portsmouth. Brought here by a lieutenant. Seems she was some sort of Circassian noble woman, whose family was killed by Russian Cossacks. She was captured by Turk slavers and was on her way to be sold to a harem in Constantinople, when the navy rescued her. She’s an orphan now, so the British captain brought her back to England, and has asked us to take her in – you know, teach her English and Christianity, and find a proper role for her in society.”

“What language does she speak now?”

“Oh, that’s the problem. We have no idea. When she speaks, it sounds so strange – not like any language anyone here can recognize.”

“Hmm. She hardly looks like a refugee, dressed like that. She seems very calm and composed, and when she speaks, she does so softly, as if she fully understands the language problem.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that too, Henry. A young orphan surviving a traumatic fate such as hers would normally be very fearful, and either pleading in her native language, or just going mute and unresponsive. You first have to earn their trust, then slowly teach them to speak. But she seems to know the score.”

At that point, one of the men in the hall asked her something in Greek, and she calmly shook her head and replied, “Adyghe.”

“Adyghe!” Henry said (though it didn’t sound quite like how she said it). “There’s your problem, Cornelius. I thought I heard her say that earlier. Not many people know about that language. It’s apparently indigenous to Circassia. Has no written form.”

“Can you understand it, Henry?”

“No. I’ve never even heard it, until now. I’ve just heard of it. Full of very percussive consonants.”

“Might you know of someone who could speak it? That would be very helpful here.”

“No one on this side of the world. You’d have to go all the way to the Black Sea before you could find a speaker.”

“I see. That will make this transition difficult, won’t it. How do you teach someone a new language, when you can’t even talk to them in their own language?

“Well, you can’t. They’d have to learn it by immersion, the way a child learns their first language.”

The two gentlemen then lapsed into a brief silence, while Henry observed the young woman in the hallway. After another attempt to communicate, this time in Russian, and her calm rejoinder of “Adyghe,” she looked around for something that she didn’t see. Then she focused on an empty glass sitting on a small table.

“Water?” she asked, with perfect upperclass Victorian intonation. The attendants in the hall all looked at each other in surprise.

“Water! She wants water!”

Henry was impressed. She not only knew the English word, but she pronounced it just like a proper Englishman. He quickly pivoted and fetched a water pitcher and an empty glass that had been sitting, so far unused, on the director’s desk. He poured her a glass, which she graciously accepted. She was apparently quite dehydrated.

“This is extraordinary, Cornelius. She probably learned ‘water’ on the British frigate. We might have expected that. But to be able to duplicate the accent of British officers, at her age, is extraordinary. Very few adults can do this. You generally lose the ability to absorb foreign accents after childhood.”

Then he had an idea.

“Tell you what, Cornelius. If it’s acceptable to the Society, I would be willing to adopt her as my ward. I could teach her English via immersion, and learn Adyghe from her in the process. She needs a language tutor like me, and I need a native Adyghe speaker. She is clearly very bright.”

“Am I hearing this right, Henry? You would assume total responsibility for her upbringing and education, and her conversion to Anglican Christianity? She’s not already Christian, is she?”

“Don’t really know. I think the indigenous Circassian religion is animistic. But they are surrounded by Islam from Turkey, and by Orthodox Christianity from Georgia. So it could be any of those. But yes. I would make her part of my family, and eventually part of British society. Total responsibility.”

“That’s very generous of you, Henry. Let me see what Mrs. Worthington thinks about this.”

The director then went down the hall to fetch Mrs. Worthington. When he returned, he invited her, Henry, and the young woman to take a seat in his office, and shut the door.

He began. “Gladys, we may have a solution for the Circassian girl. Henry, here, is aware of the language she speaks, and informs me that we are not likely to find a translator for it in western Europe. So she would have to learn English the hard way – like children learn their first language. We’re not very well equipped to do that here. He has proposed to take full responsibility for her education – to adopt her as his ward and take her into his own household. What do you think?”

“That sounds very generous, Henry. How thoughtful.”

Then she looked at the young woman, and back at Henry, and said, “I think what Cornelius meant to say was that you and your wife would adopt her into your household. Is that correct?”

Henry paused for a moment of reflection. He could have meant that. There was a sense in which this was true. But disambiguation of the sense would be difficult. He wasn’t sure how he could explain that. And at this moment, he was not particularly comfortable doing that. So he answered, simply, “Yes.”

“Well, this seems like a proper solution, then. I agree. Will you be taking her back to Oxford straight away, then?”

“Yes, I suppose. I hadn’t really thought that through yet. Unless there’s still something more to be done here.”

Mrs. Worthington looked at the young woman again, then said, “You must be aware that she will be quite a provocative sight traveling with a gentleman – particularly in that outfit. People will wonder what’s going on.”

“What’s wrong with her outfit?” Henry inquired.

“Oh, only that it’s so different than what an English gentlewoman would wear. It is very form-flattering on the top, I must say. But ironically, it’s more modest than what our own ladies are wearing these days, with all their bare necks and shoulders. I would prefer she wear what she has now, from a modesty point of view, but it will certainly stand out.”

“What are you suggesting, Gladys?” Cornelius asked.

“Just that Henry should consider booking the entire set of seats inside the coach. That way, she will have some privacy from prying eyes, and there will be a lot less for him to explain.”

“Good idea, Gladys. I’ll do just that,” Henry concurred.

The young woman could tell that the discussion was largely about her. They all kept glancing over at her as they made their points to each other. She observed the same sort of British reserve that she had seen among the naval officers, but it was more informal with mixed company. These were not warriors. They did not wear uniforms. Her introduction to England, she realized, had been colored by its male military beginnings, with its strict military hierarchy. Now that she was in mixed, civilian company, everyone was wearing the clothing of the coach travelers she had seen over the past two days. And men and women spoke with some ease to each other. It was still polite, but much more friendly, direct, and informal than in Adyghe culture. She had already begun to shed her Adyghe Khabze instincts. She was willing to fit into this new culture, so she was trying to take note of these social cues.

At the conclusion of the meeting, the British all stood up, shaking hands in what appeared to be “goodbye” gestures. Then, when the door was opened, the man who had brought her water took her hand, not unlike how the lieutenant had, and led her out of the building. She had felt slightly exposed, and perhaps a little bit abandoned, when the lieutenant had left her here with strangers, but this new civilian gentleman seemed to be now assuming his role. He was not as formal as the lieutenant. He smiled at her, as if he was trying to make her feel at ease. It was working. She did feel at ease. He seemed trustworthy.

* * *

Back on the busy streets, her new escort hailed one of the smaller, single-horse coaches that she had come here on with the lieutenant. During the ride, the streetscape seemed a little familiar, then she realized that they were taking the same journey in reverse. She knew where they were going. Back to the coach inn.

She was right. When they arrived, and this new gentleman helped her out of the small coach, she pointed to the inn, and its collection of horses and bigger coaches, smiled at him and said, “Coach inn.”

“Yes!” he said, smiling, and slightly startled, “Yes, a coaching inn!” She learns quickly, he thought to himself. Must have learned that on the way here.

After arranging for a private coach compartment, Henry helped her up into the interior. He had a bag of some sort with him in which he kept his belongings. The driver offered to take it and put it up on top, but he indicated that he would take it with him inside the coach. He must already be on a journey from somewhere, she reasoned. She had been on a journey as well – a very long journey – but she had no belongings other than what she was wearing.

He didn’t designate a particular seat for her, like the lieutenant had, so she simply sat down on the one facing forward. That way she would be able to see what was coming up out the window. She expected the gentleman to sit on the other side, but he sat next to her. She made another mental note. The first protocol must have been a military one. It’s different with civilians.

Once the coach got started, Henry pulled a notebook with an attached pencil out of his bag, and began taking notes. Writing, she thought. She knew what that was. There seemed to be writing all around her – on papers, on signs, on buildings. She recalled her mother’s story about the Adyghe culture having no writing, like other languages. Writing must be the norm for other languages, she thought. It certainly was here in England.

Henry then pointed at her and said something that sounded like ‘Adyghe’. So she said it back, with the corrected Circassian pronunciation. He quickly wrote something down in his notebook. Then he motioned for her to say it again. She did. He seemed pleased by this, and made some more marks in his notebook. Then he pointed to himself and said, “English.” She already knew that – from the sailors. She echoed it back, with proper British accent, anyway. This pleased him. She realized he thought he had taught her something new. But that didn’t matter. He was trying to teach her new English words. She understood the protocol. Point to something and say it in Adyghe, then he would say the same word in English – or the other way around. This was exciting.

When the coach had finally cleared the London outskirts, and the familiar English countryside scenes emerged again, she looked out the window for a church. Her new companion seemed delighted that she knew ‘coach inn’, so she wanted to show him that she also knew ‘church’. She couldn’t find one. As with ‘Water?’, back at the CMS, she had learned from listening to the navy officers that the rising inflection when you say something in English indicates a question. She wanted to ask him where the churches were, so she said, “Church?”

Henry perked up, and looked out her window. He didn’t see one. He looked out his window and didn’t see one there either. He gave her a quizzical expression.

Ahh, she thought. He thinks I saw a church. But I didn’t see one. I wanted to ask him where the churches were. She had to think about this, and its implications for the your-language-my-language game. She couldn’t tell him the Adyghe word for ‘church’ because there was none. This was bound to happen a lot, she mused. When there was no object present to point to, and when there was no word for such an object in your own language.

Then she had an idea. She gestured to indicate that she would like to take his notebook and pencil. He was surprised, but understood, so he willingly gave them to her. She then quickly sketched the last church she had seen on the day before, with its distinctive steeple. She even added the walkway leading up to it, and some of the hedges that had surrounded it. Then she pointed to her drawing and said “Church.”

When Henry looked at her composition, he was astounded. It was a very realistic pencil sketch of a churchyard. Not stick figures, but a believable churchyard! She could draw, almost like a trained artist. This opened up a completely new channel for communication and language learning, he realized. With her ability to draw, they could refer to things that were not present. Perhaps even to abstract things.

She pointed to her drawing and said “Church,” again. Then looked back and forth at both windows, with her hands palms-up. He got it. Where are the churches? This was powerful, he thought. He pointed to her church drawing, and asked “Adyghe?”

She understood, but there was no Adyghe word for this. She didn’t even know what the purpose of these buildings was. How to explain this to him? She exploited the already loaded context by nodding her head from side to side to indicate “no, there is no Adyghe word for this,” or perhaps, “we have no churches.” He seemed to understand, so she immediately reinforced the lesson by nodding no while saying “Coach”, then the same for “Inn.” Then to drive the point home, she nodded yes while saying “Water.”

He got it. No churches, coaches, or inns where she came from. But there is water.

At this point, she had forgotten all about Adyghe Khabze. She was talking directly to an unfamiliar man, smiling, making eye contact. It was so exciting, and it seemed so natural. 

Then she did something, without even consciously thinking about it, that she would never have done in such a situation in Circassia. She pointed to herself, smiled, looked him in the eyes, and said “Guasha.”

He smiled too, but looked a little unsure. He pointed to himself and said “man.” He said this rather matter of factly, so she wondered if he understood that Guasha was her personal name. She needed to disambiguate, so she improvised. She cupped her hands as if she was calling out to someone at a distance. “Guasha!” Then she turned her head around to indicate that she had just recognized her name.

That’s her name! he realized. She is so resourceful. He pointed to her and said “Guasha,” then to himself and said “Henry.” He reprised her context, cupping his hands and calling out “Henry!”, the turning his head in recognition.

She was pleased. He got it. His name was Henry. To cleanup the proper vs common noun confusion, Henry pointed to himself, saying “man,” then to her saying “woman.” She got it. She echoed back the first true translation between their languages. She pointed to herself and said “bzylfyghe,” then to him and said “khułfyghe.” He smiled, and wrote this down. He tried to echo her Adyghe words back, but he stumbled badly. She giggled at this. He realized that it didn’t come out very well.

He looked down at what he had written as the phonetic transliteration, and motioned for her to say it again.  She did. He listened carefully this time, and made a few corrections to his notes. Then he tried to say the words again. She suppressed the giggle this time, realizing that he was struggling with Adyghe pronunciation. He also realized his manifest inability, even for a philologist. This was a strange sounding language, and he may never be able to pronounce it natively, he concluded.

Language learning with this remarkable young woman was going to be asymmetrical. She would learn native English in no time, but he would probably never learn native Adyghe. He would learn to transcribe it, and give it an English semantics. This would be a worthy academic accomplishment in the eyes of his Philological Society colleagues. But if he were ever to visit her native Circassia – and tried to speak it – there would be no question that he was a foreigner. She was likely, on the other hand, to be able to pass herself off as a native, upper-class British woman in short order. This would ease her transition considerably into British society. They would think she was one of them.

He then tried for something he hoped would be easier. The nodding of heads for yes and no was already working, but words for these sentiments were typically short and simple in most languages. It would be useful to get these established now, anyway. These are typically the first words a child learns (after ‘mama’). He nodded, vertically, while saying, “Yes,” then nodded, horizontally, while saying, “No.” She duplicated the nods with, “Khé,” and, “Khawa.” He wrote these down, then tried to echo them back. It was easier. She was encouraged to see his progress, so tried to help him refine it. He was pronouncing the ‘Kh’ consonants like a simple ‘K’. She slowly made the glottal sound in the back of her throat to indicate that it was more like a hard ‘H’. Like German! he thought. Now he had a phonetic reference. He echoed the words back correctly this time, and he could see her excited pleasure at being the language teacher whose student was finally coming around.

Guasha immediately put the new lesson to use. “No Adyghe church.” “No Adyghe coach.” “No Adyghe inn.” He had already figured this out, of course, but it was gratifying to hear her express the concepts in an approximation of English sentences. It made the dual point that there were both no such words and no such objects where she had come from.

* * *

When they arrived at the coaching inns in central Oxford, it was already well into the evening. Henry decided they should exploit the nearest inn for an evening meal. They hadn’t eaten all day, though the excitement of the language learning had masked their hunger. They had dined on a diet of words.

Guasha, still unclear on where she was being taken, recognized the coaching inn protocol, and thus assumed that after the evening meal, she would be taken to another private bedroom in the inn, as before. But this time it was different. Henry’s house was in easy walking distance from the inn, so after settling the bill, he took her hand to lead her outside onto the street. Were they going to a different inn, perhaps? she wondered. This was her only reference for staying overnight on land in England. Instead, they walked along pleasant streets in a city that was considerably quieter than the last one. Still a lot of stone buildings, but also more churches – and some buildings that were just too big to be churches, but resembled them nonetheless, with high towers.

There were other men dressed like Henry walking about, and some of them were with well-dressed women, in the puffy-sleeved ladies’ style she was now getting used to seeing. She did notice a persistent protocol. In these mixed couples, the man held out one arm at the elbow, and the woman placed her hand on it. It was a very persistent pattern, persistent enough to indicate that this is how English men and women walk with each other in public. So she pushed Henry’s closest forearm to horizontal, and placed her hand on it. She wanted to fit in. Henry smiled at this, understanding her social awareness.

Guasha also took note that most of these couples were actively talking to each other, not something that would have been common in Circassia. This public male/female interaction must be the norm here, she figured. She would like to have participated, but she and Henry knew too few common words at this point. They certainly had much to talk about – they just couldn’t.

But blend in as she did, she was still the object of everyone’s attention. She was getting accustomed to this. Her clothes did not match theirs. Beside the difference in tailoring, they had elaborate hats, and she had lost hers in Circassia – thought it wouldn’t have matched theirs at all. And they were all wearing fine gloves, including the men. Gloves, in her world, were for protecting the hands during work, and riding, and battle. This concept would be harder to convey to Henry. She had an Adyghe word for gloves, just not those kinds of gloves.

When they approached his house, and he opened the door for her, she could already tell from the outside that this was not a normal coaching inn. There were no coaches, or horses, or other people. It was quiet. It looked like no one was inside. Almost like a house, except that it was large and ornate in the style of an inn. Maybe he had his own personal inn? Once inside, and after being shown around, she concluded that this was not an inn. It was Henry’s English house. The houses must be very fine – and large – in England.

Hospitality at someone’s personal residence was something she could readily relate to from Circassia. That’s just what proper people did. It was expected. Henry showed her to a well-appointed room with a bed. He didn’t have to say anything. She knew what came next. Henry wanted to say something like, “This will be your bedroom,” but he could tell from Guasha’s smiling acknowledgement that she understood this. Still, another opportunity for language learning presented itself. He pointed to the bed and said, “Bed.” Then he swept his arm around the entire room, and said, “Room.” Then he put the compound together, “Bedroom.”

She understood, and echoed back “Bedroom,” smiling. Then she said the same words in Adyghe, but this time Henry did not have his notebook out, and didn’t seem concerned to get it. And he didn’t try to match her words phonetically. He was beginning to understand that his pet language project of learning Adyghe from Guasha would be both awkward, and a long time coming. Her learning English from him was more important, and apparently frictionless. So he stopped prompting her for the Adyghe words, except when he already had the notebook out and the time was right. Guasha couldn’t read his mind, of course, so she was not aware of this pedagogical shift right away. But she soon came to understand it. She stopped offering the Adyghe words unless he prompted her. She could see that her language was harder for him, than his was for her. He was often embarrassed when he couldn’t match her speech, but they both were delighted when she could match his.

The next morning, after breakfast, he gave her a more thorough tour of his house. She was particularly fascinated by the large library. So many shelves of … notebooks. At least they looked like notebooks. Henry had already taught her this word, but it seemed unlikely that he had written all of these. He pronounced the general name for her, “Library.” She echoed it back in English. But she was clearly fascinated by the notebooks inside the library. She walked over, took one down, and opened it. Writing.

“Book!” he said.

“Book,” she echoed back, wondering why there was a different name for these things. She thought for a moment about these things containing writing. “No Adyghe book,” she said.

He had assumed as much, since there was no written form of her language, but he could see that she was still processing things in her mind about books.

She was. The writing in this book was different from the writing in Henry’s notebook. It was very black, and the lines were all very straight and evenly spaced, and the words were so precise, and stylized with elegant serif fonts. Too dark and precise, she thought, for a human to have written this with a pencil like Henry’s. And there were no blank pages, like in Henry’s notebook.

She motioned with her hand, imitating writing in the book with an imaginary pencil.

Ah, he thought. Writing verses printing. This would be new to her too. But she was actually asking for something, he realized. She elaborated by pointing to him and saying, “Henry notebook.”

Now he understood. He immediately went and fetched his notebook. Guasha compared the writing in the two open books. then pointed to the words in his journal and asked, “Adyghe?”

He understood that too – he thought. She wanted to know which words were his Adyghe transliterations of her words. He pointed to the word ‘Adyghe’ itself, and pronounced it. This one he was already adept at saying properly. “Adyghe,” she repeated, studying how he had written it. He was not about to retry ‘bzylfyghe’, and ‘khułfyghe’, so he moved next to the simpler Adyghe words for ‘yes’ and ‘no’. She studied these as well.

Then she asked “Pencil?” She had already learned this from him on the coach. He gave her his pencil. She was very polite, gesturing first to ask if she could write in his notebook.

“Yes!” he said, smiling.

She said “Adyghe,” then wrote a phonetic spelling of it in Georgian script as her mother had taught her. She showed him. Then she repeated the process for ‘yes’ and ’no’, this time phonetically transcribing both the English and Adyghe versions as she sounded each out.

This was philologically fascinating for him! She must know the sounds of an alphabet from some written language, and is using it to transliterate! But what alphabet? He could not make head nor tail of it. It was elegantly cursive, but resembled no alphabet he had ever seen. This didn’t surprise him. It was likely from some language indigenous to the Caucasus. But it would be another avenue through which he could teach her the Latin alphabet for English.

Then he had an epiphany. The protocol of him carrying the notebook during their language interchanges should be reversed. She should have the notebook. Her ability to draw, and now, apparently, to write phonetically in some language or other would greatly ease her learning. What was in his own notebook was of significance only to him, and fading fast in relevance. He took his notebook, went back to his study, then returned with a brand new notebook, and a new pencil. He handed them to her with a smile.

She noticed that the pages were blank, then looked up quizzically for the meaning of this exchange.

“Guasha’s notebook,” he said pointing. His words were slightly different than ‘Guasha book’, but she thought she got the point. She mimicked writing in the notebook with her new pencil, and he reinforced her interpretation with, “Yes!”

She was very pleased. Her own notebook and pencil. How nice. Henry seemed to have concluded the transaction, she thought, as if he were not expecting her to write something right away, just when the need arose. She smiled.

Next, Henry showed her the drawing room. It reminded her of the communal rooms in the coaching inns – a place where guests gather – only smaller. But there was something large that she had never seen before. It had a bench seat in front of it, facing a long row of black and white … she didn’t have a word for those. She walked over to examine it, and touch one of the white ones. It played a musical tone!

“Piano,” Henry said. 

Guasha smiled back, “Piano.”

Henry could see that this was of intense interest to her. She pressed a few more of the black and white things. Each had a different musical tone, and their sounds were coming from the large, flat portion of the … piano, under its open lid. She leaned forward to investigate. The interior housed a progression of metal-bound strings of increasing length, one for each of the … black or white things. When you pressed one, a small padded hammer would hit its corresponding string. That’s what made the sound. The far ones to the left hit the longest strings, and made deep, low, resonant sounds. The farthest right hit the shortest strings, and made, tinny, tinkling sounds. She was delighted by this.

Henry could not play the piano. This was his wife’s piano. He could, though, play a simple C major chord. So as part of the language lesson, he sat on the bench and played the chord.

“Henry plays piano,” he said, looking to see her reaction. He struck the chord again, saying just, “Play,” to call out the context of the new word. He could almost see the wheels of thought turning in her head. She knew ‘Henry’ and ‘piano’ as nouns so the new word would introduce her to verbs. 

She seemed to get it. To confirm, she sat beside him, pressed a key, and asked, “Guasha play piano?”

“Yes!”

She was pleased again, but in a way he couldn’t have imagined. She pulled out her new notebook and began sketching. She drew very realistic images of two musical instruments, one a primitive looking woodwind, and the other a stringed instrument with a bow.

She showed him, then said, “Guasha play kamyl,” pointing to the woodwind, and “Guasha play shichepshin,” pointing to the stringed instrument.

Remarkable, he thought. She’s also a musician!

But she wasn’t done. “Adyghe woman play kamyl,” she said. “Adyghe man play shichepshin.” Then, “Adyghe woman no play shichepshin.”

He was sure he had heard her say she played the shichepshin. So he asked for confirmation. “Guasha plays shichepshin?” He mangled the pronunciation a little, but she understood.

“Yes,” she said, almost in anticipation. She was trying to tell him something subtle, he realized. Woman don’t play it, but she does. Why? he wondered. Then he caught her drift. Woman probably aren’t allowed to play it, where she comes from. But she learned to play it anyway. This was a very resourceful young woman!

Then she asked what she really wanted to know. “English woman play piano?”

Ah, will she be allowed to play the piano in England? “Yes!” he said. “Yes, yes, yes!”

Guasha was coming to like this England more and more.

Henry could see this, so he got up from the bench and encouraged her, with a gesture, to keep experimenting. She dug right in. She had already figured out that a piano was more like a kamyl than a shichepshin, in the way it’s played, because, even though strings make the sounds, they are struck, not bowed. The tone for each string is already fixed by its length. So the black and white things are like the finger holes in the kamyl – except that if you press two of them together, they make two combined sounds on a piano, but only one on a kamyl. She began pressing keys to find the matching tones for a simple kamyl melody she knew. It was actually quite easy, she realized, because if the next note was higher, it would always be to the right, or if lower, to the left. In short order, she could play a simple kamyl melody on the English piano.

She looked up for his approval, and got it in spades. Then she stood up and said, “Henry play piano.”

He would have to disappoint her, he thought, sadly. “Henry no play piano.” He forced a smile while saying this.

This was confusing for her. He had played it once – earlier. Maybe it’s the opposite of Adyghe culture? she mused. Pianos are only for women in England. “English man no play piano?”

“Yes. English men play piano. Henry no play piano.”

Then why does he have piano? she thought. Maybe he has a woman who plays the piano? Maybe he has a wife! That’s why he has a piano. His wife plays it! How to ask him this?

She had an idea. She picked up her notebook and began to draw. This took a little time. She sketched herself standing next to her brother, then her mother and father standing behind them. She made the parents a little taller, to convey the point that they were the adults. Then she showed him.

Again, he was impressed with her artistic ability. He recognized Guasha, in her Circassian gowns, a younger male next to her, then a taller Circassian man and woman behind them. The man was clearly older, with a military uniform and long mustaches. He guessed this was her family.

Pointing to each, she gave the Adyghe words for father, mother, sister and brother. She knew he would struggle to echo them, but he uttered a single English word: ‘family’. Then to reinforce his interpretation, he said, “Guasha’s family.”

“Family,” she echoed. That must mean family in English. Good. Then she pointed, alternately between her father and mother. She was ultimately trying to get to ‘wife’, but it might take some orchestration.  So she joined her two hands together as if this was the husband and wife holding hands.

Henry thought he got it. He pointed to each separately saying, “father,” and “mother.”

“Father … mother,” she echoed,  pointing to each. He understands. Now she was ready. Pointing to the piano, she asked, “Henry mother play piano?”

Ah, he thought, with some sadness. She means ‘wife’. Now he understood the holding hands gesture. To disambiguate, he re-pointed to the two adults with “husband,” and “wife,” this time.

She echoed them back.

Then he said, “Henry’s wife plays piano.”

Guasha was a little confused by the alternate words, but Henry’s knowing expression indicated that she’d finally found the right word. ‘Wife’, means wife, in English. It was his wife that played the piano. It was her piano. But then where was his wife?

She made a sweeping-around-the-room gesture, with her palms up, indicating ‘where?’, and asked, “Henry wife?”

He would have to tell her now, but how? This was a difficult concept. Guasha could see that this had become a difficult subject for him. He was thinking. Then he took her hand and led her out of the drawing room, and out the front door. He led her down a little lane, still holding her hand. She correctly inferred that this walk did not call for the hand on the bent arm protocol. This was more personal. Where were they going?

Around the next bend, she recognized a church – a small one, like the ones she had seen in the English countryside. He led her behind the church to a small yard. In the yard were what appeared to be headstones for graves. She knew what these were. They had them in Circassia, only these ones had things written on the stones. Probably names of the people buried there, and perhaps something about them. Henry led her over to one of them, and said “Henry’s wife.”

Now she knew. His wife had died. That’s why this was difficult for him. She of all people understood the sorrow of death. She embraced him with a comforting hug, then stayed that way in silence for a little while. Confronting the death of a loved one, even in this vicarious sense, brought the death of her own family back to her. She had experienced a little of this grief when she first put the story into words for her Adyghe translator in Istanbul. Hearing it in her own language – saying it – had finally made it real to her then. But there she was just saying it. Now she was feeling it – through Henry – and it was contagious.

She gently broke off the hug and pulled out her sketchbook. She pointed to each of her family members in the picture, saying their names, then pointed to the grave. She didn’t know if her family had headstones, and if they did, there would be no names on them. But the concept was the same.

Henry recalled, vaguely, from the CMS meeting that Guasha was an orphan, but he had never heard the details – and certainly not the names. This made it real, and he now shared something deeply with Guasha despite their linguistic separation. He embraced her with the same hug, and stayed with it in silence as well.

Guasha felt a comforting camaraderie now. She could finally grieve with someone who would understand. She realized now that she had been wrong about English churches. She had first thought that they might be like inns, places where people meet and exchange happy conversations. But they were actually sad places – places where you bury your dead.