The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [83]
Not until he had finished eating—with good appetite, I was happy to see—did Emerson speak again. Throwing down his napkin, he rose and fixed a stern look on me. “Come along, Miss—er—Peabody. It is time we had a a little chat.”
I followed him, smiling to myself. If Emerson thought to catch me out or intimidate me as he had the poor young men, he was in for a salutary shock.
The Reader may be surprised at my calm acceptance of a situation that should have induced the strongest feelings of anguish and distress. Fortitude in the face of adversity has always been my way; tears and hysteria are foreign to my nature. Could I ever forget that supreme accolade I had once received from Emerson himself? “One of the reasons I love you is that you are more inclined to whack people over the head with your parasol than fling yourself weeping onto your bed, like other women.”
I had had my night of weeping—not on a comfortable bed, but on the hard floor of the bathroom at the Castle, huddled in a corner like a beaten dog. Never doubt that there were other moments of pain and despair. But what purpose would a description of them serve? None were as severe as that first uncontrolled outburst of anguish; I had purged myself of useless emotions that terrible night; now every nerve, every sinew, every thought, was bent on a single purpose. It was as if I had forced myself to lose those same years Emerson had lost—to return in my mind to the past. In this I was following the dictates of Dr. Schadenfreude. “You,” he had informed me, on the eve of our departure, “you, Frau Emerson, are the crux. My initial impression has been confirmed by all that I have seen since. It is from the bonds of matrimony that his memory retreats. In all else he is receptive; he accepts with relative equanimity what he is told. On that subject alone he remains obdurate. Follow him into the past. Recapture the indifference with which you once regarded him. Act upon it. And then … act upon what follows.”
Cyrus had become sadly disenchanted with Dr. Schadenfreude since that distinguished gentleman expressed his views on marriage and the reprehensible habits of the male sex. Like most men, Cyrus was a secret romantic, and hopelessly naive about people. Women are more realistic—and I, I believe I may say without fear of contradiction, am a supreme realist. The doctor’s advice appealed to certain elements of my character. I enjoy a challenge; the more difficult the task, the more eager I am to roll up my sleeves and pitch in. I had won Emerson’s heart before, against considerable odds, for he had been a confirmed misogynist and I am not and have never been beautiful. If the spiritual bond between us, a bond transcending the limits of time and the flesh, was as strong as I believed, then I could win him again. If that bond existed only in my imagination … I would not, could not, concede it was so.
So with limbs atingle and brain alert I followed him to the saloon, which also served as a library and Cyrus’s study. It was a symphony in crimson and cream, with touches of gold. Even the grand piano had been gilded—one of Cyrus’s few descents into execrable trans-Atlantic taste. Emerson flung himself into an armchair and took out his pipe. While he was messing with it, I took up a manuscript from the table. It was the little fairy tale I had been reading in Cairo; I had taken it up again in order to distract my mind.
“It is my turn to be tested, I presume,” I said composedly. “Shall I translate? This is ‘The Doomed Prince,’ a tale with which you are no doubt familiar.”
Emerson glanced up from poking at his pipe. “You read hieratic?”
“Not well,” I admitted. “This is Walt—er—Maspero’s hieroglyphic transliteration.” And without further ado I began, “There was once a king to whom no son was born. So he prayed the gods he served for a son, and they decreed that one should be born to him. Then the Hathors came to decree his destiny. They said, ‘He shall die by the