The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (19 page)

It was evening before he returned, towing the famous Viennese physician along like a pet dog
Schadenfreude was a curious figure— very thin in the face and very round in the stomach, his cheeks
so pink they looked rouged, his beard so silvery-bright it suggested a halo that had slipped its moorings. Myopic brown eyes peered uncertainly through his thick spectacles. There was nothing uncertain about his professional manner, however.
"A most interrrresting case, to be sure," he declared. "Herr Vandergelt has given me some of the particulars. You have not forced yourself upon him,
gnadige
Frau?"
I stiffened with indignation, but a wink and a nod from Cyrus reminded me that the famous doctor's imperfect command of English must be responsible for this rude question.
"He has slept most of the day," I replied. "I have not insisted upon my relationship with him, if that is what you mean. Dr. Wallingford felt that might be unwise, at this stage."
"Sehr gut, sehr gut."
Schadenfreude rubbed his hands together and showed me a set of perfect white teeth. "I will alone the patient examine. You permit, Frau Professor?"
He did not wait for my permission, but flung the door open and vanished within, closing said door
with a slam.
"Peculiar little guy, isn't he?" Cyrus said proudly, as if Schadenfreude's eccentricities proved his medical prowess.
"Er— quite. Cyrus, are you certain— "
"My dear, he's a wonder. I'm a living testimonial to his talents."
Schadenfreude was inside quite a long time. Not a sound emerged— not even the shouts I fully
expected to hear from Emerson— and I was getting rather fidgety before the door finally opened
"
Nein, nein, gnadige
Frau
" said Schadenfreude, holding me back when I would have entered. "It is
a discussion we must have before you speak so much as a single word to the afflicted one. Lead us,
Herr Vandergelt, to a place of discussion and supply,
bitte
, something of refreshment for the lady."
We retired to my sitting room. I refused the brandy the doctor tried to press upon me— the situation was too serious for the temporary consolation of spirits— and he applied himself to the beer he had requested with such gusto that when he emerged from the glass his mustache was frosted with foam. However, when he began to speak I had no inclination to laugh at him.
Many people at that time were skeptical about the theories of psychotherapy. My own mind is always receptive to new ideas, however repellent they may be, and I had read with interest the works of psychologists such as William James and Wilhelm Wundt. Since some of their axioms— particularly Herbart's concept of the threshold of consciousness— agreed with my own observations of human nature, I was inclined to believe that the discipline, when refined and developed, might offer useful insights. Herr Doktor Schadenfreude's theories were certainly unorthodox, but I found them horribly plausible.
"The immediate cause of your husband's amnesia is physical trauma— a blow on the head. Has he
often suffered injury to that region?"
"Why— not to an excessive degree," I began.
"I don't know about that," Cyrus demurred. "I can remember at least two occasions during the few
weeks we were together at Baskerville House There's something about my old pal that makes people want to beat him over the head."
"He does not avoid physical encounters when he is defending the helpless or righting a wrong," I declared.
"Also. But the blow was only the catalyst, the immediate cause. It broke not only his head but the invisible membrane of the unconscious mind, and from this rent, this weakened part of the fabric,
rushed fears and desires long suppressed by the conscious will. In short— in lay terms,
gnadige Frau
und Herr Vandergelt
— he has forgotten the things he does not want to remember!"
"You mean," I said painfully, "he does not want to remember ME."
"Not you as yourself, Frau Emerson. It is the symbol he rejects." When a man gets to talking about his own subject he is inclined to be verbose. I will therefore summarize the doctor's lecture. (I must warn
the Reader that some of his statements were quite shocking.)
Man and woman, he declared, were natural enemies. Marriage was at best an armed truce between individuals whose basic natures were totally opposed. The need of Woman, the homemaker, was for peace and security. The need of Man, the hunter, was for the freedom to prey upon his fellowmen and upon women (the doctor put this more politely, but I caught his meaning). Society aimed to control these natural desires of man, religion forbade them. But the walls of constraint were constantly under attack by the brute nature of Man, and when there was a rent in the fabric, the brute burst forth
"Good gracious," I murmured, when the doctor paused to wipe his perspiring brow.
Cyrus had gone beet-red and was biting his lip to repress strangled noises of indignation and denial. "Doggone it, Doctor, I have to object to your language in the presence of Mrs. Emerson— and to your slur upon the masculine gender. We aren't all— er— ravening beasts. You did say 'ravening,' didn't you?"
"Ravening and lusting," said Schadenfreude happily. "Yes, yes, that is the nature of man. Some of you repress your true natures successfully,
mein Freund
; but beware! The greater the control, the more the pressure builds, and if there is a rent in the fabric of the walls— BOOM!"
Cyrus jumped. "Now see here, Doc— "
"Be calm, Cyrus," I urged "The doctor is not being rude, he is being scientific. I am not offended, and indeed, I find some sense in his diagnosis. However, I am not so much interested in a diagnosis as in a cure. To employ your own metaphor, Doctor (and a striking one it is), how do we force the— er—
beast back behind the wall and what kind of plaster do we use to mend it?"
Schadenfreude beamed approvingly at me. "You have an almost masculine directness, Frau Emerson
The procedure is obvious. One does not employ brute force against brute force, the ensuing struggle might wound both combatants mortally."
"Striking as the metaphor is, I would prefer a more practical suggestion," I said. "What am I to do?
Would hypnosis— "
Schadenfreude shook a playful finger at me. "Aha, Frau Emerson! You have been reading the works of my more imaginative colleagues. Breuer and Freud are correct in stating that the operative force of the idea which was not abreacted by allowing its strangulated effect to find a way out in speech or action must be relived—brought back, in other words—to its status nascendi. But hypnosis is only a showman's toy that may do more harm than good by substituting the practitioner's own preconceptions for the psychical processes of the patient."
I believe I have rendered accurately the general sense of his discourse. He had to pause for breath at this point—not surprisingly—and when he went on, it was in more specific terms.
"The memory is like a lovely Rower,
gnadige
Frau it cannot be brought into existence fully formed, it must grow slowly and naturally from the seed. The seed is there in his mind. Return him to the scenes
he does remember. Do not force memories upon him. Do not insist on facts he honestly, sincerely, believes to be false. This would be disastrous in his case, for if I read his character correctly, he is the
sort of man who will insist on doing precisely the opposite of what you have told him to do."
"You've got that right," Cyrus agreed.
"But your suggestions are still too general," I complained. "Are you saying that we ought to take him
back to Amarna?"
"
Nein, nein!
You take him nowhere. He goes where he wishes to go, and you accompany him. Amarna was the place he kept mentioning. An archaeological site, is it?"
"It's just about the most remote, desolate site in Egypt," Cyrus said slowly. "I don't think it would be
such a smart idea for— for various reasons."
The doctor folded his delicate hands across his rounded stomach and smiled placidly at us. "You have
no choice, my friend Vandergelt. Short of imprisonment, which is against the law, your only alternative
is to have him declared incompetent. No reputable physician would sign such papers. I would not. He is not incompetent. He is not insane, within the legal definition of the word. If it is the unavailability of medical attention at this place— Amarna— that concerns you, do not be concerned. Physically he is
on the road to recovery and will soon be himself again. There is no danger of a recurrence."
There was danger, however, though not of the sort of recurrence the good doctor meant After he had departed Cyrus burst out, "I'm sadly disappointed in Schadenfreude. Of all the insulting theories . He never told me I was a ravening beast."
"He is an enthusiast. Enthusiasts tend to exaggerate. But I am forced to agree with some of his theories. What he said about marriage being a truce . . ."
"Hmph. That's not my notion of what the wedded state ought to be, but I guess you know more about
the condition than a sorry old bachelor like me. But I'm dead-set against Amarna. You and Emerson would be like ducks in a shooting gallery out in that wilderness."
"I disagree, Cyrus. It is easier to guard oneself in a howling wilderness than in a teeming metropolis."
"In some ways, maybe. But— "
"Now, Cyrus, argument is a waste of time. As the doctor said, we have no choice. It will be good," I mused, "to see dear Amarna again."
Cyrus's stern face softened "You don't fool me, Amelia. You are the bravest little woman I know, and that stiff upper lip of yours is a credit to the whole British nation, but it isn't healthy, my dear, to
suppress your feelings this way. I've got a pretty broad shoulder if you want one to cry on "
I declined the offer, with proper expressions of gratitude. But if Cyrus had seen me later that night, he would not have had such a high opinion of my courage. Huddled on the floor of the bath chamber, with the door locked and a towel pressed to my face to muffle my sobs, I wept until I could weep no more. It did me good, I suppose. Finally I rose shakily to my feet and went to the window. The first pale streaks of dawn outlined the eastern mountains. Drained and exhausted, I leaned on the sill looking out, and as the light strengthened I felt a slow renewing trickle of the courage and hope that had temporarily abandoned me. My fists clenched, my lips tightened I had won the first battle, against all odds, I had found him and brought him back to me. If other battles had to be fought, I would fight and win them too.

CHAPTER 8

"When one is striding bravely into the future, one cannot watch one's footing."

Years had passed since I last beheld the plain of Amarna, yet in eternal Egypt a decade is no more than the blink of an eye. Nothing had changed— the same wretched villages, the same narrow strip of green along the riverbank, the same empty arid plain behind, enclosed by frowning cliffs like the fingers of a cupped, stony hand.
It might have been only yesterday that my eyes last rested upon the scene, and this impression was further strengthened by the fact that I saw it from the deck of a dahabeeyah—not my beloved
Philae,
on which I had traveled during my first visit to Egypt, but an even grander and more luxuriously appointed sailing vessel.
These graceful floating apartments, once the most popular means of travel for well-to-do tourists, were fast disappearing. Cook's steamers plied the river, the railroad offered quick if uncomfortable travel between Cairo and Luxor. The spirit of the new century was already upon us, and although modern devices were no doubt more convenient, it was with a sigh that I contemplated the loss of dignity,
leisure, and charm the dahabeeyahs had emplified.
A few traditionalists clung to the old customs. The Reverend Mr. Sayce's boat was still a familiar sight along the river, and Cyrus also preferred the comfort of a dahabeeyah when traveling and when visiting sites where suitable accommodations were lacking. In fact, there was not a clean, much less comfortable, hotel to be found between Cairo and Luxor. Visitors who wished to stay at Amarna overnight had to camp out or request the hospitality of the local magistrate. This individual's house was only a little larger and hardly less filthy than those of the fellahin, so I was extremely pleased when Cyrus announced he
had ordered his reis to bring his dahabeeyah to Luxor so that we might travel on it to Amarna.
I had seen
The Valley of the Kings
, as his boat was named, before, so you may conceive of my surprise when I beheld a new and astonishing sailing vessel awaiting us at the dock the day we left Luxor. Twice the length of the other boat, gleaming with fresh paint, it bore the name
Nefertiti
in elaborate gilt lettering on the prow.
"I figured it was time the old Valley was retired," Cyrus said negligently, after I had expressed my admiration "Hope the decor meets with your approval, my dear, I had one suite fixed up to suit a lady's taste, in the hope that one day you might do me the honor of sailing with me."
I concealed a smile, for I doubted I was the only lady Cyrus had hoped to entertain. He was, as he had once said, "a connoisseur, in the most respectable sense, of female loveliness" Certainly no female could have been other than delighted at the facilities this rough-hewn but gallant American had provided, from the lace-trimmed curtains at the wide windows to the daintily appointed dressing room adjoining the bath, everything was of the finest quality and most exquisite taste.
The other guest rooms— for the boat had eight— were equally splendid. After a silent, contemptuous survey of the accommodations, Emerson selected the smallest of the chambers.
He had not accepted this means of transport without a considerable fuss. The arguments of
Dr. Wallingford, who insisted that a few more days' recuperation would be advisable, had their effect,
so did the arguments of Cyrus, who had presented himself to Emerson as the financier of that season's work.
It was in matters such as these that my afflicted husband's loss of memory served to our advantage. He knew there were gaps in his memory, the (to him) overnight whitening of Abdullah's grizzled beard
would have been proof enough had there been no other evidence. He dealt with this difficulty, as I
might have expected Emerson to do, by coolly ignoring it. However, he was thus forced to accept
certain statements as true because he could not assert they were false. It was quite the usual thing for wealthy individuals to finance archaeological expeditions. Emerson disapproved of the practice— and
said so, rather emphatically— but being unaware of his own financial situation, he was forced in this
case to agree.
Did I hope that the tranquil voyage, the moonlight rippling along the water, would bring back fond memories of our first such journey together— the journey that had culminated in that romantic moment when Emerson had asked me to be his? No, I did not. And it is just as well I didn't, for my dream would have been doomed to disappointment. In vain did I flaunt my crimson flounces and my low-cut gowns (for I thought it would not hurt to try). Emerson fled from them like a man pursued by pariah dogs. The only time he condescended to notice my existence was when I wore trousers and talked of archaeology.
I wore my new working costume at luncheon the day after we left Luxor (the crimson gown having had the aforesaid result the previous night). I was late joining the others, for I had, I admit, gone through my entire wardrobe before deciding what to wear. Cyrus got to his feet when I entered. Emerson was slow
to follow his example, and he gave me a long look, from boots to neatly netted hair, before doing so
"This is just the sort of inconsistency I object to," he remarked to Cyrus. "If she dresses like a man and insists on doing a man's work, why the devil should she expect me to jump to my feet when she enters a room? And," he added, anticipating the reproof that was hovering on Cyrus's lips, "why the devil can't
I speak as I would to another fellow?"
"You can say anything you like," I replied, thanking Cyrus with a smile as he helped me into my chair. "And I will say what I like, so if my language offends you, you will have to put up with it. Times have changed, Professor Emerson."
Emerson grinned. "Professor, eh? Never mind the academic titles, they aren't worth— er— considering. Times certainly have changed, if, as Vandergelt here tells me, I have employed a female for the past several years. An artist, are you?"
Women had occasionally served in that capacity on archaeological digs, they were generally considered unfit for more intellectually tax ing activities. I decided not to remind Emerson of the two ladies who had excavated the temple of Mut at Karnak a few years earlier, for even at the time he had been critical of their methods. But to do him and them justice, he was equally critical of the efforts of most male
archaeologists.
Calmly I replied, "I am an excavator, like yourself. I am a fair draftsman, I am acquainted with the use
of surveying instruments, and I can read the hieroglyphs. I speak Arabic. I am familiar with the principles of scientific excavation and I can tell a pre-dynastic pot from a piece of Meidum ware. In short, I can do anything you ... or any other excavator . . . can do."
Emerson's eyes narrowed. "That," he said, "remains to be seen." To my affectionate eyes he was still painfully thin, and his face had not regained its healthy tan. Not much of it was visible, he had irritably refused to trim his beard, and it had spread up his cheeks and formed a jetty bush around jaws and chin. It looked even worse than it had when I first met him. But his eyes had regained their old sapphirine fire, they shot a challenging look at me before he applied himself to his soup and relapsed into ominous silence.
No one broke it. Emerson might not be entirely himself again, but there was enough of him to dominate any group of which he made a part, and the two young men who were at the table with us shrank into near invisibility in his presence.
I beg leave to introduce to the Reader Mr. Charles H. Holly and M. Rene D'Arcy, two of Cyrus's assistants. If I have not presented them before, it is because I had never met either of them, they were
of the new generation of archaeologists, and this was Charlie's first season in Egypt. A mining engineer
by profession, he was a ruddy-cheeked cheerful young man with hair the color of Egyptian sand. At
least he had been cheerful until Emerson got at him.
Rene, as pale and soulful-looking as a poet, was a graduate of the Sorbonne and a skilled draftsman. The ebon locks that fell gracefully over his brow matched the mustache that drooped with corresponding grace over his upper lip He had a very pleasant smile. I had not seen the smile since Emerson got at him.
Emerson had quizzed them like students at a viva-voce examination, criticizing their translations of hieroglyphic texts, correcting their Arabic, and deriding their stumbling descriptions of excavation technique. One could hardly blame them for not coming off well under that blistering interrogation,
I had heard distinguished scholars stutter like schoolboys when Emerson challenged their theories. The poor lads could not know that, and they took pains to avoid my husband thereafter. Neither of them
knew the SECRET, as Ramses would have called it, but they were aware of the fact that the peril
from which Emerson had escaped might still pursue us. Cyrus assured me they were devoted to him,
and good men in a fight, as he put it.
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 crocodile or the snake or the —
An invisible hand gripped my throat. Superstition is not a weakness to which I am prone, but the parallel suddenly struck me with such force I felt like the unhappy parents hearing the doom prophesied for
their child.
At the beginning of our acquaintance at Amarna, Emerson and I had faced an adversary I had described as a veritable crocodile, waiting on the sandbank to destroy the lover seeking his sweetheart. Now
another enemy threatened us — a man who had used the name Schlange. In German, Schlange
means snake.
Nonsense, said the rational part of my much-tried brain. Fanciful you may be, but this is the grossest
kind of pagan morbidity. Dismiss it! Let common sense prevail over the affectionate fear that has weakened the ratiocinative process!
Unaware of the painful struggle going on under his very eyes, Emerson said sarcastically, "Is that the extent of your preparation?"
"I can go on if you like."
"Never mind. I did not request a private interview in order to review your qualifications. If Vandergelt
can be believed, I have already accepted them."
"You have."
"And you were present on the presumed expedition concerning which my gentle host was so curious?"
"I was."
"It did take place?"
"It did."
"At least she doesn't talk as incessantly as most women," Emerson muttered to himself. "Very well,
then, Miss— er— Peabody. Where the devil did we go, and why? Vandergelt claims to be ignorant
of those facts."
I told him.
Emerson's eyebrows performed a series of alarming movements. "Willie Forth? It seems only yesterday