The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (5 page)

CHAPTER 3

"A woman's instinct, I always feel, supersedes logic."

"For heaven's sake, Emerson," I exclaimed. "It is Mr. Neville. Drop him at once!"
Emerson inspected his captive, whom he held by the collar. "So it is," he said in mild surprise. "What the devil were you doing down on the floor, Neville?"
The unfortunate young man inserted a finger between his cravat and his neck, loosening the former from the latter, before he spoke. "Er . . . the gaslight in the corridor must have expired, it was extremely dark, and I could not be certain I had found the correct room When I tried to look more closely at the number, my spectacles fell off."
Here a fit of coughing overcame him. "Say no more," I said. "Emerson, go and look for Mr. Neville's eyeglasses. I only hope you didn't step on them."
As it turned out, he had. Neville studied the ruined objects ruefully. "Fortunately I have another pair.
I did not bring them with me, however, so perhaps you will be good enough to guide my steps tonight, Mrs. Emerson."
"Certainly. And of course we will replace your spectacles. Really, Emerson, you must get over the habit of leaping on people like that."
Neville was one of the younger generation of archaeologists, who had already demonstrated a remarkable talent for philology. In appearance he was one of the least memorable individuals of my acquaintance, for his beard and hair were of the same buff color as his skin, and his eyes were an indeterminate shade of gray-brown. His character was mild and accommodating, however, and he had a pleasant smile "It was my fault, Mrs. Emerson. From the stories I have heard, you and the professor have good reason to be suspicious of people lurking at your door."
"That is true," Emerson declared. "In this case, however, I owe you an apology. No harm done, I hope?"
He began brushing Neville off with such vigorous goodwill that the young man's head rocked back and forth.
"Stop that, Emerson, and go change," I ordered. "You will have to excuse us, Mr. Neville, we are later than I had expected. There is a manuscript on the table that may interest you, it was in the hope of consulting you about certain passages that I asked you to do me the favor of coming early "
By the time I had closed the bedroom door Emerson was already in the bathroom, splashing loudly I concluded he wanted to avoid a lecture— or inconvenient questions. Emerson is inclined to act hastily,
but he seldom acts without cause (however inadequate that cause may seem to persons of duller intellect). Had he cause for apprehension that he had not seen fit to confide to me?
He gave me no opportunity to pursue the matter at that time, dressing with uncharacteristic speed and lack of fuss while I was performing my ablutions. I had to call him back from the sitting room, where he had gone to entertain our visitor, in order to request his assistance in buttoning my frock. The distractions that often occur during this process did not occur on this occasion.
I was wearing a gown of bright crimson, Emerson's favorite color. It was the latest fashion and I had had to badger my dressmaker to finish it in time. Emerson gave me a cursory glance and remarked, "You look very nice, my dear. I have always liked that dress."
When we returned to the sitting room, Mr, Neville was peering nearsightedly at the manuscript to which
I had directed his attention.
"Fascinating," he exclaimed. "Is this Mr. Walter Emerson's transliteration of
The Tale of the Doomed Prince'?
It seems much more accurate than Maspero's."
"To compare Maspero's knowledge of hieratic to that of my brother is an insult in itself," said Emerson rudely. "That is a trivial piece of work for Walter, he only transcribed it into hieroglyphs as a favor to Mrs. Emerson. She had a fancy to translate it, and her hieratic— "
"Comparisons are unnecessary as well as invidious, Emerson," I said. "I have never claimed to be an expert at hieratic."
(For the benefit of the ignorant, I ought to explain that hieratic is the cursive, abbreviated form of hieroglyphic writing— so abbreviated, in many cases, that the resemblance to the original form is almost impossible to make out. Walter was one of the leading authorities on this, as on other forms of ancient Egyptian. I was not. Neither was Emerson.)
"It is a fascinating tale," Neville agreed. "What passage in particular— "
"No time for that now," said Emerson. "If we must do this, let's get it over with. Lean on me, Neville,
I won't let you fall. Take my other arm, Amelia, the cursed safragi has let the light go out, I can hardly see where we are going."
The lights at the other end of the corridor burned bright, and we proceeded with greater speed. A thrill
of pride ran through me as we descended the staircase, for all eyes, especially those of the ladies, focused on the form of my husband. Unconscious of their regard, for he is in such matters a modest man, he led the way to the dining salon, where we found our friends waiting.
Such a gathering on the first evening of our return to Egypt had become a pleasant little tradition. As I took my place I was saddened to see that some of the familiar friendly faces were missing— gone forever, alas, until that glorious day when we shall meet again in a better world. I knew the Reverend
Mr. Sayce would sadly miss his friend Mr. Wilbour, who had passed on the year before. Their dahabeeyahs, the
Istar
and the
Seven Hatbors,
had been a familiar sight up and down the Nile. Now the
Istar
would sail alone, until it passed beyond the sunset and joined the
Seven Hathors
where it glided on the broad river of eternity.
Mr. Sayce's pinched face showed his appreciation when I expressed this poetic sentiment. (Poetry again! Let the Average Reader beware!) "However, Mrs. Emerson, we are consoled for our loss not only by
the knowledge that our friends have simply gone on before us, but by the appearance of new workers in the fields of knowledge."
There were certainly several unfamiliar faces— a young man named Davies, whom Mr. Newberry, the botanist who had worked with Petrie at Hawara, introduced as a promising painter of Egyptian scenes, a square-jawed, clean-shaven American named Reisner, who was serving as a member of the International Catalogue Commission of the Cairo Museum, and a Herr Bursch, a former student of Ebers at Berlin. Emerson studied them with a predatory gleam in his eye, he was considering them as prospective members of our staff.
Another stranger was older and of striking appearance, with golden locks and dark-fringed brilliant gray eyes any woman might have envied. His features were entirely masculine, however, indeed, the shape
of his jaw was almost too rigidly rectangular. Though a stranger to me, he was not unknown to Emerson, who greeted him with a curt, "So you're back. This is my wife."
I am accustomed to Emerson's bad manners, I gave the gentleman my hand, which he took in a firm but gentle grasp "This is a pleasure to which I have long looked forward, Mrs. Emerson. Your husband neglected to mention my name, it is Vincey— Leopold Vincey, at your service."
"You could have had the pleasure earlier if you had chosen to," Emerson grunted, waving me into the chair a waiter was holding. "Where have you been since that scandalous business in Anatolia? Hiding out?"
Our other friends are also accustomed to Emerson's bad manners, but this reference— which meant nothing to me— evidently passed even his normal bounds of tactlessness. A shocked gasp ran around
the table. Mr. Vincey only smiled, but there was a look of sadness in his gray eyes.
Mr. Neville hastened to change the subject. "I have just been privileged to see Mr. Walter Emerson's latest transcription from the hieratic. He has turned The Doomed Prince' into hieroglyphs for Mrs. Emerson."
"So that is to be your next translation of an Egyptian fairy tale?" Newberry asked. "You are becoming something of an authority on that subject, Mrs. Emerson, the— er— poetic liberties you take with the original text are quite— er— quite . . ."
"In that manner I make them more accessible to the general public," I replied. "And there is certainly much of interest in such stories. The parallels to European myth and legend are quite remarkable. You know the story, of course, Mr. Vincey?"
My attempt to compensate for Emerson's bad manners was understood and appreciated. Mr. Vincey
gave me a grateful look and replied, "I confess I have forgotten the details, Mrs. Emerson. It would be
a pleasure to be reminded of them by you."
"I will be Scheherazade then, and amuse you all," I said playfully. "There was once a king who had no son— "
"We all know the story," Emerson interrupted. "I would rather ask Mr. Reisner about his studies at Harvard."
"Later, Emerson So the king prayed to the gods and they granted his— "
It would be senseless to repeat Emerson's interruptions, which broke the smooth narrative I had intended to produce. I will therefore produce it here, for as the reader will discover, it had an unexpected and well-nigh uncanny influence on ensuing events.
"When the young prince was born, the Seven Hathors came to decree his fate They said: 'He shall die
by the crocodile, the snake, or the dog.'
"Naturally the king was very sad at hearing this. He ordered a stone house to be built and shut the prince up in it, along with every thing he could possibly want. But when the prince was older, he went up on the roof one day and saw a man walking along the road with a dog beside him, and he asked that a dog be procured for him. His father, who yearned to please the poor lad, caused a puppy to be given him.
After the prince was grown he demanded his release, saying, "If it is my doom it will come to me, whatever I do." Sadly his father agreed, and the boy set forth, accompanied by his dog. At last he came
to the kingdom of Naharin. The king had only one child, a daughter, and he had placed her in a tower whose window was seventy cubits from the ground, and told all the princes who wanted to marry her
that she would be given to the one who first reached her window.
"Disguised as a chariot driver, the Prince of Egypt joined the young men who spent all their days jumping up at the window of the princess, and the princess saw him. When finally he reached the window she kissed and embraced him. But when the King of Naharin heard that a common chariot driver had won
his daughter, he tried first to send the boy away and then to kill him. But the princess clasped the young man in her arms and said, "I will not stay alive an hour longer than he!"
"So the lovers were wed, and after some time had elapsed, the prince told his wife about the three fates. 'Have the dog that follows you killed!' she exclaimed, but he replied, 'I will not allow my dog, which I raised from a puppy, to be killed.' So she guarded him day and night. And one night while he slept, she set out jars of beer and wine, and she waited, and the snake came out of its hole to bite the prince. But
it drank the wine and became drunk, and rolled over on its back, and the princess took her ax and chopped it to pieces."
"And that is where it ends," said Emerson loudly. "Now, Mr. Reisner, I believe you began in Semitic— "
"That is not the ending," I said, even more loudly. "There is a confused passage which seems to suggest that the faithful dog turned on his master, and that in fleeing the dog, he fell into the clutches of the crocodile. The manuscript breaks off at that point, though."
"It is the mystery of the ending that intrigues you, I suppose," said Mr. Newberry. "Was it the crocodile or the dog that brought the prince to his death?"
"I believe he escaped those fates as he did the first," I said. "The ancient Egyptians liked happy endings, and the brave princess must have played a part in the solution."
"That is the true explanation for your interest, Mrs. Emerson," said Howard Carter, who had come all
the way from Luxor to join the party. "The princess is the heroine!"
"And why not?" I said, returning his smile. "The ancient Egyptians were among the few peoples, ancient or modern, who gave women their due. Not as often as they deserved, of course . . ."
At this point Emerson demanded the floor and, having had my say, I yielded it. He explained the plans
we had discussed earlier
"It will take a great deal of money and produce few results," said the Reverend Sayce. "The public wants monumental statues and jewels,-they are not interested in pottery scraps."
"But that should not be our concern," declared Howard. He was one of the youngest of the group and he had not lost his boyish enthusiasm. "It is a splendid idea, Professor. Exactly what is needed. I don't mean to criticize M. Loret, but you know how he went about locating the tomb last year, don't you? Sondages! Pits, dug at random— "
"I know what the word means," Emerson growled, pushing away his plate of soup. "It is a disastrous technique. The whole area of the Valley needs to be methodically cleared down to bedrock." He reared back as a waiter snatched the empty bowl and deposited the fish course in front of him. "There is small hope of that, though, so long as the Antiquities Department keeps control over the Valley and gives concessions only to its favorites."
"What about Meidum?" the Reverend Sayce suggested. "The pyramid has never been completely
cleared, and there are certainly more masta-bas in the cemeteries around it."
"Or Amarna," said Mr. Newberry. "You worked there some years ago, I believe."
A thrill of emotion ran through me. Pyramids are my passion, as Emerson quaintly puts it, but the name of Amarna will always hold a special place in my heart, for it was there Emerson and I came to know
and appreciate one another. I glanced meaningfully at my husband. He was looking meaningfully at
Mr. Newberry, and I knew, from the glint in his eye, that he was about to say something provocative.
"Yes, we did, and I am giving the site serious consideration. It is of great importance, for it offers clues
to one of the most confusing periods in Egyptian history. The archaeological remains have gone to rack and ruin since we left,- no one has done a cursed thing— "
"Now, Emerson, you exaggerate," I said quickly. "Mr. Newberry was there, and Mr. Petrie was there— "
"For one year. Typical of Petrie." Emerson abandoned his fish. Leaning back in his chair, he prepared
to enjoy himself by goading his friends. "I believe you also dropped in for a brief visit, Sayce."
The Reverend Sayce was, I am sorry to say, one of Emerson's favorite victims. A pinched, meager little man, he was regarded by many as an excellent scholar, though he had no formal training and never published anything. This failure would have been enough to inspire Emeron's contempt, and the reverend's religious convictions, of which Emerson had none, irritated him equally as much.