I had Chester Finneran’s address from Terbroogan. I recall standing outside the gates of Harvard University, hailing a cab. I must’ve gone to his house across the river, for I’ve no notes of interviews between those I conducted with Terbroogan and Finneran, dated the same day. But I’ve no recollection of the cab ride. I feel so ill right now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to continue. I’ll post this at once.
HF
Sunday, 15 October, 1922
To Margaret: It is just after midnight, my love. I sit on my balcony, put the waiters through their paces, relax with a photograph of you before me on the table.
Your abruptly truncated letter troubled me, my darling, not because of the evidence of mis-medication, but because I know that you have been struggling to hide symptoms from me, and when you realised what you had sent me, I am certain you worried and unduly strained your nerves further. And of course, as this was your first letter following my departure for Egypt, your sorrowful emotional state had likely already taken a toll on your still healing body.
You are adorable, Margaret. You have always downplayed your bad days, as if I would not notice the difference between you healthy and ill. When you finally admitted your condition to me, the day after the party, I should have looked more surprised for you. My love, I am sorry if I was unconvincing, but one day last summer, your father had already told me everything. You must not be angry with him. CCF is father to us both now. When I asked him for your hand, he felt himself honour-bound to tell your would-be husband the entire tale. He wanted to tell me the worst and see that my love for you was unshaken. CCF spoke openly, and well before your timid little report, I had heard all about the nerve specialists, the exhaustion caused by the medication, the rarity of your illness. I also heard your excellent prognosis, your imminent and certain cure. And, Margaret, upon my word, I have never had a moment’s concern since. I know you are every day stronger, and Inge is but a temporary nurse to administer the last of your medications and nothing more. Whether she joins us for the early days of marriage, or whether you will already be fully restored to health—time will tell. In the meantime, you must not worry, and certainly never about the strength of my love for you, my angel.
Your father is a man of many parts. He presents such a rough exterior to the world, and of course his business milieu allows for no other, but I have seen him speak of you. I have seen him drop his guard and reveal his deep concern and tenderness. I saw his eyes mist when he spoke of the worry your illness had caused him, and his determination when he told me, “Ralph, she’s beating this thing. You’ve got nothing to worry about in her as your hale and healthy, intact wife.” He is a father, bless his heart.
I mourn the loss of my own father every day, and you should think of CCF with fondness, as I do, for a father’s love is one of the most precious gifts.
I remember the anticipation I would feel, as a boy in Trilipush Hall, when I knew Father was due to return from an expedition soon. He would have been gone for weeks or even months, and I longed for nothing more than to be taken up in his strong arms and popped on his knee in front of the great fire to hear of his adventures. Would today be the day he arrived? How I would pace the vast, echoing chambers of the Hall.
Ah, Trilipush Hall! There were marvels to be found there. The walls cluttered with portraits of wigged and grinning ancestors. The endless suits of armour and forests of halberds, lances, pikes, the walls of unstrung crossbows. The hanging tapestries with scenes of mediaeval hunts and balls. The drawer where Father haphazardly tossed his military honours and medals, and those of our ancestors. The relics Father had brought back from Africa, Malacca, China. The blazing fire in the hearth ten feet tall—a hasp of log the shape of a ham hock, but zebra-striped grey and black and fluttering its long, orange tresses of flame—in front of which I would lie on my stomach in solitude and practise hieroglyphs. On some days, out the east window of the main room, you could see streaming rain and at the same instant, through the west window, sunshine breaking through the clouds, and I would run back and forth from window to window, imagining myself in different countries at Father’s side, fighting bandits while he pulled astounding artefacts from the earth. I would look out the window (streaked with rain or sparkling with new sun), and I would watch the birds on the emerald grounds—the omnipresent pheasant and the uncomplaining grouse had grown more plentiful and arrogant in Father’s absence, as no hunts took place without him. And I would long for the sound of carriage wheels out front: would today be the day of his return? The great room grew darker and darker until only the fire’s orange embers lit my face and the dark wood furnishings carved with scenes of Trilipushian triumphs dating back to the Conquest, and I would fall asleep there, under rugs, ignoring the calls of servants wandering from chamber to chamber, up and down the oaken stairs.
But when it was the day! How I sped to the great front door and the gravel drive, how I leapt up to his carriage when it was still moving, and how the door swung open and he pulled me inside, onto his lap, and the tickle of his moustaches smelt of tobacco and faraway lands, and how I relished the laughing surprise in his eyes as he would shout, “What? What? What’s this, then? Who are you, young man? I left a small boy behind! Where’s my son? What have you done with Ralph, then, you scoundrel?”
“It’s me, Papa, it’s me!”
“What? Ralph? Is it you, really? Why, I took you for one of the farmhands!”
“It’s me, Papa, it’s me!”
Monday, 16 October, 1922
Journal: Post. Lunch in town. Post. Antiquities Service, to see if there has been a speedy resolution to my application. Post. Visit a portrait photographer to send my fiancée just the right memento. The afternoon is well-spent: I have a dozen handsome options for her.
Evening, return to hotel to continue writing the surrounding material, the soft, form-fitting packing of this work, as it were, in which its precious treasures shall be carried out of the tomb and into the world at large.
On immortality and “The Tomb Paradox”: Atum-hadu reigned in a
Tuesday, 17 October, 1922
Journal: Yesterday’s work ended prematurely with a boiling, vindictive attack of explorer’s gut, the brutal, acidic remnants of dysentery. Lost half a day to treating it, sleeping it off, burning through dozens of styluses on the HMV suitcase model gramophone I have placed in the water closet to make just such afternoons tolerable. Before taking up yesterday’s work, I shall set off for town to breakfast, and visit Antiquities and the post.
Sep. 22
Hello, darling!
Who’s your good girl? I am, my prince. I set myself the goal of writing to you every day while you are “in the field,” and I have kept my solemn promise. I sent you a letter just this morning that I wrote and sealed last night, though I can’t remember writing it for the life of me, as Inge had me on some very strong things to help me sleep, because after you left, I was upset, even though I know you will say that I was being simply absurd, but you are absolutely my Hero, and when a girl’s Hero leaves town, everything feels a little bleak, now doesn’t it? And here I am writing you again, because this morning I had something I wanted to include, but last night’s letter was already sealed and ready, so I gave it to Inge just now to run down to Arlington Street while I write you this one, and then I am going to give her this one to run right back down to Arlington Street the minute she gets back, because she is fat and needs the air.
I had an absolutely awful dream last night. Truth is, Inge gave me pain and sleeping things last night, and I didn’t remember to tell her that she was giving them to me on top of a drink or two. See, last night, truth is, I hopped out on Inge, completely foxed her. She’d been watching me so close for so many days, it was getting hard to get out of the house, and I was feeling awful bored, which is worse than anything. So I snuck out last night and went over to J. P. O’Toole’s place. When I got back, she was waiting for me all angry like she gets when I show her how much smarter I am than she is,
so it was sleeping and pain stuff from her (on top of the drink or two), and it can be a plenty deep sleep when they’re mixed up like that. When it’s just you and me, just the old “man and wife,” I’ll be so pleased to see Inge get her walking papers. Do you know she had the nerve to tell me the other day that you fell in love with me for Daddy’s money? I nearly slapped her, the Swedish hussy, but she had the drop on me.
Of course, even when I’m done with her, don’t be surprised if she stays on to “work” for Daddy. I know where she goes when I’m fast asleep. I’m not, after all, a complete ninny. You wouldn’t want a complete ninny for a wife, now would you, my Limey?
Are you happy on your Expedition? Where are you now, I wonder? Probably still at sea, consulting with the ship’s Captain, showing him your maps and your wicked pharaoh’s poems. You’re probably surrounded by girls again, just like when I met you. But you know they aren’t for you, Ralphie. Only your Devoted Queen-to-be is for you, and you are only for her.
Daddy asked me what you and I were thinking about for our residences after the Expedition and the wedding, and would we live in Boston only or would we move into Trilipush Hall. He looked at me all sentimental like he gets, said he’d always wanted to see me in a big English country house. What do you think? Would you consider going back to England, or would it still be too painful? Will there be enough money to open up the Hall again? Daddy is often an idiot, but on this I think he may be very right: I think I would be very happy as an English Lady.
That reminds me: this dream last night, in the medication-fog. It was just a little bit into the future. You and I were married. I was feeling so strong and healthy. We were so happy, and I never caused you any trouble with my moods or anything. Your digging had made us wonderfully rich, and you were famous, and we were welcomed everywhere with absolutely everyone, and you took me to England to meet the king and queen. And then we came back home and I was going to have our first baby. Ralph Chester Crawford Trilipush was a darling little thing, and just after he was born he was already talking! At first we were all so proud, but then we listened, and he was talking only the most terrible cursing, he just wouldn’t stop—the filthiest language you could imagine, and the doctors were shaking their heads and the nurses were all sobbing, and I didn’t know what to think, because they were giving me stronger and stronger things to take, and I was falling back into the special sleep again, but before I could relax into it, I looked up and, Ralph, you, you were just laughing and saying, “Oh, yes, that’s my lad, that is.”
Honestly, this letter writing is absolutely exhausting, I have to tell you. It’s still God-awful hot here, and I am sleepy just always. Inge will be back soon, which is good, because I want to send you this, but I also need something for the pain, which is bad today. You can’t imagine. It’s like an itch so bad you’d tear your head off to feel scratched properly. The stuff Inge gives me scratches me for a while, and when I’m asleep it doesn’t itch so bad. If it would just stop itching and I didn’t always feel so God-awful tired (excuse me for saying it straight), I’d be out having a gay old time on the town with my friends or with fellows. Oh, yes, Ralphie, you’d better come home soon all covered in laurels or I’ll find someone else to carry me away! Don’t think I won’t, Englishman. A good American, stout and strong, could have me in a second.
But I am so tired.
I kiss you, and so do Antony and Cleopatra. They send you licks. Their tails don’t wag as much since you’ve gone. It’s true. I really think they miss you just like I do.
Your Margaret
(Tuesday, 17 October 1922, continued)
To Margaret: My darling. Your second letter came today, hard on the heels of your first effort, and my heart steams with gratitude. Your charming Atum-haduan dream was delightful and put me in mind of our first meeting. I have never told you what I was thinking that day last April, but the memory is sweet to me in my isolation here.
My contribution to the Boston Historical Society’s Public Improvement Lectures had been promoted as a discussion of ancient Egyptian culture, and though I had promised the organisers I would not do so, I had always intended to read aloud from Desire and Deceit. A performer must face facts: the size of the gathered audience left no doubt as to the main attraction on the bills advertising the evening. While I do love my work, I would not be so foolish as to assert that hundreds of Bostonian ladies had gathered for a generic discussion of Egypt. That the speaker would be none other than the dashing and mildly notorious translator of that scandalous king, well, it would not have been fair to our followers to deny them a quatrain here and there, and to answer those questions (historical, sociological, anatomical) which naturally arise in a discussion of our king.
Do you know how early in the evening I first noticed you, my Queen? I was explaining the chronic ancient Egyptian tendency to a morbid nostalgia, a trait that paradoxically appeared early in the country’s development, an illness displaying itself in the Egyptian’s persistent political agenda of restoring “debased” religious practise, repeated century after century; in his foolish folk-memory of a lost West that was once rich green pasture, full of mighty bulls; and in his recurring sensation that he was living in corrupted end-times. Usually, such sensations were absurd: nostalgia for things that never existed, restoring something already in perfect condition, paranoia that the end was near or that standards had perilously slipped. However, at certain dramatic, transitional moments, such as the end of the reign of Atum-hadu, these fears were suddenly justified. “At the end of his life, Atum-hadu must certainly have believed that Egypt itself was about to vanish forever,” I was saying when I noticed you in the front row: you were dozing off, my beauty, and that would never do, so I noted your position, and a few minutes later I made a point of looking you in the eye when I recited his Quatrain 35 (uniquely in Fragment C):
She will be mine, she will be mine
She will be mine, she will be mine
And her mother and her goats and her sisters nine
They shall be mine until I tire of them, fine.
This was always an exhilarating moment in my lectures, and I usually selected a young woman at random to feel the savage churn of Atum-hadu’s attentions. In this case, my love, I simply did not realise what I had unleashed.
I recognised you later, when you were but one of many pushing to the foot of the stage to ask one last question they were too shy to ask in front of the whole audience, or simply to shake the English explorer’s hand. I was answering questions and signing copies of Desire and Deceit, so I did not pay you attention, but you did not leave the front of the stage, did you? When I looked back, you were still there. I had seen that face before: the woman who has heard the song of the ancient king.
“Professor Trilipush?” murmured a quiet but resonant voice. “Professor Trilipush, I was so interested by your talk.”
“Well, to be strictly accurate,” I said, stepping down to the floor, “I cannot purport to be a full professor, yet. Technical distinctions at Harvard, as in any primitive society, are of the highest importance.”
“Well then,” you replied with narrowed eyes and upturned mouth, “I cannot purport to have been fully interested in your talk. Some of the more technical aspects did leave me a little less attentive.”
“Oh, miss, now really,” scolded the Nordic beauty to your side, all spheres and half-moons.
“Put a cork in it, Inge,” said my future darling. “Why don’t you go take a sauna or something?”
You boldly introduced yourself, and I could not resist quoting the advertisements one saw everywhere in Boston: “Life is finer when you find fashion with finesse at Finneran’s Finer Finery.” But I must remind you, lest you ever believe Inge’s Norwegian nastiness, I did not know that the shop was your family’s. And recall: you laughed but did not confess your connection, so I assumed the names were coincidental. Atum-hadu was already pulling the strings, my dear, and lucre was never his chief concern.
After the c
rowd had finally drained out the door, you and I sat and spoke at the foot of the stage, and I decided to trust you, to test you, and I showed you how to write Atum-hadu in hieroglyphs. All the while, your frosty duenna lingered by the front door, talked to the Historical Society workers (delighted at the crowd they had drawn, relieved that the police had not broken up the event on decency charges). What were my impressions of you then? Well, my Miss Finneran was a lively young woman, mildly but not irrevocably spoilt, and clearly a little intoxicated by her first exposure to Atum-hadu. I was not terribly surprised when she said she would be honoured if I would escort her to the Museum of Fine Arts at some later date, where she might have the pleasure of my elucidation of the Egyptian relics on display. Oh yes, do not permit suspicious Inge to rewrite history, my dear. It was your suggestion we meet again, my most forward flirt. I have been your creature ever since.