anner.themummy-第30部分

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h　to　have　worn　holes　through　the　leather；　making　a　rough　sandal　of　sorts　so　their　feet　could　breathe。
　
　He　laughed　at　himself。　After　all　he　had　seen　today；　he　was　thinking　of　shoes。　His　feet　didn't　hurt　anymore。　So　why　not　forget　it？
　
　No　pain　ever　stayed　with　him　very　long；　or　any　pleasure。　For　example；　he　smoked　Lawrence　Stratford's　delicious　cigars　now；　drawing　in　the　smoke　slowly；　so　that　it　made　him　dizzy。　But　the　dizziness　went　away　at　once。　So　it　was　with　the　brandy　as　it　always　had　been。　He　experienced　drunkenness　only　for　an　instant；　when　he　first　swallowed　and　the　delicious　heat　of　the　drink　was　still　in　his　chest。
　
　His　body　simply　threw　off　the　effects　of　things。　Yet　he　could　taste　and　smell　and　feel。　And　the　strange　tinny　music　winding　out　of　the　gramophone　gave　him　so　much　pleasure　that　he　felt　he　might　start　weeping　again。
　
　So　much　to　enjoy。　So　much　to　study！　Since　ing　back　from　the　museum；　he　had　torn　through　five　or　six　books　in　the　library　of　Lawrence　Stratford。　He　had　read　plex　and　exhilarating　discussions　of　the〃　Industrial　Revolution。〃　　He　had　dabbled　a　bit　in　the　ideas　of　Karl　Marx；　which　were　sheer　nonsense；　as　far　as　he　could　see。　A　rich　man；　it　seemed；　writing　about　poor　men　when　he　did　not　know　how　their　minds　worked。　He　had　reexamined　the　world　globe　many　times　as　he　memorized　the　names　of　continents　and　countries。　Russia；　now　that　was　an　interesting　country。　And　this　America　was　the　greatest　mystery　of　all。
　
　Then　he　had　read　Plutarch；　the　liar！　How　dare　the　bastard　say　that　Cleopatra　had　tried　to　seduce　Octavian；　her　last　conqueror。　What　a　monstrous　idea！　There　was　something　about　Plutarch　which　made　him　think　of　old　men　gossiping　as　they　gathered　on　benches　in　public　squares。　No　gravitas　to　the　history。
　
　But　enough。　Why　think　about　that！　There　was　a　sudden　confusion　in　him。　What　troubled　him；　made　him　a　little　afraid？
　
　Not　all　the　wonders　he'd　discovered　in　this　twentieth…century　world　since　morning；　not　the　coarse　abrasive　English　language；　which　he　had　mastered　before　afternoon；　not　the　length　of　time　（hat　had　passed　since　he'd　closed　his　eyes。　What　troubled　him　was　this　entire　question　of　the　way　his　body　constantly　restored　itself…wounds　healing；　cramped　feet　relaxing；　brandy　having　little　or　no　effect。
　
　It　was　troubling　him　because　for　the　first　time　in　all　his　long　existence　he　was　beginning　to　wonder　if　his　heart　and　mind　were　not　subject　to　some　similar　system　of　uncontrollable　renewal。　Did　mental　pain　leave　him　as　easily　as　physical　pain？
　
　Not　possible。　Yet　if　that　was　not　so；　why　hadn't　his　little　trip　to　the　British　Museum　made　him　cry　out　in　agony？　Numb　and　silent；　he　had　walked　among　mummies　and　sarcophagi　and　manuscripts　stolen　from　all　the　dynasties　of　Egypt　even　to　the　time　in　which　he　had　retreated　from　Alexandria　to　his　last　tomb　in　the　Egyptian　hills。　Yet　Samir　had　been　the　one　who　suffered；　beautiful　golden…skinned　Samir；　whose　eyes　were　black　as　Ramses'　had　once　been。　Great　Egyptian　eyes；　those；　the　same　after　countless　centuries。　Samir；　his　child。
　
　It　was　not　that　the　memories　weren't　vivid。　They　were。　Like　yesterday；　it　seemed；　that　he　had　watched　them　carry　the　coffin　of　Cleopatra　out　of　the　mausoleum　and　down　to　the　Roman　cemetery　by　the　sea。　He　could　smell　that　sea　again　if　he　wanted　to。　He　could　hear　the　weeping　all　around　him。　He　could　feel　the　stones　through　the　thin　leather　of　his　sandals　as　he'd　felt　it　then。
　
　Beside　Mark　Antony　she　had　asked　to　be　buried；　and　so　it　had　been　done。　He'd　stood　in　the　crowds；　a　mon　man；　with　his　coarse　cloak　wrapped　around　him；　listening　to　the　wailing　of　the　mourners。〃　　Our　great　Queen　is　dead。〃
　
　His　grief　had　been　an　agony。　So　why　was　he　not　weeping　now？　He　sat　in　this　room　staring　at　her　marble　bust；　and　the　pain　was　just　beyond　his　reach。
　
　〃Cleopatra；〃　　he　whispered。　Playfully；　he　envisioned　her　not　as　the　woman　on　her　deathbed；　but　as　the　young　girt　who　had　awakened　him：　Rise；　Ramses　the　Great。　A　Queen　of　Egypt　calls　you。　e　out　of　your　deep　sleep　and　be　my　counsel　in　this　time　of　woe。
　
　No；　he　did　not　feel　either　the　joy　or　the　pain。
　
　Did　this　mean　the　capacity　to　suffer　had　been　affected　by　the　powerful　elixir　that　never　ceased　its　work　in　his　veins？　Or　was　it　something　else；　that　he　had　long　suspected；　that　when　he　slept；　he　somehow　knew　the　passage　of　time？　Somehow　even　in　that　unconscious　state；　he　travelled　away　from　the　things　that　had　hurt　him；　and　his　dreams　were　only　one　indication　of　the　reasoning　that　went　on　in　darkness　and　in　stillness。　Without　panic；　he　had　known　before　the　sunlight　ever　touched　his　body　mat　hundreds　of　years　had　passed。
　
　Perhaps　he　was　merely　so　shocked　by　all　he'd　seen　about　him　in　the　twentieth　century　that　the　memories　had　not　attained　their　fall　emotional　force。　The　pain　would　return　all　at　once　and　he　would　find　himself　weeping　uncontrollably　on　the　edge　of　madness…unable　to　embrace　all　the　beauty　that　he　saw。
　
　There　had　been　a　moment　in　the　wax　museum；　yes；　when　he　had　seen　that　vulgar　effigy　of　Cleopatra；　and　the　ludicrous；　expressionless　Antony　beside　her；　when　he　had　felt　something　akin　to　panic。　It　had　soothed　him　to　return　to　the　noisy；　bustling　London　streets　outside。　He　had　heard　her　crying　in　his　memory：〃　Ramses；　Antony　is　dying。　Give　him　the　elixir！　Ramses！〃　　It　seemed　a　voice　from　somewhere　outside　of　him；　which　he　could　not　silence　at　will。　It　disturbed　him　that　she　had　been　so　grossly　represented。　And　his　heart　had　been　tripping　like　those　steam　hammers　that　broke　the　cement　pavings　of　London。　Tripping。　But　that　was　not　pain。
　
　And　what　did　it　matter　that　the　wax　statue　had　so　cheapened　her　beauty？　His　statues　bore　no　resemblance　to　him　finally；　and　he　had　stood　about　in　the　hot　sun　chatting　with　the　workmen　who　made　them！　Nobody　expected　public　art　to　have　anything　much　to　do　with　the　flesh…and…blood　model；　that　is；　not　until　the　Romans　started　filling　their　gardens　with　portraits　of　themselves；　down　to　the　very　warts。
　
　Cleopatra　had　been　no　Roman。　Cleopatra　had　been　a　Greek　and　an　Egyptian。　And　the　horror　was；　Cleopatra　meant　something　to　these　modern　people　of　the　twentieth　century　which　was　altogether　wrong。　She　had　bee　a　symbol　of　licentiousness；　when　in　fact　she　had　possessed　a　multitude　of　amazing　talents。　They　had　punished　her　for　her　one　flaw　by　forgetting　everything　else。
　
　Yes；　that　is　what　had　shocked　him　in　the　wax　museum。　Remembered；　but　not　for　what　she　was。　A　painted　whore　lying　on　a　silken　couch。
　
　Silence。　His　heart　was　thudding　again。　He　listened。　He　heard　the　ticking　of　the　clock。
　
　A　tray　of　savory　pastries　lay　before　him。　There　was　the　brandy；　oranges　and　pears　on　a　china　plate。　He　should　eat　and　drink；　for　that　always　calmed　him；　just　as　if　he'd　been　starving　when　he　was　not　starving　at　all。
　
　And　he　did　not　want　to　feel　the　agony　again；　did　he？　Yet　he　was　frightened。　Because　he　did　not　want　to　lose　his　vast　experience　of　human　feeling。　That　would　be　like　dying！
　
　Once　again　he　looked　at　her　beautiful　face；　rendered　there　in　marble；　more　truly　Cleopatra　than　that　wax　horror。　And　something　deep　inside　threatened　the　strange　quiet　of　his　mind。　He　saw　images　without　meaning。　He　put　his　hands　to　his　head　and　sighed。
　
　Of　course　if　he　thought　of　Julie　Stratford　in　her　bed　above　him；　his　mind　and　heart　would　be　instantly　united。　He　laughed　softly　as　he　picked　up　one　of　the　pastries…sticky　and　sweet。　He　devoured　it。　He　wanted　to　devour　Julie　Stratford。　Ah；　this　woman；　this　splendid　woman；　this　delicate…boned　modern　Queen　who　needed　no　land　to　rule　to　make　her　regal。　So　wondrously　clever　and　surprisingly　strong。　But　then　he　had　better　not　dwell　on　it；　or　he　would　go　up　and　knock　down　her　door。
　
　Picture　it：　crashing　into　her　bedchamber。　The　poor　servant　wakes　in　the　attic　and　starts　screaming…　So　what？　And　Julie　Stratford　rises　in　that　lace　bower　of　hers；　which　he　glimpsed　earlier　from　the　hallway；　and　he　covers　her；　ripping　off　her　scant　gown；　caressing　her　hot　little　limbs　and　taking　her　before　she　can　protest。
　
　No。　You　cannot　do　that。　Do　that　and　you　destroy　the　thing　you　desire。　Julie　Stratford　was　worth　humility　and　patience；　a　great　deal　of　it。　He　had　known　that　when　he　had　watched　her　from　that　strange　numb　half…awakened　state；　moving　about　this　library；　speaking　to　him　in　his　coffin；　never　guessing　that　he　could　hear。
　
　Julie　Stratford　had　bee　a　great　mystery　of　body　and　soul　and　will。
　
　He　took　another　deep　drink　of　the　brandy。　Delicious。　Another　long　draw　on　the　cigar。　He　sliced　through　the　orange　with　the　knife　and　picked　it　up　and　ate　the　sweet；　wet　meat　of　it。
　
　The　cigar　filled　the　room　with　a　perfume　finer　than　any　incense。　Turkish　tobacco；　Julie　had　told　him。　He　had　not　known　what　that　meant　then；　but　he　knew　now。　Ripping　through　a　little　book　called　History　of　the　World；　he　had　read　all　about　the　Turks　and　their　conquests。　That　was　how　he　should　start；　really；　with　the　little　books　full　of　generalities　and　summations：〃　Within　a　century　and　a　half　all　of　Europe　had　fallen　to　the　barbarian　hordes。〃　　The　fine　distinctions　would　e　later；　as　he　sought　out　the　great　wealth　of　printed　material　in　all　languages。　Just　thinking　of　it　made　him　smile。
　
　The　gramophone　stopped。　He　rose；　went　to　the　machine　and　found　another　black　disk　for　it　to　play。　This　one　had　the　curious　title〃　Only　a　Bird　in　a　Gilded　Cage。〃　　For　some　reason　that　made　him　think　of　Julie　again　and　wanting　to　crush　her　with　kisses。　He　set　the　disk　on　the　turntable　and　cranked　the　handle。　A　small　fragile　woman's　voice　began　to　warble。　He　laughed。　He　refilled　his　brandy　and　moved　a　little　with　the　music；　a　slow　dance　without　lifting　his　feet。
　
　But　it　was　time　to　do　some　work。　The　darkness　was　dissolving　outside　the　windows。　The　first　faint　grey　light　of　the　dawn　was　ing。　He　could　hear；　even　over　the　dull　roar　of　the　city　around　him；　the　faraway　song　of　birds。
　
　He　went　into　the　dark　cold　kitchen　of　the　house；　found〃　a　glass；〃　　as　they　called　them；　these　beautiful　objects；　and　filled　it　with　water　from　the　miraculous　little　copper　tap。
　
　Then　he　went　back　into　the　library　and　studied　the　long　row　of　alabaster　jars　under　the　mirror。