The Twelve Rooms of the Nile Part 5

To put things in proper perspective, he liked to read the newspaper backward. As expected, La Presse was br.i.m.m.i.n.g with irrelevancies-events that had already occurred or about which he could do nothing. He enjoyed the engraved ill.u.s.trations, the advertis.e.m.e.nts for opera capes and top hats, remedies for cold sores and backaches. The legal announcements, thick with veiled threats, ruined careers, and domestic melodramas, were like plots for novels with missing pieces.

He was half asleep when he came upon Louise's name in a gossip column on page two. Named the defendant in a civil law suit, she'd taken the stand in self-defense. A gadfly by nature, she seemed to prefer trouble to inattention. Apparently she had stabbed a journalist in his apartment with a kitchen knife she had brought from home for the purpose. He was suing her for damages to his person and his reputation. Oh, too good! The injury had been to her, she had countered in the dock. The journalist had impugned the paternity of her daughter.

Gustave relished the image of Louise defending her honor. Too bad a duel was beyond her! Knowing her as he did, he figured it had been a paring knife and that she'd already found a way to parlay the trial into a poetry commission from the Academy. He was well rid of her. But in case they should meet by chance at a social evening, he saved the article. She'd be pleased that he had read about her (and therefore thought about her) in Egypt. Someday, he thought with glee, she should take up with Max. Obviously they disliked each other because they were so similar-both talented, both careerists and reputation builders with a flair for publicity.

6.

MIRAGE.

Early the next morning, Gustave had the good fortune to be on the deck of the cange when a slave ship was pa.s.sing. A long, shallow craft, it resembled a huge dugout canoe with masts added at either end. At this cool hour after dawn, the sails were furled and the boat was drifting downriver with the current, toward Cairo. Over its midsection fluttered a tattered canopy rolled up on a metal frame, leaving the boat's cargo in full view. A camel, tethered by its bridle to the mast, stood uncertainly at the stern, its legs widely planted. In front of the camel, seated in rows like oarsmen, a dozen or so Nubian girls huddled together.

The farther upriver Gustave traveled-the farther south-the more primitive the people had become. Alexandria had been cosmopolitan, an Eastern version of Paris, bustling with European, Egyptian, Turkish, African, and Arab denizens. Two hundred and eighty kilometers to the south, in Cairo, the first signs of the vast, untamed interior appeared: burlap bags of gum Arabic, salt, and dates piled up on the docks; covered bazaars where the products of metal, straw, leather, and wood workshops were arrayed; and, of course, the slave markets. Cairo was very much a city, with schools and policemen, soldiers and veiled women billowing through the streets, a steady rush of multifariously intentioned traffic moving in all directions at once. Approaching Abu Simbel, a thousand kilometers farther south, he had sensed another order of change. With every pa.s.sing kilometer, it seemed he moved back in time. Except for the pyramids at Giza, the monuments of Nubia were the biggest and oldest in Egypt, and they existed in isolation. Nearby were no mud brick houses, no mosques, schools, or gardens-in short, nothing but ancient temples and riverine way stations where a traveler might negotiate for food or flesh. Only stouthearted explorers ventured beyond the second cataracts or dared to leave the security of the riverbank for the unmapped hinterland.

The women in the slave boat did not refuse his gaze; in fact, they seemed emboldened by it. Because he detected no shame in their eyes, he gave himself permission to stare openly, to catalog every detail. The eldest might have been fifteen; the others were barely p.u.b.escent. He wondered how they had come to be slaves. Perhaps the girls' families had sold them because they could not afford a dowry for a husband. He was convinced that matrimony was somehow involved in their fate, just as it was for European women. If he had been born a woman, he would have chosen the life of the mistress or the spinster rather than the wife.

It was this kind of thinking that had soured him on his sister's marriage. He had never really accepted the fact that Caroline would one day cease to be the free-spirited painter and reader of books he adored, that she would spend an entire week in Paris hunting for pillowcases and blankets for her trousseau instead of suitable landscapes to sketch. She had always been a delightfully impish child and then a rowdy girl, following her big brother's lead.

Grief tightened his throat. It seemed impossible that she would not dash through the doors and onto the lawn to greet him when he returned to Croisset. How many times had he caught himself pondering gifts for her along the Nile?

Though he had opposed the betrothal, he had said nothing to interfere with her happiness. But on the wedding day, when he saw her in her ivory peau de soie wedding gown, looking more like a pastry than a person, he'd battled the impulse to lift the lace veil from her face, drag her from the church, and return her to her rightful place by his side as they mounted one of their spontaneous theatrical productions or skipped pebbles across the gla.s.s skin of the Seine. He had wanted to shake her-shake off her solemnity-and indulge in a session with Le Garcon-"Short Pants"-whose mediocre school history Caroline had fabricated. M. Descambeaux has received from the ecole du Droit black b.a.l.l.s in Torts, Contracts, and Procedures, and two red b.a.l.l.s to match his own, one in Comedy and the other in Excuses. How could Caroline have turned into a matron, depriving him of her good humor and beauty, of the jaunty swish of her skirts along the stone patio? For his pauvre Caroline, marriage had been worse than enslavement; it had been a death sentence. His beloved sister had died of a school friend's hard-on, he thought now without rancor. He might as well have infected her with cholera or smallpox.

The price of pa.s.sion was death; he had always known that.

The sky, a depthless painted-on blue, brightened as the slave boat loomed closer. Several of the women stood to get a better view of the cange and him. With the exception of bead necklaces and short gra.s.s skirts attached to a string pulled tight around their hips, they were naked. Just the day before, Joseph had cautioned him to avoid the poisonous castor bean plants growing wild along the swampy fringes of the river. Only the Nubians, he said, had found a use for it. Indeed. These slaves had soaked their hair and skin with the oil. In the clear morning light, they gleamed like polished wood.

As the boat veered closer, he locked eyes with a girl whose coiffure resembled a black jester's hat. He had never seen such profuse tresses, except in wigs. Her hair was plaited in fine braids that were bunched together all over her head into points. She lifted one hand and waved shyly at him. He reciprocated. As the boat overtook the cange, the women looked back at him, turning their heads over their shoulders in unison, like a flock of birds, and trilling to him with high-pitched voices. The next moment, in one of the many tricks of light Gustave had observed on the Nile, the boat vanished into a blinding explosion of glare where the sun caught fire on the mirrored surface of the river. The avian calls of the Nubian girls hung in the air briefly, and then the river was still again except for the wind and the creaking of the cange as it seesawed in the wake of the slave boat. Gustave watched the water until he could no longer distinguish the pattern of the wake from the random figures of the current. A papyrus island, which he had thought firm land, drifted past, with birds chittering among the tall green stalks.

Gustave switched his attention from the river to the meal being a.s.sembled nearby. Max had already taken his place at the table and was stirring orange-flavored sugar into his water. "Quick! Eat something," he called out. "We should get an early start today at the rock temples." Was he imagining it, or were they always in a rush to eat and then to leave? He liked to dawdle over his food, but Max hated wasting time. Max was lecherous, but he was no voluptuary, like dear dead Alfred.

Hadji Ismael hurried to arrange Gustave's folding stool beneath him. This one-eyed man never lost sight of his employers, yet didn't move his head excessively, as if his eye could migrate at will to the back of his skull.

Set before Gustave was breakfast: a piece of flat bread and three quail eggs, steamed in their sh.e.l.ls. His mouth began to water as he lifted an olive to his lips.

Gustave and a new a.s.sistant, Achmet, the youngest crewman, made molds by lamplight that morning in one of the gloomy halls of the great temple, spared the direct sun, but nearly suffocating in the dead air of the cavernous s.p.a.ce. It felt to Gustave as if an eternity of repet.i.tive labor had pa.s.sed since breakfast. He raised his head and peered about in the dim light of the chamber. There were enough b.l.o.o.d.y inscriptions to keep him busy for a year. At least he was free to choose which ones he copied. The only limitation was that they be contiguous, which a.s.sumed that the walls shared something in common with books-that the narrative flowed from left to right or right to left. He had already made squeezes of the inscriptions on the eight columns in the main hall. As for the total number of squeezes, he was completely at the mercy of Max. The longer Max stayed at Abu Simbel taking photographs, the more squeezes he was obliged to produce. There were no diversions nearby to seduce Gustave from his task-no brothels, taverns, or restaurants-nothing but the Nile, and the towering cliffs on either side. Still, his mind was not free while he was required to apply wet paper to unyielding stone.

He looked forward to the time when he had only to supervise Achmet. One of the few literate crew members, Achmet understood that he was preserving the wisdom of his ancient forebears who, until now, had excited no curiosity in him. Gustave had explained that a scholar in France might spend years studying Achmet's squeezes. So, despite the tedium, the man was meticulous, brushing the inscriptions clean as Gustave had demonstrated, wetting the paper, then pressing it into the reliefs with a finer brush. Since taking on the job, Achmet carried himself among the crew with the pride of the anointed, certain that making squeezes was preferable to excavating the head of Ramses or swabbing the decks of the cange.

From time to time Gustave clowned and pantomimed for Achmet, who cackled loudly at his j.a.pes, clapping his hands over his mouth.

Achmet carefully peeled off two dry squeezes and placed them in their cardboard box. Carting the molds around was like transporting eggs-anything could ruin them. He looked to Gustave for further instruction. Gustave responded with a rolling movement of his hands. "Continue, mon ami," he said. "Fais un autre." With that, he picked up one of the lamps and set off toward the entrance to get a breath of air. The cavern stank of burning lamp oil, sweat, the staleness of the ages, and the fine-bore s.h.i.t of scorpions and beetles.

The next room was bathed in a dusky orange glow. Around two more corners, daylight leaked in. He hoisted himself up the sandy ramp to the entrance, squinting against the stinging onslaught of windblown sand.

Standing in the doorway, he contemplated the scene before him. Because of the height of the temple, he could not see the river below or its banks, only a glittering streak of blue-silver in the distance, where the Nile snaked away through the cliffs. It looked small and insignificant, like a misplaced piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Closer by, tourists were picnicking and lounging under the stunted acacia trees. There were always tourists camped by the rock temple, but he had no desire to meet any of them and remained in mufti.

Directly before him was the gigantic hill of sand that had swallowed the fourth Ramses up to his nostrils. It was wide as well as steep, always difficult to negotiate. If they did take the caravan to Koseir, he expected they would encounter dunes that would make this one seem a piker.

As he eyed the sand ramp from the top of it, an indistinct vision appeared at the bottom. A mirage, he first thought. But it lacked the illusion of water, the sparkling waves he'd often observed hovering above the desert, especially early in the morning. Was it, perhaps, another sort of mirage? Fata morgana, he recalled, the name of the storied mirage off the Strait of Messina, which had been spotted for hundreds of years, like clockwork. It appeared to pa.s.sing sailors like a wooded hillside or a ship, the images hanging high on the sky like unfinished paintings.

As he stared, something blue and slender, like a fishing float, bobbed into view. Above it, a scintillant blur the pink of a seash.e.l.l stretched wide and narrowed again. Then dark dots formed beneath the blue stripe, like clumps of soil hanging from the root of a flower. The entire a.s.semblage moved again. Perhaps it was going sideways; perhaps it was advancing. Long moments pa.s.sed as the blue stem widened to an oval. And then, as if bursting through a curtain or an invisible membrane, the colored slices merged and a small party climbing the hill led by a woman in blue resolved into sharper focus. He watched the woman's small, foreshortened figure toil uphill. Though she was only halfway along the ramp, he could now see that she wore a pink bonnet. The blue of her dress was the color of a summer day, tender and hopeful. Feeling as if he had witnessed a birth, he slumped down, exhausted and exalted, out of her sight.

He remembered another summer sky, another blue dress. It was July, a few months after Caroline died. He was taking her death mask and a plaster cast of her hand to James Pradier, who had recently made his father's memorial bust. The atelier was immense, one of those airy, high-ceilinged rooms favored by artists, with columns instead of walls, like a ballroom. Close to the windows, alongside a pedestal laden with clay, James stood, dashingly attired in red velvet tights embroidered in gold. Over a white shirt with an extravagant lace jabot he wore a brown canvas ap.r.o.n. His hands were gray with dried clay. He greeted Gustave, pointing to a sofa and one of a pair of overstuffed chairs. In the magical light of the atelier, the chair, with its loosening down stuffing, seemed not shabby, but as if it were sprouting feathery wings.

A woman sat upon a stool with her back to him and James. Blond sausage curls dangled on pale pink shoulders. She was wearing a blue dress. No, blue was not the word. Azure. For such a creature with golden tresses, the gown must be azure. Bunches of fabric-smocked sleeves, and a wide gathered skirt-conveyed plenitude, as if the sky had wrapped itself around her for the pure pleasure of azure. She sat stock still while Pradier daubed clay from the amorphous lump beside him to the emergent bust on the revolving table.

"Who is your visitor?" the woman asked, her face still hidden.

"No one who would interest you," James answered. "A mere provincial, a young writer from Rouen."

"Oh?" the voice said. "I have heard his footsteps. May I hear his voice?"

"As long as you do not move a centimeter." James nodded at Gustave, giving him permission to speak.

"Je m'appele Gustave. Gustave Flaubert."

"Oh, Flaubert. I've heard of you."

"No, you haven't!" James said.

"I certainly have," the voice insisted, rising with irritation. It did not seem attached to the inert figure on the stool.

James turned to Gustave. "Louise will never admit that anyone is unknown to her."

"Perhaps you've mentioned me to her," Gustave said, enjoying the cooling effect of a breeze that blew through the open windows.

"Why would I do that?"

"The death of my father, perhaps?" Gustave conjectured. "He was, after all, a well-known surgeon. Could you have shown her his bust?"

James shook his head and began to throw small pinches onto the head where the hair would go. The clay sat up in tufts like beaten egg whites.

"I shall meet him soon in any case," Louise said. "I must take a break. My neck is aching." She swiveled on her stool and in the next instant was extending an alabaster hand to him. He rose from his chair and, bowing formally, gathered her hand in his and kissed it. "A great pleasure, I'm sure," he mumbled. At twenty-five he could still be fl.u.s.tered by a beautiful woman, and the glimpse of her face, not to mention her shoulders and hair, had undone him. He hoped he was not blushing.

James completed the introductions. "Madame Colet is a poet of some repute." He turned to Louise. "And Gustave is a promising young writer."

"A poet also?" she asked. She moved toward the furniture, sorting out her voluminous skirts behind her, like an exotic bird preening its tail feathers. The neckline of her dress was fashionably low front and back. He tried not to stare.

"I am not a poet, madame. I am a novelist."

Louise arranged herself upon the worn loveseat, taking up most of it. "Have these novels seen the light of day? Who is your publisher?"

After he quit law school, he had revised Novembre, but did not intend to publish it yet. He considered it the draft of a novice. Too personal to share with anyone but his closest friends, it aged in a drawer at home, alongside the ma.n.u.script of Smarrh, the novella he wrote when he was thirteen. He could not mention that to her, either. Nor was it safe to talk about The Temptation of Saint Anthony, which he had just begun to research. "I am still a virgin, madame, when it comes to publication. I am revising, awaiting the right opportunity."

She tucked one foot under her petticoats and turned sideways to face him. "That is very wise. Reviewers have memories like elephants, and the first work published must set the standard. Revision is good. Though I myself"-she paused to secure his gaze-"am known for writing rapidly."

James carefully draped a damp canvas cloth over the bust. "Louise cranked out one poem in three days to meet a deadline. Isn't that correct? They say you wrote it in one sitting of fifty-five hours."

"Indeed. I never changed out of my housedress. That was my first prize-winning poem from the Academy. Do you know it, monsieur?" she asked Gustave. "'Le Musee de Versailles'?" She dropped her glance to pick a piece of lint off her bodice, giving him an opportunity-almost inviting him-to stare at it himself. Her rib cage was small and firm, perhaps from boning, a perfect complement to the lavish softness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, which rose majestically above the neckline and bobbled slightly, like twin puddings, as she moved her arms. The lady, he was pleased to note, was delectably feminine in every regard. The blue satin shoe that peeked from her lacy underskirts might have been a child's slipper. Her face was bright, her eyes oceanic, her features regular, with plump cheeks that lent a petulant pout, even when her face was in repose. He set upon fixing her in his mind until the time when he might request a portrait from her as a keepsake.

"I regret that I do not know the work," Gustave replied. "Could you furnish me with a copy?"

"But of course. It would be my pleasure. Shall I fetch it now? I shall give you a copy of my first book as well, Fleurs du Midi-"

"No!" James bellowed. "You are posing for me, are you not?

"It would only take a few moments." Louise explained to Gustave that she lived two blocks away, on rue Fontaine Saint-George. She made sure to mention her husband, the composer Hippolyte, and her daughter, Henriette. This information, Gustave understood, was offered as the bona fides of her availability, not to discourage his interest. As he well knew, everyone in Paris who was anyone took a lover. If he were going to have a s.e.x life despite the risk of triggering a seizure, it would be best on many counts with a respectable married woman rather than a prost.i.tute. He could form a loving and long-term relationship; a pregnancy could be finessed as legitimate progeny.

James compromised. "A few more minutes, Louise, until I finish the hairline, and we'll be done for the day. Perhaps Gustave will accompany you to your flat to save you the return trip."

"It would be my pleasure," he said.

It was clear to them that a flirtation and a.s.signation had been accomplished with the air of complete respectability. Had Louise's husband, Hippolyte, been in the room, Gustave thought with a shiver of delight, there would have been nothing he could have pointed to as improper.

Louise resumed posing. Gustave watched fascinated as James rolled clay between his hands to fashion slender coils. On the bust, they became a crude approximation of the tendrils of hair at her nape.

"Done!" James p.r.o.nounced, once again covering the bust with a damp cloth. Louise hopped down from the stool and retreated to a dry sink at the far end of the studio to freshen up.

It was then that Gustave handed Caroline's death mask and the cast of her hand to James. Immediately upon seeing the likeness of his sister, his mood plummeted. James stood silently pondering the mask for a long moment. At last, he spoke. The bronze he had used for Dr. Flaubert's bust was a practical and masculine material, ideal for a distinguished man. For Caroline he suggested marble, befitting her delicate beauty. Gustave agreed.

When she rejoined them, Louise was sharply taken aback by the mask, which was unmistakably the face of a dead woman, the eyes closed, the mouth set for eternity. "Oh, my dears," she whispered. "Who?"

"My sister, Caroline. My only sister." Gustave looked down at the floor to control his feelings.

"And so young. How?"

He continued to look down, unable to speak.

"Childbed fever," said James.

Louise stepped nearer and inserted her hand in the crook of Gustave's arm. "I am very sorry, my dear," she whispered, so low the words were barely audible. She touched his hand.

If only he could look up to meet her eyes, to acknowledge her kindness, the physical warmth of her touch. But he was afraid he would burst into tears.

"Come, my new friend, we shall walk and Paris herself will lift your spirits."

Sniffling, Gustave reached one-handed for his handkerchief. His nose was running furiously.

"Let me," she said, removing the cloth from his pocket and touching it lightly to his mouth and nose. "There, cheri. That's better, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Come. The urchins and beggars of Paris are waiting for us."

Still arm in arm, Louise handed Gustave her straw bonnet to hold by its satin ties and they exited through the wide door, clattering down the metal stairs.

Gustave could not believe his luck. Not an hour had pa.s.sed since he first laid eyes on Louise's curls, and now he was hurrying with this blond Venus to her apartment.

On the street, he fumbled for an instant, unsure as to etiquette. Was the gentleman supposed to be closer to the street in case of horses taking a s.h.i.t or running amok? Or closer to the houses, to receive the onslaught of emptied chamber pots? He could not for the life of him recall in that moment which was considered more gallant.

Louise's flat occupied the corner of a golden-red brick, pre-Revolutionary house converted to apartments. Though fallen into mild disrepair-there were pieces of slate missing from the roof, gutters slightly askew, windows cracked here and there-the beauty and grandeur of the building's origins overpowered its recent history.

Louise withdrew a key from a lavender velvet wristlet, unlocked the ma.s.sive door, and gestured him into a fair-sized drawing room. A pier gla.s.s caught their reflections as they entered, she confident, he more tentative. She stationed him on the couch and excused herself.

As the curtains floated up in the breeze, he caught her perfume, a whiff of musk and roses. He began to scan the room for clues to her character. Everything about his G.o.ddess was blue. Her eyes, her dress, and now her parlor, He was sitting on a worn blue camelbacked sofa draped with a darker blue silk shawl. Throw rugs in shades of aquamarine were strewn in thoughtful asymmetry along the dark planks of the floor, like garden plantings. The furnishings suggested that Madame Colet was financially pressed, that her chairs and taborets, tables and sconces were finds from flea markets and secondhand shops, with the exception, perhaps, of a finely carved alabaster lamp hanging from the ceiling by three bra.s.s chains.

Face and chest freshly powdered, Louise returned bearing a tray with strawberries, a bottle of wine, a pitcher of cream, and bread.

In truth, he had no appet.i.te, at least not for food. But it would be rude to refuse her hospitality, so he accepted the nondescript wine she offered in a cheap gla.s.s. He swallowed a mouthful and felt it go directly to his head, where it buzzed and faded, like an annoying insect.

Louise drizzled heavy cream over the sugared strawberries and he watched as white rivulets feathered out into ferny shapes that turned pink as they mingled with the sauce. He smeared a spoonful of the mixture onto his bread. As his teeth sank into the soft white dough, a trickle of jam melted onto his tongue, exploding with sweetness and tartness.

"Delicious," he muttered. "The combination . . ." The flavors surged in his mouth, the crisp crust becoming a moist, tender wad, the fleshy berries yielding to the syrup, all of it clinging to the fat of the cream before it vanished into the cleansing tang of the wine, which flowed tidelike around his mouth. His mouth! He was profoundly grateful for that marvelous organ, which, at this moment, equaled anything he had ever experienced with that other wonder, his p.r.i.c.k. Had he ever eaten before? Christ, he thought, the purest culinary bliss I have ever known, the flavor, the savor- "I am flattered, monsieur, that my cooking pleases you."

"And how," he mumbled, his voice drenched with the creamy, sugared fruit. "Is there some secret ingredient perhaps? Honey? Lemon zest?"

"I a.s.sure you no."

Soon the tray was empty. She smiled, pleased by his satisfaction.

While she cleared away the dishes, he sat back, content, and peered around the room, noticing its details at leisure. There were knickknacks and sentimental objects scattered about: a miniature vase with straw flowers; an ordinary rock on a table. (Did it represent a love affair, a pleasant afternoon picnicking in the country, an arduous hike in the Alps?) But mostly, there were books. Everywhere. They lined the walls of the salon and the end table shelves. Beneath the coffee table, the floor was stacked with journals and newspapers. Across the desk where it adjoined the wall, bookends kept a regiment of taller books upright. A stack of books leaned in a corner, behind a jade plant. He relaxed into the sofa with a sigh, feeling at home, among his own kind. "My dear Madame Colet," he ventured. "Tell me, what do you like to read?"

A torrent of authors and t.i.tles ensued. The conversation, until then a pleasant stream, roared into a deluge as Gustave shouted out names and Louise pulled books down from shelves. Hugo and Aristotle, Vigny, Musset, Byron, Sophocles-beloved Sophocles-and Plato, Montaigne and Rousseau, Chateaubriand. Soon the open books surrounded them like a flock of hungry street pigeons come to partake of the literary feast.

For Gustave, reading was a sacred event. "To me," he explained, "words refine experience, the way a smelter turns ore into steel, giving it the l.u.s.ter and strength of truth that is lacking in its coa.r.s.e, original form." Quite eloquent, he thought, for a first articulation.

Louise smiled. "Beautifully put. And so true. I could not have said it better."

"And I wonder if you have discovered the master himself." He was testing her, hoping she wouldn't fail. "I am speaking of a writer we have only in translation, and only recently," he hinted.

Louise rushed to her desk, removed a thick portfolio, and plopped down beside him on the couch. Whisking a lace doily to the floor, she placed the folder on the small coffee table, untied its suede closures, and removed a sheaf of paper. Her eyes were blue fireworks. "I've translated The Tempest," she announced.

Could it be that his G.o.ddess loved Shakespeare as much as he did? So few of his countrymen were conversant with the Bard. For some reason, it had taken the French hundreds of years to discover the greatest writer on earth. "Please," Gustave said. "Would you honor me with a reading?"

Her cheeks flushing, Louise fanned the pages until she found the scene she wanted. "Ah, here is the most captivating speech," she said excitedly. "It is Prospero's. You will undoubtedly recognize it." She paused for a moment, collecting herself like an actress about to declaim, her face growing solemn. When she read, her voice was deeper and more powerful, like a peaceful river that was forced through narrows.

Gustave knew The Tempest well. He and Bouilhet had read it out loud together, in French and English, often mystified by the archaic language, but in love with its music and wit. He knew, too, that translation was a difficult art, demanding the precision of a scholar and the vision of a poet. Madame Colet was clearly inspired; she had not lost the pa.s.sion of the text. But he also knew that Shakespeare rarely wrote in cla.s.sic Alexandrine couplets. Louise's rhymes were clanging distractions ("Players/layers . . . palace/chalice"), too loud and predictable for the nuanced images. But surely, a negative comment was not the way to her bed. She might even feel insulted. After all, she was a published poet and he-who was he to criticize?

"And our little lives are circled with a snooze," she concluded.