Read Online The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red by Ellen Rimbauer - Free Book Online
Authors: Ellen Rimbauer
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quickly than my own, for
he has returned to hunt and safari these last three weeks while I
lay here in my tent. (I am told, again by Sukeena, that the reverse
is usually true—that women tend to suffer far less than men from
this horrible af?iction. What curse on me reversed these odds?)
Husband and wife have not spoken of this, nor will we ever.
Of this I am certain. Much have I cried and agonized over my
husband’s unfaithfulness, his failure to live up to the mutual
consent of our marriage vows and the lack of respect he has shown
me. Much have I now suffered for his pleasures, and I ache for a
way to return such shame and pain to him. It is the heir, of
course. To deny him the right to continue his line, but I cannot
throw myself into this cause with much heart, for I, too, would
welcome the distraction of children. And yet the thought of joining
him physically I ?nd so repugnant as to literally make me sick
to my stomach. I vomit if any such image enters my mind. I expel
it and swear it will never come to fruition. I have now lived the
error of forgiveness (for certainly I’ve known all along what he
was up to!). I will never fool myself again. He will be made to beg
51
me. He will be made to cry. To pay, both ?nancially and emotionally,
for the trials he has put me through if he wishes to have
his heir. This inferno that has lived in my loins and in my head
these many weeks has taken root in my condemnation of my husband
and my determination for revenge. If it’s money that he
loves then I shall bleed him. This grand house of his will never be
complete. Construction will never stop. No expense will be
spared. He will watch as the frivolity of my mood directs the
depletion of his funds in whatever unnecessary and trivial manner
I can and do imagine. And he will be loath to stop it, to even try—
for my legs shall close upon his lineage forever, like a springed
trap.
The call for revenge drives me to take the soup Sukeena offers.
To allow my sweat-soaked bedsheets and nightgown to be
removed and replaced, rather than succumb to the fevers. To tolerate
the treatments Sukeena puts me through, at once both
painful and humiliating.
I will prevail to leave this tent, to face my husband across the
dinner tables erected beneath what appears to be a banyan tree. I
will look him in the eye and show him my resolve to right his
wrong. And he will know. He will wither under the power I have
gained both through my prayers (to both sides) and from my dear
friend, Sukeena. She has the power to heal, the power to connect
to the other side. Her dolls of black hardwood. Her musical
chants and infusions. In what my husband may only slowly come
to see, my illness has led to strength of mind, my suffering to
strength of heart. He will come to regret his in?delity, ultimately
and forever.
And I shall triumph, Sukeena at my side. She is coming home
with us. This is the ?rst of many concessions my husband shall
learn to make.
52
15 june 1908—cairo, egypt
I cannot imagine any place hotter in all the world than Cairo in
June. We have sailed down the Nile for days (how strange a world
this is that north is downstream?). John is foul of mood, and no
wonder: he has not won my affections since late April when he
bestowed upon me that horrible curse. And now, in such close
company as this small ?at-bottomed boat, he cannot ?nd any
budding young women to pluck except those of the European
families that people this vessel—girls who can speak, read and
write—girls who would report him in an instant if he lifted their
skirts. He broods and drinks and brags with the other passengers,
wisely leaving Sukeena and me to ourselves, except at dinner at a
tedious captain’s table where liquor is the of?cial language and all
but I speak ?uently. I hear him tell his hunting stories and marvel
at his ability to win friends, and I watch the women swoon, and I
wonder if that is how I once
he has returned to hunt and safari these last three weeks while I
lay here in my tent. (I am told, again by Sukeena, that the reverse
is usually true—that women tend to suffer far less than men from
this horrible af?iction. What curse on me reversed these odds?)
Husband and wife have not spoken of this, nor will we ever.
Of this I am certain. Much have I cried and agonized over my
husband’s unfaithfulness, his failure to live up to the mutual
consent of our marriage vows and the lack of respect he has shown
me. Much have I now suffered for his pleasures, and I ache for a
way to return such shame and pain to him. It is the heir, of
course. To deny him the right to continue his line, but I cannot
throw myself into this cause with much heart, for I, too, would
welcome the distraction of children. And yet the thought of joining
him physically I ?nd so repugnant as to literally make me sick
to my stomach. I vomit if any such image enters my mind. I expel
it and swear it will never come to fruition. I have now lived the
error of forgiveness (for certainly I’ve known all along what he
was up to!). I will never fool myself again. He will be made to beg
51
me. He will be made to cry. To pay, both ?nancially and emotionally,
for the trials he has put me through if he wishes to have
his heir. This inferno that has lived in my loins and in my head
these many weeks has taken root in my condemnation of my husband
and my determination for revenge. If it’s money that he
loves then I shall bleed him. This grand house of his will never be
complete. Construction will never stop. No expense will be
spared. He will watch as the frivolity of my mood directs the
depletion of his funds in whatever unnecessary and trivial manner
I can and do imagine. And he will be loath to stop it, to even try—
for my legs shall close upon his lineage forever, like a springed
trap.
The call for revenge drives me to take the soup Sukeena offers.
To allow my sweat-soaked bedsheets and nightgown to be
removed and replaced, rather than succumb to the fevers. To tolerate
the treatments Sukeena puts me through, at once both
painful and humiliating.
I will prevail to leave this tent, to face my husband across the
dinner tables erected beneath what appears to be a banyan tree. I
will look him in the eye and show him my resolve to right his
wrong. And he will know. He will wither under the power I have
gained both through my prayers (to both sides) and from my dear
friend, Sukeena. She has the power to heal, the power to connect
to the other side. Her dolls of black hardwood. Her musical
chants and infusions. In what my husband may only slowly come
to see, my illness has led to strength of mind, my suffering to
strength of heart. He will come to regret his in?delity, ultimately
and forever.
And I shall triumph, Sukeena at my side. She is coming home
with us. This is the ?rst of many concessions my husband shall
learn to make.
52
15 june 1908—cairo, egypt
I cannot imagine any place hotter in all the world than Cairo in
June. We have sailed down the Nile for days (how strange a world
this is that north is downstream?). John is foul of mood, and no
wonder: he has not won my affections since late April when he
bestowed upon me that horrible curse. And now, in such close
company as this small ?at-bottomed boat, he cannot ?nd any
budding young women to pluck except those of the European
families that people this vessel—girls who can speak, read and
write—girls who would report him in an instant if he lifted their
skirts. He broods and drinks and brags with the other passengers,
wisely leaving Sukeena and me to ourselves, except at dinner at a
tedious captain’s table where liquor is the of?cial language and all
but I speak ?uently. I hear him tell his hunting stories and marvel
at his ability to win friends, and I watch the women swoon, and I
wonder if that is how I once
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