journal: 9 Sept 1923

Finally found time (and strength) to write. Fell horribly ill in Karachi; vomiting and vacating bowels continuously. Nurses fed me nothing but dal and feculent herbal tea for a month. Doing much better now - so much for Tut's revenge! - but I believe that I would rather starve than ever have to eat another lentil as long as I live, as the smell alone now sickens me. 

In Ihsan Ihsaan Waahaan now. Excavation is anything but spectacular; i.e., a ditch. Unearthing of burial site will likely have to wait until at least March. Leaves me plenty of time to find local "help." Still, vast potential for boredom here if I do not remain busy. Opportunity to better my Urdu; will also explore Lahore - captivating silks! - and perhaps absorb local mytho history about Mohenjo-daro ("Mound of the Dead"). Delightfully eerie name; perhaps we shall unearth another curse? Perhaps it has already struck, as I find myself out of cigarettes.

Also finding myself wishing that I had someone back home to write (haven't spoken to Rebecca going on three years) but it is probably for the best that I do not.

railway map: July 1923

journal: 17 May 1923

The "Pharaoh's Curse" strikes again! George Jay Gould is dead. I did not know the man personally, having never met him, but apparently he was a wealthy American railroad executive. According to the papers, he first fell ill after visiting the tomb in March. Alas.

I feel fine.

journal: 5 April 1923

San Francisco: crowded, cold, foggy. Not unlike London in climate. Culture is another matter entirely; Yankees most Americans are boisterous, garroulous, and tacky.

Currently awaiting passage to India on S.S. Havana. To assist with ASI excavations of Indus sites Harappa and Mohenjo-daro under Sir John Marshall and R.D. Banerji. Recommended highly by Howard C. (evidently Nekhbet amulet was not missed!).

Also: Lord Carnarvon has died. Papers amok with "Curse of Tut-ankh-Amen." Superstitious drivel, certainly, but the imagination is cruel; last night I dreamt that my chest was infested with parasitic beetles. Phantasms of guilt? (What would Dr. Hirschfeld make of it? Purveyor of Oedipal smut!)

obituary: March 29, 1923

Alexander Roosevelt Cox, Esq. and Antonia Milbert Cox, an attorney who retired in 1921 and his devoted wife; died in a fire at their home last night. 

During the 1890s, Mr. Cox was a special assistant attorney general assigned to the London Orphans Court. Mr. Cox and his wife are survived by their daughter, Rebecca Cox Faversham, who is married with three children, and their youngest adult son, Peter. Their eldest son, David, died heroically in combat during the Third Battle of Ypres in 1917. 

Memorial services for Mr. and Mrs. Cox will be held two o'clock tomorrow afternoon at the Chelsea Old Church (All Saints) and will be open to the public.

17 Feb 1923

Dearest Mum:

I hope you are well. No doubt you'll have heard the big news out of Egypt before this note reaches you. Suffice it to say that Mr. Carter's find was as grand as it was unexpected! Although the young pharaoh's tomb appeared to have been pilfered long ago, the burial chamber remained undisturbed and we were the first to see its treasures in millenia, a feeling which I can describe only as ineffable.

On that note, I have enclosed a souvenir from my time here. It is truly unique and, to the right collector, rather valuable. The less you know of it, the better - so do not unwrap it; rather keep it in a safe place and forget about it, unless financial vicissitudes should ever necessitate that you part with it.

While I do not expect this ancient bauble to expunge the dishonour upon my name (quite the opposite, assuredly!), or purchase your and Father's forgiveness for my various derelictions, I hope it will bring you some comfort to know that you are never far from my thoughts, and you shall never want for anything so long as I have any say in the matter.

I remain your devoted son,
Petey

In the Times: December 22, 1922

Sept. 24, 1920

Dear Peter,

After many tears and much thought, I have come to the inescapable conclusion that we cannot remain together. When I vowed before God and our two families to be your faithful wife for as long as I had breath in my body, I did so believing that neither of us had any secrets that would come between us. I know now that I was mistaken, if only because you were not altogether truthful with me.

Still, I agreed to stand by you while you sought treatment for your affliction. No one was happier than I when you declared that you were cured, but it soon became apparent that your optimism was another manifestation of your penchant for dishonesty and self-delusion. Since then, my misgivings have only been affirmed after each “cure” and the inevitable relapse. I simply cannot abide it any longer, though not for the lack of trying. Though what I am about to say may be construed as cruel, you of all people must acknowledge that I have been an exceedingly patient and forgiving woman.

I have consulted with the vicar and have informed him of your perversion (which in modesty I shall not revisit here), and he has assured me that I have credible grounds for divorce. Though it will devastate my parents and tarnish my reputation, I would rather suffer these burdens than continue with this matrimonial charade of ours. In retrospect, it seems a blessing that we have no children, as no doubt they would be traumatised by the heartbreak of it all.

I ask that you grant me this wish of your own charity, lest a contest ensue and your shame be exposed to the public. Although it is not my wish to hurt you or defame your character, my wish to be free is stronger, and I will do as I must. Please be reasonable, Peter, for both our sakes.

And please believe that I wish you no ill, as I know that you are not at heart an depraved man; indeed, I sincerely hope that either medicine or miracle will one day rid you of your demons, so that you may find freedom as well.

Cordially,
Lillian

14 Feb 1919

My darling Lily,

Greetings from Berlin; or, as the locals say, Grüße von Berlin!

I must give grudging credit to the Huns, who have become remarkably civic-minded since the Great War tamed them; in a relatively short while, their governing Council has been extraordinarily active in passing reforms limiting the workday to eight hours, providing national health insurance, reinstating demobilised workers, granting universal suffrage to all citizens 20 years and older, etc. I suppose it is better for us all that Prussia be kept busy!

This Institut für Sexualwissenschaft of Dr. Hirschfeld's, being unique in Europe, is quite unlike anything I have ever before encountered. 

It probably does not need to be said that I am meeting all kinds of characters here, whose romantic proclivities all tend toward the "exotic." I struggle with the simultaneous revulsion they evoke in me and the unsettling similarities between us; and, as I get to know more about them and their own struggles (as well as my own) the clearer it becomes to me that, in most aspects, we are not too terribly different from anyone else.

Indeed, the atmosphere of the Institute is unlike any other, as it is not merely a hospital where one comes for treatment. This, I am discovering, is a place of revolutionary sensitivity, where unprejudiced self-understanding is extolled as the highest pursuit. We are mandated to engage in several hours of analysis a week, the contents of which I have been discouraged from sharing, even with you.

Dr. Hirschfeld says that I am making good (if gradual) progress. I expect that I shall be back in London in just over a month, with periodic returns to Berlin as needed to continue and sustain my improvement. I am told this is typically a long-term endeavour.

I miss you terribly, and think about you constantly. I appreciate how difficult this must be for you; not only that I have left you alone for so long, but also that the nature of my problem necessitates so much secrecy and deceit. You have shown such fidelity and kindness, the likes of which I do not deserve. I am truly blessed to have you as my wife. I love you.

Faithfully yours,

Pete