The Missing Professor

A YOUNG LADY IN CORNWALL

Emma dear, dear, please stop the plonking! Always Bach!

Beethoven, Aunt Sybil, I’m plonking away at Beethoven.

Bach! Beethoven! It’s all the same. Play something merry, if you must. Emma merely sat down at the piano when her aunt rushed into the small parlor.

As she always did whenever this occurred, Emma reacted by removing her hands from the keys. She turned toward Sybil, who had thrown herself onto the chaise longue and was leafing through a magazine with meticulously manicured nails. She then tossed it aside and turned to gaze out the window with a dramatic sigh.

Emma stood up. I’m going to town. I’m sure my yarn has arrived. Do you need anything, Aunt Sybil?

Emma dear, please stop calling me ‘aunt’ before it slips out in front of other people. Do try to remember that. You probably have too much nonsense floating around in that little head of yours, which is why you keep forgetting.

Just then the thought occurred in that little head that her aunt’s thoughts were quite a bit simpler than her own.

"But if you do go to town, please pick up copies of Vogue and Tatler for me."

And as usual, she doesn’t have her purse handy, Emma thought.

Indeed, Sybil nonchalantly asked Emma to cover the cost; surely her niece could spare a few shillings. Perhaps she could bring a chocolate—or better yet a small box of chocolates!—to go with them? And could Emma take her letters to the post office too? Sybil would do it herself, but Mother was bound to wake up soon and she was expecting a call from London as well. Oh, the absence of good society out here was appalling, and this place… Before Sybil could get so worked up that she’d require comfort and consolation from her niece, Emma hurried into the hall, grabbing a basket, money, and a key, and as she’d promised, the bundle of letters too and then dashed out of the cottage.

Below her stretched the cove with the small harbor around which Polperro was nestled. Narrow granite houses—some rough and dark, others whitewashed—formed tight lanes that extended from the water high up to the cliff’s edge. No breeze was blowing from the sea. August had brought with it sunshine and an oppressive heat rare for Cornwall. Emma was already dreading her later walk back up to the cottage, but this was preferable to listening to Sybil’s complaints all day. She descended the steep streets with long strides, stopping now and again to enjoy the view and her freedom.

Polperro’s streets were overflowing with summer visitors. Many of them were searching for that one special artist that they could show off in London, thereby adding to their cultural, if not real, capital. And the painters, sculptors, and potters put themselves on display for all to see. They set up their easels on every corner, opened their studios, and pretended to be loners who eschewed money; they lived for art and art alone. Emma wound her way through the crowded alleys, dodging a stick here, an elbow there, all the while wishing she was already back up high on the cliffs in the little garden. Crowds made her uncomfortable, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the dockside shop.

Mrs. Bunbury, a plump middle-aged woman, businesslike and affable, gave her a perfunctory greeting. Busy selling souvenirs as well as haberdashery, candy, magazines, and tobacco, she rarely had time for a chat. Just then she was setting out various shell-covered boxes for an elderly lady and her granddaughter, who were clearly taking great care with their selection. With a smile in Emma’s direction, she nodded toward the back of the store where she had packed the yarn in a box. The invoice was pinned to the lid along with a free set of knitting instructions for the latest sweater from Paris.

Remembering Aunt Sybil’s whimsical desires, Emma turned to the magazines. She failed to locate a copy of Tatler but found the current issues of Vogue and a London gossip magazine that offered the much-needed information essential to Sybil’s hunt for husband number three. Meanwhile, the two other customers in the shop were now busying themselves with choosing an appropriate postcard, while Mrs. Bunbury packed up their shell-covered box. Emma gestured to indicate that she was leaving the money for her purchases on the counter.

She reluctantly left the coolness of the store to once again fight her way through the heat and the people. Halfway home, she remembered her aunt’s letters and stopped abruptly. That set off the woman walking behind her, who gave her a shove and some harsh words before pushing past her with one final shake of her head. Emma burned with embarrassment, as she always did after such incidents, so she tried her best to steer clear of everyone else on the sidewalks.

Arriving at the post office, she was pleased to find no one there but the clerk, who glanced up with obvious disinterest. Emma took it as evidence that she was fated to be nothing but a source of trouble to other people. And the letters had, of course, gotten jumbled up with her purchases, which she had to unload one by one onto the counter, much to the clerk’s dismay. One ball of yarn promptly rolled off the counter, followed by a second, as the Vogue sailed to the floor. Emma tried frantically to catch them, but as she did so, she brushed against the basket, causing it to topple over and scatter the letters all over the room.

Oh, pardon me, I ... Oh, I’m sorry. Perhaps if you could hand me the yarn ... Oh, thank you. With her head down, Emma gathered everything up, feeling small and hot. She couldn’t help wondering what kind of sight she presented with her cheeks flushing pink beneath her red curls. If only just once she could remain confident and aloof like Aunt Sybil. She had a knack for making everyone feel as though they alone were to blame for her mishaps. How incredible that must be!

As she stood up and brushed her hair out of her eyes, she caught sight of the clerk’s hands reaching out to her, though not to help her. The right hand was waiting impatiently for the appropriate amount of postage—Two shillings, Miss!—while the left one held out a bundle of letters for her to take: These just arrived. Take them with you, so Tommy won’t have to cycle up to your place.

Yes, of course, gladly. Thank you and sorry again. Without even glancing at the letters, Emma stuffed them into her basket, wedged the second ball of yarn that was waiting for her at the door on top of them, and fled.

The way home was long and arduous, the heat oppressive, and the basket heavy; it was a more exhausting climb than she had feared an hour ago.

Finally, she stood panting in the garden in front of the cottage, looking for her key. She thought she’d taken it with her, but it was nowhere to be found. Grandmother was hopefully done with her afternoon nap; Lady Milford valued routine, and if anyone interrupted her she looked stricken with disappointment.

Emma hesitated. Instead of knocking, she could go around the house, climb over the little wall into the kitchen garden, and get Ada to open the window over the sink. Not the most convenient way inside, but to escape Grandmother’s silent disapproval, she would gladly accept any inconvenience. She was about to sneak through the garden when the front door swung open and Ada let her in. I was standing upstairs and could see from there that you were out of breath. Come on in. Milady and Miss Sybil are already sitting down to tea.

Flushed with heat, Emma stepped into the living room with the basket still on her arm. Only two of Ada’s scones remained on the cake stand. Tomorrow Sybil would stand in front of her mirror and complain about how difficult it was for a woman in her mid-thirties to maintain her slim figure. It would be a lot easier to maintain were she to let others have a bigger share of the afternoon delicacies.

Emma dear, did you get it all done? I’m craving chocolates and some witty conversation. You brought the magazines?

"No Tatler, I’m afraid, and no chocolates. Mrs. Bunbury was busy, and I didn’t want to disturb her."

Sybil’s spirits could only be lifted by another scone, which she spread with a generous portion of cream and strawberry jam.

Emma sat down quickly so that she could get at least the last crumbs of the afternoon tea. Is it alright with you, Grandmother, if I take the last scone? Or would you like it?

Go ahead, sweetheart, go ahead. You should eat more as it is. You are so skinny I can see right through you. Lady Milford pulled the basket toward her, held the olive-green yarn up to Emma’s face, found it tasteful after scrutinizing it for a moment, and then distributed the letters. Darling, please make your father understand that he shouldn’t address his mail to you with Fräulein Schumacher. It sounds so German, practically Jewish even. You are my granddaughter here and, as such, should be addressed as Miss Milford. I’m coming to think he does this on purpose.

I will explain to him again, Grandmother, but he is so absorbed in his work, he forgets. You know he doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body. Emma would like to have added that it was rather a lot to ask of her father, especially at his advanced age, to stop addressing his own daughter by her given name. However, quiet and shy by nature, Emma didn’t wish to contradict her grandmother, although this silence was becoming harder to maintain with each passing year.

After her mother’s death and the subsequent end of the war, Papa had capitulated to his mother-in-law’s urging and placed Emma in her care. That way the child could refine her English and receive a good education, and he wouldn’t have to worry about not raising her properly. Besides, his research consumed all of his time, and potential trips to Alexandria and Cairo would be out of the question for the delicate creature, whom he didn’t want to expose to any dangers following the loss of his wife.

Seven years had passed since Emma had moved into Lady Milford’s household, shuttling back and forth between London, Edinburgh, and various coastal towns. Eleven months ago, Sybil had moved in with them. Following the death of her second husband, she had sold their townhouse for a stately sum but was nevertheless reluctant to spend her money. Who knew, after all, if she would be able to find a wealthy husband a third time around? Whether it was due to Sybil’s presence or whether Emma, soon to be twenty, had simply had enough of being the child in the household, obstinacy and a growing self-confidence had recently started awakening within her. She had begun to observe people more attentively, more closely, and her judgment wasn’t always mild. Her harshest critiques she reserved for her aunt.

Like just now. Emma glanced silently over at her aunt, only to flinch a moment later when Sibyl addressed her. Emma dear, the hem of my blue coat is drooping—you are so handy with a needle. You wouldn’t mind mending it, would you?

Put it in the sewing basket. Maybe I’ll get to it in the morning. Right now, I want to read Papa’s letter. You’ll excuse me? Emma slipped the letter into her dress pocket where she found the house key, which made her feel like an idiot again. She poured herself another cup of tea, nodded farewell, and walked down the hall to the kitchen: Ada, do you have a sandwich or any cookies for me? I’m so hungry.

Ada reached behind her and handed Emma a blue plate with two scones on it. I figured that would probably happen. That there’d be nothing left for you.

Emma thanked her from the bottom of her heart and rushed upstairs to her bedroom.

In front of a window overlooking the bay, there was an upholstered armchair covered in an English-floral pattern. Emma sat down and enjoyed her snack before opening the envelope. Two sheets dropped out: a larger one folded crosswise and a smaller one showing a pen-and-ink drawing of a Bastet figurine. The feline goddess sat there, calm and collected, her head cocked slightly upward, her eyes attentive and wide. Across the pedestal a row of hieroglyphics, only two or three of which Emma actually recognized. Her father had carefully noted all the details: size, weight, material, condition, and presumed period of creation. In the lower right corner, her father had jotted down a question mark and underlined it twice. Like her father, Emma was fascinated by everything that came from the Old Kingdom on the Nile, and she especially loved Bastet. She joyfully unfolded the letter and read:

August 11, 1926, Bonn am Rhein

My dear Emma,

I hope with all my heart that you are well and enjoying your stay in Polperro. How are your studies going? How is your piano playing? Do you go for walks in the nearby countryside? Cornwall is rich in history and picturesque places. Perhaps you could send me sketches of what you see or, better yet, bring them with you when we see each other again in a few weeks.

Please forgive me for not giving you exact dates and details about connections for your visit in this letter. I am busy with all sorts of big and little matters, which is why—this will not come as a surprise to you—I continue to be at odds with the Dean, who sees no need whatsoever for us as renowned institution to get more involved in Egyptian research. This is astonishing considering that there are sufficient funds available for the mathematicians and the botanists and whoever else hopes for such generosity. They are all linked with each other through their faith in the future, but the past is the only thing that can really teach us anything. Considering their limited technological capabilities, the Egyptians were far ahead of us, but does anyone care about that? Does anyone recognize their significance? Every day, I make a renewed effort to get hold of the Dean. Does he think I don’t see him trying to avoid me? But enough of that. I do not want to spoil your vacation with my troubles.

Your Tante Tinni, who sends you her warmest greetings as always, has begun the preparations for your visit. Your bedroom has new curtains, and Tinni has collected some books and magazines for your enjoyment. She is already planning the meals, which are becoming increasingly Provençal in flavor—the affair with the French lieutenant no longer seems so insignificant. He was discharged in January but has decided to stay here a little longer. Your aunt seems to have played a role in this development, although Monsieur Barbier is talking with increasing frequency about wanting to see his Toulouse again. She is not easy to deal with at the moment. Every harmless joke I allow myself sets her off. But at over fifty years old, the two of them cannot be seriously thinking about getting married? I don’t mind the old girl having a bit of fun with her Frenchman but beyond that? If you think I am being selfish, you are absolutely right—but as you well know, I would miss her support greatly. Anyway, she left yesterday to visit her friend in Cologne, where she plans to stay for the week. This is merely a spontaneous trip, but just think how much worse it would be for me if she went to France and stayed there forever! Feel free to give me a good scolding when we see each other, and then talk your aunt out of this nonsense.

I will soon have a lot to do, including a new project. Among other things, I am going to have a telephone installed and will be meeting with a young Englishman who is connected to Carter’s excavation crew. I am hoping for a lot from this contact and will report back to you. And one more thing! Tomorrow morning, for the first time ever, I will be facing a police inspector in the flesh. I feel like an excited old man, almost as if I were a little boy again and had been allowed to help a boilerman with his work. Now I am old and sometimes even wise, but I am still a child at heart, to whom everything new seems exciting and scary at the same time. Do not worry about this. It is nothing of importance. I just had all this on my mind, and you know how I do not like to waste paper, so I ramble on and on without aim or reason just to satisfy my sense of order.

There is just enough space left here to include my greetings and an affectionate kiss, and to remind you that your Aunt Sybil has always been a most silly person, even when she was a teenager. She will probably never change—do not take her chatter to heart!

Loving greetings from your old Papa,

Heinrich August Schumacher

Emma smiled, although the brevity of the letter disappointed her. Her father usually lost himself in detailed descriptions of hounding his Dean and verbally jousting with the Rector. He would regale her with tales of how he had inundated the booster club with requests, pleas, and reproaches, and describe to her artifacts of extraordinary beauty and rarity. He often trailed off into reminiscences and crafted amusing stories about his sister, to whom he clung with loving affection.

The brevity of this particular letter didn’t deter Emma from immediately sitting down at the dressing table to compose a reply. She laid out her paper and fountain pen, and considered what she could report. Her days passed with marked uniformity, especially now that Grandmother was no longer steady on her feet and Sybil could only muster enough energy for dances and outings with her posh acquaintances.

A few months earlier, Emma had enrolled in a stenography school in London. Who knew where the world was headed? And for what something like stenography might one day come in handy? She had explained this all to Grandmother, who though probably a bit taken aback by this explanation, nonetheless generously paid for the course. Apart from the stenography course, in Edinburgh, Emma had helped the vicar’s wife with her parish duties. Her life offered nothing more exciting than this, and so she pondered before writing each letter to Papa what she could say that would entertain him. Her hand hovered indecisively over the paper.

Glancing up, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Freckles blossomed on her delicate skin like daisies in a meadow. Her mouth was nicely shaped, though too large. Pale and inconspicuous—that was Emma’s opinion of herself. Too thin too. The only feature she regarded with benevolence was her red curls, which she had inherited from her mother. She sighed, took one more look down at the bay and the darkening sky, and set about answering:

August 19, 1926, Polperro, Cornwall

My dear Papa,

I am doing very well and am enjoying the warm weeks here by the sea. I haven’t seen much of the area yet, but after receiving your letter, I think I will take some day trips and promise to send you drawings to prove it.

Did I already tell you that I completed my stenography training with distinction? According to Grandmother, looking for a job is out of the question. I waver between disappointment and relief: so many hours for nothing. But the idea of having to apply at a personnel office scares me a lot, so I’m maintaining the status quo for now.

Did I mention that Aunt Sybil is looking for another husband? She may be silly, but she is also striking and has no shortage of suitors, at least in London. Here, on the other hand, the options are limited to staid family men and artists who don’t have a shilling to their names. You can imagine her mood. However, there is a vague hope that she will return to London soon, and I will be back to being on my own with Grandmother.

You see I have nothing to report, and so I have a series of questions for you instead:

Have you thought about my suggestion of trying to find some private funders? Even here the newspapers are full of articles about mummies and sphinxes. Surely the interest in Bonn is equally great?

And how did the Dean react? Did you really waylay him during your Sunday afternoon walk? I can imagine you jumping at him from the side, all worked up as you often are, and him leaping in terror into the Rhine rather than talking with you.

And can you really not bring yourself to offer a word of encouragement to Tante Tinni? If she has an admirer who appreciates her, you shouldn’t stand in her way. I will certainly scold you in person and do not count on me to talk her out of anything! If things are as serious as you think they are, we will find a new housekeeper for you, and then we will travel together once a year to Toulouse, which rivals Cornwall in terms of beauty and history. You can’t object to that.

By the way, your letter didn’t include a detailed description of the papyri whose arrival recently excited you so much. I also hope very much that you will write to me quite soon and fill me in on your encounter with that Englishman, although I have no idea why I should support your travel plans when you refuse to take me with you. I might look fragile, but I am not. On the contrary, I am quite tough and tenacious. Desert sand and sun wouldn’t bother me much, I assure you. At least not as long as I wrapped several veils around my nose to keep from burning, and yes, I know, by this point, you are banging on the table and shouting loudly that I am simply daydreaming and refuse to acknowledge reality. Let me reply: I have inherited this from you and you alone!

Please write to me again soon, so that the days until October don’t feel so long to me. A few short lines would suffice. Please also reconsider my request to stay with you until the new year this time. I am no longer a baby and quite capable of keeping myself busy.

Hugs from your loving daughter,

Emma Charlotte

Post script:

Grandmother has asked me to remind you once more that you should address your letters to me as Miss Milford!

In the weeks that followed, Emma surprised Lady Milford and Sybil with her adventurousness. Soon she was bicycling daily along the coast or having Mr. Bunbury take her to Liskeard Station in his milk wagon. As promised, she sketched views for her father and spent evenings coloring them or planning her next excursions. While Grandmother listened with polite interest to Emma’s reports, Sybil’s mood visibly deteriorated. Although her niece’s freckles multiplied and Ada’s scones fell to her unchallenged, she missed Emma’s willingness to take on everyday chores.

Sybil got nowhere whenever she tried her luck with Ada by waving sagging stockings or torn hems in her direction. Ada had made quite clear that she truly had enough to handle considering the bedrooms, the garden, and the numerous meals that some people consumed. When Ada slammed her mop bucket down on the floor during their final altercation, Sybil fled and decided that the sewing could wait on her London maid. The girl would cost her enough in the coming season as it was, an unavoidable expense if Sybil didn’t wish to lose standing in her friends’ eyes. And thus, Sybil fired little barbs in Emma’s direction morning and evening, which her niece hardly noticed. Sybil was quickly souring on her stay in this wretched fishing village.

Emma, on the other hand, was bubbly and boisterous, and found herself more frequently on the verge of firing back occasional rebuttals. This was the first holiday in which she was feeling an air of confidence and a zest for life. Even if her excursions were minor ones, she felt as if she were traveling the world.

September started off gray and gloomy, and for a week, storms chased each other all over England. Emma thought it was the end of the wonderfully carefree summer days, but summer returned for one last hurrah. Every morning, the fog surrendered to a hazy heat that gave Emma’s grandmother migraines.

Instead of leaving Polperro as hoped, Sybil invited a friend for a visit whose London apartment hadn’t withstood the recent floods. Sibyl naturally expected Emma to vacate her bedroom and share Ada’s maid’s quarters, but the girl refused. A victory without spoils, however. After a mere twenty-nine hours and seventeen minutes, it turned out that Sybil and her bosom friend Nancy weren’t quite as inseparable as they had thought they were. Sybil’s room was too small for the two of them, as was the bed and the closet. The living conditions were unbearable! As if that weren’t enough, Nancy lamented at length about her faithless husband, whose affair with a dancer she refused to get over as long as he dared to stay upset about her perfectly harmless acquaintance with an actor. Likewise, this heartless person had the gall to berate her tennis instructor. And as for her flirtation in Zermatt ... What could she, a desirable woman, do about all this?

As things would have it, Nancy was also hunting for a new spouse, which alarmed Sybil since her dearest friend was showing too much interest in Sybil’s potential suitors. Sybil would have gladly sent the snake packing, but then Nancy would have driven back to London and spread all sorts of malicious gossip. And since Nancy, despite her cramped quarters and foul mood, preferred to live with Sybil than in a London emergency shelter, the two friends were stuck with each other, which meant that everyone was forced to suffer.

Due to the explosive atmosphere at the cottage, Emma set off early every morning, defying the fog. Her destination these days was Fowey, where she had met a woman her own age on one of her outings. They had literally run into each other at the harbor. Emma had apologized repeatedly while Daphne had remained cool and taciturn. Their paths would have parted had Emma not stumbled as she left and pulled the other woman down with her. They had both dissolved into laughter. And when they couldn’t stop laughing, they had decided to go have tea together.

Emma felt comfortable in Daphne’s company, although she couldn’t quite figure her out. Despite her coolness, Daphne was intensely attentive; it was as if she were studying Emma in depth. She was interested in Emma’s views, in her previous life, and in her family. She asked question after question, wanting to hear everything. On the other hand, Daphne divulged very little about herself. She was spending the summer alone at her family’s home. Her father was a fairly well-known actor, although Emma had never heard of him, and Daphne had ambitions to make a name for herself as a writer. Emma suspected Daphne’s interest in her lay in her authorial aspirations, but it didn’t bother her, and so she spent increasingly longer days with her new acquaintance. Often Daphne would ask questions that began with What would you do if...? before diving into stories and dramas about things that took place among the upper crust. Daphne’s commentary was always so ironic and compelling that Emma couldn’t help but listen with fascination. Whenever Sybil talked about the very same people, she could never suppress a yawn.

When Emma returned home in the evenings, she was usually greeted by a bad mood, empty plates, and an exhausted grandmother. A slight break in the routine came one Thursday when she returned to find another letter from her father.

Emma, I beg you. You must convince your father to use Miss Milford and not Fräulein Schumacher, Lady Milford declared as she handed Emma the envelope. Even after all these years of Papa forgetting Miss Milford and writing Fräulein Schumacher instead, Grandmother refused to give up.

Emma noticed the crossed-out address. The letter was forwarded from London, Grandmother. Why do you think that was?

After another day of migraines, arguments, and griping, Lady Milford couldn’t have cared less. Your father is not getting any younger, my girl. We old folks cannot concentrate when the noise around us will not stop!

Grandmother had uttered the last words with an uncharacteristically loud and biting tone, casting a glance under raised eyebrows at Sybil who had just entered the room. Sybil sighed, dropped onto the sofa, and launched into another of her dramatic lamentations. Emma immediately jumped up, wished her relatives a good night, and retreated to her room to read her letter in peace.

Why had Papa sent it to the London address? Well, Grandmother was probably right; he had forgotten. The envelope contained only one half-sheet of paper:

Bonn, August 15, 1926

My beloved daughter,

I hope you are well and that you are being a good granddaughter to your grandmother. I hear it is exceptionally warm in England and especially in London. I presume you are spending your days by the water? Just don’t forget your studies! We can see all around us how important an excellent education is nowadays, even for women. Since the Great War, there has been an unfortunate shortage of potential husbands, and thus, you may need to provide for yourself one day.

I myself am well and am dashing off these lines to you in order to sign off for the next few weeks. Do not be surprised if you hear nothing further from me for a while. I am heading off on a lecture trip in a few days to various museums of antiquity, and I am not sure when I will find time to write to you again.

Please give my regards to your beloved grandmother and feel embraced by your father.

Emma turned the letter over three or four times, then