Houses of Stone by KATHY (booksvooks .TXT) 📕

I do that it's only the first step. I counted no fewer than fourteen women who are possible candidates. There's absolutely no way of knowing from the genealogy which of them was Ismene." He didn't give her time to reply, but went on, "Have you thought—hell, there I go again, of course you have—about the implication of the name? She must have read Antigone. That's astonishing in itself; a classical education wasn't available to many women at that time."

"It weakened their brains."

"And drove them insane," Meyer agreed in the same sardonic tone. "The house of stone—in the poems and in the novel—must have been inspired by Antigone's 'place of stone,' her 'vaulted bride-bed in eternal rock.' But why did she choose to call herself by the name of the weaker of the two sisters? Antigone was the heroine; defying a tyrant at the risk of her own life, she is more admirable than any of the men in the play, even her lover."

It wasn't the first time Karen had considered the question of Ismene's nom de plume, but it was the first time she had had the opportunity to discuss it with someone who knew the literature as well as she did and whose interest was as keen as hers. "He died too," she pointed out. "He killed himself for Antigone's sake."

"But in a fascinating reversal of conventional male-female roles. Usually it's the hero who nobly sacrifices his life for a principle, and the heroine who refuses to go on living after the sole light of her life is gone. As for Antigone's sister . . . Admittedly she does offer to join Antigone in death, but only after she has tried to persuade her sister to accept the tyrant's refusal to give their dead brother honorable burial. And in the end, Ismene doesn't go through with it. She lives and Antigone dies."

"Antigone talks her out of sacrificing herself. She doesn't want to share the glory."

"That's one interpretation." Meyer raised his eyebrows. "But I didn't expect you to be so cynical about female heroes."

"Why should they be any different from male heroes? Do you think it was love for her sister that moved Antigone, then?"

"Why not? Ismene had offered the highest proof of her love; she was willing to die for a cause she obviously considered foolish. Their brother was already dead and rotting. What use is honorable burial to a corpse?"

"That's a modern viewpoint. The Greeks didn't share it."

"True," Meyer admitted. "Nor did some of our not-so-distant ancestors. I doubt the parallel between the drama and the novel extends beyond the similarity of names, however, so I wouldn't bother searching for a pair of sisters and a dead brother in the Cartright genealogy. I have, however, found Ismene's house of stone."

The words were like a slap in the face of a swooning heroine. Karen had been leaning forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands, forgetting her dislike of Meyer in the rare and unmatched pleasure of shop talk. There weren't many people who knew her field so well, and whose intelligence was as quick as Meyer's. Or as crafty. He had caught her completely off guard.

"You sneaky son of a bitch," she exclaimed. "How much of the manuscript did you read?"

"And then he said, with one of those nasty grins of his—I quote exactly—'I'm quite a fast reader. And I know how to skim the cream off a text.' "

She was speaking to Peggy, who had called to report her arrival shortly after Meyer left. She was earlier than Karen had expected, but Karen hadn't commented on that or on Peggy's drawn, tired face. The perfidy of William Meyer still rankled. As she drove to the motel to pick up her friend she carried on a profane monologue with herself, but it was an even greater catharsis to express her rage to a sympathetic listener.

"Have a drink," Peggy suggested. She already had one; her first question, after they reached the apartment, had been, "Where's the booze?"

"Maybe I will." Removing the cork from the bottle of wine relieved a little of her spleen. While she worked at it Peggy said mildly, "So what's the beef? He didn't have to tell you. Did he describe the location of the place he had found?"

"Well . . . yes. I'd have found it anyway. I had already located the clearing in the woods."

"But not the house."

Karen shifted uncomfortably. She didn't like to remember the attack of panic she had felt in that clearing, and she had no intention of admitting it to anyone—not even Peggy. "I only found the reference to it last night," she said evasively. "Up till that point I had no reason to suppose Ismene's house of stone was anything other than figurative."

"I wasn't criticizing you. You've accomplished a hell of a lot in only a few days." She watched Karen pace back and forth and then added, in a sharper voice, "For God's sake, sit down and relax! I don't know why you let Meyer get to you. What else did he say?"

"Not much. He didn't have a chance to say much—I more or less kicked him out." Karen slumped into a chair and sipped her wine. "Calling him a son of a bitch didn't exactly improve matters."

"What . . . did ... he ... say?" Peggy repeated.

"He didn't return the compliment." The wine, or Peggy's presence, or both, had had a soothing effect. Karen smiled faintly. "In fact, he laughed. He said he'd given me the information as a token of his good intentions, and that he'd continue to pass on anything of interest, without expecting me to reciprocate. Not that I believe it."

"It could be he's on the up-and-up," Peggy mused. "Cherishing a secret passion for you, unable to express it because you are a professional rival as well as a beautiful, desirable woman ..."

"Very funny." But the idea had its appeal. It would certainly be a triumph to have Bill Meyer, the Don Juan