But at the House of Death they would not take them, for I had not sufficient silver to pay for even the cheapest form of embalming. Then said I to the corpse washers:
“I am Sinuhe, the son of Senmut, and my name is inscribed in the Book of Life, though a hard destiny has deprived me of silver enough to pay for my parent’s burial. Therefore, I beseech you in the name of Amun and of all the gods of Egypt; embalm the bodies of my parents, and I will serve you to the best of my skill for as long as it takes to complete their preservation.”
They swore at my stubbornness and cursed me, but at last the pox-eaten foreman accepted Kaptah’s copper and silver, hitched a hook under my father’s chin and slung him into the great bath. He did the same to my mother, throwing her into the same bath. There were thirty of these baths. Every day one of them was filled and one emptied so that the bodies of the poor lay for thirty days steeped in salt and lye to preserve them against death. Nothing more than this was done for them though I did not know it at the time.
I still had to return to my father’s house with the shroud, which bore upon it the seal of the law. The foreman washer mocked me, saying, “Come back before tomorrow, or we will drag out the bodies of your parents and throw them to the dogs.” By this I saw that he fancied me a liar and no doctor.
I returned stone-hearted to my father’s house, though the crumbling mud bricks of its walls cried out to me, as did the sycamore in the garden and the pool of my childhood. Therefore, I turned swiftly away when I had put the covering back in its place, but in the doorway I met a scribe who plied his trade at a street corner by the spice dealers. Seeing me, he raised his hand as a sign of grief and said, “Sinuhe, son of Senmut the Just, is it you?” And I replied to him, “It is me.”
The scribe said, “Do not run from me, for I have a message to you from your father. He did not find you at your house.” I sank to the ground and covered my head with my hands whilst the scribe brought out a paper from which he read aloud, “I Senmut, whose name is inscribed in the Book of Life, and his wife Kipa send this greeting to our son Sinuhe, who in Pharaoh’s house was given the name He Who Is
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Alone. The gods sent you to us, and throughout your life you have brought us only joy, and great has been our pride in you. We are grieved for your sake because you have met with reverses, and we have not been able to help you as we should have wished. And we believe that in all you did you were justified and could not help yourself. Do not grieve for us though you must sell our tomb, for assuredly you would not have done this without good reason. But the servants of the law are in haste, and we have no leisure to await our death. Death is as welcome to us now as sleep to the weary and as home to the fugitive. Our life has been long and its joys many, but the greatest joy of all we had was you, Sinuhe, who came to us from the river when we were already old and solitary. Therefore, we bless you. Do not grieve because we have no tomb, for all existence is but vanity, and it is perhaps best that we should vanish into nothingness, without seeking to encounter further perils and hardships on that difficult journey to the Western Land. Remember always that our death was easy and that we blessed you before we went. May all the gods of Egypt protect you from danger, may your heart be shielded from sorrow, and may you find as much joy in your children as we have found in you. Such is the desire of your father Senmut and your mother Kipa.”
The stone of my heart melted and flowed out in tears upon the dust in front of me. The scribe said, “Here is the letter. It does not bear your father’s seal, nor could he see to write his name, but you will surely believe me when I tell you that I wrote it down word for word as his dictation, and moreover, your mother’s tears have blurred the characters here and there.” He showed me the paper, but my eyes were blinded by tears and I saw nothing. Rolling it up, he put it into my hand, and continued, “Your father Senmut was a just man; and your mother Kipa a good woman, even if rough-tongued at times, as is the way of women. I wrote this for your father though he had not the smallest present to give me, and I will give the paper to you though it is good paper and could be cleaned and used again.”
I reflected for a little and then said, “Nor have I any present for you, most excellent man. Take my shoulder cloth, for it is of good stuff though now dirty and creased.” I took off my shoulder cloth and gave it to him and he touched it suspiciously, but raised then his hand,
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