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  ‘No, I am much obliged to you, Thekla; and if I did not feel so strong I would have thankfully taken your arm. But I only wanted to leave a message for the master, just to say that I have gone home.’

  ‘Lina will give it to the father when he comes down,’ said Thekla.

  I went slowly down into the garden. The great labour of the day was over, and the younger part of the population had returned to the village, and were preparing the fireworks and pistol-shootings for the evening. Already one or two of those well-known German carts (in the shape of a V) were standing near the vineyard gates, the patient oxen meekly waiting while basketful after basketful of grapes were being emptied into the leaf-lined receptacle.

  As I sat down in my easy-chair close to the open window through which I had entered, I could see the men and women on the hill-side drawing to a centre, and all stand round the pastor, bareheaded, for a minute or so. I guessed that some words of holy thanksgiving were being said, and I wished that I had stayed to hear them, and mark my especial gratitude for having been spared to see that day. Then I heard the distant voices, the deep tones of the men, the shriller pipes of women and children, join in the German harvest-hymn, which is generally sung on such occasions;* then silence, while I concluded that a blessing was spoken by the pastor, with outstretched arms; and then they once more dispersed, some to the village, some to finish their labours for the day among the vines. I saw Thekla coming through the garden with Max in her arms, and Lina clinging to her woollen skirts. Thekla made for my open window; it was rather a shorter passage into the house than round by the door. ‘I may come through, may I not?’ she asked, softly. ‘I fear Max is not well; I cannot understand his look, and he wakened up so strange!’ She paused to let me see the child’s face; it was flushed almost to a crimson look of heat, and his breathing was laboured and uneasy, his eyes half-open and filmy.

  ‘Something is wrong, I am sure,’ said I. ‘I don’t know anything about children, but he is not in the least like himself.’

  She bent down and kissed the cheek so tenderly that she would not have bruised the petal of a rose. ‘Heart’s darling,’ she murmured. He quivered all over at her touch, working his fingers in an unnatural kind of way, and ending with a convulsive twitching all over his body. Lina began to cry at the grave, anxious look on our faces.

  ‘You had better call the Fräulein to look at him,’ said I. ‘I feel sure he ought to have a doctor; I should say he was going to have a fit.’

  ‘The Fräulein and the master are gone to the pastor’s for coffee, and Lottchen is in the higher vineyard, taking the men their bread and beer. Could you find the kitchen girl, or old Karl? he will be in the stables, I think. I must lose no time.’ Almost without waiting for my reply, she had passed through the room, and in the empty house I could hear her firm, careful footsteps going up the stair; Lina’s pattering beside her; and the one voice wailing, the other speaking low comfort.

  I was tired enough, but this good family had treated me too much like one of their own for me not to do what I could in such a case as this. I made my way out into the street, for the first time since I had come to the house on that memorable evening six weeks ago. I bribed the first person I met to guide me to the doctor’s, and sent him straight down to the ‘Halbmond’, not staying to listen to the thorough scolding he fell to giving me; then on to the parsonage, to tell the master and the Fräulein of the state of things at home.

  I was sorry to be the bearer of bad news into such a festive chamber as the pastor’s. There they sat, resting after heat and fatigue, each in their best gala dress, the table spread with ‘Dicker-milch’, potato-salad, cakes of various shapes and kinds – all the dainty cates dear to the German palate. The pastor was talking to Herr Müller, who stood near the pretty young Fräulein Anna, in her fresh white chemisette, with her round white arms, and her youthful coquettish airs, as she prepared to pour out the coffee; our Fräulein was talking busily to the Frau Mama; the younger boys and girls of the family filling up the room. A ghost would have startled the assembled party less than I did, and would probably have been more welcome, considering the news I brought. As he listened, the master caught up his hat and went forth, without apology or farewell. Our Fräulein made up for both, and questioned me fully; but now she, I could see, was in haste to go, although restrained by her manners, and the kind-hearted Frau Pastorin soon set her at liberty to follow her inclination. As for me I was dead-beat, and only too glad to avail myself of the hospitable couple’s pressing request that I would stop and share their meal. Other magnates of the village came in presently, and relieved me of the strain of keeping up a German conversation about nothing at all with entire strangers. The pretty Fräulein’s face had clouded over a little at Herr Müller’s sudden departure; but she was soon as bright as could be, giving private chase and sudden little scoldings to her brothers, as they made raids upon the dainties under her charge. After I was duly rested and refreshed, I took my leave; for I, too, had my quieter anxieties about the sorrow in the Müller family.

  The only person I could see at the ‘Halbmond’ was Lottchen; every one else was busy about the poor little Max, who was passing from one fit into another. I told Lottchen to ask the doctor to come in and see me before he took his leave for the night, and tired as I was, I kept up till after his visit, though it was very late before he came; I could see from his face how anxious he was. He would give me no opinion as to the child’s chances of recovery, from which I guessed that he had not much hope. But when I expressed my fear he cut me very short.

  ‘The truth is, you know nothing about it; no more do I, for that matter. It is enough to try any man, much less a father, to hear his perpetual moans – not that he is conscious of pain, poor little worm; but if she stops for a moment in her perpetual carrying him backwards and forwards, he plains so piteously it is enough to – enough to make a man bless the Lord who never led him into the pit of matrimony. To see the father up there, following her as she walks up and down the room, the child’s head over her shoulder, and Müller trying to make the heavy eyes recognize the old familiar ways of play, and the chirruping sounds which he can scarce make for crying— I shall be here to-morrow early, though before that either life or death will have come without the old doctor’s help.’

  All night long I dreamt my feverish dream – of the vineyard – the carts, which held little coffins instead of baskets of grapes – of the pastor’s daughter, who would pull the dying child out of Thekla’s arms; it was a bad, weary night! I slept long into the morning; the broad daylight filled my room, and yet no one had been near to waken me! Did that mean life or death? I got up and dressed as fast as I could; for I was aching all over with the fatigue of the day before. Out into the sitting-room; the table was laid for breakfast, but no one was there. I passed into the house beyond, up the stairs, blindly seeking for the room where I might know whether it was life or death. At the door of a room I found Lottchen crying; at the sight of me in that unwonted place she started, and began some kind of apology, broken both by tears and smiles as she told me that the doctor said the danger was over – past, and that Max was sleeping a gentle peaceful slumber in Thekla’s arms – arms that had held him all through the livelong night.

  ‘Look at him, sir; only go in softly; it is a pleasure to see the child to-day; tread softly, sir.’

  She opened the chamber-door. I could see Thekla sitting, propped up by cushions and stools, holding her heavy burden, and bending over him with a look of tenderest love. Not far off stood the Fräulein, all disordered and tearful, stirring or seasoning some hot soup, while the master stood by her impatient. As soon as it was cooled or seasoned enough he took the basin and went to Thekla, and said something very low; she lifted up her head, and I could see her face; pale, weary with watching, but with a soft peaceful look upon it, which it had not worn for weeks. Fritz Müller began to feed her, for her hands were occupied in holding his child; I could not help remembering Mrs Inchbald’s pretty
description of Dorriforth’s anxiety in feeding Miss Milner; she compares it, if I remember rightly, to that of a tender-hearted boy, caring for his darling bird, the loss of which would embitter all the joys of his holidays. We closed the door without noise, so as not to waken the sleeping child. Lottchen brought me my coffee and bread; she was ready either to laugh or to weep on the slightest occasion. I could not tell if it was in innocence or mischief. She asked me the following question, –

  ‘Do you think Thekla will leave to-day, sir?’

  In the afternoon I heard Thekla’s step behind my extemporary screen. I knew it quite well. She stopped for a moment before emerging into my view.

  She was trying to look as composed as usual, but, perhaps because her steady nerves had been shaken by her night’s watching, she could not help faint touches of dimples at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes were veiled from any inquisitive look by their drooping lids.

  ‘I thought you would like to know that the doctor says Max is quite out of danger now. He will only require care.’

  ‘Thank you, Thekla; Doctor — has been in already this afternoon to tell me so, and I am truly glad.’

  She went to the window, and looked out for a moment. Many people were in the vineyards again to-day; although we, in our household anxiety, had paid them but little heed. Suddenly she turned round into the room, and I saw that her face was crimson with blushes. In another instant Herr Müller entered by the window.

  ‘Has she told you, sir?’ said he, possessing himself of her hand, and looking all a-glow with happiness. ‘Hast thou told our good friend?’ addressing her.

  ‘No. I was going to tell him, but I did not know how to begin.’

  ‘Then I will prompt thee. Say after me – “I have been a wilful, foolish woman—” ’

  She wrenched her hand out of his, half-laughing – ‘I am a foolish woman, for I have promised to marry him. But he is a still more foolish man, for he wishes to marry me. That is what I say.’

  ‘And I have sent Babette to Frankfort with the pastor. He is going there, and will explain all to Frau v. Schmidt; and Babette will serve her for a time. When Max is well enough to have the change of air the doctor prescribes for him, thou shalt take him to Altenahr, and thither will I also go; and become known to thy people and thy father. And before Christmas the gentleman here shall dance at our wedding.’

  ‘I must go home to England, dear friends, before many days are over. Perhaps we may travel together as far as Remagen. Another year I will come back to Heppenheim and see you.’

  As I planned it, so it was. We left Heppenheim all together on a lovely All-Saints’ Day. The day before – the day of All-Souls – I had watched Fritz and Thekla lead little Lina up to the Acre of God, the Field of Rest, to hang the wreath of immortelles on her mother’s grave. Peace be with the dead and the living.

  Anthony Trollope

  An Unprotected Female at the Pyramids

  In the happy days when we were young, no description conveyed to us so complete an idea of mysterious reality as that of an Oriental city. We knew it was actually there, but had such vague notions of its ways and looks! Let any one remember his early impressions as to Bagdad or Grand Cairo, and then say if this was not so. It was probably taken from the ‘Arabian Nights’, and the picture produced was one of strange, fantastic, luxurious houses; of women who were either very young and very beautiful, or else very old and very cunning, but in either state exercising much more influence on life than women in the East do now; of good-natured, capricious, though sometimes tyrannical monarchs; and of life full of quaint mysteries, quite unintelligible in every phasis, and on that account the more picturesque.

  And perhaps Grand Cairo has thus filled us with more wonder even than Bagdad. We have been in a certain manner at home at Bagdad, but have only visited Grand Cairo occasionally. I know no place which was to me, in early years, so delightfully mysterious as Grand Cairo.

  But the route to India and Australia has changed all this. Men from all countries, going to the East, now pass through Cairo, and its streets and costumes are no longer strange to us. It has become also a resort for invalids, or rather for those who fear that they may become invalids if they remain in a cold climate during the winter months. And thus at Cairo there is always to be found a considerable population of French, Americans, and English. Oriental life is brought home to us, dreadfully diluted by Western customs, and the delights of the ‘Arabian Nights’ are shorn of half their value. When we have seen a thing, it is never so magnificent to us as when it was half unknown.

  It is not much that we deign to learn from these Orientals – we who glory in our civilization. We do not copy their silence or their abstemiousness, nor that invariable mindfulness of his own personal dignity which always adheres to a Turk or to an Arab. We chatter as much at Cairo as elsewhere, and eat as much, and drink as much, and dress ourselves generally in the same old ugly costume. But we do usually take upon ourselves to wear red caps, and we do ride on donkeys.

  Nor are the visitors from the West to Cairo by any means confined to the male sex. Ladies are to be seen in the streets, quite regardless of the Mohammedan custom which presumes a veil to be necessary for an appearance in public; and, to tell the truth, the Mohammedans in general do not appear to be much shocked by their effrontery.

  A quarter of the town has in this way become inhabited by men wearing coats and waistcoats, and by women who are without veils; but the English tongue in Egypt finds its centre at Shepheard’s Hotel. It is here that people congregate who are looking out for parties to visit with them the Upper Nile, and who are generally all smiles and courtesy; and here also are to be found they who have just returned from this journey, and who are often in a frame of mind towards their companions that is much less amiable. From hence, during the winter, a cortège proceeds almost daily to the Pyramids, or to Memphis, or to the petrified forest, or to the City of the Sun. And then, again, four or five times a month the house is filled with young aspirants going out to India, male and female, full of valour and bloom; or with others coming home, no longer young, no longer aspiring, but laden with children and grievances.

  The party with whom we are at present concerned is not about to proceed further than the Pyramids, and we shall be able to go with them and return in one and the same day.

  It consisted chiefly of an English family, Mr and Mrs Damer, their daughter, and two young sons – of these chiefly, because they were the nucleus to which the others had attached themselves as adherents; they had originated the journey, and in the whole management of it Mr Damer regarded himself as the master.

  The adherents were, firstly, M. de la Bordeau, a Frenchman, now resident in Cairo, who had given out that he was in some way concerned in the canal about to be made between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. In discussion on this subject he had become acquainted with Mr Damer; and although the latter gentleman, true to English interests, perpetually declared that the canal would never be made, and thus irritated M. de la Bordeau not a little – nevertheless, some measure of friendship had grown up between them.

  There was also an American gentleman, Mr Jefferson Ingram, who was comprising all countries and all nations in one grand tour, as American gentlemen so often do. He was young and good-looking, and had made himself especially agreeable to Mr Damer, who had declared, more than once, that Mr Ingram was by far the most rational American he had ever met. Mr Ingram would listen to Mr Damer by the half-hour as to the virtue of the British Constitution, and had even sat by almost with patience when Mr Damer had expressed a doubt as to the good working of the United States scheme of policy – which, in an American, was most wonderful. But some of the sojourners at Shepheard’s had observed that Mr Ingram was in the habit of talking with Miss Damer almost as much as with her father, and had argued from that, that fond as the young man was of politics, he did sometimes turn his mind to other things also.

  And then there was Miss Dawkins. Now, Miss Dawkins was an importa
nt person, both as to herself and as to her line of life, and she must be described. She was, in the first place, an unprotected female of about thirty years of age. As this is becoming an established profession, setting itself up as it were in opposition to the old-world idea that women, like green peas, cannot come to perfection without supporting sticks, it will be understood at once what were Miss Dawkins’ sentiments. She considered – or at any rate so expressed herself – that peas could grow very well without sticks, and could not only grow thus unsupported, but could also make their way about the world without any incumbrance of sticks whatsoever. She did not intend, she said, to rival Ida Pfeiffer, seeing that she was attached in a moderate way to bed and board, and was attached to society in a manner almost more than moderate; but she had no idea of being prevented from seeing anything she wished to see because she had neither father, nor husband, nor brothers available for the purpose of escort. She was a human creature, with arms and legs, she said; and she intended to use them. And this was all very well; but nevertheless she had a strong inclination to use the arms and legs of other people when she could make them serviceable.

  In person Miss Dawkins was not without attraction. I should exaggerate if I were to say that she was beautiful and elegant; but she was good-looking, and not usually ill-mannered. She was tall, and gifted with features rather sharp, and with eyes very bright. Her hair was of the darkest shade of brown, and was always worn in bandeaux, very neatly. She appeared generally in black, though other circumstances did not lead one to suppose that she was in mourning; but then, no other travelling costume is so convenient! She always wore a dark broad-brimmed straw hat, as to the ribbons on which she was rather particular. She was very neat about her gloves and boots; and though it cannot be said that her dress was got up without reference to expense, there can be no doubt that it was not effected without considerable outlay, and more than considerable thought.