Hester Lucy Stanhope.
April 1.—Although the European tricks of All Fools’ Day have no counterpart in the East, this morning was marked by a jest, if it were one, which was not unlike one of the dangerous practical jokes of the West, and which very nearly proved fatal to the object of it. Old Pierre had contrived to render himself unpopular amongst the Christian servants by railing at their bad faith and their indifference to religion—abusing at the same time the mufti, the cadi, and priests of all denominations. The Turks swore to be revenged, and even went so far as to say that they would murder him. Whether they intended to execute their threat to the full is, perhaps, doubtful; but they fell upon him in the dead of the night, and might possibly have carried it into effect had not Lady Hester heard his cries and sent Logmagi to rescue him.
Not a word of this was breathed to me the next morning by any one: the same mystery would have been observed had they murdered him. It is amazing with what perfect combination of purpose these people keep their own counsel: you might be in the heart of a plot for days and days, and never know anything about it. Ever designing and ever mysterious, and always apparently most calm and most smiling the greater the mischief intended, they foil all your vigilance without any apparent effort, and, like the vampire, lull you to slumber when about to spill your blood.[7]
Calling on Lady Hester about three o’clock, I found her in the saloon, seated on the sofa, with the heavy war-mace in her hand: it appears she had had the aggressors of the preceding night before her. “Oh! doctor,” said she, as I entered, “I have settled them.” Not knowing what she meant, I asked whom, and she briefly related Pierre’s jeopardy. “Yes,” continued she, “my arm has some strength in it yet, weak as I am: I have given it to them pretty well, and I don’t think they’ll molest Pierre again.” She rose from the sofa, and gesticulated with great force to show me how effectually she had wielded the mace. I suggested that she should turn the worst of them away, and keep only eight or ten servants; for they were only a torment to her. “Yes, but my rank!” was her characteristic answer.
The rest of the day was employed in making up two cases and two baskets, to be sent as a present to Khalyl Aga Kezerlý, an old acquaintance of Lady Hester’s. They consisted of three bottles of champagne and twelve of Bordeaux, three bottles of rum, three of brandy, and five of different sherbets. Then there were about twenty different remedies in case of illness, a jar of Epsom salts, slips of adhesive plaster, &c.; and, lastly, a couple of needle-cases, with English needles and sewing thread. This man was a Mussulman, and the wine and spirits were for his own use: but he would not have dared to accept them before Ibrahim Pasha’s time; for then a Mussulman’s sobriety was as sure as an Englishman’s veracity was supposed to be, both which, half a century ago, admitted not of a question in Turkey. “God knows,” observed Lady Hester, as she was giving her directions about the packing, “I am always thinking about the comfort of others; but nobody thinks of mine. I am a slave in the service of humanity, and cannot find an atom of feeling, of sentiment, of courage, of energy, of fidelity, or of compassion, in all these wretches by whom I am surrounded.”
The conversation turned on Prince Pückler Muskau, and she regretted she had consented to see him, fearing she should never be able to get through the fatigue, and apprehensive that the expense would be greater than her present means would enable her to undertake. After many pros and cons, in which I could but re-echo her fears and apprehensions, which were too justly grounded, I suggested that she might politely decline the prince’s visit. “Oh! but, doctor,” she answered, “his book, his book! I must see him, if it is only to have some things written down. Is it not cruel to be left here, as I am, without one relation ever coming to see me? To think of the times when the Duke of Buckingham would not even let a servant go to order an ice for me, but must go himself and see it brought—and now!”
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Speech of M. Guizot in the chambre des députés.
[6] The general feeling of disgust and bitterness with which all travellers, who are natives of Great Britain or of the United States, speak of the vexations they are compelled to undergo from the formalities and exactions to which they are subjected in obtaining signatures to passports on the continent, need not be dwelt upon. Much ill blood, more delay, not to speak of expense, are created by the insolence and legalized robbery of official persons, into whose hands the defenceless traveller falls in the fulfilment of these formalities. Passports are the alpha and omega of a man’s trouble on a continental journey.