The Twelve Rooms of the Nile

23

“THIS IS TRAUT’S BOOK”

19 November 1849, in Alexandria

The boat from Malta took three days. Yesterday the captain shut off the steam lest we arrive before sunrise and be set upon by robbers and such. We will lodge here a fortnight.

Miss N is beside herself with happiness. She loves the moon and calls it Ices. I call it Ices too to please her. She does have her moods, sometimes sad, sometimes bright as a new penny.

I am homesick. I’d liefer sit twixt your knees and roll cigars while you read me your poems than see the sights. I do miss my Massa.

Polished Miss N’s shoes, pressed her bodice, washed and hung her underthings, dressed, combed, and coiffed her, trimmed her nails, rubbed the looking glasses.

20 November 1849

I had a Turkish bath today, washing with palm leaves. I hope I do not get a rash. Then we et luncheon of bananas, dates, citrons, and odd fruits I did not taste. All the servants are men—cooks, chars, and scullions too. The women live bunched up together in rooms. We visited an Armenian church though I do not know what made it Armenian other than the vicar’s funny hat.

After church, we called on the Sisters of Charity. Miss N does like her hospitals and diseases. She says these dirty low sons of men are all on their way to perfect truth but it will take them longer than us.

24 November 1849

Today we saw a lot of women in black robes. It is hard to tell who is fat and who is thin with all that cloth.

We rode asses to and fro, such small beasts your feet touch the ground. A man runs in front to clear the way. Bounce and bounce, my bottom was sore as a blister.

I fear I shall have to see every rock in Egypt if Miss N has her way. I did stay at the hotel while the three of them went to see the place where Admiral Nelson beat the daylights out of Napoleon’s frogs.

I hope you are thinking of me.

Polished three pairs of boots, washed Miss N’s clothes. Scrubbed the chamber pots. Darned holes in her stockings. Cleaned Mr. Bracebridge’s pipe and kit for which he thanked me.

26 November 1849

I’d liefer be home where I know what to do and it is always the same. And I can visit you evenings in your rooms at the Temple. When the big day comes to go to Paris together, it will be a hop and skip next to this.

I do not like being a lady’s maid, there is too little work. I have no hearths or knives to clean, no fires to lay, no scuttles to fill, no lamps to trim at night. My hands have turned white. You know I like to be in my dirt and then scrub clean, it gives such a feeling of worth. All play’s worse nor all work.

28 November 1849

I had a close scrape, thanks to Miss N. She wished to visit a mosk so we dressed in heathen clothes. Miss N said our hands and faces must not show, but I could scarce breathe with my face covered. What is wrong with the human face? said I, but she did not reply. Miss Selina told me the Mahometans reckon a woman’s face and hair the root of temptation and sin.

So many red hats I have never seen. They look like upside-down flowerpots. The women wear veils done up with metal rings. If all a man can see of a woman is her eyes, it will lead to a lot of rude staring if you ask me.

We heard the call to prayer. I am getting to like this song caroled five times a day. Everyone washed hands and feet. A priest called out and we pressed our heads to the floor. You couldn’t see a patch of ground, just miles of Turkey carpets. When we were outside again, a crone grabbed my arm shouting Frank! Frank! I’d of fainted but for Mr. Charles and Paolo spiriting me away.

I do not think Miss N means to wear me down, but she does. I am only a maid, I want to say. I will comb your hair and polish your boots and lace your corset, but spare me your enrichments. (That is what she calls her wild ideas.) I do not care to see inside a pyramid, for she told me it means climbing through tunnels by candlelight. The thought of all that stone pressing down on me makes me feel I will throw up.

Polished the boots, scrubbed the chamber pots, washed out clothes, swept and polished the floor on my knees, made the beds, dressed and coiffed my lady.

Flo set the diary down. This was a different Trout from the woman she’d slept alongside for the past three months and shared a household with for a year before that. It hadn’t occurred to her how often Trout might like to express her opinions or how pointed they were. Such a simple thing, speaking your mind. She took that right for granted, though it was a habit Fanny did not admire in her. She reminded herself she was reading Trout’s secret thoughts, but she didn’t like it one bit.

And that dutiful list of daily chores! Flo had never so much as boiled an egg. Was it her fault if she had been born into a wealthy family? She felt guilty, always guilty, and yet incapable of satisfying even the few obligations of her privileged life. She trusted that in time her father would settle three or four hundred pounds a year on her so she could live independently of her family. She had only to reach the age when she was proclaimed a spinster without prospects. Then she’d be free, with perhaps one devoted servant, someone nothing like Trout.

She picked up the soft brown leather book and continued reading.

3 December 1849. We are in Cairo now.

I have hardly sat still for a week, running after Miss N.

We were towed up a canal from Alexandria. It was dandy and I worked on my crochet. Then we boarded a crowded steamer. Miss N jumped ashore without so much as a fare-thee-well. I shook like a wet hound until we found her on another boat. I do not care to make history like Miss N, who shows her derring-do at every turn. Nor do I trust her. When she gets an idea in her head, she does not consider anyone else. The second boat was as bad as the first, full of jabbering foreigners and bugs. The children cried all night and there was no room to lie on the floor.

Polished 3 pairs of boots, washed Miss N’s hair and combed it dry, washed out her underthings and packed up 3 times.

4 December 1849

There are not enough brooms in the world to sweep Cairo clean. Miss N loves it and calls it a garden. But she hates the desert. It is an abomination, says she, like Sodom and Gomorrah. At least in the desert I would not have to sweep the sand away. Here, that is all I do. But it comes back like black to a kettle.

I saw a baby hippopotamus at the consul’s house. It was cute enough to kiss, with big whiskers and pink as a piglet. No crocodiles yet and I hope I never do.

We are lodged in fancy rooms at the Hôtel de L’Europe. Dinner takes two hours, with fancy desserts like Vol-au-Vent of Pears, and Dantzic Jelly. Mr. Charles said it was a capital meal.

Every afternoon I walk at Miss N’s side, nodding at the ladies with silk parasols. Remember the night you took me to the opera, and I was proud to be the only servant in the house? I would never wish to pass for a lady. Give me bootblack and soot so I can prove my worth to God with hard work.

We wear veils wherever we go. They keep the sand out of our faces and spare the heathen the sin of looking at us.

Miss N said she will not be surprised if Cook’s started tours on the Nile. And isn’t it grand to see it before the English middle classes wreck it forever? I kept my peace, as I have never booked a Cook’s tour, though I rode the railway third class to Shropshire last year. It was thrilling.

7 December 1849

Mr. Charles engaged a houseboat for the next four months with hooks and cubbies everywhere since there is so little space. The parlor is pretty, with green panels and a divan all around. Miss N is content though she keeps saying Squawk, squawk I am no dahabiyah bird. I am sick of this cleverness and it is only the second day.

We can see the pyramids from here. You know what they look like.

8 December 1849

Miss N used up her petticoat tape to sew a flag that says PARTHENOPE whilst Mr. Charles hung a Union Jack and his family colors. Do you have family colors, Massa, you never said.

Nine crewmen we have, all odd. They are not slaves and not free men either, for each is beholden to another, like a wife to a husband. When the wind quits, they row and sing the loudest song. Otherwise they do not make a peep. We cannot walk the deck where they sleep and eat for fear of catching their fleas. Miss N says the Egyptians are too beaten down to drive the flies from their faces. She is disgusted with them.

9 December 1849

I am tired of Miss N’s outings. I am her companion when Miss Selina is ailing. She is a delicate sort, not like your drudge, though lately, I suffer from headaches and stomachaches and pain in my eyes. But Miss N is no coddler and I must go with her.

We visit filthy ruins and temples that all look the same. At one, human bones stuck out. I saw naked slaves in such poverty as breaks your heart. The poor things are humble and do not complain. God will provide, they say. Mr. Charles believes a contented mind is a curse.

I sleep in a levinge to keep the bugs off. It works, but I don’t sleep sound tied up like a prisoner.


Here the diary broke off for two pages where, Flo saw, Trout had written and rewritten a letter without finishing it to her satisfaction.

My sweetheart,

I want to post this so you read about my trip before I return. Miss N writes for hours every day. I have heard her read to Miss Selina and seen her letters. Her words are so fine I can see the color of everything and smell its smell. So here is your drudge, writing a proper letter. The moon is like silver, the stars are diamonds. I miss you reading to me so much

Dearest Gilbert,

A letter for you.

We see beautiful skies and here was one. The moon was like a silver platter in need of polishing as I could see gray spots on it. And the stars were diamonds that would take your breath.

I miss you. I wish I spelt better so you would not smile at my words. It is hard to write to a poet and a gentleman such as you are

Flo’s face grew warm, as if she were standing near a roaring fire. Apparently Trout had read her letters. Flo often left them lying about, assuming that Trout was bound by honor and devoid of curiosity. She decided on the spot not to mention the lapse, but to keep her papers out of sight in future. The irony of her own invasion of Trout’s privacy was not lost on her. She felt herself blush again, this time with shame.

As for the fussy, spoiled, and thoughtless “Miss N,” she barely recognized her. What if the rest of the world saw her as Trout did? Surely she would know if she were horrid, wouldn’t she? The heat spread down through her torso. She could feel her pulse at her throat and in her chest.

She reminded herself that she was never intended to see these words. Trout was unhappy; what she had written was as much a reflection of her own feelings and flawed character as of Flo’s.

Flo blew her nose and sighed.

It was the old question of evil in different guise. Did people intend to do bad? Certainly Fanny and Parthe did not. Nor did Flo believe they were evil. That was the essence of the conundrum that the ancient Egyptians had solved millennia ago: Good came out of evil and evil out of good. She could be both saintly and horrid—like Gustave, who had devoted a book to resisting temptation yet patronized brothels. This unfathomable paradox, this engine of history, seemed an impractical way for God to have fashioned the world. How could there ever be justice if good intentions led to ill? Her head was throbbing.

No, I am horrid, she thought. I simply blind myself to it, inured to others’ protestations. That is why I cannot bear my family and why I refused Richard. I am selfish and willful, lacking, severely lacking in humility. She put her head between her knees.

She wished she’d never read the diary, and knew, too, that she’d finish it. She had to find out if there was a happier ending for her, as if her actual future depended on Trout’s opinion. Had Trout thought better of her in time? She began to tremble. Her teeth chattered and a few tears dropped onto her hands.

She stood, found her hairbrush, and languidly began to brush her hair, establishing a calming rhythm in the strokes. Trout was no icon of perfection. Her secret life did not bear scrutiny. She had an illicit love affair or at the very least a clandestine friendship with a man. Flo tried to form a picture in her mind of Gilbert, but conjured instead Max. Because they both had cameras? But Gilbert was a poet if Trout could be believed. Her lover!

Stunning. Trout led a double life, cavorting in the evenings with a gentleman who lived in the Temple at the Inns of Court, a dignified address on the Embankment reserved for barristers and judges. How long had Trout known him? How old was he, and what possible interest could he have in a servant? None of it cohered. She wondered if he had a wife and whether he and Trout slept in the same bed. If Trout were morally deficient, Flo might be less inclined to credit her judgments.

Shakily, she picked up the book again.

11 December 1849

Miss N is sinking into one of her moods. Miss Selina knows it I can tell from the looks she gives me.

We had no wind the last two days. Miss N found a tomb in the desert and began to weep, saying it was not the lack of life but the death of life that made the desert unbearable. She hates to see skeletons or any sign of a dead thing. I think she is losing her wits, which has happened before. She gave me a petrified shell that looks like a tiny ram’s horn. She keeps calling my name, though she does not need anything. Trout, Trout, it is all dead, dead and evil, over and over. I put her to bed early and she did not read at all and tossed about for a long while as I mopped the floor.

14 December 1849

Every day Mr. Charles goes ashore with Paolo to shoot partridges or turtledoves. In the evening, we sit on deck and watch the sunset. Miss N keeps saying I must read the Arabian Nights so I will know what I have seen. I am glad she does not have the book on hand.

Mr. Charles likes to visit other English people, for which I am grateful as there is always good wine and clean food. Miss N says she would rather be the hermit, but then goes and charms everyone.

18 December 1849

I am reading Exodus because I am miserable in Egypt like the Hebrews.

Bennysoof, Benny Hah San, Benny-this-and-that. I am weary of ruins and beset with ailments. Sore feet and knees. Itchy rashes. Tired eyes.

The river is wider now, more like a sea. White Horses, Miss N calls the waves. White Horses, I say back. We make a game of it. We have not seen a house for days, only mud huts with people creeping in and out.

I have become lazy. My hands are lily-white and I have lost my calluses. Miss Selina will not let me wash her clothes. I would feel better if I was a help to her. When I am not in my dirt, I feel useless.

19 December 1849

It scares me that I cannot call your face to mind. I was never afraid at home and here I tremble over the smallest things. I wish I’d of quit my job and stayed in London. How can a gentleman like you love me I am such a plain creature?

I am sleeping poorly. Do I snore in your rooms? Miss N says I am cutting wood in my sleep.

There is bad feeling twixt her and me. Words here and there over little things, like one dog snapping at another. My mother used to say to take care when you sew, even a small needle can draw blood. We stay out of each other’s way.

12 January 1850

Aswan nearly kilt me.

The first time you asked me to keep a diary I did not want to and wrote only lists. Do you remember? “Polished 40 pairs of boots, blacked the grates and fenders, scrubbed the flags,” and so on. Now the diary is a comfort to me, though betimes it makes me miss you so much my chest hurts.

Here is my close call with Death. Mr. Charles invited three chiefs to the parlor. The oldest one said our houseboat was too big to go up the falls. I liked to cry from joy. But Miss N said it was a trick to raise the price. After many cups of tea, they agreed upon a sum to try the rapids the next morning.

I did not sleep more than five minutes that night. Miss N was so happy she bought ostrich eggs to celebrate. Squawk, squawk, we are going upstairs to Noobia. I had no appetite due to terror sticking in my belly like a knife.

The next morning, we moved everything below so it would not fly away. Furniture, pots, dishes. Miss N said I would stay on board with her and Mr. Charles. I was so scared I could not peep.

Up and up we went six different times, the boat almost standing on end. Once we heard a crack and a rope broke. I was sure I’d drown or be beat to pulp on the rocks. I prayed like mad. A hundred men pulled with all their heart as if they loved us dearly. I cannot tell you how it felt to be dragged up those rocks without speaking of things I have never done, such as falling out of a tree or jumping off a mountain. It is a miracle we did not die ten times over. I was sick and throwing up. Miss N was pleased as punch.

Such horrors of travel. I hope this will put you off ever going to Egypt. I’d never go a second time and if you went, I’d worry myself to death every day you were gone.

Flo was shocked. How had she not noticed that Trout had been ill and too terrified to talk? Or had she simply pushed it from her consciousness? How selfish and insensitive she was! But then the next two entries painted a nicer picture:

20 January 1850

Today Miss N was a help to me, more than she knows. I lost your key and she was kind and found it. When she wasn’t looking, I kissed it and pressed it to my heart.

I do so miss doing kindnesses for you. Fixing your dinner and petting your face and especially washing your feet. Oh it gives me a chill to write it, but most of all, licking your boots. Which fills me up with love and humbles me before you and God and shows I love you as much as any good Christian woman can.

1 February 1850. Derr

The Nile is skinny now and we travel close to the banks, like English barge-folk.

Miss N is suddenly pert as parsley, speaking French to me and to herself too. Today I heard her laugh while she was writing.

10 February 1850. Aboo Simbell

I feel bad. Shamed and humbled to my bones which is a lot for one who has no puffery. I got stuck in the sand on the way to the big temple. The crew tried to yank me free, but I’d liefer burn to a crisp in the desert than let them touch me.

Miss N tried to lift me, but she is too small. It was Mr. Gustave, a Frenchman, that rescued me. She was so grateful she invited him and his mate Max to dinner. But I had lost my dignity in the sand and was ashamed to see him again so soon. I ate in the cabin.

12 February 1850

Miss N and I had a fight.

I broke the first rule of service, I forgot my place and asked if she knew my name. Oh of course, she says. Troutwine, she says, fidgeting and acting put upon. She blushed and blushed until I told her Christa. I know she would of fired me at home, but she needs me here. We did not go into the spelling of my family name, which I am sure she does wrong—Troutwine like a fish and a bottle of spirits, instead of Trautwein.

She is vexed with me. I think we are not speaking.

I wish I could pick you up and carry you about the room, then set you on my lap to pet. I wish I could wear my chains, that is all I think about.

Flo looked up. Chains? Did Trout mean bracelets and necklaces or great, jangling shackles? And why would she treat a grown man like a child?

28 February 1850

We have visited Aboo Simbell every day the two ladies are so taken with it. Miss Selina draws and Miss N studies the pictures. I am bored. I have seen enough of Egypt for eternity. Because a temple is big and old does not make it sacred if you ask me.

Idleness does me no good at all.

7 March 1850

A toothache for days and only now I am strong enough to hold a pen. Miss N cared for me like a mother, holding my head just so, and brushing my hair and putting her fingers in my mouth. She laid hot towels on my face until the pus ran and the swelling went down. She thinks it was an absess in the root. I am lucky to still have my tooth in my head.

The only other lady that ever touched me was Mrs. Hallam the day before she died. I had brought her a pot of tea and she asked me to take out her frocks so she could look at the prettiest ones, and gave me a sovereign from the nightstand. She said she’d grown fond of me, and wanted to give me advice. Be careful who you marry. Then she took my big red hand in her soft white one and held it.

Miss N’s mood is gone dark again, I do not know why. I would comfort her, but now that I am well, we are back to maid and mistress. But I do love her better than before. She was angry before, and now she is kind, though fallen back into herself. I pray for her at night.

It is seven years that I am a slave to my Massa and six years of padlock and chain. Dearest heart, I miss you. Your feet will need a good scrub and soak by the time I return. I will bring my soft wire brush for your nails. And the oil and lead to black myself up for you all over like you like.

Black up? Flo set the book on her lap. Padlock and chain?

She arranged the puzzle pieces in her mind: hardworking, independent-minded Trout; her gentleman friend or lover; the key, the chains, the lead and oil; her calling him “Massa.” All at once it came clear—Trout was dressing up as Gilbert’s slave. It was perverse if not downright wicked.

Shocking.

Oh, and that most distasteful detail: Trout licking his boots! But why would stiff-necked, pious Trout do such a degrading thing? Why would she black up and wear chains and probably allow him to photograph her doing it? It made no sense.

Oh, no. Of course. There was only one explanation, though Flo hated to contemplate its terrible, enslaving power: Love. It seemed that everyone in the world but her had a soul mate.

20 March 1850

Miss N has taken to praying morning and night. She has become fond of her Frenchman, Mr. Gustave, and went for a walk with him. Otherwise, she is miserable. We try to cheer her up with card games and stories, but she will not be jollied. All she wants to do is sit in the ruins and study her books. Miss Selina does her best, but she must attend to the Mister, who does not like to amuse himself alone. They love Miss N like their own flesh and blood.

I think we shall be home in August, five more months. It is easier to endure a thing once you are halfway, which I am not yet and very lonesome for you. When I return, please take me right away to the Marleybone for the pantomimes.

I killed bedbugs all day in the cabin. They climb up the walls and watch me from the ceiling with their tiny eyes. I miss the park at Embley, with nary a deadly serpent or crocodile, just spiders and field mice.

5 April 1850

Mr. Charles is starting to get on my nerves with his jokes. Such as when we arrived in Luxor he bought grapes on the sly and put them up his nose like two big balls of snot and came to dinner that way. Everyone laughed and the grapes went flying across the table. Other times, he makes speeches. I have heard much about the Corn Laws and the Reform Bill. He likes the problems of poor people (not servants) and debtors. Miss Selina cannot control him though she tries. Miss N says he has the biggest heart in all of England.

20 April 1850

I am on my way to the Red Sea with Miss N and the two Frenchmen. I like Mr. Gustave and Mr. Max. They are jolly and act like boys.

We are crossing the desert on camels. They have a hump reckoned to hold water for days. Tonight we had a good supper of lamb and beans. Mr. Max has the best of cameras and wants to make my picture. I shall be the first Christian woman with a photograph in the eastern desert. The picture is for guess who.

24 April 1850. In Koseer

I can smell the Red Sea and from the balcony, I can see it. It is blue.

We are stopping with the French consul.

You will laugh to hear that I spent half the day in water, but not the sea. In a big pink tub. A nice morning with Miss N. But then at dinner she had a bad spell and could not speak. I can never tell when she is going to be wretched, but now I know it is not my fault. So I say nothing and do what she asks and try to show her that I do love her better than before. If she was my kin, I should take her home to Shropshire and feed her good country food and ale to make her strong.

The consul has a servant, a pretty young boy. He stares at me when we are at table which I do not like.

When I want to think of you I touch your key.

That entry brought Flo back to where she’d begun. She laid the book aside.

She hadn’t noticed Hakim staring at Trout or anyone. He always looked away or down, like any servant, except when he helped her haggle at the market, and then he had looked through her. She could not imagine what it was about Trout that had emboldened him to stare. Simple curiosity? But why stare at Trout and not at her? After reading Trout’s diary, the whole world seemed topsy-turvy, thick with intrigue and secrets.