Two of my sailors were in Paris and have just come home. I hear they are
dreadfully shocked by the dancing, and by the French women of the lower
class generally. They sit in the coffee-shops like _shaers_ (poets), and
tell of the wonders of Paris to admiring crowds. They are enthusiastic
about the courtesy of the French police, who actually did not beat them
when they got into a quarrel, but scolded the Frankish man instead, and
accompanied them back to the boat quite politely. The novelty and
triumph of not being beaten was quite intoxicating. There is such a
curious sight of a crowd of men carrying huge blocks of stone up out of a
boat. One sees exactly how the stones were carried in ancient times;
they sway their bodies all together like one great lithe animal with many
legs, and hum a low chant to keep time. It is quite unlike any carrying
heavy weights in Europe.
It is getting dusk and too windy for candles, so I must say goodnight and
eat the dinner which Darfour has pressed upon me two or three times, he
is a pleasant little creature, so lively and so gentle. It is washing
day. I wish you could see Mabrook squatting out there, lathering away at
the clothes with his superb black arms. He is a capital washer and a
fair cook, but an utter savage.
[The foregoing letter reached England the day after the death of my
grandmother, Mrs. Austin, which was a great shock to my mother and made
her ill and unhappy; so it was settled that my brother Maurice should go
out and spend the winter with her on the Nile.]