Why Frau Frohmann Raised Her Prices, and Other StoriesTrollope, Anthony
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Why Frau Frohmann Raised Her Prices, and Other Stories
Trollope, Anthony
English fiction -- 19th century; Manners and customs -- Fiction; Short stories, English
And now he was sleeping there like an infant, with full,
round, perfected, almost sonorous workings of the throat. Who does not
know that sound, almost of two rusty bits of iron scratching against
each other, which comes from a suffering windpipe? There was no
semblance of that here. Why disturb him when he was so thoroughly
enjoying that rest which, more certainly than anything else, would fit
him for the fatigue of the morrow’s journey?
I think that, after all her labour, she would have left the pungent
cataplasm on the table, and have crept gently into bed beside him, had
not a thought suddenly struck her of the great injury he had been doing
her if he were not really ill. To send her down there, in a strange
hotel, wandering among the passages, in the middle of the night, subject
to the contumely of anyone who might meet her, on a commission which, if
it were not sanctified by absolute necessity, would be so thoroughly
objectionable! At this moment she hardly did believe that he had ever
really been ill. Let him have the cataplasm; if not as a remedy, then
as a punishment. It could, at any rate, do him no harm. It was with an
idea of avenging rather than of justifying the past labours of the night
that she proceeded at once to quick action.
Leaving the candle on the table so that she might steady her right hand
with the left, she hurried stealthily to the bedside. Even though he was
behaving badly to her, she would not cause him discomfort by waking him
roughly. She would do a wife’s duty to him as a British matron should.
She would not only put the warm mixture on his neck, but would sit
carefully by him for twenty minutes, so that she might relieve him from
it when the proper period should have come for removing the counter
irritation from his throat. There would doubtless be some little
difficulty in this,--in collecting the mustard after it had served her
purpose. Had she been at home, surrounded by her own comforts, the
application would have been made with some delicate linen bag, through
which the pungency of the spice would have penetrated with strength
sufficient for the purpose. But the circumstance of the occasion had not
admitted this. She had, she felt, done wonders in achieving so much
success as this which she had obtained. If there should be anything
disagreeable in the operation he must submit to it. He had asked for
mustard for his throat, and mustard he should have.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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