How the Helpmate of Blue-Beard Made Free with a Door

A maiden from the Bosphorus,With eyes as bright as phosphorus,Once wed the wealthy bailiffOf the caliphOf Kelat.Though diligent and zealous, heBecame a slave to jealousy.(Considering her beauty,’T was his dutyTo be that!)

When business would necessitateA journey, he would hesitate,But, fearing to disgust her,He would trust herWith his keys,Remarking to her prayerfully:“I beg you’ll use them carefully.Don’t look what I depositIn that closet,If you please.”

It may be mentioned, casually,That blue as lapis lazuliHe dyed his hair, his lashes,His mustaches,And his beard.And, just because he did it, heAroused his wife’s timidity:Her terror she dissembled,But she trembledWhen he neared.

This feeling insalubriousSoon made her most lugubrious,And bitterly she missed herElder sisterMarie Anne:She asked if she might write her toCome down and spend a night or two,Her husband answered rightlyAnd politely:“Yes, you can!”

Blue-Beard, the Monday following,His jealous feeling swallowing,Packed all his clothes togetherIn a leather-Bound valise,And, feigning reprehensibly,He started out, ostensiblyBy traveling to learn aBit of SmyrnaAnd of Greece.

His wife made but a cursoryInspection of the nursery;The kitchen and the airyLittle dairyWere a bore,As well as big or scanty rooms,And billiard, bath, and ante-rooms,But not that interdictedAnd restrictedLittle door!

For, all her curiosityAwakened by the closet heSo carefully had hidden,And forbiddenHer to see,This damsel disobedientDid something inexpedient,And in the keyhole tinyTurned the shinyLittle key:

Then started back impulsively,And shrieked aloud convulsively—Three heads of maids he’d weddedAnd beheadedMet her eye!And turning round, much terrified,Her darkest fears were verified,For Blue-Beard stood behind her,Come to find herOn the sly!

Perceiving she was fated toBe soon decapitated, too,She telegraphed her brothersAnd some othersWhat she feared.And Sister Anne looked out for them,In readiness to shout for themWhenever in the distanceWith assistanceThey appeared.

But only from her battlementShe saw some dust that cattle meant.The ordinary storyIsn’t glory,But a jest.But here’s the truth unqualified.The husband wasn’t mollifiedHer head is in his bloodyLittle studyWith the rest!

The Moral: Wives, we must allow,Who to their husbands will not bow,A stern and dreadful lesson learnWhen, as you’ve read, they’re cut in turn.