Grimm Tales Made Gay/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 bailiff Of the caliph Of Kelat. Though diligent and zealous, he Became a slave to jealousy. (Considering her beauty,                 ’T was his duty                        To be that!)

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

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

This feeling insalubrious Soon made her most lugubrious, And bitterly she missed her Elder sister Marie Anne: She asked if she might write her to Come down and spend a night or two, Her husband answered rightly And politely: “Yes, you can!”

Blue-Beard, the Monday following, His jealous feeling swallowing, Packed all his clothes together In a leather- Bound valise, And, feigning reprehensibly, He started out, ostensibly By traveling to learn a                 Bit of Smyrna And of Greece.

His wife made but a cursory Inspection of the nursery; The kitchen and the airy Little dairy Were a bore, As well as big or scanty rooms, And billiard, bath, and ante-rooms, But not that interdicted And restricted Little door!

For, all her curiosity Awakened by the closet he     So carefully had hidden, And forbidden Her to see, This damsel disobedient Did something inexpedient, And in the keyhole tiny Turned the shiny Little key:

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

Perceiving she was fated to Be soon decapitated, too, She telegraphed her brothers And some others What she feared. And Sister Anne looked out for them, In readiness to shout for them Whenever in the distance With assistance They appeared.

But only from her battlement She saw some dust that cattle meant. The ordinary story Isn’t glory, But a jest. But here’s the truth unqualified. The husband wasn’t mollified Her head is in his bloody Little study With the rest!

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