Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

"He is the son and heir of Kalif," continued the barber, more courageously, "the same Kalif whom the Shah once rewarded with a magic casket."

He related at length all about the magic stones. The Caliph listened attentively, dismissed the barber, and sent a message to the Grand Vizier to come at once. The Vizier came and confirmed the barber's tale. "Abdul Kassim," he said, "knows everything that goes on in the world, and whenever he has a wish, all he has to do to fulfil it is to rub the diamond and say what he wants."

The Caliph grew serious. "Do you think, Vizier, that this man could usurp my throne? How would it be if I gave him a palace and raised him to be the husband of my daughter?"

The Grand Vizier agreed to the proposal of his ruler, and undertook himself to convey to the astounded Abdul Kassim the tidings that the Commander of the Faithful had given him a palace and awaited his visit.

The same evening the new favourite of the Caliph packed all his few belongings on the horse's back, took the iron casket under his arm and, amid the cheers of the crowd, entered the palace.

A troop of negroes received him and threw themselves at his feet. An especially gorgeously arrayed slave led him into a room, where a banquet awaited him. Abdul Kassim had never fared so well in his life. But he did not forget to praise Allah for his goodness. Next morning he put on his gorgeous robe, bound on the magnificent sword he found in the great hall, and rode, accompanied by the negroes, to visit the Caliph.

The Commander of the Faithful sat on the throne and awaited his subject, who, when he appeared, was about to throw himself in the dust at the ruler's feet, but the Caliph descended the three steps of the throne, and took the young man's hand.

"Are you Abdul Kassim," he said, "son of Kalif, the merchant who lived by the Golden Bridge?"

"I am he, Caliph," answered Abdul; "permit me to express my thanks for the palace with which you have endowed your most humble servant."

"I have heard much good of you," said the Caliph, when he had ordered his suite to retire; "and pray you to show me the magic jewels that help you to such power and wisdom."

"Of which jewels are you speaking?" asked Abdul Kassim, amazed.

"Well," smiled the Caliph, "which jewels should I mean but those you have inherited from your father?"

The young man stared. So the Caliph, too, took him for the possessor of the magic stones? Without reserve he confessed that, to avoid disputes, he had voluntarily retired and left the stones to his brothers.

"But," said the Caliph, "Micha ben Jahzeel, the Jew, saw the casket in your house!"

"The casket he may have seen," answered Abdul Kassim; "I begged it of my brothers in memory of my father."

The Caliph seemed still in doubt. He sent a slave to Abdul Kassim's palace to bring the casket. The messenger brought it, gave it to the Caliph, and retired. The Caliph opened the lid and looked inside. It was in truth empty! His gaze fell on the inscription:--

'Tis Allah's will that to him who cherishes
The precious gift that never perishes,
The East shall erstwhile all bow down,
So far the date on palm is grown.

He read the verse and looked at the youth. "Abdul Kassim," he said, "you have jewels in your heart more precious than all the treasures of the earth. For love of your brothers you gave up the stones, and for love of your father you have preserved this seemingly worthless casket. But Allah has blessed you for your virtues and has, by means of this humble iron casket, raised you to power and wealth. I dare not refuse to assist you. I will give you the most priceless gift at my disposal--the hand of my only daughter."

He called the chief overseer of the harem and bade him lead Fatma to the throne-room. The maiden had passed the night in weeping, for she had heard that she was to be given in marriage to a strange man. She shuddered at the thought, for as only child of the Caliph she had been thoroughly spoilt, and hated the idea of leaving her father's roof.

Abdul Kassim, who until now had been struck utterly dumb with astonishment, could not refrain from a cry of admiration at the sight of the lovely Fatma. She seemed to him a hundred times more beautiful than any description he had heard of her in Bagdad.

In the midst of her grief Fatma retained her woman's curiosity, and on hearing the youth's voice, cast one glance at him over her father's shoulder. The first impression seemed not unfavourable. She eyed his slender form as he stood leaning on his sword, and gradually ceased her sobbing. She even raised herself and took hold of the Caliph's arm. "Father," she said, "do with me what you will; not without cause do the people call you 'The Wise One.'"

So Fatma was married to Abdul. But neither she nor any other ever knew that the iron casket connected with her young lord's rise and power was empty. The Caliph advised his son-in-law to maintain the deepest silence as to the absence of the magic jewels.

In the fifth year of their wedded life the Caliph, feeling the weight of advancing years, abdicated in Abdul Kassim's favour, so the verse on the casket lid was fulfilled, and Abdul Kassim reigned many, many years over Bagdad, the best and wisest ruler who had ever ascended the throne. Allah's name be praised!

_The Queer Side of Things._

THE BEAUTY-COLLEGE TOY.]

"Mother! _Have_ you seen this?" exclaimed Genevieve. "_Do_ listen what the paper says:--

"'_The latest American notion is the recently instituted College of Beauty in New York. The College course knows nothing of dyes, or cosmetics, or powders.... One branch of study deals with the features of the face. The most enchanting beauty of expression will result from the methods adopted in the College. The effect of music on the features receives great attention; the eyes are to be enlarged by Verdi's music; the air of intelligence heightened by Chopin's; and various other ameliorations brought about by other composers, and poets, and so forth._' Just fancy, mother!"

Genevieve was wrapped in silent musing for some minutes; then she arose and crossed over to the mirror and gazed critically into it.

"Of course, it's all nonsense, mother, eh?" she said.

"Most absurd nonsense, my love--most absurd!" replied Mother.

Then Genevieve opened the piano abstractedly and began passing her fingers mechanically over the keys, which, strange to say, gave forth an air by Verdi. The mirror was right opposite Genevieve as she sat at the piano, and she looked casually at it many times.

When tea-time came, two hours and a half later, she was still strumming--strumming a little thing by Verdi, as it happened. Mother sat and smiled upon her indulgently.

* * * * *

That night, when Genevieve had retired to rest, she heard the faint sounds of the piano from the drawing-room; it was playing an air from Verdi. Mother was the only person downstairs who could play the piano.

"Mother," said Genevieve, next day, "of course that _must_ be all nonsense about the College of Beauty, eh? Of course, it would be quite impossible to make oneself more beautiful by----"

"Of course, Jenny, of course--sheer nonsense!" said Mother.

"Ye-es, of course," said Jenny. "But I've often thought I _should_ so love to see New York--haven't you?"

"New York is--no doubt--a--a very interesting place," said Mother.

"_Do_ let's go--just to see New York!" said Genevieve.

"Er--well; I'll speak to papa about it. You _do_ want a change," said Mother.

There was a ring.

"Oh, mother, here's Miss Cloot just getting out of her victoria," said Genevieve. "Now, the College of Beauty _would_ be a godsend to _her_! You must really tell her about it--it would be a charity!"

Miss Cloot was the ugliest old maid in London and its environs within a radius of twenty miles; she was really dreadful--that's the only word for it. She was comfortably off, yet she was still a spinster at forty. She was a remarkable woman, was Miss Cloot--you'll see.

During a lull in the conversation, Mother introduced the subject of the College of Beauty--as a charity. At first Miss Cloot listened with somewhat feeble interest; but after a few moments there suddenly appeared in her eye a remarkable light; beyond that, there was little perceptible change in her manner; but anyone who knew her well would have known that that light in her eye meant _something_.

"Dear me, yes, very interesting--an excellent notion," said Miss Cloot, blandly.

"But you can't think for an instant that there's anything in it?" said Mother.

"Dear me, why not?" said Miss Cloot. "I have no doubt there's a great deal in it. Why _shouldn't_ there be?--'_Too wonderful to be true!_'--well, but, are Edison's inventions too wonderful to be true? Oh, dear me, no! Not a bit too wonderful. You may be sure there's something in it."

"Do--er--do _you_ propose to----?" began Mother: and then it suddenly occurred to her that she had better not ask _that_ question; so she turned it off to--"get any new things this spring?"

Miss Cloot went straight home with that remarkable light in her eye all the time; and when she got in she straightway sat down and wrote a dozen letters. Miss Cloot numbered among her extensive acquaintance twelve old maids, all comfortably off, and all plain--though falling short of her own attainments in the latter respect.

On the evening of the following day there was a tea party at Miss Cloot's--it consisted of those twelve other old maids of her acquaintance. It was more of a board meeting than an ordinary tea party, for they took their seats round a table at the head of which sat their hostess.

"Ladies!" said Miss Cloot (who really _was_ a remarkable woman--the more I reflect upon her, the more I am impressed by this fact), "I have asked you here to-day to discuss a very important matter--very important to us. Possibly you may have seen this paragraph in the newspaper?" and she handed round the cutting which she had taken from Genevieve's paper.

The twelve old maids read it, and did not seem to see much in it. Miss Cloot's keen intuition perceived this.

"I did not expect you to. We can't _all_ be of brilliant intellect, of course," she said. "Pray don't think I _blame_ you for any deficiencies in that respect; we none of us can radically alter the intelligence--or want of it--which has been vouchsafed to us."

"But this is a hoax, of course, Celina?" said Miss Wheevyl. "Quite absurd and impossible!"

"Not in the least!" replied Miss Cloot, emphatically. "Neither absurd nor impossible. That's where you show your ignorance, Jane. Pray understand, my friends, that I am not proposing that you should all rush out to that College in New York (although Heaven knows you all need its assistance); no, you will do better by remaining where you are. Now, concerning this College. I know what you are going to say--'It doesn't exist!' Very well; what _I_ have to say is, if it doesn't exist, why----"

At this moment, unfortunately, the door of the council-chamber was suddenly shut, and we heard no more.

"Mother!" said Genevieve, a week or so after, "there's a whole page of advertisement of that College of Beauty in New York! _Do_ listen: 'Ladies desirous of enrolling themselves as students at the College of Beauty are requested to send in their names at once to the secretaress, Madame Brown. The first hundred ladies will be received at the following reduced fees: Facial-Beauty Curriculum (including Eye-Enlarging, Gaze-Softening, Dimple, Ethereal-Expression, Piquancy, and other classes), 100dols. per term of twelve months.... The system having now been perfected and exhaustively tested, testimonials from LADIES WELL KNOWN IN SOCIETY, who have been rescued from VARIOUS DEGREES OF HOMELINESS and developed into BEAUTIES OF THE FIRST WATER, will be sent to all applicants. The leading transatlantic steamship companies have made special arrangements for the conveyance of parties of ladies proceeding to the College of Beauty, New York.'

"Of course, it _can't_ be true, can it, mother?" said Genevieve.

"Oh, dear, no, my love," said Mother.

"But we will go and have a look at New York; won't we?"

"Yes, I think we may as well."

The booming of the College of Beauty re-echoed deafeningly from end to end of the London Press. The subject was dragged into every paragraph about everything. It was the universal topic.

* * * * *

Some weeks after this Jenkinson looked up Wiffler in the evening, and threw himself down in a chair with an exclamation of disgust.

"Hanged if they haven't gone!" he grunted.

"Gone? Who?" said Wiffler, passing the tobacco-jar.

"Why, Mrs. Jenkinson and Genevieve have gone to New York--for a change, they said; but they can't hoodwink _me_. They've gone to that College of Beauty--_that's_ where _they've_ gone! Nice state of things for me! Left all alone, as if I didn't happen to have such articles as a wife and daughter.... Where's _your_ wife? Theatre--opera?"

"Not a bit of it!" replied Wiffler, gloomily. "_Gone to New York_, my friend; and _now_ I see _why_ they were so mad to go that way, although Matilda hates the sea and always gets frightfully ill. _Now_ I see!"

At that moment Gradbury burst in melodramatically, the image of despair.

"Hullo, Gradbury!" said the other two, "what's wrong with _you_?"

"Ugh! Everything!" growled Gradbury. "Nice game for a man's wife and three daughters and niece to go off all at once to----"

"New York?" cried Wiffler and Jenkinson, in a breath.

"Ah!--that's the very place!" shrieked Gradbury. "And I'll tell you what--I've my suspicions that----"

"Your suspicions are well founded," said Jenkinson, in a hollow voice. "That _was_ their object."

Then those three miserable men went off to the club; and the hubbub as they entered the smoke-room told them that something was amiss. Frodwell was standing on the hearthrug declaiming about the right place for a wife being by her husband's side instead of frivolling off to crack-brained colleges holding out all manner of insane and impracticable ----.

About twenty other clubbites stood round and grunted approval.

Anger and gloom were the dominant principles of that smoke-room.

"_Your_ wife gone over? Oh, no, of course, you haven't got a wife," said Jenkinson to young Flabtree.

"No; and what's more, I'm not likely to have one now. My best girl's gone over to New York--for three years she thinks. Hanged if I know how _she_ can be improved by that fool of a college--for _that's_ where _she's_ off to, you bet! Her fringe keeps frizzy in wet weather, and she has a little dimple each side of her nose; so what more _can_ she want?"

"All _my_ best girls have gone!" said poor young Grownder, sinking into a settee and covering his face with his hands.

It was the same sad story at every club you entered; bereaved married men and deserted bachelors stood mopingly on the hearthrugs or flopped in limp despair on the big chairs. Every day the papers had been filled with advertisements and "pars" and articles about the College of Beauty; flaring posters, with pictures of a lady, before and after a course of the College, covered London: the before lady had wild red hair, a pug-nose, a heavy squint, one immense front tooth, lips like a negro's, and the figure of a sack of potatoes; the after lady--supposed to be the same person--had a Grecian nose, great blue eyes, wavy brown hair, and an ideal figure. Every day the crisis became more grave; the great transatlantic lines had hired extra ships to fill with ladies proceeding to New York: it had been made "worth the while" of several eminent London physicians to prescribe a course of "New York." The sight of a lady in the London streets was becoming more and more rare. Men in a hopeless state of dejection, even of melancholy insanity, roved aimlessly about the pavements. The club-houses had to hire extra accommodation for men whose homes, bereft of the feminine element, had become loathsome and abhorrent to them.

Beautiful suburban villas were left deserted, the dust growing visibly upon the furniture; domestic life among the upper and middle classes had ceased to exist. The milliners' shops were closed; suburban tradesmen were becoming bankrupt; feminine parts at the theatres were played by youths as in old times, while the stalls and dress-circle presented an unbroken line of wretched men, clad in tweed suits, dressing-gowns--anything; so demoralized does man become the instant the refining influence of woman is withdrawn.

There was another board-meeting of the spinsters at Miss Cloot's. Their number was reduced by two recalcitrants, who had been unable to resist the New York fever and had deserted the ranks.

"Idiots!" said Miss Cloot.

Miss Cloot rose at the head of the table and said:--

"Ladies, I need hardly tell you that the operations of our society have been, and are, a complete success. In the course of another week there will not be a woman of any position, except ourselves, in the Metropolitan area. Our secretary, Miss McSwinger, will read to you the numbers of embarcations for New York for the week ending yesterday; and Miss Gorgonia V. Nickerbocker, our New York factotum, is now present among us, and will set before you the statistics of the hiring and fitting up of new annexes of the College of Beauty, which at present accommodates four million seven hundred thousand and odd ladies.

"You will recall to mind how, at our first and preliminary meeting, I said to you: 'What I have to say is, that if this College of Beauty, set forth in this newspaper cutting, does not exist, why, it _shall_ exist; and we will create it.' Whether the original College ever did exist I do not know, but _ours_ does. Ladies, it was an idea such as has seldom occurred to woman since the beginning of time. You came wisely forward and threw in your money with mine to set this great work on foot; our money has now gone; but, by reason of the term-fees paid by the pupils, the College is now entirely self-supporting.

"_Now_, ladies, is your time! All the pretty women have gone to New York; every month a certain number of men in this vast Metropolis suddenly decide to marry; for the last five months the deciders have lacked the item indispensable to the carrying out of their object--a woman to marry. The domestic arrangement which they calculated upon, and had prepared for, in many cases even to the laying-in of Japanese fans, scent-cases, hanging wardrobes, and other articles of furniture, has been hopelessly postponed.

"The aggregate of outstanding matrimonial decisions has, owing to the absence of a helpmate to join the board after allotment, become enormous.

"Ladies, those men _must_ marry someone, or the scent-cases and wardrobes will lose their freshness: and they must marry US, or none. It may surprise you when I say that they will prefer even _you_ to _none_: but you will find it is so!

"Ladies!" she continued, "we have triumphed! Do you hear the murmur without--the murmur of multitudes like the ocean? It is the men! They know that eleven eligible spinsters--not to speak of our excellent factotum, Miss McSwinger--are assembled in this room. Look!"

In two strides she had reached the window-curtains. She threw them back. Without, the whole square and adjacent streets were packed with a surging mass of stove-pipe hats.

As the curtains separated there arose a vast and deafening shout, while ten thousand hands simultaneously held aloft ten thousand wedding rings.

Miss Cloot opened the window, and stepped out upon the balcony.

"Gentlemen!" she said, "I must entreat you to be patient and maintain order. It is impossible for us to accept all of you: I regret to inform you that twelve only amid your vast and imposing throng can be made happy. If you will disperse in an orderly way, you can obtain Offer of Marriage forms, which I will ask you to fill up with particulars of your stations in life, incomes, characters, and other details. I have made arrangements so that the forms can be obtained of any respectable chemist, bookseller, tobacconist, or house agent, or at the Army and Navy or Civil Service Stores.

"All applications will be considered, and the acceptations printed in the _Times_, _Pink 'Un_, _Matrimonial News_, and _Exchange and Mart_.

"I will now entreat you to disperse quietly, without any demonstration. Good-day."

* * * * *

Three weeks from that time the twelve spinsters were married at St. George's. Miss Cloot had accepted a duke, seven other ladies earls, one a wealthy brewer, two pill millionaires, and the remaining one a poet-laureate. Some time after, the ladies began to return from New York; whether they are any lovelier, I cannot say. Can woman be lovelier than she is? Never mind, I don't want a series of letters about it.

At any rate, those twelve ladies married at St. George's are all very, very happy; which shows that, although beauty and goodness are inestimable gifts, wits are worth having.

J. F. SULLIVAN.

PAL'S PUZZLE PAGE.]

INDEX.

PAGE.

ACTORS' MAKE-UP 149

(_Illustrations_ by HORACE MOREHAM.)

ANARCHIST, AN. From the French of EUGÉNE MORET 339

(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)

ANTONIO'S ENGLISHMAN. By W. L. ALDEN 451

(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)

ARTISTS' CLUB, A BOHEMIAN. By ALFRED T. STORY 488

(_Illustrations_ by G. G. KILBURNE, W. H.
PIKE, ROBT. SAUBER, J. FINNEMORE,
W. A. BREAKSPEAR, C. CATTERMOLE, CARL
HAAG, and W. D. ALMOND, and from Photographs by
SCOTT & SONS, EXETER, and RUSSELL & SONS.)

BEAUTIES:--

XIII.--CHILDREN: MISS EDITH MARGUERITE
DICKINSON, MISS DOROTHY BIRCH DONE, MISS
EVELYN MARY DOWDELL, MISS MADGE ERSKINE,
MISS WINNIFRED EMMA HEALE, MISS KATHLEEN
KEYSE, MISS NELLY M. MORRIS, MISS ALIGANDER
SMITH, MISS MYRTA VIVIENNE STUBBS 77

XIV.--LADIES: MISS CHRISTINE BEAUCLERC,
MRS. W. H. COOK, MISS CROKER, MRS.
GARDNER, MISS MAUD GONNE, MISS
HAMILTON, MISS JAMESON, MISS EVELYN
MILLARD, LADY HELEN VINCENT 186

XV.--CHILDREN: MISS MAY BARNES,
MISS DORIS MAMIE BUTLER, MISS DORIS G.
CLEGG, MASTERS CUTHBERT, EUSTACE,
MICHAEL, and CYRIL COX, MISS GRACIE
DODDS, MISS GLADYS HUDDART, MISS GLADYS
LILIAN TANSLEY, MISS MURIEL GLANVILLE TAYLOR 270

XVI.--LADIES: MISS BARNETT, MISS ANNIE
O'DEANE, MISS NANCY NOEL, MISS AGNES C.
STEVENSON, MISS NORA WILLIAMSON 426

XVII.--CHILDREN: MISSES DOROTHY and
MARJORIE HOLMES, MISS PHYLLIS LOTT,
MISS KATIE MARTINDALE, MISS MARGOT AMY CECIL
RUSSELL, MISS WINIFRED MARY WINTER 538

XVIII.--LADIES: MISS DAISY BALDRY, MRS.
GLYNDEUR FOULKES, MISS FRANKS, MISS MABEL
MORPHETT, MISS LOUIE SPENCER, MISS IRENE
VANBRUGH 634

BETWEEN THE ACTS. From the French of M. BLOWITZ 115

(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)

BLIZZARD, LOST IN A. By G. H. LEES 285

(_Illustrations_ by W. CHRISTIAN SYMONS.)

BRITISH EMBASSY AT PARIS, THE. By MARY SPENCER-WARREN 289

(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by Messrs. GUNN &
STUART, RICHMOND.)

BURDETT-COUTTS, THE BARONESS. (_See_ "ILLUSTRATED
INTERVIEWS") 348

CAMBRIDGE UNION SOCIETIES, OXFORD AND 502

CLARK, PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF SIR ANDREW. By E. H.
PITCAIRN 65

(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by Messrs. MAYOR &
MEREDITH, BASSANO, and WYRALL; and
from a Painting by G. F. WATTS, R.A.)

COMPOSERS WORK, HOW. By F. A. JONES.