The crimson executioner distributed tablets of ivory inscribed with gold letters.
‘Oh, programmes for the entertainment!’ chorused the crowd.
THE MAN IN THE BOTTLE
Marionette Comedy in the Spirit of Aubrey Beardsley
BY PRINCE MOHAMMED DARASCHE-KOH
Characters:
THE MAN IN THE BOTTLE….….….….….….….. MIGUEL, COUNT DE FAAST
THE MAN ON THE BOTTLE….…..PRINCE MOHAMMED DARASCHE-KOH
THE LADY IN THE SEDAN CHAIR
VAMPIRES, MARIONETTES, HUNCHBACKS, APES, MUSICIANS
Scene of Action: A TIGER’S MAW
‘What! The prince is the author of this marionette play?’ ‘Probably a scene out of the “Thousand and One Nights.”’ ‘But who will play the part of the Lady in the Sedan Chair?’
‘Oh, there is a great surprise in store for us,’ twittered a seductive Incroyable, leaning on the arm of an Abbe. ‘Do you know, the Pierrot with whom I danced the tarantelle was the Count de Faast, who is going to play The Man in the Bottle; and he confided a lot of things to me: the marionettes will be very gruesome – that is, for those who appreciate the spirit of the thing – and the prince had an elephant sent down from Hamburg – but you are not listening to me at all!’ And the little one dropped the arm of her escort and bolted into the swirling crowd.
New groups of masks constantly poured out of the adjoining rooms through the wide doorways into the big hall, making a kaleidoscopic play of colors, while files of costumed guests stood admiring the wonderful mural frescoes that rose to the blue, star-dotted ceiling. Attendants served refreshments, sorbets and wines in the window niches.
With a rolling sound the walls of the narrow end of the hall separated and a stage was pushed slowly into view. Its setting, in red brown and a flaming yellow proscenium, was a yawning tiger’s maw, the white teeth glittering above and below.
In the middle of the scene stood a huge glass bottle in the form of a globe, with walls at least a foot thick. It was about twice the height of an average man and very roomy. The back of the scene was draped with pink silk hangings.
Then the colossal ebony doors of the hall opened and admitted a richly caparisoned elephant, which advanced with majestic tread. On its head sat the crimson executioner guiding the beast with the butt of his cudgel. Chains of amethysts dangled from the elephant’s tusks, and plumes of peacock feathers nodded from its head. Heavily embroidered gold cloths streamed down from the back of the beast, skirting the floor; across its enormous forehead there was a network of sparkling jewels.
The maskers flocked around the advancing beast, shouting greetings to the gay group of actors seated in the palanquin; Prince Darasche-Koh with turban and aigrette, Count de Faast as Pierrot, marionettes and musicians, stiff as wooden puppets. The elephant reached the stage, and with its trunk lifted one man after another from its back. There was much applause and a yell of delight as the beast seized the Pierrot and, sliding him into the neck of the bottle, closed the metal top. Then the Persian prince was placed on top of the bottle.
The musicians seated themselves in a semicircle, drawing forth strange, slender instruments. The elephant gazed at them a moment, then turned about and strode toward the door. Like a lot of happy children the maskers clung to its trunk, ears, and tusks and tried to hold it back; but the animal seemed not to feel their weight at all.
The performance began, and somewhere, as if out of the ground, there arose weird music. The puppet orchestra of marionettes remained lifeless and waxen; the flute player stared with glassy, idiotic eyes at the ceiling; the features of the rococo conductor in peruke and plumed hat, holding the baton aloft and pressing a pointed finger mysteriously to his lips, were distorted by a shrewd, uncanny smile.
In the foreground posed the marionettes. Here were grouped a humpbacked dwarf with chalky face, a gray, grinning devil, and a sallow, rouged actress with carmine lips. The three seemed possessed of some satanic secret that had paralyzed their movements. The semblance of death brooded over the entire motionless group.
The Pierrot in the bottle now began to move restlessly. He doffed his white felt hat, bowed and occasionally greeted the Persian prince, who with crossed legs sat on the cap of the bottle. His antics amused the audience. The thick walls of glass distorted his appearance curiously; sometimes his eyes seemed to pop out of his head; then again they disappeared, and one saw only forehead and chin; sometimes he was fat and bloated, then again slender, with long legs like a spider’s.
In the midst of a motionless pause the red silk hangings of the background parted, and a closed sedan chair was carried on by two Moors, who placed it near the bottle. A ray of pale light from above now illuminated the scene. The spectators had formed themselves into two camps. The one was speechless under the spell of this vampiric, enigmatic marionette play that seemed to exhale an atmosphere of poisoned merriment; the other group, not sensitive enough to appreciate such a scene, laughed immoderately at the comical capering of the man in the bottle.
He had given up his merry dancing and was trying by every possible means to impart some information or other to the prince sitting on the cap. He pounded the walls of the bottle as though he would smash them; and to all appearances he was screaming at the top of his voice, although not the slightest sound penetrated the thick glass.
The Persian prince acknowledged the movements of the Pierrot with a smile, pointing with his finger at the sedan chair.
The curiosity of the audience reached its climax when it saw that the Pierrot had pressed his face against the glass and was staring at something in the window of the sedan chair. Then suddenly, like one gone mad, he beat his face with his hands, sank on his knees and tore his hair. Then he sprang furiously up and raced around the bottle at such speed that the audience saw only a fluttering cloth in his wake.
The secret of the Lady in the Sedan Chair puzzled the audience considerably – they could only see that a white face was pressed against the window of the chair and was staring over at the bottle. Shadows cut off all further view.
Laughter and applause rose to a tumult. Pierrot had crouched on the bottom of the bottle, his fingers clutching his throat. Then he opened his mouth wide and pointed in wild frenzy to his chest and then to the one sitting above. He folded his hands in supplication, as though he were begging something from the audience.
‘He wants something to drink! Such a large bottle and no wine in it? I say, you marionettes, give him a drink,’ cried one of the maskers.
Everybody laughed and applauded.
Then the Pierrot jumped up once more, tore his garments from his chest and staggered about until he measured his length on the bottom of the bottle.
‘Bravo, bravo, Pierrot! Wonderfully acted! Da capo, da capo!’ yelled the maskers.
When the man in the bottle did not stir again and made no effort to repeat his scene, the applause gradually subsided and the attention of the spectators was drawn to the marionettes. They still remained motionless in the poses they had assumed, but in their miens there was now a sense of expectancy that had not been there before. It seemed as if they were waiting for a cue.
The humpbacked dwarf, with the chalked face, turned his eyes carefully and gazed at the Prince Darasche-Koh. The Persian did not stir.
Finally two figures advanced from the background, and one of the Moors haltingly approached the sedan chair and opened the door.
And then something very remarkable occurred – the body of a woman fell stiffly out on the stage. There was a moment of deathly silence and then a thousand voices arose: ‘What has happened?’
Marionettes, apes, musicians – all leaped forward; maskers climbed up on the stage.
The princess, wife of Darasche-Koh, lay there strapped to a steel frame. Where the ropes had cut into her flesh were blue bruises, and in her mouth there was a silk gag.
A nameless horror took possession of the audience.
‘Pierrot!’ a voice suddenly shrilled. ‘Pierrot!�
�� Like a dagger, indescribable fear penetrated every heart.
‘Where is the prince?’
During the tumult the Persian had disappeared.
Melanchthon stood on the shoulders of Mephisto, but he could not lift the cap of the bottle, and the air valve was screwed tightly shut.
‘Break the walls of the bottle! Quick!’
The Dutch councilor tore the cudgel from the hand of the crimson executioner and with a leap landed on the stage.
A gruesome sound arose, like the tolling of a cracked bell. Like streaks of white lightning the cracks leaped across the surface of the glass. Finally the bottle was splintered into bits. And within lay, suffocated, the corpse of the Count de Faast, his fingers clawing his breast.
The bright hall seemed to darken.
Silently and with invisible pinions the gigantic ebon birds of terror streaked through the hall of the fête.
Blamol
In truth, without deceit,
I say to you surely
As it is below, so is it above.
Tabula Smaragdina
The old cuttlefish was resting on a thick Blue Book that had come from a vessel that had sunk, and was slowly taking in the printed characters.
Landlubbers have absolutely no idea how busy a cuttlefish is all day.
This one had devoted himself wholeheartedly to medicine, and all day long, from morning to night, two poor little starfish were obliged to help him turn the pages, because they owed him so much money.
Around his corpulence, just where other people keep their waists, he wore a golden pince-nez: another piece of marine loot. The lenses were forced wide apart on either side, giving anyone who might look through them a disagreeably dizzy sensation.
All around was quiet.
Suddenly an octopus came lunging up, its baggy snout pointing eagerly ahead, its arms trailing in its wake like nothing so much as a bundle of sticks. It settled down beside the book, and waited for the old fellow to look up before composing an elaborate greeting and unwrapping a tin box from amongst its arms. The violet polyp from Turbot Alley, I presume,’ observed old Sepia graciously. ‘Yes, that’s right, I knew your mother well, née von Octopus. (I say, Perch, just fetch me the Almanach de Gophalopoda, will you.) Now, what can I do for you, young polyp?’
‘The inscription – read what it says,’ oozed the other, embarrassed, pointing to the tin box. He had a rather slimy way of saying things.
The cuttlefish stared hard at the box, like a prosecuting counsel, his eyes popping out.
‘What is this I see – Blamol? This is a priceless find. Surely it comes from the Christmas Steamer that ran aground? Blamol! The new miracle cure – the more you take, the healthier you get!
‘This must be opened at once: Perch, just dart off to the two lobsters over there, will you – you know, Coral Bank, Second Branch, the Scissors brothers – and hurry!’
The green sea-lily, who resided nearby, rushed over the moment she heard about the new medicine – oh, she really would like to try some, really and truly, she’d give anything!
And she undulated her several hundred tentacles in captivatingly languorous fashion, riveting everyone’s eye upon her.
Sharks alive, was she beautiful! A big mouth, for sure, but that’s often what makes a lady so exciting.
They were all gaping at her, so they missed the arrival of the two lobsters who were already busy at the tin, chattering to each other in their harsh, outlandish dialect. With a final gentle tap the tin fell apart.
Like a shower of hail the white pills swirled out and, lighter than cork, shot upwards and vanished.
‘Catch them, catch them!’ came the cry, and they all fell over in their haste, but none was quick enough. Only the lily was lucky enough to secure a single pill and she hastily stuffed it into her mouth.
Indignation all round: the least the Scissors brothers deserved was a box on the ear.
‘You, Perch, I suppose you couldn’t manage to watch what was going on? What’s the point of your being my assistant?’
Everyone was left to swear and argue – all except for the octopus who, speechless with rage, was hammering away at a mussel with its clenched tentacles, enough to make the pearls squeak.
Suddenly there was a general silence: look at the lily! She must have suffered a stroke: rigid and quite unable to move, with her tentacles stiffly extended, she could be heard gently whimpering.
The cuttlefish pulsed importantly over to her and commenced his examination with a mysterious air. With the aid of a pebble he palpated a tentacle or two and then probed further in. (Hm, hm, - Babynski’s Reaction: disruption of the Pyramidal Channels.) Then with the edge of his wing he stroked the lily a few times across her cup, his eyes taking on as he did so an intense and penetrating quality. Finally, puffing himself up, he said in a grave tone: ‘Lateral Chord Sclerosis – the lady is paralysed.’
‘Is there anything we can do? What is your opinion? Please just help her – I’ll go to the chemist’s’, cried the good-natured seahorse.
‘Help? Are you mad? Do you think I studied medicine in order to effect cures?’ The cuttlefish was getting angrier. ‘It seems to me you think I’m a barber. Are you trying to make fun of me? Perch, my hat and stick, if you please!’
One after another they all dispersed. The things that can happen to you in this life. It’s awful, don’t you think?’
The place emptied, soon leaving the perch grumpily casting about, looking for anything the others might have lost or forgotten.
Night descended upon the seabed. The rays of light, of which none knew whence they came nor whither they went, shimmered in the green water like a veil, tired, as though at the limit of exhaustion.
The poor sea-lily lay immobile, gazing at them with a heart full of bitterness as they rose and vanished into the distance far above. Yesterday at this time she had been fast asleep, curled up safely into a ball, and now – to have to die on the street, like a mere ... animal! Little pearls of air beaded her brow. And tomorrow was Christmas!
She fell to thinking about her husband, gadding about somewhere far away. Three months it was now since she had become a seagrass-widow. Really, it would have been no surprise if she had been unfaithful to him.
Oh, if only the seahorse had stayed with her!
She was so afraid!
It was getting so dark you could hardly see your own feelers in front of you.
Broad-shouldered night crept out from behind the stones and algae, devouring the pale shadows of the coral banks. Black shapes glided out like ghosts, with eyes aflame and luminously violet fins. Fishes of the Night! Hideous rays and sea-devils, going about their nefarious business in the darkness, lying murderously in wait amidst the wreckage of ships.
Stealthily, shiftily, mussels beckon to the belated traveller, inviting him all unwary to join in some gruesome vice amidst the soft pillows that can be glimpsed between their gently parted shells.
In the distance a dogfish barks.
Suddenly, a bright light flashes through the algal ribbons: a shining medusa appears, guiding some drunken revellers homewards – a pair of slick eels, with a couple of moray sluts twined round their fins. Two young salmon, gaudy in silver, have stopped to gaze at this scene of depraved intoxication. A dissolute verse can be heard …
Down where the green weed grew I asked when I had met her Did she want me to screw Her? ‘Yes, oh yes, you’d better.’
So down she bent And off I went
Right where the green weed grew …
‘Out of my way, bloody salmon!’ roars one of the eels, interrupting the song.
Silversides bridles: Shut your trap! You’d do well to watch your language. Just because you think you’re the only lot who were born on the right side of the Danube ...’
‘Shh, shh,’ the medusa pleads, ‘watch your tongues, look who’s over there!’ They all fall quiet and gaze with some awe at a small group of frail, colourless figures making prim progress along the wa
y.
‘Lancelets’ someone whispers.
‘????’
‘Oh, very hoity-toity they are, Counsellors, diplomats and the like. Born to it. Real marvels of nature – no brain, no backbone: quite spineless.’
There ensues a minute or two of silent amazement before everyone swims away, this time quite peaceably.
The noises die away. Absolute silence descends.
Time passes. Midnight, the witching hour.
Did we hear voices? Not shrimps, surely, at this time of night? It’s the Night Patrol: police crabs!
What a noise they make with their armoured legs as they crunch across the sand, dragging their captives off to a place of security.
Woe betide anyone who falls into their clutches: no crime escapes them, and their lies stand on oath before the law.
The Opal, and Other Stories Page 8