Baboo Jabberjee, B.A. by F. Anstey (pocket ebook reader TXT) 📖
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- Author: F. Anstey
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The room was greatly in the necessity of whitewash, being black with smoke and signatures in lead pencil. Even the window-panes were scratched all over by diamonds, on seeing which, and being also the possessor of a diamond and gold ring, I was about to inscribe my own name, but was prevented by the lady custodian.
I indignantly and eloquently protested that if Hon'ble Sirs, Walter Scott, Lord Byron, Isaac Walton, Washington Irving and Co. were permitted to deface the glass thus, surely I, who was a graduate of Calcutta University, and a valuable contributor to London Punch, was equally entitled, since what was sauce for a goose was sauce for a gander, and Mrs Allbutt-Innett urged that I was a distinguished Shakspearian student and Indian prince, but the custodian responded that she couldn't help that, for it was ultra vires, nevertheless.
However, while she was engaged in pointing out the spot where somebody's signature had been before it was peeled away, I, snatching the opportunity behind her back, did triumphantly inscribe my autograph on the bust's nose.
In the back-room they showed us where Shakspeare's father stapled his wool, which caused Mrs Allbutt-Innett to remark that she had always understood that the poet was of quite humble origin, and that, for her part, she thought it was all the more creditable to him to have done what he did do.
We also inspected the Museum, and were shown Shakspeare's jug, a rather ordinary concern; the identical dial which one of the clowns in his plays drew out of a poke, and a ring with W. S. engraved on it, found in the churchyard some years ago, and, no doubt, dropped there by the poet himself, while absorbed in the composition of his famous and world-renowned elegy.
There were several portraits of him also, all utterly unlike one another, or only agreeing in one respect, namely, their total dissimilarity from the bust.
We likewise saw the very desk Shakspeare used, after creeping unwillingly to school with a shining face like a snail's. I was pained to see evidence of the mischievousness of the juvenile genius, for it was slashed and hacked to such a doleful degree as to be totally incapacitated for scholastic use!
I myself was sprightly in my youth, but never, I am proud to say, to the extent of wilfully damaging my master's furniture! Before leaving, we walked to visit the residence of Shakspeare's wife, which turned out to be a very humble thatched-roof affair, such as is commonly occupied by peasants.
But, as Mrs Allbutt-Innett said, it is a sad fact that distinguished literary characters often make most imprudent marriages. Which put me in a wonderment whether she had heard anything about myself and Miss Mankletow.
At one of the bazaars I purchased a beautiful Shakspearian souvenir, in the form of a coloured porcelain model of Shakspeare's birthplace, which can be rendered transparent and luminous by the insertion of a night-light.
This I had intended humbly to offer for the gracious acceptance of Miss Wee-Wee, but having thrust it into a coat-tail pocket, I unfortunately sat upon it in the train as we were returning.
So I presented it as a token of remembrance to Jessimina, who was transported with delight at the gift, which she said could be easily rendered the statu quo by dint of a little diamond cement.
[Pg 135] XVIIContaining some intimate confidences from Mr Jabberjee, with the explanation of such apparent indiscretion.
Since writing my latest contribution I have folded up my tent like an Arab, and silently stolen away from Porticobello House, this independent hook being taken under the ostensible and colourable pretext of a medical opinion that the climate of Bayswater was operating injuriously upon my internal arrangements, but the real causa causans and dessous des cartes being a growing disinclination for the society of select male and female boarders.
Miss Jessimina was naturally bathed in tears at the announcement of my approaching departure, although I fondly sought to console her by assurances that my residence in Highbury, Islington, though beyond the radius and of inaccessible remoteness from Ladbroke Grove, should not obliterate her brilliant image from the cracked looking-glass of my heart, and that I would write to her with weekly regularity, and revisit the glimpses of her moony presence at the first convenient opportunity.
I do correspond with effusiveness and punctuality through the obliging medium of a young intimate Indian acquaintance of mine, who does actually reside at Highbury, and has kindly undertaken to forward my billets doux.
This stratagem is necessitated by the circumstance that (as a matter of fact) I am dwelling under a rose at Hereford Road, Westbourne Grove, which is in convenient proximity to Prince's Square and the stately home of the Allbutt-Innett family, with whom I am now promoted to become the tame cat.
![Unaccustomed to dark-complexioned gentlemen.](https://read-book.net/uploads/posts/books/3/1/2/5/3/images/frontis.jpg)
"UNACCUSTOMED TO DARK-COMPLEXIONED GENTLEMEN."
In Hereford Road I occupy garishly genteel first-floor front and back apartments at rupees fifteen per week and the Lady of the Land has entreated me to kindly excuse the waiting-maid for jumping with diffidence whenever I pop upon her unpremeditatedly on the stairs, being a nervous girl and unaccustomed to dark-complexioned gentlemen—though her own countenance, from superabundance of blacking and smuts, being of a far superior nigritude, it is I myself who should be more justified in jumping.
However, she is already becoming the habituée, and seldom drops the crockery-ware now—except when I simper with too beaming a condescension.
Certain of my readers will perhaps hold up the hands of amazement at my imprudence in disclosing my whereabouts, and other private concerns, in the publicity of a popular periodical—but there is method in such madness; they do not take in Punch at Porticobello House, considering that one penny (or even the moiety of that sum) is more correct value for funny and comical illustrated journalism, while the Allbutt-Innetts, although they see Punch weekly do not peruse the literary contents, especially in the season, when, as Mrs A.-I. frequently remarks, they are in such a constant whirl of social dissipation that they have absolutely no time for serious reading.
At first I was severely mortified that—so far as my acquaintances were concerned—these tittlings and jottings should be thus written with water, but I have since made the discovery that my cloud of disappointment is internally lined with precious silver.
[Pg 138] XVIIIMr Jabberjee is a little over-ingenious in his excuses.
Since shaking the dust off my feet at Porticobello House, I have not succeeded to pluck the courage for a personal interview with Miss Jessimina, and my correspondence, duly forwarded per Mr Bhoobone Lall Jalpanybhoy, of Highbury, has consisted mainly of abject excuses for non-attendance on plea of over-study for Bar Exam, and total incapacity to journey due to excessive disorderliness in stomach department.
This, unhappily, at length inspired her with the harrowing dread that I was on the point of being launched into the throes of eternity, if not already as dead as Death's door-nail, and so, with feminine want of reflection, she performed a hurried pilgrimage to Highbury.
Now, whether on account of the beetleheadedness of a domestic, or Baboo Jalpanybhoy's incompetency in the art of equivocation, I am not to say—but the sequel of her inquiries was the unshakable conviction that I had not struck root in the habitation from which my letters were ostensibly addressed.
And in a subsequently forwarded letter she did reproach me pathetically with my duplicity, and accused me of being a fickle—by which I was so unspeakably cut up that I abstained from the condescension of a rejoinder.
Next I became the involuntary recipient of another letter in more intemperate style, menacing me that with a hook or a crook, she would dislodge me from the loophole in which I was snugly established, and that several able-bodied boarders were the hue of a full cry in pursuit.
Since Hereford Road is in dangerous proximity to Ladbroke Grove, I was sitting tight in my apartments on receipt of this grave intelligence, with funk in my heart, and the Unknown hovering above me, when my young friend Howard Allbutt-Innett, Esq., arrived with his bicycle, like a god on a machine, and perceiving the viridity of my countenance, inquired sympathetically what was up.
At first, being mindful of the excessive liveliness with which he had bantered my residence in a boarding-house of such mediocre pretensions, I was naturally disinclined to reveal that I was in the plight of troth with the proprietress's daughter; but eventually I overcame my coyness, and uncovered the pretty kettle of fish of my infandum dolorem, and my ardent longing to hit upon some plan to extricate myself from the suffocating coils of such a Laocoon.
"My dear old chap," he said kindly, after I had unfolded the last link of my tale of woe, "I will put you up in a dodge that will perform the trick. Don't see the young woman, or she will get round you with half a jiffy. Write to her that you are not worthy of a rap, and no more a Prince than I am!"
Hearing his last words, I started, and did, like the ghost of Hamlet, Senior, "jump at this dead hour," being convinced that young Howard had found out (perhaps from Hon'ble Cummerbund) that my title was a bogus, and anticipating that, if he divulged the skeleton of my bare cupboard to his highly genteel parents, I should infallibly experience the crushing mortification of a chuck out.
However, I hid the fox that was nibbling my vitals by inquiring, in a rather natural accent, what he meant by such a suggestion.
"Are you such an innocent, simple old Johnny, Prince," he said, with reassuring bonhomie, "as not to catch the idea? Do you not know that European feminines in all ranks of society—alack, even in our own!—are immoderately attracted by anyone possessed of riches and a title—or of either of the two? As an au faït in the female temperament, I shall wager that it is nine out of ten that if you spoof this mercenary young minx into believing that you are merely a native impecunious nonentity, and not to be shot at with powder, she will instantaneously drop pursuing such a hot potato."
To this speech (reported verbatim to best of my ability) I did shake my head sorrowfully, and reply that I greatly feared that Jessimina's devotion to this unlucky self was too severe to be diverted, or even checked, like a cow that is infuriated or non compos mentis, by the mere relinquishment of such tinsel and gewgaw wraps as a title or worldly belongings, having frequently (and that, too, prior to our engagement) protested her preference for very dark-complexioned individuals, and her vehement curiosity to behold India.
![Ascended his bicycle with a waggish winkle in his eye.](https://read-book.net/uploads/posts/books/3/1/2/5/3/images/p141.jpg)
"ASCENDED HIS BICYCLE WITH A WAGGISH WINKLE IN HIS EYE."
But he, as he ascended his bicycle with a waggish winkle in his eye, repeated that I might try it on at all events.
Still, I could not induce myself to adopt his spoofish strategy, for I reflected that, though it might convince her that I was unmarriageable, it would only increase her fury and the vengeance of her champion boarders. So at length I composed a moving epistle, as follows:—
Incomparable—though lack-a-daisy!
inaccessible—Jessimina!
Poet Shakspeare has shrewdly observed that "a true lover never did run a straight course," and the sincerity of present writer's affection is incontestably proved by his apparent crookedness of running, and keeping dark outside the illuminating rays of thy moon-like countenance. The cause is the unforeseen cataclysm of a decree from my family astrologer or dowyboghee, whom I have anxiously consulted upon our joint matrimonial prospects. [Mem. to the Readers.—This was what young Howard would term "the bit of spoof." I am no ninny-hammer to consult an exploded astrologer!] Miserabile dictu! the venerable and senile pundit reports that such an alliance would infallibly plunge us into the peck of troubles, since the sign of your natal month is the meek and innocent Lamb—while mine is the more ferocious Lion!
A very slight familiarity with Natural History, &c., will show you the utter incompatibility of temper between such an uncongenial couple of animals,
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