The War of the Wenuses | Page 8

sartorial habits must seem to an intelligent armadillo.
Of the peculiar coralline tint of the Wenuses' complexion, I think I have
already spoken. That it was developed by their indulgence in the Red
Weed has been, I think, satisfactorily proved by the researches of Dr.
Moreau, who also shows that the visual range of their eyes was much
the same as ours, except that blue and yellow were alike to them.
Moreau established this by a very pretty experiment with a Yellow
Book and a Blue Book, each of which elicited exactly the same remark,
a curious hooting sound, strangely resembling the ut de poitrine of one
of Professor Garner's gorillas.
After concluding their repast, the Wenuses, still unaware of my patient
scrutiny, extracted, with the aid of their glittering tintackles, a large
packet of Red Weed from a quasi-marsupial pouch in the roof of the
Crinoline, and in an incredibly short space of time had rolled its
carmine tendrils into slim cylinders, and inserted them within their lips.

The external ends suddenly ignited as though by spontaneous
combustion; but in reality that result was effected by the simple process
of deflecting the optic ray. Clouds of roseate vapour, ascending to the
dome of the canopy, partially obscured the sumptuous contours of these
celestial invaders; while a soft crooning sound, indicative of utter
contentment, or as Professor Nestlé of the Milky Ray has more
prosaically explained it, due to expiration of air preparatory to the
suctional operation involved in the use of the Red Weed, added an
indescribable glamour to the enchantment of the scene.
Humiliating as it may seem to the scientific reader, I found it
impossible to maintain a Platonic attitude any longer; and applying my
mouth to the embouchure of the pipette, warbled faintly in an exquisite
falsetto:
"Ulat tanalareezul Savourneen Dheelish tradioun marexil Vi-Koko for
the hair. I want yer, ma honey."
The effect was nothing short of magical. The rhythmic exhalations
ceased instanteously, and the tallest and most fluorescent of the
Wenuses, laying aside her Red Weed, replied in a low voice thrilling
with kinetic emotion:
"Phreata mou sas agapo!"
The sentiment of these remarks was unmistakable, though to my shame
I confess I was unable to fathom their meaning, and I was on the point
of opening the scullery door and rushing out to declare myself, when I
heard a loud banging from the front of the house.
I stumbled up the kitchen stairs, hampered considerably by my wife's
skirt; and, by the time I had reached the hall, recognised the raucous
accents of Professor Tibbles, the Classical Examiner, shouting in
excited tones:
"Let me in, let me in!"
I opened the door as far as it would go without unfastening the chain,

and the Professor at once thrust in his head, remaining jammed in the
aperture.
"Let me in!" he shouted. "I'm the only man in London besides yourself
that hasn't been pulped by the Mash-Glance."
He then began to jabber lines from the classics, and examples from the
Latin grammar.
A sudden thought occurred to me. Perhaps he might translate the
observation of the Wenus. Should I use him as an interpreter? But a
moment's reflection served to convince me of the danger of such a plan.
The Professor, already exacerbated by the study of the humanities, was
in a state of acute erethism. I thought of the curate, and, maddened by
the recollection of all I had suffered, drew the bread-knife from my
waist-belt, and shouting, "Go to join your dead languages!" stabbed
him up to the maker's name in the semi-lunar ganglion. His head
drooped, and he expired.
I stood petrified, staring at his glazing eyes; then, turning to make for
the scullery, was confronted by the catastrophic apparition of the tallest
Wenus gazing at me with reproachful eyes and extended tentacles.
Disgust at my cruel act and horror at my extraordinary habiliments
were written all too plainly in her seraphic lineaments. At least, so I
thought. But it turned out to be otherwise; for the Wenus produced
from behind her superlatively radiant form a lump of slate which she
had extracted from the coal-box.
"Decepti estis, O Puteoli!" she said.
"I beg your pardon," I replied; "but I fail to grasp your meaning."
"She means," said the Examiner, raising himself for another last effort,
"that it is time you changed your coal merchant," and so saying he died
again.
I was thunderstruck: the Wenuses understood coals!

And then I ran; I could stand it no longer. The game was up, the cosmic
game for which I had laboured so long and strenuously, and with one
despairing yell of "Ulla! Ulla!" I unfastened the chain, and, leaping
over the limp and prostrate form of the unhappy Tibbles, fled darkling
down the deserted street.