SCENE I. VENTIMORE'S ROOMS
SCENE II. "PINAFORE" ROOM, SAVOY HOTEL
_There will be an Interval of One Minute between Scenes I and II, during
which the Audience are requested to keep their seats._
The Scenery painted by WALTER HANN AND SON.
The Play has been Produced (for MR. GASTON MAYER) by MR. FREDERICK KERR.
The Amateur fee for each and every
representation of this play is five
guineas, payable in advance to the
Author's Sole Agents, Messrs.
Samuel French, Ltd., 26 Southampton
Street, Strand, London,
W.C.
_THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY_
HORACE VENTIMORE (a young Architect, aged 28)
PROFESSOR ANTHONY FUTVOYE (an Egyptologist, aged 60)
FAKRASH-EL-AAMASH (a Jinnee of the Green Jinn, age uncertain)
SPENCER PRINGLE (an Architect, aged 32)
SAMUEL WACKERBATH (an Auctioneer and Estate Agent, aged 60)
RAPKIN (Ventimore's Landlord, a retired butler, aged 55)
CHIEF OF CARAVAN
HEAD EFREET
A WAITER (at the Savoy Hotel)
MRS. FUTVOYE (aged 55)
SYLVIA FUTVOYE (her Daughter, aged 21)
MRS. RAPKIN (Ventimore's Landlady)
MRS. WACKERBATH
JESSIE (Parlour-maid at the Futvoyes')
PRINCIPAL DANCING GIRL
CARAVAN SLAVES, MUSICIANS, EFREETS, DANCING GIRLS
* * * * *
_ACTS I AND II_
VENTIMORE'S ROOMS IN VINCENT SQUARE, WESTMINSTER
_ACT III_
SCENE I. VENTIMORE'S OFFICE IN GREAT COLLEGE STREET, WESTMINSTER
SCENE II. A DRAWING-ROOM AT THE FUTVOYES' HOUSE IN COTTESMORE GARDENS,
KENSINGTON
_ACT IV_
SCENE I. VENTIMORE'S ROOMS
SCENE II. THE "PINAFORE" ROOM AT THE SAVOY HOTEL
THE BRASS BOTTLE
THE FIRST ACT
_The scene represents HORACE
VENTIMORE'S rooms in Vincent
Square, Westminster._
_The sitting-room is simply but
artistically furnished and
decorated. Walls with a
lining-paper of a pleasant green,
hung with coloured prints and
etchings. Fireplace at back. Down
left is a large open French window,
opening on a balcony, with a view
beyond of the open square and some
large dull-red gasometers in the
distance. Above the window is a
small Sheraton bookcase. On the
right of fireplace is a door
leading to the landing and
staircase. Down on the right,
another door to VENTIMORE'S
bedroom. Above this door, a
small Sheraton sideboard. Near the
window on left is an armchair, and
by it a table, with two smaller
chairs. [N.B.--Right and Left
mean the spectator's Right and Left
throughout._]
_The time is late afternoon in
summer._
_When the curtain rises there is no
one in the room. A knock is heard at
the door on right of fireplace.
Then, after a pause, MRS. RAPKIN
enters. She is a pleasant, neatly
dressed, elderly woman, of the
respectable landlady class. She
wears a cooking-apron and her
sleeves are turned up. She looks
round the room, and turns to the
door as PROFESSOR FUTVOYE appears._
MRS. RAPKIN.
Mr. Ventimore don't seem to be in, after all, sir. Unless he's in his
bedroom. [_She comes down to the door on right, as PROFESSOR, MRS., and
MISS FUTVOYE enter from the other door. PROFESSOR FUTVOYE is elderly and
crabbed; his wife, grey-haired and placid, bearing with him as with an
elderly and rather troublesome child; SYLVIA FUTVOYE, their daughter, is
a pretty and attractive girl of about twenty. MRS. RAPKIN knocks at the
bedroom door._] Mr. Ventimore! A gentleman and two ladies to see you. [_She
opens the door--then, to the PROFESSOR._] No, sir, he hasn't come in
yet--but he won't be long now.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_By the table._] Are you _sure_ of that, ma'am?
MRS. RAPKIN.
Well, sir, he said as how he'd be in early, to make sure as everythink was
as it _should_ be. [_In a burst of confidence._] If you _must_ know, he's
expecting company to dinner this evening.
[_SYLVIA has moved to the window;
MRS. FUTVOYE stands by the table._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Placing his hat and stick on a small shelf on the left of fireplace, and
standing by table._] I'm aware of that, ma'am. We happen to be the company
Mr. Ventimore is expecting. Don't let us keep you from your cooking.
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_With another burst of confidence._] Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I
'_ave_ a good deal on my 'ands just now.
[_She goes out by door at back._
SYLVIA.
[_After moving about and inspecting the pictures._] I rather like Horace's
rooms.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Irritably._] I wish he'd manage to be _in_ 'em! I fully expected he'd be
back by this time. _Most_ annoying!
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_Resignedly._] I _thought_ you were bringing us all this way for nothing!
And when you must be quite exhausted enough as it is, after lecturing all
the afternoon!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
I'm not in the least exhausted, Sophia; not in the least!
MRS. FUTVOYE.
Well, Anthony, if _you're_ not, Sylvia and I are! [_She sits in armchair by
the window._] But _why_ you couldn't wait till eight o'clock to know how
Horace got on at that sale I _can't_ think!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
He ought to have been back _long_ ago! I can see _no_ excuse for his
dawdling like this. None whatever!
[_He sits on right of table._
SYLVIA.
[_Standing behind table._] Perhaps he went back to his office?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Tartly._] He's much more likely to have dropped into his club for a
rubber of Bridge!
SYLVIA.
Don't you think you're rather ungrateful to grumble at poor Horace like
this, after he's given up a whole day's work to oblige you?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
I was not aware, my dear, that he has, or ever had, a day's work to give
up! Correct me if I am wrong--but I am under the impression that nobody has
employed him as an architect _yet_.
SYLVIA.
That isn't Horace's fault!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Possibly--but it doesn't make him more desirable as a future son-in-law.
SYLVIA.
Horace is sure to succeed as soon as he gets a chance. [_Sitting on table
and leaning over the PROFESSOR._] If you would only say a word for him to
Godfather, he might be able to help him.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Wackerbath? No, my dear, I couldn't bring myself to take such an advantage
of our old friendship as _that_! I've no belief in Ventimore's succeeding
in life. He _may_ have ability--though I'm bound to say I see little
_evidence_ of it--but, depend upon it, he'll never make any money!
SYLVIA.
How _can_ you tell?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Because he can't even take care of the little he has! Look at the money
he's throwing away on this totally unnecessary dinner to-night!
SYLVIA.
Oh! When it's just a quiet little dinner in his own rooms! If it had been
the _Carlton_, now!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
He proposed to entertain us at the Carlton at first--but I stopped _that_.
It all bears out what I say--that he has absolutely _no_ sense of the value
of----
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_Interposing calmly._] There, Anthony, that's enough! Horace is engaged to
Sylvia--and the most sensible thing we can do is to make the best of it.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Rising and moving to the right._] I _am_ making the best of it, Sophia!
If Ventimore was like Spencer Pringle, now!----
SYLVIA.
He would never have been engaged to _me_!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_To SYLVIA._] Pringle, my dear, is a steady, hard-working young fellow.
I've a real respect and liking for _Pringle_. And if I _must_ have an
architect for a son-in-law, he is the man _I_ should have preferred!
SYLVIA.
Why, he hasn't been near us for weeks and weeks--and I hope he means to
stay away altogether! I always thought him a conceited prig.
[_Moving towards door at back._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
You may come to think differently, my dear. [_Pulling out his watch._]
Nearly half-past six! Tut-tut! All this time wasted! It's useless to wait
any longer for Ventimore. We may just as well go!
[_He goes to get his hat and
stick._
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_Rising._] I knew how it would _be_!
SYLVIA.
[_At door._] Wait! [_Opens door and listens._] There's Horace coming
upstairs! I'm sure it's his step!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Stops by table with relief._] At last! Now I shall know!
[_SPENCER PRINGLE enters. He is a
smug, self-satisfied looking man of
about thirty-five, smooth-shaven,
except for small side-whiskers. He
is in a light tweed suit, having
just come up from the country._
SYLVIA.
[_Repressing her disappointment._] Mr. Pringle!
PRINGLE.
[_In doorway._] Miss Sylvia! Mrs. Futvoye! [_Shaking hands with the
PROFESSOR._] Professor! Well! this is unexpected.
[_SYLVIA comes down to right._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Graciously._] Glad to see you, Pringle! You are quite a stranger. Indeed,
my daughter was remarking, only a little while ago, that you hadn't been
near us for weeks!
SYLVIA.
[_In an indignant undertone._] _Father!_
[_MRS. FUTVOYE sits down again._
PRINGLE.
[_To SYLVIA, flattered._] Delighted to think I've been missed! But my
apparent--er--neglect has been quite unavoidable.
SYLVIA.
[_Laughing._] So kind of you to relieve our minds, Mr. Pringle!
PRINGLE.
[_Solemnly._] I assure you it's the fact. I've been away constantly for the
last two months, superintending work I'm doing in various parts of the
country. [_With importance._] Hardly a moment to call my own!
[_SYLVIA turns with the intention
of sitting down; he places a chair
for her._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Taking chair behind table._] A busy man like _you_, my dear Pringle, has
no need to make excuses.
PRINGLE.
[_Fetching a chair for himself._] I really have been fearfully overworked.
Not that I complain of _that_! [_As he sits down between the PROFESSOR
and SYLVIA._] I'd no idea we should meet _here_, though. Is Ventimore a
friend of yours?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Oh, we know him, yes. As _you_ do, it seems.
PRINGLE.
I sublet a room in my offices to him. Rather a good arrangement for him,
because he gets experience by looking after any little matters that I've no
time to attend to.
SYLVIA.
[_With suppressed resentment._] And isn't that rather a good arrangement
for _you_?
PRINGLE.
It works fairly well--as a rule. But when I returned from the country this
afternoon I found he hadn't been near the office all day!
[_He rises, takes SYLVIA'S
parasol officiously, and places it
in a corner, then returns._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_To his wife, but speaking at SYLVIA._] Not been near the office all day!
I _thought_ as much!
SYLVIA.
The reason _why_ he wasn't able to help you, Mr. Pringle, is because he's
been at an auction, bidding for things on father's account.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
I should have attended the sale myself but for an engagement to lecture at
the Hieroglyphical on a recently inscribed cylinder.
MRS. FUTVOYE.
And--you'll hardly believe it, Mr. Pringle,--but, the moment the lecture
was over, he hurried us off here to find out what Mr. Ventimore had got
for him! It's really too ridiculous! As if his study wasn't littered up
quite enough already!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Women, my dear Pringle, can't understand the feelings of a collector. It's
not _every_ day, I can tell you, that a collection of such importance comes
into the market.
PRINGLE.
I didn't know Ventimore was an expert in such things. I thought you could
get brokers to bid for you.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Of course--of course. But I don't trust brokers--they know too much! And,
as I gave Ventimore my own catalogue, with a tick against the lots I want
and the limit I'm prepared to go, noted on the margin, he _can't_ make any
mistake.
PRINGLE.
I suppose not. That is, if he's _accustomed_ to auctions.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
What do you mean?
PRINGLE.
Only that if you _aren't_, there's always a liability to lose your head in
the excitement, and go beyond the margin. But I daresay Ventimore wouldn't
do _that_.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
If he _has_! [_He rises excitedly._] And he might--he _might_! With his
recklessness about money, it's the very thing he _would_ do! Letting me in
for prices I can't afford! [_Passionately._] No wonder he is in no hurry to
show himself--no wonder!
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_Rising and attempting to pacify him._] Now, Anthony, there's nothing to
work yourself up into a state for, at present. Do for goodness' sake wait
till you hear all about it!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Resentfully._] It seems I shall _have_ to wait, Sophia--but I'm tired of
waiting _here_. [_He goes to get his hat and stick._] And evidently he
doesn't intend to----
[_Turns, as the door opens and
HORACE VENTIMORE comes in briskly.
HORACE is a pleasant-looking young
man, with a cheery and rather boyish
manner; he comes down and greets the
FUTVOYES without seeing PRINGLE for
the moment; SYLVIA has risen,
delighted at his arrival._
HORACE.
I _say_! This is jolly! [_Shaking hands._] Wish I'd known you were coming
on here after the lecture. [_PRINGLE rises, and waits stiffly for
recognition._] Warm work, wasn't it, Professor, lecturing on an afternoon
like this? Do sit down. [_Looks at table._] Haven't they given you any
tea?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Irritably._] No, no, no. We want no tea. It's too late for tea. We merely
looked in on our way home to----
HORACE.
[_Sees PRINGLE._] And Pringle, too! [_Pats him on shoulder._] How are you,
old fellow? You been at the lecture, too?
PRINGLE.
[_With implied rebuke._] No, I've only just come round--as you weren't at
the office,--to----
HORACE.
I've been engaged all day. Oh, by the bye, do you know Professor and
Mrs.----
[_Is about to introduce him._
PRINGLE.
[_Stiffly._] I am happy to say, my dear fellow, that I require no
introduction. We are old friends.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Impatiently._] To come to the point, Ventimore, as we are rather pressed
for time--about the sale? How did you get on, eh?
HORACE.
Oh, ah--the sale. [_Producing catalogue from pocket._] Well, I did exactly
as you told me.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Snatching catalogue from him._] Yes, yes. Let's go through it lot by
lot. Lot 23, now. Did you get that?
HORACE.
No. Another fellow got _that_.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Annoyed._] Tssch! Well,--so long as you secured Lot 35. [_Reading from
catalogue._] "Copper bowl, engraved round rim with verse from Hafiz," you
know. Come, you didn't miss _that_?
[_SYLVIA is listening anxiously._
HORACE.
I did, though. It was snapped up by a sportsman in the very worst hat I
ever saw in my life. He got it for sixteen guineas.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Disgusted._] What? A rare example of early Persian work like that going
for only sixteen guineas! I'd willingly have paid double the money!
HORACE.
But your limit was seven pound ten, sir! And you warned me not to exceed
it.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
You should have used your own judgment, sir! Well, well,--which of the lots
I marked _did_ you get?
HORACE.
[_Going to SYLVIA, who is sympathetically distressed._] Couldn't get one
of 'em. They all fetched record prices.
_Professor Futvoye._
[_Violently._] Upon my soul!... Pringle, you were right! I ought to have
employed a broker! [_To HORACE._] So you've come back with absolutely
_nothing_?
HORACE.
Well, no. I did manage to get _one_ thing.
SYLVIA.
I _knew_ you would!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_To HORACE._] You did? But I understood you to say just now----!
HORACE.
This was a little flutter on my own account. I thought I'd stick the sale
out, do you see; and near the end there was an extra lot put up--it wasn't
in the catalogue. [_The PROFESSOR makes an exclamation of angry
disgust._] Well, it was being passed round for us to look at--and nobody
seemed to think much of it. But it struck me, somehow, it might be a dark
horse, so I made a bid--and got it for only a sovereign!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Pah!
SYLVIA.
But you haven't told us yet what it _is_.
HORACE.
Haven't I? Oh, well, it's a sort of metal jar. Brass, the auctioneer said
it was.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Tchah! Some modern bazaar trash!
HORACE.
It doesn't _look_ modern. I left it downstairs to be cleaned. [_Going to
door right of fireplace._] I'll go and bring it up.
[_He goes out._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Furious._] I've no patience with the fellow! Squandering his sovereigns
like this on worthless rubbish!
MRS. FUTVOYE.
Don't be so fractious, Anthony! For all you can tell, he may have picked up
a treasure.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Grimly._] He _may_, Sophia. On the other hand, he may _not_. Which, on
the whole, is rather more probable.
[_He retires up to the fireplace
as HORACE returns, carrying a
large metal bottle with a long neck
and bulbous body, encrusted with a
thick greenish-white deposit.
PRINGLE closes the door for him
after he has entered._
HORACE.
[_Bringing the bottle down to right of table._] Here it is! [_The
others--except the PROFESSOR, who remains aloof--gather round and examine
it in dubious silence._] It's not much to _look_ at.
PRINGLE.
Very dusty! [_Wipes his hand after touching the bottle._] And you gave a
_sovereign_ for this, Ventimore, eh? H'm! Dear me!
SYLVIA.
It may look better when it's had a good scrubbing.
MRS. FUTVOYE.
Scrubbing, my dear! It will have to be _scraped_ first!
HORACE.
Yes--looks as if it had been dragged up from the bottom of the sea, doesn't
it? I've an idea it may be worth something. I should like to have _your_
opinion, Professor.
[_He smiles uneasily._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_After a glance at it._] My opinion is that you might just as well have
flung your sovereign into the gutter!
HORACE.
I admit it was speculative--but it _may_ turn out a winner. It's rather odd
it should be so tightly sealed up.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_With more interest._] Sealed up, is it? [_Coming down and looking at it
more carefully._] H'm--the _form_ is certainly antique. It's wonderful what
they can do in Birmingham!
HORACE.
I really think it may have something inside it. It's not so very heavy, and
yet--[_tapping it_]--it doesn't sound quite as if it were empty.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
It _might_ contain something. I think it most unlikely--but still, it
_might_.
SYLVIA.
[_Laughing._] You don't mean it might be like that jar the Fisherman found
in "The Arabian Nights," with a Genius inside it?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
I did _not_ mean anything so frivolous, my dear. And, if you _must_ quote
"The Arabian Nights," it's as well to remember in future that the more
correct term is not "Genius," but "Jinnee." Singular, Jinnee--plural, Jinn.
SYLVIA.
I'll remember, dear. Singular, Jinn--plural, Jinnies.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Instructively._] A name applied by Arab mythology to a race of aerial
beings, created of the flame of fire, but capable of assuming human form
and exercising supernatural powers.
SYLVIA.
Oh, do let's open it now and see what _is_ inside!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Don't be childish, Sylvia, don't be childish! We've no time now for idle
curiosity. If we're to dress and be back here by eight o'clock, we ought to
start at once. [_MRS. FUTVOYE prepares to go and moves towards door._]
Good-bye, then, Ventimore, for the present. [_He gets his hat and stick._]
It is not to be an _elaborate_ entertainment, I trust? A simple ordinary
little dinner is all _I_ require.
HORACE.
[_As he opens the door for MRS. FUTVOYE._] I've tried to remember your
tastes, Professor.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
I hope you have succeeded. Good-bye, Pringle. Very glad to have run across
you again. Let us see more of you in future.
PRINGLE.
[_Going to the door with him._] You shall, Professor, you shall.
[_Following PROFESSOR and MRS. FUTVOYE out to landing._] By the way,
are you likely to be in next----?
[_HORACE closes door, leaving
SYLVIA still looking at the
bottle._
SYLVIA.
[_Turning as he comes down to her._] I'm certain there must be _something_
inside that jar. And if it's anything really interesting, father will be so
frightfully pleased that he won't be disagreeable all the evening!
HORACE.
[_Ruefully._] Ah, I'm afraid that's too much to look forward to.
SYLVIA.
[_Touching his arm with a little gesture of sympathy._] You poor dear!
You're not beginning to be nervous about your dinner, are you?
HORACE.
N--no. Not _nervous_ exactly. Something _might_ go wrong. Still, I hope
there won't be _much_ your father can find fault with.
SYLVIA.
I'm sure there won't! And if he does, why, _we_ won't mind, will we? We
shall be together, you know!
HORACE.
[_Putting his arm round her._] That's what I've been thinking of all day!
[_He kisses her as PRINGLE
returns, unseen by them. His jaw
drops as he sees them together._
PRINGLE.
[_Coming forward._] Er----[_HORACE and SYLVIA separate._] Miss
Sylvia--the Professor asked me to tell you----
SYLVIA.
I was just coming. [_Taking her parasol and moving to door, which PRINGLE
has left open._] Good-bye, Mr. Pringle. [_Stopping HORACE and PRINGLE
as they are about to see her down the stairs._] No, you mustn't come down,
either of you. [_To HORACE, with an affectation of distance._]
Good-bye--Mr. Ventimore.
[_She goes out._
PRINGLE.
[_By the table._] I should like to ask you, Ventimore, have you known Miss
Futvoye _long_?
HORACE.
[_Still at door, looking after SYLVIA._] A little over six weeks.
PRINGLE.
And I have known her for as many years!
HORACE.
[_Closing door, and coming towards him._] Have you, though? I noticed the
Professor was uncommonly cordial to you. Look here, are you doing anything
this evening?
PRINGLE.
Er--no. That is, nothing particular. Why?
HORACE.
Because it would be friendly of you if you'd come and dine here. _They're_
coming, you know.
PRINGLE.
I know. [_After a moment's hesitation._] Thanks, I don't mind if I do.
HORACE.
Capital! I'm sure if any one can keep the old man in a good humour, _you_
can.
PRINGLE.
[_Sourly._] I see. You want me to engage him in conversation and leave you
free to carry on your flirtation with Miss Futvoye unobserved?
HORACE.
Not quite that. There's nothing _underhand_ about it. We're engaged, you
know.
PRINGLE.
Engaged! [_After a pause._] And how long have you been that?
HORACE.
Only since the day before yesterday.
PRINGLE.
[_Blankly._] Oh! [_He walks down to window._] I congratulate you;
er--heartily, of course. [_Looking out of window._] And--and when do you
think of being married?
HORACE.
It's no use thinking of that, at present. Not till the Professor takes a
rosier view of my prospects, at all events. But if, like a good fellow, you
could put in a word for me, it would give me no end of a leg up!
PRINGLE.
[_Dully, with his face still averted._] You don't seem to realise what
you're asking!
HORACE.
[_Suddenly understanding, with compunction._] My _dear_ chap! [_He puts
both his hands on PRINGLE'S shoulders._] What a selfish brute I've been
not to see! I _am_ sorry!
PRINGLE.
[_Stiffly._] As a matter of fact, I'd quite made up my mind to propose to
her--as soon as I'd got those country jobs off my mind. And now I find
_you_'ve cut in before me!
HORACE.
Well, it's straight of you to tell me. I suppose you'd rather come and dine
some _other_ evening? If so----
PRINGLE.
No. A promise is a promise. I'll come. Mind you, I don't pretend it won't
be an effort--but I'll see what I can do for you.
HORACE.
[_Gratefully._] You _are_ a good chap, Pringle!--one of the best! Though,
really, after what you've told me, I hardly like----
PRINGLE.
Not another word. Anything I _can_ say on your behalf--without _too_ wide
a departure from strict accuracy--I'll say with pleasure. [_Going up to
door._] Eight o'clock's the hour, isn't it? All right. [_He goes out._]
[_HORACE makes a movement towards
the fireplace, as if to ring the
bell. Then his eye is caught by the
brass bottle, which is standing in
the centre of the room. He stops,
looks at his watch, and decides that
he has time to open the bottle. He
examines the cap on its neck, then
goes to sideboard and takes from it
a heavy paper-weight and a
champagne-opener, returns to chair
on right of table and sits, holding
the bottle between his knees. Using
the champagne-opener as a chisel,
and the paper-weight as hammer, he
proceeds to chip away the deposit
round the cap, whistling an air from
a musical comedy as he works._
HORACE.
[_To himself._] I've _loosened_ it. [_He seizes the cap and tries to screw
it off._] It's _giving_!
[_Suddenly the room is in complete
darkness; there is a loud report
and a spurt of flame from the
bottle. HORACE has fallen back on
the floor, with the cap of the
bottle in his hand. There is just
light enough to see a tall weird
figure standing with out-stretched
arms behind the bottle._
HORACE.
[_Sitting up and rubbing the back of his head; faintly._] Hullo! Is any
one there? Who's that come in?
THE STRANGER.
[_In an attitude of supplication._] Towbah! Yah nebbi Ullah! Anna lah amill
Kathahlik ibadan! Wullah-hi!
HORACE.
I daresay you're perfectly right, sir--but I've no idea what you're talking
about.
THE STRANGER.
[_Repeating the Arabic sentence._] Towbah! (&c. &c.) Wullah-hi!
HORACE.
[_About to raise himself, sees the figure for the first time, and falls
back astonished; then, recovering himself._] I suppose you've just taken
the rooms on the ground-floor--so you _must_ be able to make yourself
understood in English?
THE STRANGER.
[_The room has grown lighter, and he is seen to be in dull-green robes and
a high-peaked turban. His long grey beard is divided into three thin
strands; his eyes are slightly slanted, and his expression is a curious
mixture of fatuous benignity, simplicity, and cunning._] Assuredly I can
speak so as to be understood of all men.
HORACE.
Then it's as well to _do_ it. What was it you said just now?
THE STRANGER.
I said: "Repentance, O Prophet of Allah! I will not return to the like
conduct ever!"
HORACE.
Oh, I beg your pardon. [_Sitting up again._] Thought you were speaking to
_me_. But I say--[_looking up at him_]--how do you come to be here?
THE STRANGER.
Surely by thine own action!
HORACE.
I see. You ran up to see what was the matter. Fact is, my head's still
rather buzzy. I fancy I must have hit it somehow when I was trying to open
that jar.
THE STRANGER.
Then it _was_ thy hand and none other that removed the stopper?
HORACE.
I--I suppose so. All _I_ know is that _something_ went off with a bang. I
can't imagine what could have been _inside_ the beastly thing!
THE STRANGER.
Who else but I myself?
HORACE.
[_Slowly rising to his feet._] You must have your little joke, eh? [_He
reels against the table._] Or did I misunderstand you? My head's in such a
muddle!
THE STRANGER.
I tell thee that I have been confined within that accursed vessel for
centuries beyond all calculation.
HORACE.
You can't pull my leg like that, you know! Seriously, just tell me who you
_are_.
THE STRANGER.
Know then that he who now addresseth thee is none other than
Fakrash-el-Aamash, a Jinnee of the Green Jinn.
HORACE.
[_Half to himself._] Singular, "Jinnee"--plural, "Jinn." Where did I hear
that? I--I shall remember presently.
FAKRASH.
I dwelt in the Palace of the Mountain of the Clouds in the Garden of Irem,
above the City of Babel.
HORACE.
[_To himself._] Why, of _course_! Sylvia! The Arabian Nights! [_To
FAKRASH._] I can quite account for you _now_--but go on.
FAKRASH.
For a certain offence that I committed, the wrath of Suleyman, the son of
Daood--on whom be peace!--[_he salaams_]--was heavy against me, and he
commanded that I should be enclosed within a bottle of brass, and thrown
into the Sea of El-Karkar, there to abide the Day of Doom.
HORACE.
Don't think I'm _believing_ in you. [_Walking round the front of the
bottle, as if to test FAKRASH by touching him._] I've sense enough to
know you're not _real_!
[_He withdraws his hand without
venturing upon the experiment._
FAKRASH.
Stroke thy head and recover thy faculties! I am real, even as thou art.
[_He touches HORACE'S shoulder;
HORACE recoils._
HORACE.
I shall come round in time! [_By the table, to FAKRASH._] You tell me
you've just come out of this bottle?
FAKRASH.
Dost thou doubt that it is even as I have said?
HORACE.
Well, I should have thought myself you'd take a bigger size in bottles. But
of course, I couldn't doubt you if I saw you get _into_ it again.
FAKRASH.
That would be the easiest of actions! [_He makes a sudden swooping
movement, as though to re-enter the bottle, and then thinks better of it._]
But I should indeed be a silly-bearded one to do this thing, since thou
mightst be tempted to seal me up once more!
HORACE.
[_Disappointed, and backing against table, half afraid._] Too knowing an
old bird to be caught like that, aren't you? But _I_ don't mind! You'll
disappear presently.
FAKRASH.
True, O young man of perfect qualities and good works! But I will not leave
thee before I have rewarded thy kindness. For in the sky it is written upon
the pages of the air: "He who doeth kind actions shall experience the
like!" Therefore--[_with a lordly gesture_]--demand of me what thou wilt,
and thou shalt receive!
HORACE.
Oh, I shall be awake so soon it's not worth while troubling you.
FAKRASH.
Dismiss bashfulness from thee. [_Advancing towards him._] For by thy hand
hath my deliverance been accomplished, and if I were to serve thee for a
thousand years, regarding nothing else, even thus could I not requite thee!
HORACE.
[_Retreating in some alarm to window._] Look here. I don't want _anything_,
and--and the best thing _you_ can do is to vanish.
FAKRASH.
[_At back of table._] Not till thou hast told me thy name and the trade
that thou followest.
HORACE.
Oh, you'll go _then_? [_FAKRASH assents._] Well, I'll humour you. My name
is Horace Ventimore, and I'm an architect. I get my living by building
houses, you know. Or rather, I _should_, if I could only get hold of a
client--which I can't.
FAKRASH.
[_Coming down nearer bottle._] Grant thy servant a period of delay, and it
may be that I can procure thee a client.
HORACE.
Good old Arabian Nights again! You'd better not make the delay long--my
head will be clear very soon.
FAKRASH.
Greater rewards by far will I bestow upon thee, most meritorious of men!
But now--[_going up to right_]--I must leave thee for a season.
HORACE.
I _knew_ I was coming round--you'll be gone directly.
FAKRASH.
Aye, for I must seek out Suleyman--[_salaaming_]--on whom be peace!--and
obtain pardon from him.
[_He waves his arm, and the door at
back flies open._
HORACE.
[_Eagerly._] Yes--I _would_! You go and do _that_! Make haste! [_The door
closes, leaving FAKRASH visible through it in an unearthly light._]
Good-bye--and good luck!
FAKRASH.
[_Through door._] To thee also! And be assured that I will not be unmindful
of thy welfare!
[_The door becomes solid as
FAKRASH vanishes._
HORACE.
[_Rubbing his eyes._] What a queer dream! [_He goes up to the door, opens
it, then returns and sits by table._] So vivid! [_He sees the brass bottle
on the floor._] Open! [_Looking inside it._] Empty! H'm, better get it out
of the way.
[_He takes the bottle in one hand
and the cap in the other, and
carries them into the bedroom on
right. The moment he has gone there
is a rush of wind, and then a heavy
thud on the balcony outside, and MR.
WACKERBATH, a stout, prosperous-looking,
elderly gentleman, in tall hat, frock-coat,
white waistcoat, &c., reels through
the open window into the room, and
sinks into the armchair on left of
tablet where he sits puffing and
blowing._
MR. WACKERBATH.
[_Feebly._] Where _am_ I? How did I----? [_He takes off his hat._] Ah, of
course! I remember now. [_He rises as HORACE enters from bedroom._]
Mr.--ah--Ventimore, I think? Mr. Horace Ventimore?
HORACE.
[_Slightly surprised._] Yes, that's my name. [_Offering chair on right of
table._] Won't you sit down?
MR. WACKERBATH.
Thank you--I will. [_He sits down._] I--I ought to apologise for dropping
in on you in this--ah--unceremonious way--but I acted, I may say--ah--on a
sudden impulse.
HORACE.
I'm afraid I haven't much time to spare--but if it's anything of
importance----
MR. WACKERBATH.
[_Panting._] You must give me a little time--till I--ah--get my wind again.
HORACE.
Certainly. I know the stairs here _are_ rather steep.
MR. WACKERBATH.
Are they? I don't remember noticing them. However! My name, Mr. Ventimore,
is Wackerbath--Samuel Wackerbath, of Wackerbath and Greatrex, a firm of
auctioneers and estate agents whose name may--ah--possibly be not
unfamiliar to you.
HORACE.
[_Who has obviously never heard it before._] Oh, of course--of course.
MR. WACKERBATH.
I may tell you that for the last few years I have rented an old
place--Moatham Abbey they call it--in Surrey, which is not quite as
up-to-date as I could wish in the matter of modern conveniences.
HORACE.
That's not unusual with ancient abbeys, is it?
MR. WACKERBATH.
[_Solemnly._] Precisely. Well, to come to the point, I've lately acquired
some land in the neighbourhood of Surrey and Hampshire, with a view to
building a country residence. [_HORACE becomes more interested, and seats
himself at table on MR. WACKERBATH'S right._] You see, there's an
excellent site--on a hill with a south aspect, just above the village of
Lipsfield, and overlooking the valley and river----
HORACE.
[_Making a note._] Well, Mr. Wackerbath----?
MR. WACKERBATH.
Well, as I was saying only a minute or two ago to a friend as we were
crossing Westminster Bridge on our way to Waterloo----[_He pauses, with an
endeavour to recollect._] Where _was_ I?
HORACE.
Waterloo.
MR. WACKERBATH.
Ah, yes. I remarked to him: "All I require is a thoroughly capable
architect." [_HORACE grows alert and excited._] And instantly _your_ name
flashed across my mind. So I--ah--hurried off at once, and--here I _am_!
HORACE.
[_With a sudden misgiving._] May I ask--you--you weren't _recommended_ to
me by--by--[_he looks round at the door through which FAKRASH has
vanished_]--any one?
MR. WACKERBATH.
[_With dignity._] Certainly not! It was--ah--entirely my own idea. But why
do you ask? [_Huffily._] Is an introduction necessary?
HORACE.
[_Relieved._] No, no--not in the least! I--I merely asked. I shall be very
pleased to undertake the commission. Could you give me some idea of the
amount you thought of spending on the house?
MR. WACKERBATH.
Well, I don't think I could go to more than--say, _sixty_ thousand pounds.
HORACE.
[_Half rising in his surprise._] Sixty thousand! [_He recollects himself
and sits down in assumed calm._] Oh, not more than _that_? I _see_.
MR. WACKERBATH.
For the house itself. But there'll be the out-buildings--and the
decorations. Altogether, I sha'n't complain so long as the total doesn't
exceed a hundred thousand. I take it that, for that sum, Mr. Ventimore, you
could give me a country-house that I shall have no cause--ah--to feel
ashamed of.
HORACE.
I can safely promise _that_. And now--when could I run down and have a look
at the site, and go into the matter thoroughly?
MR. WACKERBATH.
We must fix a day later. I'm rather in a hurry now; and besides, I must
consult the wife. Perhaps you could give me an appointment here?
HORACE.
These are only my private rooms. I shall be at my office in Great College
Street to-morrow, if you could look in then. [_Giving him card._] Here's
the address.
MR. WACKERBATH.
Good! [_He rises and moves towards window, while HORACE rings bell by
fireplace._] I'll look in on my way from Waterloo to the City. [_He
perceives that he is walking out on to a balcony, and turns._] How the
devil did I come in? I'll be with you at eleven sharp.
[_He goes towards the bedroom door
on the right._
HORACE.
[_At door to landing._] _This_ way, Mr. Wackerbath.
MR. WACKERBATH.
[_Vaguely._] I thought I came _that_ way. [_As he goes up._] I can see
already that you're the very man for me. [_At door to landing._] Now I must
be off, or I shall miss my train to Lipsfield. [_As HORACE offers to see
him downstairs._] Don't trouble--I can find my way down. Eleven sharp
to-morrow. _Good_ evening.
[_As he passes out HORACE touches
his back, as though half suspecting
him to be another illusion. MR.
WACKERBATH turns and shakes hands
effusively, then goes out, and
HORACE closes door._
HORACE.
[_To himself._] _He's_ no dream, anyhow! [_With exultation._] A client! A
real client of my own! At last!
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_Enters from landing._] Did you ring for me, sir?--or was it only to let
the gentleman out?
[_She comes down._
HORACE.
Oh, there _is_ something I had to tell you. We shall be _five_ at dinner,
not four. You can manage all right, eh?
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_Comfortably._] Lor, yes, sir. _That_ won't make no difference!
HORACE.
[_In front of table._] By the way, Mrs. Rapkin, you haven't let your
ground-floor yet, have you? To--to an Asiatic gentleman?
MRS. RAPKIN.
_Me_, sir? Let to a Asiatic! No,--nor wouldn't! Why, there was Rapkin's own
sister-in-law let her droring-room floor to one. And--[_darkly_]--reason
she 'ad to repent of it--for all his gold spectacles.
HORACE.
[_Relieved._] Ah, I _thought_ you hadn't. [_Sits on table._] Well, about
the waiting to-night? I suppose I can depend on Rapkin for that, eh? Where
_is_ he?
MRS. RAPKIN.
Well, sir, not to deceive you, he ain't back yet from his Public--Libery as
_he_ calls it.
HORACE.
Oh, _that's_ what he calls it, eh?
MRS. RAPKIN.
Whatever he's took, sir, you may rely on him to 'and the dishes without
'aving no accidents.
[_A noise is heard from the street
below, which gradually resolves
itself into an Oriental chant._
HORACE.
What's going on outside? [_He goes to window, looks out, and then starts
back uneasily._] I say. It's--it's devilish odd--but there seems to me to
be a whole caravan of camels down there!
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_Crossing to window._] Camuels, sir?
HORACE.
Well, you look and see what _you_ make of them!
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_Looking down over balcony._] Lor! They _do_ look like camuels, sir--or
_somethink_ o' that. I expect they belong to the 'Ippodrome, or else a
circus.
HORACE.
[_Relieved._] I say, what a sensible woman you are! Of course! I never
thought of _that_!
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_Still looking out, while the chant finishes with a few shouts, as though
a halt were called._] They seem to be stopping outside the 'ouse. Them
camuels have folded up, and all the niggers as is with them is a kneelin'
down with their noses on the kerbstone!
HORACE.
[_Uncomfortably._] They're only _resting_. Come away and don't take any
notice. They'll move on presently.
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_Still at window._] But they're _unpackin'_ the camuels now! And--well, if
they ain't bringing everythink in _'ere_!
[_She retreats to behind the
table._
HORACE.
Great Scott!
[_He comes down to left of stage._
MRS. RAPKIN.
They wouldn't be _more_ things as you've been buying at that auction, sir,
would they?
[_The chant is heard now inside the
house._
HORACE.
No, no. It's a mistake! It _must_ be a mistake!
MRS. RAPKIN.
Then I'd better go and tell them----
[_She moves towards door to
landing, but before she reaches it,
it flies open mysteriously. A
moment afterwards a tall, fierce
Oriental in turban and robes
appears in doorway and salaams.
MRS. RAPKIN recoils with a cry.
Then a train of black slaves
enter, carrying large sacks, bales,
and chests, which they deposit on
the table and floor, till the room
is completely blocked; their chief
stands down on right, with his back
to the audience, and directs them
by gestures._
HORACE.
Look here! I say,--you fellows! You've come to the wrong house!
[_The slaves pay no attention to
him._
MRS. RAPKIN.
'Ere! my good _men_, what are you comin' in '_ere_ for, bringing all your
dust into my apartments?
HORACE.
[_Standing paralysed; to himself._] We can't _both_ be dreaming!
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_Trying to remonstrate with slaves._] This rubbish don't belong _'ere_! I
can't 'ave the 'ole place littered up with it! You needn't act so
ridic'lous if you _are_ niggers! [_To HORACE._] It ain't no use _my_
talking to 'em, sir. They're not like _Christians_--they're deaf and dumb,
seemingly! _You_ try!
HORACE.
[_Going to the HEAD SLAVE, who salaams as he approaches._] Can you
understand if I ask a question? [_The HEAD SLAVE salaams again._] Well,
I--I know it seems a silly thing to ask--but--but you don't happen to be
sent here by--by anybody with a name something like Fakrash? [_The HEAD
SLAVE implies by a gesture that this is so._] You _have_!... Well, look
here. _I_ don't want 'em. I decline to take 'em in. You have all these
things put on the camels again, and clear out! Do you see what I mean? [_By
this time the other slaves have gone; the HEAD SLAVE signifies in
pantomime that the things are HORACE'S, salaams, and goes out, the door
closing behind him mysteriously._] I don't believe that idiot understands
_now_! They've gone off to fetch _more_!
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_Who has returned to window._] They've gone off altogether, sir. I can't
see nothink now but a cloud of dust.
HORACE.
[_Sinks into chair on right of table with his head buried in his hands._]
The fools! The confounded fools!
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_Comes to table and looks for HORACE in vain._] Sir! Sir! [_Sees him
over the bales, &c._] Sir! Where _are_ you going to 'ave your dinner-party
_now_?
HORACE.
[_Forlornly._] Oh, I don't know--I don't know! Don't worry me now, Mrs.
Rapkin! Go away! Can't you see I want to think--I want to _think_!
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_As she goes towards door at back._] Well, I _must_ say and I _do_ say
that if this _'ad_ to 'appen, it couldn't have come more ill-convenient!
[_She goes out._
[_As soon as she has gone HORACE
rises and comes to an
antique-looking trunk on left; he
opens it, and brings out an
enormous emerald and ruby, each the
size of a cocoa-nut; he looks at
them for a moment in dismay, and
drops them back with a groan. Then
he crosses to a sack on the right,
opens it, and brings out an immense
diamond. While he is doing all
this, FAKRASH has risen from
among the bales behind the table,
and watches him with benign
complacency._
HORACE.
[_As he returns the diamond to the sack._] Oh! damn it all!
FAKRASH.
My son!
HORACE.
[_Recoiling on sacks._] I'm not dreaming _now_! I'm awake! And yet--all
that story of yours about your being shut up in a brass bottle? I _did_
dream _that_--eh?
FAKRASH.
Nay, it is even as I told thee.
HORACE.
And it _was_ you who sent me all these things?
FAKRASH.
A few trifling gifts by no means suited to thy dignity! Thou owest me no
thanks.
HORACE.
I--I'd rather not owe you _anything_. I mean--I can't possibly accept any
presents from you.
FAKRASH.
Nay, they are freely thine.
HORACE.
I don't want to be ungracious, but I must decline to be under any
obligation whatever to a--well, to a perfect stranger like yourself.
FAKRASH.
Hast thou not placed me under the heaviest of obligations by delivering me
from a bottle of brass? To escape out of a bottle is pleasant!
HORACE.
So I should imagine. But, you see, I'd no notion what I was _doing_
or--well, it's done _now_, and if you really wish to show your gratitude
for a very trifling service, I'll tell you how you can do it. [_In a tone
of earnest entreaty._] Take back all these gifts of yours, and let me
alone!
FAKRASH.
[_Beaming._] Truly I am amazed by thy modesty and magnanimity!
HORACE.
I'm _not_ magnanimous--I'm devilish annoyed! [_Exasperated._] Hang it all!
_Can't_ you understand that all these things are no earthly use to _me_?
You might just as well have sent me so many white elephants!
FAKRASH.
As thou pleasest! To send thee elephants--yea, even in abundance--will be
no difficult undertaking.
[_He makes a movement as though
about to summon them._
HORACE.
[_Aghast._] Good Lord! Don't you go wasting white elephants on _me_! You
take everything so literally! All _I_ meant was that if these things _were_
white elephants, instead of what they are, I couldn't be more embarrassed!
_Now_ do you see?
FAKRASH.
[_Coming down to right._] Thou seemest to me to be despising riches beyond
all price.
HORACE.
Exactly! Because they _are_ beyond all price! _Look_ at those
sacks--bulging, simply _bulging_ with diamonds and rubies and emeralds as
big as ostrich eggs! Well, I can't _wear_ 'em. They'd be too dressy! I
can't _sell_ 'em--no one could afford to buy a single one of 'em! And how
am I to account for having them at all?
FAKRASH.
Thou canst surely say that they are presents to thee from
Fakrash-el-Aamash, a Jinnee of the Green Jinn, in return for thy kindness
in releasing him from a bottle of brass.
HORACE.
Oh, _can_ I? I fancy I see myself giving that explanation! [_More mildly._]
No, Fakrash,--you meant well--but the kindest thing _you_ can do is to
remove all this at once----
FAKRASH.
This is a thing that cannot be. For to bestow gifts and receive them back
disgraceth the giver.
HORACE.
Not when the gifts are only in the way. [_He nearly trips over a sack._]
Just _look_ at this room!
FAKRASH.
Verily it is but a miserable apartment for a person of thy distinction!
HORACE.
It's quite good enough for me when it isn't lumbered up like this. I'm
expecting friends to dinner this evening, and how the deuce am I to
entertain them comfortably unless you make it possible for me?
FAKRASH.
[_Benevolently._] Have no uneasiness. I will see that thou art enabled to
entertain thy guests as is fitting.
HORACE.
Good! [_At window._] Then you'll send for that caravan of yours?
FAKRASH.
I hear and obey.
[_He goes towards door at back and
waves his hand. The door flies
open. The chant is heard as before.
A pause, after which the HEAD
SLAVE enters and salaams. Then
the train of black slaves pour in
noiselessly, and proceed to carry
out the chests, &c., and throw the
bales out over the balcony._
HORACE.
[_Encouraging them._] That's right! _All_ those are to go. Put your back
into it! [_To some slaves who are throwing down bales from the balcony._]
Do be careful! You nearly bowled a camel over _that_ time! [_The last slave
has gone out with a sack from which an immense blue jewel has rolled;
HORACE picks it up and calls after him._] Hi! You've dropped a little
sapphire thing! [_The HEAD SLAVE takes the sapphire from him and
salaams._] Sure you've got the lot? All right! Good day! [_The HEAD SLAVE
makes a final salaam and goes out, the door closing after him
mysteriously; HORACE approaches FAKRASH._] It's awfully nice of you not
to be _offended_, old fellow, and I'm just as much obliged as if I'd _kept_
the things, you know.
FAKRASH.
It is no matter. Thou shalt receive other rewards more to thy liking.
HORACE.
[_Alarmed._] No, no! I assure you I don't want _anything_. I can get along
quite well by myself. Because--of course, _you_ wouldn't know it,
but--[_with pride_]--I've got a client now!
FAKRASH.
[_Calmly._] I know it. Was he not my first gift unto thee?
HORACE.
[_Staggered._] Your first----? No, no--don't you go taking credit for
_that_! He assured me himself that he came of his own accord!
FAKRASH.
He knew no better. Nevertheless it was I that procured him for thee.
HORACE.
How?
FAKRASH.
[_Airily._] In the easiest manner possible. Having remarked him upon a
bridge, I transported him instantly to thy dwelling, impressing him without
his knowledge with thy names and thy marvellous abilities.
HORACE.
[_Horrified--to himself._] Good Lord! He _said_ he came in by the window!
[_To FAKRASH._] So you did _that_, did you? Then you took a confounded
liberty! You'd no business to introduce clients to me in that irregular
way! Don't you ever do this sort of thing again! Just attend to your own
affairs in future. I _understood_ you were going off in search of Suleyman.
It's high time you _started_. You won't find him in _this_ country, you
know.
FAKRASH.
He is on some journey--for in Jerusalem itself could I find no sign of
him.
HORACE.
Oh, come! You can't have flown as far as Jerusalem and back _already_!
FAKRASH.
Know'st thou not that, to a Jinnee of the Jinn, distance is but a trifling
matter?
HORACE.
So much the better! You'll be back in the East all the sooner. And when you
_are_ there, you _stay_ there. Don't get disheartened if you don't find
Suleyman directly. Keep on pegging away till you _do_! Why, the mere
travelling will be a pleasant change for you!
FAKRASH.
[_On right of table; sententiously._] Well and wisely was it written: "In
travel there are five advantages. [_Proceeding to enumerate them on his
fingers._] The first of these is----"
HORACE.
[_Impatiently, as he moves to his bedroom door on right._] I know, I know!
Don't you bother to run through them _now_--I've got to dress for dinner.
Just you bundle off to Arabia and search for Suleyman like billy-oh.
Good-bye!
FAKRASH.
May Allah never deprive thy friends of thy presence! Never have I
encountered a mortal who has pleased me so greatly!
HORACE.
[_At bedroom door._] Awfully good of you to say so!
FAKRASH.
Farewell! Prepare to receive a reward beyond all thine expectations!
[_He waves his arm, and for ten
seconds the room is in utter
darkness. There are sounds as of a
rushing wind and crashes and
rumblings. Then the glimmer of
three Arabian hanging lanterns is
seen faintly illuminating a large
central arch and two smaller side
ones. An immense perforated lantern
hanging from the domed roof then
becomes lit, and reveals an
octagonal hall with four curtained
arches, the fourth, down on the
right, being where HORACE'S
bedroom door had been. The walls
are decorated in crimson, blue, and
gold arabesques. Above the bedroom
door is a low divan with richly
embroidered cushions. Opposite to
it, on the left, is a similar
divan. High in the wall overhead is
a window with gilded lattice-work,
through which is seen a soft blue
evening sky._
HORACE.
[_With his back to the audience._] Great Scott! What's that old idiot let
me in for _now_?
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_Heard outside the arch up on right of central arch._] Oh, whatever is it
_now_? What's 'appened? [_She enters._] Goodness gracious! Mr. Ventimore,
sir--what's _come_ to the 'ouse?
HORACE.
Then--_you_ see a difference, Mrs. Rapkin?
MRS. RAPKIN.
I don't see nothink as _ain't_ different. For mercy's sake, sir, _'oo's_
been alterin' of it like this?
HORACE.
Well, _I_ haven't.
MRS. RAPKIN.
But where are you going to 'ave your dinner-party _now_, sir?
HORACE.
Where? Why, _here_! There's lots of _room_.
MRS. RAPKIN.
But I don't see no dinner-table, nor yet no sideboard.
HORACE.
Never mind--never mind! Don't _make_ difficulties, Mrs. Rapkin. You must
manage _somehow_.
MRS. RAPKIN.
I'll try, sir, but--not to deceive you--I feel that upset I 'ardly know
where I _am_.
HORACE.
You--you'll get used to it. [_Persuasively._] And you're going to see me
through this, I'm sure. I must go and dress now. [_Looking round the
hall._] I suppose you haven't any idea where my bedroom is?
MRS. RAPKIN.
I've no idea where _any_ of the rooms has got to, sir!
HORACE.
[_Going to arch down on right._] I expect it's through here.
[_As he goes out, RAPKIN enters
from the arch on left of central
arch. He is respectably
dressed--type of elderly retired
butler; just now he is slightly and
solemnly fuddled._
MRS. RAPKIN.
William, this is a pretty state o' things!
RAPKIN.
What's marrer, M'rire? I'm all _ri'_. On'y bin a-improvin' o' my mind in
Public Libery.
MRS. RAPKIN.
Public Libery, indeed! You and your Public Libery.
RAPKIN.
It's pos'tive fac'. Bin p'rusin' En-ensicklypejia Britannia.
[_He stands blinking and slightly
swaying._
MRS. RAPKIN.
But do you mean to say you don't _see_ nothing?
RAPKIN.
[_Muzzily._] Not over distinct, M'rire. Curus opt'cal d'lusion--due to
overshtudy--everything's spinnin' round. 'Ave I stepped into Alhambra, or
'ave I not? That's all _I_ want to know.
HORACE.
[_Outside from right._] That you, Rapkin? I want you.
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_To RAPKIN._] You ast _'im_ where you are--he's better able to tell you
than I am. I'm going back to my kitching.
[_She hesitates for a moment as to
which arch to go out by, and
finally goes out by the one on
right of central arch._
HORACE.
[_Outside._] Rapkin, I say! [_Then entering from the lower arch on right as
soon as MRS. RAPKIN has gone; he is wearing a richly embroidered Oriental
robe, &c., and a jewelled turban and plume, of which he is entirely
unconscious._] Oh, _there_ you are! Don't stand there gaping like a fish at
a flower-show! Where the deuce are my evening clothes?
RAPKIN.
[_Staring at him._] I don't know if it's _'nother_ opt'cal d'lusion--but
you appear t' me to ha' gorrem _on_.
HORACE.
Eh, what? Nonsense! [_Suddenly discovering that he is in a robe and
turban._] Hang it! I can't dine in these things! Just see if you can't
find--no, there's no time. _You_ haven't changed yet! Look sharp, the
people will be here in a minute or two--you _must_ be ready to open the
door to them.
RAPKIN.
[_Looking round the hall._] I don't seem to see no doors--on'y arches. I
_can't_ open a arch--even if it would stay still.
HORACE.
Pull yourself together, man! [_He twists RAPKIN sharply round._] Come, a
little cold water on your head will soon bring you round.
RAPKIN.
I'm _comin_' round. Don't see s'many arches already!
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_Rushing in from arch on right of centre arch._] Oh, William, William!
Come away at once!
RAPKIN.
[_Peacefully._] I'm aw'ri, M'rire!
MRS. RAPKIN.
[_Seeing HORACE'S costume._] Oh, Mr. Ventimore, who's been and dressed
you up like that? Why, it's 'ardly Christian! [_To RAPKIN._] Come away out
of this 'orrible 'ouse, do!
RAPKIN.
What's 'orrible about it?
MRS. RAPKIN.
Everything! Can't you see it's all turned into Arabian 'alls?
RAPKIN.
_Is_ it? [_He suddenly becomes indignant._] 'Oo's bin and took sech a
liberty?
MRS. RAPKIN.
Ah, you may well ask! Oh, Mr. Ventimore. [_Crossing to HORACE._] You've a
deal to answer for, _you_ 'ave!
RAPKIN.
What? _'Im?_ _'E's_ done it all?
HORACE.
Mrs. Rapkin, don't _you_ lose your head! I depend on _you_, you know. Get
your husband away and make him sober--or the dinner's _bound_ to come to
grief!
MRS. RAPKIN.
Dinner indeed! And me unable to get into my own kitching for them nasty
niggers o' yours as is swarmin' there like beedles! The gell's bolted
already, and you and me'll go next, William, for stay under this roof with
sech I _won't_!
[_She drags RAPKIN by the arm to
arch up on right._
HORACE.
I say, Mr. Rapkin, don't you two desert me now! Just _think_ of the hole
I'm in!
MRS. RAPKIN.
Bein' a 'ole of your own makin', sir, you can get out of it yourself! Come,
William!
RAPKIN.
I'm comin', M'rire! [_As he is dragged through arch by MRS. RAPKIN._]
You'll 'ear _more_ o' this, Mr. Ventimore!
HORACE.
[_Alone on stage._] What's to be done now? Can't dine _here_! [_The front
door bell rings with a long jangling tingle._] There they are! What am I to
_do_ with 'em? It'll _have_ to be the Carlton, after all! [_He glances down
at his robes._] Can't go like _this_, though! [_He tries to take off his
turban._] This damned thing won't come off! [_Searching himself for
money._] And where are my pockets? [_With resigned despair._] Well, I
suppose I must let them in, and--and tell 'em how it is!
[_As he turns to go up to the
centre arch, the hangings are drawn
back with a rattle, disclosing a
smaller hall behind. A row of
sinister-looking but richly robed
black slaves forms on each side of
the arch; a still more richly
dressed CHIEF SLAVE salaams to
HORACE, and with a magnificent
gesture ushers in the PROFESSOR,
MRS. FUTVOYE, and SYLVIA, to
each of whom the double row of
slaves salaam obsequiously, to
their intense amazement._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Coming down to the right and looking round him._] Why, why, why? What's
all this? Where _are_ we?
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_Following him closely._] We've evidently mistaken the house!
SYLVIA.
[_Following her mother, and suddenly seeing HORACE._] But surely
that's--yes, it _is_ Horace!
[_At a gesture from their chief,
the slaves retire, and he follows._
HORACE.
[_With some constraint, but trying to seem at his ease._] Yes, it's _me_
all right. There's no mistake. Most awfully glad to see you!
MRS. FUTVOYE.
Dear me! [_Coming towards HORACE._] I really didn't recognise you for the
moment.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Snappishly._] I don't know who _would_!
HORACE.
Oh, ah--you mean in _these_ things. I--I must apologise for not dressing,
Mrs. Futvoye, but the fact is, I--I found myself like this, and I hadn't
time to put on anything else.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Crossing to HORACE._] Any apologies for the simplicity of your costume
are _quite_ unnecessary.
SYLVIA.
You really are magnificent, Horace! _My_ poor frock is simply nowhere!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Glaring round._] I observe that this is a very different room from the
one we were in this afternoon.
HORACE.
Ah, I _thought_ you'd notice _that_! [_Deciding on perfect candour._]
I--I'd better _tell_ you about that. The--the fact is----
[_He starts nervously, as the
hangings of the centre arch are
drawn back once more, the slaves
form a double row, and their chief
appears, beckoning to some one to
follow him._
PRINGLE.
[_Heard outside, addressing CHIEF SLAVE._ ] Mr. Pringle. Mr. _Spencer_
Pringle.... Oh, if you can't manage it, it don't matter! [_He enters, and
stares at the salaaming slaves, then round the hall._] My _aunt_!
HORACE.
[_Coming forward._] Here you are, eh, old fellow?
[_The slaves go out._
PRINGLE.
[_Staring after the slaves._] Yes, here I am. [_Reproachfully, as he
observes HORACE'S costume._] You _might_ have told me it was a
fancy-dress affair.
HORACE.
It isn't. I--I'll explain presently.
PRINGLE.
[_Sees the FUTVOYES, and crosses to them._] How do you do again, Miss
Sylvia? How are you, Mrs. Futvoye? We meet sooner than we expected, eh?
[_Turning to the PROFESSOR._] Well, Professor, I suppose _you_ weren't
surprised at finding our good host in--[_he looks round the hall
again_]--this exceedingly snug little sanctum? I must confess _I_ am.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
My dear fellow, you can't be more surprised than _we_ are!
PRINGLE.
[_With satisfaction._] You don't mean it! [_Turning to HORACE, who is on
the other side of the hall, talking to MRS. FUTVOYE and SYLVIA_.] Then
you've only just got this place finished, eh, Ventimore?
HORACE.
That's all, Pringle.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
To build and decorate such a place as this must have cost a very
considerable sum of money.
HORACE.
You'd _think_ so, wouldn't you? But it _didn't_.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Coming towards him._] And that costume you're wearing, those negroes in
rich liveries, all this senseless profusion and display we see around
us--are you going to tell me _they_ haven't cost you anything?
HORACE.
I--I was going to explain about that. It's a most extraordinary thing,
but--well, you remember that old brass bottle I showed you this afternoon?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Remember it? Of course I remember it! But what of it, sir, what _of_ it?
HORACE.
Why--er--in a manner of speaking--everything you see here has--er--more or
less--come out of that bottle----
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Infuriated._] That is enough, sir, that is enough! You choose to give me
a frivolous answer! I will not submit to be treated like this--I would
rather leave the house at once. And I _will_, too!
[_He makes a movement towards the
arch. SYLVIA and her mother look
on in distress, and PRINGLE with
secret gratification._
HORACE.
No, but I haven't finished! You see, it was like this: When I _opened_ the
bottle----
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Savagely._] Tchah! As you seem unable to realise that this is not a fit
time for fooling, I will not stay here to be trifled with. Sophia, Sylvia,
we must find some other place to dine in!
SYLVIA.
[_Going to HORACE, and speaking in a rapid undertone._] Horace! Can't you
see? He _means_ it. You _must_ be serious--or else----!
HORACE.
[_To her._] Yes, I see.... Professor, I'm sorry. I--I never thought you'd
be annoyed. All I _really_ meant by--by my feeble little joke was to tell
you--in a sort of figurative way, do you see?--that--that my luck has
turned at last.
THE OTHERS.
[_Together._] Turned? _How_ turned? What do you mean?
HORACE.
Well, I've got a client.
THE OTHERS.
[_As before._] A client? How? Where? When?
HORACE.
Just after you all left this afternoon. A clinking good client, too! He's
asked me to build him a big country-house, and my commission can't come to
less than seven or eight thousand pounds.
PRINGLE.
[_At the end of a general chorus of surprise._] Seven or eight thousand!
[_Incredulously._] May we know the name of this wonderful client of yours?
HORACE.
It's a Mr. Samuel Wackerbath, a big City auctioneer, I believe.
SYLVIA.
Why, he's my godfather!
MRS. FUTVOYE.
An old friend of ours. Eliza Wackerbath and I were at school together.
HORACE.
[_To PROFESSOR._] So you see, sir, I--I'm not so badly off as you thought.
I can afford to--to launch _out_ a bit.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Somewhat mollified._] Hardly, I should have thought, to _this_ extent.
However, in the circumstances, I consent to remain.
SYLVIA.
[_In an undertone to HORACE._] I thought it was all over with us!
HORACE.
[_In the same to her._] So did I! But I _think_ I'm out of the cart this
time.
[_He goes up towards the left,
talking to her._
PRINGLE.
[_Crossing to the PROFESSOR; in an undertone._] _So_ glad you decided to
stay, Professor. I was really half afraid you'd go--as a protest against
all this ostentation.
[_MRS. FUTVOYE is admiring the
workmanship of the hangings._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_In an undertone to PRINGLE._] I should have done so, Pringle, I should
have _done_ so--but for the inconvenience of dining elsewhere at this hour.
[_Aloud, to HORACE._] Ventimore! _[PRINGLE joins MRS. FUTVOYE._] I don't
know if _you_ are getting hungry,--but I own _I_ am. Will it be long before
they announce dinner?
HORACE.
[_Turning, with a start._] Dinner? Oh, I _hope_ not--I mean, I _think_ not.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
I see no table is laid here. [_Acidly._] But probably you have an equally
spacious dining-hall adjoining this?
HORACE.
Yes. That is,--_probably_, you know. I mean, it's quite _possible_.
[_The curtains of the arch on left
of centre arch are drawn._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Do you mean to tell me you haven't settled yet where we _are_ to dine?
HORACE.
[_At a loss for an instant, then he suddenly sees the slaves enter from the
arch on left, bearing a low round table, which they place in the centre of
the hall._] Oh, we dine _here_, of course!--here. I--I leave it to these
fellows.
[_Four of the slaves fetch cushions
and arrange them as seats around
the table, the CHIEF SLAVE
directing them._
PRINGLE.
I say, Ventimore, what an odd idea of yours, having all these black
footmen! Don't you find them a nuisance at times?
HORACE.
Oh, they--they've only come in for the evening. You
see--they're--er--quieter than the ordinary hired waiter--and--and they
don't blow on the top of your head.
SYLVIA.
[_In an undertone, nervously._] Horace! I don't like them! They're so
creepy-crawly, somehow!
HORACE.
[_Suppressing his own antipathy._] After all, darling, we--we mustn't
forget that they're men and brothers. [_To the others, as the CHIEF SLAVE
advances to him and makes elaborate gesticulations._] I think what he
means is that dinner is served. Shall we sit down?
MRS. FUTVOYE.
I don't see any _chairs_.
HORACE.
No. It--it's such a low table, you see. So we sit on cushions. M--much
better fun!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Grimly._] May I ask if the entire dinner is to be carried out on strictly
Arabian principles?
HORACE.
[_Helplessly._] I--I rather think that _is_ the idea. I hope you don't
_mind_, Professor?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
I am in your hands, sir, in your hands! Sophia!
[_He indicates to MRS. FUTVOYE
that she is expected to sit down,
and seats himself on the right of
table with many precautions;
HORACE leads MRS. FUTVOYE to a
cushion on his right, and
establishes SYLVIA on his left,
inviting PRINGLE to the place
below MRS. FUTVOYE and opposite
the PROFESSOR. A slave brings on
a large covered golden dish, which
he places on the table in front of
HORACE._
HORACE.
[_With a pathetic attempt to be cheery, as another slave raises the
cover._] Ha! Now we shall see what they've _given_ us!
[_The expressions of the party
indicate that, whatever the food
may be, its savour is not exactly
appetising._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
I should just like to remark that, having lived in the East myself and had
considerable experience of native cooking, I expect to be extremely unwell
to-morrow.
HORACE.
Let's hope for the best, Professor, hope for the best! [_Turning to the_
CHIEF SLAVE behind him._] But, I say! You've forgotten the knives and
forks. Nobody has any! What _are_ these fellows about? [_The CHIEF SLAVE
explains in pantomime that fingers and thumbs are all that is necessary._]
Eh? Do _without_ them? Dip into the dish and help ourselves? Oh--if you say
we've _got_ to! [_To MRS. FUTVOYE._] Mrs. Futvoye, can I persuade you
to--er--have first dip?
MRS. FUTVOYE.
Really, Horace, I must get my gloves off _first_!
[_She removes them._
HORACE.
It _does_ seem a little messy. But _quite_ Arabian, you know--quite
_Arabian_!
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_Vainly trying to reach the dish._] I'm such a long way off!
HORACE.
Yes. I think we'd better all--er--close up a bit.
[_They all work themselves up
uncomfortably on their respective
cushions nearer the table._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_As HORACE takes MRS. FUTVOYE'S and SYLVIA'S right hands and guides
them to the dish._] And he calls this a simple, ordinary little dinner!
CURTAIN
THE SECOND ACT
_The scene is the Arabian Hall--an
hour later. The slaves are offering
the guests water in golden bowls,
and insisting on wiping their hands
for them, an attention which the_
PROFESSOR resents._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Ventimore!
HORACE.
[_Seated in utter dejection._] Yes, Professor?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
I infer from the fact that the last course seemed to be something in the
nature of--ah--_sweets_----
[_MRS. FUTVOYE and PRINGLE
exchange glances, and sigh
audibly._
HORACE.
They _were_ rather beastly, weren't they?
[_A slave takes the PROFESSOR'S
hands with great respect, and
inserts them into the bowl._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
As I was saying, I infer from that, and the circumstance that your
attendant has _again_ attempted to wash my hands, that the--ah--banquet
has come to an end. Is that so?
HORACE.
[_Miserably._] I _hope_ so! I mean--I _think_ so.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Then, as I have been suffering agonies of cramp from having had to sit for
an hour on a cushion with my legs crossed, I should be glad, with your
permission, to stretch them again.
HORACE.
So sorry! Mrs. Futvoye, shall we----?
[_He helps MRS. FUTVOYE and
SYLVIA to rise. PRINGLE has also
risen; the PROFESSOR remains on
his cushion._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
_I_ should be glad of some slight assistance.
[SYLVIA comes to him_; HORACE
and MRS. FUTVOYE are by the
divan on the left._
PRINGLE.
[_Crossing in front of table._] Allow me, Professor, allow me!
[_He helps him to his feet._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Thank you, Pringle, thank you. A word with you--[_drawing him away to the
right, while SYLVIA joins her mother and Horace up on the
left._]--Pringle. [_Lowering his voice._] I declare to you that never,
_never_ have I been called upon to swallow a more repulsive and generally
villainous meal! And that in a life which has had its--ah--ups and downs!
PRINGLE.
It's the same here, I can assure you. I don't understand our host's
partiality for Arab cookery. And the _wine_! [_With a reminiscent
shudder._] _Did_ you try the wine?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
I did. It must have been kept in a goat-skin for years! And yet he must
have spent a perfectly scandalous amount on this preposterous banquet of
his!
PRINGLE.
A small fortune! Ah, well--I suppose he feels entitled to indulge in these
costly fancies--_now_.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
He's no business to--just after he's engaged to my daughter!
PRINGLE.
Ah! It's a thousand pities. Still--he _may_ give up some of this
magnificence, when he's married.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
I shall take very good care he does that--if he marries Sylvia at all!
[_He lowers his voice still more,
and the conversation continues in
dumb show, PRINGLE by his manner
showing that he is doing all in his
power to prejudice HORACE while
ostensibly defending him. The
slaves return, clear away cushions,
and remove the table._
HORACE.
[_To MRS. FUTVOYE, while SYLVIA stands slightly apart with a somewhat
resentful expression._] It's awfully kind of you to be so nice about
it--but I know only too well you can't _really_ have enjoyed it. It was a
shocking bad dinner from start to finish!
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_Tolerantly._] Oh, you mustn't say _that_! Perhaps, _next_ time, if you
could tell your landlady not to scent _all_ the dishes _quite_ so strongly
with musk----
HORACE.
I shall certainly mention _that_--if I get the chance. [_Looking across at
the PROFESSOR, whose temper is evidently rising._] I'm afraid the
Professor won't get over _this_ in a hurry.
MRS. FUTVOYE.
Perhaps I'd better go and see how he's feeling.
[_She crosses, leaving HORACE
with SYLVIA._
HORACE.
[_To SYLVIA._] I can guess how _you're_ feeling about this.
SYLVIA.
[_Coldly._] Can you? Then it isn't necessary for me to tell you.
HORACE.
No, I--this little dinner of mine hasn't turned out quite as we _expected_,
has it?
SYLVIA.
I don't know what _you_ expected--_I_ thought it was going to be so
delightful!... How _could_ you be so foolish?
HORACE.
You see, dear, you don't understand how it all came about yet. If you'd
only let me tell you----
SYLVIA.
I think you had much better say no more about it.
HORACE.
Ah, but I can't! I _must_ get it off my chest. [_Before he can begin the
slaves enter once more, and shift the divans on either side to lower and
rather more oblique positions, after which the HEAD SLAVE approaches
HORACE, and makes signs._] What do you want?
SYLVIA.
[_Clinging to HORACE._] Oh, don't let him come too near me!
HORACE.
[_As the CHIEF SLAVE repeats the signs._] He sha'n't, darling--but he's
quite friendly. He's only suggesting that we should sit down.
[_HORACE and SYLVIA sit on the
divan on left. The CHIEF SLAVE
turns to PROFESSOR and repeats
the gestures._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Puzzled and irritable._] What does he want me to do _now_?
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_Soothingly._] Why, to sit down, of course, and take your coffee
_comfortably_.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Appeased._] Oh, is _that_ it? [_Going to divan on right._] I sha'n't be
sorry to rest my back against something. [_Sitting._] You'd better sit down
yourself, Sophia.
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_Placidly._] I was going to, Anthony.
[_She sits on the PROFESSOR'S left_.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Plenty of room for _you_, Pringle. [_PRINGLE seats himself on PROFESSOR'S
right._] I think I might feel better after a cup of strong
coffee--_Turkish_ coffee--and perhaps a glass of _liqueur_ brandy. [_As
the CHIEF SLAVE moves up to the centre arch without paying any attention
to him._] As you said, Pringle, the attendance is disgraceful! [_Raising
his voice, and calling across to HORACE._] Ventimore, is
your--ah--major-domo--going to bring us our coffee and what not _soon_?
HORACE.
At once, Professor, at _once_!
[_He claps his hands, and the
CHIEF SLAVE stalks forward
majestically._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
And a cigar--a _good_ cigar, if it's not asking too much?
HORACE.
What _am_ I thinking of? Of course! [_To the CHIEF SLAVE._] Serve coffee at
_once_, please. [_The CHIEF SLAVE expresses in pantomime that he fails to
understand HORACE'S desires._] I said "Coffee." _You_ know what coffee
is! [_Apparently the CHIEF SLAVE does not._] I never saw such a fellow!
Well, _cigars_, then! Come, you _must_ know _them_! Things to smoke? [_He
imitates the action of smoking. The CHIEF SLAVE seems to take this as a
dismissal. He salaams, motions to the other slaves to retire, upon which
they all go out, then salaams once more and stalks off._] That beggar must
be a born idiot! _I_ can't make him understand.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Drily._] So I perceive. No matter, I must do without my usual
after-dinner coffee, that's all! But at least, Ventimore, you _must_ know
where to lay your hand on your cigar-box!
HORACE.
I did--before the place was altered so,--but I'm not sure if----[_He
rises._] I'll just go and have a look in my bedroom.
[_He crosses and goes out by the
lower arch on the right._
PRINGLE.
[_To the PROFESSOR._] Seems to me that Oriental hospitality has been rather
over-rated!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Gloomily._] Ah! I know I wish I'd ordered our cab for ten o'clock,
instead of eleven! Receiving us with all this ostentation, and yet grudging
us the most ordinary comforts--I _can't_ understand it!
PRINGLE.
[_Rising._] It may be his notion of humour. [_As he moves across to_
SYLVIA._] If you and Mrs. Futvoye and Miss Sylvia will only give me the
pleasure of dining with me some night at the Holborn,--or rather the
Savoy--I would endeavour to wipe out the memory of this evening's
sufferings.
[_He takes HORACE'S place by
SYLVIA'S side._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Whenever you please, my dear Pringle, whenever you please,--and the sooner
the better! Sophia! [_He turns to MRS. FUTVOYE, and discovers that she is
gently dozing._] Asleep! How she can _do_ it!--but I won't disturb her now.
[_To HORACE, who returns from arch down right._] Well? Have you found
your cigars?
HORACE.
[_Standing in centre depressed._] No. There's nothing in there--except that
beastly brass bottle. I _am_ so sorry!
SYLVIA.
[_Rising and going to HORACE._] Horace! It _is_ all over, isn't it? You're
_sure_ there's nothing _more_ to come?
[_PRINGLE, finding himself
deserted, returns to his place on
the divan by the PROFESSOR._
HORACE.
[_Looking round anxiously._] I--I _hope_ not. No, I think we're all right.
We shall have no more trouble now all those black Johnnies have cleared
out.
[_At this moment there is a
confused sound of Oriental
instruments outside, with wailing
cries. SYLVIA turns from HORACE,
and goes back indignantly to the
divan on the left. HORACE
follows, and sits by her._
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_Waking up as the music stops._] Dear me! What _is_ that horrible noise?
Not cats?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Cats! No,--it's Arab music! [_To HORACE._] So you've a _fresh_ surprise in
store for us, eh, sir?
HORACE.
[_Forlornly._] It--it _does_ sound rather like it, Professor.
[_Four negro musicians enter,
playing a tom-tom, mandoline,
flageolet, and native fiddle
respectively, while they chant a
weird ditty, and sit cross-legged,
right and left of the central
arch._
SYLVIA.
[_As the music stops._] Horace, this is really _too_ bad of you! You
_assured_ me there was nothing more coming!
[_She turns her shoulder on him
with marked displeasure._
PRINGLE.
So you keep a private band, do you, Ventimore?
HORACE.
No, no,--of course I don't. It--it's only engaged for the evening.
PRINGLE.
I see. Hired from the Arab encampment at Earl's Court, eh?
HORACE.
[_Irritated._] You've guessed it first time, Pringle!
PRINGLE.
That's odd. Because, now I come to think of it, there _isn't_ any Arab
encampment there this season.
HORACE.
Then they come from somewhere else. At all events, they're playing here for
nothing.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Ah! They know their own value!
MRS. FUTVOYE.
Now, Anthony, you're finding fault before they've even _begun_! [_She
rises._] That was only _tuning_, of course! [_She passes in front of the
MUSICIANS, and then comes down to HORACE._] Can they play _English_ music?
_Do_ ask them if they know "The Choristers."
HORACE.
I'm afraid they're not at all likely to be familiar with it.
[_The MUSICIANS begin once more,
and MRS. FUTVOYE retreats hastily
to the divan, as they sing and play
for a few bars in hideous
cacophony._
PRINGLE.
[_As they stop once more._] Vocal as _well_ as instrumental, eh? Are they
going to give us any _more_ little things like that, Ventimore?
HORACE.
No. Not if I know it! They've _done_ now!
[_At this the music starts again,
louder and more discordant than
ever._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Springing to his feet in a fury, and shouting._] Ventimore! You _must_
put a stop to this abominable din! Do you hear? I can't and won't put up
with it!
HORACE.
[_Rising, and going to the MUSICIANS._] Here, you chaps! Hi! That's enough!
[_He claps his hands._] Get out! Get _out_!
[_The MUSICIANS seem to treat
this as an encouragement, for they
play with more vigour than ever;
then, as they reach the climax, the
music changes to slower strains, in
which some sort of air is
recognisable, and a troop of
ORIENTAL DANCING GIRLS come
writhing and posturing in from the
arches on right and left of the
centre arch. HORACE recoils in
horror, and collapses on the divan
by SYLVIA'S side._
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_Making her voice carry above the music._] And do these young persons come
from Earl's Court, _too_?
HORACE.
[_Wildly._] No! Oh, _dear_ no! _They_ come from--from Harrod's. The
Entertainment Department, don't you know!
[_He sits paralysed as the
PRINCIPAL DANCING GIRL suddenly
floats down from the central arch,
and executes a slow and sinuous
Oriental dance in the middle of the
other performers. The PROFESSOR
and his wife exchange scandalised
comments, and PRINGLE endeavours
to look shocked and grieved._
HORACE.
[_As the PRINCIPAL DANCING GIRL has glided down opposite him, and stands
posturing, with her eyes fixed on his face; to SYLVIA._] I--I don't think
she's _bad_.
SYLVIA.
[_Coldly._] Don't you? I'm perfectly _sure_ she is!
HORACE.
No, no. She--she's a _lady_ and all that. They _all_ are. Highly
respectable girls! They only give their dances at _private_ parties.
SYLVIA.
I don't think you need have engaged them for _yours_! _Really_, Horace!
[_The music stops; all, except the
PRINCIPAL DANCER, who remains
standing and smiling at HORACE,
fall on their hands and faces in a
line across the stage._
HORACE.
It was a mistake. But I'll get rid of them! [_He rises and goes towards
the PRINCIPAL DANCER._] It's charming--charming--but that will _do_, you
know. You can go away now. You can _all_ of you go away!
[_The PRINCIPAL DANCING GIRL,
with a swift, sudden movement,
throws herself at his feet and
embraces his knees; SYLVIA starts
up indignantly. The PROFESSOR,
MRS. FUTVOYE, and PRINGLE rise
also._
PRINCIPAL DANCING GIRL.
[_In Arabic, in a tone of adoring submission._] Yah Sidi! Yah noor ainy!
Yah nass al Kalbi Sidi!
HORACE.
[_To the others._] She is a little hysterical, that's all--the artistic
temperament. [_As he succeeds in freeing himself._] I don't know what on
earth she's talking about! I _fancy_ she says she's feeling seedy.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Who has come down on the right._] "Sidi"--as you may well know--is the
ordinary Arabic word for "Master," and, if I follow her correctly, she is
calling you her Protector, the Light of her Eyes, and the Vital Spirit of
her Heart!
[_The PRINCIPAL DANCING GIRL has
fallen on her hands and face in
front of the others._
SYLVIA.
Oh! So _this_ is what you were trying to confess to me!
HORACE.
She's quite _mistaken_, you know. _I'm_ not the light of her eyes, I've
never seen her before in all my life!
SYLVIA.
You think I believe _that_! [_She rushes across to MRS. FUTVOYE._] Oh,
mother--mother!
HORACE.
Professor, _you_ know Arabic. Couldn't you get these people to understand
that they aren't wanted?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Coming forward._] I intend to. [_In Arabic._] Eerga dugghery gowan illa
bait bettah Harrood!
[_As he speaks all the dancing
girls raise their heads in horror,
then rise screaming and holding
their hands to their ears, and rush
out through arches, followed by the
musicians. The moment they
disappear through the arches all is
silent._
PRINGLE.
[_Coming down to centre._] They weren't long in taking _your_ hint,
Professor. What _did_ you say to them?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Rather puzzled._] I merely told them, in the best Arabic I could command,
to go back to Harrod's at once.
MRS. FUTVOYE.
I am quite sure they cannot have come from _Harrod's_!
HORACE.
You're perfectly right, Mrs. Futvoye. They _didn't_.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Advancing to him._] After _that_ admission, you will hardly be surprised
if I tell you--as I _do_--that you may consider your engagement to my
daughter at an end.
HORACE.
At an end! Why, what have I _done_?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Done, sir, done? You ask _that_, after grossly insulting my wife and
daughter by this--this outrageous exhibition!
[_He goes up, followed by PRINGLE._
HORACE.
[_Going to MRS. FUTVOYE._] Mrs. Futvoye, _you_ don't misunderstand me, I'm
sure?
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_Icily._] For _once_, I entirely agree with my husband, and I believe
Sylvia herself will tell you----
[_She turns, and joins the
PROFESSOR on the left._
HORACE.
No, she won't? _Will_ you, Sylvia? _You_ won't give me up?
SYLVIA.
What else _can_ I do?
HORACE.
What else? Why, trust me, stick to me--in spite of everything and
everybody!
SYLVIA.
After what I've just seen! No, that's _too_ much to expect!--unless, of
course, you've some satisfactory explanation?
HORACE.
Well, I _have_--if you'll all promise to _listen_ to it--you wouldn't when
I tried to explain before, you know. Now you _must_ hear me out! [_They all
prepare to listen attentively._] It's like this. Sylvia wasn't far wrong
about that beastly jar I bought this afternoon--there _was_ a Jinnee inside
it.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE. )
)
What? How dare you, sir--how _dare_ )
you trifle with us like this? )
)
MRS. FUTVOYE. )
)
Disgraceful! To stand there talking )
such nonsense--at such a time! ) _All_
) _speaking_
SYLVIA. ) _together._
)
Turning it all into a _joke_! Oh, how )
can you--how _can_ you? )
)
PRINGLE. )
)
Upon my word, Ventimore, you ought )
to be ashamed of yourself! )
HORACE.
There you _are_, you see! You _won't_ give me a hearing! I _ought_ to know
what was inside the bottle, considering I let it out. Fakrash-el--_what_
did he tell me his name was?--oh, Aamash--Fakrash-el-Aamash. He's a Jinnee.
Of the _Green_ Jinn.
PRINGLE.
Well, _we're_ not Green Jennies!
HORACE.
[_Losing his temper._] Shut up, Pringle! This is _my_ story--and you'll be
good enough to let me finish it. Well, according to old Fakrash, he'd been
sealed up in that bottle by Solomon----
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
What, in the name of common sense, has all this to do with the case?
HORACE.
I'm coming to that, if you'll only have a little patience. Naturally, he
was grateful to me for letting him out, and, in a weak moment, I--I blurted
out that you were all coming to dinner here to-night. And what does the old
idiot do but transform my rooms into these halls, and provide the whole
entertainment himself! And--as might be expected--it was pretty rotten!
[_He sinks on the divan on right in
despair, as he sees the general
incredulity._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Ha! And you seriously expect us to believe this cock-and-bull story as an
explanation--unsupported by any kind of proof?
HORACE.
Not _unsupported_, Professor! How about these halls?
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
_They_ are only evidence of your unbridled extravagance, sir! Where is this
precious Jinnee you talk about? Produce him--let me see him with my own
eyes, and I might--but, bah! you won't venture to accept that challenge,
I'm sure of that!
[_He crosses to MRS. FUTVOYE and
PRINGLE._
HORACE.
It's unfortunate--but Fakrash has--er--left the country. I don't expect him
back for some time--if at all.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Nor I, sir, nor _I_! Sophia, you and Sylvia had better go to the vestibule
and get your things on.
MRS. FUTVOYE.
I am only too anxious to go. [_To SYLVIA._] Come, darling.
[_She moves towards arch on right._
SYLVIA.
[_In sudden alarm._] Mother! _Not_ with all those horrid dancing-girls and
things! _They're_ in there!
MRS. FUTVOYE.
[_At arch._] Trust me to deal with _them_!
[_She goes out with SYLVIA._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Going up and calling after them._] Make haste, Sophia! We must walk till
we get a cab, that's all!
HORACE.
[_Who has risen._] Professor, don't go yet. I've just remembered. If you'll
only wait a moment, I believe I can bring you something to prove I've been
telling the simple truth.
[_He goes out by lower arch on
right._
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Approaching PRINGLE._] "Prove he's been telling the truth!" You heard
_that_, Pringle? Did you ever hear such bare-faced impudence in all your
life?
PRINGLE.
[_Virtuously._] Never, Professor, never! I _quite_ share your indignation.
Perhaps I may be allowed to accompany you? I am going your way.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Do so, Pringle; do so, my dear fellow. As we may have to walk some
distance, my daughter will be glad of your escort. [_As MRS. FUTVOYE and
SYLVIA appear from arch up right._] Ah, they're ready, I see. Go and get
your coat on and bring mine, and we'll leave at once.
PRINGLE.
[_With alacrity, as he goes up._] By all means, Professor! I won't be a
minute.
[_He goes out by the arch up
right._
HORACE.
[_Returning at the same moment from lower arch on right._] I've had a
hunt--but I've found it. [_He offers a metal cap to the PROFESSOR._] Now,
if you'll only examine _this_, Professor.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
What do you mean by offering me that piece of dirty old metal, sir? Take
the thing away!
HORACE.
It's the cap or stopper that belongs to that brass bottle. And, I don't
know, but I rather fancy there's something engraved on it.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Eh, what? [_He takes the cap._] So far as I can tell by feeling it, there
_does_ seem to be--but what if there is--what if there _is_?
HORACE.
Well, it _might_ refer to a Jinnee having been bottled up by Solomon, don't
you know.
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
Bah!--but no matter. [_He slips the cap into his tail-coat pocket._]
Whatever it is, I _will_ examine this inscription--after breakfast
to-morrow morning. [_Triumphantly._] And I shall _decipher_ it, sir,--you
may depend upon that! [_To PRINGLE, who returns with coat and helps him
into it._] Thank you, my boy, thank you. Now, Sophia,--if you are ready!
MRS. FUTVOYE.
I am only waiting for _you_, Anthony. [_Frostily, to HORACE._] Mr.
Ventimore, I will wish you good-night.
[_She goes out by central arch._
PRINGLE.
[_Approaching SYLVIA._] Good-night, Ventimore. Miss Sylvia--[_offering his
arm_]--I am to have the privilege of taking care of you.
SYLVIA.
[_Declining his arm._] Thank you, Mr. Pringle,--but I can quite well take
care of myself. [_She turns to HORACE._] Horace, I want to say just this
before I go--I _will_ trust you still,--in spite of everything and
everybody!
HORACE.
[_Putting his arm round her._] You little _brick_! And you won't have to go
on trusting me _much_ longer!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_Interposing and separating them._] That she will not, sir! Let her go!
[_HORACE releases SYLVIA, who goes up towards central arch, HORACE
attempting to follow her, when he is stopped by the PROFESSOR._] Stay
where you are!
[_SYLVIA and PRINGLE pass through
to the outer hall._
HORACE.
Surely I may go as far as the door with her!
PROFESSOR FUTVOYE.
[_By the central arch._] Not another step, sir! One last word. This
precious seal of yours will enable me to expose you as a shameless liar.
That is all I have to say. _Good_ evening.
[_He goes out. Pause, the front
door is heard to slam._
HORACE.
[_To himself, in despair._] Gone! She's gone! [_He flings himself down on
the divan on the left, with his face to the audience._] The Professor may
be right--the seal _mayn't_ be Solomon's! How do _I_ know old Fakrash
hasn't been lying? And if he has--well, I'm done for! [_FAKRASH suddenly
appears through the hangings, comes down to the divan, and touches HORACE
on the shoulder; HORACE starts, then swings round to a sitting posture,
facing FAKRASH._] Eh? So you _have_ come back!
FAKRASH.
[_Benevolently._] May thy head long survive!
HORACE.
[_Choking with rage._] If you'd only turned up four minutes earlier I could
have introduced you to my guests. It's too late _now_!
FAKRASH.
Thou hast dismissed them already?
HORACE.
They've gone, anyhow.
FAKRASH.
[_Beaming._] And were they not astounded by the magnificence of thy
dwelling and the liberality of their entertainment?
HORACE.
Distinctly so. But I warn you--don't you press me on the subject of that
entertainment. I can't trust myself to talk about it just yet.
FAKRASH.
Render me no thanks.
HORACE.
[_Exasperated._] Thanks! _Thanks!!_
FAKRASH.
I perceive that something hath displeased thee.
HORACE.
[_With an angry laugh._] No, _do_ you? You're getting quite observant!
Something jolly well _has_ displeased me. Not so much the banquet--I could
pass that--we _did_ pass _most_ of it! [_Rising._] It was what came _after_
the banquet!
FAKRASH.
After the banquet I provided that a company of houris, lovelier than the
full moon and graceful as young gazelles, should dance for the delight of
thy guests. [_With uneasiness._] Can I have failed in bringing this to
pass?
HORACE.
[_Bitterly._] Oh, you brought _that_ off all right--the houris _came_!
[_With rising resentment._] And what do you think the Chief Gazelle
_did_?... Hugged my knees and called me her lord and protector and the
light of her eyes! Pretty good that--for a gazelle!
FAKRASH.
[_With a fatuous smile of approval._] Excellent indeed!
HORACE.
[_Turning on him._] Perhaps, when I tell you that the company included the
young lady I was engaged to marry--_and_ her father and mother, and that
they put the most unfavourable construction on the houri's behaviour, it
_may_ begin to dawn, even on _you_, that you might have been more tactful!
I've _lost_ Sylvia now--and all through you and your confounded gazelle!
FAKRASH.
[_Pulling his beard, and appearing slightly disconcerted._] Verily thy
fortune is unlucky! But dismiss uneasiness, for to remedy this mischance
will be the simplest thing possible.
HORACE.
[_More mildly._] Oh, if you'll do _that_! But how?
FAKRASH.
[_Standing in centre of hall._] By procuring thee another bride of far
greater beauty and accomplishments.
HORACE.
[_Striding past him in a fury._] _Another!_ You--you _hopeless_ old ass!
_Can't_ you understand?
FAKRASH.
[_Seizing his arm, and bringing him down the stage._] Wait! Thou hast not
yet heard the list of her perfections. A forehead shall she have like the
gleaming dome of a temple, eyes like unto blazing lamps, a nose that
shineth brighter than a sword, teeth resembling pearls strung on native
gold, a bosom----
HORACE.
Stop, I tell you! I don't _want_ her--I won't _have_ her! I want Sylvia,
and I'll marry nobody else! Just get _that_ into your muddled old head,
will you! If you can't pull me out of this mess you've got me into, why the
deuce have you come back at all?
[_He sits on the divan on left._
FAKRASH.
I am returned to impart unto thee wondrous intelligence.
HORACE.
Oh? Well, fire away. Take a cushion.
[_Flinging him one from the divan._
FAKRASH.
[_Squatting on cushion._] Hearken! During my wanderings I have learnt that,
beyond all doubt, Suleyman, the son of Daood, sleeps with his fathers!
HORACE.
As a matter of fact, he's been doing that for about three thousand years.
FAKRASH.
Sayest thou so? Then--[_cunningly_]--tell me. Doth there still remain any
one of Suleyman's seed that exerciseth his authority over them of the Jinn?
HORACE.
No. As soon as you've made things right for _me_, you can go off to your
own country and settle down comfortably--there's no power on earth that can
interfere with you.
FAKRASH.
Then--before I do thee any further service--bring hither the stopper
wherewith my bottle was sealed.
HORACE.
[_Uneasily._] The--the stopper? Oh, nonsense! You can't want that _now_!
What for? As a _souvenir_?
FAKRASH.
Nay, but because in all likelihood it is engraven with the mighty seal of
Suleyman.
HORACE.
[_Rising excitedly._] I say! Are you _sure_ of that?
FAKRASH.
So it was customary with such vessels. And, bearing such a seal, I shall
possess a mighty talisman. [_Rising from his cushion._] Wherefore deliver
it into my hands without delay, and I will reward thee by accomplishing all
thy desires.
HORACE.
[_In extreme embarrassment._] I--I'd be only too happy to oblige you--if I
could. But--well, the fact is, I've just parted with it.
FAKRASH.
[_Advancing on him in sudden fury._] _Parted_ with it! With my seal! O thou
of little sense! To whom? To _whom_, I say?
HORACE.
To the father of the lady I was engaged to. He's a learned man, you see,
and I knew, if there _was_ anything engraved on the seal, he'd be able to
make it out.
FAKRASH.
[_Striding up and down the hall, and brandishing his arms._] Perdition
seize thee! For he will assuredly refuse to surrender such a talisman! Woe
to me, for I am undone! Undone! Undone!
HORACE.
Don't talk rot! You _aren't_ undone--and nobody wants to undo you! [_FAKRASH
utters wild cries._] Don't go howling about like that--sit down again and
be sensible.
FAKRASH.
[_Halting opposite HORACE, with a menacing gesture._] Take heed to
thyself! For if thou dost not restore my seal immediately----!
HORACE.
[_Facing him composedly._] It's no good trying to bully _me_, you know.
_I'm_ not afraid of you. You sit down and be civil, and promise to do
exactly as I tell you--or I'm hanged if I help you to get your seal back.
FAKRASH.
[_With sudden self-restraint._] My son, it was naught! Am I not thy
servant? On the head and eye be all thy commands!
[_He sits down on the cushion._
HORACE.
Ah, that's better! [_He goes to the divan and gets himself a cushion, then
sits facing FAKRASH._] Now I'll tell you an idea that's just struck
me--the Professor said himself that nothing would convince him but seeing
you with his own eyes. Well--why shouldn't you _go_ to him?
FAKRASH.
[_Eagerly._] Tell me where he hath his abode, and I will visit him this
same instant.
[_About to rise._
HORACE.
[_Stopping him._] No, you don't! Just when he'll be turning in! You'll go
about ten o'clock to-morrow morning, when he's had his breakfast--or you
won't go at all!
FAKRASH.
Be it so! I will restrain my impatience until the morrow. But the place of
his dwelling?
HORACE.
Wait a bit. I won't have him rattled. [_FAKRASH looks puzzled._] I mean, no
popping up through the floor or down the chimney. You'll just walk quietly
up to his front door, and ask to see him. Then you can explain who you are
and what you want, and, if you're decently polite, I'm sure the Professor
will give you back your property.
FAKRASH.
All these instructions will I observe.
HORACE.
But you can't go in _that_ get-up, or you'll have a crowd of small boys at
your heels. Couldn't you raise the sort of costume respectable elderly
gentlemen go about in nowadays?
FAKRASH.
I hear and obey. To assume such garb as is worn by aged dwellers in this
city will be the simplest affair possible!
HORACE.
All right, then. And you must go to No. 47 Cottesmore Gardens, Kensington,
and ask whoever lets you in if you may see Professor Futvoye. Think you can
remember all that?
FAKRASH.
[_Rising._] Indelibly is it inscribed upon the tablet of memory. To-morrow,
then, at the appointed hour, will I repair to the abode of this sage.
HORACE.
[_Who has risen at the same time as FAKRASH, and thrown the cushions back
on the divan._] Good! And you'd better come on to me afterwards and let me
know how you got on. Not _here_--at my office, Great College Street,
Westminster. Got _that_ down on your tablet?
FAKRASH.
It is done. And now, O young man of abundant talents and obliging
disposition, I will take my leave of thee. [_Going to centre of hall._] For
I must seek my Palace in the Garden of Irem and repose myself until it be
day. But--[_turning_]--ere I depart, tell me by what service I can reward
thy kindness?
HORACE.
Well,--if you _really_ want to do me a good turn,--you might change these
halls again.
FAKRASH.
What? Are they insufficient for thy dignity?
HORACE.
No, no--they're much too grand! I--I want my old rooms back!
FAKRASH.
[_Pained._] Of what avail is it to confer favours upon _thee_, since thou
rejectest them every one!
HORACE.
[_Approaching him, and speaking soothingly._] No, not every one. There was
old Wackerbath--the client you sent me--I haven't rejected _him_. I'm going
to build him a country-house.
FAKRASH.
Ha! And on what spot is this mansion to be erected?
HORACE.
Oh, he seems to have got an excellent site--on a hill near Lipsfield,
between Hampshire and Surrey.
FAKRASH.
[_Touching his own brow._] It is on the tablet! And have no anxiety,--for
the palace that will arise shall assuredly be the wonder of the universe!
HORACE.
Very kind of you to say so--when I haven't even begun to work at it yet.
And now--about these halls? [_Persuasively._] You _will_ turn 'em back into
my old rooms, won't you? You're such a deuced clever old Johnny--I mean,
_Jinnee_!
FAKRASH.
Into the mean habitation in which I found thee? Far be this action from me!
HORACE.
[_Impatiently._] Oh, I'm sick of _arguing_ with you--I _command_ you. On
the head and on the eye!
RAPKIN'S VOICE.
[_From the outer hall._] Mr. Ventimore! I want a _word_ with you!
HORACE.
[_To FAKRASH, quickly._] You hear? That's my landlord,--it's _his_ house,
not mine. Just you change it--quick--before he comes in!
FAKRASH.
[_Standing in centre._] Since thou insisteth. And be of light heart, for
by to-morrow all thine affairs will prosper exceedingly!
[_He waves his hand; there is a
sudden and complete darkness for a
few seconds, with the sounds of
rumbling and rushing wind as
before. Above this the RAPKINS'
voices are heard._
RAPKIN'S VOICE.
Turned off the lights, 'as he? But _I'll_ talk to 'im when I _see_ 'im!
MRS. RAPKIN'S VOICE.
Don't let go of my 'and, Rapkin! I _know_ there's some o' them nasty
niggers about!
RAPKIN'S VOICE.
'Im and his bloomin' niggers and Arabian 'alls! [_Bawling._] Mr. Ventimore!
You _'ear_ me!
[_The stage has been growing
gradually lighter, and MR. and
MRS. RAPKIN are seen standing
together in the room in which the
play opened._
HORACE.
[_Appearing at bedroom door on right, in smoking suit, holding candle._]
Perfectly. [_Blandly._] Anything the _matter_, Rapkin?
RAPKIN.
[_Looking round open-mouthed, and blinking in bewilderment._] Matter, sir?
No, sir. Nothink, sir. Not _now_, sir!
HORACE.
[_Sweetly._] Glad to hear it. You'll be all right in the morning. Hot water
at the usual time, please. _Good_ night!
[_He goes into his bedroom, leaving
the stage in darkness again as the
curtain falls._
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
THE THIRD ACT
SCENE I
_The scene represents HORACE'S
_office in Great College Street._
_It is a small room, panelled in
dark oak. On the left is an old
mantelpiece in white and yellow
marble. Beyond the fireplace is a
door communicating with PRINGLE'S
_office. On the right is a recessed
window, through which the top of an
old grey wall with chevaux-de-frise
and foliage above can be seen. At
the back, on the right, is a door
leading to the staircase. On the
left of this door, an architect's
cabinet, with narrow drawers for
plans, &c. On the walls are plans
and architectural drawings, a
T-square or two, an office
calendar, and sections of
mouldings, sundry cards of tiling,
ornamental fittings, &c., sent out
by firms as advertisements to
architects. On the right, by the
window, is an architect's
drawing-table, with a sheet of
drawing-paper, tracing-paper,
saucers of colour, and other usual
requisites of an architect._
_The time is 11.30 on the morning
after the preceding acts._
_As the curtain rises, the
Westminster Clock-tower chimes the
half-hour._
HORACE is drawing at the table on
right._
HORACE.
[_To himself, looking at watch._] Half-past eleven already!--and I haven't
heard from _either_ of them yet! [_With some anxiety._] Very odd! Can
anything have----? [_There is a knock at the door on the left. HORACE
turns with a slight start as PRINGLE enters._] Oh, it's you, Pringle!
[_After a pause._] None the worse after last night, I hope?
PRINGLE.
[_Very solemnly._] I am feeling no ill-effects at _present_. [_Coming to
centre of room._] Can I have a few words with you?
HORACE.
[_Going on designing._] Well, only a _very_ few. We may be interrupted at
any moment. I've appointments with _two_ people this morning. Looks as if
they'd _both_ overslept themselves.
PRINGLE.
[_Gravely, as he plants himself with his back to the fireplace._] I shall
not detain you long. I merely wish to explain my position. When I accepted
your invitation last night, I did so with the loyal intention of resigning
myself, as cheerfully as possible, to your engagement to Miss Futvoye----
HORACE.
[_Wheeling his chair round so as to face him._] Instead of which you put a
spoke in my wheel whenever you got the chance! Not behaving quite
decently, _was_ it?
PRINGLE.
[_Stiffly._] After last night, I cannot consider _you_ as an authority on
_decency_.
HORACE.
Don't rub it in, Pringle!
PRINGLE.