THE BRASS BOTTLE

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME

Cloth 2s. 6d.; paper covers, 1s. 6d. each.

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
21 Bedford Street, W.C.

THE BRASS BOTTLE

A FARCICAL FANTASTIC PLAY

In Four Acts

By F. ANSTEY

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
MCMXI
Copyright, 1911, London, by William Heinemann

COPY OF THE "FIRST NIGHT" PROGRAMME AT THE VAUDEVILLE THEATRE, LONDON

THE BRASS BOTTLE A Farcical Play in Four Acts By F. ANSTEY PERFORMED FOR THE FIRST TIME on Thursday Evening, September 16, 1909

SYNOPSIS OF SCENERY

Acts I And II

HORACE VENTIMORE'S ROOMS

There will be an Interval of Two Minutes after Act I, and Eight Minutes after Act II

Act III

Scene I. VENTIMORE'S OFFICE

Scene II. DRAWING-ROOM AT THE FUTVOYES'

There will be One Minute Interval between Scenes I and II, during which the Audience are requested to keep their seats. After Act III, Eight Minutes.

Act IV

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 Suleymán, the son of Dáood—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 Suleymán—[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 Suleymán. 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 Suleymán 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 Suleymán 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.