F. Anstey

“ 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. ”

“ Pringle.
[Horrified.] But—Great Heavens, sir, you are on all fours!
Horace.
[Seizing Fakrash's arm.] Now, Fakrash—just you stop this!
Fakrash.
[Shaking Horace off.] Let me be! [To Mr. Wackerbath.] Begone, O contemptible of aspect! To thy kennel!
Mr. Wackerbath.
[Almost whining, as he crawls distractedly about on all fours.] I can't! I won't! I can't cross Westminster Bridge like this! What will the officials think at Waterloo, where I've been known and respected for years? How am I to face my wife and family in—in my present position? I insist on getting up!
Pringle. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Horace.
By all means! Well, Progress has subdued the—er—unruly forces of Nature, and compelled them to labour for humanity.
Fakrash.
Then why didst thou conceal from me that I, too, am in danger of being seized and condemned to toil?
Horace.
Why? Because I thought you were such a respectable, harmless old foozle that you'd never do anything to deserve it. [Watching him.] But, of course, you will if you cut my head off. You'll have a much worse time than ever you had in the bottle!
Fakrash.
I know it. For no other reason have I recovered my stopper but to return into my bottle once more. ”

“ Have no uneasiness—for thou shalt receive justice. [Horace retires to sofa on right, expecting to be rehabilitated.] Hear, O company, my words! I repent of my conduct in obeying the orders of yonder wretch— [pointing to Horace, who gasps in stupefaction] —who is seeking even now to deter me from showing kindness.
Horace.
Liar! Liar!
Fakrash.
Being desirous of escaping marriage with this damsel— [with a step towards Sylvia] —he commanded me to transform her father as ye see. And I, whom he had delivered from a bottle of brass, was compelled by gratitude to fulfil all his desires. ”

“ Fakrash.
Call them what thou wilt—they are prison-houses! All, all dungeons wherein my wretched brethren labour in torment till the Day of Doom! [Pacing towards the right.] And every city throughout the world is filled with such abominations! Therefore— [turning on him again] —before I slay thee, I demand that thou tell me the name of the potentate by whom these punishments are imposed.
Horace.
[Whose expression during the above speech shows that a way out is beginning to suggest itself; to himself.] If I can—if only I can! [As Fakrash again waves the scimitar.] All right! ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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. ”

“ Sylvia.
[Petulantly.] Oh, don't quote that now, Mr. Pringle! It is so stale! [Pg 133]
Pringle.
[With wounded dignity.] It may be stale—but it's Shakespeare! And I can only conclude that—even in the twentieth century—magic is not the lost art I had always imagined it.
Sylvia.
[Turning to him with more interest.] Then you believe now that Horace did find a Jinnee in that brass bottle?
Pringle.
[Rising.] No, no. I don't go as far as that.
Sylvia.
How far do you go?
Pringle.
Well, I know that Ventimore is associated with an elderly Oriental who possesses extraordinary will-power. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 [Pg 27] 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! ”

“ 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. ”

“ Fakrash.
[To The Mule.] Thou art trifling with my safety and thine own! Reveal unto me the spot in which thou hast hidden the stopper and delay not—for it will be no difficult undertaking to transform these women of thine into mules like thyself.
[Horror of Mrs. Futvoye and Sylvia, and despair and rage of Horace, who rises and rushes towards Fakrash.
The Mule.
You can do it for all I care——! [Pg 149]
Mrs. Futvoye.
Oh, Anthony!
The Mule.
We shall at least be a more united family than we are now!
Mrs. Futvoye.
[Frantically.] Anthony! Don't provoke him! Think of others! ”

“ Poor dear young gentleman, we've never known 'im beyave otherwise than as a gentleman, and—— [There is a sound outside of rushing wind, as Fakrash swoops down with Horace and both alight on the balcony; Mrs. Rapkin turns, screams, and sinks into a chair on the right of the fireplace.] Bless us and save us! Oh, Mr. Ventimore! [Seeing Fakrash.] ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. [Pg 99]
Fakrash. ”

“ Pringle.
[Reeling back a step or two.] Fancies!... Ventimore! [Horace goes to him, while the others form a group on the left and discuss Pringle's case with pitying concern.] I've been a fool—I see that now. They're not pretending—they really have forgotten!
Horace.
Completely. Fakrash hasn't foozled that—for a wonder! I ought to have included you; but—well, one can't think of everything—I forgot. I can only say I'm sorry.
Pringle.
But they all think I'm mad! [He sinks on the sofa by fireplace.] You know I'm not that! [With sudden doubt.] Am I? ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 [Pg 97] 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. ”

“ Sylvia's voice is then heard crying: "Father, please don't!" [A succession of dull thuds as of battering hoofs.] "Oh, do take care!"
Mrs. Futvoye.
[Lays down her work, rises, goes to the sliding-doors, and knocks.] Anthony! Don't go on like that, for goodness' sake! You must try and control yourself! Just think, if the servants heard you! [Jessie, a neat parlour-maid in morning costume, pink print, cap, and apron, enters from hall; Mrs. Futvoye hurriedly leaves the sofa by the sliding-doors, goes back to her chair, and takes up her work with an elaborate assumption of perfect calm.] ”