[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.