[Pringle opens the door for her, and she goes out.
Sylvia.
[Going to Pringle, and taking his hand.] Dear, dear Mr. Pringle! Where should we be without you?
Pringle.
[Modestly.] Don't mention it, Miss Sylvia! That is—no trouble, I assure you!
[They come down together to the left, talking in dumb show.
Horace.
[Going to Fakrash on the right.] You—you pig-headed old muddler—[pointing to Sylvia and Pringle]—look at that! You've done for me this time.
Fakrash.
[Darkly.] Nay—not yet.
[Mrs. Futvoye enters from the hall, carrying a glass goblet full of water.
Mrs. Futvoye.
[To Fakrash.] I've brought it in this, but if you prefer a breakfast-cup——
The Mule.
[Impatiently.] What the devil does it matter? Let him get on with it!
Fakrash.
[As he meets Mrs. Futvoye and takes the goblet from her.] This will serve. [He goes up to The Mule and sprinkles some drops of water on its head.] Quit this form and return unto the form in which thou wert!
[The Mule fades into the Professor, who appears gasping and in an extremely bad temper; Pringle shifts the sofa to let him pass; Fakrash retires to near the window.
Sylvia.
[Rushing to the Professor.] Father!
Mrs. Futvoye.
[Coming to his other side.] Now, Anthony, after all you have been through, you'd better sit down for a little.
Sylvia.
[As she and Mrs. Futvoye bring him down to the chair left of sofa on right.] It is lovely to have you back, father dear!
Pringle.
[Joining them.] You're looking better already, sir!
Professor Futvoye.
[Sinking into the chair by sofa.] Tut-tut! There, there—nothing to make all this fuss about! If one of you had only had the sense to try cold water, I should have come round long before this!
Sylvia.
But, father!—you forget that, but for Mr. Pringle——
Professor Futvoye.
No, my dear, I do not. I owe much—very much—to Pringle's good offices—as I shall remember, my dear Pringle, as I shall remember. But I attribute my restoration in some measure to the fact that—from first to last—I was able to preserve perfect calm and self-control.
Pringle.
[With an involuntary glance at the study, in which every article of furniture is smashed.] Quite so! And now I want you—all three—to celebrate your recovery by dining with me this evening at the Savoy. You promised you would last night, Professor. Not in the restaurant—I'll engage a private room.
Professor Futvoye.
No, no—not to-night, my boy. I don't feel up to going out just yet.
Mrs. Futvoye.
Nonsense, Anthony! You can dine out anywhere now, you know—and it will do you good. Thank you, Mr. Pringle, we shall be delighted. Sha'n't we, Sylvia?
Sylvia.
I think I would rather stay at home this evening, mother.
[Pringle tries to persuade her in by-play.
Professor Futvoye.
[Rising.] We'll come, Pringle, we'll come. [To Fakrash, who is still standing by the window.] Now then, sir, you've got all you came for—what are you waiting for?
Fakrash.
To receive thy thanks.
Professor Futvoye.
What? For exposing me to all this humiliation! You'll get no thanks from me, sir—and the sooner you and your accomplice relieve this house of your presence the better!
Fakrash.
[Moving to right behind the sofa.] Let the rat, while he is still between the leopard's paws, observe rigidly all the laws of politeness! Take heed—or thou mayst become more hideous even than a mule!
[General sensation.
Professor Futvoye.
Eh? I spoke hastily—but I meant nothing offensive! I—I'm very much obliged to you. And now don't let us detain you—either of you—from your other engagements.
Horace.
[Coming forward.] I'm going, sir—but I must say one last word to Sylvia——!
Fakrash.
[To Sylvia.] Hearken not to this deceiver, O damsel,—for he will never wed thee!
Sylvia.
[Indignantly.] I'll never wed him!
Fakrash.
Thou wilt not—for he is betrothed to a darker bride.
Horace.
What!
Sylvia.
Ah! [To Horace, coldly.] The—the lady I met last night? I wish you every happiness. [Turning to Pringle.] On second thoughts, Mr. Pringle, I will come to dinner to-night.
[Pringle expresses his gratification.
Horace.
[Going nearer Sylvia.] Sylvia! It may be for the last time——!
Fakrash.
It is! Come! [He extends his right hand towards Horace, who is irresistibly drawn backwards to him.] For I will tarry no longer.
[He seizes his arm.
Horace.
[Making an ineffectual resistance.] Let me go, Fakrash! Where are you taking me to?
Fakrash.
[Seizes him round the waist.] To meet—[he soars up with Horace through the open window on the right, and the remainder of the sentence is continued outside in mid-air]—thy bride!
[The others go to window and gaze after them, pointing upwards.
Pringle.
[With solemn disapproval.] Disgraceful! They've flown right over the chimney-pots!
THE CURTAIN FALLS.
END OF THE THIRD ACT.
THE FOURTH ACT
SCENE I
Horace's rooms, as in the opening of the play.
The time is immediately after the close of the Third Act.
As the curtain rises Mrs. Rapkin is arranging various articles on the table. Rapkin enters from the door leading to landing, carrying a pair of boots on trees, which he takes into Horace's bedroom by the door down on the right, and then returns.
Rapkin.
[Uneasily, to Mrs. Rapkin.] Marire, did Mr. Ventimore say anythink this morning—regarding last night?
Mrs. Rapkin.
Ah, you may well ask! After sneakin' off first thing like you did, and leavin' me to make your excuses!
Rapkin.
You'd some to make on your own, Marire. [Sitting on right of table.] If his friends got any dinner, it was no thanks to you!
Mrs. Rapkin.
I'd never have gone if I 'adn't fancied the 'ouse was changed into Arabian 'alls and full o' grinnin' niggers!
Rapkin.
Fancied! Why, I see 'em same as you did, didn't I?
Mrs. Rapkin.
You! You'd ha' seen anythink in the condition you was in! And, any'ow, the 'ouse was just as usual when we come in.
Rapkin.
It was—and that on'y made it all the rummier! For you can't deny as there was somethink queer goin' on 'ere.
Mrs. Rapkin.
[Severely.] There was you, William! And you'll go on from bad to worse if you don't give up nippin'!
[She goes up to bookcase on the left.
Rapkin.
Oh, come orf it, Marire! You tole me yourself you see a percession of camels stop at our door long before I got 'ome!
Mrs. Rapkin.
And I did—if it was my last words. Camuels and furrin' parties as brought in packages off of them. Luckily, they was all gone afore the neighbours 'ad time to take notice. [Coming down to table.] And the best thing you and me can do is to let bygones be bygones, and 'old our tongues about it.
Rapkin.
All very fine—but 'ow do we know Mr. Ventimore mayn't be up to more of these 'ere games?
Mrs. Rapkin.
Mr. Ventimore! I did blame him—at first. But I'm sure now as 'e 'ad nothink to do with it. 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.] And who's that?
Horace.
[Disengaging himself from Fakrash, and stepping in.] That will do, Mrs. Rapkin. Can't I bring a—a friend in with me without your making all this fuss about it?
Mrs. Rapkin.
[Rising, with dignity.] When you and your friends come flyin' in at first-floor windows like pidgins, Mr. Ventimore, you must expect some notice to be took. [Rapkin makes a movement to the left as though fascinated by Fakrash, who stands impassively by the window.] It's giving my 'ouse a bad name, and, as I've always kep' these apartments respectable 'itherto, you'll be good enough to find others where they're less partickler, for put up with it I won't!
Horace.
All right, all right! You can go now—[touching Rapkin, who seems spellbound with fear of Fakrash]—both of you. I've some business to settle with this—gentleman.
Mrs. Rapkin.
[At door.] I'm going.
Rapkin.
[As he follows, still keeping his eyes on Fakrash.] 'E's done it, Marire—sold 'isself, 'e 'as! Ah! [As he goes out with Mrs. Rapkin.] I wouldn't be in his shoes for somethink!
[The moment they have gone Horace rushes to the door, opens it to make sure that they are not listening outside, then locks it, and comes down to Fakrash in a white rage.
Horace.
Now then, you—you unspeakable old swine! What do you mean by bringing me here like this?
Fakrash.
[Crossing to the right.] Verily I was tempted to drop thee in mid-air, forgetting my purpose.
Horace.
To introduce me to that precious bride of yours, eh? I've told you already I'll have nothing to do with her.
Fakrash.
Thou canst not escape this bride—[he suddenly produces a huge scimitar and brandishes it]—for her name is—Death!
Horace.
Death! I say, you don't mean that! [As Fakrash advances on him with a sweep of the scimitar, which Horace ducks to avoid.] Yes, you do! [Backing below window.] By Gad! you're dangerous! Well, just tell me this—what on earth have I done to deserve death?
Fakrash.
I have brought thee hither—not to parley with thee, but to strike off thy head in the very place of thy perjuries.
Horace.
[Trying to keep cool.] I see. You seem to have forgotten that this is the very place where I let you out of that bottle.
Fakrash.
[Wrathfully.] Far better were it hadst thou suffered me to remain therein!
Horace.
I quite agree with you there. [As Fakrash makes another cut at him with the scimitar.] Now, before you begin this execution, you'd better listen to me. You've got hold of some quite imaginary grievance, and I can tell you you'll look uncommonly foolish if you find after you've cut off my head that there's nothing in it—[correcting himself, annoyed]—in the grievance, I mean!
Fakrash.
O thou of plausible tongue, know that I have discovered thy treachery and deceit! Didst thou not assure me that I was free to wander where I would, since there was no longer any that had authority over the Jinn!
Horace.
I don't know of anybody that has. [Half to himself.] Wish to Heaven I did!
Fakrash.
[With raised scimitar.] Thou hast lied—for there is such a potentate! Since I visited thee this morn I have traversed many lands—and in all have I seen the signs of his dominion and his wrath against us of the Jinn!
Horace.
[Blankly.] I've no idea what you're driving at.
Fakrash.
Again thou liest! [As he is about to raise scimitar again Horace keeps Fakrash's right arm down.] From this very spot whereon we stand thou canst behold such signs. [Pointing with left hand through the open windows.] Tell me, what are yonder strongholds of blackened brick?
Horace.
[Mystified.] Those? Oh, factories—works of sorts.
Fakrash.
[Pointing with scimitar.] And yonder strange and gigantic cylinders red as blood?
Horace.
[Pushing Fakrash's hand away.] Gasometers.
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! I'll try to tell you. [He seats himself on the edge of the table.] The—er—potentate has several names, but his most popular title is Progress.
Fakrash.
[Salaaming.] On whom be peace!
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.
Horace.
[Relieved.] I think you're wise. [Getting down from the table.] And I tell you what—if you'll only make it worth my while I'll seal you up myself.
Fakrash.
O thou of imperfect understanding! Ere I re-enter my bottle thy head will already have been smitten from thy shoulders. [Pointing scimitar across table at Horace.] How, then, couldst thou——?
Horace.
[Wincing.] You needn't go on—I quite see your point. Only—if I don't seal you up, who will?
Fakrash.
[Confidently.] I shall summon my Efreets to enclose me within the bottle and transport it to the Sea of El-Karkar, where I shall be undisturbed.
Horace.
[Slightly dashed for the moment.] Oh! is that the idea? [Catching at a straw.] But Efreets, eh? [Watching him keenly.] Are you quite sure you can trust 'em? You know what Efreets are! [With triumph, as Fakrash plucks at his beard uneasily.] Ah! I thought you did!
Fakrash.
Thinkest thou that they might betray me?
Horace.
They'd love it! And as soon as they got you safely corked up, what's to prevent them from handing you over to Progress? Progress won't put up with your little ways—you can't go about beheading architects in this country without paying for your fun. I expect you'd catch it devilish hot!
Fakrash.
[Falling on his knees in sudden terror.] Repentance, O Progress! I will not return to the like conduct ever! [He rises trembling.] Willingly will I depart from the world as it now is—for it hath ceased to be a pleasure-garden and become a place of desolation and horror!
Horace.
[Calmly.] Quite so; and I can help you to return from it. I'm not an Efreet, and if I undertake to bottle you up and drop you into a deep part of our river here, you can depend on me to do it.
Fakrash.
Undertake this, and in return I will grant thee thy life.
Horace.
[Disguising his satisfaction.] Not good enough! You must offer better terms than that! What have you done to deserve any help from me?
Fakrash.
Have I not loaded thee with kindnesses?
Horace.
Kindnesses! Till I met you I was happy and hopeful—now, I'm miserable and desperate!
Fakrash.
Is not life itself a sufficient boon?
Horace.
What? When you've parted me for ever from the girl I love! Life is no boon to me now. If you don't put an end to me I shall do it myself—by jumping over that balcony and breaking my neck!... I've a good mind to do it now.
[He makes a sudden movement towards the balcony as though to carry out his threat.
Fakrash.
[Detaining him.] Hold! I entreat thee! Do not abandon me thus, and all that I have done I will undo!
[As he speaks he throws away the scimitar, which, to Horace's amazement, vanishes.
Horace.
[Going to the right with his back to the audience.] That's more like business! But—can you undo the mischief you've done?
Fakrash.
With the greatest ease that can be! [He stalks towards the window, extends his right arm, and mutters some cryptic sentence, then turns complacently to Horace.] I have obliterated from the minds of thy betrothed and her parents all memory of myself and the brass bottle, and of every incident connected therewith.
Horace.
By Jove! That's rather a neat way out—[with sudden doubt]—if you've really done all that!
Fakrash.
May I be thy ransom if it be not accomplished!
Horace.
Well,—I must take your word for it. But there's Mr. and Mrs. Wackerbath,—can you make them forget everything connected with you—except that I'm to build them a house?
Fakrash.
[Going to the window and repeating the incantation, then returning to the centre of the room.] All else hath utterly passed from their recollection.
Horace.
Splendid! Do the thing well while you're about it—better throw in their coachman—oh, and the couple you saw here just now,—the Rapkins.
Fakrash.
[Repeats the incantation, facing the door.] It is done. They remember naught of that they have seen. And now ask no more of me, but perform thy part and bring hither my bottle.
Horace.
[Going to door down on the right.] Right! I'll go and get it out of my bedroom.
[He goes out.
Fakrash.
[Pacing up and down in suspense and terror.] Haste! Haste! For until I am in my bottle once more every instant is an eternity!
Horace.
[Returning with the bottle, which he sets down on the floor in front of the mantelpiece.] Here's your bottle! Got the stopper?
Fakrash.
[After some fumbling in his robes, finds the metal cap and gives it to Horace.] It is here. Now swear to me by the beard of Progress that thou wilt drop me into deep waters, even as thou hast promised!
Horace.
I swear it—by the beard of Progress—on whom be peace!... You step in, sir, and leave the rest to me.
Fakrash.
[As he raises his arms and moves towards the fireplace.] To escape into a bottle is pleasant!
Horace.
Fakrash.
[Who is now behind the bottle, with his arms extended in supplication and his back to the audience.] Towbah yah nebbi ullah Anna lah amill Kathalik ibadan! Wullah hi!
[With the last words he disappears through the neck of the bottle.
Horace.
[Standing by the bottle with the cap.] Tucked yourself in comfortably? Say when.
[There is a knock at the door leading to landing.
Fakrash's Voice.
[From interior of bottle.] I am betrayed! The constables of Progress are without! Let me forth that I may slay them and secure safety!
Horace.
[Promptly clapping on the cap and screwing it tightly.] You're safer where you are, old cocky! Good-bye! [Wipes his forehead.] Phew! Near thing that! [The knock is repeated.] All right! Wait a bit! I'm busy!
[He takes the bottle into his bedroom.
Rapkin's Voice.
[Outside door.] All right, sir! [Horace returns, goes to door at back, and unlocks it; to Rapkin, who is seen with a telegram.] What is it?
Rapkin.
[Entering.] Reply telegram, sir. [Handing it to Horace.] Boy's waiting.
Horace.
[Reading the telegram.] "Can you dine with wife and self, Savoy Hotel, 8.15 to-night? Quite small party. Could discuss plans new house. Ask for 'Pinafore' Room.—Wackerbath." Good! Wackerbath's all right, anyhow! [He pulls a chair to the table and sits down to fill up the reply form. As he does so his face suddenly clouds.] The Savoy, though! Pringle's dining there to-night.... Good Lord! I forgot all about Pringle! I wonder if Fakrash has made him forget? If he didn't, by George! there'll be a pretty kettle of fish!
Rapkin.
[Thinking he is being addressed.] Beg pardon, sir?
Horace.
Nothing—I wasn't speaking to you. [Finishes writing the form and hands it to Rapkin.] Can you read it?
Rapkin.
[Reading.] "Delighted. Savoy, 8.15 to-night.—Ventimore." Excuse me, sir, but when is it you're expecting friends to dinner 'ere?
Horace.
[At a loss for the moment.] Er—when? I—I'm not sure. [As he crosses to his bedroom.] Oh, just tell Mrs. Rapkin I should like to see her.
[He goes into bedroom.
Rapkin.
[Looking round, as Mrs. Rapkin enters from landing.] Mr. Ventimore was just asking for you, Marire.
Mrs. Rapkin.
[Surprised.] Was he? I didn't know he'd come in.
[She crosses to the bookcase, places a newspaper on the shelf on left of fireplace, then goes to the windows and closes them.
Rapkin.
Nor yet me—but he 'ave.
[He goes out, leaving door open.
Horace.
[Coming from bedroom, carrying a bulky and apparently heavy kit-bag.] I only wanted to tell you that I sha'n't be in to dinner to-night, Mrs. Rapkin.
[He sets the bag down on the table.
Mrs. Rapkin.
Goin' out of town, sir?
Horace.
No. Why? [Mrs. Rapkin indicates the bag.] Oh, this kit-bag? I'm lending it—to a friend of mine. Just going to see him off—[taking up the bag again and going to the door]—for a long holiday. I shall come in to dress. [To himself.] Fool I was to forget Pringle!
[As Horace goes out the stage is in darkness for an interval of a minute or two, after which the curtain rises on the last scene.
SCENE II
The "Pinafore" private room at the Savoy Hotel.
At the back is a wide arch, beyond which is a glazed balcony, with a view over the tops of the Embankment trees of the river and the Surrey bank, with the Shot Towers, &c., and the ends of Waterloo Bridge on the extreme left, and of Charing Cross Railway Bridge on the extreme right.
At the rising of the curtain this view is seen in a warm sunset glow.
Above the arch there is a door on the right, leading to the corridor and restaurant; another on the left, by which the waiters come in and go out.
Below the arch, down on the right, is a fireplace; above the fireplace, at right angles to it, a couch, and behind the couch a long flower-stand filled with flowers and palms.
Up the stage, centre, is a round table, laid for six persons, and elaborately decorated with pink Gloire de France roses, under rose-shaded lamp. Six chairs are placed round it, and a seventh chair is in the glazed balcony.
Below the arch, on the left, is another door, and down on left, at a slight angle, a sofa, with occasional tables and chairs. Against the wall on left is a glazed cabinet.
The furniture and decorations are copied from the original room in the Savoy Hotel.
As the curtain rises the Second Waiter is placing the napkins under the supervision of the First Waiter. Waltz music is heard from the restaurant on the right.
Pringle's Voice.
[Outside door above arch, to unseen attendant.] "Entrance from the Embankment as well," eh? Well, why didn't you tell me that? My friends have probably come in that way while I was waiting at the other end! This is the "Pinafore" Room, isn't it? Very well, then—I expect I shall find them in here. [He enters, and looks round the room.] No. They don't seem to have arrived yet.
First Waiter.
[By the table.] Not yet. They vill be here soon.
[The Second Waiter goes out.
Pringle.
Eh? Well, I hope so, I'm sure. They're behind their time as it is. [Inspecting table.] H'm! Not bad. But you needn't have had all those roses—half a dozen would have been quite sufficient. And—hang it all! You've laid for six people!
First Waiter.
Pardon, m'sieu—we receive orders to lay for six person.
Pringle.
Nonsense! Your orders were to lay for four. A "petty party carry"—if you know what that means.
First Waiter.
Parfaitement—but I think perhaps there is some mistake. This is the "Pinafore" Room.
Pringle.
I know that—and the manager told me this morning on the telephone that he's reserved the "Pinafore" Room for me. I'm only expecting three guests, though; so just clear away those two extra places, and look sharp about it.
[The Second Waiter returns.
First Waiter.
But excuse—the manager he say to me——
Pringle.
Confound you, do you suppose I don't know how many people I've asked? Have the table altered at once, or I shall send for the manager.
First Waiter.
[With a shrug.] Bien, m'sieu! You tell me there is a mistake—that is enoff—I alter it.
[He gives orders in an undertone to the Second Waiter, who removes two of the chairs to the balcony, and takes off the corresponding plates, glasses, &c.
Pringle.
[As he comes down to the left.] I sha'n't pay for more than four—mind that! [To himself, as he sits on the couch down left.] It's going to cost me quite enough without that, I can see! [The Westminster Clock-tower is heard striking the quarter; Pringle takes out his watch.] Eight-fifteen! And I asked them for eight sharp. Very singular—the Professor's generally so punctual! [He rises eagerly as the door on right above arch opens.] Ah, here they are! [Horace enters and comes down; Pringle draws himself up stiffly.] What, you, Ventimore! I scarcely expected to see you here to-night.
[The two Waiters go out; the waltz music stops.
Horace.
[Coming down to couch by fireplace.] Didn't you? I rather thought I might run across you, somehow.
Pringle.
[Austerely.] Considering that, when I last saw you, you were flying over the chimney-pots with an Oriental enchanter you had released from a brass bottle——
Horace.
[Seating himself on sofa by fireplace.] Ah! So you haven't forgotten!
Pringle.
It's hardly a thing one would be likely to forget in a hurry. You were being conducted to meet your bride, I think—are you beginning your honeymoon in this hotel?
Horace.
If you want to know, I'm here because I'm dining with the Wackerbaths.
Pringle.
What!—the client I met in your office this morning? Then he must have an uncommonly short memory, that's all! But, whether you're dining with him or not, that's no reason why you should have forced your way in here! I suppose you're hoping that, if you can only see Miss Futvoye——
Horace.
You're wrong, Pringle, quite wrong. I don't in the least expect to see Miss Futvoye here to-night. And I very much doubt if you will, either.
Pringle.
Do you? You wouldn't if you'd heard her parting words to me this afternoon. I said to her: "You won't forget?" Her answer was: "As if I could—after all you've done for us!"
Horace.
It—it's just possible that all of them may have forgotten an engagement which was made under—rather peculiar circumstances.
Pringle.
That's just why they're not likely to forget it. [Going to fireplace, and standing with his back to it.] They may be here at any moment!
Horace.
They may—but, if I were you, I shouldn't count on them.
Pringle.
I do count on them—and I consider your intrusion here in the worst possible taste. I think you might have the decency to go!
Horace.
[Rising.] I tell you I'm here because this is the room which Wackerbath asked me to come to.
Pringle.
It won't do, you know! If it was, he'd be here to receive you—which he isn't.