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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In F. Anstey's whimsical novel, "The Brass Bottle," readers are invited into a clever narrative blending elements of fantasy and satire in Victorian England. The story revolves around a hapless architect, fittingly named Felix, who unwittingly unleashes a mischievous genie from a brass bottle. Through his sharp wit and vibrant prose, Anstey examines societal norms and human desires, using the magical elements as a vehicle for exploring Victorian conventions regarding ambition, class, and the human condition. The book revels in the dualities of desire and consequence, demonstrating how the fulfillment of wishes often unveils deeper truths about character and morality. F. Anstey, a British author known for his sharp humor and social commentary, drew inspiration from his experiences in the literary circles of London, where absurdity often intermingled with reality. With a background in penning successful comic pieces and novels, Anstey's adeptness at satire shines through in "The Brass Bottle," making it a testament to both his creativity and intellect. His exploration of magic and its implications reflects his keen observations about the intricacies of human nature and societal expectations. For readers who revel in a blend of humor, fantasy, and social critique, "The Brass Bottle" delivers an enchanting experience. Anstey's masterful storytelling and rich characterizations breathe life into a narrative that invites reflection on our own desires and the complexities that accompany them. This delightful novel is a must-read for enthusiasts of Victorian literature and fans of comedic fantasy alike.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Brass Bottle
Table of Contents
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
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 CaravanHead EfreetA Waiter (at the Savoy Hotel)Mrs. Futvoye (aged 55)Sylvia Futvoye (her Daughter, aged 21)Mrs. Rapkin (Ventimore's Landlady)Mrs. WackerbathJessie (Parlour-maid at the Futvoyes')Principal Dancing GirlCaravan 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 representsHorace Ventimore'srooms 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 toVentimore'sbedroom. 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. Rapkinenters. 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 asProfessor Futvoyeappears.
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, asProfessor, Mrs., andMiss Futvoyeenter from the other door.Professor Futvoyeis 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. Rapkinknocks at the bedroom door.] Mr. Ventimore! A gentleman and two ladies to see you. [She opens the door—then, to theProfessor.] 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.
[Sylviahas moved to the window; Mrs. Futvoyestands 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 theProfessor.] 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.
[ToSylvia.] 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 Pringleenters.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 theProfessor.] Professor! Well! this is unexpected.
[Sylviacomes 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. Futvoyesits down again.
Pringle.
[ToSylvia, 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!
[Sylviaturns 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 theProfessorandSylvia.] 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, takesSylvia'sparasol officiously, and places it in a corner, then returns.
Professor Futvoye.
[To his wife, but speaking atSylvia.] 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 andHorace Ventimorecomes in briskly.Horaceis a pleasant-looking young man, with a cheery and rather boyish manner; he comes down and greets theFutvoyeswithout seeingPringlefor the moment; Sylviahas 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. [Pringlerises, 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.
[SeesPringle.] 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?
[Sylviais 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 toSylvia, 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! [ToHorace.] 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.
[ToHorace.] 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. [TheProfessormakes 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.
