little joke, eh? [He reels against the table.] Or did I misunderstand you? My head's in such a muddle!
I tell thee that I have been confined within that accursed vessel for centuries beyond all calculation.
You can't pull my leg like that, you know! Seriously, just tell me who you are.
Know then that he who now addresseth thee is none other than Fakrash-el-Aamash, a Jinnee of the Green Jinn.
[Half to himself.] Singular, "Jinnee" – plural, "Jinn." Where did I hear that? I – I shall remember presently.
I dwelt in the Palace of the Mountain of the Clouds in the Garden of Irem, above the City of Babel.
[To himself.] Why, of course! Sylvia! The Arabian Nights! [To Fakrash.] I can quite account for you now– but go on.
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.
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!
Stroke thy head and recover thy faculties! I am real, even as thou art.
I shall come round in time! [By the table, to Fakrash.] You tell me you've just come out of this bottle?
Dost thou doubt that it is even as I have said?
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.
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!
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!
Oh, I shall be awake so soon it's not worth while troubling you.
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!
[Retreating in some alarm to window.] Look here. I don't want anything, and – and the best thing you can do is to vanish.
[At back of table.] Not till thou hast told me thy name and the trade that thou followest.
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.
[Coming down nearer bottle.] Grant thy servant a period of delay, and it may be that I can procure thee a client.
Good old Arabian Nights again! You'd better not make the delay long – my head will be clear very soon.
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.
I knew I was coming round – you'll be gone directly.
Aye, for I must seek out Suleymán – [salaaming] – on whom be peace! – and obtain pardon from him.
[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!
[Through door.] To thee also! And be assured that I will not be unmindful of thy welfare!
[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.
[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?
[Slightly surprised.] Yes, that's my name. [Offering chair on right of table.] Won't you sit down?
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.
I'm afraid I haven't much time to spare – but if it's anything of importance —
[Panting.] You must give me a little time – till I – ah – get my wind again.
Certainly. I know the stairs here are rather steep.
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.
[Who has obviously never heard it before.] Oh, of course – of course.
I may tell you that for the last few years I have rented an old place – Moatham Abbey they call it – in Surrey, which
