Mortadello

viii PREFACE I least dislike—the alleged ’15—and (here is the En- chantment) enough of it not to care any more whether I liked it or not. This with the coffee, and a cigar long enough to last through the scene that I was writing. If there is any imperfection in this scene—the third of the Third Act—it is either the fault of the Veuve Clicquot, or my own fault. This went on very well for a while, and then fresh trouble arose. The Giaconda was stolen from the Louvre, and my thoughts were turned for the fraction of an aeon to Lionardo when the Devil sent a young lady (from the solitudes of Mount Ushba or there- abouts) whose face and figure were identical with those of his “ Bacchus.” My fifth Act was completely spoiled. She replaced my portfolio at the table where I sit under the blazoned sign of Leo in the most secret corner of the café ; and though I refrained (throughout) from the unthinkable cynicism and blasphemy of ordering truffles whenever she was there, the circle was broken. The magician was slain by a spirit that he had not even evoked. Ulysses was in the arms of Circe ; Achilles was abed with Patroclus. The brutal Tunisian carpet-merchant, whom I must thank for Orlando, had at least contributed his mite ;