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No armour wherein my reason can invest me is of avail against
Carlotta. I have no strength to smite. I am helpless.
But by heaven! Am I mad? Is not this on the contrary the sanest
hour of my existence? I have lived like an automaton for forty
years, and I suddenly awake to find myself a man. I don't care
whether I sleep or not. I feel gloriously, exultingly young. I
am but twenty. As I have never lived, I have never grown old.
Life translates itself into musica wild Invitation to the
Waltz by some Archangel Weber. I laugh out loud. Polyphemus,
who has been regarding me with his one bantering eye from
Carlotta's corner on the sofa, leaps to the ground and
grotesquely curvets round the room in a series of impish hops.
Heigh, old boy? Do the pulsations of the music throb in your
veins, too? Come along and let us make a night of it. To the
Devil with sleep. We'll go together down to the cellar and find
a bottle of Pommery, and we will drink to Life and Youth and Love
and the Splendour and the Joy thereof.
He utters a little cry of delight and frisks around me. In the
blackness of the cellar his one eye gleams like a star and he
purrs unutterable rapture. My hand passed over his back produces
a shower of sparks. We return up the silent stairs, I carry a
bottle of Pommery and a milkjugfor you shall revel, too,
Polyphemus; and as I have forgotten to bring a saucer, you shall
drink, as no cat has drunk before, from an old precious platter
bearing the arms of the Estes of Ferraraover which Lucrezia
Borgia laughed when the world was young. It is a pity cats don't
drink champagne. I would have made you tonight as drunk as
Bacchus. We drink, and in the stillness the glouglou of his
tongue forms a bass to the elfin notes of the Pommery in the
sodawater tumbler.
Ha! Twin purveyors of the milk of paradise, I wonder like Omar
what you buy onehalf so precious as the stuff you sell. Motor
cars for Mrs. Pommery and cakes for the little Grenos? I do not
like to regard you as common humans addicted to silk hats and
umbrellas and the other vices of respectability. Ye are rather
beneficent demigods, Castor and Pollux of the vine, dream
entities who pour from the sunset lands of Nowhere the liquid
gold of life's joyousness.
A few words scribbled on this telegraph form would bring her here
tomorrow night. But no. What is a week? Leadenfooted, it is

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