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I must have been born wicked. But I used to be happy. I never wanted to go to dream-cities. I was just like a cat. Like Polyphemus. Do you remember Polyphemus?" "Yes," said I. And then set off my balance by this strange conversation with Carlotta, I added: "I killed him." She turned a startled face to me. "You killed him? Why?" "He laughed at me because I was unhappy," said I. "Through me?"
Longo-bucco, at that moment, arose before me like those dream-cities in the Arabian tale, conjured by enchantment out of the desert waste.
It was easier to go a-building among those dream-cities where no limitations were imposed, and one was sole architect, with a free hand. Down a delectable street of cloud-built palaces I was mentally pacing, when I happened upon the Artist. He was seated at work by the roadside, at a point whence the cool large spaces of the downs, juniper-studded, swept grandly westwards.
"My dear child," said I, "what is the meaning of all this? Here we have been living for months the most tranquil and unruffled existence, and now suddenly you begin to talk about dream-cities and the impossibility of getting there, and I turn angry and heave parasols about Africa. What is the meaning of it?"
We jogged on a little in silence. At last she drew very close to me. "Shall we ever get there?" she asked, pointing ahead with the hand that held the reins. "To Mogador? Yes, I hope so," I answered with a laugh. I thought she was tired. "No, not Mogador. The dream-city where every one wants to get." "You have travelled far, my dear," said I, "to hanker now after dream-cities and the unattainable.
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