No
wonder foreigners, on tasting these concoctions, vow they will never
touch Strega again....
We had a prolonged argument, over the coffee, about this Strega
adulteration, during which I tried to make my friend comprehend how I
thought the grievance ought to be remedied. How? By an injunction. That
was the way to redress these wrongs. You obtain an injunction, I said,
such as the French Chartreuse people obtained against the manufacturers
of the Italian "Certosa," which was thereafter obliged to change its
name to "Val D'Emma." More than once I endeavoured to set forth, in
language intelligible to his understanding, what an injunction
signified; more than once I explained how well-advised the Strega
Company would be to take this course.
In vain!
He always missed my point. He always brought in some personal element,
whereas I, as usual, confined myself to general lines, to the principle
of the thing. Italians are sometimes unfathomably obtuse.
"But what is an injunction?" he repeated.
"If you were a little younger, there might be some hope for you. I would
then try to explain it again, for the fiftieth time. Instead of that,
what do you say to taking a nap?"
"Ah! You have eaten too much."
"Not at all. But please to note that I am tired of explaining things to
people who refuse to understand."
"No doubt, no doubt. Yes. A little sleep might freshen you up."
"And perhaps inspire you with another subject of conversation."
In the little hotel there were no rooms available just then wherein we
might have slumbered, and another apartment higher up the street
promising lively sport for which we were disinclined at that hour, we
moved laboriously into the chestnut woods overhead.
