October 21st.--I am safe for another six months if I am careful, for mylast bout lasted longer than I expected. I suppose one of these days Ishall have a paroxysm that will kill me. I shall not regret it.
I wonder if this familiar of mine--I begin to detest theexpression--will accuse me of endeavouring to make a case for myselfif I say that I believe my madness to be a disease? I do believe it.I honestly can no more help getting drunk than a lunatic can helpscreaming and gibbering. It would be different with me, perhaps, wereI a contented man, happily married, with children about me, and familycares to distract me. But as I am--a lonely, gloomy being, debarred fromlove, devoured by spleen, and tortured with repressed desires--I becomea living torment to myself. I think of happier men, with fair wivesand clinging children, of men who are loved and who love, of Frere forinstance--and a hideous wild beast seems to stir within me, a monster,whose cravings cannot be satisfied, can only be drowned in stupefyingbrandy.
Penitent and shattered, I vow to lead a new life; to forswear spirits,to drink nothing but water. Indeed, the sight and smell of brandy makeme ill. All goes well for some weeks, when I grow nervous, discontented,moody. I smoke, and am soothed. But moderation is not to be thought of;little by little I increase the dose of tobacco. Five pipes a day becomesix or seven. Then I count up to ten and twelve, then drop to three orfour, then mount to eleven at a leap; then lose count altogether. Muchsmoking excites the brain. I feel clear, bright, gay. My tongue isparched in the morning, however, and I use liquor to literally "moistenmy clay". I drink wine or beer in moderation, and all goes well. Mylimbs regain their suppleness, my hands their coolness, my brain itsplacidity. I begin to feel that I have a will. I am confident, calm,and hopeful. To this condition succeeds one of the most frightfulmelancholy. I remain plunged, for an hour together, in a stupor ofdespair. The earth, air, sea, all appear barren, colourless. Life is aburden. I long to sleep, and sleeping struggle to awake, because of theawful dreams which flap about me in the darkness. At night I cry, "Wouldto God it were morning!" In the morning, "Would to God it were evening!"I loathe myself, and all around me. I am nerveless, passionless, boweddown with a burden like the burden of Saul. I know well what willrestore me to life and ease--restore me, but to cast me back again intoa deeper fit of despair. I drink. One glass--my blood is warmed, myheart leaps, my hand no longer shakes. Three glasses--I rise with hopein my soul, the evil spirit flies from me. I continue--pleasing imagesflock to my brain, the fields break into flower, the birds into song,the sea gleams sapphire, the warm heaven laughs. Great God! what mancould withstand a temptation like this?
By an effort, I shake off the desire to drink deeper, and fix mythoughts on my duties, on my books, on the wretched prisoners. I succeedperhaps for a time; but my blood, heated by the wine which is at once mypoison and my life, boils in my veins. I drink again, and dream. I feelall the animal within me stirring. In the day my thoughts wander to allmonstrous imaginings. The most familiar objects suggest to me loathsomethoughts. Obscene and filthy images surround me. My nature seemschanged. By day I feel myself a wolf in sheep's clothing; a manpossessed by a devil, who is ready at any moment to break out and tearhim to pieces. At night I become a satyr. While in this torment I atonce hate and fear myself. One fair face is ever before me, gleamingthrough my hot dreams like a flying moon in the sultry midnight of atropic storm. I dare not trust myself in the presence of those whomI love and respect, lest my wild thoughts should find vent in wilderwords. I lose my humanity. I am a beast. Out of this depth there is butone way of escape. Downwards. I must drench the monster I have awakeneduntil he sleeps again. I drink and become oblivious. In these lastparoxysms there is nothing for me but brandy. I shut myself up alone andpour down my gullet huge draughts of spirit. It mounts to my brain. I ama man again! and as I regain my manhood, I topple over--dead drunk.
But the awakening! Let me not paint it. The delirium, the fever, theself-loathing, the prostration, the despair. I view in the looking-glassa haggard face, with red eyes. I look down upon shaking hands, flaccidmuscles, and shrunken limbs. I speculate if I shall ever be one of thosegrotesque and melancholy beings, with bleared eyes and running noses,swollen bellies and shrunken legs! Ugh!--it is too likely.
For the Term of His Natural Life Page 81