, nay, became harder and more deeply
antagonistic to his surroundings, every moment. He recognised it as a
secret malady he suffered from: this strained, unacknowledged opposition
to his surroundings, a hard core of irrational, exhausting withholding
of himself. Irritating, because he still WANTED to give himself. A woman
and whiskey, these were usually a remedy--and music. But lately these
had begun to fail him. No, there was something in him that would not
give in--neither to the whiskey, nor the woman, nor even the music.
Even in the midst of his best music, it sat in the middle of him, this
invisible black dog, and growled and waited, never to be cajoled. He
knew of its presence--and was a little uneasy. For of course he _wanted_
to let himself go, to feel rosy and loving and all that. But at the very
thought, the black dog showed its teeth.

Still he kept the beast at bay--with all his will he kept himself as it
were genial. He wanted to melt and be rosy, happy.

He sipped his whiskey with gratification, he luxuriated in the presence
of the landlady, very confident of the strength of her liking for him.
He glanced at her profile--that fine throw-back of her hostile head,
wicked in the midst of her benevolence; that subtle, really very
beautiful delicate curve of her nose, that moved him exactly like a
piece of pure sound. But tonight it did not overcome him. There was a
devilish little cold eye in his brain that was not taken in by what he
saw.

A terrible obstinacy located itself in him. He saw the fine,
rich-coloured, secretive face of the Hebrew woman, so loudly
self-righteous, and so dangerous, so destructive, so lustful--and he
waited for his blood to melt with passion for her. But not tonight.
Tonight his innermost heart was hard and cold as ice. The very danger
and lustfulness of her, which had so pricked his senses, now made him
colder. He disliked her at her tricks. He saw her once too often. Her
and all women. Bah, the love game! And the whiskey that was to help in
the game! He had drowned himself once too often in whiskey and in love.
Now he floated like a corpse in both, with a cold, hostile eye.

And at least half of his inward fume was anger because he could no
longer drown. Nothing would have pleased him better than to feel his
senses melting and swimming into oneness with the dark. But impossible!
Cold, with a white fury inside him, he floated wide eyed and apart as
a corpse. He thought of the g