There came stretches of ten or twelve days when the German needed more
powerful stimulants than wine and literature, and he would get drunk
on whisky, drinking down half a flask as if it were so much water.
According to what he told Manuel, he was overwhelmed by an avalanche
of sadness; everything looked black and repulsive to his eyes, he felt
feverish and the one remedy for this melancholy was alcohol.
When he entered the tavern his heart was heavy and his head dull with
a surfeit of ugly notions, but as he drank he felt his heart grow
lighter and his breath come easier, while his head began to dance with
merry thoughts. When he left the tavern, however hard he tried, it was
impossible for him to preserve his dignity; laughter would flicker
upon his lips. Then songs of his native land would throng to his
memory and he would sing them aloud, beating time to them as he walked
on. As long as he went through the central thoroughfares he would walk
straight; no sooner did he reach the back streets, the deserted
avenues, than he would abandon himself to the pleasure of stumbling
along and staggering, with a bump here and a thump there. During these
moods everything seemed great and beautiful and superb to the German;
the sentimentalism of his race would overflow and he would begin to
recite verses and weep, and of whatever acquaintances he met on the
street he would beg forgiveness for his imaginary offence, asking
anxiously whether he still continued to enjoy their estimation and
offering his friendship.
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