“So here we are. A mean, dreadful room. Lino on the floor, gas-fire, huge double bed with sheets vaguely dingy. Over the bed a framed coloured picture from La Vie Parisienne. A mistake, that. Sometimes the originals don’t compare so well. And, by Jove! on the bamboo table by the window, positively an aspidistra! Hast thou found me, O mine enemy? But come here, Dora. Let’s have a look at you.
He seemed to be lying on the bed. He could not see very well. Her youthful, rapacious face, with blackened eyebrows, leaned over him as he sprawled there.
‘How about my present?’ she demanded, half wheedling, half menacing.
Never mind that now. To work! Come here. Not a bad mouth. Come here. Come closer. Ah!
No. No use. Impossible. The will but not the way. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Try again. No. The booze, it must be. See Macbeth. One last try. No, no use. Not this evening, I’m afraid.
All right, Dora, don’t you worry. You’ll get your two quid all right. We aren’t paying by results.
He made a clumsy gesture. ‘Here, give us that bottle. That bottle off the dressing-table.’
Dora brought it. Ah, that’s better. That at least doesn’t fail. With hands that had swollen to monstrous size he up-ended the Chianti bottle. The wine flowed down his throat, bitter and choking, and some of it went up his nose. It overwhelmed him. He was slipping, sliding, falling off the bed. His head met the floor. His legs were still on the bed. For a while he lay in this position. Is this the way to live?
Down below the youthful voices were still mournfully singing:
‘For tonight we’ll merry be, For tonight we’ll merry be, For tonight we’ll merry be-e-e— Tomorrow we’ll be so-ober!’ “
-Chapter 8 Excerpt
