"At this moment, as I stand here," he said to himself, "'I am the Captain of my Soul,'" not in the least understanding that when he spoke of his own "soul" he meant nothing more than his five senses.
The man thought he was normal. He was not. On the morrow, when partially recovering from the excesses of to-day, there was a possibility that he might become normal—for a brief period, and until he began to drink again.
For him to become really himself, perfectly clean from the stigmata of the inebriate mind, would have taken him at least six months of total abstinence from alcohol.
Lothian's health, though impaired, had by no means broken down.
A strong constitution, immense vitality, had preserved it, up to this point. At this period, though a poisoned man, an alcoholised body, there were frequent times of absolute normality—when he was, for certain definite spaces of time by the clock, exactly as he would have been had he never become a slave to alcohol at all.
As he stood upon the pavement of Piccadilly Circus, he felt and believed that such a time had come now.
He was mistaken. All that was happening was that there was a temporary lull in the ebb and flow of alcohol in his veins. The brain cells were charged up to a certain point with poison. At this point they gave a false impression of security.
It must be remembered, and it cannot be too strongly insisted on, that the mental processes of the inebriate are definite, and are induced.
The ordinary person says of an inebriate simply that "he is a drunkard" or "he drinks." Whether he or she says it with sympathetic sorrow, or abhorrence, the bald statement rarely leads to any further train of thought.
It is very difficult for the ordinary person to realise that the mental processes are sui generis a Kingdom—though with a debased coinage—which requires considerable experience before it can always be recognised from the ring of true metal.