Diary of a Drug Fiend

196 The Diary of a Drug Fiend the greater are his possibilities. But he must refuse to surrender to his passions; he must make them serve him. “ Dienen! Dienen!” Who would kill a horse because he was afraid to ride him? It is better to mount, and dare the brute to bolt. After the man is thrown, we pick him up and nurse him, but we don’t adore him. Most men are like that. But what every woman is looking for is the man with the most spirited horse and the most complete mastery of him. That’s most symbolic in The Garden of Allah, where the monk who cannot ride takes a stallion out into the desert, determined to fight the thing out to a finish. Basil was not moved by the savage spite of Peter. He refused to be provoked. Whenever he got a chance to put a word in, he simply asserted the purpose of his visit. He did not even take the trouble to deny the main accusation. It tired Peter to dash himself so uselessly against the cliff of Basil’s contempt. I don’t mean that it was contempt, either, but his calm kindness was bound to be felt as contempt because Peter couldn’t help knowing how well he deserved disdain. He was aware of the fact that his abuse became weaker and emptier with every outburst. He simply pulled himself together with a last effort of animosity toward the friend who could have saved us, and ordered him out of the house. He made himself more ridiculous by posing as an outraged husband. Lofty morality is the last refuge when one feels oneself to be hopelessly in the wrong. It was the first time I had ever known Peter play the hypocrite. His professions of propriety were simply the measure of his indignity. There was nothing for Basil to do but to go. Peter pretended to have scored a triumph. It would not have deceived anybody, but—if there had been a chance—he cut away the pulpit from under his own