# Confessions of an English Hachish-Eater/Chapter 2

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II. Nightmare.
ONE of the most delightful of the many sensations produced by hachish is the one which the Orientals call "Keef." It often follows upon periods of great mental excitement, and may be described as a feeling of immense and illimitable calm, of sublime spiritual elevation, and of complete liberation from the trammels of the flesh. The true body seems to painlessly shrivel and shrink off, leaving nothing but a kind of linga sharira, or astral body, which is transparent and imponderable. While he is in this blissful condition the hachish-eater floats like thistle-down in the air, but, instead of being the sport of the breeze, he can by the slightest possible exercise of the will, or rather of the wish, transport himself in any direction or to any distance. And so real is this sensation that once, when I was enjoying it and was, in imagination, ​floating easily about my room, I remember noticing that a thick layer of dust covered the top of a bookcase. In my dream I made a mark in the dust with my finger; and, when I got rid of the effects of the drug, my first action was to mount a chair in order to see, not whether I had actually made my mark, but whether I could not remove the dust without summoning a servant.
This condition is, I say, one of the most delightful of experiences. It often, however, introduces some of the most disagreeable sensations,—disagreeable, that is, when felt for the first time, but afterwards only gruesomely grotesque.
For instance, I had once been in "Keef," and seemed to imagine, as I lay back in an arm-chair, that the effects of the drug were passing off. I stretched myself, as if I were awaking from a heavy sleep, and attempted to thrust my hand through my hair, when, horror! my fingers passed through my crackling skull, and into my warm, cheesy brain!
At another time, too, as I leaned ​forward to rise, my head rolled from off my shoulders, and, falling to the floor, broke and burst like a huge egg upon the carpet.
And once again,—it is unpleasant to have to describe the fantasy,—as I walked falteringly hither and thither, the whole of my internal economy fell out with a hideous splash.
But more commonly, "Keef" gives way to, and blends itself with, a species of fantastic nightmare. I remember well how, having for a long time sat in adoring contemplation of a divinely lovely sylph, I saw her move slowly away, and, agonised at the idea of losing her, followed the retreating figure to the entrance of a stone staircase that led downwards into the dimly lighted bowels of the earth. She descended, and I went after her. In a moment she disappeared, for the staircase was a winding one; but I could still hear the patter of her bare feet, and I quickened my pace. In a few minutes I ceased to be master of my movements. My progress became a run, a head-long rush, and then a sheer ​precipitation. Finally I reached the bottom: but, as my feet touched the stone pavement, they clung to it and grew to it and became one with it; and when I looked for my sylph, she had turned into a creature like a bat with long crane like legs, and stood laughing at me there, and assuring me that never, never again should I budge from the centre of the earth. And sometimes "Keef" merges into a kind of witches' sabbath, a grotesquely revolting danse macabre. I can best illustrate this kind of transition by means of a story. I do not mean to say that the incidents which are described occured to me in consecutive order. In my dream I simply was conscious of the two conditions; first the "Keef" state, the state of blissful happiness and contentment, and second the nightmare of horror, disgust, rebellion and fiendish revengefulness and exultation. Each of the two came before me as a mental panorama. The one merged into the other, I scarcely know how. They were separated, and yet intimately blending, just like dissolving ​views. The intermediate section represents this process of dissolution.
1
I used to love!
It is an old story, for all men tell it thoughtlessly. But, when I say that I loved, I mean something more than most men mean. I used indeed to love. In those old days I ate and drank love. Perhaps the diet was a sickly one, yet it was enough for me. Nay! I could not do without it. People had whispered to me tales of change and treachery and falsehood: but did such things trouble me? I was set far above the little things that make earth wretched. She and I were like gods. For us there was nothing false or vain. I was once grieved with myself because a doubting fancy floated lightly across a dream of mine. Any kind of doubt seemed sacrilege. It stained the purity of my faith and her trust. I had no aim save love. I thought only of her: and she, I was persuaded, thought only of me. How could such true passion lead to anything save happiness? And how ​could I doubt, when her lips were mine to kiss; and her blue eyes, after looking dreamily into mine, closed as if in ecstasy, while her cheeks grew pale as primroses, until it seemed that her dear life was about to flee away? She was mine. Could any other man's kiss be to her what mine was? No! we were one in body, brain and spirit, one for ever. Yet I loved her so well that, had it been needful, I could have given her up to another and I told her so. And she answered that, although she might die, she could never change and that for her there were no other future and no other love. I was cruel in my kindliness, she said: and she kissed me with her red lips and bid me never be so cruel again. Then, to my eyes, she became an angel; and God forgive me if I worshipped her, no longer a woman but a thing of glory, so lovely she was. She had bound me to her with a thousand fairy spells and tricks, until I no longer reasoned. To gaze upon her was to be her ready slave; and to kiss her was to enter paradise.
​Thus time went on. My days were fair and bright, for I had found the perfect woman of a young man's dream, and gained the perfect love of a young man's imaginings. And she was as fair and bright as the days. Our love did not cloy; and it did not harden into duty; for all her wiles were fresh and grew no older: every hour she taught me some new wonder. What are the dreams of midnight? What are the reveries that come to a man in the sunshine of the afternoon? They only paint some fleeting scene the memory of which lingers deliciously for at most an hour. But the craft of love endures. Visions are on gossamer webs: but the landscapes of love are realities. You may touch and handle them. In love's woods there are live birds that sing true songs as sweet as the ditties of grey Rhineland. Love is no mirage on the haze of the desert. It is a fair oasis with a well of cool clear water lurking beneath green leaves and sparkling like a gem in the twilight. Everyone at first doubts the reality: but all may play Saint Thomas; ​and none can doubt for long. And then the lover finds how he is lord. All is his and for him; and all depends upon him and is the complement of him. The discovery may make him swoon; but when his life comes back to him again he will see the trees and flowers still fresh beside him. He has gained a kind of perpetual youth. His wonder cannot tire: his longing cannot flag for every hour joy comes to him unexpected and in new disguise.
There was a serpent in Eden: but only love was in my paradise; and there was no room for aught else. The whole air that wrapped us round was love; and it folded us in from hell and earth. Other things might be doubtful; but love was not. It was deathless and almighty. Who can doubt his own heart? Who can doubt the heart that he possesses as his own? Who can doubt the woman who slumbers in his arms, fenced around with his love, and, perchance, whispering his name in her dreams? One touch of her lips stills all doubt. But I had no ​doubts. There was not a cloud in the sky: no passing storm swept across my fair oasis: no rule wind shook down the ever-ripening fruit that hung luscious above me. I was in the midst of peace.
2
In some lands of crag and mountain the morning dawns like the beginning of a new era of ceaseless summer light. Day has never been brighter. The old snow of the winter melts and vanishes amid the bright green grass: the birds come forth: and song and perfume are everywhere. Then there is a crash! Like some masked battery of guns opened among the pines upon the height, the volleying thunder bursts upon creation and shakes the hills with sudden thud and roar; while the rain pelts sideways in great drops, and the gale tears shrieking over the staggering stricken woods; and they are swept away and dashed pell-mell hither and thither, with huge branches tossed abroad for sport or scattered carelessly in drifts of white impenetrable mist. All becomes dark, chilly and terrible. The world ​has lost it beauty and earth and heaven scowl fierce and hateful through the tangled wreck.
One morning when I awoke I was alone. The light was gone; the air seemed cold and thick and the wild winds of the world swept over me. It was surely a dream. I could not be awake. And where was she who was clasped over night in my arms? She could not have gone! How could I think so? No; it was a dream! She was still at my side, and I would kiss her. But nay! I turned and kissed, and kissed a clammy stone! Yet how could she have gone? Had she not sworn to stay? Did she not love me? Was she not mine? Why: I had clasped her close a hundred times. Her last words had been words of love; and they at least had been neither dream nor fancy. I still felt the imprint of her good-night kiss. The touch of her warm hand was still fresh upon me. But she was gone!
I started up! Day had come again. It was no dream. She was gone. And ​it was far harder to credit it, than it had ever been to believe that love was death-less. Yet I knew the truth. All things shrieked it into my cars. My well was dry. My oasis was withered. On the unlimited sand the birds lay dead in the sunlight; and their songs and echoes had departed for ever.
I know not whether I became mad; but I flung my hands towards the mocking sky and fell down upon my face and swooned.
When I revived I knew all. It forced its passage into my guarded brain; for I could not bar it out. I was her dupe. Her pretty tongue had wagged to full my heart while hers had skulked away to love another. Her word, her faith, her truth were all forgotten; and even as she lay in my last embrace that other's arms were about her soul. She had gone, gone to him! God help me for a miserable one; and God help her for a wicked woman!
3
Ah! There you are, laughing again. You seem, indeed, to laugh more merrily than of ​yore! Do I remember that old story? Bah! Of course I remember it. It is another woman's story:—nothing more! I always hear the same old tales of them. And you? What do you think of them, eh? I could not find in life the love I sought. I must be content to find comedy, or to make it for myself as I can out of the wreckage. Aye! Cracked bells make a wondrous comic jangle. Don't you like the jangling? Why not? You are all bilious, you miserable worldlings: and I please myself. Self is sufficient master for any man. He needs neither a tyrant nor a mistress and bilious fools who have head-aches have only them-selves to thank. You smile at me. There is a grin for you. How do you like it? There is nothing that shall not make me sneer to-day! I have learnt that little lesson; and I ought to have learnt it well, for I learnt it with a pair of lips for my book. Where are they now? Look at this green mound, just newly turfed. Even now the crabbed old digger is scraping his boots on his spade. The ​wet clay falls upon the sodden grass just above where a dead head would lie if any chance had put it into the grave. Do you like the man's indifferent ways? Does she? Yes, fool! She lies beneath. Go, and wipe your old nose with prejudice, my friend, and sniffle to yourself! Those lips are there, my pair of lips, just six feet down beneath that clay. They were a pleasant book to read a future in. I have no regret. They pleased me well enough! Now, if you want them, take that spade and dig; but don't disturb the worms. You will not find that those lips are good for much. They never were. But they were what I liked. And others liked them too; but I was first! He may not have known that! How soft they were! Yet now they must be rotten. I should like to see the worms enjoying them; for, indeed, old fool, I have no jealousy, although you, square-toes, look as yellow as if you had been eating dead men's hearts to make you bilious.
You must dance, there on her grave. Dance with your hob-nailed boots to ​bruise her breast, or crush it in. Be heavy on her head. Never mind the mould in her dead eyes. She used to blind me in the olden days.
Look at the gallows there! Look at the raven! How he caws! He is most comical. While you are dancing he beats a kind of time with his dry legs. Ha! His ugly beak has flesh upon it, torn from those black rags that hang below him and swing in the wind. What are the tags? Ha! Ha! Only her cavalier! See how he swings towards her gallantly while his arms flap like a scarecrow's empty sleeves.
Bah! That is enough! Topple the crabbed old digger into an empty grave, spade and all. Everything goes in there sooner or later. And cheer up, friend Bilious-face! Dance and grin! Tis the world's comedy: so do not sniff, but take your fiddle, and scrape a jig. And if you will not dance yourself, let me. Hal Now quicker! Now quicker! Never mind! We are merry now; and merry we will be until the morning!