# Confessions of an English Hachish-Eater/Chapter 5

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V. Gnothi Seauton.
WITH one more of my dream-stories I shall bring these fragmentary Confessions to a close. I might, if I so chose, write a great deal more; but I fear lest any longer chronicle of my grotesque fantasies might weary the reader; and I feel that such matters as those of which I am treating are possibly, like highly flavoured meats, more easily digested when taken in small quantities than when devoured wholesale.
In writing down this story I have discarded a few extravagant and jarring incidents that in my dreams spoilt the continuity of the development. I have, moreover, tacked together stray pieces, and supplied the material upon which to patch them together. The tale is, nevertheless, the history of a dream or of a succession of dreams, and it contains but little foreign matter.
1
I was under the full influence of a rather large dose of hachish, when, in imagination, I was transported to the door of a hut that was roughly built at the edge of a dark pine wood. Just without the threshold sat a woman in the prime of life and a beautiful youth, who was evidently her son.
"Arvah," said the woman, whom I may call Rheda, to her companion, "if you love me, love him; because I love him."
"And that is what I cannot understand," said Arvah, smoothing Rheda's dark hair with his brown hand. "If I were the stronger I could love a weak thing that did not love me; but if I were the weaker, as you are, I could not love a strong thing that treated me as my father treats you."
"But you do not know," ventured Rheda, half-heartedly.
"Oh! I know very well," said Arvah, as his dark eyes blazed. "How seldom he is with us now! We never see him as we used to see him. I call that cruelty. ​And I heard you calling for him in your dream last night. You cried out 'Antar,' and seemed to be weeping."
"It must have been your dream, Arvah. Are we not very happy? And do you think that a man can care to be always with a woman?"
"I think, yes!" said Arvah, and a light blush went up into his forehead.
Rheda was gazing at him, and saw it.
"You have learnt something I hoped you had not yet learnt," she said. "Do you love anyone well enough for that, Arvah?"
"I would always gladly be with you," he answered, still blushing. "I could look at you all day and be happy."
Rheda smiled.
"Yes," she said; "but you would rather look at someone else, Arvah. Who is she?"
"I love Damma."
Rheda trembled, and her face became suddenly white as clear marble.
"Damma?" she repeated. "You love Damma?"
​"Yes, I love Damma."
"For some time Rheda was silent. Her head dropped upon her hands, and she sat dumb and smitten as if bent by a tempest.
"What do you know of her?" she asked at last, but without looking up again. "Where did you meet her? Where did you speak to her?"
"It was in the spring," answered Arvah, "when the days began to grow hot. I walked in the forest and came upon a white roe, which started from me; and after following it for long in vain I gave up the chase. Close at hand was a place where the cool river widened beneath the beeches into a clear deep pool. The bank was soft with thick moss; and, wearied with the heat, I dived in and swam hither and thither in the pleasant shadows. Then, to dry myself, I climbed into the top of one of the trees and sat in the sunshine, listening to the birds all around me. After I had descended, and as I was wandering slowly along by the river plucking daffodils, I heard a voice behind me ​singing softly; and, turning, saw Damma, who was coming after me from the forest."
Rheda did not raise her head. "What did she say?" she asked.
"She begged for some flowers which I gave her; and she asked me my name and how old I was. I told her that I was Arvah, and that I was seventeen. 'Then,' she said, smiling, 'I may kiss you, for you are Antar's son!' And she kissed me on the lips."
Once more there was silence. Rheda still sat trembling; and Arvah wondered what ill his words could have worked.
"Did you see her again, Arvah?" asked Rheda, after a long pause.
"I have seen her thrice since," said Arvah.
"And you love her?"
"Because she is so beautiful. Is she not like the picture of the saint in the chapel? Father Paul says that that saint had been a foolish woman: but Damma is not foolish. I think she is as lovely as one of the angels."
"Arvah, you do not know Damma." ​said Rheda. "Do not speak to her, do not meet her again. Yes, she is like the saint—but—do not speak to her, do not love her, do not think of her. She is our enemy, Arvah!"
"But she loves me," said Arvah, "and she loves my father."
A visible shudder passed through Rheda. When she raised her eyes again to her son, they were red with weeping. "Forget Damma," she said, "or you cannot love me, Arvah."
And Arvah, whom I followed, and with the workings of whose mind I seemed to be quite at home, went out into the forest, wondering why his mother was so moved by what he had told her. He loved Damma, as the boy who is growing to manhood always loves the first beautiful stranger whose lips touch his. The thought of her, he knew not why, sent a thrill through all his veins. In her presence he felt happy. In her absence he longed for her. What evil could there be in Damma?
I returned to Rheda who knew more ​than she dared to tell her son. Antar, whom she had loved with all her being from the day, eighteen years before, when as an innocent maiden she had given herself to him, loved her no more; and instead he loved Damma. And now, was she who had robbed spouse to rob mother as well? Was Arvah also to be taken from that warm heart which had no other treasure save its memory of dead days of joy?
Rheda sat, still weeping, until the sunset; and then through her tears watched the glorious colour of the western sky as the day sank to its rest, and the chill breath of night came bending the musical tops of the pines. The world was then not so desert as her heart, whence the light of the one man's love had departed to shine elsewhere.
And Antar, whom even to look upon would have been bliss to her, came not. Where was he, and with whom? She dared not trust herself to guess the truth. He was hunting, or he was on his way back from fishing in some distant stream; ​but he was not with Damma. Nay, rather had he been waylaid and left wounded, or a rock from some toppling precipice had fallen upon his road and crushed him but he was not with Damma. A true woman's heart will not believe the worst unfaithfulness, even in the face of proof.
Then, as night drew on and settled itself over the earth, Arvah returned tired from his wanderings, and went silently to his rest for he did not see the dim form of Rheda still sitting in the black shadow, and now watching the pale moon which, to all hearts that are heavy and all brains that are tortured, seems to bring some pleasant, though vague message of tenderness. Soon nature hushed herself to sleep, and only the rebels of the night kept up their murmurings and chatter. The sour-voiced crake still watched amid the hoarded gold of the moonlit corn; and the screech-owl, deep in its midnight studies, uttered occasional comments from his ivy work-room. Yet, save these and ​Rheda, all that was not evil slept. But far down in the swamp the light-o'-love will-o'-wisps flitted, and the bats circled around them, dazzled by their misleading brilliancy; and the weird mists of miasma rose up to stalk about the land and poison men and women while they slept. Rheda saw these white-robed ghosts ascending into the clear air, and at last, with a shudder, gave up the hope which she had cherished, and went miserable to her couch.
Yet she did not hate Antar, the hero of her maidenhood. She would have welcomed him again to her arms with all the utter love and confidence of her first happy days with him. He was still her all; and, if he came not, her life and joy were dead. Not even in her dreams did she suffer herself to believe the truth. Her thoughts were ever of him; her one longing was that he should once again wind her to him in his strong embrace, and kiss her with his old passionate love. Had he come she would have asked him no questions. Her heart and her arms ​were open and they remained open: but only the chilling night wind crept into the great solitude of her bosom, and the cruel disappointment of waking mocked her vain dreams of revived happiness.
And Arvah heard her through the night calling for Antar.
2.
Far away from Rheda and her son, across the shadowy forest and the silvered river, there was a sound of revelry and music. Within a court, open towards the top to the balmy air, and hung on all sides with striped silks and gorgeous tapestries, Damma gave a feast; and at her side, gazing into her liquid eyes or watching every mood of her humour, was Antar. His look was full of love, such as years before he had given to Rheda, the pure maiden whom with all promises he had taken into his keeping for good report and ill. But Damma was young, and Rheda was growing old now. Not that Rheda was no longer beautiful: rather had she grown more beautiful ​with the lapse of years. Yet Damma was new to Antar, and she differed in all things from his old love. Her kisses were not the same; her voice seemed sweeter; her ways had greater charm; and she had arts which Rheda never had, and which made Antar's throat swell and his heart beat when he gazed upon her. True he had not known her for long. He had only met her a few days before her first encounter with Arvah on the banks of the river; but at that moment he had fallen before her wonderful beauty, heedless of whether he ranked alone in her love or not. And she, when she saw young Arvah, fresh from the river and ruddy with the glow of health and action, hesitated, although Antar knew it not, and then, stung by the novel sweetness of the boy's soft kiss, gave her heart to him, and promised herself that some day he should be hers, when Arvar should be grown and Antar should have wearied her. And thus, although she revelled with Antar for a season, she loved Arvah. and waited for his manhood. And Antar, ​if he thought at all, believed that he was supreme.
Damma was queen of the feast, and Antar sat at her right hand, the only guest for although many others were present, they were only there for his amusement. There were music and song between every sumptuous course; but the best entertainment was reserved until the tables were cleared and borne away by strong hands. Then Damma and her lover withdrew to two high seats at one end of the court, and when the rest had clustered in a picturesque group at their feet, a great singer entered and sang to them with mellifluous voice a voluptuous song of love. He was followed by a young man and a beauteous maiden who, while bewitching music was softly played behind a heavy curtain, acted together a scene which caused Antar to often turn his passionate eyes in sympathy upon the lovely being beside him, and to press her hand which lay the while in his. The youth was a lover pleading, at first in vain, for a requital of his passion, the ​maiden with arch glances and tempting gestures leading him insensibly on, yet giving him but scant hope. She fled that he might follow; she taunted and pouted and derided that she might find pleasure in his discomfiture; she put herself in his power only to repulse him rudely when he attempted to presume upon his advantage. But at last, when in despair he drew a dagger and threatened to plunge it into his heart if she would not have pity upon him and give him the only happiness he longed for, she burst into tears, and bitterly reproaching herself, threw herself without conditions into his arms. Next came a choir of youths and damsels, who sang a long hymn in praise of love; and, finally, the stronger lights were veiled, some delicious spices were burnt in two huge bronze vases which stood before Antar and Damma, and, amid the smoke of the incense, four perfectly-formed girls, clad in light and flowing garments, and decked with rare flowers, were seen dancing with bared feet to the renewed strains of the hidden music Their ​movements were as graceful as those of the grey wreaths that rose slowly upwards from the burning spices; and they seemed rather like the fair creatures of a summer night's dream than human beings. Their long silky hair waved around their white shoulders; their eyes sparkled, even in the gloom, with excitement and passion; and their lithe limbs swayed and turned with a grace so wondrous that they might have been moved by a wanton breeze. And when they had danced and with all the others had departed, Antar and Damma walked upon the cool marble terrace in the moonlight without, and gave themselves up to communings of love.
She was deceiving him. She was trying to imagine that the brown, sinewy arm that was around her was the fairer arm of her boy lover, Arvah, grown to manhood, and thinking of her as passionately as in her wildest dreams she thought of him. And Antar was deceiving her. She thought that he was all hers, even although she was not all his; but when ​he gazed up into the face of the moon he could not, even in his new delirium, forget the old days when he had walked at eve with another and a purer. His memory awoke, and, though he did not suffer it to pierce his heart, it attacked him sorely and persistently, and prevented him from enjoying his imagined happiness. No one can love twice who has loved once. In the second passion there must always be something lacking and the heart cannot give love, any more than the band can give gold, without having the less to give in the future. One love for each life is enough; and one great happiness, and one great pain. Therefore, man should love his best at first, for the full and perfect opportunity never returns and afterwards it may perchance be that only strange and foreign passions catch the appetite. As for the one great pain, it is either the death of what we love, or the other death which lays its cold finger on our hearts and tells us that thenceforth our opportunity of love has departed.
​Thus night grew older, and while Antar and Damma sank into each other's arms, Arvah still heard Rheda calling through her tears, and calling in vain.
3
The white ghosts of the night did not hasten away with the darkness when next morning it slowly went down in the cold west. They remained clinging to the shadows at the edge of the forest, and hovering over the dull river that ran as lead, and seemed to wait for the sun to melt it and let it ripple and laugh like silver and gold in its bed.
Antar came forth weary, and strode through the mist to the water, into which, chill and cheerless though it was, he flung himself. When he regained the bank he shivered, for the spectres of the night had taken possession of his heart, and the world was unhomely and strange to him. Had he been with Rheda, things had been otherwise, for she was still his home and his sanctuary; but he did not know it. He only felt the vague longing of ​dissatisfaction—the terrible depression that comes of worse than wasted hours.
Antar had walked but a few paces from the river when he was accosted by an old greybeard who, leaning upon a rough staff and bowed almost double by the weight of his years, begged whiningly for alms. In a careless mood Antar threw the man a piece of gold, and would have moved rapidly away but that he was detained by the beggar, who, instead of thanking him, said, "You must be rich if you can give so much for so little."
"Rich!" repeated Antar, "I am not rich; and do you think that even riches make happiness?"
"Ah! But I could be rich if I were like you, with those thews and muscles; and with this staff of mine." And the old man's eyes glistened with cupidity.
"What do you mean?" inquired Antar, who now halted.
"Up in the mountain," said the grey-beard, "there is a cavern in which a miser has hoarded his wealth. Oh! there are jars of gold, and jars of jewels. But, look ​you, he keeps guard up there; and he is as strong as you are. I think that he sleeps with one eye open. I have tried to surprise him, but in vain. Now, if only I were like you, with those thews and muscles, I would not be poor."
"Who is the man?" demanded Antar.
"Ha! ha!" laughed the beggar. "If I were to tell you that, I should tell you all. You are too hasty. But, then, you do not want his riches." And he seemed to be about to depart.
"Stay!" cried Antar, after a pause; and then he was silent again.
"See you!" said the old man, his eyes sparkling once more beneath his shaggy brows as he looked up. "Suppose that you lend me those thews and muscles of yours. I will repay you with half of those riches. What do you say?"
"What do you want?" asked Antar in a low voice.
"Let us go and take his gold," whispered the beggar; "and if he resists, well, there are those thews and muscles of yours, ​and here is my staff. Oh! there are jars of jewels up there."
Antar wondered whether the old man were raving; but the evil spell of wasted hours was still upon him, and he said: "I will go. If there be gold and jewels, you shall have half."
Without more words the two men, side by side, walked slowly up the mountain in the white mist of the sunless morning, the old beggar labouring and stumbling and groaning on his way, and Antar assisting him where the ground was rough and broken. And afar off, in the mind of each, shone the fatal glitter of gold, beckoning onwards; for age has an unfailing eyesight for wealth, even after it can no longer see the brightness of a bird's wing, or the face of love, or the pure colouring of a flower; and although a heart be sick of endearments and weary with passion, it can never, while it beats, think of riches without beating faster, and throbbing with all the novelty of desire.
Higher and higher they climbed over a ​rock-strewn ascent, now carefully stepping from one huge and ill-balanced boulder to another; now advancing timorously along a narrow path with a wall of cliff on one side and an unfathomable precipice on the other; and now using hands as well as feet for their support at some dangerous turn. Deeper grew the cloudy valley below them, clearer grew the sky above, and ever nearer frowned the unvisited bare peaks, around which vultures circled as if in anger at the invasion of their desolate dominions.
The old man rested many times on the way; but at last, after more than usual exertions, be halted, almost breathless, and gasped, "It is here!"
"I see no cave," said Antar.
The greybeard, leaning heavily on his staff, pointed to a rough slab of mossy stone that rested, as if by accident, against a wall of apparently solid rock, and said: "Lift it away. That is his door. There is the cave."
Antar looked around him, but there was no living being save his companion within ​sight, and silence reigned on the mountain.
"Where is he?" he whispered. "Where is the master of the cave?"
"Listen!" said the old man; but Antar listened in vain, and then, emboldened, put his hands upon the stone and slowly began to move it from its place. When he had shifted it a little, and seen that it covered a black opening in the rock, he desisted for an instant and listened again; but no sound came from within, and he went on with his work, the beggar meanwhile looking on at him in silence, but with sparkling eyes. In a short time the opening was entirely uncovered, and then the old man made a greedy movement to enter the cavern.
"Wait!" cried Antar, in a hushed voice. "What have you done? Nothing! And yet you want the half. No! It must be all mine, save what I choose to give you."
A flush of anger passed across the beggar's withered face.
I showed you the way," he said; "is ​that nothing? There was a bargain, you know. Half was to be mine."
Antar reflected. Then he drew back. "Very well," he said. "Go in first. If he is there it is but fair that you should be the first to meet him." And he laughed sneeringly; but the old man, instead of heeding, crept in eagerly, and disappeared in the darkness. Soon Antar heard his feeble voice calling him to follow, and he also entered.
The beggar had already provided him-self with a light, and was setting fire to a pine-torch with which he had come provided. By its smoky glare Antar saw that they were standing in a long and lofty gallery, from the dim roof of which hung fantastic stalactites, that glistened like gems. The old man cautiously made his way inwards, making sure with his staff of his footing; and soon disappeared in a recess. Antar hurried after him, and found his guide speechless before the wealth and jewels that lay piled upon the stone floor of the cavern. Several large earthenware jars stood heaped to ​their brims with gold; and in a huge open iron-bound chest were as many gems of all colours and sizes as a man could carry.
"Quick!" cried the old man, as soon as he recovered himself; and he threw himself upon the coffer. "Quick! Help yourself! He is not here, but he will return. Quick!"
But, as he spoke, the spoilers heard the dull noise of rapidly approaching feet; and, ere they could hide themselves, a loud voice echoed through the cavern in anger and menace.
"Give me your staff," said Antar, as he seized it and rudely flung the beggar aside; and then he strode to the entrance of the recess, while the old man, trembling behind him, held the flickering torch aloft.
In a moment a stalwart form came into the uncertain light, and Antar, springing forward, dealt the new-comer a terrible blow. There was a brief struggle in the gloom. Antar was dashed backwarks upon the beggar, extinguishing the pine-​torch; a few short mad words followed; then there was a weary groan, and all was silent.
It was some time ere the old man was able to rekindle the light; and, when once more the pine torch was held aloft, its rays fell upon the prostrate bodies of Antar and the master of the cavern. The former, who had been only stunned, speedily came to himself; and, while he was recovering, the beggar, having fixed his torch in one of the jars of gold, began hastily to fill his rags with jewels.
Antar, seated upon the ground, watched him, at first half-dreamily; but, as full consciousness returned, he staggered to his feet,
"Not so fast!" he said; "I have been nearly killed, and you have done nothing. The first choice is mine."
Yet still the old man continued to fill his rags as though he heard not. His eyes glistened with greed and covetousness, and his grisly hands seemed not large enough to clutch the wealth he saw before him. Antar, with an angry gesture, went ​towards him. "Put them down, I say. They are mine," he cried. "Put them down." But his head swam, and he had to support himself against the wall, for he had been sorely hurt in the struggle with the master of the cavern. When a second time his senses came to him again, the torch was burning in the jar as before, but the old man had gone.
Antar sprang up with a cry, and rushed to the entrance of the cave.
It was closed. The beggar had by some means replaced the stone, and must have wedged it fast, for Antar could not move it. For some time he strove in vain to push it outwards; but, finding that it did not stir, he returned to the recess, hoping to discover there some instrument that would help him to regain his freedom and enjoy the treasure.
In the inner chamber the torch showed him that only a few jewels remained in the chest. Antar turned away with a bitter curse, and, as he did so, his eye fell upon the body of the master of the cavern. It lay face downwards as it had fallen ​after a second dreadful blow that had been dealt it in the dark; and, with a kind of vague expectation that it might have some weapon upon it, Antar turned it over.
Then he started backwards, and buried his face in his trembling hands.
Those pale, dead lips, from between which the blood was slowly trickling, were the lips of Antar's younger brother, Gorro; Gorro whom as a boy he had played with and fondled; Gorro whom as a man he had quarrelled with; Gorro whom now he had slain!
With a great cry of terror Antar rushed wildly from the recess into the long, vaulted gallery without; nor did he stay till in his blind and despairing madness he fell headlong against the cold, hard rock, and sank bleeding and senseless to the earth.
And in the treasure-cave the torch burnt low, and fluttered, and went out, leaving the dead alone in the silence and the darkness. And far away Rheda sat weeping and waiting for Antar, who returned not. The coldness of death was ​at her heart, but death would not deliver her.
Yes, there may be bitterer things than death itself, and there are.
4.
The sharp rock had branded Antar's brow as with the brand of Cain; and, when the stunned man once more came to himself, a strange and misty vision met his gaze. As though pictured in the darkness, he saw again the scene of the previous night's revelry and music. The striped hangings and gorgeous tapestries were there, and Damma was there, too; but at her side, instead of himself, was a youthful figure that seemed curiously familiar to Antar. The light curls of a boyish head wantoned on Damma's shoulder, and her red lips were raining passionate kisses upon the face of Arvah!
With a jealous cry Antar sprang up, and sought to tear away the vision; but it eluded him; and, even as he gazed, he heard out of the darkness Damma's well-known voice confessing to her boy-love ​the truth which the wretched father, in his blindness, had never suspected. He knew at last that Damma had ceased to love him, and that she had given all her passion and all herself to his son.
As if spell-bound, he watched the disenchanting picture. It was too real to be incredible. He felt that it was more than a dream, and in his agony of madness he buried his feverish head in his hands. But suddenly a crash seemed to shake the cavern, and Antar perforce looked up again. The vision had changed. Damma, dead and crushed, was lying prone upon the earth, and above her, horror-struck, stood Arvah, staring fearfully skyward, whence had come the bolt that had smitten his love in its first unholy bliss of delirious joy.
Again Antar rushed wildly away. In the far distance he saw a light, and he made towards it. It streamed feebly from an opening in the rock far above his head; but, after some climbing he reached it, and looked through into a small chamber which, to his joy, seemed to be the living-place of a human being.
​He crept in stealthily. Upon the floor lay the skins of beasts. He coiled his weary body upon them and slept. When he awoke he found that he was not alone.
Crouched upon some other skins in a dusky corner lay a figure, the outlines of which he could at first barely distinguish in the scant light that came from the old lamp hanging from the roof of the squalid cave. But at last the figure moved; and Antar trembled, for it rose and came towards him, and he then saw plainly that it was the form of a wizzened and hideous hag.
"So," she exclaimed, smiling and showing her toothless gums, "you have come. I have long been waiting for you."
"You?" cried Antar, recoiling. "You?"
"Yes; we will live and love together now for ever. Do you not know me? Do you not recognise me? And yet you know me well. Come," and she strove to embrace him with her thin, bony arms.
"Never!" exclamed Antar. "I will leave you."
​"Ha! ha!" she laughed you cannot leave me. And you used not to repulse me. Think better of it. Come!"
"I do not know you!" he cried, with loathing.
But she sprang upon him, and he, weak and weary and faint, could not for long resist her.
"Mine for ever!" she murmured, in her harsh voice, as she placed her dry lips to his.
"And who are you?" gasped Antar, pale and wretched and powerless to escape.
"Ha ha! you ought to know me, Antar. You used to love me pretty well, I think. And now you can never leave me. Day and night you shall lie in my arms, and kiss me."
"But who are you?" he insisted. "I am Yourself, your foul, hideous Self!" she shreicked into his ear. And Antar swooned.
5.
"Antar is dead!" groaned Rheda.
I had returned to her. At her side ​was a venerable man whom I had seen in other dreams of mine.
"Even so," he said, kindly. "Yet still you have something to be thankful for. Damma, too, is dead the lightning has slain her."
"But Antar, my husband!" cried Rheda; "what has the good God left me?"
"Has he not left you Arvah?" quoth Father Paul.
And Rheda looked up through her tears, and was comforted.
Such is hachish, and such are some of the images which it paints before the brain of its devotee. I have found it to be a nepenthes, a sweet bringer of delicious oblivion, and a generous parent of delightful dreams. I have indulged in it a good deal, but not to excess; and I hope to enjoy its effects many times again. And I can conscientiously say that, so far as I know, I am not one whit the worse for my experiences with this wonderful drug. People usually take me to be somewhat ​younger than I am. No one, I am perfectly certain, would from my appearance suspect me of being a hachish eater, or of using any more potent narcotic than tobacco-smoke, which, by the way, I do use every day and all day; and, in fine, I have yet to learn that a moderate and discreet employment of my favourite dream-compeller is, to even the slightest degree, injurious to a person of ordinarily good constitution. Why, therefore, should I not continue, in leisure hours, to voyage away from my body into the misty land whither most people only penetrate after they have over-eaten themselves?
"But it will eventually weaken your brain," says that benevolent old gentle-man, Dr. Omnibus.
Dr. Omnibus, with all my respects, is a fool.
It is he who says: "Don't drink beer—it is adulterated. Don't drink spirits—they destroy the coats of the stomach. Don't drink tea or coffee—it ruins the digestion and deadens the nerves. And, above all, don't drink water—it is poisonous."
​You reader, and I, have heard him say all this; and, in similar strains, he makes onslaughts on tobacco, on corsets, on lobster salads, and on a great many other good and indifferent things. Do you heed him? Of course not. Neither do I. But we all know that the old gentleman must have something to prattle about.