Diary of a Drug Fiend

The Gatto Fritto 119 of almost paternal counsel in a very confidential tone. “You'll excuse me, I know; I’m not suggesting for a moment you're not perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, but you haven’t been in these parts before, and you must never forget the quick, violent tempers of these Southern Italians. It’s like one of these sudden gusts that the fishermen are so afraid of. It doesn’t mean anything in particular; but it’s often ugly enough at the moment, and what you have to do is to keep out of any kind of a row. There may be a lot of drunken ruffians in the Fauno Ebbrio. Sit near the door ; and if anybody starts scrapping, slip out quietly and walk up and down till it’s over. You don’t want to get mixed up with a fuss.” — I could see the wisdom of his remarks, although, on the other hand, I was personally spoiling for a fight. The one fly in the apothecary’s ointment of the honey- moon, though I didn’t notice it, was that something in me missed the excitement of the daily gambling with death to which the war had accustomed me. The slightest reminder of the wilder passions—a couple of boatmen quarrelling, or even a tourist pro- testing about some trifle, sent the blood to my head. I only wanted a legitimate excuse for killing a few hundred people. But nature is wise and kind, and I was always able to take it out of Lou. The passions of murder and love are inseparably connected in our ancestry. All civilisation has done is to teach us to pretend to idealise them. The programme went off without the slightest hitch. Our room opened on to a terrace in deep shadow. At this time of year there was hardly any one in the hotel, of course. A little flight of steps at the side of the terrace took us under an arch of twisted vines into the barely more than mule-path that does duty for a road in Capri. No one took any notice of us. There were only D.D.F. I