274 The Diary of a Drug Fiend
even while we were taking it openly together. We
wanted to pretend that we were taking less than we
were. The use of drugs develops every morbid kink
in the mind.
Meanwhile, Maisie was singing in her rich contralto
voice an English translation of one of Verlaine’s most
exquisite lyrics: ‘‘ With muted strings.”
“Calm in the twilight of the lofty boughs
Pierce we our love with silence as we drowse;
Melt we our souls, hearts, senses in this shrine,
Vague languor of arbutus and of pine!”
“ Half-close your eyes, your arms upon your breast ;
Banish for ever every interest !
The cradling breeze shall woo us, soft and sweet,
Ruffling the waves of velvet at your feet.”
“When solemn night of swart oaks shall prevail
Voice our despair, musical nightingale ! ”’
The exquisite images, so subtle and yet so concrete,
filled my mind with memories of all my boyhood’s
dreams. They reminded me of the possibilities of love
and peace. All this was familiar to me, familiar in the
most intense and alluring form. That was what nature
had to offer; this pure and ecstatic rapture was the
birthright of mankind. But I, instead of being content
with it as it was, had sought an artificial Paradise and
bartered the reality of heaven for it. In nature, even
melancholy is subtly enthralling. I thought of Keats’
ode to her, and even of James Thomson’s “ Melancholia
that transcends all wit,’’ whom he adored, and on
whose altar lay his bleeding heart. Well might
Verlaine say :—‘‘ Voice our despair, musical nightin-
gale | ”’
But in our chemical substitute for natural stimulus,