60 The Diary of a Drug Fiend
belonged to eternity in some indefinable way ; and that
infinite silence blossoms inscrutably into embrace.
The heroin had begun to take hold. We felt ourselves
crowned with colossal calm. We were masters; we
had budded from nothingness into existence! And
now, existence slowly compelled us to action. There
was a necessity in our own natures which demanded
expression and after the first intense inter-penetration
of our individualities, we had reached the resultant
of all the forces that composed us.
In one sense, it was that our happiness was so huge
that we could not bear it; and we slid imperceptibly
into conceding that the ineffable mysteries must be
expressed by means of sacramental action.
But all this took place at an immense distance from
reality. A concealed chain of interpretation linked the
truth with the obvious commonplace fact that this
was a good time to go across to Montmartre and make
a night of it.
We dressed to go out with, I imagine, the very sort
of feeling as a newly made bishop would have the
first time he puts on his vestments.
But none of this would have been intelligible to, or
suspected by, anybody who had seen us. We laughed
and sang and interchanged gay nothings while we
dressed.
When we went downstairs, we felt like gods descending
upon earth, immeasurably beyond mortality.
With the cocaine, we had noticed that people smiled
rather strangely. Our enthusiasm was observed. We
even felt a Jittle touch of annoyance at everybody not
going at the same pace ; but this was perfectly different.
The sense of our superiority to mankind was constantly
present. We were dignified beyond all words to express.
Our own voices sounded far, far off. We were perfectly
convinced that the hotel porter realised that he was
receiving the orders of Jupiter and Juno to get a taxi.
We never doubted that the chauffeur knew himself
to be the charioteer of the sun.