Chapter XXXI

by Jack London

　　But the same stimulus to the human organism will not continue toproduce the same response. By and by I discovered there was nokick at all in one cocktail. One cocktail left me dead. Therewas no glow, no laughter tickle. Two or three cocktails wererequired to produce the original effect of one. And I wanted thateffect. I drank my first cocktail at eleven-thirty when I tookthe morning's mail into the hammock, and I drank my secondcocktail an hour later just before I ate. I got into the habit ofcrawling out of the hammock ten minutes earlier so as to find timeand decency for two more cocktails ere I ate. This becameschedule--three cocktails in the hour that intervened between mydesk and dinner. And these are two of the deadliest drinkinghabits: regular drinking and solitary drinking.

　　I was always willing to drink when any one was around. I drank bymyself when no one was around. Then I made another step. When Ihad for guest a man of limited drinking calibre, I took two drinksto his one--one drink with him, the other drink without him and ofwhich he did not know. I stole that other drink, and, worse thanthat, I began the habit of drinking alone when there was a guest,a man, a comrade, with whom I could have drunk. But JohnBarleycorn furnished the extenuation. It was a wrong thing totrip a guest up with excess of hospitality and get him drunk. IfI persuaded him, with his limited calibre, into drinking up withme, I'd surely get him drunk. What could I do but steal thatevery second drink, or else deny myself the kick equivalent towhat he got out of half the number?

　　Please remember, as I recite this development of my drinking, thatI am no fool, no weakling. As the world measures such things, Iam a success--I dare to say a success more conspicuous than thesuccess of the average successful man, and a success that requireda pretty fair amount of brains and will power. My body is astrong body. It has survived where weaklings died like flies.And yet these things which I am relating happened to my body andto me. I am a fact. My drinking is a fact. My drinking is athing that has happened, and is no theory nor speculation; and, asI see it, it but lays the emphasis on the power of JohnBarleycorn--a savagery that we still permit to exist, a deadlyinstitution that lingers from the mad old brutal days and thattakes its heavy toll of youth and strength, and high spirit, andof very much of all of the best we breed.

　　To return. After a boisterous afternoon in the swimming pool,followed by a glorious ride on horseback over the mountains or upor down the Valley of the Moon, I found myself so keyed andsplendid that I desired to be more highly keyed, to feel moresplendid. I knew the way. A cocktail before supper was not theway. Two or three, at the very least, was what was needed. Itook them. Why not? It was living. I had always dearly loved tolive. This also became part of the daily schedule.

　　Then, too, I was perpetually finding excuses for extra cocktails.It might be the assembling of a particularly jolly crowd; a touchof anger against my architect or against a thieving stone-masonworking on my barn; the death of my favourite horse in a barbedwire fence; or news of good fortune in the morning mail from mydealings with editors and publishers. It was immaterial what theexcuse might be, once the desire had germinated in me. The thingwas: I wanted alcohol. At last, after a score and more of yearsof dallying and of not wanting, now I wanted it. And my strengthwas my weakness. I required two, three, or four drinks to get aneffect commensurate with the effect the average man got out of onedrink.

　　One rule I observed. I never took a drink until my day's work ofwriting a thousand words was done. And, when done, the cocktailsreared a wall of inhibition in my brain between the day's workdone and the rest of the day of fun to come. My work ceased frommy consciousness. No thought of it flickered in my brain tillnext morning at nine o'clock when I sat at my desk and began mynext thousand words. This was a desirable condition of mind toachieve. I conserved my energy by means of this alcoholicinhibition. John Barleycorn was not so black as he was painted.He did a fellow many a good turn, and this was one of them.

　　And I turned out work that was healthful, and wholesome, andsincere. It was never pessimistic. The way to life I had learnedin my long sickness. I knew the illusions were right, and Iexalted the illusions. Oh, I still turn out the same sort ofwork, stuff that is clean, alive, optimistic, and that makestoward life. And I am always assured by the critics of my super-abundant and abounding vitality, and of how thoroughly I amdeluded by these very illusions I exploit.

　　And while on this digression, let me repeat the question I haverepeated to myself ten thousand times. Why did I drink? Whatneed was there for it? I was happy. Was it because I was toohappy? I was strong. Was it because I was too strong? Did Ipossess too much vitality? I don't know why I drank. I cannotanswer, though I can voice the suspicion that ever grows in me. Ihad been in too-familiar contact with John Barleycorn through toomany years. A left-handed man, by long practice, can become aright-handed man. Had I, a non-alcoholic, by long practice becomean alcoholic?

　　I was so happy. I had won through my long sickness to thesatisfying love of woman. I earned more money with lessendeavour. I glowed with health. I slept like a babe. Icontinued to write successful books, and in sociologicalcontroversy I saw my opponents confuted with the facts of thetimes that daily reared new buttresses to my intellectualposition. From day's end to day's end I never knew sorrow,disappointment, nor regret. I was happy all the time. Life wasone unending song. I begrudged the very hours of blessed sleepbecause by that much was I robbed of the joy that would have beenmine had I remained awake. And yet I drank. And John Barleycorn,all unguessed by me, was setting the stage for a sickness all hisown.

　　The more I drank the more I was required to drink to get anequivalent effect. When I left the Valley of the Moon, and wentto the city, and dined out, a cocktail served at table was a wanand worthless thing. There was no pre-dinner kick in it. On myway to dinner I was compelled to accumulate the kick--twococktails, three, and, if I met some fellows, four or five, orsix, it didn't matter within several. Once, I was in a rush. Ihad no time decently to accumulate the several drinks. Abrilliant idea came to me. I told the barkeeper to mix me adouble cocktail. Thereafter, whenever I was in a hurry, I ordereddouble cocktails. It saved time.

　　One result of this regular heavy drinking was to jade me. My mindgrew so accustomed to spring and liven by artificial means thatwithout artificial means it refused to spring and liven. Alcoholbecame more and more imperative in order to meet people, in orderto become sociably fit. I had to get the kick and the hit of thestuff, the crawl of the maggots, the genial brain glow, thelaughter tickle, the touch of devilishness and sting, the smileover the face of things, ere I could join my fellows and make onewith them.

　　Another result was that John Barleycorn was beginning to trip meup. He was thrusting my long sickness back upon me, inveigling meinto again pursuing Truth and snatching her veils away from her,tricking me into looking reality stark in the face. But this cameon gradually. My thoughts were growing harsh again, though theygrew harsh slowly.

　　Sometimes warning thoughts crossed my mind. Where was this steadydrinking leading? But trust John Barleycorn to silence suchquestions. "Come on and have a drink and I'll tell you all aboutit," is his way. And it works. For instance, the following is acase in point, and one which John Barleycorn never wearied ofreminding me:

　　I had suffered an accident which required a ticklish operation.One morning, a week after I had come off the table, I lay on myhospital bed, weak and weary. The sunburn of my face, what littleof it could be seen through a scraggly growth of beard, had fadedto a sickly yellow. My doctor stood at my bedside on the verge ofdeparture. He glared disapprovingly at the cigarette I wassmoking.

　　"That's what you ought to quit," he lectured. "It will get you inthe end. Look at me."

　　I looked. He was about my own age, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, eyes sparkling, and ruddy-cheeked with health. A finerspecimen of manhood one would not ask.

　　"I used to smoke," he went on. "Cigars. But I gave even them up.And look at me."

　　The man was arrogant, and rightly arrogant, with conscious well-being. And within a month he was dead. It was no accident. Halfa dozen different bugs of long scientific names had attacked anddestroyed him. The complications were astonishing and painful,and for days before he died the screams of agony of that splendidmanhood could be heard for a block around. He died screaming.

　　"You see," said John Barleycorn. "He took care of himself. Heeven stopped smoking cigars. And that's what he got for it.Pretty rotten, eh? But the bugs will jump. There's no forefendingthem. Your magnificent doctor took every precaution, yet they gothim. When the bug jumps you can't tell where it will land. Itmay be you. Look what he missed. Will you miss all I can giveyou, only to have a bug jump on you and drag you down? There is noequity in life. It's all a lottery. But I put the lying smile onthe face of life and laugh at the facts. Smile with me and laugh.You'll get yours in the end, but in the meantime laugh. It's apretty dark world. I illuminate it for you. It's a rotten world,when things can happen such as happened to your doctor. There'sonly one thing to do: take another drink and forget it."

　　And, of course, I took another drink for the inhibition thataccompanied it. I took another drink every time John Barleycornreminded me of what had happened. Yet I drank rationally,intelligently. I saw to it that the quality of the stuff was ofthe best. I sought the kick and the inhibition, and avoided thepenalties of poor quality and of drunkenness. It is to beremarked, in passing, that when a man begins to drink rationallyand intelligently that he betrays a grave symptom of how far alongthe road he has travelled.

　　But I continued to observe my rule of never taking my first drinkof the day until the last word of my thousand words was written.On occasion, however, I took a day's vacation from my writing. Atsuch times, since it was no violation of my rule, I didn't mindhow early in the day I took that first drink. And persons whohave never been through the drinking game wonder how the drinkinghabit grows!