Chapter I

by Jack London

　　It all came to me one election day. It was on a warm Californiaafternoon, and I had ridden down into the Valley of the Moon fromthe ranch to the little village to vote Yes and No to a host ofproposed amendments to the Constitution of the State ofCalifornia. Because of the warmth of the day I had had severaldrinks before casting my ballot, and divers drinks after castingit. Then I had ridden up through the vine-clad hills and rollingpastures of the ranch, and arrived at the farm-house in time foranother drink and supper.

　　"How did you vote on the suffrage amendment?" Charmian asked.

　　"I voted for it."

　　She uttered an exclamation of surprise. For, be it known, in myyounger days, despite my ardent democracy, I had been opposed towoman suffrage. In my later and more tolerant years I had beenunenthusiastic in my acceptance of it as an inevitable socialphenomenon.

　　"Now just why did you vote for it?" Charmian asked.

　　I answered. I answered at length. I answered indignantly. Themore I answered, the more indignant I became. (No; I was notdrunk. The horse I had ridden was well named "The Outlaw." I'dlike to see any drunken man ride her.)

　　And yet--how shall I say?--I was lighted up, I was feeling "good,"I was pleasantly jingled.

　　"When the women get the ballot, they will vote for prohibition," Isaid. "It is the wives, and sisters, and mothers, and they only,who will drive the nails into the coffin of John Barleycorn----"

　　"But I thought you were a friend to John Barleycorn," Charmianinterpolated.

　　"I am. I was. I am not. I never am. I am never less his friendthan when he is with me and when I seem most his friend. He isthe king of liars. He is the frankest truthsayer. He is theaugust companion with whom one walks with the gods. He is also inleague with the Noseless One. His way leads to truth naked, andto death. He gives clear vision, and muddy dreams. He is theenemy of life, and the teacher of wisdom beyond life's wisdom. Heis a red-handed killer, and he slays youth."

　　And Charmian looked at me, and I knew she wondered where I had gotit.

　　I continued to talk. As I say, I was lighted up. In my brainevery thought was at home. Every thought, in its little cell,crouched ready-dressed at the door, like prisoners at midnight ajail-break. And every thought was a vision, bright-imaged, sharp-cut, unmistakable. My brain was illuminated by the clear, whitelight of alcohol. John Barleycorn was on a truth-telling rampage,giving away the choicest secrets on himself. And I was hisspokesman. There moved the multitudes of memories of my pastlife, all orderly arranged like soldiers in some vast review. Itwas mine to pick and choose. I was a lord of thought, the masterof my vocabulary and of the totality of my experience, unerringlycapable of selecting my data and building my exposition. For soJohn Barleycorn tricks and lures, setting the maggots ofintelligence gnawing, whispering his fatal intuitions of truth,flinging purple passages into the monotony of one's days.

　　I outlined my life to Charmian, and expounded the make-up of myconstitution. I was no hereditary alcoholic. I had been bornwith no organic, chemical predisposition toward alcohol. In thismatter I was normal in my generation. Alcohol was an acquiredtaste. It had been painfully acquired. Alcohol had been adreadfully repugnant thing--more nauseous than any physic. Evennow I did not like the taste of it. I drank it only for its"kick." And from the age of five to that of twenty-five I had notlearned to care for its kick. Twenty years of unwillingapprenticeship had been required to make my system rebelliouslytolerant of alcohol, to make me, in the heart and the deeps of me,desirous of alcohol.

　　I sketched my first contacts with alcohol, told of my firstintoxications and revulsions, and pointed out always the one thingthat in the end had won me over--namely, the accessibility ofalcohol. Not only had it always been accessible, but everyinterest of my developing life had drawn me to it. A newsboy onthe streets, a sailor, a miner, a wanderer in far lands, alwayswhere men came together to exchange ideas, to laugh and boast anddare, to relax, to forget the dull toil of tiresome nights anddays, always they came together over alcohol. The saloon was theplace of congregation. Men gathered to it as primitive mengathered about the fire of the squatting place or the fire at themouth of the cave.

　　I reminded Charmian of the canoe houses from which she had beenbarred in the South Pacific, where the kinky-haired cannibalsescaped from their womenkind and feasted and drank by themselves,the sacred precincts taboo to women under pain of death. As ayouth, by way of the saloon I had escaped from the narrowness ofwoman's influence into the wide free world of men. All ways ledto the saloon. The thousand roads of romance and adventure drewtogether in the saloon, and thence led out and on over the world.

　　"The point is," I concluded my sermon, "that it is theaccessibility of alcohol that has given me my taste for alcohol.I did not care for it. I used to laugh at it. Yet here I am, atthe last, possessed with the drinker's desire. It took twentyyears to implant that desire; and for ten years more that desirehas grown. And the effect of satisfying that desire is anythingbut good. Temperamentally I am wholesome-hearted and merry. Yetwhen I walk with John Barleycorn I suffer all the damnation ofintellectual pessimism.

　　"But," I hastened to add (I always hasten to add), "JohnBarleycorn must have his due. He does tell the truth. That isthe curse of it. The so-called truths of life are not true. Theyare the vital lies by which life lives, and John Barleycorn givesthem the lie."

　　"Which does not make toward life," Charmian said.

　　"Very true," I answered. "And that is the perfectest hell of it.John Barleycorn makes toward death. That is why I voted for theamendment to-day. I read back in my life and saw how theaccessibility of alcohol had given me the taste for it. You see,comparatively few alcoholics are born in a generation. And byalcoholic I mean a man whose chemistry craves alcohol and driveshim resistlessly to it. The great majority of habitual drinkersare born not only without desire for alcohol, but with actualrepugnance toward it. Not the first, nor the twentieth, nor thehundredth drink, succeeded in giving them the liking. But theylearned, just as men learn to smoke; though it is far easier tolearn to smoke than to learn to drink. They learned becausealcohol was so accessible. The women know the game. They pay forit--the wives and sisters and mothers. And when they come tovote, they will vote for prohibition. And the best of it is thatthere will be no hardship worked on the coming generation. Nothaving access to alcohol, not being predisposed toward alcohol, itwill never miss alcohol. It will mean life more abundant for themanhood of the young boys born and growing up--ay, and life moreabundant for the young girls born and growing up to share thelives of the young men."

　　"Why not write all this up for the sake of the men and womencoming?" Charmian asked. "Why not write it so as to help thewives and sisters and mothers to the way they should vote?"

　　"The 'Memoirs of an Alcoholic,'" I sneered--or, rather, JohnBarleycorn sneered; for he sat with me there at table in mypleasant, philanthropic jingle, and it is a trick of JohnBarleycorn to turn the smile to a sneer without an instant'swarning.

　　"No," said Charmian, ignoring John Barleycorn's roughness, as somany women have learned to do. "You have shown yourself noalcoholic, no dipsomaniac, but merely an habitual drinker, one whohas made John Barleycorn's acquaintance through long years ofrubbing shoulders with him. Write it up and call it 'AlcoholicMemoirs.'"