Chapter XXIV

by Jack London

　　Out in the country, at the Belmont Academy, I went to work in asmall, perfectly appointed steam laundry. Another fellow andmyself did all the work from sorting and washing to ironing thewhite shirts, collars and cuffs, and the "fancy starch" of thewives of the professors. We worked like tigers, especially assummer came on and the academy boys took to the wearing of ducktrousers. It consumes a dreadful lot of time to iron one pair ofduck trousers. And there were so many pairs of them. We sweatedour way through long sizzling weeks at a task that was never done;and many a night, while the students snored in bed, my partner andI toiled on under the electric light at steam mangle or ironingboard.

　　The hours were long, the work was arduous, despite the fact thatwe became past masters in the art of eliminating waste motion.And I was receiving thirty dollars a month and board--a slightincrease over my coal-shovelling and cannery days, at least to theextent of board, which cost my employer little (we ate in thekitchen), but which was to me the equivalent of twenty dollars amonth. My robuster strength of added years, my increased skill,and all I had learned from the books, were responsible for thisincrease of twenty dollars. Judging by my rate of development, Imight hope before I died to be a night watchman for sixty dollarsa month, or a policeman actually receiving a hundred dollars withpickings.

　　So relentlessly did my partner and I spring into our workthroughout the week that by Saturday night we were frazzledwrecks. I found myself in the old familiar work-beast condition,toiling longer hours than the horses toiled, thinking scarcelymore frequent thoughts than horses think. The books were closedto me. I had brought a trunkful to the laundry, but found myselfunable to read them. I fell asleep the moment I tried to read;and if I did manage to keep my eyes open for several pages, Icould not remember the contents of those pages. I gave overattempts on heavy study, such as jurisprudence, political economy,and biology, and tried lighter stuff, such as history. I fellasleep. I tried literature, and fell asleep. And finally, when Ifell asleep over lively novels, I gave up. I never succeeded inreading one book in all the time I spent in the laundry.

　　And when Saturday night came, and the week's work was over untilMonday morning, I knew only one desire besides the desire tosleep, and that was to get drunk. This was the second time in mylife that I had heard the unmistakable call of John Barleycorn.The first time it had been because of brain-fag. But I had noover-worked brain now. On the contrary, all I knew was the dullnumbness of a brain that was not worked at all. That was thetrouble. My brain had become so alert and eager, so quickened bythe wonder of the new world the books had discovered to it, thatit now suffered all the misery of stagnancy and inaction.

　　And I, the long time intimate of John Barleycorn, knew just whathe promised me--maggots of fancy, dreams of power, forgetfulness,anything and everything save whirling washers, revolving mangles,humming centrifugal wringers, and fancy starch and interminableprocessions of duck trousers moving in steam under my flying iron.And that's it. John Barleycorn makes his appeal to weakness andfailure, to weariness and exhaustion. He is the easy way out.And he is lying all the time. He offers false strength to thebody, false elevation to the spirit, making things seem what theyare not and vastly fairer than what they are.

　　But it must not be forgotten that John Barleycorn is protean. Aswell as to weakness and exhaustion, does he appeal to too muchstrength, to superabundant vitality, to the ennui of idleness. Hecan tuck in his arm the arm of any man in any mood. He can throwthe net of his lure over all men. He exchanges new lamps for old,the spangles of illusion for the drabs of reality, and in the endcheats all who traffic with him.

　　I didn't get drunk, however, for the simple reason that it was amile and a half to the nearest saloon. And this, in turn, wasbecause the call to get drunk was not very loud in my ears. Hadit been loud, I would have travelled ten times the distance to winto the saloon. On the other hand, had the saloon been just aroundthe corner, I should have got drunk. As it was, I would sprawlout in the shade on my one day of rest and dally with the Sundaypapers. But I was too weary even for their froth. The comicsupplement might bring a pallid smile to my face, and then I wouldfall asleep.

　　Although I did not yield to John Barleycorn while working in thelaundry, a certain definite result was produced. I had heard thecall, felt the gnaw of desire, yearned for the anodyne. I wasbeing prepared for the stronger desire of later years.

　　And the point is that this development of desire was entirely inmy brain. My body did not cry out for alcohol. As always,alcohol was repulsive to my body. When I was bodily weary fromshovelling coal the thought of taking a drink had never flickeredinto my consciousness. When I was brain-wearied after taking theentrance examinations to the university, I promptly got drunk. Atthe laundry I was suffering physical exhaustion again, andphysical exhaustion that was not nearly so profound as that of thecoal-shovelling. But there was a difference. When I went coal-shovelling my mind had not yet awakened. Between that time andthe laundry my mind had found the kingdom of the mind. Whileshovelling coal my mind was somnolent. While toiling in thelaundry my mind, informed and eager to do and be, was crucified.

　　And whether I yielded to drink, as at Benicia, or whether Irefrained, as at the laundry, in my brain the seeds of desire foralcohol were germinating.