Chapter XXVII

by Jack London

　　As I succeeded with my writing, my standard of living rose and myhorizon broadened. I confined myself to writing and typing athousand words a day, including Sundays and holidays; and I stillstudied hard, but not so hard as formerly. I allowed myself fiveand one-half hours of actual sleep. I added this half-hourbecause I was compelled. Financial success permitted me more timefor exercise. I rode my wheel more, chiefly because it waspermanently out of pawn; and I boxed and fenced, walked on myhands, jumped high and broad, put the shot and tossed the caber,and went swimming. And I learned that more sleep is required forphysical exercise than for mental exercise. There were tirednights, bodily, when I slept six hours; and on occasion of verysevere exercise I actually slept seven hours. But such sleeporgies were not frequent. There was so much to learn, so much tobe done, that I felt wicked when I slept seven hours. And Iblessed the man who invented alarm clocks.

　　And still no desire to drink. I possessed too many fine faiths,was living at too keen a pitch. I was a socialist, intent onsaving the world, and alcohol could not give me the fervours thatwere mine from my ideas and ideals. My voice, on account of mysuccessful writing, had added weight, or so I thought. At anyrate, my reputation as a writer drew me audiences that myreputation as a speaker never could have drawn. I was invitedbefore clubs and organisations of all sorts to deliver my message.I fought the good fight, and went on studying and writing, and wasvery busy.

　　Up to this time I had had a very restricted circle of friends.But now I began to go about. I was invited out, especially todinner, and I made many friends and acquaintances whose economiclives were easier than mine had been. And many of them drank. Intheir own houses they drank and offered me drink. They were notdrunkards any of them. They just drank temperately, and I dranktemperately with them as an act of comradeship and acceptedhospitality. I did not care for it, neither wanted it nor did notwant it, and so small was the impression made by it that I do notremember my first cocktail nor my first Scotch highball.

　　Well, I had a house. When one is asked into other houses, henaturally asks others into his house. Behold the rising standardof living. Having been given drink in other houses, I couldexpect nothing else of myself than to give drink in my own house.So I laid in a supply of beer and whisky and table claret. Neversince that has my house not been well supplied.

　　And still, through all this period, I did not care in theslightest for John Barleycorn. I drank when others drank, andwith them, as a social act. And I had so little choice in thematter that I drank whatever they drank. If they elected whisky,then whisky it was for me. If they drank root beer orsarsaparilla, I drank root beer or sarsaparilla with them. Andwhen there were no friends in the house, why, I didn't drinkanything. Whisky decanters were always in the room where I wrote,and for months and years I never knew what it was, when by myself,to take a drink.

　　When out at dinner I noticed the kindly, genial glow of thepreliminary cocktail. It seemed a very fitting and graciousthing. Yet so little did I stand in need of it, with my own highintensity and vitality, that I never thought it worth while tohave a cocktail before my own meal when I ate alone.

　　On the other hand, I well remember a very brilliant man, somewhatolder than I, who occasionally visited me. He liked whisky, and Irecall sitting whole afternoons in my den, drinking steadily withhim, drink for drink, until he was mildly lighted up and I wasslightly aware that I had drunk some whisky. Now why did I dothis? I don't know, save that the old schooling held, the trainingof the old days and nights glass in hand with men, the drinkingways of drink and drinkers.

　　Besides, I no longer feared John Barleycorn. Mine was that mostdangerous stage when a man believes himself John Barleycorn'smaster. I had proved it to my satisfaction in the long years ofwork and study. I could drink when I wanted, refrain when Iwanted, drink without getting drunk, and to cap everything I wasthoroughly conscious that I had no liking for the stuff. Duringthis period I drank precisely for the same reason I had drunk withScotty and the harpooner and with the oyster pirates--because itwas an act that men performed with whom I wanted to behave as aman. These brilliant ones, these adventurers of the mind, drank.Very well. There was no reason I should not drink with them--Iwho knew so confidently that I had nothing to fear from JohnBarleycorn.

　　And the foregoing was my attitude of mind for years. OccasionallyI got well jingled, but such occasions were rare. It interferedwith my work, and I permitted nothing to interfere with my work.I remember, when spending several months in the East End ofLondon, during which time I wrote a book and adventured muchamongst the worst of the slum classes, that I got drunk severaltimes and was mightily wroth with myself because it interferedwith my writing. Yet these very times were because I was out onthe adventure-path where John Barleycorn is always to be found.

　　Then, too, with the certitude of long training and unholyintimacy, there were occasions when I engaged in drinking boutswith men. Of course, this was on the adventure-path in variousparts of the world, and it was a matter of pride. It is a queerman-pride that leads one to drink with men in order to show asstrong a head as they. But this queer man-pride is no theory. Itis a fact.

　　For instance, a wild band of young revolutionists invited me asthe guest of honour to a beer bust. It is the only technical beerbust I ever attended. I did not know the true inwardness of theaffair when I accepted. I imagined that the talk would be wildand high, that some of them might drink more than they ought, andthat I would drink discreetly. But it seemed these beer bustswere a diversion of these high-spirited young fellows whereby theywhiled away the tedium of existence by making fools of theirbetters. As I learned afterward, they had got their previousguest of honour, a brilliant young radical, unskilled in drinking,quite pipped.

　　When I found myself with them, and the situation dawned on me, uprose my queer man-pride. I'd show them, the young rascals. I'dshow them who was husky and chesty, who had the vitality and theconstitution, the stomach and the head, who could make most of aswine of himself and show it least. These unlicked cubs whothought they could out-drink me!

　　You see, it was an endurance test, and no man likes to giveanother best. Faugh! it was steam beer. I had learned moreexpensive brews. Not for years had I drunk steam beer; but when Ihad, I had drunk with men, and I guessed I could show theseyoungsters some ability in beer-guzzling. And the drinking began,and I had to drink with the best of them. Some of them might lag,but the guest of honour was not permitted to lag.

　　And all my austere nights of midnight oil, all the books I hadread, all the wisdom I had gathered, went glimmering before theape and tiger in me that crawled up from the abysm of my heredity,atavistic, competitive and brutal, lustful with strength anddesire to outswine the swine.

　　And when the session broke up I was still on my feet, and Iwalked, erect, unswaying--which was more than can be said of someof my hosts. I recall one of them in indignant tears on thestreet corner, weeping as he pointed out my sober condition.Little he dreamed the iron clutch, born of old training, withwhich I held to my consciousness in my swimming brain, keptcontrol of my muscles and my qualms, kept my voice unbroken andeasy and my thoughts consecutive and logical. Yes, and mixed upwith it all I was privily a-grin. They hadn't made a fool of mein that drinking bout. And I was proud of myself for theachievement. Darn it, I am still proud, so strangely is mancompounded.

　　But I didn't write my thousand words next morning. I was sick,poisoned. It was a day of wretchedness. In the afternoon I hadto give a public speech. I gave it, and I am confident it was asbad as I felt. Some of my hosts were there in the front rows tomark any signs on me of the night before. I don't know what signsthey marked, but I marked signs on them and took consolation inthe knowledge that they were just as sick as I.

　　Never again, I swore. And I have never been inveigled intoanother beer bust. For that matter, that was my last drinkingbout of any sort. Oh, I have drunk ever since, but with morewisdom, more discretion, and never in a competitive spirit. It isthus that the seasoned drinker grows seasoned.

　　To show that at this period in my life drinking was wholly amatter of companionship, I remember crossing the Atlantic in theold Teutonic. It chanced, at the start, that I chummed with anEnglish cable operator and a younger member of a Spanish shippingfirm. Now the only thing they drank was "horse's neck"--a long,soft, cool drink with an apple peel or an orange peel floating init. And for that whole voyage I drank horse's, necks with my twocompanions. On the other hand, had they drunk whisky, I shouldhave drunk whisky with them. From this it must not be concludedthat I was merely weak. I didn't care. I had no morality in thematter. I was strong with youth, and unafraid, and alcohol was anutterly negligible question so far as I was concerned.