Chapter XXVIII

by Jack London

　　Not yet was I ready to tuck my arm in John Barleycorn's. Theolder I got, the greater my success, the more money I earned, thewider was the command of the world that became mine and the moreprominently did John Barleycorn bulk in my life. And still Imaintained no more than a nodding acquaintance with him. I drankfor the sake of sociability, and when alone I did not drink.Sometimes I got jingled, but I considered such jingles the mildprice I paid for sociability.

　　To show how unripe I was for John Barleycorn, when, at this time,I descended into my slough of despond, I never dreamed of turningto John Barleycorn for a helping hand. I had life troubles andheart troubles which are neither here nor there in this narrative.But, combined with them, were intellectual troubles which areindeed germane.

　　Mine was no uncommon experience. I had read too much positivescience and lived too much positive life. In the eagerness ofyouth I had made the ancient mistake of pursuing Truth toorelentlessly. I had torn her veils from her, and the sight wastoo terrible for me to stand. In brief, I lost my fine faiths inpretty well everything except humanity, and the humanity Iretained faith in was a very stark humanity indeed.

　　This long sickness of pessimism is too well known to most of us tobe detailed here. Let it suffice to state that I had it very bad.I meditated suicide coolly, as a Greek philosopher might. Myregret was that there were too many dependent directly upon me forfood and shelter for me to quit living. But that was sheermorality. What really saved me was the one remaining illusion--the people.

　　The things I had fought for and burned my midnight oil for hadfailed me. Success--I despised it. Recognition--it was deadashes. Society, men and women above the ruck and the muck of thewater-front and the forecastle--I was appalled by their unlovelymental mediocrity. Love of woman--it was like all the rest.Money--I could sleep in only one bed at a time, and of what worthwas an income of a hundred porterhouses a day when I could eatonly one? Art, culture--in the face of the iron facts of biologysuch things were ridiculous, the exponents of such things only themore ridiculous.

　　From the foregoing it can be seen how very sick I was. I was borna fighter. The things I had fought for had proved not worth thefight. Remained the people. My fight was finished, yet somethingwas left still to fight for--the people.

　　But while I was discovering this one last tie to bind me to life,in my extremity, in the depths of despond, walking in the valleyof the shadow, my ears were deaf to John Barleycorn. Never theremotest whisper arose in my consciousness that John Barleycornwas the anodyne, that he could lie me along to live. One way onlywas uppermost in my thought--my revolver, the crashing eternaldarkness of a bullet. There was plenty of whisky in the house--for my guests. I never touched it. I grew afraid of my revolver--afraid during the period in which the radiant, flashing vision ofthe people was forming in my mind and will. So obsessed was Iwith the desire to die that I feared I might commit the act in mysleep, and I was compelled to give my revolver away to others whowere to lose it for me where my subconscious hand might not findit.

　　But the people saved me. By the people was I handcuffed to life.There was still one fight left in me, and here was the thing forwhich to fight. I threw all precaution to the winds, threw myselfwith fiercer zeal into the fight for socialism, laughed at theeditors and publishers who warned me and who were the sources ofmy hundred porterhouses a day, and was brutally careless of whosefeelings I hurt and of how savagely I hurt them. As the "well-balanced radicals" charged at the time, my efforts were sostrenuous, so unsafe and unsane, so ultra-revolutionary, that Iretarded the socialist development in the United States by fiveyears. In passing, I wish to remark, at this late date, that itis my fond belief that I accelerated the socialist development inthe United States by at least five minutes.

　　It was the people, and no thanks to John Barleycorn, who pulled methrough my long sickness. And when I was convalescent came thelove of woman to complete the cure and lull my pessimism asleepfor many a long day, until John Barleycorn again awoke it. But inthe meantime, I pursued Truth less relentlessly, refraining fromtearing her last veils aside even when I clutched them in my hand.I no longer cared to look upon Truth naked. I refused to permitmyself to see a second time what I had once seen. And the memoryof what I had that time seen I resolutely blotted from my mind.

　　And I was very happy. Life went well with me, I took delight inlittle things. The big things I declined to take too seriously.I still read the books, but not with the old eagerness. I stillread the books to-day, but never again shall I read them with thatold glory of youthful passion when I harked to the call from overand beyond that whispered me on to win to the mystery at the backof life and behind the stars.

　　The point of this chapter is that, in the long sickness that atsome time comes to most of us, I came through without any appealfor aid to John Barleycorn. Love, socialism, the people--healthful figments of man's mind--were the things that cured andsaved me. If ever a man was not a born alcoholic, I believe thatI am that man. And yet--well, let the succeeding chapters telltheir tale, for in them will be shown how I paid for my previousquarter of a century of contact with ever-accessible JohnBarleycorn.