Chapter XXX

by Jack London

　　Part of the process of recovering from my long sickness was tofind delight in little things, in things unconnected with booksand problems, in play, in games of tag in the swimming pool, inflying kites, in fooling with horses, in working out mechanicalpuzzles. As a result, I grew tired of the city. On the ranch, inthe Valley of the Moon, I found my paradise. I gave up living incities. All the cities held for me were music, the theatre, andTurkish baths.

　　And all went well with me. I worked hard, played hard, and wasvery happy. I read more fiction and less fact. I did not study atithe as much as I had studied in the past. I still took aninterest in the fundamental problems of existence, but it was avery cautious interest; for I had burned my fingers that time Iclutched at the veils of Truth and wrested them from her. Therewas a bit of lie in this attitude of mine, a bit of hypocrisy; butthe lie and the hypocrisy were those of a man desiring to live. Ideliberately blinded myself to what I took to be the savageinterpretation of biological fact. After all, I was merelyforswearing a bad habit, forgoing a bad frame of mind. And Irepeat, I was very happy. And I add, that in all my days,measuring them with cold, considerative judgment, this was, farand away beyond all other periods, the happiest period of my life.

　　But the time was at hand, rhymeless and reasonless so far as I cansee, when I was to begin to pay for my score of years of dallyingwith John Barleycorn. Occasionally guests journeyed to the ranchand remained a few days. Some did not drink. But to those whodid drink, the absence of all alcohol on the ranch was a hardship.I could not violate my sense of hospitality by compelling them toendure this hardship. I ordered in a stock--for my guests.

　　I was never interested enough in cocktails to know how they weremade. So I got a bar-keeper in Oakland to make them in bulk andship them to me. When I had no guests I didn't drink. But Ibegan to notice, when I finished my morning's work, that I wasglad if there were a guest, for then I could drink a cocktail withhim.

　　Now I was so clean of alcohol that even a single cocktail wasprovocative of pitch. A single cocktail would glow the mind andtickle a laugh for the few minutes prior to sitting down to tableand starting the delightful process of eating. On the other hand,such was the strength of my stomach, of my alcoholic resistance,that the single cocktail was only the glimmer of a glow, thefaintest tickle of a laugh. One day, a friend frankly andshamelessly suggested a second cocktail. I drank the second onewith him. The glow was appreciably longer and warmer, thelaughter deeper and more resonant. One does not forget suchexperiences. Sometimes I almost think that it was because I wasso very happy that I started on my real drinking.

　　I remember one day Charmian and I took a long ride over themountains on our horses. The servants had been dismissed for theday, and we returned late at night to a jolly chafing-dish supper.Oh, it was good to be alive that night while the supper waspreparing, the two of us alone in the kitchen. I, personally, wasat the top of life. Such things as the books and ultimate truthdid not exist. My body was gloriously healthy, and healthilytired from the long ride. It had been a splendid day. The nightwas splendid. I was with the woman who was my mate, picnicking ingleeful abandon. I had no troubles. The bills were all paid, anda surplus of money was rolling in on me. The future ever-widenedbefore me. And right there, in the kitchen, delicious thingsbubbled in the chafing-dish, our laughter bubbled, and my stomachwas keen with a most delicious edge of appetite.

　　I felt so good, that somehow, somewhere, in me arose an insatiablegreed to feel better. I was so happy that I wanted to pitch myhappiness even higher. And I knew the way. Ten thousand contactswith John Barleycorn had taught me. Several times I wandered outof the kitchen to the cocktail bottle, and each time I left itdiminished by one man's size cocktail. The result was splendid.I wasn't jingled, I wasn't lighted up; but I was warmed, I glowed,my happiness was pyramided. Munificent as life was to me, I addedto that munificence. It was a great hour--one of my greatest.But I paid for it, long afterwards, as you will see. One does notforget such experiences, and, in human stupidity, cannot bebrought to realise that there is no immutable law which decreesthat same things shall produce same results. For they don't, elsewould the thousandth pipe of opium be provocative of similardelights to the first, else would one cocktail, instead ofseveral, produce an equivalent glow after a year of cocktails.

　　One day, just before I ate midday dinner, after my morning'swriting was done, when I had no guest, I took a cocktail bymyself. Thereafter, when there were no guests, I took this dailypre-dinner cocktail. And right there John Barleycorn had me. Iwas beginning to drink regularly. I was beginning to drink alone.And I was beginning to drink, not for hospitality's sake, not forthe sake of the taste, but for the effect of the drink.

　　I wanted that daily pre-dinner cocktail. And it never crossed mymind that there was any reason I should not have it. I paid forit. I could pay for a thousand cocktails each day if I wanted.And what was a cocktail--one cocktail--to me who on so manyoccasions for so many years had drunk inordinate quantities ofstiffer stuff and been unharmed?

　　The programme of my ranch life was as follows: Each morning, ateight-thirty, having been reading or correcting proofs in bedsince four or five, I went to my desk. Odds and ends ofcorrespondence and notes occupied me till nine, and at nine sharp,invariably, I began my writing. By eleven, sometimes a fewminutes earlier or later, my thousand words were finished.Another half-hour at cleaning up my desk, and my day's work wasdone, so that at eleven-thirty I got into a hammock under thetrees with my mail-bag and the morning newspaper. At twelve-thirty I ate dinner and in the afternoon I swam and rode.

　　One morning, at eleven-thirty, before I got into the hammock, Itook a cocktail. I repeated this on subsequent mornings, ofcourse, taking another cocktail just before I ate at twelve-thirty. Soon I found myself, seated at my desk in the midst of mythousand words, looking forward to that eleven-thirty cocktail.

　　At last, now, I was thoroughly conscious that I desired alcohol.But what of it? I wasn't afraid of John Barleycorn. I hadassociated with him too long. I was wise in the matter of drink.I was discreet. Never again would I drink to excess. I knew thedangers and the pitfalls of John Barleycorn, the various ways bywhich he had tried to kill me in the past. But all that was past,long past. Never again would I drink myself to stupefaction.Never again would I get drunk. All I wanted, and all I wouldtake, was just enough to glow and warm me, to kick geniality alivein me and put laughter in my throat and stir the maggots ofimagination slightly in my brain. Oh, I was thoroughly master ofmyself, and of John Barleycorn.