And oh, of all tortures
That torture the worst,
The terrible, terrible torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst.
--Poe.
Jim was a dipsomaniac, not a villain. His vice made no one else so
abysmally wretched as it made himself.
After each spree he descended into the deep hell of remorse. He
thought of pistols, razors and the lake. Would not everyone he cared
for be the better for his disappearance? Was it not decenter to die
than to live on, a reeking beast, a stenchful sewer for whiskey?
Then as his long enduring body began once more patiently to expel the
poison he had thrust into it, he slowly cheered up. He wouldn't kill
himself, he would swear off forever and ever, so help him God, amen.
In a few days he was completely reassured, and not a little proud of
his evident self-control. He bragged of it casually. He was
Pharisaical. He pitied drinking men. "No," he would say, raising a
deprecating hand when invited to smile with them, "I've cut it out for
good. I don't like it, and," laughing, "it don't like me. I've had
enough in my day to keep up my batting average for the rest of my life,
and enough is sufficiency. A little ginger ale for mine, thank you."
And the best of it was that the whiskey didn't seem to tempt him any
more. It was almost too easy, this being good. Nothing to it, if a
fellow simply made up his mind.
Old Col. E. E. Morse had certainly stampeded him the other morning when
he was getting over his headache. He smiled a trifle wryly. Yes, he'd
actually gone so far as to contemplate suicide, which was a great sin,
to avoid getting full, which was a less one--and now here he was, never
feeling better in his life and not touching a drop.
The old colonel certainly did make a goat of a fellow. He had acted
more like a boy than a grown-up man. The blood curdling oaths he'd
taken with eyes and hands raised to heaven, by his mother's soul and
his hope of meeting her again. The memory of his hysterical state
somewhat embarrassed him.
Some drank and some didn't; just as some had blue eyes and some brown.
Bismarck and Grant, for instance, drank. It was foolish on the face of
it to suppose that those giants among men were in the habit of lying
awake nights, agonizing over the question of a glass of beer or two
with their evening meal. That wouldn't show they were strong, but weak.
At this point he dropped from his vocabulary the word "drunk," with its
essentially ugly sound, and substituted "loaded," which is pleasanter,
then "jagged," which is pleasanter still, especially if one humorously
places the accent on the final _ed_. A further alteration in his
barroom terminology made it stewed, soused, plastered, anointed, all
lit up, sprung, ossified.
When a periodical gets around again to the point of calling
intoxication by pet names his next spiflication is not very far ahead
of him.
In gradually divesting itself of the hideous and demonic character
which he was wont to ascribe to it in the first moments of his
passionate remorse after a debauch, alcohol achieved the necessary
preliminary work preparatory to his next one. The curious thing was
that he always realized in the heat of a new resolution precisely how
the next attack would presently begin against him.
"Never again," he would say to himself, "never again, Jim Connor, if
you're worth the powder to blow you to hell. _Never again_,
understand! Never mind about George Washington and Grover Cleveland.
_You quit_. Don't you care if the doctors say it's a food. It isn't a
food for you. _Leave it alone or die_. It's been your steady enemy
since you got into long pants. Hate it."
But in spite of efforts that were sometimes gallant he could not keep
his hate hot. The further he got from his last spree, the less
horrible and more amusing it seemed in retrospection.
The furiously emotional character of his resolution gradually cooled
off and lost its driving power.
Only near the end of a period of abstinence did alcohol make a direct
assault upon his body, and even then in skillful disguise. His
digestion went back on him. He would conscientiously seek to fend off
his misery by pills, powders, salts, extracts, soda and charcoal
tablets, pepsin gum, by giving up smoking, coffee, dessert, by hot
water before meals and brisk walks; but he adopted these measures
dispiritedly. A still small voice had begun to whisper that they
wouldn't do and that only one thing would.
If that one thing were taken privately just before supper, say downtown
where the crowd wasn't around to kid him for seeming backsliding and if
it were immediately followed by half a teaspoonful of ground coffee
from the receptacle made and provided for such contingencies, Georgia
would be neither the worse nor the wiser and he would get his appetite
back.
"Mind," said the small voice, "_just one_." Why of course, he quickly
agreed with himself, just one. That was all he needed. He didn't want
the stuff for its own sake. He got no pleasure out of it. In fact he
rather disliked the taste of it. But purely and simply for medicine,
as a last resort. Hadn't he already tried every other damn thing on
the market?
Usually he escaped detection the first day or two and went to bed at
night triumphant and respectable, his secret locked successfully in his
breast, excitedly convinced that at last he had learned to drink like a
gentleman.
Presently he sensed the need of a more exact definition. How many
drinks did a gentleman take a day? Two or three, or even more on
special occasions? Was getting wet or cold a special occasion? What
was a "drink" anyway--two fingers, three, or a whiskey-glassful? How
much beer equaled how much spirits? Wasn't liquor mixed with seltzer
less harmful to the lining of the stomach than the same amount taken
straight? It ought to be, for a highball, according to test, averaged
no more alcohol than the light wines of France and Italy, and as was
well known, a drunken man was seldom seen over there. This being
indisputable, might not one increase one's prescribed allowance of
whiskey if one diluted it conscientiously?
He never tired of these and similar questions. They fascinated him and
centered his consciousness. His mind revolved around the whiskey
proposition like a satellite around its principal. He might hate,
loathe, abominate whiskey, or pooh-pooh it, or compromise with it, or
succumb to it. But he thought of it most of the time, endlessly
readjusting his relations with it, like an old man in the power of a
harlot.
Sometimes he would admit that there was much to be said against the
cumulative effect of a drink every day. Twenty-four hours was hardly
long enough to get wholly rid of the last one before you put the next
one in on top of it. Would it not, possibly, be more advantageous to
one's system, for instance, to get a slight skate on Saturday night,
nothing serious, a mere jolly, harmless bun, and cut it out altogether
for the rest of the week, than to go against it daily? This suggestion
usually presented itself early on Saturday evening, after he had got a
good start. After a little argument pro and con, the pros won.
The pros always won without exception, yet Jim never once neglected to
go through the form of argument. It was astonishing with what perfect
regularity he repeated time after time the same mental sequence in his
circlings around whiskey.
He did not necessarily lose his job at each spree. He was not the
explosive type of drunkard. He managed sometimes to drag himself
wearily through the motions of work in the day time, slipping out every
hour or two, on some excuse, to "baby it along." But from night to
night his drunkenness would deepen until at last, with his nerves
shattered and money gone, he stumbled home to his women folk to be
nursed, to threaten suicide, while they telephoned lies to his
employer, to take his solemn pledge, and to begin his cycle over again.
Four times during his wife's second pregnancy he made the complete
circle.
She put up with his lapses more humbly than ever before in their
married life. Each time that he renewed his pledge her sustaining hope
returned that he would keep it this time, until at least the baby was
born and she was well enough to return to work.
Then she wouldn't be afraid any more. Disencumbered, her strength
restored, she would be wholly able to take care of herself and her
child. She could earn two livings. She knew precisely how to go about
it. There was nothing haphazard in her plans. Either she would
promptly find another first class secretarial position or else she
would go into business on her own hook, get a small room about eight
feet by eight, at $1.50 or $1.75 a square foot, in a big office
building and put on the door
G. CONNOR
STENOGRAPHER--COURT REPORTER
NOTARY PUBLIC
She could see it in her mind's eye. It looked fine. But it was
several months off yet, slow months of discomfort, culminating in hours
of the acutest agony a human being can suffer and live. She knew. She
had been through it once already.
But she would never go through it again, after this time. Never. They
might say what they liked about race suicide, this was the last for her.
In the meantime she must keep Jim as straight as possible and get all
she could out of him. For presently there would be some heavy bills to
pay. She kissed and flattered him, and went through his pockets at
night, racing the bartenders for his money. Wasn't a business woman a
big fool, she often asked herself, to get in this fix for a man she
didn't love?
The Church--the Church took a pretty theoretical view of some things.