As I succeeded with my writing, my standard of living rose and my horizon
broadened. I confined myself to writing and typing a thousand words a
day, including Sundays and holidays; and I still studied hard, but not so
hard as formerly. I allowed myself five and one-half hours of actual
sleep. I added this half-hour because I was compelled. Financial
success permitted me more time for exercise. I rode my wheel more,
chiefly because it was permanently out of pawn; and I boxed and fenced,
walked on my hands, jumped high and broad, put the shot and tossed the
caber, and went swimming. And I learned that more sleep is required for
physical exercise than for mental exercise. There were tired nights,
bodily, when I slept six hours; and on occasion of very severe exercise I
actually slept seven hours. But such sleep orgies were not frequent.
There was so much to learn, so much to be done, that I felt wicked when I
slept seven hours. And I blessed 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 on saving the
world, and alcohol could not give me the fervours that were mine from my
ideas and ideals. My voice, on account of my successful writing, had
added weight, or so I thought. At any rate, my reputation as a writer
drew me audiences that my reputation as a speaker never could have drawn.
I was invited before clubs and organisations of all sorts to deliver my
message. I fought the good fight, and went on studying and writing, and
was very 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 to dinner, and I made
many friends and acquaintances whose economic lives were easier than mine
had been. And many of them drank. In their own houses they drank and
offered me drink. They were not drunkards any of them. They just drank
temperately, and I drank temperately with them as an act of comradeship
and accepted hospitality. I did not care for it, neither wanted it nor
did not want it, and so small was the impression made by it that I do not
remember my first cocktail nor my first Scotch highball.
Well, I had a house. When one is asked into other houses, he naturally
asks others into his house. Behold the rising standard of living.
Having been given drink in other houses, I could expect 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. Never since that has my house not been well
supplied.
And still, through all this period, I did not care in the slightest for
John Barleycorn. I drank when others drank, and with them, as a social
act. And I had so little choice in the matter that I drank whatever they
drank. If they elected whisky, then whisky it was for me. If they drank
root beer or sarsaparilla, I drank root beer or sarsaparilla with them.
And when there were no friends in the house, why, I didn't drink
anything. 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 the preliminary
cocktail. It seemed a very fitting and gracious thing. Yet so little
did I stand in need of it, with my own high intensity and vitality, that
I never thought it worth while to have a cocktail before my own meal when
I ate alone.
On the other hand, I well remember a very brilliant man, somewhat older
than I, who occasionally visited me. He liked whisky, and I recall
sitting whole afternoons in my den, drinking steadily with him, drink for
drink, until he was mildly lighted up and I was slightly aware that I had
drunk some whisky. Now why did I do this? I don't know, save that the
old schooling held, the training of the old days and nights glass in hand
with men, the drinking ways of drink and drinkers.
Besides, I no longer feared John Barleycorn. Mine was that most
dangerous stage when a man believes himself John Barleycorn's master. I
had proved it to my satisfaction in the long years of work and study. I
could drink when I wanted, refrain when I wanted, drink without getting
drunk, and to cap everything I was thoroughly conscious that I had no
liking for the stuff. During this period I drank precisely for the same
reason I had drunk with Scotty and the harpooner and with the oyster
pirates--because it was an act that men performed with whom I wanted to
behave as a man. These brilliant ones, these adventurers of the mind,
drank. Very well. There was no reason I should not drink with them--I
who knew so confidently that I had nothing to fear from John Barleycorn.
And the foregoing was my attitude of mind for years. Occasionally I got
well jingled, but such occasions were rare. It interfered with my work,
and I permitted nothing to interfere with my work. I remember, when
spending several months in the East End of London, during which time I
wrote a book and adventured much amongst the worst of the slum classes,
that I got drunk several times and was mightily wroth with myself because
it interfered with my writing. Yet these very times were because I was
out on the adventure-path where John Barleycorn is always to be found.
Then, too, with the certitude of long training and unholy intimacy, there
were occasions when I engaged in drinking bouts with men. Of course,
this was on the adventure-path in various parts of the world, and it was
a matter of pride. It is a queer man-pride that leads one to drink with
men in order to show as strong a head as they. But this queer man-pride
is no theory. It is a fact.
For instance, a wild band of young revolutionists invited me as the guest
of honour to a beer bust. It is the only technical beer bust I ever
attended. I did not know the true inwardness of the affair when I
accepted. I imagined that the talk would be wild and high, that some of
them might drink more than they ought, and that I would drink discreetly.
But it seemed these beer busts were a diversion of these high-spirited
young fellows whereby they whiled away the tedium of existence by making
fools of their betters. As I learned afterward, they had got their
previous guest of honour, a brilliant young radical, unskilled in
drinking, quite pipped.
When I found myself with them, and the situation dawned on me, up rose my
queer man-pride. I'd show them, the young rascals. I'd show them who
was husky and chesty, who had the vitality and the constitution, the
stomach and the head, who could make most of a swine of himself and show
it least. These unlicked cubs who thought they could out-drink ME!
You see, it was an endurance test, and no man likes to give another best.
Faugh! it was steam beer. I had learned more expensive brews. Not for
years had I drunk steam beer; but when I had, I had drunk with men, and I
guessed I could show these youngsters 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 had read, all
the wisdom I had gathered, went glimmering before the ape and tiger in me
that crawled up from the abysm of my heredity, atavistic, competitive and
brutal, lustful with strength and desire to outswine the swine.
And when the session broke up I was still on my feet, and I walked,
erect, unswaying--which was more than can be said of some of my hosts. I
recall one of them in indignant tears on the street corner, weeping as he
pointed out my sober condition. Little he dreamed the iron clutch, born
of old training, with which I held to my consciousness in my swimming
brain, kept control of my muscles and my qualms, kept my voice unbroken
and easy and my thoughts consecutive and logical. Yes, and mixed up with
it all I was privily a-grin. They hadn't made a fool of me in that
drinking bout. And I was proud of myself for the achievement. Darn it,
I am still proud, so strangely is man compounded.
But I didn't write my thousand words next morning. I was sick, poisoned.
It was a day of wretchedness. In the afternoon I had to give a public
speech. I gave it, and I am confident it was as bad as I felt. Some of
my hosts were there in the front rows to mark any signs on me of the
night before. I don't know what signs they marked, but I marked signs on
them and took consolation in the knowledge that they were just as sick as
I.
Never again, I swore. And I have never been inveigled into another beer
bust. For that matter, that was my last drinking bout of any sort. Oh,
I have drunk ever since, but with more wisdom, more discretion, and never
in a competitive spirit. It is thus that the seasoned drinker grows
seasoned.
To show that at this period in my life drinking was wholly a matter of
companionship, I remember crossing the Atlantic in the old Teutonic. It
chanced, at the start, that I chummed with an English cable operator and
a younger member of a Spanish shipping firm. Now the only thing they
drank was "horse's neck"--a long, soft, cool drink with an apple peel or
an orange peel floating in it. And for that whole voyage I drank
horse's necks with my two companions. On the other hand, had they drunk
whisky, I should have drunk whisky with them. From this it must not be
concluded that I was merely weak. I didn't care. I had no morality in
the matter. I was strong with youth, and unafraid, and alcohol was an
utterly negligible question so far as I was concerned.