One Sunday morning found me, how or why I cannot now remember, at the Morrisey ranch. A number of young people had gathered there from the nearer ranches5. Besides, the oldsters had been there, drinking since early dawn, and, some of them, since the night before. The Morriseys were a huge breed, and there were many strapping6 great sons and uncles, heavy-booted, big-fisted, rough-voiced.
Suddenly there were screams from the girls and cries of "Fight!" There was a rush. Men hurled7 themselves out of the kitchen. Two giants, flush-faced, with greying hair, were locked in each other's arms. One was Black Matt, who, everybody said, had killed two men in his time. The women screamed softly, crossed themselves, or prayed brokenly, hiding their eyes and peeping through their fingers. But not I. It is a fair presumption8 that I was the most interested spectator. Maybe I would see that wonderful thing, a man killed. Anyway, I would see a man-fight. Great was my disappointment. Black Matt and Tom Morrisey merely held on to each other and lifted their clumsy-booted feet in what seemed a grotesque9, elephantine dance. They were too drunk to fight. Then the peacemakers got hold of them and led them back to cement the new friendship in the kitchen.
Soon they were all talking at once, rumbling10 and roaring as big-chested open-air men will, when whisky has whipped their taciturnity. And I, a little shaver of seven, my heart in my mouth, my trembling body strung tense as a deer's on the verge11 of flight, peered wonderingly in at the open door and learned more of the strangeness of men. And I marvelled12 at Black Matt and Tom Morrisey, sprawled13 over the table, arms about each other's necks, weeping lovingly.
The kitchen-drinking continued, and the girls outside grew timorous14. They knew the drink game, and all were certain that something terrible was going to happen. They protested that they did not wish to be there when it happened, and some one suggested going to a big Italian rancho four miles away, where they could get up a dance. Immediately they paired off, lad and lassie, and started down the sandy road. And each lad walked with his sweetheart—trust a child of seven to listen and to know the love-affairs of his countryside. And behold15, I, too, was a lad with a lassie. A little Irish girl of my own age had been paired off with me. We were the only children in this spontaneous affair. Perhaps the oldest couple might have been twenty. There were chits of girls, quite grown up, of fourteen and sixteen, walking with their fellows. But we were uniquely young, this little Irish girl and I, and we walked hand in hand, and, sometimes, under the tutelage of our elders, with my arm around her waist. Only that wasn't comfortable. And I was very proud, on that bright Sunday morning, going down the long bleak road among the sandhills. I, too, had my girl, and was a little man.
The Italian rancho was a bachelor establishment. Our visit was hailed with delight. The red wine was poured in tumblers for all, and the long dining-room was partly cleared for dancing. And the young fellows drank and danced with the girls to the strains of an accordion16. To me that music was divine. I had never heard anything so glorious. The young Italian who furnished it would even get up and dance, his arms around his girl, playing the accordion behind her back. All of which was very wonderful for me, who did not dance, but who sat at a table and gazed wide-eyed at the amazingness of life. I was only a little lad, and there was so much of life for me to learn. As the time passed, the Irish lads began helping17 themselves to the wine, and jollity and high spirits reigned18. I noted19 that some of them staggered and fell down in the dances, and that one had gone to sleep in a corner. Also, some of the girls were complaining, and wanting to leave, and others of the girls were titteringly complacent20, willing for anything to happen.
When our Italian hosts had offered me wine in a general sort of way, I had declined. My beer experience had been enough for me, and I had no inclination21 to traffic further in the stuff, or in anything related to it. Unfortunately, one young Italian, Peter, an impish soul, seeing me sitting solitary22, stirred by a whim23 of the moment, half-filled a tumbler with wine and passed it to me. He was sitting across the table from me. I declined. His face grew stern, and he insistently24 proffered25 the wine. And then terror descended26 upon me—a terror which I must explain.
My mother had theories. First, she steadfastly27 maintained that brunettes and all the tribe of dark-eyed humans were deceitful. Needless to say, my mother was a blonde. Next, she was convinced that the dark-eyed Latin races were profoundly sensitive, profoundly treacherous28, and profoundly murderous. Again and again, drinking in the strangeness and the fearsomeness of the world from her lips, I had heard her state that if one offended an Italian, no matter how slightly and unintentionally, he was certain to retaliate29 by stabbing one in the back. That was her particular phrase—"stab you in the back."
Now, although I had been eager to see Black Matt kill Tom Morrisey that morning, I did not care to furnish to the dancers the spectacle of a knife sticking in my back. I had not yet learned to distinguish between facts and theories. My faith was implicit30 in my mother's exposition of the Italian character. Besides, I had some glimmering31 inkling of the sacredness of hospitality. Here was a treacherous, sensitive, murderous Italian, offering me hospitality. I had been taught to believe that if I offended him he would strike at me with a knife precisely32 as a horse kicked out when one got too close to its heels and worried it. Then, too, this Italian, Peter, had those terrible black eyes I had heard my mother talk about. They were eyes different from the eyes I knew, from the blues33 and greys and hazels of my own family, from the pale and genial34 blues of the Irish. Perhaps Peter had had a few drinks. At any rate, his eyes were brilliantly black and sparkling with devilry. They were the mysterious, the unknown, and who was I, a seven-year-old, to analyse them and know their prankishness35? In them I visioned sudden death, and I declined the wine half-heartedly. The expression in his eyes changed. They grew stern and imperious as he shoved the tumbler of wine closer.
What could I do? I have faced real death since in my life, but never have I known the fear of death as I knew it then. I put the glass to my lips, and Peter's eyes relented. I knew he would not kill me just then. That was a relief. But the wine was not. It was cheap, new wine, bitter and sour, made of the leavings and scrapings of the vineyards and the vats36, and it tasted far worse than beer. There is only one way to take medicine, and that is to take it. And that is the way I took that wine. I threw my head back and gulped37 it down. I had to gulp38 again and hold the poison down, for poison it was to my child's tissues and membranes39.
Looking back now, I can realise that Peter was astounded40. He half-filled a second tumbler and shoved it across the table. Frozen with fear, in despair at the fate which had befallen me, I gulped the second glass down like the first. This was too much for Peter. He must share the infant prodigy41 he had discovered. He called Dominick, a young moustached Italian, to see the sight. This time it was a full tumbler that was given me. One will do anything to live. I gripped myself, mastered the qualms42 that rose in my throat, and downed the stuff.
Dominick had never seen an infant of such heroic calibre. Twice again he refilled the tumbler, each time to the brim, and watched it disappear down my throat. By this time my exploits were attracting attention. Middle-aged43 Italian labourers, old-country peasants who did not talk English, and who could not dance with the Irish girls, surrounded me. They were swarthy and wild-looking; they wore belts and red shirts; and I knew they carried knives; and they ringed me around like a pirate chorus. And Peter and Dominick made me show off for them.
Had I lacked imagination, had I been stupid, had I been stubbornly mulish in having my own way, I should never have got in this pickle44. And the lads and lassies were dancing, and there was no one to save me from my fate. How much I drank I do not know. My memory of it is of an age-long suffering of fear in the midst of a murderous crew, and of an infinite number of glasses of red wine passing across the bare boards of a wine-drenched table and going down my burning throat. Bad as the wine was, a knife in the back was worse, and I must survive at any cost.
Looking back with the drinker's knowledge, I know now why I did not collapse45 stupefied upon the table. As I have said, I was frozen, I was paralysed, with fear. The only movement I made was to convey that never-ending procession of glasses to my lips. I was a poised46 and motionless receptacle for all that quantity of wine. It lay inert47 in my fear-inert stomach. I was too frightened, even, for my stomach to turn. So all that Italian crew looked on and marvelled at the infant phenomenon that downed wine with the sang-froid of an automaton48. It is not in the spirit of braggadocio49 that I dare to assert they had never seen anything like it.
The time came to go. The tipsy antics of the lads had led a majority of the soberer-minded lassies to compel a departure. I found myself, at the door, beside my little maiden50. She had not had my experience, so she was sober. She was fascinated by the titubations of the lads who strove to walk beside their girls, and began to mimic51 them. I thought this a great game, and I, too, began to stagger tipsily. But she had no wine to stir up, while my movements quickly set the fumes52 rising to my head. Even at the start, I was more realistic than she. In several minutes I was astonishing myself. I saw one lad, after reeling half a dozen steps, pause at the side of the road, gravely peer into the ditch, and gravely, and after apparent deep thought, fall into it. To me this was excruciatingly funny. I staggered to the edge of the ditch, fully53 intending to stop on the edge. I came to myself, in the ditch, in process of being hauled out by several anxious-faced girls.
I didn't care to play at being drunk any more. There was no more fun in me. My eyes were beginning to swim, and with wide-open mouth I panted for air. A girl led me by the hand on either side, but my legs were leaden. The alcohol I had drunk was striking my heart and brain like a club. Had I been a weakling of a child, I am confident that it would have killed me. As it was, I know I was nearer death than any of the scared girls dreamed. I could hear them bickering54 among themselves as to whose fault it was; some were weeping—for themselves, for me, and for the disgraceful way their lads had behaved. But I was not interested. I was suffocating55, and I wanted air. To move was agony. It made me pant harder. Yet those girls persisted in making me walk, and it was four miles home. Four miles! I remember my swimming eyes saw a small bridge across the road an infinite distance away. In fact, it was not a hundred feet distant. When I reached it, I sank down and lay on my back panting. The girls tried to lift me, but I was helpless and suffocating. Their cries of alarm brought Larry, a drunken youth of seventeen, who proceeded to resuscitate57 me by jumping on my chest. Dimly I remember this, and the squalling of the girls as they struggled with him and dragged him away. And then I knew nothing, though I learned afterward58 that Larry wound up under the bridge and spent the night there.
When I came to, it was dark. I had been carried unconscious for four miles and been put to bed. I was a sick child, and, despite the terrible strain on my heart and tissues, I continually relapsed into the madness of delirium59. All the contents of the terrible and horrible in my child's mind spilled out. The most frightful60 visions were realities to me. I saw murders committed, and I was pursued by murderers. I screamed and raved61 and fought. My sufferings were prodigious62. Emerging from such delirium, I would hear my mother's voice: "But the child's brain. He will lose his reason." And sinking back into delirium, I would take the idea with me and be immured63 in madhouses, and be beaten by keepers, and surrounded by screeching64 lunatics.
One thing that had strongly impressed my young mind was the talk of my elders about the dens65 of iniquity66 in San Francisco's Chinatown. In my delirium I wandered deep beneath the ground through a thousand of these dens, and behind locked doors of iron I suffered and died a thousand deaths. And when I would come upon my father, seated at table in these subterranean67 crypts, gambling68 with Chinese for great stakes of gold, all my outrage69 gave vent56 in the vilest70 cursing. I would rise in bed, struggling against the detaining hands, and curse my father till the rafters rang. All the inconceivable filth71 a child running at large in a primitive countryside may hear men utter was mine; and though I had never dared utter such oaths, they now poured from me, at the top of my lungs, as I cursed my father sitting there underground and gambling with long-haired, long-nailed Chinamen.
It is a wonder that I did not burst my heart or brain that night. A seven-year-old child's arteries72 and nerve-centres are scarcely fitted to endure the terrific paroxysms that convulsed me. No one slept in the thin, frame farm-house that night when John Barleycorn had his will of me. And Larry, under the bridge, had no delirium like mine. I am confident that his sleep was stupefied and dreamless, and that he awoke next day merely to heaviness and moroseness73, and that if he lives to-day he does not remember that night, so passing was it as an incident. But my brain was seared for ever by that experience. Writing now, thirty years afterward, every vision is as distinct, as sharp-cut, every pain as vital and terrible, as on that night.
I was sick for days afterward, and I needed none of my mother's injunctions to avoid John Barleycorn in the future. My mother had been dreadfully shocked. She held that I had done wrong, very wrong, and that I had gone contrary to all her teaching. And how was I, who was never allowed to talk back, who lacked the very words with which to express my psychology—how was I to tell my mother that it was her teaching that was directly responsible for my drunkenness? Had it not been for her theories about dark eyes and Italian character, I should never have wet my lips with the sour, bitter wine. And not until man-grown did I tell her the true inwardness of that disgraceful affair.
In those after days of sickness, I was confused on some points, and very clear on others. I felt guilty of sin, yet smarted with a sense of injustice74. It had not been my fault, yet I had done wrong. But very clear was my resolution never to touch liquor again. No mad dog was ever more afraid of water than was I of alcohol.
Yet the point I am making is that this experience, terrible as it was, could not in the end deter75 me from forming John Barleycorn's cheek-by-jowl acquaintance. All about me, even then, were the forces moving me toward him. In the first place, barring my mother, ever extreme in her views, it seemed to me all the grown-ups looked upon the affair with tolerant eyes. It was a joke, something funny that had happened. There was no shame attached. Even the lads and lassies giggled76 and snickered over their part in the affair, narrating77 with gusto how Larry had jumped on my chest and slept under the bridge, how So-and-So had slept out in the sandhills that night, and what had happened to the other lad who fell in the ditch. As I say, so far as I could see, there was no shame anywhere. It had been something ticklishly78, devilishly fine—a bright and gorgeous episode in the monotony of life and labour on that bleak, fog-girt coast.
The Irish ranchers twitted me good-naturedly on my exploit, and patted me on the back until I felt that I had done something heroic. Peter and Dominick and the other Italians were proud of my drinking prowess. The face of morality was not set against drinking. Besides, everybody drank. There was not a teetotaler in the community. Even the teacher of our little country school, a greying man of fifty, gave us vacations on the occasions when he wrestled79 with John Barleycorn and was thrown. Thus there was no spiritual deterrence80. My loathing81 for alcohol was purely82 physiological83. I didn't like the damned stuff.
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1
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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ranches
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| 大农场， （兼种果树，养鸡等的）大牧场( ranch的名词复数 ) | |
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6
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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7
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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8
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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9
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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10
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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11
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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14
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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18
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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21
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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22
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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23
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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27
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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28
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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29
retaliate
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| v.报复，反击 | |
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30
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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31
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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32
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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prankishness
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vats
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| varieties 变化，多样性，种类 | |
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gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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38
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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39
membranes
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| n.（动物或植物体内的）薄膜( membrane的名词复数 )；隔膜；（可起防水、防风等作用的）膜状物 | |
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40
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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41
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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42
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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43
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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44
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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45
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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46
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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47
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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48
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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49
braggadocio
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| n.吹牛大王 | |
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50
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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51
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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52
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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53
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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54
bickering
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| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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55
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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56
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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57
resuscitate
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| v.使复活，使苏醒 | |
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58
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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59
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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60
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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61
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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62
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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63
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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65
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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moroseness
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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ticklishly
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| adv.怕痒地 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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deterrence
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| 威慑，制止； 制止物，制止因素； 挽留的事物； 核威慑 | |
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81
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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