And all this glorious passage in my life was made possible for me by John Barleycorn. And this is my complaint against John Barleycorn. Here I was, thirsting for the wild life of adventure, and the only way for me to win to it was through John Barleycorn's mediation4. It was the way of the men who lived the life. Did I wish to live the life, I must live it the way they did. It was by virtue5 of drinking that I gained that partnership6 and comradeship with Nelson. Had I drunk only the beer he paid for, or had I declined to drink at all, I should never have been selected by him as a partner. He wanted a partner who would meet him on the social side, as well as the work side of life.
I abandoned myself to the life, and developed the misconception that the secret of John Barleycorn lay in going on mad drunks, rising through the successive stages that only an iron constitution could endure to final stupefaction and swinish unconsciousness. I did not like the taste, so I drank for the sole purpose of getting drunk, of getting hopelessly, helplessly drunk. And I, who had saved and scraped, traded like a Shylock and made junkmen weep; I, who had stood aghast when French Frank, at a single stroke, spent eighty cents for whisky for eight men, I turned myself loose with a more lavish7 disregard for money than any of them.
I remember going ashore8 one night with Nelson. In my pocket were one hundred and eighty dollars. It was my intention, first, to buy me some clothes, after that, some drinks. I needed the clothes. All I possessed9 were on me, and they were as follows: a pair of sea-boots that providentially leaked the water out as fast as it ran in, a pair of fifty-cent overalls10, a forty-cent cotton shirt, and a sou'wester. I had no hat, so I had to wear the sou'wester, and it will be noted11 that I have listed neither underclothes nor socks. I didn't own any.
To reach the stores where clothes could be bought, we had to pass a dozen saloons. So I bought me the drinks first. I never got to the clothing stores. In the morning, broke, poisoned, but contented12, I came back on board, and we set sail. I possessed only the clothes I had gone ashore in, and not a cent remained of the one hundred and eighty dollars. It might well be deemed impossible, by those who have never tried it, that in twelve hours a lad can spend all of one hundred and eighty dollars for drinks. I know otherwise.
And I had no regrets. I was proud. I had shown them I could spend with the best of them. Amongst strong men I had proved myself strong. I had clinched13 again, as I had often clinched, my right to the title of "Prince." Also, my attitude may be considered, in part, as a reaction from my childhood's meagreness and my childhood's excessive toil14. Possibly my inchoate15 thought was: Better to reign16 among booze-fighters a prince than to toil twelve hours a day at a machine for ten cents an hour. There are no purple passages in machine toil. But if the spending of one hundred and eighty dollars in twelve hours isn't a purple passage, then I'd like to know what is.
Oh, I skip much of the details of my trafficking with John Barleycorn during this period, and shall only mention events that will throw light on John Barleycorn's ways. There were three things that enabled me to pursue this heavy drinking: first, a magnificent constitution far better than the average; second, the healthy open-air life on the water; and third, the fact that I drank irregularly. While out on the water, we never carried any drink along.
The world was opening up to me. Already I knew several hundred miles of the water-ways of it, and of the towns and cities and fishing hamlets on the shores. Came the whisper to range farther. I had not found it yet. There was more behind. But even this much of the world was too wide for Nelson. He wearied for his beloved Oakland water-front, and when he elected to return to it we separated in all friendliness17.
I now made the old town of Benicia, on the Carquinez Straits, my headquarters. In a cluster of fishermen's arks, moored18 in the tules on the water-front, dwelt a congenial crowd of drinkers and vagabonds, and I joined them. I had longer spells ashore, between fooling with salmon19 fishing and making raids up and down bay and rivers as a deputy fish patrolman, and I drank more and learned more about drinking. I held my own with any one, drink for drink; and often drank more than my share to show the strength of my manhood. When, on a morning, my unconscious carcass was disentangled from the nets on the drying-frames, whither I had stupidly, blindly crawled the night before; and when the water-front talked it over with many a giggle20 and laugh and another drink, I was proud indeed. It was an exploit.
And when I never drew a sober breath, on one stretch, for three solid weeks, I was certain I had reached the top. Surely, in that direction, one could go no farther. It was time for me to move on. For always, drunk or sober, at the back of my consciousness something whispered that this carousing22 and bay-adventuring was not all of life. This whisper was my good fortune. I happened to be so made that I could hear it calling, always calling, out and away over the world. It was not canniness24 on my part. It was curiosity, desire to know, an unrest and a seeking for things wonderful that I seemed somehow to have glimpsed or guessed. What was this life for, I demanded, if this were all? No; there was something more, away and beyond. (And, in relation to my much later development as a drinker, this whisper, this promise of the things at the back of life, must be noted, for it was destined25 to play a dire21 part in my more recent wrestlings with John Barleycorn.)
But what gave immediacy to my decision to move on was a trick John Barleycorn played me—a monstrous26, incredible trick that showed abysses of intoxication27 hitherto undreamed. At one o'clock in the morning, after a prodigious28 drunk, I was tottering29 aboard a sloop30 at the end of the wharf31, intending to go to sleep. The tides sweep through Carquinez Straits as in a mill-race, and the full ebb32 was on when I stumbled overboard. There was nobody on the wharf, nobody on the sloop. I was borne away by the current. I was not startled. I thought the misadventure delightful33. I was a good swimmer, and in my inflamed34 condition the contact of the water with my skin soothed35 me like cool linen36.
And then John Barleycorn played me his maniacal37 trick. Some maundering fancy of going out with the tide suddenly obsessed38 me. I had never been morbid39. Thoughts of suicide had never entered my head. And now that they entered, I thought it fine, a splendid culminating, a perfect rounding off of my short but exciting career. I, who had never known girl's love, nor woman's love, nor the love of children; who had never played in the wide joy-fields of art, nor climbed the star-cool heights of philosophy, nor seen with my eyes more than a pin-point's surface of the gorgeous world; I decided40 that this was all, that I had seen all, lived all, been all, that was worth while, and that now was the time to cease. This was the trick of John Barleycorn, laying me by the heels of my imagination and in a drug-dream dragging me to death.
Oh, he was convincing. I had really experienced all of life, and it didn't amount to much. The swinish drunkenness in which I had lived for months (this was accompanied by the sense of degradation41 and the old feeling of conviction of sin) was the last and best, and I could see for myself what it was worth. There were all the broken-down old bums42 and loafers I had bought drinks for. That was what remained of life. Did I want to become like them? A thousand times no; and I wept tears of sweet sadness over my glorious youth going out with the tide. (And who has not seen the weeping drunk, the melancholic43 drunk? They are to be found in all the bar-rooms, if they can find no other listener telling their sorrows to the barkeeper, who is paid to listen.)
The water was delicious. It was a man's way to die. John Barleycorn changed the tune23 he played in my drink-maddened brain. Away with tears and regret. It was a hero's death, and by the hero's own hand and will. So I struck up my death-chant and was singing it lustily, when the gurgle and splash of the current-riffles in my ears reminded me of my more immediate44 situation.
Below the town of Benicia, where the Solano wharf projects, the Straits widen out into what bay-farers call the "Bight of Turner's Shipyard." I was in the shore-tide that swept under the Solano wharf and on into the bight. I knew of old the power of the suck which developed when the tide swung around the end of Dead Man's Island and drove straight for the wharf. I didn't want to go through those piles. It wouldn't be nice, and I might lose an hour in the bight on my way out with the tide.
I undressed in the water and struck out with a strong, single-overhand stroke, crossing the current at right-angles. Nor did I cease until, by the wharf lights, I knew I was safe to sweep by the end. Then I turned over and rested. The stroke had been a telling one, and I was a little time in recovering my breath.
I was elated, for I had succeeded in avoiding the suck. I started to raise my death-chant again—a purely45 extemporised farrago of a drug-crazed youth. "Don't sing—yet," whispered John Barleycorn. "The Solano runs all night. There are railroad men on the wharf. They will hear you, and come out in a boat and rescue you, and you don't want to be rescued." I certainly didn't. What? Be robbed of my hero's death? Never. And I lay on my back in the starlight, watching the familiar wharf-lights go by, red and green and white, and bidding sad sentimental46 farewell to them, each and all.
When I was well clear, in mid-channel, I sang again. Sometimes I swam a few strokes, but in the main I contented myself with floating and dreaming long drunken dreams. Before daylight, the chill of the water and the passage of the hours had sobered me sufficiently47 to make me wonder what portion of the Straits I was in, and also to wonder if the turn of the tide wouldn't catch me and take me back ere I had drifted out into San Pablo Bay.
Next I discovered that I was very weary and very cold, and quite sober, and that I didn't in the least want to be drowned. I could make out the Selby Smelter on the Contra Costa shore and the Mare48 Island lighthouse. I started to swim for the Solano shore, but was too weak and chilled, and made so little headway, and at the cost of such painful effort, that I gave it up and contented myself with floating, now and then giving a stroke to keep my balance in the tide-rips which were increasing their commotion49 on the surface of the water. And I knew fear. I was sober now, and I didn't want to die. I discovered scores of reasons for living. And the more reasons I discovered, the more liable it seemed that I was going to drown anyway.
Daylight, after I had been four hours in the water, found me in a parlous50 condition in the tide-rips off Mare Island light, where the swift ebbs51 from Vallejo Straits and Carquinez Straits were fighting with each other, and where, at that particular moment, they were fighting the flood tide setting up against them from San Pablo Bay. A stiff breeze had sprung up, and the crisp little waves were persistently52 lapping into my mouth, and I was beginning to swallow salt water. With my swimmer's knowledge, I knew the end was near. And then the boat came—a Greek fisherman running in for Vallejo; and again I had been saved from John Barleycorn by my constitution and physical vigour53.
And, in passing, let me note that this maniacal trick John Barleycorn played me is nothing uncommon54. An absolute statistic55 of the percentage of suicides due to John Barleycorn would be appalling56. In my case, healthy, normal, young, full of the joy of life, the suggestion to kill myself was unusual; but it must be taken into account that it came on the heels of a long carouse57, when my nerves and brain were fearfully poisoned, and that the dramatic, romantic side of my imagination, drink-maddened to lunacy, was delighted with the suggestion. And yet, the older, more morbid drinkers, more jaded58 with life and more disillusioned59, who kill themselves, do so usually after a long debauch60, when their nerves and brains are thoroughly61 poison-soaked.
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收听单词发音
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1
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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reindeer
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| n.驯鹿 | |
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mediation
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| n.调解 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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8
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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14
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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inchoate
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| adj.才开始的，初期的 | |
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16
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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18
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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21
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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carousing
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| v.痛饮，闹饮欢宴( carouse的现在分词 ) | |
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23
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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24
canniness
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| 精明 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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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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29
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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sloop
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| n.单桅帆船 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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32
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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36
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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maniacal
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| adj.发疯的 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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40
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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41
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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42
bums
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| n. 游荡者，流浪汉，懒鬼，闹饮，屁股 adj. 没有价值的，不灵光的，不合理的 vt. 令人失望，乞讨 vi. 混日子，以乞讨为生 | |
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43
melancholic
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| 忧郁症患者 | |
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44
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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45
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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46
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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47
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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48
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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49
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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50
parlous
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| adj.危险的，不确定的，难对付的 | |
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51
ebbs
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| 退潮( ebb的名词复数 )； 落潮； 衰退 | |
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52
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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53
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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54
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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55
statistic
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| n.统计量；adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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56
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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57
carouse
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| v.狂欢；痛饮；n.狂饮的宴会 | |
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58
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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59
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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60
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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