The result was that I was no longer reinvigorated by periods of open-air abstinence and healthy toil1. I drank every day, and whenever opportunity offered I drank to excess; for I still laboured under the misconception that the secret of John Barleycorn lay in drinking to bestiality and unconsciousness. I became pretty thoroughly2 alcohol-soaked during this period. I practically lived in saloons; became a bar-room loafer, and worse.
And right here was John Barleycorn getting me in a more insidious3 though no less deadly way than when he nearly sent me out with the tide. I had a few months still to run before I was seventeen; I scorned the thought of a steady job at anything; I felt myself a pretty tough individual in a group of pretty tough men; and I drank because these men drank and because I had to make good with them. I had never had a real boyhood, and in this, my precocious4 manhood, I was very hard and woefully wise. Though I had never known girl's love even, I had crawled through such depths that I was convinced absolutely that I knew the last word about love and life. And it wasn't a pretty knowledge. Without being pessimistic, I was quite satisfied that life was a rather cheap and ordinary affair.
You see, John Barleycorn was blunting me. The old stings and prods5 of the spirit were no longer sharp. Curiosity was leaving me. What did it matter what lay on the other side of the world? Men and women, without doubt, very much like the men and women I knew; marrying and giving in marriage and all the petty run of petty human concerns; and drinks, too. But the other side of the world was a long way to go for a drink. I had but to step to the corner and get all I wanted at Joe Vigy's. Johnny Heinhold still ran the Last Chance. And there were saloons on all the corners and between the corners.
The whispers from the back of life were growing dim as my mind and body soddened6. The old unrest was drowsy7. I might as well rot and die here in Oakland as anywhere else. And I should have so rotted and died, and not in very long order either, at the pace John Barleycorn was leading me, had the matter depended wholly on him. I was learning what it was to have no appetite. I was learning what it was to get up shaky in the morning, with a stomach that quivered, with fingers touched with palsy, and to know the drinker's need for a stiff glass of whisky neat in order to brace8 up. (Oh! John Barleycorn is a wizard dopester. Brain and body, scorched9 and jangled and poisoned, return to be tuned10 up by the very poison that caused the damage.)
There is no end to John Barleycorn's tricks. He had tried to inveigle11 me into killing12 myself. At this period he was doing his best to kill me at a fairly rapid pace. But, not satisfied with that, he tried another dodge13. He very nearly got me, too, and right there I learned a lesson about him—became a wiser, a more skilful14 drinker. I learned there were limits to my gorgeous constitution, and that there were no limits to John Barleycorn. I learned that in a short hour or two he could master my strong head, my broad shoulders and deep chest, put me on my back, and with a devil's grip on my throat proceed to choke the life out of me.
Nelson and I were sitting in the Overland House. It was early in the evening, and the only reason we were there was because we were broke and it was election time. You see, in election time local politicians, aspirants15 for office, have a way of making the rounds of the saloons to get votes. One is sitting at a table, in a dry condition, wondering who is going to turn up and buy him a drink, or if his credit is good at some other saloon and if it's worth while to walk that far to find out, when suddenly the saloon doors swing wide, and enters a bevy16 of well-dressed men, themselves usually wide and exhaling17 an atmosphere of prosperity and fellowship.
They have smiles and greetings for everybody—for you, without the price of a glass of beer in your pocket, for the timid hobo who lurks18 in the corner and who certainly hasn't a vote, but who may establish a lodging-house registration19. And do you know, when these politicians swing wide the doors and come in, with their broad shoulders, their deep chests, and their generous stomachs which cannot help making them optimists20 and masters of life, why, you perk21 right up. It's going to be a warm evening after all, and you know you'll get a souse started at the very least.
And—who knows?—the gods may be kind, other drinks may come, and the night culminate22 in glorious greatness. And the next thing you know, you are lined up at the bar, pouring drinks down your throat and learning the gentlemen's names and the offices which they hope to fill.
It was during this period, when the politicians went their saloon rounds, that I was getting bitter bits of education and having illusions punctured—I, who had pored and thrilled over "The Rail-Splitter," and "From Canal Boy to President." Yes, I was learning how noble politics and politicians are.
Well, on this night, broke, thirsty, but with the drinker's faith in the unexpected drink, Nelson and I sat in the Overland House waiting for something to turn up, especially politicians. And there entered Joe Goose—he of the unquenchable thirst, the wicked eyes, the crooked23 nose, the flowered vest.
"Come on, fellows—free booze—all you want of it. I didn't want you to miss it."
"Where?" we wanted to know.
"Come on. I'll tell you as we go along. We haven't a minute to lose." And as we hurried up town, Joe Goose explained: "It's the Hancock Fire Brigade. All you have to do is wear a red shirt and a helmet, and carry a torch.
"They're going down on a special train to Haywards to parade."
(I think the place was Haywards. It may have been San Leandro or Niles. And, to save me, I can't remember whether the Hancock Fire Brigade was a republican or a democratic organisation24. But anyway, the politicians who ran it were short of torch-bearers, and anybody who would parade could get drunk if he wanted to.)
"The town'll be wide open," Joe Goose went on. "Booze? It'll run like water. The politicians have bought the stocks of the saloons. There'll be no charge. All you got to do is walk right up and call for it. We'll raise hell."
At the hall, on Eighth Street near Broadway, we got into the firemen's shirts and helmets, were equipped with torches, and, growling25 because we weren't given at least one drink before we started, were herded26 aboard the train. Oh, those politicians had handled our kind before. At Haywards there were no drinks either. Parade first, and earn your booze, was the order of the night.
We paraded. Then the saloons were opened. Extra barkeepers had been engaged, and the drinkers jammed six deep before every drink-drenched and unwiped bar. There was no time to wipe the bar, nor wash glasses, nor do anything save fill glasses. The Oakland water-front can be real thirsty on occasion.
This method of jamming and struggling in front of the bar was too slow for us. The drink was ours. The politicians had bought it for us. We'd paraded and earned it, hadn't we? So we made a flank attack around the end of the bar, shoved the protesting barkeepers aside, and helped ourselves to bottles.
Outside, we knocked the necks of the bottles off against the concrete curbs27, and drank. Now Joe Goose and Nelson had learned discretion28 with straight whisky, drunk in quantity. I hadn't. I still laboured under the misconception that one was to drink all he could get—especially when it didn't cost anything. We shared our bottles with others, and drank a good portion ourselves, while I drank most of all. And I didn't like the stuff. I drank it as I had drunk beer at five, and wine at seven. I mastered my qualms29 and downed it like so much medicine. And when we wanted more bottles, we went into other saloons where the free drink was flowing, and helped ourselves.
I haven't the slightest idea of how much I drank—whether it was two quarts or five. I do know that I began the orgy with half-pint draughts30 and with no water afterward31 to wash the taste away or to dilute32 the whisky.
Now the politicians were too wise to leave the town filled with drunks from the water-front of Oakland. When train time came, there was a round-up of the saloons. Already I was feeling the impact of the whisky. Nelson and I were hustled33 out of a saloon, and found ourselves in the very last rank of a disorderly parade. I struggled along heroically, my correlations34 breaking down, my legs tottering35 under me, my head swimming, my heart pounding, my lungs panting for air.
My helplessness was coming on so rapidly that my reeling brain told me I would go down and out and never reach the train if I remained at the rear of the procession. I left the ranks and ran down a pathway beside the road under broad-spreading trees. Nelson pursued me, laughing. Certain things stand out, as in memories of nightmare. I remember those trees especially, and my desperate running along under them, and how, every time I fell, roars of laughter went up from the other drunks. They thought I was merely antic drunk. They did not dream that John Barleycorn had me by the throat in a death-clutch. But I knew it. And I remember the fleeting36 bitterness that was mine as I realised that I was in a struggle with death, and that these others did not know. It was as if I were drowning before a crowd of spectators who thought I was cutting up tricks for their entertainment.
And running there under the trees, I fell and lost consciousness. What happened afterward, with one glimmering37 exception, I had to be told. Nelson, with his enormous strength, picked me up and dragged me on and aboard the train. When he had got me into a seat, I fought and panted so terribly for air that even with his obtuseness38 he knew I was in a bad way. And right there, at any moment, I know now, I might have died. I often think it is the nearest to death I have ever been. I have only Nelson's description of my behaviour to go by.
I was scorching39 up, burning alive internally, in an agony of fire and suffocation40, and I wanted air. I madly wanted air. My efforts to raise a window were vain, for all the windows in the car were screwed down. Nelson had seen drink-crazed men, and thought I wanted to throw myself out. He tried to restrain me, but I fought on. I seized some man's torch and smashed the glass.
Now there were pro-Nelson and anti-Nelson factions41 on the Oakland water-front, and men of both factions, with more drink in them than was good, filled the car. My smashing of the window was the signal for the antis. One of them reached for me, and dropped me, and started the fight, of all of which I have no knowledge save what was told me afterward, and a sore jaw42 next day from the blow that put me out. The man who struck me went down across my body, Nelson followed him, and they say there were few unbroken windows in the wreckage43 of the car that followed as the free-for-all fight had its course.
This being knocked cold and motionless was perhaps the best thing that could have happened to me. My violent struggles had only accelerated my already dangerously accelerated heart, and increased the need for oxygen in my suffocating44 lungs.
After the fight was over and I came to, I did not come to myself. I was no more myself than a drowning man is who continues to struggle after he has lost consciousness. I have no memory of my actions, but I cried "Air! Air!" so insistently45, that it dawned on Nelson that I did not contemplate46 self-destruction. So he cleared the jagged glass from the window-ledge and let me stick my head and shoulders out. He realised, partially47, the seriousness of my condition, and held me by the waist to prevent me from crawling farther out. And for the rest of the run in to Oakland I kept my head and shoulders out, fighting like a maniac48 whenever he tried to draw me inside.
And here my one glimmering streak49 of true consciousness came. My sole recollection, from the time I fell under the trees until I awoke the following evening, is of my head out of the window, facing the wind caused by the train, cinders50 striking and burning and blinding me, while I breathed with will. All my will was concentrated on breathing—on breathing the air in the hugest lung-full gulps51 I could, pumping the greatest amount of air into my lungs in the shortest possible time. It was that or death, and I was a swimmer and diver, and I knew it; and in the most intolerable agony of prolonged suffocation, during those moments I was conscious, I faced the wind and the cinders and breathed for life.
All the rest is a blank. I came to the following evening, in a water-front lodging-house. I was alone. No doctor had been called in. And I might well have died there, for Nelson and the others, deeming me merely "sleeping off my drunk," had let me lie there in a comatose52 condition for seventeen hours. Many a man, as every doctor knows, has died of the sudden impact of a quart or more of whisky. Usually one reads of them so dying, strong drinkers, on account of a wager53. But I didn't know—then. And so I learned; and by no virtue54 nor prowess, but simply through good fortune and constitution. Again my constitution had triumphed over John Barleycorn. I had escaped from another death-pit, dragged myself through another morass55, and perilously56 acquired the discretion that would enable me to drink wisely for many another year to come.
Heavens! That was twenty years ago, and I am still very much and wisely alive; and I have seen much, done much, lived much, in that intervening score of years; and I shudder57 when I think how close a shave I ran, how near I was to missing that splendid fifth of a century that has been mine. And, oh, it wasn't John Barleycorn's fault that he didn't get me that night of the Hancock Fire Brigade.
野性的呼唤 The Call of the Wild
The Iron Heel 铁蹄
野性的呼唤 The Call of the Wild
The Iron Heel 铁蹄
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1
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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4
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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5
prods
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| n.刺，戳( prod的名词复数 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳v.刺，戳( prod的第三人称单数 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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6
soddened
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| v.（液体）沸腾( seethe的过去分词 )( sodden的过去分词 )；激动，大怒；强压怒火；生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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7
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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8
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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9
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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10
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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11
inveigle
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| v.诱骗 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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13
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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16
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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18
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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19
registration
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| n.登记，注册，挂号 | |
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optimists
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| n.乐观主义者( optimist的名词复数 ) | |
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21
perk
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| n.额外津贴；赏钱；小费； | |
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culminate
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| v.到绝顶，达于极点，达到高潮 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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24
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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25
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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26
herded
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| 群集，纠结( herd的过去式和过去分词 )； 放牧； （使）向…移动 | |
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curbs
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的第三人称单数 ) | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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32
dilute
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| vt.稀释，冲淡；adj.稀释的，冲淡的 | |
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hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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correlations
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| 相互的关系( correlation的名词复数 ) | |
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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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36
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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37
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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38
obtuseness
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| 感觉迟钝 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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40
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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41
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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42
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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43
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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44
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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45
insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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46
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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47
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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48
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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49
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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50
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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51
gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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52
comatose
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| adj.昏睡的，昏迷不醒的 | |
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53
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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54
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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55
morass
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| n.沼泽，困境 | |
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56
perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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