And all went well with me. I worked hard, played hard, and was very happy. I read more fiction and less fact. I did not study a tithe2 as much as I had studied in the past. I still took an interest in the fundamental problems of existence, but it was a very cautious interest; for I had burned my fingers that time I clutched at the veils of Truth and wrested3 them from her. There was a bit of lie in this attitude of mine, a bit of hypocrisy4; but the lie and the hypocrisy were those of a man desiring to live. I deliberately5 blinded myself to what I took to be the savage6 interpretation7 of biological fact. After all, I was merely forswearing a bad habit, forgoing8 a bad frame of mind. And I repeat, I was very happy. And I add, that in all my days, measuring them with cold, considerative judgment9, this was, far and away beyond all other periods, the happiest period of my life.
But the time was at hand, rhymeless and reasonless so far as I can see, when I was to begin to pay for my score of years of dallying10 with John Barleycorn. Occasionally guests journeyed to the ranch and remained a few days. Some did not drink. But to those who did drink, the absence of all alcohol on the ranch was a hardship. I could not violate my sense of hospitality by compelling them to endure this hardship. I ordered in a stock—for my guests.
I was never interested enough in cocktails12 to know how they were made. So I got a bar-keeper in Oakland to make them in bulk and ship them to me. When I had no guests I didn't drink. But I began to notice, when I finished my morning's work, that I was glad if there were a guest, for then I could drink a cocktail11 with him.
Now I was so clean of alcohol that even a single cocktail was provocative13 of pitch. A single cocktail would glow the mind and tickle14 a laugh for the few minutes prior to sitting down to table and starting the delightful15 process of eating. On the other hand, such was the strength of my stomach, of my alcoholic16 resistance, that the single cocktail was only the glimmer17 of a glow, the faintest tickle of a laugh. One day, a friend frankly18 and shamelessly suggested a second cocktail. I drank the second one with him. The glow was appreciably19 longer and warmer, the laughter deeper and more resonant20. One does not forget such experiences. Sometimes I almost think that it was because I was so very happy that I started on my real drinking.
I remember one day Charmian and I took a long ride over the mountains on our horses. The servants had been dismissed for the day, and we returned late at night to a jolly chafing-dish supper. Oh, it was good to be alive that night while the supper was preparing, the two of us alone in the kitchen. I, personally, was at the top of life. Such things as the books and ultimate truth did not exist. My body was gloriously healthy, and healthily tired from the long ride. It had been a splendid day. The night was splendid. I was with the woman who was my mate, picnicking in gleeful abandon. I had no troubles. The bills were all paid, and a surplus of money was rolling in on me. The future ever-widened before me. And right there, in the kitchen, delicious things bubbled in the chafing-dish, our laughter bubbled, and my stomach was keen with a most delicious edge of appetite.
I felt so good, that somehow, somewhere, in me arose an insatiable greed to feel better. I was so happy that I wanted to pitch my happiness even higher. And I knew the way. Ten thousand contacts with John Barleycorn had taught me. Several times I wandered out of the kitchen to the cocktail bottle, and each time I left it diminished by one man's size cocktail. The result was splendid. I wasn't jingled21, I wasn't lighted up; but I was warmed, I glowed, my happiness was pyramided. Munificent22 as life was to me, I added to that munificence23. It was a great hour—one of my greatest. But I paid for it, long afterwards, as you will see. One does not forget such experiences, and, in human stupidity, cannot be brought to realise that there is no immutable24 law which decrees that same things shall produce same results. For they don't, else would the thousandth pipe of opium25 be provocative of similar delights to the first, else would one cocktail, instead of several, produce an equivalent glow after a year of cocktails.
One day, just before I ate midday dinner, after my morning's writing was done, when I had no guest, I took a cocktail by myself. Thereafter, when there were no guests, I took this daily pre-dinner cocktail. And right there John Barleycorn had me. I was beginning to drink regularly. I was beginning to drink alone. And I was beginning to drink, not for hospitality's sake, not for the sake of the taste, but for the effect of the drink.
I WANTED that daily pre-dinner cocktail. And it never crossed my mind that there was any reason I should not have it. I paid for it. I could pay for a thousand cocktails each day if I wanted. And what was a cocktail—one cocktail—to me who on so many occasions for so many years had drunk inordinate26 quantities of stiffer stuff and been unharmed?
The programme of my ranch life was as follows: Each morning, at eight-thirty, having been reading or correcting proofs in bed since four or five, I went to my desk. Odds27 and ends of correspondence and notes occupied me till nine, and at nine sharp, invariably, I began my writing. By eleven, sometimes a few minutes earlier or later, my thousand words were finished. Another half-hour at cleaning up my desk, and my day's work was done, so that at eleven-thirty I got into a hammock under the trees with my mail-bag and the morning newspaper. At twelve-thirty I ate dinner and in the afternoon I swam and rode.
One morning, at eleven-thirty, before I got into the hammock, I took a cocktail. I repeated this on subsequent mornings, of course, taking another cocktail just before I ate at twelve-thirty. Soon I found myself, seated at my desk in the midst of my thousand words, looking forward to that eleven-thirty cocktail.
At last, now, I was thoroughly28 conscious that I desired alcohol. But what of it? I wasn't afraid of John Barleycorn. I had associated with him too long. I was wise in the matter of drink. I was discreet29. Never again would I drink to excess. I knew the dangers and the pitfalls30 of John Barleycorn, the various ways by which he had tried to kill me in the past. But all that was past, long past. Never again would I drink myself to stupefaction. Never again would I get drunk. All I wanted, and all I would take, was just enough to glow and warm me, to kick geniality31 alive in me and put laughter in my throat and stir the maggots of imagination slightly in my brain. Oh, I was thoroughly master of myself, and of John Barleycorn.
该作者的其它作品
野性的呼唤 The Call of the WildThe Iron Heel 铁蹄
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1 ranch | |
n.大牧场,大农场 | |
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2 tithe | |
n.十分之一税;v.课什一税,缴什一税 | |
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3 wrested | |
(用力)拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 ); 费力取得; (从…)攫取; ( 从… ) 强行取去… | |
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4 hypocrisy | |
n.伪善,虚伪 | |
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5 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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6 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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7 interpretation | |
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
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8 forgoing | |
v.没有也行,放弃( forgo的现在分词 ) | |
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9 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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10 dallying | |
v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 );不很认真地考虑;浪费时间;调情 | |
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11 cocktail | |
n.鸡尾酒;餐前开胃小吃;混合物 | |
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12 cocktails | |
n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 );餐前开胃菜;混合物 | |
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13 provocative | |
adj.挑衅的,煽动的,刺激的,挑逗的 | |
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14 tickle | |
v.搔痒,胳肢;使高兴;发痒;n.搔痒,发痒 | |
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15 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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16 alcoholic | |
adj.(含)酒精的,由酒精引起的;n.酗酒者 | |
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17 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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18 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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19 appreciably | |
adv.相当大地 | |
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20 resonant | |
adj.(声音)洪亮的,共鸣的 | |
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21 jingled | |
喝醉的 | |
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22 munificent | |
adj.慷慨的,大方的 | |
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23 munificence | |
n.宽宏大量,慷慨给与 | |
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24 immutable | |
adj.不可改变的,永恒的 | |
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25 opium | |
n.鸦片;adj.鸦片的 | |
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26 inordinate | |
adj.无节制的;过度的 | |
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27 odds | |
n.让步,机率,可能性,比率;胜败优劣之别 | |
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28 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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29 discreet | |
adj.(言行)谨慎的;慎重的;有判断力的 | |
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30 pitfalls | |
(捕猎野兽用的)陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 ); 意想不到的困难,易犯的错误 | |
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31 geniality | |
n.和蔼,诚恳;愉快 | |
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