A dog-in-the-manger spirit is in the land. “I don’t like a glass of wine—I’ve never tasted the nasty stuff—so I don’t want you to taste it!” This is the cry of the paid reformers who eke out a living by taking up some fad, and, having nothing interesting of their own to reveal, peep and eavesdrop and reveal the interesting traits of their innocently jovial and erstwhile happy brothers.
We have enough complexities in our modern life without having the complexes of these would-be and self-constituted evangelists made public day by day. Of course, the natural human being is he who indulges in everything—in moderation. Show me the man who constantly denies himself something, and I will show you an abnormal man. He becomes obsessed with his “goodness,” as he dares to call it; and he cannot talk ten minutes without mentioning his idée fixe. He revels in it. He gloats over it. He delights in it, just as the monks of old delighted in the hair-shirt and self-flagellation. He thinks he is better than we are. Soon he begins to preach. He is like the old woman who committed a sin in her early youth and still loves to talk about it. He does not know how boring he is. He does not know how little a part he plays in society. He is just a bit “off,” a trifle queer.
The next step in this form of madness is to try to impose one’s own ideas upon one’s neighbors. Soon proselytizing must be done. The pent-up energy of years must be released in middle age. Steam must be let off. Blood pressure must be reduced. If these “cases” would only lock themselves up in cells and flagellate themselves, they would find comfort and release from their agony of mind, and a weary world would be grateful. But no! they must stalk through the land, imposing their so-called moral rectitude upon the rest of us.
Good-naturedly we have, up to now, humored them, smiled tolerantly at them, secretly pitied them. But with shrewdness and cruelty they have plotted and planned for years, quietly banded together, until now they are joined in a great brotherhood; and instead of locking themselves up, they have locked us up—and maliciously, gleefully thrown away the key. We should have been their keepers. Instead, they are ours.
An occasional little spree, as a wise Frenchman once said, never hurt anybody. It is necessary for people of imagination to romp and play once in a while. What form that romping and playing takes is their own affair—so long as they do not injure their neighbors. They may express themselves in terms of smoking, of flirting, or sitting up all night and talking their heads off; or they may take a long walk in the rain; or go to the movies for several hours; or read an exciting but impossible detective story—which is by no means a waste of time; or dance; or go fishing; or attend an Elks picnic; or buy their wives a diamond bracelet; or indulge in an after-dinner speech; or see a foolish musical comedy. There are a thousand and one ways to let off steam. They come back from any one of these “dissipations” a hundred per cent better in mind and body, and plunge into the serious business of life with a fresh stimulus, a new zest.
But the prohibitionist—what form do his inhibitions take? His orgy is one of complete surrender to an orgy of holding in, forever. He never lets go—never—not for one second. And just as the hermit enjoys his self-imposed solitude, he revels in his self-inflicted punishment; and, without wishing to be cynical, I say that he gets a certain drab satisfaction in this stupid disciplining of himself. The remorse of the morning-after is unknown to him. But without realizing it, every morning he experiences a mental hang-over. He has never lived through one normal day. The pendulum, for him, swings completely in the other direction; and he is happy only when he is unhappy. But—and here’s where you and I come in—he is not content with this exquisite unhappiness. He wants us to be unhappy, too!
Pathological, you see. Heretofore, the temperance people looked upon all drinkers, heavy or light, as wounded souls—medical cases. But we who drink and smoke and laugh in moderation are the normal people of the world. The others are those who are in need of treatment. The tables have been turned, thanks to psycho-analysis, and Freud, and the open door that leads to the light of medical science. A bunch of sour grapes have robbed us of our sweet grapes. Why? Because they could not stand the thought of Joy being in the world. They want everyone to be as miserable as they are.
Having succeeded so easily in taking away one of our joys, do you think these fanatics are content? If so, you know them not. Their victory has been accomplished so simply that, of course, they are now looking about for new worlds to conquer. They set their mouths, grit their teeth, look us over, impale us on a pin and see where next they can turn on the screws. They take a fiendish delight in inflicting punishment. That is part of their disease. Their suppressed desires find expression in robbing us of our natural pleasure. They are cunning and keen and wise, with the curious and dangerous wisdom of the insane. They think they are sent into the world to redeem it. They have the Messiah complex. They have the delusion of greatness. And when we venture to question their methods and motives, they hurl invectives back at us and cry, “You are persecuting us!” They have paranoia, you see. They would kill us, actually, rather than give us one sip of beer.
And these are the people who have, temporarily, gained the upper hand! Mad on one subject, they appear perfectly balanced while lobbying in the legislatures of the land. Obsessed with one idea, they can talk intelligently on every other subject; but sooner or later they will switch the conversation to their pet theory—and then I ask you to note the gleam in their eyes, see their lips twitch, watch how nervous they become! Yes, pathological cases, every one of them!
When will the hard-shelled prohibitionists understand that it is not drink per se that thinking people are fighting for? The people are roused to action and alarm because of the dangerous precedent that has been set. If we, as a nation, are to be deprived of legitimate and friendly egg-nog (lovely word again!) when New Year comes round, why, in the name of heaven, can we not be deprived of eggs? They make one bilious, I am told. And biliousness is bad for one. Come, let us correct it.