“I smell irony, Professor, somewhere,” said Oliver, “but I grant you that Willys’s logic slipped a cog there. We’ll have to grant you that America dry is no more sex-obsessed than Europe wet.”
“And then,” I went on, “I was a little troubled by Willys’s plea that, with the general decline of drinking in America, something of real poetic beauty is passing out of our lives. I honestly can’t feel that he speaks realistically about that. I know the Anacreontic tradition, the literary romance of nut-brown ale and blood-red wine, perhaps as well as Willys does, and in the bookish imagination of youth used myself to revel with those that ‘gloried and drank deep.’ Used to spout, you know, about ‘Bairam, that great hunter,’ and the ‘sons of Ben’ at the Mermaid, and so on. But when I had an opportunity to compare the Bacchic frenzy of an ancient Greek or Persian or Elizabethan, as represented by the poets, with the Bacchic frenzy of an American citizen howling drunk—I declare, it was one of the major disillusions of my life. The actual beauty of the real thing has come at last to impress me as very nebulous, like the amours of Thomas the Rhymer with the queen of the fairies. The lover is too often left ‘alone and palely loitering,’ with a crumpled shirt-front, with his hat in the gutter, by a green lamp-post—‘where no birds sing.’”
“Oh, green grapes!” stuttered Willys. “What can you make of green grapes! What can you know about it, Professor? On your own showing it’s twenty years since—”
“True, Willys,” I replied, “true. But the pathos of distance ought to lend a glamour to one’s memories. One has, you know, one’s memories. Even a Mid-Western professor has his memories; and in the deep interval of twenty years all that is ugly in them should have faded out, should have been gathered into the blue mist of oblivion, leaving the soft contours of the Bacchic landscape bathed in pure beauty. I don’t find it so. I see—”
I hesitated. In a company like this, it is a bit awkward to talk on the killjoy side of a question. But Oliver rallied me forward.
“Tell us what you see. Professor,” he said. “Life or death, give us only reality. Show us the sad pictures in the prohibitionist gallery of disillusion. We’ll try to look interested.”
“Well,” I said, “Willys’s praise of this beautiful old custom of getting drunk now and then did press a button in my gallery of memories and light up a few old pictures. They are relevant only because I did have, in my earlier years, about the average American’s chance to feel the æsthetic value of this vanishing phase of our popular culture. I see pictures. As Whitman says, ‘The shapes arise.’”
“Whitman was a priest of Dionysus,” said Willys.
“So was Emerson,” I said, “and so, according to my lights, am I. The shapes arise. I see a strayed reveler, with no vine leaves in his hair,—only a shirt, trousers, and suspenders,—lying on his back, and shouting children towing him by a rope attached to his foot, through the main streets of an Arizona town; the reveler grins and plucks feebly at the rope and says, ‘Now, boys!’ This picture is thirty years old. I see a driveling swaying figure in a crowd at a street corner in Los Angeles, trying to give away the contents of his pocketbook. I see a Vermont farmer in his haymow, surly and maudlin with the unfreezable alcoholic element of frozen apple-cider; he jabs his cow with the tines of his hayfork. Returning from a mountain camp at midnight to a Massachusetts village, I see in the road before me a dim mass reeling through the moonlight and entering a cottage in the outskirts, and two minutes later I hear a woman’s voice shrieking, ‘Murder! murder! murder!’”
“Yes,” yawned His Excellency, “I have always insisted that the peasantry and the proletariat were nasty in their liquor—serves them right to lose it.”