TO THE VALLEY OF THE MOON

The next day, Bart brought us to the Valley of the Moon. His tiny German car with its small gas tank could barely carry Tarnel, Jim, Reilly, and me. We left Berkeley for the highway, passed Richmond, and crossed over the canal connecting the San Francisco Bay with the San Pablo Bay (Jack London almost drowned there once). We continued moving along the San Pablo Bay, past the towns and fields along the highway, heading north. After crossing the Petaluma River, the landscape became hilly. To our left, the grass-covered mountains grew higher and higher, and then began to spring up on the right side of us as well. We entered the legendary Valley of the Moon. On the map, its crescent shape stretches from North to South, along the Sonoma River, back up to the Bay.

The Valley was beautiful with its sloped hills, scarcely covered with greenery and surrounded by the walls of dark mountains on both sides. Here, in the open space, one breathed easier. I was tempted to suggest that Bart stop the car so we could walk across those fields, and climb the inviting, fresh, grassy hills, from where one had a marvelous view of suburban areas and farms. It was really tempting—to sit on this green carpet and just ponder life for a while. But it couldn't be done. A barbwire fence stretched along the road. All the land was privately owned, and although part of it remained unused, strangers were not allowed to walk on it. The land was reserved for the landowner's use only. To remove any doubt on this matter, there were several posted signs, which read "Private." The word's literal meaning also implies "prohibited."

Approximately 25 miles to our west lay the Pacific Ocean. In the same direction there was the Bodega Bay. American historians claim that it was exactly in this spot that Russians landed in 1812. At that time, California was a Spanish domain. After their arrival, Russian hunters searched for animals in the South, almost all the way to San Francisco, and reached the Sonoma Valley, where Native Americans lived. Animals and birds were in abundance there. A few Russians, perhaps as many as three dozen, conducted business freely in this area until 1841. Fort Ross was built on the Pacific Ocean Coast. One of the rivers that run into the Pacific Ocean is still called the Russian River. It was not until the 1830s that the first European-American settlers appeared in California. More and more groups of adventurers fled from the East to the land of California, richly blessed by nature. They removed the Native Americans already settled on the land and, in 1846 American troops blocked a local uprising, took down the Mexican flag, and installed an American flag in its stead.

Bart confidently drove his VW. We stopped at one of the wineries. Just around the bend was a sort of deck; along the road, diverging from it a little — a fence. On the fence, there hung bottles with amber-colored liquid. Here we could try natural, freshly made grape juice. In the lot, in front of the covered area, several cars were already lined up. I suggested we join them. Everyone agreed immediately as we had already spent 40 minutes on the road. The day was hot and our throats were dry. We greedily quenched our thirst, and then squeezed back into the VW. I placed a half-empty bottle at my feet. The poles connected with barbwire again rushed past the car window. Soon we arrived in Glen Ellen, a little town in which, in the summer of 1903 and 1904 when it was just a tiny village, Jack London and his family rented a house. A year later, he bought a piece of land not too far from there and built a house, where he lived to the end of his days.

"The Village of Jack London" began with a small building, with a "World of Jack London" sign on it — the most interesting place for the fans of the author's talent. In front of the entrance stood a shelf with old editions of London's books with a kind-looking elderly woman behind the counter. After greeting her, we started looking through the literature on the shelves: recent publications of London's novels and stories; books about him; postcards portraying the writer; photographs of London and his parents. On the walls were posters of some of the 43 movies made of his works. This place was both a museum and a store. Bart and Tarnel walked along the stands. There was a lot to see. Bart, I could tell, felt somewhat awkward.

The owner of this museum wrote me in Moscow a couple of times and sent me a catalog of the books he had in stock. As soon as I noticed that the woman at the counter was not busy, I went up to her and asked for the director. "In a way," said the woman, "it is me."

"Do you know who has come to visit you?" I asked, pointing at Bart. The woman looked carefully in the corner where Bart stood with a book in his hands. She seemed to try to remember something. "Jack London's granddaughter and grandson," I helped her.

"Of course," she said, blushing. "I knew his face was familiar." The woman called out the owner, Russ Kingman. I introduced myself. Russ and Winnie, the woman behind the counter, were husband and wife, both familiar with my publications in the American periodical the Jack London Newsletter. The two of them managed the "World of Jack London." Russ proudly showed us his riches: first editions and complete works of Jack London, books with London's autograph, newspapers and magazines with first publications of his stories. Then Russ led us into the back of the building. This part was the actual museum. There, through photographs of the writer, his relatives and acquaintances, one could trace the stages of London's life and create an understanding of his surroundings, of the literary world of that time. Under glass were Jack London's reports from the Russo-Japanese War, originals of his letters, pages of manuscripts, portraits of the famous Californian writers Ambrose Bierce and Joaquin Miller, poet George Sterling, and journalist Jim Whitaker. Also, there were editions of London's works translated into foreign languages. However, I did not see a single copy of one published in the Soviet Union. Very appropriately, as a gift to Russ Kingman, I presented my monograph on Jack London, as well as a collection of stories The Call of the Wild and White Fang published by the Progress Press in English, with my introduction. Russ and Winnie were very pleased. The book with the stories was placed immediately in the stand, behind glass.

Russ told us about the exhibit items in the museum. The statue of Jack London was a present from Bart. Joan had kept it in her house until her last days. A big, very rare photograph of the writer's mother, Flora London, had been given to the museum by London's nephew, Johnny, a son of Jack's half-sister, Ida. And there was the typewriter on which, beginning in 1904, all of London's works were typed. London took it with him on his trips aboard the "Snark" and "Dirigo." An album with photographs made in Korea and Manchuria depicted Japanese soldiers marching, in camp, and standing with their weapons. There were pictures of Korean soldiers standing at arms, a Korean village, and snapshots of Japanese troops entering Ping Yang.

Russ Kingman had acquired the newspapers with London's war reports from one of the state libraries. The library wanted to get rid of its microfilm version. With great pride, Russ explained to us how he managed to get Flora's jewelry box with her marriage certificate, glasses, and the police badge of Jack's stepfather, John. All of it was exhibited in the museum. On one of the stands was an astronomy book written by the writer's father, William Chaney, as well as a book by Miner Bruce, Alaska, which Jack London took with him on the trip to Klondike to find gold. "Not this particular one," added Kingman. "That book he left in Alaska, but this book here is exactly the same." The book had instructions on everything: what to take with you, how to get to places, where to find planks of wood, and how to build a boat. The book presented a detailed map of the trip, pointing out how to cross-riverbeds, which shore to keep on at each particular part of the river, and from what side to go around the islands.

Russ spoke excitedly about how he found a very rare copy of The Owl magazine, dated 1897, with the first publication of London's story "Two Gold Bricks." This story was published more than two years before the story, "To the Man on Trail," which is generally considered to be London's first work. I am familiar with the history of this story. The author did not know about its publication, because he was in Alaska at the time. There is another story about this with a very interesting history. In 1912, London published a story in the San Francisco Call, Semi-Monthly Magazine Section under the title "Captain of the Susan Drew." It was 19 years after that, in 1931, that Physical Fitness magazine published the story again, this time, under the name of "The Poppy Cargo." The story was presented as a sensational discovery, as an unpublished manuscript found on the ranch of Jack London, at the bottom of his navy chest. Russ handed me a brightly illustrated copy of this publication with sea scenes. In a two-volume work, The Book of Jack London, Charmian gave yet another title to this story, referring to it as "Tar Pot."

With admiration, even with adoration I would say, Russ told us about a letter written to him by Joan London. In the letter, she informed him about the findings of the hovel in Alaska in which Jack London, the gold miner, lived. Bart said he advised Joan to go look at the cabin and expressed his willingness to accompany her. She already was not feeling well. "I thought it would have been beneficial to her health," he stated. However, the trip never took place; Joan did not live long enough to see the cabin after its relocation to Oakland.

Smiling, Russ also talked about a letter from a woman from Anchorage, who claimed she was the daughter of Jack London. She called herself Sibyl London Bates. In the course of five years, since he first grew interested in the work of Jack London, Russ Kingman had accomplished a lot. He led us to his card catalog, which held a collection of the bibliography of London's works as well as works about the author. Russ said that he had 800 references in his catalog, which are not mentioned in the bibliography compiled by Woodbridge, London, and Tweeny, the second edition of which was published in 1973. Russ developed a detailed chronology of the writer's life. He also collected photo and Xerox copies of everything written by London. This was material for future projects. He collected material for three books simultaneously. Russ brought me into the room next to the museum and showed me his folders. The folders were not thick, yet he had an interest in the following issues: London's biography; London and his friends; London and Christianity; the death of Jack London.

We spoke about some of the recent publications that had appeared in American magazines. I told him of a curious incident involving American Literary Realism, (1973, No.1) which reprinted a critical article by Jack London on Frank Norris's novel, Octopus claiming that London's article was unknown and hard-to-find because it had been published in 1901. Meanwhile, London's article had appeared, not too long before, in the famous Philip Foner anthology, Jack London: American Rebel. Russ laughed. Showing me his room, full of shelves stacked with rare books, he suggested that I work there for a while, and he even welcomed me to stay for two or three weeks. I sincerely thanked him for such hospitality. Of course, an opportunity to work in Glen Ellen was like a dream come true. But the nature of time and restrictions of my stay in America did not permit it. I had been trying to prolong my visa for some time, but the State Department delayed an answer.

Occasionally, I myself had experienced forces that prevented the establishment of friendly ties between our nations. On Bart's request, Russ called Irving Shepard at the London ranch. He would meet us there in three hours. Bart's VW, unmercifully bouncing along the road, climbed up the hill. It brought us to the Jack London State Historic Park. It was 2:00 p.m. and we still had not done everything we had planned. We wanted to see the Wolf House, grab some lunch, and visit the writer's grave. And we wanted to see all of it before going to visit Irving Shepard.

The State Park, a tract of 40 acres of land, was a section of London's ranch subsequently given by Irving Shepard to the State for a museum. It is located two miles from the center of Glen Ellen. We parked the car and walked to the Wolf House. Time was starting to eat into these majestic and tragic ruins. Several walls were stapled with metal pieces. The house itself was fenced with bars. Trails were made for tourists to pass through. "A big house" Jack London described his project. It resembled some form of Spanish style, roomy, but not harsh, beautiful, but not pretentious. Its long horizontal lines, interrupted just by vertical lines of protuberances and bays, always meeting at the right angle, gave it an almost monastic simplicity; only the broken line of the roof brought some life to the monotone site. This low, almost smashed-looking structure did not seem too low to the ground: numerous square large and small towers, stacked up on top of each other, made it look somewhat tall, although not pointed upwards.

Once, being awakened in the middle of the night, Jack rode there on his horse and found the house was already engulfed in flames. Tarnel and Jim saw the ruins for the first time. Bart explained, saying, "Jack was very hospitable. Anyone could come here and say: 'Hey, Jack, remember me?' 'No,' Jack would answer, 'I don't, but you can stay here in my place.' This was the reason he built such a large house, so there would be room for everyone and so everyone could be comfortable, both his friends and those he did not know." Bart claimed that somewhere in the Wolf house, Jack had planned to have a room for storing manuscripts. We attempted to find it. Our guessing stopped at two rooms made of cement, with one on top of the other, on the first floor. "Charmian used to invite me to the ranch," said Bart. "My wife and I spent a whole day and a pleasant evening here once. It was back in 1942. She welcomed us warmly. She was very active and always in the middle of doing something. She frequently traveled, lecturing."

We rested in the forest, underneath a redwood, ten meters away from the Wolf house. We took out the food we had brought with us: sandwiches made by Tarnel, sausage, cheese, canned food, apples, vegetables, wine, and a bottle of grape juice appeared on the grass. Bart and I munched on crunchy pieces of celery. We discovered we had similar tastes. Bart told us about Irving Shepard, a member of the American Legion (a conservative patriotic organization). More than once, he had invited Bart to his house and was very hospitable.

We walked to the grave of Jack London, which was on the other side of the park. We traveled down into the ravine, across a creek. The woods surrounded us, but Bart remembered the way. A piece of rock marked the grave. It was fenced with wooden planks. Bart stood solemnly; Tarnel was distant. Jim took Reilly in his arms. It was already 4:00 p.m. We were to have been at Irving Shepard's long ago.

Five minutes later, we were back in the car and headed for the gates of Irving Shepard's estate. A familiar rock with a bronze plate informed us that this was the ranch of Jack London. We passed an alley of eucalyptus trees planted by Jack, a turn of the road, and we arrived at the house of Irving Shepard. Not a single soul was around. The house appeared empty. No one came outside at the noise of the motor. Bart knocked on the window and Irving Shepard came to the door. He was at least 70 years old, with a slender body and a wrinkled, tanned face. He smiled, greeted us and invited us to the terrace. Bart introduced Tarnel and his grandson and Shepard remembered the last visit, fifteen years earlier. Time passed quickly.

He brought out photographs, which captured the opening of the Park and Museum. One picture was of Anna Strunsky giving a speech at the ceremony. Irving talked about cinematographers' plans to begin work on a movie about the life of the great writer. I presented him the last copy of my book on Jack London and a wooden cup done by skillful Russian masters. Mr. Shepard suggested we translate and publish in the USSR those new stories, essays, and letters of London that had been published recently in the United States. He further wanted to publish the novel The Assassination Bureau, Ltd. Also, he said there was a gramophone recording of Jack London's voice. Unfortunately, it was in poor condition. All efforts to restore it had not yielded satisfactory results. Mr. Shepard, with the cooperation of a literary scholar, Dr. Earle Labor, planned to write a book about London's ranch. In the course of twelve years from the opening day of the Park and Museum, more than twelve million people had visited it. Mr. Shepard was clearly proud of such success.

We left the glassed-in terrace to go outside. It was stuffy in the terrace, whereas in the shadow of the trees, a fresh breeze from the mountains blew from time to time. Bart lay down on the grass; our driver was evidently exhausted from the trip. From this hill, there was a good view of Jack London's ranch, including the utility buildings and the famous house of the writer with the glass patios and annexed office. Most of London's works were written in that office after 1906. It was also in that house that he died in November of 1916. Presently, the house, now the residence of Mr. Shepard's son, and its surrounding territory were somewhat neglected.

While on our way back to Mr. Shepard's house, we decided to go swimming in the pond at the ranch. Bart asked the owner for permission and Mr. Shepard hinted that the pond was overgrown with fungus and needed cleaning. After several minutes of our persistent pleading, he gave his permission, smiling at us. And so, excited in anticipation of a pleasurable swim, we got into our little VW and drove to the pond. Bart tried to remember the way but concluded we were following the wrong road to get to the pond. We went back a little to take another road, the one that led to the right and was less visible. It brought us to a field covered with newly planted oak trees. We had failed again. We then went back to the farm buildings, to the house of Jack London. I suggested that we ask directions form Mr. Shepard, but Bart was not willing to do that. We tried to find someone in Jack London's house. We knocked, shouted, peered into the glass door and windows — not a soul! However, not even five minutes earlier we had seen somebody driving a tractor here. The tractor was still standing at the gates. Finally, we returned to Mr. Shepard's house. He showed us the way and suggested we walk there, because our car could easily get stuck in the mud.

Now we could see that the road we took was far from the right direction. We walked up the hill. From there, the view on the ranch was even better: amazing rounded hills, valleys, and groves. Right below us was the writer's house. It was a house with a long patio and numerous windows. Behind it were animal pastures, closer to us and a bit to the right, Mr. Shepard's house. But the ruins and Charmian's house were not visible from this point; they were farther away, behind the forest. As we went up the hillside, Jim carried his son on his shoulders. We stopped frequently. It was hot and the air was thick, making it almost impossible to breathe. Bart was left somewhere behind. On our left we saw freshly planted crops. On our right was thick forest; the pine trees were getting taller and taller. Also, interspersed among other trees were laurels and maples. Tarnel and I led the group. We were anxious to find that mysterious pond as quickly as possible. I saw a tall cement tower in front of me. Dampness and the smell of water came from that direction. It was the dam. We shouted "Hooray!" trying to inspire those straggling behind. Standing three meters at its highest point, built by Jack London almost 70 years earlier, it was in excellent condition. Having blocked a narrow valley and the channel of the stream, it created a miniature water reservoir, 50 meters wide and 80 meters long—a picturesque pond in the woods.

We were quickly on the dam and tried the water. It was marvelous! The benevolent sun had warmed the water evenly. Except for Bart, not one of us had been here before. Bart himself had swum in that pond just a couple of times in his life. I tested the water temperature with my foot. I was the first one in the water, with Tarnel and Bart following me. It was a relief on such a hot day! The tepid water was the reward for our search. It caressed, touched our bodies tenderly, pampered and restored us. We wallowed in the refreshing water for at least a half hour, ignoring the algae and an amicable choir of frogs that sang in concert with cicadas from the other side of the pond. Royal tops of pines formed a wide circle above us, while random clouds hung wistfully in the center above. At the far end of the pond, a gray mountain range jutted above the trees.

Tarnel, Jim, and Reilly went to investigate a wooden hut built on the right bank. Bart and I periodically got out on the dam and then jumped back into the water. Unforgettable moments! I could see though, that this experience brought sadness for Bart also. From time to time, he remembered his distinguished grandfather, but he couldn't help feeling like an outsider there. When he was asking Mr. Shepard for permission to swim, he said, jokingly of course: "I hope, you won't shoot us by accident." And I sensed some real bitterness in that joke. I noticed the look in his eyes at that moment.

Jack London used to swim in this pond. He came fishing here as well. It was here that he used to come and dive with his friends, perhaps from this very same place. Yes, a wide pier was fixed here, a diving board for the divers. I remember this place clearly from a picture on which Jack London was portrayed sitting on that deck. This cement dam had been an object of pride for London, the builder—one of his favorite creations. Joan London wrote in her book that when he was found dying on the morning of November 22, 1916, doctors worked all day to save him. In a desperate attempt to rouse him, they shouted to him over and over again that the recently completed dam had burst, but to no avail.

I came up to the bathhouse; it was almost indistinguishable from this side. It stood in the dark shade of tall trees. Old, aged logs had withstood the weather. Inside, the bathhouse was divided into compartments. There was a place to change clothes and to hide from bad weather, an oven in another area. Jack had described these in his novel The Valley of the Moon. It was also the hiding place of the revolutionaries in The Iron Heel. This is how Avis Averhard, the main character of The Iron Heel, described it: "Taking the rope and leading the way, I passed through a glade of tangled vines and bushes that ran between two wooded knolls. The glade ended abruptly at the steep bank of a stream. It was a little stream, rising from springs, and the hottest summer never dried it up. On every hand were tall wooded knolls, a group of them, with all the seeming of having been flung there from some careless Titan's hand. There was no bedrock in them. They rose from their bases hundreds of feet, and they were composed of red volcanic earth, the famous wine-soil of Sonoma."

I also visited Charmian's house, which has been turned into a museum, with the assistant librarian being Bancroft Bruce Huntington. The interior of the writer's office was recreated in her house; the exposition set up according to the different stages of Jack London's life. Numerous souvenirs, which London brought from overseas, together with his belongings, were put on display. The house, built after London's death, still presents an interest to lovers and appreciators of architecture as an example of the architecture in the 1910-1920s. Visitors like to explore the hidden stairway and secret doors, placed behind the bookshelves, as well as the secret room for valuable belongings and manuscripts. Part of the interior still retained the furniture and decorations made by Charmian, who died in 1955, outliving her husband by almost forty years.