STATE HISTORIC PARK

I must have been dreaming. I dreamed that Jack London's daughter Becky and Russ Kingman, the owner of the Jack London Bookstore, met me in Santa Rosa. They drove me to Glen Ellen. There, in the store, "The World of Jack London," I was looking through the latest American publications of London's books when...warm light touched my cheek and I opened my eyes to a bright sunbeam, peering through the crack between the curtains. No, it was not a dream. I really was in Glen Ellen again, at the "Jack London Lodge" in the native land of the great son of California. At precisely nine o'clock, Winnie, Russ Kingman's wife, would pick me up for breakfast and then bring me to London's ranch. I still had thirty minutes time remaining before she was to arrive. I quickly made myself look presentable and left my room on the first floor of the motel. My door opened into the backyard. Sunbeams were resting on the thick leafy crowns of tall trees that stood beside a nearby stream. It was the Sonoma Creek, a tiny river that separated the backyard of the motel from the houses of town. I had to squint in the bright sunlight while I paused to take in the beautiful air of the California spring.

A car rushed by. If it were not for the noise of the stream, the Valley of the Moon would have been filled with total silence. A road to Jack London's State Historic Park began at the doors of that very motel. Across from one of the few buildings that had existed in the author's time stood a brick three-storied hotel that once belonged to Chauvet, a Frenchman. Next to that building stood a rather narrow bridge. Underneath the bridge flowed the Calabazas Creek carrying water from Jack London's ranch and running into Sonoma. The bookstore was located near the bridge.

The bungalow of Russ Kingman hung over another mountain stream, Asbury, which, touching the border of London's ranch, rushed from the western slope to merge with the Sonoma River. Russ brought me to the London Ranch. We slowly walked across it: my companion was limping. He was a veteran of World War II; he served in the Navy as a chaplain. He had some serious problems with his left knee. Russ told me about the remaining buildings and reconstruction plans of historical places connected with the life of Jack London. In the past year, the Jack London Foundation, of which Russ Kingman was a director, had distributed a brochure soliciting funds to help finance the reconstruction of London's house and other buildings on the ranch. The entire project was estimated to cost 1.5 million dollars. They had already collected part of it. Within the last several years, however, more ranch property had been added to the State Historic Park. Among them were a piece of land and the cottage in which the author of Martin Eden spent the last five years of his life. The legendary house was empty. All the things that were stored in its interior had been moved to the museum (former house of Charmian) and to the house of the writer's nephew, Irving Shepard. The wooden cottage was more than one hundred years old.

I walked along the terrace, trying to look through the windows to the inside of the house. On the inside, everything seemed to be in good shape, whereas on the outside, the planks that formed the outer layer of the building were rotten. Glass verandas where Charmian's and Jack's bedrooms once were had been boarded up. A little fountain in the yard was buried beneath a layer of humus. Some restoration work had already begun on the interior of the house. Inside was Jack's office, which was later construction, added after the fire destroyed the Wolf House three years before London's death. It was there that he wrote some of his later works: The Scarlet Plague, The Star Rover, and The Little Lady of the Big House, two books about dogs, Jerry of the Islands and Michael - Brother of Jerry, Hearts of Three, and numerous stories. And in an adjacent stone building was London's large dining room.

Several manuscripts were destroyed after his death, during the fire that started in the guest house near the cottage. Fortunately, wax drums with the recordings of London's voice survived. However, it has not been possible to restore them. Entrepreneurs had huge plans. They were determined to completely reconstruct the elements of London's ranch: a stable, a forge, "a pig palace," a barn. They also wanted to work on the territory around it, to make it look good. For example, they tried to grow some spineless cacti. A famous horticulturist, Luther Burbank, who lived nearby in Santa Rosa, had developed this variety and advised London to use this kind of cacti as food for animals.

The road sloped down. We walked around the winery where there once was a carriage barn and a guest building. After the fire, all that was left was the stone walls of the first floor, with the clear openings for the windows. We passed the jungle of grapevines. Some unusual kind of bird interfered with our leisurely conversation. Her voice was coming from the bush that grew near the remains of the wall. She persistently sang something about the famous resident of the Valley of the Moon that was known only to her alone. From where I stood, I could clearly see silage towers and the "pig palace," a pigpen that was built according to the plan drawn up by London himself. To its left and upward, the road weaved to the lake. Jack's cement dam still firmly stood there. It was to this dam that London addressed his words: "Everything that I build is for the years to come." Nowadays, the road to the lake of Jack London is open to everyone. More than half of the ranch, 800 acres, was added to the territory of the State Historic Park, after the death of Irving Shepard. The rest of the ranch — the land with grapevines and houses still belonged to the heirs of the writer's nephew, under the supervision of Irving's son, I. Milo Shepard.

Jack was never a successful businessman. He repeatedly tried to invest money in stock that seemed very promising at the time, but alas, he failed every time. No matter how hard he tried, his effort did not bring him any profit. Moreover, it did not even cover his expenses. Perhaps, in order to develop a financial genius, he needed time that fate did not grant him. Russ told me that no one from Milo's family wanted to be a farmer.

From the lake, the road went further up. There was a water resort at the altitude of about 1,000 feet. The ranch itself, including the green slope, reached an altitude of 2,200 feet. This was 260 feet lower than the top of the Sonoma Mountain. The upper part of the land was the last parcel that Jack London bought. "I have bought beauty," he wrote proudly, "and I am enjoying this beauty. It gives me a lot more pleasure than anything else in the world." From this place, there was a great view of the entire valley, which ran all the way to the horizon. Jack would frequently climb up there with Charmian and his friends. Oftentimes, they would go riding horses here to enjoy the scenery, to feel from a bird's eye view, their strength and helplessness, their belonging to and dependency on nature.

Russ and I came to the cottage from the other side. A car was approaching us from the end of the road. My guide introduced me to a black-bearded man in uniform: Greg Hayes, park supervisor. He was wearing a short-sleeved khaki shirt with the Sheriff Star on the front pocket and a pistol on his belt. Russ asked him not to disturb me, in the event that a patrol group should meet a Soviet scientist wandering around the park all by himself the following day. Feeling slightly awkward when he learned that I was from the USSR, Greg Hayes smiled with a kind, welcoming smile. In trying to fulfill his dream of settling down on the land in the Valley of the Moon, the sights of which he fell in love with for the rest of his life, Jack London put his ranch together piece-by-piece. In the summer of 1905 before his marriage to Charmian, he made the first purchase of 130 acres of land. Three-and-a-half years later after a voyage aboard Snark, he bought an equivalent piece of land from his neighbor. However, at that time, he had not lived on the property yet. London and Charmian had been renting a house in Glen Ellen. The house was still standing. This is where Russ and I decided to go.

The house stood in the woods, on a gently sloping hill, on the bank of the Graham Creek. Every spring, the stream becomes full and wild and beats against the shore, trying to turn over the stones in its path. There was a very expressive picture: Jack London sits at the folding table near the big stone, working on a manuscript. The picture was taken somewhere around there. Where was that boulder? "Jack used to put the table near the stream," said Russ. "He loved to come here and write. Before he moved here, he used to rent a house over there, behind the fence, in the resort area that, at the time, belonged to Charmian's aunt. The resort was known as 'Wake Robin Lodge.' The people who own the complex now do not like to be disturbed," Russ informed me. We passed the house where Jack and Charmian lived. It carried the name "Jack's house." The house was bought by Mary Garst, the daughter of an American farmer from Iowa. The house, of course, had been rebuilt. I took a few pictures. Russ reminded me that, after lunch, we were expected in Sonoma, about ten miles from Glen Ellen. A group of volunteers from a local organization had proposed to make Kanev, a native city of Taras Shevchenko, a sister city to Sonoma. When they learned that I was from the USSR, they wanted to know everything about the great Ukrainian poet and about London's popularity in the Soviet Union as well.

About forty people assembled that afternoon on the second floor of the City Hall. The atmosphere was very uplifting. Most of the people were middle-aged; more than half of them were women. Three former mayors of the city were present. I was being looked at with obvious interest: it is not often that they had Soviet guests. The entire region was off limits to Soviet citizens. Even the employees of the consulate in San Francisco were not allowed to visit Glen Ellen or Sonoma and, therefore, not allowed to visit London's State Historic Park either.

Russ Kingman was making the introductory address. He was well known in the area: the author of a wonderful biography of London, initiator of all kinds of gatherings and events devoted to the writer. Then, the word was passed on to me that it was my turn to speak to the crowd. I was nervous. I talked about how and why I was there. I gave them a brief history of my dissertation, talked about my books on Jack London, about my internship at the University of California-Berkeley and my interest in youth problems in America. But, most importantly, I told them about the steady and unconditional fame and popularity that Jack London enjoyed in the Soviet Union. Jack London was loved by everyone in the Soviet Union long before the October Revolution. By that time, multi-volume collections of his works were published at least three times, not counting numerous other individual works. This conflicted with the widespread claim of American experts that Jack London's popularity in the Soviet Union was imposed by governmental publishers, who worshipped the author for his socialistic views. Everyone was surprised to learn about the latest publication of works in the Soviet Union, written by this famous son of California. They were equally surprised to know that the recent publication of a four-volume set sold three million copies in a few days.

On request of the audience, I read poems by Taras Shevchenko from the book that I brought to the Sonoma activists. The audience grew still at the sound of lyrics. Although my Ukrainian is far from perfect, my attempts were rewarded with applause. Joyfully and solemnly, the Vice-Mayor presented me with a souvenir medal, carefully packaged in an oak case. The medal was made in commemoration of 150th anniversary of Sonoma. On one side, there was a reproduction of the city hall building; on the other, an image of a grapevine. After the speech, the most active members of the organization against proliferation of nuclear weapons surrounded me and asked me to help them complete the process of fraternizing the homeland of Jack London with the native city of T.Shevchenko. A representative from America, Kathy Bailey, had already visited Moscow and Kanev, returning with the official documentation.