BECKY

Russ tells me that Jack London's older daughter, Joan, was revolution-oriented. She was not fond of the United States nor did she favor all official American institutions. She was not too friendly to those who did not know her well. As I understand, it was not easy for Jack to be on good terms with Joan. Becky, by her very nature, was her sister's opposite. She was always smiling and very sociable. I decided not to argue with Russ about Joan. She really was a harsh critic of the American capitalist system, which made her a worthy follower of her father's deeds. In her later years, however, being involved in literary work and being active in the trade union, she might have been less sociable.

However, I was on good terms with Joan. To her last days, Joan was my attentive correspondent. She had one son, Bart Abbott, from her first marriage. Becky had one son and one granddaughter, Sandy. She was married to an African-American and had a son from this marriage. Becky London, the last person who knew the writer personally, was eighty-three years old. She was a lively, energetic woman. The silver crown of her wavy hair nicely capped her head. As you might remember, we were acquainted twelve years earlier and had been corresponding ever since. Becky had not changed much: perhaps she had more fine wrinkles and maybe whiter hair. Her lips were bright with lipstick. She smiled at me, friendly, as if smiling at an old acquaintance, and told me something very quickly in response to my shy compliments. Out of all her talk, I am able to distinguish one phrase: "I don't drive anymore because of my age."

In Oakland, after her husband died, she was robbed. Two people broke into her house, tied her up, demanding the keys to her car, which she no longer had. "I am grateful that they did not kill me," she said. She was happy to accept the Kingman's proposal to move to Glen Ellen. Russ had added a small apartment to the bookstore. Becky helped look after the shop. Although an elderly person, she was, nonetheless, one of us. Besides, her name was in itself significant enough. She was pleased with the location of the bookstore being so close to the ranch. She visited the ranch occasionally. She also participated in various events devoted to her father. Visits to the ranch revived her childhood, especially her memories about her father. She tenderly called him "Daddy." As a child, she had visited there only a couple of times, together with her mother and her sister. Her father had asked them to come more often, promised to teach them how to swim and ride horses. They really wanted to spend more time at the ranch, but their mother did not let them: she was unable to overcome her feelings of animosity towards Charmian, as well as her unwillingness to forgive Jack for the pain he had caused her by leaving the family.

I put a tape labeled "Becky" into my audio recorder and we began our conversation. I listened to her excited voice, to the slight hoarseness in her speech. Her answers to my questions were sometimes interrupted with laughter. It lasted almost twenty minutes: her memories about her father, his interests, books, passions, his love for the sea. "Mother never let us know in advance about father's visits, although he always made it a point to inform her that he was coming. She knew very well that if she only mentioned anything about it, we would drop everything and forget about eating. By now, all the memories about my daddy got mixed in my head. Pictures like these come to me in different sequence: the three of us mess around, playing, two little girls sit on father's lap, talking to him and laughing, finally, two girls stand at the door, watching this man leave. As we grew up, we played less. Instead, we engaged in serious conversations about school, teachers, friends, about dance school, and roller-skating. I always tried to sit closer to him and firmly held his hand. When talking to us he was just as happy as we were. It even seemed that his age is not any different from ours. When we were together and when it was time to part, I never cried, because Daddy did not like to see our tears," she said. From time to time, Becky's rapid speech was again interrupted by laughter.

I didn't even have to turn off my tape recorder. She continued: "Mother use to read us his stories. Later, when I learned how to read myself, I gradually read all his stories." Becky always came back to his creative work: she talked about Alaskan stories, his sea stories. She particularly enjoyed her father's books about California. Many of his works were written with humor; quite a few of them are science fiction. For example, The Iron Heel impressed her greatly. In another novel, The Valley of the Moon, she read an outstanding portrayal of riots organized by Oakland workers. "Father's works reveal various sides of his character. I heard a lot about his popularity in Russia. He was a hard-working man, and you also work a lot. He valued that. Common people liked him because he shared their feelings and their views. Some of his upper-class characters lack reality. On the other hand, sailors, miners, workers, and travelers come out full of life. They were the ones he knew and was able to understand," said Becky.

"Daddy joined the Socialist Party precisely because it was the only Party that struggled against child labor and exploitation, both of which he himself experienced as a kid. He was self- educated and he never stopped learning. In my memory, he always carried a bunch of books in his pockets. He read everywhere, even on the train, going somewhere with us, he managed to read a page or two. He loved to listen to other people tell their life-stories, since radio was not around yet. He loved cinema. He was present while they were filming The Sea-Wolf. The novel The Little Lady of the Big House is the expression of his dream. The comforts of Dick Forrest's estate represented ideas that Daddy wanted to realize on his ranch. He loved animals—dogs, horses—but hated chickens. Yes, he lived a short life. You know, he really wanted to reconstruct the burnt Wolf House. It is great, there is the State Historic Park and the museum, that everything is kept the way he used to have it."

Becky graduated with a History major from California State University. When she was still in high school, she wrote a story—she always was interested in writing—but her mother destroyed the story and prohibited her to do anything like that ever again. Nevertheless, Becky wrote for the school magazine, where she published two stories under a different name. She was not satisfied with the ending of The Little Lady of the Big House. In her late years, being encouraged by one journalist, she decided to write one more chapter to her father's novel, thereby creating a new ending. In her version, the doctors save Paula, the heroine.

A local amateur photographer took a picture of Becky and me. Three days later, together with Winnie Kingman, she accompanied me to San Francisco. On the way, we stopped at the Soviet Consulate. Jack London's daughter looked through Soviet brochures, magazines, and booklets about the Soviet Union with great interest. After that, we searched Third Avenue in San Francisco for the place of Jack London's birth. We managed to find the house. Then, Winnie drove us across San Francisco Bay to Berkeley, which was the next stopping point of my tour in the United States. When parting, Becky gave me a kiss and laughed happily, noticing traces lipstick on my cheeks. This is the way I remember her: vivacious and friendly: a worthy daughter of her father.