Jack London Bookstore
Jack London Bookstore
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"1130 East 15th St.,
"Dear Cloudesley:— "Thanks for the stamps. And by the way, before I get on to more serious things, let me speak of 'The Son of the Wolf.' For fear you invest in a copy if I don't I want to tell you that I shall send you one as soon as they come to hand. There is only one advance copy on the Coast, and I haven't seen that one yet. They say it is all right. "You must be amused, lest you die. Here goes. You will observe that I have moved. Good! Next Saturday I shall be married. Better? Eh? Will send announcement of the funeral later. "Jack London." Mr. Johns's acknowledgment of the foregoing was laconic in the extreme, consisting of a sacred name of two words with an initial between, followed by an exclamation point. The same mail had brought to my Aunt, Mrs. Eames, the letter quoted in the Prologue. In her hands was the one advance copy of "The Son of the Wolf," to which Jack refers above. Briefly, it seems to have come about in this way: Pressed for space in the small cottage, especially in the 10 by 10 den which served as work-room, bedroom for himself and any chance guest, and for living-room as well, Jack at last found means to make a change and move his mother and nephew and himself to a nice two-story house at 1130 East Fifteenth Street, flanked by a neat garden. In —339—
it were seven rooms, including a large bay-windowed parlor, and an upstairs study 13 by 15 feet. And joy upon joy, an attic where Jack could store his accumulating "gear." Jack and Elizabeth Maddern had been exchanging instruction in English and "math" in the Fifteenth Street dwelling and the young woman had joined with Eliza in fixing up Jack's new den. His idea of adding a member to the household was born of the moment. He lay on his back in the middle of the floor, lost in a book, while sister and friend put his small but swelling library on some shelves he had had thrown together by a carpenter. Eliza, happening to glance aside, saw him turn over on his elbows, and, supporting his head on his hands, regard Miss Maddern fixedly as she moved about. His eyes filled with visions, and he dropped his face and lay still for a long time. Eliza, with a pang, sensed what had come to him, but held her peace. Looking back upon it, he wrote: "I was convinced absolutely that I knew the last word about love and life." That evening, by force of argument, Jack convinced the girl of the wisdom of a union such as he proposed, or at least gained her consent, and next morning dropped into his sister's house: "I am going to be married," he said without preamble. Eliza, as mask-like of face and feelings as ever he could be, replied, Good! I'm glad of it!" and undertook, at her brother's request, to break the news to his mother. Flora London, who had been basking in the dream of this large, new, clean house where she would be mistress, was not enthusiastic at the idea of being superseded. Jack's cozy little plan did not work out so automatically as he had hoped; three months after the return of the bride from honeymoon to home all decorated with flowers by Eliza, that same sister-in-law, again at Jack's plea, superintended another removal, namely of Flora London and Johnnie Miller, into a cottage on Sixteenth Street, almost behind —340—
Jack's home. Eliza appears to have avoided all interference and only consented to step in from time to time when Jack's feminine affairs tangled to the imminence of his great disgust. Little was said upon these occasions between brother and sister. One look at his gray face, a word or two from the tightened bow of his lips concerning the nature of his need, and Eliza, without undue antagonizing of the others, set about regulating matters as fairly as possible. While one delves for further enlightenment upon Jack London's sanction for this abrupt and loveless union, it may well be surmised that his feeling for Anna Strunsky played its part. Up to now, and beyond, his head determined the way of his life, for the day had not come when the big, ripe, man-heart of him overturned the fanes he had so carefully erected, and caused him to volunteer that "Love is the greatest thing in the world." As for Anna, the very dart and smart of their intellectual comradery rendered her an unrest. His plans for the future were so nicely ordered toward a systematic schedule of writing—to the aim of successful living, to be sure—that he could not consider the feverish temperamental life that was likely to be if he joined his with Anna's. How much the very fear of being drawn into such a situation entered into his sudden resolve to take no chances on that side, and to marry, as he did marry, we shall never know. Cloudesley Johns, upon receipt of the printed announcement, wrote Jack: "Harold, Cal., April 12, 1900. "Dear Jack:— May I defer my congratulations of you and Mrs. Jack for ten years? Then I shall hope to tender them—Thursday, April 7th, 1910. Don't forget: try to expect them. "Your mind will be much occupied for a time with your change of residence and condition, and mine is hibernating at present, so —341—
I would suggest that you take up my last letter, and reply to it,—say June 1st. "I heartily wish you both permanent satisfaction. "Cloudesley Johns." "1130 East 15th St., April 16, 1900. "Dear Cloudesley:— "Why certainly you may defer congratulations till April 7, 1910. Permit me to felicitate you upon your last letter bar this one I am answering. We all had a good laugh over it and enjoyed it immensely. I was away on the little wedding trip when it arrived, and my sister (you met her), looked at it and said she'd give ten dollars to see what you had to say. And it was worth it. "No, I'll not answer it. Am not laconic enough. ". . . Got settled down to work to-day, and did the first thousand words in three weeks, and hereafter the old rate must continue. Say, a year ago I wrote a two thousand word skit or storiette called 'Their Alcove.' First, second, and third raters refused out of hand. Sent it to the Women's Home Companion, and with out a word of warning, and in quick time, came back an acceptance accompanied by a twenty dollar check. Most took my breath away. "May 2, 1900. "Dear Cloudesley:— " . . . No; at the moment I get a good phrase I am not thinking of how much it will fetch in the market, but when I sit down to write I am; and all the time I am writing, deep down, underneath the whole business, is that same commercial spirit. I don't think I would write very much if I didn't have to." Also on May 2, Jack wrote to Anna: "How sorry I am. Friday I am chairman at the Ruskin Club dinner and cannot possibly escape. Thursday I speak in 'Frisco, and Saturday am bound out to dinner. . . . However, may I put you down for afternoon and dinner on Wednesday, May 9th? "How enthusiastic your letters always make me feel. Makes it seem as though some new energy had been projected into the —342—
world and that I cannot fail gathering part of it to myself. No; God does not punish confidence; but he grinds between the upper and the nether millstone all those of little faith and little heart, and he grinds them very fine. Of course you will succeed if—you will work—and certainly you seem to suffer from a superabundance of energy. Apply this energy, rightly and steadily, and the world will open its arms to you. You are all right; the world is all right; the question is: will you have the patience to gain the ear of the world. You will have to shout loud, for the world is rather deaf, and you may have to shout long. But the world sometimes opens its ears at the first call. May it be thus with you. "Jack." In a letter of June 3, he mentioned having received a letter from Charles Warren Stoddard. The correspondence between these two prospered for years, during which the older man addressed Jack "Dear Son," and Jack responded with "Dear Dad." They never met. In this same letter of June 3 to Mr. Johns, Jack goes on: "Have sold a couple of hundred more dollars worth of good stuff to McClure's at least I think it is good—'The Grit of Women' [published August, 1900] and 'The Law of Life' [published March, 1901, both stories in McClure's, and later collected in volumes 'The God of His Fathers' and 'Children of the Frost.' respectively.] "Got the proof sheets of a 'S. F. Examiner' story in and am correcting them . . . 'Which Makes Men Remember.' [Published June 24, 1900, under title 'Uri Bram's God.'] ". . . So! I am married, and I cannot start to Paris in July, dough or no dough—that's why I got married. "But none the less I heartily envy you your trip. I think maybe I'11 take a vacation on the road this summer just for ducks and to gather material, or rather, to freshen up what I have long since accreted—how would you judge of my use of that last word? "Smart Set? I may go in for one of the lesser prizes. Can't tell yet. Outing has asked a bunch of Northland stories of me and I am busy hammering away at them just now." —343—
In the next letter, June 16, he winds up advice to writers: ". . . Pour all yourself into your work until your work becomes you, but nowhere let yourself be apparent. When, in the 'Ebb Tide,' the schooner is at the pearl island, and the missionary pearler meets those three desperate men and puts his will against theirs for life or death, does the reader think Stevenson? . . . Nay, nay. Afterwards, when all is over, he recollects, and wonders and loves Stevenson—but at the time? Not he . . . study your Be loved's 'Ebb Tide.' . . . Study your detestable Kipling. Study them and see how they eliminate themselves and create things that live, and breathe, and grip men, and cause reading lamps to burn overtime. Atmosphere stands always for the elimination of the artist, that is to say, the atmosphere is the artist. . . . ". . . Think it over and see if you catch what I am driving at. Of course, if you intend fiction, then write fiction from the highest standpoint of fiction. . . . Put in life, and movement—and for God's sake no creaking. Damn you! Forget you! And then the world will remember you. . . . Pour all yourself into your work until your work becomes you, but nowhere let yourself be apparent." Upon a long-coveted day when, debts cleared and cash left in pocket, for once square with the world, Jack strolled along Oakland's Broadway, it occurred to him that he could actually step into any of the familiar shops and purchase things that had burned in his desire since he could remember. Smiling to himself, he stopped before one window after another until he came to halt beside some small boys gloating and whispering before a candy store display. And suddenly an emptiness gnawed in him—something had gone out of his life. It was too late—desire had fled upon tired wings, and there was nothing that he, with silver at last heavy in his pocket of excellent cloth, cared to buy. It came with a shock. From the pocket he withdrew a hand bulging with loose change and bestowed it upon the little boys, with a catch in his throat almost marveling at the eagerness in their faces—which turned —344—
into something akin to suspicion, for a man must be crazy to shell out so much money at one time. And Jack passed on sadly enough, doubtlessly a trifle sorry for himself. "There wasn't a thing I wanted any more," he told his sister. "It had come too late." Jack and his wife take a holiday at the seashore, at Santa Cruz, upon return from which he writes: "July 23, 1900. "Dear Cloudesley: "Back from vacation at last! And hard at it. This is thirty-fifth letter. Ye Gods! "Did I tell you McClure has bought me (as you would call it), but as I would say, has agreed to advance me one hundred and twenty-five per month for five months in order that I may try my hand at a novel? Well, it is so, and I start in shortly, though filled with dismay in anticipation. "Did you read that storiette of mine Semper Idem; Semper Fidelis? About fifteen hundred words, dealing with a man who cut his throat, bungled it, was cautioned by the doctor at the hospital as to how he might bungle it, and who went out, profited by the advice, and did it successfully? Well, I have sent it everywhere. At last I sent it to Black Cat. I would have sold it for a dollar. But the Black Cat gave me a sort of poor mouth, said it had hospital stuff to last it two years, etc., and that under the circumstances it could only offer me fifty dollars for it! Say! Most took my breath away. A fifteen hundred word sketch, The Husky, I refused to sell some time ago for $3.50, and Harper's Weekly bought it for twenty dollars. Say, those hang fire MSS. seem the best after all." The next letter, dated July 31, 1900, is to Anna Strunsky: "Comrades! and surely it seems so. For all the petty surface turmoil which marked our coming to know each other, really, deep down, there was no confusion at all. Did you not notice it? To me, while I said, 'You do not understand,' I none the less felt the happiness of satisfaction—how shall I say? felt, rather, that there was no inner conflict; that we were attuned, somehow; that a real —345—
unity underlaid everything. The ship, new-launched, rushes to the sea; the sliding-ways rebel in weakling creaks and groans; but sea and ship hear them not: So with us when we rushed into each other's lives—we, the real we, were undisturbed. Comrades! Ay, world without end! "And now, comrade mine, how long are those Shakespeare papers to keep you from 'Consciousness of Kind?' You know how anxiously I wait the outcome, and how much you have improved. And Anna, read your classics, but don't forget to read that which is of to-day, the new-born literary art. You must get the modern touch; form must be considered; and while art is eternal, form is born of the generations. And O, Anna, if you will only put your flashing soul with its protean moods on paper! What you need is the form, or, in other words, the expression. Get this and the world is at your feet. "And when are we to read 'The Flight of the Duchess'? And when are you coming over?" "Sept. 9/00. "Dear Cloudesley:— "So am I up against it—and just got started against it. Am winding up the first chapter of novel ['A Daughter of the Snows']. Since it is my first attempt, I have chosen a simple subject and shall simply endeavor to make it true, artistic, and interesting. But afterward, when I have learned better how to handle a sustained effort, I shall choose a greater subject. I wish I were done. ". . . There are a number of Le Gallienne's quatrains which I like better than corresponding quatrains of Fitzgerald's. Perhaps the literary mentors will not bear me out in this, but none the less, so far as I am concerned, it is so. . . . "Am beginning to take exercise once again. Indian clubs, jumping, etc., every day, wheelrides every day, and baths three or four times per week—swimming I mean. Am just back from practising in diving, and am stiff and sore with practising front and back somersaults. . . . Expect to take up fencing later on, and the gloves, and shooting. It is Voltaire, I believe, who said: 'The body of an athlete and the soul of a sage; that is happiness.' I am trying to assimilate Spencer's philosophy just now, so there is a chance that I may yet attain to happiness." —346—
Meanwhile, Jack and Anna had formulated the project of writing in collaboration, to thresh out their opposing ideas by means of a correspondence as between two men, upon the subject of Love. To Mr. Johns, Oct. 17, 1900, Jack mentions this work: "Didn't I explain my volume of letters? Well, it's this way: A young Russian Jewess of 'Frisco and myself have often quarreled over our conceptions of love. She happens to be a genius. She is also a materialist by philosophy, and an idealist by innate preference, and is constantly being forced to twist all the facts of the universe in order to reconcile herself with herself. So, finally, we decided that the only way to argue the question out would be by letter. Then we wondered if a collection of such letters should happen to be worth publishing. Then we assumed characters, threw in a real objective love element, and started to work. Of course, don't know yet how it will turn out. We're both doing some very good work—in spots; but we are agreed, in case they merit it, to go over when we are done." "Nov. 27th. "Dear Anna: "I have been sitting here crying, like a big baby. I have just finished reading 'Jude the Obscure.' Perhaps it is not as great as 'Tess,' but in a way it is greater. When are you coming over that I may lend it to you? With two such books to his name Hardy should die content. Well may he look upon his work and call it good. "Jack." To Mr. Johns, Dec. 10, 1900: "You can't get away from the materialistic conception of history. . . . Ideas do not rule, never have ruled; where they have appeared to rule, it was merely because economic or material conditions were such as to have first generated the ideas, and secondly, to have been in harmony with the working of them." And Dec. 22: "Yes, after much delay, I captured Cosmopolitan prize. I flatter myself that I am one of the rare socialists who have ever suc- —347—
ceeded in making money out of their socialism. Apropos of this, I send you copy of a letter received day before yesterday from Brisbane Walker. Of course I shall not accept it. I do not wish to be bound. Which same you do think I am. Not so. McClure's have not bound me, nor will they. [This refers to the offer of an editorship.] I want to be free, to write of what delights me, whensoever and wheresoever it delights me. No office work for me; no routine; no doing this set task and that set task. No man over me. I think McClure's have recognized this, and will treat me accordingly. Aside from pecuniary considerations, I think they are the best publishers, or magazine editors, in their personal dealings, that I have run across. "Speaking of illustrations, did you see how beautifully Ainslie's did by my story in December number? Incidentally, without asking my permission, here and there they succeeded in cutting out fully five hundred words, which I shall reinsert when published in book form. I suppose the one hundred and twenty-five they paid for it was considered sufficient justification for mangling." On the day after Christmas, he wrote to Anna: "Comrade Mine:— "Thus it was I intended addressing you a Christmas greeting, saying, as it seemed to me, for you, the finest thing in the world. But it was impossible. For a week I have been suffering from the blues, during which time I have not done a stroke of work. Am writing this with cold fingers, at six in the morning—going for a day on the water, fishing, shooting, etc., to see if there are any curative forces left in the universe. "Ah, we refuse not to speak, and yet we speak brokenly and stumblingly! True, too true. The paradox of social existence, to be truthful, we lie; to live true, we live untruthfully. The social wisdom is a thing of great worth—to the mass. For the few it is a torment, upon it they are crucified—not for their salvation, but for the salvation of the mass. I grow, sometimes, almost to hate the mass, to sneer at dreams of reform. To be superior to the mass is to be the slave of the mass. The mass knows no slavery. It is the task master. "But how does this concern you and me! Ah, does it not con- —348—
cern us? We may refuse not to speak, yet we speak brokenly and stumblingly—because of the mass. The tyranny of the crowd, as I suppose Gerald Stanley Lee would put it. As for me, just when freedom seems opening up to me, I feel the bands tightening and the riveting of the gyves. I remember, now, when I was free. When there was no restraint, and I did what the heart willed. Yes, one restraint, the Law; but when one willed, one could fight the law, and break or be broken. But now, one's hands are tied, one may not fight, but only yield and bow the neck. After all, the sailor on the sea and the worker in the shop are not so burdened. To break or be broken, there they stand. But to be broken while not daring to break, there s the rub. "I could almost advocate a return to nature this dark morning. A happiness to me?—added unto me?—why, you have been a delight to me, dear, and a glory. Need I add, a trouble? For the things we love are the things which hurt us as well as the things we hurt. Ah, believe me, believe me. 'I have not winced or cried aloud.' The things unsaid are the greatest. Surely, sitting here, gathering data, classifying, arranging ; writing stories for boys with moral purposes insidiously inserted; hammering away at a thousand words a day; growing genuinely excited over biological objections; thrusting a bit of fun at you and raising a laugh, when it should have been a sob—surely all this is not all. What you have been to me? I am not great enough or brave enough to say. This false thing, which the world would call my conscience, will not permit me. But it is not mine: it is the social conscience, the world's which goes with the world's leg-bar chain. A white beautiful friendship? —between a man and a woman?—the world cannot imagine such a thing, would deem it inconceivable as infinity or non-infinity." |
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