Upton could have wept, he’d been so naïve. So—hopeful. Since they’d begun their correspondence in the summer, Upton had been anticipating an intimate meeting with his brother-hero; he had so many things to discuss with him—the “anarchist-intellectual” C. L. James’s
A History of the French Revolution
—Benjamin Tucker’s
Instead of a Book;
the reformer William Travers Jerome’s revelations of prostitution in New York City, aided and abetted by Tammany Hall; and future plans for the Intercollegiate Socialist Society—how were they to draw more undergraduates into the organization, apart from Jewish boys, and a smattering of Jewish girls, from the Lower East Side? Yet more naively Upton had hoped to bare his soul to another man—a married man—of his own generation; he’d hoped to speak frankly of his predicament. Not that Meta had said that her departure would be permanent; not that Meta had hinted of divorce; but—in their marital relations, she had sometimes . . . she had frequently . . . expressed dissatisfaction with him, and impatience. And since the birth of little David, she had not liked him to touch her at all . . .
And there was the matter, mysterious and unresolved, of Upton’s having sighted Meta with strangers, in Princeton . . . and Meta’s denial.
How would Jack London respond to a woman of his
being sighted
with other men? Upton shuddered.
He’d known that something was seriously wrong when, just recently, Meta had expressed only the most perfunctory interest in the rumor that President Roosevelt had been reading
The Jungle
and intended to invite the young author to Washington one day soon . . .
Meta, I hope you will come with me! It will be an historic occasion.
But where had Meta gone? Drifted off somewhere, in the tall grasses behind the farmhouse, amid trees, and a tangle of wild rose, where Upton, who suffered from mysterious pollen- and plant-allergies, could not follow . . .
“ . . . Korean valet, we have trained—Miss Charmian has trained!—to call his master ‘God.’ So very funny!”
Upton was becoming ever more repelled by his comrade-brother—the fleshy, flushed face, the air of bellicose complacency—the way London swilled his bourbon, and had made a shocking mess of his white silk blouse, unapologetically; he was wondering whether, frankly, London could be only thirty years old?—had he falsified his birth-date, as he’d falsified so many other things about himself, like his Socialist convictions? Here was the heralded Socialist warrior who had emerged from the West only a few years ago, in a blaze of glory: early photographs of the author of
The Call of the Wild,
which Upton had kept, in secret, in a drawer in his study where Meta was not likely to find them, showed a dreamy young man of unusual handsomeness; rugged and masculine, yet touched by a poetic delicacy suggestive of Percy Shelley in certain of the portraits. Where had the Boy Socialist gone? Was it simply to be ascribed to an excess of alcohol and rich foods and the adulation of the public? Though he’d been—perhaps!—just slightly envious of London’s audience at Carnegie Hall, Upton had seen how seductive it is to entertain such large, rowdy audiences; how hard to resist, to stir belly laughs, if one can do it; how much more difficult to hew to a prescribed line of persuasion, and the rhetoric of logic; to uphold one’s ideals, not to stoop to the level of vaudeville and burlesque . . . A sort of terror gripped Upton at the thought—the absurd thought—primitive, superstitious!—that the noble Jack London was the victim of an impostor; somehow, the Socialist hero had been transformed into the brutish drunken clown in stained clothes and railway cap, a travesty of his former self; an assassin of the true Jack London; possibly—a demon . . .
But this was ridiculous of course. As it was ridiculous to believe, as some did, in Princeton, that there were “demons” loosed among them.
Upton thought primly:
There are no “demons.” Even when I was a Christian, I did not believe in “demons.” There are only men—human beings—individuals not so very different from myself, though behaving in ways I find difficult to understand
.
Yet it was tempting to think that the enemies of Socialism had somehow conspired with a malevolent force, to pervert a Socialist hero, and sabotage the Revolution . . .
Now the table and the semi-circle of admirers, that had grown to include as many as thirty individuals of both sexes in diverse stages of festive drunkenness, erupted in another sort of laughter, as the berouged and bejeweled Miss Charmian told hilarious anecdotes of her Nordic lover. It might interest them all to know—indeed, Miss Charmian had told the
New York Post
in an exclusive interview—that it was true, Jack London had a Korean valet who called him “God”—and she, Miss Charmian, had indeed trained him. What was so very charming was that the valet, a sinister but “devilishly handsome” boy named “Manyoungi,” was very willing to call London God—“ ‘For ’tis like God my master behaves,’ the little heathen says.” Miss Charmian laughed. Also, at a recent party in San Francisco hosted by her Jack, at which hashish and opium were distributed to the guests, along with all the liquor they could hold, her Jack had been so wicked as to play one of his famed practical jokes on his guests: he had barbecued a diamondback rattler and served it to them, with Hollandaise sauce, under the pretense it was Pacific salmon and, when he revealed what he’d done, a number of the guests became nauseated, and several were sick to their stomachs—Miss Charmian erupted in high-pitched giggles. “Oh, the Sea Wolf is
cruel
—but he is
very funny
also. And Jack never does unto others what he would not happily do unto himself—for diamondback rattler is one of his favorite meats, barbecued or rare.”
Hearing his mistress speak so warmly of him, as if he were on display, London grinned, and set his railway cap backward on his head; and, conspicuously, reached over to pinch her plump rouged cheek, leaving a red imprint in the somewhat flaccid flesh.
DURING HER COQUETTISH
recitation Miss Charmian had been glancing about the brightly lit restaurant, noting how other diners were enviously watching her and Jack London; how they were fascinated by the rogue lovers, in such defiance of the
bourgeoisie
—for of course the couple was recognized immediately. And now, Miss Charmian gripped her lover’s massive wrist, to alert him that a “particularly interesting” admirer of his, a handsome youth at a nearby table, had been watching them closely for at least an hour; and what a gracious gesture it would be, the very sort of thing for which Jack London was becoming famous, if he invited the young man to their table, and made him welcome? “For he seems to be alone here, and must be lonely amid such festivity,” Miss Charmian whispered into Jack London’s ear, “and you can see from his features that he is of noble Nordic descent.”
“Eh? Where?”
“There, Jack! See, he’s blushing now. He is a devotee of
you
.”
Without hesitation the broad-shouldered author rose from his chair to do his mistress’s bidding, for nothing pleased him more than to satisfy her easier whims; with feudal swagger he signaled the young man to come join them. At which the embarrassed stranger came hesitantly forward, protesting that he didn’t want to intrude upon their party, and he would not dream of sitting at their table . . .
Impatiently, Jack London commanded the young man to leave off apologizing, as only the weak-livered did such; and to introduce himself to all.
Now blushing fiercely, the young man explained that he was a “belated but energetic convert” to the cause of Socialism, having been drawn to it by the writings of both Jack London and Upton Sinclair; he had tried very hard to procure a ticket for the Carnegie Hall event, but had not succeeded; so, he’d waited outside in the street, and had dared to follow them here. “I really should excuse myself, however—I realize that I am intruding on a private party, which is the worst sort of manners.”
Even in MacDougal’s, Josiah Slade could not behave as if he were not of the New Jersey Slades.
“You are too ‘well-mannered’ already, kid!” Jack London said in a tone that was both sneering and comradely. “Come have a seat, and tell us your name.”
“My name—is Josiah Slade,” the young man said, in almost a voice of chagrin, as if his name might already be known to them, “but I am, as I’ve said—”
“You are one of us, as Charmian saw,” Jack London said, gripping Josiah’s hand and shaking it roughly, “—solid Anglo-Saxon stock: half the earth our heritage, and half the sea: and in three-score generations, we shall rule the world. So, be seated; and be still. I hope you are not another teetotaler!”
So hospitable was Jack London in his bullying way, he summarily banished one of the Socialist hangers-on at the table, to make room for Josiah; though it seemed clear to Upton Sinclair that the young man, taken aback by London’s manner, and the general air of drunkenness of the group, regretted having stepped forward.
Upton was grateful that Josiah Slade sat beside him. With a thrill of pleasure thinking:
He knows me, by name at least. He is one of my admirers, too.
SO IT HAPPENED,
Josiah Slade shook hands with Upton Sinclair, marveling at the latter’s youth and air of genteel reserve, so differing from London’s brashness; and tried to tell him how much his writing had influenced his thinking,
The Jungle
most of all. For quite apart from the “instructive intelligence” of the work and its strong argument for Socialism, it seemed to Josiah a remarkably vivid and lifelike portrayal of immigrant Americans, of a kind he had never known.
Upton Sinclair was deeply moved, to be spoken to in this way, by one of the Princeton Slades. He thanked Josiah, and wracked his brains what to say next. He could not allude to the fact that he knew who Josiah’s family was—hardly. And yet, the young man’s identity was fascinating to Upton, who would not have believed that a scion of the revered old family could be so forthright, and so open; and so willing to tolerate the crude drunkenness of the Jack London party, that was becoming ever more distracting to other diners in MacDougal’s. “You are—did you say?—from Princeton, New Jersey? Where it happens—at least at the present—I am living; I mean, renting a farmhouse on the Rosedale Road . . .”
Josiah had not identified himself as from Princeton, but perhaps he didn’t remember this; in the melee of the restaurant, it was difficult to think clearly.
All this while, Miss Charmian was leaning toward the young men, hoping to engage their interest. A gnome-like woman, Josiah thought her, garishly rouged and powdered, and decked out in an inordinate amount of feathers; he was uncertain at first who she was, and what her relationship might be to Jack London. (Not his mother, surely!) Quite openly she stared at Josiah even as her lover harangued the table on the subject of “pure” and “mongrel” races, and how one could distinguish between them.
It was uncanny, how Miss Charmian seemed to be looking at Josiah, yet looking behind him; for her left eye had a slight cast.
And how uncanny to Josiah, to discover how very different Jack London was from his photographs. Far coarser, and more slovenly in dress—and his intellect crude as a meat cleaver.
Josiah thought
He is, yet can’t possibly be, “Jack London”—the author. He is a buffoon impostor, yet another demon.
How melancholy the world in this yet-new century, the twentieth! Filling up, it seemed, with demons of whom some were buffoons, and others not far more dangerous.
Had Josiah been more prudent, he would have slipped away from London’s table, with a promise to Upton Sinclair to meet with him sometime soon, in quieter circumstances; but in his weakened state, Josiah too succumbed to drink, and found the whiskey-and-beer concoction—“the elixir of the Klondike”—a heady innovation.
JOSIAH HAD DECIDED
impulsively to move away from Princeton, and to live in a modest rented apartment on Eleventh Avenue at Thirty-sixth Street with a view of the river from the fifth floor of a redbrick town house, and no elevator; from here, he could easily take the clattering IRT (Interborough Rapid Transit) to the Lower East Side and the Village, as it was called, as to Carnegie Hall at Fifty-seventh Street. He had prowled bookstores, and visited the Art Students League and the New York School of Art. (Vaguely he’d hoped to encounter Wilhelmina Burr, by chance; but he wasn’t sure if she was living in New York, or had returned to Princeton.) He had visited the Little Galleries of the Photo-Succession at 291 Fifth Avenue, owned by Alfred Stieglitz, as well as the major museums. He had eaten in the most remarkable, inexpensive restaurants—German, Polish, Hungarian, Jewish, Ukrainian, Italian and Greek. He had attended several Socialists’ meetings in Union Square but nothing so organized and ambitious as the Intercollegiate evening in Carnegie Hall, with headliner Jack London.
He’d left Crosswicks abruptly one day after the death—(by paralysis? catatonia?—suffocation?)—of his cousin Todd Slade, for he could no longer bear living amid such devastation; he’d left with a din of jeering voices in his head, chiding him for cowardice in not pouring gasoline through the many rooms of the Manse, and setting it to the torch, as it deserved. He’d left after a long time of standing at the window of his room gazing transfixed into the garden, as if trying to gauge whether, if he threw himself to the ground two floors below, the distance would be sufficient to kill him, or merely to maim him. He thought—
I could not tolerate an invalid’s fate. I would grow more cramped in spirit than I am now.
Then he saw a slender figure on the grass below, a little distance from the house: surprised in her task of cutting Grecian windflowers, and glancing around at him, smiling. It was his beloved Annabel in a white belted blouse with full puffed sleeves, and a yellow “bolero” jacket, and an ankle-length, full skirt; on her head, a straw hat with a wide rim, and trailing a red ribbon. The straw hat was veiled, and, as Annabel turned to Josiah, and slowly lifted the veil, he saw how deathly pale her skin was, and how luminous her blue-violet eyes, piercing his very soul even at this distance . . . With a gesture of the little gardening sickle she mimed that he should join her in the garden, at once.