The other day a man stood, uncovered, beside the red bowlder that marks
by his own wish the ashes of Jack London, upon the little Hill of Graves
on his beloved Ranch in the Valley of the Moon. Set in indestructible
cement, about those ashes—for he desired to rest in the ashes rather
than any dust of him—are wrapped two cherished leis of ilima that he
had brought withered from Hawaii.
The man, there among the trees of the whispering ridge, told me how,
only a week earlier, he had been talking with a simple ukulele-player in
a Hawaiian orchestra at one of the San Francisco theaters. The Hawaiian
boy had spoken haltingly, with emotion:
“Better than any one, he _knew_ us Hawaiians... Jack London, the Story
Maker.... The news came to Honolulu—and people, they seemed to have
lost a great friend—_auwe_! They could not understand.... They could
not believe. I tell you this: Better than any one, he knew us
Hawaiians.”
Months before, a friend wrote from Honolulu: “These many weeks, when two
or three who knew him meet upon the street, they do not speak. They
cannot speak. They only clasp hands and weep.”
And another: “Jack’s death has done a wonderful thing. It has brought
together so many of his friends who had not known one another before.
More—it has brought together even those of his friends who did not
previously care-to know one another.”
What sweeter requiem could be his?
It was not an easy nor a quick matter for Jack London to earn his
kamaainaship. Nor did he in any way beg the favor. Time only has been
the proof whether his two stories, “The Sheriff of Kona” and “Koolau the
Leper,” have made one tourist stay his foot from the shores of the
Hawaiian Islands.
And yet, these stories, works of art that had nothing to do with his
visit to Molokai, in no way counteracting, to his judgment, the admitted
benefit of his article on the Settlement, were the cause of bitter
feelings and recriminations from what of provincialism there was in
Hawaii—and was ever island territory that was not provincial?
“Provincial they are,” reads a penciled note of Jack’s: “which is
equally true, nay, more than true, of New York City.”
And untrue things were spoken and printed of Jack. Erect, on his “two
hind legs,” as was his wont, he defended himself. In the pages of Lorrin
A. Thurston’s _Pacific Commercial Advertiser_, following certain remarks
of the editor, Jack and Kakina had it out, hammer and tongs, without
mincing of the English, as good friends may and remain good friends.
Even now, it is with reminiscent smile of appreciation for the heated
pair of them that I turn over the pages of Jack’s huge clipping
scrapbook of 1910, forgotten the grave on the Little Hill, and once more
live in memory of that brilliant discussion and Jack’s hurt and
indignation that he should have been accused of abusing hospitality.
There is no space here for the published letters; and besides, it is the
long run of events that counts.
Kamaaina, desire of his heart, he became, until, in the end, the
Hawaiians offered him that most honored name in their gift. In Hawaiian
historical events, Kamehameha I was the only hero ever designated
“Ka Olali o Hawaii nui Kuaulii ka moa mahi i ku i ka moku,”
which is to say,
“The excellent genius who excelled at the point of the spear all
the warriors of the Hawaiian Islands, and became the
consolidator of the group.”
And to Jack London, this is their gift:
“Ka Olali o kapeni maka kila.”
“By the point of his pen his genius conquered all prejudice and
gave out to the world at large true facts concerning the
Hawaiian people and other nations of the South Seas.”