There is a man in Burlingame who is quite different to anyone else. He
is a recluse. It is very strange to be a recluse in Burlingame. He has
read more books than anyone I have ever met. Not especially modern
books, but he will suddenly tell you what Petrarch said to Laura, or
recall Dante, and sometimes be as modern as Stevenson. He is difficult
to meet, for he will not go out socially.
Yesterday morning he fetched me in his car and motored me to Monterey.
I don’t know how far away it is, but we started at 10 A.M. and reached
Monterey at sunset. A wonderful road, through miles of orchards and
then winding through mountains and forests to the sea.
We lunched at Santa Cruz, and when we left the city, a placard on the
boundary said that Santa Cruz bade us farewell, hoped we had had a good
time, and that we would some day return.
All along the motor road even in what looked like primitive wilds, one
was distracted all the time by placards on the road which hampered
one’s conversation. Mostly they were directions for the motor driver
who it was taken for granted must be a complete idiot. It left him
no choice, no doubt whatever as to the right thing to do. “Blow your
horn”--“Dangerous curve ahead” accompanied by a diagram illustrating
the kind of curve to expect,--further directions as to what to do with
the throttle, etc., etc., and wherever there was a flat wood fence
there was inscribed a reminder that Christ loved me, and the option of
deciding whether I would sin, or choose the other path. Occasionally we
were informed “Picture ahead, Kodak as you go.” Apparently a man may
be blind, the state will see for him.
As the day advanced we speeded, so as to catch the sun before it set
into the sea. We fetched up eventually at his sister’s house which is
above the rocks on the wild seashore, known as Pebble Beach. The house,
which has arcades and is Italian in design, reminded me of Shelley’s
house at Lerici, the house to which Shelley was sailing back from
Sorrento, when the storm overtook him and he was drowned. The peace,
the loneliness, and the sea sounds that pervaded this house on the
Pacific shore were balm to my socially weary soul. I walked in the dusk
among the gnarled and tortuous storm beaten cedars of Lebanon that have
their roots among the rocks. These are the only trees that grow, and
the only place where they grow. No one can explain how the seeds were
brought, whether by hand of human, or by a bird, or with the wind.
But here on this coast, with the grip of centuries that no storm can
dislodge, and with their heads as bright young green as their stems are
old and warped, the cedars of Lebanon reign supreme.
I was sorry that I had only one night to spend, it seemed too beautiful
to leave so soon.
I know that some day, when I have seen all I want to see of people,
when I have travelled more and allayed some of my curiosity, when I
have worked some more and am more tired, then I will go away into
a silent and lonely and beautiful place and never more be seen, and
my children will say: “We have a funny old mother, who lives way off
somewhere, and whom we go and visit now and then.”