We had planned to start in the morning at half past ten, but it was
nearer half past twelve when we found ourselves en route, and Charlie
had changed his mind. He said: “They found two locations for camp, one
in the mountains, and one in the woods, but I have decided I want to go
to the sea shore--we will go and look for a place ...”
“Then is no camp ready for us?” I asked in dismay. (Knowing something
of the business of camping.) “Our tents are following us in a van,”
he said and they surely followed.--What a “follow the leader game”
for anything as cumbersome as a van! And a Ford followed us as well,
containing the chef!
We stopped by the wayside for an ice-cream cone, and we lunched
in a little town, where the proprietor addressed Charlie as
“brother”--Charlie said it was quite habitual among the real Americans
of that class. I said I thought it was very attractive as that one
hardly needed a revolution to bring about comradeship, in a country
where the waiter calls you “brother.” Charlie was rather scornful about
the sentimentalism of my revolutionary ideals.
When we left the cafe, children had assembled in the streets and
shouted “Goodbye Charlie” as we drove away. It was only his fondness
for children that made him wave to them. Otherwise (I have observed) he
has no desire to be recognized or lionized.
Who has ever seen an American country road on a Sunday, and not
deplored the prosperity of the nation, especially within radius of Los
Angeles? The road is like a smooth winding ribbon on which they race,
they pursue, they overtake, the atmosphere is gas and dust, the surface
is thick and oily. Any road that is a road at all is humming with the
throb of machines. The only road that has no traffic in America is what
is called a “dirt-road.” It isn’t “dirt” at all as we understand the
word dirt in England. It is just Mother Earth, but these roads lead
to nowhere, they end in a field on a farmhouse, as we discovered, and
lost much time exploring and re-tracing. The macadam roads led down to
the sea shore in places where crowds had gathered together to camp or
picnic. That is peculiar about Americans, they love being together.
I questioned Charlie: “Surely there must be lovely peaceful places
unmarred by civilization?” and he said: “No--if there is a lovely place
that is accessible, everyone will have found it....”
“Then,” I said, “we must content ourselves with a horrid place that
nobody wants!”
The sun sank lower and Charlie’s spirit with it. He mopped his brow
and shouted: “On--on--hurry!” to the chauffeur. It was a race with
daylight. Would anyone have believed it was so difficult to get away
from the world!
“You should do like the Mexican motors,” Dick said, “and go across
country--”
In the distance we saw a clump of trees that stood out from afar in a
flat colorless country, and they were by the sea. Once again we plunged
off the macadam road and pursued a sandy track for more miles. Little
by little the world and the sounds of the world were left behind and we
were alone. The road ended as usual, and we found a farm house and a
notice:
“Private property.--No trespassing--no camping--no hunting--” and then
the sun set.
Our feelings just for a moment were indescribable.
The place was perfect. It was everything we had dreamed, and more. The
wood was of eucalyptus trees, and the smell of them mingled with the
smell of the sea, and the evening air was still and fragrant. We sent
a messenger to the land proprietor, asking permission to remain, and
impending the answer we walked over the sand dunes to the sea shore.
The sun had left a crimson and indigo reflection in the sky which
colored the foam waves as they broke one upon another. Charlie was
in ecstasies, he was breathlessly inarticulate in his appreciation,
and we both followed his example, doubled ourselves up, and looked at
the horizon upside down because as he said, one got a far stronger
impression of it. When we got back to the wood we found that all was
well. Charlie of course is Charlie and permission was granted to
remain. In the dark five tents were pitched on the outskirts of the
wood.
Late into the night I sat with him over the campfire. A half-moon rose
and little veils of sea swept like gossamer over the dunes, and the
naked shiny eucalyptus stems cast black shadows. Mingling with the
night bird cries, the rhythmical sound of the sea on the shore.
One by one the lanterns in the camp flickered and went out. Charlie sat
huddled up before the flame, an elfin, elemental creature with gleaming
eyes and towsled hair. His little nervous hands raking the embers
with a stick. His voice was very deep, the voice of a much bigger
man. He ruminated moodily. He said it was “too much--too great--too
beautiful--there are no words--”