“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—”
Wednesday, November 9, 1921.