A Tourist in Spite of Himself--at the Hearst Ranch

I

I HAD an old uncle once — one of the last of the race of reciters — who occasionally, when conversation flagged, used to say to me, ‘Shall I paint the home?’ And, permission being reluctantly granted, he would begin: —

Then, pausing for breath, he would continue, emotionally: —

And now, reader, imagine a rather pudgy old gentleman, the writer, sitting on a marble bench by just such a dream palace, amid just such surroundings, on a clear, warm, moonlight night in May, beside another gentleman whose smooth, expressionless face and pale blue eyes concealed a love of power and an iron will and a capacity for love and hate which are, fortunately, the inheritance of not many men these days, although in the days of the Cæsars such men were common enough.

‘Mr. Hearst,’ said I, — for my companion was none other, — ‘do you object to my reciting a short poem?’ I thought I saw him start as though stung by a wasp, but I may have been mistaken; then, before he could recover himself, I proceeded to ‘paint the home’ for him as my old uncle used to paint it for me. When I had finished my recitation we both burst into laughter.

‘Where on earth did you get that?’ said Hearst. ‘I’ve heard it somewhere. It’s Claude Melnotte to the Lady of Lyons, is n’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘and what BulwerLytton saw in imagination you have created on this mountain side overlooking the Pacific. It is well named — La Cuesta Encantada: The Enchanted Hill. It is—it is like Monte Carlo, with that churchlike palace of yours instead of the Casino, and the exquisite quiet of your surroundings instead of the laughter and motion of the ribald crowd.’

‘It is lovely, is n’t it?’ said Hearst.

‘Do you spend much time here?’ I inquired.

‘As much as I can,’ was the reply. ‘I am a busy man, but I try to spend about half the year here. It was a favorite spot of my father’s, and I love it. I used to come up here with him as a boy. In those days we had a little cabin just about where we are now sitting. He used to be very fond of that tree,’ — pointing to a fine old oak, — ‘and so am I; that’s why, when I found it interfered with the view from one of my windows, I had it shifted so carefully that it never knew it was being moved. I never destroy a tree.’

Something within me said, ‘But would you show the same consideration to a man?’ and I could, in fancy, hear my host’s reply, ‘Not if he stood in my path.’

‘Would you like to hear some music?’ Mr. Hearst asked. And upon my reply an order was given, and presently from a tower high up in the air came the most delicious music, mechanical, no doubt, and ‘amplified’ into heaven, and returned as though by angels. But let me get down to earth — such flights as these are wearisome.

II

John Henry Nash, the great San Francisco printer, had met me according to arrangement at San Luis Obispo in a high-powered car, and after motoring for several hours said to me, ‘We are now on Mr. Hearst’s ranch.’ We had entered no gates and there was nothing to suggest that we were in a private estate; we were just speeding along a country road. ‘That is the port of San Simeon and there is the railway station,’ said my friend. ‘ When Mr. Hearst sees anything he wants, he buys it and sends it here. If it fits into his scheme, he uses it; if it does n’t, he puts it in storage. Those are his warehouses.’

Presently we came to a wooden gate, one of those ‘grasshopper’ gates which leap sideways into the air by the pulling of a rope. I did the pulling, taking the opportunity to read a sign on the gate, ‘Beware of the wild animals.’ I did n’t see any, but, knowing where

I was, I promptly bewared and, quickly closing the gate, hurried into the motor. After a mile or two we came to another gate with a similar sign, and then another gate, this time guarded by a man who came out from a small cabin. ‘Are you expected?’ he said. ‘What name?’ I saw wires leading from the cabin, and no doubt our names were telephoned to the mansion. Permission to enter was soon accorded.

A few moments more and, high up on a mountain side, we saw a huge pile of superb buildings which seemed to be dominated by a Spanish cathedral. ‘That is La Casa Grande, and believe me that’s what it is,’ said Nash. ‘Do you see that black mass down there? Buffalo.’ The deer, zebra, and giraffe seemed to be living on intimate terms with herds of cattle and the Arabian horses — but I may be mistaken about this; I care little about such matters. I was all eyes for the castle, which soon began to unfold itself in all its magnificence. Soon we were motoring in a park, more properly a superb garden, and presently we drew up upon a side terrace which led to a small door.

A lady came out, a chatelaine, who welcomed us in Mr. Hearst’s name. She said we were expected and that Mr. Hearst would meet us at lunch, which would be served at one o’clock. She hoped we should like our rooms and should find all that we required; if we did not, we had only to ring. We did not ring; it was not necessary: our every want had been anticipated. The Venetian suite, I believe, had been allotted to us. I wanted to sit down and write someone about it — but I could n’t think of anyone to write to. And I remembered how Lord Macaulay, spending a day and a night with Queen Victoria, had written a letter on Windsor Castle stationery, and how his friends had never ceased making fun of him; subsequently I told this story to Mr. Hearst and it made him laugh. ‘Maybe you’d prefer to telegraph or telephone,’ he said; ‘the wires are at your service.’

Someone knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to ride, motor, shoot, golf, swim, or play tennis, and he seemed very much surprised when I said, ‘Not if I can help it.’ He bowed, as who should say, ‘This is liberty hall,’ and presently I began to wander over the mansion, castle, palace, — call it by what name you will; they all apply, — seeking what I knew I should find — the library. I came upon it at last, a noble room about a hundred feet long and thirty wide, with a magnificent ceiling which had once adorned an Italian palace. It was filled with books — not collectors’ books, but just such books and magazines as one would expect to find in the house of a country gentleman; I read in Frazer’s Golden Bough for an hour. Later Mr. Hearst told me his books were in New York, that the library here was very largely the creation of his mother — but it had been kept up to date by someone who knew what books to buy.

Afterward, having somewhat explored the castle, I turned my attention to the grounds. One feels in retrospect how perfectly impossible it is to give any idea of the setting of the castle without the use of almost meaningless superlatives. A magnificent and far-reaching panorama unfolded itself on every side, but with the exception of the mountains and the sea it was all ‘made work,’ giving employment to a small army of gardeners and caretakers. There are extensive lawns and almost equally extensive flower gardens, connected or divided by broad walks or terraces on many levels. There are fountains and pools, both for beauty and for use, and the skill with which the eye is carried through or along some vista to some interesting antique or beautiful modern statue is beyond all praise. And it is, with me, an undecided question whether these lovely and flower-perfumed gardens appear at their best by daylight or when illuminated by concealed flood lights and by long lines of alabaster lamps.

I forbear to comment, as so many have done, on Mr. Hearst’s waywardness in building a room, or a wing containing many rooms, and then tearing it down because he had changed his mind, having seen or thought of something he liked better. Castles in Spain are his long suit, and he is said to have one in storage in New York City waiting until he finds a place to put it, and in St. Donat’s he undoubtedly owns one of the finest castles in Wales. If one were presuming enough to ask him why, I can imagine his instant reply, ‘Why not?’

III

That Mr. Hearst is an enigma is known to all men. The only son of an enormously rich father, inevitably a Senator, and an idolizing mother, he has had from his youth his own way, not in one thing but in everything, except possibly in his political aspirations. When, as a young man, he first came to New York to dispute with Joseph Pulitzer of the New York World the domination of a certain section of the newspaper kingdom, someone told his mother that her ‘Willie’ was losing money at the rate of a million dollars a year. ‘Is he?’ replied his mother. ‘Then he will only last about thirty years.’

Pulitzer to-day is merely the echo of a name connected with certain ‘ prizes ’ which are more or less of a nuisance; his newspaper has become a mere tradition. Hcarst’s are still to be reckoned with. Let it be understood that I do not care for Mr. Hearst’s newspapers or his methods, but then I doubt if their owner himself likes his newspapers; and as for his methods, he might, possibly, condescend to ask you what other methods would give him what he seeks? He wants ‘circulation,’ for the reason that it gives him power and wealth. The commoner his papers are, — he owns twenty-five or thirty of them, — the more people he can bend to his will. Mr. Hearst could run for his own edification a newspaper which it would delight me to subscribe to and read, but what would its influence be? Absolutely nil. Such ventures in the newspaper world are not uncommon. The last tried was with the New York Evening Post. After a year or two its owner, having lost several million dollars, was glad to dispose of it to Mr. Curtis of Philadelphia, who entertains no delusions on the subject of running a newspaper.

The stories one hears of Hearst are positively fantastic and invariably contradictory. For example: His ranch extends for miles along the Pacific Coast; there is a highway approaching it which may some day extend from Alaska to Cape Horn — long stretches of it are now completed from Seattle to San Diego. Quite naturally, Mr. Hearst did not wish a public highway cut through his estate; he therefore opposed it and was held up to obloquy by his detractors. Finally, bowing to public opinion, — which he seldom does, — he yielded. Was he applauded for so doing? Not at all; he was immediately accused of using his influence to have a great thoroughfare cut through his estate in order to increase its value. It is a case of be damned if you do and be damned if you don’t.

IV

It had in some way been made clear to us that life on the ranch was governed by certain rules: PUNCTUALITY at lunch and dinner is one; QUIET is another. Breakfast is served until eleven; after that hour I doubt if anyone can secure anything to eat until luncheon, which is served punctually at one o’clock. Dinner is at seventhirty.

It was about one that guests began to assemble upon the broad tessellated plaza in front of the castle. There are, in addition to the main building, several small palaces, called guest houses, dotting the mountain side and connected with the castle by winding paths. It was soon evident that these were occupied by young gods and goddesses of the screen. Our host finally made his appearance, and those of his guests who were not known to him were presented. Mr. Hearst seemed a reserved, not to say a shy man. There flashed through my mind the scene in Trollope’s Doctor Thorne of the entertainment at Gatherum Castle, of which La Casa Grande is the American equivalent, and Mr. Hearst’s many qualifications for the part of the Duke of Omnium, except that Mr. Hearst was as polite and courteous as the Duke was rude.

Presently we entered the great hall from a vestibule which opened upon the plaza — I insist upon calling it a plaza — and found ourselves in a lofty apartment the same size as the library, which is immediately above it. The ceiling was magnificent, and around the room was a range of old choir stalls taken from some Spanish or Italian cathedral. On one side, in the centre, opposite the entrance, was a magnificent fireplace in which great logs were burning, while on either side of the fireplace a door gave entrance to the dining hall. Above the choir stalls, between the windows, were magnificent tapestries. The hall was in fact the great living room of the mansion, comfortably but not oppressively furnished.

I had, however, only a moment to look around, for we were informally making our way to the dining hall, which extends lengthwise from the great room, resembling it in size and character. Here were more choir stalls and tapestries and banners and flags.

I had the feeling that we were about to regale ourselves in one of the lesser halls of Windsor Castle. By a judicious arrangement of tables I suppose two hundred or more people could dine in this room, but our party was directed to a long table extending down the centre, formed by placing three or four refectory tables end to end. Mr. Hearst took his place in the centre, and opposite him sat Miss Marion Davies. There were perhaps forty in our party, but this number would be increased at dinner. It was like a scene on the stage.

Mr. Hearst always refers to his establishment as ‘the ranch,’but it is a ranch in which magnificence is intermingled with simplicity. On the great table there was an array of bottles extending down the centre, containing condiments of all kinds: sauces, pickles and olives and catsup, in the utmost profusion, and paper napkins at one’s place, to which one was directed by a major-domo; and I should instantly refer to the beautiful old English silver plate, of which it pleases me to think that I know something, and the bowls of rare and beautiful flowers — for, be it remembered, flowers are as common in California as people are in London, to distort Oscar Wilde’s famous remark.

I have seen printed menus which suggested that food might be expected, menus which promised much to the eye but which broke the promise to one’s stomach. Mr. Hearst’s menu promised little and performed much. It was an ample, delicious, but not elaborate luncheon, beautifully served. Someone once told me that Mr. Hearst was a heavy drinker, and that he always drank a quart of champagne at lunch. I watched him narrowly and observed that he drank two small glasses of excellent claret; wine and spirits were to be had, but the guests, like their host, drank very little.

After luncheon we wandered about, had coffee, and presently went about our respective affairs. Someone remarked that it would be nice if a new picture play, in which Marion Davies had a prominent part, might be given in the theatre in the evening, only the reels were in Los Angeles — whereupon a young Apollo said he would ‘ hop into his plane and go fetch them.’ He did so; we saw the picture in the beautiful and luxurious theatre that evening, after dinner. That all this should go on quite without effort — automatically, as it were — seemed quite what might be expected from one’s surroundings, but that it should be going on around me! That indeed amazed me at the time, and in retrospect seems almost unbelievable.

V

Such preconceptions as I had of Mr. Hearst were invariably wrong. I had been told not to mention certain subjects to him; I mentioned them frankly and he as frankly talked upon them.

As I have said, I owe my introduction to Mr. Hearst to John Henry Nash, whose acquaintance with him grew out of the printing of the Life of Mrs. Phœbe Hearst, our host’s mother, whose memory is perhaps one of the few things Mr. Hearst reverences. It is a superb book, printed from type especially cast, on paper especially made, and bound simply but superbly in white vellum — in Germany. The book was not made without a tussle. Hearst wanted it made one way and in a hurry. Nash does not work in a hurry and wanted it made in another. Nash had his way, and Mr. Hearst was so pleased with the result that he said, ‘John, you will always be welcome at the ranch, whether I am here or not — and bring your friends.’ It was the Life of Mrs. Phœbe Hearst that suggested the format of Nash’s famous edition of Dante which the King of England placed in the Royal Library at Windsor, where I saw it a year ago. Mr. Hearst was not displeased when I told him of this, and said, ‘John, I think Mr. Newton ought to have a copy of our book. Will you see that he gets one?’

It was after dinner one evening that I recited the well-known lines from The Lady of Lyons and lived to tell the tale. Not many men have recited poetry to Hearst and survived. Mr. Hearst is a man of emotions. He can be cruel and remorseless, yet he is fond of animals and loves to feed them. He has a large menagerie — of what? Of all the animals one sees at a circus, but exceptionally fine specimens. The ranch is alive with subtropical birds. They were originally kept in cages so large that they thought they were at liberty; now that they are, they have no wish to leave a spot where their every want has been anticipated. Expert gamekeepers and bird fanciers are among the small army of employees always at work.

The house is not finished, and it never will be. Its owner, like Queen Elizabeth’s friend, — or was it enemy? — Bess of Hardwicke, feels perhaps that if he should stop building he would die. And he has no wish to die. He lives in an earthly paradise. The dinner was informally magnificent; evening dress is taboo, though, as Mr. Hearst explained to me, once when President and Mrs. Coolidge visited the ranch he was obliged to relax this rule somewhat.

More guests had arrived during the afternoon. I found a lady sitting next to me who seemed to know everyone in London; I asked her who she was, and she told me she represented Mr. Hearst’s magazine interests in England. She had been at the ranch for some time, but Mr. Hearst had not yet told her why he had sent for her. ‘But he will when he gets ready,’ she said.

The Hearst property at San Simeon extends to about two hundred and fifty thousand acres. Senator Hearst began to buy land sixty-odd years ago, and his son is an acquisitive man: to see a thing is to want it, and to want it is to buy it. I remember once that Mr. Hearst and I wanted some books at an auction sale in New York; when I found whom I was bidding against I stopped, thereby displeasing Mr. Hearst, who would have preferred a battle royal — with the same result. When I reached San Francisco I was telling some of my friends of my experience and was told by them that Hearst’s purchases are so large that even he, after the manner of very rich men, does not always pay promptly. A few months later I was in London, whither Hearst and a large party had preceded me. Talking to a friend, a bookseller, I asked him if he was doing any business, and he said, ‘Yes, I sold some fine books to Mr. Hearst only a few days ago.’ ‘When do you expect to be paid for them?’ I inquired. ‘Why,’ replied my friend, ‘I have already been paid for them. Look at this ’ — and he took from his pocket a letter from a secretary, which read: ‘Acting on Mr. Hearst’s instructions, I enclose a draft on New York for the books recently purchased. I presume they have already gone forward.’

VI

I am writing this paper in Menton, in France. I have an engagement to dine this evening in Monte Carlo, Outside my window I can hear the gentle splashing of the Mediterranean Sea, darkly, deeply, beautifully blue; overhead a cloudless blue sky. I began by saying that Mr. Hearst’s Cuesta Encantada reminded me of Monte Carlo, and each time I visit the place, which is almost every day, the feeling grows upon me that Mr. Hearst must have drawn some of his inspiration therefrom. The principality of Monaco is very tiny — all that Mr. Hearst can see for miles, and much more, is his, and he shares it with his friends.

At Monte Carlo I cannot escape the feeling that there is a very sordid world just around the corner; one has no such feeling on the terrace of La Casa Grande. The walks, the fountains, the flowers, the climate, all are perfect. No thought of the outside world intrudes upon one; one is loath to leave so perfect a spot, and has the feeling that he might stay forever without inconveniencing anyone — and is not this the height of hospitality?

Late one evening we sought our host and tried to tell him how much we had enjoyed our visit. We said we should be gone early next morning. Very simply we were asked to come again. I think we never shall; such a visit is not to be repeated, and it certainly is not to be forgotten.

VII

It is, I think, generally agreed that a ‘petting party’ (which I cannot believe is, as some claim, a discovery of the present generation — I think I saw traces of one in a tomb in Egypt) is at its best when composed, as a honeymoon is, of but two people. Be this as it may, four people is the ideal number for a long motor ride. Two is not enough — there is no one to act as referee in case of the almost certain dispute; three throws the whole thing out of balance; four is just right. And this was the number which early one fine morning left San Simeon in a motor car capable of doing one hundred miles an hour, but throttled down, at Mrs. Nash’s desire, to less than half that speed.

The distances, the excellent roads, and the fact that everyone in California has one motor, and most people two or three, must have played and will continue to play havoc with railway travel. Railways, except for the hauling of heavy freight, have largely had their day, and magnificent and costly terminals are an extravagance which they can no longer afford. San Francisco was our objective, and our ride, if long, was a pleasant one.

When, late in the afternoon, we entered the rooms which had been engaged for us at the Fairmont Hotel, we found them so banked with flowers that my first impulse was to exclaim, ‘Where are the remains?’ Prima donnas and matinée idols are, no doubt, accustomed to such things, but for a mere book collector our reception was a head-turning experience. The first thing I did on my return home was to add a codicil to my will: ‘Please omit flowers; I had mine in San Francisco.’ One hates an anticlimax, even when one is dead.

Twenty minutes after our arrival, the telephone began to ring, and it kept on ringing steadily until — and, no doubt, after — our departure. When, in the providence of God, I again go to the Pacific Coast, I shall take with me a telephone operator and a private secretary.