Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1904 (Heft 6))

The story I have to tell is without plot and exciting incidents; as simple
as the most common every-dayoccurrence of which men hardly take any
notice. And yet to me it seems more important than any story ever written.
It was somewhere on the coast of Maine. The name of the place is
as of little consequence as the name of my heroine. We had summered in
the same hotel, at the outskirts of some quaint old fishing village. The
other guests—a rather dull, puritanical set, who had no idea how life should
be enjoyed—had but little in common with our inclinations; we gladly
dispensed with their company and tried to enjoy each other’s.Our favorite
excursion was, of course, to the dunes. We both felt the same desire to
wander off; to venture out in the heat of the sun ; to scour the beach and
surrounding country. We passed our time in discussing art and literature
and the morals of modern society. She continually poked fun at my ambi-
tion of becoming an “artistic” photographer. I was used to that, and did
not mind her. I knew that my chance would come some day, and I was
determined that my fair moqueuse should be instrumental in my final success.
We had grown quite fond of each other. I was enamored with her pas-
sionate frankness and keenv intelligence. Even the notes of discord in our
characters — like all young people who walk the path of love, we quarreled
and excited each other unnecessarily at the slightest occasion — made her only
the more precious to me. She pleased me in her rebellion when she held
her ground against me.
On that day, when my simple story was enacted, she wore a white
serge coat and skirt, with a biscuit-colored shirt-waist, and a ribbon of the
same shade around her sailor-hat. She sat watching me, busy with my stupid
old machine, the endearing term which she was pleased to bestow upon my
camera, her feet drawn up and her hands clasped below her knees. It was a
beautiful October afternoon. The sun had warmed the old rocks, and the
wide horizon stretched out under a dazzling sky. The sedges were swaying
their slim, green bodies with the melody and the wind, and the ocean rippled
and whispered to the pebbles on the shore. Conversation had been at a
standstill. Presently I began :
" This day seems to me like a realization of my dream. I, after all, did
well to stay true to it. It has blossomed through the years into a plant of
wondrous growth, filling all my life with fragrance. And now the hour has
come when the harvest can be gleaned .'
" You are incorrigible. You possess the fatal quality of seeing objects
in a halo of entrancement to a remarkable degree.”
" But don't you see how perfect the conditions are for producing a
masterpiece such as has never been made before ? Look how clear and still
the water lies against the shore; only by the brighter tint of the covered
pebbles can the margin of the sea be told. It is like a land of legend, and
you are like the fairy-queen which animates the scene.”
" Are you quite mad to-day?” she asked, gazing at the topaz hills beyond
the bay. The stain of duller red upon her cheek should have betrayed to
me some quickening of her thoughts, but I was so engrossed in the lines

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