It was overwhelming, having so many eyes suddenly upon my photographs, yet I must say the women were kind and enthusiastic. The picture of the apple tree in bloom, with the parade ground in the distance, was a favorite. They also liked the one of Charlotte on our front porch, and Mrs Bailey asked if I might take such a photograph of herself and her family. I answered that portraiture was not my particular interest, but maybe later in the fall when I will not be so occupied with seasonal birds.
It surprised me that Sarah Whithers should be so smitten with the blurred photograph of the pine siskins in flight. “What is it?” she asked in wonder, and when I explained, she said that it was a most beautiful picture. I told her to take the print as a gift, if she truly enjoyed it. “Are you sure? It is much too precious!” but I could tell she was pleased and so I insisted. She studied it for a time, and then looked up from the photograph, as if taking in the house and myself for the first time. “But what of your husband? What on earth will he think of all of this?”
It seemed to me a very intimate question, but for once, I knew exactly what to say: “I think he will like it very much.”
The talk in the room quieted, and the women eyed each other as if unconvinced, but as I think back on my declaration, I am all the more confident. I cannot predict all of Allen’s sentiments, yet I am certain of this: he would be pleased to know of my photography, he would say he never doubted me, and he would disdain the notion that my time would have been better spent keeping the house neat in his absence.
June 25
I cannot take it as a good sign. Quite early this morning, a servant from the Haywood house came to our door, asking if Miss Evelyn was in our company. I replied that we had not seen her yet today.
“Or last night?” the woman asked, to which I said no. The line of inquiry concerned me, and I asked if Miss Evelyn was well. The servant only said that we should send word directly to Mrs Haywood if we hear anything of her whereabouts.
I did not encourage it, but neither did I dissuade her when Charlotte suggested she should seek out her mother, who does the laundry for the General and his wife, to find out any more information.
By this afternoon, we learned that Evelyn had in fact been missing since yesterday morning and was discovered to have spent the night at the Quimby House in Portland. She reportedly pleads all innocence and says that she decided to go shopping with a friend in the city and was too tired to return the same day, yet I cannot help but have my suspicions that Lieutenant Harvey is in part to blame. They are too much alike, pursuing happiness in dangerous quarters.
And now I wish I had written none of this. Even within one’s own diary, there is thin difference between expressing genuine concern and gossiping, and I do not wish to fall off into that more mean temptation. It is only that Evelyn is the most difficult of any friend I have ever had, for she has so much potential for good and intelligence, yet so infrequently chooses such paths.
June 26
This morning a large raven landed near the privy while I was throwing out some dirty water, and with its appearance, all my will toward composure and rationality dissipated. I must have seemed a lunatic when I ran toward it and cried for it to go away and leave me alone. It shook its wings, and I thought then of Allen in the Alaska wilderness, and how a bird might fly and carry its curses with it. I threw my empty pail with hopes of striking it. The pail rolled harmlessly across the yard, the bird hopped back several feet, and I saw then that it was just a common raven, with no crippled leg or distorted eyes.
It has occurred to me more than once that I might seek out the raven in order to photograph it. What would I find if I peered into those eyes a second time?
I have not seen that particular bird again since I lost the baby, yet even if it were to return, I do not think I would attempt to focus my lens upon it.
Father always said an artist must be at least half in love with his subject. I do not doubt a beauty of some sort can be found in the capriciousness and hunger of a wild scavenger, but it does not hold my desire. I am in love with the promise of something else.
The Undiscovered Country
?—?Edmund Stedman, 1878
COULD we but know
The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel,
Where lie those happier hills and meadows low,?—
Ah, if beyond the spirit’s inmost cavil,
Aught of that country could we surely know,5
?Who would not go?
?Might we but hear
The hovering angels’ high imagined chorus,
Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear,
One radiant vista of the realm before us,?—10
With one rapt moment given to see and hear,
?Ah, who would fear?
?Were we quite sure
To find the peerless friend who left us lonely,
Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,15
To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only,?—
This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure,
?Who would endure?
(Typewritten paper, folded, & inserted into Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester’s diary of 1885. With handwritten note along bottom: Dear Walt?—?save this one for me. It made me think of the Colonel’s trip into the mountains. I’m planning a May visit. With love from your sister, Ruth )
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester