I have wasted so many precious plates. Each morning these past two days, I have carried all my equipment to the alder near the shed where birds so often come and go, and I have focused my lens on a single branch, for that is all one can do. That and wait. Warblers and sparrows of variety, a robin, several dark-eyed juncos, all made their rounds, and darted about the branches, but rarely did one land within the range of my camera.
The hours of stillness do not test me, nor do I much mind the biting flies that are chased away only by the tiring heat of the sun. I have my broad-brimmed hat and long sleeves, and the task reminds me something of fishing in the pond with Father; much time passes in a quiet meditation, and then in a breath, one is confronted with a quick choice?—?do I take off the lens cap now?.?.?.?or now? And oh, the bird is gone again.
There is a most significant difference, however, for when you jerk at a fishing pole, you lose nothing but the fish, yet with the camera, each time I make the decision to remove the lens cover, I not only startle the bird, but also expose the plate, almost always for naught. For as I reach toward the lens, the bird inevitably darts away, and I am left with yet another useless picture of an empty branch.
It is a nest I must find, I know, for there a bird will come and settle regularly, and I have always pictured it so in my head. If only the robin’s nest behind the Bailey house would suit, but in that shady corner, there is never sufficient light for a photograph. I had hoped the large marsh upriver would provide some opportunity, but so far Charlotte and I have only found a few abandoned nests that I suspect belonged to red-winged blackbirds. I have yet to see another humming bird, much less be so fortunate as to discover an active nest.
A profound sense of despair and loneliness settles on me. I allow that I may be so lucky as to someday catch a bird clearly in the frame of my camera, yet my attempts so far lead me to believe that the poor creature will be reduced to nothing more than coarse shadows, with no subtlety or detail.
June 11
I am not given to hysterics, but this morning when the young soldier appeared at my door with a letter in hand, my knees buckled from beneath me and I saved myself from falling only by grabbing hold of the doorframe. The soldier reached toward me. “I am sorry to have alarmed you, Mrs Forrester. It’s just a letter from your Colonel.”
He spoke as if this were the most common of occurrences, a letter from my Allen, who I have seen or heard nothing of since the 30th of January, four terribly long months ago. It was as if I watched from afar as I took the battered, water-stained envelope. Only much later did I come to my senses and recall that I had turned from the soldier without ever thanking him or bidding him farewell or even closing the front door.
For a time, I could not bring myself to open it. And then, once I tore open the envelope, it was with much difficulty that I slowed myself to read the words, for I wanted to know everything at once.
Now these hours later, I have taken the letter to bed with me and know its contents nearly by rote. “So often I have wished that you could see this land for yourself. We walk past glaciers that would bring tears to your eyes for their majesty, & the Wolverine River is grand.” Oh foolish romantic that I am, I even kiss it and hold it to my cheek and kiss it again. It is you, my love, every last word. The paper smells of wood smoke and damp, moldy canvas. Your well-ordered handwriting, the thumb smudge at the bottom of one page, all cause me to think of the smallest details of your presence, so that I can imagine you in this room with me even now. It is all the more painful, then, when I remember the great distance that separates us.
It is dated April 18. And without meaning to, he has abandoned me in a most perilous place. The letter was composed from the cusp of the most dangerous portion of his journey, as he prepared to enter the Wolverine canyon he so feared. And how fondly he wrote of our unborn baby, as if it secured all future happiness. “You carry our child, Sophie, & you become all the more extraordinary to me. Each passing day as I think on it, I love you more.”
Dear Allen, what is to become of us?
The letter has made an astonishing journey, by Indian boat and traders’ hands, across ocean and uncharted land, to find its way to me, yet for all that it secures me no solace. I am no closer to knowing his fate, or the contents of his heart upon learning my news.
He intended only to comfort me, even in his postscript. “Know that my love is steadfast. I march back home to you.”
And now that I have folded up the pages and think of the days ahead of me, I am sapped of all livelihood and impulse. Why have I chased about the forest, as if anything important were at stake? It occurs to me that even if one is able to achieve something of beauty, art is entirely impotent. What can a photograph do? Not a whit. It holds no power to reclaim the life of our child or make me whole. It cannot carry Allen safely home, nor can it preserve his love.
May 3, 1884
Dearest Mother,