My father was a painter of some reputation; from him I have inherited my artistic instincts, a keen sense of appreciation. But being by nature a dreamer -- the foretaste of the future always robs the dish before me of its savour -- I had neither the patience nor the perseverence to undergo a severe training of hand and eye. I drifted into photography largely in the hope that its mechanism might supply what I had failed to acquire. I soon learnt that I was seriously mistaken; the action of mechanism and accident which plays such a capricious part in photography had, however, a strange fascination for me. The contention of the artist that nothing artistic could be produced by the camera filled me with indignation, and I courageously set to work. Years of voluntary toil followed; I was determined to conquer. Yet the world, which looked so beautiful in my waking dreams, seemed dull and cold on paper. The spontaneity of my pictorial vision was invariably lost in the translation. Only once I came very near to my idea. But the failure, due to an ungovernable accident, shattered all my hopes of ever realizing it.

The story I have to tell is without plot and exciting incidents; as simple as the most common every-day occurrence of which men hardly take any notice. And yet to me it seem 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 discussing art and literature and the morals of modern society. She continually poked fun at my ambition 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 passionate frankness and keen 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 -- only made her the more precious to me. She pleased me in her rebellion when she held her ground against me.

One 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 enhancement to a remarkable degree."

"But don't you see how perfect the conditions are for producing a masterpiece such as 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 and values of the scene that I merely saw her as a passing shimmer, a flash of whiteness to my composition.

"Oh, I am merely intoxicated with the beauty of this day," I replied, making a sweeping gesture with my arm. "Life has at last brought me what I thought I am, after all, no knight of the futile quest, as you have called me. This time I'll grip the dream before it flies away."

"Well, let us see if your dream will come true," and she rose, with a weary smile on her lips and looked toward the sea.

"Remain in that position!" I enthusiastically cried. I saw her in that moment as if a curtain had been suddenly torn aside which had hidden her beauty. With her long, tapering limbs, her strong, slender body clearly outlined against the sky, her skirts fluttering in the wind, she seemed to me like an embodiment of youth and buoyant life.

That was the dream which I had guarded in the sanctuary of my heart. All my life I had hungered for such a vision of fresh, blooming, fragrant youth. And the calm October day, the translucent sky, and the deep blue sea formed a harmonious background to her beauty. I worked with feverish haste. I do not know if merely for minutes or for hours. I had lost the sense of time. I changed my position at every moment to scan some new pictorial wonder. And, although she was the center of all my enthusiasm, I seemed to have forgotten her actual presence. She appeared to me like the cloud-maiden of some fairy-tale, gliding before the wind in gowns of snowy whiteness, with tags of golden sunlight. And yet I had noticed at intervals that she was watching me with an interest that gradually became annoyed.

"There, it is done!" I cried. "I have accomplished it."

"You act as if you had never taken any pictures before."

"I haven't either -- not like these," I cried. "They will be astonished. They don't think me capable of it. But it is done." And I wanted to catch her in my arms and press a kiss of gratitude on her lips, but she evaded my grasp.

"Are you not glad that I succeeded?"

"Yes, of course; but I am no judge of such matters." Her words had a peculiar, grievous sound, but I was still too happy to catch its full significance.

"Oh, you are!" I exclaimed. "But is it not wonderful that there is a whole world around us to look at for years and years?" And yet we are never aware of it, we never see it until some happy moment suddenly reveals it to us. And I owe it all to you!"

"By ignoring me," she said reproachfully.

I acted as if I had not heard her words. It was merely one of her moods. She would get over it. I packed my things and we started homeward. A chill wind blew across the dunes. The sun was rapidly sinking into the darkening sea. The whole scene, so joyous a moment before, seemed discolored and hopelessly monotonous. The magic had passed. Would she come to my help, I wondered, with a laugh or a light word, or would disenchantment set in and furnish the aftermath for my triumphant hour. She remained silent and her glance looked away past me across the bay.

Traveling becomes difficult when every step onward is a slip down hill. We picked our way carelessly and silently side by side to the beach. On an intervening ledge her balance wavered, and I stretched forth both my arms to support her. In doing so the case with the plates, which I had carelessly slung over my shoulder, slipped and fell and struck the ground with a dull thud. I stood aghast. They had struck a rock. No lover of jewels, in fear of robbers, has ever opened his caskets with more feverish haste than I my case, filled with the treasured plates. They were all broken, smashed to fragments.

My dream was over. I could have sat down at the very spot, buried my face in my hands and wept. I looked at her. There was a strange glimmer in her eyes; it passed away as quickly as it came, but it seemed to me as if it had been the vague expression of malicious joy over the accident.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" her lips murmured.

"Are you, really?" I asked scornfully. "You have no idea what this loss means to me. You do not understand."

I looked enquiringly at her darkened features. A word with some touch of tenderness might at last have saved our love from the wreckage of my art. But she chose not to say it. Perhaps it was her diffidence which decided, perhaps her pride. She merely answered, "I dare say." Then, drawing herself together, she added in a hard voice, "Will you escort me, or have I to go home alone?"

What more is there to tell? Her indifference at that disastrous moment had deeply offended me and gradually killed all my affection for her. Also her feelings toward me had changed. The art, in which I was destined never to accomplish anything of lasting value had formed an insurmountable barrier between us.

I still belong to the little class of faithful workers, and occasionally turn out a clever bit. I still live in the kingdom of dreams, but am convinced more than ever that nothing will bring them to fulfillment. You may ask why I lack the courage to try again. Oh, I have tried again, but it is all in vain. The conditions will never be as perfect again as on that day. True, I may find another woman who will seem to me as beautiful as she did in that hour, and, if I am patient enough, also another October day may assist me with all its radiant, Indian summer charms, but can I conjure up the same emotions that inspired me? You may argue that I am too exacting, that the harmony of that scene was half imaginary, a vision softened by the ecstasies of love. I doubt it. I believe that in that hour the corresponding notes of our two natures were sounded to their very depth, and struck a full harmonious accord, and that her beauty was as much influenced by my presence as my inspiration was by her. But even if your argument were true, I could not rouse sufficient courage to live life over again. And that is final with me.

My fame was buried with the broken plates. And if you would realize, as I have done, how many vague hopes are shattered by just such uncontrollable accidents and influences, how many demonstrations of genius are buried before they have seen the light of day, you would agree with me that the quest for fame is the most futile of all futile quests.