The Argosy — page 74: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Letters from Majorca. 59 of her far-off youth must have been a beauty. She was seated upon a low stool, a distaff before her, from which she was drawing the wool. In the other doorway sat a child nursing a baby, and near her stood the mother, knitting. They all belonged to each other ; grandmother, mother and grandchildren ; but the daughter was more clumsy and commonplace than ever the mother could have been. Not so, however, in mind. I wished to take their photograph ; the opportunity of such a picture was not to be neglected ; and they received us in quite a well-bred manner. It was simply innate with them ; an innate courtesy which, perhaps, is not so rare in the world as the world supposes. The view from the summit of the Calvaire was wonderful. Pollensa was spread at our feet, looking quite large and important. We gazed upon a sea of roofs, both flat and slanting, many of them composed of those deep red pantiles which are so full of colouring and effect. The cactus plant, with its prickly fruit, abounded. Olive trees were spread over the plain. Afar off the waters of the harbour ran up into the land, and the hills divided to show the shimmering Mediterranean beyond them. We were surrounded by hills, chain beyond chain, of all forms and sizes, undulating in wavy outlines or rising sharply to a peak. ‘The hill, crowned by its monas- tery, was conspicuously in the foreground, and the straggling houses of Pollensa reached to its base. As we went back to the inn, where luncheon was a-preparing, we came upon a scene of excitement. Men and women stood about the street, talking, staring, gesticulating. From a house there went forth the most horrible sounds, the most heartrending shrieks that human voice could utter. Shriek upon shriek, howl upon howl ; each appear- ing louder than the last. The landlord inquired into the cause of the commotion. You will wonder how we understood each other. Fortunately he could talk French: was a man of intelligence. He, too, had once gone in for photography, but earnestly and professionally, not of the dilettante spirit of an amateur. Consequently he took great interest in my work, and carried the camera with a far more natural air than I can ever hope to attain to. It is true we were once asked in the streets of Palma whether our photographs were for sale; but I put this down absolutely and entirely to H. C.’s influence, who always went about his work in an extremely thorough, straightforward, and businesslike manner. ‘‘If I am taking a photograph,” he would say, **T am not writing a poem ”’—an assertion I never attempted to con- tradict. ‘ But whichever I may be doing, I like to do it as if it were the occupation of my life.” It is clear that H. C. is destined to greatness. To-day the landlord examined my camera with the utmost minute- ness and interest. He considered it the best he had ever seen, and evidently felt that it would produce far greater results in his hands than in mine. I have not a doubt of it. GONG OO Ss (C(O)