Read Online I Await the Devil's Coming - Unexpurgated and Annotated by Mary MacLane - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mary MacLane
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Bashkirtseff.
My own despair is of an opposite nature.
There is one thing in the world that is more bitter than death - and that is life.
Suppose that I learned I was to die on the twenty-seventh of June, 1903, for instance. It would give me a soft warm wave of pleasure, I think. I might be in the depths of woe at the time; my despair might be the despair of despair; my misery utterly unceasing, - and I could say, “Never mind, on the twenty-seventh of June, 1903, all will be over - dull misery, rage, Nothingness, obscurity, the unknown longing, every desire of my soul, all the pain - ended inevitably, completely on the twenty-seventh of June, 1903.” I might come upon a new pain, but this, my long old torture, would cease.
You may say that I might end my life on that day, that I might do so now. I certainly shall if the pain becomes greater than I can bear - for what else is there to do? But I shall be far from satisfied in doing so. What if I were to end everything now - when perhaps the Devil may be coming to me in two years’ time with Happiness?
Upon dying it might be that I should go to some wondrous fair country where there would be trees and running water, and a resting-place. Well - oh, well! But I want the earthly Happiness. I am not high-minded and spiritual. I am earthly, human - sensitive, sensuous, sensual, and, ah, dear, my soul wants its earthly Happiness!
I can not bring myself to the point of suicide while there is a possibility of Happiness remaining. But if I knew that irrevocable, inevitable death awaited me on June twenty-seventh, 1903, I should be satisfied. My Happiness might come before that time, or it might not. I should be satisfied. I should know that my life was out of my hands. I should know, above all, that my long, long, old, old pain of loneliness would stop, June twenty-seventh, 1903.
I shall die naturally some day - probably after I have grown old and sour. If I have had my Happiness for a year or a day, well and good. I shall be content to grow as old and as sour as the Devil wills. But having had no Happiness - if I find myself growing old and still no Happiness - oh, then I vow I will not live another hour, even if dying were rushing headlong to damnation!
I am, do you see, a philosopher and a coward - with the philosophy of cowardice. I squeeze juice also from this fact sometimes - but the juice is not sweet juice.
The Devil - the fascinating man-Devil - it may be, is coming, coming, coming.
And meanwhile I go on and on, in the midst of sand and barrenness.
February 3
The town of Butte presents a wonderful field to a student of humanity and human nature. There are not a great many people - seventy thousand perhaps - but those seventy thousand are in their way unparalleled. For mixture, for miscellany - variedness, Bohemianism - where is Butte’s rival?
The population is not only of all nationalities and stations, but the nationalities and stations mix and mingle promiscuously with each other, and are partly concealed and partly revealed in the mazes of a veneer that belongs neither to nation nor to station, but to Butte.
The nationalities are many, it is true, but Irish and Cornish predominate. My acquaintance extends widely among the inhabitants of Butte. Sometimes when I feel in the mood for it I spend an afternoon in visiting about among divers curious people.
At some Fourth of July demonstration, or on a Miners’ Union day, the heterogeneous herd turns out - and I turn out, with the herd and of it, and meditate and look on. There are Irishmen - Kelleys, Caseys, Calahans, staggering under the weight of much whiskey, shouting out their green-isle maxims; there is the festive Cornishman, ogling and leering, greeting his fellow-countrymen with alcoholic heartiness, and gazing after every feminine creature with lustful eyes; there are Irish women swearing genially at each other in shrill pleasantry, and five or six loudly-vociferous children for each; there are
My own despair is of an opposite nature.
There is one thing in the world that is more bitter than death - and that is life.
Suppose that I learned I was to die on the twenty-seventh of June, 1903, for instance. It would give me a soft warm wave of pleasure, I think. I might be in the depths of woe at the time; my despair might be the despair of despair; my misery utterly unceasing, - and I could say, “Never mind, on the twenty-seventh of June, 1903, all will be over - dull misery, rage, Nothingness, obscurity, the unknown longing, every desire of my soul, all the pain - ended inevitably, completely on the twenty-seventh of June, 1903.” I might come upon a new pain, but this, my long old torture, would cease.
You may say that I might end my life on that day, that I might do so now. I certainly shall if the pain becomes greater than I can bear - for what else is there to do? But I shall be far from satisfied in doing so. What if I were to end everything now - when perhaps the Devil may be coming to me in two years’ time with Happiness?
Upon dying it might be that I should go to some wondrous fair country where there would be trees and running water, and a resting-place. Well - oh, well! But I want the earthly Happiness. I am not high-minded and spiritual. I am earthly, human - sensitive, sensuous, sensual, and, ah, dear, my soul wants its earthly Happiness!
I can not bring myself to the point of suicide while there is a possibility of Happiness remaining. But if I knew that irrevocable, inevitable death awaited me on June twenty-seventh, 1903, I should be satisfied. My Happiness might come before that time, or it might not. I should be satisfied. I should know that my life was out of my hands. I should know, above all, that my long, long, old, old pain of loneliness would stop, June twenty-seventh, 1903.
I shall die naturally some day - probably after I have grown old and sour. If I have had my Happiness for a year or a day, well and good. I shall be content to grow as old and as sour as the Devil wills. But having had no Happiness - if I find myself growing old and still no Happiness - oh, then I vow I will not live another hour, even if dying were rushing headlong to damnation!
I am, do you see, a philosopher and a coward - with the philosophy of cowardice. I squeeze juice also from this fact sometimes - but the juice is not sweet juice.
The Devil - the fascinating man-Devil - it may be, is coming, coming, coming.
And meanwhile I go on and on, in the midst of sand and barrenness.
February 3
The town of Butte presents a wonderful field to a student of humanity and human nature. There are not a great many people - seventy thousand perhaps - but those seventy thousand are in their way unparalleled. For mixture, for miscellany - variedness, Bohemianism - where is Butte’s rival?
The population is not only of all nationalities and stations, but the nationalities and stations mix and mingle promiscuously with each other, and are partly concealed and partly revealed in the mazes of a veneer that belongs neither to nation nor to station, but to Butte.
The nationalities are many, it is true, but Irish and Cornish predominate. My acquaintance extends widely among the inhabitants of Butte. Sometimes when I feel in the mood for it I spend an afternoon in visiting about among divers curious people.
At some Fourth of July demonstration, or on a Miners’ Union day, the heterogeneous herd turns out - and I turn out, with the herd and of it, and meditate and look on. There are Irishmen - Kelleys, Caseys, Calahans, staggering under the weight of much whiskey, shouting out their green-isle maxims; there is the festive Cornishman, ogling and leering, greeting his fellow-countrymen with alcoholic heartiness, and gazing after every feminine creature with lustful eyes; there are Irish women swearing genially at each other in shrill pleasantry, and five or six loudly-vociferous children for each; there are
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