The Story of Mary MacLane/March 28
HATRED, after all, is the easiest thing of all to bear.
If you have been forgotten by the one who must have made you, and if you have been left alone of human beings all your life—all your nineteen years—then, when at last you see some one looking toward you with beautiful eyes, and extending to you a beautiful hand, and showing you a beautiful heart wherein is just a little of beautiful sympathy for you—for you—oh, that is harder than anything to bear. Harder than the loneliness and the bitterness—and the tears are nearer and nearer.
But one would be hurt often, often for the sake of the beautiful things. Yes, one would gladly be hurt long and often.
I shall never forget how it was with me when I first saw the beautiful eyes of my dearest anemone lady when they were looking gently—at me—and the beautiful hand, and the beautiful heart.
The awakening of my racked soul is hardly more heavily laden with passion and pain. I shall never forget.
Though I feel away from her also, she is the only one out of all to look gently at me.
Let me writhe and falter with pain; let me go mad—but oh, worldful of people—for the love of your God—give me out of this seething darkness only one beautiful human hand to touch mine with love, one beautiful human heart to know the aching sad loneliness of mine, one beautiful, human soul to mingle with mine in long, long Rest.
Oh, for a human being, my soul wails—a human being to love me!
Oh, to know—just once—what it is to be loved!
Nineteen years without one faint shadow of love is mouldy, crumbling age—is gray with the dust of centuries.
How long have I lived?
How long must I live?
I am shrieking at you, cold, stupid world.
Oh, the long, long waiting!
The millions of human beings!
I am a human being and there is no one—no one—no one.
Who can know this that has not felt it? You do not know—you can not know.
Surely I do not ask too much. But whether or not it is too much I can not go through the years without it—oh, I can not!
You have lived your nineteen years, fine world, and you have lived through some after years.
But in your nineteen years there was some one to love you.
It is that that counts.
Since you have had that some one, in your nineteen years, can you understand what life is to me—me—in my loneliness?
My wailing, waiting soul burns with but one desire: to be loved—oh, to be loved.