The Story of Mary MacLane/February 17
TO-DAY I walked over the hill where the sun vanishes down in the afternoon.
I followed the sun so far as I could, but two even very good legs can do no more than carry one into the midst of the sunshine—and then one may stand and take leave, lovingly, of it.
I stood in the valley below the hill and looked away at the gold-yellow mountains that rise into the cloudy blue, and at the long gray stretches of rolling sand. It all reminded me of the Devil and the Happiness he will bring me.
Some day the Devil will come to me and say: "Come with me."
And I will answer: "Yes."
And he will take me away with him to a place where it is wet and green—where the yellow, yellow sunshine falls on heaven-kissing hills, and misty, cloudy masses float over the valleys.
And for days I shall be happy—happy—happy!
For days! The Devil and I will love each other intensely, perfectly—for days! He will be incarnate, but he will not be a man. He will be the man-devil, and his soul will take mine to itself and they will be one—for days.
Imagine me raised out of my misery and obscurity, dullness and Nothingness, into the full, brilliant life of the Devil—for days!
The love of the man-devil will enter into my barren, barren life and melt all the cold, hard things, and water the barrenness, and a million little green growing plants will start out of it; and a clear, sparkling spring will flow over it—through the dreary, sandy stretches of my bitterness, among the false stony roadways of my pain and hatred. And a great rushing, flashing cataract of melting love will flow over my weariness and unrest and wash it away forever. My soul will be fully awakened and there will be a million little sweet new souls in the green growing things. And they will fill my life with everything that is beautiful—tenderness, and divineness, and compassion, and exaltation, and uplifting grace, and light, and rest, and gentleness, and triumph, and truth, and peace. My life will be borne far out of self, and self will sink quietly out of sight—and I shall see it farther and farther away, until it disappears.
"It is the last—the last—of that Mary MacLane," I will say, and I will feel a long, sighing, quivering farewell.
A thousand years of misery—and now a million years of Happiness.
When the sun is setting in the valley and the crests of those heaven-kissing hills are painted violet and purple, and the valley itself is reeking and swimming in yellow-gold light, the man-devil—whom I love more than all—and I will go out into it.
We will be saturated in the yellow light of the sun and the gold light of Love.
The man-devil will say to me: "Look, you little creature, at this beautiful picture of Joy and Happiness. It is the picture of your life as it will be while I am with you—and I am with you for days."
Ah, yes, I will take a last, long farewell of this Mary MacLane. Not one faint shadow of her weary wretched Nothingness will remain.
There will be instead a brilliant, buoyant, joyous creature—transformed, adorned, garlanded by the love of the Devil.
My mind will be a treasure-house of art, swept and garnished and strong and at its best.
My barren, hungry heart will come at last to its own. The red flames of the man-devil's love will burn out forever its pitiable, distorted, wooden quality, and he will take it and cherish it—and give me his.
My young woman's-body likewise will be metamorphosed, and I shall feel it developing and filled with myriads of little contentments and pleasures. Always my young woman's-body is a great and important part of me, and when I am married to the Devil its finely-organized nerve-power and intricate sensibility will be culminated to marvelous completeness. My soul—upon my soul will descend consciously the light that never was on land or sea.
This will be for days—for days.
No matter what came before, I will say; no matter what comes afterward. Just now it is the man-devil, my best-beloved, and I, living in the yellow light.
Think of living with the Devil in a bare little house, in the midst of green wetness and sweetness and yellow light—for days!
In the gray dawn it will be ineffably sweet and beautiful, with shining leaves and the gray, unfathomable air, and the wet grass, and all.
"Be happy now, my weary little wife," the Devil will say.
And the long, long yellow-gold day will be filled with the music of Real Life.
My grandest possibility will be realized. The world contains a great many things—and this is my grandest possibility realized!
I will weep rapturous tears.
When I think of all this and write it there is in me a feeling that is more than pain.
Perhaps the very sweetest, the tenderest, the most pitiful and benign human voice in the world could sing these things and this feeling set to their own wondrous music,—and it would echo far—far,—and you would understand.