diseased the diary becomes sometimes more serious, sometimes more fevered;
she is almost racked to find some end in life; shall she marry, or paint? and at
last finds much consolation in the visits of Bastien-Lepage, who comes to see
her often while he is dying of some gastric trouble. She keeps up occasional and
often daily entries in her journal until eleven days before her death, occurring in
October, 1884, at the age of twenty-three, and precipitated by a cold incurred
while making an open-air sketch.
The confessional outpourings of Mary MacLane[28] constitute a unique and
valuable adolescent document, despite the fact that it seems throughout affected
and written for effect; however, it well illustrates a real type, although perhaps
hardly possible save in this country, and was inspired very likely by the
preceding.
She announces at the outset that she is odd, a genius, an extreme egotist; has no
conscience; despises her father, "Jim MacLane of selfish memory"; loves
scrubbing the floor because it gives her strength and grace of body, although her
daily life is an "empty damned weariness." She is a female Napoleon
passionately desiring fame; is both a philosopher and a coward; her heart is
wooden; although but nineteen, she feels forty; desires happiness even more than
fame, for an hour of which she would give up at once fame, money, power,
virtue, honor, truth, and genius to the devil, whose coming she awaits. She
discusses her portrait, which constitutes the frontispiece; is glad of her good
strong body, and still awaits in a wild, frenzied impatience the coming of the
devil to take her sacrifice, and to whom she would dedicate her life. She loves
but one in all the world, an older "anemone" lady, once her teacher. She ran not
distinguish between right and wrong; love is the only thing real which will some
day bring joy, but it is agony to wait. "Oh, dame! damn! damn! damn! every
living thing in the world!—the universe be damned!" herself included. She is
"marvelously deep," but thanks the good devil who has made her without
conscience and virtue so that she may take her happiness when it comes. Her
soul seeks but blindly, for nothing answers. How her happiness will seethe,
quiver, writhe, shine, dance, rush, surge, rage, blare, and wreak with love and
light when it comes!
The devil she thinks fascinating and strong, with a will of steel, conventional
clothes, whom she periodically falls in love with and would marry, and would